More verse and prose By the Cornlaw Rhymer [i.e. Ebenezer Elliott]. In two volumes |
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| LYRICS FROM “LIFE ACCORDING TO LAW,” AN UNPUBLISHED OPERA. |
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LYRICS FROM “LIFE ACCORDING TO LAW,” AN UNPUBLISHED OPERA.
Afore the woodwele, owre the brere,
Shall lanely toot, “Sic' bodies were,”
Foreslow they daft unmaklye loons,
Wha're fettled weel to chow their spoons:
Owre fat for wark, too lang they steal
Fra' sair-toil'd folk their claes and meal.
Old Ballad.
Shall lanely toot, “Sic' bodies were,”
Foreslow they daft unmaklye loons,
Wha're fettled weel to chow their spoons:
Owre fat for wark, too lang they steal
Fra' sair-toil'd folk their claes and meal.
Old Ballad.
YOUNG POETS' PLAINT.
1
God, release our dying sister!Beauteous blight hath sadly kiss'd her:
Whiter than the wild, white roses,
Famine in her face discloses
Mute submission, patience holy,
Passing fair! but passing slowly.
2
Though she said, “You know I'm dying,”In her heart green trees are sighing;
Not of them hath pain bereft her,
In the city, where we left her:
“Bring,” she said, “a hedgeside blossom!”
Love shall lay it on her bosom.
5
THE POOR MAN'S DAY.
Grahame.
1
Sabbath holy!To the lowly
Still art thou a welcome day.
When thou comest, earth and ocean,
Shade and brightness, rest and motion,
Help the poor man's heart to pray.
2
Sun-wak'd forest!Bird, that soarest
O'er the mute, empurpled moor!
Throstle's song, that stream-like flowest!
Wind, that over dewdrop goest!
Welcome now the woe-worn poor.
3
Little river,Young for ever!
Cloud, gold-bright with thankful glee!
Happy woodbine, gladly weeping!
Gnat, within the wild rose keeping!
Oh, that they were bless'd as ye!
6
4
Sabbath holy!For the lowly
Paint with flowers thy glittering sod;
For affliction's sons and daughters,
Bid thy mountains, woods, and waters,
Pray to God, the poor man's God!
5
From the fever,(Idle never
Where on Hope Want bars the door,)
From the gloom of airless alleys,
Lead thou to green hills and valleys
Weary Lordland's trampled poor!
6
Pale young mother!Gasping brother!
Sister, toiling in despair!
Grief-bow'd sire, that life-long diest!
White-lipp'd child, that sleeping sighest!
Come, and drink the light and air.
7
Still God liveth;Still he giveth
What no law can take away;
And, oh, Sabbath! bringing gladness
Unto hearts of weary sadness,
Still art thou “The Poor Man's Day!”
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CHORUS.
1
These pauper-kings, these tax-fed things,What say these murderous robber-kings?
To man with labour bow'd,
“Receive thy parish shroud!”
To woman, “Seek the homeless street,
Or prayerless grave, where four roads meet!”
To enterprise, “Be bold in vain!”
To failing strength, “Still toil for pain!”
To youth, “Thou shalt not hope!” to age, “Thou shalt not rest!”
To care-worn skill, “Thou shalt not thrive!” to genius, “Die, unbless'd!”
2
Cain! Cain! the murder'd and the justSpeak to their brother from the dust:
“Cain!” saith scath'd Hope, “restore
The smile that once I wore.”
“Replant,” saith Love, “my rose replant!”
“Reclothe my bones!” saith buried want;
Thy convicts cry, “Recal our youth!
Oh, bring us back its trust in truth!”
And all cry, “Uncreate the pangs thou yet may'st share,
In millions of yet living hearts, law-wedded to despair!”
8
DIRGE.
1
God said to man, “Arise, and toil,To fill thy soul with good:”
But men said, “No! nor food, nor work:”
I toil'd, and wanted food.
2
All ills that man can bear I bore,With none to see me nigh;
For pain I toil'd, of want I died;
God only saw me die!
3
“Bread, bread for toil!” I ask'd of man,But death for toil he gave:
And now I ask “A little earth!
For famish'd man a grave!”
4
Of God I ask, what God will give,“Rest! till the end shall be:”
Safe in his hands, oh, sweet is rest
To woe-worn men like me!
9
HYMN.
[To live in vain! to live in pain!]
1
To live in vain! to live in pain!To toil in hopeless sadness!
Is this the doom of godlike man,
Oh, God of Love and Gladness?
Not so the rose in summer blows,
Not so the moon her changes knows,
Not so the storm his madness.
2
From storms that rock the oak to sleep,Thy woods their beauty borrow;
And flowers, to-day, unheeded weep,
Whose seeds will live to-morrow:
So man, by painful ages taught,
Will build, at last, on truthful thought,
And wisdom, won from sorrow.
3
Else, what a lie were written wide,By thy right hand, my Father,
O'er all thy seas, in crimson dyed
When Morning is a bather;
O'er all thy vales of growing gold;
Or where, on mountains black with cold,
Thy clouds to battle gather.
10
YOUNG POET.
Round the rascal-beggar's bed,Who all mortal troubles bore,
Whom the wicked vex no more,—
Let us pray.
Where the hasty prayer was said,
And poor mortals equal are,
Mocking marble mockeries! there
Let us pray.
There—where lowly lie the dead!
Lest we, too, be as the clay,
Unto God, for bread to-day,
Let us pray.
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