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 |  |
While thus she spoke, his nightly comrade came,
Extensive orders he had got for game,
From a rich man in whom they could confide,
Theander, whom the poachers long had tried.
To those who bought his goods he presents made
Of hares and pheasants, yet he ne'er betrayed
The youths who brought them from the distant wood,
And risked their lives to bear them o'er the flood!
Then to the distant parks with steps of haste,
They cheerful crossed the wide-extended waste.
The moon's resplendent orb was hung on high,
Though hid were half the diamonds of the sky;
While skimming clouds, borne on the wings of air,
Shrouded the heav'ns, excepting here and there
The moonbeams darted through a misty veil,
And fields of light fled swiftly o'er the dale.
Two dogs attended them across the moor,—
A double-barrelled gun each poacher bore:
The hares were feeding on the turnips green,
But Wharf's broad stream rolled rapidly between,—
So deep the ford, it scarcely could be crossed,
They greatly fear'd their journey would be lost.
But soon they found the horse they oft had tried,
Which ne'er refused to cross the torrent wide;
Without a bridle to adorn his head,
The peaceful creature by his mane was led.
A while they on the brink consulting stood,
Then mounted both, and ventured at the flood.
The stream was rolling rapid, deep, and strong,—
Yet in the midst, they hummed the poacher's song,
To kill their fears; for who could help but fear?
Broad was the river, and the whirlpool near.
The aged horse, his oft-tried strength now lost,
And on the rapid stream they both were tossed!
Their homes the poachers ne'er had reached again,
Had not Ignotus grappled fast the mane;
Desparo seized his friend—'twas all he could,
And thus, half drowned, they ferried o'er the flood.
Upon the bank they search the ball and string,
And in the oil-case wrapped, they quickly bring
Across the stream their implements of sport,
And with them to the farmer's house resort.
The frugal, aged dame is filled with fear,
Lest some should say they harboured poachers there.
Her son—a sporting youth, then goes and draws
A jug of ale—regardless of the laws:
Then vows,—nor lord, nor lease, his sport shall stop,
Since hares and pheasants ruin half the crop!
He rouses then the fire, piles on the peat,
And soon the poachers' clothes smoke with the heat.
The aged farmer, grieved, with locks turned grey,
Sighs in his chair, and wishes them away;
Then hobbling on his crutch he ventures out,
To listen if the keepers are about;
While down his furrowed cheeks the tears run fast,
Afraid with him that year will be the last.
His landlord angry,—now no hope appears;
But his good farm, possessed for forty years,
He soon must quit, ere his few days are gone,
Through the bad actions of a wicked son.
With eyes suffused with tears, the poor old man
To reason with his son then thus began:
“O that I could persuade thee to give o'er
“This cruel sport, which makes and keeps us poor!
“Would'st thou but honestly attempt to live,
“My little all to thee I'd freely give:
“But now each field, untilled, neglected lies;
“Thy flail the beasts with fodder scarce supplies.
“While thou art ranging with thy nets and gun,
“Our cattle and our farm to ruin run;
“Among thy comrades all that little spent
“Which should have paid my long arrears of rent.
“Nothing but deepest anguish is my lot;
“I would have lived at this my native spot,
“Where I so many years of labour passed,
“And where I first drew breath, have breathed my last!
“But now, the workhouse”—here his anguish strong,
O'ercame his soul, and sorrow bound his tongue!
Extensive orders he had got for game,
From a rich man in whom they could confide,
Theander, whom the poachers long had tried.
To those who bought his goods he presents made
Of hares and pheasants, yet he ne'er betrayed
The youths who brought them from the distant wood,
And risked their lives to bear them o'er the flood!
Then to the distant parks with steps of haste,
They cheerful crossed the wide-extended waste.
The moon's resplendent orb was hung on high,
Though hid were half the diamonds of the sky;
While skimming clouds, borne on the wings of air,
Shrouded the heav'ns, excepting here and there
97
And fields of light fled swiftly o'er the dale.
Two dogs attended them across the moor,—
A double-barrelled gun each poacher bore:
The hares were feeding on the turnips green,
But Wharf's broad stream rolled rapidly between,—
So deep the ford, it scarcely could be crossed,
They greatly fear'd their journey would be lost.
But soon they found the horse they oft had tried,
Which ne'er refused to cross the torrent wide;
Without a bridle to adorn his head,
The peaceful creature by his mane was led.
A while they on the brink consulting stood,
Then mounted both, and ventured at the flood.
The stream was rolling rapid, deep, and strong,—
Yet in the midst, they hummed the poacher's song,
To kill their fears; for who could help but fear?
Broad was the river, and the whirlpool near.
The aged horse, his oft-tried strength now lost,
And on the rapid stream they both were tossed!
Their homes the poachers ne'er had reached again,
Had not Ignotus grappled fast the mane;
Desparo seized his friend—'twas all he could,
And thus, half drowned, they ferried o'er the flood.
Upon the bank they search the ball and string,
And in the oil-case wrapped, they quickly bring
Across the stream their implements of sport,
And with them to the farmer's house resort.
98
Lest some should say they harboured poachers there.
Her son—a sporting youth, then goes and draws
A jug of ale—regardless of the laws:
Then vows,—nor lord, nor lease, his sport shall stop,
Since hares and pheasants ruin half the crop!
He rouses then the fire, piles on the peat,
And soon the poachers' clothes smoke with the heat.
The aged farmer, grieved, with locks turned grey,
Sighs in his chair, and wishes them away;
Then hobbling on his crutch he ventures out,
To listen if the keepers are about;
While down his furrowed cheeks the tears run fast,
Afraid with him that year will be the last.
His landlord angry,—now no hope appears;
But his good farm, possessed for forty years,
He soon must quit, ere his few days are gone,
Through the bad actions of a wicked son.
With eyes suffused with tears, the poor old man
To reason with his son then thus began:
“O that I could persuade thee to give o'er
“This cruel sport, which makes and keeps us poor!
“Would'st thou but honestly attempt to live,
“My little all to thee I'd freely give:
“But now each field, untilled, neglected lies;
“Thy flail the beasts with fodder scarce supplies.
“While thou art ranging with thy nets and gun,
“Our cattle and our farm to ruin run;
99
“Which should have paid my long arrears of rent.
“Nothing but deepest anguish is my lot;
“I would have lived at this my native spot,
“Where I so many years of labour passed,
“And where I first drew breath, have breathed my last!
“But now, the workhouse”—here his anguish strong,
O'ercame his soul, and sorrow bound his tongue!
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |