 | The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson |  |
II. VOLUME II
1
MISCELLANIES.
THE WIDOW.
—“Mumbling to herself;
Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and red;
Cold palsy shook her head; her hands seem'd wither'd.
And o'er her crook'd shoulders had she wrapp'd
The tatter'd remnant of an old stripp'd hanging,
Which could not keep her carcase from the cold.”
Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and red;
Cold palsy shook her head; her hands seem'd wither'd.
And o'er her crook'd shoulders had she wrapp'd
The tatter'd remnant of an old stripp'd hanging,
Which could not keep her carcase from the cold.”
Otway.
Why sighs yon wretched being, whose patch'd weeds
Shield not her shrivell'd body from the blast,
Who oft along the pathway's frozen side,
In vain for fuel seeks?—Why from her eyes,
That languid turn to Heav'n, imploring rest,
Adown their well-known course fall the big tears?
Shield not her shrivell'd body from the blast,
Who oft along the pathway's frozen side,
In vain for fuel seeks?—Why from her eyes,
That languid turn to Heav'n, imploring rest,
Adown their well-known course fall the big tears?
She weeps not at her growing poverty,
Nor envies e'er the splendour of the world;
But, mourning, sighs for long departed joys:
Alas! her all is gone!—No monarch's wealth
Can to her mind lost happiness restore;
Since he, her only hope, her only pride,
Her only son, her age's sole support,
Torn from his home, soon fill'd a wat'ry grave.
Nor envies e'er the splendour of the world;
2
Alas! her all is gone!—No monarch's wealth
Can to her mind lost happiness restore;
Since he, her only hope, her only pride,
Her only son, her age's sole support,
Torn from his home, soon fill'd a wat'ry grave.
An aged Widow, much she lov'd to gaze
On him, a father's image. He, in youth,
Regardless of all else, save one, would toil
With his companion, chearfulness, the day;
And oft the mountain's rugged brow he'd climb,
To mark his distant dear-lov'd humble cot,
And think with pleasure on his boyish years,
Life's happy morn, when care gives way to mirth:
Then would he anxious cull each wild-flow'r fair,
Type of her beauty that had fir'd his breast;
And proud was he at evening to behold
A parent's fondness in a parent's smiles;
A cot, the humble dwelling of content;
And one, the sharer of his infant sports,
His Mary; child of innocence, whose face
Was fair, and seem'd the index of a mind,
Pure as the unsullied snow-drop, gentle flow'r,
The timid harbinger of welcome Spring,
That drooping, chides dull Winter as it dies.
On him, a father's image. He, in youth,
Regardless of all else, save one, would toil
With his companion, chearfulness, the day;
And oft the mountain's rugged brow he'd climb,
To mark his distant dear-lov'd humble cot,
And think with pleasure on his boyish years,
Life's happy morn, when care gives way to mirth:
Then would he anxious cull each wild-flow'r fair,
Type of her beauty that had fir'd his breast;
And proud was he at evening to behold
A parent's fondness in a parent's smiles;
A cot, the humble dwelling of content;
And one, the sharer of his infant sports,
His Mary; child of innocence, whose face
Was fair, and seem'd the index of a mind,
Pure as the unsullied snow-drop, gentle flow'r,
The timid harbinger of welcome Spring,
That drooping, chides dull Winter as it dies.
3
Robb'd of her William, she would sit and weep,
And think of him, and vainly try to sing;
Then gaze with tears upon the braided hair:
Now stop her wheel, and with an anxious look,
Enquire of many a wand'rer by her home,
The news, heart-rending news, of murd'rous war;
And if perchance some letter'd hind should read
With joyous stare, full of anxiety,
The list of bloodshed, gazetted bombast,
Then would poor Mary tremble, with deep sighs,
While down her cheek roll'd many a pearly tear;
For she had learn'd to feel for others' woe.
Oft while the villagers at ease were laid
In sleep's soft lap, she'd listen to the wind,
Whose hollow murmurs chill'd her heart with fear;
Then think of dangers he'd to undergo,
And sleepless, welcome morning's slow approach.
But soon the rose fled from her beauteous cheek,
And left the lily mourning for its loss;
A prey to sorrow Mary ling'ring fell,
Wept and lamented by the rustics round.
Sad was the slow procession; dull each look,
As thro' the lanes they bore this wither'd bud,
To the low house whose steeple points to Heav'n:
And when the coffin to the earth was giv'n,
At “dust to dust,” the Curate, pious guide,
Let fall a tear.
The Sexton, grey in years,
Whose look observ'd he'd long forgot to feel,
Reclining on his spade, e'en heav'd a sigh:
And as the sprig of box flew to the grave,
The village train, the feeble, and the young,
Blest Mary, virtuous maid, for ever gone.
And think of him, and vainly try to sing;
Then gaze with tears upon the braided hair:
Now stop her wheel, and with an anxious look,
Enquire of many a wand'rer by her home,
The news, heart-rending news, of murd'rous war;
And if perchance some letter'd hind should read
With joyous stare, full of anxiety,
The list of bloodshed, gazetted bombast,
Then would poor Mary tremble, with deep sighs,
While down her cheek roll'd many a pearly tear;
For she had learn'd to feel for others' woe.
Oft while the villagers at ease were laid
In sleep's soft lap, she'd listen to the wind,
Whose hollow murmurs chill'd her heart with fear;
Then think of dangers he'd to undergo,
And sleepless, welcome morning's slow approach.
But soon the rose fled from her beauteous cheek,
And left the lily mourning for its loss;
A prey to sorrow Mary ling'ring fell,
Wept and lamented by the rustics round.
Sad was the slow procession; dull each look,
As thro' the lanes they bore this wither'd bud,
To the low house whose steeple points to Heav'n:
And when the coffin to the earth was giv'n,
At “dust to dust,” the Curate, pious guide,
4
The author cannot help lamenting, that the custom of reading the funeral service, so prevalent throughout England, should not be equally attended to in the sister countries. There is not surely a more proper time for impressing on the minds of our fellow-creatures a just sense of their duty, than when they witness the frailty of life, and follow a departed relative or friend to the house appointed for all living.
The Sexton, grey in years,
Whose look observ'd he'd long forgot to feel,
Reclining on his spade, e'en heav'd a sigh:
And as the sprig of box flew to the grave,
The village train, the feeble, and the young,
Blest Mary, virtuous maid, for ever gone.
The tidings never reach'd her William's ear,
For he too fell; unwilling sacrifice
To wild ambition, and ere death's cold hand
Snatch'd from his youthful cheek its wonted bloom,
In falt'ring accents, with uplifted eyes,
He call'd to Heav'n a parent to defend;
Then prostrate on the deck, midst comrades brave,
Sunk, oft repeating his lov'd Mary's name.—
Thus fall our hardy brethren, innocent,
To please ambition in its foul career!
For he too fell; unwilling sacrifice
To wild ambition, and ere death's cold hand
Snatch'd from his youthful cheek its wonted bloom,
In falt'ring accents, with uplifted eyes,
He call'd to Heav'n a parent to defend;
Then prostrate on the deck, midst comrades brave,
Sunk, oft repeating his lov'd Mary's name.—
Thus fall our hardy brethren, innocent,
To please ambition in its foul career!
'Tis she, his mother, who, with tott'ring steps,
Unknowing whither, o'er the wild heath strays,
And, to the flocks, and tenants of the groves,
Talks many an hour away. One comrade still
She keeps, a fond, half-starv'd, but faithful brute.
Tray was her William's once, and leaves her not;
But licks the hand which seldom holds him food.
In roofless cot, alas! poor Margaret lives,
A joy-forsaken, faded, mark of woe;
Unknowing whither, o'er the wild heath strays,
And, to the flocks, and tenants of the groves,
Talks many an hour away. One comrade still
She keeps, a fond, half-starv'd, but faithful brute.
Tray was her William's once, and leaves her not;
But licks the hand which seldom holds him food.
In roofless cot, alas! poor Margaret lives,
A joy-forsaken, faded, mark of woe;
5
Of reason reft, and robb'd of ev'ry stay,
Save Him who registers pale misery's cry,
And marks each hour of anguish. Oft with tears,
She to the stranger tells a broken tale;
Amidst her sighs pouring to Heav'n a pray'r,
To shed its vengeance on their guilty heads,
Who glory in destruction. Happiness,
She knows the world, unfeeling, cannot give
To her pain'd bosom; and for charity,
The mourner asketh never.
Save Him who registers pale misery's cry,
And marks each hour of anguish. Oft with tears,
She to the stranger tells a broken tale;
Amidst her sighs pouring to Heav'n a pray'r,
To shed its vengeance on their guilty heads,
Who glory in destruction. Happiness,
She knows the world, unfeeling, cannot give
To her pain'd bosom; and for charity,
The mourner asketh never.
Woe-worn wretch!
Like thee what numbers drink the cup of grief,
And sorrow ever nurse; perchance to feed
The growing evils of a falling state:
Or pamper purple pride, who, callous grown,
With eye abhorrent, scowls on wretchedness.
Like thee what numbers drink the cup of grief,
And sorrow ever nurse; perchance to feed
The growing evils of a falling state:
Or pamper purple pride, who, callous grown,
With eye abhorrent, scowls on wretchedness.
Peace to thy bosom, poor unfortunate!
O may the friendly arm of death strike soon!
And soon it must, to set thy sorrows free.
They, too, who fatten on the spoils of war,
Like thee, must fall a prey to kindred worms.
Thus all things have an end. The proudest state,
With the rude cottage, in their turns must fall;
And Prince and Peasant mingle with the dust!
O may the friendly arm of death strike soon!
And soon it must, to set thy sorrows free.
They, too, who fatten on the spoils of war,
Like thee, must fall a prey to kindred worms.
Thus all things have an end. The proudest state,
With the rude cottage, in their turns must fall;
And Prince and Peasant mingle with the dust!
6
STANZAS ON VISITING A MOTHER'S GRAVE.
A strain of egotism is surely allowable, when the most tender emotions of the heart are forced into action, by a visit to the tomb of an affectionate parent. Then, and only then, the dearest scenes of life are recalled to imagination—scenes that occurred long ere sorrow had occasioned us to suspect the wily deeds of man: delighted with the retrospective glance, we proudly exclaim, such things were, but never must return!
Adjoining St. Mary's Cathedral, Carlisle, in the north west corner, behind every one, are interred many of my ancestors and relatives. No sculptured tale of truth or falsehood marks the place; for alas! they had to struggle against poverty, and toil their day of life “unknowing and unknown.”
These simple stanzas were written after an absence of many years from my native place, and can only be acceptable to such readers as cherish the remembrance of a mother's solicitude.
A strain of egotism is surely allowable, when the most tender emotions of the heart are forced into action, by a visit to the tomb of an affectionate parent. Then, and only then, the dearest scenes of life are recalled to imagination—scenes that occurred long ere sorrow had occasioned us to suspect the wily deeds of man: delighted with the retrospective glance, we proudly exclaim, such things were, but never must return!
Adjoining St. Mary's Cathedral, Carlisle, in the north west corner, behind every one, are interred many of my ancestors and relatives. No sculptured tale of truth or falsehood marks the place; for alas! they had to struggle against poverty, and toil their day of life “unknowing and unknown.”
These simple stanzas were written after an absence of many years from my native place, and can only be acceptable to such readers as cherish the remembrance of a mother's solicitude.
“View the tomb with sculpture splendid,
View the sod with briars bound;
There the farce of finery's ended,—
All are equal under ground:
Wise men, weak ones, poor, and wealthy,
Tenant unremitting graves;
Haughty, humble, sick, and healthy,
Britain's sons and Afric's slaves!”
View the sod with briars bound;
There the farce of finery's ended,—
All are equal under ground:
Wise men, weak ones, poor, and wealthy,
Tenant unremitting graves;
Haughty, humble, sick, and healthy,
Britain's sons and Afric's slaves!”
G. A. Stevens.
I, to the Church-yard went to see
The spot where my poor Mother's laid,
When quick the tears gush'd from my eye;—
I hung my head like one afraid;
And thought of all the anxious days,
And restless nights for me she bore;
A puny thing, ill worth her care,
Then did I sigh, and weep the more.
The spot where my poor Mother's laid,
When quick the tears gush'd from my eye;—
I hung my head like one afraid;
And thought of all the anxious days,
And restless nights for me she bore;
A puny thing, ill worth her care,
Then did I sigh, and weep the more.
7
'Twas sorrow's luxury to see
The sod that wrapp'd a parent's clay,
And on that narrow spot of earth,
O, I could weep the hours away!
I tore a nettle from her tomb!
Why should a rank weed flourish there?
O'er one who virtue made her guide,
Pale prey to sickness, want, and care.
The sod that wrapp'd a parent's clay,
And on that narrow spot of earth,
O, I could weep the hours away!
I tore a nettle from her tomb!
Why should a rank weed flourish there?
O'er one who virtue made her guide,
Pale prey to sickness, want, and care.
Oft do I mark the humble shed,
Where blythe was spent life's op'ning day;
And oft, at eve, I trace the fields
Where she would fondly with me stray;
And oft I seek the place of graves,
Where one I water with a tear;
And still her spirit seems to say,
Prepare in time to rest thee here!
Where blythe was spent life's op'ning day;
And oft, at eve, I trace the fields
Where she would fondly with me stray;
And oft I seek the place of graves,
Where one I water with a tear;
And still her spirit seems to say,
Prepare in time to rest thee here!
And oft I think of that sad hour,
When she was to the dust consign'd;
Soon eager beat my guileless heart
To seek the world, to know mankind:
The world I saw, mankind I loved,
And heedless sail'd down pleasure's stream:
Now, busy mem'ry loud proclaims,
Life's morning's all a fev'rish dream!
When she was to the dust consign'd;
Soon eager beat my guileless heart
To seek the world, to know mankind:
The world I saw, mankind I loved,
And heedless sail'd down pleasure's stream:
Now, busy mem'ry loud proclaims,
Life's morning's all a fev'rish dream!
8
Near to that little mound of earth,
Fain would I rest my wearied head,
For I'm a joyless pilgrim here,
And none would seek my narrow bed.
Reflection wounds me in the past;
To-morrow brings not hope to me;
O, sainted form! O, parent blest!
Would I had bow'd to earth with thee!
Fain would I rest my wearied head,
For I'm a joyless pilgrim here,
And none would seek my narrow bed.
Reflection wounds me in the past;
To-morrow brings not hope to me;
O, sainted form! O, parent blest!
Would I had bow'd to earth with thee!
I think of eve's long wish'd-for hours,
When joyous home from school I flew;
And with affection's dearest kiss,
My arms around her neck I threw.
Tho' luxury our board ne'er grac'd,
'Midst poverty content was giv'n,
And all that wealth or wisdom boast,
Are nought without this boon of Heav'n!
When joyous home from school I flew;
And with affection's dearest kiss,
My arms around her neck I threw.
Tho' luxury our board ne'er grac'd,
'Midst poverty content was giv'n,
And all that wealth or wisdom boast,
Are nought without this boon of Heav'n!
Still could I find a haven of rest
On her pure bosom, fondly lov'd;
And all hope's wanton dreams of bliss,
Were, with a smile, by her approv'd:
Her lessons led to virtue's path;
Her num'rous sorrows were made mine;
And ever present is her look,
When now I welcome life's decline.
On her pure bosom, fondly lov'd;
And all hope's wanton dreams of bliss,
Were, with a smile, by her approv'd:
Her lessons led to virtue's path;
Her num'rous sorrows were made mine;
And ever present is her look,
When now I welcome life's decline.
9
Long ere ten times I'd seen blythe spring
Spread o'er the earth her fost'ring dews,
Cold were the lips I weeping kiss'd,
And I was told heart-rending news.
Whate'er my fate, whate'er my care,
While in this frame life's pulse shall beat,
All worldly ills I'll patient bear,
And fondly hope with her to meet.
Spread o'er the earth her fost'ring dews,
Cold were the lips I weeping kiss'd,
And I was told heart-rending news.
Whate'er my fate, whate'er my care,
While in this frame life's pulse shall beat,
All worldly ills I'll patient bear,
And fondly hope with her to meet.
10
INSCRIPTION WRITTEN AT CORBY CASTLE,
THE ROMANTIC SEAT OF HENRY HOWARD, ESQ.
“Let others praise the Leasowe's plains,
Where Shenstone tun'd his love-lorn strains—
What, tho' he sung of groves, and bow'rs;
Of winding paths bestrewn with flow'rs;
Of murmuring streamlets, echoing glades,
Woods, lawns, and minstrel-haunted shades;
His lambkins sporting near the brook,
His garland, pipe, or shepherd's crook;
'Twas Art and Fancy brought to view,
What Nature here presents to you.”
Where Shenstone tun'd his love-lorn strains—
What, tho' he sung of groves, and bow'rs;
Of winding paths bestrewn with flow'rs;
Of murmuring streamlets, echoing glades,
Woods, lawns, and minstrel-haunted shades;
His lambkins sporting near the brook,
His garland, pipe, or shepherd's crook;
'Twas Art and Fancy brought to view,
What Nature here presents to you.”
Reader, if rocks, woods, waters, lawns, and meads,
Or aught of nature's captivating dress,—
If warbling hymns in the Creator's praise,
Pour'd all around from many a balmy brake,
Thy mind can charm; thrice welcome to these shades,
Where peace and mild content for ever dwell.
Now while thy wearied limbs at rest are laid,
In some sequester'd bow'r free from all noise;
Save melodies from many a woodland choir,
Or Eden murm'ring o'er his rocky bed:
Bethink thee, as the waters glide along,
So pass thy days; but never to return.
Or aught of nature's captivating dress,—
If warbling hymns in the Creator's praise,
Pour'd all around from many a balmy brake,
Thy mind can charm; thrice welcome to these shades,
Where peace and mild content for ever dwell.
Now while thy wearied limbs at rest are laid,
In some sequester'd bow'r free from all noise;
Save melodies from many a woodland choir,
11
Bethink thee, as the waters glide along,
So pass thy days; but never to return.
If e'er the lofty pine attract thine eye,
'Twill lead thy thoughts to Heav'n. In musing mood,
The wide-stretched mountain, the proud oak-crown'd rock,
The wood of many hues, the far-heard stream,
The sportive flock that graze the velvet lawn;
Nay ev'n the grassy turf o'er which we tread,
Green habitation of the insect world,
Each speaks in silent eloquence of God.
'Twill lead thy thoughts to Heav'n. In musing mood,
The wide-stretched mountain, the proud oak-crown'd rock,
The wood of many hues, the far-heard stream,
The sportive flock that graze the velvet lawn;
Nay ev'n the grassy turf o'er which we tread,
Green habitation of the insect world,
Each speaks in silent eloquence of God.
Perchance, in quest of rural nook thou stray'st,
A stranger to these much-lov'd scenes; then know,
The virtuous owners of this blest abode,
By justice, charity, and boundless love,
Endearing man to man, examples great,
Give lustre never-fading to the spot.
A stranger to these much-lov'd scenes; then know,
The virtuous owners of this blest abode,
By justice, charity, and boundless love,
Endearing man to man, examples great,
Give lustre never-fading to the spot.
If in thy bosom beats a patriot's heart,
Indignant at the threats and murd'rous deeds
Of him, thy happy country's high-swol'n foe;
Lo! Howard hails thee, welcome to his seat.
But should cold apathy enslave thy mind,
And thou of England's weal regardless roam'st;
Or feel'st not for thy brethren, Afric's sons,
By Europeans torn from friends and home,
Exil'd for ever for thy luxuries;
Weak votary to pleasure, pride, or pow'r,
Hence, laugh with folly in the noisy town!
Indignant at the threats and murd'rous deeds
Of him, thy happy country's high-swol'n foe;
Lo! Howard hails thee, welcome to his seat.
But should cold apathy enslave thy mind,
12
Or feel'st not for thy brethren, Afric's sons,
By Europeans torn from friends and home,
Exil'd for ever for thy luxuries;
Weak votary to pleasure, pride, or pow'r,
Hence, laugh with folly in the noisy town!
July, 1803.
13
MAN WAS NOT MADE TO MOURN.
“'Tis better to be cheerful, than indulge in weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth.”
“Sorrow breaks seasons, and reposing hours;
Makes the night morning, and the noontide night!”
Makes the night morning, and the noontide night!”
Shakspeare.
The sinking sun, aslaunt the hill,
Bade labour quit the plough;
And now in monie a window keek'd
To bid mankind adieu:
When musing on towards a wood,
Where joyous youth was spent,
Beneath an oak a carle stood,
Whase body time had bent.
Bade labour quit the plough;
And now in monie a window keek'd
To bid mankind adieu:
When musing on towards a wood,
Where joyous youth was spent,
Beneath an oak a carle stood,
Whase body time had bent.
His locks were silver'd o'er wi' years,
His claithing coarse and bare;
But cheerfu' seem'd his honest heart,
That had known mickle care:
Life's spark, tho' drawing near its end,
Yet cheerfully did burn;
In him, I read an aged friend,
Wha had forgot to mourn.
His claithing coarse and bare;
But cheerfu' seem'd his honest heart,
That had known mickle care:
Life's spark, tho' drawing near its end,
Yet cheerfully did burn;
In him, I read an aged friend,
Wha had forgot to mourn.
14
“Stranger,” quoth he, “where wander'st thou,
Amid the dews of eve?
Thine eye, methinks, is wet wi' woe,
Why shun the world to grieve?
O hear a wight, whom age has taught!
Nor mock his years wi' scorn;
Be not in youth by sorrow caught—
Man was not made to mourn!
Amid the dews of eve?
Thine eye, methinks, is wet wi' woe,
Why shun the world to grieve?
O hear a wight, whom age has taught!
Nor mock his years wi' scorn;
Be not in youth by sorrow caught—
Man was not made to mourn!
“For me, I'm puir as puir can be,
Wha ance cou'd boast o' wealth;
And wan and wither'd is this cheek,
Whare late sat blooming health:
On earth I am but fortune's sport,
And wander here forlorn;
What then, life's journey is but short,
And why shou'd mortals mourn?
Wha ance cou'd boast o' wealth;
And wan and wither'd is this cheek,
Whare late sat blooming health:
On earth I am but fortune's sport,
And wander here forlorn;
What then, life's journey is but short,
And why shou'd mortals mourn?
“'Tis hard to lose a partner dear,
Or parent fondly kind;
'Tis hard to lose a friend sincere,
Of independent mind:
Tho' sweet's the tear by pity shed,
O'er gentle virtue's urn,
Yet be not sorrow's captive led—
Man was not made to mourn!
Or parent fondly kind;
'Tis hard to lose a friend sincere,
Of independent mind:
Tho' sweet's the tear by pity shed,
O'er gentle virtue's urn,
Yet be not sorrow's captive led—
Man was not made to mourn!
15
“Hast thou been robb'd of a' thy kin,
That thus thou heav'st a sigh?
Or griev'st thou for a faithfu' friend,
On whom thou cou'd'st rely?
A friendless brother here behold;
Death a' frae me has torn;
Yet something bids me ay be bold—
Man was not made to mourn!
That thus thou heav'st a sigh?
Or griev'st thou for a faithfu' friend,
On whom thou cou'd'st rely?
A friendless brother here behold;
Death a' frae me has torn;
Yet something bids me ay be bold—
Man was not made to mourn!
“Hast thou by hope been aft beguil'd,
Or sail'd down pleasure's stream?
And started back frae ruin's brink,
Like ane wak'd frae a dream?
Tho' monie cares on pleasure wait,
Frae which 'tis wise to turn;
Repentance never is too late,
Then why shou'd mortals mourn?
Or sail'd down pleasure's stream?
And started back frae ruin's brink,
Like ane wak'd frae a dream?
Tho' monie cares on pleasure wait,
Frae which 'tis wise to turn;
Repentance never is too late,
Then why shou'd mortals mourn?
“Or enviest thou yon pamper'd lord,
Wha rules at pleasure's ball?
Let plenty smile upon his board,
And numbers wait his call;
That wealth is giv'n him but in trust,
Tho' he at puirtith spurn;
The man wha puir dares to be just,
Hath little cause to mourn!
Wha rules at pleasure's ball?
Let plenty smile upon his board,
And numbers wait his call;
That wealth is giv'n him but in trust,
Tho' he at puirtith spurn;
The man wha puir dares to be just,
Hath little cause to mourn!
16
“The pow'r wha rules yon rising orb,
And sits abuin the sky,
Hath giv'n to man an angel form,
But wills that he shall die:
Then what avails all earthly bliss,
Since we to dust return?
A better world there is than this,
And why should mortals mourn?
And sits abuin the sky,
Hath giv'n to man an angel form,
But wills that he shall die:
Then what avails all earthly bliss,
Since we to dust return?
A better world there is than this,
And why should mortals mourn?
“A' nature view:—The herds that graze
Alang the meads, rejoice;
The sangsters chaunt their gratefu' lays,
Wi' one accordant voice:
To lordly man is reason giv'n,
Yet oft the poor forlorn,
By madd'ning passions wildly driv'n,
Hopeless, lives but to mourn.
Alang the meads, rejoice;
The sangsters chaunt their gratefu' lays,
Wi' one accordant voice:
To lordly man is reason giv'n,
Yet oft the poor forlorn,
By madd'ning passions wildly driv'n,
Hopeless, lives but to mourn.
“Howe'er on life's rough sea thou'rt crost,
'Tis folly to despair;
The feeblest bark, when tempest-tost,
Some kind relief may share:
Still cherish hope, that peacefu' guest,
Nor from Religion turn;
Then will no tumult swell thy breast,
Nor thou have cause to mourn!”
'Tis folly to despair;
The feeblest bark, when tempest-tost,
Some kind relief may share:
Still cherish hope, that peacefu' guest,
Nor from Religion turn;
Then will no tumult swell thy breast,
Nor thou have cause to mourn!”
17
Here ceas'd the sage; and sought his way
Along the dark'ning vale;
But oft his meek instructive voice
Seem'd passing on each gale.
Ne'er may I from these rules depart,
Till down to earth I'm borne;
But think, in spite of learned art,
Man was not made to mourn!
Along the dark'ning vale;
But oft his meek instructive voice
Seem'd passing on each gale.
Ne'er may I from these rules depart,
Till down to earth I'm borne;
But think, in spite of learned art,
Man was not made to mourn!
18
OUR SAILORS.
“O protect the hardy Tar,
Be mindful of his merit!
And when again you're plung'd in war
He'll shew his daring spirit!”
Be mindful of his merit!
And when again you're plung'd in war
He'll shew his daring spirit!”
Rushton.
Sing, Muse, tho' feeble be thy strain,
Those who our liberties maintain,
Who fearless triumph on the main—
Our Sailors!
Those who our liberties maintain,
Who fearless triumph on the main—
Our Sailors!
When freedom, property, and laws,
Are threaten'd by tyrannic foes,
Who first espouse the glorious cause?
Our Sailors!
Are threaten'd by tyrannic foes,
Who first espouse the glorious cause?
Our Sailors!
Who scorn the despot stain'd with blood,
And scare his navies o'er the flood—
Destroy them, for our country's good?
Our Sailors!
And scare his navies o'er the flood—
Destroy them, for our country's good?
Our Sailors!
19
Who act thro' life an honest part?
Who always shew the gen'rous heart?
Who're dup'd by many a villain's art?
Our Sailors!
Who always shew the gen'rous heart?
Who're dup'd by many a villain's art?
Our Sailors!
Who ever dry misfortune's tear,
Nor sorrow's tale refuse to hear;
Each helpless outcast proud to cheer?
Our Sailors!
Nor sorrow's tale refuse to hear;
Each helpless outcast proud to cheer?
Our Sailors!
Who guard our coast, protect the fair?
Who death and danger nobly dare?
Who bravely conquer, but to spare?
Our Sailors!
Who death and danger nobly dare?
Who bravely conquer, but to spare?
Our Sailors!
Who still supply our groaning boards,
With ev'ry dainty earth affords?
Who pity Gallia's vaunting hordes?
Our Sailors!
With ev'ry dainty earth affords?
Who pity Gallia's vaunting hordes?
Our Sailors!
Who brave hidd'n rocks, and dang'rous seas?
Who bear the pestilential breeze?
Who taste not luxury nor ease?
Our Sailors!
Who bear the pestilential breeze?
Who taste not luxury nor ease?
Our Sailors!
20
Who mid' the tempest's threat'ning blast,
Toil, fearless, on the giddy mast,
Or, cheerful sing, of dangers past?
Our Sailors!
Toil, fearless, on the giddy mast,
Or, cheerful sing, of dangers past?
Our Sailors!
Who death can face, without alarm,
In battle's rage, terrific storm,
When light'nings blue Heav'n's face deform?
Our Sailors!
In battle's rage, terrific storm,
When light'nings blue Heav'n's face deform?
Our Sailors!
Who, shipwreck'd on a foreign coast,
When many a merry comrade's lost,
Still happy Albion make their boast?
Our Sailors!
When many a merry comrade's lost,
Still happy Albion make their boast?
Our Sailors!
To them we owe whate'er we prize,
Domestic pleasures—social ties—
Woe unto him who dare despise
Our Sailors!
Domestic pleasures—social ties—
Woe unto him who dare despise
Our Sailors!
Indignant, let the Muse reveal,
Nor deeds oppressive dare conceal,
But tell the pangs they're doom'd to feel,
Our Sailors!
Nor deeds oppressive dare conceal,
But tell the pangs they're doom'd to feel,
Our Sailors!
21
Eager to hail their native land!
Eager to press some kindred hand,
While friendship greets along the strand,
Our Sailors!
Eager to press some kindred hand,
While friendship greets along the strand,
Our Sailors!
A wife's embrace, a prattler's smile,
An honest welcome, free from guile,
These make forgetful of past toil
Our Sailors!
An honest welcome, free from guile,
These make forgetful of past toil
Our Sailors!
Oh! mark the ruthless fiends appear,
And from each dear connection tear
Men, who should be their country's care,
Our Sailors!
And from each dear connection tear
Men, who should be their country's care,
Our Sailors!
Blush! Britons, blush! to have it told,
That to the tender's putrid hold
Fell hirelings, cow'rdly, force the bold,
Our Sailors!
That to the tender's putrid hold
Fell hirelings, cow'rdly, force the bold,
Our Sailors!
Peace to thy bosom, feeling Bard!
Who suff'ring brethren didst regard;
And call'd on Britons, to reward
Our Sailors!
Mr. Edward Rushton, of Liverpool, Bookseller. The Poems of this Author discover extraordinary powers of mind, and genuine feeling. During the years of youth, he served as Doctor, on board a Liverpool trader; and it was owing to this circumstance, that he felt so deeply the cruelties inflicted on our brethren, the Sons of Africa. He was unfortunately deprived of sight, on the coast of Guinea; and for upwards of thirty years laboured under that melancholy calamity, respected and pitied by all ranks of mankind. During this period, he used every exertion for the suppression of that disgraceful traffic, the Slave Trade. In a letter to General Washington, he pays him every praise for his talents shewn in the field or the senate; but censures his conduct with great severity for being a dealer in Slaves. This letter, which went through many editions, gained him the esteem of all who could boast a spirit of independence. His love of mankind dictated to him, as a proper subject for his Muse, the horrid custom of impressing seamen—a custom which has long thrown a foul stain on the British government. It is but justice to this philan-thropist to declare, he has written some of the most interesting songs of which our language can boast.
Posterity have a right to consider themselves deeply indebted to our British Cicero, the Right Honourable Charles James Fox. The last public act of that illustrious statesman, was the abolition of the Slave Trade; an inhuman traffic, by which the world was long degraded.
Who suff'ring brethren didst regard;
And call'd on Britons, to reward
Our Sailors!
22
While British Tars are dear to fame
So long thy song shall praises claim;
And grateful will they bless thy name,
Our Sailors!
So long thy song shall praises claim;
And grateful will they bless thy name,
Our Sailors!
23
MIDNIGHT REFLECTIONS.
“Night on the earth pour'd darkness; on the sea,
The wakesome sailor to Orion's star
And Helice turn'd heedful. Sunk to rest,
The traveller forgot his toil; his charge
The centinel; her death-devoted babe,
The mother's painless breast. The village dog
Had cas'd his troublous bay. Each busy tumult
Was hush'd at this dead hour; and darkness slept,
Lock'd in the arms of silence.”
The wakesome sailor to Orion's star
And Helice turn'd heedful. Sunk to rest,
The traveller forgot his toil; his charge
The centinel; her death-devoted babe,
The mother's painless breast. The village dog
Had cas'd his troublous bay. Each busy tumult
Was hush'd at this dead hour; and darkness slept,
Lock'd in the arms of silence.”
Apollonius Rhodius.
“Night mounts her curtain'd wane;
The dancing stars compose her filial train;
Black muffl'd sleep steals on with silent pace,
And dreams flit fast, imagination's race.”
The dancing stars compose her filial train;
Black muffl'd sleep steals on with silent pace,
And dreams flit fast, imagination's race.”
Now o'er the face of nature, night has thrown
Her sable mantle. Cynthia's silver beam
Shews not the distant bay, the vessel's course,
On which I love to ponder, from this height:
Pale empress, pleasing ever, she illumes
Some clime far distant. There, on giddy mast,
How many a seaman views that cheering orb;
Then thinks of parents, kindred, wife, and friends.
Perchance, hope whispers how a faithful fair
May sighing, trembling, view the bright expanse;
While oft she prays for his long-wish'd return.
He toils submissive, scorning to complain;
And laughs at danger.
Her sable mantle. Cynthia's silver beam
Shews not the distant bay, the vessel's course,
On which I love to ponder, from this height:
Pale empress, pleasing ever, she illumes
Some clime far distant. There, on giddy mast,
24
Then thinks of parents, kindred, wife, and friends.
Perchance, hope whispers how a faithful fair
May sighing, trembling, view the bright expanse;
While oft she prays for his long-wish'd return.
He toils submissive, scorning to complain;
And laughs at danger.
Think, ah! think ye proud,
From midnight revels freed, what he endures,
To store your groaning boards with pois'nous sweets,
That make you oft the hardy peasant's scoff.
Ne'er let ingratitude to him give pain,
Who, shame on man, oft torn from all he loves,
Braves sultry climes, hidden rocks, and pow'rful foes,
Proud of his country.
From midnight revels freed, what he endures,
To store your groaning boards with pois'nous sweets,
That make you oft the hardy peasant's scoff.
Ne'er let ingratitude to him give pain,
Who, shame on man, oft torn from all he loves,
Braves sultry climes, hidden rocks, and pow'rful foes,
Proud of his country.
Silence reigns around,
Save the rain patt'ring on the casement rude,
Driv'n by the breeze. It seems the voice of Heaven,
And still should make us mindful of the cause.
Save the rain patt'ring on the casement rude,
Driv'n by the breeze. It seems the voice of Heaven,
And still should make us mindful of the cause.
Oft at this hour, methinks 'tis sweet to muse,
On perils we've encounter'd, and escap'd;
Of sicknesses, too soon, alas! forgot:
Then dive into futurity's dark womb,
And lead the mind to death's sure, near approach.
To me, when wearied with day's studious toil,
It seems betimes life's luxury supreme,
Self-exil'd from the land which gave me birth,
In nook retir'd, far from the hum of man,
To think of youthful friends, for ever lost;
Of parents, relatives, sunk to the dust:
To trace with sages o'er my taper dim,
The various changes on life's busy stage,
Of states and mortals. Nor mispent the time,
Giv'n to the Muse; tho' woo'd too oft in vain.
Rear'd on the lap of humblest poverty,
By those who vainly sought coy fortune's smile,
The rays of learning ne'er illum'd my mind:
Yet, though debarr'd the joys of wealth and science,
While virtue dictates for another's weal,
The song that soothes a brother on his way,
My pipe shall not hang idly 'gainst the wall;
Tho' feeble be its tone. The simple rhyme,
The moral thought, of one unknown to fame,
An ear may please, and turn a mind from vice.
On perils we've encounter'd, and escap'd;
Of sicknesses, too soon, alas! forgot:
Then dive into futurity's dark womb,
25
To me, when wearied with day's studious toil,
It seems betimes life's luxury supreme,
Self-exil'd from the land which gave me birth,
In nook retir'd, far from the hum of man,
To think of youthful friends, for ever lost;
Of parents, relatives, sunk to the dust:
To trace with sages o'er my taper dim,
The various changes on life's busy stage,
Of states and mortals. Nor mispent the time,
Giv'n to the Muse; tho' woo'd too oft in vain.
Rear'd on the lap of humblest poverty,
By those who vainly sought coy fortune's smile,
The rays of learning ne'er illum'd my mind:
Yet, though debarr'd the joys of wealth and science,
While virtue dictates for another's weal,
The song that soothes a brother on his way,
My pipe shall not hang idly 'gainst the wall;
Tho' feeble be its tone. The simple rhyme,
The moral thought, of one unknown to fame,
An ear may please, and turn a mind from vice.
Not reft of feeling—now the clock hath told
The noon of night—O! I could weep for those,
The houseless wand'rers 'mid the savage blast,
Poor wretched outcasts of society!
Torn by our faithless sex from virtue's seat;
Reflecting never—making vice a trade.
—Ah! nature shudders at the dark-wrought scene!
The noon of night—O! I could weep for those,
The houseless wand'rers 'mid the savage blast,
26
Torn by our faithless sex from virtue's seat;
Reflecting never—making vice a trade.
—Ah! nature shudders at the dark-wrought scene!
He sleeps not, now, the helpless wretch, immur'd
Within yon gloomy prison's dark dank cell,
Th' insolvent debtor, from his friends exil'd.
Health smiles no longer on him; and alas!
The thoughts of happy years, long since flown by,
Prompt daily sighs, and break the night's repose.
His partner, offspring, driven to penury,
Woe-worn, and sickly, begging oft in vain,
For ever haunt him on his scanty straw.—
But 'tis the will of proud relentless man,
Whose heart, “flint to the core,” ne'er learn'd to feel;
And law's loud voice must own such deeds are just.
Bear light thy sorrows, heartless son of want;
Let christian fortitude soothe each distress;
Thy country boasts the wealthy and the good,
Who feel indignant at a brother's woes;
And still may such enjoy the suff'rer's praise.
—Still be this truth engraven on each mind;
Life's but a prison! Princes breathe enchain'd—
Death to the virtuous only, freedom gives!
Within yon gloomy prison's dark dank cell,
Th' insolvent debtor, from his friends exil'd.
Health smiles no longer on him; and alas!
The thoughts of happy years, long since flown by,
Prompt daily sighs, and break the night's repose.
His partner, offspring, driven to penury,
Woe-worn, and sickly, begging oft in vain,
For ever haunt him on his scanty straw.—
But 'tis the will of proud relentless man,
Whose heart, “flint to the core,” ne'er learn'd to feel;
And law's loud voice must own such deeds are just.
Bear light thy sorrows, heartless son of want;
Let christian fortitude soothe each distress;
Thy country boasts the wealthy and the good,
Who feel indignant at a brother's woes;
And still may such enjoy the suff'rer's praise.
—Still be this truth engraven on each mind;
Life's but a prison! Princes breathe enchain'd—
Death to the virtuous only, freedom gives!
27
How many, reckless of this solemn hour,
In yon proud town of commerce, idly waste
The time in riot, and intemp'rate joys!
The midnight ball, the splendid shew of pride,
The costly viands, or the mazy dance,
To them alone have charms. Thrice happier he,
The peaceful peasant, who from hardy toil,
Asks but the frugal meal nature requires.
—Man's real wants are few. From luxury,
Spring countless cares, that poison life's few years!
In yon proud town of commerce, idly waste
The time in riot, and intemp'rate joys!
The midnight ball, the splendid shew of pride,
The costly viands, or the mazy dance,
To them alone have charms. Thrice happier he,
The peaceful peasant, who from hardy toil,
Asks but the frugal meal nature requires.
—Man's real wants are few. From luxury,
Spring countless cares, that poison life's few years!
The cottage children of this straw-roof'd shed,
In sleep's soft arms, dream o'er their little sports.
Blest cherubs!—Ah! what bitter storms may blight
Such op'ning buds, exceeds proud mortals' ken.
Rest on. Peace to your slumbers, happy boys!
Rest on. A few short years may see you drawn
Into the wily snares of wicked men.
Or, ere another moon lights these brown hills,
Perhaps you're doom'd to hasten to the grave;
And sorrow-sunk, your parents leave in pain.
—God's will be done!—'Tis weakness to repine!
In sleep's soft arms, dream o'er their little sports.
Blest cherubs!—Ah! what bitter storms may blight
Such op'ning buds, exceeds proud mortals' ken.
Rest on. Peace to your slumbers, happy boys!
Rest on. A few short years may see you drawn
Into the wily snares of wicked men.
Or, ere another moon lights these brown hills,
Perhaps you're doom'd to hasten to the grave;
And sorrow-sunk, your parents leave in pain.
—God's will be done!—'Tis weakness to repine!
How different those stretch'd on the bed of death,
Who count each lazy minute as it flies;
Praying for morn's approach, and mourning still.
Hope tells, another day may bring them ease;
But hope too oft deceives the giddy brain.
Be patient, sons of sickness; mindful still
That virtuous deeds, though scorn'd by Mammon's train,
Will meet a sure reward. Remember, too,
The Ruler of the winds can only grant
A healing balm to sorrow or disease.
Who count each lazy minute as it flies;
Praying for morn's approach, and mourning still.
28
But hope too oft deceives the giddy brain.
Be patient, sons of sickness; mindful still
That virtuous deeds, though scorn'd by Mammon's train,
Will meet a sure reward. Remember, too,
The Ruler of the winds can only grant
A healing balm to sorrow or disease.
The thousand cares which agitate frail man,
During the glare of day, are hush'd to rest.
Emotions dire of envy, pangs of pride,
Tortures of jealousy, and fears of want;
Doubts, sorrows, pains, fancied perplexities,
Loves ill-requited, friendships unreturn'd,
A while are all forgotten.
During the glare of day, are hush'd to rest.
Emotions dire of envy, pangs of pride,
Tortures of jealousy, and fears of want;
Doubts, sorrows, pains, fancied perplexities,
Loves ill-requited, friendships unreturn'd,
A while are all forgotten.
On his couch,
Encanopied with velvet, the proud Prince,
Who conquers kingdoms, millions keeps in awe,
And revels on the lap of luxury,
Tastes not more sweets than doth the wretch low born,
Who nestles in his straw.
Encanopied with velvet, the proud Prince,
Who conquers kingdoms, millions keeps in awe,
And revels on the lap of luxury,
Tastes not more sweets than doth the wretch low born,
Who nestles in his straw.
Then since 'tis thus,
That not ev'n honors, pow'r, or pride of birth,
Yea, all the wealth Golconda's mountains yield,
Can smooth the brow of care; why will frail man
Repining, fret his few short years away?
Let me, whate'er the ills I'm doom'd to bear,
Spite of the proud man's scorn, the wise one's sneer,
Be thankful, ever, to the King of kings!
That not ev'n honors, pow'r, or pride of birth,
29
Can smooth the brow of care; why will frail man
Repining, fret his few short years away?
Let me, whate'er the ills I'm doom'd to bear,
Spite of the proud man's scorn, the wise one's sneer,
Be thankful, ever, to the King of kings!
30
TEA.
Let Gripus ill-got gow'd ay hoard;
Let dainties deck ilk glutton's board;
Gie trinkums to yon pamper'd lord,
Ambition's slave!
Wi' hamely fare, a table stor'd,
Is a' I crave!
Let dainties deck ilk glutton's board;
Gie trinkums to yon pamper'd lord,
Ambition's slave!
Wi' hamely fare, a table stor'd,
Is a' I crave!
Heart-cheerin' bev'rage, weel-brew'd Tea,
Souchong—Imperial, or Bohea—
Or leel, or sad, I lo'e to see
Thy dark streams flow;
To young and auld, ay dear thou'lt be,
Care's welcome foe!
Souchong—Imperial, or Bohea—
Or leel, or sad, I lo'e to see
Thy dark streams flow;
To young and auld, ay dear thou'lt be,
Care's welcome foe!
Tho' slander raves, while o'er thee set,
An' maks weak heartless bodies fret;
Just sae, o'er dear-bought wines, when met
A drouthie crew,
Puir modest worth can seldom get
The tribute due.
An' maks weak heartless bodies fret;
Just sae, o'er dear-bought wines, when met
A drouthie crew,
Puir modest worth can seldom get
The tribute due.
31
Peace to his saul, wha brought thee o'er
First to auld Albion's craggy shore;
Ne'er dreamt the chiel, the shrub he bore
By cuifs despis'd,
While wild woods wave, and billows roar,
Will ay be priz'd.
First to auld Albion's craggy shore;
For some years after Tea was first brought to England, it was seldom used; and its qualities were by many considered exceedingly dangerous. The Author remembers hearing his mother relate the following:—At the first Tea party she visited, a quantity was put into a large porridge pot, and boiled, together with butter and salt. Each person was served with a horn spoon; but wry faces soon shewed their dislike to the mess. One opinion influenced all present, which was, if the broth was fat, it was unco bitter!
Ne'er dreamt the chiel, the shrub he bore
By cuifs despis'd,
While wild woods wave, and billows roar,
Will ay be priz'd.
While monie tuim the reemin stoup,
That thraws the strangest on his doupe,
How happy they, wha form a groupe,
Thy balm to share!
Thou, nor destroy'st the puir man's hope,
Nor adds to care.
That thraws the strangest on his doupe,
How happy they, wha form a groupe,
Thy balm to share!
Thou, nor destroy'st the puir man's hope,
Nor adds to care.
Thou serv'st for drink—thou serv'st for meat—
To king and cottar thou'rt a treat;
Frae tiny weeans, lispin' sweet,
To age bent down,
'Mid Norlan frosts, or Suthern heat,
Weel art thou known.
To king and cottar thou'rt a treat;
Frae tiny weeans, lispin' sweet,
To age bent down,
'Mid Norlan frosts, or Suthern heat,
Weel art thou known.
To fam'd Sam Johnson
thou wert dear!
The kettle's sang he lo'ed to hear;
Nae organ's swellin' notes cou'd e'er
Sic joy impart;
And warm'd by thee, his converse clear
Charm'd ilka heart.
thou wert dear!
The kettle's sang he lo'ed to hear;
Nae organ's swellin' notes cou'd e'er
Sic joy impart;
And warm'd by thee, his converse clear
Charm'd ilka heart.
32
Howard
to sordid int'rest blind,
Wha sought to succour a' mankind,
In thee cou'd ay a solace find,
When welcom'd hame;
For thou wert gien to soothe the mind—
Prais'd be thy name!
to sordid int'rest blind,
Wha sought to succour a' mankind,
In thee cou'd ay a solace find,
When welcom'd hame;
For thou wert gien to soothe the mind—
Prais'd be thy name!
O'er thee, I've studied monie a sang,
When blasts blew wild, and nights were lang;
Such, wisdom's chiels may ay think wrang;
Spite o' their lear,
Wha rhymes to gie grim vice a bang,
Has nought to fear!
When blasts blew wild, and nights were lang;
Such, wisdom's chiels may ay think wrang;
Spite o' their lear,
Wha rhymes to gie grim vice a bang,
Has nought to fear!
O'er thee, I've tasted luive's pure joy,
An' aft suppress'd the risin' sigh:
Nae mair the wee deceitfu' boy
Can cause alarms;
His powerfu' dart I dare defy,
An' beauty's charms!
An' aft suppress'd the risin' sigh:
Nae mair the wee deceitfu' boy
Can cause alarms;
His powerfu' dart I dare defy,
An' beauty's charms!
O'er thee, I've griev'd for monie a wight,
An' schem'd to mak his sorrows light:
While I hae pow'r R. A. to write,
Be this my plan,
The lave to help, but ne'er to slight
Puir luckless man!
An' schem'd to mak his sorrows light:
While I hae pow'r R. A. to write,
Be this my plan,
The lave to help, but ne'er to slight
Puir luckless man!
33
O'er thee, in youth, and now in age,
Mankind I've trac'd on monie a page;
The patriot bauld, the deep-learn'd sage,
The grave divine;
The pension'd tribe, wha vauntin rage,
But ne'er can shine.
Mankind I've trac'd on monie a page;
The patriot bauld, the deep-learn'd sage,
The grave divine;
The pension'd tribe, wha vauntin rage,
But ne'er can shine.
O'er thee, I pray to see the day,
When toil-worn man, o'er lang a prey
To star-clad brithers, shall be gay;
An' bless the hour,
When tyranny 'gan to decay,
An' lose his pow'r.
When toil-worn man, o'er lang a prey
To star-clad brithers, shall be gay;
An' bless the hour,
When tyranny 'gan to decay,
An' lose his pow'r.
O'er thee, I've thought wi' heartfelt scorn,
O' what ilk mortal yet shou'd mourn;
How Afric's sons frae hame were torn,
An' basely sauld;
Blush, Britons! at sic deeds, hell-born,
Whene'er their tauld!
O' what ilk mortal yet shou'd mourn;
How Afric's sons frae hame were torn,
An' basely sauld;
Blush, Britons! at sic deeds, hell-born,
Whene'er their tauld!
I mind what comfort thou cou'd'st gie,
Whan todlen roun my minny's knee;
An' lang as I hae pow'r to prie,
At morn and eve,
Be mine sax cups o' wholesome Tea,
I'll scorn to grieve!
Whan todlen roun my minny's knee;
An' lang as I hae pow'r to prie,
At morn and eve,
Be mine sax cups o' wholesome Tea,
I'll scorn to grieve!
34
Wae wait the loons! few be their days,
Wha'd folk destroy wi' leaves o' slaes,
An' pois'nous weeds, their walth to raise,
Spite o' our laws!
May auld Nick on sic deadly faes
Suin fix his claws!
Wha'd folk destroy wi' leaves o' slaes,
An' pois'nous weeds, their walth to raise,
Spite o' our laws!
May auld Nick on sic deadly faes
Suin fix his claws!
Ye fair, wi' whom I've far'd fu' bra',
Peace to yer bosoms, ane an' a'!
An achin head ne'er may ye cla',
But lang be blest;
An' Tea yer troubles wash awa',
Till sunk in rest!
Peace to yer bosoms, ane an' a'!
An achin head ne'er may ye cla',
But lang be blest;
An' Tea yer troubles wash awa',
Till sunk in rest!
Ye chiels whom I hae cause to prize,
Wha Tea wi' me wou'd ne'er despise;
Wha wish'd me ay the wale o' joys,
An' sooth'd ilk care;
Leel be yer hearts, my merry boys,
When I'm nae mair!
Wha Tea wi' me wou'd ne'er despise;
Wha wish'd me ay the wale o' joys,
An' sooth'd ilk care;
Leel be yer hearts, my merry boys,
When I'm nae mair!
35
LOUISA, A BALLAD.
Where yon tall pine nods o'er the deep,
And murm'ring chides each passing gale,
Louisa oft would sit and weep,
And tell, with broken sighs, her tale.
And murm'ring chides each passing gale,
Louisa oft would sit and weep,
And tell, with broken sighs, her tale.
“What dost thou gaze at, village youth?
Why down thy cheek rolls the big tear?
Why press thy finger on thy mouth?
Louisa's tale, boy, would'st thou hear?
Why down thy cheek rolls the big tear?
Why press thy finger on thy mouth?
Louisa's tale, boy, would'st thou hear?
“The hips and haws are oft my food;
The nearest water drink supplies;
My bed is in the thickest wood,
But sleepless oft with morn I rise!
The nearest water drink supplies;
My bed is in the thickest wood,
But sleepless oft with morn I rise!
“Thou little girl, with rosy cheek,
To thee the villain man's unknown;
He'll woo thee, but thy ruin seek,
Then soon thy happiness is flown!
To thee the villain man's unknown;
He'll woo thee, but thy ruin seek,
Then soon thy happiness is flown!
“Art thou an only parent's care?
I, too, had once a mother dear!
Hie home! her smiles, her blessings share—
No more my sorrows shalt thou hear!”
I, too, had once a mother dear!
36
No more my sorrows shalt thou hear!”
Thus sunk a prey to want and grief,
The world no pleasure could impart;
Friendship could lend her no relief,
Nor pity heal a broken heart.
The world no pleasure could impart;
Friendship could lend her no relief,
Nor pity heal a broken heart.
With woe-worn looks, in wild despair,
Now she'd repeat a lover's name;
Now gaze on one, her only care,
The living record of her shame.
Now she'd repeat a lover's name;
Now gaze on one, her only care,
The living record of her shame.
Now in each feature, fondly trace
The look, that did her heart betray;
Then bending o'er his beauteous face,
Would weep the ling'ring hours away.
The look, that did her heart betray;
Then bending o'er his beauteous face,
Would weep the ling'ring hours away.
“Ah! pretty babe!” she oft would cry,
“Thy smile but deeper wounds my breast!
Where, where from mis'ry can we fly?
The grave's our only place of rest!
“Thy smile but deeper wounds my breast!
Where, where from mis'ry can we fly?
The grave's our only place of rest!
“Ah! pretty babe! no father hears
Thy tongue its lisping tales repeat;
No lover dries thy mother's tears,
Nor marks her painful bosom beat!
Thy tongue its lisping tales repeat;
No lover dries thy mother's tears,
Nor marks her painful bosom beat!
37
“Be sorrow poor Louisa's lot!
Yet still her pray'r shall be to Heav'n,
That tho' by Henry now forgot,
His wrongs to her may be forgiv'n!”
Yet still her pray'r shall be to Heav'n,
That tho' by Henry now forgot,
His wrongs to her may be forgiv'n!”
A stranger now to all repose,
No more the mourner hop'd for peace;
And Heav'n, in pity to her woes,
Soon bade Louisa's sorrows cease.
No more the mourner hop'd for peace;
And Heav'n, in pity to her woes,
Soon bade Louisa's sorrows cease.
Where yon tall spire o'er-tops the height,
And many a place of rest is seen,
There wanders one from morn to night;
Guilt marks his look and alter'd mien.
And many a place of rest is seen,
There wanders one from morn to night;
Guilt marks his look and alter'd mien.
He heeds no stranger's proffer'd aid,
Nor chilling rain, nor piercing blast;
But near the aged yew-tree's shade,
For ever thinks of what is past.
Nor chilling rain, nor piercing blast;
But near the aged yew-tree's shade,
For ever thinks of what is past.
On one he looks, to one he speaks,
Whom oft he prays kind Heav'n to save;
And with his babe, the Maniac seeks
Wild flow'rs, to deck Louisa's grave.
Whom oft he prays kind Heav'n to save;
And with his babe, the Maniac seeks
Wild flow'rs, to deck Louisa's grave.
38
ODE TO POVERTY.
“'Tis better to be lowly born,
And range with humble livers, in content,
Than to be perk'd up in a glitt'ring grief,
And wear a golden sorrow.”
And range with humble livers, in content,
Than to be perk'd up in a glitt'ring grief,
And wear a golden sorrow.”
Shakspeare.
“The learn'd is happy, nature to explore;
The fool is happy, that he knows no more;
The rich is happy in the plenty giv'n:
The poor contents him with the care of Heav'n.
The fool is happy, that he knows no more;
The rich is happy in the plenty giv'n:
The poor contents him with the care of Heav'n.
Pope.
Hail Poverty! in tatter'd weeds array'd;
The scorn of wealth, and all the gay-deck'd crowd;
Oft by thy sons despis'd,
Who bow to pride.
The scorn of wealth, and all the gay-deck'd crowd;
Oft by thy sons despis'd,
Who bow to pride.
Tho' in thy train, the spectre, care, appears,
With wrinkl'd sorrow, pale-fac'd misery,
These haunt the costly pile,
Where grandeur dwells.
With wrinkl'd sorrow, pale-fac'd misery,
These haunt the costly pile,
Where grandeur dwells.
39
Then wherefore shall men shudder at thy name,
Unmindful of the fix'd decrees of fate?
To Him who rules on high,
We all must bow.
Unmindful of the fix'd decrees of fate?
To Him who rules on high,
We all must bow.
Death waits alike the portals of the great,
And the craz'd cottage. Virtue makes us blest;
And when she deigns to smile,
She ne'er deceives.
And the craz'd cottage. Virtue makes us blest;
And when she deigns to smile,
She ne'er deceives.
No foe art thou to genius. They whose names
Immortal live, high on the rolls of fame,
Companions were of thine,
Yet died in peace.
Immortal live, high on the rolls of fame,
Companions were of thine,
Yet died in peace.
What Bard than Dryden tun'd more sweet the lyre?
And who like Otway call'd forth pity's tear?
Still Butler's humour gives
To laughter birth.
And who like Otway call'd forth pity's tear?
Still Butler's humour gives
To laughter birth.
While seasons roll, and nature speeds her course,
While liberty shall swell the virtuous breast,
Still Thomson's classic lays
New praise will claim!
While liberty shall swell the virtuous breast,
Still Thomson's classic lays
New praise will claim!
40
While Scotia's sons shall harmony admire,
The mournful dirge sublime, the past'ral song,
The magic verse of Burns
Mankind shall charm!
The mournful dirge sublime, the past'ral song,
The magic verse of Burns
Mankind shall charm!
Erin, dear Isle! of courts the scorn, the scourge!
Long as the shamrock marks thy fertile vales,
Thy Goldsmith's name shall rise,
A country's pride!
Long as the shamrock marks thy fertile vales,
Thy Goldsmith's name shall rise,
A country's pride!
Hail Poverty! the wisest, and the best
Of Kings, to whom our dearest rights we owe,
With thee enjoy'd content,
In lowly guise.
Of Kings, to whom our dearest rights we owe,
With thee enjoy'd content,
In lowly guise.
The arts, the sciences, thou ne'er forsak'st;
Thy sons, industrious, claim our nation's care;
Their deeds on land and main,
The world well knows.
Thy sons, industrious, claim our nation's care;
Their deeds on land and main,
The world well knows.
Let not proud mortals cast a scornful sneer
At toil-worn brethren, still their chief support;
The lordling and the slave
Bow to the tomb!
At toil-worn brethren, still their chief support;
The lordling and the slave
Bow to the tomb!
41
Unwelcome visitor, by millions deem'd,
Like day's bright orb thou'rt to no state confin'd;
Where'er man treads the earth,
There art thou found.
Like day's bright orb thou'rt to no state confin'd;
Where'er man treads the earth,
There art thou found.
My parents, kindred, still own'd thee a guest:
Thou rock'd my cradle; watch'd my youthful years;
And now, in life's decline,
Attend'st me still.
Thou rock'd my cradle; watch'd my youthful years;
And now, in life's decline,
Attend'st me still.
Tho' dark the prospect of my future days,
Unfriended traveller in this dreary vale;
Blest with the Muse and health,
I'll ne'er repine.
Unfriended traveller in this dreary vale;
Blest with the Muse and health,
I'll ne'er repine.
Then, hail! companion of life's chequer'd scenes,
Who ne'er forsook me, nor wert e'er despis'd;
With thee I've liv'd in peace,
With thee must die!
Who ne'er forsook me, nor wert e'er despis'd;
With thee I've liv'd in peace,
With thee must die!
42
INSCRIPTION FOR AN OAK SEAT
ON THE SUMMIT OF A HILL.
Stop, gentle traveller, on this rude Seat,
Rest thee awhile; and ponder on mankind:
Turn nature's volume o'er, with prying eye,
And in each page thou'lt find a sweet reward.
If thou hast journey'd long thro' life's dark vale,
And poverty hath thy companion been,
Offend not God, by murmuring at his will;
But let religion ever be thy guide.
Remember what thou art; what thou must be;
How life's dull path is short, o'er which thou stray'st,
And thou art on eternity's dread brink—
Eternity!—Ah! word but little weigh'd!
Rest thee awhile; and ponder on mankind:
Turn nature's volume o'er, with prying eye,
And in each page thou'lt find a sweet reward.
If thou hast journey'd long thro' life's dark vale,
And poverty hath thy companion been,
Offend not God, by murmuring at his will;
But let religion ever be thy guide.
Remember what thou art; what thou must be;
How life's dull path is short, o'er which thou stray'st,
And thou art on eternity's dread brink—
Eternity!—Ah! word but little weigh'd!
Now turn thine eye, yon mansion gay behold,
Its parks, its pleasure grounds, diverted streams,
Lakes, woods umbrageous, temples, and cascades,
Where art with nature almost dares to vie;
And if thou envy'st its proud pamper'd lord,
Whose pow'r and rich domains extend afar;
Check the vain thought. Know wealth is rapt in cares,
And but the virtuous are the truly great!
Its parks, its pleasure grounds, diverted streams,
Lakes, woods umbrageous, temples, and cascades,
Where art with nature almost dares to vie;
And if thou envy'st its proud pamper'd lord,
Whose pow'r and rich domains extend afar;
Check the vain thought. Know wealth is rapt in cares,
And but the virtuous are the truly great!
43
If fortune's favours, traveller, thou canst boast,
Bethink thee for what purpose they were giv'n;
Nor loiter here: time's ever on the wing!
Yet should thy panting bosom rest require,
Let what thine eye behold'st lead thee to Heav'n!
Bethink thee for what purpose they were giv'n;
Nor loiter here: time's ever on the wing!
Yet should thy panting bosom rest require,
Let what thine eye behold'st lead thee to Heav'n!
This Seat, thy wearied body that supports,
Once tower'd majestic, the dark forest's pride;
It was the raven's cradle, rock'd by storms,
Where oft they tasted aldermanic bliss,
And caw'd, delighted, o'er an unfledg'd brood;
While many an humbler tree, and fragrant shrub,
And tender flow'r, emblem of innocence,
Its thick-wov'n branches shelter'd from the blast.
Oft too, the hind, to shun the fervid glow
Of Summer's noon-tide sun, has sought its shade;
Pleas'd with wild warblings from its topmost boughs,
While o'er his scanty meal, in peace reclin'd,
He envy'd no one. Now, time-rent, and fall'n,
Lo! its decay bespeaks the fate of man,
Fair lord of the creation, frail and vain!
Once tower'd majestic, the dark forest's pride;
It was the raven's cradle, rock'd by storms,
Where oft they tasted aldermanic bliss,
And caw'd, delighted, o'er an unfledg'd brood;
While many an humbler tree, and fragrant shrub,
And tender flow'r, emblem of innocence,
Its thick-wov'n branches shelter'd from the blast.
Oft too, the hind, to shun the fervid glow
Of Summer's noon-tide sun, has sought its shade;
Pleas'd with wild warblings from its topmost boughs,
While o'er his scanty meal, in peace reclin'd,
He envy'd no one. Now, time-rent, and fall'n,
Lo! its decay bespeaks the fate of man,
Fair lord of the creation, frail and vain!
If pensive grown, thou hang'st a musing head,
One moment's thought points out thy kindred earth;
And faded leaves that quiv'ring float around,
Soon, soon may rustle o'er thy narrow home!
One moment's thought points out thy kindred earth;
And faded leaves that quiv'ring float around,
Soon, soon may rustle o'er thy narrow home!
44
Now deign to view yon cottage in the vale,
Where late content beam'd in each ruddy face;
See'st thou the ruins?—Mark a helpless pair,
Who sit, and mourn, and tell to passers by,
How war hath blasted all their hopes of age,
In sons, who fought, and fell in foreign fields.
One hope they have, the hope that virtue gives,
It leaves the poor man never: Heav'n's reward,
To suff'ring mortals, in this vale of tears.
Where late content beam'd in each ruddy face;
See'st thou the ruins?—Mark a helpless pair,
Who sit, and mourn, and tell to passers by,
How war hath blasted all their hopes of age,
In sons, who fought, and fell in foreign fields.
One hope they have, the hope that virtue gives,
It leaves the poor man never: Heav'n's reward,
To suff'ring mortals, in this vale of tears.
If thy young heart hath not yet felt a pang,
For those thy brethren, whose distress bespeaks
Thy country's ruin, in its growing pride,
Go! “Learn the luxury of doing good;”
But, if unmindful of a better world,
The phantom pleasure thou hast long pursu'd;
And self predominates o'er others' wrongs,
Hence, sluggard!—Know thou art not welcome here!
For those thy brethren, whose distress bespeaks
Thy country's ruin, in its growing pride,
Go! “Learn the luxury of doing good;”
But, if unmindful of a better world,
The phantom pleasure thou hast long pursu'd;
And self predominates o'er others' wrongs,
Hence, sluggard!—Know thou art not welcome here!
45
STANZAS WRITTEN IN AUTUMN, 1799.
“Now Autumn hath reviv'd the farmer's hope,
And the rich gifts of Ceres ting'd with gold;
Pleas'd with the bounteous gift,
Each field he views.”
And the rich gifts of Ceres ting'd with gold;
Pleas'd with the bounteous gift,
Each field he views.”
Anon.
Summer's verdure now is fled;
Faded are her fragrant flow'rs;
Savage Autumn strips the bow'rs,
While dull nature hangs her head.
Faded are her fragrant flow'rs;
Savage Autumn strips the bow'rs,
While dull nature hangs her head.
Songs of joy no more are heard
Thro' the winding valley float,
Save the redbreast's grateful note,
Fond, domestic, pleasing bird!
Thro' the winding valley float,
Save the redbreast's grateful note,
Fond, domestic, pleasing bird!
Yet, ere chilling snows decend,
He must quit each well-known wood;
And to hamlets driv'n for food,
Ask of faithless man a friend.
He must quit each well-known wood;
And to hamlets driv'n for food,
Ask of faithless man a friend.
46
Where, beneath the blooming thorn,
Blithe, the milk-maid with her pail,
Listen'd to the rustic's tale,
Softly told at early morn,
Blithe, the milk-maid with her pail,
Listen'd to the rustic's tale,
Softly told at early morn,
Fallen leaves now with'ring lie;
Faded moralists, that teach
Mortals much; tho' void of speech,
For, like them, soon all must die!
Faded moralists, that teach
Mortals much; tho' void of speech,
For, like them, soon all must die!
Deadly blasts now loudly blow,
Telling haggard Winter near;
Whose approach what millions fear,
Sunk by poverty and woe!
Telling haggard Winter near;
Whose approach what millions fear,
Sunk by poverty and woe!
Oh! that pleasure's sparkling train,
Wou'd their false-nam'd joys forbear!
And the gifts of Heaven share,
With each child of want and pain!
Wou'd their false-nam'd joys forbear!
And the gifts of Heaven share,
With each child of want and pain!
Reckless then of fortune's frown,
Man his loud complaints might cease:
Life would be a vale of peace,
Happy state, ah! little known!
Man his loud complaints might cease:
Life would be a vale of peace,
Happy state, ah! little known!
47
THE AUTHOR'S WILL.
Great Bards, in all ages, all countries, we find,
Whose works now delight and enlighten mankind,
Were scorn'd by dame fortune, and ofttimes despis'd;
When the foes of each country by monarch's were priz'd.
The prince of all Poets, old Homer, was poor,
And his ballads, unequall'd, would sing at each door;
Who the sigh can suppress, that the works ere peruse,
Of Cervantes, who wretched, the world cou'd amuse?
And while Albion the fate of her Dryden still mourns,
Old Scotia may blush o'er the tomb of poor Burns.
If distress mark'd the favourite sons of the Nine,
Let not scribblers like me at the world e'er repine;
But be thankful for favours we ne'er can repay,
And smile at life's ills that must soon fade away.
O spare a poor rhymer, ye friends ever dear,
Nor be to the man or his lays too severe;
Dear brethren! to whom all his failings are known,
Rail not at his foibles, but heed well your own:
For, if pleasure's bowl he was anxious to seize,
Remember his motto—“Still willing to please!”
An itch after scribbling was long his delight,
And if virtue dictated, you'll own he did right:
Spider-like, if he spun his weak cobwebs in vain,
And the verse gave not pleasure, it seldom gave pain.
Whose works now delight and enlighten mankind,
Were scorn'd by dame fortune, and ofttimes despis'd;
When the foes of each country by monarch's were priz'd.
The prince of all Poets, old Homer, was poor,
And his ballads, unequall'd, would sing at each door;
Who the sigh can suppress, that the works ere peruse,
Of Cervantes, who wretched, the world cou'd amuse?
And while Albion the fate of her Dryden still mourns,
Old Scotia may blush o'er the tomb of poor Burns.
If distress mark'd the favourite sons of the Nine,
Let not scribblers like me at the world e'er repine;
But be thankful for favours we ne'er can repay,
And smile at life's ills that must soon fade away.
O spare a poor rhymer, ye friends ever dear,
Nor be to the man or his lays too severe;
Dear brethren! to whom all his failings are known,
Rail not at his foibles, but heed well your own:
For, if pleasure's bowl he was anxious to seize,
Remember his motto—“Still willing to please!”
48
And if virtue dictated, you'll own he did right:
Spider-like, if he spun his weak cobwebs in vain,
And the verse gave not pleasure, it seldom gave pain.
Since life's an uncertainty, for relaxation,
He gladly wou'd cancel each light obligation;
For dunces, like princes, an hour cannot reckon,
But both must obey, when death pleases to beckon:
That leveller alike heeds the one's harmless rhymes,
And the other's dominions, his pow'r and his crimes.
He gladly wou'd cancel each light obligation;
For dunces, like princes, an hour cannot reckon,
But both must obey, when death pleases to beckon:
That leveller alike heeds the one's harmless rhymes,
And the other's dominions, his pow'r and his crimes.
First.—A fond father's Portrait, I leave to that friend,
Who to th' wants of his parents will swear to attend;
With a Stick, the firm pledge of my father's affection,
On which I oft muse with a pleasing reflection,
May he use it, when age bids his body decline,
And the son makes his parent as happy as mine!
Who to th' wants of his parents will swear to attend;
With a Stick, the firm pledge of my father's affection,
On which I oft muse with a pleasing reflection,
May he use it, when age bids his body decline,
And the son makes his parent as happy as mine!
Next, my Flute, that on Eden's green banks I oft play'
To amuse a dear friend, or a fair artless maid,
Whose wild notes have sooth'd me, and check'd many a sigh,
When on follies reflecting, a tear dimm'd my eye,
I leave to ------, a youth to my mind;
A gift of esteem, to the friend of mankind:
May its tones afford pleasure, and shield him from strife,
And virtue and harmony guide him thro' life!
To amuse a dear friend, or a fair artless maid,
Whose wild notes have sooth'd me, and check'd many a sigh,
When on follies reflecting, a tear dimm'd my eye,
49
A gift of esteem, to the friend of mankind:
May its tones afford pleasure, and shield him from strife,
And virtue and harmony guide him thro' life!
All my M S. trifles I freely bequeath,
To Crito, for whom oft the Muse forms a wreath:
If I'm void of invention, or poetic spirit,
The touch of my friend changes nonsense to merit;
And as he from the censure of sland'rers can save me,
I leave him the neat Silver Pen, ------ gave me,
With this simple request, that, with it, when I'm gone,
He the simple inscription will write for my stone;
Not forgetting to warn young and old, passing by,
To repent of their sins, and make ready to die.
'Tis my pray'r he may long by the Muse be inspir'd,
Whose name will be honour'd, while merit's admir'd;
For no arts but his own have promoted his fame,
Nor a verse has he written that virtue can blame.
To Crito, for whom oft the Muse forms a wreath:
If I'm void of invention, or poetic spirit,
The touch of my friend changes nonsense to merit;
And as he from the censure of sland'rers can save me,
I leave him the neat Silver Pen, ------ gave me,
With this simple request, that, with it, when I'm gone,
He the simple inscription will write for my stone;
Not forgetting to warn young and old, passing by,
To repent of their sins, and make ready to die.
'Tis my pray'r he may long by the Muse be inspir'd,
Whose name will be honour'd, while merit's admir'd;
For no arts but his own have promoted his fame,
Nor a verse has he written that virtue can blame.
My Selection of Songs I bequeath to F. J---e,
Some the musings of genius, some ravings of folly;
He may print them, or burn them, as best it will suit him,
Ev'n call mine his own, if he does, few will doubt him.
Some the musings of genius, some ravings of folly;
He may print them, or burn them, as best it will suit him,
Ev'n call mine his own, if he does, few will doubt him.
50
To Miss ------, the best female I know,
Whose friendship beguiles the pain'd bosom of woe,
If she'll deign to accept, every Picture and Hook;
I bequeath, with my Music by Thomson or Hook;
A Portfolio of Fragments, and Letters, poor treasure,
Strange mixture of nonsense, love, friendship, and pleasure:
With some she may rub off the rust of dull care,
In others view passions that lead to despair.
Whose friendship beguiles the pain'd bosom of woe,
If she'll deign to accept, every Picture and Hook;
I bequeath, with my Music by Thomson or Hook;
A Portfolio of Fragments, and Letters, poor treasure,
Strange mixture of nonsense, love, friendship, and pleasure:
With some she may rub off the rust of dull care,
In others view passions that lead to despair.
From the best, to the vainest, we scribblers may change,
'Tis the license of folly, with freedom to range;
To Miss ------, I leave, nor hope she'll refuse them,
A Volume of Words, with directions to use them:
The whole by Sam Johnson, who form'd the great rules,
That preserve common sense, spite of women and fools.
'Tis the license of folly, with freedom to range;
To Miss ------, I leave, nor hope she'll refuse them,
A Volume of Words, with directions to use them:
The whole by Sam Johnson, who form'd the great rules,
That preserve common sense, spite of women and fools.
To Carlyle, whose friendship's a treasure to me,
I leave this warm wish, he long happy may be,
With him, oft at twilight in Summer I've stray'd,
And heard the last song of the thrush in the glade,
While charm'd with the landscapes, to him ever dear,
Whose pencil pourtray'd every change of the year;
Or trac'd nature's beauties, as homeward we trod,
Whose scenes, ever varied, the mind leads to God.
With him, I in Winter have shar'd each delight,
That pleasure cou'd yield, and beguile the long night;
Now musing o'er authors, each sense to improve;
Now piping soft airs, dear to friendship and love.
May the Muse ne'er forsake him, is still my fond pray'r,
Nor his face e'er be furrow'd with wrinkles of care!
I leave this warm wish, he long happy may be,
With him, oft at twilight in Summer I've stray'd,
And heard the last song of the thrush in the glade,
While charm'd with the landscapes, to him ever dear,
Whose pencil pourtray'd every change of the year;
51
Whose scenes, ever varied, the mind leads to God.
With him, I in Winter have shar'd each delight,
That pleasure cou'd yield, and beguile the long night;
Now musing o'er authors, each sense to improve;
Now piping soft airs, dear to friendship and love.
May the Muse ne'er forsake him, is still my fond pray'r,
Nor his face e'er be furrow'd with wrinkles of care!
Dull rhymers, unletter'd, who try ev'ry art,
To touch a weak head, or an unfeeling heart,
Who fain up the heights of Parnassus would hobble,
Like me, paid with sneers and contempt for your trouble;
I leave you this wish, ne'er to scribble in vain,
Rather labour, in time, useful knowledge to gain.
To touch a weak head, or an unfeeling heart,
Who fain up the heights of Parnassus would hobble,
Like me, paid with sneers and contempt for your trouble;
I leave you this wish, ne'er to scribble in vain,
Rather labour, in time, useful knowledge to gain.
To ------, my companion in rambles nocturnal,
I leave, just by way of memento, my Journal;
And beg he'll not fail the contents to peruse,
Whether serious reflections, or scraps from the Muse:
By the first, he his own imperfections may see,
By the last, he may pity a rhymer, like me.
I leave, just by way of memento, my Journal;
And beg he'll not fail the contents to peruse,
Whether serious reflections, or scraps from the Muse:
By the first, he his own imperfections may see,
By the last, he may pity a rhymer, like me.
I leave ------ my Spectacles, thro' which he'll view
His magnified foibles; wou'd mine were as few!
So gentle's his heart, ev'n a child may deceive him;
So true is his tongue, ev'n his foes may believe him:
His greatest fault is, goodness keeps him in fetters,
And he lives an example to slaves call'd his betters.
His magnified foibles; wou'd mine were as few!
52
So true is his tongue, ev'n his foes may believe him:
His greatest fault is, goodness keeps him in fetters,
And he lives an example to slaves call'd his betters.
I leave to ------ a Locket, with Hair,
Cut off ere my temples where shorn by dull care:
May she wear this small Pledge of fond love near her heart,
Till summon'd at length from her friends to depart!
Cut off ere my temples where shorn by dull care:
May she wear this small Pledge of fond love near her heart,
Till summon'd at length from her friends to depart!
My Clothing, thread-bare, I bequeat to the poor,
Who, comfortless, many keen ills must endure;
And if on life's journey their troubles increase,
May hope lead their minds to the mansion of peace!
Who, comfortless, many keen ills must endure;
And if on life's journey their troubles increase,
May hope lead their minds to the mansion of peace!
Now, to God the Creator, thro' whom draw breath,
Thro' whose promise the sinner may triumph o'er death,
I bequeath my poor Soul, and his mercy I crave,
For reflection wounds deep, as we bend to the grave!
And its Case, which none e'er thought the finest of forms,
I leave, a spare feast to its kindred, the worms.
Thro' whose promise the sinner may triumph o'er death,
I bequeath my poor Soul, and his mercy I crave,
For reflection wounds deep, as we bend to the grave!
And its Case, which none e'er thought the finest of forms,
I leave, a spare feast to its kindred, the worms.
53
My harp, tuneless grown, I now hang on the willow;
And in peace with the world, hope for rest on my pillow.
Sign'd, truly, October, the twenty sixth day,
In the year of our Lord, Eighteen Hundred,
And in peace with the world, hope for rest on my pillow.
Sign'd, truly, October, the twenty sixth day,
In the year of our Lord, Eighteen Hundred,
R.A
54
SCENE FROM THE MUSICAL FARCE OF “THE BEGGAR GIRL.”
Scene—A Wood.Time—Night.
COL. MORDAUNT.
Now roars the tempest hoarse, and heavy rains
Swell the harsh-sounding rills; while ev'ry blast
Shakes the proud oak, that on the mountain's height,
Reigns monarch of the woods. The humble shrub,
Safe in the shelter'd vale, feels not its rage!
Thus, are some minds on fortune's summit plac'd,
Toss'd by rude storms the peasant hears unmov'd.
I'll to the inn, and rest.—Rest, did I say?
Alas! by grief o'ercome, 'tis now some days,
Since balmy sleep invited to my pillow.
O, life! what art thou?—But a load of sorrow;
That man, weak reptile, shrinking still must bear!
Must bear? (Pauses for some moments)
Not so!
(Draws a pistol in despair)
This, this can end my woes! —My wife, the sweetest flow'r that ever bloom'd,
A prey to th' worms!—Her father's cruelty—
The thought is hell!—My daughter!—But no more!
My heart-strings burst, and frenzy heats my brain;
55
No more to part!
(Presents the pistol to his head. Enter Capt. Cleveland, who quickly seizes his arm; Mordaunt throws away the pistol.)
CAPT. CLEVELAND.
Dear friend! dear, but rash Mordaunt!
MORDAUNT.
What! Cleveland's voice? again, thank Heav'n, I'm well!
O I had like t' have done the fatal deed—
Poor thoughtless, frantic wretch!
CLEVELAND.
Do be composed. Good Mordaunt list to me—
MORDAUNT.
How near I stood
The dreadful precipice of endless ruin;
And tremble yet.—What! scorn th' Almighty's pow'r!
And dare him to the conflict! How my mind
Sinks at the bare rememb'rance; and cold damps
Hang on my weakened body. I could weep
And welcome death, for life is reft of joys:
But time may bring repentance.
(Kneels)
56
A trembling sinner bends to thee for mercy.
Grant, thou, whate'er my suff'rings in this world,
That christian fortitude may ne'er forsake me;
But still may I prepare for that to come!
(Rises)
O Cleveland! what a change! Religion pours
Her healing balm of comfort o'er my mind,
And come what will, I'll wait death's friendly blow!
CLEVELAND.
How fortunate am I, thus, from the grave,
To snatch a brother; brave and merciful:
Whose deeds in foreign climes, long, long will live—
Who at the peril of his life, sav'd mine!
MORDAUNT.
Cleveland, if thou'rt a friend, name that no more.
CLEVELAND.
Hearing you had left the inn, I trac'd you
To this lone spot. Forever will this hour
The happiest seem, of all my happy days.
MORDAUNT.
Cleveland, may Heav'n long guard thee, my preserver!
Let me again embrace thee. We'll to th' inn.
My spirits, quite exhausted, lack repose.
57
ODE TO FORTUNE.
Thy favours, Fortune, I ne'er court,
Nor with thy vot'ries much resort;
But, didst thou bid me chuse a state,
Not meanly poor, nor prineely great,
Place me far from the sound of war,
And all the wranglings of the bar;
Yet nearer to the village spire,
Than to his lordship, or the 'squire.
Three miles from town, be my retreat,
A pleasant cottage, small, but neat,
That, to the stranger wand'ring near,
Wou'd seem to say, content dwells here.
Let gadding woodbines round it creep,
And in each lattice fondly peep;
A garden, too, its front adorn,
Hedg'd careless round; beneath a thorn,
A shade, wherein to muse at ease,
And watch the labours of my bees;
Or study o'er each golden rule,
Of those well known in wisdom's school;
Or here, when eve bids labour rest,
Pipe, to delight some village guest.
Nor with thy vot'ries much resort;
But, didst thou bid me chuse a state,
Not meanly poor, nor prineely great,
Place me far from the sound of war,
And all the wranglings of the bar;
Yet nearer to the village spire,
Than to his lordship, or the 'squire.
Three miles from town, be my retreat,
A pleasant cottage, small, but neat,
That, to the stranger wand'ring near,
Wou'd seem to say, content dwells here.
Let gadding woodbines round it creep,
And in each lattice fondly peep;
A garden, too, its front adorn,
Hedg'd careless round; beneath a thorn,
A shade, wherein to muse at ease,
And watch the labours of my bees;
Or study o'er each golden rule,
Of those well known in wisdom's school;
Or here, when eve bids labour rest,
Pipe, to delight some village guest.
58
No artful walks I'd wish to view,
For nature ne'er to art shou'd bow;
But when the rival pair unite,
Where is the breast they can't delight?
Thus be the front. And now behind,
A wood shou'd check the wild north wind;
And shelter safe a warbling throng,
Whose rent shou'd be a chearful song.
What joy to hear my tenants, free,
Hymn grateful notes, from tree to tree!
No sportsman rude (ah! cruel joy!)
Shou'd e'er the harmless race destroy;
Nor truant school-boy e'er shou'd tear
From them the young and tender care:
Then, oh! mid' Winter's dreary reign,
Wou'd they to visit me but deign,
I to their wants wou'd still attend,
Proud to become each creature's friend.
For nature ne'er to art shou'd bow;
But when the rival pair unite,
Where is the breast they can't delight?
Thus be the front. And now behind,
A wood shou'd check the wild north wind;
And shelter safe a warbling throng,
Whose rent shou'd be a chearful song.
What joy to hear my tenants, free,
Hymn grateful notes, from tree to tree!
No sportsman rude (ah! cruel joy!)
Shou'd e'er the harmless race destroy;
Nor truant school-boy e'er shou'd tear
From them the young and tender care:
Then, oh! mid' Winter's dreary reign,
Wou'd they to visit me but deign,
I to their wants wou'd still attend,
Proud to become each creature's friend.
Next, give me, for a maid or wife,
A nut-brown girl, sworn foe to strife;
One simple in her dress and air,
Unus'd to town, or costly fare:
Who'd cleanly cook my humble meal,
Nor blab the secrets I'd reveal;
Who'd sing without conceit or pain;
Who'd read the news and bible plain;
Who'd write her thoughts in easy prose,
And argue well in virtue's cause.
A nut-brown girl, sworn foe to strife;
One simple in her dress and air,
Unus'd to town, or costly fare:
Who'd cleanly cook my humble meal,
Nor blab the secrets I'd reveal;
59
Who'd read the news and bible plain;
Who'd write her thoughts in easy prose,
And argue well in virtue's cause.
My wishes, Fortune, would'st thou crown,
The sweets of friendship let me own:
One friend I'd ask, of soul sincere,
Not moving in too high a sphere;
Who'd bend to no proud party knave;
A foe to none, to none a slave;
Who'd scorn by trifles to be bought,
Content in honest home-spun coat.
When Winter reign'd in furious rage,
We'd mark the follies of the age:
Thus converse wou'd each mind illume,
For friendship cheers wild Winter's gloom.
In Summer, nature's laws we'd scan,
Admiring still her beauteous plan;
And oft, by some hoarse-murm'ring stream,
Indulge a fond poetic dream;
Or range, with health, the daisied mead,
Then wou'd this life be life indeed!
The sweets of friendship let me own:
One friend I'd ask, of soul sincere,
Not moving in too high a sphere;
Who'd bend to no proud party knave;
A foe to none, to none a slave;
Who'd scorn by trifles to be bought,
Content in honest home-spun coat.
When Winter reign'd in furious rage,
We'd mark the follies of the age:
Thus converse wou'd each mind illume,
For friendship cheers wild Winter's gloom.
In Summer, nature's laws we'd scan,
Admiring still her beauteous plan;
And oft, by some hoarse-murm'ring stream,
Indulge a fond poetic dream;
Or range, with health, the daisied mead,
Then wou'd this life be life indeed!
Thus, Fortune, seated to my mind,
I'd thank thee oft, and own thee kind.
Secure from folly's tiresome noise,
Where pleasure health and wealth destroys,
Shou'd care or spleen a visit pay,
I'd bid them call another day;
And chearfully survey the past,
Nor think time mov'd too slow or fast;
Nor wish to live, nor fear to die,
But sink to earth, without a sigh.
I'd thank thee oft, and own thee kind.
60
Where pleasure health and wealth destroys,
Shou'd care or spleen a visit pay,
I'd bid them call another day;
And chearfully survey the past,
Nor think time mov'd too slow or fast;
Nor wish to live, nor fear to die,
But sink to earth, without a sigh.
With such a friend, a wife, and cot,
Who wou'd repine, deserves them not;
And he who vainly wishes more,
May he, like me, thro' life be poor!
Who wou'd repine, deserves them not;
And he who vainly wishes more,
May he, like me, thro' life be poor!
61
STANZAS
WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF EDEN, NEAR CARLISLE; WHERE A FAVOURITE GROVE HAD BEEN CUT DOWN.
“There's not one shrub, or flow'r,
But tells some dear-lov'd tale to me;
Or paints some happy hour,
That I, alas! no more shall see!”
Miss Blamire.
But tells some dear-lov'd tale to me;
Or paints some happy hour,
That I, alas! no more shall see!”
Miss Blamire.
This spot I dearly lov'd to see!
'Twas childhood's paradise to me;
And more than thrice ten times the sun
His annual course hath run,
Since first this bank, crown'd by a wood,
I saw reflected in the flood;
And mark'd the early shelter'd primrose spring:
Then tore it from its mossy seat,
And sought the town, with nimble feet,
More proud than any king.
'Twas childhood's paradise to me;
And more than thrice ten times the sun
His annual course hath run,
Since first this bank, crown'd by a wood,
I saw reflected in the flood;
And mark'd the early shelter'd primrose spring:
Then tore it from its mossy seat,
And sought the town, with nimble feet,
More proud than any king.
This spot I dearly lov'd to see,
Where warbling songsters wanton'd free!
And fancy oft hath drawn the scene,
The lawn, and meadows green;
The distant hamlet, darken'd glen—
Ev'n midst the noisy haunts of men,
When manhood's seasons wing'd with pleasure flew,
The hazle copse, where oft the nest
I prying sought with panting breast,
Were ever in my view!
Where warbling songsters wanton'd free!
And fancy oft hath drawn the scene,
The lawn, and meadows green;
The distant hamlet, darken'd glen—
Ev'n midst the noisy haunts of men,
62
The hazle copse, where oft the nest
I prying sought with panting breast,
Were ever in my view!
This spot I dearly lov'd to see,
When from youth's daily labour free!
Here would I trace on many a page,
The follies of the age:
Or fondly listen friendship's voice;
Or deem my fair a matchless choice;
But dreamt not love and friendship soon decay:
A heartless pilgrim, now, I mourn
The joys long fled, ne'er to return,
And sigh the hours away!
When from youth's daily labour free!
Here would I trace on many a page,
The follies of the age:
Or fondly listen friendship's voice;
Or deem my fair a matchless choice;
But dreamt not love and friendship soon decay:
A heartless pilgrim, now, I mourn
The joys long fled, ne'er to return,
And sigh the hours away!
This spot I dearly lov'd to see,
Where lovers' names grew on each tree!
Ah! Infancy, thy scenes are dear,
And call forth many a tear!
Fall'n are the trees that form'd a shade,
Where oft contemplative I stray'd;
Or tun'd my pipe to strains of mirth and love.
The stately oak, the humble flow'r,
That bloom and perish in an hour,
Man's short existence prove!
Where lovers' names grew on each tree!
Ah! Infancy, thy scenes are dear,
And call forth many a tear!
Fall'n are the trees that form'd a shade,
Where oft contemplative I stray'd;
Or tun'd my pipe to strains of mirth and love.
The stately oak, the humble flow'r,
That bloom and perish in an hour,
Man's short existence prove!
63
A CHARACTER.
“Truth ought ever to pass free as the air we breathe!”
Near Lagan's banks, a mile from town,
A rural whiten'd cottage stands;
The hamlets, halls, and hills of Down,
And many a prospect it commands:
It fronts the road, where haughty pride
And honest poverty throng by;
But few they are who turn aside,
On this lone cot to cast an eye.
A rural whiten'd cottage stands;
The hamlets, halls, and hills of Down,
And many a prospect it commands:
It fronts the road, where haughty pride
And honest poverty throng by;
But few they are who turn aside,
On this lone cot to cast an eye.
Yet, it contains a matchless form,
As youthful fancy ever drew;
And in that form a heart as warm,
As meek philanthropist e'er knew:
And it contains as fair a face,
As ever fore'd a sigh from man;
Each winning smile, each witching grace
Are center'd all in Marianne.
As youthful fancy ever drew;
And in that form a heart as warm,
As meek philanthropist e'er knew:
And it contains as fair a face,
As ever fore'd a sigh from man;
Each winning smile, each witching grace
Are center'd all in Marianne.
64
Yet beauty is a short-liv'd flow'r,
Ev'n when in dazzling tints array'd;
It blossoms, withers, in an hour,
But mental beauties never fade:
Think, thus, ye fair in giddy youth,
Who whirl o'er fashion's gilded round;
Leave not to time to tell this truth,
Too late, in age, it oft is found.
Ev'n when in dazzling tints array'd;
It blossoms, withers, in an hour,
But mental beauties never fade:
Think, thus, ye fair in giddy youth,
Who whirl o'er fashion's gilded round;
Leave not to time to tell this truth,
Too late, in age, it oft is found.
She who in this low cot resides,
To pride, to beauty, wisely blind,
The follies of her sex derides,
But gladly wou'd improve each mind:
Now turning “nature's volume o'er;”
Now shunning sanguinary man;
Now culling, weighing useful lore;
Thus pass the days of Marianne.
To pride, to beauty, wisely blind,
The follies of her sex derides,
But gladly wou'd improve each mind:
Now turning “nature's volume o'er;”
Now shunning sanguinary man;
Now culling, weighing useful lore;
Thus pass the days of Marianne.
When Spring dissolves stern Winter's chain,
And vegetation ventures forth,
She marks the flow'rets on the plain,
Just emblems of her modest worth:
When health, her guide, in Summer leads
To some sequester'd cool alcove,
The rising produce of the meads
Points to that Pow'r, who reigns above.
And vegetation ventures forth,
She marks the flow'rets on the plain,
Just emblems of her modest worth:
When health, her guide, in Summer leads
To some sequester'd cool alcove,
The rising produce of the meads
Points to that Pow'r, who reigns above.
65
When Autumn's sheaves, and saffron'd leaves
Again tell angry Winter near,
By study, she the gloom deceives,
Or converse sweet, with friends sincere:
Still proving, that from virtue spring
The greatest pleasures known to man—
Long may each changing season bring
Health, joy, and peace to Marianne!
Again tell angry Winter near,
By study, she the gloom deceives,
Or converse sweet, with friends sincere:
Still proving, that from virtue spring
The greatest pleasures known to man—
Long may each changing season bring
Health, joy, and peace to Marianne!
66
AN ADDRESS
SPOKEN BY MR. GRANT, IN CARLISLE, FOR THE BENEFIT OF MRS. JOHNSON, AND HER NUMEROUS FAMILY.
“True generosity rises above the ordinary rule of social conduct, and flows with much too full a stream to be comprehended within the precise marks of formal precepts. It is a vigorous principle in the soul, which opens and expands all her virtues, far beyond those which are only the forced and unnatural productions of a timid obedience.”
Melmoth.
Enough of war! and all his hell-born train;
Britannia rides triumphant o'er the main;
And when sweet peace her olive branch displays,
Then, as in war, she gains all Europe's praise:
For all the glories conquest e'er could dart,
Are trifles, balanc'd with the feeling heart;
And all the honours wealth cou'd e'er bestow,
Proves that proud man is but the child of woe.
Britannia rides triumphant o'er the main;
And when sweet peace her olive branch displays,
Then, as in war, she gains all Europe's praise:
For all the glories conquest e'er could dart,
Are trifles, balanc'd with the feeling heart;
And all the honours wealth cou'd e'er bestow,
Proves that proud man is but the child of woe.
Is there, this night, a heart that cannot feel?
To such, the Muse, indignant, scorns t' appeal;
But ye who scorn the pride of giving pain,
Nor sufl'ring mortals treat with cold disdain,
But soothe distress, and dry affliction's tear,
Rejoic'd I feel, to bid you welcome here:
And ye who know the widow'd parent's cares,
And all the pangs that oft her bosom tears;
The anxious watchings o'er an infant race,
An image still in memory to trace;
Ye fairest works of nature, who possess
The pow'r to succour, and to shield distress,
Fair advocates in sacred virtue's cause—
Denied to speak the gratitude she owes,
A sister bids me pay the tribute due;
And tell the sympathy she found in you.
Cherish'd in tender youth, like some fair flow'r,
Hope brighten'd with her prospect, ev'ry hour;
But cold neglect to damp each joy soon strove,
And she was criminal, who dar'd to love.
Deserted, virtue still approv'd her choice,
And you'll acquit her with a friendly voice.
If doom'd to wander from her native home,
And with the sons of indigence to roam,
A patron in the public, pleas'd she found,
And oft her efforts were with plenty crown'd;
While love's dear transports lull'd each care to rest,
And mutual fondness made a couple blest;
But gone is he, her soul's lov'd lord, by fate
Summon'd to pass eternity's dark gate.
To such, the Muse, indignant, scorns t' appeal;
But ye who scorn the pride of giving pain,
Nor sufl'ring mortals treat with cold disdain,
But soothe distress, and dry affliction's tear,
Rejoic'd I feel, to bid you welcome here:
67
And all the pangs that oft her bosom tears;
The anxious watchings o'er an infant race,
An image still in memory to trace;
Ye fairest works of nature, who possess
The pow'r to succour, and to shield distress,
Fair advocates in sacred virtue's cause—
Denied to speak the gratitude she owes,
A sister bids me pay the tribute due;
And tell the sympathy she found in you.
Cherish'd in tender youth, like some fair flow'r,
Hope brighten'd with her prospect, ev'ry hour;
But cold neglect to damp each joy soon strove,
And she was criminal, who dar'd to love.
Deserted, virtue still approv'd her choice,
And you'll acquit her with a friendly voice.
If doom'd to wander from her native home,
And with the sons of indigence to roam,
A patron in the public, pleas'd she found,
And oft her efforts were with plenty crown'd;
While love's dear transports lull'd each care to rest,
And mutual fondness made a couple blest;
But gone is he, her soul's lov'd lord, by fate
Summon'd to pass eternity's dark gate.
Receive, blest shade! this tribute due to worth;
Tho' now remembrance calls fresh sorrows forth:
If will to serve, and art to please mankind,
If feeling heart, and independent mind,
If harmless mirth that oft pure friendship gain'd,
While in the bosom love of truth still reign'd,
Cou'd turn aside the fatal stroke of death,
Thou, friend lamented, would have yet drawn breath!
For envy ev'n thy character approv'd;
Nor pin'd to hear how much thou wert belov'd.
Tho' now remembrance calls fresh sorrows forth:
68
If feeling heart, and independent mind,
If harmless mirth that oft pure friendship gain'd,
While in the bosom love of truth still reign'd,
Cou'd turn aside the fatal stroke of death,
Thou, friend lamented, would have yet drawn breath!
For envy ev'n thy character approv'd;
Nor pin'd to hear how much thou wert belov'd.
Ye brethren,
by mysterious laws combin'd;
In vain weak man to many a virtue blind,
May spurn at that by greatest mortals giv'n,
The noblest Institution, under Heav'n.
O! may no rude antipathies remove
What social beings owe to social love!
For now when wisdom boasts th' enlighten'd age,
And truth and reason beam on many a page,
No Bard too loud th' inspiring song can raise,
That gives your more than matchless deeds due praise.
In vain weak man to many a virtue blind,
May spurn at that by greatest mortals giv'n,
The noblest Institution, under Heav'n.
O! may no rude antipathies remove
What social beings owe to social love!
For now when wisdom boasts th' enlighten'd age,
And truth and reason beam on many a page,
No Bard too loud th' inspiring song can raise,
That gives your more than matchless deeds due praise.
How proud I see you in support of those,
Too young to speak, or know ev'n friends from foes—
Illumin'd few, whose bounty thousands share;
And you, whose eyes shed pity's dews, ye fair,
The helpless offspring will while life endures,
Beg for each blessing upon you and yours.
Too young to speak, or know ev'n friends from foes—
Illumin'd few, whose bounty thousands share;
And you, whose eyes shed pity's dews, ye fair,
The helpless offspring will while life endures,
Beg for each blessing upon you and yours.
69
ROBESPIERE'S LAMENT.
SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS EXECUTION.
Alas! and am I then undone?
Life's mad career will soon be run;
For ere to-morrow's setting sun,
This throbbing pulse must cease.
My country's scourge!—my country's shame!
Justice, arous'd, my life doth claim—
Ages unborn shall curse his name,
Who dares not hope for peace!
Life's mad career will soon be run;
For ere to-morrow's setting sun,
This throbbing pulse must cease.
My country's scourge!—my country's shame!
Justice, arous'd, my life doth claim—
Ages unborn shall curse his name,
Who dares not hope for peace!
Ambition's woe-devoted slave,
Foe to the virtuous and the brave;
I sink unpitied to the grave,
And shrink at death's dark gloom.
Ye tyrants of each distant state,
Ah! tremble, when you hear my fate!
Lest justice that doth me await,
Should bring you to the tomb!
Foe to the virtuous and the brave;
I sink unpitied to the grave,
And shrink at death's dark gloom.
Ye tyrants of each distant state,
Ah! tremble, when you hear my fate!
Lest justice that doth me await,
Should bring you to the tomb!
In vain this guilty soul would rest;
Pangs, worse than Hell, disturb my breast!
I hear torn Gallia's sons, oppress'd,
Vent curses on my head:
I see each murder'd patriot stand,
Array'd in blood by my command;
While banish'd from their native land,
What thousands beg for bread!
Pangs, worse than Hell, disturb my breast!
I hear torn Gallia's sons, oppress'd,
70
I see each murder'd patriot stand,
Array'd in blood by my command;
While banish'd from their native land,
What thousands beg for bread!
Earth holds not such a wretch as I!
From guilt where can the villain fly,
Who must not live, who fears to die?
—Avenging fiends I see!
Thou Pow'r, whom oft I mock'd with scorn,
Tho' by foul crimes this bosom's torn,
O hear a helpless sinner mourn!
Who, trembling, bends to thee!
From guilt where can the villain fly,
Who must not live, who fears to die?
—Avenging fiends I see!
Thou Pow'r, whom oft I mock'd with scorn,
Tho' by foul crimes this bosom's torn,
O hear a helpless sinner mourn!
Who, trembling, bends to thee!
71
LINES ON SEEING A BOY TORTURE AN INSECT.
“Sweet mercy is the loveliest flow'r,
That Heav'n e'er planted in the mind;
The queen of virtues, whose soft pow'r
Can ev'n to godhead raise mankind!”
That Heav'n e'er planted in the mind;
The queen of virtues, whose soft pow'r
Can ev'n to godhead raise mankind!”
Reed.
O spare that insect, thoughtless boy!
Let weakness still thy pity claim:
Delight to save, but ne'er destroy,
So shall compassion bless thy name.
Let weakness still thy pity claim:
Delight to save, but ne'er destroy,
So shall compassion bless thy name.
The Pow'r who life to thee bestow'd,
The smallest creature bids to live;
Then dare not to offend thy God!
In youth, or age, we praise shou'd give.
The smallest creature bids to live;
Then dare not to offend thy God!
In youth, or age, we praise shou'd give.
Seek not to break great nature's chain,
Each link of which is fair to view;
Nought on the earth is form'd in vain—
O think in time this lesson true!
Each link of which is fair to view;
Nought on the earth is form'd in vain—
O think in time this lesson true!
Then spare that insect, puny boy!
Weak reptile, to thy parents giv'n!
Delight to save, but ne'er destroy—
So hope may lead thy soul to Heav'n!
Weak reptile, to thy parents giv'n!
Delight to save, but ne'er destroy—
So hope may lead thy soul to Heav'n!
72
TO MY FLUTE.
“Oh! surely melody from heav'n was sent,
To cheer the soul, when tir'd of human strife;
To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent,
And soften down the rugged road of life.”
To cheer the soul, when tir'd of human strife;
To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent,
And soften down the rugged road of life.”
H. K. White.
Hail! thou soft soother of my woes,
Friend to delight, and calm repose!
With thee, my happiest hours are spent,
Free from dull care, and discontent;
Unknown to folly's giddy train,
Whose revelry's the source of pain.
Friend to delight, and calm repose!
With thee, my happiest hours are spent,
Free from dull care, and discontent;
Unknown to folly's giddy train,
Whose revelry's the source of pain.
If absent from the friend sincere,
Or her this bosom still holds dear;
If by feign'd love, false friendship cross'd;
If by misfortune tempest toss'd;
Tho' hope her flattering aid denies,
With thee, soon sorrow from me flies.
Or her this bosom still holds dear;
If by feign'd love, false friendship cross'd;
If by misfortune tempest toss'd;
Tho' hope her flattering aid denies,
With thee, soon sorrow from me flies.
The martial trumpet sounds to arms,
And tells of battle's dire alarms;
To fancy's ear, it echoes plain,
Of towns destroy'd, of brothers slain:
But thine are notes of peace and love,
Soft as the warblings of the grove.
And tells of battle's dire alarms;
73
Of towns destroy'd, of brothers slain:
But thine are notes of peace and love,
Soft as the warblings of the grove.
Hail, pleasing Pipe! by man design'd
To ease, to harmonize the mind:
With joy, I turn to youth's gay hour,
When first I felt thy soothing pow'r;
And oft when toss'd on life's rough sea,
Thy sounds are dearest then to me!
To ease, to harmonize the mind:
With joy, I turn to youth's gay hour,
When first I felt thy soothing pow'r;
And oft when toss'd on life's rough sea,
Thy sounds are dearest then to me!
1804
74
DECEMBER, A FRAGMENT.
On the banks of the river no wild flow'rs are springing
All bare is the meadow, and naked the wood;
On the spray not a minstrel at eve is heard singing,
And silence now reigns, save the sound of the flood:
But dearer art thou, in thy wild robes, December,
Than Spring deck'd in flow'rs, or gay Summer to me;
These tell but of joys that too well I remember,
But Winter's approach points to what I must be!
All bare is the meadow, and naked the wood;
On the spray not a minstrel at eve is heard singing,
And silence now reigns, save the sound of the flood:
But dearer art thou, in thy wild robes, December,
Than Spring deck'd in flow'rs, or gay Summer to me;
These tell but of joys that too well I remember,
But Winter's approach points to what I must be!
Obscur'd by dark clouds, Sol no longer is cheering,
And wild o'er the mountains the northern winds blow;
The mist on the hills the whole day is appearing,
And languishing nature is half-hid with snow:
Yet dearer art thou, &c.
And wild o'er the mountains the northern winds blow;
The mist on the hills the whole day is appearing,
And languishing nature is half-hid with snow:
Yet dearer art thou, &c.
Where, where are the friendships I shar'd in life's morning,
When hope whisper'd oft, they would never decay?
Alas! ne'er again can I hope their returning;
Like dreams of the night, they have faded away!
Thus, dearer art thou, &c.
When hope whisper'd oft, they would never decay?
Alas! ne'er again can I hope their returning;
Like dreams of the night, they have faded away!
Thus, dearer art thou, &c.
75
The bright orb of day wakes me no more to gladness;
Life's once-pleasing cup is now drain'd of its joy;
I rise but to weep, and recline but in sadness,
While thoughts of the past ever force a deep sigh:
Then dearer art thou, &c.
Life's once-pleasing cup is now drain'd of its joy;
I rise but to weep, and recline but in sadness,
While thoughts of the past ever force a deep sigh:
Then dearer art thou, &c.
Few pleasures from light-footed mirth can we borrow,
Save such as still sober reflection must scorn;
By hope long deserted, the mind sunk in sorrow,
Regardless of pleasure, courts not her return:
And dearer art thou, in thy wild robes, December,
Than Spring deck'd in flow'rs, or gay Summer to me;
These tell but of joys that too well I remember,
But Winter's approach points to what I must be!
Save such as still sober reflection must scorn;
By hope long deserted, the mind sunk in sorrow,
Regardless of pleasure, courts not her return:
And dearer art thou, in thy wild robes, December,
Than Spring deck'd in flow'rs, or gay Summer to me;
These tell but of joys that too well I remember,
But Winter's approach points to what I must be!
76
FRAGMENT.
From Corby's hills, or scented groves,
O'er hanging woods, I lov'd to view
The village steeple point to Heav'n,
And mark'd the antient spreading yew;
Where all around,
Each narrow mound,
Gives to vain man a lesson true.
O'er hanging woods, I lov'd to view
The village steeple point to Heav'n,
And mark'd the antient spreading yew;
Where all around,
Each narrow mound,
Gives to vain man a lesson true.
Departed spirits seem'd to say,
“Weak pilgrim in this vale of woe,
Like us, thou'rt hast'ning to the tomb;
In time all dear-bought joys forego!
The world of strife,
The toils of life,
Will health destroy, and lay thee low!”
“Weak pilgrim in this vale of woe,
Like us, thou'rt hast'ning to the tomb;
In time all dear-bought joys forego!
The world of strife,
The toils of life,
Will health destroy, and lay thee low!”
Yes, I have paus'd on that lov'd spot,
And wept, and thought of follies fled;
And wish'd when life's career was run,
I there might rest my wearied head:
Where one short verse
Would truth rehearse,
In nervous language from the dead.
And wept, and thought of follies fled;
And wish'd when life's career was run,
I there might rest my wearied head:
Where one short verse
Would truth rehearse,
In nervous language from the dead.
77
Now sighing, distant, I exclaim,
Adieu, ye minstrel-haunted bow'rs!
No more contemplative I range,
Where you beguil'd my early hours:
No more I find
What charms the mind—
O'er me a threat'ning tempest low'rs!
Adieu, ye minstrel-haunted bow'rs!
No more contemplative I range,
Where you beguil'd my early hours:
No more I find
What charms the mind—
O'er me a threat'ning tempest low'rs!
Dear chequer'd landscapes, rural scenes,
Where Eden winds his devious way!
Shall I, no more by fortune cross'd,
With heart enraptur'd own your sway?
I weep the past,
And shrink aghast
At ills that threaten life's decay!
Where Eden winds his devious way!
Shall I, no more by fortune cross'd,
With heart enraptur'd own your sway?
I weep the past,
And shrink aghast
At ills that threaten life's decay!
Whoe'er thou art, excuse the Bard,
Who long has strove, in homely strain,
To lead the mind o'er virtue's path,
But ne'er would cause a mortal pain:
His faults forgive.
—Learn how to live;
If heav'nly joys thou hop'st to gain!
Who long has strove, in homely strain,
To lead the mind o'er virtue's path,
But ne'er would cause a mortal pain:
His faults forgive.
—Learn how to live;
If heav'nly joys thou hop'st to gain!
78
FRAGMENT, WRITTEN EXTEMPORE.
Nought is there in this wide world worth enjoying,Except health, liberty, and peace of mind;
Yet, strange, a thousand vain desires torment us,
And overthrow the hopes of happiness.
First, pride, a dang'rous inmate of the breast,
Her various gew-gaws holds to youth's fond view,
And lures the thoughtless mind from wisdom's path:
Soon smart correction calls reflection forth,
And learning thus becomes a pleasing toil.
Now love the heart bewilders; one warm glance
From fancied beauty, e'en the blooming cheek,
The vermeil lip, arch look of roving eye,
The bosom fires, and makes us sigh and pine;
Then sleepless pass the health-consuming nights,
Nor pleasures now beguile the tedious days;
Racks, tortures, pleasing hopes, and jealous fears,
Alternate seize the heated wav'ring mind;
Till reason claims her empire o'er the brain,
And strips a mistress of ideal charms.
Ambition next appears, with motley train,
And oft in vades our slumbers; now we dream
Of grandeur, pomp, and pow'r, of laurels won;
79
Grave lessons whispers, proving all our youth
But scenes of vanity. In manhood, next,
Cautious we reason, pleasures we pursue;
And for a while are toss'd 'twixt joy and grief,
Till death, oft welcome, ends our countless cares!
LINES,
ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY, FOND OF SINGING.
Sweet is the screech-owl's harshest note,Compar'd with murm'rings from thy throat;
Grimalkin's voice seems music quite,
That breaks the silence of the night;
The prowling wolf that chides the moon,
Yells not a more discordant tune;
The croaking of the toad is sweet,
Compar'd with what thou think'st a treat;
Yes, with more pleasure, I could hear
The growling of a hungry bear,
And sooner far the brute would be,
Than forc'd to sit and listen thee!
Carlisle.
80
A LESSON TO YOUTH.
Tho' Youth thy path be strewn with flow'rs,
And mirth leads on the rosy hours;
Soon manhood proves the past a dream,
And joys, once priz'd, now sorrows seem.
And mirth leads on the rosy hours;
Soon manhood proves the past a dream,
And joys, once priz'd, now sorrows seem.
O Youth! beware of pleasure's wile!
For danger lurks beneath her smile:
'Tis wise, in time, her haunts to shun;
Who woos the nymph, is soon undone!
For danger lurks beneath her smile:
'Tis wise, in time, her haunts to shun;
Who woos the nymph, is soon undone!
Be to a brother's foibles blind;
Promote whatever serves mankind;
The naked clothe—the hungry feed—
And bow to what's by Heav'n decreed!
Promote whatever serves mankind;
The naked clothe—the hungry feed—
And bow to what's by Heav'n decreed!
Let reason rule—each joy despise,
That honour, wealth, and health destroys:
Let virtue all thy thoughts engage;
Then, fearless, may'st thou welcome age!
That honour, wealth, and health destroys:
Let virtue all thy thoughts engage;
Then, fearless, may'st thou welcome age!
Carnmoney.
81
LINES TO A REDBREAST.
Wee namesake! I hae known thee lang,
And listen'd aft thy dulcet sang,
Far frae thy woodland shade;
When Boreas, wi' his gloomy train,
Spread desolation o'er the plain,
Poor houseless flutt'rer! ne'er in vain,
Didst thou implore my aid.
And listen'd aft thy dulcet sang,
Far frae thy woodland shade;
When Boreas, wi' his gloomy train,
Spread desolation o'er the plain,
Poor houseless flutt'rer! ne'er in vain,
Didst thou implore my aid.
Thy fate and mine are e'vn the same;
Unheeded pair, unknown to fame,
We sing the hours away:
Yet, Robin, thou canst taste repose,
In spite o' thy rapacious foes;
While reas'ning man, subdu'd by woes,
To grief aft fa's a prey.
Unheeded pair, unknown to fame,
We sing the hours away:
Yet, Robin, thou canst taste repose,
In spite o' thy rapacious foes;
While reas'ning man, subdu'd by woes,
To grief aft fa's a prey.
Come cheerfu' bird, my cottage share!
Ay welcome to my hamely fare,
Till Spring decks ilka tree;
Then wilt thou wanton on the wing,
Or on some ivy'd turret sing;
But, O! nae season's change can bring
A season's joys to me!
Ay welcome to my hamely fare,
Till Spring decks ilka tree;
Then wilt thou wanton on the wing,
Or on some ivy'd turret sing;
But, O! nae season's change can bring
A season's joys to me!
82
STANZAS,
ON RECEIVING A PRESENT FROM ONE LONG AND TRULY ESTEEMED.
Yes, on it I will gaze, and sigh,
And next my heart the prize will wear,
Ev'n death's keen terrors I'd defy,
Ere man from me the gift shou'd tear!
And next my heart the prize will wear,
Ev'n death's keen terrors I'd defy,
Ere man from me the gift shou'd tear!
An exile tho' I'm doom'd to stray;
Where'er my vagrant feet may rove,
I'll kiss it, with a tear, and say,
O had it been the gift of love!
Where'er my vagrant feet may rove,
I'll kiss it, with a tear, and say,
O had it been the gift of love!
But love, alas! has brought me low,
And none from ruin can me save;
'Tis mine to bear a load of woe,
Till sorrow sinks me in the grave.
And none from ruin can me save;
'Tis mine to bear a load of woe,
Till sorrow sinks me in the grave.
Ah! precious gift! on which I gaze,
May thy late owner ne'er endure
The pang that on this bosom preys,
The pain she proudly scorn'd to cure!
May thy late owner ne'er endure
The pang that on this bosom preys,
The pain she proudly scorn'd to cure!
83
If e'er she deign to think of me,
May no rude cares disturb her breast!
—For her, my daily pray'r shall be,
The fair destroyer of my rest!
May no rude cares disturb her breast!
—For her, my daily pray'r shall be,
The fair destroyer of my rest!
LINES,
WRITTEN IN CARRICKFERGUS JAIL.
Many a tyrant, many a slave,
Pander, prostitute, and knave,
Coward base, and patriot brave,
Come trembling here;
Genius, idiot, dunce, and wit,
Men for this wild world unfit,
Sighing, thinking, starving sit
And drop a tear.
Pander, prostitute, and knave,
Coward base, and patriot brave,
Come trembling here;
Genius, idiot, dunce, and wit,
Men for this wild world unfit,
Sighing, thinking, starving sit
And drop a tear.
Here, perchance, some noble mind,
Amidst the dregs of human kind,
Roams states ideal, unconfin'd,
In misery—
Ev'n monarchs of our earthly ball,
With princes, prelates at their call,
What are they?—Wretched pris'ners all!
Whom death sets free!
Amidst the dregs of human kind,
Roams states ideal, unconfin'd,
In misery—
Ev'n monarchs of our earthly ball,
With princes, prelates at their call,
What are they?—Wretched pris'ners all!
Whom death sets free!
84
A REFLECTION.
“Mortal joys however pure,
Soon their turbid source betray;
Mortal bliss, however sure,
Soon must totter and decay.”
Soon their turbid source betray;
Mortal bliss, however sure,
Soon must totter and decay.”
From the Arabic.
Estrang'd from all I once held dear,
Reflection turns to pleasures past;
And pond'ring on life's mad career,
At future days I shrink aghast.
Reflection turns to pleasures past;
And pond'ring on life's mad career,
At future days I shrink aghast.
A secret pang oft rends my breast,
Soft pity's tear could not remove;
It robs me of night's soothing rest,
And days of pain it makes me prove.
Soft pity's tear could not remove;
It robs me of night's soothing rest,
And days of pain it makes me prove.
It made me soon a child of care,
And stole from me health's blooming rose;
But I this pang must silent bear,
Till death the painful scene shall close.
And stole from me health's blooming rose;
But I this pang must silent bear,
Till death the painful scene shall close.
85
Returning seasons charm no more,
That erst this bosom fir'd with joy;
The smiles of hope can nought restore,
And but my fancied joys destroy.
That erst this bosom fir'd with joy;
The smiles of hope can nought restore,
And but my fancied joys destroy.
I fondly gaze, nor vain my aim,
On nature's grand unerring plan;
And sighing, inwardly exclaim,
Alas! how thoughtless is frail man!
On nature's grand unerring plan;
And sighing, inwardly exclaim,
Alas! how thoughtless is frail man!
The wither'd flow'ret in the shade,
To me presents a hast'ning doom;—
A few short hours may see me laid
Unpitied, in the narrow tomb.
To me presents a hast'ning doom;—
A few short hours may see me laid
Unpitied, in the narrow tomb.
In youth we trifle time away,
On tempting pleasures, idly vain;
In manhood, join a world too gay,
And crush the joys we hope to gain.
On tempting pleasures, idly vain;
In manhood, join a world too gay,
And crush the joys we hope to gain.
Oh! when my latest hour draws near,
Then may I own the moments blest;
And, wearied with my wand'rings here,
Believe with truth, death's slumber's rest!
Then may I own the moments blest;
And, wearied with my wand'rings here,
Believe with truth, death's slumber's rest!
86
THE POOR PRUDE.
“Decency at all times commands our esteem; but when wretchedness appeareth like the daw in borrowed feathers, the weakness serves only to excite our laughter.”
Marmontel.
Poor Prude! in vain thou play'st the rake,
With borrow'd hair, and tatter'd lace;
Nature, who gave thee such a face,
Ne'er meant thou shou'd'st one conquest make.
With borrow'd hair, and tatter'd lace;
Nature, who gave thee such a face,
Ne'er meant thou shou'd'st one conquest make.
Like thee, the noxious tulip blows,
In all its gaudy colours drest;
But who wou'd place it near his breast,
That e'er has seen a blushing rose?
In all its gaudy colours drest;
But who wou'd place it near his breast,
That e'er has seen a blushing rose?
Why leer, and frighten half the town?
Since mankind beauty can discern,
Do, Dowdy, stay at home, and learn
To wash thy apron, cap, and gown!
Since mankind beauty can discern,
Do, Dowdy, stay at home, and learn
To wash thy apron, cap, and gown!
But if coquette thou still wilt be,
Know, with such features, form, and skin,
Decrepid, dirty, dull, and thin,
He must be blind who fancies thee!
Know, with such features, form, and skin,
Decrepid, dirty, dull, and thin,
He must be blind who fancies thee!
87
THE ROSE.
ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.
O lady, mark that blooming Rose,
The fairest flow'r the Sun shines on!
To-day, the garden's pride it blows,
To-morrow, all its sweets are gone!
The fairest emblem of the fair
To blighting storms must fall a prey;
And tho' of joys thou hast thy share,
Thy prime is but a Summer day!
The fairest flow'r the Sun shines on!
To-day, the garden's pride it blows,
To-morrow, all its sweets are gone!
The fairest emblem of the fair
To blighting storms must fall a prey;
And tho' of joys thou hast thy share,
Thy prime is but a Summer day!
And mark that roving artful bee,
The gaudy type of villain man;
Alas! what flutt'ring crowds we see
With wily snares thy sex trepan!
Robb'd of its sweets, the matchless flow'r
Soon withers, droops, and faded lies;
Thus, won by love's deceitful lure,
The thoughtless beauty pines, and dies!
The gaudy type of villain man;
Alas! what flutt'ring crowds we see
With wily snares thy sex trepan!
Robb'd of its sweets, the matchless flow'r
Soon withers, droops, and faded lies;
Thus, won by love's deceitful lure,
The thoughtless beauty pines, and dies!
88
TO THE LARK.
Sweet is thy carol, soaring Lark!
Rejoicing nature bids thee sing;
Thy eager flight I fondly mark,
Blithe messenger of welcome Spring:
Thou call'st me from yon noisy throng,
Where endless cares disturb the mind,
And list'ning to thy cheerful song,
I shun the temptings of mankind.
Rejoicing nature bids thee sing;
Thy eager flight I fondly mark,
Blithe messenger of welcome Spring:
Thou call'st me from yon noisy throng,
Where endless cares disturb the mind,
And list'ning to thy cheerful song,
I shun the temptings of mankind.
Lone monitor! when Sol's bright ray
Illumes the gently sloping hill,
And meditation guides my way,
Along some unfrequented rill;
Thy upward flight points to that Pow'r,
Whose goodness will for ever last:
Then let me wisely spend this hour,
And muse on many idly past.
Illumes the gently sloping hill,
And meditation guides my way,
Along some unfrequented rill;
Thy upward flight points to that Pow'r,
Whose goodness will for ever last:
Then let me wisely spend this hour,
And muse on many idly past.
89
STANZAS
WRITTEN IN AN HOUR OF DESPONDENCY.
Adieu, ye gay delights of youth,
Vain pride, lewd mirth, and painful love!
Henceforth be mine the sweets of truth
And innocence to prove.
Vain pride, lewd mirth, and painful love!
Henceforth be mine the sweets of truth
And innocence to prove.
On youth what anxibus pleasures wait,
And daily tempt his wand'ring eye,
At which he grasps; but, oft too late,
He sees fell ruin nigh!
And daily tempt his wand'ring eye,
At which he grasps; but, oft too late,
He sees fell ruin nigh!
The days are fled, the joys are past,
Dear joys, that I was wont to prize!
I bend before misfortune's blast,
And hope within me dies.
Dear joys, that I was wont to prize!
I bend before misfortune's blast,
And hope within me dies.
No more by contemplation led,
Can nature's fairest scenes delight!
No more is fancy's net-work spread
Before my aching sight!
Can nature's fairest scenes delight!
No more is fancy's net-work spread
Before my aching sight!
Nor aught avail the varied hues
That from the lap of Summer flow,
To him who, in the future, views
Variety of woe!
That from the lap of Summer flow,
To him who, in the future, views
Variety of woe!
90
But dear are Winter's raging winds,
His forests bare, and frowning sky;
Congenial to the wearied minds
Of creatures, such as I.
His forests bare, and frowning sky;
Congenial to the wearied minds
Of creatures, such as I.
Yon tree, unshelter'd from the storm,
Hangs, tott'ring o'er the dimpl'd stream,
By wild winds torn: its shapeless form
Now tells me what I seem!
Hangs, tott'ring o'er the dimpl'd stream,
By wild winds torn: its shapeless form
Now tells me what I seem!
TO YOUTH.
Ah! Youth, how soon thy joys are flown!
The fond delights we scarcely own,
Ere sorrow dims each prospect fair;
And days and years are mark'd by care.
The fond delights we scarcely own,
Ere sorrow dims each prospect fair;
And days and years are mark'd by care.
A while we wander to and fro,
'Twixt fancied joy and real woe;
The glare of pomp we idly prize,
While gay content far from us flies.
'Twixt fancied joy and real woe;
The glare of pomp we idly prize,
While gay content far from us flies.
When hope her aid denies, at last
Reflection points to what is past;
And whispers oft, tho' oft in vain,
That pleasure's but the source of pain.
Reflection points to what is past;
And whispers oft, tho' oft in vain,
That pleasure's but the source of pain.
91
EPITAPH ON DAVID BIGGER, ESQ.
Affection tender rears this humble stone,A mould'ring mark of gratitude, to one
Whose thoughts ambition never taught to stray,
Nor own'd unlawful pleasure's dang'rous sway.
The love of country warm'd his feeling breast;
And proud was he to succour the distress'd:
Cheerful, resign'd, life's peaceful vale he trod,
And rested on the mercy of his God.
Go, reader, and when in earth's silent womb,
May truth give such a tribute at thy tomb!
EPITAPH ON THE FATHER OF A FRIEND.
Take, best of parents, all a son can giveTo one, who living, taught him how to live;
And, O may I, when number'd with the dead,
Deserve the praise that marks thy earthy bed!
—Ye, who the good man's name must still revere,
Know, that a virtuous brother's buried here:
Who envied none, pleas'd in his calm retreat;
And prov'd, tho' little known, man may be great.
92
EPITAPH ON MARIA OF THE COTTAGE.
Reader, if worth departed claims a tear,
Life's poor frail wand'rer, pay that tribute here,
To one, in whom as daughter, sister, wife,
Was shewn affection thro' a well-spent life;
Who early learn'd to share another's woe,
And knew from whence all lasting pleasures flow:
A thirst for knowledge prov'd her virtue's care,
And 'midst her suff'rings, ne'er did she despair.
With feeling heart, pure friendship, love of truth,
She shar'd alike th' esteem of age and youth;
With genius bless'd, and independent mind,
'Twas her's to study, and instruct mankind:
She liv'd in meek-ey'd pity's robe array'd,
And gain'd a laurel, time can never fade!
Life's poor frail wand'rer, pay that tribute here,
To one, in whom as daughter, sister, wife,
Was shewn affection thro' a well-spent life;
Who early learn'd to share another's woe,
And knew from whence all lasting pleasures flow:
A thirst for knowledge prov'd her virtue's care,
And 'midst her suff'rings, ne'er did she despair.
With feeling heart, pure friendship, love of truth,
She shar'd alike th' esteem of age and youth;
With genius bless'd, and independent mind,
'Twas her's to study, and instruct mankind:
She liv'd in meek-ey'd pity's robe array'd,
And gain'd a laurel, time can never fade!
Now, if in virtue's path thou dost not tread,
O! take this lesson from the silent dead!
From folly fly, and to religion turn;
For soon will life's short taper cease to burn!
O! take this lesson from the silent dead!
From folly fly, and to religion turn;
For soon will life's short taper cease to burn!
93
EPITAPH ON AKEL BULBEE,
WRITTEN BY SATIRICUS TERTULIBUS, POET LAUREAT TO HUMPHA GRUMPHA, DEY OF ALGIERS.
Here bleach the bones of Akel Bulbee,
Such a thief ne'er hung on a gallows tree:
His carcase was food for the carrion crows,
And ne'er may a grave such a being enclose!
He was sent as a curse to St. Mary's Knowe,
For at midnight he milk'd ev'ry neighbour's cow;
Gold, pigs, cloth, sheep, geese, ducks, and meal,
All things (save the clouds o'er his head) he cou'd steal.
Fools say, just to keep all around him in awe,
He daily wou'd steal what he ne'er once saw;
That had he been size to have reach'd the moon,
By the horns he wou'd quickly have pull'd her down;
That imps swore, he never with them shou'd dwell,
Lest soon he might steal their old master from Hell;
That he stole a calf from a heifer's womb;
And whistl'd a corpse from the silent tomb:
That timber he stole long ere it grew—
The last must be false. Give the Devil his due!
Such a thief ne'er hung on a gallows tree:
His carcase was food for the carrion crows,
And ne'er may a grave such a being enclose!
He was sent as a curse to St. Mary's Knowe,
For at midnight he milk'd ev'ry neighbour's cow;
Gold, pigs, cloth, sheep, geese, ducks, and meal,
All things (save the clouds o'er his head) he cou'd steal.
Fools say, just to keep all around him in awe,
He daily wou'd steal what he ne'er once saw;
That had he been size to have reach'd the moon,
By the horns he wou'd quickly have pull'd her down;
That imps swore, he never with them shou'd dwell,
Lest soon he might steal their old master from Hell;
That he stole a calf from a heifer's womb;
And whistl'd a corpse from the silent tomb:
That timber he stole long ere it grew—
The last must be false. Give the Devil his due!
94
Such a liar ne'er liv'd, for he swore in youth,
No law shou'd e'er bind him to tell the truth;
Such a coxcomb in rags, ne'er strutted on earth,
He ne'er had a friend from the day of his birth,
For nature then vow'd, he wore a thief's eye;
And who dare say nature e'er yet did lie?
A Poet he was, spite of all common sense,
But had twelve times his share of foul impudence:
A fine Musician, his family say,
For his tooting oft frighten'd the cows from hay:
A Painter, too, he made some suppose,
Tho' he never cou'd sketch his own trumpet nose.
No law shou'd e'er bind him to tell the truth;
Such a coxcomb in rags, ne'er strutted on earth,
He ne'er had a friend from the day of his birth,
For nature then vow'd, he wore a thief's eye;
And who dare say nature e'er yet did lie?
A Poet he was, spite of all common sense,
But had twelve times his share of foul impudence:
A fine Musician, his family say,
For his tooting oft frighten'd the cows from hay:
A Painter, too, he made some suppose,
Tho' he never cou'd sketch his own trumpet nose.
That so long he liv'd many swore was a shame;
Justice trembl'd whenever she heard his name:
But his name will live while the world goes round,
For a wretch so notorious never trod ground.
Mark well the bleach'd bones of Akel Bulbee,
Such a thief ne'er hung on a gallows tree:
His equal, 'tis said, can only be known,
When rivers flow upwards, and trees grow down!
Justice trembl'd whenever she heard his name:
But his name will live while the world goes round,
For a wretch so notorious never trod ground.
Mark well the bleach'd bones of Akel Bulbee,
Such a thief ne'er hung on a gallows tree:
His equal, 'tis said, can only be known,
When rivers flow upwards, and trees grow down!
95
97
SONNETS.
WRITTEN ON THE AUTHOR'S BIRTH-DAY
FEBRUARY 1st, 1800.
With joy, how oft I hail'd my natal morn,
When sportive youth enjoy'd his fairy reign;
And long'd to mark each infant year's return,
Eager to launch into life's troublous main.
Ah! happy period, when with heart elate,
And partial eye the busy world I view'd;
Nor dreamt, while pleasure seem'd on me to wait,
My path with sorrow's night-shade would be strew'd!
Henceforth, farewell to pleasure's giddy crowd;
Ye day-dreams vain, delusive hopes, adieu;
By madd'ning passions fir'd, too long I've bow'd
A willing slave to vanity and you:
For while remembrance pauses on the past,
I tremble, lest this day should be my last.
98
TO WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ.
ON READING HIS POEM OF “THE TASK.”
First of the deathless few who strike the lyre,To feast, with pure delight, the reas'ning mind,
Or strive the source of happiness to find,
Cowper, thy verse who reads must needs admire!
Tutor'd by virtue, ev'n in glowing youth,
With pitying eye thou didst the world survey;
Then, saint-like, strove from pleasure's thorny way
To draw mankind by many a moral truth.
While meaner Bards worship at folly's shrine,
And court ambition by each servile verse,
Or black oppression's foulest deeds rehearse,
Boldly disclaiming truth, in pompous line—
Thou with the exil'd victim seem'st to mourn,
And bid'st the woe-worn wand'rer heav'n wards turn.
1798.
99
TO MARIA OF THE COTTAGE.
Daughter of Genius! sweet it is to mWhene'er I fly this vain tumultuous crowd,
(Where poorer slaves must bow to wretches proud)
Thy cot to seek; and hear thy converse free,
In praise of virtuous freedom justly loud;
Next argue for thy sex, oft basely bow'd,
By tyrant man to keenest misery.
Daughter of Truth! this heart-felt wish I send;
May sorrow ne'er with thorns bestrew thy way,
But health, and hope, and peace thy steps attend;
And long the Muses o'er their fav'rite bend;
Prompting the legend strong, or sprightly lay!
Weak flows my verse; yet will I proud commend
A learn'd instructress, and fair virtuous friend.
100
TO MARIA OF THE COTTAGE.
You ask, Maria, why I droop my head?And why thus let dejection cloud my brow?
Alas! life's various prospects all are fled,
Which frolic fancy once before me spread,
And nought but misery awaits me now;
Too long a captive by false pleasure led,
And madd'ning mirth, th' unheeded minutes flew,
While projects vain were idly nourished.
Lost, too, are friends who vow'd eternal truth;
Yes, friendship's balm drives heavy cares away!
But little dreams poor unsuspecting youth,
Misfortune makes e'en friendship soon decay!
—O wonder not, Maria, if my breast
Now harbours sorrow, life-consuming guest!
101
TO MRS. HOWARD, OF CORBY CASTLE,
ON PRESENTING A VOLUME OF MANUSCRIPT POEMS.
If aught of nature in my humble strain,Shall unexpected catch your list'ning ear,
Such the reward, I scorn the critic's sneer,
Nor greater prize on earth e'er seek to gain!
Tho' long compell'd o'er distant lands to roam,
In fancy, oft thro' Corby's Bow'rs I range;
And taste the sweets that time can ne'er estrange,
Where nature smiles around my native home.
Each day recalls the scenes of dear delights;
The banks, whose shrubs display a thousand dies;
The distant landscapes; and the wood-crown'd heights,
Where oaks majestic court the liquid skies:
Rocks, woods, and lawns, for ever seem t' inspire
The glow that fills my bosom with desire!
102
MARY'S ABSENCE.
The dazzling light so beauteous in her eye,The tender bloom which plays on Mary's cheek,
The neck, that ev'n with mountain snows might vie,
The voice, most musical, in accents meek,
These snare the soul, these force love's painful sigh;
Methinks, to see her look, to hear her speak,
Would tempt a hermit from his cell to fly.
These wak'd each fond emotion in my heart,
But when I heard her pleading pity's cause,
I dearly lov'd; nor dreamt we soon would part:
Now many a water wide between us flows,
I view her grace, her features void of art,
In the fair flow'rs gay Spring around me throws;
For she is gone, and gone, alas! is my repose.
103
TO MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH.
When infant flow'rs their fragrance breathe around,And each poor flutt'rer wantons on the wing,
To fancy's ear how grateful is the sound
That hymns the welcome smiles of lovely Spring.
But ere wild Autumn strips the hanging bow'r,
Some nestless, widow'd bird, is heard repeat
Her song of sadness, oft at eve's pale hour,
Telling to pathless woods of man's deceit.
Such, sorrow's syren, dwell on my rapt ear,
Thy plaintive notes that speak of pleasures past;
Of joys long fled, and friends no longer dear,
How each sad day's embitter'd by the last.
For thee, tho' sympathy's soft tear may start,
Alas! not pity's balm can heal thy broken heart!
1798.
104
TO EVENING.
Hail, sober Eve! to meditation dear;Pure the delight, these well-known scenes to rove;
The joys this placid bosom now can prove,
Not yon proud city's wealth from me could tear:
The warbler's last note twitters thro' the grove,
And Caldew's murmurs gently strike the ear.
O, were my Mary, virtuous fair but here,
Now smiling April woos the month of love!
Then rapt in pleasure, we would fondly stray;
Nature, chaste love, by turns should be our theme;
And oft as Luna lent a silv'ry ray,
On Mary's charms to gaze my soul away,
Methinks were Heav'n, compar'd with Poet's dream:
Then grant me, fate, a while this luxury supreme!
105
ADDRESSED TO THE INFANT SON OF GAELUS,
THE BARD OF DUNOVER.
Sweet Bud! thy full blue eye, health-blooming cheek,And dimpling smile, how cherub-like to see!
Gazing on that wild flow'r, thou fain would'st speak,
But dream'st not, Boy, how it resembleth thee.
Alike, you're nurtur'd in seclusion's shade;
Ev'n as frail man, its reign is quickly o'er;
Another hour may see its beauties fade,
It blooms its Summer, man enjoys no more.
From many a nipping blast, that tender flow'r
Ere long, must turn its drooping head aside;
So thou, perchance, must fall by ruthless pow'r,
Or live to bear the bitter taunts of pride.
Long may'st thou tread thy father's steps, sweet Boy!
And crown thy parent's closing years with joy!
Dunover, July, 1809.
106
TO THE RIVER EDEN.
Sweet Stream! when on thy flow'ry banks I stray,Or trace the wild-wood, mead, or fertile vale;
And hear the songsters mourn departing day,
Or taste at morn the health-bestowing gale,
Remembrance paints the change, in every scene,
That now delights not, but calls forth a tear:
From friends, still priz'd, an exile sad I've been—
Life's joys are fled, and much have I to fear.
Sweet Stream! in fancy oft on thee I gaz'd,
When wand'ring with the Muse, in Erin's Isle;
And hope, perchance, in vain my spirits rais'd,
For hope, alas! oft whispers to beguile.
Now, sunk in want, on these lov'd banks I mourn,
And think of pleasures that can ne'er return!
107
CUMBERLAND BALLADS.
108
NICHOL THE NEWSMONGER.
Come, Nichol, and gi'e us thy cracks,
I seed te gang down to the smiddy;
I've fodder'd the naigs and the nowt,
And wanted to see thee 'at did e.
Ay, Andrew lad! draw in a stuil,
And gi'e us a shek o' thy daddle;
I got aw the news far and nar,
Sae set off as fast's e could waddle.
I seed te gang down to the smiddy;
I've fodder'd the naigs and the nowt,
And wanted to see thee 'at did e.
Ay, Andrew lad! draw in a stuil,
And gi'e us a shek o' thy daddle;
I got aw the news far and nar,
Sae set off as fast's e could waddle.
In France they've but sworrowfu' teymes,
For Bonnyprat's nit as he sud be;
America's nobbet sae sae;
And England nit quite as she mud be:
Sad wark there's amang blacks and wheytes,
Sec tellin plain teales to their feaces,
Wi' murders, and wars, and aw that,
But, hod—I forget where the pleace is.
For Bonnyprat's nit as he sud be;
America's nobbet sae sae;
And England nit quite as she mud be:
Sad wark there's amang blacks and wheytes,
Sec tellin plain teales to their feaces,
Wi' murders, and wars, and aw that,
But, hod—I forget where the pleace is.
110
Our parson he gat drunk as muck,
Then ledder'd aw t' lads roun about him;
They said he was nobbet hawf reet,
And fwok mud as weel be widout him:
The yell's to be fourpence a whart—
Odswinge, lad, there will be rare drinkin!
Billy Pitt's mad as onie March hare,
And niver was reet fwok are thinkin.
Then ledder'd aw t' lads roun about him;
They said he was nobbet hawf reet,
And fwok mud as weel be widout him:
The yell's to be fourpence a whart—
Odswinge, lad, there will be rare drinkin!
Billy Pitt's mad as onie March hare,
And niver was reet fwok are thinkin.
A weddin we'll hev or it's lang,
Wi' Bet Brag and lal Tommy Tagwally;
Jack Bunton's for off to the sea—
It'll e'en be the deeth of our Sally;
The clogger has bowt a new wig;
Dawston singers come here agean Sunday;
Lord Nelson's ta'en three Spanish fleets;
And the dancin schuil opens on Monday.
Wi' Bet Brag and lal Tommy Tagwally;
Jack Bunton's for off to the sea—
It'll e'en be the deeth of our Sally;
The clogger has bowt a new wig;
Dawston singers come here agean Sunday;
Lord Nelson's ta'en three Spanish fleets;
And the dancin schuil opens on Monday.
Carel badgers are monstrous sad fwok,
The silly peer de'ils how they wring up!
Lal bairns, ha'e got pox frae the kye,
And fact'ries, leyke mushrooms, they spring up:
If they sud keep their feet for a wheyle,
And goverment nobbet pruive civil,
They'll build up as hee as the muin,
For Carel's a match for the deevil.
The silly peer de'ils how they wring up!
Lal bairns, ha'e got pox frae the kye,
And fact'ries, leyke mushrooms, they spring up:
If they sud keep their feet for a wheyle,
And goverment nobbet pruive civil,
They'll build up as hee as the muin,
For Carel's a match for the deevil.
111
The king's meade a bit of a speech,
And gentle fwok say it's a topper;
An alderman deet tudder neet,
Efter eatin a turkey to supper;
Our squire's to be parliment man,
Mess, lad, but he'll keep them aw busy!
Whee thinks te's come heame i' the cwoach,
Frae Lunnon, but grater-feac'd Lizzy.
And gentle fwok say it's a topper;
An alderman deet tudder neet,
Efter eatin a turkey to supper;
Our squire's to be parliment man,
Mess, lad, but he'll keep them aw busy!
Whee thinks te's come heame i' the cwoach,
Frae Lunnon, but grater-feac'd Lizzy.
The cock-feghts are ninth o' neist month,
I've twee, nit aw England can bang them;
In Ireland they're aw up in arms,
It's whop'd there's nee Frenchmen amang them;
A boggle's been seen wi' twee heeds,
Lord help us! ayont Wully' carras,
Wi' girt saucer e'en, and a tail—
They dui say 'twas auld Jobby Barras.
I've twee, nit aw England can bang them;
In Ireland they're aw up in arms,
It's whop'd there's nee Frenchmen amang them;
A boggle's been seen wi' twee heeds,
Lord help us! ayont Wully' carras,
Wi' girt saucer e'en, and a tail—
They dui say 'twas auld Jobby Barras.
The muin was at full this neet week;
The weather is turn'd monstrous daggy;
I' th' loft, just at seeben last neet,
Lal Stephen sweethearted lang Aggy:
There'll be bonny wark bye and bye,
The truth'll be out there's nae fear on't,
But I niver say nought, nay nit I,
For fear hawf the parish sud hear on't.
The weather is turn'd monstrous daggy;
I' th' loft, just at seeben last neet,
Lal Stephen sweethearted lang Aggy:
There'll be bonny wark bye and bye,
The truth'll be out there's nae fear on't,
But I niver say nought, nay nit I,
For fear hawf the parish sud hear on't.
112
Our Tib at the cwose-house hes been,
She tells us they're aw monstrous murry;
At Carel the brig's tummel'd down,
And they tek the fwok owre in a whurry;
I carried our whye to the bull;
They've ta'en seeben spies up at Dover;
My fadder compleens of his hip,
And the Gran Turk hes enter'd Hanover.
She tells us they're aw monstrous murry;
At Carel the brig's tummel'd down,
And they tek the fwok owre in a whurry;
I carried our whye to the bull;
They've ta'en seeben spies up at Dover;
My fadder compleens of his hip,
And the Gran Turk hes enter'd Hanover.
Daft Peg's got hersel, man, wi' bairn,
And silly pilgarlic's the fadder;
Lal Sim's geane and swapp'd the black cowt,
And cwoley has wurriet the wedder;
My mudder has got frostet heels,
And peace is the talk o' the nation,
For paper says varra neist week
There's to be a grand humiliation.
And silly pilgarlic's the fadder;
Lal Sim's geane and swapp'd the black cowt,
And cwoley has wurriet the wedder;
My mudder has got frostet heels,
And peace is the talk o' the nation,
For paper says varra neist week
There's to be a grand humiliation.
Aunt Meable has lost her best sark,
And Cleutie is bleam'd varra mickle;
Nought's seafe out o' duirs now-a-days,
Frae a millstone, e'en down to a sickle:
The clock it streykes eight, I mun heame,
Or I's git a deuce of a fratchin;
When neist we've a few hours to spare,
We'll fin out what mischief's a hatchin.
And Cleutie is bleam'd varra mickle;
Nought's seafe out o' duirs now-a-days,
Frae a millstone, e'en down to a sickle:
The clock it streykes eight, I mun heame,
Or I's git a deuce of a fratchin;
When neist we've a few hours to spare,
We'll fin out what mischief's a hatchin.
July 5, 1802.
113
THE IMPATIENT LASSIE.
Deuce tek the clock; click-clackin sae,
Ay in a body's ear;
It tells an tells the teyme is past,
When Jwohnny sud been here:
Deuce tek the wheel! 'twill nit rin roun—
Nae mair to neet I'll spin;
But count each minute wid a seegh,
Till Jwohnny he steals in.
Ay in a body's ear;
It tells an tells the teyme is past,
When Jwohnny sud been here:
Deuce tek the wheel! 'twill nit rin roun—
Nae mair to neet I'll spin;
But count each minute wid a seegh,
Till Jwohnny he steals in.
How neyce the spunky fire it burns,
For twee to sit beseyde!
An theer's the seat where Jwohnny sits,
An I forget to cheyde!
My fadder, tui, how sweet he snwores!
My mudder's fast asleep—
He promis'd oft, but, oh! I fear
His word he wunnet keep!
For twee to sit beseyde!
An theer's the seat where Jwohnny sits,
An I forget to cheyde!
My fadder, tui, how sweet he snwores!
My mudder's fast asleep—
He promis'd oft, but, oh! I fear
His word he wunnet keep!
114
What can it be keeps him frae me?
The ways are nit sae lang!
An sleet an snow are nought at aw,
If yen wer fain to gang!
Some udder lass, wi' bonnier feace,
Has catch'd his wicked ee,
An I'll be pointed at at kurk—
Nay! suiner let me dee!
The ways are nit sae lang!
An sleet an snow are nought at aw,
If yen wer fain to gang!
Some udder lass, wi' bonnier feace,
Has catch'd his wicked ee,
An I'll be pointed at at kurk—
Nay! suiner let me dee!
O durst we lasses nobbet gang,
An sweetheart them we leyke!
I'd run to thee, my Jwohnny, lad,
Nor stop at bog or deyke:
But custom's sec a silly thing—
Thur men mun hae their way,
An monnie a bonny lassie sit,
An wish frae day to day.
An sweetheart them we leyke!
I'd run to thee, my Jwohnny, lad,
Nor stop at bog or deyke:
But custom's sec a silly thing—
Thur men mun hae their way,
An monnie a bonny lassie sit,
An wish frae day to day.
I yence hed sweethearts monie a yen,
They'd weade thro' muck an mire;
An when our fwok wer deed asleep,
Com tremlin up to t' fire:
At Carel market lads wad stare,
An talk, an follow me;
Wi' feyne shwort keakes, ay frae the fair,
Baith pockets cramm'd wad be.
They'd weade thro' muck an mire;
An when our fwok wer deed asleep,
Com tremlin up to t' fire:
At Carel market lads wad stare,
An talk, an follow me;
Wi' feyne shwort keakes, ay frae the fair,
Baith pockets cramm'd wad be.
115
O dear! what changes women pruive,
In less than seebem year;
I walk the lonnins, owre the muir,
But deil a chap comes near!
An Jwohnny I nee mair can trust—
He's just like aw the lave;
I fin this sairy heart 'll brust!
I'll suin lig i' my grave!
In less than seebem year;
I walk the lonnins, owre the muir,
But deil a chap comes near!
An Jwohnny I nee mair can trust—
He's just like aw the lave;
I fin this sairy heart 'll brust!
I'll suin lig i' my grave!
But, whisht!—I hear my Jwohnny's fit—
Aye! that's his varra clog!
He steeks the faul yeat softly tui—
Oh! hang that cwoley dog!
Now hey for seeghs, an suggar words,
Wi' kisses nit a few—
This warl's a parfet paradeyse,
When lovers they pruive true!
Aye! that's his varra clog!
He steeks the faul yeat softly tui—
Oh! hang that cwoley dog!
Now hey for seeghs, an suggar words,
Wi' kisses nit a few—
This warl's a parfet paradeyse,
When lovers they pruive true!
July 31, 1802.
116
TOM LINTON.
Tom Linton was bworn till a brave canny fortune,
His auld fadder screap'd aw the gear up he cud;
But Tom, country booby, luik'd owre hee abuin him,
And mix'd wi' the bad, nor e'er heeded the gud;
At the town he'd whore, gammle, play hell, and the deevil,
He wad hev his caper, nor car'd how it com;
Then he mud hev his greyhounds, guns, setters, and hunter,
And king o' the cockers they aw cursen'd Tom.
His auld fadder screap'd aw the gear up he cud;
But Tom, country booby, luik'd owre hee abuin him,
And mix'd wi' the bad, nor e'er heeded the gud;
At the town he'd whore, gammle, play hell, and the deevil,
He wad hev his caper, nor car'd how it com;
Then he mud hev his greyhounds, guns, setters, and hunter,
And king o' the cockers they aw cursen'd Tom.
I think I just see how the lads wad flock roun him,
And, oh! they were fain to shek Tom by the han!
Then he'd tell how he fit wi' the barbers and bullies,
And drank wi' the waiter till nowther cud stan:
His watch he wad shew, and his list o' the horses,
And pou out a guinea, and offer to lay,
Till our peer country lads grew uneasy and lazy,
And Tom cud ha'e coax'd hawf the parish away.
And, oh! they were fain to shek Tom by the han!
Then he'd tell how he fit wi' the barbers and bullies,
And drank wi' the waiter till nowther cud stan:
His watch he wad shew, and his list o' the horses,
And pou out a guinea, and offer to lay,
Till our peer country lads grew uneasy and lazy,
And Tom cud ha'e coax'd hawf the parish away.
117
Then he drank wi' the squire, and laugh'd wid his worship,
And talk'd o' the duke, and the deevil kens whee;
He gat aw the new-fangl'd oaths i' the nation,
And mock'd a peer beggar man wantin an ee;
His fields they were morgag'd; about it was whisper'd;
A farmer was robb'd nit owre far frae his house;
At last aw was selt his auld fadder had toil'd for,
And silly Tom Linton left nit worth a sous.
And talk'd o' the duke, and the deevil kens whee;
He gat aw the new-fangl'd oaths i' the nation,
And mock'd a peer beggar man wantin an ee;
His fields they were morgag'd; about it was whisper'd;
A farmer was robb'd nit owre far frae his house;
At last aw was selt his auld fadder had toil'd for,
And silly Tom Linton left nit worth a sous.
His fortune aw spent, what! he'd hae the laird's dowter,
But she pack'd him off wid a flee in his ear;
Neist thing, an auld comrade, for money Tom borrow'd,
E'en pat him in prison, and bad him lig theer:
At last he gat out, efter lang he had suffer'd,
And sair had repented the sad life he'd led:
Widout shun till his feet, in a sowdger's auld jacket,
He works on the turnpeyke reet hard for his bread.
But she pack'd him off wid a flee in his ear;
Neist thing, an auld comrade, for money Tom borrow'd,
E'en pat him in prison, and bad him lig theer:
At last he gat out, efter lang he had suffer'd,
And sair had repented the sad life he'd led:
Widout shun till his feet, in a sowdger's auld jacket,
He works on the turnpeyke reet hard for his bread.
Now folly seen intui, ragg'd, peer, and down-hearted,
He toils and he freets, and keen wants daily press;
If cronies reyde by, wey, alas! they've forgot him,
For whee can remember auld friends in distress?
O pity, what pity, that, in ev'ry county,
Sae mony Tom Lintons may always be found!
Deuce tek aw girt nwotions, and whurligig fashions,
Contentment's a kingdom, aye, aw the warl round!
He toils and he freets, and keen wants daily press;
If cronies reyde by, wey, alas! they've forgot him,
For whee can remember auld friends in distress?
O pity, what pity, that, in ev'ry county,
Sae mony Tom Lintons may always be found!
Deuce tek aw girt nwotions, and whurligig fashions,
Contentment's a kingdom, aye, aw the warl round!
August 24, 1802.
118
KITT CRAFFET.
Isaac Crosset, o' Shawk, a feyne heed-sten hes cutten
And just setten't up owr anent the kurk en;
A chubby-feac'd angel o'top on't they've putten,
And varses, as gud as e'er com frae a pen:
It's for auld Kit Craffet, our wordy wise neybor,
God rest him! a better man ne'er wore a head;
He's nit left his fellow thro' aw the heale county,
And monie peer fwok are in want, now he's dead.
And just setten't up owr anent the kurk en;
A chubby-feac'd angel o'top on't they've putten,
And varses, as gud as e'er com frae a pen:
It's for auld Kit Craffet, our wordy wise neybor,
God rest him! a better man ne'er wore a head;
He's nit left his fellow thro' aw the heale county,
And monie peer fwok are in want, now he's dead.
I meynd when at schuil, a reet top scholar was he;
Of lakin or rampin nae nwotion had he,
But nar the auld thworn he wad sit and keep mwosin,
And caw'd it a sin just to kill a peer flee:
A penny he never let rest in his pocket,
But gev't to the furst beggar body he met;
Then at kurk he cud follow the priest thro' the sarvice,
And as for a tribble he niver was bet.
Of lakin or rampin nae nwotion had he,
But nar the auld thworn he wad sit and keep mwosin,
And caw'd it a sin just to kill a peer flee:
A penny he never let rest in his pocket,
But gev't to the furst beggar body he met;
Then at kurk he cud follow the priest thro' the sarvice,
And as for a tribble he niver was bet.
119
Tho' he wan seebem belts lang afwore he was twenty,
And in Scealeby meedow oft tuik off the baw,
Yet he kent aw the beyble, algebra, Josephus,
And capp'd the priest, maister, exciseman and aw.
He cud talk about battles, balloons, burnin mountains,
And wars, till baith young and auld trimmel'd for fear,
Then he'd tell how they us'd the “peer West Indie negers.”
And stamp wid his fit, aye, and drop monie a tear.
And in Scealeby meedow oft tuik off the baw,
Yet he kent aw the beyble, algebra, Josephus,
And capp'd the priest, maister, exciseman and aw.
He cud talk about battles, balloons, burnin mountains,
And wars, till baith young and auld trimmel'd for fear,
Then he'd tell how they us'd the “peer West Indie negers.”
And stamp wid his fit, aye, and drop monie a tear.
When he read about parliments, pleaces, and changes,
He flang by the paper, and cried, “Silly stuff!
The Outs wad be in, and the Ins rob their country,
They're nit aw together worth ae pinch o' snuff!”
His creed was—Be statesmen but just, Britons loyal,
And lang as our shippen reyde maisters at sea,
We'll laugh at the puffin o' vain Bonnyparty,
As suin may he conquer the deevil as we.
He flang by the paper, and cried, “Silly stuff!
The Outs wad be in, and the Ins rob their country,
They're nit aw together worth ae pinch o' snuff!”
His creed was—Be statesmen but just, Britons loyal,
And lang as our shippen reyde maisters at sea,
We'll laugh at the puffin o' vain Bonnyparty,
As suin may he conquer the deevil as we.
Then when onie neybor was fash'd by the turnies,
Oh, it meade him happy if he cud be bail!
Twea-thurds of his income he gev away yearly,
And actually tuik peer Tom Linton frae jail.
He was yence cross'd in luive by a guid-for-nought hussey,
But if onie lass by her sweetheart was wrang'd,
He wad give her guid counsel, and lecture the fellow,
And oft did he wish aw sec skeybels were hang'd.
Oh, it meade him happy if he cud be bail!
Twea-thurds of his income he gev away yearly,
And actually tuik peer Tom Linton frae jail.
He was yence cross'd in luive by a guid-for-nought hussey,
But if onie lass by her sweetheart was wrang'd,
120
And oft did he wish aw sec skeybels were hang'd.
He cud mek pills and plaisters as weel as our doctor,
And cure cholic, aga, and jaunice forby;
As for greece, or the glanders, red watter, or fellen,
Nin o' them was leyke him, amang naigs or kye:
What, he talk'd to the bishop about agriculture,
And yence went to Plymouth to see the grand fleet;
As for the brave sailors trail'd off by the press-gangs,
“Od die them!” he said, “that can never be reet!”
And cure cholic, aga, and jaunice forby;
As for greece, or the glanders, red watter, or fellen,
Nin o' them was leyke him, amang naigs or kye:
What, he talk'd to the bishop about agriculture,
And yence went to Plymouth to see the grand fleet;
As for the brave sailors trail'd off by the press-gangs,
“Od die them!” he said, “that can never be reet!”
He ne'er was a drinker, a swearer, a feghter,
A cocker, a gamler, a fop, or a fuil;
But left this sad warl just at threescwore and seebem,
I' the clay house his granfadder built wi' the schuil.
Oh! monie a saut tear will be shed ev'ry Sunday,
In readin the varses they've stuck on his steane;
'Till watters run up bank, and trees they grow
down bank,
We never can luik on his marrow agean!
A cocker, a gamler, a fop, or a fuil;
But left this sad warl just at threescwore and seebem,
I' the clay house his granfadder built wi' the schuil.
Oh! monie a saut tear will be shed ev'ry Sunday,
In readin the varses they've stuck on his steane;
'Till watters run up bank, and trees they grow
down bank,
We never can luik on his marrow agean!
January 2, 1807.
121
WATTY.
If you ax where I come frae, I say the fell seyde,
Where fadder and mudder, and honest fwok beyde;
And my sweetheart, O bliss her! she thought nin leyke me,
For when we shuik hans the tears gush'd frae her ee:
Says I, ‘I mun e'en get a spot if I can,
But, whativer beteyde me, I'll think o' thee, Nan!’
Where fadder and mudder, and honest fwok beyde;
And my sweetheart, O bliss her! she thought nin leyke me,
For when we shuik hans the tears gush'd frae her ee:
Says I, ‘I mun e'en get a spot if I can,
But, whativer beteyde me, I'll think o' thee, Nan!’
Nan was a parfet beauty, wi' twee cheeks leyke codlin blossoms: the varra seet on her meade my mouth aw watter. ‘Fares-te-weel, Watty!’ says she; ‘tou's a wag amang t' lasses, and I'll see thee nae mair!’— ‘Nay, dunnet gowl, Nan! says I,
‘For, mappen, er lang, I's be maister mysel;’
Sae we buss'd, and I tuik a last luik at the fell.
Sae we buss'd, and I tuik a last luik at the fell.
On I whussel'd and wonder'd—my bundle I flung
Owre my shou'der, when Cwoley he efter me sprung,
And howl'd, silly fellow! and fawn'd at my fit,
As if to say, Watty, we munnet part yet!
At Carel I stuid wi' a strae i' my mouth,
And they tuik me, nae doubt, for a promisin youth.
Owre my shou'der, when Cwoley he efter me sprung,
And howl'd, silly fellow! and fawn'd at my fit,
As if to say, Watty, we munnet part yet!
122
And they tuik me, nae doubt, for a promisin youth.
The weyves com roun me in clusters: ‘What weage dus te ax, canny lad?’ says yen. ‘Wey, three pun and a crown; wunnet beate a hair o' my beard.’— ‘What can te dui?’ says anudder. ‘Dui! wey I can pleugh, sow, mow, sheer, thresh, deyke, milk, kurn, muck a byre, sing a psolm, men car-gear, dance a whornpeype, nick a naig's tail, hunt a brock, or feght iver a yen o' my weight in aw Croglin parish.’
Auld Margery Jackson suin caw't me her man;
But that day, I may say't, aw my sorrows began.
But that day, I may say't, aw my sorrows began.
Furst, Cwoley, peer fellow! they hang'd i' the street,
And skinn'd, God forgi' them! for shun to their feet.
I cry'd, and they caw'd me peer hawf-witted clown,
And banter'd and follow'd me aw up and down:
Neist my deame she e'en starv'd me, that niver liv'd weel;
Her hard words and luiks wou'd ha'e freeten'd the deil:—
And skinn'd, God forgi' them! for shun to their feet.
I cry'd, and they caw'd me peer hawf-witted clown,
And banter'd and follow'd me aw up and down:
Neist my deame she e'en starv'd me, that niver liv'd weel;
Her hard words and luiks wou'd ha'e freeten'd the deil:—
She hed a lang beard, for aw t' warl leyke a billy goat, wi' a kil-dried frosty feace: and then the smawest leg o' mutton in aw Carel market sarrad the cat, me, and hur for a week. The bairns meade sec gam on us, and thunder'd at the rapper, as if to waken a corp: when I open'd the duir, they threw stour i' my een, and caw'd me daft Watty;
123
Sae I pack'd up my duds when my quarter was out,
And, wi' weage i' my pocket, I saunter'd about.
And, wi' weage i' my pocket, I saunter'd about.
Suin my reet-han breek pocket thy pick'd in a fray,
And wi' fifteen wheyte shillins they slipp'd clean away,
Forby my twee letters frae mudder and Nan,
Where they said Carel lasses wad Watty trapan:
But 'twoud tek a lang day just to tell what I saw,
How I sceap'd frae the gallows, the sowdgers and aw.
And wi' fifteen wheyte shillins they slipp'd clean away,
Forby my twee letters frae mudder and Nan,
Where they said Carel lasses wad Watty trapan:
But 'twoud tek a lang day just to tell what I saw,
How I sceap'd frae the gallows, the sowdgers and aw.
Aa, there were some fworgery chaps bad me just sign my neame. ‘Nay,’ says I, ‘you've gotten a wrang pig by t' lug, for I canna write.’ Then a fellow leyke a lobster, aw leac'd and feather'd, ax'd me, ‘Watty, wull te list? thou's owther be a general or a gomoral.'—‘Nay, I wunnet—that's plain: I's content wi' a cwoat o' mudder's spinnin, ’
Now, wi' twee groats and tuppence, I'll e'en toddle heame,
But ne'er be a sowdger wheyle Watty's my neame.
But ne'er be a sowdger wheyle Watty's my neame.
How my mudder 'll gowl, and my fadder 'll stare,
When I tell them peer Cwoley they'll niver see mair.
Then they'll bring me a stuil;—as for Nan, she'll be fain,
When I kiss her, God bliss her, agean and agean!
The barn, and the byre, and the auld hollow tree,
Will just seem leyke cronies yen's fidgin to see.
When I tell them peer Cwoley they'll niver see mair.
Then they'll bring me a stuil;—as for Nan, she'll be fain,
When I kiss her, God bliss her, agean and agean!
The barn, and the byre, and the auld hollow tree,
Will just seem leyke cronies yen's fidgin to see.
124
The sheep 'll nit ken Watty's voice now! The peatstack we us'd to lake roun 'll be brunt ere this! As for Nan, she'll be owther married or broken hearted; but sud aw be weel at Croglin, we'll hae feastin, fiddlin, dancin, drinkin, singin, and smuikin, aye, till aw's blue about us:
Amang aw our neybours sec wonders I'll tell,But niver mair leave my auld friens or the fell.
January 10, 1803.
125
THE BLECKELL MURRY-NEET.
Aa, lad! sec a murry-neet we've hed at Bleckell,
The sound o' the fiddle yet rings i' my ear;
Aw reet clipt and heel'd were the lads and the lasses,
And monie a cliver lish huzzy was theer:
The bettermer swort sat snug i' the parlour,
I' th' pantry the sweethearters cutter'd sae soft;
The dancers they kick'd up a stour i' the kitchen;
At lanter the caird-lakers sat i' the loft.
The sound o' the fiddle yet rings i' my ear;
Aw reet clipt and heel'd were the lads and the lasses,
And monie a cliver lish huzzy was theer:
The bettermer swort sat snug i' the parlour,
I' th' pantry the sweethearters cutter'd sae soft;
The dancers they kick'd up a stour i' the kitchen;
At lanter the caird-lakers sat i' the loft.
The clogger o' Dawston's a famish top hero,
And bangs aw the player-fwok twenty to yen;
He stamp'd wid his fit, and he shouted and royster'd,
Till the sweet it ran off at his varra chin en;
Then he held up ae han leyke the spout of a tea-pot,
And danc'd cross the buckle, and leather-te-patch;
When they cried, ‘bonny Bell! ’ he lap up to the ceilin,
And ay crack'd his thoums for a bit of a fratch.
And bangs aw the player-fwok twenty to yen;
He stamp'd wid his fit, and he shouted and royster'd,
Till the sweet it ran off at his varra chin en;
Then he held up ae han leyke the spout of a tea-pot,
And danc'd cross the buckle, and leather-te-patch;
When they cried, ‘bonny Bell! ’ he lap up to the ceilin,
And ay crack'd his thoums for a bit of a fratch.
The Hivverby lads at fair drinkin are seypers;
At cockin the Dawstoners niver wer bet;
The Buckabank chaps are reet famish sweethearters,
Their kisses just soun leyke the sneck of a yeat;
The lasses o' Bleckell are sae monie angels;
The Cummersdale beauties ay glory in fun—
God help the peer fellow that glymes at them dancin,
He'll steal away heartless as sure as a gun!
At cockin the Dawstoners niver wer bet;
The Buckabank chaps are reet famish sweethearters,
Their kisses just soun leyke the sneck of a yeat;
126
The Cummersdale beauties ay glory in fun—
God help the peer fellow that glymes at them dancin,
He'll steal away heartless as sure as a gun!
The 'bacco was strang, and the yell it was lythey,
And monie a yen bottom'd a whart leyke a kurn;
Daft Fred', i' the nuik, leyke a hawf-rwoasted deevil,
Telt sly smutty stwories, and meade them aw gurn;
Then yen sung “Tom Linton,” anudder “Dick Watters,”
The auld farmers bragg'd o' their fillies and fwoals,
Wi' jeybin and jwokin, and hotchin and laughin,
Till some thought it teyme to set off to the cwoals.
And monie a yen bottom'd a whart leyke a kurn;
Daft Fred', i' the nuik, leyke a hawf-rwoasted deevil,
Telt sly smutty stwories, and meade them aw gurn;
Then yen sung “Tom Linton,” anudder “Dick Watters,”
The auld farmers bragg'd o' their fillies and fwoals,
Wi' jeybin and jwokin, and hotchin and laughin,
Till some thought it teyme to set off to the cwoals.
But, hod! I forgat-when the clock strack eleebem,
The dubbler was brong in, wi' wheyte breed and brown;
The gully was sharp, the girt cheese was a topper,
And lumps big as lapstons our lads gobbl'd down:
Ay the douse dapper lanlady, cried, ‘Eat and welcome!
I' God's neame step forret; nay dunnet be bleate!’
Our guts aw weel pang'd, we buck'd up for blin Jenny,
And neist paid the shot on a girt pewder plate.
The dubbler was brong in, wi' wheyte breed and brown;
The gully was sharp, the girt cheese was a topper,
And lumps big as lapstons our lads gobbl'd down:
Ay the douse dapper lanlady, cried, ‘Eat and welcome!
I' God's neame step forret; nay dunnet be bleate!’
Our guts aw weel pang'd, we buck'd up for blin Jenny,
And neist paid the shot on a girt pewder plate.
127
Now full to the thropple, wi' heed-warks and heartaches,
Some crap to the clock-kease instead o' the duir;
Then sleepin and snworin tuik pleace o' their rwoarin,
And teane abuin tudder e'en laid on the fluir.
The last o' December, lang, lang we'll remember,
At five i' the mworn, eighteen hundred and twee:
Here's health and success to the brave Jwohnny Dawston,
And monie sec meetins may we live to see!
Some crap to the clock-kease instead o' the duir;
Then sleepin and snworin tuik pleace o' their rwoarin,
And teane abuin tudder e'en laid on the fluir.
The last o' December, lang, lang we'll remember,
At five i' the mworn, eighteen hundred and twee:
Here's health and success to the brave Jwohnny Dawston,
And monie sec meetins may we live to see!
July 4, 1803
128
THE VILLAGE GANG.
There's sec a gang in our town,
The deevil cannot wrang them,
And cud yen get tem put i' prent,
Aw England cuddent bang them:
Our dogs e'en beyte aw decent fwok,
Our varra naigs they kick them,
And if they nobbet ax their way,
Our lads set on and lick them.
The deevil cannot wrang them,
And cud yen get tem put i' prent,
Aw England cuddent bang them:
Our dogs e'en beyte aw decent fwok,
Our varra naigs they kick them,
And if they nobbet ax their way,
Our lads set on and lick them.
Furst wi' Dick Wiggem we'll begin,
The teyney, greasy wobster:
He's got a gob frae lug to lug,
And neb leyke onie lobster;
Dick' weyfe, they say, was Branton bred,
Her mudder was a howdey,
And when peer Dick's thrang on the luim,
She's off to Jwohnnie Gowdey.
The teyney, greasy wobster:
He's got a gob frae lug to lug,
And neb leyke onie lobster;
Dick' weyfe, they say, was Branton bred,
Her mudder was a howdey,
And when peer Dick's thrang on the luim,
She's off to Jwohnnie Gowdey.
129
But as for Jwohnnie, silly man,
He threeps about the nation,
And talks o' stocks and Charley Fox,
And meks a blusteration;
He reads the paper yence a week,
The auld fwok geape and wonder—
Were Jwohnnie king we'd aw be rich,
And France mud e'n knock under.
He threeps about the nation,
And talks o' stocks and Charley Fox,
And meks a blusteration;
He reads the paper yence a week,
The auld fwok geape and wonder—
Were Jwohnnie king we'd aw be rich,
And France mud e'n knock under.
Lang Peel the laird's a dispert chap,
His weyfe's a famish fratcher—
She brays the lasses, starves the lads,
Nae bandylan can match her:
We aw ken how they gat their gear,
But that's a fearfu' stwory,
And sud he hing on Carel Sands,
Nit yen wad e'er be sworry.
His weyfe's a famish fratcher—
She brays the lasses, starves the lads,
Nae bandylan can match her:
We aw ken how they gat their gear,
But that's a fearfu' stwory,
And sud he hing on Carel Sands,
Nit yen wad e'er be sworry.
Beane-breker Jwohn we weel may neame,
He's tir'd o' wark, confound him!
By manglin limbs and streenin joints,
He's meade aw cripples roun him:
Mair hurt he's duin than onie yen
That iver sceap'd a helter;
When sec leyke guffs leame decent fwok,
It's teyme some laws sud alter.
He's tir'd o' wark, confound him!
By manglin limbs and streenin joints,
He's meade aw cripples roun him:
Mair hurt he's duin than onie yen
That iver sceap'd a helter;
When sec leyke guffs leame decent fwok,
It's teyme some laws sud alter.
130
The schuilmaister's a conjuror,
For when our lads are drinkin,
Aw macks o' tricks he'll dui wi' cairds,
And tell fwok what they're thinkin;
He'll glowr at maps and spell hard words,
For hours and hours together,
And in the muin he kens what's duin—
Nay he can coin the weather!
For when our lads are drinkin,
Aw macks o' tricks he'll dui wi' cairds,
And tell fwok what they're thinkin;
He'll glowr at maps and spell hard words,
For hours and hours together,
And in the muin he kens what's duin—
Nay he can coin the weather!
Then theer's the blacksmith wi' ae ee,
And his hawf-witted mudder,
'Twad mek a deed man laugh to see
Them glyme at yen anudder; A three-quart piggen full o' keale,
He'll sup, the greedy sinner,
Then eat a cow'd-lword leyke his head,
Aye, onie day at dinner.
And his hawf-witted mudder,
'Twad mek a deed man laugh to see
Them glyme at yen anudder; A three-quart piggen full o' keale,
He'll sup, the greedy sinner,
Then eat a cow'd-lword leyke his head,
Aye, onie day at dinner.
Jack Marr, the hirplin piper's son,
Can bang them aw at leein;
He'll brek a lock, or steal a cock,
Wi' onie yen in bein:
He eats guid meat, and drinks strang drink,
And gangs weel graith'd o' Sunday,
And weel he may, a bonny fray
Com out last Whissen-Monday.
Can bang them aw at leein;
He'll brek a lock, or steal a cock,
Wi' onie yen in bein:
He eats guid meat, and drinks strang drink,
And gangs weel graith'd o' Sunday,
And weel he may, a bonny fray
Com out last Whissen-Monday.
131
The doctor he's a parfet pleague,
And hawf the parish puzzens;
The lawyer sets fwok by the lugs,
And cheats them neist by duzzens;
The parson swears a bonny stick
Amang our sackless asses;
The 'squire's ruin'd scwores and scwores
O' canny country lasses.
And hawf the parish puzzens;
The lawyer sets fwok by the lugs,
And cheats them neist by duzzens;
The parson swears a bonny stick
Amang our sackless asses;
The 'squire's ruin'd scwores and scwores
O' canny country lasses.
Theer's twenty mair, coarse as neck beef,
If yen hed teyme to neame them;
Left-handed Sim, slape-finger'd Sam,
Nae law cud iver teame them;
Theer's blue nebb'd Watt, and ewe-chin'd Dick,
Weel wordy o' the gallows—
O happy is the country seyde
That's free frae sec leyke fellows!
If yen hed teyme to neame them;
Left-handed Sim, slape-finger'd Sam,
Nae law cud iver teame them;
Theer's blue nebb'd Watt, and ewe-chin'd Dick,
Weel wordy o' the gallows—
O happy is the country seyde
That's free frae sec leyke fellows!
November 27, 1803.
132
LANG SEYNE.
The last new shun our Betty gat,
They pinch her feet, the deil may care!
What, she mud ha'e them leady leyke,
Tho' she hes cworns, for evermair:
Nae black gairn stockins will she wear,
They mun be wheyte, and cotton feyne!
This meks me think of other teymes,
The happy days o' auld lang seyne!
They pinch her feet, the deil may care!
What, she mud ha'e them leady leyke,
Tho' she hes cworns, for evermair:
Nae black gairn stockins will she wear,
They mun be wheyte, and cotton feyne!
This meks me think of other teymes,
The happy days o' auld lang seyne!
Our dowter, tui, a palace
A guid reed clwoak she cannot wear;
And stays, she says, spoil leady's sheps—
Oh! it wad mek a parson swear!
Nit ae han's turn o' wark she'll dui,
She'll nowther milk or sarrat sweyne—
The country's puzzen'd roun wi' preyde,
For lasses work'd reet hard lang seyne.
A guid reed clwoak she cannot wear;
And stays, she says, spoil leady's sheps—
Oh! it wad mek a parson swear!
Nit ae han's turn o' wark she'll dui,
She'll nowther milk or sarrat sweyne—
The country's puzzen'd roun wi' preyde,
For lasses work'd reet hard lang seyne.
133
We've three guid rooms in our clay house,
Just big eneugh for sec as we;
They'd hev a parlour built wi' bricks,
I mud submit—what cud I dee?
The sattle neist was thrown aside,
It meeght ha'e sarra'd me and meyne;
My mudder thought it mens'd a house—
But we think shem o' auld lang seyne!
Just big eneugh for sec as we;
They'd hev a parlour built wi' bricks,
I mud submit—what cud I dee?
The sattle neist was thrown aside,
It meeght ha'e sarra'd me and meyne;
My mudder thought it mens'd a house—
But we think shem o' auld lang seyne!
We us'd to ga to bed at dark,
And ruse agean at four or five;
The mworn's the only teyme for wark,
If fwok are hilthy, and wou'd thrive:
Now we git up,—nay, God kens when!
And nuin's owre suin for us to deyne;
I's hungry or the pot's hawf boil'd,
And wish for teymes leyke auld lang seyne.
And ruse agean at four or five;
The mworn's the only teyme for wark,
If fwok are hilthy, and wou'd thrive:
Now we git up,—nay, God kens when!
And nuin's owre suin for us to deyne;
I's hungry or the pot's hawf boil'd,
And wish for teymes leyke auld lang seyne.
Deuce tek the fuil-invented tea!
For tweyce a-day we that mun hev;
Then taxes git sae monstrous hee,
The deil a plack yen now can seave!
There's been nae luck throughout the lan,
Sin fwok mud leyke their betters sheyne;
French fashions mek us parfet fuils;
We're caff and san to auld lang seyne!
For tweyce a-day we that mun hev;
Then taxes git sae monstrous hee,
The deil a plack yen now can seave!
There's been nae luck throughout the lan,
Sin fwok mud leyke their betters sheyne;
French fashions mek us parfet fuils;
We're caff and san to auld lang seyne!
January 5, 1807.
134
CANNY CUMMERLAN.
'Twas ae neet last week, wid our wark efter supper,
We went owre the geate cousin Isbel to see;
Theer were Sibby frae Curthet, and lal Betty Byers,
Deef Debby, forby Bella Bunton and me;
We'd scarce begun spinnin, when Sib a sang lilted,
She'd brong her frae Carel by their sarvant man;
'Twas aw about Cummerlan fwok and feyne pleaces,
And, if I can think on't, ye's hear how it ran.
We went owre the geate cousin Isbel to see;
Theer were Sibby frae Curthet, and lal Betty Byers,
Deef Debby, forby Bella Bunton and me;
We'd scarce begun spinnin, when Sib a sang lilted,
She'd brong her frae Carel by their sarvant man;
'Twas aw about Cummerlan fwok and feyne pleaces,
And, if I can think on't, ye's hear how it ran.
Yer buik-larn'd wise gentry, that's seen monie counties,
May preach and palaver, and brag as they will
O' mountains, lakes, valleys, woods, watters, and meadows,
But canny auld Cummerlan caps them aw still:
It's true, we've nae palaces sheynin amang us,
Nor marble tall towers to catch the weak eye;
But we've monie feyne cassels, where fit our brave fadders,
When Cummerlan cud onie county defy.
May preach and palaver, and brag as they will
O' mountains, lakes, valleys, woods, watters, and meadows,
But canny auld Cummerlan caps them aw still:
It's true, we've nae palaces sheynin amang us,
Nor marble tall towers to catch the weak eye;
135
When Cummerlan cud onie county defy.
Furst Graystock we'll nwotish, the seat o' girt Norfolk,
A neame still to freemen and Englishmen dear;
Ye Cummerlan fwok, may your sons and your gransons
Sec rare honest statesmen for iver revere:
Corruption's a sink that'll puzzen the country,
And lead us to slav'ry, to me it seems plain;
But he that hes courage to stem the black torrent,
True Britons sud pray for, agean and agean.
A neame still to freemen and Englishmen dear;
Ye Cummerlan fwok, may your sons and your gransons
Sec rare honest statesmen for iver revere:
Corruption's a sink that'll puzzen the country,
And lead us to slav'ry, to me it seems plain;
But he that hes courage to stem the black torrent,
True Britons sud pray for, agean and agean.
Whea that hes climb'd Skiddaw, hes seen sec a prospec,
Where fells frown owre fells, and in majesty vie?
Whea that hes seen Keswick, can count hawf its beauties,
May e'en try to count hawf the stars i' the sky:
Theer's Ullswater, Bassenthwaite, Wastwater, Derwent,
That thousands on thousands ha'e travell'd to view;
The langer they gaze, still the mair they may wonder,
And ay, as they wonder, may fin summet new.
Where fells frown owre fells, and in majesty vie?
Whea that hes seen Keswick, can count hawf its beauties,
May e'en try to count hawf the stars i' the sky:
Theer's Ullswater, Bassenthwaite, Wastwater, Derwent,
That thousands on thousands ha'e travell'd to view;
The langer they gaze, still the mair they may wonder,
And ay, as they wonder, may fin summet new.
136
We've Corby for rocks, caves, and walks sae delightfu',
That Eden a paradeyse loudly proclaims;
O that sec leyke pleaces hed ay sec leyke awners,
Then mud monie girt fwok be proud o' their neames!
We've Netherby tui, the grand pride o' the border,
And haws out o' number, nae county can bang;
Wi' rivers romantic as Tay, Tweed, or Yarrow,
And green woodbine bowers weel wordy a sang.
That Eden a paradeyse loudly proclaims;
O that sec leyke pleaces hed ay sec leyke awners,
Then mud monie girt fwok be proud o' their neames!
We've Netherby tui, the grand pride o' the border,
And haws out o' number, nae county can bang;
Wi' rivers romantic as Tay, Tweed, or Yarrow,
And green woodbine bowers weel wordy a sang.
We help yen anudder; we welcome the stranger;
Oursels and our country we'll iver defend;
We pay bits o' taxes as weel as we're yable,
And pray, leyke true Britons, the war hed an end:
Then, Cummerlan lads, and ye lish rwosy lasses,
If some caw ye clownish, ye need'nt think sheame;
Be merry and wise, enjoy innocent pleasures,
And ay seek for health and contentment at heame.
Oursels and our country we'll iver defend;
We pay bits o' taxes as weel as we're yable,
And pray, leyke true Britons, the war hed an end:
Then, Cummerlan lads, and ye lish rwosy lasses,
If some caw ye clownish, ye need'nt think sheame;
Be merry and wise, enjoy innocent pleasures,
And ay seek for health and contentment at heame.
August 12, 1804.
137
THE FELLOWS ROUN TORKIN.
We're aw feyne fellows roun Torkin;
We're aw guid fellows weel met;
We're aw wet fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us start;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Dicky lad, boddom the whart.
We're aw guid fellows weel met;
We're aw wet fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us start;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Dicky lad, boddom the whart.
I'll gi'e ye, says Dick, durty Dinah,
That's ay big wi' bairn fwok suppwose;
She sticks out her lip like a pentes,
To kep what may drop frae her nwose:
Leyke a hay-stack she hoists up ae shouder,
And scarts, for she's nit varra soun:
Wi' legs thick as mill-pwosts, and greasy,
The deevil cud nit ding her down!
That's ay big wi' bairn fwok suppwose;
She sticks out her lip like a pentes,
To kep what may drop frae her nwose:
Leyke a hay-stack she hoists up ae shouder,
And scarts, for she's nit varra soun:
Wi' legs thick as mill-pwosts, and greasy,
The deevil cud nit ding her down!
138
We're aw odd fellows roun Torkin;
We're aw larn'd fellows weel met;
We're aw rich fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us part;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Matthew lad, boddom the whart.
We're aw larn'd fellows weel met;
We're aw rich fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us part;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Matthew lad, boddom the whart.
I'll gi'e ye, says Matt, midden Marget,
That squints wi' the left-handed ee;
When at other fellows she's gleymin,
I's freeten'd she's luikin at me:
She smells far stranger than carrion,
Her cheeks are as dark as hung beef,
Her breasts are as flat as a back-buird;
'Mang sluts she's ay counted the chief!
That squints wi' the left-handed ee;
When at other fellows she's gleymin,
I's freeten'd she's luikin at me:
She smells far stranger than carrion,
Her cheeks are as dark as hung beef,
Her breasts are as flat as a back-buird;
'Mang sluts she's ay counted the chief!
We're aw wise fellows roun Torkin;
We're aw neyce fellows weel met;
We're aw sad fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us part;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Gwordy lad, boddom the whart.
We're aw neyce fellows weel met;
We're aw sad fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us part;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Gwordy lad, boddom the whart.
139
I'll gi'e ye, says Gworge, geapin Grizzy,
Wi' girt feet and marrowless legs;
Her reed neb wad set fire to brunstone;
Her een are as big as duck eggs:
She's shep'd leyke a sweyne i' the middle,
Her skin freckl'd aw leyke a gleid;
Her mouth's weyde as onie town yubbem,
We're freeten'd she'll swally her heed!
Wi' girt feet and marrowless legs;
Her reed neb wad set fire to brunstone;
Her een are as big as duck eggs:
She's shep'd leyke a sweyne i' the middle,
Her skin freckl'd aw leyke a gleid;
Her mouth's weyde as onie town yubbem,
We're freeten'd she'll swally her heed!
We're aw strang fellows roun Torkin!
We're aw lish fellows weel met;
We're aw top fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us start;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Wully lad, boddom the whart.
We're aw lish fellows weel met;
We're aw top fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us start;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Wully lad, boddom the whart.
I'll gi'e ye, says Wull, winkin Winny,
That measures exact three feet eight,
But wi' roun-shouder'd Ruth, or tall Tibby,
She'll scart, and she'll girn, and she'll feght;
She's cruik'd as an S—wid a hip out,
Her feet flat and braid, as big fluiks;
Her feace is as lang as a fiddle,
And aw spatter'd owre wi' reed plouks!
That measures exact three feet eight,
But wi' roun-shouder'd Ruth, or tall Tibby,
She'll scart, and she'll girn, and she'll feght;
She's cruik'd as an S—wid a hip out,
Her feet flat and braid, as big fluiks;
Her feace is as lang as a fiddle,
And aw spatter'd owre wi' reed plouks!
140
We're aw young fellows roun Torkin;
We're aw teeght fellows weel met;
We're aw brave fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a sweat:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us part;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Mwosy lad, boddom the whart.
We're aw teeght fellows weel met;
We're aw brave fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a sweat:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us part;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Mwosy lad, boddom the whart.
I'll gi'e ye, says Mwose, mantin Matty,
That lisps thro' her black rotten teeth:
You can't catch five words in ten minutes;
If gowlin, she'd flay yen to deeth:
Her feace like auld Nick's nutmig grater,
And yallow neck bitten wi' fleas;
She's troubl'd wi' win ay at meale teymes,
And belshes to give hersel ease!
That lisps thro' her black rotten teeth:
You can't catch five words in ten minutes;
If gowlin, she'd flay yen to deeth:
Her feace like auld Nick's nutmig grater,
And yallow neck bitten wi' fleas;
She's troubl'd wi' win ay at meale teymes,
And belshes to give hersel ease!
We're aw cute fellows roun Torkin;
We're aw sharp fellows weel met;
We're aw rare fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us part;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Nathan lad, boddom the whart.
We're aw sharp fellows weel met;
We're aw rare fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us part;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Nathan lad, boddom the whart.
141
I'll gi'e ye, says Natt, noisy Nanny,
That chows shag 'bacco for fun;
She cocks her belly when walkin,
And ay luiks down to the grun:
She talks beath sleepin and wakin,
And crowks leyke a tead when she speaks;
On her nwose en the hair grows leyke stibble,
And gravey drops run owre her cheeks!
That chows shag 'bacco for fun;
She cocks her belly when walkin,
And ay luiks down to the grun:
She talks beath sleepin and wakin,
And crowks leyke a tead when she speaks;
On her nwose en the hair grows leyke stibble,
And gravey drops run owre her cheeks!
We're aw teugh fellows roun Torkin;
We're aw rash fellows weel met;
We're aw queer fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lang, leame, and lazy,
Deef, dum, black, brown, bleer-e'ed, and blin,
May they suin get weel weddet, and beddet,
If lads they can onie where fin!
We're aw rash fellows weel met;
We're aw queer fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lang, leame, and lazy,
Deef, dum, black, brown, bleer-e'ed, and blin,
May they suin get weel weddet, and beddet,
If lads they can onie where fin!
142
BORROWDALE JWOHNNY.
I's Borrowdale Jwohnny, just cumt up to Lunnon,
Nay, gurn nit at me, for fear I laugh at you:
I've seen kneaves donn'd i' silks, and gud men gang in tatters,
The truth we sud tell, aud gi'e auld Nick his due.
Nan Watt pruiv'd wi' bairn, what, they caw'd me the fadder;
Thinks I, shekum-filthy! be off in a treyce!
Nine Carel bank nwotes mudder slipt i' my pocket,
And fadder neist ga'e me reet holesome adveyce.
Nay, gurn nit at me, for fear I laugh at you:
I've seen kneaves donn'd i' silks, and gud men gang in tatters,
The truth we sud tell, aud gi'e auld Nick his due.
Nan Watt pruiv'd wi' bairn, what, they caw'd me the fadder;
Thinks I, shekum-filthy! be off in a treyce!
Nine Carel bank nwotes mudder slipt i' my pocket,
And fadder neist ga'e me reet holesome adveyce.
Says he, “keep frae t' lasses! and ne'er luik ahint thee.”
We're deep as the best o' them, fadder, says I.
They pack'd up ae sark, Sunday weascwoat, twee neckcloths,
Wot bannock, cauld dumplin, and top stannin pye:
I mounted black filly, bad God bliss the auld fwok,
Cries fadder, “Tou's larn'd, Jwohn, and hes nought to fear;
Caw and see cousin Jacep! he's got aw the money:
He'll git thee some guverment pleace,—to be seer!”
We're deep as the best o' them, fadder, says I.
They pack'd up ae sark, Sunday weascwoat, twee neckcloths,
Wot bannock, cauld dumplin, and top stannin pye:
I mounted black filly, bad God bliss the auld fwok,
Cries fadder, “Tou's larn'd, Jwohn, and hes nought to fear;
143
He'll git thee some guverment pleace,—to be seer!”
I stopp'd on a fell, tuik a lang luik at Skiddaw,
And neist at the schuil-house amang the esh trees;
Last thing, saw the smuik rising up frae our chimley,
And fan aw quite queer, wid a heart ill at ease:
But summet widin me, cried, Pou up thy spirits!
Theer's luck, says auld Lizzy, in feacin the sun;
Tou's young, lish and cliver, may wed a feyne leady,
And cum heame a nabob—aye, sure as a gun!
And neist at the schuil-house amang the esh trees;
Last thing, saw the smuik rising up frae our chimley,
And fan aw quite queer, wid a heart ill at ease:
But summet widin me, cried, Pou up thy spirits!
Theer's luck, says auld Lizzy, in feacin the sun;
Tou's young, lish and cliver, may wed a feyne leady,
And cum heame a nabob—aye, sure as a gun!
Knowin manners, what, I doff'd my hat to aw strangers,
Wid a spur on ae heel, a yek siplin in han,
It tuik me nine days and six hours comin up-bank,
At the Whorns—aye, 'twas Highget, a chap bad me stan;
Says he, “How's all friens i' the North, honest Johnny?”
Odswunters! I says, what, ye divent ken me!—
I paid twee wheyte shillins, and fain was to see him,
Nit thinkin on't rwoad onie 'quaintance to see.
Wid a spur on ae heel, a yek siplin in han,
It tuik me nine days and six hours comin up-bank,
At the Whorns—aye, 'twas Highget, a chap bad me stan;
Says he, “How's all friens i' the North, honest Johnny?”
Odswunters! I says, what, ye divent ken me!—
I paid twee wheyte shillins, and fain was to see him,
Nit thinkin on't rwoad onie 'quaintance to see.
Neist thing, what big kurks, gilded cwoaches, hee houses,
And fwok runnin thro' other, leyke Carel Fair;
I ax'd a smart chap where to fin cousin Jacep,
Says he, “Clown, go look!” Friend, says I, tell me where?
Fadder' letter to Jacep hed got nae subscription,
Sae, when I was glowrin and siz'lin about,
A wheyte-feac'd young lass aw dess'd out leyke a leady,
Cried, “Pray, Sir, step in!” but I wish I'd kept out.
And fwok runnin thro' other, leyke Carel Fair;
144
Says he, “Clown, go look!” Friend, says I, tell me where?
Fadder' letter to Jacep hed got nae subscription,
Sae, when I was glowrin and siz'lin about,
A wheyte-feac'd young lass aw dess'd out leyke a leady,
Cried, “Pray, Sir, step in!” but I wish I'd kept out.
She pou'd at a bell, leyke our kurk-bell it soundet,
In com sarvant lass, and she worder'd some weyne;
Says I, I's nit dry, sae, pray, Madam, excuse me!
Nay, what she insisted I sud stop and deyne.
She meade varra free,—'twas a shem and a byzen!
I thought her in luive wi' my parson, for sure;
And promis'd to caw agean:—as for black filly,
(Wad onie believ't!) she was stown frae the duir!
In com sarvant lass, and she worder'd some weyne;
Says I, I's nit dry, sae, pray, Madam, excuse me!
Nay, what she insisted I sud stop and deyne.
She meade varra free,—'twas a shem and a byzen!
I thought her in luive wi' my parson, for sure;
And promis'd to caw agean:—as for black filly,
(Wad onie believ't!) she was stown frae the duir!
Od dang't! War than that:—when I greap'd my breek-pocket,
I fan fadder watch, and the nwotes were aw gean;
It was neet, and I luik'd lang and sair for kent feaces,
But Borrowdale fwok I cud niver see neane.
I sleept on the flags, just abint the kurk corner,
A chap wid a girt stick and lantern com by,
He caw'd me peace-breaker—says I, Thou's a lear—
In a pleace leyke a saller they fworc'd me to lie.
I fan fadder watch, and the nwotes were aw gean;
It was neet, and I luik'd lang and sair for kent feaces,
But Borrowdale fwok I cud niver see neane.
I sleept on the flags, just abint the kurk corner,
A chap wid a girt stick and lantern com by,
145
In a pleace leyke a saller they fworc'd me to lie.
Nae caff bed or blankets for silly pilgarlic;
Deil a wink cud I sleep, nay nor yet see a steyme;
Neist day I was ta'en to the Narration Offish,
When a man in a wig said, I'd duin a sad creyme.
Then ane ax'd my neame, and he pat on his speckets,
Says I, Jwhonny Cruckdeyke—I's Borrowdale bworn.
Whea think ye it pruiv'd, but my awn cousin Jacep,
He seav'd me fraet gallows, aye that varra mworn.
Deil a wink cud I sleep, nay nor yet see a steyme;
Neist day I was ta'en to the Narration Offish,
When a man in a wig said, I'd duin a sad creyme.
Then ane ax'd my neame, and he pat on his speckets,
Says I, Jwhonny Cruckdeyke—I's Borrowdale bworn.
Whea think ye it pruiv'd, but my awn cousin Jacep,
He seav'd me fraet gallows, aye that varra mworn.
He spak to my Lword, some hard words, quite out-landish,
Then caw'd forhiscwoach, and away weruid heame;
He ax'd varra kind efter fadder and mudder,
I said they were bravely, and neist saw his deame:
She's aw puff and pouder; as for cousin Jacep,
He's got owre much gear to tek nwotish o' me;
But if onie amang ye sud want a lish sarvent,
Just bid me a weage—I'll upod ye, we's 'gree.
Then caw'd forhiscwoach, and away weruid heame;
He ax'd varra kind efter fadder and mudder,
I said they were bravely, and neist saw his deame:
She's aw puff and pouder; as for cousin Jacep,
He's got owre much gear to tek nwotish o' me;
But if onie amang ye sud want a lish sarvent,
Just bid me a weage—I'll upod ye, we's 'gree.
January 4, 1807.
146
THE CODBECK WEDDIN.
True is my song, tho' lowly be the strain.
They sing of a weddin at Worton,
Where aw was feght, fratchin, and fun;
Feegh! see a yen we've hed at Codbeck,
As niver was under the sun:
The breydegruim was weaver Joe Bewley,
He com frae about Lowthet Green;
The breyde Jwohnny Dalton' lish dowter,
And Betty was weel to be seen.
Where aw was feght, fratchin, and fun;
Feegh! see a yen we've hed at Codbeck,
As niver was under the sun:
The breydegruim was weaver Joe Bewley,
He com frae about Lowthet Green;
The breyde Jwohnny Dalton' lish dowter,
And Betty was weel to be seen.
Sec patchin, and weshin, and bleachin,
And starchin, and darnin auld duds;
Some lasses thought lang to the weddin;
Unax'd, others sat i' the suds:
Theer were tweescwore and seebem inveyted,
God speed tem 'gean Cursenmas-day;
“Dobson' lads, tui, what they mun cum hidder!”
I think they were better away!
And starchin, and darnin auld duds;
Some lasses thought lang to the weddin;
Unax'd, others sat i' the suds:
Theer were tweescwore and seebem inveyted,
God speed tem 'gean Cursenmas-day;
“Dobson' lads, tui, what they mun cum hidder!”
I think they were better away!
147
Furst thing, Oggle Willy, the fiddler,
Caw'd in wi' auld Jonathan Strang;
Neist stiff and stout, lang, leame and lazy,
Frae aw parts com in wi' a bang:
Frae Brocklebank, Fuilduirs, and Newlands,
Frae Hesket, Burk-heads, and the Height,
Frae Warnell, Starnmire, Nether Welton,
And awt' way frae Eytonfield-street.
Caw'd in wi' auld Jonathan Strang;
Neist stiff and stout, lang, leame and lazy,
Frae aw parts com in wi' a bang:
Frae Brocklebank, Fuilduirs, and Newlands,
Frae Hesket, Burk-heads, and the Height,
Frae Warnell, Starnmire, Nether Welton,
And awt' way frae Eytonfield-street.
Furst auld Jwhonny Dawton we'll nwotish,
And Mary, his canny douse deame;
Son Wully, and Mally, his sister;
Goffet' weyfe, Muckle Nanny by neame;
Wully Sinclair, Smith Leytle, Jwohn Aitchin,
Tom Ridley, Joe Sim, Peter Weir,
Gworge Goffet, Jwohn Bell, Miller Dyer,
Joe Head, and Ned Bulman were theer.
And Mary, his canny douse deame;
Son Wully, and Mally, his sister;
Goffet' weyfe, Muckle Nanny by neame;
Wully Sinclair, Smith Leytle, Jwohn Aitchin,
Tom Ridley, Joe Sim, Peter Weir,
Gworge Goffet, Jwohn Bell, Miller Dyer,
Joe Head, and Ned Bulman were theer.
We'd hay-cruiks, and hen-tails, and hanniels,
And nattlers that fuddle for nought;
Wi' sceape-greaces, skeybels, and scruffins,
And maffs better fed far than taught;
We'd lads that wad eat for a weager,
Or feght, aye, till bluid to the knees;
Fell-seyders, and Sowerby riff-raff,
That deil a bum-bealie dar seize.
And nattlers that fuddle for nought;
Wi' sceape-greaces, skeybels, and scruffins,
And maffs better fed far than taught;
We'd lads that wad eat for a weager,
Or feght, aye, till bluid to the knees;
Fell-seyders, and Sowerby riff-raff,
That deil a bum-bealie dar seize.
148
The breyde hung her head, and luik'd sheepish,
The breydegruim as wheyte as a clout;
The bairns aw gleym'd thro' the kurk windows,
The parson was varra devout:
The ring was lost out of her pocket,
The breyde meade a bonny te-dee;
Cries Goffet' weyfe, “Meyne's meade o' pinchback,
And, la ye! it fits till a tee!”
The breydegruim as wheyte as a clout;
The bairns aw gleym'd thro' the kurk windows,
The parson was varra devout:
The ring was lost out of her pocket,
The breyde meade a bonny te-dee;
Cries Goffet' weyfe, “Meyne's meade o' pinchback,
And, la ye! it fits till a tee!”
Now buckl'd, wi' fiddlers afwore them,
They gev Michael Crosby a caw;
Up spak canny Bewley the breydegruim,
“Get slocken'd, lads! fadder pays aw.”
We drank till aw seem'd blue about us,
We're ay murry deevils, tho' peer;
Michael' weyfe says, “Widout onie leein,
A duck mud ha'e swam on the fleer.”
They gev Michael Crosby a caw;
Up spak canny Bewley the breydegruim,
“Get slocken'd, lads! fadder pays aw.”
We drank till aw seem'd blue about us,
We're ay murry deevils, tho' peer;
Michael' weyfe says, “Widout onie leein,
A duck mud ha'e swam on the fleer.”
Now, aw 'bacco'd owre, and hawf-drucken,
The men fwok wad needs kiss the breyde;
Joe Head, that's ay reckon'd best spwokesman,
Whop'd “guid wad the couple beteyde:”
Says Michael, “I's reet glad to see you,
Suppwosin I gat ne'er a plack.”
Cries t' weyfe, “That'll nowther pay brewer,
Nor git bits o' sarks to yen's back.”
The men fwok wad needs kiss the breyde;
Joe Head, that's ay reckon'd best spwokesman,
Whop'd “guid wad the couple beteyde:”
Says Michael, “I's reet glad to see you,
Suppwosin I gat ne'er a plack.”
Cries t' weyfe, “That'll nowther pay brewer,
Nor git bits o' sarks to yen's back.”
149
The breyde wad dance ‘Coddle me, Cuddy;’
A threesome then caper'd Scotch Reels;
Peter Weir cleek'd up auld Mary Dalton,
Leyke a cock roun a hen neist he steals;
Jwohn Bell yelp'd out ‘Sowerby Lasses;’
Young Jwosep, a lang Country dance,
He'd got his new pumps Smithson meade him,
And fain wad shew how he cud prance.
A threesome then caper'd Scotch Reels;
Peter Weir cleek'd up auld Mary Dalton,
Leyke a cock roun a hen neist he steals;
Jwohn Bell yelp'd out ‘Sowerby Lasses;’
Young Jwosep, a lang Country dance,
He'd got his new pumps Smithson meade him,
And fain wad shew how he cud prance.
To march roun the town, and keep swober,
The women fwok thought was but reet;
“Be wise, dui, for yence!” says Jwohn Dyer;
The breydegruim mud reyde shouder heet:
The youngermak lurried ahint them,
Till efter them Bell meade a brek;
Tom Ridley was aw baiz'd wi' drinkin,
And plung'd off the steps i' the beck.
The women fwok thought was but reet;
“Be wise, dui, for yence!” says Jwohn Dyer;
The breydegruim mud reyde shouder heet:
The youngermak lurried ahint them,
Till efter them Bell meade a brek;
Tom Ridley was aw baiz'd wi' drinkin,
And plung'd off the steps i' the beck.
To Hudless's now off they sizell'd,
And theer gat far mair than eneugh;
Miller Hodgson suin brunt the punch ladle,
And full'd ev'ry glass wid his leuf;
He thought he was tekin his mouter,
And deil a bit conscience hes he;
They preym'd him wi' stiff punch and jollup,
'Till Sally Scott thought he wad dec.
And theer gat far mair than eneugh;
Miller Hodgson suin brunt the punch ladle,
And full'd ev'ry glass wid his leuf;
He thought he was tekin his mouter,
And deil a bit conscience hes he;
They preym'd him wi' stiff punch and jollup,
'Till Sally Scott thought he wad dec.
150
Joe Sim rwoar'd out, “Bin, we've duin wonders!
Our Mally's turn'd howe i' the weame!”
Wi' three strings atween them, the fiddlers
Strack up, and they reel'd towerts heame;
Meyner Leytle wad now hoist a standert,
Peer man! he cud nit daddle far,
But stuck in a pant buin the middle,
And yen tuik him heame in a car.
Our Mally's turn'd howe i' the weame!”
Wi' three strings atween them, the fiddlers
Strack up, and they reel'd towerts heame;
Meyner Leytle wad now hoist a standert,
Peer man! he cud nit daddle far,
But stuck in a pant buin the middle,
And yen tuik him heame in a car.
For dinner, we'd stew'd geuse, and haggish,
Cow'd-leady, and het bacon pye,
Boil'd fluiks, tatey-hash, beastin puddin,
Saut salmon, and cabbish; forby
Pork, pancakes, black puddins, sheep trotters,
And custert, and mustert, and veal,
Grey-pez keale, and lang apple dumplins:—
I wish ev'ry yen far'd as weel!
Cow'd-leady, and het bacon pye,
Boil'd fluiks, tatey-hash, beastin puddin,
Saut salmon, and cabbish; forby
Pork, pancakes, black puddins, sheep trotters,
And custert, and mustert, and veal,
Grey-pez keale, and lang apple dumplins:—
I wish ev'ry yen far'd as weel!
The breyde, geavin aw roun about her,
Cries, “Wuns! we forgat butter sops!”
The breydegruim fan nae teyme for talkin,
But wi' stannin pye greas'd his chops.
We'd loppar'd milk, skim'd milk, and kurn'd milk,
Well watter, smaw beer, aw at yence;
“Shaff! bring yell in piggens!” rwoars Dalton,
“Deil tek them e'er cares for expence!”
Cries, “Wuns! we forgat butter sops!”
The breydegruim fan nae teyme for talkin,
But wi' stannin pye greas'd his chops.
We'd loppar'd milk, skim'd milk, and kurn'd milk,
Well watter, smaw beer, aw at yence;
“Shaff! bring yell in piggens!” rwoars Dalton,
“Deil tek them e'er cares for expence!”
151
Now aw cut and cleek'd frae their neybors,
'Twas even down thump, pull and haul;
Joe Head gat a geuse aw together,
And off he crap into the faul:
Muckle Nanny cried, “Shem o' sec weastry!”
The ladle she brak owre ILL Bell;
Tom Dalton sat thrang in a corner,
And eat nar the weight of his sel.
'Twas even down thump, pull and haul;
Joe Head gat a geuse aw together,
And off he crap into the faul:
Muckle Nanny cried, “Shem o' sec weastry!”
The ladle she brak owre ILL Bell;
Tom Dalton sat thrang in a corner,
And eat nar the weight of his sel.
A hillibuloo was now started,
'Twas “Rannigal! whee cares for tee?”
“Stop, Tommy! whee's weyfe was i' th' carras!
Tou'd ne'er been a man, but for me!”
“Od dang thee!”—“To jail I cud sen thee,
Peer scraffles!”—“Thy lan grows nae gurse.”
“Ne'er ak! it's my awn, and it's paid for—
But whee was't stuil auld Tim Jwohn' purse?”
'Twas “Rannigal! whee cares for tee?”
“Stop, Tommy! whee's weyfe was i' th' carras!
Tou'd ne'er been a man, but for me!”
“Od dang thee!”—“To jail I cud sen thee,
Peer scraffles!”—“Thy lan grows nae gurse.”
“Ne'er ak! it's my awn, and it's paid for—
But whee was't stuil auld Tim Jwohn' purse?”
Ned Bulman wad feght wi' Gworge Goffet,
Peer Gwordy he nobbet stript thin,
And luik'd leyke a cock out o' fedder,
But suin gat a weel-bleaken'd skin;
Neist, Sanderson fratch'd wid a hay-stack,
And Deavison fught wi' the whins:
Smith Leytle fell out wi' the cobbles,
And peel'd aw the bark of his shins.
Peer Gwordy he nobbet stript thin,
And luik'd leyke a cock out o' fedder,
But suin gat a weel-bleaken'd skin;
Neist, Sanderson fratch'd wid a hay-stack,
And Deavison fught wi' the whins:
Smith Leytle fell out wi' the cobbles,
And peel'd aw the bark of his shins.
152
The hay-bay was now somewhat seyded,
And young fwok the music men miss'd,
They'd drucken leyke fiddlers in common,
And fawn owre ayont an aul kist;
Some mair fwok that neet were a-missin,
Than Wully, and Jonathan Strang—
But decency whispers, “What matter!
Tou munnet put them in the sang!”
And young fwok the music men miss'd,
They'd drucken leyke fiddlers in common,
And fawn owre ayont an aul kist;
Some mair fwok that neet were a-missin,
Than Wully, and Jonathan Strang—
But decency whispers, “What matter!
Tou munnet put them in the sang!”
Auld Dalton thought he was at Carel;
Says he, “Jacob! see what's to pay!
Come, wosler! heaste—get out the horses,
We'll e'en teake the rwoad, and away!”
He cowp'd off his stuil, leyke a san bag,
Tom Ridley beel'd out, “Deil may care!”
For a whart o' het yell, and a stick in't,
Dick Simson 'll tell ye far mair.
Says he, “Jacob! see what's to pay!
Come, wosler! heaste—get out the horses,
We'll e'en teake the rwoad, and away!”
He cowp'd off his stuil, leyke a san bag,
Tom Ridley beel'd out, “Deil may care!”
For a whart o' het yell, and a stick in't,
Dick Simson 'll tell ye far mair.
Come, bumper the Cummerlan lasses,
Their marrows can seldom be seen;
And he that won't feght to defend them,
I wish he may ne'er want black een!
May our murry-neets, clay-daubins, races,
And weddins, ay finish wi' glee;
And when ought's amang us worth nwotish,
Lang may I be present to see!
Their marrows can seldom be seen;
And he that won't feght to defend them,
I wish he may ne'er want black een!
May our murry-neets, clay-daubins, races,
And weddins, ay finish wi' glee;
And when ought's amang us worth nwotish,
Lang may I be present to see!
153
THE ILL-GIEN WEYFE, AN OWRE TRUE PICTURE O' MONIE.
A toilsome leyfe, for thurty years,
I patiently hev spent,
As onie yen o' onie rank,
I this weyde warl e'er kent;
For when at heame, or when away,
Nae peace ther is for me;
I's pestert wid an ill-gien weyfe,
That niver lets me be:
Ay teazin, ne'er ceasin,
Leyke an angry sea;
Nae kurk-bell e'er hed sec a tongue,
And oft it deefens me!
I patiently hev spent,
As onie yen o' onie rank,
I this weyde warl e'er kent;
For when at heame, or when away,
Nae peace ther is for me;
I's pestert wid an ill-gien weyfe,
That niver lets me be:
Ay teazin, ne'er ceasin,
Leyke an angry sea;
Nae kurk-bell e'er hed sec a tongue,
And oft it deefens me!
When furst I saw her mealy feace,
'Twas painted up sae feyne,
I thowt her e'en fit for a queen—
She wan this heart o' meyne;
But sin' that hour, that sworry hour,
We ne'er cud yence agree;
And oft I curse the luckless day
I pawn'd my liberty:
Care an sorrow, then to morrow
Ay the seame mun be;
Oh! had I coffin'd been, that day
I lost my liberty!
'Twas painted up sae feyne,
I thowt her e'en fit for a queen—
She wan this heart o' meyne;
154
We ne'er cud yence agree;
And oft I curse the luckless day
I pawn'd my liberty:
Care an sorrow, then to morrow
Ay the seame mun be;
Oh! had I coffin'd been, that day
I lost my liberty!
When young, I wish'd for weyfe and weeans,
But now the thowt I scworn;
Thank Heav'n, a bairn o' owther sex
To me she ne'er has bworn!
Leyke fuils we wish our youth away,
When happy we mud be—
Aw ye whee're pleagued wi' scauldin weyves,
I wish ye suin set free!
Grin, grinnin!—din, dinnin!
Toil and misery!
Better feed the kurk-yard wurms,
Than leeve sec slaves as we!
But now the thowt I scworn;
Thank Heav'n, a bairn o' owther sex
To me she ne'er has bworn!
Leyke fuils we wish our youth away,
When happy we mud be—
Aw ye whee're pleagued wi' scauldin weyves,
I wish ye suin set free!
Grin, grinnin!—din, dinnin!
Toil and misery!
Better feed the kurk-yard wurms,
Than leeve sec slaves as we!
I's past aw wark, it's hard to want,
An auld and peer am I;
But happiness i' this veyle warl,
Nae gear cud iver buy:
O wer I on some owre sea land,
Nae women nar to see,
At preyde an grander I wad smeyle,
An thanks to Heav'n wad gie:
O woman! foe to man!
A blessin thou sud be;
But wae to him that wears thy chain,
Peer wretch unblest leyke me!
An auld and peer am I;
But happiness i' this veyle warl,
Nae gear cud iver buy:
155
Nae women nar to see,
At preyde an grander I wad smeyle,
An thanks to Heav'n wad gie:
O woman! foe to man!
A blessin thou sud be;
But wae to him that wears thy chain,
Peer wretch unblest leyke me!
When wintry blasts blow loud an keen,
I's fain to slink frae heame;
An rader feace the angry storm,
Than hur I hate to neame:
Wheyle she wi' sland'rous cronies met,
Sit's hatchin monie a lee;
The seet wad flay auld Nick away,
Or vex a saint to see,
Puff, puffin!—snuff, snuffin!
Ne'er frae mischief free;
How waak is lwordly boastin man,
On sec to cast an ee!
I's fain to slink frae heame;
An rader feace the angry storm,
Than hur I hate to neame:
Wheyle she wi' sland'rous cronies met,
Sit's hatchin monie a lee;
The seet wad flay auld Nick away,
Or vex a saint to see,
Puff, puffin!—snuff, snuffin!
Ne'er frae mischief free;
How waak is lwordly boastin man,
On sec to cast an ee!
If to a neybor's house I steal,
To crack a wheyle at neet,
She hurries ti' me leyke a deil,
An flays the fwok to see't;
Whate'er I dui, whate'er I say,
Wi' hur a faut mun be;
I freet an freet baith neet an day,
But seldom clwose an ee:
Wake, wakin!—shak, shakin!
Then she teks the gee;
He's happy that leevs aw his leane,
Compar d wi' chaps leyke me.
To crack a wheyle at neet,
She hurries ti' me leyke a deil,
An flays the fwok to see't;
156
Wi' hur a faut mun be;
I freet an freet baith neet an day,
But seldom clwose an ee:
Wake, wakin!—shak, shakin!
Then she teks the gee;
He's happy that leevs aw his leane,
Compar d wi' chaps leyke me.
To stop the niver-ceasin storm,
I brong her cousin here;
She aw but brak the wee thing's heart,
An cost her monie a tear:
If chance a frien pops in his heed,
Off to the duir she'll flee;
She snarls leyke onie angry cat,
An sair I's vex'd to see!
Now fratchin, neist scratchin,
Oft wi' bleaken'd ee,
I pray auld Nick hed sec a deame,
I trow he vex'd wad be!
I brong her cousin here;
She aw but brak the wee thing's heart,
An cost her monie a tear:
If chance a frien pops in his heed,
Off to the duir she'll flee;
She snarls leyke onie angry cat,
An sair I's vex'd to see!
Now fratchin, neist scratchin,
Oft wi' bleaken'd ee,
I pray auld Nick hed sec a deame,
I trow he vex'd wad be!
How blithe man meets the keenest ills,
I' this shwort voyage o' leyfe,
And thinks nae palace leyke his heame,
Blest wid a keyndly weyfe:
But sure the greatest curse hard fate
To onie man can gie,
Is sec a filthy slut as meyne,
That ne'er yence comforts me;
Lads jeerin, lasses sneerin,
Cuckold some caw me;
I scrat an auld grey achin pow,
But darn't say they lee.
I' this shwort voyage o' leyfe,
And thinks nae palace leyke his heame,
Blest wid a keyndly weyfe:
157
To onie man can gie,
Is sec a filthy slut as meyne,
That ne'er yence comforts me;
Lads jeerin, lasses sneerin,
Cuckold some caw me;
I scrat an auld grey achin pow,
But darn't say they lee.
They're happy that hev teydey weyves,
To keep peer bodies clean;
But meyne's a freetfu' lump o' filth,
Her marra ne'er was seen:
Ilk dud she wears upon her back,
Is poison to the ee;
Her smock's leyke auld Nick's nuttin bag,
The deil a word I lee:
Dour an' durty—house aw clarty!
See her set at tea,
Her feace defies baith seape an san,
To mek't just fit to see!
To keep peer bodies clean;
But meyne's a freetfu' lump o' filth,
Her marra ne'er was seen:
Ilk dud she wears upon her back,
Is poison to the ee;
Her smock's leyke auld Nick's nuttin bag,
The deil a word I lee:
Dour an' durty—house aw clarty!
See her set at tea,
Her feace defies baith seape an san,
To mek't just fit to see!
A beyte o' meat I munnet eat,
Seave what I cuik mysel;
Ae patch or clout she'll nit stick on,
Sae heame's just leyke a hell:
By day or neet, if out o' seet.
Seafe frae this canker'd she,
I pray and pray, wi' aw my heart,
Deeth, suin tek hur or me!
Fleyte, fleytin!—feght, feghtin!
How her luik I dree!
Come tyrant rid me o' this curse,
Dui tek her! I'll thank thee!
Seave what I cuik mysel;
Ae patch or clout she'll nit stick on,
Sae heame's just leyke a hell:
158
Seafe frae this canker'd she,
I pray and pray, wi' aw my heart,
Deeth, suin tek hur or me!
Fleyte, fleytin!—feght, feghtin!
How her luik I dree!
Come tyrant rid me o' this curse,
Dui tek her! I'll thank thee!
159
ROB LOWRIE.
I've seen thirty Summers strow flow'rs i' the glen,
But annuder blithe Summer I'll ne'er see again!
I've hed monie wooers, frae clown to the beau,
But I've lost Rob Lowrie, the flow'r o' them aw!
But annuder blithe Summer I'll ne'er see again!
I've hed monie wooers, frae clown to the beau,
But I've lost Rob Lowrie, the flow'r o' them aw!
The furst was Joe Coupland, when I was fifteen;
The neist was Wull Wawby, and then com Gib Green;
An' Jwohn o' Kurkan'rews, and Sly Dicky Slee,
But bonny Rob Lowrie was dearest to me!
The neist was Wull Wawby, and then com Gib Green;
An' Jwohn o' Kurkan'rews, and Sly Dicky Slee,
But bonny Rob Lowrie was dearest to me!
'Twas last Durdar reaces, he rid the black cowt,
And widout onie whuppin, he bang't tem leyke owt;
And then when they russel'd, the lads how he felt!
And off heame we canter't, wi' breydle and belt.
And widout onie whuppin, he bang't tem leyke owt;
And then when they russel'd, the lads how he felt!
And off heame we canter't, wi' breydle and belt.
At neets when we daunder't alang Cauda seyde,
He'd promise, and promise to mek me his breyde;
An'then our twee neames he wad carve on the steyle—
Lord help the peer lasses men seek to beguile!
He'd promise, and promise to mek me his breyde;
An'then our twee neames he wad carve on the steyle—
Lord help the peer lasses men seek to beguile!
160
I luik owre the pasture—nae Rob's to be seen!
Then sit down, heart-broken, an' tears blin my een:
My mudder she fratches, frae mwornin till neet,
And lasses keep flyrin', wheniver we meet.
Then sit down, heart-broken, an' tears blin my een:
My mudder she fratches, frae mwornin till neet,
And lasses keep flyrin', wheniver we meet.
When singin', Rob Lowrie was ay i' my sang;
Now thoughts o' Rob Lowrie hae turn'd me quite wrang;
He's weel-shep'd, an' lusty, he stans six feet twee;
Theer's health in his fair feace, and luive in his ee!
Now thoughts o' Rob Lowrie hae turn'd me quite wrang;
He's weel-shep'd, an' lusty, he stans six feet twee;
Theer's health in his fair feace, and luive in his ee!
But whee's this comes whuslin', sae sweet, owre the hill?
He brings me a pwosey—It's e'en Gwordie Gill!
He's lish, an' he's canny, wi' reed curly hair—
The Deil tek Rob Lowrie! I'll heed him nae mair!
He brings me a pwosey—It's e'en Gwordie Gill!
He's lish, an' he's canny, wi' reed curly hair—
The Deil tek Rob Lowrie! I'll heed him nae mair!
161
THE LASSES OF CAREL.
The lasses o' Carel are weel shep'd, and bonny,
But he that wad win yen mun brag of his gear;
You may follow, and follow, till heart-sick and weary,
To get them needs siller, and feyne claes to wear:
They'll catch at a reed cwoat, leyke as monie mackrel,
And jump at a fop, or e'en lissen a fuil;
Just brag of an uncle, that's got heaps of money,
And deil a bit ods, if you've ne'er been at schuil!
But he that wad win yen mun brag of his gear;
You may follow, and follow, till heart-sick and weary,
To get them needs siller, and feyne claes to wear:
They'll catch at a reed cwoat, leyke as monie mackrel,
And jump at a fop, or e'en lissen a fuil;
Just brag of an uncle, that's got heaps of money,
And deil a bit ods, if you've ne'er been at schuil!
I yence follow'd Marget, the twoast amang aw maks,
And Peg hed a red cheek, and bonny dark ee;
But suin as she fan I depended on labour,
She snurl'd up her neb, and nae mair luik'd at me:
This meks my words gud, nobbet brag o' yer uncle,
And get a peer hawf-wit to trumpet yer praise,
You may catch whee you will, they'll caress ye, and bless ye—
It's money, nit merit, they seek now-a-days!
And Peg hed a red cheek, and bonny dark ee;
But suin as she fan I depended on labour,
She snurl'd up her neb, and nae mair luik'd at me:
This meks my words gud, nobbet brag o' yer uncle,
And get a peer hawf-wit to trumpet yer praise,
You may catch whee you will, they'll caress ye, and bless ye—
It's money, nit merit, they seek now-a-days!
162
I neist follow'd Nelly, and thowt her an angel,
And she thowt me aw that a mortal sud be;
A rich whupper-snapper just stept in atween us,
Nae words efter that pass'd atween Nell and me:
This meks my words gud, nobbet brag o' yer uncle,
They'll feght, ay leyke mad cats, to win yer sly smeyle;
And watch ye, to catch ye, now gazin' and praisin',
They're angels to luik at, wi' hearts full o' geyle!
And she thowt me aw that a mortal sud be;
A rich whupper-snapper just stept in atween us,
Nae words efter that pass'd atween Nell and me:
This meks my words gud, nobbet brag o' yer uncle,
They'll feght, ay leyke mad cats, to win yer sly smeyle;
And watch ye, to catch ye, now gazin' and praisin',
They're angels to luik at, wi' hearts full o' geyle!
163
THE DAYS THAT ARE GEANE.
Now, weyfe, sin the day-leet hes left us,
And drizzly sleet's 'ginnin to fa',
Let's creep owre the heartsome turf ingle,
And laugh the weyld winter awa';
Contented, thou spins the lang e'enin',
And I wi' my peype envy neane;
Then why shou'd we peyne about riches—
Let's think o' the days that are geane.
And drizzly sleet's 'ginnin to fa',
Let's creep owre the heartsome turf ingle,
And laugh the weyld winter awa';
Contented, thou spins the lang e'enin',
And I wi' my peype envy neane;
Then why shou'd we peyne about riches—
Let's think o' the days that are geane.
This crazy auld chair, when I think on't,
Nae wonder a tear blins my ee;
'Twas e'en my puir fadders, God rest him!
He valued this warl nit a flea:
His maxim was, be guid, and dui guid;
To mortal he wadna gie pain—
My chair's mair than gilded throne to me,
It prop'd the leel fellow that's gane.
Nae wonder a tear blins my ee;
'Twas e'en my puir fadders, God rest him!
He valued this warl nit a flea:
His maxim was, be guid, and dui guid;
To mortal he wadna gie pain—
My chair's mair than gilded throne to me,
It prop'd the leel fellow that's gane.
164
Thy wheel that's gien cleedin' to monie,
O' mortals ay puts me i' meynd;
The spoke now at top, is suin lowest,
And thus it oft fares wi' mankeynd:
The clock, clickin', tells how Teyme passes,
A moment he'll tarry for neane;
Contented we'll welcome to-morrow,
Ay thankfu' for days that are geane.
O' mortals ay puts me i' meynd;
The spoke now at top, is suin lowest,
And thus it oft fares wi' mankeynd:
The clock, clickin', tells how Teyme passes,
A moment he'll tarry for neane;
Contented we'll welcome to-morrow,
Ay thankfu' for days that are geane.
Now fifty shwort years hae flown owre us,
Sin furst we fell in at the fair;
I've monie a teyme thowt, wi' new pleasure,
Nae weyfe cud wi' Jenny compare:
Tho' thy rwose has gien way to the wrinkle,
At changes we munna complain;
They're rich, whea in age are leet-hearted,
And mourn nit for days that are geane.
Sin furst we fell in at the fair;
I've monie a teyme thowt, wi' new pleasure,
Nae weyfe cud wi' Jenny compare:
Tho' thy rwose has gien way to the wrinkle,
At changes we munna complain;
They're rich, whea in age are leet-hearted,
And mourn nit for days that are geane.
Our bairns are heale, hearty, and honest,
And willinly toil thro' the year;
Our duty we ay hae duin ti' them,
And poverty e'en let them bear:
Theer's Jenny hes larnin', and manners,
And Wully can match onie yen;
We tought tem my guid fadder's maxim,
And they'll bliss the auld fwok, when geane.
And willinly toil thro' the year;
Our duty we ay hae duin ti' them,
And poverty e'en let them bear:
Theer's Jenny hes larnin', and manners,
And Wully can match onie yen;
We tought tem my guid fadder's maxim,
And they'll bliss the auld fwok, when geane.
165
Theer's ae thing I lang, lang hae pray'd for,
Sud tyrant Deeth teer thee away,
And rob me o' life's dearest treasure,
May he gie me a caw the seame day!
If fworc'd to resign my auld lassie,
I cuddent lang linger my leane;
I'd creep to thy greave, broken-hearted,
Wi' thowts o' the days that are geane.
Sud tyrant Deeth teer thee away,
And rob me o' life's dearest treasure,
May he gie me a caw the seame day!
If fworc'd to resign my auld lassie,
I cuddent lang linger my leane;
I'd creep to thy greave, broken-hearted,
Wi' thowts o' the days that are geane.
166
CAREL FAIR.
My neame's Jurry Jurden, frae Threlket;
Just swat down, and lissen my sang:
I'll mappen affword some divarsion,
An tell ye how monie things gang.
Just swat down, and lissen my sang:
I'll mappen affword some divarsion,
An tell ye how monie things gang.
Crops o' aw maks are gud; tateys lang as lapstens, an dry as meal. Teymes are sae sae; for the thin-chop'd, hawf-neak'd, trimlin beggars, flock to our house, leyke bees tot' hive: an our Cwoley bit sae monie, I just tuck'd him up i' th' worchet. Mudder boils tem a tnop o' Lunnen Duns, ivery day; an fadder gies temt' barn to lig in. If onie be yebel to work, wey he pays tem reet weel. Fwok sud aw dui, as they'd be duin tui; an it's naturable, to beg, rader nor starve or steal; efter aw the rattle!
Some threep, et the teymes 'll git better;
An laugh to see onie repeyne:
I's nae pollytishin, that's sarten,
But Englan seems in a decleyne!
An laugh to see onie repeyne:
I's nae pollytishin, that's sarten,
But Englan seems in a decleyne!
I ruse afwore three, tudder mwornin,
An went owre to see Carel Fair;
I'd heard monie teales o' thur dandies—
Odswinge! how they mek the fwok stare!
An went owre to see Carel Fair;
167
Odswinge! how they mek the fwok stare!
Thur flay-crows wear lasses stays; an buy my Lword Wellinten's buits; cokert but nit snout-bandet. Mey sarty! sec a laugh I gat, to see a tarrier meakin watter on yen o' ther legs! They're seerly mungrels, hawf monkey breed; shept for awt warl leyke wasps, smaw it' middle. To see them paut pauten about, puts me i' meyn o' our aul gander; an if they meet a canny lass, they darn't turn roun to luik at her. The “Turk's Heed,” an “Tir'd Spwortsman,” are bonny seynes, but a dandy wad be far mair comical; efter aw the rattle!
But, shaf o' sec odd trinkum-trankums!
Thur hawf-witted varmen bang aw:
They'd freeten aul Nick, sud tey meet him—
A dandy's just fit for a show!
Thur hawf-witted varmen bang aw:
They'd freeten aul Nick, sud tey meet him—
A dandy's just fit for a show!
I neist tuik a glowr 'mang the boutchers,
An gleymt at ther lumps o' fat meat;
They've aw maks the gully can dive at—
It meks peer fwok hungry to see't.
An gleymt at ther lumps o' fat meat;
They've aw maks the gully can dive at—
It meks peer fwok hungry to see't.
“What d'ye buy! what d'ye buy?”—“Weya, boutcher, wul te be out et our en o't' country, suin? we've a famish bull, nobbet eleebem year aul; twee braid-backt tips, an a bonny sew.” “Nea bull, tips or sweyne for me!”—“Hes te got onie coves heeds
168
Wheyle peer fwok wer starin about tem,
Up hobbles an aul chap, an begs—
Oh' wad our girt heeds o' the nayshen
Just set the peer fwok on their legs!
Up hobbles an aul chap, an begs—
Oh' wad our girt heeds o' the nayshen
Just set the peer fwok on their legs!
An odd seet I saw, 'twas t'naig market,
Whoar aw wer as busy as bees;
Sec lurryan, an trotten, an scamprin—
Lord help tem!—they're meade up o' lees!
Whoar aw wer as busy as bees;
Sec lurryan, an trotten, an scamprin—
Lord help tem!—they're meade up o' lees!
“Try a canter, Deavie.”—Whoar gat te t' powny, Tim?”—Wey at Stegshe.”—“That's a bluid meer,” says aul Breakshe, “she was gitten by Shrimp, an out o' Madam Wagtail; she wan t' King's plate at Dongkister, tudder year.”—“Wan the deevil!” says yen tull him, “tou means t' breydle at Kingmuir, min!”—“Here's a naig! nobbet just nwotish his een! he can see thro' a nine-inch waw. Fuils tell o' fortifications; what he hes a breest leyke a fiftification. Dud ye iver see yen cock sec a tail, widout a peppercworn?”—“What dus te ax for em, canny man?”—“Wey, he's weel worth twonty pun; but I'll teake hawf.”—“Twonty deevils! I'll gie thee twonty shillin; efter aw the rattle!”
169
What aw trades are bad as horse-cowpers;
They mek the best bargain they can:
Fwok say, it's the seame in aw countries—
Man leykes to draw kelter frae man!
They mek the best bargain they can:
Fwok say, it's the seame in aw countries—
Man leykes to draw kelter frae man!
Neist daunderen down to the Cow Fair,
A famish rough rumpes I saw;
For Rickergeate lwoses her charter,
Sud theer be nae feghtin at aw.
A famish rough rumpes I saw;
For Rickergeate lwoses her charter,
Sud theer be nae feghtin at aw.
Aa! what a hay-bay! it was just leyke the battle o' Watterlew. Men an women, young an aul, ran frev aw quarters. Theer was sec shoutin, thrustin, pushin, an squeezin; what they knock'd down staws; an brak shop windows, aw to flinders. Thur leed-heedet whups dui muckle mischief; a sairy beggar gat a bluidy nwose, an broken teeth, i' the fray. Hill-top Tom, an Low-gill Dick, the twea feghtin rapscallions, wer luggt off by the bealies, to my lword Mayor's offish; an thrussen into the black whol. I whop they'll lig theer: for it's weel nae leyves wer lost; efter aw the rattle!
Shem o' them! thur peer country hanniels,
That slink into Carel to feght!
Deil bin them! when free frae hard labour,
True plishure sud be their deleyte.
That slink into Carel to feght!
Deil bin them! when free frae hard labour,
True plishure sud be their deleyte.
170
Ther was geapin an starin, 'mang aw maks—
“Aa! gies ty fist, Ellik! how's tou?”
“Wey, aw bais'd, an bluitert, an queerish;
We'll tek a drop gud mountain dew.”
“Aa! gies ty fist, Ellik! how's tou?”
“Wey, aw bais'd, an bluitert, an queerish;
We'll tek a drop gud mountain dew.”
“Sees te, Ellik, theer'st puir-luikin chap, et meks aw t' bits o' Cummerlan ballets!”—“The deevil! fye, Jobby, let's off frev him, for fear!”—“Here's yer whillymer; lank an lean, but cheap and clean!” says yen. “Buy a pair o' elegant shun, young gentleman,” cries a dandy snob, “they wer meade for Mr. Justice Grunt. Weages are hee, and ledder's dear; but they're nobbet twelve shillin.” Then a fat chap wid a hammer, selt clocks, cubberts, teables, chairs, pots and pans, for nought at aw. What, I seed fadder talkin to t' lawyer, an gowl'd tull my een wer sair: but nae mischief was duin; efter aw the rattle!
Then peer bits o' hawf-broken farmers
In leggins, were struttin about;
Wer teymes gud, they'd aw become dandies—
We'll ne'er leeve to see that, I doubt!
In leggins, were struttin about;
Wer teymes gud, they'd aw become dandies—
We'll ne'er leeve to see that, I doubt!
Sec screapin, an squeekin, 'mang t' fiddlers;
I crap up the stairs, to be seer;
But suin trottet down by the waiter,
For deil a bit cap'rin was theer.
I crap up the stairs, to be seer;
But suin trottet down by the waiter,
For deil a bit cap'rin was theer.
What lads an lasses are far owre proud to dance, now-a-days. I stowtert ahint yen desst out leyke a
171
Sae we link'd, an we laugh'd, an we chatter'd;
Few husseys, leyke Jenny, ye'll see:
O hed we but taen off to Gratena,
Nin wad been sae happy as we!
Few husseys, leyke Jenny, ye'll see:
O hed we but taen off to Gratena,
Nin wad been sae happy as we!
We went thro' the big kurk, an cassel;
An neist tuik a rammel thro' t' streets:
What, Carel's the pleace for feyne houses,
But monie a peer body yen meets!
An neist tuik a rammel thro' t' streets:
What, Carel's the pleace for feyne houses,
But monie a peer body yen meets!
Aye! yen in tatters, wi'ae ee, shoutet, “Here'st last speech, confession, an deein words o' Martha Mumps: she was hang't, for committin a reape on—” Hut shap! I forgit his neame. Anudder tatterde-mallion says, “Come buy a full chinse Indy muslin; nobbet sixpence hawpenny a yard!” Jenny bowt yen; an it was rotten as muck. Then theer was bits o' things, wi' their neddys, rwoarin upt' lanes, “Bleng-ki-ship cwoals!” An chaps cawin
172
Thro' leyfe, we hev aw maks amang us;
Sad changes ilk body mun share:
To-day we're just puzzen'd wi' plishure;
To-mworn we're bent double wi' care!
Sad changes ilk body mun share:
To-day we're just puzzen'd wi' plishure;
To-mworn we're bent double wi' care!
September 18, 1819.
173
THE WIDOW'S WAIL.
Now clwos'd for ay thy cwoal-black een,
That lang, lang gaz'd on me!—Oh! Wully!
An leyfeless lies that manly form,
I ay was fain to see; my Wully!
Ah! luckless hour, thou struive for heame,
Last neet, 'cross Eden weyde!—Dear Wully!
This mworn a stiffen'd corpse brong in;—
It's warse than deeth to beyde!—Oh! Wully!
That lang, lang gaz'd on me!—Oh! Wully!
An leyfeless lies that manly form,
I ay was fain to see; my Wully!
Ah! luckless hour, thou struive for heame,
Last neet, 'cross Eden weyde!—Dear Wully!
This mworn a stiffen'd corpse brong in;—
It's warse than deeth to beyde!—Oh! Wully!
The owlet hootet sair yestreen,
An threyce the suit it fell!—Oh! Wully!
The teyke com leate, an bark'd aloud;
It seem'd the deein kneel o' Wully:
Deep wer the snows, keen, keen my woes;
The bairns oft cried for thee, their Wully:
I trimlin said, “He'll suin be here”—
They ne'er yence clwos'd an ee—Oh! Wully!
An threyce the suit it fell!—Oh! Wully!
The teyke com leate, an bark'd aloud;
It seem'd the deein kneel o' Wully:
Deep wer the snows, keen, keen my woes;
The bairns oft cried for thee, their Wully:
I trimlin said, “He'll suin be here”—
They ne'er yence clwos'd an ee—Oh! Wully!
174
An when I saw the thick sleet faw,
A bleezin fire I meade for Wully;
An watch'd, an watch'd, as it grew dark,
An I grew mair afraid for Wully:
I thowt I hard the powney's feet,
An ran, the voice to hear o' Wully;
The win blew hollow, but nae sound
My sinkin heart did cheer—Oh! Wully!
A bleezin fire I meade for Wully;
An watch'd, an watch'd, as it grew dark,
An I grew mair afraid for Wully:
I thowt I hard the powney's feet,
An ran, the voice to hear o' Wully;
The win blew hollow, but nae sound
My sinkin heart did cheer—Oh! Wully!
The clock struck yen, the clock struck twee,
The clock struck three, at four, nae Wully;
I hard, wi' joy, the powney's feet,
An thowt my cares were owre for Wully:
The powney neigh'd, but thou was lost;
I sank upon the ground, for Wully;
Suin, where I lay, appear'd thy ghost,
An whisper'd, thou wert drown'd—Oh! Wully!
The clock struck three, at four, nae Wully;
I hard, wi' joy, the powney's feet,
An thowt my cares were owre for Wully:
The powney neigh'd, but thou was lost;
I sank upon the ground, for Wully;
Suin, where I lay, appear'd thy ghost,
An whisper'd, thou wert drown'd—Oh! Wully!
The muin was up, in vain I sowt
The stiffen'd corpse o' theyne, lost Wully!
'Twill suin, suin mingle wi' the dust,
An nar it, sae wull meyne—Oh! Wully!
Gang, dry your tears, my bairns five!
Gang, dry your tears o' sorrow, dearies!
Your fadder's cares are at an en,
An sae may ours, to-morrow, dearies!
The stiffen'd corpse o' theyne, lost Wully!
'Twill suin, suin mingle wi' the dust,
An nar it, sae wull meyne—Oh! Wully!
Gang, dry your tears, my bairns five!
Gang, dry your tears o' sorrow, dearies!
Your fadder's cares are at an en,
An sae may ours, to-morrow, dearies!
175
176
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.
178
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;
179
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!”
180
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!
181
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.
182
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.
183
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:
184
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!
185
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!
186
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;
187
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!
188
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:
189
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:
190
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;
191
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.
192
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:
193
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!
194
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.
195
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.
196
“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!
197
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!
198
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;
201
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:
202
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!
205
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.
209
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.
210
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!
211
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.
212
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;
213
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!
214
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.
215
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!
216
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,
217
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'
218
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.
219
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;
220
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!
221
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.”
224
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!
225
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,
226
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;
227
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!
228
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:
230
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'!
231
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!
234
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 | |