 | The Airedale poet's walk through Knaresbrough |  |
5
WALK THROUGH KNARESBROUGH.
The muse was friendship that inspired my tongue,
These varied beauties to attempt in song;
Friendship the coyest muse and yet the best,
To give soft raptures to the Poet's breast:
How seldom found, but in the hearts of those
Who've felt themselves, and feel another's woes;
Whose sympathetic souls can enter deep,
Into each cause that makes true genius weep:
We know that Rocks, and Rivers, Woods and Hills,
Rich shaded walks, cascades and silv'ry rills,
Have oft been sung by all the sacred nine,
That friendship only can make room for mine.
These varied beauties to attempt in song;
Friendship the coyest muse and yet the best,
To give soft raptures to the Poet's breast:
How seldom found, but in the hearts of those
Who've felt themselves, and feel another's woes;
Whose sympathetic souls can enter deep,
Into each cause that makes true genius weep:
We know that Rocks, and Rivers, Woods and Hills,
Rich shaded walks, cascades and silv'ry rills,
Have oft been sung by all the sacred nine,
That friendship only can make room for mine.
Burgh of the ancient warriors be my theme,
Rocks, ruins, woods, and Nidd's delightful stream;
Shew me the place where veneration dwells,
'Tis in these shades, or in those lovely dells;
Where on the banks a thousand varied views,
Seem striving which can most awake the muse:
Here mutilated towers of times gone by,
Seen from the vale might seem to touch the sky;
As hung in air each high embattl'd wall,
Braves the rude blast for years and will not fall.
If varied scenes could every pleasure give,
Whilst here on earth opprest with cares we live;
Here in the windings of so rich a stream,
E'en fell despair must vanish as a dream,
And contemplation lend her airy wings,
To lift the mind o'er every grief that stings.
Had the harmonious Pope beheld this scene,
How soft, how dulcet, every line had been,
From the High-Bridge to the fam'd tinkling well,
With peace the coldest bosom here would swell:
The mellowed softness which a painter sees,
In varied shades are blended with the trees;
Where lovely Nidd a mirror seems at rest,
And Wood, and Ruins tremble on its breast.
The mind reflective views the
Rocky Hill,
Long 'ere the towers were form'd by human skill;
When its bold front with nobl'st Oaks were hung,
In times far distant as when Homer sung.
Then sees it crown'd with towers, thro' pride or fear,
And thousands of the Danish warriors there;
Striving to enter, while the Briton's brave,
Their insults paid with arrows and a grave.
Rocks, ruins, woods, and Nidd's delightful stream;
6
'Tis in these shades, or in those lovely dells;
Where on the banks a thousand varied views,
Seem striving which can most awake the muse:
Here mutilated towers of times gone by,
Seen from the vale might seem to touch the sky;
As hung in air each high embattl'd wall,
Braves the rude blast for years and will not fall.
If varied scenes could every pleasure give,
Whilst here on earth opprest with cares we live;
Here in the windings of so rich a stream,
E'en fell despair must vanish as a dream,
And contemplation lend her airy wings,
To lift the mind o'er every grief that stings.
Had the harmonious Pope beheld this scene,
How soft, how dulcet, every line had been,
From the High-Bridge to the fam'd tinkling well,
With peace the coldest bosom here would swell:
The mellowed softness which a painter sees,
In varied shades are blended with the trees;
Where lovely Nidd a mirror seems at rest,
And Wood, and Ruins tremble on its breast.
7
Long 'ere the towers were form'd by human skill;
When its bold front with nobl'st Oaks were hung,
In times far distant as when Homer sung.
Then sees it crown'd with towers, thro' pride or fear,
And thousands of the Danish warriors there;
Striving to enter, while the Briton's brave,
Their insults paid with arrows and a grave.
If Fairies and tradition can be true,
Here would they dance beneath some favourite yew,
The hairs of virgins were their tuneful strings,
Their robes the butterfly's fine painted wings;
Their helms the acorn's shell, the beetle's scale,
Made their great King a mighty coat of mail.
The Nidd their sea, the Dropping-Well the port,
Where oft they landed to their evening's sport;
Scorning old Mother Shipton's magic spell,
This song they sung beneath the famous well.—
Here would they dance beneath some favourite yew,
The hairs of virgins were their tuneful strings,
Their robes the butterfly's fine painted wings;
Their helms the acorn's shell, the beetle's scale,
Made their great King a mighty coat of mail.
The Nidd their sea, the Dropping-Well the port,
Where oft they landed to their evening's sport;
Scorning old Mother Shipton's magic spell,
This song they sung beneath the famous well.—
8
FAIRY SONG.
Let us trip in airy dances,
While the weary mortals sleep;
See the waning orb advances,
Lighting those that vigils keep.
While the weary mortals sleep;
See the waning orb advances,
Lighting those that vigils keep.
In the nectar drown all trouble,
Sweetened by the honied Bee;
Make a punch bowl of a bubble,
Underneath our favourite tree.
Sweetened by the honied Bee;
Make a punch bowl of a bubble,
Underneath our favourite tree.
We have not the cares of mortals,
Nature's self our tailor is;
Sorrow enters not our portals
All a Fairy's nights are bliss.
Nature's self our tailor is;
Sorrow enters not our portals
All a Fairy's nights are bliss.
Wings of insects on the River,
We can borrow when we please;
Then we fly away for ever,
To the shades of joy and peace.
We can borrow when we please;
Then we fly away for ever,
To the shades of joy and peace.
9
Stop the dance a beetle's coming,
We must take his sable wing;
Stop his flight and mournful humming,
He must arm the Fairy King.
We must take his sable wing;
Stop his flight and mournful humming,
He must arm the Fairy King.
Beetles hold an humble station,
Sounding Bass through all the night;
Let the King of our great nation,
Seize their armour as his right.
Sounding Bass through all the night;
Let the King of our great nation,
Seize their armour as his right.
Do not Kings by men created,
O'er the seas do just the same;
Rob the weak till they are sated,
And their greatness conquers shame.
O'er the seas do just the same;
Rob the weak till they are sated,
And their greatness conquers shame.
Some fine Peacock's lovely feather,
Brightest that was ever seen;
With its hedge adorn'd with heather,
Forms the carpet of our Queen.
Brightest that was ever seen;
With its hedge adorn'd with heather,
Forms the carpet of our Queen.
10
Now a moment's mirth and dancing,
We of songs have got no more;
When the Moon's so high advancing,
Shows the Fairy dance is o'er.
We of songs have got no more;
When the Moon's so high advancing,
Shows the Fairy dance is o'er.
This was at midnight's solemn awful hour,
When the arm'd watchmen walk'd around each tower;
While every step they tread upon the ground,
You hear on high their heavy armour sound:
But soon another sound your listenings greet,
You hear the trampling of the horses feet;
And now and then a trumpet in the rear,
Mellowed in distance, tells of warriors near.
When the arm'd watchmen walk'd around each tower;
While every step they tread upon the ground,
You hear on high their heavy armour sound:
But soon another sound your listenings greet,
You hear the trampling of the horses feet;
And now and then a trumpet in the rear,
Mellowed in distance, tells of warriors near.
In Knaresbrough's halls could we have seen the sight,
How leapt from beds of down each warrior Knight;
While round their knees the beauteous Ladies weep,
As down they take their armour from the keep.
Ye mutilated walls of years gone by,
Cloth'd with the mantle of antiquity;
You cannot say who mounted first your towers,
Nor who defied proud Scotia's hostile powers:
When your strong portals by the engines stroke,
Leap'd from their hinges, and by foes were broke:
When the brown stream was swol'n by western rain,
And danc'd, and foam'd, with corses of the slain.
How leapt from beds of down each warrior Knight;
While round their knees the beauteous Ladies weep,
As down they take their armour from the keep.
Ye mutilated walls of years gone by,
Cloth'd with the mantle of antiquity;
You cannot say who mounted first your towers,
Nor who defied proud Scotia's hostile powers:
11
Leap'd from their hinges, and by foes were broke:
When the brown stream was swol'n by western rain,
And danc'd, and foam'd, with corses of the slain.
Burgh of the ancient's venerable hill,
Towers of the brave, and Lords of martial skill;
Mount of the Warriors—Mansion of the bold,
Strength of the town, the strong unconquer'd hold:
Saxons, and Scots, and Danes, against thee stood,
And left their glory where they lost their blood.
In thee have Lords and lovely Ladies danc'd,
Within thy Courts have martial chargers pranc'd;
Within thy ditches lay a thousand slain,
And mark'd the ground as tho' their blood were rain.
Fortress of Rocks, the prison of a King,
How my Soul labours all thy fame to sing,
In annals that are lost thy fame would shine,
For strength and ancient glory, both are thine;
From Saxon times through centuries which are past,
And those which yet shall come thy name shall last.
Towers of the brave, and Lords of martial skill;
Mount of the Warriors—Mansion of the bold,
Strength of the town, the strong unconquer'd hold:
Saxons, and Scots, and Danes, against thee stood,
And left their glory where they lost their blood.
In thee have Lords and lovely Ladies danc'd,
Within thy Courts have martial chargers pranc'd;
Within thy ditches lay a thousand slain,
And mark'd the ground as tho' their blood were rain.
Fortress of Rocks, the prison of a King,
How my Soul labours all thy fame to sing,
In annals that are lost thy fame would shine,
For strength and ancient glory, both are thine;
From Saxon times through centuries which are past,
And those which yet shall come thy name shall last.
12
Thou Chapel of the Saint, this yellow green,
Which gives a mellow richness to the scene;
Shows what long periods are now past and gone,
Since fam'd St. Robert chisel'd first the stone;
Though not extensive as old Fountain's pile,
Though there be neither chancel, tower, nor Isle,
There is an Altar kept with pious care,
Though small the cell—there's room enough for prayer;
There Robert worship'd by his God inspir'd,
His vespers ended, to his cave retir'd;
Took nature's gifts for which he prais'd his God,
Can moderns teach to Heaven a better road?
Which gives a mellow richness to the scene;
Shows what long periods are now past and gone,
Since fam'd St. Robert chisel'd first the stone;
Though not extensive as old Fountain's pile,
Though there be neither chancel, tower, nor Isle,
There is an Altar kept with pious care,
Though small the cell—there's room enough for prayer;
There Robert worship'd by his God inspir'd,
His vespers ended, to his cave retir'd;
Took nature's gifts for which he prais'd his God,
Can moderns teach to Heaven a better road?
How chang'd his Chapel since the warrior's spear,
Went to demand the sacred relics there;
When the Knight Templar carv'd upon the stone,
Show'd they must let that sacred dust alone,
For in his native groves he lov'd to stay,
'Till he was mixed with his kindred clay.
In converse soft and bland the scene we view'd,
Where once the holy edifice had stood;
There peaceful once the ancient Prior's blest,
The Red-cross hanging on each Brother's breast.
The poor, the needy, who went there to pray,
Were not in those days empty sent away;
It was their glory every day to share,
Amongst the poor the gifts they had to spare,
And for their bounty have the poor man's prayer.
Went to demand the sacred relics there;
When the Knight Templar carv'd upon the stone,
Show'd they must let that sacred dust alone,
For in his native groves he lov'd to stay,
'Till he was mixed with his kindred clay.
In converse soft and bland the scene we view'd,
Where once the holy edifice had stood;
13
The Red-cross hanging on each Brother's breast.
The poor, the needy, who went there to pray,
Were not in those days empty sent away;
It was their glory every day to share,
Amongst the poor the gifts they had to spare,
And for their bounty have the poor man's prayer.
In this sweet lovely spot how chang'd the scene,
The place where once the sacred shrine had been;
Perhaps with nettles now is shaded o'er,
And how 'twas form'd can now be known no more:
In modern walls you see some fragments plac'd,
Which once perhaps the eastern window grac'd.
Here holy contemplation yearns to see,
The pristine glory of the Priory;
The places of the dead, and see the light,
Of vesper tapers, on a solemn night;
And hear the chaunting of the Priest's again,
In solemn, slow, and fine majestic strain:
But all are past away and like a shade,
The strongest works of human greatness fade.
The place where once the sacred shrine had been;
Perhaps with nettles now is shaded o'er,
And how 'twas form'd can now be known no more:
In modern walls you see some fragments plac'd,
Which once perhaps the eastern window grac'd.
Here holy contemplation yearns to see,
The pristine glory of the Priory;
The places of the dead, and see the light,
Of vesper tapers, on a solemn night;
And hear the chaunting of the Priest's again,
In solemn, slow, and fine majestic strain:
But all are past away and like a shade,
The strongest works of human greatness fade.
14
But where the modern beauteous
mansion stands,
If there's a spot of peace in British lands,
There must it be, and surely it is given,
To feel therein the antepast of heaven;
And at the evening hour beneath the hill,
To walk alone when all the winds are still,
Shaded with trees when not a leaf is mov'd,
Surely a place like this the muses lov'd:
“Communing with one's heart”—in such a scene,
Of what we may be and thro' life have been;
Must strike with awe and e'en extort a prayer,
For none can worship who can't worship here.
Let not your censures modern Christian's flow,
For here was prayer seven centuries ago;
And may again from these fine shades arise,
“To Heaven's high court a grateful sacrifice.”
Here with a friend to tell of griefs and cares,
The joys and sorrows of the by past years;
Hopes of the future, empty human pride,
Or Wives and Children to our bosom ty'd:
The hours glide on, in useful converse sweet,
When souls congenial near these ruins meet.
If there's a spot of peace in British lands,
There must it be, and surely it is given,
To feel therein the antepast of heaven;
And at the evening hour beneath the hill,
To walk alone when all the winds are still,
Shaded with trees when not a leaf is mov'd,
Surely a place like this the muses lov'd:
“Communing with one's heart”—in such a scene,
Of what we may be and thro' life have been;
Must strike with awe and e'en extort a prayer,
For none can worship who can't worship here.
Let not your censures modern Christian's flow,
For here was prayer seven centuries ago;
And may again from these fine shades arise,
“To Heaven's high court a grateful sacrifice.”
Here with a friend to tell of griefs and cares,
The joys and sorrows of the by past years;
Hopes of the future, empty human pride,
Or Wives and Children to our bosom ty'd:
15
When souls congenial near these ruins meet.
But now farewell—thou lovely peaceful spot,
Life will be ebbing when thou art forgot;
If e'er again the rural muse is mine,
Thy scenes will I record in many a line:
And tell my friends o'er many a River's flood,
How beautiful this ancient Abbey stood.
How rich the fields—how grateful was the scene,
When rain had turn'd the parched hills to green.
Life will be ebbing when thou art forgot;
If e'er again the rural muse is mine,
Thy scenes will I record in many a line:
And tell my friends o'er many a River's flood,
How beautiful this ancient Abbey stood.
How rich the fields—how grateful was the scene,
When rain had turn'd the parched hills to green.
Now horror guide my pencil whilst I write,
The scene of murder in the murky night;
When Clark's pale corse was hurried to the cave,
And slightly buried in a sandy grave:
How silent were their steps—how great their fear,
They stopt—they listen'd—thinking footsteps near;
Their hair uprais'd, and waving with the wind,
Show'd the deep horror of each murderer's mind.
The horrid deed was done, the blood was spilt,
And they are render'd sleepless thro' their guilt;
The floods of Nidd oft left the limbs expos'd,
As oft the grave was by the guilty clos'd.
Repentance nought avail'd, nor sighs, nor tears,
Though Justice linger'd for full fourteen years;
Horror and guilt, Houseman no more could bear,
And conscience with still voice said “Clark lies here.”
The trial came—nor wit, nor eloquence,
The sophist's reasoning—Aram's fine defence,
Could save the muderer so deep in guilt,
Though such long years had roll'd since blood was spilt.
The eye of Heaven who every action sees,
Whose will was spoke in stronger strains than these;
Which fill the guilty breast with fear and dread,
“Who sheddeth blood by man shall his be shed.”
The scene of murder in the murky night;
When Clark's pale corse was hurried to the cave,
And slightly buried in a sandy grave:
How silent were their steps—how great their fear,
They stopt—they listen'd—thinking footsteps near;
Their hair uprais'd, and waving with the wind,
Show'd the deep horror of each murderer's mind.
16
And they are render'd sleepless thro' their guilt;
The floods of Nidd oft left the limbs expos'd,
As oft the grave was by the guilty clos'd.
Repentance nought avail'd, nor sighs, nor tears,
Though Justice linger'd for full fourteen years;
Horror and guilt, Houseman no more could bear,
And conscience with still voice said “Clark lies here.”
The trial came—nor wit, nor eloquence,
The sophist's reasoning—Aram's fine defence,
Could save the muderer so deep in guilt,
Though such long years had roll'd since blood was spilt.
The eye of Heaven who every action sees,
Whose will was spoke in stronger strains than these;
Which fill the guilty breast with fear and dread,
“Who sheddeth blood by man shall his be shed.”
Pleas'd with the scene, the Poet and his friend,
Leave the fine vale and to the cliffs ascend;
New scenes appear—he never felt till then,
Scenes worthy of a Scot's enchanting pen:
Far in the back ground stretching to the view,
Were greenest hills thro' distance chang'd to blue:
The far stretch'd vale, the rocks, the hills, the wood,
All rose majestic as we musing stood;
But gloomy fears my aching heart opprest,
Nor rivers, woods, and hills could make me blest:
O how unfit to meet the blasts of care,
When trifling ills can drive me to despair
What little things can raise my soul on high,
Until I soar on wings of extacy;
Then down I sink to grieve in gloomy mood,
And quite forget “the giver of all good.”
But what can't friendship when 'tis true perform,
When grief the heart is tossing like a storm;
It soothes our sorrows with the mildest breath,
And even softens the cold hand of death.
'Twas thus we walk'd and spoke of days gone by,
Of ruin'd Castles and their chivalry;
Of grief and suffering in this world below,
Till sorrows fled and joys began to flow:
On the high cliff which overhangs the vale,
I told my feelings in a simple tale;
Where ancient bards perhaps have strung the lyre,
To songs that rais'd the patriot's nobl'st fire:
Or Lords have walk'd with many a “Ladie fayre,”
To taste the pureness of the mountain air.
Here could I rest thro' many an evening long,
Here could I listen to the Throstle's song;
Here could I dwell with friendship, and here stay,
Till streaks of morn “proclaim'd the coming day.”
How sweet to talk of all the griefs and cares,
The joys and pleasures of the by-past years;
When pour'd within the bosom of a friend,
Amid those scenes which most on earth transcend:
And one who taught me chiefly to confide,
In Him who form'd the seas and moves the tide,
Spreads new Creation, nor lets “Sparrows fall,”
Unknown to him—the Parent—Lord of all.
Leave the fine vale and to the cliffs ascend;
New scenes appear—he never felt till then,
Scenes worthy of a Scot's enchanting pen:
17
Were greenest hills thro' distance chang'd to blue:
The far stretch'd vale, the rocks, the hills, the wood,
All rose majestic as we musing stood;
But gloomy fears my aching heart opprest,
Nor rivers, woods, and hills could make me blest:
O how unfit to meet the blasts of care,
When trifling ills can drive me to despair
What little things can raise my soul on high,
Until I soar on wings of extacy;
Then down I sink to grieve in gloomy mood,
And quite forget “the giver of all good.”
But what can't friendship when 'tis true perform,
When grief the heart is tossing like a storm;
It soothes our sorrows with the mildest breath,
And even softens the cold hand of death.
'Twas thus we walk'd and spoke of days gone by,
Of ruin'd Castles and their chivalry;
Of grief and suffering in this world below,
Till sorrows fled and joys began to flow:
On the high cliff which overhangs the vale,
I told my feelings in a simple tale;
18
To songs that rais'd the patriot's nobl'st fire:
Or Lords have walk'd with many a “Ladie fayre,”
To taste the pureness of the mountain air.
Here could I rest thro' many an evening long,
Here could I listen to the Throstle's song;
Here could I dwell with friendship, and here stay,
Till streaks of morn “proclaim'd the coming day.”
How sweet to talk of all the griefs and cares,
The joys and pleasures of the by-past years;
When pour'd within the bosom of a friend,
Amid those scenes which most on earth transcend:
And one who taught me chiefly to confide,
In Him who form'd the seas and moves the tide,
Spreads new Creation, nor lets “Sparrows fall,”
Unknown to him—the Parent—Lord of all.
Yes he the world had known and tried each joy,
And knew how much true pleasure these destroy;
Leading our fickle youthful hearts astray,
From him whose self is Virtue's happiest way:
'Twas here we spoke of trials, griefs, and care,
Of gloomy days and nights of sad despair,
Full of events his youthful days had been,
Dark stormy clouds with scarce a ray between;
But still his mind surmounted every ill,
By thinking twas his heavenly Father's will:
My heart was cheer'd, and reason gave her aid,
Thus friendship makes the darkest shadows fade;
When dangers dreadful as the roaring wave,
And hope seem'd distant that she would not save:
But before him they reach'd, the billows broke,
Harmless as unsubstantial clouds of smoke!
Then felt he joy—and he his heart could raise,
In gratitude to sing the Hymn of praise.
And knew how much true pleasure these destroy;
Leading our fickle youthful hearts astray,
From him whose self is Virtue's happiest way:
19
Of gloomy days and nights of sad despair,
Full of events his youthful days had been,
Dark stormy clouds with scarce a ray between;
But still his mind surmounted every ill,
By thinking twas his heavenly Father's will:
My heart was cheer'd, and reason gave her aid,
Thus friendship makes the darkest shadows fade;
When dangers dreadful as the roaring wave,
And hope seem'd distant that she would not save:
But before him they reach'd, the billows broke,
Harmless as unsubstantial clouds of smoke!
Then felt he joy—and he his heart could raise,
In gratitude to sing the Hymn of praise.
HYMN.
Around my path each way I find,
Thy goodness Lord abounds to me;
Oh teach this heart, this wav'ring mind,
To fear—to love—to honour thee.
Thy goodness Lord abounds to me;
Oh teach this heart, this wav'ring mind,
To fear—to love—to honour thee.
20
For when I've paus'd with anxious care,
When blighted hopes have me oppress'd;
I still have found that thou wer't near
To ease and soothe my troubl'd breast.
When blighted hopes have me oppress'd;
I still have found that thou wer't near
To ease and soothe my troubl'd breast.
Oh that this heart would never stray,
Nor grieve such goodness shewn to me;
But calmly track its homeward way,
Nearer each hour—each day to thee.
Nor grieve such goodness shewn to me;
But calmly track its homeward way,
Nearer each hour—each day to thee.
Forgive the wand'rings thou hast seen,
And let me onward as I move;
More grateful prove than I have been,
More highly prize thy heavenly love.
And let me onward as I move;
More grateful prove than I have been,
More highly prize thy heavenly love.
Praise in the Cave—the Chapel, or the wood,
The field—the mountain—must be ever good;
On foreign seas—in every distant part,
When 'tis the language of a grateful heart.
The field—the mountain—must be ever good;
On foreign seas—in every distant part,
When 'tis the language of a grateful heart.
21
Then wand'ring onward while the Castle's tower,
Uprose a mutilated fort of power;
The place we pass'd which the belov'd Buccleugh,
Nam'd from herself the “Fort of Montague:
Nor should this little wild romantic spot
Of perseverance—ever be forgot.
The Hermitage—and seeming mounted fort,
Which oft have been the scene of joyous sport;
And smiles and hopes, and love, and cares, and tears,
Were with the labours of long sixteen years:
Where oft the wondering joyful parties stray,
In rural bliss and grieve to walk away;
Till purple evening in the shining west,
Draws her deep curtain and the day's at rest.
Near here's the pasture where the milk Cows feed,
Supplying want in many a time of need;
I see the children when resources fail,
Smiling and dancing round their Mother's pail:
Supper provided where no money is,
And hungry Children now recline in peace.
Blest be the name of him so good and kind,
Whose bosom yet contains a christian's mind;
Whose Ancestors from noble branches came,
And in all changes still preserv'd their fame.
Let modern Lords and new created Peers,
And he who proud the robe of office wears;
Behold and blush, and feel himself a fool,
Compar'd with Slingsby of the ancient School:
How many dash to Countries far away,
Spend all they get, and then can hardly pay.
But true old English Gentlemen are wise,
Live like their sires, and help the poor to rise;
As did the Lords of old, and when the foe
Came arm'd with battle axe, with spear and bow;
They own'd their chief, and all around him bled,
Or fiercely fought 'till every foe was fled.
Uprose a mutilated fort of power;
The place we pass'd which the belov'd Buccleugh,
Nam'd from herself the “Fort of Montague:
Nor should this little wild romantic spot
Of perseverance—ever be forgot.
The Hermitage—and seeming mounted fort,
Which oft have been the scene of joyous sport;
And smiles and hopes, and love, and cares, and tears,
Were with the labours of long sixteen years:
Where oft the wondering joyful parties stray,
In rural bliss and grieve to walk away;
Till purple evening in the shining west,
Draws her deep curtain and the day's at rest.
Near here's the pasture where the milk Cows feed,
Supplying want in many a time of need;
I see the children when resources fail,
Smiling and dancing round their Mother's pail:
22
And hungry Children now recline in peace.
Blest be the name of him so good and kind,
Whose bosom yet contains a christian's mind;
Whose Ancestors from noble branches came,
And in all changes still preserv'd their fame.
Let modern Lords and new created Peers,
And he who proud the robe of office wears;
Behold and blush, and feel himself a fool,
Compar'd with Slingsby of the ancient School:
How many dash to Countries far away,
Spend all they get, and then can hardly pay.
But true old English Gentlemen are wise,
Live like their sires, and help the poor to rise;
As did the Lords of old, and when the foe
Came arm'd with battle axe, with spear and bow;
They own'd their chief, and all around him bled,
Or fiercely fought 'till every foe was fled.
Ye native fair ones never wish to roam,
Where are there equal scenes to those at home?
Search all the vales where Yorkshire rivers flow,
Try every place you from description know;
However grand some objects may appear,
Something is short, but every beauty's here.
Where are there equal scenes to those at home?
23
Try every place you from description know;
However grand some objects may appear,
Something is short, but every beauty's here.
And now again my happiness to crown,
I meet with friends within the ancient town;
When we a kindly social evening pass,
No envy rank'ling in the sparkling glass:
And what I've witness'd will not be forgot,
But oft related at my own dear Cot;
For still “where'er we go, where'er we roam,”
Our happiest triumph ever is at home.
I meet with friends within the ancient town;
When we a kindly social evening pass,
No envy rank'ling in the sparkling glass:
And what I've witness'd will not be forgot,
But oft related at my own dear Cot;
For still “where'er we go, where'er we roam,”
Our happiest triumph ever is at home.
The poor Weaver who was patronized by the late Duchess of Buccleugh, was sixteen years in forming his most singular abode.
FINIS.
| The Airedale poet's walk through Knaresbrough | |