 | The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson |  |
177
SONGS.
LUCY GRAY, OF ALLENDALE.
Say, have you seen the blushing rose,
The blooming pink, or lily pale?
Fairer than any flow'r that blows,
Was Lucy Gray, of Allendale.
The blooming pink, or lily pale?
Fairer than any flow'r that blows,
Was Lucy Gray, of Allendale.
Pensive at eve, down by the burn,
Where oft the maid they us'd to hail,
The shepherds now are heard to mourn,
For Lucy Gray, of Allendale.
Where oft the maid they us'd to hail,
The shepherds now are heard to mourn,
For Lucy Gray, of Allendale.
With her to join the sportive dance,
Far have I stray'd o'er hill and vale,
Then pleas'd, each rustic stole a glance
At Lucy Gray, of Allendale.
Far have I stray'd o'er hill and vale,
Then pleas'd, each rustic stole a glance
At Lucy Gray, of Allendale.
I sighing view yon hawthorn shade,
Where first I told a loves's tale;
For now low lies the matchless maid,
Sweet Lucy Gray, of Allendale.
Where first I told a loves's tale;
For now low lies the matchless maid,
Sweet Lucy Gray, of Allendale.
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I cannot toil, and seldom sleep;
My parents wonder what I ail:
While others rest, I wake and weep,
For Lucy Gray, of Allendale.
My parents wonder what I ail:
While others rest, I wake and weep,
For Lucy Gray, of Allendale.
A load of grief preys on my breast,
In cottage, or in darken'd vale;—
Come, welcome death! O, let me rest
Near Lucy Gray, of Allendale!
In cottage, or in darken'd vale;—
Come, welcome death! O, let me rest
Near Lucy Gray, of Allendale!
THE MOUNTAIN BOY.
In the midst of the many craggy heath-covered mountains in Scotland, round which I had to wind my weary way, between New Galloway and Newton Stewart, there are only two houses, and these wretched smokey hovels. Near the first, early on a cold snowy morning of March, I beheld a boy wandering down a barren hill not far from the road. He wore a piece of plaid. His voice and speech were pleasing, and his rosy smile bespoke health and content. A short conversation gave rise to this song. It was committed to paper at the next cottage, after warming my benumbed limbs over a turf ingle on the centre of a floor, while around me played the healthy and beautiful children.
“Shepherd lad, thinly clad, leave these bleak mountains,
Fly to the town and its pleasures with me;
There lofty buildings and grandeur surround us,
There gay-deck'd gentle-folk proud thou wilt see:
What are thy comforts, where tempests loud howling,
Threaten thy thin flocks that shelter have none?
Where is thy dwelling, boy? house is not near us;
Leave these wilds, shepherd lad, with me begone!”
Fly to the town and its pleasures with me;
There lofty buildings and grandeur surround us,
There gay-deck'd gentle-folk proud thou wilt see:
What are thy comforts, where tempests loud howling,
Threaten thy thin flocks that shelter have none?
Where is thy dwelling, boy? house is not near us;
Leave these wilds, shepherd lad, with me begone!”
“Traveller, weel clad, ye canna entice me;
Thir mountains o' hether to me are sae dear;
I heed na the snell blast that maks ye aw tremble;
Nae grandeur I covet, nae poverty fear:
In you clay built cottage, sits Maggy, my mither,
A twinin' grey plaidin' for faither and I;
Our coarse fare is wholesome—we ay rest contented—
What mair can the walth o' the proud city buy?”
Thir mountains o' hether to me are sae dear;
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Nae grandeur I covet, nae poverty fear:
In you clay built cottage, sits Maggy, my mither,
A twinin' grey plaidin' for faither and I;
Our coarse fare is wholesome—we ay rest contented—
What mair can the walth o' the proud city buy?”
“Shepherd lad, nature's child, quit not thy mountains;
Woe be to him who would lure thee from home!
The flocks rejoice at thy voice—thou art contented—
In vain to proud cities for this man may roam:
Rosy health paints thy cheek—hardy art thou and free,
No lux'ry tempts thee, nor trinkets of pride;
Love of fond parents and home fills that bare breast;
And, oh! may simplicity still be thy guide!”
Woe be to him who would lure thee from home!
The flocks rejoice at thy voice—thou art contented—
In vain to proud cities for this man may roam:
Rosy health paints thy cheek—hardy art thou and free,
No lux'ry tempts thee, nor trinkets of pride;
Love of fond parents and home fills that bare breast;
And, oh! may simplicity still be thy guide!”
“Traveller, gentle, creep into yon smoky hut,
Taste our milk, oat-cake, and cleanly Scotch fare;
Mither's ay glad when she welcomes a stranger;
A drap o' her whiskey she's ay proud to spare.—
Tweed! guid dog! hie away! lammies ill bear the blast,
Up Craigenyelder, and stormy Drumlock!—
Health on your journey, Sir! Guidness watch o'er ye!
Tho' wild are thir grey hills, they're a'dear to Jock!”
Taste our milk, oat-cake, and cleanly Scotch fare;
Mither's ay glad when she welcomes a stranger;
A drap o' her whiskey she's ay proud to spare.—
Tweed! guid dog! hie away! lammies ill bear the blast,
Up Craigenyelder, and stormy Drumlock!—
Health on your journey, Sir! Guidness watch o'er ye!
Tho' wild are thir grey hills, they're a'dear to Jock!”
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MARY.
O Mary! when the wild wind blows,
And blasts the beauties o' the rose;
Thy coming fate to me it shews,
And I cou'd weep for Mary.
Aft has the blossom deck'd the tree,
Sin first thy glancin tell-tale ee
Confest a wee bit luive for me,
And I was smit wi' Mary.
And blasts the beauties o' the rose;
Thy coming fate to me it shews,
And I cou'd weep for Mary.
Aft has the blossom deck'd the tree,
Sin first thy glancin tell-tale ee
Confest a wee bit luive for me,
And I was smit wi' Mary.
O Mary! I hae loe'd thee lang;
Thou'rt ay the burthen o' my sang;
For day or night, where'er I gang,
I think o' nought but Mary.
When sleep seals up my wearied ee,
In dreams thy angel form I see;
And in fond raptures, say to thee,
O, dinna leave me, Mary!
Thou'rt ay the burthen o' my sang;
For day or night, where'er I gang,
I think o' nought but Mary.
When sleep seals up my wearied ee,
In dreams thy angel form I see;
And in fond raptures, say to thee,
O, dinna leave me, Mary!
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O Mary! when the warl's unkind,
And poverty thraws me behind,
I ay can cheer my drooping mind
Wi' thoughts o' thee, sweet Mary;
For were I sick, and like to die,
Thy witching smile wad comfort me;
Then come what will, my wish shall be
For happiness to Mary.
And poverty thraws me behind,
I ay can cheer my drooping mind
Wi' thoughts o' thee, sweet Mary;
For were I sick, and like to die,
Thy witching smile wad comfort me;
Then come what will, my wish shall be
For happiness to Mary.
THE FARMER'S WELCOME HOME.
Do you know what it is makes me whistle and sing,
As I brush the bright dews away?
Do you know what it is makes me blithe as a king,
As I toil in the fields all day?
If you don't, why I'll tell you the cause of my joys;
When the grey hour of Evening's come,
'Tis the thoughts of my rosy-fac'd girls and boys,
Who welcome their father home.
As I brush the bright dews away?
Do you know what it is makes me blithe as a king,
As I toil in the fields all day?
If you don't, why I'll tell you the cause of my joys;
When the grey hour of Evening's come,
'Tis the thoughts of my rosy-fac'd girls and boys,
Who welcome their father home.
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On ent'ring, I'm quickly surrounded by all;
The youngest climbs up to my knee;
Tom sings a new song; Bess shows me her doll;
And Hannah brings food for me.
My wife turns her wheel; we cheerfully talk,
Nor fret about evils to come;
I taste joys, unknown to your gouty great folk—
Rosy health bids me welcome home!
The youngest climbs up to my knee;
Tom sings a new song; Bess shows me her doll;
And Hannah brings food for me.
My wife turns her wheel; we cheerfully talk,
Nor fret about evils to come;
I taste joys, unknown to your gouty great folk—
Rosy health bids me welcome home!
My children I teach to pray and to read,
To do good, honour priest and the squire;
If my farm be but small, we no luxuries need,
It serves us; no more we desire!
I kill my own mutton; my wife brews good ale;
From my fields I have no wish to roam,
Except to the market, and then I ne'er fail
To meet a blithe welcome home.
To do good, honour priest and the squire;
If my farm be but small, we no luxuries need,
It serves us; no more we desire!
I kill my own mutton; my wife brews good ale;
From my fields I have no wish to roam,
Except to the market, and then I ne'er fail
To meet a blithe welcome home.
Hannah reads in her bible, ere we go to rest;
The youngest lisps o'er her pray'rs;
I rise when the lark quits his cold dewy nest,
And leave them to sleep away cares:
Tho' little we boast, others' wants we supply—
If we see a poor beggarman roam,
We do as all should do, as they'd be done by,
We give him a welcome home.
The youngest lisps o'er her pray'rs;
I rise when the lark quits his cold dewy nest,
And leave them to sleep away cares:
Tho' little we boast, others' wants we supply—
If we see a poor beggarman roam,
We do as all should do, as they'd be done by,
We give him a welcome home.
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All taxes and tythes I most cheerfully pay—
For the lawyer I care not a pin!
Passers by from the town tell the news of the day,
And if thirsty, find plenty within;
All neighbours I serve; to do good is my text;
And when life's closing day shall come,
I'll this world quit with pleasure, and hope in the next,
To meet a good welcome home!
For the lawyer I care not a pin!
Passers by from the town tell the news of the day,
And if thirsty, find plenty within;
All neighbours I serve; to do good is my text;
And when life's closing day shall come,
I'll this world quit with pleasure, and hope in the next,
To meet a good welcome home!
THE OUTCAST MOTHER.
The wind blew loud, the night was dark,
And heavy fell the rain,
When on the moor a hapless fair,
Aloud did thus complain:
“Oh! do not, do not weep, my sweet!
I cannot shelter thee!
Sleep, sleep, my little baby boy,
There is no sleep for me!
And heavy fell the rain,
When on the moor a hapless fair,
Aloud did thus complain:
“Oh! do not, do not weep, my sweet!
I cannot shelter thee!
Sleep, sleep, my little baby boy,
There is no sleep for me!
“Alas! no cottage lends its light,
To guide us on our way!
A house, or home, love, we have none;
This is our home till day:
Yes! we are doom'd to bear the storm,
Far, far from bush or tree;
But I would heed no angry blast,
Were it not, boy, for thee!
To guide us on our way!
A house, or home, love, we have none;
This is our home till day:
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Far, far from bush or tree;
But I would heed no angry blast,
Were it not, boy, for thee!
“Dear cause of all my sufferings,
Poor living mark of shame!
My heart was spotless, as is thine,
Until thy father came:
Love was, alas! my only crime,
Yes, baby boy, like thee,
I late was innocence itself,
Now there's no rest for me!
Poor living mark of shame!
My heart was spotless, as is thine,
Until thy father came:
Love was, alas! my only crime,
Yes, baby boy, like thee,
I late was innocence itself,
Now there's no rest for me!
“I by my parent am despis'd,
And friend I know not one;
He who shou'd our protector be,
Far, far away is gone:
He flatter'd, ruin'd, left me
To want and misery—
Sweet baby boy, cling to my breast,
I fain would comfort thee!
And friend I know not one;
He who shou'd our protector be,
Far, far away is gone:
He flatter'd, ruin'd, left me
To want and misery—
Sweet baby boy, cling to my breast,
I fain would comfort thee!
“O did my father hear thy cries,
Methinks we yet might live;
And may that Pow'r who guides the storm,
His cruelty forgive!
I late his only darling was,
And he was kind to me;—
Ah! little think'st thou, weeping boy,
What I've endur'd for thee!
Methinks we yet might live;
And may that Pow'r who guides the storm,
His cruelty forgive!
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And he was kind to me;—
Ah! little think'st thou, weeping boy,
What I've endur'd for thee!
“Tho' little do we need, child,
None will our wants supply;
Thy mother oft has fed the poor,
But soon for want must die:
The world, alas! is pitiless;
There is no charity;
O do not weep so, baby, boy!
I cannot shelter thee!
None will our wants supply;
Thy mother oft has fed the poor,
But soon for want must die:
The world, alas! is pitiless;
There is no charity;
O do not weep so, baby, boy!
I cannot shelter thee!
“O rise, thou silver orb of night,
A mourner's breast to cheer;
And in some out-house we may rest,
Till morning shall appear!
—Ah! does thou at the lightning start?
Cling closer, love, to me!
No storm, no lightning I would dread,
Were it not, boy, for thee!
A mourner's breast to cheer;
And in some out-house we may rest,
Till morning shall appear!
—Ah! does thou at the lightning start?
Cling closer, love, to me!
No storm, no lightning I would dread,
Were it not, boy, for thee!
“How cold, cold are thy little feet,
Poor trembling child of woe!
But colder by thy mother's side,
Thou soon wilt be laid low:
Death will ere morn our sorrows end,
And rest give thee and me!
—O weep no more, my baby boy,
I cannot comfort thee!
Poor trembling child of woe!
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Thou soon wilt be laid low:
Death will ere morn our sorrows end,
And rest give thee and me!
—O weep no more, my baby boy,
I cannot comfort thee!
“I feel the welcome pangs of death,
And giddy turns my brain;—
O God of mercy, hear my pray'r,
Nor let me ask in vain!
Forgive the errors of my life,
My only hope's in thee!
—One kiss, my babe!—Alas! I die!
Soon, soon thou'lt rest with me!”
And giddy turns my brain;—
O God of mercy, hear my pray'r,
Nor let me ask in vain!
Forgive the errors of my life,
My only hope's in thee!
—One kiss, my babe!—Alas! I die!
Soon, soon thou'lt rest with me!”
BRITONS, UNITED, THE WORLD MAY DEFY.
WRITTEN DURING A THREATENED INVASION.
Ye sons of the brave, who erst conquer'd at Cressy,
And the war-bolts of vengeance on nations oft hurl'd,
Whose heroes triumphant, encircled with glory,
To stem proud oppression, the sails oft unfurl'd;
Rise, rise! now the war-whoop o'er Britain is sounding,
And this be your song, let us conquer or die!
Beware of fell faction, and conquest awaits you,
For Britons, united, the world may defy.
And the war-bolts of vengeance on nations oft hurl'd,
Whose heroes triumphant, encircled with glory,
To stem proud oppression, the sails oft unfurl'd;
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And this be your song, let us conquer or die!
Beware of fell faction, and conquest awaits you,
For Britons, united, the world may defy.
Where, where is the bosom that beats not with ardour,
To meet the invaders who threaten our coast?
Where, where is the arm that would not strike with fury,
To hurl to destruction a tyrannic host?
Avaunt, ye pale cowards, who shrink at the danger!
'Tis the boast of the virtuous their country to save;
Your children shall blush for their terror-struck fathers
While Freedom shall weep o'er the tombs of the brave!
To meet the invaders who threaten our coast?
Where, where is the arm that would not strike with fury,
To hurl to destruction a tyrannic host?
Avaunt, ye pale cowards, who shrink at the danger!
'Tis the boast of the virtuous their country to save;
Your children shall blush for their terror-struck fathers
While Freedom shall weep o'er the tombs of the brave!
Shall a pigmy usurper whose laurels are blighted,
Who scorns the Creator, and laughs at his pow'r,
Shall a horde of assassins long stain'd with foul slaughter,
Forge chains for a Briton? No! welcome the hour,
When Gallia's proud vassals, by bombast deluded,
Shall dare to the conflict of nations the pride!
—In vain on the white cliffs of Albion we wait them,
The blood of their warriors shall crimson the tide!
Who scorns the Creator, and laughs at his pow'r,
Shall a horde of assassins long stain'd with foul slaughter,
Forge chains for a Briton? No! welcome the hour,
When Gallia's proud vassals, by bombast deluded,
Shall dare to the conflict of nations the pride!
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The blood of their warriors shall crimson the tide!
Remember our fathers, who fell on the scaffold,
And purchas'd with blood, what we boldly dare claim;
Remember proud Spain, and her long-wept Armada,
Then prove to the world, Britons still are the same!
By the dear ties of nature! by beauty's soft graces!
By freedom! by justice! we'll conquer or die!
And vengeance shall blast the dark foes of their country,
For Britons, united, the world may defy!
And purchas'd with blood, what we boldly dare claim;
Remember proud Spain, and her long-wept Armada,
Then prove to the world, Britons still are the same!
By the dear ties of nature! by beauty's soft graces!
By freedom! by justice! we'll conquer or die!
And vengeance shall blast the dark foes of their country,
For Britons, united, the world may defy!
THE EVENING WALK.
The Sun has taen his fareweel blink;
The ploughman quits his usefu' toil;
Come, Jean, let's leave the noisy town,
And watch dame nature's evening smile:
Wi' health we'll sport on Eden's banks,
In love, like our first parents, blest;
For dearer is my Jean to me,
Than a' the walth o' east or west!
The ploughman quits his usefu' toil;
Come, Jean, let's leave the noisy town,
And watch dame nature's evening smile:
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In love, like our first parents, blest;
For dearer is my Jean to me,
Than a' the walth o' east or west!
The linnet lo'es the whiten'd thorn;
The thrush sings frae the willow tree;
The lark has sought the rising corn;
And hameward winds the busy bee:
The scaly tribe, in stream or pool,
Feed fearless o' their artfu' foe;
These trembling shun the haunts o' man,
And live by nature's simple law.
The thrush sings frae the willow tree;
The lark has sought the rising corn;
And hameward winds the busy bee:
The scaly tribe, in stream or pool,
Feed fearless o' their artfu' foe;
These trembling shun the haunts o' man,
And live by nature's simple law.
The darkning dells, the fading fells,
The bleating flocks, the ruddy farm,
The tinkling streams, the gentle gales,
Let these thy youthfu' fancy charm;
And think how soon stern Winter's frown
Will strip the meadow, bank, and tree;
The present hours are only ours,
Then share these rural joys wi' me!
The bleating flocks, the ruddy farm,
The tinkling streams, the gentle gales,
Let these thy youthfu' fancy charm;
And think how soon stern Winter's frown
Will strip the meadow, bank, and tree;
The present hours are only ours,
Then share these rural joys wi' me!
Far frae the town, and a' its cares,
The shafts o' slander we'll defy;
Dear virtuous love shall be our theme,
That ay delighteth thee and I:
And as we pass some lowly shed,
And mark a cheerfu' rustic scene,
Oft will I wish that cot were mine,
Wou'd'st thou but share it wi' me, Jean!
The shafts o' slander we'll defy;
Dear virtuous love shall be our theme,
That ay delighteth thee and I:
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And mark a cheerfu' rustic scene,
Oft will I wish that cot were mine,
Wou'd'st thou but share it wi' me, Jean!
We'll stray unseen by tell-tale een,
And trace the glen, and silent grove;
Whilst high abuin, the silver muin
Shall witness be to my fond love:
Then taste o' pleasure, in thy prime,
Youth quickly flies, ne'er to return;
And when age wrinkles thy sweet face,
Think, wi' a smile, o' life's fair morn!
And trace the glen, and silent grove;
Whilst high abuin, the silver muin
Shall witness be to my fond love:
Then taste o' pleasure, in thy prime,
Youth quickly flies, ne'er to return;
And when age wrinkles thy sweet face,
Think, wi' a smile, o' life's fair morn!
MAD MARGERY.
Poor Margery sits on the shore by the willow;
Pale and woe-worn her looks, for distracted is she;
To the winds she complains, and chides each foaming billow,
And oft is the sea-weed poor Margery's pillow,
Whose treasure's entomb'd in the sea.
Pale and woe-worn her looks, for distracted is she;
To the winds she complains, and chides each foaming billow,
And oft is the sea-weed poor Margery's pillow,
Whose treasure's entomb'd in the sea.
Poor Margery lov'd, and a youth more enchanting
Ne'er woo'd a fair maiden, or sail'd the salt wave;
Their bliss to complete but a few years were wanting,
Fir'd by glory, he left her, his tender heart panting,
But soon found a watery grave.
Ne'er woo'd a fair maiden, or sail'd the salt wave;
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Fir'd by glory, he left her, his tender heart panting,
But soon found a watery grave.
Poor Margery long watch'd her lover's returning,
Oft fond expectation the ship brought in view;
Peace at length wav'd her olive, with pain'd bosom burning,
She heard the sad tidings that chang'd hope to mourning,
How his loss was bewail'd by the crew.
Oft fond expectation the ship brought in view;
Peace at length wav'd her olive, with pain'd bosom burning,
She heard the sad tidings that chang'd hope to mourning,
How his loss was bewail'd by the crew.
Now faded's the face many a rustic call'd pretty;
Sun-burnt are her cheeks, sunk and languid her eyes;
To the loud-screaming sea-bird she sings her wild ditty,
But shuns ev'ry stranger, or laughs at their pity,
And weeps, when a vessel she spies.
Sun-burnt are her cheeks, sunk and languid her eyes;
To the loud-screaming sea-bird she sings her wild ditty,
But shuns ev'ry stranger, or laughs at their pity,
And weeps, when a vessel she spies.
At her breast hangs the token of love, giv'n at parting,
Which daily she washes with love's painful tears;
Now vacantly gazing, now frantic upstarting,
Remembrance across her disorder'd brain darting,
The voice of her lover she hears.
Which daily she washes with love's painful tears;
Now vacantly gazing, now frantic upstarting,
Remembrance across her disorder'd brain darting,
The voice of her lover she hears.
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No more must the morning awake her to gladness;
No more her torn bosom can harbour sweet peace.
Ah, poor luckless maiden! abandon'd to sadness,
He who rides on the wind can alone heal thy madness,
And bid all thy sorrowings cease!
No more her torn bosom can harbour sweet peace.
Ah, poor luckless maiden! abandon'd to sadness,
He who rides on the wind can alone heal thy madness,
And bid all thy sorrowings cease!
THE CAPTURE OF THE CHESAPEAKE.
This fight took place off Boston Light House, on the 1st of June, 1813. The British Frigate, Shannon, was commanded by Sir Philip Bowes Vere Broke, Baronet, of Nacton, Suffolk; and the United States' Frigate, Chesapeake, by Captain Lawrence, who died of his wounds. The latter had on board 440 men; the former 330; notwithstanding the superior force of the enemy, the cheers of victory were heard in eleven minutes from the commencement of the action.
Columbia's vain sons, long deluded by France,
Have dar'd to the conflict the lords of the main;
Britannia, insulted, cried, “Warriors advance!
Ah! let not the shades of your fathers complain!”
This call made their shores echo loudly our cannon,
For Broke led the band, and the word was, “be free!”
Then while by the Chesapeake, or by the Shannon,
The ocean's supplied, we the rulers will be!
Have dar'd to the conflict the lords of the main;
Britannia, insulted, cried, “Warriors advance!
Ah! let not the shades of your fathers complain!”
This call made their shores echo loudly our cannon,
For Broke led the band, and the word was, “be free!”
Then while by the Chesapeake, or by the Shannon,
The ocean's supplied, we the rulers will be!
Old Neptune enrag'd, when he heard what was plann'd
By upstarts, unknown in the annals of fame,
Bade his sons of the waves match their brethren on land,
Nor let one dark record e'er sully the name:
Soon one sought their shore, struck the young states with wonder,
He'd prove Britons firm as their own native oak;
And scarce the proud foe heard the sound of our thunder,
Till Britons struck home, led the way by a Broke!
By upstarts, unknown in the annals of fame,
Bade his sons of the waves match their brethren on land,
Nor let one dark record e'er sully the name:
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He'd prove Britons firm as their own native oak;
And scarce the proud foe heard the sound of our thunder,
Till Britons struck home, led the way by a Broke!
Long, long such great deeds may posterity boast!
Long, long be such themes the delight of each Bard!
Be grateful to those who protect our white coast—
The love of his country's the hero's reward!
While a Broke leads our tars, and loud echoes their thunder,
No laws foreign tyrants to Britons shall give;
Our deeds, as of old, shall strike Europe with wonder,
And free as the air on our mountains we'll live!
Long, long be such themes the delight of each Bard!
Be grateful to those who protect our white coast—
The love of his country's the hero's reward!
While a Broke leads our tars, and loud echoes their thunder,
No laws foreign tyrants to Britons shall give;
Our deeds, as of old, shall strike Europe with wonder,
And free as the air on our mountains we'll live!
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NEGRO AFFECTION.
Poor Zeila on wide water gaze,
Where white man tear her love away;
In vain she to poor Oran prays;
In vain she call the ship to stay.
Where white man tear her love away;
In vain she to poor Oran prays;
In vain she call the ship to stay.
Back to her hut can Zeila go?
From Oran dear how can she sleep?
When Zeila breast swell big wid woe,
When Zeila eye do nought but weep.
From Oran dear how can she sleep?
When Zeila breast swell big wid woe,
When Zeila eye do nought but weep.
Rise, Sun of Morn! but give no light
To cruel man who him enslave!
Poor Oran pine, far, far from sight,
Or now lie dead below cold wave.
To cruel man who him enslave!
Poor Oran pine, far, far from sight,
Or now lie dead below cold wave.
But if him live, him see no more
The big tear drop from Zeila' eye;
Then where white man poor Oran tore,
I'll sit me down, and soon will die.
The big tear drop from Zeila' eye;
Then where white man poor Oran tore,
I'll sit me down, and soon will die.
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THE DEATH OF CRAZY JANE.
'Twas at the hour when night retreating,
Bade the screech-owl seek his nest;
Gloomy vapours slow were fleeting,
Morning glimmer'd in the east:
On the heath, her wild woes telling,
To the winds, and beating rain,
Cold, unshelter'd, far from dwelling;
Trembling sat poor Crazy Jane.
Bade the screech-owl seek his nest;
Gloomy vapours slow were fleeting,
Morning glimmer'd in the east:
On the heath, her wild woes telling,
To the winds, and beating rain,
Cold, unshelter'd, far from dwelling;
Trembling sat poor Crazy Jane.
“Ah!” she cried, “ye scenes around me,
Witnesses of Henry's art;
Witnesses he faithful found me,
How he broke this tender heart:
Go, ye wild winds, try to move him!
Bid him heal this heart again;
Did he know how much I love him,
He would pity Crazy Jane.
Witnesses of Henry's art;
Witnesses he faithful found me,
How he broke this tender heart:
Go, ye wild winds, try to move him!
Bid him heal this heart again;
Did he know how much I love him,
He would pity Crazy Jane.
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“Henry comes; I see him yonder,
Dart like lightning o'er the heath!
Ah! no! no! my senses wander—
Since he comes not, welcome death!”
Fainting, on the earth she laid her;
Soon, in pity to her pain,
Death, where love had first betray'd her,
Gave relief to Crazy Jane.
Dart like lightning o'er the heath!
Ah! no! no! my senses wander—
Since he comes not, welcome death!”
Fainting, on the earth she laid her;
Soon, in pity to her pain,
Death, where love had first betray'd her,
Gave relief to Crazy Jane.
MARY.
I've known my share o' warldly care,
And poverty is ay my lot;
But, Mary, when on thee I gaze,
Dull care and puirtith are forgot:
Thou art the sweet'ner o' my life;
Thou art Golconda's wealth to me;
And by thy bosom, pure as white,
I'll love thee, Mary, till I die!
And poverty is ay my lot;
But, Mary, when on thee I gaze,
Dull care and puirtith are forgot:
Thou art the sweet'ner o' my life;
Thou art Golconda's wealth to me;
And by thy bosom, pure as white,
I'll love thee, Mary, till I die!
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O, were we on some desert Isle,
Where human foot ne'er trod before,
My arms shou'd be thy couch a' day,
And I wou'd gaze, and love thee more!
I'd shield thee frae ilk angry blast,
Thou dearest gem on earth to me!
For by thy speaking een, I swear,
To love thee, Mary, till I die!
Where human foot ne'er trod before,
My arms shou'd be thy couch a' day,
And I wou'd gaze, and love thee more!
I'd shield thee frae ilk angry blast,
Thou dearest gem on earth to me!
For by thy speaking een, I swear,
To love thee, Mary, till I die!
The lavrock hails the rising morn;
The gowdspink loes the thorny spray;
The cushat coos within the wood;
The plover seeks the pasture grey:
I envy these what these enjoy,
But hope ne'er wares a smile on me;
I hug the chain that gies me pain,
For I maun love thee, till I die!
The gowdspink loes the thorny spray;
The cushat coos within the wood;
The plover seeks the pasture grey:
I envy these what these enjoy,
But hope ne'er wares a smile on me;
I hug the chain that gies me pain,
For I maun love thee, till I die!
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POOR WILL.
See'st thou the gay mansion that stands on yon hill,
With gardens before and behind?
There once stood the cottage of poor peasant Will,
But Fortune—Ah she was unkind!
My father, God save him, there toiled for his bread,
Till age saw him tott'ring decay:
Misfortune soon made me give up the dear shed,
And forc'd me a soldier away!
With gardens before and behind?
There once stood the cottage of poor peasant Will,
But Fortune—Ah she was unkind!
My father, God save him, there toiled for his bread,
Till age saw him tott'ring decay:
Misfortune soon made me give up the dear shed,
And forc'd me a soldier away!
Of many a slaught'ring campaign I might tell,
Where fame leads weak man to the field;
Of many a battle, where brave comrades fell,
For to death ev'n the bravest must yield!
Now old, poor, and feeble, I beg at the spot,
And mark the dear groves with a sigh;
In vain have I sought the remains of my cot,
Where grandeur but meets my dim eye!
Where fame leads weak man to the field;
Of many a battle, where brave comrades fell,
For to death ev'n the bravest must yield!
Now old, poor, and feeble, I beg at the spot,
And mark the dear groves with a sigh;
In vain have I sought the remains of my cot,
Where grandeur but meets my dim eye!
A nabob from India is lord of the hill—
A slave to his ill-gotten gold;
But happier they tell me, is old beggar Will,
Who nightly seeks shelter from cold:
For he rests not, 'tis said; and each day at his gate,
The wretched ask pity, in vain;
But Will, in a barn, can sleep fearless of fate,
Undisturbed by the wind or the rain.
A slave to his ill-gotten gold;
199
Who nightly seeks shelter from cold:
For he rests not, 'tis said; and each day at his gate,
The wretched ask pity, in vain;
But Will, in a barn, can sleep fearless of fate,
Undisturbed by the wind or the rain.
Tho' friendless, tho' wretched, why should I repine?
A tear gives no comfort to me:
If want be the only companion of mine,
From that, death will soon set me free!
Then stranger, I pray thee, a halfpenny spare,
And Heav'n will a blessing bestow;
For the heart that a beggar's distress loves to share,
The greatest of pleasures must know!
A tear gives no comfort to me:
If want be the only companion of mine,
From that, death will soon set me free!
Then stranger, I pray thee, a halfpenny spare,
And Heav'n will a blessing bestow;
For the heart that a beggar's distress loves to share,
The greatest of pleasures must know!
RED ROBIN.
This song, with sonnets, &c. was occasioned by a redbreast visiting for five years my retired apartment, in the centre of Carlisle. He commonly gave me his first cheerful strain in the beginning of September; and sang his farewell to the noise and smoke of the town in April. So tame was the merry minstrel, that he frequently made a hearty repast within a few inches of the paper on which I wrote. When business or pleasure led me from home, the food of my namesake was not forgotten: for sweeter to my ear was his evening song of gratitude,
Than the fam'd organ's hoarsely-swelling note,
Or labour'd concert, clamorously loud!
This song, with sonnets, &c. was occasioned by a redbreast visiting for five years my retired apartment, in the centre of Carlisle. He commonly gave me his first cheerful strain in the beginning of September; and sang his farewell to the noise and smoke of the town in April. So tame was the merry minstrel, that he frequently made a hearty repast within a few inches of the paper on which I wrote. When business or pleasure led me from home, the food of my namesake was not forgotten: for sweeter to my ear was his evening song of gratitude,
Than the fam'd organ's hoarsely-swelling note,
Or labour'd concert, clamorously loud!
Or labour'd concert, clamorously loud!
Come into my cabin, Red Robin;
Thrice welcome, blithe warbler to me;
Now Skiddaw has thrown a white cap on,
Again I'll gie shelter to thee:
Come, freely hop into my pantry;
Partake o' my plain wholesome fare;
Tho' seldom I boast of a dainty,
Yet mine man or bird shall ay share.
Thrice welcome, blithe warbler to me;
Now Skiddaw has thrown a white cap on,
Again I'll gie shelter to thee:
Come, freely hop into my pantry;
Partake o' my plain wholesome fare;
200
Yet mine man or bird shall ay share.
Now five years are by-gane, Red Robin,
Sin' first thou cam tremblin' to me;
Alas! how I'm chang'd, little Robin,
Sin' first I bade welcome to thee!
I then had a bonny wee lassie;
Awa' wi' anither she's gane:
Then friens daily ca'd at my cabin,
Now, dowie I seegh aw my lane.
Sin' first thou cam tremblin' to me;
Alas! how I'm chang'd, little Robin,
Sin' first I bade welcome to thee!
I then had a bonny wee lassie;
Awa' wi' anither she's gane:
Then friens daily ca'd at my cabin,
Now, dowie I seegh aw my lane.
Wi' pleasure I view thee, Red Robin,
Yet gaze wi' a pitying ee;
Thy luik seems to say, like o'er monie,
O' hunger puir Robin maun die!
To think o' thy fate, houseless namesake,
Just brings to mind what I maun bear;
I meet wi' fause friens in ilk corner,
And bow to the warl in despair.
Yet gaze wi' a pitying ee;
Thy luik seems to say, like o'er monie,
O' hunger puir Robin maun die!
To think o' thy fate, houseless namesake,
Just brings to mind what I maun bear;
I meet wi' fause friens in ilk corner,
And bow to the warl in despair.
Tho' sweet are thy wild notes, Red Robin,
They draw monie a tear frae my ee;
They ca' to my mind youthfu' pleasures,
When Mary sang sweetly to me:
But pleasure aft gies way to sorrow,
And pleasure leads millions to pain;
Frae hope nae delights can I borrow,
Life's comforts I wish for in vain.
They draw monie a tear frae my ee;
They ca' to my mind youthfu' pleasures,
When Mary sang sweetly to me:
But pleasure aft gies way to sorrow,
And pleasure leads millions to pain;
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Life's comforts I wish for in vain.
O where is thy sweetheart, Red Robin,
Gae bring her frae house-tap or tree;
I'll bid her be true to sweet Robin,
For fause was a lassie to me:
You'll share ev'ry crumb i' my cabin;
We'll sing the wild winter away;
I winna deceive ye, puir birdies,
Let mortals use me as they may!
Gae bring her frae house-tap or tree;
I'll bid her be true to sweet Robin,
For fause was a lassie to me:
You'll share ev'ry crumb i' my cabin;
We'll sing the wild winter away;
I winna deceive ye, puir birdies,
Let mortals use me as they may!
ORPHAN BESS.
[_]
Set to Music by Mr. Hook, and sung by Miss Leake, before the Royal Family, at Drury Lane Theatre.
A poor helpless wand'rer, the wide world before me,
When the harsh din of war forc'd a parent to roam;
With no friend, save kind Heav'n, to protect and watch o'er me;
I a child of affliction was robb'd of a home:
And thus, with a sigh, I accosted each stranger,
O look with compassion on poor Orphan Bess!
Your mite may relieve her from each threat'ning danger,
And the soft tear of pity can soothe her distress!
When the harsh din of war forc'd a parent to roam;
With no friend, save kind Heav'n, to protect and watch o'er me;
I a child of affliction was robb'd of a home:
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O look with compassion on poor Orphan Bess!
Your mite may relieve her from each threat'ning danger,
And the soft tear of pity can soothe her distress!
To the rich, by whom virtue's too often neglected,
I tell my sad story, and crave their relief;
But wealth seldom feels for a wretch unprotected,
'Tis poverty only partakes of her grief!
Ah! little they think, that the thousands they squander,
On the play-things of folly, and fripp'ries of dress,
Would relieve the keen wants of the wretched who wander,
Whilst the soft tear of pity wou'd sooth their distress!
I tell my sad story, and crave their relief;
But wealth seldom feels for a wretch unprotected,
'Tis poverty only partakes of her grief!
Ah! little they think, that the thousands they squander,
On the play-things of folly, and fripp'ries of dress,
Would relieve the keen wants of the wretched who wander,
Whilst the soft tear of pity wou'd sooth their distress!
Tho' bereft of each comfort, poor Bess will not languish,
Since short is life's journey, 'tis vain to lament;
And He who still marks the deep sigh of keen anguish,
Hath plac'd in this bosom the jewel content.
Then, ye wealthy, to-day, think, ah! think, ere tomorrow,
The frowns of misfortune upon you may press;
And turn not away from a poor orphan's sorrow;
When the soft tear of pity can sooth her distress!
Since short is life's journey, 'tis vain to lament;
And He who still marks the deep sigh of keen anguish,
Hath plac'd in this bosom the jewel content.
Then, ye wealthy, to-day, think, ah! think, ere tomorrow,
The frowns of misfortune upon you may press;
And turn not away from a poor orphan's sorrow;
When the soft tear of pity can sooth her distress!
203
THE HERO OF THE NILE.
Shades of British naval worthies, Europe's dread and glo ry,
Hawke, Howe, Duncan, Digby, Effingham, and Drake,
Rooke, Rodney, Russel, Raleigh, Benbow, and Boscawen,
Hardy, Keppel, Parker, Vernon, Kempenfelt, and Blake;
High on the lists of fame your deeds shall live recorded,
Protectors of old Albion, your envied happy Isle,
But now Britannia sighing droops, and mourns a greater warrior,
For fall'n is gallant Nelson, the Hero of the Nile.
Hawke, Howe, Duncan, Digby, Effingham, and Drake,
Rooke, Rodney, Russel, Raleigh, Benbow, and Boscawen,
Hardy, Keppel, Parker, Vernon, Kempenfelt, and Blake;
High on the lists of fame your deeds shall live recorded,
Protectors of old Albion, your envied happy Isle,
But now Britannia sighing droops, and mourns a greater warrior,
For fall'n is gallant Nelson, the Hero of the Nile.
Soon as the fatal bullet laid low this pride of Britain,
Neptune shook his hoary locks, and shrieks proclaim'd his grief;
The dastard foemen loud rejoic'd, when down the seamen bore him,
Each British tar shed tears for their long-lov'd matchless chief:
Tho' soon they struck, and strike they must, while freedom warms a Briton,
And commerce, arts, and industry make blest our far-fam'd Isle,
Yet dear-bought is the victory when bleeds a nation's warrior,
And long will future ages mourn the Hero of the Nile!
Neptune shook his hoary locks, and shrieks proclaim'd his grief;
The dastard foemen loud rejoic'd, when down the seamen bore him,
Each British tar shed tears for their long-lov'd matchless chief:
204
And commerce, arts, and industry make blest our far-fam'd Isle,
Yet dear-bought is the victory when bleeds a nation's warrior,
And long will future ages mourn the Hero of the Nile!
To the scourges of mankind, the oppressors of their country,
Let pride rear the column, bust, and splendid works of art;
Our great immortal Nelson, still, still in quest of glory,
Has left a lasting monument in ev'ry British heart:
And while a vaunting enemy shall threaten us with slavery,
Our tars for their country will meet death with a smile;
Revenge will nerve each arm, whene'er they think of his bravery,
Who fell our nations glory, the Hero of the Nile!
Let pride rear the column, bust, and splendid works of art;
Our great immortal Nelson, still, still in quest of glory,
Has left a lasting monument in ev'ry British heart:
And while a vaunting enemy shall threaten us with slavery,
Our tars for their country will meet death with a smile;
Revenge will nerve each arm, whene'er they think of his bravery,
Who fell our nations glory, the Hero of the Nile!
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TEDDY M‘FANE.
Potatoes now blossom, and gladness prevails,
The birds chaunt their love-songs throughout the green dales;
But dull as an owl, I sit sighing all day;
Och! what lass can be merry, now Teddy's away?
Was it gold?—No! not gold cou'd e'er force him to roam;
He'd a grunter, a cow, aye and whiskey at home;
And the love of the lasses might well make him vain,
Tho' dearest was Judy to Teddy M‘Fane!
The birds chaunt their love-songs throughout the green dales;
But dull as an owl, I sit sighing all day;
Och! what lass can be merry, now Teddy's away?
Was it gold?—No! not gold cou'd e'er force him to roam;
He'd a grunter, a cow, aye and whiskey at home;
And the love of the lasses might well make him vain,
Tho' dearest was Judy to Teddy M‘Fane!
I steal to his cabin, blind Darby to see;
He cries, “Arra, Judy! our Ted's far frae thee!
He wou'd walk to England, his fortune to make,
Wid a hod, or in hay-field; och! 'twas for thy sake!”
I snatch up the pipes, the dear pipes of my Ted,
And kiss them, and weep, for the music's all fled;
Ne'er a boy in Kilkenny cou'd finger a strain,
Or foot it away, like young Teddy M‘Fane!
He cries, “Arra, Judy! our Ted's far frae thee!
He wou'd walk to England, his fortune to make,
Wid a hod, or in hay-field; och! 'twas for thy sake!”
I snatch up the pipes, the dear pipes of my Ted,
And kiss them, and weep, for the music's all fled;
Ne'er a boy in Kilkenny cou'd finger a strain,
Or foot it away, like young Teddy M‘Fane!
206
At morn or at eve, when I milk our one cow,
I sing, “Cruel Teddy! come to me, boy, do!
From your own red-hair'd Judy, och! how cou'd you part?
Some duchess will be after stealing your heart!”
My old mother scolds in the corner, all day,
Calls my cheeks white as linen, and fait, well she may!
For they're bleach'd by my tears, like two spouts in the rain—
Arra! blow ye winds, bring to me Teddy M‘Fane!
I sing, “Cruel Teddy! come to me, boy, do!
From your own red-hair'd Judy, och! how cou'd you part?
Some duchess will be after stealing your heart!”
My old mother scolds in the corner, all day,
Calls my cheeks white as linen, and fait, well she may!
For they're bleach'd by my tears, like two spouts in the rain—
Arra! blow ye winds, bring to me Teddy M‘Fane!
BEGGAR WILLY'S LAMENT.
The Norlan blast bla's o'er the hill,
And day's last chearin' glimpse is gane;
Alake! what waes my bosom fill,
For hame or shelter I hae nane!
Before me lies the trackless muir,
Wi' monie a dang'rous wreath o' sna';
God only kens what I endure,
Now night her curtain draws o'er a'.
And day's last chearin' glimpse is gane;
Alake! what waes my bosom fill,
For hame or shelter I hae nane!
Before me lies the trackless muir,
Wi' monie a dang'rous wreath o' sna';
God only kens what I endure,
Now night her curtain draws o'er a'.
207
The wale o' pleasures ance were mine,
And blithe was spent life's joyous morn;
But age and puirtith now combine,
To point me out ilk mortals scorn:
The walthy drive me frae the gate;
The puir but little can bestow;
But I maun bear the ills o' fate,
Till death shall end baith want and woe.
And blithe was spent life's joyous morn;
But age and puirtith now combine,
To point me out ilk mortals scorn:
The walthy drive me frae the gate;
The puir but little can bestow;
But I maun bear the ills o' fate,
Till death shall end baith want and woe.
I had a wife, but she's nae mair;
I had a son, his father's pride;
I had a cot, where ne'er ance care
Durst seat him by our ingle side:
Methinks I see my Johnny's smile;
My age's hale delight was he!
But wae betide the press-gang, vile,
Wha forc'd the prop o' life frae me!
I had a son, his father's pride;
I had a cot, where ne'er ance care
Durst seat him by our ingle side:
Methinks I see my Johnny's smile;
My age's hale delight was he!
But wae betide the press-gang, vile,
Wha forc'd the prop o' life frae me!
We cheerfu' toil'd, wi' nought to fear,
An' neebors, a', to baith were kind;
My dim ee draps a painfu' tear,
When tha'e blest days I ca' to mind!
Yes! monie weel-lo'ed friens I fan,
Wha pass me now unheeded by;
E'en wee things mock the helpless man,
An' weary o' the warl am I!
An' neebors, a', to baith were kind;
My dim ee draps a painfu' tear,
When tha'e blest days I ca' to mind!
Yes! monie weel-lo'ed friens I fan,
Wha pass me now unheeded by;
E'en wee things mock the helpless man,
An' weary o' the warl am I!
208
Full fourscore Winters I hae seen,
An' this may be auld Willy's last:
But he wha hates a thought that's mean,
Shou'd ne'er repine at what is past.
The angry storm comes howling forth;
I'll seat me 'neath this leafless tree;
An' He wha rules the heav'n an' earth,
May comfort hae in store for me!
An' this may be auld Willy's last:
But he wha hates a thought that's mean,
Shou'd ne'er repine at what is past.
The angry storm comes howling forth;
I'll seat me 'neath this leafless tree;
An' He wha rules the heav'n an' earth,
May comfort hae in store for me!
SUMMER.
Now the gay smiles of Summer enliven each scene,
And light is the breeze of the morn;
Hills and meadows are cloth'd in their livery of green,
And the blossoms the hedge-rows adorn:
Panting herds seek the stream, and the flocks court the vale,
While songsters enliven each spray;
And the laugh of the rustic is borne on each gale.
As with labour he cheats the long day.
And light is the breeze of the morn;
Hills and meadows are cloth'd in their livery of green,
And the blossoms the hedge-rows adorn:
Panting herds seek the stream, and the flocks court the vale,
While songsters enliven each spray;
And the laugh of the rustic is borne on each gale.
As with labour he cheats the long day.
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In this season, 'tis sweet, now when all is in bloom,
The town and its follies to leave;
And enjoy the pure breeze, orrich meadow's perfume,
Where nature ne'er smiles to deceive:
When at eve, tir'd with labour, the bee seeks his cell,
A type of industry to man;
And as Sol's parting beams tinge the mountain and dell,
Fondly mark the Creator's great plan.
The town and its follies to leave;
And enjoy the pure breeze, orrich meadow's perfume,
Where nature ne'er smiles to deceive:
When at eve, tir'd with labour, the bee seeks his cell,
A type of industry to man;
And as Sol's parting beams tinge the mountain and dell,
Fondly mark the Creator's great plan.
While around as enraptur'd with ardour we gaze,
Delighted each prospect to view,
Let us think how soon manhood like Summer decays,
But no mortal the past can renew:
Then howe'er on life's journey its troubles we share,
Let no pleasures the bosom beguile,
Since 'tis wise to look forward, and daily prepare
To give welcome to death, with a smile.
Delighted each prospect to view,
Let us think how soon manhood like Summer decays,
But no mortal the past can renew:
Then howe'er on life's journey its troubles we share,
Let no pleasures the bosom beguile,
Since 'tis wise to look forward, and daily prepare
To give welcome to death, with a smile.
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JINGLE THE GLASSES.
Come, Tom, let us jingle the glasses, lad,
And bumper the dear witchin' lasses, lad;
What tho' we baith be puir,
We'll kick care behind the duir,
And laugh at all dull thinkin' asses, lad!
And bumper the dear witchin' lasses, lad;
What tho' we baith be puir,
We'll kick care behind the duir,
And laugh at all dull thinkin' asses, lad!
O had we been born to great plenty, lad,
And of houses cou'd reckon'd up some twenty, lad,
The warl wou'd beck'd and bow'd,
But we'll bend not to the proud;
For guid-fellowship thro' life's the greatest dainty, lad!
And of houses cou'd reckon'd up some twenty, lad,
The warl wou'd beck'd and bow'd,
But we'll bend not to the proud;
For guid-fellowship thro' life's the greatest dainty, lad!
Tho' the wise and the wealthy may jeer us, lad,
We've ae comfort, nae hirelings need fear us, lad!
Were my back without a coat,
And my purse without a groat,
Haith, I wadna change wi' thousands we see near us, lad!
We've ae comfort, nae hirelings need fear us, lad!
Were my back without a coat,
And my purse without a groat,
Haith, I wadna change wi' thousands we see near us, lad!
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When we think o' the pleasures we hae tasted, lad,
Shall we number the happy days as wasted, lad?
No!—Tho' youth's play be past,
And auld age is postin' fast,
By sorrow let no future joys be blasted, lad!
Shall we number the happy days as wasted, lad?
No!—Tho' youth's play be past,
And auld age is postin' fast,
By sorrow let no future joys be blasted, lad!
If on decency's laws we ne'er trample, lad,
But of virtue ay shew an honest sample, lad,
A fig for a' the rules,
And the pedantry o' fools!
Wha the deil can say we set a bad example, lad!
But of virtue ay shew an honest sample, lad,
A fig for a' the rules,
And the pedantry o' fools!
Wha the deil can say we set a bad example, lad!
Then, Tom, let us jingle the glasses, lad,
And laugh at half the warl, silly asses, lad!
May we ay hae a friend,
And a saxpence to spend,
And a spare hour to sport wi' the lasses, lad!
And laugh at half the warl, silly asses, lad!
May we ay hae a friend,
And a saxpence to spend,
And a spare hour to sport wi' the lasses, lad!
THE MANIAC.
Yes, the maid I remember, who travers'd the wild,
And sung her sad song near the old wither'd thorn;
From her look, she e'en seem'd sorrow's fav'rite child,
And a heart-rending burthen long time she had borne.
“Man, base deceiver! come not near me!
Ye artless maidens, do not fear me!
Heed not men's vows; avoid their wiles;
Oft sorrow lurks beneath love's smiles:
But hush! the salt tear burns my cheek—
Ah! wounded heart, when wilt thou break?”
And sung her sad song near the old wither'd thorn;
From her look, she e'en seem'd sorrow's fav'rite child,
And a heart-rending burthen long time she had borne.
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Ye artless maidens, do not fear me!
Heed not men's vows; avoid their wiles;
Oft sorrow lurks beneath love's smiles:
But hush! the salt tear burns my cheek—
Ah! wounded heart, when wilt thou break?”
Thus far she disclos'd, but by whoe'er undone,
Or her name, not a sage village matron cou'd trace;
Still the town and its throng she was careful to shun;
But the trav'ller, with pity, wou'd gaze on her face:
Each offer'd mite with scorn refusing;
Now mild her looks, now reason losing;
Now she'd laugh, now heave a sigh;
Now chide the birds that near her fly;
Now fancy wild flow'rs round her grow;
And many a wreath she'd twine of straw.
Or her name, not a sage village matron cou'd trace;
Still the town and its throng she was careful to shun;
But the trav'ller, with pity, wou'd gaze on her face:
Each offer'd mite with scorn refusing;
Now mild her looks, now reason losing;
Now she'd laugh, now heave a sigh;
Now chide the birds that near her fly;
Now fancy wild flow'rs round her grow;
And many a wreath she'd twine of straw.
The loud storm of winter rag'd keen o'er the wild,
When the corse of the poor shrivell'd Maniac was found;
Ah! why not, ye wealthy, preserve sorrow's child?
Compassion might heal many a wand'rer's deep wound!
No rude stone marks her narrow dwelling;
Perhaps once thought each maid excelling;
She wish'd the stranger but to know,
Love was the source of all her woe:
How cautious still shou'd be the fair;
Love leads to bliss—love leads to care.
When the corse of the poor shrivell'd Maniac was found;
Ah! why not, ye wealthy, preserve sorrow's child?
Compassion might heal many a wand'rer's deep wound!
No rude stone marks her narrow dwelling;
Perhaps once thought each maid excelling;
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Love was the source of all her woe:
How cautious still shou'd be the fair;
Love leads to bliss—love leads to care.
THE WILD ROSE.
The wild Rose is a bonnie flow'r,
When wat wi' mornin' dew;
It ca's to mind the fair I prize,
But, ah! she prov'd untrue!
Her look a captive made my heart;
She bound me wi' luive's chain:
Yet I may taste o' liberty,
Ere Roses bloom again.
When wat wi' mornin' dew;
It ca's to mind the fair I prize,
But, ah! she prov'd untrue!
Her look a captive made my heart;
She bound me wi' luive's chain:
Yet I may taste o' liberty,
Ere Roses bloom again.
I'll pou the wild Rose, Flora's pride,
And tear ilk thorn away;
Then gie it to the lass I lo'e,
She'll see it suin decay:
At sic a sight she may relent,
And ease me o' luive's pain;
If sae, I'll thank ye, Roses wild,
When first ye bloom again!
And tear ilk thorn away;
Then gie it to the lass I lo'e,
She'll see it suin decay:
At sic a sight she may relent,
And ease me o' luive's pain;
If sae, I'll thank ye, Roses wild,
When first ye bloom again!
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TO MARY.
Exil'd frae thee, and ilka mead,
Where first I tun'd the rustic reed,
Still fancy's aid I dare to crave;
Still bend to love a willing slave.
While others court life's gaudy crew,
To empty grandeur fain to bow,
The town nae mair can pleasure gie;
My thoughts are center'd a' in thee.
Where first I tun'd the rustic reed,
Still fancy's aid I dare to crave;
Still bend to love a willing slave.
While others court life's gaudy crew,
To empty grandeur fain to bow,
The town nae mair can pleasure gie;
My thoughts are center'd a' in thee.
How monie a Spring hath deck'd the vales,
And pour'd the fragrance on the gales,
Sin' first by Sol's departin' beam,
Midst Eden's bow'rs, love was our theme:
Ah! hours o' bliss, to mem'ry dear!
Ye prompt reflection's painfu' tear:
Dear scenes! around ye brighter bloom,
And will, till summon'd to the tomb!
And pour'd the fragrance on the gales,
Sin' first by Sol's departin' beam,
Midst Eden's bow'rs, love was our theme:
Ah! hours o' bliss, to mem'ry dear!
Ye prompt reflection's painfu' tear:
Dear scenes! around ye brighter bloom,
And will, till summon'd to the tomb!
When Simmer wi' her smilin' train,
Gars a' rejoice o'er hill and plain,
I see thy face in ilka flow'r,
And hear thy voice in monie a bow'r.
When Boreas wi' a thousand storms
The face o' nature quick deforms,
I tune my pipe to love and thee,
Till aft a tear-drap swells my ee.
Gars a' rejoice o'er hill and plain,
I see thy face in ilka flow'r,
And hear thy voice in monie a bow'r.
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The face o' nature quick deforms,
I tune my pipe to love and thee,
Till aft a tear-drap swells my ee.
If musin' thro' the fields I stray,
Thou'rt ay my theme the lee-lang day;
And when the stars o' night appear,
The thoughts o' thee my bosom cheer:
In dreams I see thy matchless face,
Enraptur'd wi' ilk magic grace;
Thus day or night, thy charms impart
The dearest bliss that warms my heart.
Thou'rt ay my theme the lee-lang day;
And when the stars o' night appear,
The thoughts o' thee my bosom cheer:
In dreams I see thy matchless face,
Enraptur'd wi' ilk magic grace;
Thus day or night, thy charms impart
The dearest bliss that warms my heart.
Thy love is a' I ask on earth;
It gies to ilka pleasure birth;
Life's ills it maks me patient bear,
Quite reckless o' the thorn o' care.
Hope, wha sae aft fond man beguiles,
Yet whispers wi' bewitchin' smiles,
Tho' friendships fade, in life's decline,
Long-wish'd-for joys may soon be mine!
It gies to ilka pleasure birth;
Life's ills it maks me patient bear,
Quite reckless o' the thorn o' care.
Hope, wha sae aft fond man beguiles,
Yet whispers wi' bewitchin' smiles,
Tho' friendships fade, in life's decline,
Long-wish'd-for joys may soon be mine!
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EVENING.
How sweet 'tis to rove at the close of the day,
O'er daisy-clad meads, by a soft murm'ring rill,
When the thrush from the brake pours his evening love lay,
And Sol's parting beams tinge the furze-cover'd hill;
When the rustic's loud laugh tells a heart void of care,
With the maid of his bosom delighted to roam;
When eager the joys of his cottage to share,
The labourer wearied, thinks long for his home.
O'er daisy-clad meads, by a soft murm'ring rill,
When the thrush from the brake pours his evening love lay,
And Sol's parting beams tinge the furze-cover'd hill;
When the rustic's loud laugh tells a heart void of care,
With the maid of his bosom delighted to roam;
When eager the joys of his cottage to share,
The labourer wearied, thinks long for his home.
Now wrapt up in mist is the mountain's steep brow;
No longer the din of the village is heard;
Now lost is the landscape, late beauteous to view;
No sound strikes the ear, save one sorrowful bird:
'Tis the partridge's wail, for his far-distant mate—
Let man learn affection from each feather'd pair,
And reflect on the days he has spent, ere too late;
Still thankful, midst sorrows, for blessings that were.
No longer the din of the village is heard;
Now lost is the landscape, late beauteous to view;
No sound strikes the ear, save one sorrowful bird:
'Tis the partridge's wail, for his far-distant mate—
Let man learn affection from each feather'd pair,
And reflect on the days he has spent, ere too late;
Still thankful, midst sorrows, for blessings that were.
In life's rosy morn, full of frolic and joy,
Light-hearted, in quest of new pleasures we fly,
Till noon brings its cares, many a hope to destroy,
And the thoughts of the past will oft force a deep sigh:
Eve steals on apace, and oft finds us in tears,
For in friendship, in love, constant changes we see;
Each wound of the heart deeper grows with our years,
And the evening of life's seldom tranquil or free.
Light-hearted, in quest of new pleasures we fly,
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And the thoughts of the past will oft force a deep sigh:
Eve steals on apace, and oft finds us in tears,
For in friendship, in love, constant changes we see;
Each wound of the heart deeper grows with our years,
And the evening of life's seldom tranquil or free.
TO NANNY.
The subject of this song was servant to a respectable family, where the Author for some time resided, in Carlisle. She was an affectionate, beautiful girl, virtuous as beautiful, and rejoiced in the happiness of her fellow-creatures. Alas! poor Nanny, tho' she often listened to Robin's rhymes, forgot his instructions; for won by a harpy, who gloried in seduction, she sunk a prey to remorse, and was borne to the grave soon afterwards, deeply lamented.
Now, Nanny, in thy fifteenth year,
Tak tent, an' listen my advice;
Tho' thou canst boast nae lands or gear;
Yet thou'lt hae wooers in a trice.
But O, be wary! now's the time,
When luive lurks in thy glancin e'e;
Or thou'lt sup sorrow, ere thy prime,
For man's a wretch, unknown to thee!
Tak tent, an' listen my advice;
Tho' thou canst boast nae lands or gear;
Yet thou'lt hae wooers in a trice.
But O, be wary! now's the time,
When luive lurks in thy glancin e'e;
Or thou'lt sup sorrow, ere thy prime,
For man's a wretch, unknown to thee!
A bonnier lip ne'er wan a heart—
A brighter e'e ne'er shot one thro'
Thy cheek may match the fairest flow'r,
That ever drank the e'ening dew:
Yet, be thou wary! &c.
A brighter e'e ne'er shot one thro'
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That ever drank the e'ening dew:
Yet, be thou wary! &c.
Let not puir Robin's humble praise
Lift thee o'er high; the truth he'll tell:
Sham fa' the loon, whase rhymin' phrase
Maks onie lass forget hersel!
Still be thou wary! &c.
Lift thee o'er high; the truth he'll tell:
Sham fa' the loon, whase rhymin' phrase
Maks onie lass forget hersel!
Still be thou wary! &c.
Like bees aroun a hinny flow'r,
They'll buz about thee, grin, and sing;
But never let them steal thy sweets,
Lest aff they fly, an' leave a sting.
O lass, be wary! &c.
They'll buz about thee, grin, and sing;
But never let them steal thy sweets,
Lest aff they fly, an' leave a sting.
O lass, be wary! &c.
Sin' smoothest water's deepest found,
Ay shun the slee pretendin' chiel;
For he whase heart but harbours guile,
Deserves a match wou'd match the Deil!
Then, O be wary! &c.
Ay shun the slee pretendin' chiel;
For he whase heart but harbours guile,
Deserves a match wou'd match the Deil!
Then, O be wary! &c.
Nor listen to the snivelin' fuil,
Wha raves 'bout lightning, flames, and darts;
Sic trash is learn'd in onie schuil,
An' aft has broke the best o' hearts!
Be wary, Nanny! &c.
Wha raves 'bout lightning, flames, and darts;
Sic trash is learn'd in onie schuil,
An' aft has broke the best o' hearts!
Be wary, Nanny! &c.
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Let simple nature be thy guide:
Ay seek an honest heart to win;
An' be the lad no' worth a groat,
Tak courage, lass! the warl begin!
But, O be wary! now's the time,
When luive lurks in thy coal-black e'e;
Or thou'lt sup sorrow, ere thy prime,
For man's a wretch, unknown to thee!
Ay seek an honest heart to win;
An' be the lad no' worth a groat,
Tak courage, lass! the warl begin!
But, O be wary! now's the time,
When luive lurks in thy coal-black e'e;
Or thou'lt sup sorrow, ere thy prime,
For man's a wretch, unknown to thee!
THE SHIP-WRECKED SEA-BOY.
'Tis night—all around me the chill blast is howling;
The harsh-screaming sea-bird now scar'd hovers nigh;
The voice of great Heav'n in loud thunder is rolling:
Alas! nor for shelter, nor rest can I fly!
I mark by the lightning's blue gleam the wreck floating,
Of her that long triumph'd o'er each threat'ning wave;
I, alone, to this rock, 'scap'd the merciless ocean,
While comrades, more blest, found a watery grave!
The harsh-screaming sea-bird now scar'd hovers nigh;
The voice of great Heav'n in loud thunder is rolling:
Alas! nor for shelter, nor rest can I fly!
I mark by the lightning's blue gleam the wreck floating,
Of her that long triumph'd o'er each threat'ning wave;
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While comrades, more blest, found a watery grave!
More blest! 'Tis not so! If unpitied I perish,
To me, some few hours for reflection are giv'n,
A hope for the grey dawn of morning I'll cherish;
We ne'er should arraign the decrees of Just Hfav'n!
How still'd seems the tempest!—Yon beauteous moon rising,
I'll gaze on, awhile, my sunk spirits to cheer:—
That sound! was it human?—again hark!—'tis coming!
Ah me!—the wild half-famish'd wolf I but hear!
To me, some few hours for reflection are giv'n,
A hope for the grey dawn of morning I'll cherish;
We ne'er should arraign the decrees of Just Hfav'n!
How still'd seems the tempest!—Yon beauteous moon rising,
I'll gaze on, awhile, my sunk spirits to cheer:—
That sound! was it human?—again hark!—'tis coming!
Ah me!—the wild half-famish'd wolf I but hear!
My father, grown old!—my affectionate mother!
You'll look for poor Henry, but long watch in vain;
My sister! how lovely!—my helpless young brother!
Ne'er, ne'er will you share my caresses again!
With you, the long day will be spent in deep mourning;
The bones of the sea-boy must bleach on the shore!
Now dim grows my sight!—Oh! this fever'd brain's burning!
I come, welcome Death!—All my sorrows are o'er!
You'll look for poor Henry, but long watch in vain;
My sister! how lovely!—my helpless young brother!
Ne'er, ne'er will you share my caresses again!
With you, the long day will be spent in deep mourning;
The bones of the sea-boy must bleach on the shore!
Now dim grows my sight!—Oh! this fever'd brain's burning!
I come, welcome Death!—All my sorrows are o'er!
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BRITANNIA'S CALL.
On a rock Britannia stood,
And thus her warlike sons address'd;
“Shall a despot stain'd with blood,
Warriors brave and free molest?
No! rise to arms, and scorn the vengeful host;
Death waits the foe who dares approach our coast.
And thus her warlike sons address'd;
“Shall a despot stain'd with blood,
Warriors brave and free molest?
No! rise to arms, and scorn the vengeful host;
Death waits the foe who dares approach our coast.
“Hark! I hear the mighty dead,
Cressy's fierce and godlike band—”
“By your sires who boldly bled,
Swear to save your native land;
On, on to conquest! glory crowns the brave,
Crush Gallia's tyrant who'd the world enslave!”
Cressy's fierce and godlike band—”
“By your sires who boldly bled,
Swear to save your native land;
On, on to conquest! glory crowns the brave,
Crush Gallia's tyrant who'd the world enslave!”
“Matchless on the lists of fame,
Vict'ry wreathes the Briton's brow;
Nor shall they who boast the name
To a foreign tyrant bow;
For while his wrath on servile states is hurl'd,
Britain shall rise the envy of the world.”
Vict'ry wreathes the Briton's brow;
Nor shall they who boast the name
To a foreign tyrant bow;
For while his wrath on servile states is hurl'd,
Britain shall rise the envy of the world.”
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THE LOVER'S TRIAL.
“Who's that below my window calls,
And breaks the silence of the night?
Who wak'd me from my slumbers sweet,
When dreaming of my soul's delight?
Was it the night-breeze in the wood?
Was it the streams that rapid flow?
It seem'd the moan of shiv'ring want;
It seem'd the hollow voice of woe!”
And breaks the silence of the night?
Who wak'd me from my slumbers sweet,
When dreaming of my soul's delight?
Was it the night-breeze in the wood?
Was it the streams that rapid flow?
It seem'd the moan of shiv'ring want;
It seem'd the hollow voice of woe!”
“'Twas not the night-breeze in the wood:
'Twas not the streams that rapid flow:
It was the moan of shiv'ring want—
It was the hollow voice of woe:
A houseless, helpless, friendless man,
Implores your goodness with a sigh:
Throw me a crust, for hunger craves,
And with the cattle let me lie!”
'Twas not the streams that rapid flow:
It was the moan of shiv'ring want—
It was the hollow voice of woe:
A houseless, helpless, friendless man,
Implores your goodness with a sigh:
Throw me a crust, for hunger craves,
And with the cattle let me lie!”
“If pity e'er warm'd female breast,
I feel the glow of pity here:
Come, stranger, rest thy wearied limbs,
And welcome share our humble cheer!
The storm is up, the air is keen,
The hour is late, the first cock crows;
A blazing fire will give new life,
And help to court thee to repose.”
I feel the glow of pity here:
Come, stranger, rest thy wearied limbs,
And welcome share our humble cheer!
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The hour is late, the first cock crows;
A blazing fire will give new life,
And help to court thee to repose.”
“Thanks, lovely tender-hearted maid,
Thy guest I'll sit till dawning day;
And O, may Heav'n that knows thy worth,
With plenty still such worth repay.
Hear, Mary! hear a lover's voice,
Who came to prove thy feeling heart;
And by thy sighs in pity's cause,
I swear we never more will part!”
Thy guest I'll sit till dawning day;
And O, may Heav'n that knows thy worth,
With plenty still such worth repay.
Hear, Mary! hear a lover's voice,
Who came to prove thy feeling heart;
And by thy sighs in pity's cause,
I swear we never more will part!”
THE ROSE OF THE VALLEY.
A rose of the valley, mid Cauda's green bowers,
Bloom'd poor little Mary, the villagers' pride;
And blithe as the lark that elate hails the morning,
O'er scenes of blest childhood with health daily hied:
Her father, a cottager, lov'd her, ah, dearly!
For still in her face a lost partner he view'd,
And oft to her green grave at evening they wander'd,
To pluck the wild weeds Spring around it had strew'd.
Bloom'd poor little Mary, the villagers' pride;
And blithe as the lark that elate hails the morning,
O'er scenes of blest childhood with health daily hied:
Her father, a cottager, lov'd her, ah, dearly!
For still in her face a lost partner he view'd,
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To pluck the wild weeds Spring around it had strew'd.
Now scarce sixteen Summers had danc'd o'er the mountains,
When love, tyrant love made poor Mary his slave;
But soon slaught'ring war from her arms call'd young Henry,
And tidings next told her he fell with the brave.
All faded she wanders, each comfort denying,
The visions of pleasure for ever are fled;
A poor frenzied orphan lives ill-fated Mary,
The flocks her companions, the cold earth her bed.
When love, tyrant love made poor Mary his slave;
But soon slaught'ring war from her arms call'd young Henry,
And tidings next told her he fell with the brave.
All faded she wanders, each comfort denying,
The visions of pleasure for ever are fled;
A poor frenzied orphan lives ill-fated Mary,
The flocks her companions, the cold earth her bed.
MARY.
The Summer sun was out of sight,
His parting beams danc'd on the flood;
The fisher watch'd the silver fry,
As in the stream he bending stood;
The blackbird mourn'd departing day,
And call'd his partner to his nest,
When I up Eden took my way,
To meet my Mary I love best.
His parting beams danc'd on the flood;
The fisher watch'd the silver fry,
As in the stream he bending stood;
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And call'd his partner to his nest,
When I up Eden took my way,
To meet my Mary I love best.
I gaz'd upon her matchless face,
That fairer than the lily seem'd;
I mark'd the magic of her eye,
That with love's pow'rful lightning beam'd;
I saw her cheek of beauteous red,
That, blushing, told a lover's pain,
Then stole a kiss; if 'twas a crime,
Ye gods, oft may I sin again!
That fairer than the lily seem'd;
I mark'd the magic of her eye,
That with love's pow'rful lightning beam'd;
I saw her cheek of beauteous red,
That, blushing, told a lover's pain,
Then stole a kiss; if 'twas a crime,
Ye gods, oft may I sin again!
Fast flew the hours, now rose the moon,
And told us it was time to part;
I saw her to her mother's door,
She whisper'd low, “thou hast my heart!”
I thro' the lattice stole a glance,
And heard her angry mother chide;
Then thought of all a parent's cares,
As from the cot I homeward hied.
And told us it was time to part;
I saw her to her mother's door,
She whisper'd low, “thou hast my heart!”
I thro' the lattice stole a glance,
And heard her angry mother chide;
Then thought of all a parent's cares,
As from the cot I homeward hied.
I've tasted pleasures, dearly bought,
And read mankind in many a page;
But woman, woman sweeten's life,
From giddy youth to feeble age!
Ye worldlings court coy fortune's smile;
Ye rakes in quest of pleasure rove;
Ye drunkards drown each sense with wine;
Be mine the dear delights of love!
And read mankind in many a page;
But woman, woman sweeten's life,
From giddy youth to feeble age!
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Ye rakes in quest of pleasure rove;
Ye drunkards drown each sense with wine;
Be mine the dear delights of love!
WILL O' THE GLEN.
When lav'rocks were singin', and gowans were springin',
Young Will o' the Glen cam a wooin' to me!
My heart how it panted, he sought me, 'twas granted,
For Willy was a' a fond wooer sould be:
Far dearest o' onie, was he to his Annie;
I gied him my hand, tho' my tocher was sma';
Scarce pleasures we tasted, ere hopes were a' blasted—
War forc'd my sad Willy to wander awa'.
Young Will o' the Glen cam a wooin' to me!
My heart how it panted, he sought me, 'twas granted,
For Willy was a' a fond wooer sould be:
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I gied him my hand, tho' my tocher was sma';
Scarce pleasures we tasted, ere hopes were a' blasted—
War forc'd my sad Willy to wander awa'.
Three lang years were over, and I for my lover,
In simmer, in winter, did naething but mourn;
I droop'd like a lily, nor e'er hop'd my Willy
To friens or his partner again would return:
To-day sunk in sadness, to-morrow brings gladness,
Ae night by the hallan, I heard a voice ca',
“Come kiss me, my Annie! I'm happiest o' onie;
And nae mair thy Willy will wander awa'.”
In simmer, in winter, did naething but mourn;
I droop'd like a lily, nor e'er hop'd my Willy
To friens or his partner again would return:
To-day sunk in sadness, to-morrow brings gladness,
Ae night by the hallan, I heard a voice ca',
“Come kiss me, my Annie! I'm happiest o' onie;
And nae mair thy Willy will wander awa'.”
The pride o' his neebors, he laughs, and he labours;
Wi' twa rosy weans, I sing at my wheel;
At e'enin' we meet him, they kiss him, and greet him,
And ay his delight is to see us a' leel:
While monie hunt treasure, my Willy's hale pleasure
Is, that health rules his cottage, and smiles on us a';
We'll toil on thegethir, and comfort ilk ither,
In hopes to be ready, when death gies us a ca'!
Wi' twa rosy weans, I sing at my wheel;
At e'enin' we meet him, they kiss him, and greet him,
And ay his delight is to see us a' leel:
While monie hunt treasure, my Willy's hale pleasure
Is, that health rules his cottage, and smiles on us a';
We'll toil on thegethir, and comfort ilk ither,
In hopes to be ready, when death gies us a ca'!
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THE COTTAGE GIRL.
FROM THE MUSICAL FARCE OF THE BEGGAR GIRL.
On the brow of a hill where the stream gurgles down,
With a church within sight stands my cottage of clay;
I rise with the lark, and no lady in town,
By splendour surrounded, spends sweeter the day:
The thorn of ambition ne'er wounded my breast,
If I gaze at fine gentry, I envy them not;
In plain russet gown, pride disturbs not my rest,
For innocence dwells with content in my cot.
With a church within sight stands my cottage of clay;
I rise with the lark, and no lady in town,
By splendour surrounded, spends sweeter the day:
The thorn of ambition ne'er wounded my breast,
If I gaze at fine gentry, I envy them not;
In plain russet gown, pride disturbs not my rest,
For innocence dwells with content in my cot.
Tho' lowly it seems, 'twas my forefather's pride,
The scene of fond youth, where they wanton'd with mirth;
And the woodbine and jess'mine that creep up its side,
On that morning were planted which smil'd at my birth:
My parents, tho' poor, cou'd avoid envious strife,
And ne'er shall their lessons by me be forgot;
Then welcome, ye rich, to the play-things of life,
You know not the pleasures that wait on the cot!
The scene of fond youth, where they wanton'd with mirth;
And the woodbine and jess'mine that creep up its side,
On that morning were planted which smil'd at my birth:
My parents, tho' poor, cou'd avoid envious strife,
And ne'er shall their lessons by me be forgot;
Then welcome, ye rich, to the play-things of life,
You know not the pleasures that wait on the cot!
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My shepherd is constant, and O what delight
I feel, when at eve he returns from the plain;
As peace crowns the day, love beguiles many a night,
And care and rough weather attack us in vain.
When spring time invites, o'er the daisy-clad meads,
The linnet sings sweet, and cold winter's forgot;
Then who for a court, or a few silken weeds,
Wou'd barter retirement, content, and a cot.
I feel, when at eve he returns from the plain;
As peace crowns the day, love beguiles many a night,
And care and rough weather attack us in vain.
When spring time invites, o'er the daisy-clad meads,
The linnet sings sweet, and cold winter's forgot;
Then who for a court, or a few silken weeds,
Wou'd barter retirement, content, and a cot.
THE KIRK-YARD YEW.
I ance lo'ed a lass, a bonny sweet lass,
And pawky her een were, and blue;
She lo'ed me as weel as she lo'ed her ain brither,
And monie a time vow'd she cou'd ne'er like anither;
And leel was her heart, and true.
And pawky her een were, and blue;
She lo'ed me as weel as she lo'ed her ain brither,
And monie a time vow'd she cou'd ne'er like anither;
And leel was her heart, and true.
I gaed to the south, a sad sorrowfu' gate,
The journey, thro' life, I may rue;
Five years brought me hame, wi' a pain'd bosom burning,
Alake! a' my hopes were soon, soon chang'd to mourning—
She laid near the Kirk-yard Yew!
The journey, thro' life, I may rue;
235
Alake! a' my hopes were soon, soon chang'd to mourning—
She laid near the Kirk-yard Yew!
I ran to the grave o' this blossom sae fair,
As the flow'rs sipp'd the mild e'ening dew;
A tear dimm'd my e'e, and I aft said wi' sorrow,
Sweet lassie! I fain wou'd rest near thee to-morrow,
In peace, near the Kirk-yard Yew!
As the flow'rs sipp'd the mild e'ening dew;
A tear dimm'd my e'e, and I aft said wi' sorrow,
Sweet lassie! I fain wou'd rest near thee to-morrow,
In peace, near the Kirk-yard Yew!
Ne'er, ne'er maun I ken sic a lassie again,
While this dark vale of life I toil thro';
Her name I'll ay treasure, where'er fate may thraw me,
And a tear afttimes gie her, whate'er may befa' me—
Sweet lass, near the Kirk-yard Yew!
While this dark vale of life I toil thro';
Her name I'll ay treasure, where'er fate may thraw me,
And a tear afttimes gie her, whate'er may befa' me—
Sweet lass, near the Kirk-yard Yew!
236
THE LAND WE LIVE IN.
SUNG BY MR. MAYWOOD, ON ST. PATRICK'S DAY.
Apologies shall sangsters use?
Wae worth the loon wha dare refuse;
I'll chaunt ane aff-hand frae the Muse,
And praise the land we live in:
Wi' beauty fair as flow'rs o' spring,
An' lads mair blithe than onie king,
Deil claw his wame wha winna sing
The favour'd land we live in!
Gae seek auld terra firma round,
Whare'er man claims a perch o' ground,
The leelest hearts will ay be found,
Throughout the land we live in!
Wae worth the loon wha dare refuse;
I'll chaunt ane aff-hand frae the Muse,
And praise the land we live in:
Wi' beauty fair as flow'rs o' spring,
An' lads mair blithe than onie king,
Deil claw his wame wha winna sing
The favour'd land we live in!
Gae seek auld terra firma round,
Whare'er man claims a perch o' ground,
The leelest hearts will ay be found,
Throughout the land we live in!
Auld Erin's cottars laugh at care;
They lo'e their friens, protect the fair;
And grievous ills they joyfu' bear,
A' for the land they live in!
Their bosoms wi' true valour steel'd,
They're ay the foremost i' the field;
And mak ilk pauky Frenchman yield,
For the dear land they live in!
Gae seek auld terra firma, &c.
They lo'e their friens, protect the fair;
And grievous ills they joyfu' bear,
A' for the land they live in!
Their bosoms wi' true valour steel'd,
237
And mak ilk pauky Frenchman yield,
For the dear land they live in!
Gae seek auld terra firma, &c.
Whare'er I earn my wee bit bread,
Howe'er stern fate may bow my head,
I'll sing, till number'd wi' the dead,
This happy land we live in!
And O, while shamrock's deck the isle,
May peace and plenty on it smile;
And bonny lasses, void o' guile,
Ay grace the land we live in!
Gae seek auld terra firma, &c.
Howe'er stern fate may bow my head,
I'll sing, till number'd wi' the dead,
This happy land we live in!
And O, while shamrock's deck the isle,
May peace and plenty on it smile;
And bonny lasses, void o' guile,
Ay grace the land we live in!
Gae seek auld terra firma, &c.
Now, strike the harp—your voices raise,
In Erin's—in St. Patrick's praise;
May sorrow darken a' his days,
Wha scorns the land we live in!
May party feuds for ever cease,
An' rights religious lang encrease!
Then, bold in war, secure in peace,
We'll bless the land we live in!
Gae seek auld terra firma round,
Whare'er man claims a perch o' ground,
The leelest hearts will ay be found,
Throughout the land we live in!
In Erin's—in St. Patrick's praise;
May sorrow darken a' his days,
Wha scorns the land we live in!
May party feuds for ever cease,
An' rights religious lang encrease!
Then, bold in war, secure in peace,
We'll bless the land we live in!
Gae seek auld terra firma round,
Whare'er man claims a perch o' ground,
The leelest hearts will ay be found,
Throughout the land we live in!
238
TO MARY.
Wintry blasts nae langer bla';
Spring returns wi' smilin' face;
Mountains cast their caps o' sna',
Nature shews ilk pleasin' grace:
Now, Mary, quit thy cot sae dear,
And love, true love, shall be our theme,
As pleas'd we mark the changin' year,
Where wild woods wave o'er Eden's stream.
Spring returns wi' smilin' face;
Mountains cast their caps o' sna',
Nature shews ilk pleasin' grace:
Now, Mary, quit thy cot sae dear,
And love, true love, shall be our theme,
As pleas'd we mark the changin' year,
Where wild woods wave o'er Eden's stream.
Linnets court on ilka bush;
Lavrocks soar abuin the lea;
Loudest o' the lave, the thrush,
Cheers his mate frae tree to tree:
O'er hill and moor, in mead or bow'r,
Ilk joy's to mak fond love a theme;
Like them, we'll pass the e'enin' hour,
Where wild woods wave o'er Eden's stream.
Lavrocks soar abuin the lea;
Loudest o' the lave, the thrush,
Cheers his mate frae tree to tree:
O'er hill and moor, in mead or bow'r,
Ilk joy's to mak fond love a theme;
Like them, we'll pass the e'enin' hour,
Where wild woods wave o'er Eden's stream.
Blest wi' thee, nought mair I'll prize;
Suin will hasten life's decline,
Dead'nin' a' our earthly joys;
—Say, to-morrow thou'lt be mine!
I swear by that consentin' smile,
To think o' this delightfu' theme!
Here beats a heart shall ne'er know guile,
While wild woods wave o'er Eden's stream!
Suin will hasten life's decline,
Dead'nin' a' our earthly joys;
—Say, to-morrow thou'lt be mine!
239
To think o' this delightfu' theme!
Here beats a heart shall ne'er know guile,
While wild woods wave o'er Eden's stream!
CRAZY KATE.
Ah! who is she whose tresses wild,
Bespeak her sorrow's frantic child?
'Tis Kate, whose bosom fraught with woe,
Sweet peace again can never know;
Who, careless, wandering all day long,
Sings to herself this plaintive song:—
“Come Death! thou friend to the distrest,
Srike, strike, at once, this tortur'd breast,
And ease poor Kate, who cannot rest!”
Bespeak her sorrow's frantic child?
'Tis Kate, whose bosom fraught with woe,
Sweet peace again can never know;
Who, careless, wandering all day long,
Sings to herself this plaintive song:—
“Come Death! thou friend to the distrest,
Srike, strike, at once, this tortur'd breast,
And ease poor Kate, who cannot rest!”
In infancy, her father died:
And she, her mother's only pride,
Was forc'd (hard fate!) at plenty's door
The mite of pity to implore.
But soon, ah! soon an orphan left;
Of ev'ry stay, save Heaven, bereft;
In coarsest tatters but half-drest,
Without a home or place of rest,
The little roamer liv'd distrest.
And she, her mother's only pride,
240
The mite of pity to implore.
But soon, ah! soon an orphan left;
Of ev'ry stay, save Heaven, bereft;
In coarsest tatters but half-drest,
Without a home or place of rest,
The little roamer liv'd distrest.
Alas! that on life's thorny way,
There are who virtue will betray:
For in her youth, Kate lov'd too well,
And soon to love a victim fell!
Now robb'd of reason, all day long,
The wand'rer sings her plaintive song:—
“Come Death! thou friend to the distrest,
Strike, strike, at once, this tortur'd breast,
And ease poor Kate, who cannot rest!”
There are who virtue will betray:
For in her youth, Kate lov'd too well,
And soon to love a victim fell!
Now robb'd of reason, all day long,
The wand'rer sings her plaintive song:—
“Come Death! thou friend to the distrest,
Strike, strike, at once, this tortur'd breast,
And ease poor Kate, who cannot rest!”
241
THE CASTLE BUILDER.
“I'll build a high house, on this hill, says old Grub,Where house never stood before;
A man like Goliah shall stand at my gate,
And drive far away all the poor,
With a bang!
Wise men agree that the rabble are better of a good sound beating, and all that.
Yes! the beggars he'll keep from my door!“My eldest son, Tom, shall prime minister be;
Soon Will shall the army lead:
My daughter shall give to Lord Simple her hand;
I'm rich, and am sure to succeed,
Worth a plum!
First man on change! Safe! Snug in the last loan! A speculator in hops, cotton, and all that!
Yes! I'm rich, and must therefore succeed!“I'll level yon mountain, and dig a large lake,
Where navies in safety may ride;
Then fill it with all the choice fish of the sea,
And angle in punt by the side;
242
Catching salmon, sprats, trout, turbot, mackerel, and minnow; under rocks, woods, cascades, and all that!
While I smoke in my punt, by the side!“Yon cottages, too, must be all clear'd away,
And so shall the old thatch'd mill;
The alms-house I'll soon to a dog-kennel turn;
The poor may e'en go where they will,
What care I!
Must have parks, deer, meads, flocks, groves, and all that!
Yes! the poor may e'en starve where they will!“On the right of my house, a church like St. Paul's,
On the left, a castle I'll plan;
That the gentles may say, as they travel that way,
See the works of a marvellous man!
Blest retreat!
River stealing away unheard, and scarce seen! Gardens laid out in old Dutch style! Trees cropped; pleasure box in front; Apollos, Dragons, Cupids, Mermaids, and all that!
These are works of a marvellous man!“Then the neighbours around I'll frighten with law,
Till all near me, worth having, is mine;
243
None but fools will to mercy incline!
Let him rot!
Must shew authority; punish poachers; preserve game, and all that:
Yes! fools may to mercy incline!”Now old Grub hobbl'd home, and smok'd a long pipe,
And bottom'd a mug of small beer;
Then went to his bed; soon the grim spectre, Death,
Cut him off in his crazy career:
All was done!
What avails house, porter, power, cash, hops, cotton, lake, fish, rocks, woods, punt, kennel, parks, deer, meads, flocks, groves, church, castle, river, trees, Apollos, dragons, cupids, lands, game, pipe, beer, and all that!
Unless we do good whilst we're here!From the prince to the peasant, in every state,
What Grubs do we daily see!
May his castles endure who feedeth the poor;
After death he rewarded will be:
Yes, he will!
We are told, “He who giveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord.”
Yes! rewarded he surely will be!244
FAREWELL TO GILSLAND.
Adieu, ye dun heaths, purple vales, and wild flowers,
Ye banks whose proud steeps in green verdure are drest;
Ye walks, and ye woodlands, ye glades, and cool bowers,
In whose retir'd shades oft the wearied find rest.
To the town and its follies, fate calls me away;
But reluctant and sad I the summons obey.
Ye banks whose proud steeps in green verdure are drest;
Ye walks, and ye woodlands, ye glades, and cool bowers,
In whose retir'd shades oft the wearied find rest.
To the town and its follies, fate calls me away;
But reluctant and sad I the summons obey.
Adieu, ye grey crags, and thou hoarse-murm'ring river,
Whose sounds, heard afar, lull the mind to repose;
Near thee could I dwell in retirement, and ever
On thy wood-fring'd windings forget all my woes:
There, free from temptation, unknown would I live,
And taste the delights only virtue can give.
Whose sounds, heard afar, lull the mind to repose;
Near thee could I dwell in retirement, and ever
On thy wood-fring'd windings forget all my woes:
There, free from temptation, unknown would I live,
And taste the delights only virtue can give.
And thou source of health, whose clear waters still flowing,
Faint tppe of His bounty who governs this ball;
New vigour, new life, to the wretched bestowing,
Long may thy blue streams pour their healing to all;
And thy rock be the seat of contentment and mirth,
While peace, love, and virtue are cherish'd on earth.
Faint tppe of His bounty who governs this ball;
New vigour, new life, to the wretched bestowing,
Long may thy blue streams pour their healing to all;
And thy rock be the seat of contentment and mirth,
While peace, love, and virtue are cherish'd on earth.
245
HODGE AND THE SQUIRE.
FROM THE MUSICAL FARCE OF THE BEGGAR GIRL.
Says our Squire, “Hodge, tell me, young shepherd swain,
Wilt thou leave thy flock, thy cottage, and plain,
In London great wealth and honours to gain,
And all fine sights to see?”
“Ah, no! by your leave, my good Sir,” said I,
“We're told, those who carry their heads too high,
Spend comfortless days, and on thorns oft lie;
But content still dwells with me!”
Wilt thou leave thy flock, thy cottage, and plain,
In London great wealth and honours to gain,
And all fine sights to see?”
“Ah, no! by your leave, my good Sir,” said I,
“We're told, those who carry their heads too high,
Spend comfortless days, and on thorns oft lie;
But content still dwells with me!”
Says our Squire, “I'll dress thee in clothing fine;
Thou on ev'ry choice dainty with me shalt dine;
Lac'd servants shall hand thee each costly wine;
Think, clown, what honour 'twill be!”
“In home-spun coat, I can merrily sing:
O'er my humble meal, I'm great as a king,
And when thirsty, I hie to the chrystal spring,
Where content still waits on me!”
Thou on ev'ry choice dainty with me shalt dine;
Lac'd servants shall hand thee each costly wine;
Think, clown, what honour 'twill be!”
“In home-spun coat, I can merrily sing:
O'er my humble meal, I'm great as a king,
And when thirsty, I hie to the chrystal spring,
Where content still waits on me!”
246
Says our Squire, “Rich dames thou shalt court at play,
Where music drives ev'ry dull care away;
Then while the sun shines, young shepherd, make hay;
Come now or never!” quoth he.
“At the dance on the green when the sun goes down,
With my Phillis, I envy not those in town;
Nor Phillis I'd leave, for a monarch's crown,
For content guards her and me!
Where music drives ev'ry dull care away;
Then while the sun shines, young shepherd, make hay;
Come now or never!” quoth he.
“At the dance on the green when the sun goes down,
With my Phillis, I envy not those in town;
Nor Phillis I'd leave, for a monarch's crown,
For content guards her and me!
“Go, take your dames, wealth, wine, and shows!
From care can you purchase an hour's repose?
Each neighbour's my friend; I know no foes;
And smile at poverty.
'Tis my wish to inhabit yon humble shed,
Where my forefathers honestly earn'd their bread;
And whenever misfortune bows down my head,
May content then dwell with me!”
From care can you purchase an hour's repose?
Each neighbour's my friend; I know no foes;
And smile at poverty.
'Tis my wish to inhabit yon humble shed,
Where my forefathers honestly earn'd their bread;
And whenever misfortune bows down my head,
May content then dwell with me!”
247
THE VALE OF TEARS.
Yes! there are pleasures some ne'er know,
And there are pains too many prove;
And bliss is oft the source of woe,
Ev'n when it springs from virtuous love.
Hope, fair deceiver,
Lures us for ever!
Sweet her smiles in life's gay morn;
But, ah! her roses,
Reason shews us,
Hide full many a cank'ring thorn.
And there are pains too many prove;
And bliss is oft the source of woe,
Ev'n when it springs from virtuous love.
Hope, fair deceiver,
Lures us for ever!
Sweet her smiles in life's gay morn;
But, ah! her roses,
Reason shews us,
Hide full many a cank'ring thorn.
We toil for wealth, we seek for fame,
And various phantoms we pursue:
This oft brings care, that's but a name;
At last reflection whispers true.—
“Poor murmuring creature,
Weak by nature,
Swell'd by hopes, oppressed by fears;
Proud and ungrateful,
Vain, deceitful,
Man makes life a Vale of Tears!”
And various phantoms we pursue:
This oft brings care, that's but a name;
At last reflection whispers true.—
“Poor murmuring creature,
Weak by nature,
Swell'd by hopes, oppressed by fears;
Proud and ungrateful,
Vain, deceitful,
Man makes life a Vale of Tears!”
248
TO MARY.
On thy banks, chrystal Eden, my dear native river!
In youth, and in manhood, rejoicing I've stray'd;
Tho' fertile thy meads, they so beauteous seem'd never,
Till straying with Mary, the dear witching maid:
'Twas eve's sober hour, and all silent was near us,
Save the redbreast's last note, or the hoarse-sounding stream;
Free from the proud city, no sland'rer to hear us,
The minutes flew sweetly, for love was the theme.
In youth, and in manhood, rejoicing I've stray'd;
Tho' fertile thy meads, they so beauteous seem'd never,
Till straying with Mary, the dear witching maid:
'Twas eve's sober hour, and all silent was near us,
Save the redbreast's last note, or the hoarse-sounding stream;
Free from the proud city, no sland'rer to hear us,
The minutes flew sweetly, for love was the theme.
On thy banks, winding Eden, a fond look she gave me,
Enraptur'd, I saw the keen glance of her eye;
Each grace, word, or smile, was enough to enslave me,
And thoughts of such moments now prompt the deep sigh:
Far, far did we saunter, till night drew her curtain,
'Twas hard with such beauty, such goodness to part;
However thro' life I'm the sport of frail fortune,
Still Mary, I swear, will be dear to my heart!
Enraptur'd, I saw the keen glance of her eye;
Each grace, word, or smile, was enough to enslave me,
And thoughts of such moments now prompt the deep sigh:
Far, far did we saunter, till night drew her curtain,
'Twas hard with such beauty, such goodness to part;
However thro' life I'm the sport of frail fortune,
Still Mary, I swear, will be dear to my heart!
249
Let grey-beards and fools laugh at love and at pleasure,
Their dull fusty maxims I ever despise;
Let worldlings court riches, and bow to their treasure,
Be woman my idol; dear woman I prize!
Tho' oft on life's journey, abandon'd to sorrow,
When love's divine transports with beauty I share,
I scorn the hard world, and the threats of to-morrow,
The smile of the virtuous dispels every care!
Their dull fusty maxims I ever despise;
Let worldlings court riches, and bow to their treasure,
Be woman my idol; dear woman I prize!
Tho' oft on life's journey, abandon'd to sorrow,
When love's divine transports with beauty I share,
I scorn the hard world, and the threats of to-morrow,
The smile of the virtuous dispels every care!
THE CAPTAIN'S LADY.
“Lassie wi' the coal-black locks,
Wilt thou be a captain's lady?
Quat bare mountains, glens, and flocks,
Heed nae mam, or canker'd daddy.
Hie wi' me o'er Scotia's hills—
By this sword, nae loon shall harm thee;
Thy sweet luik my bosom fills—
Let nae sodger e'er alarm thee!”
Wilt thou be a captain's lady?
Quat bare mountains, glens, and flocks,
Heed nae mam, or canker'd daddy.
Hie wi' me o'er Scotia's hills—
By this sword, nae loon shall harm thee;
Thy sweet luik my bosom fills—
Let nae sodger e'er alarm thee!”
250
“Stranger, ware nae words on me,
I'd no' be a captain's lady;
For the gowd o' Chrissendie,
I'd no' lea' my feeble daddy!
Grey wi' years, bow'd down wi' pain,
Jean's his hale delight and treasure;
In rude cot we envy nane,
Thae wild glens ay gie us pleasure.”
I'd no' be a captain's lady;
For the gowd o' Chrissendie,
I'd no' lea' my feeble daddy!
Grey wi' years, bow'd down wi' pain,
Jean's his hale delight and treasure;
In rude cot we envy nane,
Thae wild glens ay gie us pleasure.”
“Lassie, dinna turn awa';
Suin in costly gear I'll deck thee,
Big for thee a house mair bra',
Mistress o' the hale I'll mak thee:
Thou shalt see the auld folk blest;
I'll protect 'em frae ilk danger;
Age and puirtith ay lack rest—
Dinna frown upo' the stranger!”
Suin in costly gear I'll deck thee,
Big for thee a house mair bra',
Mistress o' the hale I'll mak thee:
Thou shalt see the auld folk blest;
I'll protect 'em frae ilk danger;
Age and puirtith ay lack rest—
Dinna frown upo' the stranger!”
“Near yon kirk my mither's laid,
Tears o' sorrow I shed o'er her;
Your red coat and bra' cockade,
Ca' to mind ane I lost for her;
Dear he lo'ed me, sought my hand;
Mair I priz'd my mam and daddy;
Suin far frae his native land,
They slew my faithfu' shepherd laddie!”
Tears o' sorrow I shed o'er her;
Your red coat and bra' cockade,
Ca' to mind ane I lost for her;
Dear he lo'ed me, sought my hand;
Mair I priz'd my mam and daddy;
Suin far frae his native land,
They slew my faithfu' shepherd laddie!”
251
“Thy bright e'e's dimm'd wi' a tear,
Mine, to see it, sheds anither;
By the pearly draps, I swear,
Happy days we'll pass thegether,
I'm thy ain blithe shepherd lad,
Rich, and hale, and honest-hearted:
Haste, let's mak a parent glad,
And may we ne'er again be parted.”
Mine, to see it, sheds anither;
By the pearly draps, I swear,
Happy days we'll pass thegether,
I'm thy ain blithe shepherd lad,
Rich, and hale, and honest-hearted:
Haste, let's mak a parent glad,
And may we ne'er again be parted.”
THE AUTHOR ON HIMSELF.
I long have drank of pleasure's cup,
And oft have been the son of pain;
And I have tasted friendly joys,
That I must never share again:
For time hath now my forehead bared,
And cherish'd hopes, all, all are fled;
I cannot soothe another's woes,
Or dry the tear by sorrow shed!
And oft have been the son of pain;
And I have tasted friendly joys,
That I must never share again:
For time hath now my forehead bared,
And cherish'd hopes, all, all are fled;
I cannot soothe another's woes,
Or dry the tear by sorrow shed!
Cold Poverty, with haggard look,
Now threatens sore, in life's decline;
And Friendship wears another garb;
And Love's delights no more are mine.
Night comes not, now, with dreams of bliss;
I chide the slow approach of day;
Reflection causes painful sighs;
And I could weep the hours away!
Now threatens sore, in life's decline;
And Friendship wears another garb;
And Love's delights no more are mine.
252
I chide the slow approach of day;
Reflection causes painful sighs;
And I could weep the hours away!
THE FAIR-HAIR'D MAID.
When wearied bees with laden thighs
Humm'd, slowly wheeling tow'rds their cell;
When eve's blue mists began to rise,
And all was silence in the dell:
Where Eden's streams are heard afar,
And willows weave a shade,
I left the town, rejoic'd to meet
My blooming, smiling, fair-hair'd Maid.
Humm'd, slowly wheeling tow'rds their cell;
When eve's blue mists began to rise,
And all was silence in the dell:
Where Eden's streams are heard afar,
And willows weave a shade,
I left the town, rejoic'd to meet
My blooming, smiling, fair-hair'd Maid.
I gaz'd, but feign'd a woe-worn look—
“My Mary, dear!” I sigh'd “Adieu!
To-morrow in the badge of war,
I leave thee to some one more true!”
In vain she tried her grief to hide,
I saw her colour fade;
She sunk, a lily at my feet,
The faithful, tender, fair-hair'd Maid.
“My Mary, dear!” I sigh'd “Adieu!
To-morrow in the badge of war,
I leave thee to some one more true!”
In vain she tried her grief to hide,
I saw her colour fade;
She sunk, a lily at my feet,
The faithful, tender, fair-hair'd Maid.
253
Anxious, I saw her soon revive,
And clasp'd her to my panting heart;
“This falsehood, Mary, O forgive!
And mark the tear love bids to start:
To-morrow wilt thou be my own?”
“Ah! canst thou doubt?” she said,
We hail'd the long-wish'd happy hour—
She's mine, the matchless fair-hair'd Maid!
And clasp'd her to my panting heart;
“This falsehood, Mary, O forgive!
And mark the tear love bids to start:
To-morrow wilt thou be my own?”
“Ah! canst thou doubt?” she said,
We hail'd the long-wish'd happy hour—
She's mine, the matchless fair-hair'd Maid!
ADDRESSED TO MR. WM. BELL, OF GILSLAND, W. M. AND THE BRETHREN OF ST. MICHAEL'S LODGE, BRAMPTON.
Since to serve a poor Cumbrian Bard is your plan,
Let gratitude shew the great duty of man;
Around you may health, love, and cheerfulness reign,
And those who scorn pleasure, still scorn to give pain:
That good men are equal, all wise men declare,
From the prince to the peasant, each bows to dull care;
To get rid of that pest, keep this maxim in view,
Still do unto others, as you'd be done to!
Let gratitude shew the great duty of man;
Around you may health, love, and cheerfulness reign,
And those who scorn pleasure, still scorn to give pain:
That good men are equal, all wise men declare,
From the prince to the peasant, each bows to dull care;
To get rid of that pest, keep this maxim in view,
Still do unto others, as you'd be done to!
254
While our master delighteth, nor seeks to betray,
May the day-star of hope never lead him astray;
While to draw man from folly, his mind's nobly bent,
May the master and brethren still harbour content:
Improv'd, rul'd by masonry's truths, void of art,
When death gives the summons, we'll cheerfully part;
Till then, let us all keep this maxim in view,
To do unto others, as we'd be done to!
May the day-star of hope never lead him astray;
While to draw man from folly, his mind's nobly bent,
May the master and brethren still harbour content:
Improv'd, rul'd by masonry's truths, void of art,
When death gives the summons, we'll cheerfully part;
Till then, let us all keep this maxim in view,
To do unto others, as we'd be done to!
Then join heart and hand, and unite in one voice,
To pray for each mason, his brethrens' proud choice;
May each brother be blest with wealth, freedom, and peace,
And the rights of all sects, and all parties increase!
Ah! happy the day, when to mortals was giv'n,
Of all Institutions, the first under Heav'n!
By this, we can keep the grand maxim in view,
And do unto others, as we'd be done to!
To pray for each mason, his brethrens' proud choice;
May each brother be blest with wealth, freedom, and peace,
And the rights of all sects, and all parties increase!
Ah! happy the day, when to mortals was giv'n,
Of all Institutions, the first under Heav'n!
By this, we can keep the grand maxim in view,
And do unto others, as we'd be done to!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson | |