 | The Airedale poet's walk through Knaresbrough |  |
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 Airedale poet's walk through Knaresbrough | |