 | Songs and poems(1866) |  |
16
RELPH'S POEMS.
HARVEST; OR THE BASHFUL SHEPHERD.
A PASTORAL.
When welcome rain the weary reapers drove
Beneath the shelter of a neighbouring grove;
Robin, a love-sick swain, lagg'd far behind,
Nor seem'd the weight of falling showers to mind;
A distant solitary shade he sought,
And thus disclos'd the troubles of his thought.
Beneath the shelter of a neighbouring grove;
Robin, a love-sick swain, lagg'd far behind,
Nor seem'd the weight of falling showers to mind;
A distant solitary shade he sought,
And thus disclos'd the troubles of his thought.
Ay, ay, thur drops may cool my out-side heat;
Thur caller blasts may wear the boiling sweat;
But my hot bluid, my heart aw in a broil,
Nor caller blasts can wear, nor drops can cool.
Thur caller blasts may wear the boiling sweat;
But my hot bluid, my heart aw in a broil,
Nor caller blasts can wear, nor drops can cool.
Here, here it was (a wae light on the pleace)
That first I gat a gliff o' Betty's feace:
Blythe on this trod the smurker tripp'd, and theer
At the deale-head unluckily we shear:
Heedless I glym'd, nor could my een command,
Till gash the sickle went into my hand:
Down hell'd the bluid; the shearers aw brast out
In sweels of laughter; Betty luik'd about;
Reed grew my fingers, reeder far my feace:
What cou'd I do in sec a despart kease?
That first I gat a gliff o' Betty's feace:
Blythe on this trod the smurker tripp'd, and theer
At the deale-head unluckily we shear:
Heedless I glym'd, nor could my een command,
Till gash the sickle went into my hand:
Down hell'd the bluid; the shearers aw brast out
In sweels of laughter; Betty luik'd about;
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What cou'd I do in sec a despart kease?
Away I sleeng'd, to granny meade my mean;
My granny, (God be with her, now she's geane,)
Skilfu' the gushing bluid wi' cockwebs staid;
Then on the sair an healing plaister laid;
The healing plaister eas'd the painful sair,
The scar indeed remains, but naething mair.
My granny, (God be with her, now she's geane,)
Skilfu' the gushing bluid wi' cockwebs staid;
Then on the sair an healing plaister laid;
The healing plaister eas'd the painful sair,
The scar indeed remains, but naething mair.
Not sae that other wound, that inward smart,
My granny cou'd not cure a bleeding heart;
I've bworn the bitter torment three lang year,
And aw my life-time mun be sworc'd to bear,
'Less Betty will a kind physician pruive;
For nin but she has skill to med'cine luive.
But how should honest Betty give relief?
Betty's a perfect stranger to my grief:
Oft I've resolved my ailment to explain;
Oft I've resolved, indeed—but all in vain.
My granny cou'd not cure a bleeding heart;
I've bworn the bitter torment three lang year,
And aw my life-time mun be sworc'd to bear,
'Less Betty will a kind physician pruive;
For nin but she has skill to med'cine luive.
But how should honest Betty give relief?
Betty's a perfect stranger to my grief:
Oft I've resolved my ailment to explain;
Oft I've resolved, indeed—but all in vain.
Can I forget that night!—I never can!
When on the clean sweep'd hearth the spinnels ran.
The lasses drew their line wi' busy speed;
The lads as busy minded every thread;
When, sad! the line sae slender Betty drew,
Snap went the thread and down the spinnel flew.
To me it meade—the lads began to glope—
What cou'd I do? I mud, mud tak' it up;
I tuik it up, and (what gangs pleaguy hard)
E'en reached it back without the sweet reward.
When on the clean sweep'd hearth the spinnels ran.
The lasses drew their line wi' busy speed;
The lads as busy minded every thread;
When, sad! the line sae slender Betty drew,
Snap went the thread and down the spinnel flew.
To me it meade—the lads began to glope—
What cou'd I do? I mud, mud tak' it up;
I tuik it up, and (what gangs pleaguy hard)
E'en reached it back without the sweet reward.
O lasting stain! e'en yet the eye may treace
A guilty conscience in my blushing feace.
I fain wou'd wesh it out, but never can;
Still fair it bides like bluid of sackless man.
A guilty conscience in my blushing feace.
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Still fair it bides like bluid of sackless man.
Nought sae was Wully bashfu'—Wully spy'd
A pair of scissors at the lass's side;
Thar lowsed, he sleely dropped the spinnel down—
And what said Betty?—Betty struive to frown;
Up flew her hand to souse the cow'ring lad,
But ah, I thought it fell not down owre sad;
What follow'd I think mickle to repeat,
My teeth aw watter'd then, and watter yet.
A pair of scissors at the lass's side;
Thar lowsed, he sleely dropped the spinnel down—
And what said Betty?—Betty struive to frown;
Up flew her hand to souse the cow'ring lad,
But ah, I thought it fell not down owre sad;
What follow'd I think mickle to repeat,
My teeth aw watter'd then, and watter yet.
E'en weel is he that ever he was bworn!
He's free frae aw this bitterment and scworn:
What, mun I still be fash'd wi' straggling sheep,
Wi' far-fetch'd sighs, and things I said a-sleep;
Still shamefully left snafflen by mysell
And still, still dogg'd wi' the damn'd neame o' mell!—
He's free frae aw this bitterment and scworn:
What, mun I still be fash'd wi' straggling sheep,
Wi' far-fetch'd sighs, and things I said a-sleep;
Still shamefully left snafflen by mysell
And still, still dogg'd wi' the damn'd neame o' mell!—
Where's now the pith (this luive! the deuce ga wi't!)
The pith I show'd whene'er we struive, to beat;
When a lang lwonin' through the cworn I meade,
And bustlin' far behind, the lave survey'd.
The pith I show'd whene'er we struive, to beat;
When a lang lwonin' through the cworn I meade,
And bustlin' far behind, the lave survey'd.
Dear heart! that pith is geane and comes nae mair
Till Betty's kindness shall the loss repair;
And she's not like (how sud she?) to be kind,
Till I have freely spoken out my mind,
Till I have learn'd to feace the maiden clean,
Oil'd my slow tongue, and edg'd my sheepish een.
Till Betty's kindness shall the loss repair;
And she's not like (how sud she?) to be kind,
Till I have freely spoken out my mind,
Till I have learn'd to feace the maiden clean,
Oil'd my slow tongue, and edg'd my sheepish een.
A buik theer is—a buik—the neame—shem fa't
Some thing o' compliments I think they ca't:
That meakes a clownish lad a clever spark,
O hed I this! this buik wad do my wark;
And I's resolved to hav't whatever't cost:
My flute—for what's my flute if Betty's lost?
And if sae bonny a lass but be my bride,
I need not any comfort lait beside.
Some thing o' compliments I think they ca't:
That meakes a clownish lad a clever spark,
O hed I this! this buik wad do my wark;
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My flute—for what's my flute if Betty's lost?
And if sae bonny a lass but be my bride,
I need not any comfort lait beside.
Farewell my flute then yet or Carlile fair;
When to the stationer's I'll straight repair,
And boldly for thur compliments enquear;
Care I farding?—let the 'prentice jeer.
When to the stationer's I'll straight repair,
And boldly for thur compliments enquear;
Care I farding?—let the 'prentice jeer.
That duin, a handsome letter I'll indite,
Handsome as ever country lad did write;
A letter that shall tell her aw I feel,
And aw my wants without a blush reveal.
Handsome as ever country lad did write;
A letter that shall tell her aw I feel,
And aw my wants without a blush reveal.
But now the clouds brek off and sineways run;
Out frae his shelter lively luiks the sun,
Brave hearty blasts the droopin' barley dry,
The lads are gaun to shear—and sae maun I.
Out frae his shelter lively luiks the sun,
Brave hearty blasts the droopin' barley dry,
The lads are gaun to shear—and sae maun I.
HAY-TIME; OR THE CONSTANT LOVERS.
A PASTORAL.
Cursty and Peggy.
Warm shone the sun, the wind as warmly blew,
No longer cooled by draughts of morning-dew;
When in the field a faithful pair appeared,
A faithful pair full happily endeared:
Hasty in rows they raked the meadow's pride,
Then sank amidst the softness side by side,
To wait the withering force of wind and sun
And thus their artless tale of love begun.
No longer cooled by draughts of morning-dew;
When in the field a faithful pair appeared,
A faithful pair full happily endeared:
Hasty in rows they raked the meadow's pride,
Then sank amidst the softness side by side,
To wait the withering force of wind and sun
And thus their artless tale of love begun.
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A finer hay-day seer was never seen;
The greenish sops already luik less green;
As weel the greenish sop will suin be dry'd
As Sawney's 'bacco spred by th'ingle side.
Peggy.
And see how finely strip'd the fields appear,
Strip'd like the gown that I on Sundays wear;
White shows the rye, the big of blaker hue,
The blooming pezz green mix'd wi' reed and blue.
Cursty.
Let other lads to spworts and pastimes run,
And spoil their Sunday clease and clash their shoon;
If Peggy in the field my partner be,
To work at hay is better spwort to me.
Peggy.
Let other lasses ride to Rosley-fair,
And mazle up and down the market there;
I envy not their happy treats and them,
Happier mysell, if Roger bides at heame.
Cursty.
It's hard aw day the heavy scythe to swing;
But if my lass a halesome breakfast bring,
Even mowing-time is better far I swear,
Than Curs'mas and aw it's dainty cheer.
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Far is the Gursin off, topful the kits,
But if my Cursty bears the milk by fits,
For galloping to wakes I ne'er gang wud,
For every night's a wake, or full as good.
Cursty.
Can thou remember?—I remember't weel,—
Sin lal wee things we claver'd owre yon steel;
Lang willy-wands for hoops I us'd to bay,
To meake my canny lass a lady gay.
Peggy.
Then dadg'd we to the bog owre meadows dree,
To plet a sword and seevy cap for thee;
Set off with seevy cap and seevy sword
My Cursty luik'd as great as onie lword.
Cursty.
Beneath a dyke full monie a langsome day,
We sat and beelded houses fine o' clay;
For dishes acorn cups stuid dessed in rows,
And broken pots for dubblers mens'd the wa's.
Peggy.
O may we better houses get than thar,
Far larger dishes, dubblers brighter far;
And ever-mair delighted may we be,
I to meake Cursty fine, and Cursty me.
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Right oft at schuil I've spelder'd owre thy row
Full monie a time I've foughten in thy cause;
And when in winter miry ways let in,
I bore thee on my back thro' thick and thin.
Peggy.
As suin as e'er I learn'd to kest a loup,
Warm mittens wapp'd thy fingers warmly up;
And when at heels I spied thy stockings out,
I darned them suin, or suin set on a clout.
Curst.
O how I lik'd to see thee on the fleer;
At spworts, if I was trier to be seer,
I reach'd the fancy readily to thee
For nin danc'd hawf sae weel in Cursty's e'e.
Peggy.
O how I swet, when for the costly prize,
Thou gripp'd some lusty lad of greater size,
But when I saw him sprawling on the plain,
My heart aw flacker'd for't, I was sae fain.
Cursty.
See! owre the field the whurlin' sunshine whiews,
The shadow fast the sunshine fair pursues;
From Cursty thus oft Peggy seemed to hast,
As fair she fled, he after her as fast.
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Ay, laddie, seemed indeed! for truth to tell,
Oft wittingly I stummer'd, oft I fell,
Pretending some unlucky wramp or strean
For Cursty's kind guid-natur'd heart to mean.
Cursty.
Sweet is this kiss as smell of dwallowed hay,
Or the fresh primrose on the first of May;
Sweet to the teaste as pears or apples moam,
Nay, sweeter than the sweetest honey-comb.
Peggy.
But let us rise—the sun's owre Carrock' fell,
And luik—whae's yon that's walking to the well;
Up, Cursty, up; for God's sake let me gang,
For fear the maister put us in a sang.
ST. AGNES FAST; OR THE AMOROUS MAIDEN.
A PASTORAL.
How lang I've fasted and 'tis hardly four;
This day I doubt will ne'er be gitten owre:
And theer's as lang a night, alas! beside;
I lall thought Fasts sec fearful things to bide.
This day I doubt will ne'er be gitten owre:
And theer's as lang a night, alas! beside;
I lall thought Fasts sec fearful things to bide.
Fie, Roger, fie—a sairy lass to wrang,
And let her all this trouble undergang;
What gars thee stay?—indeed it's badly duin:
Come, come thy ways—thou mud as weel come suin;
For come thou mun, aw mothers wise agree
And mothers wise can never seer aw lee.
And let her all this trouble undergang;
What gars thee stay?—indeed it's badly duin:
Come, come thy ways—thou mud as weel come suin;
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And mothers wise can never seer aw lee.
As I was powen pezz to scawd ae night;
On ane wi' neen it was my luck to light:
This fain I underneath my bouster laid,
And gat as fast as e'er I cou'd to bed:
I dreamt—the pleasant dream I'll ne'er forgit;
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
On ane wi' neen it was my luck to light:
This fain I underneath my bouster laid,
And gat as fast as e'er I cou'd to bed:
I dreamt—the pleasant dream I'll ne'er forgit;
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
A pippin frae an apple fair I cut,
And clwose atween my thoom and finger put:
Then cry'd, where wons my luive, come tell me true;
And even forret straight away it flew;
It flew as Roger's house it wad hev hit,
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
And clwose atween my thoom and finger put:
Then cry'd, where wons my luive, come tell me true;
And even forret straight away it flew;
It flew as Roger's house it wad hev hit,
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
I laited last aw Hallow-even lang
For growin' nuts the busses neak'd amang:
Wi' twea at last I met: to aither nut
I gave a neame, and baith i'th' ingle put;
Right bonnily he burnt nor flinch'd a bit:
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
For growin' nuts the busses neak'd amang:
Wi' twea at last I met: to aither nut
I gave a neame, and baith i'th' ingle put;
Right bonnily he burnt nor flinch'd a bit:
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
Turnips, ae Saturday, I pair'd and yell
A pairing seav'd, my sweetheart's neame to tell:
Slap fell it on the fleer; aw ran to view,
And ca't it like a C, but ca't not true;
For nought, I's seer, but R the scrawl wad fit:
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
A pairing seav'd, my sweetheart's neame to tell:
Slap fell it on the fleer; aw ran to view,
And ca't it like a C, but ca't not true;
For nought, I's seer, but R the scrawl wad fit:
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
A Fortune-teller leately com about,
And my twea guid King-Gworges I powt out.
Baith, baith, (and was not that a pity?) went,
And yet I cannot ca' them badly spent.
She sign'd a bonny lad and a large kit;
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
And my twea guid King-Gworges I powt out.
Baith, baith, (and was not that a pity?) went,
And yet I cannot ca' them badly spent.
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And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
When t'other night the bride was put to bed,
And we wad try whea's turn was neest to wed:
Oft owre the shou'der flung the stockin' fell,
But not yen hit the mark except mysell.
I on her feace directly meade it bit;
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
And we wad try whea's turn was neest to wed:
Oft owre the shou'der flung the stockin' fell,
But not yen hit the mark except mysell.
I on her feace directly meade it bit;
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
But what need I fash me any mair,
He'll be obleeg'd, avoid it ne'er sae sair,
To come at last; it's own'd, it seems to be,
And weel I know what's own'd yen cannot flee.
Or sud he never come and thur fulfil;
Sud cruel Roger pruive sae cruel still,
I mun not like a fuil gang fast aw day,
And kest mysell just wittenly away.
He'll be obleeg'd, avoid it ne'er sae sair,
To come at last; it's own'd, it seems to be,
And weel I know what's own'd yen cannot flee.
Or sud he never come and thur fulfil;
Sud cruel Roger pruive sae cruel still,
I mun not like a fuil gang fast aw day,
And kest mysell just wittenly away.
She said, and softly slipping 'cross the floor
With easy fingers op'd the silent door;
Thrice to her head she rais'd the luncheon brown,
Thrice lick'd her lips, and three times laid it down;
Purpos'd at length the very worst to prove:
'Twas easier sure to die of ought than love.
With easy fingers op'd the silent door;
Thrice to her head she rais'd the luncheon brown,
Thrice lick'd her lips, and three times laid it down;
Purpos'd at length the very worst to prove:
'Twas easier sure to die of ought than love.
THE SNAW HAS LEFT THE FELLS.
The snaw has left the fells and fledTheir tops i' green the trees hev cled,
The grund wi' sundry flowers is sown;
And to their stint the becks are fa'n:
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To dance it in the meadows bare.
The year, that slips sae fast away,
Whispers we mun not think to stay:
The spring suin thaws the winter frost,
To meet the spring does simmer post;
Frae simmer autumn cleeks the hauld,
And back at yence is winter cauld.
Yit moons off-hand meake up their loss:
But suin as we the watter cross,
To Tullus great, Æneas guid,
We're dust and shadows without bluid.
And wha, Torquatus, can be sworn
That thame abuin will grant to-mworn?
Leeve than; what's war't i' merry cheer
Frae thankless heirs is gitten clear.
When death, my friend, yence ligs you fast,
And Minus just your doom has past,
Your reace, and wit and worth will mak
But a peer shift to bring you back
Diana, (she's a Goddess tee)
Gets not Hippolytus set free;
And, Theseus aw that strength o' thine
Can never brek Pirithous' chain.
AE DAY AS CUPID.
Ae time as Cupid sweet-tooth'd fairy
A hive, owre ventersome, wad herry;
A bee was nettled at the wrang,
And gave his hand a despart stang;
It stoundit sair, and sair it swell'd,
He puff'd and stamp'd and flang and yell'd;
Then 'way full drive to mammy scowr't,
And held her't up to blow't and cur't,
Wondrin' sae feckless-like a varment
Could have sae fearfu' mickle harm in't.
A hive, owre ventersome, wad herry;
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And gave his hand a despart stang;
It stoundit sair, and sair it swell'd,
He puff'd and stamp'd and flang and yell'd;
Then 'way full drive to mammy scowr't,
And held her't up to blow't and cur't,
Wondrin' sae feckless-like a varment
Could have sae fearfu' mickle harm in't.
She smurk'd—and pra' tha' says his mudder,
Is not lile Cupid sec anudder?
Just sec anudder varment's he;
A feckless-like—but fearfu' bee.
Is not lile Cupid sec anudder?
Just sec anudder varment's he;
A feckless-like—but fearfu' bee.
THE FAVOURITE FOUNTAIN.
Hail! sweet solace of my care,
As the Sabine fountain fair:
And were mine the Sabine's lays
Thou shou'dst rival it in praise.
Boast old springs a sacred train
Of their Nymphs and Satyrs vain;
Frequent to thy streams repair
Swains as merry, maids as fair.
Boast old poets in their bowers
To converse with heavenly powers;
Often here at evening walk,
With the power Supreme I talk.
As the Sabine fountain fair:
And were mine the Sabine's lays
Thou shou'dst rival it in praise.
Boast old springs a sacred train
Of their Nymphs and Satyrs vain;
Frequent to thy streams repair
Swains as merry, maids as fair.
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To converse with heavenly powers;
Often here at evening walk,
With the power Supreme I talk.
Softly hurls the stream along;
O how gentle, yet how strong!
Sweetly murmuring in its flow,
Not too loud nor yet too low:
Touch'd with cold nor heat extreme,
Pierce the frost or beat the beam:
Knowing nor to grow, nor fail,
Rage of storms nor draughts prevail.
Rise the mud, or fall the shower,
Spotless ever, ever pure:
May my life be like my theme,
Such a little cheerful stream;
Nor in hurry wildly spent,
Nor quite flat and indolent;
Thus resistless let me lay
Every ear attentive stay,
And each care-distracted breast
Soothe enchantingly to rest.
O how gentle, yet how strong!
Sweetly murmuring in its flow,
Not too loud nor yet too low:
Touch'd with cold nor heat extreme,
Pierce the frost or beat the beam:
Knowing nor to grow, nor fail,
Rage of storms nor draughts prevail.
Rise the mud, or fall the shower,
Spotless ever, ever pure:
May my life be like my theme,
Such a little cheerful stream;
Nor in hurry wildly spent,
Nor quite flat and indolent;
Thus resistless let me lay
Every ear attentive stay,
And each care-distracted breast
Soothe enchantingly to rest.
Let not fortune's smile or frown
Raise me up or cast me down.
Still the same, unalter'd still,
Change she fickle as she will:
May I always be inclin'd
To advantage human-kind,
But most ready to dispense
Benefits on indigence.
Thro' this world, and its vain toys,
Sullying pleasures, soiling joys,
Let me wander without blame,
Pure returning as I came.
Raise me up or cast me down.
Still the same, unalter'd still,
Change she fickle as she will:
May I always be inclin'd
To advantage human-kind,
But most ready to dispense
Benefits on indigence.
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Sullying pleasures, soiling joys,
Let me wander without blame,
Pure returning as I came.
ON A LITTLE CHILD BURSTING INTO TEARS UPON READING THE BALLAD OF “THE BABES IN THE WOOD.”
As the sad tale with accents sweet,
The little ruby lips repeat,
Soft pity feels the tender breast,
For infant innocence distress'd.
The bosom heaves with rising woe,
Short and confus'd the pauses grow,
Brimful the pretty eye appears,
And—bursts at once a flood of tears:
Sweet softness! still, O still retain
This social heart, this sense humane:
Still kindly for the wretched bleed,
And no returns of pity need.
The little ruby lips repeat,
Soft pity feels the tender breast,
For infant innocence distress'd.
The bosom heaves with rising woe,
Short and confus'd the pauses grow,
Brimful the pretty eye appears,
And—bursts at once a flood of tears:
Sweet softness! still, O still retain
This social heart, this sense humane:
Still kindly for the wretched bleed,
And no returns of pity need.
In plenty flow thy days and ease,
Soft pleasures all conspire to please;
Long may a sire's affection bless,
And long a mother's tenderness.
Soft pleasures all conspire to please;
Long may a sire's affection bless,
And long a mother's tenderness.
And thou, O bard, whose artless tongue.
The sadly pleasing story sung,
With pride a power of moving own,
No tragic muse has ever known.
Complete is thy success at last;
The throng admir'd in ages past;
The wise and great have lov'd thy lays,
And Nature's self now deigns to praise.
The sadly pleasing story sung,
With pride a power of moving own,
No tragic muse has ever known.
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The throng admir'd in ages past;
The wise and great have lov'd thy lays,
And Nature's self now deigns to praise.
THE POET'S WISH.
As in a vale thro' silent groves,A little pleasing riv'let roves;
Now here now there delights to stray,
And cheats with murm'ring songs the way;
'Till weary with the wand'ring race,
It sinks into its sire's embrace.
In some lone place thus pass my life,
Unvex'd with anxious cares and strife:
And when my clear, unclouded light,
Gives way to gloomy shades of night;
Weary with sport, with sleep oppress'd,
I'd gently sink to endless rest.
AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND AT OXFORD.
When country beaus at some great fair
Strut up the street with clumsy air,
What peals of laughter fill the shops,
Rais'd by more fashionable fops;
So fares it with my rustic strain,
(Tho' prais'd by critics of the plain)
When I, rough bard! to Oxford write,
The seat of muses more polite;
But if, my friend, I pleasure you,
'Tis not a farthing matter how.
Strut up the street with clumsy air,
What peals of laughter fill the shops,
Rais'd by more fashionable fops;
So fares it with my rustic strain,
(Tho' prais'd by critics of the plain)
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The seat of muses more polite;
But if, my friend, I pleasure you,
'Tis not a farthing matter how.
Say, shall I draw some rural scene,
A shady grove, a verdant green,
Or show how sweet the thrushes sing,
Or speak the bubbling of a spring?
Or I shall tell (if you think meet)
How snug I live in this retreat:
How close I conjure every care,
Without a wish—I wish I were—
Ah me! 'tis all an empty boast,
There's one—I find it to my cost.
There's one rebellious wish in arms
In spite of verse and all its charms.
A shady grove, a verdant green,
Or show how sweet the thrushes sing,
Or speak the bubbling of a spring?
Or I shall tell (if you think meet)
How snug I live in this retreat:
How close I conjure every care,
Without a wish—I wish I were—
Ah me! 'tis all an empty boast,
There's one—I find it to my cost.
There's one rebellious wish in arms
In spite of verse and all its charms.
Thrice happy, who by Isis stream
Enjoys the muses—in a dream;
In classic grottoes melts away
In visions of poetic day.
Oh, waft me gentle gale of air!
Oh! quickly, quickly waft me there;
And place me underneath a shade
Where Addison and Tickell laid!
Nay, tho' I'm penn'd in garret vile,
Tho' duns be rapping all the while;
Ev'n tho' without (which still is worse)
One splendid shilling in my purse:
All this I willingly could bear,
'Tis nothing all—since thou art there.
Enjoys the muses—in a dream;
In classic grottoes melts away
In visions of poetic day.
Oh, waft me gentle gale of air!
Oh! quickly, quickly waft me there;
And place me underneath a shade
Where Addison and Tickell laid!
Nay, tho' I'm penn'd in garret vile,
Tho' duns be rapping all the while;
Ev'n tho' without (which still is worse)
One splendid shilling in my purse:
All this I willingly could bear,
'Tis nothing all—since thou art there.
32
ON A WRANGLING COUPLE.
Alike in temper and in life,The crossest husband, crossest wife;
It looks exceeding odd to me,
This well-matched pair can disagree.
WOMAN'S VOWS.
My Jenny swears by all that's good,She'll never marry man but me;—
But female protestations should
Be written on the wind or sea.
| Songs and poems(1866) | |