The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
 |
|
|
|
 |
LINES ON “LONG TOM,”
BRAMHAM PARK. |
|
 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
287
LINES ON “LONG TOM,” BRAMHAM PARK.
O great Long Tom! when thou with foam art crown'd,
Thou stretchest care and anguish on the ground;
Despair thou buriest deep within the grave;—
Thy contents sure would make the coward brave.
When gloomy Winter, with his roaring floods,
Sends his fierce tempests through the leafless woods;
When sleet falls cold and when the night is dark,
Fill me Long Tom with ale from Bramham Park.
Across the moors I then could cheerful go,
Though the cold sleet should change to whirling snow;
In sharpest frost I yet should take no harm—
In spite of all, Tom's soul would keep me warm.
When verdant Spring first dons her virgin shift,
And ploughmen hear the skylark in the lift,
Send them Long Tom, and they will sing so loud,
The larks will stop to listen in the cloud.
If from its verge could sip the mellow thrush,
How strong his notes upon the topmost bush!
Could nature's songsters drink, Long Tom, from thee,
They'd cheer the groves with louder harmony.
When Summer comes with all her scorching fires,
And on his way the thirsty trav'ller tires,
Though sweat fall from his locks like drops of rain,
Thy soul would cheer him till he walk'd again.
In Autumn, when the sportsman hastes away
With dogs and gun to spend a cheerful day,
He would, when weary, better hit his mark,
Had he thy contents brought from Bramham Park.
In Winter thou art good to kill the frost;
Through circling years thy merit ne'er is lost.
If war should ever rage, or Britons fight
For their lov'd monarch or their country's right,
Their ancient British courage would not fail,
Were they but filled with horns of Fox's ale:
Then would their bosoms need no more t' inspire
Their souls to fight with true heroic fire;
Rapid as whirlwinds they would sweep along,
Vanquish their foes, however fierce and strong.
May British tars for ever have such ale,
While e'er a breeze can bend each noble sail;
Then will the cannons roar till every wave
Curls back and owns itself Britannia's slave:
May no disloyal, no dishonest hand,
Touch thee, O Tom! while here thou hold'st thy stand.
But shouldst thou ever any soul inspire,
Just cheer'd, not drunk, but warm'd with honest fire,
With grateful bosom may he walk along,
And never be too drunk to sing a song!
Thou stretchest care and anguish on the ground;
Despair thou buriest deep within the grave;—
Thy contents sure would make the coward brave.
When gloomy Winter, with his roaring floods,
Sends his fierce tempests through the leafless woods;
When sleet falls cold and when the night is dark,
Fill me Long Tom with ale from Bramham Park.
Across the moors I then could cheerful go,
Though the cold sleet should change to whirling snow;
In sharpest frost I yet should take no harm—
In spite of all, Tom's soul would keep me warm.
When verdant Spring first dons her virgin shift,
And ploughmen hear the skylark in the lift,
Send them Long Tom, and they will sing so loud,
The larks will stop to listen in the cloud.
If from its verge could sip the mellow thrush,
How strong his notes upon the topmost bush!
Could nature's songsters drink, Long Tom, from thee,
They'd cheer the groves with louder harmony.
When Summer comes with all her scorching fires,
And on his way the thirsty trav'ller tires,
288
Thy soul would cheer him till he walk'd again.
In Autumn, when the sportsman hastes away
With dogs and gun to spend a cheerful day,
He would, when weary, better hit his mark,
Had he thy contents brought from Bramham Park.
In Winter thou art good to kill the frost;
Through circling years thy merit ne'er is lost.
If war should ever rage, or Britons fight
For their lov'd monarch or their country's right,
Their ancient British courage would not fail,
Were they but filled with horns of Fox's ale:
Then would their bosoms need no more t' inspire
Their souls to fight with true heroic fire;
Rapid as whirlwinds they would sweep along,
Vanquish their foes, however fierce and strong.
May British tars for ever have such ale,
While e'er a breeze can bend each noble sail;
Then will the cannons roar till every wave
Curls back and owns itself Britannia's slave:
May no disloyal, no dishonest hand,
Touch thee, O Tom! while here thou hold'st thy stand.
But shouldst thou ever any soul inspire,
Just cheer'd, not drunk, but warm'd with honest fire,
With grateful bosom may he walk along,
And never be too drunk to sing a song!
289
How I could write, wert thou but hither borne,
Full as I saw thee on the opening morn,
When slow thy contents lessen'd every draught,
And those who knew thy power stood by and laugh'd!
Then Freedom brought the tear to either eye,
And fill'd the humble bard with ecstasy.
For generations, firm as Eldwick rocks,
Be thou the far-fam'd mighty horn of Fox!
Full as I saw thee on the opening morn,
When slow thy contents lessen'd every draught,
And those who knew thy power stood by and laugh'd!
Then Freedom brought the tear to either eye,
And fill'd the humble bard with ecstasy.
For generations, firm as Eldwick rocks,
Be thou the far-fam'd mighty horn of Fox!
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |