 | Miscellaneous songs and poems |  |
118
MISS BLAMIRE'S POEMS.
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A PLOVER.
Low bend thy head thou waving spray,
Soft drop the dew that falls on thee,
That still the early rising day
A tear on every leaf may see.
Soft drop the dew that falls on thee,
That still the early rising day
A tear on every leaf may see.
Soft may the zephyr whisper thro'
Thy rustling leaves, and seem to sigh,
For here beneath that pensive bough
The tender Plover closed her eye.
Thy rustling leaves, and seem to sigh,
For here beneath that pensive bough
The tender Plover closed her eye.
Tyrannic man with iron hand
Had snatch'd her from domestic love;
And in the soft connubial band
Distress her cutting thread had wove.
Had snatch'd her from domestic love;
And in the soft connubial band
Distress her cutting thread had wove.
A harsh, unfeeling, cruel mate
Imperious held the lordly sway,
And seem'd to think the will of fate
Was but to make the weak obey.
Imperious held the lordly sway,
And seem'd to think the will of fate
Was but to make the weak obey.
The soft communicative hour,
The wish to please, the tender care,
The history of each opening flower
Were sweets of love she ne'er must share.
The wish to please, the tender care,
The history of each opening flower
Were sweets of love she ne'er must share.
Contempt her distance threw between,
Unsocial hours their languor cast,
Joyless became each flowery scene,
And soon the fret of life was past.
Unsocial hours their languor cast,
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And soon the fret of life was past.
Blow soft ye winds, descend ye showers,
Still murmur round this little heap,
That eve may from more gloomy bowers,
Be tempted here to stop and weep.
Still murmur round this little heap,
That eve may from more gloomy bowers,
Be tempted here to stop and weep.
EXPECTATION.
Sweet expectation! sister fairOf soft solicitude and prayer,
Allied to hope, allied to fear,
Those joint companions of the year,
Who thro' all chequer'd scenes must run
That fall beneath the rolling sun;
And light and shade to pictures give
Where men are drawn that really live.
Now lively hope in frolic measure
Trips in the silken round of pleasure,
And still with joy-shot glance proposes
Sweet walks, midst groves tied up with roses:
Where fancy keeps her glow-worm court,
Where wearied wishes all resort,
Who mixing in her tinsell'd train
Still keep their title light and vain.
For now with Fancy's glass they see
That long sought spot in destiny
Which hope had ever in her view
And which her hand keeps pointing to.
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And golden clouds the columns are,
Till from beneath the farthest mound
Pale fear—that starts at her own sound—
A train of vapours brings along,
Which winding all the scenes among,
Forms here and there a misty veil
Now hides the hill and now the dale.
While Hope to find a purer air
Strays far from hence we know not where;
Till expectation wandering near
Lifts up the veil drawn close by fear.
'Tis then we see the playful maid
So busy in the opening glade,
A tuft of roses scatter here,
A bed of lilies sprinkle there,
Along the meads carnations throw,
And sod-seats make where hare-bells grow.
Where o'er the stream the poplars bend,
The woodbines little arms extend,
While climbing up its curls diffuse
The sweets of long-collected dews.
A thousand knots fond hope will tie
Entangling oft the wandering eye;
She, like the sun-beam, ever throws
The loveliest tincture on the rose,
Hide but a while her gilding ray
The fleeting colour cannot stay,
Tho' nature's cunning hand should try
To mix it for the admiring eye.
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That drop not from the bounteous skies
The groves bestow a cooler shade,
And softer sounds by streams are made;
More sweetly blows the fragrant breeze,
More softly whisper whispering trees;
While every insect gilds his wing,
And every bird essays to sing.
How blissful is this state of mind
Thro' which such scenes of pleasure wind,
Thro' which lone thought can safely stray,
Delighted, though she lose her way:
Still certain that the path will end
Where happiness would seat a friend.
Yet even amidst these sacred bowers
The blest retreat of cheerful hours,
The tender heart will sometimes sigh
And the round tear fill up the eye;
Solicitude will hither come
Whose numerous wishes keep her dumb,
And panting with both hope and fear
Will now retreat, now venture near;
Will sometimes essay to believe
Then doubt again that all deceive;
That promises are shadowy things
Which flit away on airy wings;
That joy will never meet the heart
For those who love must live apart.
Ah! cease, Solicitude to dwell
On ills, alas! we know too well;
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Yet they're ne'er blest who ne'er believe.
The present hour is all we boast
And happiest they who prize it most;
Who most enjoy the good it brings
Deserve the best of nature's things;
And grateful be that heart esteem'd
Who most of happiness has dream'd.
132
THE ADIEU AND RECALL TO LOVE.
Go, idle boy, I quit thy power,
Thy couch of many a thorn and flower,
Thy twanging bow, thine arrow keen,
Deceitful Beauty's timid mien;
The feign'd surprise, the roguish leer,
The tender smile, the thrilling tear,
Have now no pangs—no joys for me,
So, fare thee well, for I am free!
Then flutter hence on wanton wing,
Or lave thee in yon lucid spring,
Or take thy beverage from the rose,
Or on Louisa's breast repose,
I wish thee well for pleasures past,
Yet bless the hour I'm free at last!
Thy couch of many a thorn and flower,
Thy twanging bow, thine arrow keen,
Deceitful Beauty's timid mien;
The feign'd surprise, the roguish leer,
The tender smile, the thrilling tear,
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So, fare thee well, for I am free!
Then flutter hence on wanton wing,
Or lave thee in yon lucid spring,
Or take thy beverage from the rose,
Or on Louisa's breast repose,
I wish thee well for pleasures past,
Yet bless the hour I'm free at last!
But sure methinks the alter'd day
Scatters around a mournful ray;
And chilly every zephyr blows,
And every stream untuneful flows,
No rapture swells the linnet's voice,
No more the vocal groves rejoice;
And e'en thy song, sweet bird of eve
With whom I lov'd so oft to grieve,
Now, scarce regarded, meets my ear
Unanswer'd by a sigh or tear;
No more with devious steps I choose
To brush the mountain's morning dews;
To drink the spirit of the breeze,
Or wander midst o'er-arching trees;
Or woo with undisturb'd delight
The pale-cheek'd Virgin of the night,
That, peering through the leafy bower,
Throws on the ground a silver shower.
Alas! is all this boasted ease
To lose each warm desire to please?
No sweet solicitude to know
For other's bliss, for other's woe,
A frozen apathy to find—
A sad vacuity of mind?
Scatters around a mournful ray;
And chilly every zephyr blows,
And every stream untuneful flows,
No rapture swells the linnet's voice,
No more the vocal groves rejoice;
And e'en thy song, sweet bird of eve
With whom I lov'd so oft to grieve,
Now, scarce regarded, meets my ear
Unanswer'd by a sigh or tear;
No more with devious steps I choose
To brush the mountain's morning dews;
To drink the spirit of the breeze,
Or wander midst o'er-arching trees;
Or woo with undisturb'd delight
The pale-cheek'd Virgin of the night,
That, peering through the leafy bower,
Throws on the ground a silver shower.
Alas! is all this boasted ease
To lose each warm desire to please?
No sweet solicitude to know
For other's bliss, for other's woe,
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A sad vacuity of mind?
O! hasten back, thou heavenly boy,
And with thine anguish bring thy joy;
Return with all thy torments here,
And let me hope, and doubt, and fear;
O! rend my heart with every pain,
But, let me, let me love again!
And with thine anguish bring thy joy;
Return with all thy torments here,
And let me hope, and doubt, and fear;
O! rend my heart with every pain,
But, let me, let me love again!
THE LILY AND THE ROSE.
The Rose, I own, has many a charm
To win the partial eye;
Her sweets remain to glad the sense
E'en when her colours fly:
To win the partial eye;
Her sweets remain to glad the sense
E'en when her colours fly:
Just so good humour charms the heart,
After a face once fair
Parts with its bloom, and withering time
Has planted wrinkles there.
After a face once fair
Parts with its bloom, and withering time
Has planted wrinkles there.
But should I ask from beauty's store
A tint to gain the heart,
It should not be the blooming tinge
Which looks so like to art.
A tint to gain the heart,
It should not be the blooming tinge
Which looks so like to art.
No; spread along the downy cheek
The tender Lily fair,
And soon the eye shall teach the heart
To find an interest there.
The tender Lily fair,
And soon the eye shall teach the heart
To find an interest there.
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The bending form, the drooping head,
Shall dwell upon the mind,
And ever round the feelings strong
Some soft affection wind.
Shall dwell upon the mind,
And ever round the feelings strong
Some soft affection wind.
So Flora, once in pensive mood,
Pronounc'd the fix'd decree,
When passing many a flaunting flower,
She dropped a tear o'er thee;
Pronounc'd the fix'd decree,
When passing many a flaunting flower,
She dropped a tear o'er thee;
“Others,” said she, “may charm the eye,
And fancied joys impart;
But thou shalt learn the secret way
That wins into the heart.
And fancied joys impart;
But thou shalt learn the secret way
That wins into the heart.
Within thy bell this pearl shall rest,
Which seems a lucid tear,
The only gem that Pity loves
To tremble in her ear.
Which seems a lucid tear,
The only gem that Pity loves
To tremble in her ear.
Then let Health make the blooming Rose
The favourite of her bower;—
The eye may woo the flow'ret gay,
The heart shall own thy power.”
The favourite of her bower;—
The eye may woo the flow'ret gay,
The heart shall own thy power.”
139
THE OLD SOLDIER'S TALE.
But hark! what sounds of mingl'd joy and woe
From yon poor cottage bursting seem to flow.
'Tis honest Sarah's. Soldier-Harry's come,
And, after all his toils, got safely home.
“Welcome, old soldier, welcome from the wars!
Honour the man, my lads, seam'd o'er with scars!
Come give's thy hand, and bring another can,
And tell us all thou'st done, and seen, my man.”
Now expectation stares in every eye,
The jaw falls down, and every soul draws nigh,
With ear turn'd up, and head held all awry.
“Why, sir, the papers tell you all that's done,
What battle's lost, and what is hardly won.
But when the eye looks into private woes,
And sees the grief that from one battle flows,
Small cause of triumph can the bravest feel,
For never yet were brave hearts made of steel.
From yon poor cottage bursting seem to flow.
'Tis honest Sarah's. Soldier-Harry's come,
And, after all his toils, got safely home.
“Welcome, old soldier, welcome from the wars!
Honour the man, my lads, seam'd o'er with scars!
Come give's thy hand, and bring another can,
And tell us all thou'st done, and seen, my man.”
Now expectation stares in every eye,
The jaw falls down, and every soul draws nigh,
With ear turn'd up, and head held all awry.
“Why, sir, the papers tell you all that's done,
What battle's lost, and what is hardly won.
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And sees the grief that from one battle flows,
Small cause of triumph can the bravest feel,
For never yet were brave hearts made of steel.
“In a dark and dismal corner once I found
A youth, whose blood was pouring through the wound;
No sister's hand, no tender mother's eye
To stanch that wound was fondly standing by;
Famine had done her work, and low were laid
The loving mother and the blooming maid.
He rais'd his eyes, and bade me strike the blow,
I've nought to lose, he cried, so fear no foe;
No foe is near, I softly made reply,
A soldier, friend, would save and not destroy.
Well; as I dress'd the youth, I found 'twas he
That oft had charm'd the sentinels and me;
From post to post like lightning he would fly,
And pour down thunder from his red-hot sky;
We prais'd him for't,—so I my captain told,
For well I knew he lik'd the foe that's bold;
So then the surgeon took him in his charge,
And the captain made him prisoner at large.”
“Was he a Spaniard, or a Frenchman, whether?
But it's no matter; they're all rogues together!”
“You're much mistaken: Goodness I have found
Springs like the grass that clothes the common ground;
Some more, some less, you know, grows every where;
Some soils are fertile, and some are but bare.
Nay, 'mongst the Indians I've found kindly cheer,
And as much pity as I could do here!
Once in their woods I stray'd a length of way,
And thought I'd known the path that homeward lay;
We'd gone to forage, but I lost the rest,
Which, till quite out of hearing, never guess'd.
I halloo'd loud, some voices made reply,
But not my comrades; not one friend was nigh.
Some men appear'd, their faces painted o'er,
The wampum-belt, and tomahawk they bore;
Their ears were hung with beads, that largely spread
A breadth of wing, and cover'd half the head.
I kiss'd the ground; one older than the rest
Stepp'd forth, and laid his hand upon my breast,
Then seiz'd my arms, and sign'd that I should go,
And learn with them to bend the sturdy bow:
I bow'd and follow'd; sadly did I mourn,
And never more expected to return.
We travell'd on some days through woods alone,
At length we reach'd their happy silent home.
A youth, whose blood was pouring through the wound;
No sister's hand, no tender mother's eye
To stanch that wound was fondly standing by;
Famine had done her work, and low were laid
The loving mother and the blooming maid.
He rais'd his eyes, and bade me strike the blow,
I've nought to lose, he cried, so fear no foe;
No foe is near, I softly made reply,
A soldier, friend, would save and not destroy.
Well; as I dress'd the youth, I found 'twas he
That oft had charm'd the sentinels and me;
From post to post like lightning he would fly,
And pour down thunder from his red-hot sky;
We prais'd him for't,—so I my captain told,
For well I knew he lik'd the foe that's bold;
So then the surgeon took him in his charge,
And the captain made him prisoner at large.”
“Was he a Spaniard, or a Frenchman, whether?
But it's no matter; they're all rogues together!”
“You're much mistaken: Goodness I have found
Springs like the grass that clothes the common ground;
Some more, some less, you know, grows every where;
Some soils are fertile, and some are but bare.
Nay, 'mongst the Indians I've found kindly cheer,
And as much pity as I could do here!
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And thought I'd known the path that homeward lay;
We'd gone to forage, but I lost the rest,
Which, till quite out of hearing, never guess'd.
I halloo'd loud, some voices made reply,
But not my comrades; not one friend was nigh.
Some men appear'd, their faces painted o'er,
The wampum-belt, and tomahawk they bore;
Their ears were hung with beads, that largely spread
A breadth of wing, and cover'd half the head.
I kiss'd the ground; one older than the rest
Stepp'd forth, and laid his hand upon my breast,
Then seiz'd my arms, and sign'd that I should go,
And learn with them to bend the sturdy bow:
I bow'd and follow'd; sadly did I mourn,
And never more expected to return.
We travell'd on some days through woods alone,
At length we reach'd their happy silent home.
“A few green acres the whole plot compose,
Which woods surround, and fencing rocks enclose,
Skirting whose banks, a river fond of play
Sometimes stood still, and sometimes ran away;
The branching deer would drink the dimpl'd tide,
And crop the wild herbs on its flowery side,—
Around the silent hut would sometimes stray,
Then, at the sight of man, bound swift away;
But all in vain; the hunter's flying dart
Springs from the bow, and quivers in the hart.
A mother and four daughters here we found,
With shells encircled, and with feathers crown'd,
Bright pebbles shone amidst the plaited hair,
While lesser shells surround the moon-like ear.
With screams at sight of me away they flew
(For fear or pleasure springs from what is new);
Then, to their brothers, screaming still they ran,
Thinking my clothes and me the self-same man;
When bolder grown, they ventur'd something near,
Light touch'd my coat, but started back with fear.
When time and use had chas'd their fears away,
And I had learned some few short words to say,
They oft would tell me, that I should allow
The rampant lion to o'erhang my brow,
And on my cheek the spotted leopard wear,
Stretch out my ears, and let my arms go bare.
Tho' different in their manners, yet their heart
Was equal mine in every better part.
Brave to a fault, if courage fault can be;
Kind to their fellows, doubly kind to me.
Some little arts my travell'd judgment taught,
Which tho' a prize to them, seem'd greater than they ought.
Which woods surround, and fencing rocks enclose,
Skirting whose banks, a river fond of play
Sometimes stood still, and sometimes ran away;
The branching deer would drink the dimpl'd tide,
And crop the wild herbs on its flowery side,—
Around the silent hut would sometimes stray,
Then, at the sight of man, bound swift away;
But all in vain; the hunter's flying dart
Springs from the bow, and quivers in the hart.
A mother and four daughters here we found,
With shells encircled, and with feathers crown'd,
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While lesser shells surround the moon-like ear.
With screams at sight of me away they flew
(For fear or pleasure springs from what is new);
Then, to their brothers, screaming still they ran,
Thinking my clothes and me the self-same man;
When bolder grown, they ventur'd something near,
Light touch'd my coat, but started back with fear.
When time and use had chas'd their fears away,
And I had learned some few short words to say,
They oft would tell me, that I should allow
The rampant lion to o'erhang my brow,
And on my cheek the spotted leopard wear,
Stretch out my ears, and let my arms go bare.
Tho' different in their manners, yet their heart
Was equal mine in every better part.
Brave to a fault, if courage fault can be;
Kind to their fellows, doubly kind to me.
Some little arts my travell'd judgment taught,
Which tho' a prize to them, seem'd greater than they ought.
“Needless with bows for me the woods to roam,
I therefore tried to do some good at home.
The birds, or deer, or boars, were all their food,
Save the swift salmon of the silver flood;
And when the long storms the winter-stores would drain,
Hunger might ask the stinted meal in vain.
Some goats I saw that brows'd the rocks among,
And oft I thought to trap their playful young;
But not till first a fencing hedge surrounds
Their future fields, and the enclosure bounds;
For many a father owns a hatchet here,
Which falls descending to his wealthy heir.
The playful kid we from the pitfall bring,
O'erspread with earth, and many a tempting thing;
Light lay the branches o'er the treacherous deep,
And favourite herbs among the long grass creep.
The little prisoner soon is taught to stand,
And crop the food from the betrayer's hand.
A winter-store now rose up to their view,
And in another field the clover grew;
But, without scythes or hooks, how could we lay
The ridgy swath and turn it into hay?
At last, of stone we form'd a sort of spade,
Broad at the end, and sharp, for cutting made;
We push'd along, the tender grass gave way,
And soon the sun turn'd every pile to hay,
It was not long before the flocks increased,
And I first gave the unknown milky feast.
Some clay I found, and useful bowls I made,
Tho', I must own, I marr'd the potter's trade;
Yet use is everything—they did the same
As if from China the rude vessels came.
The curdling cheese I taught them next to press;
And twirl'd on strings the roasting meat to dress.
In all the woods the Indian corn was found,
Whose grains I scatter'd in the fruitful ground;
The willing soil leaves little here to do,
Or asks the furrows of the searching plough;
Yet something like one with delight I made,
For tedious are the labours of the spade,
The coulter and the sock were pointed stone,
The eager brothers drew the traces on,
I stalk'd behind and threw the faithful grain,
And wooden harrows clos'd the earth again:
Soon sprung the seed, and soon 'twas in the ear,
Nor wait the golden sheaves the falling year;
In this vast clime two harvests load the field,
And fifty crops th'exhaustless soil can yield.
I therefore tried to do some good at home.
The birds, or deer, or boars, were all their food,
Save the swift salmon of the silver flood;
And when the long storms the winter-stores would drain,
Hunger might ask the stinted meal in vain.
Some goats I saw that brows'd the rocks among,
And oft I thought to trap their playful young;
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Their future fields, and the enclosure bounds;
For many a father owns a hatchet here,
Which falls descending to his wealthy heir.
The playful kid we from the pitfall bring,
O'erspread with earth, and many a tempting thing;
Light lay the branches o'er the treacherous deep,
And favourite herbs among the long grass creep.
The little prisoner soon is taught to stand,
And crop the food from the betrayer's hand.
A winter-store now rose up to their view,
And in another field the clover grew;
But, without scythes or hooks, how could we lay
The ridgy swath and turn it into hay?
At last, of stone we form'd a sort of spade,
Broad at the end, and sharp, for cutting made;
We push'd along, the tender grass gave way,
And soon the sun turn'd every pile to hay,
It was not long before the flocks increased,
And I first gave the unknown milky feast.
Some clay I found, and useful bowls I made,
Tho', I must own, I marr'd the potter's trade;
Yet use is everything—they did the same
As if from China the rude vessels came.
The curdling cheese I taught them next to press;
And twirl'd on strings the roasting meat to dress.
In all the woods the Indian corn was found,
Whose grains I scatter'd in the fruitful ground;
The willing soil leaves little here to do,
Or asks the furrows of the searching plough;
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For tedious are the labours of the spade,
The coulter and the sock were pointed stone,
The eager brothers drew the traces on,
I stalk'd behind and threw the faithful grain,
And wooden harrows clos'd the earth again:
Soon sprung the seed, and soon 'twas in the ear,
Nor wait the golden sheaves the falling year;
In this vast clime two harvests load the field,
And fifty crops th'exhaustless soil can yield.
“Some bricks I burnt, and now a house arose,
Finer than ought the Indian chieftain knows;
A wicker door, with clay-like plaster lin'd,
Serv'd to exclude the piercing wintry wind;
A horn-glaz'd window gave a scanty light,
But lamps cheer'd up the gloom of lengthen'd night;
The cotton shrub through all the woods had run,
And plenteous wicks our rocks and spindles spun.
Around their fields the yam I taught to grow,
With all the fruits they either love or know.
The bed I rais'd from the damp earth, and now
Some little comfort walk'd our dwelling through.
My fame was spread: the neighbouring Indians came,
View'd all our works, and strove to do the same.
The wampum-belt my growing fame records,
That tells great actions without help of words.
I gain'd much honour, and each friend would bring
'Mong various presents many a high-priz'd thing.
And when, with many a prayer, I ask once more
To seek my friends, and wander to the shore,
They all consent,—but drop a sorrowing tear,
While many a friend his load of skins would bear.
Riches were mine; but fate will'd it not so,—
They grew the treasure of the Spanish foe;
My Indian friends threw down their fleecy load,
And, like the bounding elk, leap'd back into the wood,
Finer than ought the Indian chieftain knows;
A wicker door, with clay-like plaster lin'd,
Serv'd to exclude the piercing wintry wind;
A horn-glaz'd window gave a scanty light,
But lamps cheer'd up the gloom of lengthen'd night;
The cotton shrub through all the woods had run,
And plenteous wicks our rocks and spindles spun.
Around their fields the yam I taught to grow,
With all the fruits they either love or know.
The bed I rais'd from the damp earth, and now
Some little comfort walk'd our dwelling through.
My fame was spread: the neighbouring Indians came,
View'd all our works, and strove to do the same.
The wampum-belt my growing fame records,
That tells great actions without help of words.
I gain'd much honour, and each friend would bring
'Mong various presents many a high-priz'd thing.
And when, with many a prayer, I ask once more
To seek my friends, and wander to the shore,
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While many a friend his load of skins would bear.
Riches were mine; but fate will'd it not so,—
They grew the treasure of the Spanish foe;
My Indian friends threw down their fleecy load,
And, like the bounding elk, leap'd back into the wood,
“What though a prisoner! countrymen I found,
Heard my own tongue, and bless'd the cheerful sound;
It seem'd to me as if my home was there,
And every dearest friend would soon appear.
At length a cartel gave us back to share
The wounds and dangers of a bloody war.
Peace dawn'd at last, and now the sails were spread,
Some climb the ship unhurt, some few half dead.
Not this afflicts the gallant soldier's mind,
What is't to him tho' limbs are left behind!
Chelsea a crutch and bench will yet supply,
And be the veteran's dear lost limb and eye!
Heard my own tongue, and bless'd the cheerful sound;
It seem'd to me as if my home was there,
And every dearest friend would soon appear.
At length a cartel gave us back to share
The wounds and dangers of a bloody war.
Peace dawn'd at last, and now the sails were spread,
Some climb the ship unhurt, some few half dead.
Not this afflicts the gallant soldier's mind,
What is't to him tho' limbs are left behind!
Chelsea a crutch and bench will yet supply,
And be the veteran's dear lost limb and eye!
“When English ground first struck the sailor's view,
Huzza! for England, roar'd the jovial crew.
The waving crutch leaped up in every hand,
While one poor leg was left alone to stand;
The very name another limb bestows,
And through the artery the blood now flows.
We reach'd the shore, and kiss'd the much-lov'd ground,
And fondly fancied friends would crowd around;
But few with wretchedness acquaintance claim,
And little pride is every way the same.
Huzza! for England, roar'd the jovial crew.
The waving crutch leaped up in every hand,
While one poor leg was left alone to stand;
The very name another limb bestows,
And through the artery the blood now flows.
We reach'd the shore, and kiss'd the much-lov'd ground,
And fondly fancied friends would crowd around;
But few with wretchedness acquaintance claim,
And little pride is every way the same.
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“In coming down, the seeing eye of day
Darken'd around me, and I lost my way.
Where'er a light shot glimmering through the trees,
I thither urg'd my weary trembling knees,
Tapp'd at the door, and begg'd in piteous tone,
They'd let a wandering soldier find his home;
They barr'd the door, and bade me beg elsewhere,
They'd no spare beds for vagabonds to share.
This was the tale where'er I made a halt,
And greater houses grew upon the fault;
The dog was loos'd to keep me far at bay,
And saucy footmen bade me walk away,
Or else a constable should find a home
For wandering captains from the wars new come.
Alas! thought I, is this the soldier's praise
For loss of health, of limb, and length of days?
And is this England?—England, my delight!
For whom I thought it glory but to fight—
That has no covert for the soldier's night!”
Darken'd around me, and I lost my way.
Where'er a light shot glimmering through the trees,
I thither urg'd my weary trembling knees,
Tapp'd at the door, and begg'd in piteous tone,
They'd let a wandering soldier find his home;
They barr'd the door, and bade me beg elsewhere,
They'd no spare beds for vagabonds to share.
This was the tale where'er I made a halt,
And greater houses grew upon the fault;
The dog was loos'd to keep me far at bay,
And saucy footmen bade me walk away,
Or else a constable should find a home
For wandering captains from the wars new come.
Alas! thought I, is this the soldier's praise
For loss of health, of limb, and length of days?
And is this England?—England, my delight!
For whom I thought it glory but to fight—
That has no covert for the soldier's night!”
| Miscellaneous songs and poems | |