The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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BLOOMFIELD. |
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
366
BLOOMFIELD.
Hurra, for sweet Bloomfield, that village [OMITTED]
Our church like a palace—our [OMITTED]
Sound the horn in its praises [OMITTED]
Our priest's house a palace [OMITTED]
Here bull-headed Ignorance gapes and is courted,
And pale Superstition with visage distorted.
Sweet Science and Truth, while these monsters they cherish,
Like the Babes of the Wood are abandoned to perish.
Our church like a palace—our [OMITTED]
Sound the horn in its praises [OMITTED]
Our priest's house a palace [OMITTED]
Here bull-headed Ignorance gapes and is courted,
And pale Superstition with visage distorted.
Sweet Science and Truth, while these monsters they cherish,
Like the Babes of the Wood are abandoned to perish.
Here ten times a day they are singing and praying,
And “Glory to God,” most abundantly paying;
Apply for your cash—that's a quite different story;
They lock up the clink, but to God give the glory.
Here old, withered witches crawl round every cabin,
And butter from churn are eternally grabbing;
Ghosts, wizards, seventh sons to cure the King's Evil—
One touch of their hand and 'tis gone to the Devil.
And “Glory to God,” most abundantly paying;
Apply for your cash—that's a quite different story;
They lock up the clink, but to God give the glory.
Here old, withered witches crawl round every cabin,
And butter from churn are eternally grabbing;
Ghosts, wizards, seventh sons to cure the King's Evil—
One touch of their hand and 'tis gone to the Devil.
Sweet Venus ne'er lent to our females their graces—
Like ducks in their gait—like pumpkins their faces;
No heart-winning looks to ensnare or to charm us—
Their teeth like corruption, their breath—O enormous!
Here Slander, vile hag, is from house to house sweeping,
Still stabbing, and skulking, or whispering and peeping:
From Gibb's honest-heart with abhorrence discarded,
But lov'd by sweet Bloomfield, caress'd and regarded.
Like ducks in their gait—like pumpkins their faces;
No heart-winning looks to ensnare or to charm us—
Their teeth like corruption, their breath—O enormous!
Here Slander, vile hag, is from house to house sweeping,
Still stabbing, and skulking, or whispering and peeping:
From Gibb's honest-heart with abhorrence discarded,
But lov'd by sweet Bloomfield, caress'd and regarded.
Here old Rosinantes, their bare bones uprearing,
Move past us as if Death's horrid steed were appearing;
Dogs snuff; turkey buzzards swarm round for a picking;
And tanners look out, and prepare for a sticking.
Here's the one-handed plough, like an old crooked rafter,
The Genius of farming surveys it with laughter.
Wo! Haw! hallows Hodge, as he's zig-zags a-shooting,
While travellers cry, “Lord, how those hogs have been rooting!”
Move past us as if Death's horrid steed were appearing;
Dogs snuff; turkey buzzards swarm round for a picking;
And tanners look out, and prepare for a sticking.
Here's the one-handed plough, like an old crooked rafter,
The Genius of farming surveys it with laughter.
Wo! Haw! hallows Hodge, as he's zig-zags a-shooting,
While travellers cry, “Lord, how those hogs have been rooting!”
There's the grim Man of God, with a voice like a trumpet,
His pulpit each Sunday, bestampt and bethumpit;
On all but his own pours damnation and ruin,
And heaves them to Satan for roasting and stewing.
Hail Bloomfield! sweet Bloomfield, what village [OMITTED]
Our church like a palace—our school like [OMITTED]
Sound the horn in its praises [OMITTED]
The priest's house a palace [OMITTED]
His pulpit each Sunday, bestampt and bethumpit;
367
And heaves them to Satan for roasting and stewing.
Hail Bloomfield! sweet Bloomfield, what village [OMITTED]
Our church like a palace—our school like [OMITTED]
Sound the horn in its praises [OMITTED]
The priest's house a palace [OMITTED]
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |