 | Birds, Bees and Blossoms |  |
123
“ALL-A-BLOWING—ALL-A-GROWING.”
Cries of London.
WHAT I MEAN.
My dear young Readers, you will seeThat in these verses I have tried
To show how Fancy, once set free,
Becomes to other thoughts allied:
Pictures that spring up unaware,
Like words made to the bells that ring,
124
Though only with a “ding-dong” swing.
Such Whittington heard long ago,
When sorrowful by Highgate stone
He sat, nor knew not what to do,
Till London's bells with silvery tone
Rang to his ear a fancied strain,
Saying he was not wholly undone;—
“Return again, return again,
And be Lord Mayor of London.”
So let the cry of “All-a-blowing”
Send your fancy out to roam,
To miles of fields where flowers are growing,
For fancy mopes if kept at home.
Then shut your eyes, and think you see
Some flower, road, field, a stream, or tree.
125
LONDON CHILDREN.
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing,”
Those spring sounds everywhere we meet,
Where the stagnant gutter's throwing
Poisoned air into the street.
How different from the fragrant nook,
Where they all stood in beauty blowing,
While mirrored in the murmuring brook,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
Those spring sounds everywhere we meet,
Where the stagnant gutter's throwing
Poisoned air into the street.
How different from the fragrant nook,
Where they all stood in beauty blowing,
While mirrored in the murmuring brook,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
Here doth the air a prison find,
By windows where no sunbeams play,
Where the freedom-loving wind
Doth fret, and cannot get away,
So round the houses sighs and moans.
Children are at each other throwing,
Cinders, rags, and dust, and bones,
While the court rings with “All-a-blowing.”
By windows where no sunbeams play,
Where the freedom-loving wind
Doth fret, and cannot get away,
So round the houses sighs and moans.
Children are at each other throwing,
Cinders, rags, and dust, and bones,
While the court rings with “All-a-blowing.”
I pity thee, poor ragged child,
That with round wondering eyes dost stand;
That never saw a flower grow wild,
Nor miles of daisies light the land:
Whose home is in that stifling alley
Where half-washed clothes on lines are blowing;
Who never saw on hill or valley
The summer flowers “All-a-growing.”
That with round wondering eyes dost stand;
That never saw a flower grow wild,
Nor miles of daisies light the land:
Whose home is in that stifling alley
Where half-washed clothes on lines are blowing;
Who never saw on hill or valley
The summer flowers “All-a-growing.”
He thinks by human hands the flowers
Were coloured, clipped, and fixed, and made:
The shop at which he looks for hours
Is where a flower maker's trade
Is carried on—he looks and crows
When the pale girl her goods is showing;
About God's flowers he nothing knows,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
Were coloured, clipped, and fixed, and made:
126
Is where a flower maker's trade
Is carried on—he looks and crows
When the pale girl her goods is showing;
About God's flowers he nothing knows,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
He groweth up a flower neglected,
To teach him right no one finds time;
And by our law he is rejected,
Until he plunges into crime.
While innocent none cries “God bless him;”
When heavy guilt his head is bowing,
Some jailer then perhaps may press him
To study God's works—“All-a-growing.”
To teach him right no one finds time;
And by our law he is rejected,
Until he plunges into crime.
While innocent none cries “God bless him;”
When heavy guilt his head is bowing,
Some jailer then perhaps may press him
To study God's works—“All-a-growing.”
Neglected in the sunless court,
He learns but thieving, swearing, lying;
Doth 'mid the dirty children sport,
Beside the door where some one's dying.
They nothing know of death or sorrow,
Beyond the pang when hunger's gnawing;
They never think about the morrow,
Nor where the flowers are “All-a-blowing.”
He learns but thieving, swearing, lying;
Doth 'mid the dirty children sport,
Beside the door where some one's dying.
They nothing know of death or sorrow,
Beyond the pang when hunger's gnawing;
They never think about the morrow,
Nor where the flowers are “All-a-blowing.”
127
THE COUNTRY CHILD.
Ah, poor child! I know you well;
I saw the waggon that you came in
From the cot beside the dell,
Where the foxglove flowers were flaming;
And baskets bellied out with gold
Of gorse, a yellow light was throwing:
But when your cottage home was sold,
You left these treasures “All-a-blowing.”
I saw the waggon that you came in
From the cot beside the dell,
Where the foxglove flowers were flaming;
And baskets bellied out with gold
Of gorse, a yellow light was throwing:
But when your cottage home was sold,
You left these treasures “All-a-blowing.”
128
Other feet now press those walks,
And that summer arbour tread,
Train the roses round the balks,
And weed the speckled pansy bed
Where thy poor parents hoped to die.
Ever coming, ever going,
Thousands still listen to that cry
Of “All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
And that summer arbour tread,
Train the roses round the balks,
And weed the speckled pansy bed
Where thy poor parents hoped to die.
Ever coming, ever going,
Thousands still listen to that cry
Of “All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
It calls up bleating lambs at play,
The throstle's song at early morn;
Perfume of moonlight-coloured May,
The smell of new hay homeward borne;
Murmur of golden-banded bees,
The “rasp, rasp, rasp,” of mowers, mowing;
Rich blossoms of the orchard trees,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing:”
The throstle's song at early morn;
Perfume of moonlight-coloured May,
The smell of new hay homeward borne;
Murmur of golden-banded bees,
The “rasp, rasp, rasp,” of mowers, mowing;
Rich blossoms of the orchard trees,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing:”
Calls back the gold-beaked blackbird's song,
Heard while in green lanes wandering;
The cuckoo shouting all day long,
And mocked by children in the spring;
Daisies that dews of silver hold,
Bright buttercups in sunshine glowing,
And flashing backward gold for gold,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
Heard while in green lanes wandering;
The cuckoo shouting all day long,
And mocked by children in the spring;
Daisies that dews of silver hold,
Bright buttercups in sunshine glowing,
And flashing backward gold for gold,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
129
THE PAUPER.
See that poor pauper pause to listen,
Watch the light break on his brow;
See how his poor dim eyes glisten:
I know that he is thinking now
Of the country sweet and green,
Of farms where early cocks are crowing,
And many a far-off flowery scene,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing:”
Watch the light break on his brow;
See how his poor dim eyes glisten:
I know that he is thinking now
Of the country sweet and green,
Of farms where early cocks are crowing,
And many a far-off flowery scene,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing:”
Of the lilies-of-the-valley,
That grew 'mid those remembered scenes,
Where he again would fondly dally,
And love to live had he the means;
He has not, but with age now bent,
And gray head 'neath the burden bowing,
That sound his thoughts have homeward sent
Where his loved flowers are “All-a-blowing:”
That grew 'mid those remembered scenes,
Where he again would fondly dally,
And love to live had he the means;
He has not, but with age now bent,
And gray head 'neath the burden bowing,
That sound his thoughts have homeward sent
Where his loved flowers are “All-a-blowing:”
Where he with angling rod in hand
The happy hours did oft beguile;
Did by the silvery river stand,
Or linger by the rustic stile.
And now they all are dead and gone,
Those loved ones—and his eyes are thawing;
For in the workhouse there are none
Care for his flowers “All-a-blowing.”
The happy hours did oft beguile;
Did by the silvery river stand,
Or linger by the rustic stile.
And now they all are dead and gone,
Those loved ones—and his eyes are thawing;
For in the workhouse there are none
Care for his flowers “All-a-blowing.”
Hither, by false hopes allured,
He came, and in this busy city
Hard privation long endured,
None to love him, none to pity.
That sound old memories doth awaken
Of branches waving, rivers flowing,
Flower beds by the breezes shaken,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
He came, and in this busy city
130
None to love him, none to pity.
That sound old memories doth awaken
Of branches waving, rivers flowing,
Flower beds by the breezes shaken,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
131
THE POOR SEMPSTRESS.
Stop, poor sempstress, stop and dream;
Forget thy room so close and dark,
Think of that cottage by the stream
Where thou wert wakened by the lark;
Think of the ringdoves in the woods,
The roses round the window bowing,
The velvet green of spring's first buds,
All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
Forget thy room so close and dark,
Think of that cottage by the stream
Where thou wert wakened by the lark;
Think of the ringdoves in the woods,
The roses round the window bowing,
The velvet green of spring's first buds,
All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
I see the tears upon thy cheek,
I know thou'st had thy share of sorrow;
I picture thee a maiden meek,
Blithe as a bird that hailed the morrow:
I know that sweet spring-sound doth cheat
Thee of the grief thine eyes are showing;
That fancy has fled from this street,
To “All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
I know thou'st had thy share of sorrow;
I picture thee a maiden meek,
Blithe as a bird that hailed the morrow:
I know that sweet spring-sound doth cheat
Thee of the grief thine eyes are showing;
That fancy has fled from this street,
To “All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
In the attic's crazy story,
That looks down on a dead brick wall,
The sunshine comes in all its glory,
And on the broken floor does fall:
That and the sky are all she sees
Of God's great works above her bowing;
Stitching—she dreams of flowers and trees,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
That looks down on a dead brick wall,
The sunshine comes in all its glory,
And on the broken floor does fall:
That and the sky are all she sees
Of God's great works above her bowing;
Stitching—she dreams of flowers and trees,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
Stitching, she listens to that sound,
Fancies she sees that hazel glade
With its primrose-covered ground,
That quite a little sun land made.
Stitching, she wanders there again,
And oft her head keeps backward throwing,
To ease that old cramped stooping pain—
Stitches, and dreams of “All-a-blowing.”
Fancies she sees that hazel glade
132
That quite a little sun land made.
Stitching, she wanders there again,
And oft her head keeps backward throwing,
To ease that old cramped stooping pain—
Stitches, and dreams of “All-a-blowing.”
133
THE LONDON MILKMAID.
Milkmaid with the Rose of Wales
Blooming in thy smiling face,
Telling that breezy peaks and vales
Lay round thy healthy native place,
Thy memory, too, is backward borne
To where the broom her gold is showing,
And spotted cowslips this bright morn
Are “All-a-blowing, all-a-growing:”
Blooming in thy smiling face,
Telling that breezy peaks and vales
Lay round thy healthy native place,
Thy memory, too, is backward borne
To where the broom her gold is showing,
And spotted cowslips this bright morn
Are “All-a-blowing, all-a-growing:”
To pastoral sounds that filled the valley,
Till broken by thy artless song.
How different from the city alley,
And those thou dwellest now among!
Thy milk now brought by railway train,
No cows with well-filled udders lowing;
Thy milk-can drying near the drain,
Not placed near flowers “All-a-blowing.”
Till broken by thy artless song.
134
And those thou dwellest now among!
Thy milk now brought by railway train,
No cows with well-filled udders lowing;
Thy milk-can drying near the drain,
Not placed near flowers “All-a-blowing.”
That sound has carried thee away
To where, hemmed in with bracken brown,
Thou didst find out one sunny day
A little hidden flowery town
Of hare-bells and bright crimson heather:
Ripe blackberries at hand were growing,
Corn rustled in that harvest weather,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
To where, hemmed in with bracken brown,
Thou didst find out one sunny day
A little hidden flowery town
Of hare-bells and bright crimson heather:
Ripe blackberries at hand were growing,
Corn rustled in that harvest weather,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
It takes thee back to field and fold,
To children round the mountain straying,
To walks across the windy wold,
Companions with whom thou went'st Maying,
Now hidden 'mid the leaves so long,
Through which some half-spied face was showing,
Anon all bursting into song,
Of “All-a-blowing, all-a-growing;”
To children round the mountain straying,
To walks across the windy wold,
Companions with whom thou went'st Maying,
Now hidden 'mid the leaves so long,
Through which some half-spied face was showing,
Anon all bursting into song,
Of “All-a-blowing, all-a-growing;”
Of milk-pail poised upon thy head,
With one hand resting on thy side,
Crossing the bridge with cautious tread;
Of banks with rainbow colours dyed;
Thy image thrown upon the stream,
With all thy long hair backward blowing;
Where mirrored flowers seemed to dream,
Reflected downward, “All-a-growing.”
With one hand resting on thy side,
Crossing the bridge with cautious tread;
Of banks with rainbow colours dyed;
Thy image thrown upon the stream,
With all thy long hair backward blowing;
Where mirrored flowers seemed to dream,
Reflected downward, “All-a-growing.”
135
THE OLD HOSTLER.
Gray-haired hostler stand and smile,
The country red's still on thy cheek;
Thou see'st thy cot behind the stile;
The little alder-shaded creek
That by thy father's garden ran;
The field where with him thou went'st mowing,
Before thou hadst grown up a man,
The flowers thou left'st there “All-a-blowing.”
The country red's still on thy cheek;
Thou see'st thy cot behind the stile;
The little alder-shaded creek
That by thy father's garden ran;
The field where with him thou went'st mowing,
Before thou hadst grown up a man,
The flowers thou left'st there “All-a-blowing.”
That cottage years since was another's;
Those walks by wood, and field, and lane,
With father, mother, sisters, brothers,
Thou never more wilt see again;
All but thyself are dead and gone,
Laid where the churchyard trees are growing;
Friend or relation thou hast none,
To see the flowers “All-a-blowing.”
Those walks by wood, and field, and lane,
With father, mother, sisters, brothers,
Thou never more wilt see again;
All but thyself are dead and gone,
Laid where the churchyard trees are growing;
Friend or relation thou hast none,
To see the flowers “All-a-blowing.”
The sunshine on the stable floor
Often recalls the yellow broom;
The smell from out the hay-loft door
That opens on thy sleeping room,
Brings dreams to thee of new-mown hay,
Of grasses 'neath the breezes bowing;
Of those with whom thou oft didst play,
Who sleep where flowers are “All-a-blowing.”
Often recalls the yellow broom;
The smell from out the hay-loft door
That opens on thy sleeping room,
Brings dreams to thee of new-mown hay,
Of grasses 'neath the breezes bowing;
Of those with whom thou oft didst play,
Who sleep where flowers are “All-a-blowing.”
136
In thy old age 'tis very hard
To change the daisy-covered hill
For a rank-smelling stable-yard;
The clacking of the water-mill,
And hum of insects round the pool,
For sound of horses ever gnawing;
To leave the pleasant white-washed school,
And the sweet flowers “All-a-blowing:”
To change the daisy-covered hill
For a rank-smelling stable-yard;
The clacking of the water-mill,
And hum of insects round the pool,
For sound of horses ever gnawing;
To leave the pleasant white-washed school,
And the sweet flowers “All-a-blowing:”
In Winter's snow and Summer's rain,
To hear no more the stirring trees;
No more about the window-pane
The humming from the hives of bees:
Stables and horses ever cleaning,
Hay and corn away still stowing;
To hear no sound of reaping, gleaning,
No smell of flowers “All-a-blowing.”
To hear no more the stirring trees;
No more about the window-pane
The humming from the hives of bees:
Stables and horses ever cleaning,
Hay and corn away still stowing;
To hear no sound of reaping, gleaning,
No smell of flowers “All-a-blowing.”
But he halts not who seeks employment,
Who to and fro is ever going;
For to him life brings no enjoyment—
They tell him that “there's nothing doing.”
He looks up at the sky o'erhead,
Where the clouds are darker growing,
And wishes it would rain down bread,
Nor heeds the flowers “All-a-blowing.”
Who to and fro is ever going;
For to him life brings no enjoyment—
They tell him that “there's nothing doing.”
He looks up at the sky o'erhead,
Where the clouds are darker growing,
And wishes it would rain down bread,
Nor heeds the flowers “All-a-blowing.”
That laundress by the stopped-up drain,
Where scent of flowers never found her,
Doth dread the sweet refreshing rain;
It poisons all the air around her,
Stirring old sickly stagnant smells.
She buys primroses “All-a-growing;”
But placed a few days where she dwells,
The buds will soon cease “All-a-blowing.”
Where scent of flowers never found her,
Doth dread the sweet refreshing rain;
It poisons all the air around her,
Stirring old sickly stagnant smells.
She buys primroses “All-a-growing;”
137
The buds will soon cease “All-a-blowing.”
No spots round her which hawthorns light,
Whose bloom, when in the distance seen,
Seems like soft clouds of silver bright,
Resting upon a sky of green.
For all she of the seasons knows,
Is sunshine, raining, hailing, snowing;
From year to year she never goes
Where the sweet flowers are “All-a-blowing.”
Whose bloom, when in the distance seen,
Seems like soft clouds of silver bright,
Resting upon a sky of green.
For all she of the seasons knows,
Is sunshine, raining, hailing, snowing;
From year to year she never goes
Where the sweet flowers are “All-a-blowing.”
Even that sharp policeman's eye
From off the thief a moment strays,
While listening to that summer cry;
And he thinks of those early days
When a mere boy he “tented corn,”
With his bird-clapper loudly crowing,
And saw the flowers at dawn of morn,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
From off the thief a moment strays,
While listening to that summer cry;
And he thinks of those early days
When a mere boy he “tented corn,”
With his bird-clapper loudly crowing,
And saw the flowers at dawn of morn,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
And that sound brings hope, also,
To the poor half-broken hearted:
Winter's cold, and frost, and snow
Have till another year departed.
So will all troubles have an end,
Beneath which they've too long been bowing;
A flower to them comes like a friend,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
To the poor half-broken hearted:
Winter's cold, and frost, and snow
Have till another year departed.
So will all troubles have an end,
Beneath which they've too long been bowing;
A flower to them comes like a friend,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
Dim visions of a little grave
To some that flower-cry doth bring;
Where all a mother's heart did crave
Lies cold beneath the buds of Spring.
And though tears fall like April rain,
Though there affection's bells are growing,
Tears never can bring back again
That dead white blossom “All-a-blowing.”
To some that flower-cry doth bring;
138
Lies cold beneath the buds of Spring.
And though tears fall like April rain,
Though there affection's bells are growing,
Tears never can bring back again
That dead white blossom “All-a-blowing.”
Nor Summer shine, nor Summer rain,
Nor murmur of the Summer bee,
Can ever soothe the aching pain,
Nor fill the void that's left by thee.
But in God's garden high above,
Where heavenly flowers are ever blowing,
Thou oft wilt feel that mother's love,
While to a heavenly angel growing.
Nor murmur of the Summer bee,
Can ever soothe the aching pain,
Nor fill the void that's left by thee.
But in God's garden high above,
Where heavenly flowers are ever blowing,
Thou oft wilt feel that mother's love,
While to a heavenly angel growing.
THE END
| Birds, Bees and Blossoms | |