Poems original and translated By John Herman Merivale ... A new and corrected edition with some additional pieces |
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THE ROADMAKERS:
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 | Poems original and translated |  |
THE ROADMAKERS:
A DOLEFUL BALLAD FOR THE YEAR 1825.
Ye road-makers of England,
Who sit and plan at ease,
Ah! little do ye think upon
Our cherish'd lawns and trees!
Give ear unto the gentlemen,
And they will plainly show,
All their cares and their fears,
When a-measuring you go!
Who sit and plan at ease,
Ah! little do ye think upon
Our cherish'd lawns and trees!
Give ear unto the gentlemen,
And they will plainly show,
All their cares and their fears,
When a-measuring you go!
This goodly land of freedom,
With all its bowers and halls,
Is turning fast to turnpike roads,
And prisons and canals.
The sylvan elves and fairies
Have vanish'd long ago;
Else what cries would arise
When a-mapping it you go.
With all its bowers and halls,
Is turning fast to turnpike roads,
And prisons and canals.
The sylvan elves and fairies
Have vanish'd long ago;
Else what cries would arise
When a-mapping it you go.
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How merrily we jogged it
O'er breezy hill and down,
Till grateful rest, at eventide,
Our daily toil did crown!
Now, all our roads must level be;
Our pleasant hills laid low;
Whilst the mail, through each vale,
Helter-skeltering doth go.
O'er breezy hill and down,
Till grateful rest, at eventide,
Our daily toil did crown!
Now, all our roads must level be;
Our pleasant hills laid low;
Whilst the mail, through each vale,
Helter-skeltering doth go.
Our music's sole provider
Must be the twanging horn,
Now every thrush has left its bush,
Each nightingale its thorn.
Then to the sound of coaches,
Since brooks have ceased to flow,
Long and deep be your sleep
Whilst a-rolling it you go.
Must be the twanging horn,
Now every thrush has left its bush,
Each nightingale its thorn.
Then to the sound of coaches,
Since brooks have ceased to flow,
Long and deep be your sleep
Whilst a-rolling it you go.
Here freedom once was cherish'd,
And Englishmen were bold
To call their homes their castles, and
Their lands secure to hold.
But you despise our liberties,
And laugh to scorn our wo,
O'er our land, act in hand,
Whilst a-parcelling you go.
And Englishmen were bold
To call their homes their castles, and
Their lands secure to hold.
But you despise our liberties,
And laugh to scorn our wo,
O'er our land, act in hand,
Whilst a-parcelling you go.
Our lords and knights of parliament
May grant what you require,
While you but press to dispossess
The humble country squire:
But keep from their park palings, or
Full soon they'll make you know
How they'll fight for their right,
If a-levelling you'd go.
May grant what you require,
While you but press to dispossess
The humble country squire:
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Full soon they'll make you know
How they'll fight for their right,
If a-levelling you'd go.
You prate of public spirit,
And private ends pursue:
Our fathers fought at Agincourt,
Their sons at Waterloo.
Our woods, our bought inheritance,
Their blood hath made to grow;
And we'll flinch not an inch,
Though a bullying you go.
And private ends pursue:
Our fathers fought at Agincourt,
Their sons at Waterloo.
Our woods, our bought inheritance,
Their blood hath made to grow;
And we'll flinch not an inch,
Though a bullying you go.
If tyranny assails us,
When England is at war,
From any vaunting foreigners
We fear not wound or scar.
Then for our tyrants of the spade,
The pickaxe and the hoe,
All prepared stand on guard,
Whilst a-rampaging they go.
When England is at war,
From any vaunting foreigners
We fear not wound or scar.
Then for our tyrants of the spade,
The pickaxe and the hoe,
All prepared stand on guard,
Whilst a-rampaging they go.
Now courage, all brave gentlemen,
Your honours forth advance,
And yield to ne'er a despot yet,
From Scotland nor from France.
M---m would reduce us all
To break up stones, we know;
May our stones break his bones,
When a-hammering he'll go.
Your honours forth advance,
And yield to ne'er a despot yet,
From Scotland nor from France.
M---m would reduce us all
To break up stones, we know;
May our stones break his bones,
When a-hammering he'll go.
| Poems original and translated | |