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 |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
The heralds soon arrived at Barden tower,
And told the downfall of proud Scotland's power;
The virgins dance, the aged butler sings,
And Wharf's fine vale with shouts of triumph rings.
All Craven knows, as swift as sounds can fly—
Shout answers shout, that there's a victory!
Methinks I see the ploughman leave his plough,
The loyal farmer lay aside his hoe;
The churn is stopped, while listening stands the maid—
The aged ditcher rests upon his spade;
While jocund youths, rejoicing, leave their play,
Shout o'er the fields—to Barden haste away;
The frugal dame, who spins, some wealth to save,
Looks to the towers, and sees the banners wave.
Then on the hill which overhangs the vale,
First glitters Clifford's bright and shining mail;
While on each head the plumes of Craven dance,
A thousand flashes varying from each lance.
The victors' shout is answered in the woods,
And echo bears the triumph down the floods;
Sweetly the mellow bells of Bolton rung,
Woods, hills, and dales, in joyful concert sung.
Panting, the nymphs and swains the hill ascend,
To meet a lover, brother, or a friend,
And many an armed head is turned aside
In loving glance to his intended bride.
Among the number, beautiful and fair,
Was Ann of Kildwick, on the banks of Aire;
The ring was bought, she bore it in her breast,
And went to see her youth among the rest.
The Skipton troop rode past—he was not there,
The hardy sons of Wharfdale next appear;
She views each helmet, and is sore afraid,
But can't discern her lover's fine cockade,
Formed of the ribands which once decked her head,
But stained at Flodden, where her warrior bled.
She asked his fate, while heaved her snowy breast—
Her lover's comrade thus the maid addressed:
“Anna, the worst prepare thyself to hear,
Nor ever hope to see thy Henry near.
We left him bleeding, and too near his heart
Were the dark feathers of a Scottish dart;
Hopeless, I watched him till he closed his eyes,
Sunk, scarcely breathing, never more to rise.
Thus was he left upon the Northern hill,
His features pale—his pulse, his heart, were still.”
Poets may sing of woe, and painters try
To place the tear of sorrow on the eye;
Poets and orators, and painters too,
Would fail, though greatest—hers was Nature's woe;
Such as we feel when all on earth is done,
Our hopes all blasted, and all pleasures gone.
Poor Anna! yet methinks I see her stand,
The ring he bought her shining in her hand,
And his last letter blotted o'er with tears,
While on her cheeks the hectic flush appears:
But 'twas not long the virgin had to mourn,
Her soul soon met him over death's cold bourne;
Soon did she fade, and never smiled again,
But sung these verses over Henry slain:
Thus did she mourn and wander in the vale,
Till echo learnt her melancholy tale;
But few her days that mournfully she sung,
Her garland soon was in the Abbey hung.
And told the downfall of proud Scotland's power;
The virgins dance, the aged butler sings,
And Wharf's fine vale with shouts of triumph rings.
All Craven knows, as swift as sounds can fly—
Shout answers shout, that there's a victory!
Methinks I see the ploughman leave his plough,
The loyal farmer lay aside his hoe;
50
The aged ditcher rests upon his spade;
While jocund youths, rejoicing, leave their play,
Shout o'er the fields—to Barden haste away;
The frugal dame, who spins, some wealth to save,
Looks to the towers, and sees the banners wave.
Then on the hill which overhangs the vale,
First glitters Clifford's bright and shining mail;
While on each head the plumes of Craven dance,
A thousand flashes varying from each lance.
The victors' shout is answered in the woods,
And echo bears the triumph down the floods;
Sweetly the mellow bells of Bolton rung,
Woods, hills, and dales, in joyful concert sung.
Panting, the nymphs and swains the hill ascend,
To meet a lover, brother, or a friend,
And many an armed head is turned aside
In loving glance to his intended bride.
Among the number, beautiful and fair,
Was Ann of Kildwick, on the banks of Aire;
The ring was bought, she bore it in her breast,
And went to see her youth among the rest.
The Skipton troop rode past—he was not there,
The hardy sons of Wharfdale next appear;
She views each helmet, and is sore afraid,
But can't discern her lover's fine cockade,
Formed of the ribands which once decked her head,
But stained at Flodden, where her warrior bled.
51
Her lover's comrade thus the maid addressed:
“Anna, the worst prepare thyself to hear,
Nor ever hope to see thy Henry near.
We left him bleeding, and too near his heart
Were the dark feathers of a Scottish dart;
Hopeless, I watched him till he closed his eyes,
Sunk, scarcely breathing, never more to rise.
Thus was he left upon the Northern hill,
His features pale—his pulse, his heart, were still.”
Poets may sing of woe, and painters try
To place the tear of sorrow on the eye;
Poets and orators, and painters too,
Would fail, though greatest—hers was Nature's woe;
Such as we feel when all on earth is done,
Our hopes all blasted, and all pleasures gone.
Poor Anna! yet methinks I see her stand,
The ring he bought her shining in her hand,
And his last letter blotted o'er with tears,
While on her cheeks the hectic flush appears:
But 'twas not long the virgin had to mourn,
Her soul soon met him over death's cold bourne;
Soon did she fade, and never smiled again,
But sung these verses over Henry slain:
Thou purple heather, on the rocky fells,
Wither and droop, and hang thy head like me!
Bloom not, ye cowslips, with your honeyed bells,
But fade and weep o'er Anna's misery!
Wither and droop, and hang thy head like me!
52
But fade and weep o'er Anna's misery!
Ye opening daisies, every eyelid close!
Ye skylarks, chaunt, but in the minor key!
Ye thrushes, mourn, as if ye felt my woes—
Sing, all ye birds, of Anna's misery!
Ye skylarks, chaunt, but in the minor key!
Ye thrushes, mourn, as if ye felt my woes—
Sing, all ye birds, of Anna's misery!
Thou thorn, where last we met, no blossoms bear!
Thou garden, if fine flowers should bloom in thee,
May pinks and roses bend with many a tear,
And lilies weep o'er Anna's misery!
Thou garden, if fine flowers should bloom in thee,
May pinks and roses bend with many a tear,
And lilies weep o'er Anna's misery!
This earth has nothing now this heart to cheer—
No bliss with him but in eternity,
When Henry comes, my mourning soul to cheer,
And take me with him from this misery.
No bliss with him but in eternity,
When Henry comes, my mourning soul to cheer,
And take me with him from this misery.
O Henry! if thou canst on Anna wait,
Or canst petition Heaven to set me free,
Let my tired spirit soon regain its mate,
And bid farewell to earth and misery.
Or canst petition Heaven to set me free,
Let my tired spirit soon regain its mate,
And bid farewell to earth and misery.
Oh, cruel warrior of the furious North!
What had my youthful Henry done to thee,
That thou shouldst send the fatal arrow forth,
When on its point was Anna's misery?
What had my youthful Henry done to thee,
That thou shouldst send the fatal arrow forth,
When on its point was Anna's misery?
53
Could I but tell where cold in earth he lies;
My youth, who helped to gain the victory!
There would I weep till death had closed these eyes,
And this sad heart forgot its misery.
My youth, who helped to gain the victory!
There would I weep till death had closed these eyes,
And this sad heart forgot its misery.
Time, spread thy wings!—I know not where he lies;
Haste with my spirit to the bridal day!
Come, lovely death, and close these weeping eyes!
Come, Henry, bear thy Anna's soul away!
Haste with my spirit to the bridal day!
Come, lovely death, and close these weeping eyes!
Come, Henry, bear thy Anna's soul away!
Till echo learnt her melancholy tale;
But few her days that mournfully she sung,
Her garland soon was in the Abbey hung.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |