The bard of the dales :: :: University of Virginia Library

See'st thou that massy gate thrown open wide,
And hung with fancy flowers on every side?
The trumpet sounds, see how the crowds advance,
In rich array, with music and the dance!

See yon exalted Lady wave her wand,
Who with Religion shakes a friendly hand!
All classes to the banquet she invites,
And her's she calls “the Banquet of Delights.”

In diamonds deck'd and such bewitching eyes,
That, struck with admiration and surprise,
All ages rush, and fondly some believe,
Such looks as her's, they never can deceive!

The multitude to her sweet voice incline,
Charm'd with her harp, or drunken with her wine;
To all she cries, “My door is open still,
Come in, come in, and eat and drink your fill!”

From Babel—she knows well how to behave,
To neither be too wanton or too grave;
She knows the passions nicely, where, and when,
To suit her magic to the tastes of men.

The stripling and the man of hoary hair,
And careless daughters, seek admittance there;
Anxious their loyal folly to express,
They cram her antechambers to excess.

See'st thou that lonely place across the way?
With rusty lock, shut up both night and day!
Jehovah's house is called a house of prayer,
But empty seats, and dusty books are there,

The way is broad, nor very strict their laws,
Yet not so easy, as some do suppose:
With flaming harness, and with foaming steed,
The armies rush, with more than chariot speed.

Her pleasure grounds encompass field and flood,
Exactly to the taste of flesh and blood;
Her bowling greens the finest art display,
Her pavement's throng'd, as much by night as day.

Her garden paintings, like fair Eden smiles,
With entertainment on the way for miles;
With pleasant walks and cheerful company,
And harmless games—If harmless games there be.

So soon as one performance disappear,
Another cries, “the biggest wonder's here!”
Then in they rush, where others have been slain,
And with new vigour cram the place again.

Sometimes their props give way and break their bones,
And dash their little ones against the stones;

Still on the tribes proceed, from bad to worse,
Through anguish, disappointment, and remorse.

See'st thou those horrid things upon the wall,
Which on the people let their venom fall?
Shook from their horrid beaks, the drops eat in,
By them or undiscovered or unseen.

Thus the deluded hosts are led along,
With new and novel scenery and song;
Until the way becomes (such is its fate,)
More crooked, barren, dark, and desolate.

Lest they should then upon the Saviour call,
Them frightful things which crept along the wall,
Watch them, until bewilder'd in the way,
Then Vulture-like, pounce down upon their prey.

From side to side they harass them about,
Break all their lamps, and put their candles out;
Till, on the borders of the great abyss,
They see the lightnings gleam, and hear the scorpions hiss.

At last, amidst the gloom of Hell's uproar,
They see the pit they could not see before,
Open its fiery jaws to take them in,
To bear the consequences of their sin.

Their frighted eyes flash tokens of despair,
They seek, alas! but find no Saviour there;
Until the ground gives way, and down they go,
To hopeless ruin, and eternal woe.

Dost thou not see, art wishful to be wise?
Then pray to God to ope thy drowsy eyes;

And he his council will to thee impart;
Then take this glass and read that Lady's heart.

Tho' she be fair, both in speech and skin,
Disease and vile corruption lurk within;
Whate'er her promise be to age or youth,
She hates all those who love and speak the truth.

Howe'er she may comply or condescend,
You'll find her more the Pilgrim's foe than friend;
She hires men, and keeps them under pay,
To bully those who seek the narrow way.

In spite of her, and her tumultuous crew,
With mountebank manners, there's a few
Who mark the fatal consequence of sin,
Who find the narrow way, and walk therein.

She keeps her bottled wines, and flowing bowls,
And bands of music to bewilder souls;
To drive all sober, serious thoughts away,
And lead those on to dance, who ought to pray.

But spite of her and hell, there is a few,
Who have by faith a better land in view,
Of more substantial joy, and true delight;
But their's is hid, and her's is all in sight.

Of different movement to the general mass,
Tho' hiss'd and scorn'd as through that crowd they pass;
Leaving her councils and assemblies dark,
With grace embolden'd, press toward the mark.

With tearful eyes, and often on their knees,
They war with powers and principalities;

For God hath said he will their foes destroy,
And “those who sow in tears shall reap in joy.”

See'st thou that gate, with shrub of evergreen,
So narrow that it scarcely can be seen?
'Tis there Jehovah hears and answers prayer,
And contrite sinners find protection there.

But few among the crowd that gate can see,
For puppet shows and painted scenery;
And fewer still the sacrifice will make,
Or leave that path the great assembly take.

But though the gate be straight, and entrance hard,
They soon begin to find a rich reward:—
Kind angels point to where the Saviour lay,
Then touch their harps, and whisper “come away.”

Through many a forest fair, and flowery mead,
From bower to bower their happy subjects lead;
And as they pass, in most melodious strain,
The glorious mystery of the Cross explain.

The way expands the further they proceed,
Their Guardians bid them to their steps take heed,
For round their path the sweetest odours rise,
And flower beds, such as bloom'd in Paradise.

They have their strong temptations after all,
And tribulations neither few nor small;
Where others fell, they fall, yet rise again,
And weeping, sing “the Lamb for sinners slain!”

The trees around a glorious aspect wear,
And happy tokens whisper in the ear;
Birds of celestial notes and golden wing,
Float on the air, and on the branches sing.

Their garments whiten as they pass along,
Redeeming mercy still their theme and song;
Until the rivers all along the way,
Stream with the light of everlasting day.

At length, the Mount of God appears in sight,
And fringe their garments round with lustre bright;
Fill their old hats, reflect the glorious rays,
And glitter with the splendour of the place.

Until the River's bank they gain at last,
As calm and clear as when John Bunyan pass'd;
Where safe conducted o'er, they enter in
Those realms of light, and “bid farewell to sin.”

Bewilder'd Vainhope wears a ghastly look,
He gets less trade since Bunyan wrote his book;
Which trade we hope Almighty God will check,
Till both him and his boat becomes a wreck!

Yes, Antichrist himself is doom'd to die,
For God himself the Church will purify;
Those Moons shall be eclipsed by His Son,
And Angels sing “The grand Millennium Year begun!”

FRYUP'S LAMENTATION

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT VENIS, WHO WAS FIFTY NINE YEARS A WESLEYAN.

Come, lovely meditation dear!
I long with thee to rove,
To leave this noise, and wander far,
Among the scenes I love.

Come, thou divine interpreter,
And mine instructer be,
Through woods, o'er moors and mountains,
To walk and talk with me!

Till seated on some eminence,
With pleasure I survey
The golden dye, the closing eye,
Of the departing day.

The silent hours of evening
Now usher on apace,
Yon silent moon begins to shine,
With brightness in her face!

The dews distil, the night-birds sing,
The air is calm and clear,
Methinks I hear the sound of grief
To whisper in my ear.

And as I listen to that voice,
It seems to speak to me,
A question now the silence breaks,
“What can the matter be?”

While round I gaze with wond'ring eyes,
The valley to explore,
Methinks in sighs yon grove replies,
“R. Venis is no more!”

Yes, Fryup, we have cause to fear,
Hath lost her heart's delight,
The fairest flower in all her bower
Is vanished from her sight.

Yet weep no more, thou lovely vale,
Grieve not, nor yet complain!

Break out and sing, for this thy loss
Is his eternal gain!

Great cause had we to bless that time,
When he to York was led;
Great cause have we to bless that day,
The stranger shook his head.

Had York's great Duke invited him
His dainties for to share;
Compared with what he then received,
It was but scanty fare.

How oft these unfrequented tracks,
His lonely feet have trod,
To get his spirit's strength renew'd,
And glorify his God.

For Fifty-nine long years, we're told,
His royal robes he wore;
And followed Christ through heat and cold,
And now he is no more!

On stormy day, or darkest night,
He'd o'er the mountain pass;
And hum and sing, till home he'd bring
His lantern and his Ass.

The means of grace were dear to him,
As prov'd in ages past;
The cause of God lay near his heart,
Unto the very last!

Then like a shock of corn full ripe,
He hung his graceful head,
When he, supported by our friends,
Was to the Chapel led.

He told us that on earth he thought
He had not long to dwell,
With trembling limbs, and falt'ring voice,
He bade us all farewell!

Farewell, thou royal Christian!
We mourn when we reflect
On such a shining pattern,
So worthy of respect.

Thy blessed Master's service here,
Thou never thought it hard,
So now with him in Paradise
Thou'rt reaping thy reward!

We think, while we by faith draw near,
And raise our feeble eyes,
We see him safe with Christ appear,
Above the starry skies!

With countenance divinely sweet,
And raiment white as snow;
He bids us all live near to God,
And good examples shew.

Fight on, says he, my brethren dear,
For Heaven will be your friend,
If you stand fast, the conquest soon
In victory shall end!

O seek the perfect love of God,
Nor rest until you find

The healing balm, the cheering word,
Which satisfies the mind!

Fight on! ye royal citizens,
Behold the starry crown!
Though many have deserted us,
Lay not your weapons down!

Tho' many have got wounded deep,
Give not the combat o'er,
There still is balm in Gilead,
Which can their health restore!

The serpent lifts his bruised head,
And all his powers employ,
Gasping, he coils with fiery rage,
And covets to destroy!

His agents fill'd with envy, strive
To pull our colours down;
But by and bye, we hope to see
His kingdom overthrown!

O may we 'quit ourselves like men,
Amid this din of war!
Oh! arm us Lord, with faith and prayer,
And then we need not fear.

But in the strength of grace divine,
And through redeeming love,
We here shall spoil our haughty foes,
And reign enthron'd above!

Ye lab'ring men, and starving poor,
Who now lament your loss,

Hear him though dead, yet speak to you,
And recommend the Cross.

The cross, the spear, and fountain, still
May efficacious prove,
To those who will instruction hear,
And yield to matchless love!

Ye half persuaded Christians! what shall we say to you?
Read Venis' life and pray to God, that you may live so too:—
Except you all be born again, in vain your homage rise,
For while you in your sins remain, you cannot gain the prize!

When he was smitten with conviction, and ended in conversion, to the spritual good of the future Inhabitants of Fryup, as he was the first Wesleyan.

The experience of Salvation by the cross.

TEA AMONG THE ROCKS.

WHITBY MISSIONARY PARTY IN ARNCLIFE WOOD ON THEIR WAY TO GLAZEDALE.

I saw them from a distance, and admir'd
When they alighted from the caravan,
When they into the winding wood retired
And with their clothes and luggage loaded Fan

Where roses bloom, and fade from year to year,
And Ivy twists around the maple stem,
And charms unseen, unheard by human ear
Yet sparkles in old natures diadem.

Stupendous rocks, with graceful foliage hung
Rugged and fierce, peeped from the omuntain brow,
And birds and bees among the branches sung
Midst flowers of variegated form and hue.

The breezes fann'd them, as they pass'd along
And distant thoughts of paradise convey'd,
Wild caverns mock'd, and listen'd for a song
Of praise to him, who their foundations laid.

That lovely troop, resembled more or less,
As through the wood the company expand,
The Tribes of Israel, in the wilderness,
While journeying towards the promis'd land.

While down among the rugged rocks below
Old Esk was roaring like a little sea,
Where trees of giant limbs romantic grow
Adds awful grandeur to the scenery.

From depths profound the rocky bulwarks rise
Like old Cathedrals for the woodland sprights,
Where crafty reynard hastens with his prize,
Where hawks by day, and owlets scream at nights.

There, ancient men, of information vast,
Strange sounds have heard, and fearful sights have seen,
As nightly by the hermit's lodge they past,
Who at the tavern's merriment had been!

Old Limber distant, shakes his hoary locks,
Where spirey larches shed a passage free,
Pointing to Heaven, where down among the rocks,
The congregation sat around their Tea!

The other side, old Snowdon Nab appears
When Rainbow splendour does the valley span,
Like some old Castle of a thousand years,
Which long has mock'd the puny arm of man!

So stands the “Rock of ages,” but more strong
Though Earth and Hell their battering rams apply;—
The pilgrims view it as they pass along,
And fear no ill, while that blest rock is nigh!

The Youth seem'd both delighted and amazed,
While they their Maker's wond'rous works adore,
And now it is they wonder as they gaze
That they do not more ardently adore!

Such footsteps seldom sounded in that glen;
Old Arncliff seldom saw so proud a day,
So worthy of recording with the pen;
The trees rejoiced in all their best array!

A Missionary army! all agreed
To send the Gospel sunshine over the sea,
To those dark spots where slaves are bound and bleed,
That they may taste its glorious liberty!

May Heaven bless both sower and their seed!
Tho' they at times go weeping on their way,
They shall return with Joy upon their head,
And bring their sheaves at “that great harvest day.”

Old Arncliff wears its generations out,
And new ones gaze and wonder as they pass
At these huge rocks, and trees of massy root,
Whose branches whisper soft, “all flesh is grass.”

The Preacher's mare.

THE MUSIC BAND

IS ALL THE GO—BUT IT IS A PLAUSIBLE AND SUCCESSFUL SNARE OF THE DEVIL—LET THOSE WHO CAN, PROVE IT OTHERWISE.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN DICK DOBSON AND DAVID MILLS.

Dick.—
The Band! the Band! come let's away,
Throw down your work, how can ye stay,
When such a noble host is seen
With instruments upon the green:—
How splendid when their work is done
All streaming in the evening sun!
In mine eye there is nought so grand,
As our young healthy Village Band.

David.—
Your eye is dim, and can't see far,
Or in that band you'd see a snare,
A snare by crafty Satan set,
Till he gets time to spread his net;—
Then he expects a mighty haul,
Of thoughtless mortals great and small,
Who hear, but do not understand,
The magic of the Music Band!

Dick.—
One thinks when e're they strike the drum
It says, ye lads and lasses—come,
Forget your grief, throw care away
And let us joyful close the day:—

It is not only—all allow—
Harmless, but honourable too,
A great improvement to our land,
Is our respected Village Band!

David.—
The harm in general proceeds
From that to which the object leads,
And bands in general are design'd
To lead to wickedness refined,—
To cherish passions unsubdued
Led on by reason unrenew'd;
In vain may wisdom lift the hand
Against the evils of the Band!

Dick.—
Music has in all ages been
Encouraged both by King and Queen,
And Scripture too in ancient days
Speaks very highly in its praise:—
By it the walls of Jericho fell,
It evil spirits could expell,
The hosts of Midian too expand
The merits of the Music Band!

David.—
The wall of Jericho fell, 'tis true,
But they were holy men that blew;
The harp which cheer'd the monarch's mind
Was one for sacred use designed;
The trump which spoil'd the Midian camps
Had broken pitchers too and lamps;—
Besides, they blew at God's command,
It was the Lord's, not Gideon's Band!

Dick.—
Those who against it raise reports,
And some who cannot sing be't notes,
And though they make so much to do
Sing merry tunes at meetings too:—

It makes young men genteel employ,
And makes the women jump for joy;
Its merits they do'nt understand
Who speak against the Music Band!

David.—
It makes, and's likely so to do,
Its adocates to Idols bow,
It helps to keep the reason blind
And drive conviction from the mind;—
But little time it doth afford
For prayer, the Bible, and for God!
Mark what I say, and understand
While it remains a Carnal Band!

Dick.—
It helps devotion there's no doubt,
Both when we're in the church and out;
You seem to think a man can't play
And at the same time watch and pray;—
Yes, we can pray as well as you,
And preach and walk as upright too;
And may be, shew as clean a hand
Though we support the Music Band!

David.—
Mind if our prayer be not sincere
We need not think that God will hear,
Yes, he may hear, but not approve
If we more dear the creature love:—
What'ere of shape that creature be,
That thing's our God, in its degree,
And must deliver from his hand
Who has the thunders at command!

Dick.—
On hills where ancient Druids sung
To cheer the heart of old and young,
Stands forth a host of music men
To rouse the slumbers of the glen:—

Where warrior's jaring shields have rung
And bold invaders ensigns hung,
Winds waft harmonious down the strand
The Echo of the Music Band!

David.—
On Calvary's ancient mountain hung
The man whose heart with grief was wrung,
Whose soul was with our sorrows rent
That we might not in Hell lament:—
The man who takes not up his cross,
And follows him, must suffer loss;
And if I rightly understand
Must shun the Carnal Music Band!

Dick.—
All those whose sanction it wo'nt meet,
They've all thick heads and clumsy feet,
They've neither genius under't wig
To sing be't notes, nor dance a gig:—
What crotchets, minums, or sixteens,
Or what a semiquaver means,
They neither know, nor understand,
And so they rail against the Band!

David.—
My friend I fear is getting rude,
It may be best for to conclude,
And cease our present argument
As both appear on vict'ry bent:—
All I've to say is this,—Beware
Lest you be taken in the snare,
You may have cause to curse the hand
That took your name into the Band!

Dick.—
Dull melancholly I despise,
We may be merry still, and wise,

No warrior to her voice will yield
But carries music to the field:—
Old nature too has formed in me
The organ strong for melody,
And I'll defend through sea and land
The merits of the Music Band!

David.—
Should sickness seize you unto death,
Or Typhus-fever stop your breath,
Before to morrow morning bright
You'd see things in another light:—
Perhaps you'd then in earnest pray
For Christ to take your sins away,
Or may be, you would lift the hand
And call to help, your Music Band!

Dick.—
Why bid a man thus quake for fear,
Shake hands with death, before he's here?
Before he bids us cease to live
He mostly does some warning give,
That we his victims may prepare;
To call us sudden is not fair;—
Or should we fall beneath his hand
Some still would back the Music Band!

David.—
There are of those who vainly say
To morrow shall be as to day,
And more abundant you will see—
“Let's eat and drink, and merry be:”—
The shafts of death fly thick around,
Each church yard with new graves abound,
No better than a rope of sand
To death-beds is the Music Band.

Dick.—
Solomon was wise, you'll all agree,
And sure as he did, so may we;
He ate and drank, was merry too,
And gives us licence so to do;—
He tells us when our work is done
There's nothing better under't sun,
Than men with merry heart and hand
To tickle up the Music Band!

David.—
Yes, Solomon as a star shone bright
While God's commands were his delight,
But he was taken in the snare,
And that his latter days declare;—
His music and attendance gay
From God did draw his heart away,
He lost the ring from off his hand
By mixing with the Heathen Band!

Dick.—
There's time for all things, Scripture's say,
To gather, or to cast away,
To plant, pluck up, to smile, or frown,
To build a house, or pull it down;—
To lose, or gain, when there's a chance
A time to sing, and a time to dance,
Such, if I rightly understand
Gives licence to the Music Band!

David.—
A portion of that time is lent
For wicked sinners to repent,
To pray, and search the sacred word,
To get new hearts and live to God:—
How will they look? what will they say?
Who squander that good time away,
When they at his tribunal stand,
Whose Law condemns the Music Band!

I know of no other.

Poor Dick is touched at heart, but see how he drives it off.

If we did not.

Of his espousal.

ON A MEETING OF REVIVALISTS NEAR STAITHES.

How sweet was the sound from the top of yon mountain,
Which wafted its fragrance across the broad sea!
Or stole by the breeze up the vale to the fountain,
And pierced the ear with its sweet melody!

How much it doth Zion's fair mountains resemble,
Where Israel sung, and their altars did blaze—
Where sucklings and babes in a concert assemble,
By which the great King is perfecting his praise.

How worthy the theme is of such elevation,
Which mightily does the bystanders confound;
They sing of the Rock, and the wells of Salvation,
While streets long profaned, in chorus resound.

From Cowber's bright summit that song is aspiring,
Jehovah himself now appears to approve;
To fan the dim spark in the cottage expiring,
Or melt the fierce flame of distraction to love.

Sing on in the spirit, ye tribes of the mountain,
Feed on the rich manna that comes from his Word;
Of pleasure ere long ye shall drink of the Fountain,
And sing without sighs on the mount of the Lord!

AUTUMNAL REFLECTIONS.

On our sycamore tree the yellow leaf trembled,
Its kindred so rapid were taking their wing,
On the roof of the dwelling the Swallows assembled,
And sung their adieu to the beauties of Spring!

The neighbouring tiles seem'd black with their numbers,
So early and cheerful redeeming their time,
For 'ere half the Village had woke from their slumbers,
They'd taken their flight to a happier clime.

The stubbles the swine were so eagerly gleaning,
Each half naked forest its lectures did pour;
The Stock Dove was down in the valley complaining;
The Turf, and the Peat too, were swept off the moor.

The ships had returned from their distant adventure,
And were cheerfully discharging the spoils of the Sea;
The Squirrel had laid up his store for the winter,
And left the bare world to the prodigal—free.

Pack'd up in the north, the storm seem'd to linger,
The diligent man's seed appointment to suit;
The boys to their warm breath applied the cold finger,
While striving to gather the last Summer Fruit.

THE RESCUED LAMB.

One fine serene May evening I wander'd up the dale,
The Sun and showers the day before had brighten'd up the vale,
The trees were spreading out their leaves, the Cuckoo she did sing;
And smaller birds of other kinds did make the vallies sing.

In a deep sounding water glen, in hermit-like recess,
I heard a little mountain lamb in wailings of distress,
It seems the little traveller on mountain side so steep,
Had been following its mother, and roll'd into the deep.

It was on a narrow island where the little trembler stood,
And fate, to use him harder still, had dipt him in the flood;
Though grass and flowers around him glowed, all succour was denied,
And to escape there was no chance for rocks on either side.

His peril too was evident, for sure the floods were nigh,
And he long had sought for pity, by the water in his eye;

With fearful and with trembling voice he pour'd his wailing forth,
Such a case deserved pity, if pity was on earth.

That case was sure a rare case, and worthy of record,
It was Innocence lamenting, and Innocence restor'd;
The mother as she pastured high among the rising furze,
Seemed to cast into the deep her eye, and say, that lamb was her's.

Then downward I descended the mountain side so steep,
And caught the little trembler, and rais'd him from the deep;
The mother muttered pleasure when she heard his mournful tale,
Whom she suckled on his knees, and for joy he wagged his tail!

We expose ourselves to danger when we wander from our guide,
Like the little mountain lamb on the rugged mountain side;
In sin's alluring pleasure we may lay us down to sleep,
And wake up in the morning 'midst the horrors of the deep.

If not prevented by timely repentance.

100

SPRING.

The morning was glorious, the lark in the sky,
Her notes with believers was lifted on high,
The storm had abated, the air was serene,
The fields look'd forth lovely in garments of green!

Earth's surface had just been refresh'd by the rain,
The sun threw his splendour on mountain and plain;
On the blades and the branches, the pearly drops hung,
And each little planting with melody rung!

'Twas a morning in April, and all things look'd gay,
The lambs they were bouncing in gambol and play,
The industrious and healthy were at their employ,
Each glen appeared full of extravagant joy.

The old river's bank, still its privilege own'd,
And that wisdom which mingled the scent and the sound,
Where Nature her beauties profusely bestow'd,
Where richly untrampled the primroses glow'd!

All tribes but the human, indeed, and in truth,
Appear'd to resemble the springs of our youth,
When real virgin beauty, by woodland and stream,
Have charmed our winter's away like a dream!

101

Then work was more plenteous, and labourers few,
Then lies were less common, and friends were more true;
There was less inclination our pleasures to gall,
Our tricks less corrupted, our numbers but small.

To launch into debt then was thought a disgrace;
Bad words heard but seldom, and cronies were scarce,
To muster for sinful pursuits on the plain,
The bless'd, the bright Sabbath-day to profane!

Comparing our rambles in mountain or glen,
With practices now they were innocent then,
There were fewer the villager's peace to annoy,
The blossoms to blemish, or fruit to destroy!

The Farmers around to our parents were kind,
Because there were fewer to mischief inclined,—
There were fewer to break the young trees in the wood,
Or gather the sticks that were left by the flood.

The privileg'd rights and claims of the poor,
The wicked and idle destroy or devour,—
Through their increase of number, and conduct of late,
Where the passage was free, there's a lock at the gate!

Still nevertheless the old river runs free,
The ivy still clings to the ash, or oak tree,—
The cuckoo again to the groves doth repair,
And mingles her first mellow notes in the air.

102

The green blades have cut through the leaves of last year,
Which, all dry and withered, must soon disappear;—
To lift our best thoughts to the region's of bliss,
Of beauty and pleasure, more lasting than this!

The birds seemed in haste on the branch or the wing,
To teach us a lesson and learn us to sing,—
As though they'd agreed in the thicket to meet,
And rival each other in melody sweet!

The hills were all bright, and the rocks had a voice,
With the sweetest of notes, and the purest of joys;
The earth appeared paradis'd, passing along,
Except three women singing a brutaliz'd song.

With limbs strong and healthy, in frolicsome play,
They thus were caressing the toils of the day,—
To gather the whittens, or stones off the field,
Regardless what kind of a crop it might yield.

Each face at a modest reproof seemed to grin,
Looked wickedly wanton, and harden'd in sin,—
Which seem'd all at once to extinguish the fire,
To stagger my muse, and to bid her retire.

103

A FAREWELL.

From a land full of friends where he covets to stay
Poor tost-about Castillo's forc'd far away,
Into regions beyond, where his lot may be cast,
So he leaves this small tribute, which may be his last.

How happy is he who has work to abide,
With his child on his knee, by his own fireside!
Where he's cheer'd with the council and charms of a wife,
To lessen or share in the troubles of life.

'Tis but few who the ills of the traveller knows,
While to rivers and hills relating his woes;
Far away from his friends, and out of employ,
With no one to share in his trouble or joy.

While he sees some for wickedness highly extoll'd,
He is sharing the frowns of a hard hearted world;
Receives for his good deeds a sad recompence,
A stranger, a Lodger, and all on expense!

Yet there's one, who if he will his follies control,
Will preserve both the health of his body and soul;
To the married or single, the husband or wife,
Religion can sweeten the bitters of life!

106

In the heart that's sincere may be formed a Temple,
Which, if kept in repair will all other's excel,—
With the truly converted, the sober, and humble,
Jehovah himself has promis'd there to dwell!

Tho' the roof or the wall time or storms may have shatter'd,
Or levell'd till scarcely a vestige remain,—
Yes; tho' Churches may fall, and the flock may be scatter'd,
The sheep will ere long be collected again!

HINTS TO PREACHERS.

A farmer who fancied he well understood,
How to manage his work, when the season was good,
He strew'd on his grain, neither wasteful nor thin,
But neglected just then for to harrow it in:

His servants were after that business to see,
But servants, alas! were as careless as he;—
While them and their horses did slumber and feed,
The birds came by hundreds and pick'd up the seed.

I tremble for Preachers on 't reckoning day,
Who give them their Sermons and send them away;
When they see the great Word is dividing between,
They should try to get at them, and know what they mean!

107

Though some with such liberties might be offended,
There's others, no doubt, would be highly befriended;
The flesh is so subject to cleave to the dust,
There's but few that are fit with that treasure to trust.

Or if they'r fatigued through the toil of the day,
To give us their sanction will go a long way;
To just start our meeting is all we desire,
And set us a working, then they may retire.

On our feeble efforts and council they'll trample,
If Preacher's won't linger and set the example:
From gentleman dishes, so rich, and so rare,
It's not likely they'll stoop to our humble fare.

Dark death's and hard hearers would soon be more rare,
If sermons were shorter and mixed up with prayer:
For sinners in general, whose claims are compelling,
Know what they'r in need of, without so much telling!

108

SHE WEPT, BUT WE KNEW NOT THE CAUSE OF HER GRIEF.

SHORT LIVED BEAUTY.

She wept, but she told not the cause of her grief,
As she wander'd alone to the well;
And where she might go for substantial relief,
There was none in that house for to tell.

Her friends, they were strictly moral and kind,
But their spiritual eye was dim;
Yet their goodness but seldom reached, we find,
Beyond those that were kind to them.

To a neighbouring Church thy had gone for years,
To all other means were averse;
Unaccustom'd to the flood of repentant tears
They appeared neither better nor worse.

In that path to the well she so blythe and gay,
Oft by the passers by was seen;
As a path to the village along side lay,
And a clipp'd thorn hedge between.

She was noticed oft, as to woman she grew,
While the village she walked alone;
Where country breezes so healthy blew,
For the charms that around her shone.

109

Her eye was serene as the stars of the night,
Her form neither high nor low;
Her cheeks with the tints of health shone bright,
And her bosom was like the snow.

No needless robe her fancy prefers,
No rings nor gems adorn;
For those who possess a form like hers,
May such needless objects scorn.

That form was the image of woman complete,
So industrious her design;
Where she oft was singing with a voice so sweet,
Some part of a theme divine!

From the back door to young men she often spake,
While scouring the dish or can;
But her young free heart was not well awake,
To the wicked designs of man!

One look'd on her with unhallow'd desire,
And a snare for her soul he laid;
Her charms in his bosom had kindled a fire,
While he those charms survey'd.

To tell her just then he said he had not the power,
What the beatings of his heart did mean,
But he'd tell her if she'd meet him at a certain hour,
At Nancy's across the green.

He whisper'd in her ear false flattering words,
Which she too fondly believ'd;
But he kept conceal'd those dark records,
Of the numbers he had deceiv'd.

110

To a neighbouring party she asked to go,
Where the youth so genteelly behav'd;
Quite unsuspicious of her darling foe,
She yielded up the gem he crav'd

That time when she knelt by her mother's death bed,
She, alas! recollected not,—
The promises she made, and tears that were shed,
At that gay hour were forgot.

From that time her lustre began for to fade,
Henceforth she is seldom seen;
With foot so light, and heart void of care,
Tripping lively over the green!

She sought for redress but none received,
Though many did pity her case;
Her harp was broke, her melody ceas'd,
And a cloud hung over that place.

Five moons had scarce their influence shed,
When the cause of her grief was seen;
As slowly she pac'd (but the youth was fled,)
To Nancy's across the green.

She was missing until late one afternoon,
The can was found at the well;
Inquiry ran from town to town,
But of seeing her none could tell.

In one thousand eight hundred and thirty-three,
In the autumn of that year;
The inquest was held and verdict will be,
Found drown'd in the great river Wear.

111

LINES

IN REMEMBRANCE OF A GENTLEMAN WHO WAS FOUND SHOT IN HIS FIELD IN COMMONDALE.

The fatal news, tho' quick, too late arrived,
To mend the matter, or to heal the wound;
Life's lamp was out, the fatal deed was done,
The Spirit then had gained its destin'd place!
So situated, whether high or deep,
Beyond the reach of mortals to control,—
Made wise to know the secrets immortal—
Had left its shattered shell to cool and stiffen.
The tempest rose to an uncommon height,
And furious winds, and constant, nightly howled,
As tho' they knew—and wishful to make known
Unto the slumbering neighbourhood—his fate
Whose clay-cold limbs lay travers'd with the moon.
Oh Fate! sad Fate! hadst thou but only left
One inch of life, to give us satisfaction;
Just to inform his friends, and check reports;—
But this request, though small, was not allowed.
O say, ye powers! for ye alone can tell,
Who on that solemn scene did wait attendant?
O say, what was the cause—accounts so vary,—
What was the cause of his untimely exit?
Alas! the answer must be hid from mortals.—
Oh, was it accidental, or deliberate?
Was it some careless step, or mental agony?
To see his blasted hopes,—strange hopes indeed

112

Which tempted him to leave old Danby dale,
To wander amidst the solitary field—
To mark the barren soil, and stain with blood
The worthless bank, unworthy of his feet;
From whose bright eye meek friendship beam'd,
And from whose lips dropped cheerful salutation
Whene'er he met a friend or an acquaintance!
Which while they do, and may lament their loss,
It throws a mantled fragrance round his memory.
Oh! didst thou start at that dense cloud,
Which o'er thy habitation seem'd to linger;—
Perhaps the next, when that was blown away,
Hadst thou but waited, might have brought deliverance!
But thou art gone, shadow and substance,
To know the secrets of the distant worlds.
O if thou hadst but faith in thy Redeemer—but why?
If so—nay I must say no more—'tis done;
And thou hast bid this vale of tears adieu,
And left thy friends to weep—let foes conjecture!

ADDRESS TO THE MOB IN A REVIVAL.

What ail ye! what ail ye! ye friends of awd Herry?
Why make us the butt of your envy and scorn?
Why not to the ale-house, and drink and be merry,
And keep away from us, and let us alone!

Why is it? why is it? ye thus are provoked
To see men and women thus weeping for sin?
Or raging with passion, until almost choked,
Because to the old serpent you're so near akin!

113

You are grieved! you are grieved! to see such destruction;
Your kingdom is falling—and surely must fall;—
Hell moveth its agents to give you instruction—
To bury you living, and carry the pall;

Come forward! come forward! we bid you defiance!
Then blow up your fires, and put on more steam;
On the arm of Omnipotence we have reliance,
Whose sabbaths ye break, and whose name ye blaspheme!

To battle! to battle! then call up your legions,
'Tis long since the seed of the woman was born;
His name is a terror through all your dark regions,
And this is the cause of your envy and scorn!

Ye know it! ye know it! there's something among us,
Would do you some good, if ye could but obtain;
And ye have a Conscience that makes you uneasy;
Because you have heard of The Lamb that was slain!

114

THE WEDDING.

BANDS OF MUSIC—SINGING—DANCING—AND DRINKING.

DAY AFTER THE WEDDING.

Gone is the din of yesterday
Among the years that's roll'd away;
Left many an empty aching void;
Immortal souls unsatisfied..

Discordant families sit down,
To half a breakfast, with a frown;
And drinking men who won't refrain,
Go grumbling to their work again.

Others are reeling in the street,
In hopes some cronies there to meet;
Who might have found one shilling more,
He had not spent the night before.

The drum hath ceased and trumpet loud,
Which so bewitch'd the gaping crowd;
That slaves forgot their destiny,
And limping cripples crawl'd to see!

Will Waver lost his Total-wedge,
Rush'd inte't crowd and broke his pledge;
And while to 't rest he whop'd and hollow'd,
Great numbers his example follow'd.

115

Tee-totallers will not long stand,
Who disregard the great command;
That they may faithful keep their word,—
They want the saving Grace of God!

The drum and trumpet sounded high,
Inviting every passer by,
Of merry heart to come that way,
And join in their great festive day!

While women out of 't streets and lanes,
Had rush'd, and left their crying bairns;
Auld folks inside, against ther will,
Could hardly keep their crutches still.

While such the streets were agitating,
The lesser tribes were imitating;
With young manuœuvres, hips, and shouts,
With penny trumpets, sticks, and clouts!

Through such a crowd, with edge so keen,
The coffin'd dead could pass unseen;
Tho' scarce a passage could be clear'd;
Or scarce the tolling bell be heard!

Gone, is the din of yesterday,
And wither'd as the flowers of May,
That blush'd around the shepherd's tents,
But not so gone that day's events.

Think not that those will 'scape the eye,
Or scrutiny of the most High!
By whom all secrets are descried;
All thoughts are known and actions weigh'd!

The people seek by mirth and song,
Substantial joy from sources wrong;

116

'Tis well their fate is yet no worse,
Than disappointment and remorse!

We wonder why such wisdom great,
Have not found out the world's a cheat;
We wonder how those trades can live,
Who promise more than they can give!

The Devil now must do his might,
And Bands of Music suits him quite;
To lead the people off to drink,
And hardly give them time to think.

It is the tavern's engine rare,
To drive off what they call, “dull care;”
To make their frindships more complete,
Or box them out to't open street.

Over bumpers full they roar and sing,
And helps awd Death to sharp his sting;
With women dancing up the stairs,
To wicked tunes and wanton airs.

When such proceedings after ten,
Disturb the rest of sober men;
No wonder that we daily see,
Such symptoms of calamity!

No wonder they thus stain'd with crime,
Should live in such a cloudy clime;
Nor need we ask the reason why,
They without consolation die!

Gone, is the din of yesterday,
Like that balloon they sent away;
Gone with trump or bugle's blast,
To higher regions to be pass'd.

At night.

117

THE DROWNED ASSES COLT.

Poor little donkey, thy travels are o'er,
Thy day's work is done, and thy feet are not sore!
Thou hast gotten away, from those ills that attend,
Such a life as thy kindred comrades spend.

By thy master's rash hand, thou hast now gotten clear,
Of whippings, and kickings, and burdens severe;
The gripings of hunger no more thou shalt share,
When hay stacks are little, and commons are bare.

How little thou thought, by the edge of the stream,
When trotting along by the side of thy dam;
Up to the deep waters,—thy trouble and ease,
Thy pleasures and sorrows, so early would cease!

The fish in their pastime were startled, and fled,
When thou to the brink of destruction wast led:
Thy master apparently thought it no sin,
To take the advantage and tumble thee in.

There, plunging in vain, thou endeavoured to creep
Up the edge, but fell back again into the deep;
Then patiently sunk, when thy strength it was gone,
Nor reproved thy master for what he had done.

On the cold river's bank, thou hast taken thy rest,
Before the rude bag thy sore back had opprest;
All the whips and the cudgels that are under the sun,
No more can awake thee, or cause thee to run!

118

MERRY CHRISTMAS AS KEPT IN ENGLAND.

It was Christmas time, the bells they did chime,
And the lads had come over the ferry;
The ships had returned, and the yule candles burn'd,
And the township was awfully merry.

The billiards and cards, caroused up the yards,
And the bottle went round as a token;
The lazy and lame put their hands to the game,
That the old customs might not be broken.

By leap-year unstall'd, the maidens so call'd,
Could scarcely shew prudent behaviour;
Their music and wine, put them out of the line;
But you heard not a word of the Saviour.

Though husbands and wives, of dissolute lives,
Unalter'd, still fed on his bounty;
And harlot and whore had been weeks before
Singing of his birth through the country.

Their words were all joke, “smooth as oil when they spoke,
And the drop of their lips was like honey;”
With men as they past, they made the joke last,
And then had a spree with the money.

119

Though they swear black is white, and thieve in the night,
The moon in her majesty shining;
Yet be it observed, such creatures are served,
When the poor and the aged are pining.

With hearts full of guile, and music in style,
They laugh at the Methodist see-saw;
To the ball, play, or dance, the armies advance,
As the multitude wish it to be so;

The clubs of each place, such an uproar did raise,
As to put into newspaper record
Their separate shines, bands, motto's, and signs,
It appear'd like an harmonious discord.

Such numbers came out as no preacher could rout,
Though the hour had been mention'd precisely;
To a subject more dear they will turn a deaf ear,
Though the charmer charm never so wisely!

The youth of life's stage, and wither'd old age,
Rushed out, and all said they look'd pretty;
While in numbers so strong, they were sweeping along,
As the pride and the swell of the city.

It is theirs for to boast, and pass round the toast,
For they get the great congregation;
By public regard, as a present reward,
They found what they sought—Admiration.

120

While passing along, by that dignified throng,
There was one thing which caught my attention;
The matter expressed, as a sample of the rest,
As I heard, I beg leave for to mention.

A member told me, with a countenance free,
Of their Sermon, procession, and dinner;—
So without much research, I have got the grand march,
Of the Parson, the Saint, and the Sinner.

Though from different parts, and though different hearts,
Or motives, might bring them together;
To church they repair, to show off all fair,
With music conducting them thither.

The Parson then took his pulpit and book,
And held up his Christmas taper;
Their cause to sustain, and his Sovereign to gain,
He soon read them over his paper.

There's different trades, and different grades,
And each has their different notion;
But compared as we're told with christians of old,
It's a comical kind of devotion.

With banners and horns, big drum and trombones,
As soon as the business subsided;
From church they repair to the hounds and the hare,
Where they had a grand dinner provided.

121

By signs of applause, the parson was chose,
As being most fit and well able
O'er the rest to preside, and their portion divide,
He was seated at the head of the table.

They were all eye and ear, some sentence to hear,
Which to sanctity had some allusion;
But no such childish whim was sanction'd by him.
It appear'd rather more a delusion.

As commander in chief, he slash'd into the beef,
And then like an hungry hunter;
Left each by his delf, to say grace for himself,
Or else fall to work like a grunter.

So with swagger and swell, at the sound of the bell,
A sample they got of good living;
As the best mode to go to the table and fro,
Without either grace or thanksgiving.

Moreover than this, as tho' nought were amiss,
Each turn'd to his pipe and his portion;
The parson 'ere long, roared out for a song,
And put the old engine in motion.

But there was one or two, who knew better than bow
To Bacchus, or sign their approval;
By higher command, took their hats in their hand,
And homeward made speedy removal.

While thus we look round, where such numbers are found,
To Heaven and Holiness idle,

122

Let us not contend, but consider their end,
And so to our knees and our Bible.

God's mercies adore, and wonder no more,
Why so many the gospel do trample;
Do hate good advice, and wallow in vice,
With such like superior example.

The Heathen would stare, if they heard of it there,
Of the blessings that we are abusing;—
Yes, a New Zealand chief would be hard of belief,
Of our Christian Christmas carousing.

The town's Inhabitants.

A slang word for singing Hymns and extempore prayer.

Of one of the Clubs.

Of human learning.

Of what he liked to drink.

CHANGES AND FIXTURES.

How seldom we think, as time whirls us about,
How soon this short life will be done!
Tho' the sand in the glass, is so fast running out,
Still after our follies we run:—
How oft has the dress
Of the party or ball,—
Been exchang'd for the mourning
Hood, cloak, or the shawl!
The Wear, and the Ganders keep rolling on still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.

123

'Tis thus generations are passing away
As the fruit of the field or the tree
Does irregular drop, the place is fill'd up
And oft strange alterations we see:—
How soon the sweet ointment
Of pleasure is lost—
When dark disappointment
Returns us the cost!
The Tees and the Tyne keep rolling on still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.

But those short and those shadowy glories of life,
A soul for intelligence born
Will see, and will shun, the inglorious strife,
Choosing rather to wander alone:—
She the concourse refuses
And tries for to sing,
The haunts of the muses
Or lovers in spring:—
The Dee and the Derwent keep rolling on still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.

After gaining her wish, as she wanders the grove
In her dull recreation she glories,
To mark out the track of the serpent and dove,
And to bundle up life's little stories:—
If we could but discern
Her voice when she calls
There's wisdom to learn
From the insect that crawls:—
The Shannon and Liffy keep rolling on still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.

Being absent awhile, should we visit the place,
Of our friends and associates dear,

124

While the flowery paths of our childhood we trace,
Scarce a vestige remains as it were:—
What births and what deaths,
What marriages too;
One would think that the
Earth was peopled anew:—
The mountains and rocks keep their neighbourhood still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.

When we view that dear spot where in youth we have met,
To each other so kind and true-hearted;
The place is there, but the birds they have flit,
And some we lov'd dear have departed!—
While dullness of trade
Has drove many a bright fellow,
To seek for a shade
O'er the western billow:—
The moon and the stars keep their residence still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.

We see some who have sail'd in life's golden gales,
For fear that their pilot should lose them;
If a contrary wind should just ruffle their sails,
Lest old poverty's storm should expose them:—
Being of higher blood and prouder,
With hemp, or poison, steel, or powder,
They slip off sharp across the river,
And some will say they finish'd clever:—
The ocean keeps ebbing and flowing on still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.

The toil-worn out peasant, so sober and gray,
Whose life hath been squar'd with decorum;

125

With pleasure he feels himself wasting away,
Having Hope lighted up in the store-room:—
From the giddy and gay
He can bravely depart,
Without one to lay
His absence to heart:
Beneath his old vine his cottage stands still,
While the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.

So, a man of sound and vigorous mind,
Who answers the end he was meant for;
He wishes not here to be always confin'd,
Nor yet go before he is sent for:—
Still the Father, the mother,
The daughter, and son,
Dies off, and the whole
Generation is gone:—
The winter and summer keep rolling on still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.

When we view by the light of yon fiery sky,
The abbey dissolv'd, and the rivers all dry—
When the rocks and the mountains removing we see,
Where then is the strong hold to which we may flee?
When the sea by strange flames
Shall shrink from the shore,
And Gabriel proclaims,
“Time shall be no more:”—
The conscience that's guilty with horror shall fill,
But true Christian Hope stands immovable still!

Hope, the fruit of saving Faith in Jesus, springing out of a heart regenerate by grace.

126

TO THE MEMORY OF ------

If I had been as bold as he,
I might have wrote down Dr. Slee.

Here lies a man, who long has tried,
With mixtures, pills, and powders,
To prolong breath and ward of death—
Both from himself and others.

Some said, he much increased his wealth,
With harsh and hard proceeding;
Though many he restored to health,
With blistering and bleeding.

But Death, with his old fashion'd dart,
He came one Sunday morning,
And touch'd a tainted tender part,
And laid the Doctor groaning.

Not all the medicine he possessed,
Could heal what then was broke;
And thus the Doctor found at last
That dying was—no joke.

127

THE RACE COURSE IN RUINS.

THOUGHTS GATHERED ON THE SPOT.

Near forty years have wing'd their flight
Since here we met with fond delight,
When days were fine and health shone bright
To see the race,—
And fondly fancied all was right
And no disgrace!

All ages from the country round
Were in that living circle found,
As soon as they had heard the sound
Sea fane te see,—
The stalls of spice spread on the ground
And hev a spree!

Awd memmy on her profits bent
Her barrels and her bottles sent,
And lusty men their service lent
An maidens fair,—
To fix her stakes and pitch her tent
Or waiters there.

Seane manners vulgar an refined
Was in one humble jumble join'd,
And some who seem'd as brothers kind
Before t'was night,—
Was with her old Jamaica lined
And stript to fight!

128

The winding post was raised up
The guineas in the purse were put,
The race was both for horse and foot
Sea proud that day,—
We sean beheld the champions strut
And clear their way!

I saw for one, and saw well pleas'd
The tumult and the crowd increased,
While each the eager moment seiz'd
To have their fill,—
And few were with the question teased,
“Wast good or ill!”

The men gave us to drink their yall
They said twould make our hair to curl,
And help us fortune's wheel to whirl
And win the prize,—
But since, we found they one and all
Had told us lies!

Old men were there, we nuts and spice
And women fierce we box and dice,
And other games of higher price
T'was all their cry,—
Come lads an lasses dont be nice
Come toss or buy!

Fra' Runswick they had come, and Steers
We apples orranges and pears,
We crabs and lobsters in their geers
Fresh aut et seas,—
And buyers buz'd about ther ears
Like swarms of bees!

129

The swains were trim'd up in their best
The maidens some in white were drest,
We silken sashes round the waste
Sea mighty fine,
That some were led beyond the test
Of prudence line!

Here gold leaced hats and silver cups
Have glitter'd on the long pole tops,
Which served for winding stops, and props
To hod up't riggin,—
While underneath, their smooky props
The boys were swiggin.

Here has the Jockey crack'd his whip
Call'd for his grog, and geen em 't slip,
Just teane em in as nice as nip
By slight of hand,—
Then call'd his steed a base awd rip
At waddent stand.

Awd memmy with her R---'s and G---'s
Appeared as queen amang the bees,
Yet had to mind her q---'s and p---'s
To keep all right,—
To call the youngsters by degrees
To 't dance at night.

While tipsy looers went off link'd;
In her pouch the money chink'd;
She to her trusty servand wink'd
Sea full of glee,—
Then on the modest maiden blink'd
We't to'ther ee.

130

Proud sat she on her little hill
The bumper or the glass to fill,
And put the youngsters through the drill
Of dice or card,—
Her fine form'd limbs have lang laid still
E yon church yard!

Her coffin tire has gone to rust
That living form has turn'd to dust;
So if the world bide we soon must
All lie beneath,—
And wait our final sentence just
Of life or death!

But few from such a place or state
Would like to share poor H---son's fate,
Or have their down-fall thus to date
Among the dead,—
Before he reach'd his pasture gate
His spirit fled!

That crowd, alas! where are they now?
Some like the grass have had to bow,
The scythe of death has laid them low
They've had their day,—
Others who have escap'd his blow
Are growing gray.

Here solitude and silence reign,
The ling grows lang upon the plain,
Then scamper'd by the nymphs and swain
The sports to see,—
A forlorn sandy heap remains
Where 't use to be!

131

All ages, sexes, high and low
That crowd has melted off like snow,
And some alas! for awght we know
At then stood viewin,—
Fra sike things—in eternal woe
May trace ther ruin!

Some few have made attempts of late
The former days to immitate,
And raise thersels to higher state
We worldly ointment,—
But better light has mark'd thier fate
We disappointment.

Those few remarks do show us clear
The quick decay of all things here,
And speak loud words in every ear
Of meaning vast,—
Such only as obtain God's fear
Their joys shall last!

Here may we learn a lesson great,
The wise and good to immitate,
By others folly shun their fate
And count the cost,—
Lest we repent when its too late
And all is lost!

For Jesus! offers now his grace
To all our wretched human race,
To better their depraved case
And live to him,—
To brighten up each gloomy face
And vision dim!

132

His spirit will his light afford
To show the majesty of God,
And path by all his servants trod,
And mercy free,—
To all who search his blessed word
And wish to see!

Who turn their feet into his ways,
The willing subjects of his grace,
When they have run their christian race
With him shall be,—
Secure within his holy place
His glory see!

He calls his weary wanderers home
And censures those who will not come,
And threatens with a fearful doom
All who rebel,—
That such must feel the wrath to come
And fire of Hell!

May we forsake our wicked deeds
And melt while still his merely pleads!
Give up all false and formal creeds
His word condemns,—
Be found, when on his fiery-steed—
Among his gems!

Fear of the Lord tendeth to life. —Sol.

He comes.

133

THE MARTYRS.

OR REFLECTIONS AFTER READING A BOOK CALLED “THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY.”

Christian! for one moment pause and see,

The privilege so dearly bought for thee!

Hear the friends of martyrs wailing,
Earth itself appears to shake!
Whom the sinew'd arm is trailing,
Bound unto the fiery stake.

Gleaming spears around them shining,
Bearded savages look on:
Others deep in dungeons pining,
Till their strength and life is gone!

Up to heaven their eyes are fixed,
Where their prayers and tears ascend,
With a Saviour's merits mixed,
Christ alone is now their friend!

Do but mark the strange confusion,
See the morning stars lament!
Man is sunk in such delusion,
Sin has gone to such extent!

Furies rais'd by false opinions,
Lift the smoke and fan the flame,
Darken more those dark dominions,—
Brand them with eternal shame.

134

Holy men and book's rejected,
Few their message dare receive;
Purest modes of faith detected,
Scarce allow'd on earth to live.

Persecution's insurrection,
Hunts them out, where'er they be,
Glories in their swift destruction
Sanction'd by a queen's decree.

Hear the false accuser boasting,
Void of pity, void of grace,
While the christian victim's roasting,
Mocks his maker to his face.

See the heated spirit rising,
Perfect god, for to adore,
Midnight mobs, no more surprising,
These the flame can scorch no more!

Hovering spirits, torches lighting,
Quick as meteors to convey,
That which they are proudly slighting,
To the nations, far away.

Now they think the conquest's gain'd,
Spread their ashes on the hill,
And the pile with horror stain'd,
The cold moon shines and dews distil.

While we read their mournful story,
They adore their mighty king;
While they bask in beams of glory,
We their glorious victories sing!

135

HOPE AND FEAR AS EXERCISING THE BELIEVER.

The few that were left had lamented long
The barrenness of the ground,
Where a chapel with great care had erected been
For hundreds of neighbours round,
Who would not come, though many of them
Had no salvation found!

The place though small, might be compar'd
To a garden o'errun with weeds,
With schools of ignorance the most profound
And men of corrupted creeds;
And others with sinews as of iron strong
Who could boast of their wicked deeds.

Yet hope beheld a stream of light
O'er the mountains find its way,
That the place might still a blessing prove
To some at a future day;—
Then a fear broken in, that before that time
A great many might miss their way!

There were men not far, whose hoary locks
Bespoke their weight of years,
Whose wicked words and haggard looks
Indicated their guilty fears,
Who of course, ere long, whether purg'd or not
Must quit this vale of tears.

136

There were some blam'd this, and some blam'd that,
Thus all had some excuse,
To justify the conduct of such
As might that call refuse;
Others grumbling said, (though it cost them nought)
“Such a place there was of no use!”

On the sabbath free seats oft were empty found
To give the preachers pain,
And Satan was triumphing loud
O'er the numbers he had in chain;—
Hope said that yet the sun might not shine
Nor the lights yet burn in vain!

It was cheering once, while under the word
To a neighbour who sat not far,
And welcome as after a stormy night
Was the radiant morning star!
When the sinner seem'd to lay his weapons down
And cease the inglorious war.

But again hope sicken'd at the sight,
And gloomy fear prevailed,
When a feeble effort he made for life
But alas! that effort failed,—
On Zion's glory he turned his back
And again into Egypt sailed.

Hope again reviv'd when a tear was seen
To roll from a female's eye,
Where others thick and fast were gathering round,
Like drops in the clear blue sky,—
More precious they seem'd than evening dews
To a land that was parch'd and dry!

137

But Satan also had his school
With which much pains he took,
Who at that solemn hour carousing were
In a tavern across the brook,—
Who neither car'd for God! nor Jesus Christ!
Nor his Sabbath! nor his Holy Book!!

Hell saw, displeased, and an agent sent
To that place without delay,
With flattering words and false reports
To wipe the tears away,—
Or with his dark and devilish baits
To lead such souls astray!

Hope revived, when under the Sermon sat
A mother, who had travell'd far
To hear the word, and a penitent seem'd
On that night, when we saw no star,—
But folly's fine bells soon tinkled again
And fear them hopes did mar!

It was not long when a cloud arose
Which eclips'd the prospects bright,
A fear arose, not without just cause
And hope for a while took flight,—
When in the dancing room she was found
At the silent noon of night!

Her house was the haunt of vulgar men
Her daughters became rude and wild,
They introduced a musical band
Where night by night they toil'd,—
Thus Satan set a respectable snare
For husband, wife, and child!

138

An agent from a distance came
To teach them the rural art,
To finger in style the nimble key
And each perform his part,—
But the chief object which he had in view,
Was to draw from God the heart.

It is allowed by the laws of hell
And Satan's high command,
For his servants to answer any turn
Or system that comes to hand,—
In chapels to sing, or play at cards,
Or dance to the music band!

So he sends his agents round to enlist
The youth of the present age,
Who become so bold in wickedness,
And fierce as the ocean's rage,—
Though an angry God, in a single hour
Could sweep them off life's stage!

Yet hope lifts up her drooping head
To the stars that must one day fall,
And steadfast to the promise looks
As the needle to the distant pole,—
When God, his Christ, his angels, and saints
Shall reign and conquer all!

139

ON FRIENDSHIP.

Friendship, how sweet, thy charms I greet
With gladness when thy face I see;
In this I'm lost to count the cost,
To pay the debt I own to Thee.

At home, abroad, or on the road,
Thy virgin smile I often see;
Thy kindly hand, in a strange land,
Hath cheer'd, reviv'd, and welcom'd me.

The starving poor well knows the door,
Or palace, where thou deign's to dwell;
And so do I; this to deny
Would prove me worse than Infidel.

Thy golden ore on Britain's shore,
Lay scatter'd like the dew of morn;
Thy sister's love, thy charms approve,
And all thy purest acts adorn.

Thy beams divine more nobly shine,
When planted in a female breast;
Whose feeling heart acts a glad part,
To cheer the downcast or distrest.

140

Whose dove-like eye when orphans cry,
With holdest not the crystal tear;
Thinks no disgrace such to embrace,
Feels every pang that seems severe.

While to the old her arms unfold,
When bending under loads of grief;
Thinks what they were, and what they are,
Shows pity, not without relief.

May Heaven regard and such reward,
For all their secret acts of love;
And may she still their treasure fill,
And bring them safe to Heaven above.

When far from home I've chanc'd to roam,
And night's dark shade did me surround,
I've sought to gain—nor sought in vain,
The smiling welcome I have found.

When at the door, at a late hour,
Griev'd to disturb such silent rest;
Fear and hope fight, to have their right;
To knock, or travel, which was best.

Hope conquers, and the trembling hand
Lifts the rapper; lifts his eyes;
A damsel bright appears in sight,
Without dismay, without surprise.

I did rejoice to hear her voice—
When damp with nightly dews I'd been;
See her come down without a frown,
To let the weary wanderer in.

141

For such, dear Ann, I never can
Pay you sufficient recompence:
Those lines I've penn'd, and to you send,
As a token of remembrance.

It may be said, when I'm low laid,
By thee, or some allied to thee;
Come, friend give ear, and you shall hear,
Some of poor Castee's poetry.

JOSEPH'S ELEGY.

“We mourn, yet not like those without hope.”

Yes! thou art gone, dear youth, and gone to rest,—
The ties which bound thee to our earth are broken:
Such souls as thine, are number'd with the blest,
For so the word of mighty Truth hath spoken.

The Lamb of God did offer thee his grace,
And light was by the Holy Spirit given,—
Because thou didst the glorious boon embrace,
And gained the favour of insulted Heaven!

'Tis well for those who thus like thee begin,
To seek and strive to get Religion early;
To pray, repent, and shun the paths of sin,
To gain by Faith in Christ a title fairly.

142

Though wicked men, at such a choice may scoff,
At those who have to wisdom's voice attended;
If such like thee, should chance to be cut off,
Their anguish with this weary life is ended.

Thou hadst thy times and place for secret prayer,
Where thou for Lealholm's harden'd sinners pleaded,—
But few of them, alas! are yet aware
That such a high concern for them was needed.

Thy conflict's o'er, thy earthly work is done,
No more thy voice is with the brethren blending:
The bitter's past, thy Pilgrim race is run,
Exchang'd for songs and triumphs never ending.

We look among the trees and miss thee now,
Where thou this earthly soil hast dug and weeded;—
But thou art gone to where no weeds can grow,
Where no such care or labour will be needed!

The cause of Zion did lay near thy heart,
And mingled with thy daily conversation;
While in that cause thou took an active part,
The sinners own'd thee worthy of thy station.

Nor Ampleforth, no more shall see him there,
Where true Religion did his soul inspire,
Nor hear his voice—led out in fervent prayer,
To kindle up in them devotion's fire!

In youthful prime his spirit took its wing
From our cold climate and its rulers hoary,—
Up to the harps of God, where seraphs sing,
To gaze with them upon the scenes of glory.

143

His soul now wrapp'd in high devotion's flame,
Shall drink of pleasures never-failing fountain;
Then rise and sing high honours to his name,
Whose blood for us stain'd Calvary's high mountain.

May we that's left not fear to win the day,
Our God is strong and mighty to deliver,—
If we but do the great command obey,
Our conflicts too, ere long, shall cease for ever.

Yes! Joseph, he was safe conducted home,
Spite of the scarlet Whore, and her deceiver;
Without the Bishops, or the priests of Rome,
He lived and died in Christ, a sound Believer!

TO A FOX TAKEN IN A TRAP.

Foxey! what were you doing to be taken in the snare?
Sure if you'd known, ye never would have took up lodgings there:
Perhaps last week ye little thought that trade so soon would fail,
With eye so bright, on frosty night, to wander hill and dale.

144

“Whilst in my nightly rambles, when I went into that drain,
I little thought but to have found a passage out again:
Although one fellow prisoner I had the hap to see,
Yet after all, I had no dread that trap was set for me.”

Foxey! what wad ye give us for to snap that piece of chain,
To throw the doors open, and let ye loose again?
If I was in your place I should scarce know what to do;
I'd give the world, if it were mine, to scale the mountain's brow.

“Those talking men, and barking dogs, they make me sore afraid,
And my little trembling beating heart the consequences dread:
O! if it was but in my power, and I could have my will,
I'd give all the geese in the parish to be out at top of the hill.”

On the fate expected morn, when the huntsman's horn doth blow,
If you will but take a friend's advice I'll tell you what to do:
When I should see there is a chance, I'd to some river speed my way,
Then I'd jump in, and swim across, and bid them all good day.

145

“I thank ye for your kind advice, I'll try the same to take;
Of the time I have allotted me, I'll try the best to make:
I hope my sly pursuers will warning take by me,
When there's a chance, to rid the chain of sin's captivity!”

O Foxey! thou should tremble then, and take a friend's advice,
For they mean to buy and sell thee like a piece of merchandise;
And should thou fall a prey to them, before thou reach the Craggs,
They'll take thy bonny jacket and tear it all to rags.

“Their mercy it is cruel, as I've heard old foxes say,
If it was not for this piece of chain I'd soon be far away;
And if those men would set me free, as I have been before,
I'd make a faithful promise, I would steal their geese no more!”

146

SHEEP MARKING AT WESTERDALE.

The Sheep! who can blame them for paying us off,
For cruel confinement, and treatment so rough;
For dogging them out of the clover and closes,
For spotting their jackets, and burning their noses.

'Twas thus we were spending the hour after dinner,
As void of all dread as a case-hardened sinner:
The sheep appeared shocked at those cruel environs,
The smell of the pitch, and the smoke of the irons.

One little sharp wether set up to be master,
As though he had wished us to mark a bit faster;
He slipped by the catcher, and sprung to the door,
Upset the pitch-kettle, and marked us all sore!

From such a disaster we sought a release,
By clipping and scraping, hot water, and grease;
A proof of this story we need not to lack,
For the sheep long will carry the patch on his back.

The spots and the patches our garments disgrace,—
Like sin and corruption—so bad to erase:
There's nought can the mighty pollution subdue,
But the garment, or heart, being formed anew!

147

THE LEISURE HOUR.

DANBY CHURCH YARD.

When eventide the skies adorn,
Then is the time to walk alone,
Or sit beneath some aged tree,
And tune the woods to melody!

There, with the feathered songsters join,
In harmony almost divine;—
Where no bad song or breath intrude,
Throughout the flowery solitude.

To flee the Village revelry,—
And mark each fleeting vanity,—
There, with some holy book or friend,
Consult our origin and end;

Or when the world's in slumber laid,
To walk and muse amongst the dead;
Attend the lectures which they give,
And learn the happy art to live!

To live, by dying every day,
Although refresh'd oft by the way,
With drink from Zion's purest rills,
And bread from off the Holy Hills!

With visions of that city fair,
Of sweetest song, and purest air,
Which cheers this life's dark day or night,
And makes even labour a delight!

151

ON THE REMOVAL OF THE OLD CAM BRIGG.

DATED 1668.

Yes, many a lusty limb has gone to wreck,
Since thou was laid Cam-Brigg across yon beck,
And many a noble hero, stout and brave,
Has gone to ashes, in the silent grave!

Thou's been of use for years, to multitudes,
To seedsman, harvesters, and funeral crowds;
Yes, many a nimble foot, and mind forlorn
Across the tumbling waters thou has borne!

Since thou was laid, what changes have took place!
What births, what deaths, among the human race!
Great men have come and gone, by fame renown'd,
Realms overturn'd, and kings dethron'd, and crown'd.

What cities burnt, what battles won and lost,
Ships built and sunk, or on the ocean tost;
New lands discover'd, and superior light
To banish superstition, dark as night!

What frost, what heats, what troubles and delights,
Sun shiny days, and dismal stormy nights,—
Still o'er the murmuring stream, or furious flood,
Thou to thy post has long unshaken stood!

152

Though many a thousand rubbers thou hast bore,
Thou still art strong, and very little wore;
Unblemish'd by disorder, cold or fever,
Thou still remains as good a bridge as ever.

Some have attempted for to lead across
Thy narrow bosom, the adventurous horse;
And some have slipt into the gulf beneath,
Which might have prov'd instantaneous death.

Some heroes thus have had their courage tried,
While others have gone safe from side to side;
Though this was nearer, 'tis beyond a doubt,
'Twas always safer to go round about.

But now thy time is up, thy reign is o'er,
For thou art here to be a bridge no more,
We are building now another in thy place,
To be admired by a future race.

And destine thee to lay in Low-wood-lane,
Where thou may be a bridge if earth remain,
Another hundred years, or two, or three;
A hundred years, is as a day to thee!

Hadst thou a tongue what stories would thou tell,
Of men and things, and how they rose and fell;
By thee I see life measured to a span,
Thy silence seems to say,—Poor short liv'd man!

153

THE GLAZEDALE NEW BRIDGE.

BUILT IN 1827–8.

How wise are they who build upon the rock!
Whose work will have to stand earth's fatal shock;
They may be sure, who build upon the sand,
In that dread hour the fabric will not stand.

This bridge may be a preacher to the ear
That's open good instruction for to hear,
The walls are firm, and its foundation good,
To face the storm, or overwhelming flood.

And therefore he who dare not trust his ears,
May look below, and see the rock appears;
By which, the uncertain sinner soon may see,
How he is building for—Eternity!

The Bible shews to him the gospel plan,
Ordain'd of old to rescue fallen man;
'Tis there the “Rock of ages” fair appears,
Who counts the cost, will bathe it with his tears!

Venture his little all, to build thereon
His gold or silver, pearl or precious stone;
He knows that nothing else will stand the test,
When fire will try men's works, and which is best.

154

Christ Jesus is the Rock, there is no doubt,
Which all the ancient prophets pointed out,
The precious pearl, the Rock in Zion laid,
To build thereon, none need to be afraid!

Repentance, Faith, and Holiness of heart,
To all who come aright, he will impart;
With every grace, his spirit doth afford,
And without which “no man shall see the Lord!”

Those narrow souls that will not build thereon,
Their fate will be,—Eternally to mourn;
For they must sink into the gulf below,
Of fatal ruin, and Eternal woe!

INTEMPERANCE.

What Vulture is this, whose wings affect the light,
And makes men fall and stumble at noon day?
Dark'ning the Sun by day, and Moon by night,
To snare the simple in his crooked way!

With ear attentive to the tavern's song,
He, hovering, haunts the precious souls of men,
With fiery eyes, and talons sharp and strong,
Enough to tear the Lion from his den.

155

He sings to see men welt'ring in their gore,
And triumphs o'er, or feeds upon the dead;
Your hearts would bleed could you the graves explore
To see the horrid havoc he has made.

What is his name, say you? who best can tell;
Writ on his vest—behold it as he flies;
For to great numbers he is known too well;—
Oh! read it, all ye prudent, and be wise!

O read it! and the mighty danger flee!—
In letters large his subtlety's exposed;
Still only those who walk upright can see,
Whose wakeful eyelids sloth has seldom closed.

He couches down, and darkens all the street,
Where yon poor reeling drunkard seeks his door!
Through midnight gloom he watches careless feet,
In hopes to see them rise to fall no more!

Deluded men, who thus abhor the light,
And love more dear to wander in the dark;
To drink and revel through the live-long night,
Then snore content beneath the morning lark.

To what may we those noble men compare?
A King informs us what a drunkard is,
Who rushes sensibly into the snare,
And fancies it a kind of earthly bliss!

A drunkard is a spoil to common wealth,
The Brewer's agent, and the Surgeon's friend;
Wastes by degrees his substance and his health,
Nor values those who do the truth defend.

An enemy to all domestic bliss,
A stranger to real comfort and content;

156

His castings up are like the troubled seas;
While death to him his fatal shafts present.

Mild modesty his glaring favour shuns,
And points him out a beggar in disguise;
And blushing Prudence from his presence runs,
And weeps in silence, wonder, and surprise!

An advocate for mischief and distress,
The ale-house benefactor and support;
A trumpet discord in a land of peace,
Where fools and scoffers constantly resort.

A trouble to defenders of the law,
His own tormentor, and his parent's grief;
His children's sorrow, and his helpmate's woe!
He wounds, and for those wounds seeks no relief!

A slothful lump of earth, a tub of swill,
He sleeps in summer while his neighbours toil;
Puts no restraint upon his headstrong will,
While lazy songs his precious hours beguile.

Worse than a beast this monster man must be,
Who thus forgetful of himself, sits down
And drinks his messmate's health so cheerfully,
Still all the while he thus destroys his own!

Oh see to what distress those tribes are brought,
O hear their widows weep, and orphans cry;
They spend their wretched strength and wealth for naught;
They without honour live, and hopeless die!

O if such be their course, and such their end,
Into their secret come not, O my soul!

157

Who thus for ease and luxury contend,
Then drown their sorrows in the flowing bowl.

Tho' they entice with flattering words and fair,
Mine honor, join not their society;
O breathe not thou in such unhealthy air,
But rather far into the desert flee!

The crystal fountain and the shaggy bank
Will yield more satisfaction unto thee,
Where tufted trees arise in silent rank,
With woodland songsters, and the humming bee!

THE BROKEN GUIDE POST.

Poor wounded sentinel!
Thou hast lost thine arms—
Hast thou been in the midst of war's alarms,
Where bullets fiercely flit?
Or has the teeth of time
Nibbled them off by bit and bit?

158

O say, what is thy crime,
That thou art thus disabled and disowned—
Who should have been with famous titles crowned,
Or trimm'd up in decent regimentals?
And bearing on thy front the grand essentials,
The poor benighted traveller to tell
Without an if, where friends far distant dwell.

O tell me, am I right, or am I wrong?
Alas! thou cannot, thou hast lost thy tongue,
And I'm in want of present information,

Alas! poor stump!
Thou'rt useless on this occasion.
By thee, as Scotchmen say, “I dinna ken”
Whether I have to go one mile or ten—
Here's three road ends, and I don't know
Which to take;
O tell me, if thou can'st, for pity's sake—
Pity! where dost thou dwell?
Where hast thou thine abode?
'Tis but seldom thou art met with on the road;—
No! thou hast fled away to happier climes.
Where some poor shepherd weaves his artless rhymes.

But tell me, thou pretended traveller's guide,
Which way to go, for sure the world is wide;
I see no living thing within a shout,
To set me right;
No friendly cottager is looking out,
And I'm just on the edge of night.

'Tis evident thou can tell no lies:
Whoever thy direction may despise,
Which points to nought, but upwards to the skies.

159

Stand then, and crumble down,
Thou cannot run away;
For legs thou hast but one,
And that's stuck in the clay.

Stand then, for
To reprove thy brave surveyor,
Who seems to neither know nor care
What comes of the poor lonely stranger,
While thus exposed to storms, or nightly danger.

Ah! little does he know, nor either care,
While he sits free from woe, snug in his old armchair,
How thy dumb hallo bitters every sweet,
And adds new pain to blistered feet.
The fault is his, the blame cannot be thine,
Therefore 'tis he that ought to pay the fine;
I've a good mind to turn informer, then,
When handed out among judicious men,
Or folded up into a kind of song,
We'll soon see who is right, and who is wrong.

When all was well, then thou spoke the truth,
On friendlier terms than yonder careless youth,
Who makes the weary traveller to stray
In paths forbidden, and to lose his way,
Through bad direction putting him to trouble,
And causing him to have his way to double;
By glow-worm light, o'er field, or lane, or moor,
To wander past his legal lodging hour.

And then to dusky cow sheds have to creep,
And there on strawy pavements try to sleep;
Or like a thief, to watch the morning light,
And keep himself conceal'd from human sight;

164

O could our faith but pierce the gloom
That hovers round our clay,
We might prefer an early tomb,
To one that's old and grey!

Could we but hear the songs they sing,
Or see the robes they wear,
'Twould give our resolutions wing,
With longings to be there.

To see those heavenly harpers young,
Light up the sacred fires;
To see their nimble fingers run
Along the golden wires;

Would make a man forget his grief,
His conflicts here below,
And give a mother's soul relief,
With languishings to go!

Would make us all forsake our sin,
And Jesus Christ adore,
And bring the resolution in,
To grieve our God no more.

Would make us to His house resort,
To weep, and watch, and pray,
Until we gain that blissful port
Where tears are wiped away!

On passing it between Yearsley and Easingwold, a perfect stranger to the course of the country; as also being directed wrong by two careless Villagers, and losing my way, having to lodge in a cow-shed, and glad of it.

165

WISDOM.

THE TRAVELLER'S CONSOLATION.

Wisdom! how bright thy excellencies shine!
To speak in praise of thee my object is;
To commend to all thy comeliness divine,
Thou fair director to the climes of bliss!

Such boldness scarce becomes a child of dust,
A branch of ancient Adam's tainted stem;
But duty bids me, therefore speak I must,
Although unfit to touch thy garment's hem!

Wisdom, thou river! O thou sea immense!
Where shall my lowly views begin,
In order not to mar thy excellence,
Deface thy beauty, nor encourage sin!

Thy charms are new each day, in every place!
Yet old as ancient earth's foundation stone,
Tho' thousands have and do the same embrace,
Thy purity was ne'er defiled by one!

Borne on thy wing, bold contemplation soars,
Visits a world beyond the worlds we see!
A world more glorious, fraught with richer stores,
Where all thy followers shall for ever be!

166

For want of thee, amidst a frowning world,
Torn from the sumptuous fare on which they fed,
Proud men of state are into prison hurl'd,
With loathsome insects to seek a bed!

For want of thee, in yon tumultuous town,
Virginity is blasted in her bud;
Though thousands for the same are overthrown,
And fall beneath the vengeful hand of God!

For want of thee, the simple youth's ensnared,
Refusing of thy dainties for to taste,
Though thou for him rich bounties hast prepared,
And kindly call'st him to the costly feast!

He'll pass thy window with a scornful eye,
And rather choose the way which leads to death;
He'll rather choose his lust to gratify,
Which he soon pays for with his dying breath!

By thee directed, in yon seaport town,
I've scaped the snares of the deluded throng;
With peace invested, boldly I've sat down
Where tipsy harlots sung their wanton song!

Thy whispers cheer'd me through the silent night,
When raving drunkards roar'd around the bowl,
And pointed me to more supreme delight,—
While loud blasphemies shock'd my very soul!

While moonlight strollers trip't with wanton feet,
And brazen trumpets echo'd through the gloom,
And carriage tumult roll'd along the street,
To thee I've fled and found sufficient room!

167

For contemplation where I might survey
With secret glance, the glories of the skies,
The beauties of religion's golden ray,
That source from which all solid comforts rise!

May thy important lessons never be,
Since I have here to act a christian part,
Despised, rejected, or abused by me,
But take and keep possession of my heart!

Despise thee! nay, I scorn the gloomy thought,
But while in secret I do thee adore,
Seeing the mighty wonders thou hast wrought,
I am constrain'd to love thee more and more!

Though I despised thee when a careless youth,
I'll now pursue thee to my latest breath,
For I'm persuaded from the word of truth,
Those that hate thee do certainly love death!

Lo! wisdom weeps at folly's mad career,
Vice triumphs still and flings her giddy head,
While innocency bleeds with pangs severe,
Grim cruelty in all their sufferings tread!

Here, folly, see thy sickly picture drawn;
If wisdom then has here her share of grief,
If wisdom has her miseries to mourn,
How can poor folly lead a happy life!

Shine forth thou precious morning star divine,
Display thy beauty and expel the gloom,
Into those dark benighted corners shine,
Revive those shades with ever-during bloom!

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To thee and thy great author be the praise
That ever I thy charming voice did hear
Or ever felt thy soul enlivening rays,
Which melts the heart and brings salvation near!

Do you lack wisdom, ask it then of God;—
So all have done who have true wisdom got;
Ask then according to his holy word,
And he will give, and will upbraid you not!

BOB AND BILL'S ALARM.

BOB WAS A SINNER—BILL WAS A BACKSLIDER.

“Come Bill let's away to the meeting
The neibours are ganging all round,
There's numbers salvation are seeking,
And others they tell us have found;—
Let us hasten away to the temple
Before their devotion begins,
Avoiding the scornful and simple,
And try to get rid of our sins!”

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“Well, Bob, I feel glad in my bosom
To think you are this way inclined,
Tho' Satan tries hard to oppose them,
Yet all the true seekers shall find;—
The lads have come on from the moorlands
They tell us of wonderful things,
That the Lord is converting by thousands,
And we are asleep in our sins!”

“I've oft felt, Bill, while set by the bottle
Until it disorder'd the brain,
And tried till I scarcely could tottle,
To smother conviction in vain;—
Like a bud that is late in the season
I e'en felt something struggle within,
Which told me in spite of my reason,
I still was asleep in my sin!”

“Well, Bob, this is honest confession,
If we sin could as easy forsake,
The Lord would forgive our transgression,
And bless us for Jesus's sake;—
The fire it is flaming all round us;
The world with its poisons and stings,
Is trying to blast or confound us,
Or rock us asleep in our sins!”

“Old Guisbro the message is receiving,
And Skelton is catching the flame,
And Stanghow and Moorsholm's believing,
And Brotton does sanction the same;—
Poor Liverton still is lamenting,
Her harpers have raffled their strings;
And there's some in Lofthouse repenting,
Yet we are asleep in our sins!”

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“Upleatham has catch'd the emotion,
And Marske is beginning to sing;
All down by the side of the ocean,
They'r owning this Christ for their king;—
Some say it is all a delusion,
And try for to trouble the springs,
But, Bob, 'twill be greater confusion
To go down to Hell in our sins!”

“Bill, what do you think of Backsliders,
Those fellows have puzzled me long,
Oft when I would join with Believers,
Their conduct has baffled my song;—
They seem'd to run well for a season,
But as tho' they had broken their shins;
I've ponder'd to find out the reason
Which keeps me asleep in my sins!”

“Cease, Bob, at those wretches to wonder,
Tho' now they may bluster and storm,
Jehovah will hew them asunder
Unless they repent and reform;—
Though now they may nick-name his people,
Reproaching his priests and his kings,
They soon shall sink under the steeple
And reap the reward of their sins!

“Let us hasten away to the fountain,
They say it is open for all,
A stone has come out of the mountain
Will crush us if on us it fall;—
All hearts that are soft with contrition,
In that fountain may wash and be clean,
May better their wretched condition,
And find the forgiveness of sin!

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“There, Jesus is calling and waiting
To rescue the people from woe,
His servants his words are repeating
And saying “will you also go?”—
Let us put away all our excuse,
Nor tamper with trifling things,
For all who God's mercy refuse
Must sink to the pit in their sins!

“The mischief is found out by tracing,
Which kept us so long in the dark,
Till Heathens the truth are embracing,
And bid us escape to the ark;—
Lest we also should be consumed
When the world's great disaster begins,
Let us look to the Lamb that was wounded,
And try to get rid of our sins!

“Long time they have tried to persuade us
The best of all council to take,
Our conscience will ever upbraid us
Unless we confess and forsake;—
The youngsters are giddy and flappy,
They trifle with serious things,
But, Bob, we shall never be happy
Until we get rid of our sins.”

176

THE ROSE OF SHARON.

“I am the Rose of Sharon and the Lily of the Valley.” Solomon's Song.

The Rose of Sharon is always in season,
No changes of weather his beauty impair:
When viewing its grandeur, did proud human reason,
With insolence cry, no beauty is there.
This wounded my feeling; I had not revived,
But Faith with its mirror, did soon interpose;
Faith vanquish'd my anguish and early contrived,
To show me the splendour of Sharon's sweet Rose.

This Rose of Sharon to me is most precious,
Could I have it planted secure in my breast,
Methinks I would keep it a Rose so delicious,
And ever extol it above all the rest.
I cannot be happy until I'm extolling
Its stupendous lustre my fancy has chose,
I know by experience it will be disgracing,
If I be found wanting of Sharon's sweet Rose.

But I will draw nearer for closer inspection,
To obtain my wishes no time will I lose:
My heart is o'erflowing with purest affection,
While the Muse is attempting the song to disclose.

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What means all this rapture that breaks out a swelling,
You see I've obtained the thing which I chose,
My fancy's presuming it always is smelling
The glorious profusion of Sharon's sweet Rose.

Most precious I find it to have such a flavour,
Perpetually flowing from Sharon's old grove;
From every infection it now is my saviour,
No garlands or spices can I so approve.
But here is the pleasure, we ne'er can be parted,
The earth with its legions do try to oppose,
My love is unchanging, he's ever true-hearted,
There's nothing so lovely as Sharon's sweet Rose.

But no sooner had I my object possessed,
Than its value to others I long'd to reveal;
It greatly reliev'd me when deeply distress'd,—
It would be injustice its worth to conceal.
All jewels and diamonds that language can mention,
With Sharon's sweet lustre their beauty they lose;
And Crowns and Dominions oft lead to contention,
There's nothing compared to Sharon's sweet Rose.

This Rose and its beauty is best to discover,
When viewed through the mirror Jehovah's ordained,
Its glorious appearance true Faith will uncover,
When serious spectators would be entertained.
Its glorious all over, you need not be doubting,
In all Nature's garden such beauty ne'er grows;
Since Adam was formed, Creation's been shouting
There's nothing so lovely as Sharon's sweet Rose.

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This Rose is adapted to Man's weak condition;
Each applicant is certain a cure to obtain;
The requisite needed is genuine submission,
No money is wanted the blessing to gain.
Ye sin-sick and weary howe'er your infected,
To bring your disorders no time you should lose,
All things are now ready, learn what is suggested,
There's nothing can heal you but Sharon's sweet Rose.

This Rose in all ages has wonders achieved,
But now its sweet fragrance more widely extend;
All people and language its odours receiving,
And nations in chorus its beauty commend.
It's so efficacious our tongues fail in telling,
Ye angels assist us to give the applause,
Strike all your gold lyres in notes ever swelling,
There's nothing so charming as Sharon's sweet Rose!

179

THE HINT.

There's some instruction here inclosed,
To those who are not blinded,
For to great danger we're exposed,
If we be lofty minded.

Both when awake, and when asleep,
Our foes around us roam;
And if we don't our station keep,
We're hardly safe at home.

Then let us keep our humble sphere,
Nor covet higher stations,
Nor think our hardships too severe,
Nor sport with recreations.

But walk where peace, like rivers flow,
For wisdom act the miser,—
And then, no doubt, but we shall grow
Both happier and wiser.

But some, they care not for those things,
Whose hearts are like the flint,—
The man who trembles for his sins
Will easy take the hint.

182

MIDGES, OR GNATS.

COMPOSED AND WRITTEN AT A TIME WHEN THEY WERE VERY TROUBLESOME.

What means this envy from those insects small,
Who claim a part of this stupendous ball!
As if we wish'd to rob them of their right?
Oh! that some friendly forces more in might
Would put those, our insulting foes to flight!

Whose congregated tribes, like tribes of war,
Perform their mystic dance along the air,—
Then rush in on us, as with pointed spears,
And welcome others to the feast with cheers,
Or sing in feeble triumph in our ears!

As dauntless champions in pursuit of blood,
Who war's tumultuous scenes long time have stood,
Or like brave soldiers, to their latest breath
Greedy of plunder—they in clownish mirth,
Sit on our hands or face, till crush'd in Death!

Ascend ye dews, ye mists, and vapours rise,—
Disperese ye clouds, and clear, ye upper skies;
Shine forth, O sun, and blow, O gentle breeze—
Sing, O ye birds, and wave your tops ye trees,
And chase from us those little biting fleas!

183

Fall soft ye showers, and fertilize the shade,
And heal the wounds, by those intruders made;—
Ye woodbines wild, that in the forest bloom—
Ye fields and gardens, waft your sweet perfume—
And cheer the plants this numerous host consume!

Ye zephyrs gay, which through the woodland sing,
Come to our aid—extend your silvery wing,—
Into the deserts chase them all away;—
Our world with pleasure we shall then survey,
And sing at work, and cheerful pass the day!

From whence they come, he need not much enquire,
Who does Creation's wondrous works admire;
And if he cannot unriddle this—therefore,
He may sit down with me, and ask no more—
But in deep silence wonder, and adore,
That power which caused the Elephant to be!

A COTTAGE ELEGY, ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.

There came to a cottage a juvenile stranger,
In the form of the fair,
Where she seemed inclined to abide for awhile,
And to breathe the terrestrial air.

Her case at that time was apparent distress,
Her complaint was so tender and true,
That the force of affection soon found her a dress,
And her spirits they strove to renew.

184

Of the choice of their dainties they urg'd her to sip,
And a balm for her griefs did apply,
For love had just left the fair print on her lip,
And innocence beamed in her eye.

A mother's affections no sooner she claim'd,
Than a mother's affections she prov'd;
The dawn of each day gave proof of the same,
She was kindly received and belov'd.

It was under that roof where the weary find rest,
And contentment her laurels doth weave;
Where the swallow hath skilfully stuck up her nest,
And cheerfully chitters at eve.

It was under that roof where the scent of the rose
Wafted in at the window so near;—
It was under that roof she found a repose,
In vain she might seek for elsewhere.

It was not long before her vigour increas'd,
And she took a peep into the world;
All nature was then in her loveliest dress,
And the colours of May were unfurl'd.

That morning was fine, the sun it did shine,
The Cuckoo and small birds did sing;
In ecstacies wild she fluttered and smiled,
And seem'd pleased with the beauties of spring.

But as though they had seen, by glances so keen,
The peril which then interpos'd,
The cloud of that day had scarce blown away,
Ere them dear little sparklers closed.

It so came to pass that in process of time,
Affliction came stalking that way,

185

And pass'd by the guilty and tainted with crime,
But the innocent mark'd for its prey.

The shrub was too tender, life's springs were too tender,
Such heavy chastisement to bear;
The mother repulsing the fever in vain,
Its cheek bathed with many a tear.

She could not help thinking her fate it was hard,
So soon with her darling to part;
Each smile or each pain, each nerve or each vein,
Was wove with the strings of her heart!

'Ere the third day had clos'd, the spirit just given
Had fled from its delicate shell,—
Where it just stopt to breathe, then flit from beneath,
In a happier region to dwell!

The frail habitation, when thus dispossess'd,
It soon became breathless and cold;—
I saw the dear clay on the bier where it lay,
Like wax in angelic mould!

What though they be born and shapen in sin,
Those who no transgression have known,
The kingdom of Heaven is open to them,
While “the blood of the Lamb doth atone!”

Ye Mothers of children, then dry up your tears
For the loss of the objects you love;
There's no doubt but such now tune their harps
To the anthems of Zion above!

186

SIGNS OF THE TIMES.

Alas! alas! what mean these signs,
The Heavens do display,
Which puzzle some of our divines,
Observant day by day!

Why is it, in those lofty spheres,
The lamps do burn so dim?
Why is it, that with Heaven's tears,
Our earth is made to swim?

Why is it, that yon orient sun,
Just glances on the spires,—
Darts on the hills a splendid beam,
And then again retires?

What mean those days of misty gloom,
That cover hill and dale;
Why pass so many to the tomb,
Through Death's cold chilly vale?

What mean those signs by sea and land,
The wise no more will ask:
But in them see their Father's hand,
And set about their task!

Repent!—ye careless sons of men—
Repent!—and be forgiven,—
And “put on Christ,” then you may stem
The gathering wrath of Heaven!

187

A VISIT TO FARNDALE.

[_]

Where many fellow-soldiers of the cross had left the church militant, and joined the church triumphant; on passing a deserted cottage, where we use to assemble to pray and sing hymns, in which blessed exercise many of them were wonderfully gifted, especially the Fords and Rickabys. Some were dead, and others were in America.

Where are ye, my Friends! of this dear belov'd valley,
Whom I listen and look for, and search for in vain?
You'r gone from a land of disorder and folly,
Where I still a stranger and pilgrim remain!

Our meetings, and partings, I right well remember,
Our rambles in different parts of the dale;
It was no matter which, whether June or December,
The smile of your presence would season the gale.

As soon as from either side the mountain I landed
A shelter I found from the tempest that blew,
Each want was supplied which nature demanded,
Your songs were harmonious, your friendships were true.

192

I seek, but in vain for that fireside party
Who sang, or convers'd on those things that we lov'd,
Where children smiled so youthful and hearty,
The cottage's inmates are dead or remov'd!

I seek for a friend to unbosom my story,
But all are too busy at other employ,
Yet few appear so much in earnest for glory
As sweetens life's toil with the purest of joy.

All sad and forlorn, as a mountain-side ranger,
I visit the haunts of our juvenile days,—
Dogs bark, men suspect, children gaze at the stranger,
And brooks seem to murmur disconsolate lays.

Where are ye, my Friends! of this dear belov'd valley?
For you I may listen, and search for in vain,—
You are gone from a land of disorder and folly,
Where I still a stranger and pilgrim remain!

All glory to Jesus! who suffer'd to save us,
In whose glorious presence we oftens were blest,
By the words that ye dropt, and the tokens ye gave us,
You've taken your flight to the mansions of rest.

193

THORNTON,

NEAR PICKERING, AT TOMBSTONE WORK.

Thou Thornton art queen of the villages near,
Forgive me in dropping a line for thy sake,
Thy glories would shine more resplendently clear
If watchmen and flock were more widely awake!

Thou'rt favour'd with scenery splendid and fair,
Or sunshine, or moonlight, illumine thy fane,
With wholesomest waters and healthiest air,
And life for those victims the serpent has slain!

Thou, Thornton, hast beauties and blessings in store,
Thine might be the suburbs of tranquil and peace,
If the men in the tavern would cease their uproar,
And yon dogs in the kennel their howling would cease!

So rank and in order thy cedars arise,
Where nature and art are so grandly display'd,
While they wave their devotions aloft to the skies,
In winter a shelter, in summer a shade!

201

Trees ancient and healthy like sentinels stand
On the branches the feather-plum'd choristers sing,
While they rear up their heads, so majestic and grand,
They shelter the cottages under their wing!

Yes, Thornton has music and melodies too,
Excelling the bugle, the drum, or the horn,
A crystal river glides gently through,
And talks of salvation at even and morn!

And, Ellerburn, thou where our fathers have toil'd,
Have gaz'd on thy beauties of wood, land, and stream,
Where winters have glisten'd, and summers have smil'd,—
But their lives, like others, have gone like a dream!

That steeple, they've view'd it again and again,
Antiquity's years with their mosses have skinn'd,
Their eyes bright with life, may have gazed on that fane
Which ancient and rusty, now grates in the wind!

Their limbs, strong and healthy, could ramble those hills,
And share such indulgence as reason might crave;
The shops echo'd back the applause of the mills,
Whose workmen have long gone to dust in the grave!

202

Be hush'd then our passions, and think it not strange,
Our God will take care of the wise and the good,
Tho' we stand amazed at the rush, and the change
Of those years that have gone, with the years of the flood!

Like a child, or a stranger, just on the decline,
I range thy sweet borders all dripping with dew,
The fate or the fortune at present is mine
To just gaze on thy beauties, and bid them adieu!

May I, and may you, then exert all our powers
To rid us of evil, and fill us with good!—
To improve them in passing, or soon those bright hours
Will be gone, and roll'd up with the years of the flood!

It was a misty morning, I could not paint my stone, so I thought I would try to paint the place.

203

ON THE DEATH OF JANE WOOD, OF FRYUP.

MOST OF WHICH WAS COMPOSED ON HER WAKE NIGHT.

Awake, my midnight muse, and catch the flame,
Which staggers neither at reproach nor fame;—
Improve those solemn moments as they fly;
Hark! something says, “think! what it is to die.”

Struck by affliction, see a victim lies!
And bids adieu to all beneath the skies;
Snatch'd from the arms of those she lov'd most dear,
No more in prayer and praise her voice we hear.

Fill with religious awe, and solemn dread,
My heart, while I survey the silent dead!
Sink deep,—ye ghostly warnings in my soul,
And all unruly passions there control.

She dies,—the lov'd, and much lamented Jane,—
But only dies, we hope, to live again;
Which greatly ought to soothe her parent's grief,
And to their troubled souls afford relief.

But some to this will no attention give,
Though dead already, yet they think they live;—

223

Yet none but those who die in Christ on earth
Can 'scape the regions of the second death.

The fairest flowers the weeping mother seeks,
To ornament her dearest daughter's cheeks;
Where healthful colours glow'd the other day,
Now pale and lifeless, and as cold as clay.

Another flower is wither'd in its bloom,
Where health had promis'd many years to come;
Which makes the aged bosom deeply sigh,
And fills with tears many a sparkling eye.

She's fled!—but yet not without hope, we mourn,
Nor hesitate much whither she is gone;
In hopes that she's through Christ for ever blest,
My worthless tears must flow among the rest.

Full twenty-one eventful years she'd seen,
And “known the Lord,” 'ere since but fourteen;—
Ah, blessed date! see mercy here unfold,
And Jesus stamps His seal upon her soul.

In youth, she learnt the lessons of her God,
Which greatly sweeten'd His afflicting rod;
And arm'd with fortitude her pious mind,
While to her Maker's will she all resign'd.

The love of Jesus did her soul possess,
The depth of which no mortal can express;
This prov'd her source of comfort day and night,
To dwell upon it was her heart's delight.

Oft in God's house we've met with thankful hearts,
Where He his blessings still to us imparts;

224

And there with heartfelt joy, or downcast eyes,
Have breath'd our feeble offering to the skies.

Ah! Jane is gone! her hand we take no more;
Now gone to Him, whose grace we still implore,
That we like her may here our lives employ,
Then wing our way to yonder realms of joy.

A blooming hope is left to those behind,
That she, “the Church of the first born,” hath join'd;
Where hosts of angels strike their harps of gold,
Where Zion's king His beauty does unfold:—

On which, she's with the rest allow'd to gaze,
And ever more extol her Saviour's praise:—
In white array, a lovely chosen band,
To bear Jane home, each lends a trembling hand.

With virgin mildness, slow they march along,
While stout hearts shiver'd at the funeral song:—
Mortality! again the truth foretel;—
Again the sexton tolls the doleful bell.

Again with hoary hairs he forms the grave,
Which levels all;—the simple and the brave,—
In cold embrace, the lovely damsel weeps,
And o'er her grave each tender virgin weeps.

Ye that would wish your end to be like her's,
Attend to what her dear advice refers;
“Remember, now! before it be too late,
In youth your God, and shun the things he hates!”

Ah! could the dead address you all once more,
Who thus lament, who thus your loss deplore!

225

Methinks the striking language it would be
Like His;—the Man who groan'd on Calvary:

“When He her dull, her gloomy brow did climb,
And weeping multitudes did follow Him;
On turning round, with piercing look,” said he,
“Jerusalem's daughters! weep ye not for me—

But for yourselves, and for your children!”
“Ah, friends! weep not for me, but for your sin.”
Now, since we know not who the next must die,
Each of us ought to say, “Lord, is it I?”

Am I prepar'd to meet Thee in the skies?
For I shall fall, and sink no more to rise!
Have I repented? am I born again?
Or I, a guilty rebel, still remain!

If such, where thou art I must never come,
If death thus seize me, Hell must be my doom!
Have I been wash'd from sin's polluted stain?
Or like the sow, am I unclean again!

Of all the rest, my case the worst must be,
Should I be launch'd into Eternity!
O Thou that weighs the matters of the heart!
To me, to all, Thy light and truth impart:
May each frail child of man their folly see,
Weep and believe, and give their hearts to Thee!

226

JANE WOOD'S FAREWELL.

Farewell my dear parents, my brethren, and friends,
Whose souls are entwin'd with my own;
Adieu for the present, my spirit ascends,
Where friendship immortal is known.

Adieu thou sweet fountain that visits the door,
In thy channel so nicely convey'd,—
While those trees which in summer have formed a bower,
Thy coolness completed the shade.

Those wonderful orbs that astonish'd mine eyes,
Their glories recede from my sight;
I soon shall contemplate more beautiful skies,
And stars more transcendently bright.

Adieu ye sweet shades, of peace and delight!
Your final farewell I may sing;
Where the thrush and the blackbird have sung in my sight,
And welcom'd each morning in spring.

Adieu to thee, Fryup! and all thy sweet charms,
My footsteps no longer ye greet;—

227

Jesus to receive me opens His arms,
And Paradise welcomes my feet.

The vale of affliction with trembling I pass,
And the “Valley and Shadow of Death!”
But the light of the gospel o'ershadows my path,
And shews me the danger beneath.

The Shepherd of Israel my guardian is!
Through dangers and darkness obscure;
His rod and His staff does the enemy chase,
While I drink of the river so pure.

Adieu to all pleasure, for pleasures divine,
I rejoice in the happy exchange;
The pleasures of Heaven through Jesus is mine,
While o'er the bright summit I range.

242

LINES TO AN AFFLICTED FEMALE

WHO HAD LOST FATHER AND MOTHER IN THE CHOLERA.

Child of affliction! wipe that trembling tear
Which round thy clear blue eye-ball is revolving:
What though thou hast a friend or parent dear,
Deep in the dust; to ashes fast dissolving!
Thou hast a friend who wept, and loves thee still,
Oppose not then, but strive for to obey his will.

243

Cease then belov'd! to murmer and repine,
Though nature's chords I know are strong and binding,—
For what their fate is now, may soon be thine!
Let this thy soul be constantly reminding:—
This friend can take away affliction's dart,
And fill with joy and gladness this thy throbbing heart!

For He it is alone, and only He
To whom thou ought to make thy supplication,—
Who groan'd, and bled, and died on Calvary,
To crown thee with the joys of his salvation!
Then fly to him and make no more to do,
Bow to his cross and yoke—in meek submission bow.

The dead no more can of thy griefs partake,
Quit then all hopes and conversation carnal,
Confess thy sin, to Righteousness awake,
And grasp by Faith in Christ, the prize Eternal!
Then shalt thou rise, afflicted thus and tried,
Like gold that's in the furnace seven-times purified!

244

ENGLAND FOR NOVELTY.

MEANING THE CLUBS IN GENERAL.

Of all the regions worthy of applause,
Ours is the clime for systems, creeds, and laws;
While some of them, much sterling doth contain,
Others are as erroneus and vain.

Some seek, in spite of persecution's flood,
Mesiah's Glory, and the public good;
Others indeed, so much resemble Paine,
A man would think poor Tom had rose again!

A system has been lately set on foot
Which multitudes has into office put,—
So suitable to many in this land,
As though 't had been by some archangel plann'd.

Such was the Devil once, as we've been tell'd,
But was thrown out, for principles he held;
That power he yet engages to deceive
All those that won't the Truth in Christ believe.

But whether he be in this scheme or no,
It meets approval of both high and low;
And men jump at it, with as much delight
As fishes leaping on a summer's night.

There is good in't, if you take pains to look,
And with that good the Devil baits his hook;
To imitate his kingdom, doth compel
A Fishermen, or ought, to people Hell!

245

CRAZEY EMMY, OR THE CARNAL PARTY'S LAMENT.

Young Jemmy, they say, has gone crazy,
Those preachers have driven him mad;
He once was as fair as a daisy,
A blythe and a merry young lad.

But now his demeanour is chang'd
From that of the other young men,
Much more like a person derang'd,
He wanders the grove or the glen.

Young Jemmy lov'd music and dancing,
But now he loves singing and prayer;
While he was to manhood advancing,
His presence was frequently there.

He always was kind and true hearted,
His cronies were witty and gay,
And if that he had not deserted,
He'd still been the dash of the day.

Young Jemmy lov'd sherry and brandy,
And in it he took a delight,
His dress was the tip of the dandy,
Which threaten'd to ruin him quite.

But now he's as plain as a quaker,
For religion an advocate strong,
Of grog he won't be a partaker,
Nor sing us a tavern song.

246

Young Jemmy lov'd Mary Mc'Kenzy,
He lov'd her as dear as his life,
And while she to virtue was friendly,
He purpos'd to make her his wife.

But rivals she would not oppose 'em,
Which conduct he viewed with disdain,
So he says by the flame in his bosom,
He ne'er will court her again.

The neighbouring lads are reminded,
That Jemmy will vex them no more,
He now has the object resign'd,
Which once had the key of his store.

And Mary may seek a fresh lover,
Until she awake from her dream,
Or dally with Harry the rover,
Till caught like a fish in a stream.

Once love's flowery arts he was teaching,
But now he's forgotten his skill;
They say, the last week he was preaching,
At Robinson's down at the Mill.

He spoke of a present salvation,
To all who would yield and consent,
But nothing but Hell and damnation,
To all such as do not repent.

247

FRIENDLY FRAUD; OR LENT MONEY LOST.

I little thought when I was brought
With one to labour through the day,
Who spoke so fair, and took such care,
That eer he thus would me betray!

I wonder he'd so little love
Much more am I struck with surprize,
That he so ungenteel could prove,
With sudden death before his eyes!

I pity more than he, my loss,
This his poor low and filthy gain,

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Which only leaves me less in purse,
But on his precious soul a stain!

He's not robb'd me, by treacherously
Diminishing my little store;
If health, and life, and limbs are spared,
Next year I shall have plenty more!

But that which should, and likely would,
Have gone the cottage rent to pay,
(And made the widows heart to sing
For Joy!) he basely took away!

I did intend, when frosts set in,
To cross the wolds, and see my friends,
But clothes and shoes are bare and thin,
And he more close hath clipp'd my wings!

Tho' I've no child to drown in tears
Nor tender wife to load with woe;
Yet I've a mother sunk in years,
And she more weight of want must know!

My father died when I was young,
And left myself and sisters three;
Her harp was on the willows hung
And oft continues so to be!

Long may she look, long may she mourn,
With heavy heart and tearful eye,
To see her only son return
Her winter wants for to supply!

Alas! I fear he has forgot,
(May she not now with sorrow say,)

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He has in her poor lonely cot
A mother weeping far away!

No songster of the feather'd race
Sits warbling on his flowery bough;
But winter with his frosty face
Hangs on yon sullen mountain brow!

His sun has set behind a cloud
And cold the feather'd snows descend;
And cold's that heart where pity glow'd
On which I thought I could depend!

O cruel fate! O cruel foe!
What ever must thy feelings be?
To pierce the widow's heart with woe,
And not to shed a tear with me!

But heaven will her cry attend,
Her loss shall double be restor'd;
The widow and the orphan's friend
Is ever faithful to his word!

Yes, help will come to those who pray
And shun the ways of wicked men;
So help to Daniel found its way
Tho' shut up in a Lion's den!

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ON THE BUILDING OF GLAZEDALE BRIDGE IN 1828.

A RUFF JOB FOR BEEATH MAESTER AN MEN.

PART I.

Where'er we gang te tack a woak,
This brigg is all the common toak;
For whether it be leeat or seean,
There cry is, “Harn't ye ommeast deean?”

A neighboor sed te Matty Hall,
He thought this brigg wad kill us all:
But how this prophecee may move,
Sean time or providence will prove:

But sure t'experimental part,
Wad ding a hero out o' heart,
When we reflect on what is past,
An' gannin on fra' first to last.

G. Tinker com when t'job began,
But acted like a cunnin man;
The hill was ower hard te clim,
An' soon the gam was up we him.

Then Pritty com i' th' heat of the thrang,
An' promised fair for stoppin lang,
But he by chance gat strange and leeam,
An' we had him te carry heeam.

An' Silverside hes left in debt,
An' Johnson's teean away it pet;

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Fletcher would no langer stay,
An' Gibson says he'll run away!

Pearson talks ov weary beeans,—
He's ommest kill'd with cuttin steans—
An' Castillo he's lang been seek,
He seldom gets five days i' t'week.

An' Crudas cums nobbut now and then,
An' 's reckoned yan of our heead men;
An' Breckon hes not lang been wiv us,
An' reaady ony day te leeave us.

Our Maester's had ruff rooad te pass,
They've straiten'd him for want ov brass;
An' t'men wad hev their wages rais'd,
Aneeaf te set a maester craz'd.

Thus opposition greeat an' small,
Had damp'd the spirits ov us all!
We fondly thowght our trade wad florrish,
Supported by a wealthy parish.

But awkward fields, an' narrow riggs,
They've spoil'd us quite for bilding briggs:
Nur is it common in this nation,
Te bild them on a dry foundation.

Wiv all ther petty plans an' prices,
They teear a workman all te pieces;
An' if they get ther ends about,
Our meeason's soon may work for nought.

There's yan 'at aims he's i'famus graith,
He laughs an' macks a sport o' faith:

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A time may cum wiv visage grim,
When he may wish his lamp te trim.

Now sike a man shud first be seen,
Te get all't scales teean off his een;
An' try te bild a brigg at yance
Across the gulf of ignorance!

Another who desarves a stripe,
He's rather rusty in his pipe,
He's also had a deeal te say,
But scarce a penny will he pay!

We hev some condescending men,
There may nea doubt be yan i' ten,
That ken the legal time o' day,
An' help us on without delay.

We've yan that lends a helping hand,
That did possess beeath house an' land,
He's ommest eighty years of age,
He brings his meeat an' tacks neeah wage:

Wiv furrow'd cheeks an' hooary hairs,
He's geen us monny faithful days,
He leuks through hardships creak'd an' curl'd,
Tiv his reward it 'tother world.

We hev anuther royal meeason,
That dissent put another face on,
But freely cums te help us throo,
An' brings a lusty prentice too.

Had Wallis cum, wiv all his brags,
He might hev geean wiv empty bags,
Unless the Parish jurisdiction,
Had meead it up by a subscription.

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May we thats left like trew-drawn hosses,
Tack up wiv all our rubs and crosses;
For efter all this toil and pain,
We hope the sun will shine again!

PART II.

They tell us oft when we're away,
An' chiefly on a Sabbath day,
Our brigg is crooded wiv inspectors,
That raise aboot it strange conjectures.

Some greeat men wiv judishus seearch,
Hev spy'd a crack or two i' t'arch,
An' sends t'alarm fra toon te toon,
It seear aneeaf will tummel doon.

Sumbod'y rais'd a dreeadful tale,
How it hed frighten'd Joseph Dale;
He com te see't yah Sabbath day,—
He just leeak'd up an' ran away!

He thowght he heeard sum body say,
They thowght they seed it givin way!
He ran sea fast that nowght cud ton him,
For feear this brigg sud fall upon him!

It was nea joke, for far aboon,
He ommost ran a woman down;
An' if she ower t'bows had geean,
He'd kill'd or leeam'd her ten te yan!

But efter all that's deean and sed,
There is neah cashion te be flade;

The inscription on the Bridge is, “Ponder thy path, for genuine faith can build a bridge across the gulph of death.”

Who was reading the inscription.

311

ME AND YOU.

ON THE CUTTING OF A STICK OUT OF A YEW TREE.

When first my fancy fix'd on you,
I saw you in a tree;
I looked, I spoke, I pull'd at you,
But you said nought to me.

You were array'd in lovely green,
With blushing youth adorned,
With limbs and heart both sound and clean,
And hidden beauties scorn'd.

I reached to you a friendly hand,
But you seemed not to see;
By sighs I got to understand
You seemed inclined for me.

Thought I, but soon I'll bring you down,
And sure it was no joke,
Since that I've claim'd you as my own,
Though not a word you spoke!

When ever I go to take the road,
Some distant land to see,
Without an angry look or word
You do accompany me.

So excellent a partner, then,
Who would not highly prize,
Whose picture and character is,—
A friend without disguise!

But when I thus had made my choice,
My neighbours cried begum,
Strange fancy 'twas to fix on you,
That was both deaf and dumb!

336

THE AFRICAN'S CHRISTIAN EXPERIENCE,

At a Lovefeast in the Wesleyan Methodist Chapel, Pitt Street, Liverpool, by one who heard him.

I tank de grate Etarnal Spirit,
For de good tings me doos inherit;
Hoo make dat feel to Negro come,
Vitch glad de heart more den de rum.

I hear de Missionary tell
Hoo bad mans all go doon to hell;
He say, I be de sinner slave,
But Jesus die my soul to save.

All me was sick,—all me was sad,
And no one ting was make me glad;
Den to de Holy One so high,
Me tell, and he do hear my cry.

I tank de grate Etarnal King,
Was ivver me to Englam bring;
Till den a dubble slave I be,
Tank Him, me now am dubble free.

Among de bush, far ower de sea,
Was monny happy Negro be,
Hoo better cuntry heb in view,
Where me hopes meetin dem an' yoo!

348

HUMOROUS PIECES.

THE SUNDAY SPREE!

From the suburbs of a neighbouring park,
The present subject of remark,
An aged buck had broke away,
He'd leap'd the wall and gone astray.

It seems he'd had his wits about him,
Lest any one should see or shout him,
That he might more at pleasure roam,
He'd left his horns with one at home!

Soon as the keepers found him missing,
They judg'd at once he was transgressing,
And quickly rais'd a mighty train,
Resolved to hunt him home again!

While men with weapons, dogs, and boys,
At once kick'd up a warlike noise!
His scent they took, and run him true,
Nor chased him long without a view!

A lady, in a township near,
Had two or three young wanton Deer,
Kept not so much for venison,
As for the sport of gentlemen.

No tawney brown of number vast,
But fair and of the ginger cast;
Whom Venus' records had reveal'd,
The first-rate sporters of the field!

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Soon as this place they did surround,
The woodland ranger there they found;
Adopted soon a proper measure,
To force him from his field of pleasure.

O'er moors and mountains, fields and rocks,
They tallio'd him like a fox;
But that which most with anger fill'd him,
They drunk his head before they kill'd him!

The country side was up in arms,
And village troops came out by swarms,
They wonder'd all what curious thing,
Such multitudes did thither bring!

No wonder this mountanious shout,
Should bring the slumbering poet out,
Among the rest his rhyme to mix,
For to expose such wanton tricks!

At length so weary was withall,
He, like a badger, tried to hole!
Yet close pursued through bogs and wins,
He still was kept upon his pins!

They chas'd him till the close of day,
Until he homewards took his way;
Where it is hoped he will remain,
And never more desert again.

The keepers all are on the watch,
This old offender for to catch;
And all the lads about the place,
Are ready for another chase.

If he again should chance to roam,
Whose business is to keep at home;
'Tis thought he'll have to pay severe,
For sporting with the Fallow Deer!

353

CASTLETON FAIR.

The second of April was a fine day,
As two or three workmen were napping away,
One started up sudden, and said with an air,
Lads, have ye forgotten 'tis Castleton Fair!

Then, Willy looks up and said, what think you, John,
If we after dinner should take a walk on;
As I have just got an odd shilling to spare,
Let's jog on together to Castleton Fair!

Then John he made answer, it is a fine day,
But it might be better at home for to stay,
I think such as us has no business there,
We shall be far better from Castleton Fair!

Says Willy, I am young and I want to see life,
And you're an old hand and in search of a wife;
I would not advise you to stay where you are,
Perhaps you may get one at Castleton Fair!

Says John unto Willy, thy plan might have done,
But thou knows after all there's great hazards to run,
There are many who wishes they'd never come there,
For misfortunes they've gotten at Castleton Fair!

Says Willy, I want for to go to see sport,
To hear all the news the lads has gotten afloat,
Them fellows fra't' west they make people stair,
With impossible stories at Castleton Fair!

The lassies are going, then how can we stay,
They look so enticing, so blithe and so gay;
The weather won't stop them, be it rainy or fair,
But they are dashing away to Castleton Fair!

354

Says John, I think, Willy, I am not very keen,
We may by chance rush into danger unseen,
Therefore if you go I would have you beware,
There's many deceivers at Castleton Fair!

A careful young fellow, as I have heard say,
To go on to Castleton he broke half a day,
But he lost his dear Nanny, nor was he aware,
Tell they got all his money at Castleton Fair!

Says Willy, your counsel I would not despise,
But I think we may be both merry and wise,
And partake of the dainties and luxuries rare,
The pleasures and pastimes of Castleton Fair!

I think we may go and not catch any harm,
We can call for some liquors refreshing and warm,
And listen to't bagpipes, while set in our chair,
And keep out of mischief at Castleton Fair!

Says John, ever since these Fairs first began,
They have been both a burden and scandal to man,
For drunkenness oft has polluted the air,
With battles and mischief at Castleton Fair!

Another young fellow who went to see life,
And to pick up a lass to make him a wife,
Who will, if you ask him, abruptly declare,
There is naught but vexation at Castleton Fair!

A bonny young lass, not far from this place,
Now scarcely dare look any body it' face,
Her heart is broken with grief and despair,
By stopping too late at Castleton Fair!

The old wives the young lasses try to excel,
In feathers and flounces, and fragrant smell!
They buy a false topping to hide their grey hairs,
To make them look young at these Castleton Fairs!

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But the best way to keep out of danger is this,
To be fully determined not to come where it is;
For who can we blame if we're caught in a snare,
But ourselves for going to Castleton Fair?

Then, Willy, says John, I think as you say,
We shall after all be better away;
Then let's be contented and stay where we are,
And save the expences of Castleton Fair!

POOR PATCH.

Poor Patch was brought up to't scratch,
And mark'd out for being a glutton;
With his neck in a string,
He was sentenced to swing,
'Cause he'd grown sike a laddie for mutton!

A piece of a leg he happen'd to beg,
As down Jack-sled-gate he was trudging,
By carrying on't heeam,
He gat all the bleeam,
And he was to be hang'd without judging!

He seem'd for to say, at the close of the day,
To the dogs that were out on the roads,
“Take warning by me,
When you're out on the spree,
Or else you'll be down on the moors!

There's monny mare left that are laddies for theft,
A vast mare for taking than giving;
Sheep 'ell be worried,
Though I'm so hurried,
Away from the land of the living!”

356

ROSEDALE FESTIVAL.

THE FOUL SIDE.

As I walk'd out the other day
To hear what folks had got to say,
I heard some news that pleas'd me well,
Concerning Rosedale Festival!

The lads and lasses, far and near,
Do hie to Rosedale once a year,
Where Nuns and Friars used to dwell,
To celebrate the Festival!

A youth address'd his female friend,
Says he, “My dear, I do intend
On Sunday next, if all be well,
To be at Rosedale Festival!

They tell us, if the day be fair,
A vast of music will be there;
Aught we have heard it will excel,
Who have not seen a Festival!

You for the journey must prepare,
I shall intend to meet you there,
The very first man I mean to fell,
That touches you at Festival!”

“Well, John,” says she, “if I can find
A man more suiting to my mind,
If I think I can love him well,
I'll walk with him at Festival!”

357

It was the case, for bonny Jin
Did take poor Johnny sadly in,
For he to win her to his sell,
Got sadly lick'd at Festival!

But Johnny, he was not alone,
It was the case with many a one,
Who even now with tears may tell
How he lost his lass at Festival!

But Rosedale Church, before nor sen,
Of women, lasses, lads, and men,
Was never so full sen Page can tell,
As it was at this Festival!

Through many a tube of burnish'd brass
Their high-flown anthems had to pass;
Striving each other to excel,
In bigger blasts at t' Festival!

'Twas doubtful form'd on such a plan,
Far less to honour God than man;
And through the country raise a swell
That Rosedale kept a Festival!

I heard one say, that had been there,
It really was more like a fair
Than aught at all that he could tell,
Although 'twas called a Festival!

The morning and the afternoon
Were spent in walking up and down,
Unlucky-lads made 't lasses yell,
And marr'd this mighty Festival!

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Two rustics I shall touch upon,
Wi' ankle-boots and leggings on,
Got sadly drunk, as I heard tell,
And fought at Rosedale Festival!

They ate all Tommy Pearson's pie,
And drunk J. Dowson's cellar dry,
And had to go to't Abbey well,
To quench their thirst at t' Festival!

I hope against another year
They will provide them better cheer,
That some may have the news to tell,
They got new hearts at t' Festival!

But little lads without their hats,
Fra Bob-at-Cloughs to Tom-at-Yatts,
May down to future ages tell,
What pass'd at Rosedale Festival!

At the time this was written, the Church and Church Yard were the principal places of resort on these occasions.

ROSEDALE FESTIVAL.

THE FAIR SIDE.

Thou Rosedale, too, hast long unnotic'd lay,
But now thy night is bursting into day;
Thy tribes are lighting up thy ancient shrines,
To cheer the hearts of neighbouring divines.

Their torches tipp'd with patriarchal fire,
Renew'd old anthems up to heaven aspire;

359

Thy mossy abbey walls with Ivy bound,
Long slept in silence, echoes with the sound.

The Queen of Harmony lifts up her head,
And throws her mantle o'er the silent dead;
The orphan's lamentations to alloy,
And drown the widow's tears in festive joy.

Thus pious David's days are brought to mind,
With neighbouring instrumental concert join'd;
While virgin troops, with voices young and sweet,
Tenor and treble, make the song complete!

If the Holy Spirit's influences real,
Inflame their hearts with love, and pious zeal,
A smiling God the sacrifice will own,
And angels wings shall waft it to the throne.

If mix'd with sighs, and sound repenting tears,
With thankful thoughts, and purifying fears,
Swift it will mount the vast ethereal height,
Nor clouds, nor sun, nor stars, impede its flight!

There Israel's harp is put in tune once more,
And, sounding, sings as in the days of yore;
While Christian men, with hallelujahs loud,
Their censors lift above the gazing crowd.

They sing the flames and fears of Jesse's son,
The Father's long-lost prodigal return;
They sing Messiah's banners bright unfurl'd,
His infant entrance into this our world!

They sing the cause for which a Saviour bled,
Who like a lamb was to the slaughter led;

360

They sing the Cross, which patiently he bore;
They sing His reign till time shall be no more!

They sing His second coming on the clouds,
To judge the world's amazing multitudes;
His own to gather out, to sow, and bless,
And man of his lost Eden re-possess.

They sing the plan appointed by the Lord,
Whereby lost man again may be restor'd;
While men of hoary hairs, by infant tongues
Are cheer'd while they are singing Zion's songs,

If they, by grace, live up to what they sing,
And thus their constant sacrifices bring,
They soon shall soar to realms of endless day,
Till this dark spot for distance die away!

There's Jimmey Petch, as faithful as the dial,
And Tommy Pearson manages the Viol;
Ephraim and Dowson high their voices raise,
And Bob-at-Clough he thunders in the bass!

THE END.