Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems by the late Thomas Haynes Bayly; Edited by his Widow. With A Memoir of the Author. In Two Volumes |
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| POEMS AND SONGS. |
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 | Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems |  |
247
POEMS AND SONGS.
LOVE AND A COTTAGE.
Once on a time (no matter when or where)
There liv'd in Britain's Isle a youthful pair;
In boyish days no pleasure Edward knew,
Unless the sport was shared by Ellen too;
Her chosen games he always would prefer,
And learnt those lessons best—he learnt with her;
Fair Ellen, too, her early playmate loved,
And often wore the sash that he approved,—
Pursued her evening walk with feigned alarm,
To gain the fond protection of his arm;
His gifts and tokens she preserved with care,
And wore a ring composed of Edward's hair.
But girls will grow, and as their years increase,
The world decrees these gay delights should cease.
There liv'd in Britain's Isle a youthful pair;
In boyish days no pleasure Edward knew,
Unless the sport was shared by Ellen too;
Her chosen games he always would prefer,
And learnt those lessons best—he learnt with her;
Fair Ellen, too, her early playmate loved,
And often wore the sash that he approved,—
Pursued her evening walk with feigned alarm,
To gain the fond protection of his arm;
His gifts and tokens she preserved with care,
And wore a ring composed of Edward's hair.
But girls will grow, and as their years increase,
The world decrees these gay delights should cease.
Ellen was just eighteen: that happy time,
When youth's gay spirit revels in its prime;
When love's first tremor to the bosom steals,
And woman wonders at the glow she feels;
In form and manners changed, she now appears
In all the loveliness of riper years;
And Edward, too, was changed, for he began
To be not quite a boy, nor quite a man;
But, from his looks and manners you might deem
He was not boyish in his own esteem.
When youth's gay spirit revels in its prime;
When love's first tremor to the bosom steals,
And woman wonders at the glow she feels;
In form and manners changed, she now appears
In all the loveliness of riper years;
And Edward, too, was changed, for he began
To be not quite a boy, nor quite a man;
But, from his looks and manners you might deem
He was not boyish in his own esteem.
His neckcloth now in graceful folds was placed,
And gave a sample of the wearer's taste:
And, every inch a beau, he stoutly said
That none henceforth should call him Master Ned.
But, though the charms of bats and balls were fled,
And other sports engross'd him in their stead;
Though taw and tennis not a thought could claim,
And nobler billiards was his only game;
Though gay and unconfined he loved to range
For new delights;—his heart had known no change;
And though transformed with fashionable skill,
His youth's companion was remembered still.
And gave a sample of the wearer's taste:
And, every inch a beau, he stoutly said
That none henceforth should call him Master Ned.
But, though the charms of bats and balls were fled,
And other sports engross'd him in their stead;
248
And nobler billiards was his only game;
Though gay and unconfined he loved to range
For new delights;—his heart had known no change;
And though transformed with fashionable skill,
His youth's companion was remembered still.
Returned from school, with wonder and delight
He saw the change in Ellen's form and height;
And scarcely could he believe the blooming belle
Was she whose hoyden tricks he loved so well.
They were at first reserved, and knew not how
To get beyond a curtsey and a bow:
Each suffered a restraint unfelt before.
Little was said—but then they thought the more;
And soon their tell-tale eyes revealed to each
Much more than could be told by parts of speech:
Their silence quickly ceased—reserve was lost.
And both seemed striving which could talk the most.
He saw the change in Ellen's form and height;
And scarcely could he believe the blooming belle
Was she whose hoyden tricks he loved so well.
They were at first reserved, and knew not how
To get beyond a curtsey and a bow:
Each suffered a restraint unfelt before.
Little was said—but then they thought the more;
And soon their tell-tale eyes revealed to each
Much more than could be told by parts of speech:
Their silence quickly ceased—reserve was lost.
And both seemed striving which could talk the most.
Daily they met—and failed not to produce,
For meetings yet to come, some new excuse;
They both found out that early rising serves
To give elastic vigour to the nerves;
Discovered next the needful good that lies
In morning air and constant exercise.
And Ellen often ventured out, by stealth,
To walk with Edward, and improve her health;
And then, whatever walk she chose to name,
He always chanced to fix upon the same;
And morning, noon, or night, where'er they went,
The couple always met—by accident.
For meetings yet to come, some new excuse;
They both found out that early rising serves
To give elastic vigour to the nerves;
Discovered next the needful good that lies
In morning air and constant exercise.
And Ellen often ventured out, by stealth,
To walk with Edward, and improve her health;
And then, whatever walk she chose to name,
He always chanced to fix upon the same;
And morning, noon, or night, where'er they went,
The couple always met—by accident.
A sudden love of reading offered next
For frequent interviews a good pretext;
But Edward's eye oft wandered from his books,
To read expressive things in Ellen's looks;
And long she listened—for the voice she heard
Imparted melody to every word:
Reading has charms—and they perceived the charm
Was much increased by reading arm in arm;
And found their scientific walk so sweet,
The more they met, the more they wish'd to meet.
For frequent interviews a good pretext;
But Edward's eye oft wandered from his books,
To read expressive things in Ellen's looks;
And long she listened—for the voice she heard
Imparted melody to every word:
Reading has charms—and they perceived the charm
Was much increased by reading arm in arm;
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The more they met, the more they wish'd to meet.
Their love of learning none could disapprove,
Until, by some mischance, they learnt to love!
Then mothers went into fits, and fathers swore,
And all declared that they should meet no more;
Said days of joy would end in years of pain,
And talk'd of prudent schemes—but talk'd in vain:
They argued well that Cupid is averse
To scanty larders, and an empty purse;
That wedded paupers often mourn their lot,
And find affection will not boil the pot;
And said (whatever boys and girls may think)
Lovers, though vastly warm, must eat and drink.
Until, by some mischance, they learnt to love!
Then mothers went into fits, and fathers swore,
And all declared that they should meet no more;
Said days of joy would end in years of pain,
And talk'd of prudent schemes—but talk'd in vain:
They argued well that Cupid is averse
To scanty larders, and an empty purse;
That wedded paupers often mourn their lot,
And find affection will not boil the pot;
And said (whatever boys and girls may think)
Lovers, though vastly warm, must eat and drink.
But all their arguments had little force,
For Edward only thought them words of course.
“Shall we,” he said, “who love as much—or more
Than ever two young people loved before,
Shall we be pent in lucre's paltry bounds,
And part because our shillings are not pounds?
Shall I look out for wealth, and strive to catch
Some advantageous mercenary match?
No! to my charming Ellen still I turn:
Love's rosy links are easy to be borne;
Let sordid souls repent, and mourn in vain
The heavy splendour of their golden chain.”
For Edward only thought them words of course.
“Shall we,” he said, “who love as much—or more
Than ever two young people loved before,
Shall we be pent in lucre's paltry bounds,
And part because our shillings are not pounds?
Shall I look out for wealth, and strive to catch
Some advantageous mercenary match?
No! to my charming Ellen still I turn:
Love's rosy links are easy to be borne;
Let sordid souls repent, and mourn in vain
The heavy splendour of their golden chain.”
“Although we boast no riches,” Ellen cried,
“What can I want with Edward at my side?
Without wax lights our cot shall ne'er be dim,
For even tallow must burn bright with him:
Love and a Cottage is the lot I prize,
And lucre, filthy lucre, I despise.”
“What can I want with Edward at my side?
Without wax lights our cot shall ne'er be dim,
For even tallow must burn bright with him:
Love and a Cottage is the lot I prize,
And lucre, filthy lucre, I despise.”
The day was fix'd, and Edward flew to buy
A charming cottage just two stories high;
And one was found which, though extremely small,
Was large enough to hold their little all.
A charming cottage just two stories high;
And one was found which, though extremely small,
Was large enough to hold their little all.
250
Some months the bride, with fortitude unshaken,
Endured the dull routine of beans and bacon;
Preserved each precious morsel on the shelf,
And eat the puddings that she made herself;
By daily repetition well she knew
How to provide but just enough for two;
Learnt to economise in every way,
And hash the mutton of a former day.
Before her spouse she laboured to conceal
Her secret horror of the vulgar meal;
Boldly contended with domestic ills,
And studied the amount of baker's bills.
Endured the dull routine of beans and bacon;
Preserved each precious morsel on the shelf,
And eat the puddings that she made herself;
By daily repetition well she knew
How to provide but just enough for two;
Learnt to economise in every way,
And hash the mutton of a former day.
Before her spouse she laboured to conceal
Her secret horror of the vulgar meal;
Boldly contended with domestic ills,
And studied the amount of baker's bills.
Her bridal garments soil'd, with wondrous skill,
She turn'd, and wash'd, and made them useful still;
Corrected and revised her old array,
And neatly darn'd each symptom of decay;
Contrived to make the last year's bonnet do,
And said it look'd almost as good as new;
Dyed her old gown, its splendour to recall;
And sigh'd in secret—if she sigh'd at all.
She turn'd, and wash'd, and made them useful still;
Corrected and revised her old array,
And neatly darn'd each symptom of decay;
Contrived to make the last year's bonnet do,
And said it look'd almost as good as new;
Dyed her old gown, its splendour to recall;
And sigh'd in secret—if she sigh'd at all.
The bridegroom gazed upon his lovely wife,
Talk'd of domestic joys, and rural life;
Genteelly acquiesced in all she said,
And drank her currant wine both white and red.
Talk'd of domestic joys, and rural life;
Genteelly acquiesced in all she said,
And drank her currant wine both white and red.
So far 'twas well—but ere two years were past,
Their matrimonial sky was overcast;
And Ellen then, in tone not very sweet,
Complain'd their mansion was not quite complete.
“'Tis such a bore,” said she, “in rainy weather,
In this small room to sit all day together,
Which serves for drawing-room and parlour too:
And there's no study set apart for you;
You're never out of hearing—and it feels
So strange to have you always at my heels;
We're very loving—but it is too much
To sit so close—our elbows almost touch.
Their matrimonial sky was overcast;
And Ellen then, in tone not very sweet,
Complain'd their mansion was not quite complete.
“'Tis such a bore,” said she, “in rainy weather,
In this small room to sit all day together,
Which serves for drawing-room and parlour too:
And there's no study set apart for you;
You're never out of hearing—and it feels
So strange to have you always at my heels;
We're very loving—but it is too much
To sit so close—our elbows almost touch.
251
And then our maid (alas! we have but one)
Does only half of all that should be done,
For Nelly acts as cook and butler both,
And she who scrubs the kitchen lays the cloth;
With arms all crimson, and a flaming face,
She bustles on, sole handmaid of the place;
And frequent must my occupations be,
Since all she fails to do—is done by me:
Oft am I plagued with closet, drawer and shelf—
In fact, I'm maid of all work to myself.
My dear, before I married you, I vow
I wish I'd been as wise as I am now.”
Does only half of all that should be done,
For Nelly acts as cook and butler both,
And she who scrubs the kitchen lays the cloth;
With arms all crimson, and a flaming face,
She bustles on, sole handmaid of the place;
And frequent must my occupations be,
Since all she fails to do—is done by me:
Oft am I plagued with closet, drawer and shelf—
In fact, I'm maid of all work to myself.
My dear, before I married you, I vow
I wish I'd been as wise as I am now.”
These Edward heard, and he at times gave vent
To equal murmurings and discontent.
“What you assert, my love,” he cried, “is true,
I think our cottage quite as small as you;
But then, my charmer, what can you expect,
Your portion brought me nothing, recollect;
‘Nothing can come of nothing,’ pounds and pence
In calculations make a difference,
I hate our paltry dinners, where the meat
Is only just as much as we can eat;
If sick of mutton roasted, we arrange
To have it boil'd next day, by way of change;
And boil'd or roasted, it might do, I own,
Had I some good old port to wash it down;
But as for currant wine, say what you will,
That home-made stuff is apt to make one ill.
In tedious tête-à-tête our time is past—
Each day a repetition of the last;
And in this nutshell, as we sit alone,
I hear no human voice except your own.
We used to read—but who can pass his life
In reading doleful ditties to his wife?”
To equal murmurings and discontent.
“What you assert, my love,” he cried, “is true,
I think our cottage quite as small as you;
But then, my charmer, what can you expect,
Your portion brought me nothing, recollect;
‘Nothing can come of nothing,’ pounds and pence
In calculations make a difference,
I hate our paltry dinners, where the meat
Is only just as much as we can eat;
If sick of mutton roasted, we arrange
To have it boil'd next day, by way of change;
And boil'd or roasted, it might do, I own,
Had I some good old port to wash it down;
But as for currant wine, say what you will,
That home-made stuff is apt to make one ill.
In tedious tête-à-tête our time is past—
Each day a repetition of the last;
And in this nutshell, as we sit alone,
I hear no human voice except your own.
We used to read—but who can pass his life
In reading doleful ditties to his wife?”
This was his constant theme: thus months were spent
In bitter matrimonial argument.
In bitter matrimonial argument.
“Love and a Cottage” was their former boast—
The Cottage still remains, but Love is lost;
And when for man and wife it proved too small,
No wonder Love could find no room at all.
Thus wise at length—though haply wise too late,
By mutual consent they separate:
And by a written paper we are told—
“This Cottage either to be let or sold.”
The Cottage still remains, but Love is lost;
252
No wonder Love could find no room at all.
Thus wise at length—though haply wise too late,
By mutual consent they separate:
And by a written paper we are told—
“This Cottage either to be let or sold.”
NIGHT THOUGHTS.
I
When mortals repose on the pillow of night,When nought except fancy's dominion is bright,
When the day-dreams of man for a moment are crush'd,
And the wailings of childhood in slumbers are hush'd,
Through the maze of the past our steps we retread,
And the form of the future before us is spread;
All the sorrows and fears of the present are flown,
And the fancy exists in a world of its own.
II
Then the forms of the absent distinctly appear,And the voice of affection seems whispering near;
All painful realities fade from the view,
While friends seem all constant, and lovers all true.
Though the eye-lid is closed, with precision we trace
Each well beloved feature, each good humour'd face;
Though silence surrounds us, their accents remain,
And in vision they speak, and we listen again.
III
Though the sun-shine of Hope and of Fortune may set,In slumbers and dreams it may visit us yet;
Though our moments of pleasure so soon pass away,
We retrace in the night all the joys of the day;
Our mirth would be short if we could not prolong
The fond recollection of dance and of song;
And our youthful adventures would vanish too fast,
If we could not dream over the bliss of the past.
253
BE SILENT, MY LUTE!
I
Be silent, for ever, be silent, my lute!For the voice that has echoed your numbers is mute;
The spirit, the life of my music is o'er,
For the ear that has listen'd can listen no more:
There has been a time, when my eye has survey'd
The theme and the song of my soul as I play'd,—
But her features are clouded, her accents are mute,
Then be silent, for ever, be silent, my lute!
II
The garden she planted its blossoms may boast,But the flower is faded which gladden'd it most;
Her bowers may bloom with clematis and vine,
But where is the hand that once taught them to twine?
Thus, the landscape at midnight is beautiful still,
And freshness remains upon valley and hill;
But then the eye rests upon darkness alone,
For the beams that illumine each object are gone.
III
'Tis long since we parted, I seek thee in vain;My Ellen! I never can meet thee again!
Yet still there are ties which time cannot remove,
When we mourn o'er the relics of those that we love:
Like rocks which the whirlwind asunder has thrown,
Though sever'd for ever in years that are gone,
Though the flood of the valley flows darkly between,
The trace of their union on each may be seen.
254
IV
There once was a time when my muse could assuageThe blots and the sorrows that darken life's page;
But now every verse unavailing must prove,
For tears damp the strings of the lyre of love.
Yet still I can look on the lute that she loved,
And hear from another the song she approved;
But the words and the notes cannot charm me alone,
For the spirit, the life, of my music is gone.
V
Oh! tell me no more of the hopes that you see,For a cloud hovers still 'twixt their radiance and me;
I trusted them once—but they left me to mourn;
I may view them in thought—but they cannot return.
To a sailor whose bark on the billows is tost,
When tempests o'erwhelm him, and succour is lost,
'Tis cruel to point to the meadows and groves,
And the roses that bloom round the home that he loves.
OH, DO NOT SUPPOSE THAT MY HOURS ARE GAY!
I
Oh! do not suppose that my hoursAre always unclouded and gay;
Or that thorns never mix with the flowers
That fortune has strew'd in my way:
When seen by the cold and unfeeling,
We smile through the sorrows we feel;
But smiles are deceitful—concealing
The wounds which they never can heal.
255
II
The world is a changeable ocean,And sunbeams and shadows abound;
Where the surface seems least in commotion,
The rocks of misfortune are found:—
And man is the pilot, who steering,
Of every billow the sport,
Sees the gale of prosperity veering,
Which promised to waft him to port.
III
Our hopes are the gales that serenelyWaft onward our sails as we float;
Our tears are the whirlwinds that keenly
O'erwhelm our poor perishing boat;
And reason's the beacon that gives us
It's light through life's perilous way,
But folly's the ray that deceives us,
And leads us too often astray.
IV
Our moments of mirth may be many,And hope half our sorrow beguiles;
But, believe me, there cannot be any
Whose features are always in smiles.
The heart may be sad and repining,
Though cheerfulness brightens the scene,
As a goblet with gems may be shining,
Though bitter the potion within.
V
A glittering volume may coverA story of sorrow and woe;
And night's gayest meteors may hover
Where dangers lie lurking below;
Thus oft, in the sunshine of gladness,
The cheek and the eye may be drest,
Whilst the clouds of dejection and sadness
In secret o'ershadow the breast.
256
YOU TELL ME THAT MY SMILES ARE LOST.
I
You tell me I no longer boastThe sprightly language once my own;
That all my former smiles are lost,
And all my cheerful spirits flown.
II
You say my songs, in former days,Were fraught with love and hope united;
But now the subjects of my lays
Are, hope deceived, and passion slighted.
III
It may be so—for fleeting yearsThe spell from boyhood's dream will sever;
And in a world of smiles and tears
No song of joy can last for ever.
IV
And when I sung of love and hope,They were the visions of a boy:
Then fancy gives us ample scope
For forming plans of future joy.
V
But riper years too often blightThe opening buds that youth had nourish'd;
Some cold neglect, some cruel slight,
May wound the heart where friendship flourish'd.
VI
When those we long have loved deceive,We view our loss with vain regret;
Our feelings prompt us to forgive,
Our wound forbids us to forget.
257
VII
And then, though each may meet again,Though no reproving word be spoken,
Yet every effort will be vain
To join the links by folly broken.
VIII
But sudden wrath cannot removeThe memory of former ties;
And though deceit must weaken love,
It feels acutely ere it dies.
THE HEROES OF WATERLOO.
I
Weep for the heroes who nobly have perish'd,Whilst planting the olive of freedom on earth;
Long shall their names, by their countrymen cherish'd,
Ennoble the island that gave them their birth.
History, painting their triumph in story,
Checks for awhile her victorious strain,
And pensively turns to encircle in glory
The heroes who fell upon Waterloo's plain.
II
Yet mourn not for them! for in future traditionTheir fame shall exist as our tutelar star;
To instil, by example, the noble ambition
Of falling, like them, in a glorious war.
Posterity long shall remember with pleasure
They perish'd for freedom, nor perish'd in vain;
And minstrels shall choose for their favourite measure
The tale of the battle on Waterloo's plain.
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III
Surviving affection must ever lament them,Mothers and wives for their treasures must mourn;
Had they but lived, oh! how sweet to present them
The wreaths that must now deck their funeral urn.
Though tears may be seen in the bright eye of beauty,
One consolation must ever remain—
Undaunted they trod in the pathway of duty,
Which led them to glory on Waterloo's plain.
HINTS TO LOVERS.
I
How oft by mankind is it spokenThat love is the source of all ill;
That many fond hearts he has broken,
And blights all our happiness still.
But I cannot tell how they contrive it,
Though lovers complain of their lot,
They commonly seem to survive it,
If hearts have been broken or not.
II
Though there's always a portion of sighing,You'll find no disease in a sigh;
And until men and women love dying,
Love never will cause them to die.
If men would get rid of their anguish,
I'll cure their disquietude thus—
Let us all resolve never to languish
For girls that won't languish for us.
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III
No hard-hearted beauty can move me,Who answers my smiles with a frown;
But if one should e'er deign to love me,
That instant my heart is her own.
Through Cupid's wild labyrinth roving,
Who is there that never has proved,
Though there's something delightful in loving,
There's heaven in being beloved?
IV
When love is o'erwhelm'd with distresses,They flow from our folly alone;
But all of the joys he possesses
Are tender delights of his own.
When vainly our vows have been plighted,
No more protestations we'll waste;
But slighting—as we have been slighted,
We'll leave them, and pity their taste.
V
When two hearts are govern'd by Cupid,All sorrowful feelings are flown,
But truly that love must be stupid,
Which only is cherish'd by one.
All those who are sad and forsaken
From former disasters may learn,
Ere they love, proper care should be taken
That somebody loves in return.
260
ELLEN.
I
“Farewell!” exclaim'd Ellen, with furious spite—“From your presence with joy I'll remove;
Your detestable name I will never unite
With the visions of friendship and love.”
“Pretty Ellen,” I cried, “where's the use of this fuss?
Do endeavour your anger to stifle;
Separation possesses no terrors for us,
And appears to my mind a mere trifle.
II
“You accuse me of falsehood, and call me unkind,—But my errors may sure be forgiven;
I call you an angel,—and, therefore, you find
I am loth to detain you from heaven.
Since first I beheld you, I'm sure you must know
That to please you has been my endeavour;
And now that you say, 'tis your pleasure to go,
I'm more anxious to please you than ever.”
LINES ON READING MOORE'S FAREWELL TO HIS HARP, IN THE SIXTH NUMBER OF THE IRISH MELODIES.
I
Heed not the poet's parting words,Nor think you hear his closing strain;
For love still lingers on the chords,
And wooes him to his lyre again.
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II
His hand its office may refuse,But genius cannot slumber long;
And soon again shall Erin's muse
Give life and strength to Erin's song.
III
Again his music shall bestowA charm to make our moments gay;
Again the lover's heart shall glow,
While beauty's lip repeats the lay.
IV
Yes, often shall his voice receiveThe patriot's praise, the fair one's smile;
And Albion's sons again shall give
The tribute of a sister isle.
V
Then do not hear him with regret,Or at his farewell notes repine;
Our favourite bard shall charm us yet
With many a gay and sportive line.
VI
When lovers breathe a last adieuTo maids who treat them with disdain;
A glance their passion can renew,
A smile can lure them back again.
VII
Thus though the bard may now rebel,Though now his hand the lyre may spurn;
The echoes of his own farewell
Shall tempt the rover to return.
262
“THREE WORDS” TO A LADY
FROM WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD RECEIVED A PURSE OF THREE COLOURS.
I.
Three days you labour'd to uniteThree colours, beautiful and bright;
Three times you raised my hopes, and said
For me the triple web was made;
Three times it seem'd before you gave it,
'Twas three to one I ne'er should have it;
Three doubts, three fears, were quickly past;
Thrice welcome came the purse at last.
II.
Three thanks I give, which can't revealOne third of what I ought to feel:
Yet wanting some more strong device,
In three short words, “I thank you,” thrice.
I own I'm at (in lines like these)
Sixes and sevens, more than threes;
And you may think their folly such,
Three of them would be three too much;
Yet credit this, my joy shall be
To drink your health in—three times three.
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