The poetical works of James Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

The clock struck twelve—I love the twelves
Of all the hours 'twixt sun and moon;
For then poor lads enjoy themselves,—
We sleep at midnight, rest at noon.

This noon was not a resting time!
At the first stroke we started all,
And, while the tune rang through the chime,
Muster'd, like soldiers, at the hall.

Not much like soldiers in our gait;
Yet never soldier, in his life,
Tried, as he march'd, to look more straight
Than Bill and I,—to drum and fife.

But now I think on't, what with scars,
Lank bony limbs, and spavin'd feet,
Like broken soldiers from the wars
We limp'd, yet strutted through the street.

Then, while our meagre motley crew
Came from all quarters of the town,
Folks to their doors and windows flew;
I thought the world turn'd upside down.

For now, instead of oaths and jeers,
The sauce that I have found elsewhere,
Kind words, and smiles, and hearty cheers,
Met us,—with halfpence here and there.

The mothers held their babies high,
To chuckle at our hobbling train,
But clipt them close while we went by;
—I heard their kisses fall like rain,—

And wiped my cheek, that never felt
The sweetness of a mother's kiss;
For heart and eyes began to melt,
And I was sad, yet pleased, with this.

At Cutlers' Hall we found the crowd,
That shout the gentry to their feast;
They made us way, and bawl'd so loud,
We might have been young lords at least.

We enter'd, twenty lads and more,
While gentlemen, and ladies too,
All bade us welcome at the door,
And kindly ask'd us, “How d'ye do?”

“Bravely,” I answer'd, but my eye
Prickled, and leak'd, and twinkled still;
I long'd to be alone, to cry,
—To be alone, and cry my fill.

Our other lads were blithe and bold,
And nestling, nodding as they sat,
Till dinner came, their tales they told,
And talk'd of this, and laugh'd at that.

I pluck'd up courage, gaped, and gazed
On the fine room, fine folks, fine things,
Chairs, tables, knives, and forks, amazed,
With pots and platters fit for kings.

Roast-beef, plum-pudding, and what not,
Soon smoked before us,—such a size,
Giants their dinners might have got;
We open'd all our mouths and eyes.

Anon, upon the board, a stroke
Warn'd each to stand up in his place;
One of our generous friends then spoke
Three or four words—they call'd it Grace.

I think he said—“God bless our food!”
—Oft had I heard that name, in tones
Which ran like ice, cold through my blood,
And made the flesh creep on my bones:

But now, and with a power so sweet,
The name of God went through my heart,
That my lips trembled to repeat
Those words, and tears were fain to start.

Tears, words, were in a twinkle gone,
Like sparrows whirring through the street,
When, at a sign, we all fell on,
As geese in stubble, to our meat.

The large plum-puddings first were carved,
And well we younkers plied them o'er;
You would have thought we had been starved,
Or were to be,—a month and more.

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Next the roast beef flew reeking round
In glorious slices, mark ye that!
The dishes were with gravy drown'd;
A sight to make a weazel fat.

A great meat-pie, a good meat-pie,
Baked in a cradle-length of tin,
Was open'd, emptied, scoop'd so dry,
You might have seen your face within.

The ladies and the gentlemen
Took here and there with us a seat;
They might be hungry, too,—but then
We gave them little time to eat.

Their arms were busy helping us,
Like cobblers' elbows at their work,
Or see-saw, see-saw, thus and thus;
A merry game at knife and fork.

O, then the din, the deafening din,
Of plates, cans, crockery, spoons, and knives,
And waiters running out and in;
We might be eating for our lives.

Such feasting I had never seen
So presently had got enough;
The rest, like fox-hounds, staunch and keen,
Were made of more devouring stuff.

They cramm'd like cormorants their craws,
As though they never would have done;
It was a feast to watch their jaws
Grind, and grow weary, one by one.

But there's an end to every thing;
And this grand dinner pass'd away:—
I wonder if great George our king
Has such a dinner every day?—

Grace after meat again was said,
And my good feelings sprang anew;
But at the sight of gingerbread,
Wine, nuts, and oranges, they flew.

So while we took a turn with these,
Almost forgetting we had dined;
As though we might do what we please,
We loll'd, and joked, and told our mind.

Now I had time, if not before,
To take a peep at every lad;
I counted them to twenty-four,
Each in his Easter-finery clad:

All wash'd and clean as clean could be,—
And yet so dingy, marr'd, and grim,
A mole with half an eye might see
Our craft in every look and limb.

All shapes but straight ones you might find,
As sapling-firs on the high moors,
Black, stunted, crook'd, through which the wind,
Like a wild bull, all winter roars.

Two toddling five-year olds were there,
Twins, that had just begun to climb,
With cherry-cheeks, and curly hair,
And skins not yet engrain'd with grime.

I wish'd, I did, that they might die,
Like “Babes i' th' Wood,” the little slaves,
And “Robin-redbreast” painfully
Hide them “with leaves,” for want of graves;

Rather than live like me, and weep
To think that ever they were born;
Toil the long day, and from short sleep
Wake to fresh miseries every morn.

Gay as young goldfinches in spring,
They chirp'd and peck'd, top-full of joy,
As if it was some mighty thing
To be a chimney-sweeper's boy.

And so it is, on such a day,
As welcome Easter brings us here,
—In London, too, the first of May,—
But O, what is it all the year!

Close at a Quaker-lady's side,
Sate a young girl;—I know not how
I felt when me askance she eyed,
And a quick blush flew o'er her brow.

For then, just then, I caught a face
Fair,—but I oft had seen it black,
And mark'd the owner's tottering pace
Beneath a vile two-bushel sack.

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O! had I known it was a lass,
Could I have scorn'd her with her load?—
Next time we meet, she shall not pass
Without a lift along the road.

Her mother—mother but in name!—
Brought her to-day to dine with us:
Her father,—she's his 'prentice:—shame
On both, to use their daughter thus!

Well, I shall grow, and she will grow
Older,—it may be taller,—yet;
And if she'll smile on me, I know
Poor Poll shall be poor Reuben's pet.

Time, on his two unequal legs,
Kept crawling round the church-clock's face;
Though none could see him shift his pegs,
Each was for ever changing place.

O, why are pleasant hours so short?
And why are wretched ones so long?
They fly like swallows while we sport,
They stand like mules when all goes wrong.

Before we parted, one kind friend,
And then another, talk'd so free;
They went from table-end to end,
And spoke to each, and spoke to me.

Books, pretty books, with pictures in,
Were given to those who learn to read,
Which show'd them how to flee from sin,
And to be happy boys indeed.

These climbers go to Sunday schools,
And hear what things to do or shun,
Get good advice, and golden rules
For all their lives,—but I'm not one.

Nathless I'll go next Sabbath day
Where masters, without thrashing, teach
Lost children how to read, and pray,
And sing, and hear the parsons preach.

For I'm this day determined—not
With bad companions to grow old,
But, weal or woe, whate'er my lot,
To mind what our good friends have told.

They told us things I never knew
Of Him who heaven and earth did make;
And my heart felt their words were true,
It burn'd within me while they spake.

Can I forget that God is love,
And sent his Son to dwell on earth?
Or, that our Saviour from above
Lay in a manger at his birth,—

Grew up in humble poverty,
A life of grief and sorrow led?
No home to comfort Him had He;
No, not a place to lay his head.

Yet He was merciful and kind,
Heal'd with a touch all sort of harms;
The sick, the lame, the deaf, the blind;
And took young children in his arms.

Then He was kill'd by wicked men,
And buried in a deep stone cave;
But of Himself He rose again,
On Easter-Sunday, from the grave.

Caught up in clouds,—at God's right hand
In heaven He took the highest place;
There, dying Stephen saw Him stand,—
Stephen, who had an angel's face.

He loves the poor, He always did;
The little ones are still his care;
I'll seek Him,—let who will forbid,—
I'll go to Him this night in prayer.

O, soundly, soundly should I sleep,
And think no more of sufferings past,
If God would only bless, and keep,
And make me His,—His own, at last!

Sheffield, March, 1834.