The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." Now for the first time collected by Henry Lonsdale; With a preface, memoir, and notes by Patrick Maxwell |
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 | The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." |  |
173
SONGS.
175
THE CHELSEA PENSIONERS.
When war had broke in on the peace of auld men,
And frae Chelsea to arms they were summon'd again;
Twa vet'rans grown gray, wi' their muskets sair soil'd,
Wi' a sigh were relating how hard they had toil'd;
The drum it was beating, to fight they incline,
But aye they look back to the days o' langsyne.
And frae Chelsea to arms they were summon'd again;
Twa vet'rans grown gray, wi' their muskets sair soil'd,
Wi' a sigh were relating how hard they had toil'd;
The drum it was beating, to fight they incline,
But aye they look back to the days o' langsyne.
Oh! Davy, man, weel thou remembers the time,
When twa brisk young callans, and baith i' our prime,
The Duke bade us conquer, and show'd us the way,
And mony a braw chiel we laid low on that day;
Yet I'd venture, fu' cheerfu', this auld trunk o' mine,
Could William but lead, and I fight, as langsyne.
When twa brisk young callans, and baith i' our prime,
The Duke bade us conquer, and show'd us the way,
And mony a braw chiel we laid low on that day;
Yet I'd venture, fu' cheerfu', this auld trunk o' mine,
Could William but lead, and I fight, as langsyne.
176
But garrison duty is a' we can do,
Tho' our arms are worn weak yet our hearts are still true;
We carena for dangers by land or by sea,
For Time is turn'd coward and no thee and me;
And tho' at the change we should sadly repine,
Youth winna return, nor the strength o' langsyne.
Tho' our arms are worn weak yet our hearts are still true;
We carena for dangers by land or by sea,
For Time is turn'd coward and no thee and me;
And tho' at the change we should sadly repine,
Youth winna return, nor the strength o' langsyne.
When after our conquests, it joys me to mind
How thy Janet caress'd thee and my Meg was kind;
They follow'd our fortunes, tho' never so hard,
And we cared na for plunder wi' sic a reward;
E'en now they're resolv'd baith their hames to resign,
And will follow us yet for the sake o' langsyne.
How thy Janet caress'd thee and my Meg was kind;
They follow'd our fortunes, tho' never so hard,
And we cared na for plunder wi' sic a reward;
E'en now they're resolv'd baith their hames to resign,
And will follow us yet for the sake o' langsyne.
177
NAY, NAY, CENSOR TIME.
Nay, nay, Censor Time, I'll be happy to-day,
For I see thou'rt grown gray with thy cares;
Then preach not to me, as my life steals away,
Of the pleasure of far distant years.
For I see thou'rt grown gray with thy cares;
Then preach not to me, as my life steals away,
Of the pleasure of far distant years.
The sands in thy glass in soft silence depart,
Yet thy cheek grows the paler the while;
But the drops there in mine fill the tubes of the heart,
And mount to my lip with a smile.
Yet thy cheek grows the paler the while;
But the drops there in mine fill the tubes of the heart,
And mount to my lip with a smile.
And thou would'st smile too, if my fair one thou'd toast;
Nay sip of my bumper and see!
Her charms will dissolve e'en thy age's chill frost,
And make thee as youthful as me.
Nay sip of my bumper and see!
Her charms will dissolve e'en thy age's chill frost,
And make thee as youthful as me.
To be young, cried old Time, my own glass I'll forego,
And freely will sip out of thine;
Then tasted, and cried, Let thy Cynthia now know
She has warm'd the cold bosom of Time.
And freely will sip out of thine;
Then tasted, and cried, Let thy Cynthia now know
She has warm'd the cold bosom of Time.
For this the late rose shall still hang on her cheek,
Though the blossoms of youth should decay;
And the soft eye be left, its own language to speak,
For a mind far more beauteous than they!
Though the blossoms of youth should decay;
And the soft eye be left, its own language to speak,
For a mind far more beauteous than they!
178
THOUGH BACCHUS MAY BOAST.
Though Bacchus may boast of his care-killing bowl,
And folly in thought-drowning revels delight,
Such worship, alas! has no charms for the soul
When softer devotions the senses invite.
And folly in thought-drowning revels delight,
Such worship, alas! has no charms for the soul
When softer devotions the senses invite.
To the arrow of fate, or the canker of care,
His potion oblivious a balm may bestow;
But to fancy that feeds on the charms of the fair
The death of reflection's the birth of all woe.
His potion oblivious a balm may bestow;
But to fancy that feeds on the charms of the fair
The death of reflection's the birth of all woe.
What soul that's possess'd of a dream so divine
With riot would bid the sweet vision be gone?
For the tear that bedews sensibility's shrine
Is a drop of more worth than all Bacchus's tun!
With riot would bid the sweet vision be gone?
For the tear that bedews sensibility's shrine
Is a drop of more worth than all Bacchus's tun!
The tender excess which enamours the heart
To few is imparted, to millions denied;
Of those exquisite feelings, that please tho' we smart,
Let fools make their jest, for them sages have died.
To few is imparted, to millions denied;
Of those exquisite feelings, that please tho' we smart,
Let fools make their jest, for them sages have died.
Each change and excess have thro' life been my doom,
And well can I speak of its joy and its strife;
The bottle affords us a glimpse through the gloom,
But Love's the true sunshine that gladdens our life.
And well can I speak of its joy and its strife;
The bottle affords us a glimpse through the gloom,
But Love's the true sunshine that gladdens our life.
179
Come, then, rosy Venus, and spread o'er my sight
The magic illusions that ravish the soul!
Awake in my breast the soft dream of delight,
And drop from thy myrtle one leaf in my bowl!
The magic illusions that ravish the soul!
Awake in my breast the soft dream of delight,
And drop from thy myrtle one leaf in my bowl!
Then deep will I drink of the nectar divine,
Nor e'er, jolly god, from thy banquet remove;
Each throb of my heart shall accord with the wine
That's mellow'd by friendship and sweeten'd by love!
Nor e'er, jolly god, from thy banquet remove;
Each throb of my heart shall accord with the wine
That's mellow'd by friendship and sweeten'd by love!
And now, my gay comrades, the myrtle and vine
Shall united their blessings the choicest impart;
Let reason, not riot, the garland entwine—
The result must be pleasure and peace to the heart.
Shall united their blessings the choicest impart;
Let reason, not riot, the garland entwine—
The result must be pleasure and peace to the heart.
IN THE DREAM OF THE MOMENT.
In the dream of the moment I call'd for the bowl,
And fondly imagined each grief would depart;
But I found that a bumper can't reach the pure soul,
Nor wine clear the sorrows that weigh down the heart.
And fondly imagined each grief would depart;
But I found that a bumper can't reach the pure soul,
Nor wine clear the sorrows that weigh down the heart.
Though fancy may sparkle as shines the gay glass,
And wit, like air-bubbles, keep rising the while,
Or mirth and good humour shake hands as they pass,
And fond Recollection come back with a smile;
And wit, like air-bubbles, keep rising the while,
Or mirth and good humour shake hands as they pass,
And fond Recollection come back with a smile;
180
Yet, right if I ween, for the joys that are past
I see a soft tear stealing into her eye;—
We know, gentle maid, that such hours cannot last,
Though held fast by friendship and brighten'd by joy.
I see a soft tear stealing into her eye;—
We know, gentle maid, that such hours cannot last,
Though held fast by friendship and brighten'd by joy.
Ah! well do I know, for, since reason's young dawn
First held her light torch o'er this silver-grown head,
I have mark'd the sweet floweret adorning the lawn,
Fade under mine eye, and then mix with the dead.
First held her light torch o'er this silver-grown head,
I have mark'd the sweet floweret adorning the lawn,
Fade under mine eye, and then mix with the dead.
The light leaves of summer that fan us to-day,
And shake their green heads as we frolic around,
One breath of cold winter shall waft them away,
And a new waving race the next season be found.
And shake their green heads as we frolic around,
One breath of cold winter shall waft them away,
And a new waving race the next season be found.
Since thus it must be—since our summers must fade,
And autumn and winter succeed in their turn,
Let us make much of life, and enjoy her green shade,
Nor long for lost pleasures continue to mourn.
And autumn and winter succeed in their turn,
Let us make much of life, and enjoy her green shade,
Nor long for lost pleasures continue to mourn.
181
WHEN THE SUNBEAMS OF JOY.
When the sunbeams of joy gild the morn of our days,
And the soft heart is warm'd both with hope and with praise,
New pleasures, new prospects, still burst on the view,
And the phantom of bliss in our walks we pursue:
What tho' tangl'd in brakes, or withheld by the thorn,
Such sorrows of youth are but pearls of the morn;
As they “gem the light leaf” in the fervour of day,
The warmth of the season dissolves them away.
And the soft heart is warm'd both with hope and with praise,
New pleasures, new prospects, still burst on the view,
And the phantom of bliss in our walks we pursue:
What tho' tangl'd in brakes, or withheld by the thorn,
Such sorrows of youth are but pearls of the morn;
As they “gem the light leaf” in the fervour of day,
The warmth of the season dissolves them away.
In the noon-tide of life, though not robb'd of their fire,
The warm wishes abate, and the spirits retire;
Thus pictures less glowing give equal delight,
When reason just tints them with shades of the night;
Reflection's slow shadow steals down the gay hill,
Though as yet you may shun the soft shade as you will,
And on hope fix your eye, till the brightness, so clear,
Shall hang on its lid a dim trembling tear.
The warm wishes abate, and the spirits retire;
Thus pictures less glowing give equal delight,
When reason just tints them with shades of the night;
Reflection's slow shadow steals down the gay hill,
Though as yet you may shun the soft shade as you will,
And on hope fix your eye, till the brightness, so clear,
Shall hang on its lid a dim trembling tear.
Next, the shades of mild evening close gently around,
And lengthen'd reflection must stalk o'er the ground;
Through her lantern of magic past pleasures are seen,
And we then only know what our day-dreams have been:
On the painted illusion we gaze while we can,
Though we often exclaim, What a bauble is man!—
In youth but a gewgaw—in age but a toy—
The same empty trifle as man and as boy!
And lengthen'd reflection must stalk o'er the ground;
Through her lantern of magic past pleasures are seen,
And we then only know what our day-dreams have been:
On the painted illusion we gaze while we can,
Though we often exclaim, What a bauble is man!—
In youth but a gewgaw—in age but a toy—
The same empty trifle as man and as boy!
182
FOR THE CARLISLE HUNT.
November, 1788.
When the last leaf forsook the tree,
And languid suns were seen,
And winter whistl'd o'er the lea,
And call'd the sportsmen keen;
The goddess of the silver bow
Stept forth, her sandals tipp'd with snow.
Fal, lall, &c.
And languid suns were seen,
And winter whistl'd o'er the lea,
And call'd the sportsmen keen;
The goddess of the silver bow
Stept forth, her sandals tipp'd with snow.
Fal, lall, &c.
Her beauteous nymphs rang'd by her side,
While hounds surround her horn;—
Stop here, my woodland train, she cried,
Till welcom'd by the morn;
See yonder comes the blushing fair,
We'll soon hunt down her leading star.
Fal, lall, &c.
While hounds surround her horn;—
Stop here, my woodland train, she cried,
Till welcom'd by the morn;
See yonder comes the blushing fair,
We'll soon hunt down her leading star.
Fal, lall, &c.
A stag for long kept up the chase,
But now at bay he stood;
A nymph, of more than mortal race,
Rush'd eager from the wood:—
“I come to set the prisoner free!”
Then waved the cap of Liberty.
Fal, lall, &c.
But now at bay he stood;
A nymph, of more than mortal race,
Rush'd eager from the wood:—
“I come to set the prisoner free!”
Then waved the cap of Liberty.
Fal, lall, &c.
183
Diana, smiling, took her hand:
“Where has my sister staid?
What hapless sons in foreign land
Demand her dauntless aid?”
“A city, once well known to fame,
Has struggl'd hard to keep my name:
Fal, lall, &c.
“Where has my sister staid?
What hapless sons in foreign land
Demand her dauntless aid?”
“A city, once well known to fame,
Has struggl'd hard to keep my name:
Fal, lall, &c.
“A few brave sons protect it now,
The bulwark of the laws;
While I come here to ask of you
To aid the glorious cause;
My daughters are like snowdrops seen,
All dress'd in white and trimm'd with green.”
Fal, lall, &c.
The bulwark of the laws;
While I come here to ask of you
To aid the glorious cause;
My daughters are like snowdrops seen,
All dress'd in white and trimm'd with green.”
Fal, lall, &c.
They hasted to the social ball,
Good humour met them there;
Diana's arrows Cupid stole
And aim'd them at the fair:
“Her train has yet escap'd my arts,
But now I shoot with Dian's darts:
Fal, lall, &c.
Good humour met them there;
Diana's arrows Cupid stole
And aim'd them at the fair:
“Her train has yet escap'd my arts,
But now I shoot with Dian's darts:
Fal, lall, &c.
“Yon lucid eye shall drop a tear—
That haughty heart shall bleed—
And many moons shall round the year
Ere I repent the deed.”
But Hymen heard, and with a smile,
Declar'd he'd hover round Carlisle.
Fal, lall, &c.
That haughty heart shall bleed—
And many moons shall round the year
Ere I repent the deed.”
184
Declar'd he'd hover round Carlisle.
Fal, lall, &c.
IN THAT EYE WHERE EXPRESSION.
In that eye, where expression has sweetly been taught
To paint a strong picture of reason and thought,
Yet touch'd with such softness as leads us to know
It can start into rapture, or melt into woe,
Affection beams forth like the rays of the morn,
And warms the young rose-bud that hope had just born.
To paint a strong picture of reason and thought,
Yet touch'd with such softness as leads us to know
It can start into rapture, or melt into woe,
Affection beams forth like the rays of the morn,
And warms the young rose-bud that hope had just born.
Should words e'er be wanting to speak out more clear
What tenderness hints in a trembling tear,
See gentle Persuasion just take up her lyre,
Whose finger, all rhetoric, gives language to wire,—
Till the voice that we love, ever closing the strain,
Shall dwell on the ear till we hear it again.
What tenderness hints in a trembling tear,
See gentle Persuasion just take up her lyre,
Whose finger, all rhetoric, gives language to wire,—
Till the voice that we love, ever closing the strain,
Shall dwell on the ear till we hear it again.
Then tell me no more that you know not to please,
With looks so engaging, and manners like these!
Thus the lily, all meekness, unconscious of power,
Presumes not to vie with a loftier flower!
Yet the lover of sweetness must own, ere they part,
'Tis the lily alone he could wear in his heart.
With looks so engaging, and manners like these!
Thus the lily, all meekness, unconscious of power,
Presumes not to vie with a loftier flower!
Yet the lover of sweetness must own, ere they part,
'Tis the lily alone he could wear in his heart.
185
IN THE SEARCH OF GOOD HUMOUR.
In the search of good humour I've rambl'd all day,
And just now honest truth has discover'd her way;
When rubbing his telescope perfectly clear,
Call'd out, “I have found her;” and bade me come here.
And just now honest truth has discover'd her way;
When rubbing his telescope perfectly clear,
Call'd out, “I have found her;” and bade me come here.
I'm grown weary of wit, who but dresses for show,
And strives still to sparkle as much as your beau;
For, if he can shine, though at dear friends' expense,
He will raise contributions on feeling and sense.
And strives still to sparkle as much as your beau;
For, if he can shine, though at dear friends' expense,
He will raise contributions on feeling and sense.
Then learning is proud, nor can trifle with ease,
Though in this little life 'tis oft trifles that please;
Unbending austerity, wrapt up in self,
Is so like a miser when hoarding his pelf.
Though in this little life 'tis oft trifles that please;
Unbending austerity, wrapt up in self,
Is so like a miser when hoarding his pelf.
Strong reason's a warrior that fights out his way,
And seldom has leisure to rest or to play;
Nay, so rough has he grown, unless great things are done,
He thinks that all useless went down the bright sun.
And seldom has leisure to rest or to play;
Nay, so rough has he grown, unless great things are done,
He thinks that all useless went down the bright sun.
O! 'tis gentle good humour that makes life so sweet,
And picks up the flowerets that garnish our feet;
Then, from them extracting the balsam of health,
Turns the blossoms of nature to true sterling wealth.
And picks up the flowerets that garnish our feet;
Then, from them extracting the balsam of health,
Turns the blossoms of nature to true sterling wealth.
186
COME, MORTALS, ENLIVEN THE HOUR.
Come, mortals, enliven the hour that is lent,
Nor cloud with false fear the sunshine of to-day;
The ills that hang o'er us what sighs can prevent,
Or waft from the eye one moist sorrow away?
Though we see from afar, as he travels life's road,
Old time mowing down both the shrub and the flower,
Soon or late, we all know, he must sweep our abode,
But why damp our mirth by inquiring the hour?
Nor cloud with false fear the sunshine of to-day;
The ills that hang o'er us what sighs can prevent,
Or waft from the eye one moist sorrow away?
Though we see from afar, as he travels life's road,
Old time mowing down both the shrub and the flower,
Soon or late, we all know, he must sweep our abode,
But why damp our mirth by inquiring the hour?
In the span that's allotted then crowd every joy;
Let the goblet run high if in dreams you delight;
Though wine to true pleasure is oft an alloy,
And sober reflection grows sick at the sight.
Disguis'd are our pleasures, as well as our woes;
On their choice must depend half the turn of our fate;
With the tint of the mind every circumstance glows,
And gives to life's trifles their colour and weight.
Let the goblet run high if in dreams you delight;
Though wine to true pleasure is oft an alloy,
And sober reflection grows sick at the sight.
Disguis'd are our pleasures, as well as our woes;
On their choice must depend half the turn of our fate;
With the tint of the mind every circumstance glows,
And gives to life's trifles their colour and weight.
WHEN THE SOFT TEAR STEALS SILENTLY.
When the soft tear steals silently down from the eye,
Take no note of its course, nor detect the slow sigh;
From some spring of shy sorrow its origin flows,
Some tender remembrance that weeps as it goes.
Take no note of its course, nor detect the slow sigh;
From some spring of shy sorrow its origin flows,
Some tender remembrance that weeps as it goes.
187
Ah! it is not to say what will bring to the mind
The sweet joys departed, the friends left behind;
A tune, or a song, or the time of the year,
Strikes the key of reflection, and moans in the ear.
The sweet joys departed, the friends left behind;
A tune, or a song, or the time of the year,
Strikes the key of reflection, and moans in the ear.
Thro' the gay scenes of youth the remembrancer strays,
Till mem'ry steps back on old pleasures to gaze;
Fleeting shadows they seem that glide calmly away,
The remains of past hours, and the ghosts of a day.
Till mem'ry steps back on old pleasures to gaze;
Fleeting shadows they seem that glide calmly away,
The remains of past hours, and the ghosts of a day.
When we set out in life every thing has its charms,
Enkindles the fancy, and all the heart warms;
'Tis this makes us look on the joys that are past
With an eye that turns coolly to glance on the last.
Enkindles the fancy, and all the heart warms;
'Tis this makes us look on the joys that are past
With an eye that turns coolly to glance on the last.
Let the tear then flow on, nor mark the full eye,
'Tis the soul's secret off'ring no mortal should spy;
Few hearts are prepar'd for a rite so divine,
When the feelings alone sacrifice at the shrine.
'Tis the soul's secret off'ring no mortal should spy;
Few hearts are prepar'd for a rite so divine,
When the feelings alone sacrifice at the shrine.
O WHERE IS THE SPLENDOUR.
O where is the splendour can shine away sorrow,
Or where is the treasure can buy off a sigh!
Did riches e'er purchase the loan of to-morrow,
Or find out a medicine to cure the moist eye?
Let wealth spread her carpet, and ask the gay hours
To dance in light circles its borders along;
They'd sooner tend Patrick to Nature's green bowers
“With Norah, dear Norah, the theme of his song.”
Or where is the treasure can buy off a sigh!
Did riches e'er purchase the loan of to-morrow,
Or find out a medicine to cure the moist eye?
188
To dance in light circles its borders along;
They'd sooner tend Patrick to Nature's green bowers
“With Norah, dear Norah, the theme of his song.”
Midst the joys of the heart sits one tender affection
To heal every sorrow when tortur'd with pain;
And, when feeling sinks down into silent dejection,
Sends Hope with her cordial to cheer her again:
Thus love has shown Norah the feints of high station,
And told her that peace seldom joins the gay throng;
While “one sweet smile gives Patrick the wealth of a nation
From Norah, dear Norah, the theme of his song.”
To heal every sorrow when tortur'd with pain;
And, when feeling sinks down into silent dejection,
Sends Hope with her cordial to cheer her again:
Thus love has shown Norah the feints of high station,
And told her that peace seldom joins the gay throng;
While “one sweet smile gives Patrick the wealth of a nation
From Norah, dear Norah, the theme of his song.”
O BID ME NOT TO WANDER.
Written when earnestly entreated to go to the South of France for the recovery of her health.
O urge me not to wander,
And quit my pleasant native shore;
O let me still meander
On those sweet banks I lov'd before!
The heart when fill'd with sorrow
Can find no joy in change of scene,
Nor can that cheat to-morrow
Be aught but what to-day has been.
And quit my pleasant native shore;
O let me still meander
On those sweet banks I lov'd before!
189
Can find no joy in change of scene,
Nor can that cheat to-morrow
Be aught but what to-day has been.
If pleasure e'er o'ertakes me,
'Tis when I tread the wonted round
Where former joy awakes me,
And strows its relics o'er the ground.
There's not a shrub or flower
But tells some dear lov'd tale to me,
And paints some happy hour
Which I, alas! no more shall see.
'Tis when I tread the wonted round
Where former joy awakes me,
And strows its relics o'er the ground.
There's not a shrub or flower
But tells some dear lov'd tale to me,
And paints some happy hour
Which I, alas! no more shall see.
WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE?
What ails this heart o' mine?
What ails this watery ee?
What gars me a' turn cauld as death
When I take leave o' thee?
When thou art far awa
Thou'lt dearer grow to me;
But change o' place and change o' folk
May gar thy fancy jee.
What ails this watery ee?
What gars me a' turn cauld as death
When I take leave o' thee?
When thou art far awa
Thou'lt dearer grow to me;
But change o' place and change o' folk
May gar thy fancy jee.
190
When I gae out at een,
Or walk at morning air,
Ilk rustling bush will seem to say
I us'd to meet thee there.
Then I'll sit down and cry,
And live aneath the tree,
And when a leaf fa's i' my lap
I'll ca't a word frae thee.
Or walk at morning air,
Ilk rustling bush will seem to say
I us'd to meet thee there.
Then I'll sit down and cry,
And live aneath the tree,
And when a leaf fa's i' my lap
I'll ca't a word frae thee.
I'll hie me to the bower
That thou wi' roses tied,
And where wi' mony a blushing bud
I strove mysell to hide.
I'll doat on ilka spot
Where I hae been wi' thee;
And ca' to mind some kindly word
By ilka burn and tree!
That thou wi' roses tied,
And where wi' mony a blushing bud
I strove mysell to hide.
I'll doat on ilka spot
Where I hae been wi' thee;
And ca' to mind some kindly word
By ilka burn and tree!
Wi' sic thoughts i' my mind,
Time through the world may gae,
And find my heart in twenty years
The same as 'tis to-day.
'Tis thoughts that bind the soul,
And keep friends i' the ee;
And gin I think I see thee aye,
What can part thee and me!
Time through the world may gae,
And find my heart in twenty years
The same as 'tis to-day.
'Tis thoughts that bind the soul,
And keep friends i' the ee;
And gin I think I see thee aye,
What can part thee and me!
191
I'VE GOTTEN A ROCK, I'VE GOTTEN A REEL.
I've gotten a rock, I've gotten a reel,
I've gotten a wee bit spinning-wheel;
An' by the whirling rim I've found
How the weary, weary warl goes round.
'Tis roun' an' roun' the spokes they go,
Now ane is up, an' ane is low;
'Tis by ups and downs in Fortune's wheel,
That mony ane gets a rock to reel.
I've gotten a wee bit spinning-wheel;
An' by the whirling rim I've found
How the weary, weary warl goes round.
'Tis roun' an' roun' the spokes they go,
Now ane is up, an' ane is low;
'Tis by ups and downs in Fortune's wheel,
That mony ane gets a rock to reel.
I've seen a lassie barefoot gae,
Look dash'd an' blate, wi' nought to say;
But as the wheel turn'd round again,
She chirp'd an' talk'd, nor seem'd the same:
Sae fine she goes, sae far aglee,
That folks she kenn'd she canna see;
An' fleeching chiels around her thrang,
Till she miskens her a' day lang.
Look dash'd an' blate, wi' nought to say;
But as the wheel turn'd round again,
She chirp'd an' talk'd, nor seem'd the same:
192
That folks she kenn'd she canna see;
An' fleeching chiels around her thrang,
Till she miskens her a' day lang.
There's Jock, when the bit lass was poor,
Ne'er trudg'd o'er the lang mossy moor,
Though now to the knees he wades, I trow,
Through winter's weet an' winter's snow:
An' Pate declar'd the ither morn,
She was like a lily amang the corn;
Though ance he swore her dazzling een
Were bits o' glass that black'd had been.
Ne'er trudg'd o'er the lang mossy moor,
Though now to the knees he wades, I trow,
Through winter's weet an' winter's snow:
An' Pate declar'd the ither morn,
She was like a lily amang the corn;
Though ance he swore her dazzling een
Were bits o' glass that black'd had been.
Now, lassies, I hae found it out,
What men make a' this phrase about;
For when they praise your blinking ee,
'Tis certain that your gowd they see:
An' when they talk o' roses bland,
They think o' the roses o' your land;
But should dame Fortune turn her wheel,
They'd aff in a dance of a threesome reel.
What men make a' this phrase about;
For when they praise your blinking ee,
'Tis certain that your gowd they see:
An' when they talk o' roses bland,
They think o' the roses o' your land;
But should dame Fortune turn her wheel,
They'd aff in a dance of a threesome reel.
193
WHEN HOME WE RETURN.
When home we return, after youth has been spending,
And many a slow year has been wasting and ending,
We often seem lost in the once well-known places,
And sigh to find age has so furrow'd dear faces;
For the rose that has faded the eye still keeps mourning,
And weeps every change that it sees on returning.
And many a slow year has been wasting and ending,
We often seem lost in the once well-known places,
And sigh to find age has so furrow'd dear faces;
For the rose that has faded the eye still keeps mourning,
And weeps every change that it sees on returning.
Should we miss but a tree where we us'd to be playing,
Or find the wood cut where we saunter'd a-Maying,—
If the yew-seat's away, or the ivy's awanting,
We hate the fine lawn and the new-fashion'd planting,
Each thing call'd improvement seems blacken'd with crimes
If it tears up one record of blissful old times.
Or find the wood cut where we saunter'd a-Maying,—
If the yew-seat's away, or the ivy's awanting,
We hate the fine lawn and the new-fashion'd planting,
Each thing call'd improvement seems blacken'd with crimes
If it tears up one record of blissful old times.
When many a spring had call'd forth the sweet flowers,
And many an autumn had painted the bowers,
I came to the place where life had its beginning,
Taking root with the groves that around me were springing;
When I found them all gone, 'twas like dear friends departed,
And I walk'd where they us'd to be half broken hearted!
And many an autumn had painted the bowers,
I came to the place where life had its beginning,
Taking root with the groves that around me were springing;
When I found them all gone, 'twas like dear friends departed,
And I walk'd where they us'd to be half broken hearted!
194
When distant one bower my fancy still haunted,
'Twas hung round with woodbine my Jessy had planted;
I ran to the spot, where a weak flower remaining
Could just nod its head to approve my complaining,
A tear for a dewdrop I hid in its fringes,
And sigh'd then to think what one's pleasures unhinges!
'Twas hung round with woodbine my Jessy had planted;
I ran to the spot, where a weak flower remaining
Could just nod its head to approve my complaining,
A tear for a dewdrop I hid in its fringes,
And sigh'd then to think what one's pleasures unhinges!
But, ah! what is that to the friends oft estranging,
Their manners still more than their looks daily changing;
Where the heart us'd to warm to find civil behaviour,
Make us wish we had stay'd from our country for ever,
With the sweet days of youth in our fancies still glowing,
And the love of old Friends with old Time ever growing!
Their manners still more than their looks daily changing;
Where the heart us'd to warm to find civil behaviour,
Make us wish we had stay'd from our country for ever,
With the sweet days of youth in our fancies still glowing,
And the love of old Friends with old Time ever growing!
O WHY SHOULD MORTALS SUFFER CARE.
O why should mortals suffer care
To rob them of their present joy?
The moments that frail life can spare
Why should we not in mirth employ?
To rob them of their present joy?
The moments that frail life can spare
Why should we not in mirth employ?
Then come, my friends, this very hour
Let us devote to social glee;
To-morrow is a day unseen
That may destroy the fairest flower,
And bring dull care to you and me,
Though so gay as we have been.
Let us devote to social glee;
To-morrow is a day unseen
That may destroy the fairest flower,
And bring dull care to you and me,
Though so gay as we have been.
195
The wretch who money makes his god
Will feel his heart ache when 'tis gone;
Were this my lot I'd kiss the rod,
I ne'er had much, and care for none.
Will feel his heart ache when 'tis gone;
Were this my lot I'd kiss the rod,
I ne'er had much, and care for none.
Then come, &c.
The great had never charms for me,
I follow not their chariot's wheel,
Their faults I just as plain can see
As Paris did Achilles' heel.
I follow not their chariot's wheel,
Their faults I just as plain can see
As Paris did Achilles' heel.
Then come, &c.
And Love, with all his softening powers,
Could ne'er my hardy soul subdue;
So I'll devote my social hours
To mirth, to happiness, and you.
Could ne'er my hardy soul subdue;
So I'll devote my social hours
To mirth, to happiness, and you.
Then come, &c.
Should dread of future ills molest,
I'd charm them from my careless heart;
See, Hope steps in, all gaily drest,
And vows such souls should never part.
I'd charm them from my careless heart;
See, Hope steps in, all gaily drest,
And vows such souls should never part.
Then come, &c.
Yet part we must,—Hope, thou'rt a cheat!
The vision's fled—the friends are gone;
Yet memory shall their words repeat,
And fonder grow of every one.
But still in absence let us try
To think of all the pleasure past,
And stop the tear, and check the sigh;
For though such pleasure cannot last,
Yet Time may still renew the scene
Where so gay as we have been.
The vision's fled—the friends are gone;
Yet memory shall their words repeat,
And fonder grow of every one.
But still in absence let us try
To think of all the pleasure past,
196
For though such pleasure cannot last,
Yet Time may still renew the scene
Where so gay as we have been.
OLD HARRY'S RETURN.
The wars are all o'er and my Harry's at hame,
What else can I want now I've got him again!
Yet I kenna how 'tis, for I laugh and I cry,
And I sigh, and I sab, yet it maun be for joy;
My Harry he smiles, and he wipes aff the tear,
An' I'm doubtfu' again gin it can be he's here,
Till he takes wee bit Janet to sit on his knee,
And ca's her his dawty, for oh! she's like me.
What else can I want now I've got him again!
Yet I kenna how 'tis, for I laugh and I cry,
And I sigh, and I sab, yet it maun be for joy;
My Harry he smiles, and he wipes aff the tear,
An' I'm doubtfu' again gin it can be he's here,
Till he takes wee bit Janet to sit on his knee,
And ca's her his dawty, for oh! she's like me.
Then the neighbours come in and they welcome him hame,
And I fa' a greeting, though much I think shame;
Then I steal ben the house while they talk o' the war,
For I turn cauld as death when he shows them a scar.
They tell o' ane Elliot, an' brave he maun be,
But I ken a poor soldier as brave yet as he;
For when that the Spaniards were wreck'd on the tide—
“They are soldiers, my lads, let us save them,” he cried.
And I fa' a greeting, though much I think shame;
Then I steal ben the house while they talk o' the war,
For I turn cauld as death when he shows them a scar.
They tell o' ane Elliot, an' brave he maun be,
But I ken a poor soldier as brave yet as he;
197
“They are soldiers, my lads, let us save them,” he cried.
The neighbours being gane, and the bairns on his knee,
He fetch'd a lang sigh, and he look'd sair at me;
Poor woman, quo' he, ye'd hae muckle to do
To get bread to yoursel, and thir wee bit things too!
It is true, my dear Harry, I toil'd verra hard,
Sent Elspa to service, and Jocky to herd;
For I knew unca weel 'twas an auld soldier's pride
Aye to take frae his King, but frae nae ane beside!
He fetch'd a lang sigh, and he look'd sair at me;
Poor woman, quo' he, ye'd hae muckle to do
To get bread to yoursel, and thir wee bit things too!
It is true, my dear Harry, I toil'd verra hard,
Sent Elspa to service, and Jocky to herd;
For I knew unca weel 'twas an auld soldier's pride
Aye to take frae his King, but frae nae ane beside!
Then guide ye my pension, quo' Harry, my life,
'Mang a' the King's troops wha can match me a wife;
When young she was handsome, they envy'd me sair,
But now when she's auld they may envy me mair!
What's a' the wide world to the joys o' the heart?
What are riches and splendour to those that maun part?
And might I this moment an emperor be,
I'd thraw down the crown gin it kept me frae thee!
'Mang a' the King's troops wha can match me a wife;
When young she was handsome, they envy'd me sair,
But now when she's auld they may envy me mair!
What's a' the wide world to the joys o' the heart?
What are riches and splendour to those that maun part?
And might I this moment an emperor be,
I'd thraw down the crown gin it kept me frae thee!
198
THE NABOB.
When silent time, wi' lightly foot,
Had trod on thirty years,
I sought again my native land
Wi' mony hopes and fears:
Wha kens gin the dear friends I left
May still continue mine?
Or gin I e'er again shall taste
The joys I left langsyne?
Had trod on thirty years,
I sought again my native land
Wi' mony hopes and fears:
Wha kens gin the dear friends I left
May still continue mine?
Or gin I e'er again shall taste
The joys I left langsyne?
As I drew near my ancient pile,
My heart beat a' the way;
Ilk place I pass'd seem'd yet to speak
O'some dear former day;
Those days that follow'd me afar,
Those happy days o' mine,
Whilk made me think the present joys
A'naething to langsyne!
My heart beat a' the way;
Ilk place I pass'd seem'd yet to speak
O'some dear former day;
Those days that follow'd me afar,
Those happy days o' mine,
Whilk made me think the present joys
A'naething to langsyne!
199
The ivy'd tower now met my eye,
Where minstrels used to blaw;
Nae friend stepp'd forth wi' open hand,
Nae weel-kenn'd face I saw;
Till Donald totter'd to the door,
Wham I left in his prime,
And grat to see the lad return
He bore about langsyne.
Where minstrels used to blaw;
Nae friend stepp'd forth wi' open hand,
Nae weel-kenn'd face I saw;
Till Donald totter'd to the door,
Wham I left in his prime,
And grat to see the lad return
He bore about langsyne.
I ran to ilka dear friend's room,
As if to find them there,
I knew where ilk ane used to sit,
And hang o'er mony a chair;
Till soft remembrance threw a veil
Across these een o' mine,
I clos'd the door, and sobb'd aloud,
To think on auld langsyne!
As if to find them there,
I knew where ilk ane used to sit,
And hang o'er mony a chair;
Till soft remembrance threw a veil
Across these een o' mine,
I clos'd the door, and sobb'd aloud,
To think on auld langsyne!
200
Some pensy chiels, a new sprung race,
Wad next their welcome pay,
Wha shudder'd at my Gothic wa's,
And wish'd my groves away:
“Cut, cut,” they cried, “those aged elms,
Lay low yon mournfu' pine:”
Na! na! our fathers' names grow there,
Memorials o' langsyne.
Wad next their welcome pay,
Wha shudder'd at my Gothic wa's,
And wish'd my groves away:
“Cut, cut,” they cried, “those aged elms,
Lay low yon mournfu' pine:”
Na! na! our fathers' names grow there,
Memorials o' langsyne.
To wean me frae these waefu' thoughts,
They took me to the town;
But sair on ilka weel-kenn'd face
I miss'd the youthfu' bloom.
At balls they pointed to a nymph
Wham a' declar'd divine;
But sure her mother's blushing cheeks
Were fairer far langsyne!
They took me to the town;
But sair on ilka weel-kenn'd face
I miss'd the youthfu' bloom.
At balls they pointed to a nymph
Wham a' declar'd divine;
But sure her mother's blushing cheeks
Were fairer far langsyne!
201
In vain I sought in music's sound
To find that magic art,
Which oft in Scotland's ancient lays
Has thrill'd through a' my heart:
The sang had mony an artfu' turn;
My ear confess'd 'twas fine;
But miss'd the simple melody
I listen'd to langsyne.
To find that magic art,
Which oft in Scotland's ancient lays
Has thrill'd through a' my heart:
The sang had mony an artfu' turn;
My ear confess'd 'twas fine;
But miss'd the simple melody
I listen'd to langsyne.
202
Ye sons to comrades o' my youth,
Forgie an auld man's spleen,
Wha 'midst your gayest scenes still mourns
The days he ance has seen:
When time has past, and seasons fled,
Your hearts will feel like mine;
And aye the sang will maist delight
That minds ye o' langsyne!
Forgie an auld man's spleen,
Wha 'midst your gayest scenes still mourns
The days he ance has seen:
When time has past, and seasons fled,
Your hearts will feel like mine;
And aye the sang will maist delight
That minds ye o' langsyne!
203
THE SILLER CROUN.
And ye shall walk in silk attire,
And siller hae to spare,
Gin ye'll consent to be his bride,
Nor think o' Donald mair.
O wha wad buy a silken goun
Wi' a poor broken heart!
Or what's to me a siller croun,
Gin frae my love I part!
And siller hae to spare,
Gin ye'll consent to be his bride,
Nor think o' Donald mair.
O wha wad buy a silken goun
Wi' a poor broken heart!
Or what's to me a siller croun,
Gin frae my love I part!
The mind wha's every wish is pure
Far dearer is to me;
And ere I'm forc'd to break my faith
I'll lay me doun an' dee!
For I hae pledg'd my virgin troth
Brave Donald's fate to share;
And he has gi'en to me his heart,
Wi' a' its virtues rare.
Far dearer is to me;
And ere I'm forc'd to break my faith
I'll lay me doun an' dee!
For I hae pledg'd my virgin troth
Brave Donald's fate to share;
And he has gi'en to me his heart,
Wi' a' its virtues rare.
204
His gentle manners wan my heart,
He gratefu' took the gift;
Could I but think to seek it back
It wad be waur than theft!
For langest life can ne'er repay
The love he bears to me;
And ere I'm forc'd to break my troth
I'll lay me doun an' dee.
He gratefu' took the gift;
Could I but think to seek it back
It wad be waur than theft!
For langest life can ne'er repay
The love he bears to me;
And ere I'm forc'd to break my troth
I'll lay me doun an' dee.
205
THE WAEFU' HEART.
Gin living worth could win my heart,
You would na speak in vain;
But in the darksome grave it's laid,
Never to rise again.
My waefu' heart lies low wi' his,
Whose heart was only mine;
And, O! what a heart was that to lose,—
But I maun no repine.
You would na speak in vain;
But in the darksome grave it's laid,
Never to rise again.
My waefu' heart lies low wi' his,
Whose heart was only mine;
And, O! what a heart was that to lose,—
But I maun no repine.
Yet, O! gin heaven in mercy soon
Would grant the boon I crave,
And take this life, now naething worth,
Since Jamie's in his grave.
And see! his gentle spirit comes
To show me on my way;
Surpris'd, nae doubt, I still am here,—
Sair wondering at my stay.
Would grant the boon I crave,
And take this life, now naething worth,
Since Jamie's in his grave.
And see! his gentle spirit comes
To show me on my way;
Surpris'd, nae doubt, I still am here,—
Sair wondering at my stay.
I come, I come, my Jamie dear;
And O! wi' what good will
I follow wheresoe'er ye lead!
Ye canna lead to ill.
She said; and soon a deadly pale
Her faded cheek possess'd;
Her waefu' heart forgot to beat,—
Her sorrows sunk to rest.
And O! wi' what good will
I follow wheresoe'er ye lead!
Ye canna lead to ill.
206
Her faded cheek possess'd;
Her waefu' heart forgot to beat,—
Her sorrows sunk to rest.
| The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." | |