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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| APPENDIX. |
 | The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." |  |
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APPENDIX.
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THE CARRIER PIGEON.
Why tarries my love?
Ah! where does he rove?
My love is long absent from me:
Come hither, my dove,—
I'll write to my love,
And send him a letter by thee.
Ah! where does he rove?
My love is long absent from me:
Come hither, my dove,—
I'll write to my love,
And send him a letter by thee.
To find him, swift fly!
The letter I'll tie
Secure to thy leg with a string:
Ah! not to my leg,
Fair lady, I beg,
But fasten it under my wing.
The letter I'll tie
Secure to thy leg with a string:
Ah! not to my leg,
Fair lady, I beg,
But fasten it under my wing.
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Her dove she did deck,
She drew o'er his neck
A bell and a collar so gay;
She tied to his wing
The scroll with a string,
Then kissed him, and sent him away.
She drew o'er his neck
A bell and a collar so gay;
She tied to his wing
The scroll with a string,
Then kissed him, and sent him away.
It blew and it rain'd;
The pigeon disdained
To seek shelter, undaunted he flew;
Till wet was his wing,
And painful the string,
So heavy the letter it grew.
The pigeon disdained
To seek shelter, undaunted he flew;
Till wet was his wing,
And painful the string,
So heavy the letter it grew.
He flew all around,
Till Colin he found,
Then perch'd on his hand with the prize;
Whose heart, while he reads,
With tenderness bleeds
For the pigeon that flutters and dies.
Till Colin he found,
Then perch'd on his hand with the prize;
Whose heart, while he reads,
With tenderness bleeds
For the pigeon that flutters and dies.
THE SAILOR LAD'S RETURN.
And is it thee! my Willy, lad,
And safe return'd frae war;
Thou'rt dearer to thy mither's heart,
Now thou has been sae far:
But tell me a' that's happen'd thee,—
The night is wearing fast;
There's nought I like sae weel to hear
As dangers that are past.
And safe return'd frae war;
Thou'rt dearer to thy mither's heart,
Now thou has been sae far:
259
The night is wearing fast;
There's nought I like sae weel to hear
As dangers that are past.
O mither! I'm e'en fain to see
Your guid-like face the same;
To mony a place ye followed me,
When I was far frae hame:
And as I walk'd the deck at night,
And watch'd the rippling tide,
My thoughts ay flew to this lov'd spot,
And set me by your side.
Your guid-like face the same;
To mony a place ye followed me,
When I was far frae hame:
And as I walk'd the deck at night,
And watch'd the rippling tide,
My thoughts ay flew to this lov'd spot,
And set me by your side.
O Willy! mony a sleepless night
I pass'd, an' a' for thee;
I pin'd, and turn'd just skin and bane,
Folk thought 'twas o'er wi' me.
Then when the wicked wars broke out,
The news I durst not read,
For fear thy name, my only lad,
Should be amang the dead.
I pass'd, an' a' for thee;
I pin'd, and turn'd just skin and bane,
Folk thought 'twas o'er wi' me.
Then when the wicked wars broke out,
The news I durst not read,
For fear thy name, my only lad,
Should be amang the dead.
Aye, mither! dreadfu' sights I've seen,
When bullets round us flew;
But i' the fight or threat'ning storm,
Still, still I thought o' you.
Our neighbours a', baith auld and young,
Please God, the morn I'll see;—
O! tell me, is the oak uncut
That us'd to shelter me?
When bullets round us flew;
But i' the fight or threat'ning storm,
Still, still I thought o' you.
Our neighbours a', baith auld and young,
Please God, the morn I'll see;—
260
That us'd to shelter me?
Aye! that it is, my bonnie bairn;
And fain am I to tell,
Though oft the axe was busy there,
Thy tree they ne'er durst fell.
Oft, as I wander'd near its shade,
My ee let fa' a tear;
And mony a time to heaven I pray'd,—
O! that my lad were here.
And fain am I to tell,
Though oft the axe was busy there,
Thy tree they ne'er durst fell.
Oft, as I wander'd near its shade,
My ee let fa' a tear;
And mony a time to heaven I pray'd,—
O! that my lad were here.
Now, mither, age has chang'd your hair,
Again we winna part;
To leave you, though for India's wealth,
Wad break this honest heart.
Ye say my Jenny's weel and true,—
To part wi' her was wrang;
Gie, mither, gie but your consent,
We'll marry or it's lang!
Again we winna part;
To leave you, though for India's wealth,
Wad break this honest heart.
Ye say my Jenny's weel and true,—
To part wi' her was wrang;
Gie, mither, gie but your consent,
We'll marry or it's lang!
God speed ye weel!—a better pair
Ne'er kneel'd before a priest;
For me! I've suffer'd lang and sair,
The grave will get me neist.
Soon, Willy, bring her frae the town,
And happy may ye be;
This house, the field, the cow, and sow,
Now a' belang to thee.
Ne'er kneel'd before a priest;
For me! I've suffer'd lang and sair,
The grave will get me neist.
Soon, Willy, bring her frae the town,
And happy may ye be;
This house, the field, the cow, and sow,
Now a' belang to thee.
261
THE VILLAGE CLUB.
I lives in a neat little cottage;
I rents me a nice little farm;
On Sundays I dresses me handsome;
On Mondays I dresses me warm.
I rents me a nice little farm;
On Sundays I dresses me handsome;
On Mondays I dresses me warm.
I goes to the sign of the Anchor;
I sits myself quietly down,
To wait till the lads are all ready,
For we has a club in the town.
I sits myself quietly down,
To wait till the lads are all ready,
For we has a club in the town.
O lozes o' me! we are merry,
I only but wish ye could hear;
Dick Spriggins he acts sae like players,
Ye niver heard nothing sae queer.
I only but wish ye could hear;
Dick Spriggins he acts sae like players,
Ye niver heard nothing sae queer.
And first he comes in for King Richard,
And stamps with his fit on the ground;
He wad part with his kingdom for horses;
O lozes o' me! what a sound!
And stamps with his fit on the ground;
He wad part with his kingdom for horses;
O lozes o' me! what a sound!
And then he comes in for young Roma,
And spreads out his little black fist;
I's just fit to drop whilst he's talking;
Ye niver seed yen sae distrest.
And spreads out his little black fist;
I's just fit to drop whilst he's talking;
Ye niver seed yen sae distrest.
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O lozes o' me! it is moving,—
I hates for to hear a man cry;
And then he looks up at a window,
To see if lal Juliet be by.
I hates for to hear a man cry;
And then he looks up at a window,
To see if lal Juliet be by.
And then he lets wit 'at she's talking,
And speaks 'at ye hardly can hear;
But I think she caws out on Squire Roma,
And owther says Hinney or Dear.
And speaks 'at ye hardly can hear;
But I think she caws out on Squire Roma,
And owther says Hinney or Dear.
Then up wi' Dick Spriggins for ever!
May he live a' the days of his life;
May his bairns be as honest as he's been,
And may he ay maister his wife!
May he live a' the days of his life;
May his bairns be as honest as he's been,
And may he ay maister his wife!
| The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." | |