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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 ;AMK3 MILfcS. ;. -idj 
 
 ANTIOUARIAN BOUKSKl.l.KR, ?•* 1j
 
 6' 
 
 M
 
 BEN PRESTON'S POEMS.
 
 " Mr. Preston is no oddity, hut a very remarkable man 
 whose poems deserve to be better known and more widely 
 read than they are." — Rev. S. Baring Gould, M.A.
 
 v£ 
 
 u!-'rzy 
 
 vtc^^^^ 
 
 ^^z^^
 
 gi;i(ect mxH jtljcr ^0cni$, 
 
 BY 
 
 BEN PRESTON 
 
 WITH GLOSSARY OF THE LOCAL WORDS. 
 
 LONDON : 
 SIMPKIX, MARSHALL & 00 
 
 BEADFOKD : T. BEEAE, KIEKGATE. 
 1881.
 
 KSTERED AT STATIONERS' UALI-, 
 
 i_Ali litjlitg renei'ved.2
 
 
 '?'^;i(e(<:>ci 
 
 TO 
 
 THOMAS THOENTON EMPSALL, Esq., 
 
 President of the Bradford Historicnl and Antiquarian Society, 
 
 A TEIED AND HELPFUL FRIEND, 
 
 THIS BOOK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY HIS 
 OBLIGED AND GRATEFUL WELL-WISHEE, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 937G.':;0
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 To meet a growing inquii-y for the author's Poetical 
 "Works, the publisher made arrangements with him for the 
 issue of a complete Edition, with his own final alterations 
 or corrections. Most of the Dialect Poems have been lonir 
 out of print, although several Editions have been issued 
 of some at different times. Several of the other Poems 
 possess great merit, but are little known. All that the 
 author cares to preserve are now brought together from 
 every known source for the first time, and have had the 
 full benefit of his own revision, and it is hoped the 
 volume will meet with a generous reception from the 
 reading public. The Portrait is an excellent likeness 
 from a photograph taken expressly for this edition, a 
 few weeks ago, by Mr. E. J. Passingham, of Bradford. 
 
 Bradford, Dec, 18S0.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 An author, on his first appearance in public, often feels 
 called upon to say something about himseK or his works. If 
 the said author is a Minor Bard, whose effusions are on the 
 wrong side of mediocrity, he commonly strives to blunt the 
 edge of criticism by statements and excuses little calculated 
 to attain his end. 
 
 One of the tribe, for instance, informs his reader that 
 the book before him is the production of a working man who 
 has found amusement for his leisiu'e hours in composing the 
 rhymes it contains, but fails to show why things written for 
 mere amusement should be brought before the piiblic as 
 something worthy of its regard. Another humbly tells the 
 critics that he has had no education, and on that ground 
 pleads for a moderate and merciful flagellation. 
 
 The author of the following Dialect and Other Poems is 
 no way disposed to tread in the footprints of his predecessors. 
 He might, if he chose, inform his readers that he, too, was
 
 Vlll. PREFACE. 
 
 a working man, notwithstanding all that liis enemies have 
 insinuated to the contrary, Init that would be but a poor 
 excuse for parading indifferent work. Nor would it much 
 avail him to plead that he was uneducated, for genius, apart 
 from education, can achieve much, while education without 
 genius can never be more than a good copyist. The locomo- 
 tive of the illiterate Stephenson was a sublime success, 
 whereas the match-tax of the polished and classical Lowe 
 was an infamous failure. The first is the admiration of 
 philosophers, the second, the derision of street Arabs. 
 
 On the merits or defects of the accompanying productions 
 the author ventures to give no opinion ; they will fall into 
 the hands of unbiassed judges, whose estimate will, no doubt, 
 Ijc expressed in their own way. The entire series has been 
 the spontaneous outcome of events and circumstances 
 extending over a lengthened period, and though most of the 
 pieces have lain in undisturbed repose in the ephemeral 
 literature of the time, several have been in circulation many 
 years, attended by sundry tokens of appreciation. Beyond 
 their origin, however, the author has had little concern in 
 the production or distribution of any of them, and their 
 •collected issue now is in no way prompted by his vanity or 
 wishes. 
 
 Is this work, then, brought out " in compliance with 
 the solicitation of friends " ? Sir and madam, yes. The 
 author aflfirms the fact in this solemn manner because some 
 may feel a diflBculty in believing it, unless the declaration
 
 PREFACE. IX. 
 
 "be made, as it were, on oath. But neither the solicitation 
 of friends, nor the certainty of undying fame which the 
 bard, above all others, is supposed to thirst for, would have 
 induced the author to battle with the difficulties attendant 
 on the collection of these scattered and hidden rhymes. 
 
 If, therefore, in Bradford or elsewhere, there are persons 
 who can find a pleasure in the perusal of this book their 
 thanks are due to Mr. Empsall, by whose patient labours 
 most of the pieces have been dug up out of various 
 sepulchres in which, for more than a quarter of a century, 
 they have been quietly inurned. 
 
 B. PEESTON. 
 
 Hammondale House, 
 
 November, 1880.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Natterin' Nan 1 
 
 T'Short Timer H 
 
 Owd MaUy 13 
 
 ■Come to thy Gronny, Doy 15 
 
 Ah niwer can call her my Wife 17 
 
 Uncle Ben 19 
 
 T'Sacred Drawer 21 
 
 T'Creakin' Gaat 23 
 
 Stand up, Lads, an' let's hev a Feyt 29 
 
 T'Owd Psalm Tune 31 
 
 T'Lancashire Famine 34 
 
 Owd Moxy 37 
 
 Poll Blossom 39 
 
 Nannie's Soliloquy 45 
 
 Bill's Answer 47 
 
 T'Weyver's Deeath 49 
 
 The Old Man's Last Soliloquy 51 
 
 The Sister of Mercy 53 
 
 Night Visions ... ... ... ... ••• ••• ■•• 5o 
 
 Human Progress ... 57 
 
 T'Spicy Man - 59 
 
 The Swans (in Peel Park) GG 
 
 Lights and Shadows 68 
 
 The Tradesman's Dream 70 
 
 A Dirge (Sung over the Graves in the Crimea) 72 
 
 The Daisy 74
 
 XU. CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Despair 76 
 
 Tby Kingdom Come 78 
 
 Napoleon ... 80 
 
 The Irish Girl 83 
 
 Old Scenes 85 
 
 The Captivity 88 
 
 Hymn for the New Tear 91 
 
 Hypocrisy 93 
 
 The Betrayed 95 
 
 The Brothers 97 
 
 The Skylark 99 
 
 Home 101 
 
 The Oak and the Ivy 103 
 
 Paul on the Hill of Mars 105 
 
 On the Death of Ralph Goodwin 107 
 
 The Bottle Imp 109 
 
 Lines on a Dead Infant 112 
 
 A Dead Letter 114 
 
 To my Infant Daughter 116 
 
 Lord Henry's Bridal 118 
 
 Adelphos 124 
 
 To a Friend in Distress 126 
 
 A Christmas HjTnn ... 127 
 
 The Last Man 129 
 
 Song 131 
 
 The Betrayer 132 
 
 To my Wife, with my Portrait ... 134 
 
 Song of the Volunteers 136 
 
 First Love 138 
 
 The Fettered to the Free 140 
 
 The Poet 142 
 
 Rcfjuiem 145 
 
 The Sabbath 147 
 
 Night Thoughts 160 
 
 The Olden Days 152 
 
 Three Little Brothers 154 
 
 On War 156
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XUl. 
 
 A Sigh 
 
 On the New Tear 
 
 The Mystic Voyage 
 
 Hymn 
 
 The Swallow 
 
 Dirge ... 
 
 The Demons' Chase 
 
 Mary's Dream 
 
 The Locomotive 
 
 The Mariners' Church 
 
 Oh! the Flowers that Adonietl 
 
 Felo de se 
 
 On the Death of a Young Lady 
 
 Waterloo 
 
 Lmes written after seeing the Crystal Palace 
 
 Painting 
 
 Mournful Thoughts ... ... ... 
 
 The Poor Man's Riches 
 
 The Song of the English Emigrant 
 
 The Reformers' Song 
 
 A Warning Voice 
 
 Our Father's Home 
 
 The Age of Poesy is Gone 
 
 The Broken Ljtc 
 
 The Sunset 
 
 The Redbreast 
 
 The Irish Emigrant 
 
 The Orphan 
 
 Hymn to Poverty 
 
 Music 
 
 My Gronfathur's Grave 
 
 Varry Fine Fowk 
 
 Happy Tippy 
 
 Alexander's Surfeit 
 Abel Ben Aboo ... 
 
 Glossary 
 
 Addendum 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 158 
 
 ... 159 
 
 161 
 
 ... 164 
 
 165 
 
 ... 169 
 
 170 
 
 ... 173 
 
 175 
 
 ... 177 
 
 179 
 
 ... 180 
 
 182 
 
 ... 18S 
 
 185 
 
 ... 187 
 
 189 
 
 ... 191 
 
 194 
 
 ... 196 
 
 198 
 
 ... 201 
 
 202 
 
 ... 204 
 
 206 
 
 ... 208 
 
 210 
 
 ... 212 
 
 214 
 
 ... 216 
 
 218 
 
 ... 220 
 
 22:i 
 
 ... 226 
 
 231 
 
 ... 242 
 
 262
 
 NATTERIN' NAN. 
 
 "VrOA daht ye'U all hev eeard abaht 
 ■^ T'ApoUo Belvedere, 
 A statty thowt by some to be 
 Fro' iv'ry failin' tlear. 
 
 All royt an' streyt i' mak' an' shap', 
 
 A mould for t'race o' men : 
 A dahnreyt, upreyt, beng-up chap. 
 
 Nut mich unlike mysen. 
 
 Nab, thau ye knaw he's nowt bud stoan. 
 
 He looks soa grand an' big. 
 That little durst yo' pool his noas, 
 
 Ur lug his twisted wig. 
 
 Pratly, reyt pratly ovver t'floor 
 
 A tip-o'-toas ye walk. 
 An' hod yom- breeath for varry awe. 
 
 An' whisper when yo' talk. 
 
 Theer's that abaht him — bud I knawn't 
 
 Nut reytly hah to sa/t — 
 That mak's yo' feel as small as thieves 
 
 Anent a magistraat.
 
 2 natterin' nan. 
 
 Ye've seen that dolt o' mucky clay 
 
 On t'face o' Pudsa Doas ; 
 T'owd madlin's worn it all his life. 
 
 An' fancied it a noas. 
 
 Yond props is like a pair o' tengs 
 
 O' Sykes's, yit, by t'megs. 
 When he wor sowber as a judge 
 
 I've eeard him call 'em legs. 
 
 So Heaven be praised for self-eonsate j 
 
 Without it, ah sud say, 
 We'se hate wursen wi' all wur meet 
 
 For iwer an' a day. 
 
 When wasters lewks at t'marble god, 
 
 Egoy ! hah wide they gape. 
 An' wonder which they faver t'moast — 
 
 A boggard or an ape. 
 
 An' some wi' envy an' wi' spite 
 
 Get filled to that degree 
 They'd knock his noas off, if they durst. 
 
 Or give him a black ee. 
 
 He somehah kests a leet on things 
 'At fowk noan wants to see ; 
 
 There's few likes tellin' what they are, 
 Ur what they owt to be. 
 
 Wah, wah, perfection nivver did 
 
 To Adam's barns beleng ; 
 An' lewk at mortals when we will, 
 
 We'se fynd a summat wreng.
 
 natterin' nan. 
 
 Owd Adam gate so mesht wi' t'fall 
 
 That all o' t'human race 
 Grows sadly aht o' shap' i' t'niind, 
 
 r t'karkiss, an' i' t'face. 
 
 Theer's noan so blynd Liid they can see 
 
 A favrt i' other men ; 
 I've sometimes met wi' fowk 'at thowt 
 
 They saw one i' thersen. 
 
 An' t'best o' chaps al fynd thersen 
 
 At times i' t'fawty class ; 
 I've doubled t'neiv afoar to-day 
 
 At t'fooU i' t'seemin' dlass. 
 
 Biid t'wai'st o' fawts 'at I've seen yit, 
 
 I' woman or i' man. 
 Is t'weary, naguein', nengin' turn 
 
 'At plagued poor Natterin' Nan. 
 
 I went one summer afternooin 
 
 To see her poor old man. 
 An' 'ardly hed I darkened t'door. 
 
 When t'wurrit thus began : 
 
 " Eh ! wah ! did ivver ! what a treat 
 To see thy father's son ; 
 Come forrad, lad, an' sit tha dahn. 
 An' al set t'kettle on." 
 
 " Nay, nay," ah says, " I'm noan o' thame 
 'At calls at t'time by t'clock. 
 An' bumps 'em dahn i' t' corner chair. 
 An' gloars reyt hard at t'jock."
 
 4 natterin' nan. 
 
 " Tha nontcate, witta hod thy tongue ? 
 He'll sooin be here I think, 
 Soa, if tha'll sit an' leet thy pipe, 
 Ah'U fotch a soap o' di-ink." 
 
 " Owd lass/' says I, " tha'rt hey i' boan. 
 
 An' rayther low i' beef." 
 " Hay, barn," says shoo, " this year or two 
 
 I've hed a deal o' grief. 
 
 " Ah'm nut a woman 'at oft speyks. 
 Or sings fowk doleful sengs. 
 Bud I can tell my mind to thee, 
 Tha knaws what things belengs. 
 
 " Tha's noaticed I noan lewkt so staat. 
 An' I can trewly say. 
 Fro' t'last back end o' t'year to nah 
 I've nut been weel a day. 
 
 " An' whot wi' sickness, whot wi' grief, 
 I'm doin tha may depend — 
 It's been a weary mooild an' tew. 
 Bud nah it gets near t'end. 
 
 " Ah've bowt all t'sister 'at I hev 
 A black merrinah gahn ; 
 Fowk thinks I'm rarely off, bud, lad, 
 I'm thenkful 'at I'm bahn. 
 
 " "Wi' t'world, an' ivverything 'at's in't, 
 I'm crossed to that degree 
 That raonny a time i' t'day I've prayed 
 To lig me down an' dee.
 
 natterin' nan. 
 
 " Whot I've to taf fro' t'least i' t'hahse 
 Is moar rnir flesh, can bear ; 
 It isn't just a time by cbonce. 
 Bud iwery day i' t'year. 
 
 " Noa livin' sowl atop o' t'earth 
 Wor tried as I've been tried ; 
 There's noab'dy bud the Lord an' me 
 'At knaws what I've to bide. 
 
 " Fro' t'wind i' t'stomach, t'rheumetism. 
 An' tengin pains i' fgoom. 
 Fro' coughs an' cowds an' t' spine i' t'back, 
 I've suffered martyrdom. 
 
 " Bud noab'dy pities ma ur thinks 
 I'm aiKn' owt at allj 
 T'poar slave mun tug an' tew wi' t'wark 
 Whol iwer shoo can crawl. 
 
 " An' Johnnjr's t'moast \infeelin' brewt 
 'At iwer ware a heead : 
 He woddant weg a hand ur fooit 
 If I wor all bud deead. 
 
 " I' t'midst o' all I've bed to due 
 That roag wor nivver t'man 
 To fotch a coil, ur scar a fleg, 
 Ur wesh a pot ur pan. 
 
 " Fowk says ahr Sal al sooin be wed. 
 Bud t'thowts on't turns ma sick ; 
 I'd rayther hing her up by t'neck, 
 TJr see her berrid wick.
 
 6 natterin' nan. 
 
 " An' if I tliowt a barn o' mine 
 Wor born to lead my life, 
 I suddant think it wor a sin 
 To stick her wi' my knife. 
 
 " I've axed ahr Johnny twenty times 
 To bring a sweep to t'door ; 
 Bud nah afoar I'll speyk ageean 
 I'll sit i' t'hahse an' smooar. 
 
 " An' then — gooid gracious, what a wind 
 Comes whewin thru t'doar sneck ; 
 I felt it all t'last winter, like 
 A whittle at my neck. 
 
 " That sink-pipe, too, gate stopt wi' muck 
 Aboon a fortnit sin'. 
 So ivvery ahr i' t'day wi' t' slops 
 I'm troshin' aht an' in. 
 
 " Aw ! when I think hah I've been tret. 
 An' hah I tew an' strive — 
 To tell tha t'honist trewth, I'm capt 
 To fynd myseln alive. 
 
 " When he's been rakin' aht o' t'neet. 
 At t'markit or at t'fair, 
 Sich thowts hes come into my eead 
 As lifted up my hair. 
 
 " I've thowt 'Ay, lad, when tha comes hoam, 
 Tha' 11 fynd ma hung by t'neck ; ' 
 An' then I've mebbe thowt ageean 
 'At t'cooard 'ud happen breck.
 
 NATTERIN NAN. 
 
 " Ur else I've muttered, ' If it worn't 
 So dark, an' cowd, an' weet, 
 I'd go to t' navvy or to t'dam 
 An' drahnd myseln to-neet.' 
 
 " It's grief, lad, nowt at all bud grief, 
 'At wastes ma day by day; 
 So Sattan temps ma, 'cos I'm wake. 
 To put myseln away." 
 
 T'owd chap eeard pairt o' what shoo said 
 
 As he com' clompin' in. 
 An' shaated in a red-faced rage, 
 
 " Od, rot it ! hod thy din." 
 
 Then Nan began to froth an' fume. 
 An' fizz like bottled drink ; 
 " "What, then, tha's entered t'hahse ageean, 
 Tha offald-lewkin slink ! 
 
 " Tha nivver comes thease doors within 
 Bud tha mun curse an' sweear. 
 An' strive to bring ma to my grave 
 Wi' breedin' hurries here. 
 
 " Fro' thee an' thine sin' wed we wor 
 I've taen no end o' grief. 
 An' nah tha stamps ma under t'fooit, 
 Tha murderin' roag an' thief. 
 
 " Tha villain, gie ma whot I bro-n-t 
 That day 'at we wor wed. 
 An' nivver moar wi' one like thee 
 Will I set fooit i' bed."
 
 8 natterin' nan. 
 
 Here t' dowdy lifted tuv her een 
 
 A yird o' linen check. 
 An' sobbed an' roared and rockt hersen. 
 
 As if her heart 'ud breck. 
 
 An' then shoo rave reyt up by t'rooits 
 
 A handful of her hair. 
 An' fittered like a deein duck. 
 
 An' shuttered aht o' t' chair. 
 
 "Aw ! Johnny, run for t' doctor, lad, 
 I feel I can't tell hah ; " 
 Says Johnny, " Leet thy pipe ageean, 
 Shoo'll coom abaht enah." 
 
 Says I, " I nivver saw a chap 
 
 So eeasyfid an' fat ; 
 Tha'll suarly len' a helpin' hand 
 
 To lift her off o' t'plat." 
 
 Bud better hed it been for him 
 If he'd ne'er sttirred a peg; 
 
 My garters ! what a pawse he gat 
 Fro' Nan's rheumatic leg. 
 
 Sooin, varry sooin, shoo coom abaht. 
 An' flung an' tare an' rave, 
 
 I' sich a way as fehw could due 
 Wi' one fooit i' ther grave. 
 
 Then at it went her tongue ageean 
 That minnit shoo gat eease, 
 " Tha villain, tha, tha knaws thy ways 
 Brings on sich girds as theease.
 
 natterin' nan. 9 
 
 ■"Aw ! if tlia'd strike ma stiff at once, 
 Ur stab ma to my heart, 
 I then could dee content, for fowk 
 Wod knaw reyt what ta art. 
 
 " Unfeelin' brewt ! unfeelin' brewt ! 
 I neer wor weel an' strong ; 
 Theer's nobbud one thing cheers ma nah — 
 I cannot last so long. 
 
 " To stand up for a thing 'at's reyt 
 It isn't i' my nater ; 
 Theer's fowk 'at knaws I awlus wor 
 A poor, soft, quiat crater. 
 
 " One thing I can say, if to-neet 
 My life sud end its leease, 
 I' ve doin my duty, an' tha knaws 
 I've awlus striven for peeace. 
 
 " I knaw, I knaw, 'at I'm i' t'gate — 
 Thah's other oats to thresh. 
 So, when I'm doin for, tha may wed 
 Yond gooid-for-nowt young tresh." 
 
 Then Nan pooled siimmat aht o' t' drawer. 
 
 White as a summer claad. 
 Says I to Johnny, " What's that theer ? " 
 
 Says Johnny, " It's a shraad. 
 
 " An' t' coffin coom tue, bud I sware 
 I wodant ha't i' t'hahse ; 
 So when shoo's muled shoo sews at that. 
 As quiat as a mahse."
 
 10 natterin' nan. 
 
 Poor Nan lewkt at me wi' a lewk 
 So yonderly an' sad : 
 " Tha'll come to t'berrin ? " " Yis," I said, 
 " I sal Vje varry dlad." 
 
 " Then bid thy mother," Johnny cried, 
 " An' ax thy Uncle Ben ; 
 An' all her prayers for suddan deeath 
 Sal hev my best ' Amen.' "
 
 / 
 
 T'SHORT-TIMEE. 
 
 TT wor misty an' frosty an' dark as a booit, 
 -*- An' soa cowd ye'd ha'e pitied a toad. 
 When ah eeard to me thinkin' a leet little fooit 
 Pit-pattin' behint ma on t'road. 
 
 Nah, at five ur awf-past, ov a cowd winter morn, 
 
 Ah'd noa thowts ov a cumrade at all. 
 So ah stude whol thear coom up a bit ov a barn. 
 
 Like a peggy-stick airin' a shawl. 
 
 " HoUou, lass," ah said, as I tapt hur o' t'erahu, 
 " Tha'll be doin for i' t' river ur t'kiln ; 
 Whot are ta, yo' monkey, an' wheer are ta bahn ? " 
 Says shoo, " A short-timer to t'miln." 
 
 "If that maister o' thine' s onny childer," ah said, 
 " Ah sud like 'em to march at thy back ; 
 Bud, ah guess, if tha'd laid an ahr longtu" i' bed 
 'At trade 'ud begin to be slack." 
 
 " Hay ! maister," shoo said, "ah've eeard t'governer sweear 
 'At he's made nowt by t' trade for this age. 
 An' his horses an' carriages nips him so bare 
 Whol he 'ardly can thoil to gie wage.
 
 12 t'short-timer. 
 
 " Then he's bowt an istaat, an' he's heeldin' a hahse, 
 Ey ! an' t'cost on't no mortal knaws yit ; 
 If we pinch whol wer cubhords weant paster a mahse 
 He can nobbiid just stand on his fit. 
 
 " He says f urriners latly hes made a gurt spring. 
 An' they live on chopt cabbage an' saam ; 
 Soa it hoins him, ye see, to shut brass like a king. 
 An' then sell i' t'same markets wi' thame. 
 
 " If we doan't work for little, we moant work at all. 
 An' my gronfathur said yusterneet 
 If it worn't for t' short -timers 'at t'systum 'ud fall. 
 An' t'plewshare cum back into t' street." 
 
 Ah lewkt off t'ee-end 'at that wizand owd barn. 
 
 An' ah said, " It appears like to me 
 'At t'factory an' t'mansion an' t'main o' t'consarn 
 
 Is uphodden by midges like thee." 
 
 Here ah pairted wi' t'barn, an' ah cuddant bud laugh, 
 Thau ah felt noan so mich at my eease. 
 
 For ah thowt to myseln — it's a bonny come-off 
 If we're propt by sich pillars as theease.
 
 X 
 
 OWD MALLY. 
 
 IN a one-storey, aht-o'-t'way, tumal-dahn cot 
 Poor owd Mally sate mournin' lier desolate lot. 
 For of all 'at once awned her nut one wor o' t'spot 
 
 To befriend her i' t'time of her need. 
 Shoo'd a husband 'at wrowt on t'heeway breckin stoau. 
 An' when life left his frame it left little bud boan. 
 An' shoo once hed two dowters, bud nah shoo's aloan, 
 For boath dowters an' t'gronchilder deed. 
 
 An' shoo once had a lad, sich a prince of a lad ! 
 
 Bud when t'lass 'at he worshipt gat wed he went mad, 
 
 Tuke to drinkin' an' powchin, an' all 'at wor bad. 
 
 An' shoo's eeard nowt abaht him for years; 
 So owd Mally sits knittin' thru t' midsummer eeats, 
 Thinkin' sadly o' thame 'at once filled t' empty seeats ; 
 Bud it isn't for t'decad, it's for t'livin' shoo freeats — 
 
 It's for t'lad 'at shoo's droppin' them tears. 
 
 Theer's no peeass for her mind, for by day an' by neet 
 Shoo's a prey to some fancy 'at gives her a freet; 
 If shoo knew he wor deead an' at rest aht o' t'seet, 
 
 Shoo'd fynd rest for herseln in a while ; 
 Bud shoo's flayed he's i' prison, or sickly, or poor, 
 Beggin' crusts an' cowd wotter at Charity's doar. 
 Or else sinkin' i' folly an' sin moar an' moar, 
 
 Growin' viler fro' contact wi' t'vile.
 
 14 ' OWD MALLY. 
 
 It's a mercy wer feelin's gets blunted an' numb. 
 As we draw near to t'spot wbeer no sorra can come; 
 So i' fend t'poor owd lass gav' up lewkin so dlum. 
 
 An' her grief sattled dahn tuv a calm ; 
 Thau for MaUy no sunshine made breet this dull earth, 
 Yit a peeass filled her sowl 'at wor better nur mirth, 
 Sich an eemin as hers seemed to speyk of the birth 
 
 Of a morn full of dlory an' balm. 
 
 Thau shoo clamm'd nah an' then, wor iU-clad an' iU-shod, 
 Thau her portion seemed mainly affliction an' t'rod, 
 Yit i' t'midst on't theer grew a strong faith in her God 
 
 An' a comfortin' trust in His word. 
 " Yis, I'm feeble," shoo said, " bud wi' help I sal stand, 
 I'm i' t' dark, bud I knaw 'at Tha'U leead ma byt'hand. 
 An' wheerivver yond lad be, on sea or on land. 
 
 He'll be safe i' Thy keepin', O Lord." 
 
 Well, i' fend a lame sowjer, weel blackened wi' f sun. 
 Com' to Mall/s an' Vjrowt her rare news of her son — 
 " Like a hero yahr Timothy stude to his gun. 
 
 An' he fell shaatin ' Hip, hip, hurrah ' ! " 
 " Did he dee wheer he fell ? " " Nay, we ran to his aid. 
 An' i' f hospital moar mxr a fortnit he laid. 
 An' then, claspin' his hands, for his comrades he prayed. 
 An' wi' praise on his lips passed away." 
 
 Poor owd MaUy we called her, bud niwer no moar 
 
 Let a mortal man say 'at owd Mally is poor. 
 
 For wi' joy an' thenksgivin her heart's runnin' o'er. 
 
 An' shoo's oft singin' aht, " Hip, hurrah ! " 
 Hip, hurrah ! hip, hurrah ! them wor f words of her son. 
 As he fell like a hero aside of his gun ; 
 Bud shoo thinks o' no vicf ry bud that 'at wor won 
 
 When his sowl passed in triumph away.
 
 COME TO THY GRONNY, DOY. 
 
 COME to thy gronny, doy, come to thy gronny. 
 Bless tha, to me tha'rt as pratty as onny ; 
 Mutherlass barn of a dowter unwed. 
 Little tha knaws, doy, the tears 'at I've shed; 
 Trials I've knawn boath for t' heart an' for t'heead, 
 Shortnass o' wark, c j, an' shortnass o' breead. 
 
 Thease I could bide, bud thau tha'rt noan to blame. 
 Bless tha, tha browt ma boath sorra an' shame ; 
 Gronny, poar sowl, for a two month ur moar 
 Hardly could feshun to lewk aht o' t'doar; 
 T'nabors called aht to me, " Dunnot stand that, 
 Aht wi' that hussy an' aht wi' her brat." 
 
 Deary me, deary me, what could I say ? 
 T'fiu'st thing of all I thowt — let ma go pray ; 
 T'next time I slept I'd a dream, d'ye see, 
 Ey ! an' I knew 'at that dream wor for me — 
 Tears of Christ Jesus, I saw 'em that neet. 
 Fall drop by drop on to one at His feet. 
 
 After that, saw Him wi' barns rahnd His knee. 
 Some on 'em, happen, poar craters like thee ; 
 Says I at last, though I soarly wor tried, - 
 Suaidy a sinner, a sinner sud bide ; 
 Nabors may think or may say what they will, 
 T' mother an' t' dowter sal stop wi' ma still.
 
 16 COME TO THY GRONNY, DOY. 
 
 Come on'fc what will, i' my cot they sal cahr. 
 Woe be to them 'at maks bad into wahr : 
 Some fowk may call tha a name 'at I hate, 
 Wishin' fro' t' heart tha wor weel aht o' t'gate» 
 Oft this hard world into t' gutter al shuv tha. 
 Pear little lamb, wi' no daddy to love tha. 
 
 Dunnot thee freeat, doy, whol gronny hods up, 
 Niwer sal tha want a bite or a sup ; 
 What if I work thease owd fingurs to t'boan. 
 Happen tha' 11 love ma long after I'm goan ; 
 T'last bite i' t'cubbord wi' thee I could share't. 
 Hay ! bud tha's stown a rare slice o' my heart. 
 
 Spite ov all t'sorra, all t' shame 'at I've seen. 
 
 Sunshine comes back to my heart thru thy een ; 
 
 Cuddle thy gronny, doy. 
 
 Bless tha, tha'rt bonny, doy, 
 
 Eosy an' sweet fro' thy brah to thy feet. 
 
 Kingdoms an' crahns wodn't buy tha to-neet.
 
 AH NIVVER CAN CALL HER MY WIFE. 
 
 AH'M a weyver, ye knaw, an' awf deead. 
 So ah due all 'at ivver ah can 
 To put away aht o' my eead 
 
 The thowts an' the aims of a man. 
 Eight shillin' i' t' wick's what ah arn 
 
 When ah've varry gooid wark an' full time. 
 An' ah think it's a sorry consarn 
 For a fellah 'at's just in his prime. 
 
 Bud ahr maister says things is as well 
 
 As they have been or ivver can be. 
 An' ah happen sud think so mysel' 
 
 If he'd nobbud swop places wi' me. 
 Bud he's welcome to all he can get. 
 
 Ah begrudge him o' noan ov his brass. 
 An' ah'm nowt bud a madlin to fret, 
 
 Ur to think o' yond bewtiful lass. 
 
 Ah nivver can call her my wife. 
 
 My love ah sal nivver mak' knawn, 
 Yit the sori-a that darkens her life 
 
 Tlii-aws its shadda across o' my awn. 
 When ah knaw 'at her heart is at eease, 
 
 Theer is sunshine an' singin' i' mine ; 
 An' misfortunes may come as they pleease, 
 
 Yit they seldom can mak' ma rei^ine.
 
 18 AH NIVVER CAN CALL HER MY WIFE. 
 
 Bud that Chartist wor now-t bud a sloap — 
 
 Ah wor fooild by his speeches an' rhymes. 
 For his promises wottered my hoap. 
 
 An' ah leng'd for his sunshiny times; 
 Bud I feel 'at my dearest desire 
 
 "Within ma al wither away. 
 Like an i^-y-stem traUin' i' t'mire 
 
 It's deein for t'want of a stay. 
 
 When ah laid i' my bed day an' neet. 
 
 An' wor geen up by t' doctors for deead, 
 God bless her ! shoo'd com' wi' a leet 
 
 An' a basin o' grewil an' breead. 
 An' ah once thowt ah'd aht wi' it all. 
 
 Bud soa kindly shoo chatted an' smiled. 
 Ah wor fain to turn ovver to t'wall. 
 
 An' to bluther an' roar like a child. 
 
 An' ah said, as I thowt of her een. 
 
 Each breeter for t'tear 'at wor in't. 
 It's a sin to be nivver forgeen. 
 
 To yoke her to famine an' stint ; 
 So ah'U een travel forrad throo life. 
 
 Like a man throo a desert unknawn ; 
 Ah mun neer hev a hoam nur a wife. 
 
 Bud my sorras al all be my awn. 
 
 Soa ah trudge on aloan as ah owt. 
 An' whotivver my troubles may be. 
 
 They'll be sweetened, poor lass, wi' the thowt 
 'At I've nivver browt trouble to thee. 
 
 Yit a burd hes its young vms to guard, 
 A wild beaat a mate in his den. 
 
 An' ah cannot bud think 'at it's hard- 
 Nay, deng it, ah'm roarin' agen.
 
 UNCLE BEN. 
 
 rPHEAE'S men 'at al treyd upo' women an' barns 
 -*- In a mad-eeaded scrammal for brass. 
 An' begrudge a poor chap wliat he 'onistly aams. 
 If he's seen wi' his pipe an' his dlass. 
 
 Theer's men 'at al gobble np all they can get. 
 
 An' al spare nut a morsil for t'poar ; 
 An' thear's sum 'at al feeast boath thersen an' ther set — 
 
 Ey ! if t'bailies be standin' at t'door. 
 
 Thear's boan-idle nowbles, baht hahses an' lands, 
 
 'At al walk on a carpeted path. 
 An' niwer due nowt wi' ther lily-white hands 
 
 Bud lift uther fowk's jock to ther maath. 
 
 Sum al pine ther awn mothers, pop trahzuz an' coit. 
 An' then drink what 'ud fill a draw-well, 
 
 Niwer thinkin' 'at t'thii-st 'at they feel i'ther throit 
 Is a cowk 'at wor leeted i' hell. 
 
 Bud away wi' sich fellahs, we'll name 'em no moar. 
 
 Bud we'll turn tuv a model for men ; 
 For the chap to be copied by rich an' by poar 
 
 Is my 'ard-workin', brave Uncle Ben.
 
 20 UNCLE BEN. 
 
 Whotiwer lie hannals is honistly won ; 
 
 In his words an' his actions he's trew ; 
 He nivver saw t'face ov a bill or a dun. 
 
 For he pays i' 'ard brass what is due. 
 
 He rises at six, an' he's off tuv his wark. 
 An' thru t'day he's as threng as a bee; 
 
 An' as suar as a gun, when it gets to be dark. 
 He'll be sittin' wi' t'wife at his tea. 
 
 Then he'll rowl upo' t' hearth-rug wi' Harry an' Will, 
 
 Like a cat wi' her kittens at play ; 
 Ur sit throaned i' his chair wi' his pipe an' his gUl, 
 
 An' to Nell read the news o' the day. 
 
 He's awlus moar ready to pity nur blame 
 
 The failin's o' women an' men. 
 An' oft for ther fawts an excuse he can frame, ■ 
 
 When they cannot frame one for thersen. 
 
 Hurrah for rare Ben an' his innacent life ! 
 
 A better lad niwer wor knawn ! 
 He delights in his barns, an' theer's noabody's wife 
 
 'At he likes awf as weel as his awn. 
 
 God bless that owd joiner, his basket an' hoam. 
 
 An' God bless his wife an' his breed ; 
 For if ivver fro t' fireside he's tempted to roam. 
 
 It's to heliJ a poor chap in his need.
 
 B^ 
 
 T' SACRED DRAWEE. 
 
 >T t'dim red leet of a sinkin' sun. 
 Tenderly, tenderly, one by one 
 Shoo laid aht her treasures o' t'chamer flooar ; 
 Thrustin' her face into t'cloas o' t'bed, 
 " All on um, aU on urn's theer," shoo said, 
 " Bud my Johnny — Ah niwer mun lewk on moar." 
 
 Scattered abaht o' that chamer flooar, 
 Lakuns an' little duds theer they wor. 
 
 Sad upkessen bits of a sucken wreck ; 
 
 Baa-lam', an' trumpet, an' top, an' ball. 
 Still as if t'deeath-stroke 'ad smitten all ; 
 
 Poor thing, ye'd ha' thowt at her heart 'ud breck. 
 
 Put by his lakuns, his tloas repack — 
 Niwer no mooar will Johnny come back. 
 
 For he cares nowt nah for what pleased him t'best ; 
 T' eaglet, when makkin' his skyward spring. 
 Scatters wi' t'waff of his mighty ^vdng 
 
 All t'feathers an' t'fur 'at hed lined his nest. 
 
 Under his hat as it ligs o' t' flooar, 
 Summat shoo sees 'at shoo's seen afoar. 
 
 An' it fassens her een in a dreamy stare ; 
 Sunbeams 'at breetened a by-goan day. 
 Breezes 'at long sin hes passed away — 
 
 They're tontlin' wi' t'cxirls of his gowlden hair.
 
 22 t'sacred drawer. 
 
 Music an' sunshine, an' birds an' flaars. 
 Gladden like playmates them few short haars 
 
 'At iwer he spent aht o' t'hives o' men. 
 
 Poor little chap, hah he sammd 'em up. 
 Blue-bell, an' daisy, an' gowlden cup ; 
 
 Bud noan i' all t' field 'at could match hissen. 
 
 Suddenly, sharply, vn' gasp an' start. 
 Back comes her grief tuv her cheated heart. 
 
 To darken her joy like a thunner claad. 
 
 Once mooar shoo sits whol her watch is done. 
 Once mooar shoe's weepin' aloan, aloan, 
 
 Wi' a snaw-white face an' a snaw-white shraad. 
 
 T'saand's in her ears o' that fallin' tlay; 
 
 T'end comes at last o' that long, long day. 
 When at midneet shoo lifted her voice an' cried, 
 
 " Husband ! aw, husband ! ah can't liike up, 
 
 Trouble has drahnded boath faith an' hope. 
 An' ah cannot turn keigh wi' my barn ahtside. 
 
 " T'flaars he once gethered wi' childish greed 
 Faded as he did an' drooped an' deed. 
 
 Bud t' Spring called 'em up agean, one by one; 
 T'soil on his grave hes been damped wi' tears. 
 Spring shaars an' sunbeams hes fallen for years. 
 
 Bud Johnny sleeps on, yis, Johnny sleeps on." 
 
 Johnny sleeps long i' that barren tlay. 
 
 Bud his mother hes leearn'd to wait an' pray. 
 
 An' her sorra's been changed for a solemn bliss. 
 Neet after neet as some good deed's done, 
 Dahn from his home comes her little son 
 
 An' leaves on her forheead an' angel's kiss.
 
 T'CREAKIN' GAAT. 
 
 T ONG sin', when me an' t' missis furst 
 -*-* Set up i' wedded staat. 
 We'd a near neighbour kna-ma fur years 
 By t'name o' T'Creakin' Gaat. 
 
 Ah knew her in her yaathful days — 
 
 A forrad, flawpin' slut, 
 'At eust to talk an' fooil wi' t' chaps 
 
 Thru t'oppan windah shut. 
 
 I think, when ah consither t' pairs 
 
 'At mak's it up to coart, 
 'At Fate oft tethers t'warst to t'best 
 
 To mak' a middlin' soort. 
 
 For, doan't yo' see, if fiend wed fiend. 
 
 An' UmLs bred in an' in ; 
 Ah lewkt on't 'at we'se varry sooin 
 
 Be up to t'naff i' sin. 
 
 If ivvery divel fan his match, 
 Ther seed an' breed, begow ! 
 
 Wod maF a hell atop o' t'eearth. 
 As ut as that below.
 
 24 t'creakin' gaat. 
 
 Ye knaw nah hah it coom to pass, 
 Thau t' reason fehw hes guessed, 
 
 A dowdy like that Creakin' Gaat 
 Gat wed to Sammy Best. 
 
 A gooid, 'ard-workin', deacent lad 
 As ivver bate o' breead ; 
 
 Poar fellah, he'd a deeal o' heart 
 Bud feaful little heead. 
 
 Fowk wondered hah soa soft a chap 
 Hed cahncild Sarah Slurr ; 
 
 I'gow, shoo knew no man on earth 
 Could be too soft for hvir. 
 
 Sal's bewty charmed poar silly Sam 
 (What baits our hearts ingage), 
 
 Sam addled thirty bob i' t'wick. 
 An' Sal wor charmed wi' t'wage. 
 
 'Twor dark November when they met 
 For t'furst time i' ther life; 
 
 T'next haliday wor New Year's Day, 
 An' they wor man an' wife. 
 
 Ay, an' a slarin wife shoo wor. 
 
 As ivver deetud sark. 
 That ate an' drank o' t'varry best. 
 
 Bud fainted ower hur wark. 
 
 Ah'm just as if ah saw hur nah, 
 Wi' slippers on for shooin, 
 
 A flannil claht abaht hur eead. 
 An' t'neetcap on at nooin.
 
 t'creakin' gaat, 25 
 
 Thear, tlois to t'harstun, cheek to jawm, 
 
 Shoo'd cahr by t'hahr an' snoar, 
 Wi' t'blenkit ovver t' winter-hedge. 
 
 To keep off t' draught o' t'doar. 
 
 An' when shoo tuke a stride ur two. 
 
 Shoo plantnd t'neiv o' t'hip. 
 An' pucker' d uj) hur faas an' stuck 
 
 Hur teeth i' flower lip. 
 
 Shoo kept a stock o' queer cumplaints 
 
 As iyver mortal seed. 
 An' donn'd 'em on an' dofft 'em off. 
 
 Like tloas to suit hur need. 
 
 It wor a freet 'at furst browt on 
 
 That pain withaht a naam : 
 Shoo thinks hur heart's lowpt aht o' t'place. 
 
 An' moar nur hur thinks t'saam. 
 
 It adds, ye mind, aboon a bit 
 
 To other pains an' toils. 
 Bud nowt no sooiner brings it on 
 
 Nur t'tho^vts o' fotcliin t' coils. 
 
 Sum thinks 'at fowk 'at eyts like Sal 
 
 Is far moar flayed nur hurt ; 
 Eh ! barn ! a crater laid on reyt 
 
 Hes need o' some support. 
 
 Shoo tew'd, poar sowl, to breeten up. 
 
 An' tried, whotivver coom. 
 To cook hur chop an' keep hur meeals 
 
 O' summat warm i' t'room.
 
 26 t'creakin' gaat. 
 
 Poar Sam wor capt shoo grew so fat 
 
 On scarce a bite ur sup ; 
 Bless yo', them fellahs little knaws 
 
 Hah sorra blaws us up. 
 
 One day they fotcht him fro' his wark, 
 Thinkin' shoo' re bahn to dee. 
 
 He saw her fidge wi' hand an' fooit. 
 An' tui-n lip t' white o' fee. 
 
 Whol Sam wor roarin' in theer coom 
 A redish-noased owd dame, 
 
 'At hinted brandy browt fowk rahnd 
 When they'd sich bahts as thame. 
 
 An' soa wi' brandy Sarah sooin 
 Eeyt nicely rahnd wor browt ; 
 
 Ah Avish t'teetotelers could ha'e seen 
 The miracle it ro^vt. 
 
 Bet Bates may fling aht what shoo likes. 
 An' girn an' fleer an' scoff. 
 
 Bud it's that spooinful twice i' t'day 
 'At keeps that colic off. 
 
 Once on a time, at six o' t'morn. 
 
 As iwerybody knaws, 
 Wi' moarnful faas an' joyful heart 
 
 Sal Best went off to t'spaws. 
 
 Hur cough wor bad, hur lungs wor doin. 
 
 Hut liver worn away. 
 An' theer wor fowk 'at thowt an' said 
 
 Shoo'd 'ardly live a day.
 
 t'creakin' gaat. 27 
 
 Sam roared to see hur, as he tho\v1;, 
 
 Soa -woi'ii an' all bud goan. 
 An' axt a friend to let him knaw 
 
 Hah t'wife wor gettin' on. 
 
 When shoo'd been off a wick or soa, 
 
 A letter coom for Sam, 
 He read it, doubled t'neiv, an' hissed 
 
 What saandud like a " damn." 
 
 r t'deead o' t'neet a broker com'. 
 
 An' aht wi' t' traps he twined j 
 He didn't leave a stick behint 
 
 Exceptin' t'windah blind. 
 
 So Sam gat shut o' t'haasel gooids. 
 
 Paid off t' wife's debt for gin. 
 Then tuke dahn Sloper Loin wi' t' brass, 
 
 An's neer been heeard on sin'. 
 
 When Sal com' back shoo gate a keigh. 
 
 Bud when shoo oppened t'doar 
 Hur hoam hed vanisht, bud shoo fahnd 
 
 A letter laid o' t'flooar. 
 
 " Dear wife, — Tha'll feel when tha returns 
 A touch o' t'owd cumplaint ; 
 Bud as I've left a penny caak, 
 I'se nivver see tha want. 
 
 " I've awlus been a tewin chap — 
 We've nauther child nur chick. 
 An' yit, I think tha'U fynd it 'ard 
 To carry on a wick.
 
 28 t'creakin' gaat. 
 
 " AVi' thee, I've wark whol I can work. 
 An' t'warkhahse -when I can't; 
 Bud I'm for strivin' to divorce 
 That couple. Age an' "Want. 
 
 " That doncin wi' an officer I 
 
 I' t'ball-rahm awf undrest I 
 
 Proves tha's been diddlin' monny a year 
 Thy husband, Sammy Best."
 
 STAND UP, LADS, AN' LET'S HEV 
 A FEYT. 
 
 THE AE' S a deeal o' things wreng 'at we mean to mak' reyt. 
 So, dal it, stand up, lads, an' let's hev a feyt; 
 If we stick weel together an' keep up wer pluck. 
 Like a flee aht o' t' treacle, we'se fidge aht o' t'muck. 
 
 Tak' noatis, if iwer ye mean to be men, 
 T'furst battles an' t' hardest al be wi' yersen ; 
 When ye tussle for t'wage just allah iwry man 
 For his hoam an' his wife to due t'best 'at he can. 
 
 Diinnot strike below t'belt when ye' re manfully met, 
 Auther lick wi' fair feytin' ur tak' tul't ye' re bet, 
 We'se ne'er see mich betterness spring up i' t'land 
 Wol worker can thoil to tak' worker by t'hand. 
 
 Dimnot run after brass whol ye're blawn aht o' breeath, 
 Nur mak' life wi' unrest like a shuttle i' t'sheeath. 
 Let yer daywarks be navither to hard mar to long. 
 An' yer leisure be sweetened wi' music an' song. 
 
 Let's feyt for t'poar mothers 'at addles ther scran 
 By weyvin' fro' dayleet to dark like a man. 
 For a hoam lost an' dowly receives 'em at neet — 
 Ther husbands at t'aleass, ther childer i' t' street.
 
 30 STAND UP, LADS. 
 
 An' let's feyt for sweet hoams an' a seet o' green grass 
 Aht o' t' stink o' this sewage, an' brimstone, an' gas, 
 Wheer wer childer, let aht into t' sunshine an' fair. 
 May grow graceful i' body, an' healthy, an' fair. 
 
 Nut swarmin' i' ginnels awf naykt an' awf rotten. 
 Bleared imps aht o' t' witches o' Macbeth by Sattan : 
 " Dreams, dreams," says Old Turncog, " that Euskin's a flat," 
 Bud we've doin devil's wark 'at's as hard as all that. 
 
 Is labour an' skill — that's two paii-ts aht o' t'three — 
 To be hectored an' diddled by duffers like thee ? 
 Is a hundred poor fowk to go stinted an' bare 
 That a fooil may turn aht in a carriage an' pair ? 
 
 For wark-fowk i' cellars a grand thing this trade is. 
 Upheld an' bepraised by all Europe's fine ladies ; 
 Just nah, when poor France regged an' tattered an' bare is. 
 We're weyvin' silk lustres for t' harlots i' Paris. 
 
 Let trade's blessed martyr, St. Cobden the Holy, 
 Sing psalms o' thenksgivin' to Feshion an' Folly; 
 We sal lewk up for help to no Parliament men — 
 They're to threng, ivv'ry one on 'em, helpin' thersen. 
 
 For t' changes we're wantin' we willut long wait. 
 An' ye' re axt to due nowt nobbut get aht o' t'gate. 
 An' if pahr-loom an' spinnal lords says it's no goa 
 They'll get pawsed aht o' t'mule hoil by Odgers & Co.
 
 T'OWD PSALM TUNE. 
 
 SOME cowks warmed my knees wi' ther dull red heat 
 When I'd swallud my milk an' pobs^ 
 Soa tlois up to t' fender ah pooled my seeat 
 An' ah planted my fit on t'hobs. 
 
 Then leetin' my short black pipe, ah swung 
 
 Eeyt back i' my owd arm chair. 
 An' ah sat watchin' t'reek as it raze an' hung 
 
 Like a sperit i' t'midneet air. 
 
 Sister Mally an' t'barns wor asleep upstairs— 
 Thear wor peeass wi' that blatin' crew — 
 
 So ah smoked an' ah thowt o' my wasted years. 
 An' o' t'wark 'at wor yit to due. 
 
 As ah lewkt at this life an' at t'life to be. 
 
 Ah said to mysen, " Tha ass ! 
 Wi' comfort tha navither can live nur dee. 
 
 For tha's saved nauther sowl nm- brass." 
 
 Then spyin' owd Sattan astride o' t'clahd 
 
 'At wor hung under t'chamer flooar. 
 Ah doubled my neive an' said, " Hark tha, lad, 
 
 Ah'll be diddled wi' thee no mooar ;
 
 32 t'owd psalm tune. 
 
 " If my sins be like leead, an' like cork my purse, 
 Wah, thear's noab'dy bud thee to thenk ; 
 Bud when t' world's a wick owder, tha gernin' curse,, 
 I'se hev been boath to t'Church an' to t'Benk." 
 
 Then some minnits passed ovver me, sad an' dree. 
 An' my thowts grew as dark as t'neet. 
 
 When some drucken owd hals 'at hed been on t'spree 
 Com' singin' like mad up t' street. 
 
 Wi' ther hands an' ther fit they kept beatin' t'time 
 
 As ther arms into fair wor flung, 
 Ey ! an' t'words of a godless an' siUy rhyme 
 
 Tuv an owd psalm tune they sung. 
 
 Hay ! the times 'at ah've joined i' that grand owd air,. 
 When owd friends at my side wor seen. 
 
 When my life wor a sunshiny haliday. 
 An' this wizand owd world wor green. 
 
 r fleet of a sun 'at hes long sin' set 
 
 Ah see f chapel on Primrose Brah, 
 An' what friends on a Sabbath day theer hes met 
 
 'At for iwer is pairted nah. 
 
 They come an' they smUe an' away they pass. 
 
 Bud they awlus leave one i' view — 
 A poar little fatherless country lass, 
 
 'At once sat i' f singers' pew. 
 
 One calm summer neet as we sang f last hymn 
 
 Shoo lewkt i' my faas reyt hard ; 
 An' her lips wor white an' her een wor dim 
 
 When ah joined her i' f chapel yard.
 
 t'owd psalm tune. 33 
 
 An' shoo said to ma, " Ben, ah feel faint an' ill, 
 
 Tha mun gie ma thy arm, owd lad ; " 
 An' shoo whispered some words 'at ah think on still. 
 
 For they made ma reyt prahd and dlad. 
 
 Soa ah helpt her wi' care ovver rail an' stile, 
 
 Whol we gate tuv her'gardin dooar. 
 Then shoo held ma by t'hand sich a long, long while — 
 
 An' ah saw her alive no moar. 
 
 Well, tliis world gets as cowd an' as hard as steel. 
 
 An' at times ah feel fain shoo's deead. 
 For shoo'd hard to slave at her loom an' wheel 
 
 For a morsil o' honist breead. 
 
 Moar nur twenty year shoo's been deead an' goan. 
 
 Bud wheeriwer ma lot may be. 
 When t'hahse is all wisht an' ah'm left aloan. 
 
 Shoo awlus comes back to me. 
 
 Ah've wished 'at ah'd tell'd her by t'gardin dooar 
 
 Hah deep wor my love an' trew. 
 For her friends, poor lass, they wor fehw an' pooar — 
 
 Bud no matter, ah think shoo knew. 
 
 Hay ! if iwer ah get to yond place aboon, 
 
 Wheer ah long i' ma heart to be. 
 Just to hear her once moar sing that owd psalm tune 
 
 Al be heaven of itseln to me.
 
 T'LANCASHIRE FAMINE. 
 
 " "VTAY weyver/' ah said, " thau ah pity thy doom, 
 •^' Ah've a wife an' ten childer i' one little room. 
 An' t'owd lass, as tha sees, has another i' t'loom ; 
 
 Ah really can spare nowt to-day." 
 Soa Lanky turned aht wi' a tear in his ee. 
 An' he bate his low lip in a way, d'ye see, 
 'At went like a knife thru ahr Margrit an' me ; 
 
 Lord help him — ah hoap he can pray. 
 
 Ah wor tossed like a driinkun man's noddle all t'neet. 
 For I saw i' my dreams sich a pitiful seet, 
 Qf hahsuz as cowd an' as empty as t' street, 
 
 Wi' little things tlammin' o' t' floor ; 
 Ah wor roai'in' at t'seet on't an' dryin' my noas, 
 "When an angil com up to ma, so ah suppoas. 
 For he'd wings on his back an' wor donn'd i' white cloas. 
 
 An' they've awlus corned that way afoar. 
 
 He lewked at me kindly, an' whispered, " Alas ! 
 Ah know tha't ta poor to gie t'poor onny brass j 
 Bud it's thowt up aboon 'at a man o' thy class 
 
 Owt to sing 'em a ditty at least." 
 " Just the ticket," ah answered, " an' hearken ye, squire. 
 If ye' 11 come dahn some eeuiin' an' sit by my fire. 
 Ye sal guide as ya like boath ma voice an' ma lyre. 
 
 An' then some'dy 'at's pinin' sal feeast."
 
 t'lancashire famine. 35 
 
 Soa t'next eemin' when t'work-a-day racket wor still. 
 
 All beckoned him dahn wi' a Avave o' my quill. 
 
 An' ah shaati;d aht, " Michael, we'll frame, if ta vn\l, 
 
 O' that seng 'at tha'rt bahn to inspire." 
 Bud he said when he com he mud hurry up t' stairs 
 Wi' a tlois-written bundil o' Pharisees' prayers. 
 Ah wor capt 'at an angil ud tew wi' sich wares. 
 
 Bud they saved 'em, he said, to leet t'fire. 
 
 Says Michael, " Draw pen an' ink sketches ageean 
 
 O' yond famishin' bodies, despairin' an' leean. 
 
 An' then ax Yorkshur chaps what the engmond they meean 
 
 To wear hearts i' ther bellies like stoans ? 
 They shine as they're gettin' ther bacca an' ale. 
 An' drahndin' wi' music yond Lancashire wail, 
 Whol famine, that wild beast wi' tooith an' wi' nail, 
 
 Clawks t' flesh off a brother's poar boans. 
 
 . ^'Theer's t'fathur heart-brocken wi' t'world an' its strife. 
 That, turnin' away fro' his childer an' t'wife, 
 Lewks madly abaht for a roap or a knife 
 
 To end an existence so cursed. 
 Theer's t'muther, 'at dladly wod dee if shoo mud. 
 For vainly shoo's lewkt tuv her brethren for food. 
 Bud shoo feels, thaw her babby is saukin' her blood, 
 'At shoo cannot, an' miinnot, dee t' first." 
 
 As t' angil tuke wing ah said " Fynd, if ya can, 
 
 A cui-ly-wigged, puddin'-cheekt, double-chinn'd man. 
 
 He wor called by his friends an' his enemies ' Dan,' 
 
 An' a shamrock he wears for a badge ; 
 He could squease aht o' t' Irish his thahsands a-year — 
 An' if t'Pope an' his Cardinals hes him up theer. 
 Cut t'tail off a comet an' swing him dahn here. 
 
 For O'Connell's a jewel to cadge."
 
 86 
 
 T LANCASHIRE FAMINE. 
 
 Dan ventered on t'jonrney althau rayther risky. 
 Ah varry sooin felt a strong flavoiu- o' whisky. 
 An' t'pen i' my fingers grew suddenly frisky. 
 As he wrote tuv his brethren i' Yorks : — 
 " Bad cess to ye braakan the resht of a saint ! 
 Is it nothing to you this sad outcry of want ? 
 Ye're thinkin', may be, that ye won't, an' ye can't. 
 Lose the use o' your knives an' your forks. 
 
 " They are starvan beyant there, thrue sons of the sod. 
 Just as dear as youi'selves to our priests an' ther God, 
 Whol blaggards like you that should lighten therUoad, 
 
 Why, ye're aytan an' drinkan the full o' ye. 
 Ye shames ov Ould Ireland, ye'U alther, ah'U bet, 
 Ye'll be handy, my boys, an' ye'll pay off this debt. 
 Or the son-a a spoonful o' traycle ye'll get 
 
 Wid the brimstone ah'll casht o'er the whole o' ye." 
 
 Soa, English or Irish, ye'll dew what ye can 
 Tard gettin' theas warkfowk a maathful o' scran ; 
 Kemember, when givin', 'at he's the trew man 
 
 'At pinches to give tuv another. 
 Owd England ul be merry England indeed, 
 "When love gets ta strong for boath country an' creed. 
 An' ivry poar man tuv a fellah i' need 
 
 Behaves like a man an' a brother.
 
 OWD MOXY. 
 
 OWD Moxy rowt hard for liis morsil o' breead. 
 An' ta keep up Ms courage he'd sing, 
 Thau Time wi' his scythe hed maun t'crop on his eead. 
 An' then ptifft it away wi' his wing. 
 
 Eeyt slavish his labour an' little his wage. 
 
 His path tuv his grave wor bud rough. 
 Poor livin' an' 'ardships, a deal moar nur age, 
 
 Hed swealed dahn his cannal to t'snuff. 
 
 One cowd winter morn, as he crept aht o' bed, 
 
 T'owd waller felt dizzy an' soar : — 
 "Come, frame us some breykfast, Owd Duckfooit," 
 he said, 
 
 " An' ah'll finish yond fence up at t'moor ; 
 
 " Al tew like a brick wi' my hammer an' mawl. 
 An' ah'll bring hoam my honey to t'hive. 
 
 An' ah'll pay t'bit o' rent an' wer shop-score an' all. 
 An' ah'll dee aht o' debt if ah live." 
 
 Soa Peg made his pobs an' then futtered abaht. 
 
 An' temni'd him his tea into t'can. 
 Then teed up some bacon an' breead in a claht. 
 
 Fur dearly shoo liked her owd man.
 
 38 OWD MOXY. 
 
 Then Moxy set aht on his wearisome way, 
 Wadin' bravely thru t'snaw broth i' t'dark ; 
 ' It's a pity when fellahs at's wakely an' grey 
 Hes ta walk for a mile to ther wark. 
 
 Bud summat that mornin' made Moxy turn back, 
 Thau he 'ardly knew what it could meean, 
 
 Soa cudlin' Owd Peggy he gave her a smack. 
 An* then startud fur t'common ageean. 
 
 All t'day a wild hurrikin wuther'd thru t'glen. 
 An' then rusht like a fiend up to t'heeath ; 
 
 An' as Peggy sat knittin' shoo sed tuv hersen 
 " Aw dear ! he'll be starruv'd to t'deeath." 
 
 An' shoo felt all that day as shoo'd ne'er felt afoar,. 
 
 An' shoo dreeadud yit hungar'd for neet ; 
 WTien harknin' an' tremlin' shoo eeard abaht t'doar- 
 
 A mutterin' an' shufflin' o' feet. 
 
 Five minits at after, Owd Peg, on her knees, 
 
 "Wor kussin' a foreead like stoan ; 
 An' to t'men at stood by her wi' tears i' ther ees, 
 
 yhoo sed, " Goa, lads, an' leave nja aloan." 
 
 When they streytened his body, all ready for t'kist. 
 It wor seen at he'd thowt of his plan. 
 
 For t' shop-score an' t'rent wor safe lockt in his fist, 
 Soa he deed aht o' debt, like a man. 
 
 i
 
 POLL BLOSSOM. 
 
 T3OLL Blossom, bonny blue-eed Poll, 
 
 So nimal, streyt, an' tall, 
 Ye'd think, to see her on her pins, 
 Shoo'd nivver knaw a fall. 
 
 Her parents, when they com to t'tahn, 
 
 Wor varry, varry poor ; 
 'Twor said 'at t'mice i' t'hahse tuke off. 
 
 An' ne'er com' back na moar. 
 
 Her mother hel^jt t'owd wives ta wesh. 
 An' brew ther stroakes o' malt ; 
 
 Her father, wi' a one-wheeled cart. 
 Cried — " Weight for weight for salt." 
 
 A careful, scrapin' pair they wor. 
 As e'er samm'd t'muck off t'road. 
 
 An' t' world agreed ta hoin um boath. 
 As schooil-lads hoins a toad. 
 
 Says Susy, " Times is van-y hard. 
 
 An' 'tisn't mich tha arns, 
 Ah'U boil Peg's dishclaht wi' some earbs. 
 
 An' mak' a mess for t' barns."
 
 40 POLL BLOSSOM. 
 
 Peg's husLand rowt at t'ironwarks. 
 
 An' lots o' meyt shoo gat. 
 Her mucky dishclaht, Susy said, 
 
 Wor worth it's weight i' fat. 
 
 Two suet dumplins tue shoo made. 
 
 An' popt um into t'pan ; 
 Says shoo, " They're just the Tarry thing 
 
 For me an' my owd man." 
 
 Soa t'deep^owd lass at dinner-time. 
 Cried, " Nah then. Poll an' Dick, 
 
 Whichivver s wallahs t'moast o' t'thin 
 Sal hev t'bigg'st share o' t'thick." 
 
 Then t' greedy beggars fell ta wark. 
 An' gate so blawn wi' t'broth, 
 
 Whol t'seet o' t' dumplins turned um sick, 
 Soa t'owd uns gate um both. 
 
 Wi' ways like thease they carried on 
 
 Thru gooid report an' ill, 
 T'owd father hawked, t'owd mother charred. 
 
 An' Polly went to t'miU. 
 
 Ther nabors thoAvt all t' brass they hed 
 
 Wod 'ardly crush a lahse. 
 When lo ! they bowt some beeldin' gi'ahnd 
 
 An' belt thersens a hahse. 
 
 This done, Mins Blossom all at once 
 
 Bethowt her who shoo wor. 
 Went up five storeys in a day. 
 
 An' capt boath rich an' poor.
 
 POLL BLOSSOM. 41 
 
 An' thaw shoo scarce knew hah to spell, 
 
 Nur hah to write a scrawk. 
 Shoo donn'd like one o' t'better soart. 
 
 An' tried to mock ther talk. 
 
 Says one, " This world gets near its end. 
 
 We see some seets, by t'meg, 
 A milner wi' a parasol, 
 
 A veil, an' velvet beg." 
 
 One day Bet Turpin met wi' Poll, 
 
 An' caU'd aht, " How d'ye do ? " 
 Poll raised her eebrees tuv her hair. 
 
 An' said, " Pray who are you ? " 
 
 " Ah'm t'lass," said Bet, wi' een like fire, 
 
 -tA.n' face a furnace red, 
 " 'At wesht all t'shift ta bed i' t'world, 
 Whol ta laid nakt i' bed." 
 
 " Hay, whoo ! " cried aht a lad 'at eeard 
 
 Whot Bet said in her tift, 
 " Hay, whoo ! tha laid stark nakt i' bed 
 
 Whol Betty wesht thy shift ! " 
 
 Five-score o' barns, let loose fro' t'skooil, 
 
 Wor laakin aU abaht : 
 They left ther whips an' tops an' taws. 
 
 An' joined i' t'hal an' shaat. 
 
 Poor Polly, like a hunted hare, 
 
 Prickt ears an' off shoo went. 
 An' off went five-score skrikin' imps 
 
 Like yowlin' haunds on t' scent.
 
 42 POLL BLOSSOM. 
 
 Ther tonts an' yells wi' rage an' shame 
 So tenged an' maddened Poll, 
 
 Shoo struke at t' first wi' all her meet. 
 An' mesht her parasol. 
 
 Bud t 'second time shoo tuke to t'road, 
 
 A little nail ur peg- 
 Stuck aht o' t'wall 'at shoo'd to pass 
 
 An' clickt her velvit beg. 
 
 Her sweetheart's letters thear wor stowed. 
 An' things shoo greeatly stored. 
 
 So when shoo tiu-ned an' saw 'twor goau 
 Shoo stude stock still an' roared. 
 
 Just then t'young lad shoo'd fell'd afoar. 
 An' left o' t'plat awf deead, ^ 
 
 Com up wi' sink muck in his hand 
 An' flung it 'at her eead. 
 
 Then Poll went at him, tooith an' nail. 
 An' seazed an' pesht him dahn. 
 
 Bud as he fell to t'gruud he rave 
 Her bran new muslin gahn. 
 
 Then two police com up an' said, 
 " What's all this row abaht ? " 
 
 For answer t' five-score barns or moar 
 Set up another shaat : — 
 
 " That's her 'at laid stark nakt i' bed 
 Whol Betty wcsht her shift." 
 T'owd ci-y hed 'ardly weel begun 
 When Poll thowt fit to skift.
 
 POLL BLOSSOM. 4S 
 
 Away shoo wentj an' as shoo flew 
 
 Her veil went wp behynd. 
 An' lapi^in' rahnd a barber's powl 
 
 Wor left to flap i' t'wind. 
 
 When t'lass 'ad spent her strength an' breath 
 
 Shoo turned her head abaht. 
 An' slippin' off o' t'cawsa edge 
 
 Shoo put her enkle aht. 
 
 Lost, lopj)ard, bleedin', regg'd, an' worn, 
 
 T'fine lady laid i' t'dyke, 
 Wi' two policemen shaatin' aht 
 
 " Ger up, ye druckan tyke." 
 
 Bud Poll laid still, so one o' t'two 
 
 Caar'd dahn an' raised her eead. 
 Then lewkin t'other streyt i' t'faas. 
 
 He said, " Igow, shoe's deead." 
 
 Then t'other caar'd him dahn, an' said, 
 
 " Yes, yes, she don't respire ; " 
 Bud Poll tuke that a bat o' t' chops. 
 
 An' said, " Shut up, ya liar ! " 
 
 Wi' that boath t'bltiecoits seazed her arms. 
 An' rave her aht o' t'muck ; 
 "Ah wish," said one, " 'at we coiild get 
 A seek cart or a truck." 
 
 A joiner in a shop aboon. 
 
 Just near eniff to hear. 
 Called aht to t'two poleece, an' said, 
 
 " Theer's my hand-barra theer."
 
 44 POLL BLOSSOM. 
 
 When all wor square they samm'd up Poll, 
 An' planted her on t'barra ; 
 " We'll tak' up t' middle road," they said, 
 " For t'cawsa's ower narra." 
 
 " Wha, nah, tha lukes just like thysen ! " 
 Cried aht a key-legg'd man, 
 
 " It's nobbud t'best o' t'better soart 
 'At uses a sedan." 
 
 " For t'love o' mercy tak' ma hoam," 
 
 Said Poll to t'two poleece ; 
 " If ye'U go faster ye sal hev 
 
 A gooid awf-crahn a-piece." 
 
 "Here, mak' a whiplesh o' thy veil," 
 Said t'same young chap to Poll, 
 
 " An' prod thy two-legg'd cattle on 
 Wi' t'heft o' t'parasol." 
 
 At last they reytcht her fathur's hahse — 
 
 Her fathur oppen'd t'doar — 
 When ivvry woman, man, an' barn 
 
 Set up a hay-bay moar. 
 
 " Aw Poll," they cried, " when next tha rides 
 I' sitch a way as this. 
 If tha neglects to let us knaw 
 Wese tak' it much amiss." 
 
 Beloved brethren, ye may learn. 
 Fro' this poor girl's distress. 
 
 The sad effects o' worldly pride 
 An' vanity i' drees.
 
 NANNIE'S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 WELL, t' day's getten ower ageean ; 
 Days wor nivver so long an' so dree ! 
 Ah cannot tell what it can meean, 
 
 Nur what can be t' matter wi' me. 
 Ah ne'er felt so loanly afoar. 
 
 All t' world seems fair browt tuv a stand ; 
 So on Sunday ah oppen'd t' clock doar. 
 An' ah pusht forrad t'time wi' my hand. 
 
 He's lived wi' us nah for a year. 
 
 That queerist an' dumbist o' men. 
 Bud he's goan, an' ah cannot tell wheer. 
 
 An ' he'll come ageean — noab'dy knaws when. 
 Ah wonder what moved him at dawn 
 
 To spring up an' leet ma my fire. 
 He'd plenty o' work of his awn. 
 
 An' moar nur eniff for his hire. 
 
 Then to think on't it's sich an a thing. 
 
 That yon cahs iw'ry eemin' wor browt 
 Fro' t'Woodfield an' t'Holm an' t'Far Ing, 
 
 An' ah'd nivver once gien it a tl owt. 
 Yond footman's some fea'ful nice hair. 
 
 He's clean an' lewks spicy to fee, 
 A chap to show off wi' at t'fau'. 
 
 Bud he'd ncan hae doin that mich for me.
 
 46 Nannie's soliloquy. 
 
 When ah set off to t'party at t'Hall, 
 
 Ah turned as ah nipt off at t'neuk j 
 Poor Bill ! he wor leyned ageean tVall, 
 
 An' he lewkt sich a yonderly lewk. 
 Lots o' trinkets that footman hes gien. 
 
 An' poor Bill could ware nowt on a lass. 
 Bud ah see nah thru t' tears o' my een 
 
 'At his kindness wor better nur brass. 
 
 Ah sal murder that footman enah ! 
 
 He's getten on rayther ta fast ; 
 Good laws ! if he'd milked me a cah 
 
 Theer's no knawin' what he'd hae assd. 
 Well, he's goan, an' my heart's sad an' soar. 
 
 Bud ah'U up an' ah'U frame o' some wark. 
 An' ah'll think o' that feUah no moar — 
 
 Now, nauther i' t'dayleet nur t'dark. 
 
 StiU ah think it ud 'ardly be reyt 
 
 To banish clean aht o' my mind 
 A lad that, be day or be neet, 
 
 Wor awlus so humble an' kind. 
 A chap ah could ne'er understand. 
 
 All deeds, bud no tattle nur fuss. 
 When he left he ne'er tuke ma by t'haud. 
 
 Nor offered to gie ma a kuss ; 
 
 Bud afoar he gat reyt aht o' t'seet 
 
 He lifted his sleeve tuv his ee, 
 An' ah'd give a year's wages to-neet 
 
 To be suar he wor thinkin' o' me. 
 Heigh up ! an' heigh ho ! an' aw dear ! 
 
 My noddle's just ready to crack ! 
 Ah've wished, lad, tha'd nivver com'd here, 
 
 Yit ah'm flayed 'at tha'll nivver come back.
 
 BILL'S ANSWER. 
 
 QOA tha's -wished 'at ah'd niwer com'd here, 
 ■^ Yit tha'rt flayed ah sal niwer come back ; 
 Hay ! Nan, lass, this awf haar ur near 
 Ah've been planted a-back o' this stack. 
 
 Yis, he com up as leet as a burd. 
 That queerist an' dumbist o' men. 
 
 An' what's better, he's eeard iw'ry word 
 O' that talk 'at tha's hed wi' thysen ! 
 
 Dunnot lowp like a hare off o' t'flooar. 
 
 Nut frame to mak' off in a fuss, 
 Tak' warnin' — ah's tell tha no moar — 
 
 If ta fidges ah'U gie tha a kuss. 
 
 Ah've summat to say, an' ah'll say't. 
 Let tha fitter an' fling as ta will. 
 
 An' it happen ul pay tha to wait 
 Just to hear a poor fellah like Bill. 
 
 Ah've covered ten mile wi' my hoof. 
 Just to see tha an' speyk to tha here. 
 
 An' ah hoap that al stand as a proof 
 'At ah doant come to scoff or to fleer.
 
 48 bill's answer. 
 
 Ah'm nut bahn to offer tha. Nan, 
 
 A ribbin, a brooch, or a net. 
 Bud the heart of a true-hearted man — 
 
 Wah, it's thine aht an' aht if tha'll hae't. 
 
 Witta come, lass, an' sweeten my cup, 
 Witta say we mun niwer moar pairt. 
 
 An' as long as a bite an' a sup 
 
 Can be won wi' 'ard workin' we'll share' t ? 
 
 An' to t'end o' this wearisome strife, 
 I' t'front on tha awlus ah'll he. 
 
 To receive i' this battle o' life 
 The blaws 'ats intended for thee. 
 
 Tha's seen, lass, hah hardly ah've rowt. 
 An' tha's said ah'd no friends an' no^brass, 
 
 Yit tha liked ma noa less when tha thowt 
 'At poor Will coidd spend nowt on his lass. 
 
 Bud a thing 'at ah've niwer made knawn, 
 To thee. Nan, ah'm bahn to declare : 
 
 My father's a farm ov his awn. 
 
 An' Bill's boath his son an' his heir. 
 
 God bless my young burd in her nest, 
 Shoo's dumb, for shoo's quite ovverfaccd, 
 
 Soa shoo berries her eead i' my breast. 
 An' shoo tightens her clasp o' my waist. 
 
 Well, a hoamstead is all varry weel. 
 Bud we rate it at moar nur it's worth ; 
 
 Aw Nan, lass, this minnit ah feel 
 It's love *ats wer riches on earth.
 
 T'WEYYER'S DEEATH. 
 
 A W, Mary, my heart's dlad an' fain 
 ■^^ Once moar to see t' shine o' thy ee, 
 I' darkness an' weakness an' pain 
 
 Ah've watched an' ah've waited for thee. 
 Shoo' 11 snarly be comin', ah said. 
 
 If it be but to bowster my eead. 
 It wor nobbud for this 'at ah stayed 
 
 Soa long ameng t'deetn' an' t'deead. 
 
 Ah've leng'd, whol ah 'ardly could bide. 
 
 To tell tha what's passin' within. 
 Bud nah when ta't set by my side 
 
 Ah cannot tell hah to begin. 
 Ah mud just as weel tell tha my case : 
 
 Ah've a doctor, a nurse, an' all that. 
 Bud — don't let me breathe i' thy face — 
 
 All ther skill an' ther care is ta lat. 
 
 Aw, Mary, as dear as my life 
 
 Ah've loved tha this monny a year. 
 If ah ne'er tried to mak' tha my wife 
 
 'Twor becos that ah felt tha so dear. 
 An' ah've thowt 'at tha's liked me as weel. 
 
 An' that clasp o' thy hand mak's it knawn, 
 Soa — lat as it is, lass — ah feel 
 
 That i' t'face o' two worlds tha"i-t my awn. 
 E
 
 50 t'weyver's deeath. 
 
 Thau here ah wor nivver nowt worth, 
 
 An's a pauper, as hard as ah've striven, 
 Yit as suar as ah've loved tha on earth 
 
 So suar ah sal love tha i' heaven. 
 Dus ta hear that queer saand i' my chest ? 
 
 It's a sign 'at life's clock's bahn to stand ; 
 Let's leyn my poor eead on thy breast. 
 
 An' dunnot leave off o' my hand. 
 
 I s'd a liked tha ta sing ma that hymn. 
 
 That sweet hymn tha sung ma t'last May ; 
 Bud my seet's growin' claady an' dim. 
 
 An' all things is fadin' away. 
 Tit still ah can see thy dear face. 
 
 As it sinks like a sun aht o' t'seet j 
 Bud a glory is fillin' this place. 
 
 So that t'shaddahs lewks rosy an' breet. 
 
 To see what ah see tha'd be charmed — 
 
 The fields wheer i' childhood we trod ; 
 An' my sowl is all leetud an' warmed 
 
 With the love an' the presence of God. 
 All's peaceful an' fresh as the morn. 
 
 All faces seems fain 'at ah've come. 
 An' softly an' sweetly aboon 
 
 Some angel plays " Home, home, sweet home. 
 
 Ah dreamed that sore sorras ah'd knawn. 
 
 That my lot wor ta hunger an' weep. 
 Bud ah see nah, by fleet o' this dawn. 
 
 That my life's been a feverish sleep. 
 Ah'm near it — that bewtiful land, 
 
 Wheer sweeat drops an' tears nivver fall, 
 Wheer brother tak's brother by t'hand. 
 
 An' the Lor 1 like a sun shines on all.
 
 THE OLD MAN'S LAST SOLILOQUY. 
 
 "T^OE me throughout th' unchanging year 
 -■- The sky is dark^ the sun is cold. 
 All things seem always dead and sere. 
 
 For Spring-time comes not to the old j 
 Wife, sister, daughter — none is near. 
 
 But strangers crowd my haunts, and say, 
 ■" Thou hast no work, no portion here. 
 
 Thy world is passed away." 
 
 All things are cold and dumb — the grove 
 
 Is silent, hushed the winds and streams. 
 And voices, all whose tones were love. 
 
 Are echoes only heard in dreams. 
 Shadows, alas ! are all I own ; 
 
 But airy shapes around me come. 
 And dear ones gather, one by one. 
 
 Within my ruined home. 
 
 Old scenes, old faces dear and kind. 
 
 Have left me in the dark alone ; 
 Love, friendship, labour, lie behind ; 
 
 Before, the near but dim unknown. 
 This world, so dark and cold alway. 
 
 Fast disappears in utter night. 
 But thro' its darkness comes a ray 
 
 Of strange unearthly light.
 
 62 THE OLD man's LAST SOLILOQUY, 
 
 Lo ! faintly, and as yet afar. 
 
 Dim shapes and flitting glories swim. 
 And in the solemn hush I hear 
 
 The song of star-crowned cherubim ; 
 Nearer and nearer still they come. 
 
 While beams, shot down by Mercy, show 
 The children that made glad my home — 
 
 They call me, and I go.
 
 THE SISTER OF MERCY. 
 
 THE voice that can so sweetly sing 
 Hath counsels for the evil hour. 
 Blest words ! that to the spirit bring 
 
 Health, wisdom, fortitude, and power ; 
 Her heart's pure love, come woe or weal. 
 Were more than all the world is worth, 
 A balm that well might soothe or heal 
 All sorrow known on earth. 
 
 She near the sick bed oft is seen. 
 
 Her hands the fatherless have clad ; 
 Yet the world marvels at her mien — 
 
 Unwed, yet hopeful ; lone, yet glad. 
 Poor homeless dying slaves of lust 
 
 She sought and healed, and kept them whole. 
 Till from the loathed polluted dust 
 
 TJpsprang the stainless soul. 
 
 Plain is her garb, and coarse her fare. 
 
 Yet humbled wealth in vain hath wooed j 
 Even genius may not hope to share 
 
 That maiden's holy solitude. 
 And know ye why the good and brave 
 
 So vainly sought their worth to prove ? 
 There is an unforgotten grave. 
 
 Where lies her buried love.
 
 54 THE SISTER OF MERCY. 
 
 Oft in tho still and happy niglit 
 
 He comes — the piu-e, the glorified — 
 He comes with heavenly love and light 
 
 To cheer his unfor gotten bride. 
 Bright grows the hope, and strong the faith,. 
 
 The faith that sees the world to come. 
 Her spii-it leaps the gulf of death 
 
 And feels the peace of home. 
 
 The low, sweet voice is heard again. 
 
 Her head is on his bosom laid. 
 His lips but touch her brow, and then 
 
 She wakens — weeping, comforted. 
 Not vainly, then, the night and day 
 
 To holy cares and toils are given. 
 Since labours, poor and mean as they. 
 
 Brought down that smile from heaven..
 
 NIGHT VISIONS. 
 
 SWEET are the long hours of the solemn night. 
 That bring the peace that hovers o'er the dead. 
 For scenes, illumined by no earthly light. 
 
 Else in the chaos round the pillowed head j 
 The Eden world my sinless childhood knew 
 Springs from the grave of time to bless my view. 
 
 The soft warm wind is scented with the breath 
 Of flowers that perished in my babyhood. 
 
 The melody of voices hushed in death 
 Ee-echoes merrily thro' vale and wood ; 
 
 My home, my first home, seen thro' gushing tears. 
 
 Shines in the sun of long-departed years. 
 
 Beside our cottage stands the ancient oak. 
 O'er which we mourned as for a father slain. 
 
 And aU uninjured by the woodman's stroke 
 Spreads its paternal arms and lives again j 
 
 And there beneath its boughs sits many a form 
 
 Long since consigned to darkness and the worm. 
 
 But where is she, the glory of my youth. 
 Whose absence made the crowd a solitude ? 
 
 Life had no ills when she was near to soothe — 
 The innocent ! the beautiful ! the good ! 
 
 Oh, joy, joy, joy ! she comes onc9 more to bless ; 
 
 Let silence, poor dumb harp, my bliss express.
 
 56 NIGHT VISIONS. 
 
 Cherubic lore with haloes girds her brow. 
 But all the seraph fills her pitying eyes. 
 
 And warnings, given in whispers sweet and low. 
 Fall on my eai-s like music from the skies ; 
 
 Her tears I see, her trembling hand I feel — 
 
 Angel of light ! I know thou lov'st me stiU. 
 
 'Tis gone ! but ere the vision passed away 
 Her finger pointed to her home above ; 
 
 And looks, than words more melting, seemed to say 
 That sin alone can sever those who love. 
 
 And that our hearts but tasted here below 
 
 The heaven that goodness may for ever know. 
 
 Old home, old scenes, I seek — I haunt ye yet, 
 Tho' there sad changes me and mine befell, 
 
 Tho' strangers there in me a stranger meet. 
 There is no place on earth I love so well. 
 
 Forget not, oh my soul, in dreams of pride 
 
 Or vain pui-suits, who there have lived and died.
 
 HUMAN PROGRESS. 
 
 To man, the naked, impotent, were given 
 Covu'age and skill — the two best gifts of heaven ; 
 With bolder front he then began to roam. 
 Dislodged the wild beast, and possessed his home. 
 Struck by his club, the gnashing panther died. 
 And clothed the victor with his princely hide ; 
 The lion, growling o'er his fleecy prey. 
 Awed by his bvu-ning eye- ball, slunk away; 
 Caught in his flying noose, the affrighted horse 
 Kesigned to him his swiftness and his force. 
 At length the furnace roared and raged and glowed. 
 Till from its fii-es the spade and ploughshare flowed 
 Then melancholy wastes, by laboiu- tilled. 
 Put forth the rose and, robed in beauty, smiled. 
 
 On the sea shore his straining eyes surveyed 
 Far distant lands in brighter hues arrayed. 
 He dares the dangerous and the doubtful path. 
 Launches the bark,- and mocks the ocean's wrath. 
 Nursed for the battle — born to be supreme — 
 He wars with all things — all things war with him. 
 
 At last the sage, with holy triumph fraught. 
 Grasps in his hand imperishable thought ;
 
 58 HUMAN PROGRESS. 
 
 Eternal voices whispered from the grave. 
 And age to age its treasured wisdom gave. 
 Victorious man, with unabated breath. 
 Lives thro' all time to scoff at baffled Death. 
 
 Fraught with the wisdom of unnumbered years. 
 See what a halo round his brow appears ; 
 On proud dominion's airy height he stands. 
 Holding the reins of nature in his hands. 
 He bids the breezes toil, the ocean waves 
 His burdens bear like meek and conquered slaves y 
 Sublime inventions teach his soul to slight 
 The eagle's swiftness and the lion's might. 
 
 Woes, wants, and ills, since earth's primeval hour. 
 Have but matured intelligence and power; 
 Man from each bitter wrings some priceless sweet — 
 From suffering, patience, wisdom from defeat. 
 From wants ingenious thought, from effort force. 
 Greatness from sorrow, glory from the curse. 
 
 Each flower of joy, that time and being cheers. 
 Was won from thorns, and nursed with sweat and tears ; 
 Laws, arts, religion — all things great or good 
 Were bom in anguish and baptised in blood. 
 Strengthened with strife, and dignified with woes, 
 Man to the stature of the angel grows.
 
 A 
 
 T'SPICY MAN. 
 
 TWO month sin' ur rnoar, thear cooui 
 To lodge wi' Widda Blan 
 
 A fella, known to t'lads abaht 
 By t'nanie o' t' Spicy Man. 
 
 A grander, spiffer-lewkin' chap 
 'Twor ne'er ynr luck to meet ; 
 
 He lewkt just like a gentleman 
 'At awned boath sides o' t' street. 
 
 A white hat trimmed wi' crape he ware. 
 
 An' velvet-collared coit. 
 An' walked, bigow, as stiff an' streyt 
 
 As if he'd swallud t'poyt. 
 
 His hair hung dahn like rattan tails 
 
 Below his shiny hat. 
 An' spraatud aht fro' t'ovver lip 
 
 I' t'manner of a cat. 
 
 Gowld rings an' studs an' walkin' cane. 
 An' watchguard crossin' t' breast. 
 
 Set off this f urst o' gentlemen 
 I' t'first o' t'feshun drest.
 
 CO t'spicy man. 
 
 T'owd wives come alit o' t'hahse to gloar 
 At t'man an' t'duds an' t' stick. 
 
 An' childer threng i' mischief cut 
 As if they'd spied ov/d Nick. 
 
 Poor beggars mungin' cowd pottate, 
 Ur singin' sengs i' t' street. 
 
 Nipt inta ginnels, and wor dumb 
 AVhol he gate aht o' t'seet. 
 
 Young lasses tluthered rahnd him oft 
 
 To hear his sawvj blab. 
 An' cabmen touched ther greasy hats 
 
 An' cried aht, " Cab, sir, cab ? " 
 
 Bud whot he wor, or whot he did, 
 Capt t'moast o' t'fowks abaht j 
 
 T'schooilmaister tried by t'rewl o' three. 
 Bud couldn't mak' it aht. 
 
 They axt t'owd sowger what he thowt; 
 
 T'owd sowger gav' a groan. 
 An' said at thame 'at kept a shop 
 
 Wod freat when he wor goan. 
 
 Bet Backbite called him t'markit quack. 
 
 An' said 'at onny day 
 Shoo'd bet a crahn he'd popt an' drunk 
 
 His tapeworms an' his tray. 
 
 T'owd Quakeriss i' t'koil skep hat, 
 
 'At lived i' Dobson Coart 
 An' sell'd ut moofins, set him dahn 
 
 For one o' t' better soart.
 
 t'spicy man. 61 
 
 Some said 'at he'd a nunk i' t'East, 
 
 A dried-iip wizzand tyke, 
 'At wiped his noas o' five-pund noates 
 
 Then flung um into t'dyke. 
 
 Then theer wor gurt istaats i' t'Sahth 
 
 Belongin' t'Heir at Law, 
 An' he wor t'chap if reyt wor doin. 
 
 An' that he'd let um knaw. 
 
 He nobbud wantid twenty pahnd 
 
 To put i' t' lawyer's hand. 
 An' then he tlaimed the hoal consarn — 
 
 Coil, timber, hahse an' land. 
 
 Sal Kitchin popt her tlock'an' drawers. 
 
 An' seU'd up knife an' fork. 
 To put him on whol t' uncle deed. 
 
 Or t'case come on at York. 
 
 Soa t' Spicy Man did varry weel 
 
 For near hand awf a yeax". 
 He milked the simple, laid i' bed. 
 
 An' laughed fro' ear to ear. 
 
 At times he'd paddle up an' dahn 
 
 Wi' papers in his paw. 
 Letters fro' t' Indies sealed wi' black. 
 
 Or parchment deeds o' law. 
 
 But t'peacock stript o' feathers lewks 
 
 No better niu- a toad. 
 An' theer' s an end to t'breetist"day, 
 
 A turn i' t'longist road.
 
 €2 t' SPICY MAN. 
 
 One frosty morn, at ten o'clockj 
 
 A simple-lewkin' man 
 Popt in, as if be accident. 
 
 To lewk at Widda Blan. 
 
 This eeasy, oppen-hearted chap 
 Sat dahn i' t' chair by t'hob. 
 
 An' axed her if her better rahms 
 Worn't rented by a nob. 
 
 A deeal o' questions follad t'furst. 
 
 An' all 'at t' widda said 
 He wrate it in a red-backed book, 
 
 Whol t'lodger laid i' bed. 
 
 At last he added all on't up. 
 
 As ift hed been a sum, 
 Clapt his forfingur tuv his noas. 
 
 An' tell'd her to be mum. 
 
 That varry day, at twelve o'clock, 
 
 A lady, donn'd i' black. 
 Nipt slyly into Widda Bias's 
 
 An' assd for " Bahncin' Jack." 
 
 Bud t' widda said 'at noa such chap 
 'At shoo knew on wor theer. 
 
 For t'oanly man shoo hed wor called 
 Augustus Edward Vere. 
 
 "Go tell him," said t'owd damei' black, 
 " I want an interview ; 
 " I've seen his notice for a wife, 
 " An' think that ah shall do."
 
 t'spicy ]\rAN. 63 
 
 " Be qi^ick an' tell him, what, no doubt. 
 He'll be right glad to hear. 
 That I've an income from the funds 
 Of eighty pounds a year." 
 
 The minit that ahr Spicy Man 
 
 Hed eeard Dame Elan's report. 
 He whewd his bedcloas into fair 
 
 An' bahnced aht in his shurt. 
 
 Shaved, wesht an' brusht, an' oiled, wi' smiles 
 
 'At rake fro' ear to ear. 
 He entered t'rahm an' made his bow 
 
 To t' eighty pahnd i' t'year. 
 
 -" Oh, no ! " he cried, " it cannot be — 
 An' yet upon my life — 
 Oh, heaven ! that I should see this hoiu' — 
 It is — it is my wife ! " 
 
 " Yes, monster ! \'illain ! traitor ! brewt ! 
 Thy wretched wife I am ; 
 Com hoam an' see hah nice it is 
 To watch yond childer clam." 
 
 What moar shoo said wor niwer knawn. 
 
 For t'widda eeard na moar. 
 Bud startin' up, wi' t'news shoo'd eeard 
 
 Shoo flew fro' doar to dear. 
 
 At last, wi' quite a sweggrin' air. 
 
 He com aht into t' street ; 
 Bud owls an' sijh like biids o' prey 
 
 Lewks noan sa weel i' fleet.
 
 64 t'spicy man. 
 
 An' when ja pearkt him clois at hand 
 
 He fell away, by t'meg, 
 Like a grand scene at t'theatre. 
 
 To slapdash an' a reg. 
 
 He seemed a bunch o' seemin's — all 
 
 Veneer an' paint an' sham, 
 Fuff, fuzball, mooinshine, coffin lid, 
 
 A walkin' Brunimagam. 
 
 Just then some chaps, 'at wanted brass 
 
 'At they could nivver get. 
 Com up, an' sware 'at he sud leave 
 
 Ahr taanship aht o' debt. 
 
 Soa reyt at t' Spicy Man they went. 
 An' brayed him black an' blew ; 
 
 Then t' women tluthered rahnd, an' rave 
 His coit up t'back i' two. 
 
 Bud t'warst i' t'lot wor Sossidge Bet, 
 
 A fea'ful fierce owd witch, 
 'At kept a stall by t'public hahse 
 
 An' sell'd pig fit an' sich. 
 
 My stai's ! shoo yell'd aht, " Ho'd 'im, lads,. 
 
 An' let 'im feel my gripe ; 
 He owes ma ivv'ry awpne piece 
 
 For twenty pund o' tjipe." 
 
 Ta crahn it, t'mob rave up his coit 
 
 Ta ribVjins an' ta regs. 
 Then teed um on ta besom steyls 
 
 An' hoistud um for flegs.
 
 t'spicy man. 65 
 
 "^Paleece ! paleece ! " he shaated aht. 
 
 When up com two ur three — 
 "It's weel," they said, "tha wants us, lad. 
 
 For long we've wantud thee. 
 
 " An' nah we'se tak' tha dahn to t'hoil. 
 For we can due na less, 
 Cos fwife an' t'childer, does ta see. 
 Has lived for months o' t'cess." 
 
 Wi' that t'paleecemen waved ther sticks. 
 
 An' tried ta tlear ther way, 
 Whol t'crahd behint went two by two. 
 
 All shaatin aht, " Hurrah ! " 
 
 An' just to work his feelin's up 
 
 To t' height o' shame an' rage, 
 T'owd Fahndry Band com aht an' played 
 
 The " Eogue's March" dahn to t'cage. 
 
 An' soa wi' t'rummist carryin's on 
 
 'At e'er wor seen ur eeard. 
 The Spicy Man fro' t'face o' t' earth 
 
 At that time disappeared.
 
 THE SWANS. 
 
 Written after seeing for the first time the beautiful pair in 
 Peel Park, the gift of L. C. Hill, Esq. 
 
 TTTELCOME, ye queens of lake and pool ! 
 ' ' How meet it is that ye should come 
 Where art and nature make a home 
 For creatures rare or beautiful. 
 
 There is no castle old and hoar. 
 
 No meer, isle-dotted, fringed with woods. 
 
 No shady, windless solitudes. 
 That keep the Sabbath evermore. 
 
 Yet scorn ye not the mill and mart. 
 Birds of proud mien and high estate ; 
 The city's grimy democrat 
 
 Shall greet ye with a loyal heart. 
 
 Beauty is art's eternal theme ; 
 And worthy are ye of a place 
 Among the varied shapes that grace 
 
 The bard or painter's glorious dream. 
 
 So live and reign, ye royal pair. 
 
 For here a strong and jealous guard 
 Shall bid the pavement spare the sward. 
 
 And trees, not chimneys, scent the air.
 
 THE SWANS. 67 
 
 And often here an outcast race. 
 
 Escaped the chain and prison latch. 
 Shall walk these green retreats, and catch 
 
 Brief glimpses of our Father's face.
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 
 
 TT USHED is the din of grating wheels, 
 -^-'- No sounds the sleeping city start. 
 
 O'er silent street and empty mart 
 The Sabbath's holy quiet steals. 
 
 Heaven sends to earth its own deep peace — 
 An angel of the Lord appears 
 Within this vale of sweat and tears. 
 
 Whose whisper bids the tempest cease. 
 
 White cloudlets, by the breeze upborne. 
 Sail gently thro' the stainless blue. 
 While song-bu'ds, glistening yet with dew. 
 
 Pour out their welcome to the morn. 
 
 The sunshine, like the smile of God, 
 Bids all the tribes of earth rejoice. 
 While the lark's anthem, like the voice 
 
 Of joy, goes upwards from the sod. 
 
 Yet here, where soft winds o'er me sweep. 
 Where faint and far-off melodies 
 Blend with the slumb'rous hum of bees 
 
 To soothe heart sorrow, I must weep.
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. .69 
 
 Once more, once more o'er field and sky. 
 
 Look forth, my sister, and be glad ; 
 
 Oh ! let no hour of thine be sad — 
 So fair, so early doomed to die. 
 
 As blows the summer's fragrant breath 
 On tinted cheek and marble brow. 
 Thou smilest, for thou feel'st not now 
 
 The shadow of the wings of death. 
 
 Yet the frail flowers, that round thee wave. 
 Will long outlive thee ; and the bird. 
 Whose song even now in heaven is heard. 
 
 Will sing its anthem o'er thy grave. 
 
 So, while the world looks young and green. 
 While hill and woodland, field and grove, 
 Eing with the sounds of joyous love, 
 
 I go where I may weep unseen.
 
 THE TRADESMAN'S DREAM. 
 
 T3OOE wasted bondsman — desk and mart 
 -*- Claimed all his hours, and everywhere 
 
 A haunting, ever-present care 
 Hung like a night-mare o'er his heart. 
 
 For him there came no terms of mirth. 
 Like showers on deserts ; ne'er did he 
 Fill his own heart with childish glee 
 
 When children gambolled on his heai-th. 
 
 To him, alas, was all unknown 
 
 The bounding joy the beast can feel. 
 When, stript of chains, his lifted heel 
 
 Glints in the slow-descending sun. 
 
 He died ; and even the good and just 
 Said that his soul's intense desire 
 For gain had, like a hidden fire. 
 
 Changed him to ashes and to dust. 
 
 And yet he was not what he seemed. 
 For when at last o'er the stUl frame 
 A brief and happy slumber came. 
 
 Like night on brawling streets, he dreamed :
 
 THE tradesman's DEEAM. 71 
 
 i'ar from liis old unlovely haunts 
 He built his peaceful future home. 
 And bade the stream and sunshine come 
 
 To niirse his darlings — flowers and plants. 
 
 Oft in a green and sunny spot. 
 
 Where swung the little song-bird's nest. 
 He sate and took his thoughtful rest — 
 
 Past care, past heart-ache all forgot. 
 
 And oft, by deeper musings awed. 
 
 He sought the depths of summer woods. 
 And in their pillared solitudes 
 
 Eemembered his forgotten God. 
 
 And kindly, loving deeds were done. 
 
 That made the poor man call him friend ; 
 So, calmly to their solemn end. 
 
 The days passed o'er him, one by one.
 
 A DIRGE. 
 
 Sung over the graves in the Crimea. 
 
 FAE o'er the deep tlie weary moon sinks down. 
 And night winds utter sounds of woe and pain. 
 Sad as the voice that once on Gilboa's crown 
 Mourned o'er the mighty in the battle slain. 
 
 Paled, as with tears, oue melancholy star 
 
 Loots o'er the desert, cold and white and dim ; 
 
 "While, low and drear, the ocean from afar 
 
 Sings thro' the solemn night your funeral hymn. 
 
 Proudly, brave youths, a warrior's meed to earn. 
 With trump and banner went ye to the wars, 
 
 And joyously ye sang, " We will retui-n 
 With trophies and with honourable scars. 
 
 " Or if we die, the thunder of our guns. 
 
 The wild, mad onrush to a soldier's grave. 
 Old England's ' Well done ' o'er her fallen sons — 
 These wiU make soft the death-beds of the brave." 
 
 Not such your doom, tho' such the fate ye chose. 
 
 True hearts and brave, a nation's strength and T^oast, 
 
 With tears of shame your country names your foes — 
 Famine and toH, and nakedness and frost.
 
 A DIKGE. 73 
 
 My brave, forsaken brothers, who can tell 
 
 How slow your days, Ilow drear your nights of woe. 
 
 Ere hope and strength departed, and ye fell 
 To sleep and stiffen on the Crimean snow ? 
 
 Dread shade of Cromwell, didst thou hear their gi-oans. 
 And know'st thou that thy country needs thy sword 
 
 To smite vain fools that dare to sit on thrones. 
 And wave far off th' anointed of the Lord ?
 
 THE DAISY. 
 
 TjlLOWEES bloom and fade, suns rise and set, 
 -*- And all things hasten to their fall ; 
 
 But ere the last sad change of all. 
 Once more, dear flow' ret, have we met. 
 
 Once more beside that dear old home. 
 As in that earliest, sunniest time. 
 When all things revelled in their prime. 
 
 And the wide earth contained no tomb. 
 
 As in those days when youth and health 
 Our lives as in a glory shrined. 
 
 And the poor field flowers were the wealth 
 Of " Ormus and of Ind." 
 
 Ah, happy season — blest abode 
 
 That, thro' the tears of fond regret 
 And mists of dark'ning days, even yet 
 
 Shines like the Paradise of God. 
 
 Earth's generations tiu'n their eyes 
 Back to the infant days of time. 
 Ere sorrow, bom of brooding crime. 
 
 Had severed mortals from the skits.
 
 THE DAISY. 75 
 
 I'or us, oiu" childhood, saith the sage. 
 Is that bright dream that men recall. 
 
 The poets long-gone golden age — 
 The Eden— lost to aU. 
 
 Fate treads us down with u-on hoof. 
 
 And changes bring us pain and ill ; 
 
 But changes, darker, sadder still. 
 Now meet thy pvu-e eyes' meek reproof. 
 
 For the sotd tints the cheek with fii-e 
 At sight of her diviner form. 
 Bruised like a reed by passion's storm. 
 
 And fouled with sin's unholy mu'e. ■ 
 
 WhUe thou could' st feel the sun afar. 
 And from the mire, the worm, the night. 
 
 Like the fallen sister of a star, 
 Eise up into the light.
 
 DESPAIR. 
 
 "V[ OW, wife, let me out, I say, 
 ■^^ I will strive with my fate no more ; 
 I have travell'd for scores of miles, 
 I have halted from door to door. 
 
 Work ! work ! work ! give me work, I cried. 
 
 No matter what sort it be. 
 So the meed be a slice of bread 
 For the famishing babes and thee. 
 
 I have begged, I have sought in vain, 
 I have done all that mortal can j 
 
 So, wife, get thee out of the way 
 Of a fearless and hopeless man. 
 
 A whisper has come from the pool 
 That has told me how this may end. 
 
 And the knife and the rope have looked 
 Like the face of a faithful friend. 
 
 But first the oppressor shall know 
 
 That I value not limb or life. 
 If he buries his gold in his heart 
 
 I will dig up the hoard with my knife.
 
 DESPAIR. 77 
 
 A curse on the cruel rich. 
 On the fat of the land o'erfed. 
 
 And a curse on all lords and laws 
 That stand between me and bread. 
 
 And a curse on the God above. 
 That sees, with a pitiless eye. 
 
 My babes, that never have sinned. 
 Of cold and of hunger die.
 
 THY KINGDOM COME. 
 
 rpHROXJGH the long winter, drear and bare, 
 -*- The corpse-like earth lay stark and dumh. 
 Breathing the mute, unspoken prayer, 
 " Sun-God, let thy kingdom come. 
 
 ' Dark, dark the nights, the days how slow ; 
 
 The silent stream, the naked tree. 
 And dim wide wastes of ghostly snow — 
 
 Father in heaven, these wait for thee." 
 
 Awake to life and all its joys. 
 
 Come forth, thou shrouded sleeper, come, 
 'Tis thus, oh earth, thy master's voice 
 
 Calls thee, dead lazar, from thy tomb. 
 
 The snows like phantoms disappear. 
 The ice snaps like a captive's chain. 
 
 Glad music hails the op'ning year. 
 And the world's saviour shines again. 
 
 But generations come and go. 
 
 And the slow ages rise and set ; 
 Ah me ! how sad it is to know 
 
 That the soul's springtime comes not yet.
 
 THY KINGDOM COME. 
 
 79 
 
 Dark, dark the night around, above. 
 And hard and dead the spirit Earth ; 
 
 Oh Thou, whose beams are truth and love. 
 Sun of the unseen heavens, shine forth ! 
 
 Our hearts grow heavy day by day, 
 Shiv'ring with cold, and lost in gloom. 
 
 With foreheads in the dust we pray, 
 
 " Thy kingdom come ! Thy kingdom come ! " 
 
 V t.
 
 NAPOLEON. 
 
 TTOW oft otir world has felt the ire 
 
 -*-*- Of earthquake, whirlwind, flood, and fire. 
 
 How oft on nature's quiet all 
 
 The rebel elements of earth 
 
 Have burst their bonds, and bounded forth. 
 
 As if to work ci'eation's fall. 
 
 And whirl the glorious forms we see 
 
 In x'uins throiigh infinity. 
 
 Yet earth endures, and fresh and green 
 
 And lovely in th' eternal sun 
 
 Smiles as when first from darkness won. 
 
 While scarce a trace or stain is seen 
 
 To show that these have ever been. 
 
 The earthquake's hidden fire is quenched. 
 
 The ocean wave has sunk to sleep. 
 
 The whirlwind — whose wild onrush wrenched 
 
 The cedar from the mountain steep. 
 
 And blended in the darken'd air 
 
 Homes, harvests, all things dear and fair — 
 
 At last, amid some lone wood, heaves 
 
 A faint, low, melancholy sigh. 
 
 As if beneath the forest leaves 
 
 It sought a place in which to die.
 
 NAPOLEON. 81 
 
 Proud spirit ! thus shall' t be with thee. 
 
 Even such the end thy pride shall see ; 
 
 Monarchs, in thy extinguished eye. 
 
 Now see not writ their destiny. 
 
 No more thy tongue, from thrones of state. 
 
 Speaks as its own the words of fate ; 
 
 Thy sword is sheathed, thy thimder dumb, 
 
 A calm o'er all the world has come. 
 
 And mortals have beheld in thee 
 
 The last great plague our race shall see ; 
 
 Thy sword is sheathed, thy banner furled. 
 
 And never more beneath the sky 
 
 Shall man in madness deify 
 
 The desolators of the world. 
 
 Millions of men no more shall stand 
 Soulless, that one imperial soul. 
 As his own limbs, may move the whole ; 
 Millions no more, with steel and brand. 
 Mar earth with ashes, blood, and tears. 
 Perish like wrecks on the broad sea. 
 Or writhe on land, that one may be 
 The god of fools in after years. 
 
 The prophet-muse shall speak thy doom. 
 The sentence of the age to come : 
 Thy lurid halo shall depart. 
 Thy glory be thy curse and shame j 
 For time shall show thee as thou art — 
 All monstrous, and thy mighty name. 
 That, uttered in all nations, came 
 Like thunder on the ears of men. 
 While the pale cheek sent back again 
 The blood uj^on the frighted heai-t ; 
 G
 
 82 
 
 NAPOLEON. 
 
 Even that shall perish on the tide 
 Of time. A little longer ride 
 Majestic, sombre, and alone ; 
 Then, like a wreck' d and broken ship. 
 Go down into the tongueless deep. 
 No more for ever to be known.
 
 THE IRISH GIRL. 
 
 /^TJTWOEN with travel, toil, and heat, 
 ^-^ Yon quiet spot she may not pass. 
 But rests her bare and blistered feet 
 Upon the soft green grass. 
 
 The basket, stored with tiny ware. 
 The burden on her weary back. 
 
 The beads and crucifix declare 
 The Colleen Erinach. 
 
 A cloud is on her darkened brow, 
 Tho' beautiful she is and young ; 
 
 Wit, laughter, music, stir not now 
 Her wild and ringing tongue. 
 
 A piper, blind, and old, and grey. 
 Sate down with reapers at their ale 
 
 She stopped, she list'ned to the lay — 
 A love-song of the Gael. 
 
 The piper jjlayed right mei-rily. 
 Eight merrily tho chorus rang ; 
 
 Ochone ! it was the lullaby 
 Her buried mother sansr.
 
 84 THE IRISH GIRL. 
 
 But this is not the mountain glen 
 That echoed once the joyous lay ; 
 
 The friends that raised the chorus then, 
 Alas ! how far away. 
 
 Back, like a bird o'er land and wave. 
 Her wailing, rushing spirit passed. 
 
 And o'er a far-off lowly grave 
 Fell faint and sick at last. 
 
 Few, few the words, and low and drear. 
 In which that voice of sorrow spake — 
 
 Och ! mother dear, och ! mother dear. 
 My heart, my heart will break. 
 
 And think not, proud and high-born one. 
 That outcast's woe than thine is less ; 
 
 Poor, banish'd children, ye alone 
 That orphan's grief may guess. 
 
 Oh, soothe that virgin's sore distress. 
 Queen vii-gin, piteous, undefiled j 
 
 Stoop, crowned mother, stoop and bless 
 That world-forsaken child. 
 
 I
 
 OLD SCENES. 
 
 /~\'N the fair home of young delight, 
 ^-^ On scenes of early life and love. 
 The morning sunbeams, warm and bright. 
 Fall, like a glory, from above. 
 
 Far down the gently-sloping hill 
 Lie chapel, cottage, farm, and fold. 
 
 The shining dam, the ruined mill. 
 The brookside pathway dear of old. 
 
 Old melodies — I hear them all. 
 
 The wind's faint whispers, fitful, weird. 
 The cornmill's far-off waterfall. 
 
 The wUd bee, and the song of bird. 
 
 But where are now the form and face 
 That once my dreamy rambles shared ? 
 
 Where now the landscape's breathing grace. 
 Blue-eyed, rose-tinted, golden-haired ? 
 
 The cup that held life's precious vdne 
 Was shivered ere its brim was kissed. 
 
 Weeping, I saw the draught divine 
 Exhaling in untasted mist.
 
 86 OLD SCENES. 
 
 Yet, scoff I not at noble aims. 
 
 Nor, with sour heart and nostril curled. 
 
 Say love and friendship are but names. 
 And a baso hunger rules the world. 
 
 Grief long ago has lost its power. 
 For now I know it cannot be 
 
 That time should wither in an hour 
 The hopes that grasped eternity. 
 
 The first pure flowers of human love. 
 The silent bliss, the perfect trust. 
 
 These, blighted here, shall bloom above 
 And grace the Eden of the jiist. 
 
 So hope yet blossoms thro' the years. 
 And those dear spots her feet have trod 
 
 StUl, thro' the mists of happy tears. 
 Shine like the paradise of God, 
 
 Tho' wasted now my joyous prime. 
 My days are cloudless and serene. 
 
 The memories of that olden time 
 
 Keep heart and soul still young and green. 
 
 Far from me let base hopes be hurled ; 
 
 Let low ambitions ne'er be thine; 
 What profit if I gain the world. 
 
 And stain the soul once linked to thine ? 
 
 Like a small streamlet of the waste 
 
 That, running, wets the.mountain grass. 
 
 So may I, as- to thee I haste. 
 Make life look greener as I pass.
 
 OLD SCENES. 
 
 87 
 
 And should I lose, in moods unblest. 
 My faith in goodness, love, and truth, 
 
 Bhio-eyed, rose-tinted, golden-tresset'', 
 Eeturn, oh vision of my youth.
 
 THE CAPTIVITY. 
 
 QEE high in air the banners float, 
 
 ^ And hark the trumpets herald note. 
 
 The martial tramp, and din j 
 
 Haste ! for the mighty may not wait ; 
 
 Ope, Babylon, thy widest gate. 
 
 And let thy monarch in. 
 
 He comes ! he comes ! the warrior king ! 
 And shouts thro' all the city ring 
 That shake her marble palaces. 
 With pride, with joy the victor sees 
 Ten thousand shields around him blaze. 
 And, as they flash a triple day. 
 On all that long and vast array. 
 His eyes gi'ow brighter as they gaze. 
 
 As thy tall ships, oh Tyrus, rise 
 
 Above the burdened ocean waves. 
 
 That bear, like tamed and tutored slaves. 
 
 To the world's ends thy merchandise ; 
 
 So towers the scourge of Judah high 
 
 O'er all that flaming pageantry. 
 
 And mad with power, and drunk with blood. 
 
 Moves with the heaving human flood.
 
 THE CAPTIVITY. 
 
 But when around tlie victor's car 
 Appear the sacred spoils of war. 
 Telling- how rapine and the sword 
 Have stained thy holy temple. Lord, 
 Then all at once the trumpets bear 
 Their loudest welcome to his ear ; 
 Then minstrels to the joyous air 
 Fling music from a thousand strings. 
 While to the distance, faint and dim, 
 KoUs the deep anthem lauding him 
 Whose footstool is the neck of kings. 
 
 Lo, guarded by the lifted spear. 
 The captives follow in the rear. 
 Slowly they come, for they are faint 
 With heat and travel, thirst and want ; 
 Sadly they come, for they have lost 
 What mortals love and cherish most ; 
 And mute they come, for cries and tears 
 Eelieve not anguish such as theirs. 
 The visions of a sunny past — 
 Of homes, old haunts, and loved ones — rise 
 To mock their voiceless agonies. 
 So Eden's outcasts, when the blast 
 Eushed thro' the roaring wilderness, 
 Moiu-ned in some cavern's dark recess 
 O'er moments spent in Paradise. 
 
 Movirn, captive daughter, scatter now 
 The dust upon thy crownloss brow. 
 For song and dance in wooded vale 
 No virgin band at eventide meets. 
 Alas ! thy maidens now bewail 
 The youth that sleep in rusting mail 
 
 89
 
 90 THE CAPTIVITY. 
 
 In Salem's solitary streets ; 
 Thy matrons hear upon the wind 
 The cry of infants left behind ; 
 Thy sacred fathers, old and gi-ey. 
 Have fallen and perished by the way ; 
 Thy priests, with faces earthward bowed. 
 As slaves shall stand before the ci'owd. 
 And chant, to make the heathen mirth. 
 The strain that Zion warbled forth. 
 Perchance, in Nebo's Temple sing 
 The psalms of Judah's poet-king. 
 And when the breaking, bursting heart 
 Bids from the tongue the strain depart, 
 A tyrant's taunt shall wound thy ears. 
 And laughter mock thy bitter tears.
 
 HYMN FOR THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 "ITrHY should we mourn as others moiu-n, 
 
 ' " Whose heritage is here ? 
 Let songs of joy, from thankful hearts. 
 Salute the new-born year. 
 
 Tho' brief the days, and drear the nights. 
 
 The vapours chill and dun. 
 Behind them and above them all 
 
 For ever shines the sun. 
 
 The plains whose sheaves shall feed the world 
 
 Lie sealed in ice and snow. 
 So hearts as cold and dead as they 
 
 Shall heavenly fruitage grow. 
 
 Let not the Winter's gloom and cold 
 
 Bid Faith and Hope expire. 
 For day by day the blessed sun 
 
 Mounts higher still and higher. 
 
 So from the soul that evil hates 
 Shall doubt and darkness flee. 
 
 And day by day each day shall bring 
 More light, O Lord, from Thee.
 
 92 HYMN FOR THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 Then let us sing the night away. 
 While tempests rage and howl. 
 
 For truth, like buried seed, shall live. 
 And plenty fill the soul. 
 
 As warmth and sunshine yet shall stream 
 
 O'er frozen hill and plain. 
 So light shall flood the inner world. 
 
 And Love the conqueror reign.
 
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 HYPOCKISY. 
 
 rpHE owl crept out of the old oak tree, 
 -*- As the sun was sinking fast, 
 " Oh ! weary and long was the night," said he, 
 " But the daylight comes at last. 
 
 " Yon orb that filled with a blinding haze 
 The world with its fields and skies. 
 
 Like a coward shrinks from the steadfast gaze 
 Of the morning's thousand eyes. 
 
 " What a life of sorrow and sad unrest 
 Have the creatures that shun the light ; 
 
 How the ploughman cursed his stumbling beast. 
 As it toiled through the sultry night. 
 
 " For needful rest, or for solemn prayer. 
 
 Should the hours of darkness be. 
 But the throstle and skylark filled the air 
 
 "With their godless revelry. 
 
 " Poor blinded things, whom a thousand lamps 
 
 Cannot light to their insect prey. 
 Yet they sing as they shiver in twilight damps 
 
 Of light and of heaven, ha ! ha !
 
 94 HYPOCRISY. 
 
 " See the mice from their holes come forth to steal. 
 
 Creeping softly across the plain. 
 Of the thieves 'tis just I should make a meal. 
 
 For they eat up the farmer's grain. 
 
 " And I hear in the thorn the starving brood 
 
 Of the linnets the kestrel slew, 
 I cannot endure their cries for food. 
 
 So in pity I'll eat them too. 
 
 " Oh, Justice and Mercy I dearly love. 
 
 In Wisdom and Truth I delight. 
 By day I enjoy the smile of Jove, 
 
 And the sleep of the just by night." 
 
 Ah ! human owls in the world are rife. 
 
 Who mistake the night for day. 
 Who join false faith to the evil life, 
 
 WTio devour the poor — and pray.
 
 THE BETEAYED. 
 
 SADLY and silently roll down her tears. 
 Sorrow in secret will ever be hers. 
 Cold is her chamber and lonesome and bare. 
 None who once loved her will visit her there. 
 
 Friendship and Love to that desolate home 
 Never have been, perhaps never may come; 
 Over thee, frail one, the tear has been shed. 
 Those who once owned thee now mourn thee as dead. 
 
 Near us, yet far off, an exile at home. 
 Neighbours and playmates are strangers and dumb. 
 Even when they see thee thy form like a ghost. 
 Doth but remind them of one that is lost. 
 
 Father and mother, and sister and kin. 
 All have forsaken the daughter of sin. 
 Quickly, poor outcast, go down to thy grave. 
 None will e'er seek thee to soothe or to save. 
 
 Darkness besets thee around and above. 
 Darkness that knows not one sunbeam of love. 
 Soon wilt thou enter a gloom where no ray 
 Falls on the pathway that leads back to day.
 
 96 THE BETRAYED. 
 
 Father, stern father, fallen, fallen tho' she be. 
 Once, fair and sinless, she played on thy knee. 
 Sin-spots are thine, man, unwashed with thy tears. 
 Broader and darker than any of hers. 
 
 Mother, stem mother, wake up from thy rest. 
 Seek thou the lost one that hung from thy breast. 
 Frown not but know thou that love was her sin. 
 Love, ah ! how nearly to virtue akin. 
 
 Sadly and silently roll down her tears. 
 Sorrow in solitude ever is hers. 
 Back to your bosoms restore her forgiven, 
 Else seek ye never a Father in Heaven.
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 /^H ! the night is dreary, 
 ^ Cold my limbs and weary. 
 
 Brother, whither go we now ? 
 Land and homes are near us. 
 Warmth and wine would cheer us. 
 
 Wherefore should we fiirther row ? 
 
 " Brother, know that races 
 Heaven-bound turn their faces 
 
 Quickly, sadly from that shore." 
 There the wave-worn meeting. 
 Smile on cup of greeting. 
 
 Sink to sleep and wake no more. 
 
 See ! across the breakers 
 
 Signal lights of wreckers 
 Lure us to the hidden rock. 
 
 Undismayed, unswerving. 
 
 Heart and sinew nerving. 
 Bide thou yet the tempest's shock." 
 
 " Cold unrest and fasting. 
 
 Life and strength are wasting. 
 Prithee, brother, let us halt ; 
 
 Wherefore should we ever 
 
 In this hard endeavour. 
 Waste our days on waves of salt ? " 
 
 H
 
 98 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 " Brotlier, weak and errant, 
 Seest thou not the cui-rent 
 
 Floats us back to frost and night ; 
 Self thou may'st not cherish, 
 ' Here the slothful perish. 
 
 Onward to the land of light." 
 
 " Brother, all is changing. 
 
 O'er the sea.are ranging 
 Breezes from some blessed land j 
 
 Breezes odour-laden. 
 
 Wafted from you Aden, 
 High above the wave and sand.' 
 
 Downy rest and leisure. 
 Plenty, peace, and pleasure, 
 
 Tet shall crown our little lives ; 
 Maids sweet songs shall sing us. 
 And the years shall bring us 
 
 Friends and honours, homes and wives." 
 
 " Brother, go not thither. 
 There the flowers all withei'. 
 
 Spring hath there a poisoned breath ; 
 Land of wailing lovers, 
 Whei-e each footfall covers 
 
 Offals of the feasts of death. 
 
 See ! where, ever vernal. 
 
 Fields and flowers eternal 
 Bloom beneath the Father's eye ; 
 
 There all storm and chillness 
 
 End in sunny stillness. 
 Stillness of Eternity."
 
 THE SKYLARK. 
 
 A T last I had a pleasant sleep, 
 -^-^ A sleep that bx'ought once more to view 
 The pastures full of kine and sheej). 
 And the old home my childhood knew. 
 
 The flowery bank on which I played 
 All steeped in rainbow dyes appeared. 
 
 And mystical with light and shade 
 The haunted woodland that I feared. 
 
 *' And lo ! " I said, " the brook still dashes. 
 O'er rock and root and tumbled wall. 
 Into a thousand tinted flashes, 
 
 Shiv'ring the sunbeams as they fall." 
 
 And soothingly the breeze that fann'd 
 The heated schoolboy's throbing brow 
 
 Slid, softer than a sister's hand. 
 O'er temples white with early suow. 
 
 Fainter than echoes to my ear 
 
 Came sounds and voices, silent long — 
 
 A little brother's shout and cheer. 
 The rustling reed and linnet's sonjr.
 
 100 THE SKYLAKK. 
 
 My mother's humming wheel I heard, 
 I heard her cheerful morning hymn. 
 
 And the brief prayer whose whispers stirred 
 The crimson eventide hushed and dim. 
 
 Then eyes looked on me calm, serene. 
 With love, love only in their beams — 
 
 Eyes closed and quenched, and to be seen 
 No more for ever, save in dreams. 
 
 Upward, towards our Father's throne. 
 The skylark climbed his spiral stairs. 
 
 And set to music of his own 
 
 The praise that mingled with her prayers. 
 
 His song dispelled my later grief, 
 I felt myself once more a boy. 
 
 And for a season, ah ! how brief. 
 
 The heart grew glad with shadowy joy. 
 
 With happy tears my eyes were filled. 
 And tears fell from them unawares ; 
 
 I woke, alas ! no more a child. 
 
 But bowed and crushed with many cares. 
 
 The dear old home, the summer bloom 
 Of field and woodland, all were gone ; 
 
 But near the window of my room 
 A poor caged skylark warbled on.
 
 HOME. 
 
 II /TY home, my home, the very sound 
 -^'-'- Has raised the ready tear ; 
 Oh, should I roam the world around 
 
 My heart would still be there. 
 I love my home, its hearth how dear. 
 The jewels of my soul are there. 
 
 Oh ! one can talk in accents meek 
 
 Of days no more to come ; 
 Of moments when the changing cheek 
 Told all that language failed to speak — 
 
 That loved one shai-es my home ; 
 Home, home shall be my pride and boast. 
 For those are there who love me most. 
 
 A fairy, gay and fresh and young. 
 To grace that spot has come. 
 The " Dada, dada," ou her tongue. 
 
 Sweeter than aught a Sappho sung. 
 Is music in my home. 
 
 Home, home, for me my heart knows not 
 A dearer, sweeter, happier spot. 
 Ah ! never may the fate be mine. 
 In evil paths to roam.
 
 102 HOME. 
 
 "NMiere wit and mii-th, and song and wine,. 
 Their pleasing sorceries combine. 
 To draw me from my home. 
 
 SorroAv and toil, the poor man's fate. 
 In the rude world my staps await. 
 But bright'ning eyes and shout and glee^ 
 And words of kindness, still shall be 
 The welcome to my home. 
 
 My home, my home, the very sound 
 
 Has raised the happy tear. 
 Oh should I range the world around. 
 
 My heart wotdd still be there.
 
 THE OAK AND THE IVY. 
 
 'fTlWAS Springtime I saw them in beauty and pride, 
 -'- The Oak was a bridegroom, the Ivy a bride ; 
 Tall trees stood around them, some fairer than he. 
 But she twined round him only, so faithful was she. 
 No stranger with theirs mingled tendril or spray. 
 No neighbour might part them, so loving were they ; 
 Tho' slender the Ivy, how mighty the Oak, 
 The tempest, I ween, will be foiled in its stroke. 
 
 It was Winter I saw them 'mid trouble and strife. 
 
 The Oak was a husband, the Ivy a wife ; 
 
 The arms of the warrior were bared for the fight. 
 
 For whu-lwinds rushed o'er him and storms in their might. 
 
 But he loved his own Ivy and stood to the last, 
 
 Tho' sudden the whirlwind and bitter the blast. 
 
 Then the frost like ,a serpent came after the storm. 
 But the Ivy's thick mantle was thrown o'er his form. 
 His branches the snow and the icicles bore. 
 But the cold of the winter wind touched not his core. 
 Thus lived they, thus bore they the trials of life. 
 The Oak was the husband, the Ivy the wife.
 
 104 THE OAK AND THE IVY. 
 
 Again I beheld them, the tempest was nigh. 
 Yet proudly the Oak stood defying the sky. 
 The Ivy clung round him in thunder and rain. 
 But the bolt fell and ah ! he was riven in twain ; 
 In vain she weeps dewdrops, in vain twines around 
 The form of the loved one, to close up the wound. 
 
 His branches are blasted — all blackened his core. 
 
 The Ivy's a widow, the Oak is no more ; 
 
 The Elm is beside her in beauty and pride. 
 
 Say, will she embrace him, once more be a bride. 
 
 Oh no, oh no, never, her leaves are all dim. 
 
 She has bloomed, she wHl fade, she will perish with him. 
 
 The Springtime returns and the forest is gay. 
 But the bride and the bridegroom, alas ! where are they ? 
 Oh, see where they slumber, the sere leaves beneath. 
 In life undivided, embracing in death.
 
 PAUL ON THE HTLL OF MARS. 
 
 r^ALM was the sea, the an-, the hour, 
 
 ^ Yet from his lofty pedestal — 
 
 Dread type of human wrath and power — 
 
 The War-god fierce, implacable. 
 
 Frowned o'er the fearless Saint ; 
 
 Fearless, yet fearing to offend ; 
 
 Fearless, for ever to his ear 
 
 Came back the words that quelled all fear — 
 
 " Lo ! I am with you to the end." 
 
 The sunlight beamed upon a brow 
 Calm as the seas that lay below. 
 And solemn as the skies above ; 
 Peace, such as Stoics ne'er can know. 
 Was his, yet, quickened with the glow 
 Of purest, holiest love. 
 Amid the fanes — sublime abodes ! — 
 And giant forms of chiselled stone. 
 The dauntless Hebrew stands alone. 
 True Titan ! waring with the gods. 
 Even there, with deep, unfaltering tone. 
 
 The unknown Teacher, in the ear 
 Of cynic, priest, philosopher.
 
 106 PAUL ON THE HILL OF MAES. 
 
 Proclaims the God unknown, — 
 
 The God in whom we live and move. 
 
 The eternal Light and Life and Love, 
 
 The first, the last, the part, the whole. 
 
 Creation's living heart and soul. 
 
 Oh ! Jupiter, sublime, supreme. 
 
 And ai't thou, sire of gods, become 
 
 At best a bard or sculptor's dream. 
 
 An idol, blind, and deaf, and dumb ? 
 
 Lo ! in the still, deserted fane. 
 
 The moiirning priest is left alone. 
 
 The sea-nymph haunts no more the main. 
 
 The dryad from the grove is gone. 
 
 No bolt defends the thunderer's brow. 
 
 Vain, vain Apollo's wisdom now j 
 
 No spirit in the statue dwells. 
 
 The fires die out, the oracles 
 
 Stammer and lie and cease. 
 
 Untired, unwasted, everywhere. 
 
 By fount, and grove, and sacred well. 
 
 In cities, and in isles afar. 
 
 The mighty Hebrew sounds the knell 
 
 Of all thy gods, O Greece.
 
 ON THE DEATH OF RALPH GOODWIN. 
 
 QO the last meeting was indeed our last, 
 
 ^ And now in many a home and heart a place. 
 
 Silent and empty, shows that he has passed. 
 
 To join the gathered fathers of his race. 
 
 A thoughtful soul, whose gentleness and grace 
 Won love and honour ; a true child of song. 
 
 One in whose brief grand preludes we can trace 
 A tenderness and power, that might ere long 
 Have soothed a faithless grief, or lashed a sceptred wrong. 
 
 And dare we ask in wonder or in fear 
 
 "Why he is gone, and why we yet remain. 
 When conscience whispers in each inner ear 
 
 " Vile culprit, thou that yet must drag the chain ; 
 
 Metal not half refined, that hath again 
 To pass the furnace, and endure its heat ; 
 
 Bird of weak wing, from which heaven's di-enching rain 
 Must wash the mire of earth ; soul all unmeet 
 To touch an angel's harp or listen at his feet." 
 
 Are we not captives in a strange weird land. 
 Each manly frame a tower's enchanted walls ? 
 
 Strong seems the pile to-day, but let the wand 
 Of the grim wizard touch it,.and it falls.
 
 108 ON THE DEATH OF RALPH GOODWIN. 
 
 Oh ! for th' unshaken eaxth, th' eternal halls. 
 Where we may find a balm these wounds to heal. 
 
 How long ! how long ! ere He, ova Father, calls 
 To bid us don our robes and take our meal. 
 Where moth doth not coiTupt, nor thieves break thi-o' and 
 steal. 
 
 Sweet to the mortal, prone to unbelief. 
 
 The treasured memories of the good and just ; 
 How like a star, in the black night of grief. 
 
 Shines the clear truth, we are not wholly dust. 
 
 The chamel holds among its worms and must 
 No attribute that man to man endears ; 
 
 So out of sorrow comes a soothing trust. 
 And the soul cries, while soaring to the spheres, 
 " Mine ! mine ! these countless worlds ; mine ! mine ! th' 
 eternal years."
 
 E 
 
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 1^ 
 
 THE BOTTLE IMP. 
 
 rpHE Bottle Imp stiiiled in his glassy retreat, 
 -*- For a youth at the table had taken a seat. 
 
 And surveyed the abode of the sprite ; 
 The liquor that sparkled and bubbled with life. 
 Was stirred by the demon of sorrow and strife. 
 
 As he frisked in his impish delight. 
 
 " This solace the gods to the siifEerer give. 
 When happy, 'tis then and then only we live. 
 
 So di-ink," cried the Bottle Imp, " drink. 
 Life's sorrows are many, its pleasures are brief. 
 If sorrow oppress thee accept the relief. 
 
 And cease for a season to think." 
 
 He took up the bottle and filled up the glass. 
 
 He shuddered and paused, and then drank, for, alas ! 
 
 A fiend of a tempter had he. 
 " In rags or in purple, in joy or in pain," 
 He cried as he filled up the goblet again, 
 
 " The bottle, the bottle for me." 
 
 A year passed away on its pinions unheard. 
 The victim again at the table appeared. 
 But altered, without and within ;
 
 110 THE BOTTLE IMP. 
 
 His garments were tattered, liis footsteps were slow. 
 His converse unseemly, the heart and the brow 
 All dark with remorse and with sin. 
 
 " Drink deeply, for grief of the Bottle hath need. 
 
 Drink, drink," cried the Imp, " for thou know'st 'tis agreed 
 
 Thy leisure and wages are mine ; 
 Thy youth, health, and beauty, thy purse and good name. 
 All these in exchange for my pleasures I claim. 
 
 So drink," cried the spirit malign. 
 
 He drank, and the revel seemed joyous and wild j 
 He sang, but the wail of his innocent child 
 
 Oft rose o'er the bacchanal lay ; 
 And in spite of the bottle, a vision would come 
 Of the famishing wife, and the desolate home. 
 
 Where slowly she wasted away. 
 
 Long after I saw that poor victim of wine, 
 A crime-spotted outcast, that mercy divine 
 
 So long from perdition had screened ; 
 His aspect was savage, remorseless, and wild. 
 His bosom with hatred and envy was filled. 
 
 The human was changed to the fiend. 
 
 " Grim famine has wasted thee e'en to the bone. 
 Thy health, reputation, and vigour are gone ; 
 
 Poor coward, why fear'st thou the grave ? 
 A potion will poison, the dagger will kill. 
 The bags of a miser the bottle would fill. 
 
 To be happy is but to be brave." 
 
 * 
 
 Thus whispered the tempter, and eagerly strode 
 The fiend-tempted fool on his errand of blood. 
 As hurries the beast to his prey ;
 
 THE BOTTLE IMP. Ill 
 
 Then horror and fear, and remorse and despair. 
 On his agonised features so teri-ibly glare. 
 That roen start aback in dismay. 
 
 " There's peace in the bottle, a solace for all 
 The anguish and terror that man can appal," 
 
 The demon in ecstasy cried. 
 He ceased with a scoff, and the drunkard in haste 
 Snatched up the full bottle, and madly and fast 
 
 Poured down the hot poison and died. 
 
 " Ah ! " shouted the terrible spirit, " What joy. 
 What rapture to torture, to mar, and destroy ! 
 
 Can hell match the Imp of the Bowl ? " 
 Poor drunkard, thy body lies senseless and stark. 
 On thee the foul tempter has finished his work. 
 
 The Demon has captured the Soul.
 
 LINES ON A DEAD INFANT. 
 
 A ND art thou dead, indeed, 
 -^ Heaven's dearest, loveliest boon. 
 My babe, my sweet one, hast thou left 
 Our home and arms so soon ? 
 
 Saw'st thou what others wait 
 
 For years and woes to prove. 
 The vanity and emptiness 
 
 Of all that mortals love ? 
 
 Or did some angel's voice 
 
 Inform thy startled oar. 
 That wheresoe'er thy race is found. 
 
 Sorrow and strife are there ? 
 
 That life is but a dream. 
 
 Alike to fool and sage. 
 With youth a morrow unen joyed, 
 
 A yesterday with age ? 
 
 From things of earth and time. 
 
 Thy flight has set us free. 
 To-day, our thoughts and hopes and hearts 
 
 Are raised to heaven with thee.
 
 LINES ON A DEAD INFANT. 113 
 
 Then let the tear be dried. 
 
 For why should tears be shed ? 
 Joy in thy heavenly home is found. 
 
 Peace in thy earthly bed. 
 
 Can human thought conceive 
 
 How great, how vast thy gain — 
 A whole eternity of bliss. 
 
 Bought with a moment's pain ? 
 
 Oh ! Death, thy baffled sting 
 
 Hath set thy victim free ! 
 Look up, devoiu'ing Grave, and learn 
 
 How poor thy victory !
 
 A DEAD LETTER. 
 
 " rpHE lady, sir, at number two, 
 -*- The one that would not wed. 
 They say, sir, that at last she's gone. 
 The poor old thing is dead." 
 
 Dead ! dead ! for me what deadly pain. 
 
 What crow^ning agony ; 
 How long within my breast had lain 
 
 A hope that would not die. 
 
 Dead ! dead ! and is it so to be ? 
 
 Oh ! soul, now saved and freed. 
 One Avord, look, moment, given to me. 
 
 Had made me blest indeed ! 
 
 " Sir, here's a letter, tied with string. 
 And ticketed with care ; " 
 It held a withered flower, a ring, 
 A lock of braided hair. 
 
 " Dear James, I have not long to live. 
 
 And fain would enter heaven. 
 
 My pride, my cruel pride forgive. 
 
 Yours long has been forgiven.
 
 A DEAD LETTER. 115 
 
 " Oh ! loved one, lost one, as I lie 
 Wakeful upon my bed. 
 Some angel whispers, ' Do not die 
 And leave the truth unsaid.' 
 
 " I know, I know, and gi-atef ul tears 
 These closing eylids fill, 
 T know that thro' the weary years 
 You loved, you blessed me still. 
 
 *' So, lest one doubt should cause a sigh. 
 Dear, faithful, wounded friend. 
 Know that thro' good and evil I 
 Have loved thee to the end." 
 
 Slowly and grandly sinks the sun 
 
 Behind yon far-off hill. 
 The long day's work will soon be done. 
 
 And the tired world lie stUl. 
 
 My life, too, nears a golden west. 
 
 But why should I despond ? 
 For me, true love and holy rest 
 
 Lie treasui-ed up beyond.
 
 TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER. 
 
 C 
 
 OME kiss me, thing of smiles and mirth, 
 '' Least earthly of the forms of earth. 
 Of all things fair and good below. 
 Most beautiful, most holy thou. 
 In depths of woe thy face appears, 
 Unmarred with anguish or with tears. 
 Lovely as summer skies when seen 
 Thro' the rent storm-cloud rolled between. 
 AU sinless thou in depths of sin. 
 Angels thy playmates and thy kin, 
 A spirit gem, reflecting, even 
 In this dark world, the light of heaven. 
 
 How is't that childhood revels most 
 In joys that manhood long has lost ? 
 Oh ! there are charms for infant eyes 
 In birds and flowers, and fields and skies ; 
 What joy ! what rapture 'tis to view 
 The flower-lit green, the star-lit blue ; 
 Earth glows for them in Eden bloom. 
 All sunshine, beauty, song perfume. 
 Wouldst thou be happy, wouldst thou feel 
 The peace, the bliss, their looks reveal ? 
 Then pass not nature's volume by, 
 "With hurried step and heedles eye ;
 
 TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER. 117 
 
 Babes can but read, where'er tbey look, 
 The preface of her wondrous book ; 
 But there are themes in every page 
 To please and teach the mind of age. 
 
 Wouldst thou be happy, free as they. 
 From cares that gnaw the heart away ? 
 Then let not burning lust of gain 
 The fount of holiest feelings drain. 
 Till peace, love, mercy, friendship, all 
 On the heart's desert blighted fall. 
 The kindly word, the kindly deed. 
 Belong thy brother in his need j 
 Learn first to love, and thou shall taste. 
 Even in this world's unlovely waste. 
 The blessedness of those above — 
 For heaven is pui*e and perfect love.
 
 LORD HENRY'S BRIDAL. 
 
 "VrO beast or bird to-night may sleep 
 
 -^^ Near the Lord Henry's princely hall ;. 
 
 The far-off waters as they fall 
 
 In snow-sheets down yon rocky steep 
 
 Make music through the solemn hours ; 
 
 The linnet in his garden bowers 
 
 Is lulled not by the sll^m'brous brook. 
 
 And vainly, vainly to and fro 
 
 The night-wind rocks the wakeful rook ; 
 
 And, stealing from her reedy nook. 
 
 The swan in raiment white as snow 
 
 Sails ghost-like o'er the moonlit pool; 
 
 While, where yon elm trees, branching low,. 
 
 Throw down their shadows dark and cool. 
 
 With lifted head and straining ear 
 
 Stand in still groups the wondering deer. 
 
 Lord Henry on that happy day 
 Had wed the Lady Angela. 
 
 A proud and high-born maiden she. 
 Whom love and wealth with sleepless care 
 Had shielded from each ruder air. 
 High-browed, pure-hearted, and so free 
 From trace of sin and care and toil. 
 So full of softness and of grace.
 
 LORD henry's BRIDxVL. 119 
 
 That while yovi gazed on form and face 
 You deemed her of some happier soil. 
 Some fair Elysium never yet 
 With drops of toil or sorrow wet. 
 
 A glorioiis being far above 
 
 The earth her aery footsteps spurned. 
 
 Whose presence changed desire to love 
 
 And love to adoration turned ; 
 
 The saint whose faith has scaled the skies. 
 
 And neared the inner golden door. 
 
 Hath seen her like in Paradise, 
 
 But never on this earth before. 
 
 And the Lord Henry was her own. 
 
 And the Lord Henry stood alone 
 
 On Fame's sublimest pedestal. 
 
 The buttress of a tottering throne. 
 
 The idol and the hope of all ; 
 
 The Titan swimmer whose strong hand . 
 
 Buoyed up a weak and sinking land. 
 
 Saving, as God saves, friend and foe 
 
 From the black deep that boiled below. 
 
 'Twas meet the great man of the day 
 Should wed the Lady Angela. 
 
 So from afar the nobly born 
 Came to that old ancestral home. 
 And flute and hautboy, harp and horn. 
 Sent joy-notes to yon starry dome. 
 But all the while the fiends that mock 
 All human joy and hope and pain. 
 In dell and grove and haunted rock 
 Struck up anew each mirthful strain.
 
 120 LORD henry's bridal. 
 
 From many a fairy-trodden green. 
 And wooded hollow, dim and lone. 
 Came back each softened word or tone 
 Fron lips and instruments unseen — 
 A strange weird music soft and clear 
 Sounding like echoes to the ear. 
 
 Around the lighted halls there stood 
 The great ones of the passing times — 
 Grim warriors fresh from field and flood. 
 And potentates of many climes ; 
 And mightier far the world's time kings 
 Who rule o'er human hearts, that bear 
 Their names and faces graven there j 
 These to their kind are purest springs. 
 With life, health, pleasure, brimming o'er; 
 Or spirit-suns that, fixed on high. 
 On generations born to die 
 Shed down their light for evermore. 
 
 And forms were there that seemed the bright 
 
 Inhabitants of other globes. 
 
 Whose fingers in their downward flight 
 
 Had wrought the rainbow into robes. 
 
 A queen among the queenly fair 
 
 Stood forth the Lady Angela ; 
 
 No vesture gorgeously gay 
 
 Enshrined her form of purest mould. 
 
 No need had she of burnished gold. 
 
 Of tinted pearl or flashing gem. 
 
 The tresses of her shining hair 
 
 Her only crown and diadem. 
 
 She left the throng and stood apart. 
 
 And wept and sighed, yet knew not why.
 
 LORD henry's bridal. 121 
 
 Happy ! for from her closing eye 
 Tears of deep joy were quick to start. 
 Oh ! there are seasons when the heart 
 Is filled with all the love it craves. 
 For all otir race a few brief hours 
 When we forget that eai-thly flowers 
 Are rooted in the soil of gi-aves — 
 Hours when we dream that we are gods. 
 And fondly build eternal bowers 
 Even on this earth's once breathing clods. 
 
 But suddenly a startling cry 
 
 Rose in theii- midst from earth to sky — 
 
 A wild shrill cxy, a rending shriek. 
 
 That sudden echoes sounded thrice — 
 
 A cry that whitened every cheek 
 
 And turned swift blood to stirless ice ; • 
 
 And suddenly past lord and dame 
 
 Of spotless name and high descent 
 
 Strode a vile thing of guilt and shame. 
 
 In garb all travel-stained and rent — 
 
 A fierce-eyed spectre, white and worn. 
 
 That sought the great Lord Henry's seat. 
 
 And madly at his very feet 
 
 Cast down an infant, newly born. 
 
 Viol and harp and horn are mute. 
 The dancers paused with lifted foot. 
 And while the gi-oups stood fixed as stone 
 The strange unbidden guest was gone. 
 Gone ! but the mad despair and ire. 
 The white arms skyward wildly tost. 
 Wrote her brief history as in fia-e — 
 Betrayed, forsaken, fallen, and lost.
 
 122 LORD henry's bridal. 
 
 Tliore is a silence deep and dead 
 Where lately smiled the great and gay. 
 For rapid wheel and rushing steed 
 Have borne the revellers away ; 
 The last late lingering guest is gone. 
 And bride and bridegroom are alone. 
 
 Alas ! sweet soul, thou hast not dreamed 
 Thy sun could know such black eclipse — 
 That fruit which fresh from Eden seemed 
 Would turn to ashes on thy lips ! 
 Foul sin hath placed a lasting bar 
 Between thy wedded lord and thee. 
 Henceforth your sundered hearts shall be 
 Like elements at chemic war. 
 That closely side by side may lie 
 Thi'oughout a whole eternity. 
 Yet never like near dew drops run 
 To meet and lose themselves in one. 
 
 What ho ! thou proud and high-born lord. 
 Whose voice hath hushed a senate's hum. 
 What awful whisper hast thou heard 
 That youth and beauty strike thee dumb ? 
 Tell us. Lord Henry, why you sit 
 With troulilcd brow and quailing eye. 
 Like a black reptile of the pit. 
 That feels some strong archangel nigh ? 
 A blight hath touched thy ripened hope. 
 An ulcerous nakedness is thine. 
 The poison drop is in thy wine. 
 And Atfe bids thee drink it up. 
 Lord Henry, thou shalt know to-day 
 That " as ye sow so shall ye reap,"
 
 LORD henry's bridal. 123 
 
 For vengeance like a boast of pi'ey 
 Sleeps not, but only feigns to sleep. 
 
 There is another broken heart ; 
 Eise up. Lord Henry, and depart ; 
 Go, speechless, naked, and ashamed. 
 And take thy place among the damned. 
 Go, quickly, for tliy lady's eyes. 
 So late with love's sweet moisture dim. 
 Flash like the swords of cherubim. 
 And wave thee out of Paradise. 
 
 Already Henry rues the day 
 He wed the Lady Angela.
 
 ADELPHOS. 
 
 TT was the land, the brave old land, 
 
 -*- With warm and happy skies o'ei'spann'd. 
 
 And fragrant with Hymettus' breath ; 
 
 The land of valour, art and song. 
 
 Where many a great soul, battling long. 
 
 Wrested a name from Time and Death ; 
 
 There, ardent as the heavens above. 
 
 The young Adelphos woke to love. 
 
 As drinks Arabia's herbless sand 
 
 The night dew and the shower, his mind 
 
 Drank all the learning of his land. 
 
 Nor failed he in the end to find 
 
 The wisdom, mystical and grand. 
 
 Of Egypt and of hoary Ind, 
 
 Till his soul heard in caves or woods 
 
 The solemn whispers of the gods. 
 
 Still longing, yearning still to know. 
 He sought the porch where sages sate. 
 And as he journeyed to and fro 
 The youth, O Phidias, passed thy gate. 
 And there, all lighted with the glow 
 Of sunset, he, returning late. 
 Saw near the open lattice shine. 
 Fair as the moon, a face divine.
 
 ADELPHOS. 125 
 
 Then died the thirst for hidden lore 
 That, night and day, his soul possessed ; 
 Sighing, he whispered evermore, 
 ' 'Tis love, not knowledge, makes us blest ; 
 'Tis love that when the heart is sore 
 Breathes o'er it an Elysian rest ; 
 Not in the dim and silent cell 
 Of the lone sage does solace dwell." 
 
 To islands rich in flowers and fruits 
 He sails o'er shining ocean streams. 
 And there in thought he roams, as suits 
 His fancy, lulled to blissful dreams 
 By music from Arcadian lutes ; 
 Or, 'neath the shade of spicy groves. 
 Clasps to his heart the maid he loves. 
 
 Once more 'twas eventide, once more 
 
 The student neared the scidptor's home. 
 
 There stood all glorious as before 
 
 The fairest 'neath that starry dome. 
 
 While eyes that to his spirit bore 
 
 A heaven of joy and hope said " Come." 
 
 Filled with a bliss before unknown. 
 
 The youth drew near and clasped — a stone. 
 
 Statue of Pallas ! Maid divine ! 
 How calm ! how pure thy marble brow ! 
 Poor youth ! with that first touch of thine 
 Love and love's happy visions go. 
 And never more on thee will shine 
 Aught human that can heal thy woe ; 
 Earth hath not — earth shall never see — 
 Such heavenly grace and purity.
 
 TO A FRIEND IN DISTEESS. 
 
 fTlHY secret wound with patience bear, 
 -*- 'Tis great to suffer as to do. 
 And souls that wrestle with despair. 
 
 And wrestle nobly, vanquish too : 
 The ivy, buried by the fall 
 Of ruined arch, or crumbling wall. 
 
 Puts forth anew its little might 
 
 And strains and struggles for the light. 
 Its cmshed and broken tendrils slow 
 
 Through dark and rugged windings run. 
 Upward, and upward still, and lo ! 
 
 At last they revel in the sun ; 
 So, souls that climb with patient strength 
 
 From depths of anguish or despair. 
 Shall, step by step, attain at length 
 
 A nobler life, a purer air.
 
 A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 
 
 " r^ LOEY to God, and peace on earth," 
 ^ In heaven the hymn began. 
 And angels rushed, like falling stars. 
 To sing the words to man. 
 
 " Glory to God, and j)eace on earth," 
 The Son of Man replied ; 
 His solitary voice was hushed. 
 He prayed, and wept, and died. 
 
 " Glory to God, and peace on earth," 
 The anthem peals again ; 
 Earth's wildest discords cannot drown 
 That one celestial strain. 
 
 Hark ! far and near th' undying words 
 
 From human lips are given, 
 'Mid tears and chains, and blood and fire. 
 
 They soar from earth to heaven. 
 
 " Glory to God, and peace on eai-th," 
 Thro' ages dark and long. 
 Earth's noblest, wisest, holiest sons 
 Have sung th' immortal song.
 
 128 
 
 A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 
 
 Eiches and power are vain, and vain 
 The lore of cherubim, * 
 
 For tears shall flow, and hearts shall bleed. 
 Till man shall learn the hymn.
 
 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 rriHE wigwam to the ground was burned, 
 -*- The buffalo and moose were gone. 
 So sire and son arose and turned 
 Towards the setting sun. 
 
 Long, long they journeyed, sore beset 
 By wild beasts and by wilder men. 
 
 And after saddest farewells met 
 Unslaughtered once again. 
 
 At last they came where never foot 
 The low. dark, wooded gorge had trod. 
 
 And deep within the desert shut 
 They dwelt alone with God. 
 
 There, mourning o'er their slaughtered braves. 
 They sat beside their fii-e and wept ; 
 
 Alas ! how distant from the graves 
 Where their dead fathers slept. 
 
 But time di-ied up their tears, they dreamed 
 No more of ambush, fray, or wound ; 
 
 The vale so still, so peaceful, seemed 
 A blessed hunting ground.
 
 130 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 Oft in the still night, all unheard. 
 Save by the listening ears beneath. 
 
 The Spirit-Father came and stirred 
 The pine-tops with his breath. 
 
 But slowly to that happy dell 
 
 The pale-face followed on their tracks ; 
 
 Hai'k ! hark ! again the red man's knell. 
 The rifle and the axe. 
 
 The dark-eyed hunters of the vale 
 
 Went forth to fight their Christian foe ; 
 
 But vain against the leaden hail 
 The hatchet and the bow. 
 
 The father's tearless eyes beheld 
 His sole son hid beneath the clay ; 
 
 He lived to see his forests felled. 
 His wigwam swept away. 
 
 A pine tree, charred and leafless, rose 
 Above the whitcman's fields of corn. 
 
 And there the man of many woes 
 Oft stood in mood forlorn. 
 
 And when the axeman rsought that spot. 
 The chief stood by with frenzied air ; 
 
 He spoke not, stirred not, heeded not 
 The cry " Beware ! beware ! " 
 
 So, there they lie in mire and blood 
 Like lovers locked in fond embrace — 
 
 The last tree of tlie primal wood. 
 The last man of his race.
 
 SONG. 
 
 r\ii ! tell me not that we must part- 
 ^-^ That may not^ cannot be. 
 For distance never can divide 
 Two beings such as we. 
 
 No, we shall live in bye-gone hours — 
 Hours we can ne'er forget — 
 
 And nightly in our visions meet. 
 As we have often met. 
 
 To know that hapi^iness is thine 
 
 My sum of bliss shall be, 
 I ne'er shall know what sorrow is 
 
 If evil harm not thee. 
 
 Hope pointed once to coming years 
 All i-adiant Avith her light. 
 
 But now the future fades in gloom. 
 The past alone is bright. 
 
 Then let us live in bye-gone hours — 
 Hours we can ne'er forget — 
 
 And nightly in oiu- visions meet. 
 As we have often met.
 
 THE BETRAYER. 
 
 TTE let not darkness hide him, 
 -'-'- But sought the festive tlirong ; 
 Frail beauty sat beside him 
 
 To charm with mirth and song. 
 
 He braved the dread hereafter. 
 He joined the joyous band. 
 
 And held amid the laughter 
 The wine cup in his hand. 
 
 Yet oh ! had ye but seen him. 
 But seen the stare — the start. 
 
 There was no mirth within him. 
 No sunshine on his heart. 
 
 He left them with their gladness. 
 He found not what he sought. 
 
 He hoped in bacchant madness 
 To end the hell of thought. 
 
 Abroad, the stars above him. 
 Earth, ocean, all we see. 
 
 Find language to reprove him. 
 And whisper, "Where is she 'i "
 
 THE BETRAYEK. 133 
 
 His tongue of love hath spoken. 
 
 Hath uttered vows in guile, 
 A heart, a heart is broken. 
 
 He doth not, cannot smile. 
 
 She cursed him ? Oh, no never 
 Reproached him ? but with tears, 
 
 Alas ! for him, she ever 
 
 Hath named him in her prayers. 
 
 She heart for heart could render. 
 
 Her wish was but to bless. 
 Her nature was all tender. 
 
 Her sin was love's excess. 
 
 Alone or 'mid the revel. 
 
 On land or on the sea. 
 Alike the accusing devil 
 
 Will whisper, " Where is she ? " 
 
 His tongue of love hath spoken. 
 
 Hath uttered vows in guile, 
 A heart, a heart is broken. 
 
 He doth not, shall not smile.
 
 TO MY WIFE, WITH MY PORTKA.IT. 
 
 LOVED as maiden, wooed as bride. 
 Proved in storm, in sunshine tried. 
 Near me in life's battle stand. 
 Balm for wounds in either hand. 
 
 Mine, while heart and pulse shall move. 
 Mine, mine only be thy love — 
 Love that in the dai-kest day 
 Knows no limit, no decay ; 
 
 Love that screens with sainted kiss 
 Sin-spots dark as Eblis is ; 
 Love tliat in fair hues can dress 
 Even mine own unworthiness. 
 
 Time-worn hollows now entomb 
 Vanished youth and faded bloom. 
 Yet, oh yet, beloved one. 
 Mourn not youth and beauty gone. 
 
 Onward let the seasons move, 
 Years but ripen faithful love. 
 Here as ever may'st thou see 
 Eyes that draw their light from thee.
 
 TO MY WIFE. 135 
 
 Lips that evermore the same 
 Breathe their blessings on thy name. 
 Bosom broad that holds beneath. 
 Love too strong for time and death — 
 
 Bosom broad, that, bared, could show 
 Depths of love thou ne'er canst know — 
 Bosom broad, that, deep within. 
 Holds a heart fast knit to thine — 
 
 Heart that singeth night and day 
 Thee, thee only, thee for aye, 
 Happy heart ! song ceasing never. 
 Thee, thee only, thee for ever.
 
 SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS. 
 
 /GANNON'S lightning flash and thunder, 
 ^-^ Steel and ball, delight not us. 
 Not for glory, not for plunder. 
 Arm we like the Celt or Euss. 
 
 Wolfish troops of cruel spoilers 
 Flit like shadows round our store, 
 
 England's sleepless angel whispers 
 Loose the watch-dog, bolt the door. 
 
 Sweat and blood of sage and warrior 
 Bought our charters, one by one. 
 
 Shall we sleep, and find on v.-aking 
 All our wealth of freedom gone ? 
 
 By our hate of chains and darkness. 
 Never here while hearts are brave 
 
 Priest shall mock the shade of Cromwell, 
 Tyrant spit on Milton's grave. 
 
 Eound the bones of bard and hero, 
 Kound the altar, fold, and flock, 
 
 Sifles ! in the hour of danger. 
 Rise like walls of living rock.
 
 SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS. 137 
 
 Oh ! shovdd banded slave and despot 
 
 Taint the soil that Hampden trod. 
 Rifles ! let a storm of bullets 
 
 Blast them like the wrath of God. 
 
 When, unfettered, beast and devil 
 
 Seek in homes of peace their prey, 
 Mercy dons the helm of valour. 
 
 Crying " Freemen, up and slay."
 
 FIRST LOVE. 
 
 TTTE spake not, for we could not speak, 
 ' ' So ^eat the doubt — the fear. 
 
 But earnest eye conversed with eye. 
 And pleading tear with tear ; 
 
 Ah ! oft in sUent tears we mourn 
 
 The love in tears and silence born. 
 
 Her trembling form was clasped to mine 
 
 In love's delightful fold. 
 While beating heart to beating heart 
 
 Its mighty yearnings told. 
 The doubt was passed — the fear was gone, 
 Th' unutterable secret known. 
 
 A rapture never felt before 
 
 Thro' all my being stole. 
 For heart was then dissolved in heart. 
 
 And soul was lost in soul ; 
 What joy such joy but to receive. 
 What blessedness such bliss to give ! 
 
 The waters of a gushing spring 
 
 O'er the heart's desert ran ; 
 That hour another world was made. 
 
 Another life began, . 
 An inner world — apart from this, 
 A life of unimaKined bliss.
 
 FIRST LOVE. 139 
 
 Our meeting's were life's holidays. 
 
 From toil and sorrow won. 
 They gave a sweetness to the flower, 
 
 A brightness to the sun ; 
 Earth with the tints of Eden glowed. 
 All l^right and beautiful and good. 
 
 Love was a seraph's harpings heard 
 
 Above earth's din and strife, 
 A strain of heavenly poesy 
 
 Amid the prose of life. 
 Bidding from hallowed soul and heart 
 All sorrow and all sin depart. 
 
 'Tis gone, the sunshine of my years. 
 
 The first gleam and the last. 
 In sorrow, hope and memory \dew 
 
 The future and the past ; 
 'Tis gone, and there are left for me 
 A darkened sky, a shoreless sea. 
 
 'Tis gone, that earnest, holy love. 
 
 Too pure, too bright to last. 
 But it has left the loneliness. 
 
 The hunger, and the waste ; 
 In silence and in tears I mourn 
 The love in tears and silence born.
 
 THE FETTERED TO THE FREE. 
 
 QON of Earth, revisit earth thy primal home, 
 •^ Hither, hither, hither, spirit brother, come ; 
 Things of earth no longer fill my purged core. 
 Eyes that once have seen thee look to earth no more. 
 Shine, O radiant spirit, shine on me from far. 
 As when dies the daylight shines the hidden star ; 
 Faint, remote, and feeble is the young lark's cry. 
 Yet how soon it bringeth kindred from the sky. 
 Come, then, bright immortal, from thy starry home. 
 Hither, hither, hither. Son of Glory, come ; 
 Gleams afar thy pinion, shines thy face at last. 
 Let the mystic slumber seal my senses fast. 
 Lo, Thy touch hath freed me, loosed me from the clay. 
 Onward, spirit, onward, upward, and away. 
 Away, away, as the wild bird springs 
 On high, on high, when its bounding wings 
 Have burst from the broken snare ; 
 Away, away, with the Son of Light, 
 O'er the snowy cloud and the mountain's height. 
 Away to yon peopled star ; 
 Away, away, thro' the boundless blue. 
 Unseen, unheard, like the morning dew — 
 The dew that stayed but a transient hour 
 On the lowly grass or the queenly flower. 
 Too pure for the earth and bright ;
 
 THE FETTERED TO THE FREE. 141 
 
 Away, where night with her robe of gloom 
 Never hath been and never shall come ; 
 Awajj away, where the star-beam flings 
 Its rainbow-dyes on the aery wings 
 That wave in its holy light. 
 The bird shall stoop to its leafy bower. 
 The dew shall fall in a summer shower 
 And again make the earth look gay. 
 But the happy soul to the stars shall rise. 
 And wonder and love shall glow in its eyes, 
 Wliile the ages as days pass away.
 
 THE POET. 
 
 rpHE poet stands in solemn mood 
 -^ Amid the whisp'ring solitude ; 
 The stars that gird the far-off pole 
 Speak to his list'ning earnest soul ; 
 The night-wind and the ocean's roar 
 Utter their deep and solemn lore ; 
 To him, ^11 forms in mystic speech 
 Lessons of priceless wisdom teach. 
 He only can their whispers hear. 
 He, Nature's own interpreter. 
 
 Tho' oft' unheard, or heard amiss. 
 Still, still for him creation is 
 Heaven's language, God's unchanging word. 
 By night, by day, for ever heard — 
 Heard as when first the measured chime 
 Of moving worlds gave bii-th to time — 
 Voices which, heeded or unheard. 
 Shall yet speak out till time shall be 
 Gone, like a night-toll, that but stin-ed 
 The stillness of eternity, 
 
 Alas ! that poet ever strove 
 
 To wake the throb cif guilty love, 
 
 Alas ! that e'er the sacred lyre 
 
 Was touched to rouse the w;irrior's ire.
 
 THE POET. 143 
 
 That sounds so heavenly e'er should be 
 Blended with bacchant revelry. 
 
 Not so, sings God and Nature's bard. 
 Heaven and not fame is his reward ; 
 His are the songs whose numbers roll 
 Their gusts of feeling o'er the soul. 
 Stirring its deeps as breezes wake 
 To life and health the stagnant lake ; 
 His are the strains that soothe to rest 
 The fm-ies of the human breast. 
 Flood the dark soul with light, and dart 
 Like sunbeams through the frozen heart ; 
 His spoken music, even when wild 
 As is the wildest minstrelsy 
 Of rushing wind or roaring sea. 
 With trumpet notes of truth is filled — 
 A music bringing peace, and hopes 
 Of power to calm remorse and fear. 
 
 Yet, sweet and holy as the tear. 
 The first tear a fond mother drops 
 O'er the still babe that slumbers near. 
 His words, with fire celestial fraught. 
 Quicken the buried seeds of thought — 
 God planted seeds that, as they shoot 
 Upward into the daylight, gi-ace 
 With beauty, verdure, flowers, and fruit 
 The dreary mental wilderness. 
 
 Comes to his ear the word divine. 
 From all below, around, above. 
 He sees without, he feels within. 
 The eternal Life, and Light, and Love ;
 
 144 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 And God's own language, whispered long, 
 Bm-sts from his lips in fervid song- 
 Sons that shall sound in hiiman ears 
 His changeless truth thro' changing years.
 
 REQUIEM. 
 
 T) OUND her they gather, 
 
 ■^^ Lover, friend, father, 
 Mournfially gazing on beauty's low bed. 
 
 Airs known in childhood. 
 
 Sounding thro' wild wood. 
 Melt not the soul like the hymn for the dead. 
 
 Wild birds are singing. 
 
 Breezes are bringing 
 Fragrance and music from flower and from tree. 
 
 Earth in her gladness 
 
 Heeds not thy sadness. 
 Mourns not, and joys not, O mortal, with thee. 
 
 Joyously o'er us 
 
 Rises the chorus. 
 Beauty and life fill the field and the sky. 
 
 Blithe, but it cheers not. 
 
 Loud, tho' she hears not. 
 Lovely as Eden, tho' darkened her eye. 
 
 Graves, deep and hollow. 
 
 Ope, and we follow. 
 On to the home where our fathers abide. 
 
 Yet fear not and weep not. 
 
 For spirits that sleep not 
 Wait at the portal to welcome and guide. 
 L
 
 146 
 
 REQUIEM. 
 
 Rise, young spirit, 
 
 E/ise and inherit 
 Regions iinsaddened by death and decay. 
 
 Sisters that love thee 
 
 Hover above thee. 
 Look not behind thee, but shorten their stay.
 
 IV 
 
 THE SABBATH. 
 
 I ESTj child of Adam, rest. 
 Thy couch, in quiet keep. 
 To-day no sound unblest 
 
 Shall break thy happy sleep. 
 To-day the Sabbath brings for thee 
 Its brief but welcome jubilee. 
 
 Sad, sad thy portion here. 
 
 For oft unseen of all 
 The sweat-drop and the tear 
 To earth in silence fall ; 
 Then rest, poor slave, thy wasted frame. 
 These hours stern Mammon dares not claim. 
 
 Sorrow and toil have marred 
 
 The form and " face divine," 
 For labours long and hard 
 And woes unnamed are thine ; 
 So rest the aching heart and head. 
 To-day an angel guards thy bed. 
 
 One blessed day in seven, 
 O toiler, mean and poor. 
 An unseen hand from heaven 
 Throws wide thy prison door. 
 And bending Mercy — even to thee. 
 Poor child of Adam — saith, " Be free."
 
 148 THE SABBATH. 
 
 Tho' low and mean thy state^ 
 
 And tho' thy portion be 
 Scorned of the rich and great, 
 A God remembers thee ; 
 Tho' stained and marred, and sin-defiled. 
 The world's great Father owns his child. 
 
 These hours from Mammon's grasp 
 
 His thoughtful mercies wrest. 
 That toil in peace may clasp 
 His darlings to his breast. 
 That wife and babes may round him come 
 Within his oft-forsaken home. 
 
 The flow'ret's folded cup 
 
 Opes in the morning ray. 
 The glorious sun is up. 
 It shines for thee to-day. 
 To-day for thee the stream shall flow. 
 The wild bird sing, the zephyr blow. 
 
 Come quickly, gladly come. 
 
 From scenes of toil and guilt ; 
 Come, see the radiant home 
 Our Father's hand hath built. 
 In the warm sun, on earth's green sod. 
 The soul best sees, most loves, her God. 
 
 While soul and heart shall live. 
 Thro' toU, and wrong, and ill. 
 Strain, mortal, strain and strive 
 Upward, and upv/ard still ; 
 Strain, for there is a rest on high — 
 The Sabbath of eternity.
 
 THE SABBATH. 149 
 
 To-day the loosened chain, 
 
 Th' unfettered thought and limbj 
 The truce to care and pain. 
 
 Shall prompt the thankful hymn ; 
 Break into songs of holy mirth. 
 For heaven to-day comes down to earth.
 
 NIGHT THOUGHTS. 
 
 THE midnight's thick and heavy gloom 
 Fell sadly, sadly as the heap 
 On the last bed where mortals sleep. 
 While Nature, hid as in a tomb. 
 Awaited light and life's return. 
 The resurrection of the mom. 
 
 Flowers, sunshine, beauty, all had gone. 
 Had vanished, and I was alone. 
 Alone ! alone ! no sound or sight 
 The straining ear or eye to bless, 
 Methought that all things fair and bright 
 Had fallen again to nothingness ; 
 Alone ! alone ! I seemed to be 
 A shipwreck of infinity. 
 
 But solitude and darkness brought 
 An hour with awful musings fraught ; 
 Oh there are deep, still moments when 
 The bottom of our hearts is seen. 
 And there's a voice we never hear 
 In the rude world's unholy din — 
 A voice that speaks not to the ear. 
 But ghost-like comes when none are near. 
 And whispers to the soul within.
 
 NIGHT THOUGHTS. 151 
 
 It speaks, we look around and see 
 That all things dear and fond and fair. 
 That hope had said would bless us, bear 
 Death's sad inscription, " Vanity." 
 
 That voice, that whisper of heaven's love. 
 Oft comes to warn, instruct, reprove. 
 It speaks of buried friends, of eyes 
 Whose light we never more may see. 
 Of what we are and yet may be. 
 Of life, of death, of mysteries. 
 Sad, solemn, terrible, sublime ; 
 It bids us from the brink of time 
 Look onward to eternity — 
 That crumbling brink from which the day. 
 The hour, the moment, slide away 
 To melt like snowflakes in that sea. 
 Dark, shoreless, bottomless, unknown. 
 Where all our yesterdays are gone. 
 
 How good it is to steal an hour 
 From sleep, and close the weary eyes 
 On eai-th's gay nothings in disguise. 
 A setting sun, a faded flower. 
 The wail of brook or breeze, has power 
 To speak a wisdom to the heart 
 That tongue or pen can ne'er impart. 
 The mystic voice that comes from hill. 
 Grove, lake, or insect-peopled sod. 
 When all without, within, is still. 
 Is Nature's voice, the voice of God.
 
 THE OLDEX DAYS. 
 
 /^tOME, memory, unbind thy written scroll, 
 ^ Show me thy treasured pictures, one by one. 
 My path grows dark and lonely, and my soul 
 Would fain look back on years and loved ones gone. 
 Eestore, if but in dreams, the light that shone 
 On the first home my happy childhood knew ; 
 Those pleasant spots I fain would look upon. 
 And thou alone canst give them to my view. 
 For time hath changed and marred what time can ne'er- 
 renew. 
 
 Far off and faint as echoed echoes, comes 
 Back to my ears a streamlet's bubbling flow. 
 While bathed in sunshine rise three cottage homes. 
 And close beside a farmstead, grey and low j 
 A grove lies eastward, to the west a brow 
 Slopes gently down to pastures broad and green. 
 Whence glances here and there the brook's unresting 
 sheen. 
 
 On the green walls that gird that quiet spot 
 The Vjright-eyed robin shows his crimson vest. 
 And "neath the lowly eaves of bam and cot 
 The dainty swallow builds her rustic nest ; 
 When, crowned -with flowers, with fragrant winds 
 caress'd.
 
 THE OLDEN DAYS. 153 
 
 O'er melting snows fii'st came the dancing Spring, 
 From deepest glen to miountain's wooded crest 
 Joy spake in song, while larks, on circling wing. 
 Made the far realm of clouds with loTe's own music ring. 
 
 I love ye still, ye kindly, homely folks. 
 Peopling the world that perished long ago ; 
 There, side by side, ye stand, like forest oaks, 
 Shielding each other while the tempests blow. 
 Of this world's wisdom little do ye know. 
 Nor do ye love its hard and selfish creed ; 
 It is your daily wont in prayer to bow. 
 And how shall souls that cry " Oiu' Father " breed 
 Strife among brethren, or forget a brother's need ? 
 
 The ploughshare glitters in the morning sun. 
 And young and old their cheery tasks resume. 
 Abroad, o'er broken fields the harrows run. 
 At home, the maidens ply the wheel and loom. 
 No en^aous mood, no dumb, unthankful gloom. 
 Darkens the happy sunshine of the heart ; 
 Toil is their lot, but not severe their doom. 
 For health and healthful sleep their toils impart. 
 And love is ever near to soothe misfortune's smax-t. 
 
 Fair these retreats, but fairer still to me 
 
 The human forms that bless my dreamy gaze, ' 
 
 Dearer than hearth or homestead, brook or tree. 
 
 The kind, good people of the olden days. 
 
 But ah ! the aery scene no longer stays. 
 
 My early friends in vain by name I call, 
 
 I tread on withered leaves, my spirit strays 
 
 Weeping thro' a lost Eden, where the Fall, 
 
 Like a down-rushing storm, hath manned and ruined all.
 
 THREE LITTLE BROTHERS: 
 
 A NUESEET EHYME. 
 
 rpHEEE little brothers, all pretty and good, 
 -'- Once had a nice little home in a wood. 
 
 And father and mother. 
 
 For these and no other. 
 Worked in the long day as hard as they could. 
 
 Father, before he went out in the day. 
 Smiling, would turn to the darlings and say, 
 
 " You must stop in the house 
 
 And be still as a mouse. 
 Lest you be stolen when we are away. 
 
 ' Little ones, mind and do just as you're bid — 
 Mosses quite cover your house like a lid. 
 And so thickly o'erhead 
 The branches are spread, 
 EoVjbers may never know where you are hid." 
 
 Oh ! many a bright summer day in that year. 
 The babes with their father and mother were there. 
 
 And they grew before long 
 
 To be healthy and strong. 
 And beautiful garments were given them to wear.
 
 THREE LITTLE BROTHERS. 155 
 
 But it happened one day^ when the parents were out. 
 That they said to themselves, "There's no danger 
 about. 
 
 So as nobody sees 
 
 We will climb up the trees. 
 And for once in our lives have a laugh and a shout." 
 
 Just then a giant had entered the wood. 
 Looking for berries or other such food. 
 
 And he heard them while walking. 
 
 All laughing and talking. 
 And in a moment before them he stood. 
 
 The poor little brothers all jumped into bed. 
 And each did his utmost to cover his head ; 
 
 But he tore down their home — 
 
 From foundation to dome — 
 And bore off the brothers aU trembling with dread. 
 
 To keep them alive in a prison he tried. 
 
 And scolded and beat them whenever they cried; 
 
 So they strove all their might 
 
 To escape in the night. 
 And finding they could not they lay down and died. 
 
 Those three little brothers were bu-ds in one nest ; 
 The giant and robber that kUled them in jest 
 
 Was a boy you know well. 
 
 But his name T wont tell, 
 Tho' he sits in the nook, with his chin on his breast.
 
 ON WAR. 
 
 T7!VER, O Earth, thy rolling sphere 
 
 -*-^ Hangs midway between heaven and hell. 
 
 The bourne of unseen kingdoms, where 
 
 The angel and the demon dwell ; 
 Where good and evil, night and day. 
 O'er all things hold divided sway. 
 
 For ever thro' the infinite. 
 
 Earth moves among the orbs ; her form 
 Half bathed in darkness, half in light. 
 
 Her glory stained with cloud and storm ; 
 The fate of all of earthly race 
 Thus mirrored in her changing face. 
 
 Earth never new the reign of love. 
 
 The sway of just and holy law. 
 Since Time began the bleeding dove 
 
 Has writhed beneath the falcon's claw ; 
 For here the gods have built no fence 
 Around the home of innocence. 
 
 Earth's face is one wide battle-field. 
 Marred with the stains and wrecks of strife. 
 
 The combats of the wood and wild 
 But types of man's sublimer life. 
 
 For man, too, joins the mighty war 
 
 In which all lesser beings share.
 
 ON WAR. 167 
 
 In every age the undying Groth 
 
 Has wrestled witli th' eternal Eome ; 
 
 The Furies gather in their wrath. 
 Where'er the Graces build a home ; 
 
 And oceans, cold and dark and deep. 
 
 Wait, watch, and hunger for the ship. 
 
 Dread forces, bidding mountains reel, 
 
 Vesuvia's verdure oft has screened. 
 And oft beneath the angel's heel 
 
 Lies, as tho' dead, th' immortal fiend. 
 Ah ! fire and fiend too oft have driven 
 Pale Peace to her sole home in heaven.
 
 A SIGH. 
 
 "piAIE as an infant's laughing face 
 -'- The world around me seems. 
 An Eden filled with forms of grace. 
 Where Love might find a resting-place 
 And live out all his dreams. 
 
 A listening, momentary calm 
 
 O'er all the landscape broods ; 
 Then breezes, bringing health and balm. 
 Sing, soft and low, a holy psalm 
 
 Through gently swaying woods. 
 
 Yet this is not the home of Love, 
 
 But one wide scene of strife ; 
 Yon hawk o'erhangs the cooing dove. 
 And here all living things must prove 
 
 The bitterness of life. 
 
 And human hearts oft pine for ease. 
 
 In Summer's greenest bowers. 
 And grief will come, where all should please. 
 Sighs blend with heaven's delightful breeze. 
 
 And tears descend on flowers !
 
 ON THE NEW YEAK. 
 
 T) USHING years but leave beliind them 
 Waning strength and failing breathy 
 Heart and pulse, O mortal, ever 
 Time the tread of coruing Death. 
 
 One by one the loosened moments 
 
 Drop into the gulf below. 
 Heart and pulse are but an echo 
 
 Of the miner's ceaseless blow. 
 
 While we slumber, while we trifle. 
 Evermore Time works our fall. 
 
 Solemn thought, that, like a spectre. 
 Comes to startle and appal. 
 
 Give WQ then to noblest labours 
 
 Youthful years and manhood's prime. 
 
 So our deeds shall stand for ever, 
 Eocks amid the stream of Time. 
 
 Be our strife for truth and wisdom. 
 For the world, the life to come. 
 
 Aery earth hath no foundation 
 For the spirit's lasting home.
 
 160 ON THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 Let the tongue and life have fruitage. 
 Words and deeds of purest love. 
 
 Mindful of the place we stand on — 
 Graves beneath us, God ahove. 
 
 Shall great souls that heard the "Well done," 
 
 Mortals risen to high estate. 
 See the searcher at the portal 
 
 Turn us from the golden gate ? 
 
 Earth is full of wrong and evil. 
 Vast our work and brief our space. 
 
 Up then, brother, and in earnest 
 Fight the battle, run the race. 
 
 Let us cleanse the inner temple. 
 
 Let us live before we die. 
 That, when naked, we may blushless. 
 
 Meet the angels eye to eye. 
 
 Whether called to dare or suffer. 
 
 Valiant, patient, let us prove. 
 Knights, true knights of God's first order. 
 
 All mankind our lady-love.
 
 THE MYSTIC VOYAGE. 
 
 TT7"E loved, for side by side we grew together, 
 
 ' ' And many a summer day from noon till even 
 We sat and talked upon the moorland heather. 
 Till earth grew fairer than oiu* dreams of heaven. 
 
 But one sad morn the last long breathless slumber 
 Came, and she rose not from her fixed repose ; 
 
 For she was added to the favoured number 
 
 That rise from earth ere they have known its woes. 
 
 Her grave but held an empty husk, yet near it 
 Hours sad and many have I sate and wept ; 
 
 But once while there deep peace came o'er my spirit. 
 Like stillness on the noontide, and I slept. 
 
 And in that sleep, as if from sleep awaking, 
 
 I saw my Mary seated at my side j 
 Around the bark in which we sate were breakincT 
 
 The wide waste waters of an ocean tide. 
 
 Swift was the stream whose waves had borne us thither. 
 And doubt and peril filled our hearts with fear. 
 
 For whence we came we knew not — knew not whither 
 That rushing flood our tiny bark would bear. 
 M
 
 16'2 THE MYSTIC VOYAGE. 
 
 And many a fireless hearth and roofless dwelling 
 Kose o'er the broad and undulating tide. 
 
 And many a dome and sunlit temple telling 
 Of gods and nations that had lived and died. 
 
 And oft our hearts grew faint with vain endeavour 
 To reach far islands, wondrous green and fair, 
 
 "Where love would fain have made his home for ever. 
 That as we neared them melted into air. 
 
 At last, when many weary days were ended. 
 And many perils, many woes were past. 
 
 From the far sky an awful night descended. 
 As chaos beamless, and as chaos vast. 
 
 StiD onward, o'er the waters wide and trackless. 
 
 Our little vessel glided silently. 
 Still onward, tho' the huge and heavy blackness 
 
 Rose like a solid wall from sea to sky. 
 
 And there, amid the darkness and the stUlness, 
 
 Strange fire-eyed phantoms made us start and shrink. 
 
 And o'er our bodies crept a mortal chillness. 
 As inch by inch our boats began to sink. 
 
 But in that hour of darkness and of terror. 
 Two angels suddenly appeared in sight. 
 
 And the black deep reflected like a mirror. 
 
 Those radiant forms, twin stars of sorrow's night. 
 
 One near my sainted Mary loved to linger. 
 Whose low, soft whispers woke a happy smile. 
 
 And one, with straining eye and lifted finger. 
 Looked as it seemed to some yet hidden isle.
 
 THE MYSTIC VOYAGE. 163 
 
 Headlong at last our wave-worn barque descended 
 Down to black deeps to rot with wreck and sand. 
 
 But o'er their charge those strong twin angels bended. 
 And wings upbore us to an unknown land. 
 
 How sweet it was to hear the soft wind sighing 
 Thro' the green bowers on Eden's shining coast. 
 
 How sweet to hear long silent voices crying 
 
 "They come ! they come ! the loved ones we had lost." 
 
 I woke ; the drowning maid — the Aveary billow — 
 
 The dwellers in the far-off spirit spheres. 
 All, all had vanished, but the stony pillow 
 
 Whereon I lay was wet with happy tears.
 
 HYMN. 
 
 "OATHEE, full of tender mercies, 
 -^ Thou alone our God shalt be. 
 Long, too long, our feet have wandered 
 Far from happiness and Thee. 
 
 Doubt and dread and sin and sorrow. 
 Haunt us still whene'er we roam. 
 
 Father, keep us ever near Thee, 
 Safely guide and guard us home. 
 
 Father, we are blind and feeble. 
 Stumbling on in fear and pain. 
 
 Let Thy truth our path iUumine, 
 Let Thy love our feet sustain. 
 
 Father, we are weak and weary. 
 Here we toil and watch and weej). 
 
 Gently take us to Thy bosom. 
 Give to Thy beloved — sleep.
 
 THE SWALLOW. 
 
 A FABLE. » 
 
 "VTO longer sought the sportive fly 
 ^ The azure of the summer sky. 
 For winds ungentle day by day 
 Snatched from the stem the -whirling spray. 
 And chilling fogs, like sheets of lead. 
 Hung o'er the mown and withered mead. 
 'Twas then, well screened from cold and wet. 
 The bu"ds in solemn council met ; 
 The grey old steeple ere its fall 
 Became a senatorial hall. 
 Where feathered statesmen, small and great. 
 Discussed at ease affairs of state. 
 The strong, as often is the case 
 With strong ones of a higher race. 
 Shed tears while gazing on the weak ; 
 To shattered wing and broken beak 
 They spake of over-population. 
 And recommended emigration. 
 But one rose up, when all was still. 
 And, wiping his melodious bill. 
 Addressed, in deep and earnest words. 
 That multitude of listening birds — 
 " My friends, I should have longer sate 
 To hear your wisdom in debate.
 
 lOf) THE SWALLOW. 
 
 But that I oft have heard within 
 
 The whispers of a voice divine. 
 
 It comes I know not whence or why. 
 
 But I must either sjieak or die. 
 
 It tells me that a winter comes. 
 
 Whose tempest will destroy our homes. 
 
 And, what is worse, exterminate 
 
 The tribes which now our hunger sate ; 
 
 Blit there are lands beyond the main. 
 
 Where summer holds her sunny reign. 
 
 Of dearth, of cold, we need not die. 
 
 For thither yet we all may fly. 
 
 As heaven will send us helpful gales 
 
 To waft us to those blessed vales." 
 
 Each feathered hearer heard within 
 
 An echo of the voice divine. 
 
 And all while listening to the youth 
 
 Felt for the time the power of truth. 
 
 And fearless of the frowning skies 
 
 Kaisod the wild cry " Arise, arise." 
 
 But ere the crowd could upward sirring. 
 
 With hopeful heart and straining wing, 
 
 A wit and scholar pert and gay 
 
 Just hinted he'd a word to say ; 
 
 This bird had worshipped thro' the season 
 
 The goddess called by students Eeason. 
 
 A knowing bird in sooth was he. 
 
 As ever perched on bam or tree. 
 
 For he to life and light was brought 
 
 Where laws and languages are taught. 
 
 And in his nest for weeks had sate 
 
 Listening to doctors in debate, 
 
 TiU he, like them, had gained a store 
 
 Of useless metaphysic lore.
 
 THE SWALLOW. 167 
 
 Few grey professors of the college 
 Knew more than he of God's foreknowledge. 
 Or chattered more familiarly 
 Of free-will and necessity. 
 On lengthy arguments he'd enter 
 To prove a circle had no centre. 
 For well knew he, with learned rtdes 
 To mystify unlettered fools. 
 And floor with quibble, wit, pretence. 
 That clumsy giant, common sense. 
 ' That speaker, friends," said he, " I wist 
 Is but a canting Methodist, 
 Since he exhorts you one and all 
 T'obey some fancied inward call ; 
 Or he may be (the godless rogue) 
 A poor but crafty demagogue. 
 That, discontented with his state. 
 Would ruin nations to be great. 
 Or — ay — his very featui'es show it, 
 A wild-eyed, ranting, crack-brained poet. 
 'Tis true our fathers gave command 
 That we shotdd leave this stricken land 
 As soon as we had strength to brave 
 A journey o'er the endless wave. 
 But they have sent their children dear 
 No known and trusty messenger. 
 To tell us of their happy lot. 
 In the far land where they are — not. 
 My friend the redbreast holds 'tis clear 
 'Tis possible to winter here. 
 And in my neighbour's word I trust. 
 Let others go, if go they must. 
 The fish that ate their fathers will 
 Devour them to the claws and bill.
 
 168 
 
 THE SWALLOW. 
 
 But when those epicTires you see. 
 Just say they need not wait for me." 
 They heard but heeded not, and fast 
 Rose upward on the rushing blast. 
 While full of self-conceit and pride 
 The babe of reason stayed — and died.
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 A H ! how shall tongue or pen express 
 ■^^ The loneliness and pain. 
 When hearts, that long have beat as one. 
 By death are rent in twain. 
 
 Yet joys most holy have their birth 
 
 In sorrow's darkest hours. 
 As rainbows light with glorious hues 
 
 The gloom that ends in showers. 
 
 When daylight dies, the shining veil 
 
 From starry worlds is riven. 
 So griefs that darken earthly hopes 
 
 Give brighter views of heaven. 
 
 My love, my husband, thou art there. 
 
 Thou smil'st on me from far. 
 As on the lone, lost mariner 
 
 Looks down the steadfast star. 
 
 Sweet thoughts of thee, my sainted lord. 
 
 My guiding light shall be. 
 That thro' the mists and storms of time 
 
 Shall draw my soul to thee.
 
 THE DEMONS' CHASE. 
 
 TTNSEEN, unheard, in silent air 
 ^ We wander night and day j 
 We dig the pitfalls, spread the snare. 
 The lures in order lay. 
 
 We haunt the couch, the hearth, the mart. 
 
 We follow everywhere, 
 Unfelt, yet brooding o'er the heart. 
 
 Unknown, yet ever near. 
 
 No trembling beast we chase, or bird. 
 
 In river, brake, or tree. 
 But night and day, unseen, unheard. 
 
 The soul, the sovil himt we. 
 
 Softly, softly, youth lies yonder. 
 Passion's sigh jjerfumes the gale ; 
 
 How his eyes, with love and wonder. 
 Gaze on beauty, false and frail. 
 
 Fair is woman, fair is ocean 
 When the weary whirlwind sleeps. 
 
 Let no plash, no fierce emotion, 
 
 ToU what monsters crowd their deeps.
 
 THE demons' chase. 171 
 
 Shades and silence aid temptation. 
 
 Imps the young delusion nurse ; 
 Lo ! he wooes the sweet damnation. 
 
 Panting, clasps the smiling curse. 
 
 Dig the i)itfall, spread the net. 
 Courage ! we shall have him yet ; 
 Hark ! amid the festive throng. 
 Flushed with wine, he sings the song — 
 
 "Youth is life's holiday, siihny and bright. 
 Catch from the moment the flying delight ; 
 Drain the full goblet, right joyously sing — 
 Pleasure is mortal, and Time hath his wing ; 
 Live while ye live, and rejoice while ye may. 
 Life is a lamp, ever wasting away." 
 
 Echo the chorus, ye imps, as ye glance 
 Arrow-like on o'er the whu'ls of the dance ; 
 Sj^read the dark wing, lest a sunbeam from heaven 
 Show him the pitfall to which he is driven ; 
 Prompt the lewd song, lest the spirits above 
 Startle his soiil with a whisper of love ; 
 See that young roses, the fair and the sweet. 
 Hide the deep hell that is under his feet. 
 
 See him in that earnest crowd, 
 Eipe in manhood, stern and proud j 
 Wine, and song, and mirth are o'er. 
 Woman falls, to reign no more ; 
 Woman falls, but in their turn 
 Other lusts mthin him burn ; 
 Dig the pitfall, spread the net. 
 Courage ! we shall win him yet."
 
 172 THE demons' chase. 
 
 Rise, Son of Glory, and go forth. 
 With guns and swords and spears. 
 
 Manure the oft polluted earth 
 With ashes, blood, and tears. 
 
 The bright green bay shall be thy meed. 
 Thy name shall fill all lands. 
 
 Earth shall applaud each glorious deed, 
 And hell shall clap her hands. 
 
 Or, with the statesman's subtle toils. 
 Bind struggling freedom down. 
 
 Fill all thy palaces with spoils. 
 For none but God will frown. 
 
 The vanities of manhood. Age 
 Beholds with pity or with sneers ; 
 " Gold ! " cries the wisdom of the sage, 
 " Gold ! " cries the fool of many years. 
 
 Heedless of mis'ry, firm and fast 
 Thy hard-won treasures hold. 
 
 Nor dream that when life's hour is past 
 Virtue alone is gold. 
 
 Dig, tott'ring fool, for Mammon's ore. 
 Dig hourly, night and day. 
 
 Then die, and be for ever poor. 
 For ever. Ha ! ha ! ha !
 
 MARY'S DREAM. 
 
 ■QEACE, peace, for she slumbers at last, 
 -L Poor Mary, the silent and meek. 
 Her season of sorrow is past. 
 
 And leaves but a tear on her cheek. 
 
 The ghosts of her happiest years 
 Come back from eternity's tomb. 
 
 Their sunshine has dried up her tears. 
 For the earth is all beauty and bloom. 
 
 The home of her childhood is seen. 
 That refuge most holy, most fair. 
 
 She hears merry voices within. 
 Her brothers and sisters are there. 
 
 The mother is sate in the nook. 
 
 Her children surrounding the hearth. 
 
 And often she closes her book 
 To join in their innocent mirth. 
 
 But one that is dearer than these 
 At eventide comes to the stile. 
 
 Youth, beauty, and goodness are his. 
 That maiden how blest in his smile !
 
 174 Mary's dream. 
 
 Dear moment of joy and of pride. 
 He is led to that beautiful throng. 
 
 The dreamer sits down at his side. 
 And voices are mingling in song. 
 
 The music hath broken the spell. 
 The vision hath melted in air. 
 
 The mother that loved them so well 
 Is gone from the tenantless chair. 
 
 Her brothers are far o'er the wave. 
 Her sisters are scattered and wed. 
 
 Her lover — the gentle, the brave — 
 
 Oh ! where, where is he ? — with the dead. 
 
 The dwelling is silent and lone. 
 The dream was deceitful and vain. 
 
 The home of her childhood is gone. 
 Poor Mary is weeping again.
 
 THE LOCOMOTIVE. 
 
 rpHE neigh of the dragon, a terrible cry, 
 
 -*- Wild, piercing, and shrill, has gone up to the sky ; 
 
 He pants for the start, and he snorts in his ire. 
 
 His life-blood is boiling, his heart is on fire. 
 
 His might, how terrific, how regal his train, 
 
 A comet in harness he shoots o'er the plain ! 
 
 Tho' wingless, he leaves even the eagle behind. 
 
 He is strong as the torrent, as swift as the wind. 
 
 Ah ! ah ! gallant charger, thou flee'st at the sight. 
 
 But how slow is thy swiftness, how feeble thy might. 
 
 A moment behold him, his riders a host ! 
 
 A moment, and lo ! in the haze he is lost ; 
 
 Afar rolls his thunder, and rises afar 
 
 The breath of his nostrils a cloud in the air. 
 
 He flies o'er a path by our fathers untrod, 
 
 A higTiway of wonders, the work of a God. 
 
 O man, O my brother, how stubborn thy will. 
 How dauntless thy courage, how godlike thy skill ; 
 The earth, with her elements, yields to the brave. 
 The fire is a bondsman, the vapour a slave. 
 The vales are uplifted, the mountains are riven. 
 And the way of the dragon is shining and even. 
 Let us gaze and admire, and declare, if we can. 
 How mighty the God that created the man !
 
 176 THE LOCOMOTIVE. 
 
 Tlu'ice blessed the hour in which man shall confess 
 That pomp, art, and knowledge are powerless to bless ; 
 Tlirice blessed the day which this truth shall unfold, 
 That goodness is greatness, that virtue is gold ; 
 Then man shall resemble the spirits above. 
 And science herseK be the handmaid of love.
 
 THE MARINERS' CHURCH. 
 
 "DANES of the Mersey ! afar and on high, 
 -*-' Masts like a pine forest crowding the sky. 
 Clouds on the water, and clouds on the shore. 
 This way and that way a rush and a roar ; 
 Steamboat and omnibus each with its load 
 Churning the billow or shaking the road. 
 Crowds, like dead leaves by the whirlwind uplifted, 
 Hitherward, thitherward, hurried and drifted. 
 Hubbub and tumult for ever and ever, 
 Dust on the highway and foam on the river. 
 Pleasure boats start to the sound of the fife. 
 Friends of dear fi-iends take their last look in life, 
 Laboui'er's sweat-drop and emigrant's tear 
 Fall down together and dai-ken the pier ; 
 Harlots in satin, with graces untold. 
 Offer you friendship, love, all things for gold ; 
 Harlots in tatters, too, smelling of gin. 
 Wrecked long ago on the breakers of sin ; 
 Merchant, whose warehouse is half of a street. 
 Passing poor Lazarns crouched at his feet; 
 Ladies and dandies, perfuming the air. 
 Troops of rank sweaters all heated and bare. 
 Numbers unnumbered, and mixed with the throngs 
 Men of all nations and kindreds and tongues. 
 Spot on the world's deck where pass in review 
 N
 
 178 THE mariners' church. 
 
 Types of the races that make up her crew. 
 
 Messmates that still, thro' Time's watches employed, 
 
 Man the great air-ship that sails thro' the void. 
 
 Thro' the dense multitudes, handsome and brave. 
 
 Moved a stout sailor boy, handsome and brave. 
 
 Dealing out freely the jest or the curse, 
 
 Joy in his countenance, gold in his purse j 
 
 Eiot-wild revels and brawls in his plans. 
 
 Daring the sea's wrath and laughing at man's; 
 
 Onward he goes tiU a sound in his ears 
 
 Startles his soul and he burst into tears. 
 
 Suddenly, softly steal forth into air 
 
 "Words of thanksgiving, repentance, and prayer ; 
 
 Lo ! near his feet, like a dove on her perch. 
 
 Sits on the water the Mariners' Church ; 
 
 There some poor seamen, each finding a brother. 
 
 Sing of Christ Jesus, the God of his mother. 
 
 Sing to the words that in life's early years. 
 
 Lips, silent now, sweetly breathed in his ears. 
 
 Enters the prodigal, leaving without 
 
 Laughter and uproar, the curse and the shout ; 
 
 Enters, and humbled, and melted, and shaken. 
 
 Turns to the Father, forgotten, forsaken ; 
 
 Hearing not, heeding not, what men are saying, 
 
 Down on his knees he is weeping and praying. 
 
 Weeping and praying, while lovingly o'er him 
 
 Hovers an angjl — the mother that bore him — 
 
 She whose delight was to shield and caress him. 
 
 She whose last word was a whispered " God Wees him !." 
 
 Home of the homeless, one found without S3arch, 
 
 Blessings rain on thee, Mariners' Chiorch !
 
 OH ! THE FLOWERS THAT ADORNED. 
 
 OH ! the flowers that adorned and the sunbeams that 
 lighted 
 The paths of our childhood are faded and cold. 
 And if Hope shed a beam on the spirit benighted. 
 We weep to think Hope cannot cheat as of old. 
 
 How fair from the hill-top, in youth's happy morning. 
 Life's journey appears to the young and the bi-ave, 
 
 "When dewdrops and blossoms, the briars adorniag. 
 Make pleasant the pathway that leads to the grave. 
 
 But in autumn we stand 'mid the harvests we planted. 
 Unripe, yet all blasted and withered they seem. 
 
 And startled, at last we awake disenchanted. 
 To know and to feel that oiu- life is a dream. 
 
 Yet, in spite of the sadness that steals o'er the spirit. 
 The thorns on the ground, and the tempests above. 
 
 Thy voice comes, dear Annie, oh, long may I hear it. 
 To tell me that all is unreal but love.
 
 FELO DE SE. 
 
 nPvISEASE and sorrow and care 
 
 -*-^ Had whitened his falling hair, 
 And hollowed out caves for his ghostly eyes ; 
 
 He slept not, he ate no food, 
 
 A heavy and silent mood 
 Had sealed up the lips that knew only sighs. 
 
 Once only he named some grief. 
 Some wound beyond all relief ; 
 
 Yet solace he sought not of wife or son. 
 But moodily, hand on heart. 
 Ho moaned and he walked apart. 
 
 And the thought that was in him he told to none. 
 
 But often at dead of night 
 He started in strange affright. 
 
 And turned to the ceiling his ghastly face j 
 While his eye, like a lamp of fire. 
 Seemed to follow in^fear and ire 
 
 Some devil that moved in the|,throbbing space. 
 
 Pain, pain, and a sleepless care. 
 Pain, pain, and a mad despair. 
 
 Thus evermore hauntedhim night and day. 
 Till, weary and sick^of life. 
 He snatchel up the fatal knife 
 
 When no one was near him his hand to stay.
 
 FELO DE SE. 181 
 
 Some gazed on his corpse in fear. 
 
 Some over liim dropt a tear. 
 And some of his deed made a foolish jest ; 
 
 But he lay like a slave outworn. 
 
 Whose burden, too long upborne. 
 Had crushed out his life ere he reached his rest. 
 
 On his forehead, broad and bare. 
 
 The locks of his shining hair 
 Lay wild as the froth of the storm-toss'd deep ; 
 
 But over his visage stole 
 
 The calm of a weary soul. 
 That had leaned on Mercy and fallen asleep. 
 
 Yet noble in soul was he. 
 
 And manly as man could be. 
 And honest and straight was the path he trod. 
 
 We ask, but none answer, — why 
 
 A nobleman so should die ? 
 Thou knowest, thou knowest alone, O God !
 
 ON THE DEA.TH OF A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 TjlAR and eye grew weary, weary, 
 -'-^ Weary even of song and light. 
 Weary, weary, oh ! how weary. 
 
 Days and nights of pain and blight ; 
 Sweet to her the dreamless slumber. 
 
 Welcome th' eternal night. 
 
 Bathed with tears, with blessings laden. 
 
 Pillowed on a faithful breast. 
 Slowly, slowly, like the day-god. 
 
 Sank she to her solemn rest. 
 While a sadness o'er our spirits 
 
 Fell like night clouds on the West. 
 
 Mournfully we gathered round her. 
 Kissed the brow and clasped the hand>- 
 
 For we knew the gracious Father 
 Called her to the spirit land. 
 
 Hark ! amid the breathless stillness 
 Faintly sounds the seraph band 1
 
 WATERLOO. 
 
 [A traveller, just returned from the field of Waterlco, reports 
 that it is covered with the fioiver " Forget-me-not." The state- 
 ment gave rise to the following versos, written during the reign of 
 Na-poleon III.'] 
 
 "y ES, 'tis the field of blood and fire, 
 -^ Where the world's madmen raged and fought. 
 But time has veiled its crimson mire 
 With the fair flower " Forget-me-not." 
 
 'Tis well that to the lovers' wreath 
 
 Thy bloom should lend its gentle grace ; 
 
 But on this scene of pain and death. 
 
 How strange that thou should' st find a place. 
 
 And yet methinks 'tis not so strange. 
 If from the skies the good and just. 
 
 Now purged from sin and safe from change. 
 Can gaze on this once kindred dust. 
 
 Some spirit, fiUed with soft regret. 
 Might fitly seek this tainted spot. 
 
 And here, where sin and siifPering met. 
 Plant the sweet flower " Forget-me-not."
 
 184 WATERLOO. 
 
 Sad for Philistia's cruel lords. 
 
 When, blinded by remorseless hate. 
 
 The Celtic Samson snapt his cords 
 And grasped the pillars of their state. 
 
 But banded kings may now behold 
 How strong a single nation's will ! 
 
 Vain, vain the waste of blood and gold. 
 For France hath her Napoleon still. 
 
 This tiny flower to great ones brings 
 A wisdom that they never sought. 
 
 And whispers in the ears of kings, 
 *' Forget me not, forget me not." 
 
 When crowns shall lie within thy palm. 
 To guard or crush them as thou wilt, 
 
 O son of toil, be wisely calm. 
 
 And keep thy soul from regal guilt. 
 
 Should pride or envy bid thee, too. 
 
 Seek the vain ends that despots sought. 
 
 For thee the soil of Waterloo 
 Puts forth the flower " Forget-me-not." 
 
 TJplift thy shield above the poor. 
 
 Be thine the power that loves and saves. 
 
 And let thy brethren nevermore 
 
 Leave happy homes for bloody graves.
 
 LINES WRITTEN AFTER SEEING THE 
 CRYSTAL PALACE. 
 
 "TT rose, a pile of wondrous grace, 
 
 -^ Where men of every clime and race 
 
 Stood hand in hand and face to face — 
 
 The bard and prophet's dream ! 
 Rome, Athens, Egypt, Babylon, 
 See here your noblest, best, outdone. 
 For still all glorious in the sun 
 
 The crystal arches gleam ! 
 
 A fane, where labour deified 
 Above all regal pomp and pride. 
 To all her living millions cried 
 
 " The Age of Hope is come." 
 Wait, watch, and work, poor nameless slave, 
 A few more years and thou shalt have 
 The heritage our Father gave. 
 
 Health, freedom, love, and home ! 
 
 Let mobs and despots madly brawl. 
 Their rage shall work each other's fall ; 
 But right shall triumph over all 
 And worth endure for aye !
 
 186 LINES ON THE CRYSTAL PALACE. 
 
 Rule like a king thy own wild heai-t, I 
 
 Let fear, hate, envy, thence depart; 
 Fiends from the angel's visage start. 
 As darkness flies the day. 
 
 The good, the brave, of every land. 
 Ennobled by the despot's brand. 
 Let England help with ready hand. 
 
 The sea her sole ally. 
 The rocky coast and wrathful wave. 
 Isles full of people, strong and brave. 
 Without a tyrant or a slave, . J 
 
 The banded world defy ! ;j 
 
 H 
 
 The age chivalric is not gone, { 
 
 The world now sees there yet is one '. ' 
 
 On whose dear face the light hath shone J 
 
 Of men and angels' smiles. Jj 
 
 Then fill the cup with rosiest wine, 
 Tho' reigning by no Eight Divine, 
 Our hearts, swords, purses, yet are thine,. 
 
 Fair Ladye of the Isles.
 
 H* 
 
 PAINTING. 
 
 " OW beautiful is she 
 
 Whose joy-iUumined eyes 
 Range o'er the earth and sea. 
 Or seek the gorgeous landscapes of the skies, 
 W^here, poured from golden mountains, many a stream. 
 Shining like crystal, rolls 
 Thro' sunniest vales, that seem 
 Meet homes for blessed souls. 
 
 Dear is the earth's green face. 
 Wood, water, plain, and hill. 
 For her the bloom and grace 
 That lighted Eden rest on Natui-e still ; 
 Nor do her eyes, in their wide wanderings. 
 On grandeurs only dwell. 
 But turn to tiniest things — 
 Leaf, insect, flower, and shell. 
 
 Cloud, tempest, ocean froth. 
 
 And hail and lightning please. 
 And wondrous man, in ^vrath 
 More terrible, more big with death than these. 
 She out of chaos bade th' Apollo come 
 In naked majesty. 
 That mortals, stricken dumb, 
 ]yiight feel a God was nigh.
 
 188 PAINTING. 
 
 She thro' the solemn night, 
 
 Unblest with faintest beams. 
 With images of light 
 And beauty crowds the painter's glorious dreams- 
 The home of childhood, cottage, barn, and fold. 
 With richest hues o'erspread. 
 Where linger, as of old. 
 The unforgotten dead. 
 
 Strange lands, strange peoples swim 
 
 Before his dreamy eyes. 
 And visions vast and dim 
 Swell his young heart with wildest ecstasies ; 
 <;)r while he gazes on some humble home. 
 And looks on human woe. 
 Tears even in slumber come. 
 With sad and silent flow. 
 
 Near the far polar sky. 
 
 Where icebergs huge, like skiffs. 
 On the still waters lie. 
 He sees the reindeer on the frozen cliffs ; 
 Where, to the far horizon, desert sands 
 
 Stretch, bare and hot and white. 
 Near his dead camel stands 
 The black-eyed Ishmaelite. 
 
 Lo ! from tlie open grave 
 
 Earth's noblest sons uprise. 
 The good, the great, the brave 
 <^omc forth to stand for ever in our eyes. 
 And when th' embodied dream at length is seen. 
 Men in deep thought depart. 
 And joy to feel within 
 A softer, kindUer heart.
 
 MOURNFUL THOUGHTS. 
 
 "pURE is the stream, and piu^e the skies ; 
 ■*- The fields with joyous music ring. 
 
 And gardens load the zephyi-'s wing 
 With odours stolen from Paradise. 
 
 There, in the warm and sunny dell. 
 
 They stand, with oaks o'er-arched above. 
 Blest homes, where youthful human lore 
 
 Thro' years eternal fain would dwell. 
 
 O Nature, glorious hypocrite ! 
 
 How lovely, yet how false thou art j 
 Can angel lips the skill impart 
 
 To read thee and to read aright ? 
 
 A serpent coiled in flowers of spring, 
 
 A syren that above the tides 
 
 Shows the soft breasts of love, but hides 
 The scaly volumes and the sting. 
 
 From leaf, from dewdrop, flower, and sod. 
 From every blade we chance to stii'. 
 The spoiler and the miu"derer 
 
 Force cries into the ears of God.
 
 190 MOURNFUL THOUGHTS. 
 
 Fair seem the fields, yet on them all. 
 
 Thro' the -world's long, long weary years. 
 Great drops of human sweat and tears 
 
 For ever and for ever fall. 
 
 Alas ! that knowledge should destroy 
 The world on which our boyhood smiled. 
 That glorious world whose beauty filled 
 
 Our eyes with tears of thankful joy. 
 
 Lord, save our faith from wreck and shock. 
 Amid these perils of the night ; 
 Let^the blind eyes behold the light. 
 
 The foot, fast sinking, feel the rock. 
 
 I
 
 THE POOR MAN'S RICHES. 
 
 A mean estate, a fameless namej 
 -^ The scorn or pity of the proud, 
 A mind unlettered, and a frame 
 By hardest labour bowed. 
 
 All these are mine, butnot to me 
 Is life one long and vain regret. 
 
 Love, nature, music, poesy. 
 Bring joy and solace yet. 
 
 I have one daughter, young and dear. 
 And thro' the windows of her eyes 
 
 My soul, in moments sad and drear. 
 Looks into Paradise. 
 
 Fresh as the morn and soft as even. 
 And stainless is she as the dove. 
 
 Her forehead like the plains of heaven. 
 Lit with the light of love. 
 
 No painted dreams, a world's delight. 
 Your eyes within my dwelling scan. 
 
 Glimpses of Eden ere the blight 
 Bad fallen on earth and man.
 
 192 THE POOR man's EICHES. 
 
 But from my little porch are seen 
 Broad meadows and plantations fair. 
 
 Afar, the river's dancing sheen, 
 And moorlands dark and bare. 
 
 And mountains lift their hoary scalps 
 Up to the skies' serenest blue. 
 
 For cloud-land has sublimer Alps 
 Than any earth can show. 
 
 No voice, by patient art refined. 
 Outpours for me its moving trills. 
 
 My minstrels are the harping wind. 
 The ever-singing rills. 
 
 I watch the skylark as it drops, 
 I listen to the linnet's call. 
 
 The starling on the chimney tops. 
 The stone-chat on the wall. 
 
 Thee too, old fiddle, oft thy strings 
 Eejoice, or triumph, or complain, 
 
 A needful balm thy music brings. 
 For weariness or pain. 
 
 And oft some master's wizard hand 
 Draws out with touches exquisite 
 
 The raptures of a seraph band. 
 Or wailings from the pit. 
 
 The bard, too, soothes my grief to rest. 
 His lofty themes my soul sustain. 
 
 His task how noble and how blest. 
 When truth inspires the strain.
 
 THE POOR man's RICHES. 193 
 
 Thrice crowned is he who, scorning death. 
 
 Sings on tho' hidden in the tomb. 
 And charms with unabated breath 
 
 The ages as they come. 
 
 For the gross things we feel and see 
 
 Let base ones wrestle — they are nought ; 
 
 Mine be the world of poesy. 
 The fairyland of thought. 
 
 I envy not the proud and great. 
 
 Contented in. my lone retreat, 
 Nor would I change this low estate 
 
 For grandeur and a street.
 
 THE SONG OF THE ENGLISH EMIGRANT. 
 
 OUK buried fathers rise again. 
 We feel them stir in heart and vein. 
 Toil suits the children of the Dane, 
 
 The Norseman woos the deep. 
 What tho' our task be hard and long. 
 Our hearts are brave, our arms are strong. 
 So to the sound of hopeful song 
 Spread wing, thou gallant ship. 
 
 When, neath the stirless, breathless noon. 
 The sUme creeps o'er the stiU lagoon. 
 And nature sinks as in a swoon, 
 
 ni bodes the sullen rest ; 
 We go where healthful breezes blow. 
 Where purer waters ebb and flow. 
 Weak eaglets, when the strong ones go, 
 
 WiU find a roomier nest. 
 
 We go, lest want should wed with guilt. 
 And swords be reddened to the hilt. 
 And all things that our fathers built. 
 
 In storm and earthquake fall. 
 The poisoned air, the narrow space. 
 The nish and fight for gold and place. 
 Will grind to dust a noble race. 
 
 And end in death to all.
 
 THE ENGLISH EMIGRANT. 195 
 
 Old scenes, old friends, tho' far we roam. 
 Our playmates and our early home, — 
 The graveyard and the mother's tomb. 
 
 Dear to our hearts shall be. 
 But lo ! our fathers rise again. 
 We feel them stir in heart and vein. 
 To us — the Norseman and the Dane 
 
 Cry out, " The sea ! the sea ! "
 
 THE REFORMERS' SOXG. 
 
 This lOetic essay ^i■as the first to appear in print, Aug. 10th, 1837. 
 
 ON, on, Eeformers, ye that hold 
 Britannia's freedom dear. 
 On, on, and high on every height 
 
 Yonr glorious standard rear; 
 On, till the light of heaven-born truth 
 
 Shall gild our Senate's brow. 
 And faction at its slightest frown 
 
 Be brought for ever low ; 
 On, tni the plaint of want and woe 
 
 Throughout our land be hushed. 
 Till home -bom foes be changed to friends. 
 
 And foes abroad be crushed ; 
 On, on, till Learning, keen-eyed maid. 
 
 Fair Freedom's darling child. 
 Make every sweating hind a sage. 
 
 And every savage mild ; 
 On, on, till Labour learn to smile. 
 
 Till Eight no more be rare. 
 Till Justice, 'gainst Oppression's might. 
 
 Will hear the widow's prayer; 
 On, on, till Albion's lofty ships 
 
 Again shall crowd the main.
 
 THE REFORMEKS' SONG. 197 
 
 Till peace and commerce o'er our isle 
 
 Eternally shall reign. 
 Till patriot fire and social love 
 
 Thro' all our ranks prevailj 
 And Briton thus to Briton cries, 
 
 " Hail ! friend and brother, hail ! " 
 On, on, while there exists a heart 
 
 With love of freedom warmed. 
 On till the conquering Yellow Flag 
 
 Wave o'er a world reformed.
 
 A WARNING VOICE. 
 
 "IT 7 HEN I was young, a fearful time it was my fate to 
 
 ' ' know — 
 
 A time of tumult and alarm, of dearth and public woe ; 
 Blight, plague, and poison seemed to hang between the 
 
 earth and sky. 
 The smitten ploughman left his team and tottered home t<^ 
 
 die; 
 And while a prating Science filled our ears with learned talk, 
 The bullock perished in the stall, the grain upon the stalk. 
 Our ways were full of starving men — for mart and mill were 
 
 dumb. 
 And a vague, unshapen, brooding fear had stilled the city's 
 
 hum ; 
 The rich man, passing through the crowd, grew ashen with 
 
 dismay. 
 For poor men looked upon the rich as panthers on their prey. 
 As, sad of heart and slow of foot, along the streets I passed. 
 My ears and heart were startled with a trumpet's sudden 
 
 blast. 
 And, turning round, my eyes beheld within the open square 
 A stranger, wild in act and mien, with ragged beard and 
 
 hair. 
 His garb was worn and travel-stained, his features all 
 
 aglow. 
 Seeming like one that came in haste and was in haste to go ;
 
 A WARNING VOICE. 199 
 
 Poor, hollow-eyed, and gaunt was he, yet full of pride and 
 
 ire. 
 His keen grey eyeballs flashing with a seer or madman's fire. 
 There, in the spacious market place, the pilgrim took his 
 
 stand. 
 And faced the crowd with steadfast gaze and lean uplifted 
 
 hand; 
 His trumpet to his bearded lips the stranger raised again. 
 And thrice he launched upon the wind a weird and mourn- 
 ful strain : — 
 "That is the knell of things that are," saith he, "a sound 
 
 that brings 
 Wailing to palaces and shakes the thrones of wicked kings ,• 
 The priests and rulers of the earth, with all that own their 
 
 sway. 
 By famine, sword, and pestilence shall all be swept away ; 
 Guilty before the court in heaven earth's warring kingdoms 
 
 stand. 
 The dreadful sentence has gone forth — the judgment is at 
 
 hand. 
 Wail ! wail, ye cruel kings ! that o'er the innocent and 
 
 weak 
 So long have raised the lion's paw or eagle's gory beak. 
 And wail, ye lying priests, that saw without rebuke or frown 
 God's children bound in slavish chains — in battles trodden 
 
 down. 
 Ye take the widow's only son from honest toils away. 
 And fill his heart with rage and hate, and teach him how to 
 
 slay; 
 Ye claim the lives of men and say ye reign by right divine. 
 Yet waste your days in vain pursuits — in harlotry and wine. 
 Dead nations, like accusing ghosts rise up, that for your pride 
 Eained sweat-drops on the sodden ground, or rolled in blood 
 
 and died.
 
 200 A WARNING VOICE. 
 
 Foi' twice two thousand years tliis mortal human agony 
 Has sent up to the patient heavens its long and piteous cry ; 
 The signs and wonders in the clouds forebode the hour that 
 
 brings 
 Down to the earth the Lord of lords, the mighty King of 
 
 kings. 
 Woe to the great ones of the earth that trust to spear and 
 
 bow. 
 An arrow from the widow's son shall lay the mightiest low ; 
 The soldier, like a maddened steed, shall snap his brittle 
 
 chain. 
 And by the sword that power supplied shall godless power 
 
 be slain. 
 The demons of the nether pit shall execute his wrath. 
 And hell, unloosed, lay waste the world and clear the Con- 
 queror's path. 
 All tyrannies that Vjind the soul shall then be overthrown. 
 While high above the shattered thrones the Lord shall set 
 
 His own. 
 Then shall a remnant bow the knee, while men and angels 
 
 sing, 
 * Jesus, the Slain, the Crucified, of heaven and earth is 
 
 King.' 
 And wheresoe'er the sunlight falls, the evU beast shall cease. 
 And men shall see the reign of love, of righteousness and 
 
 peace. 
 Lord, let the glory of Thy throne the universe o'erspan. 
 For power and love unite in Thee, O Son of God and Man." 
 Then on his own mysterious way the wild-eyed pilgrim went. 
 And, turning thrice, cried out aloud, " Repent ! Repent ! 
 
 Repent ! "
 
 OUR FATHER'S HOME. 
 
 TTOW eloquent the tongueless things 
 -*- That stand around oiu' father's home. 
 
 Each stone, a silent wizard, brings 
 The past as from a tomb. 
 
 Dear be the house where round the fire 
 Fair loving faces were arrayed. 
 
 Where brother, sister, mother, sire. 
 Joyed, sorrowed, wept, and prayed. 
 
 Dear be the home, tho' strangers claim 
 The roof that screened our father's head. 
 
 And none, alas ! remain to name 
 The absent or the dead. 
 
 Most dear, most holy, for even yet 
 
 Hearth, meadow, garden, tree, and stone 
 
 Forbid the living to forget 
 The dear ones that are gone. 
 
 Hallowed and loved for ever be 
 That old abode of human love, 
 
 'Tis heaven to dream that we may see 
 A home like that above.
 
 THE AGE OF POESY IS GONE. 
 
 "Vr AME, gold, and power alone can bless, 
 "*■ * So mortals look not heavenward now. 
 But guideless, godless, fatherless. 
 
 Bend to the base earth heart and brow. 
 
 This world is but a timepiece, formed 
 To wear away its springs and stop. 
 
 So hearts grow cold and dead, unwarmed, 
 Un^-ivified by Faith and Hope. 
 
 Tho' the Creator's living laws 
 
 All things in heaven and earth control, 
 God, or God's work, no longer draws 
 
 Awe, love, or wonder from the soul. 
 
 i 
 
 Hearts, yearning for a father's love. 
 Shed orphans' tears and feel alone. 
 
 Mammon hath quenched the lights above- 
 The Age of Poesy is gone. 
 
 i 
 
 And is it so ? Speak, sons of thought. 
 Who, looking ever to the skies. 
 
 Have, in the soul's deep stillness, caught 
 Heaven's loftiest, holiest harmonies.
 
 THE AGE OF POESY IS GONE. 
 
 20!} 
 
 Man cannot live unsoothed by song. 
 Sick of this ■world's low cares and pain. 
 
 The fainting soul will turn, ere long'. 
 To hear the minstrel's harp again.
 
 THE BROKEN LYRE. 
 
 TTAINLT God's voice is heard 
 
 ' For ever day and night. 
 
 Whose wakened echoes stirred 
 
 All human hearts with wonder and delight. 
 
 Men look not upward in this evil day. 
 
 But all to Mammon given. 
 
 The spirit weds the clay. 
 
 And earth is loosed from heaven. 
 
 There, on the sterile heath 
 Poor mortals pining sit. 
 Or grope and delve heneath 
 The smoke and darkness of the infernal pit ; 
 World-wisdom lights them, and its lying glare 
 Their hearts have learned to love. 
 So the clear holy star 
 
 Shines vainly from above. 
 
 So, o'er the Broken Lyre, 
 
 Dashed down in wrath and tears. 
 She Wc;pt, whose eye of fire 
 Onie lit all eyes with radiance caught from hers ; 
 Wept in her bitterness of soul to see 
 Men and good angels part. 
 And faith, love. Deity, 
 Die in the human heart. 
 
 i 
 1
 
 THE BROKEN LYRE. 205 
 
 Now, e'er she seeks the skies 
 
 From yon far moonlit steep. 
 She thro' her seraph's eyes 
 Looks clown on Nature in her solemn sleep. 
 Her eyes are like the day-god's parting beams. 
 Her face, all cloud-beclad. 
 Like a June sunset seems. 
 Most glorious, yet most sad. 
 
 And from their homes above. 
 
 The everlasting spheres. 
 In sorrow and in love. 
 Look down thi-o' eyes that glisten as with tears ; 
 And mom-nfully the wand'ring night-wind sigheth 
 O'er mountains bare and lone. 
 And the deep sea replieth 
 With deeper, sadder moan.
 
 THE SUNSET. 
 
 SADLY o'er the purple mountain 
 Fades the crimson light. 
 Sadly o'er the still creation 
 Comes the solemn night ; 
 Stirless in the awful twilight 
 
 Stands the ruined pile. 
 Faintly yet the iAried turrets 
 Catch the sun's last smile. 
 
 Darkly 'gainst the pale horizon 
 
 Pine trees lift the head. 
 Motionless they stand, like mourners 
 
 Round a dying bed. 
 Hark ! the redbreast from yon elm tree. 
 
 Thro' the distance dim. 
 Gazing on the dying day-god 
 
 Sings the funeral hymn. 
 
 Lo ! the spectral moon uprising 
 
 Glides o'er land and main. 
 Like the ghost of the departed 
 
 Walking forth again ; 
 Ask ye why the solemn sunset 
 
 Causeth tears to come ? 
 'Tis because it saith, O mortal. 
 
 Thou, too, hast a tomb.
 
 THE SUNSET. 
 
 207 
 
 Ah ! how sadly o'er the spirit 
 
 Spirit shadows fall. 
 Telling of a night eternal 
 
 Dark with shroud and pall. 
 Life but seems a di-eam-creation. 
 
 Vain its joys, hopes, fears. 
 So the heart's unuttered sadness 
 
 Overflows in tears.
 
 0' 
 
 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 ^N the yellow spray- 
 He, like the white-haired prophet, 
 sits alone, 
 A mourner among ruins, thro' the day 
 Making melodious moan. 
 
 While the wintry rime 
 Falls on his wings, the lone, last minstrel pours 
 Wild fitful farewells to the sunny time. 
 
 Low reqiiiems o'er the flowers. 
 
 Or, on lowly sheds 
 Thou sittest, voiceless with unmeasured woe. 
 While o'er the cold dead summer, winter spreads 
 
 A winding sheet of snow. 
 
 Give thy sorrow scope. 
 Or from the frozen bough or withered leaf 
 Speak soothingly, in whispers such as Hope 
 
 Breathes in the ears of Grief. 
 
 Sing the coming hours. 
 The warm, glad sheen of living spring foretell. 
 When happy children, laden with bright flowers, 
 
 Eetum from brook and dell.
 
 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 209 
 
 So, thro' life's dull years. 
 The soul's unlovely winter, I from thee 
 May draw some solace, and thro' mists and tears 
 
 Gaze on the brio-ht to be. 
 
 '^^
 
 THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 
 
 TTE stands beside his father's grave, 
 -*— *- Dumb, pale, and motionless as one 
 From whom strength, hope, and life had gone ; 
 To-morrow, and the ocean wave 
 Will roll between that sire and son ; 
 To-morrow ! — Oh, that bursting heart ! 
 The sleeper and the mourner part. 
 
 'Tis not the sigh, 'tis not the tear. 
 That tells the voiceless sorrow there — 
 That stony gaze alone can speak 
 For hearts that would but cannot break. 
 The dreams that mocked his hopes are past. 
 All sunshine from his sky is gone. 
 Famine and grief have chased at last 
 All wishes from that breast but one — 
 The one wish that the wretched have. 
 The wish, the hunger for the grave. 
 He prays. That worn and abject man 
 Kneels o'er the form beneath him laid. 
 And helplessness cries out for aid 
 More earnestly than language can ; 
 And poor and wretched tho' he be — 
 A thing that, in its power and pride, 
 A thankless world has cast aside —
 
 THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 211 
 
 Yet not in vain that bended knee. 
 That mute but pleading agony. 
 Alone, self -banished, he shall roam 
 From all he loves to other lands. 
 Where the hard toil of honest hands 
 Is worth a morsel and a home ; 
 Or, haply, he may be even thei-e 
 A beggar still, as he is here. 
 The friendly clasp, the kindly word. 
 May never more be felt or heard. 
 But there, amid a wasting strife. 
 With cold, home-sickness, peniu-y. 
 He may unknown, unheeded, die 
 The long death of a loveless Ufe. 
 
 Ah ! why has grandeur from him torn 
 His portion of the common soil — 
 Nay, even forbid, with bitter scorn. 
 This outcast of the land to toil. 
 When all things else of heaven receive 
 The riglit to labour and to live ?
 
 THE ORPHAN. 
 
 IT seemed most pitiful that one 
 So gentle and so innocent 
 Should, ere the daylight dawned, he sent 
 To walk the wastes of life alone. 
 Too low to ope the door when shut. 
 It was no wonder he should fail 
 To make the dull world hear his wail. 
 Poor outcast nestling ! he was but 
 The plaything of the savage wind. 
 And, woud'ring at a wrath so blind. 
 Full soon his failing wings he fm-led. 
 "What though he cried for help, and prayed 
 More earnestly as strength decayed. 
 This prating, bustling, busy world. 
 Driven onward by its sordid cares. 
 Stopped not to listen to his prayers ; 
 So he grew weaker day by day. 
 And when the summer months were passed. 
 He, bowed and broken by the blast. 
 In a poor widow's cottage lay. 
 Sick was the head and worn the frame. 
 And soul and body, sore opprest. 
 Sighed for the grave's enduring rest. 
 And eyes, grown weary of the light. 
 Longed for the everlasting night ; 
 So down from heaven at last there came 
 
 i 
 
 I
 
 THE ORPHAN. 213 
 
 A swift and smiling messenger. 
 Who, all unheard and unbeheld. 
 Save by the sick and waiting child. 
 Breathed a soft whisper in his ear, 
 I know not what the angel said. 
 But when a brief and joyous light 
 Had o'er the visage, worn and white. 
 Passed like a sunbeam — he was dead.
 
 HYMN TO POVERTY. 
 
 HAIL ! motlier of immortal men. 
 Hail ! nurse of children, half (li\'iuo ; 
 The heroes of the sword and pen. 
 The demi-gods of earth, are thine. 
 
 How vain the boast of regal tongues. 
 The lightning of the imperial glance. 
 
 When Toil, from mighty heart and lungs. 
 Sent up the war-cry, " Vive la France." 
 
 On many a field the record stands 
 Of battles fearftil hard and hot. 
 
 Where peasant leaders, peasant bands. 
 The chivalry of Europe smote. 
 
 Say, Nature, hath our God decreed 
 To veil thee from the poor man's eyes ? 
 
 May none, save great ones, hope to read 
 Thy imimagined mysteries ? 
 
 Lo ! names unknown to titled pride 
 The noblest births of mind display ; 
 
 The steamer rushing through the tide. 
 The dragon of the iron way.
 
 HYMN TO POVERTY. 215 
 
 i> 
 
 Half -buried in the down of ease. 
 High bards have sung the choir among, 
 
 And marble halls and palaces 
 Have echoed with undying song. 
 
 But nations hushed and tearful stand 
 As, prompted by divinest fire, 
 
 A ploughboy's gnarled and rugged hand. 
 With wizard touches, stirs the lyre. 
 
 We deem not great or noble now 
 
 Whom kings have made so with a word- 
 Abashed, let man-made greatness bow 
 Before the anointed of the Lord.
 
 A 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 MAIDj whose home is heaven. 
 Sate in the crimson light 
 Which at the solemn even 
 Is wont to linger on the mountain's height ; 
 All hushed, as tho' no more to wake and weep. 
 The world in dreamless lull 
 Lay, like a babe asleep. 
 Most still, most beautiful. 
 
 Closed were the soft blue eyes, 
 
 Tho' ocean, air, and earth. 
 And the awaking skies. 
 Seemed glorious as the Eden of her birth ; 
 At last, a wailing night wind, like a soul. 
 Swept o'er the fluttering wood. 
 And, fainting, dying, stole 
 Up to her solitude. 
 
 A joy unutterable 
 
 The starting list'ner filled. 
 As slowly rose and fell 
 The ghostly music — fitful, mournful, wild ; 
 They come like voices to her charmed ear. 
 Those wand' ring sounds that roam. 
 Like spirits thro' the air. 
 And seek but find no home.
 
 MUSIC. 217 
 
 She heard the bee that stirred 
 
 The noontide, hushed and hot. 
 The brook, the cheery bird. 
 And dewdrop, tinkling in the haunted grot ; 
 Nor less she loved to hearken to the dash 
 Of the wind-beaten main. 
 Or sudden thunder crash, 
 
 Eending the heavens in twain. 
 
 And sounds of wrath and power 
 
 Pleased, tho' they paled her cheek — 
 The lion's midnight roar. 
 Or the red battle's crash and shout and shriek ; 
 Nor turned she from those deeper, sadder tones. 
 Uttered alone, apart. 
 The wailings and the groans 
 Wrung from the human heart. 
 
 At last, her earnest eyes. 
 
 Lit with an inward fire. 
 Looked upward to the skies 
 Whence her mute prayer drew dowoi a seraph's 
 lyi-e. 
 Then holiest strains, divinest melodies. 
 To the wide air were flung. 
 And mortals bowed their knees 
 When music found a tongue.
 
 MY GRONFATHUR'S GRAVE. 
 
 NUT a puff stirred a leaf o' them ^and ovrd trees, 
 'At owershaddad the grahnd ov ahr village church. 
 As I gloared wi' full een on a gerse-gro-wn heap. 
 Under t' shade of a knotted an' time-worn birch. 
 
 T'owd tree, like a priest in his hoaly robes, 
 Stude solemn an' grey anent t'western dlow. 
 
 An' liftin' its arms into t' silent air. 
 
 Seemed to pray for t'poar fellah 'at slept below. 
 
 Tlois at hand a fine marble wor placed aboon t'squire, 
 Thau he stale fro' his tenants ther hard-won breead. 
 
 For it's tyrants, 'at grunds uz wi' pahr an' brass, 
 'At we honour an' worship alive ur deead. 
 
 Bud ye'U fynd nauther tablet, nur name, nur date, 
 Ovver t'spot wheer my gronfathur sleeps i' t'dark. 
 
 For this world tak's na gaum ov a sweeatin' slave 
 'At can nobbud due useful an' honist wark, 
 
 Nut a letter he knew ov his a b c's. 
 
 Nut a pothuke his fingurs could frame ta mak'. 
 So they made ov a brother a harnessed beast, 
 
 'An a beast's heavy l>urden oppressed his back.
 
 MY GRONFATHUR's GRAVE. 219 
 
 Fro' five ov a mornin' to nine at neet 
 
 He slaved for a livin' for forty year. 
 An' all t'plessur 'at sweetened that bitter life 
 
 Wor a Sunday stretch an' a pint o' Leer. 
 
 Then they tuke him away fro' his flail an' plew. 
 An' they streytened him intuv a sowjer lad. 
 
 For his reulers, althau they could read an' write, 
 Hed been lakin' a lifetime at " Hell mn mad." 
 
 An' if ivver, when trodden reyt dahn i' t'muck. 
 His heart in a whisper hed said, " Eebel," 
 
 His tyrants hed cheyns for body an' sowl — 
 I' this life a dungeon, i' t'next a hell. 
 
 Hay, dear ! hah we suffered thru pride an' greed. 
 When t'country wor governed by nowblemen ; 
 
 Them lords 'at says t'poar isn't fit to reul, 
 
 Sud lewk ovver t'webs they've wovven thersen. 
 
 Poor grondad, I wish tha wor here to see 
 
 Hah bravely we've battled wi' pahi- an' brass. 
 
 Fur t'day draws near when a king munnot craw 
 Ower t'ignarant, impidant workin' class. 
 
 When I think o' t'long ahrs an' o' t' slavish wark 
 'At bro-ivt tha so sooin tuv a naamless tomb. 
 
 My courage revives, an' my arm an' neiv 
 
 Gets strung up an' doubled for t'feyt to come.
 
 VAERY FINE FOWK. 
 
 HIP Hurrah ! Hip Hurrah. ! whot a hullabaloo ! 
 I sucl think 'at thear nivver wor sich an a doo. 
 Lukin' this way ur that, thear wor women hj t' score, 
 Awther scramlin' fur t' window xu- makin' to t'doar. 
 T'Uttle barns ran wi' t'news ovver t' village like hares j 
 Hah they scuttard dahn ginnels an' scamper' d up stairs ! 
 Then they pearkt like young sparrows on t'capestuns 
 
 o' t'wall, 
 Singin' " T'fino fowk is comin' to Tumaldahn Hall ! " 
 T'owd place wor i' bits, an' all t'gardins a waste. 
 Bud some varry fine fowk com ta rent it at t'last. 
 As they rade up to t' gates in a carriage an' pair 
 Ahr village wor ommost as threng as a fair ; 
 Whot wi' silks an' wi' satins, an' ribbons :in' flahrs. 
 Them gentle-fowk glittered like newly-snuffed stars j 
 T'owd chap lewkt a general ui- summat o' t'soart. 
 An' his dowters like ladies connected wi' t' court; 
 VVer een, I can tell ya, wor dazzled wi' t' shine. 
 Coach, coachman, an' harniss an' all wor so fine. 
 
 Theas fearful fine bodies at Tumaldahn Hall 
 Made t'poar i' ther neighbourhood feel varry small. 
 For t'best o' whativver wer land could produce 
 Hed ta go to t'big hahse fur them gentle-fowk's use. 
 Thear wor nowt i' this kingdom ta gooid ur ta dear 
 Fur a man at hed noab'dy knew hah mich i' t'year.
 
 VARRY FINE FOWK. 221 
 
 If ya wantud fresh eggs ye cud liev um no moar. 
 Offer tuppence a-piece an' they'd shew ya to t'doar ; 
 Eeddy brass wodn't buy um, nut even for t'sick. 
 For they went up to t'Hall at three-awpence on t'tick. 
 Theas varry fine fowk, mun, wor varry mich sowt, — 
 Bless yer sowl, t'wor a plezzer to sarve um fur nowt. 
 
 Once I went dahn to t'butcher I'd knawn all my life. 
 
 An' touched a prime joint wi' t'tip end ov his knife ; 
 
 " What's t'price o' this here, lad, it seems varry good? " 
 
 " Ay — that's bahn up to t'Hall, for Su- Evverton Hood; 
 
 Sin' a carriage an' pair began stoppin' at t'doar. 
 
 My meyt's goan off better nor ivver before. 
 
 I'd be reared wi' such like if I'd nobbud a few, 
 
 Thear's nowt like a shew, lad, thear's nowt like a shew." 
 
 " Aw ! thinks ta," I said, " then ta mak' a display ; 
 
 I sal stop, wi' t'owd mule, when I'm cartin' some hay." 
 
 Then T went into t'main street, an' lewkin' abaht, 
 
 I spied summat tasty, an' ventured ta shaht, 
 
 "Just weigh ma that cod-heead 'at's liggin' on t' stall ! " 
 
 " Tha'rt to lat', lad, that cod-heead is bahn up to t'Hall." 
 
 "Well, I can't dew wi' fish when it's young, dus ta see. 
 
 If tha's hearin's a month owd, I'U tak' two ur three." 
 
 Then owd Cobb, wi' an oath, made a grab at his knife. 
 
 So I slipt threw a ginnU, an' cut fur my life. 
 
 Then I saw a gurt board shahtin' aht i' big type, 
 
 " Penny ducks an' black puddin', sheep trotters an' tripe.'" 
 
 " Aw, my hearty," I said, as I glored ower t' stall, 
 
 I fun summat at last 'at's noan bahn up to t'Hall." 
 
 Soa I pooled aht my piu'se, an' I ate — I knawn't what — 
 
 Bud I relished it rarely, an' dahn'd a gooid lot. 
 
 When ye're eytin' owd hen if ya knawn't what it is, 
 
 Te can fancy it's turkey, ur owt 'at ya please, 
 
 T'owd gen'ral hisseln, up at Tumaldahu Hall,
 
 222 VARRY FINE FOWK. 
 
 Nivvei* feastud so weel at a party ur ball. 
 
 Nut liis delicate dowters, 'at sigh'd aht tlier begs 
 
 Wi' t'fattest o' piillets an' t'freshest o' eggs. 
 
 My desart wor sarved up at yond shant o' Jack Heys, 
 
 'Twor a bottle o' pop an' a saucer o' peys. 
 
 A time com' at last, when all t'tradesmen abaht 
 
 Hed used up ther chalk an' wur lewkin' fur t'claht. 
 
 Bud Sir Evverton Hood put um off wi' a smile. 
 
 Touched um all wi' a fether fair sodden wi' oil, 
 
 Spak o' land i' Jimaka, ur somewheers abroad. 
 
 An' o' cargoes o' cotton an' sewgar on t'road ; 
 
 Then he promised once moar ivvry promise ta keep. 
 
 An' he smoothed dahn ther brussels an' rockt um ta sleep. 
 
 Then his dowters wor ta'en wi' a short holla cough. 
 
 An' a doctor wor called on 'at ordered um off. 
 
 In a while comes a letter fro' Naples wc Eome, 
 
 Sayin' t' dowters wor deein' an' t'fathur mud come. 
 
 Soa he rade dahn ta t' station, tuke t'train in a crack. 
 
 Bud t'tradesmen can tell ya, he's nivver come back. 
 
 T'owd chap wor a scholar o' wonderful parts. 
 
 An' a — what is't they call it ? — aw ! Master of Arts. 
 
 Ye've seen, at wer galas i' Mannygam Park, 
 
 Them rockits an' sich, 'at goas up after dark. 
 
 All endin' i' smook, an' a bad-smellin' cowk — 
 
 Them shiners reminds me o' varet fine fowk.
 
 HAPPY TIPPY. 
 
 ~r LUKE for a dlimmer wheniwer it's daxk, 
 -*- I whissel when t'winter wind ovver ma blaws, 
 Thau i' summer it's pleasant ta hearken ta t'lark, 
 Yit I like a tomtit 'coss he sings when it snaws. 
 
 When I cannot get beef I tak treacle an' breead. 
 An' I laugh at all boggards whativver ther shape ; 
 
 I sal nivver seek sorra nur wish mysen deead 
 
 Wol t'sun's donn'd i' mournin' an' t' sky's 'ung wi' crape. 
 
 This world's noan a bad un ta them 'at's nut bad. 
 
 An' wur life isn't awlus a moil an' a toil. 
 For at times, thau I'm forty, I feel like a lad. 
 
 An' I lowp ower t'gap-rail as leet as a foil. 
 
 I'm a poor workin' chap donn'd i' fushtan, ye see. 
 An' I addle ■wd' sweeat ivvry penny I draw ; 
 
 Bud there's noabdy, I guess, at's as happy as me. 
 For I'm t'ansomist fella yer een iwer saw. 
 
 I've a grand little wife i' yon cosey owd cot. 
 An' a bonnier lass niwer stept aht o' door. 
 
 An' bless her, shoo'd wit ta pick me aht o' t'lot, 
 Thau her sweethearts i' number wor ommost a score.
 
 224 HAPPY TIPPY. 
 
 I've a lad abaht eight, thau he lewks nobbud small. 
 At wTitm' an' cahntin' he's t'topmost o' t'list ; 
 
 He's a rare hand at plonk-taw, an' better nur all. 
 He can lick ivvery scholar i' t'schooil wV his fists. 
 
 He can play on t'tin whissel, an' sing " Hold the Fort," 
 He can bahl a streyt ball an' can hannal his bat ; 
 
 He's a topper is Jack, boath at leearnin an' spoart. 
 
 An' he'll some day be t' member fur t'Borrough will that.. 
 
 I've a darlin' i' petticoits cloise upon seven. 
 An' fur bewty shoo taks after t' mother an' me ; 
 
 Mun, I feel as if really I'd gotten ta heaven 
 
 When shoo tunes up i' t'eemins atop o' my knee. 
 
 A lass wi' a sweeter voice nivver wor born. 
 
 An i' what they call glees shoo can tak up her pairt ; 
 
 Him at plays o' t' peeanna at t' Hunter and Horn, 
 Says he'U match her to sing Jenny Lind for a quairt. 
 
 Nah, if iwer a pig wor a pictiir' o' luck 
 
 It's a sue 'at ahr Margit hes gotten i' t'sty ; 
 
 It's grand ta be near her an' watch her gie suck 
 Ta young uns 'at breeders is lengin ta buy. 
 
 Then beside all my pigs I've a tarrier bitch, 
 
 Shoo's a fahl un bud then in a famine shoo'l thrive. 
 
 After t'rabbits shoo'l run fur two mile at a stretch. 
 An' t'rattan shoo sees hesn't a minnit ta live. 
 
 Soa wi' t' world an' its troubles I'm wUlin' ta feyt. 
 Fur its roses is sweet thau its nettles may sting ; 
 
 I can sleep like a top, I can relish my meyt. 
 An' I live wi' t'owd lass as content as a king.
 
 HAPPY TIPPY. 
 
 225 
 
 I lewk for a dlimmer whenivver it's dark, 
 
 I whissel when t' winter wind ovver me blaws, 
 
 Thau it's pleasant i' summer ta hearken to t'lark, 
 Yit I like a tomtit 'coss he singrs when it snaws.
 
 •^^^ -ASS. 
 
 ALEXANDER'S SURFEIT. 
 
 A PARODY ON ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 
 
 'rjlWAS at an auction sale the deed was done, 
 -*- For guineas twenty-one : 
 
 Aloft in awful state 
 
 The hammer-wielder sate 
 On his unstable throne : 
 
 His beery helps were placed around. 
 Their brows with 'kerchiefs and with plasters bound. 
 
 So should assistant rogues be crowned. 
 Two lovely Broadwoods at his side 
 Stood, as if wanting to be tried. 
 In all the pomp of varnished pride. 
 
 Flimsy, flashy, trashy pair, 
 '^one but a knave. 
 None hut a knave. 
 
 None but a Icnave would sell such ware. 
 
 The salesman placed on high, 
 'Mid that discordant choir. 
 Bade some one smite the stringed wire : 
 
 The jangling notes ascend the sky. 
 And happy jokes inspire. 
 
 A curled professor, fair as Jove, 
 
 Forsook his clerkly seat above 
 
 To play the Broadwood of his love ;
 
 Alexander's surfeit. 227 
 
 He took his seat with knowing smile and nod. 
 And while his radiant teeth he showed. 
 In whispers thus his soul expressed : 
 " I call this thing the crown of art, the banger of the world.' ' 
 The gaping crowd admire the thund'rous sound, 
 "A glorious instrument" they shout around. 
 " A glorious instrument " the vaulted roofs rebound : 
 With ravished ears 
 Old Alick hears ; 
 His drunken nod 
 The wire and wood 
 For aye to him transfers. 
 
 The in-aise of Crochett then old AUck's daughter sixng. 
 
 Of Crochett looking ever fair and young : 
 
 The teacher soon in triumph comes. 
 
 Sweet the modern air he hums ; 
 
 With more of cheek than grace 
 
 He shows his flushing face. 
 Now, lady, mind your heart, he comes ! he comes ! 
 
 Crochett, looking ever young. 
 
 Music lessons doth ordain ; 
 
 Tho' said lessons cost a treasure. 
 
 Music is the maiden's pleasure : 
 Rich the treasure. 
 Sweet the pleasure. 
 
 Sweet is pleasure bought with pain. 
 
 Scared with the sounds, the sire in vain 
 Wished all his guineas back again. 
 And thrice he cui-sed the auctioneer, and thrice he cui-sed 
 his men. 
 
 The tutor saw the madness rise. 
 His redd'ning cheeks, his flashing eyes.
 
 228 Alexander's surfeit. 
 
 And while he thumb to nose applied. 
 
 Changed the tune, and saved his hide. 
 
 He chose a mournful muse. 
 
 Soft pity to infuse. 
 
 He sang the prince so great and good. 
 
 By too severe a fate 
 
 Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen. 
 
 Fallen from his charger's height. 
 
 And weltering in his blood ; 
 Deserted in his utmost need 
 By those his fearless valoui' led. 
 In Caffirland exposed he lies. 
 With not a friend to close his eyes. 
 
 With downcast looks the joyless father sate, 
 
 Revolving in his altered soul 
 
 The various tricks of trade below. 
 
 And now and then a sigh he stole 
 While gazing at his shoe. 
 
 The music-master smiled to see 
 Despair was in the next degree : 
 Small cause will angry fathers move 
 To take the liquors that they love. 
 
 Softly sweet with Lj'dian measures. 
 
 Soon he turned his soul to pleasures ; 
 Trade, he sang, is toil and trouble. 
 Civic honours but a bubble. 
 Buying, selling, carding, spinning. 
 
 Meanest tricks and arts employing. 
 If the gold be worth thy winning. 
 
 Think, oh think it worth enjoying ! 
 Port and sherry stand beside thee. 
 Take the drink the gods provide thee. 
 The street boys rent the skies with loud applause.
 
 Alexander's surfeit. 229 
 
 And raised a row, but music was the cause. 
 The sire, unable to conceal his pain. 
 Gazed on the pair 
 Who caused his care. 
 And sighed and looked, sighed and looked. 
 Sighed and looked, and sighed again. 
 At length, with grief and wine at once oppress'd. 
 The father turned away and sought his rest. 
 
 They l)ang the jangling wires again : 
 A louder yet, and yet a louder strain 
 Broke the bands of sleep asunder. 
 And roused him like a rattling peal of thunder. 
 Hark ! hark ! The horrid sound 
 
 Has raised up his head. 
 
 As awaked from the dead. 
 And amazed he stares around. 
 " Kevenge ! Kevenge ! " old Alick cries. 
 
 See his fiu-y rise ! 
 
 See the shirt in his rear. 
 
 How it floats on the air. 
 And the sparkles that flash from his eyes ! 
 
 How long will he stand 
 
 With the light in his hand. 
 Like to one of the ghosts tliat in Isattle were slain. 
 
 And unbvu'ied remain 
 
 Inglorious on the plain ? 
 
 For the vengeance due 
 
 How the old cock crew ! 
 Behold, how he tosses the waltzes on high. 
 How he rages and gibbers, and stamps and nods. 
 And curses and swears by the underground gods ! 
 The street boys applaud with a furious joy. 
 And the sire seized a poker with zeal to destroy ;
 
 230 Alexander's surfeit. 
 
 Betsy stopt the way, 
 To tvu-n him from his prey. 
 And Kke another athlete floored the good old boy. 
 
 Ah ! long ago. 
 
 Ere heaving bellows learned to blow. 
 While organs yet were mute. 
 Street minstrels with a noisy flute. 
 Or jingling lyi'e. 
 Could spoil our noonday nap and kindle flerce desire. 
 But sadder still at last there came 
 The inventor of this vocal frame ; 
 That cursed entliusiast, from his horrid store, 
 Enlarged the former nari'ow bounds, 
 And added strength to homd sounds. 
 With Satan's mother wit and arts unknown before. 
 Old Alick fain would yield his prize. 
 
 And hopes some power unknown 
 Will take his Broadwood to the skies. 
 And bring an angel down.
 
 THE STORY OF ABEL BEN ABOO. 
 
 A PKOSE POEM. 
 
 LONG ago, when a young man, I was the servant of 
 David, the rich Jew of Aleppo. One day my master 
 bade me load the camels with merchandise and depart for a 
 distant city. But I said, " O my master, at this season rob- 
 bers are lying in wait on the skirts of the wilderness, and 
 the way is full of danger as a lion's mouth." Then the 
 Jew, my master, grew angry, and looking scornfully upon 
 me, said, "Thy mother will weep when I tell her that she 
 hath brought forth a hare that flees from the falling leaf." 
 When I heard that, I too grew angry and cried out, " Dog 
 of a Jew, hold thy peace, lest I thrust thee through with my 
 dagger. Since the day I entered thy house thy words have 
 ever been bitter, — bitter as the juice of the aloe tree and 
 sharper than the sword of Saladin. May thy right hand be 
 smitten with palsy, and thy face in the day of judgment be 
 blacker than charcoal." 
 
 The Jew, so soon as I had cursed him, waxed exceeding 
 wroth, and spat in my face ; whereupon I smote him on the 
 forehead, so that he fell down backwards, and lay as one 
 dead. Then a great fear came upon me, and in my heart I 
 began to curse my Maker, seeing that he had suffered me to 
 fall into this snare of the devil. " Oh Abel ! " I cried, "to- 
 morrow thy head will be nailed to the gate of the city, and
 
 232 THE STORY OF ABEL BEN ABOO. 
 
 thy carcase cast from its walls to be devoured by dogs. 
 Henceforth who shall put his trust in God, or keep the com- 
 mandment of His prophet ? " 
 
 In the midst of my lamentation — blessed for evermore 
 be the name of Allah — I saw the lips of the Jew move, and 
 kneeling down beside him, I heard him mutter curses on his 
 servant, whereby I knew he was not dead— only for a time 
 stunned and disabled. Then I hearkened to a voice witliin 
 me which said, " O Abel, tarry thou not to help thy master, 
 for when he cometh to himself he will drag thee before the 
 governor, who will cause thy feet to be beaten with rods." 
 So I girded up my loins with intent to leave the city in 
 haste, for I knew the governor was an unjust man, that 
 despised the poor, and hearkened to him whose bags were 
 full of silver. Suddenly, however, I bethought me that T 
 had no money, so I snatched the purse from the Jew's girdle, 
 and took therefrom ten pieces of silver, the wages due to 
 me, and seeing that he had well nigh provoked me to slay 
 him, I took other ten pieces also, to bear the costs of my 
 journey. "Doubtless," said I, " when the Hebrew counteth 
 up his coins he will blaspheme the prophet, and curse his 
 servant ; but what saith Nazim, the Arabian poet, ' The 
 ass that treadeth upon a serpent shall be bitten on the 
 heel.' " 
 
 When I had travelled about half a day's joiirney, I 
 turned aside from the highway, saying, " Here will I abide 
 till the night cometh." 
 
 An hour after midday, as I looked towards Aleppo, I saw 
 a cloud of dust, then the glittering points of two spears, 
 then two horsemen riding towards me on the wings of the 
 tempest. When they arrived opposite my hiding place they 
 cried out to a goatherd in the field, " Knowest thou aught of 
 Abel, the servant of David the Jew?" "Yea," said the 
 goatherd, " I saw him at noontide, going towards Aleppo by
 
 THE STORY OF ABEL BEN ABOO. 233 
 
 way of the sheep-folds." It was not I, but a man like unto 
 me, that he had seen, driving his beasts to the city. When 
 I saw the soldiers of the governor turn the heads of their 
 horses, I remembered the words of a holy Dervish, "The 
 wisdom of the wise and the ignorance of the fools work out 
 together the purposes of God and confound the enemies of 
 the faithful." 
 
 When the sun rose I was far from Aleppo, and changing 
 my ajjparel for the garb of a shepherd, I turned my face 
 towards Jerusalem. While I was yet a day's joioi-ney from 
 the Holy City, I saw two men bending over another lying 
 on the ground. As I drew near I saw that the two men 
 were Syrian guides, and that he who lay upon the ground 
 Avas from the land of the Franks. One of the guides was 
 opening the vest of his master, while the other applied to 
 his nostrils a small phial out of wliich came a piercing 
 odour. " What aUeth this stranger ? " I asked. " Smitten 
 by the sun," said one of his attendants. "Thy words," said 
 I, " come from the mouth of a fool ; seest thou not that the 
 hands of thy master are clenched, and that there is foam 
 upon liis lips ? Behold," said I, " this man is torn inwardly 
 by a devil. Stand aside, in the name of Mohammed, 
 Prophet of the Most Merciful, and ye shall see this fiend 
 driven out of him." So saying, I drew from my bosom a 
 ruby which had touched the sacred stone at Mecca, and 
 applied it to his forehead. Instantly the hands were un- 
 clenched, the eyes were opened, and the demoniac looked 
 around liim as one that waketh up suddenly out of deep 
 sleep. Truly the words of the Persian Sage are wise, for he 
 saith, " The spirits of the damned are the slaves of the 
 Most High, but the faithful are His children, and shall rule 
 over them." 
 
 When the stranger came to himself, he asked my name, 
 and besought me to abide with him, as the guides wished to
 
 234 THE STORY OF ABEL BEN ABOO. 
 
 return to their own homes. Bowing my face to the earth, I 
 told him I was willing to become his slave, and follow him 
 even to the shores of the Great Sea. 
 
 At eventide, when we encamped, he called me into his 
 tent and told me that he was an Englishman who had fled 
 from snow and frost to the sunshine of the East. "Twice, 
 O Abel," said he, " have I been nigh unto death, but a wise 
 l^hysician hath told me that the warm air and delicious fruits 
 of Asia may perchance restore me to perfect health." 
 "Alas, my master," said I, "put no tnist in the physician 
 thou speakest of, he hath been nourished from childhood 
 with the milk of asses, and his wisdom is but witchcraft and 
 folly." " Say not so," said the young lord, "for my physician 
 is a great man among the Franks, and his head contains the 
 hoarded knowledge of a school that hath existed a hundred 
 years." " Hath England a Jerusalem or a Damascus P 
 Behold ! " said I, " your nation is a babe of yesterday, and 
 knows not the wisdom that hath come down to us through 
 the ages. Here, my master, is a ruby that shall avail 
 thee more than all the skill in Europe. Bind it around thy 
 neck, and neither the imps of Tophet nor the genii that 
 bowed the knee to King Solomon will ever molest thee 
 again." " I will even do as thou sayest," said he, and put- 
 ting the string round his neck, he hid the gem in his bosom, 
 and I saw by the smile on his lips that he felt safe and happy 
 as one that reposes in the shadow of God. 
 
 When we arrived at Jerusalem, the city was in an uproar, 
 for the Infidels had come from the ends of the earth to fight 
 ■with one another at the grave of the man they call Jesus. 
 Early in the morning my master called me to his side, and 
 said, " O Abel, show me the wonders of the place." So, 
 after we had washed our faces, and eaten bread, we went 
 forth into the street. The soldiers of Abdul the Mighty 
 were riding to and fro with drawn scimitars, keeping apart
 
 THE STORY OF ABEL BEN ABOO. 235 
 
 the hostile sects that growled at each other like the wolves 
 of the desert. "O my lord," said I, " thou seest here one 
 of the wonders of the city ; these be the followers of him 
 whom they call the Prince of Peace." Then I led my master 
 to the Chtirch of the Holy Sepulchre, saying at the door 
 thereof, "Enter, and I will wait for thee." But the Frank 
 said, " Abel, come thou with me, and see the wonders of the 
 place." " Not so, my lord," said I, "a servant of the true 
 God may not look on the pictures and images which these 
 idolaters have set up in the land of his prophet." After- 
 wards I showed him the hundred places made famous by the 
 Christians ; and when I heard the monks tell of the wonders 
 and miracles of their church, I marvelled that he should 
 believe them, till I remembered the words of Ahmed the 
 Sage — " He that rejects the wisdom that comes from heaven 
 shall be filled with the falsehoods of hell." 
 
 On the following morning my master again called me to 
 his side, saying, " Abel, to-day thou shalt show me the places 
 held in honour by the faithful." "Behold," said I, "in 
 all Jerusalem there is nothing to compare with the Mosque 
 of Omar; let us go thither, and in place of the legends of 
 lying and deceitful monks, thoii shalt hear the traditions 
 that comfort the souls of believers." 
 
 When we reached the holy place I showed him the great 
 rock in the middle of the temple, on which Abraham was 
 about to offer up his son Isaac. " Even the sacred books of 
 the Christians," said I, " make mention of this stone and of 
 the intended sacrifice. It was from this rock," said I, " that 
 Mohammed ascended into heaven, but when the sacred stone 
 was rising also, it was seized and held down by Gabriel." 
 "The story is too wonderful," said my master, but when I 
 showed him the footprints of the prophet, and the marks 
 made by the archangel's fingers, liis doubtings were rebuked, 
 and I saw that he stood confounded.
 
 236 THE STORY OF ABEL BEN ABOO. 
 
 In Jerusalem my master tarried a whole month, going 
 hither and thither to see divers places in the neighbourhood. 
 When he had satisfied the eye with seeing, he said, " Let us 
 depart for Jaffa, and there take ship for Egypt." So I hired 
 two camels for the baggage and a horse for my master. 
 
 As we journeyed towards the seaport, I saw coming from 
 thence a train of camels laden with the merchandise of the 
 West. In front thereof walked a Nubian, blacker than the 
 wings of Azrael, and behind, seated on an ass, rode an 
 accursed dog of the Hebrew race. As we passed the train I 
 lifted up my eyes to look at the man who rode the ass, and 
 behold ! it was the Jew, David of Aleppo ! 
 
 When my late master saw me, he cursed me with a loud 
 voice in Hebrew and in Arabic, proclaiming me a robber and 
 a murderer. Then, di'iving his beast close up to my side, he 
 whispered, " Forsake thou this stranger and return with 
 me, and when thou hast served me a year thy evil deed shall 
 be forgiven." 
 
 " Jew," said I, " Abel the camel di-iver defies thee. 
 When the Bedouin took from thee a bundle of shawls near 
 Jericho, didst thou not blaspheme the Prophet and call upon 
 thy God to curse his followers ? Move but thy little finger 
 against me and I will cause thy tongue to be cut out and 
 nailed to the door of the synagogue. And why temptest 
 thou me to forsake this stranger? Behold," said I, "my 
 master is a king's son. His presence is grateful as the 
 shade of the palm tree ; his voice as pleasant the sound 
 of running waters ; his table fruitful in all good things as 
 the gardens about Damascus ; and his purse the pap of a 
 she camel pouring out plenty of inilk evening and morning. 
 As for thee, thou art an infidel and the son of a witch ; thy 
 mouth is a nest of scorpions, thy table a cornfield which the 
 locusts have forsaken, thy right hand without a gift and 
 barer than the desert."
 
 THE STORY OF ABEL BEN ABOO. 237 
 
 Having ended my speech we journeyed on, leaving the 
 Jew behind us. Then my master, riding up to me, said 
 " Abel, what said that Hebrew ? " 
 
 "Of a truth," said I, "his words were these, 'Forsake 
 thou this stranger, and return with me ; ' " but I told him 
 not the rest, for Mazun, the poet, saith, " Speak well of 
 thyself, for even thy kinsmen will declare thy faults." 
 
 At Jaffa, my master fell sick, and calling me to his bed- 
 side, he said, "Abel, I like not strangers. Abide with me 
 and thy reward shall be great." 
 
 Then I fell upon my knees, and swore, by the ruby in his 
 bosom, to stay with him night and day till he bade me go. 
 
 "Oh, my master," said I, "I will watch thee with the 
 eyes of the lynx, and touch thee with the hand of thy 
 mother, I will move about thy chamber on panther's feet, 
 and guard thee as she guards her young. To those who love 
 thee, I will be softer than the fur upon her back ; to him 
 that would harm thee, deadlier than her teeth and claws." 
 
 In this sore sickness, which lasted many weeks, my mas- 
 ter cast out his old disease, and grew day by day into a 
 strong and healthy man. 
 
 "Abel," said he, "it is now a long time since I left my 
 father's house, and my heart yearns to see my brethren. 
 To-morrow, a ship will sail for England. We will embark 
 for that country, and visit Egypt at another time." 
 
 "The words of my master are wise," said I, "for a man's 
 kindred may pass away, but the Pyi-amids will endure." 
 
 So on the morrow we embarked, and in twenty days 
 entered the greatest city in Frangistan — London. 
 
 Wonderful city ! the stores whereof are filled with the 
 riches of the universe ! The shops are on either side of you, 
 and form the greatest bazaar in the world. At first I 
 thought it was all bazaar, for if the shops of London were 
 placed in a row, they would reach from Dan to Beersheba.
 
 *238 THE STORY OF ABEL BEN ABOO. 
 
 As I stood on a great bridge that crosses the river, I saw 
 the ships that brought this merchandise from all climes 
 under the sun. The masts thereof were like a forest of 
 pines on the heights of Mount Lebanon. Over this bridge 
 the people pass and repass for ever and ever. "These 
 English," said I, "know much, but they know not rest. 
 Like the messengers of Al)dul the Omnipotent, that look 
 not to the right hand nor to the left, they hurry past 
 you and speak not, having no time for meditation and 
 prayer." 
 
 Day by day, I looked into those crowded streets, hoping 
 to see some one fall down upon h is knees and pray to the Most 
 High; but I looked and waited in vain. Then came to my 
 mind the word of Ahmed the sage, "The nation that knows 
 not God shall become the prey of devils, and perish utterly." 
 Afterwards, however, I was told that the English believed 
 in God, whom, strange to say, they worship only one day in 
 seven. Once, on what they call the Sabbath Day, I went 
 with my master to one of their mosques to see their mode of 
 worship. The priest was dressed in a long white robe, like 
 one of the mountebanks of Cairo, and while he spake to the 
 people they bowed their heads and groaned. Suddenly, 
 from a recess or gallery in tlie temple, there came a noise 
 terrible as the howling of wolves at midnight, then aAvful 
 and deep as the roar of the Jordan, then soft and faint, and 
 far off, like the whisper of the wind through the groves of 
 Mount Olivet. At the first alann all the people stood up 
 and shouted, and ceased not till the awful sounds were 
 silenced. Looking towards the place whence the noise pro- 
 ceeded, I saw a man making frantic movements with his 
 hands and feet like one possessed with a devil. This fellow, 
 doubtless, was hired by the priest to keep the people in awe 
 with his bellowings. At their religious festivals the idolaters 
 of Hindostan make similar noises with gongs and drums and
 
 THE STORY OF ABEL BEN ABOO. 239 
 
 trumpets. Blessed art thou, and blessed for ever shalt thou 
 be, Mohammed ! for thou hast taught ixs to worship the 
 One, the only God, without companion, wife, or son. 
 
 In various parts of the city I saw^'many magnificent 
 buildings which, at first, I thought were temples, for I saw 
 the people going in and coming out continually, and from 
 the open doors thereof came a strange odour as of incense. 
 The people that went in and came out were ragged as the 
 beggars that sit at the gates of Aleppo ; so I communed 
 with myself, saying "These be the churches of the poor;" 
 but I discovered afterwards that in these temples were sold 
 waters of madness. InJEngland, the ruler of every large city 
 hath many servants clothed in blue, and girt about the loins 
 with a leathern girdle, whose business it is to save the people 
 from the fury of those who have drunk of the enchanted 
 cup. When these madmen are brought to the Hall of 
 Justice, the ruler saith to the rich among them, "Pay so 
 much and begone ; " to the poor, who cannot pay, he saith 
 " Away to prison." Such, O my brethren, is the justice of 
 unbelievers ; such the condition of this people — a people 
 that knows not God, and despises the commandment of his 
 Prophet. 
 
 When my master had tarried a month in London, we 
 journeyed to Manchester. Besides the mosques and the 
 palaces for the sale of strange waters, there are in that city 
 other buildings the dimensions of which are great. These 
 are the cotton factories, for which the place is famous. In 
 some of these one man will employ as many as three thousand 
 slaves, of both sexes and of all ages. Here, they count it as 
 nothing that men and women should mingle together. 
 Among all ranks modesty is unknown. Ladies will sit, even 
 in theatres, with then* faces and bosoms uncovered, and they 
 blush not when they stand befoi'e you naked as the dancing 
 girls of Egypt.
 
 240 THE STORY OF ABEL BEN ABOO. 
 
 When my master visited one of these places, he took me 
 with him. The lord of the mill showed us the wonders of 
 the place. Near tis was a young maiden watching two 
 machines. Her movements were like those of her shuttles, 
 swifter than the feet of the wild ass. 
 
 "Behold," said the lord of the mill, "this slender girl 
 can clothe one thousand women in a week, and the women 
 of Manchester can clothe the women of the world." 
 
 After sunset I walked into the city, and turning aside 
 from the streets of palaces I fell among the habitations of 
 the poor. Behold ! the women that clothed the world were 
 themselves clad in filthy and miserable rags. There I saw 
 the son despise the father ; the daughter set at nought her 
 mother. Little ones were running hither and thither with 
 small vessels containing the waters that make them mad, 
 while everywhere from the open doors came the odour 
 of swine's flesh. Then I cried aloud, "O Ida! fairest 
 maiden of Aleppo! when I see thee arrayed in the tinted 
 garments woven in this city, I know that these wretched 
 and fallen unbelievers were born btit to minister to such 
 as thou." 
 
 The poor Syrian goes out to his field or his vineyard, and 
 brings the fruit of his toil to the hidden jewel in whom his 
 soul delights ; but here the husband drives out his wife to 
 the factory, and riots on her wages. The wolf that famishes 
 among the stones of the desert warms and nourishes her 
 young, but the infidels of this country send out their little 
 ones to earn bread for their parents. Verily the English 
 are a people whom God hath smitten with blindness. Their 
 country is green and beautiful as the meadows of Abana, 
 yet the people live half-buried in narrow and pestilent 
 streets. Their skies are blackened with the smoke of fac- 
 tories and furnaces; their streams poisoned with deadly and 
 abominable things. The poor pile up riches which they dare
 
 THE STORY OF ABEL BEN ABOO. 
 
 241 
 
 not touch; the rich live in the midst of a poverty which 
 they fear and hate. 
 
 When I saw this my heart grew sick, and I sought my 
 master. 
 
 "O my master," I said, "be not angry, I jn-ay thee, with 
 thy servant, but my heart hungers for my native land. 
 Give me the ruby which hath touched the sacred stone at 
 Mecca, and let me go." Then the young lord, my master, 
 paid me my full wages, and heaping many gifts upon me, 
 bade me return to my own land.
 
 GLOSSARY OF LOCAL WORDS. 
 
 By W. G. Hird. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY OBSERVATIONS. 
 
 The word Dialect properly means the peculiar words, or 
 forms of speech, which characterise a locality, and are often 
 so marked as to be readily known from those used in other 
 places, and ordinary English. All our large towns in York- 
 shire, and many different parts of the rural districts, have 
 their own stock of words, so unlike each other as to be hardly 
 intelligible to persons residing a few miles off. And the 
 varied spelling and pronunciation of the same words in 
 different places is amply sufficient to bewilder strangers. 
 The lofty epithet, "Yoekshiee Dialect," applied to any 
 locality in our gi-eat county, is both a misnomer and an 
 absurdity, as has been well illustrated ])y the author of the 
 Leeds Dialect (pp. 8 — 25) in some happily chosen examples 
 of the different way of speaking in various places at short 
 distances from the centre of our woollen manufactures. 
 The same may be said ei^ually of Bradford and Halifax, and 
 the neighbourhood. Instead of thij words in the Dialect 
 Poems being provincial, they can only be considered local, 
 with but few exceptions, and the words introduced l»y 
 strangers.
 
 GLOSSARY. 243 
 
 The very uncouth and varied forms of some words 
 may be traced to laziness and imperfect articulation 
 originally^ and these have been perpetuated through 
 ignorance. For instance, those beginning with c and g 
 change the initial letter, as tlay, for clay ; cllad for glad ; and 
 the lengthening of monosyllables like no and so into noa and 
 soa for the sake of making a mouthful, are sheer remnants 
 of vulgarity. Mr. S. Dyer says, in the Yorkshire Magazine 
 (Vol. II., p. 254), that " Awther and Nawther are found so 
 written as far back as the twelfth century." Fui-ther, that 
 "the modes of pronouncing these words seem to differ in 
 each town of Yorkshire ; " and that he had " heard neither, 
 nyther, nayther, &c. Nathor was the Anglo-Saxon spelling." 
 The change of I into w for the sake of breadth of sound is 
 common in dialect forms, as cowd (cold), fowk (folk), owd 
 (old), &C'. The l)road jironun elation of the last word was 
 formerly almost universal in Bradford and the neighbour- 
 hood, and is still used by uneducated persons, but in most 
 parts of Yorkshire and the Northern counties is spelled aud 
 or aivd, and in Scottish, auld. It is a very common epithet 
 of familiarity and endearment when prefixed to the words 
 lad and lass, &c., as in the touching line — " Tha mun gie 
 ma thy hand, owd lad," p. .33, and in the tender allusion to 
 Owd Mally, p. 14, 1. 3, &c. 
 
 It has not been thought necessary to note the halting 
 between the use of the aspirate (h) and its omission, or the 
 irregularity of the endings of the compound personal pro- 
 noiins, on account of oiu' limited space. The letter u is 
 frequently used instead of e, o, and iv, as hur for her ; id, 
 p. 23, 1. 20, for hot, where h is dropped and o changed to u ; 
 and ul, p. 36, 1. 21, for will is a ftirther corrupted form of a 
 short word. Better English, or more correct forms of 
 speaking, would have been out of keeping with the 
 characters delineated.
 
 244 GLOSSARY. 
 
 The Dialect Poems are singularly rich in metaphor 
 and simile, -which, by their redundancy, add a force and 
 charm to many passages of great beauty. But grammatical 
 ticcm-acy is a thing utterly unknown. The use of a plural 
 nominative with a verb in the singular, and the converse, 
 are almost universal amongst the persons forming the sub- 
 jects of the Poems : e.g., p. 2, 1. 5 — " Yond props is like " — 
 for are like; lb., 1. 13 — "When wasters lewks " (look); 
 lb., 23—" Theer's few likes tellin' " (there are few like tell- 
 ing) ; p. 14, 1. 1 — " It's a mercy wer feelings gets blunted " 
 (our feelings get blunted). Eliyme is also occasionally 
 made by good English rather than dialect sounds of words, 
 as stile with while ; where the vulgar pronunciation of the 
 first word would be steel. This is allowable in poetry, and 
 often occurs in Bums' Poems. Our author has not much, 
 if at all, exaggerated the common speech of the persons 
 delineated in his Poems. Occasional coarseness, and the 
 use of terms tabooed in good society, arrest the attention 
 more by their expressiveness than propriety, whilst the 
 (juaint illustrations and homely metaphors cannot fail to 
 interest and please the most fastidious readers, and convey 
 at the same time wholesome truth and instruction. The great 
 object of the Glossary has been to give the correct meaning 
 of the dialect words as used by the author. Many of these 
 are now nearly obsolete, or foreign to vast numbers of 
 persons who have come to reside here in consequence of 
 the wonderful development and rapid growth of our manu- 
 facturing industries. The small country town of half a 
 century ago, with its rural environs so finely described in 
 Olden Days (pp. 152-3), has, under the fostering influence of 
 commercial enterprise, increased its population tenfold, and 
 liecome one of the great centres of our staple manufactures 
 which find employment for thousands and promote the 
 fjeneral welfare of the community)
 
 GLOSSARY. 245 
 
 Aarns, page 19, line 3. — A corruption of the Saxon verb 
 
 earnian, to gain by labour. The word also means to 
 
 merit, or deserve. The form arii, to earn, occurs 
 
 p. 17, 1. 5. It is also common in Salop. — (Halliwell's 
 
 Dictionary of Archaic Words, p. 85.) 
 Abaht, p. 1, 1. 1. — About. The letters ah are largely used for 
 
 ou in dialect words, e.g., claM (cloud), h«/ise (house), 
 
 \nahse (mouse), fa/ind (found), pa/ind (pound), &c. 
 Aboon, p. 33, 1. 21. — Above. " Yond -place aboon," i.e.. 
 
 Heaven. The same idea occurs at p. 34, 1. 19. The 
 
 word is also used for the comparative " more than," 
 
 as " aboon a bit." 
 Addled, p. 24, 1. 15. — Earned. The same as adyld. 
 Aden, p. 98. 1. 11. — The same as the Hebrew Eden, delight, 
 
 pleasure; the name of the first abode of Adam and 
 
 Eve. 
 Aht, p. 6, 1. 21. — Out. Compare this with alid/it, witha/it, 
 
 and daht. 
 Ah, p. 2, 1. 10. — The personal pronoun I; as "Ah (I) sud 
 
 say." This is often prefixed to contractions of am, 
 
 have, had, shall, and will, &c., as 
 Ah'm, p. 4, 1. 9. — " Ah'm (I am) nut a woman," &c. The 
 
 next line gives the pronoun / correctly, as, " But I 
 
 can tell," &c. 
 Ah've, p. 4, 1. 21.— "^?i,'ve (I have) bowt (bought)," &c.; 
 
 and at p. 33, 1. 17, " Ah've (I have) ivished 'at ah'd 
 
 (that I had)," &c. 
 Ah'll, p. 4, 1. 4.— I will. " Ah'll (I will) fotch," Sec. 
 Al, p. 3, 1. 24. — " An' at (and I will) set t'ketile on." 
 Al be, p. 33, 1. 24. — " Al be (will be) heaven of itseln to me." 
 Aleass, p. 29, 1. 20. — Alehouse. 
 Ass'd, p. 46, 1. 12. — Asked. A variant of the Saxon verb 
 
 axian, to ask or request. The same as axed, p. 0, 1. 5. 
 
 Both forms of this word oe(;ur on p. G2, lines 7, 20.
 
 24 G GLOSSARY. 
 
 'At, p. 4, 1. 9. — That. " A woman 'at (that) oft speyks." 
 At's, p. 48, 1. 12.— That are. " The blaivs 'ut's (that are) 
 
 intended," &c. 
 AuTHEE, p, 2d, 1. 10. — A coarse form of Either. The coi-res- 
 
 pondent of na^ither, for neither. 
 AwLus, p. 9, 1. 16. — Always. Sometimes in the Leeds 
 
 dialect, aivalus. 
 Axed, — See Ass'd. 
 
 Bahn, p. 11, 1. 11. — Going. This is the general signification 
 of the word, but it has several others. Sometimes it 
 inchides the idea of dying, or about to die, as on p. 4, 
 1. 24. It seems to be the same as Boun or Bown, 
 ready, &c., from the A.S. abunden, a word often used 
 by Chaucer. See further Vocabtilary of Halifax 
 words in the Appendix to Hunter's Hallainshire 
 Glossary, jj. 140, London, Pickering, 1829 ; and the 
 Dialect of Craven, vol. I., p. 43, Sec. Ed., London, 
 1828. 
 
 Bahncing, p. 62, 1. 20. — Bomicing, i.e.. Boasting. From the 
 D. Bonzen. 
 
 Becos, p. 49, 1. 20. — Because. Sometimes contracted to 'Cos. 
 
 Begow, p. 23, 1. 18. — An exclamation or oath (Leeds Dialect, 
 p. 261). This is evidently a more exclamation or 
 harmless expletive with our author, as well as the 
 kindred words, Egow, Igow, and By t'Megs. 
 
 Beng-up-Chap, p. 1, 1. 7. — A climax for well-formed and 
 good-looking , as opposed to little and decrepit. In the 
 Leeds Dialect, p. 242, the phrase Bang-up has at least 
 a dozen diif crent applications and shades of meaning. 
 
 Blatin' ceew, p. 31, 1. 10. — Noisy children. A rather coarse 
 but common metaphor representing children as a 
 numVjer of sheep bleating or responding to each 
 other's cries.
 
 GLOSSARY. 247 
 
 Bluthee, p. 18, 1. 16. — To soh loudly, or make a great noise. 
 
 The same as the Craven word hlothcr. 
 Brah, p. 32, 1. 18.— Brow, or top of hill; p. 16, 1. 17, The 
 
 forehead. 
 Brat, p. 15, 1. 12. — A contemptuous epithet for Child. 
 Breedin' hurries, p. 7. 1. 28. — Causing disturbances, or 
 
 quarrels. 
 Boggard, p. 2, 1. 16, &c.—A ghost ; a goblin. (Halliwcll' s 
 
 Dictionary, vol. I., p. 191.) 
 BowT, p. 4, 1. 21. — Bought. Compare rowt (wrought), p. 37, 
 
 line 1, for change of vowels ou into ow for the sake 
 
 of bi'eadth of sound. 
 
 Caar'd dahn, p. 43, 1. 14. — Bent down, i.e., stooped do'mi. 
 Caar'd, Car, and Cahr 'are mere variations in the 
 spelling of the word Cower, from the Welsh Cwrian, 
 to crouch. 
 
 Cadge, p. 35, 1. 32. — To beg importunately. 
 
 Cahncild, p. 24, 1. 10. — Properly, counselled. " Counsel, 
 to gain the affections; he has cotmselled her at last." — 
 (Craven Dialect, vol. I., p. 88.) Although metamor- 
 phosed in spelling, the old Bradford pronunciation of 
 this word is fairly given. 
 
 Cahr, p. 16, 1. 1. — Sit down, rest. See Caar'd. 
 
 Capt, p. 6, 1. 10. — Surprised, astonished. 
 
 Carrtin's on, p. 65, 1. 17. — Actions, conduct, proceedings. 
 
 Cannal, p. 37, 1. 8. — Candle. In the Craven dialect, canle. 
 The termination of several other words in die is 
 simihirly changed, as hannals (handles), p. 20, 1. 1; 
 Spinnal (spincUe), p. 30, 1. 23, &c. 
 
 'Cess, p. 65, 1. 8. — Assessment, Poor's Rates. 
 
 Chap, p. 8, 1. 13. — Man ; " A familiar term for a companion." 
 — (Halliwell's Dictionary, p. 240.) 
 
 Claad, p. 9, 1. 22.— Cloud. Also spelled Clahd, p. 31, 1. 17.
 
 248 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Clam, p. 63, 1. 20. — To hunger or starve. The only sense in 
 which this word is used by our a\;thor, although it 
 has several other meanings. 
 
 CoNSATE, p. 2, 1. 9. — Conceit, fancy, opinion. Selp-Consate, 
 High oirinion of self. 
 
 CoNSiTHER, p. 23, 1. 9. — Consider, or think well. 
 
 'Cos, p. 7, 1. 7. — A contraction of becos for because. 
 
 CowDS, p. 5, 1. 11. — Colds. 
 
 Dal, p. 20, 1. 2. — An ol)jectionaV)l(' word formerly much 
 used ; perhaps often without any definite idea of 
 its import. It is also common in several other large 
 towns, and has been explained as follows : — " A petty 
 oath." " Dal it, whoad a thowt it." — (Leeds Dialed, 
 p. 280.) 
 
 Dee, p. 4, 1. 28.— Die. 
 
 Deein', p. S, 1. 7. — Dying. 
 
 Deng or Dang, p. 18, 1. 32. — A word akin to Dal, said to 
 be the past tense of the Gaelic Ding. " Od dang, or 
 od ding, a mutilated oath." — (Craven Dialect, vol I., 
 p. 100 ) Halliwell regards it as an imprecation, and 
 says, perhaps it is a softening of damn, and very 
 common in the provinces. — f Dictionary of Archaic 
 Words, vol. I., p. 291.) 
 
 Diddled, p. 31, 1. 20. — Deceived, or cheated. An cvery-day 
 word in Leeds as well as Braflford: e.g., "Diddled 
 mah art o' sixpence." '•' He's a rum un to diddle." 
 " Doant goa diddle t'poor fellah — ah sudn't like it 
 mesen." — (Lt-eds Dialect, p. 2S2.) 
 
 Dlao, p. 33, 1. 4.— Glad. 
 
 Dlahs, ]). 19, 1. 4. — Glass. 
 
 Dlcm, p. 14, 1. 3. — Had, disconsolate. This is the exact 
 moaning intended by our author; but, as Hunter 
 says, " to look glum is to have a dissatisfied, discon-
 
 GLOSSAKY. 249 
 
 tented look ; pouting frowning, sullen. It is the same 
 word with gloom." — (Hallamshire Glossary, p. 44.) 
 
 Dolt, p. 2, 1. 1. — A shapeless lump. This is the obvaous 
 meaning, whatever may be the origin of the word. 
 It is also applied jeeringly to a stupid person, i.e., 
 one either unwilling, or incapable of learning matters 
 correctly. 
 
 DowDT, p. 8, 1. 1. — The word denotes here a scolding, irri- 
 table ivoman, acting like a spoiled child when not 
 allowed to have her own way in everything. But in 
 its application as an ej^ithet to Sarah Slurr at p. '24, 
 1. 3, the vice of hypocrisy is included. The Lancashire 
 word DowD, according to Halliwell, means " Jlat, 
 dead, spiritless." — (Dictionary of Archaic Words, ^fc, 
 vol. I., p. 314.) And Doudt in the Craven dialect 
 signifies "a dirty woman. Icelandic Douda, an idle 
 person." — (Horx Momentm Cravence, p. 70. Anon. 
 London, 1S24.) 
 
 DowLT, p. 29, 1. 19. — Comfortless. This word has other 
 meanings according to its application, and has been 
 thus defined : " Dowlt, melancholy, from dule, sorrow. 
 Welsh, DuLTN. French, Deuil. When dowly is 
 applied to a person's look it signifies melancholy, 
 but when applied to situation it means lonely or 
 retired. ' Ye look vara dowly.' ' This is a dowly 
 place to live at ;' " &c. — (The Dialect of Craven, vol. I., 
 p. 116.) 
 
 Dot, p. 15, 1. 1. — Joy, darling. A pet word applied to 
 children. 
 
 Dkee, p. 32, 1. 5 ; p. 45, 1. 2. — Wearisome, tedious. Here 
 applied to time, but often " to a road," as remai'ked 
 by Hunter in his Hallamshire Glossary, p. 32. 
 
 Deticken, p. 32, 1. G — Drunken. Comimre Sucken, p. 21, 
 1. 9, where a similar change and elision of n takes
 
 250 GLOSSARY. 
 
 place. Drucken was the original spelling of this 
 
 word in Burns' poem on Scotch Drink, continued 
 
 even in the Third Ed. of his works. 
 Due, p. 5. 1. 21 ; p. 29, 1. 8.— To do. The Craven form 
 
 omits the final vowel. 
 DuPFEEB, p. 30, 1. 10. — Mere pretenders who lack courage 
 
 when brought to face danger, or tlifficulty. 
 
 Eblis, p. 134, 1. 10. — One of the Arabic names of the 
 Devil, signifying the Calumniator ; thought to have 
 been formed by Mohammed from halas, a profligate, 
 wicked person. — (RodwelV s Translation of the Koran, 
 Notes, pp. 187, 370.) 
 
 Ee, p. 46, 1. 26.~Eye. 
 
 Eebbees, p. 41, 1. 11. — Eyebroivs. 
 
 Eeemin', p. 14, 1. 7. — Evening. 
 
 Een, p. 8, 1. 1. — Eyes. Sometimes both spelled and pro- 
 nounced ees. 
 
 Egot, p. 2, 1. 14. — A petty oath ; but here, a mere exclama- 
 tion of surprise or wonder. Perhaps the same as 
 By Gow. — Leeds Dialect, p. 261. 
 
 Enah, p. 8, 1. 12.^In a short time. 
 
 Eu.ST, p. 23, 1. 7. — Was accustomed to ; had the habit of. 
 
 Faas, p. 25, 1. 7 ; p. 32, 1. 26. — Face. In the Leeds Dialect 
 fa-ace. It is also correctly used at p. 50, 1. 13, face, 
 and rhymes with place, 1. 15. 
 
 Fan, p. 23, 1. 17.— Found. 
 
 Favee, or Favver, p. 2, 1. 15. — Resemble. 
 
 Fehw, p. 8, 1. 23. — Few. In the Leeds Dialect /aew. 
 
 Feshun, p. 15, 1. 10. — In this place, " hardly could feshun " 
 means felt so ashamed that she scarcely durst or had 
 the courage to look out ; but at p. 30, 1. 18, it signi- 
 fies style of dress, gay or fine clothing.
 
 GLOSSARY. 251 
 
 Feyt, p. 29, 1. 2. — Fight, i.e., stniggle bravely for the right. 
 
 Flawpin, p. 23, 1. 6. — Same as " Floping, coming in with a 
 dash, but with an implication of the ridiculous ; also, 
 flirting, vdththe same sense," — (Leeds Dialect, p. 295.) 
 Halliwell says Flawps means — " an awkward, noisy, 
 untidy, and slovenly person." — (Dictionary, p. 361.) 
 
 Flayed, p. 25, 1. 22 ; p. 46, 1. 32. — Afraid ; frightened. In 
 Burns' " Halloween," 1. 184, this word occvu-s as fleyd, 
 and is explained in Currie's note, scared, frighted. 
 
 Fleee, p. 26, 1. 18. — To laugh, or sneer wantonly. 
 
 FoREAD, p. 3, 1. 23. — Forward. The same in several 
 dialects. 
 
 Feame, p. 35, 1. 3. — Begin; get ready. 
 
 Gaat, p. 23, 1. 4. — The door, or framed bars used for closing 
 the entrance to a walled city, road, or enclosure. 
 Ceeakin' Gaat, literally, one nearly worn out and 
 making a noise when used : hence, figuratively, a 
 person in apparently very poor health, or in almost 
 dying cii'cunistances. 
 
 Gate, p. 16, 1. 4. — Way, i.e. dead; as, tha wor weel aht o' 
 fgate; p. 30, 1. 22: "Get aht o' t'gate" [the way]. 
 Hunter says the gate is the highroad. A gate opening 
 into a field is a yate. A gate of a city is a bar ; as 
 Micklegate bar at York, the bar of the great sti-eet 
 [Roman road]. — (Hallamshire Glossary, p. 42.) Gate^ 
 p. 27, 1. 17, Got. The past tense of the verb get. 
 
 Geenin', p. 32, 1. 3. — Grinning ; snarling. 
 
 GiEDS, p. 8, 1. 28. —Spasms ; flts ; sudden and violent pains^ 
 
 Girds (for Girdles), p. 56, 1. 1. — Binds, or surrounds. 
 
 GiRN, p. 26, 1. 18. — A scornful grin, or laugh. 
 
 Gobble up, p. 19, 1. 5. — Eat greedily. 
 
 Gloars, p. 3, 1. 28. — Stares hard. Also spelled glore and 
 glower.
 
 252 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Gronnt, p. 1"), 1. 1. — Rather Granny, i.e., grandmother. In 
 Cumberland, grondy. 
 
 Haae, p. 47, 1. ^i. — Hour. " This aivf haar [hour] ur near." 
 
 Haasel Gooids, p. 27, 1. 13. — Household Goods, i.e., 
 furnitui'e. 
 
 Hahr, p. 25, 1. 2. — Hour. The h is omitted p. G, 1. 15, e.g., 
 " To ivvery ahr," &c. 
 
 Hahse, p. 5, 1. 1. — House. The plural hahsuz occurs, p. 34, 
 1. 11, &c. 
 
 Hal, p. 41, 1. 24. — Perhaps, a contraction of hallabaloo, 
 uproar, or confused noise. 
 
 Hals, p. 32, 1. 7. — Fools. 
 
 Hay-bat, p. 44, 1. 20. — A noisy or derisive laugh. In the 
 Leeds Dialect, ha-ha, pronounced ha-a ha-a (p. 318). 
 
 Hectored, p. 30, 1. 10. — Bullied. From Hector, the name 
 of a famous Trojan leader. 
 
 HiNG, p. 5, 1. 27. — Hang. An old form of the verb in use 
 before the time of the Reformation. — (Hunter's 
 Glossary, p. 49.) 
 
 Hoil, p. 65, 1. 5. — A slang name for the Lock-up or Cell in 
 which persons are placed before trial. Perhaps there 
 is some allusion to those miserable cellars or dun- 
 geons formerly used for prisons, which deserved no 
 better name. For example, " 7'/ie Black Hole " at 
 Calcutta. 
 
 HoiN, p. 39, 1. 15. — To ill-use or treat unmercifully, as 
 explained by the allusion to the cruel sport of school 
 boys stoning frogs and toads ; typifying the hard 
 struggle of Poll Blossom's parents to obtain a liveli- 
 hood. "This may possibly come from the A.S. hine, 
 a servant, who was put to great hardships in doing 
 his lord's work," &c. — (Appendix to Hunter's Glossary, 
 p. 150.)
 
 GLOSSARY. 253 
 
 Hue, p. 24, 1. 12. — Her. The form of the pronoun here 
 given occurs thirteen times in "T'Creakin' Gaat," 
 Init in most instances elsewhere is correctly spelled. 
 
 Jock, p. 3, 1. 28. — Food, or Meals. 
 
 Karkiss, p. 3, 1. 4. — Carcase, i.e., body, or bodily appearance. 
 Kests, p. 2, 1. 21. — Casts, or throws, a,s — Rests [casts] a leet. 
 Kuss, p. 46, 1. 24. — Kiss. " Nor offered to give ma a kuss." 
 
 Leet, p. 2, 1. 21. — A Light. Leetid, p. 19, 1. 16, Lighted. 
 
 Lewkt, p. 4, 1. 13. — Looked, or appeared. 
 
 Lug, p. 1, 1. 12. — To pull the hair, or ears. Lug is also 
 used for the ear, and handle of a jug ; as " pool his 
 lugs" [ea^s] ; "bring t'pitcher by t'lug " [handle]. 
 
 Madlin', p. 2, 1. 3. — A rather useful word amongst illiterate 
 persons, both in its noun and verbal meanings. " A 
 madling acts in opposition to common sense. He is 
 an oivd madling whose reason has become childish 
 by the lapse of years. To be madling is to have oiu" 
 ideas confused. Untoward events may rapidly over- 
 take a man, so that from their force he becomes 
 absent-minded, or maddled, at times ; or more to 
 the letter of our word, comes to be madling, or 
 thinking about what he ought not to think about 
 then." — (Leeds Dialect, pp. 354-5.) Hunter says 
 Maddle is the old word to meddle, in its sense of to 
 mix, to confuse. Fr. mele.— (Glossary, p. 63.) 
 
 Mkbbe, p. 6, 1. 27. — Perhaps, or possibly. Same as may-be, 
 or it may he, and the Craven mebby, i.e., probably. 
 
 Meet, p. 2, 1. 11. — Might, strength. 
 
 Megs, p. 2,^1. 6.- — Btj t'Megs. Supposed to mean by St. Mar- 
 garet; a kind of oath. — {Craven Dialect, vol. I., p. 317.)
 
 254 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Mesht, p. 3, 1. 1. — Literally, smashed, broken in pieces; 
 figuratively, in this place, impaired in mind and body 
 through the fall. 
 Michael, p. 35, 1. 3.— The archangel represented by Milton 
 as the leader of the hosts of heaven against Satan 
 is here invoked, instead of Apollo, to inspire him 
 whilst composing a song, when engaged on other 
 singular business. The piece throughout deeply 
 commiserates the condition of the poor Lancashire 
 operatives, and exhibits at the same time a curious 
 mixture of drollery and satire, which rendered it 
 popular ; and the sale, according to Mr. A. Holroyd, 
 i-ealised a trifle towards the relief of the distressed 
 factory workers. 
 MooiLD an' tew, p. 4, 1. 19. — Hard labouv; contimious toil. 
 Words of allied meaning used together for the sake 
 of emphasis. The verb moil, as explained by Halli- 
 well, is generally coupled with toil, as we moil and 
 toil. — (Dictionary, p. 55S.) 
 Mould, p. 1, 1. 6. — Model ; pattern. 
 
 Mud, p. 3.5, 1. 5. — Must ; lb., 1. 21, Could, i.e., would sacrifice 
 her own life to save the child, if she coufd, from the 
 force of maternal love. 
 MuLE-HoiL, p. 30, 1. 24. — The common name of the room 
 in a mill where weft is spun by machines called 
 Mules. But here, the House of Commons is meant, 
 as may be seen from the banter indulged in at the 
 expense of some of our political leaders. 
 
 Naff, p. 23, 1. 16. — Nave, i.e., centre of a wheel, meaning 
 to sink deeply in sin, like the wheels of an overladen 
 cart or waggon in the mire. 
 
 Naouein', Nengin' tukx, p. 3, 1. 1.5.— Alliterative words of 
 nearly the same general signification, used inten-
 
 GLOSSARY. 255 
 
 sively. Gnawing, from the Anglo-Saxon gnagan, 
 used as a descriptive term for an irritahle scold, or a 
 constant source of annoyance, affords a fair explana- 
 tion of the first word as used by our author. It is 
 even pi-obahle that the second is a mere variation of 
 the first word. Besides, according to Halliwell, 
 gnag, knag, and knaggy are almost similarly used in 
 Lincolnshire. — (Dictionary, vol. I., p. 405; II., p. 497.) 
 In the Leeds Dialect (p. 371) the fii'st word is spelled 
 naig, and pronounced na-ag ; and several slightly 
 different applications and meanings are also noted. 
 
 Nautheb, p. 31, 1. 10. — Neither. See Introductory observa- 
 tions, p. 243. 
 
 Navvy, p. 7, 1. 3. — Canal. 
 
 NoBBUD, or NoBBUT, p. 12, 1. 4. — Only ; except ; none hut. 
 Or perhaps, when strictly used, nobhud means only as 
 appKed to things ; and nobbut, when used of persons, 
 none but. 
 
 NoNCATE, p. 4, 1. 1. — A nondescript word for a silly person. 
 As Nont and Nuncle are still sometimes used for Aunt 
 and Uncle, the word Noncate may have been formed 
 from Aunt Kate, not in the actual sense of a relation, 
 or the name of a real person, but a foolish, unmanly, 
 or thoughtless individual. 
 
 NowT, p. 1, 1. 9. — Nothing. 
 
 NuNK, p. Gl, 1. 1. — Uncle. 
 
 Od, rot it ! p. 7, 1. 12. — Passionate rebuke or remonstrance. 
 An expression that admits of no defence. It is 
 characteristic under the circumstances, or a faithful 
 transcript of life in one of its lowest phases, which 
 is all that can be said in its extenuation. The author 
 of the Craven Dialect, (vol. TI., pp. 15, Ifi) strongly 
 condemns this and all similar expressions.
 
 256 GLOSSARY. 
 
 OwD DucKTOOiT, p. 37, 1. 11.— An epithet or phrase given 
 by way of pleasant banter to his wife by the old 
 waller, on account of her not being so nimhle as 
 v}hen young. Their fond attachment to each other 
 in what follows shows that nothing ill-natured was 
 intended or felt on either side. 
 
 OwD LAD, p. 33, 1. 2.— Words of great tenderness and affec- 
 tion here, not the ordinary or contemptuous way in 
 which the word old is applied in most instances. 
 
 OwD LASS, p. 14, 1. 3. —Old woman. Spoken in pity, and 
 with affectionate regard. Nearly the same as the 
 sentiment above. 
 
 Pahnd, p. 61, 1. 9 ; p. 03, 1. 12.— Pound, i.e., money : Fund, 
 
 p. 64, 1. 24, Found weight. 
 Paieted, p. 12, 1. VJ.— Parted. Sometimes pa-arted. 
 Peaekt, p. 64, 1. 1. — Peaked, or perched, examined or 
 scrutinised. An allusion to the way in which cloth is 
 examined V^y passing it over a roller opposite the 
 lio'ht. so as to observe the defects and fine the 
 weavers for bad work. 
 Pesht, p. 42, 1. 18.— Pushed violently down. Pashd is also 
 
 common. 
 Pit-pattin', p. 11, 1. 4.— "Words iooitating the sound of 
 
 little feet in walking. 
 Plat, p. 8, 1. IG. -Thejloor, or ground. Also anything fiat. 
 Pool, p. 1, 1. 11. — Pull. To pull the nose, an act of 
 
 derision and defiance. 
 PoBS, p. 31, 1. 2.— A Craven word for porridge. Seldom if 
 ever heard in Bradford, except for children's food. It 
 is therefore the language of nurses, not men, and 
 seems out of place here. 
 Pott, p. 59, 1. 12.—"^ poker, generally the fire-poit." — 
 (Craven Dialect, vol. II., p. 52.)
 
 GLOSSARY. 257 
 
 PuDSA DoAS, p. 2, 1. 2. — Pudsey Joe. A fat, dirty imbecile 
 from Pudsey, wlio for many years was often seen 
 wandering about the sti'eets of Bradford, and some- 
 times subjected to coarse practical jokes, which he 
 occasionally avenged on passers-by. 
 
 PuFPT, p. 37, 1. 4. — Puffed. D., pof, gently blown away by 
 the wind, or breath. In Burns' Halloween this word 
 is spelled fuff't, and applied to blowing the smoke 
 out of the mouth. 
 
 Eakin', p. G, 1. 21. — Rambling out late at nights for pleasure 
 
 or amusement. 
 Rett, p. 1, 1. 5. — Right. A word usually denoting excellence 
 
 in compounds, as dahnreyt, upreyt. 
 Roared, p. 8, 1. 3. — Wept passionately and made a great 
 
 noise. But sometimes both the verb and the participle 
 
 roarin' are used for weeping only. 
 RuMMiST, p. 65, 1. 17. — Strangest ; most ludicroits. 
 
 Samm'd, p. 39, 1. 14. — Gathered; collected. 
 
 Saukin', p. 35, 1. 23. — Sucking. In Halliivell's Dictionary 
 
 (p. 775) the verb is spelled soulce, and said to be 
 
 Anglo-Norman. 
 Scar, p. 5, 1. 23. — Scour. 
 Scran, p. 36, 1. 18.— Food. 
 
 ScRAWK, p. 41, 1. 2. — A stroke, or only part of a letter. 
 Shuttered, p. 8, 1. 8. — Slipped out. 
 Skrikin', p. 41, 1. 27. — Shrieking, screaming. 
 Shoo, p. 4, 1. 7. — She. The Yorkshire equivalent of the 
 
 Lancashire and Derbyshire hoo. Anglo-Saxon, heo. 
 Slarin' wife, p. 24, 1. 21. — Lazy and dirty. A pretender 
 
 only to cleanliness, who left the dirt on, and neglected 
 
 all that could be passed unobserved. 
 Sloper Loin, p. 27, 1. 15. — Sloper Lane, a slang phrase for 
 S
 
 258 GLOSSARY. 
 
 the sly way in which persons disappear from a place 
 after having cheated or deceived shopkeepers and all 
 who have trusted them. 
 
 Snuff, p. 37, 1. 8. — Ashes of the burnt wick. 
 
 SoMEHAH, p. 2, 1. 21. — Somehoic, in some way. 
 
 Spine i' t'back, p. 5, 1. 11. — A redundant phrase, curiously 
 applied to any affection of the spine. 
 
 Statty, p. 1, 1. 3.— A statue. 
 
 SuD, p. 2, 1. 10. — A contraction of should ; Suddant, p. C, 
 1. 3, should not. Compare wod and woddant. 
 
 SuMMAT, p. 2, 1. 28. — Something. 
 
 SwEALED, p. 37, 1. 8. — A metaphor implying that old 
 Moxy's life had been prematiirely shortened by poor 
 food and hard laboirr, as a candle is wasted by a 
 current of air on one side. "Fotch a shool-ful o' 
 round coil [i.e. little lumps, —no small coal or smudge] 
 an' mind an' doan't sweal t'cannel." — (Leeds Dialect, 
 p. 425.) 
 
 Ta, p. 11, 1. 11, — A contraction of tha, thou. But at p. 41, 
 1. 11, ta seems to have a tinge of scorn not found in 
 the familiar thou. 
 
 Temm'd, p. 37, 1. 18. — Poured, from the word teem. " This 
 was good usage in the time of Elizabeth." — (Hun- 
 ter's Glossary, p. 88.) 
 
 Tenoed, p. 42, 1. 2. — Stung, enraged. Teng, for the sting of 
 a wasp or bee, and also as a verb, was formerly very 
 common in Bradford. 
 
 Tenoin', p. 5, 1. 10.— Stinging. 
 
 Tengs, p. 2, 1. G.— Tongs. 
 
 Tew, p. 5, 1. 15. — Strive or v}ork hard. See Tug and Mooild 
 and Tew. " Taews hard for a living. Nah just sea 
 bud ! Nobbud to luke here ! Ye may rive an'-tug- 
 an'-taew an' yuh can't hardly brek em," says a
 
 GLOSSARY. 269 
 
 vendor of bootlaces accustomed to hold forth in the 
 market place." — (Leeds Dialect, p. 433.) 
 
 Tewin', p. 27, 1. 25. — Hard-working. 
 
 Tha, p. 8, 1. 27.— Thou. 
 
 Thah's, p. 9, 1. 14.— Thou hasi. 
 
 Thoil, p. 11, 1. 20. — Afford. Only one of the several 
 meaninofs given to this word according to its applica- 
 tion. To thoil is to be generous, and to have no 
 thoil, means intensely selfish. It is also spelled 
 thoyl. 
 
 Thowt, p. 1, 1. 3. — Thought. Most words ending m ought, 
 in the dialect forms assume the broader sound and 
 spelling owt, as bowt (bought), nowt (nought), wrowt 
 (wrought), &c. 
 
 Tift, p. 41, 1. 18. — A fit of scorn, rage, or resentment. 
 
 Tlamm'd, p. 34, 1. 12. — Clammed, starved, wanted food. 
 
 Tlat, p. 22, 1. 13.— Clay. See introductory observations. 
 
 Tleae, p. 1, 1. 4. — Clear. 
 
 Tloas, p. 25, 1. 12.— Clothes. 
 
 Tlois, p. 64, 1. 1. — Close. This word is spelled cloise, 
 p. 224, 1. 9. 
 
 Tlutheked, p. 60, 1. 9. — Cluthered, i.e., crowded round. 
 
 ToNTS, p. 42, 1. 1. — Taunts, jeers, or reproaches. 
 
 Tkash or Teesh, p. 9, 1. 20. — Anything worthless ; here a 
 term of bitter resentment by Natterin' Nan to an 
 imaginary successor. The word is also given to a 
 wanton female who goes out at nights to tempt 
 others. The adjective trashy means worthless, and 
 the verb to walk till weary ; hence 
 
 Tkeshin', p. 6, 1. 16. — Walking out andin till weary, or tired 
 out. 
 
 Teetd, p. 19, 1. 1. — Tread, trample on ; i.e., ill-use. 
 
 Tug an' Tew, p. 5, 1. 15.— Work hard and strive. Words of 
 nearly the same signification, coupled for the sake of
 
 260 GLOSSARY. 
 
 emphasis. Tug means primarily to tow or drag a 
 boat on a canal, and secondarily, great physical exer- 
 tion : Tew, continuous, or exhaustive labour. 
 
 Wake, p. 7, 1. 7. — Weak in body, and dejected in mind. 
 Wakely, p. 38, 1. 3, weakly. 
 
 Wah ! Wah ! p. 2, 1. 25.— Well ! Well ! 
 
 Wahe, p. 16, 1. 2.— Worse. 
 
 Wasters, p. 2, 1. 13, — The name given to imperfect articles 
 of cutlery sold at a less price by hardware manufac- 
 turers. The same word is applied by iron and brass 
 founders to defective castings. Hence, when the 
 epithet wasters is given to persons it denotes want of 
 intellect, stupidity, or ignorance. In some parts of 
 Lancashire waistril signifies a vile or worthless person. 
 
 Weel, p. 4,1. 16. — Well, in good health. 
 
 Weg, or Wag, p. 5, 1. Id.— Move, literally j but, help or 
 render assistance in household work is what is 
 meant. 
 
 We'se, p. 2, 1. 28. — We shall, as "We'sefynd a summat 
 wreng." 
 
 We'se, p. 2, 1. 11. — We should. " We'se hate wursen," &c. 
 
 Whewin', p. 6, 1. 10. — Whistling of the wind, or making a 
 loud noise in its passage through a small opening. 
 
 Whittle, p. 6, 1. 12. — A large knife. 
 
 Whol, p. 5, 1. l(i.—^Vhile. 
 
 Whot, p. 4, 1. 17.— What. 
 
 WisHT, or rather Whisht, p. 33, 1. 15. — Hushed, silent; i.e., 
 the rest of the family having gone to bed and asleep. 
 In the Leeds Dialect, p. 448, the word is further 
 explained : " Silent, a command to silence." " As 
 whisht as a mahs." " Whisht, barns ! t'babby's 
 asleep." 
 
 WiTTA, p. 4, 1. 1. — An abbreviation of Wilt thou.
 
 GLOSSARY. 261 
 
 WiZAND, p. 12,1. 13; p. 32, 1. IG. — Withered; shrunk; old 
 looking. 
 
 WoD, p. 9. 1. 4.— Would. 
 
 WoDDANT, p. 5, 1. 19. — Would not. 
 
 Woe, p. 6, 1. 3.— Was. 
 
 WuB, p. 2, 1. 11. — Our ; lb. Wuesen, ourselves. 
 
 WuRKiT, p. 3, 1. 20.— One always complaining. An epithet 
 perhaps derived from the verb to worry. The word is 
 common to several dialects, in the sense of to teaze ; 
 to worry, &c. " Wurrited to death, what one thing 
 an' what another." " God help them 'at hes barns, 
 says I, fvir wurrit, wnrrit, wurrit, thu'd wurrit a 
 body'a life out on 'em." — (Leeds Dialect, p. 453.)
 
 ADDENDA 
 
 Ealph Goodwin, (pp. 107, 8). — The nom de plume of 
 James "Waddington, of Saltaire, has been retained by our 
 author, probably out of affection for the memory of his friend 
 and the happy significance of the latter part. Mr. Abraham 
 Holroyd, to whom James Waddington was intimately 
 known, gave an affecting account of his life, disposition, 
 attainments, and characteristic modesty, in The Bradfordian 
 for December, 18G1, with the Poem on his death. This was 
 a heart-felt tribute of respect for the deceased, and followed 
 by some beautiful lines by a Bradford Moecenas who has 
 often sympathised with and assisted poor authors in their 
 struggles for existence. No apology is needed for their 
 introduction here, as they breathe the true spirit of poetry, 
 and finely pourtray Waddington's outward and inner life. 
 
 Gentle in word and deed thy life has been ; 
 By Nature taught without, and grace within. 
 A scholar meek and apt, thou leam'dst in time, 
 While yet a youth, to live the life sublime ; 
 And now the Poet and the Christian soar, 
 In worlds of light, while we thy loss deplore. 
 
 Thia was the introduction to the Elegy on Ealph Goodwin, 
 which has been justly considered one of the finest in the 
 language, for chaste and elegant diction, as well as true 
 Chrifrtian sentiment.
 
 7 
 
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