LIBRAR i UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SAN DIEGO THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 1;NIVERSITY of CALIFORNIA, SAN DIEgT^" i^ JQUA CALIFORNIA 57 G 5 h/3 A 17 ^^"^.cy*^ /f^.. /" Willy's Gravk, Bv K, J. Shiki.ds. (At Page I on.) f oxm;5 dxib §ong0. By EDWIN WAUGH Edited by GEORGE MILNER, WITH A PREFACE AND AN INTRODUCTORY ESSAY ON THE DIALECT OF LANCASHIRE CONSIDERED AS A VEHICLE FOR POETRY. JOHN HEYWOOD, DeANSGATE and RtDGEFlELD, MANCHESTER ; 29 & 30, SHOE LANE, LONDON, E.G. CONTENTS. PAGE Preface. By the Editor ix Introductory Essay. By the Editor xiii Poems and Songs in the Lancashire Dialect. Come Whoam to Thy Childer an' Me 3 What ails Thee, My Son Robin 7 The Grindlestone 10 God Bless these Poor Folk 13 Come, Mary, Link Thi Arm i' Mine 16 Chirrup 20 The Dule's i' this Bonnet o' Mine 23 Willy-Ground 25 A Bit of a Sing 28 Tommy Fobs 30 Toddlin' Whoam 34 Th' Sweetheart Gate 36 Owd Enoch 39 Eawr Folk 45 Forgive One Another 49 Buckle to 52 Neet-Fo 55 A Lift on the Way 59 Yesterneet 62 I've Worn My Bits o' Shoon Away 66 Gentle Jone 69 IV CONTENTS. PAGE TUM RiNDLE 73 Bonny Nan 76 Tickle Times 79 Jamie's Frolic 82 OWD PiNDER 86 Th' Goblin Parson 89 Come, Jamie, let's Undo thi Shoon 93 While takin' a Wift o' my Pipe 95 God Bless thi Silver Yure 98 Margit's Comin' 102 Hard Weather 107 Come, Limber Lads no The Garland 112 These Bonny Bits o' Childer 115 To MY Old Fiddle 118 It's Time to be Joggin' Away 121 Little Cattle, Little Care 123 Cradle Song 126 The Little Doffer 129 Heigh, Lads, Heigh 132 Toothsome Advice 135 Cock Robin 138 OwD RoDDLE 141 My Gronkaither, Willie 144 Come to your Porritch 148 Heigh, Jone, Owd Buid 151 Poems and Songs in Literary English. The Moorland Flower 155 The World 158 Keen Blows the North Wind 161 The Captain's Friends 163 Willy's Grave 166 Time is Flying 172 The Moorlands 174 CONTENTS. V PAGE To THE Rose-Tree on my Window Sill 176 Christmas Carol 183 Now Summer's Sunlight Glowing 186 Sea Weeds 1^9 Things Gone By iQi To A Married Lady i94 Cultivate your Mej: .^ 190 Old Man's Song > 198 Bide On 200 The Moorland Witch 202 The Church Clock 204 Christmas Song 206 Mountaineer's Song 208 Wild and Free 211 Heigho for Cobblers 213 Christmas Morning..., 216 Here's to My Native Land .„ 219 Minnie 2:21 Life's Twilight 223 Nightfall 225 God Bless Thee, Old England 227 Twilight Carol 228 The Wounded Lark 230 The Old Bard's Welcome Home 232 Poor Travellers All 234 What Makes your Leaves Fall Down 236 Alas! How Hard it is to Smile 238 The Man of the Time 240 The Wanderer's Hymn 242 Alone, upon the Flowery Plain 244 To a Young Lady 245 Oh! Weave a Garland for my Brow 247 To the Spring Wind 248 Oh ! Had She Been a Lowly Maid 249 All on a Rosy Morn of June 250 VI CONTENTS. PAGE Glad Welcome TO Morn's Dewy Hours 252 When Drowsy Daylight 254 i'E Gallant Men OF England 256 Prologue 258 The Lost Shepherd 262 The Moorland Breeze 264 The Kindly Hearth 266 Good Night 269 When the Sun Goes Down 271 To the River Roch 273 The Hour of Shade 275 I Wish, my Love, it was so with You 277 Oh, the Wild, Wild Moors 279 My Croodling Dove 281 As I WENT Crooning on my Way 283 Now's THE Time TO Remember the Poor 285 Farewell 287 I Met with a Doleful Wight 2S9 In a May Morning, Early 291 Oh, the Summer's Sweet 293 I Know what I Know 295 Thrkk Jovial Huntsmen. „ , 298 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Willy's Grave. By F. J. Shields Frontispiece Vignette. By Randolph Caldecott Title-page Fac-simile of "Come Whoam to thy Childer an' Me" 2 Vignette. Come Whoam 3 Aw Put Little Sally to Bed 4 Aw Hearken't Folk's Feet 'at Went By 6 DoDY o' Joseph's. By J. H. Hague 10 Chirrup. By Randolph Caldecott 20 Toddlin' Whoam. By H. Measham 34 Owd Enoch. By J. H. Hague 39 Betty. By J. H. Hague 42 A Country Teawn 66 Vignette 120 Vignette. "The Day's Wark's Done" 123 Vignette 125 Mam Knits and Sings. By Richard Wane 126 Vignette. The Cradle. By J. H. Hague 128 Heigh, Lads, Heigh 132 Cock Robin. By H. Measham 138 Vignette. By Randolph Caldecott .Sub-Title 153 viii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAL.K Stern Monarch of the Solitude. By Richard Wane. ..Face 155 The Moorlands. By Richard Wane 174 Vignette. Carol Singers 183 The Waits. By W. Artingstall 185 The Cottage Matron. By Richard Wane 186 I Thought of Days for ever Flown. By J. H. Hague... 193 Vignette. The Church Clock 204 The Cobbler. By J. H. Hague 215 The Lost Shepherd. By R. H. Whitehead Face 262 Vignette. The Moorland 264 When the Sun Goes Down. By J. H. Hague 270 In Pensive Dreams 274 The Wild Moors 279 In a May Morning, Early 291 ^^l.'-r, PREFACE. The Poems and Songs included in the present volume — the eighth and last of the Series — have been selected from *' Poems and Songs" published in 1883, and "Poems and Songs — Second Series," published in 1889. In the Preface to the First Volume of this edition, I have already alluded to the difificuity which must necessarily accompany the task of selection. I will only add now that if a larger space had been at my disposal I should not have included a greater number of poems than are here presented. Although the test applied in making the selection has generally been that of literary or dialectal excellence, a few poems have been admitted on the ground of their preserving some interesting phase of Lancashire character. The omitted poems, it may be added, constitute only about one- fourth of the whole. The dialectal poems taken out of each volume are placed together; and are put first, as being the X PREFACE. most characteristic. The poems in literary English follow. In this I have departed from Waugh's own arrangement ; but, in each section, I have preserved the order of succession adopted by himself, because I believe it to have been roughly chronological. The first collected edition of Waugh's Poems appears to have been issued in 1859, by Edwin Slater, of Manchester, [t is a small volume of 150 pages, and is dedicated to John Bright. In 1870 a new edition of this work appeared. In 1876 another collected edition was issued, extending to 304 pages. In the interval the poems had been often printed in sections and under different titles ; and also as " broadsides " at a penny each. Nearly the whole of the poems to be found in the edition of 1859 are included in the present volume. In a few instances I have followed the text of the earlier issue, where it seemed that subsequent emendations had been for the worse. So far as I have been able to ascertain, Waugh's earliest published poems appeared in 1850, three years after he came to Manchester, and six years before the issue of " Come Whoam to thy Childer an' Me " had made him famous. These were : " To a Rose Tree in my Workshop " and " The True Nobleman." They were printed by his old friend Joseph Johnson, in a little serial called " The Temperance Reporter," and will be found in the present volume as — " To the Rose-Tree on my Window Sill " and " The Man of the Time." Among the earlier pieces attention may be drawn to a curiously alliterative poem with an antique flavour, " The World." The same sententious vein is followed up with considerable success in "Time is PREFACE. XI Flying" and "Poor Travellers All." The "Christmas Carol" and the other two poems referring to the saored season are especially good. On the whole the earher poems, whether dialectal or literary, are the best. Many of the later ones, as might be expected, only reproduce, with variations, the thoughts and subjects of earlier days ; but even these are not without interest for purposes of comparison in expression and treat- ment. In many of them the chastened feeling of advancing age is finely set forth, and is in strong contrast with the exuberant tone of the earlier work. It may also be observed that in some of these later verses the metre is handled with a more unerring touch than in the earher poems. Instances of this will be found in the serenade called " Good Night " and in the sweet "Cradle Song," the measure of which is perfect if it be crooned or sung in the manner of a nursery rhyme. As I have already mdicated, Waugh's dialectal poems are stronger than those in literary English; and, as a rule, the songs — most of which were written for music — are better than the " Poems." His best song is, probably, the one entitled, " When Drowsy Daylight." His deepest feeling is for the freedom of the moorlands and the fireside pleasures of the poor man's home ; his most frequently recurring sentiment is that which deals with the littleness and uncertainty of life. G. M. INTRODUCTORY ESSAY, ON THE DIALECT OF LANCASHIRE CONSIDERED AS A VEHICLE FOR POETRY. BY THE EDITOR, Note: The whole of the dialectal verse-illustrations given in this Essay are taken from poems which appear in the present volume^ and 7vhich are referred to in the foot- notes. In the biographical and critical Introduction prefixed to the first volume of this edition of Waugh's Works, I have briefly alluded to the widely prevalent idea that there is some innate vulgarity in a dialectal word, and also to the equally erroneous impression that the Lancashire dialect is not capable of expressing poetic conceptions with delicacy or force. It may not be thought inappropriate, in connection with the publication of a volume which depends for much of its MV INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. attraction upon the poetic use of dialect, to consider more fully what is the real nature of folk-speech, and how far the particular dialect of Lancashire, for instance, lends itself to the expression of such ideas as are usually associated with the forms of verse. Of late years, no doubt, some change has taken place in the popular view. Formerly the great majority, both of readers and of critics, were in the habit of regarding all dialects, except the Scottish, as beneath their attention; literature, to have any influence with them, must be what was called "pohte;" all folk-speech was uncouth and vulgar — a thing to be got rid of, by the aid of the school- master, with as little delay as possible — and even those who ventured, or vouchsafed, as the case might be, to use a dialect, only took it up as an instrument for the production of grotesque effects, or to cloak the poverty, perhaps the grossness, of their ideas. These opinions, however, are no longer held by educated persons. The true nature and importance of dialects having been apprehended, they have become objects of investigation to many of the ripest scholars of our time. To study philology in a scientific spirit was to be forced back, as a necessity, upon the examination of dialects, because in them were so frequently to be found the very roots and springs of the modern literary language. Probably most people have not realised how large an element dialectal speech is found to be in the total sum of language. Take as an instance the case of modern Ita/iatt. Tt has been said that '• there are probably at least fifty well- defined varieties of dialect still s])oken in Italy and the INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XV islands;" and that "about a dozen of these have been raised by the genius and pubUc spirit of provincial poets from the low estate of patois to the dignity of Hterary languages ; " while "about ten more are fixed and cultivated sufficiently to possess their own dictionaries." In our own country there are, probabl}^, quite as many varieties of dialect as are here spoken of as existing in Italy ; and when the English Dialect Society has completed its work and given us a final and inclusive dictionary of all the provincial dialects we shall then see how much of the strengjth of the English tongue has been drawn from these obscure sources, or is identical with them. We may now ask ourselves the question — What is a dialect, and how does it differ from the ordinary, current speech? It will be found to consist mainly of such English words as are not of classical origin. Of coarse, each dialect will not contain the whole of these terms ; but a person writing in any one of them would find that he could use nearly all words of Anglo-Saxon derivation without offending against the genius of provincial speech. These words may be thus sub-divided — First, those whose pronun- ciation does not differ from that which is usual ; second, those which are pronounced in an archaic or provincial manner ; third, Drovincial words which are common to most English dialects though differing occasionally in form ; fourth, words peculiar to a particular district, and these, contrary to the general impression, will be found to be but few in number; fifth, idioms and phrases, and in these last will probably be discovered, more than elsewhere, the distmction and the Doric flavour of each dialect. XVI INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. If this be a true statement of the nature of dialects it will be clear that there can be no reason why they should not be used for the purposes of poetry. At least three poets of eminence have indeed so used them — Spenser, Burns, and Tennyson. Spenser's Shepheard's Cale?ider, his first work of moment, and that which led to his recognition by his contemporaries as a true poet, was written in a Northern dialect. Now, Spenser's poetry was always delicate, tender, melodious ; and the comparatively rough dialect of the poem alluded to interferes with none of these qualities. That Burns was at his best when he avoided modern English is well known. In his case, at any rate, the poetry flourished most when it was in union with his own native speech ; and with regard to Tennyson, it is not too much to say that his few poems in the Lincolnshire dialect will hold their own for truth and force against the whole range of his minor productions. The reason of this is obvious. The truest poetry requires for its expression only the simplest words ; and in poetical composition the nearer we are to the roots of language the safer we are from jarring notes and false associations. B'or poetry we need a dear medium far oftener than we require a complex one. " The perfectly simple, limpid style," says Matthew Arnold," is the supreme style of all; but the simplicity of it is not the simplicity of prose, but that into which poetry alone gets the privilege of being loosed only when at its best moments." De Quincey is equally distinct in the same direction, and remarkably pointed for our purpose. " Pathos," he says, " in situations which are homely, or at all connected with domestic affections, naturally moves by Saxon words. INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XVll Lyrical emotion of every kind, which (to merit the name of lyrical) must be in the state of flux and reflux, or, generally, of agitation, also requires the Saxon element of our language. And why? Because the Saxon is the aboriginal element ; the basis, and not the superstructure ; consequently, it comprehends all the ideas that are natural to the heart of man, and to the elementary situations of life." Let us now, however, turn to the particular dialect or Lancashire. Has it, in the first place, a vocabulary adapted for poetical expression ? I believe that it has. Look over any list of those words which form the Saxon, Scandinavian, or Celtic element in English, and it will be found that there is not one word in a hundred which could not, either with slight change of pronunciation or without it, be naturalised and used in the dialect of Lancashire. Take a few examples at haphazard — examples which will cover the whole ground and illustrate our contention, because they are neither more nor less fitted for appropriation than those by which they are surrounded. From the Saxon : Cloudy datvti, ram, snow, thunder, kin, delve, besom, bridge. From the Scandinavian : Fell, garth, force, gill (a valley), holm, thorp. From the Celtic : Bag, wicket, ridge, knell, knoll, goblin, clout, grumble. If we look now at a list of the classical words in our language, we shall find that while a large number even of these — and especially the monosyllabic words — are available for our use, scarcely one of the polysyllabic words could be used without breaking, so to speak, the charm of dialectal simplicity and elementariness, — Accident, incision, candotir, annual, difficulty, facilitate, permanent, — not to take extreme examples — and all such Uke, are words which lie outside the B XVllI INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. dialectal pale. Now we know that much nonsense has been loosed upon us from time to time about the desirability of writing only in what it is usual to call the " nervous Saxon style." All this is inapplicable to that prose writing which is not of the imaginative kind. The wider and the more polyglot our vocabulary is the better. If we \vant a word let us take the best — that is, the most expressive, the most picturesque, the tightest-fitting, the nearest to our idea of all those which come to hand ; only, leaning always — if we would have that style which, as I have said, Mr. Arnold speaks of as the " supreme style " — to the side of simplicity. But in poetry it is different. Coleridge's definitions oi prose and poetry, though valuable, are, I think, imperfect. He said, " Prose = words in their best order; poetry = the best words in the best order." This is imperfect, because it seems to infer that in prose one need not have the best words, and it leaves out the consideration that in verse one must not only have the best words, as words, but also those which are best for the peculiar and subtle objects of poetry. By some curious and, as yet, only half-defined, but quite natural canon, the poet finds himself compelled to reject a multitude of words which in prose would be eminently the best. And these are usually the words which are not native to us — words which are foreign and complex in their nature and derivation — the very words, in fact, which a dialect, by a self-imposed law, casts out from itself as being alien to its spirit and purpose. We are not surprised to find, therefore, that the best modern poets have fallen back as much as was possible upon the Elizabethan, and even the ante-Elizabethan, vocabulary — upon that vocabulary, in short, which is most INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XIX nearly allied both to the letter and to the spirit of our northern dialects. Let us take an example. No one would now argue that cerulean is a better word for poetical use than the simple adjective blue, or that empyrean is better than sky. Tennyson (whose perfect knowledge of his art will not be questioned) has not used the first word at all — could not use it, in fact— and has only admitted the second once, and then under pecuhar circumstances. The deep-domed empyrean Rings to the roar of an angel onset — occurs in a poem on Milton, which is a professed imitation of the classical Alcaic measure, and which is also intended to embody something of Milton in his most classical vein. But blue and sky are, of course, of frequent occurrence ; indeed, as if to attain a still greater simplicity, Tennyson often uses the homely Saxon adjective blue — scarcely altered from its original bleo — to express both adjective and noun in one. Among other instances we have — In " The Miller's Daughter " The breezy blue. In " The Dream of Fair Women " The maiden splendours of the morning star Shook in the steadfast blue. And in In Memoriam Drowned in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song. Now the two classical words we have mentioned could not, under any circumstances, be used in a genuine piece of XX INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. dialect; the better and simpler words, of course, could be so used. VVaugh bays, There's lots o" blue heaven aboon 1 ^ and — Yon woodlan' cloofs, an' valleys green, — The sweetest under th' sky ;" while Tennyson's use of the word dhte as a noun would lend itself at once to dialectal purposes — Dreawn'd i' yonther livin' blue, Th' layrock is a soightless sung. It will be perceived that I am making large claims for the dialect. I am asking the reader to believe, not only that it offers a fair vehicle for the conveyance of essentially [joetical ideas ; but that it also actually exerts, in a certain direction, a restrainmg and purifying influence — compels the poet, in short, to choose, little as he may know it, the preferable word. I will endeavour to illustrate this still further. There is a short poem by Wordsworth which is well known for its exquisite simplicity and beauty. I will translate it into the Lancashire dialect with a two-fold object; first, to show that such delicate sentiments as are there expressed can be trans- mitted through the dialect without material injury, which is in effect to prove that for which J am contending ; and, second, to show that with regard to a single phrase, the dialect may possibly compel an improvement. We will first take the poem in its ordinary English form — She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love : ^ " Tickle Times." * " I've worn my bits o' shoon away." INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XXI A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye ! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me ! Let US now take the Lancashire version — Hoo lived among th' untrodden ways Aside o'th springs o' Dove, A lass 'at there were noan for t' praise, An' varra few for t' love. A violet by a mossy stone, Hawve hidden from the eye ! Fair as a star when nobbut^ one Is shinin' up i'th sky. Hoo' re o' unknown, an' few could know When Lucy coom for t' dee; But hoo is in her grave, an' oh, The difference to me ! The reader will remember what Matthew Arnold has said about simplicity being the supreme style ; elsewhere he says the best style has for " its cause a certain pressure of emotion, and an ever-surging, yet bridled, excitement in the poet, giving a special intensity to his way of delivering himself." In this poem there is that pressure of emotion which makes style ; but in the last hne, style breaks down, because perfect simplicity is lost. The word "difference" strikes a false note. Any reader of taste would say so * Nobbut — nought but, only. XXI 1 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. without Stopping to ask himself why. The reason Ues partly, perhaps, in association, but also very largely in the classical origin of the word. Dis fero is a Latin intrusion here, and destroys the homogeneousness of the poem. We want, in its place, some simpler root-word or phrase which shall carry the idea as in a transparent crystal ; not strangle it with convolutions. Now in what way would a man writing in the Lancashire dialect escape this difficulty? — escape it without knowing of it. He would probably have written — But hoo is in her grave, an' oh, What change it's browt to me; or he might have got rid of the alien word by substituting a simple and expressive Lancashire phrase, which is thus used — " Ifs another day for thee, mi lad, now thi mother's dead." The more this phrase is examined, the more it will be found to be an entirely poetic mode of expressmg the idea of altered and deteriorated circumstances, a mode for which one could find a hundred parallels in our best poets j it is, in fact, the imagination at its favourite work of present- ing things in the concrete ; and shows how very near poetic style is to much of our dialectal homeliness. If this phrase were used the poem would end thus — But hoo's i'th greawnd, an' oh, it's browt Anotlier day to me ! But not only does a dialect encourage and even enjoin, as I have shown, the use of unclassical terms, it also allows the employment of many fine archaic and now forgotten words, which are not so easily admissible into ordinary modern poetry : and this is a manifest advantage, for it gives an INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XXlll antique flavour to the verse which is eminently desirable. In Spenser's dedicatory epistle prefixed to The Skepheard's Calender there are some pertinent observations upon this point. Speaking of the poet's use of ancient phrases — alluding chiefly to those of Chaucer — he says : — "But whether he useth them by such casualtye and custome, or of set purpose and choyse, as thinking them fittest for such rusticall rudenesse of shepheards, eyther for that theyr rough sounde would make his rymes more ragged and rusticall, or els because such olde and obsolete wordes are most used of country folke, sure I think, and think I think not amisse, that they bring great grace, and, as one would say, auctoritie to the verse In my opinion it is one special prayse of many, which are dew to this Poete, that he hath laboured to restore, as to theyr rightful! heritage, such good and naturall English words, as have ben long time out of use, and almost cleane disherited." We will now take a few instances of these old words as they occur in the dialectal verse of Waugh : — Welkin : But, th' minute th' welkin's breet again, He's peearter than before.'' Observe how this word and those which follow — all of which are frequent in the earlier poets — fit into the dialect without producing any sense of incongruity. Posies : Like posies that are parchin' in the midsummer sun, There's mony a poor heart faints afore the journey be run.^ Lasses and Lads : Th' lasses an' lads are i'th meadow; They're gettin' their baggin' i'th hay.^ 1 " Buckle to." 2 « A Lift on the Way." ^ « Yesterneet' xxiv intrcductory essay. Leifer: Lilt; But, he that would leifer drink wayter, Shall never be stinted by me.^ Come, Mary, link thi arm i' mine, An' lilt away wi' me.^ Sweetheart (sweetheartin') : When I set off o' sweetheartin', I've A theawsan' things to say .3 Shoon : The dule may tent th' o'on ; Iv aw go without shoon, Aw'll see where thae gwos to, mysel' I * COUNTRIE : An' I'll live an' dee i' my own couittrie, Where the moorlan' breezes blow!* Marrow : Hoo'll never meet thy marrow, For mony a summer day ! ' Wordsworth, it will be remembered, uses this word in his " Yarrow Unvisited : " And when we came to Clovenford, Then said my " loinsome Marrow,''' " Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, And see the Braes of Yarrow," — adopting it from the old ballad — Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow I ^ " God bless these poor folk." ^ " Come, Mary, link thi arm i' mine." 3 " Th' Sweetheart Gate." * " Jamie's Frolic." ' " I've worn my bits o' shoon away." 8 " What ails thee, my son Robin." INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XXV To these may be added certain modern words which retain in the dialect their older form. Two instances will be sufficient to indicate this class ; — Brid and Brun : Heigh, Ned, owd mon, I feel as fain As th' breetest brid 'at sings i' May.^ The fire brutis clear ; an' th' heawse begins A-lookin' brisk an' breet.^ In Tyndal's New Testament we have both these forms. "So that the bryddes of the aier come and bylde in the braunches of it ; " and " As the tares are gaddered and Ifrenf in the fyre." There are also the older forms or constructions which still linger in our provincial speech as well as in our poetry. I will name but one ; the redundant use of " for." In the rendering from Wordsworth these lines occur ; — A lass 'at there were noan for't praise, An' varra few for't love. The "for" not being in the original. The use of this in our old translation of the Scriptures will be familiar : " And all the people came early in the morning to him in the temple, /or to hear him." I may also further mention here as a typical instance the substitution of " hoo " for " she." Hoo lived among th' untrodden ways. This word the ordinary reader would consider to be, with 1 " Bonny Nan." 2 '■ Neet-fo." XXVi INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. many others, a mere vulgarism. It is not so. In Anglo- Saxon, the personal pronoun " I " is thus declined in the third person : — Mas. Fem. Neu. He. Heo. Hit. We see, therefore, where the " hoo " comes from. To me it seems, from a consideration of these instances and many others, that the genius of our provincial poetry is so nearly allied to that of the older literature that any skilful writer of the dialect might enrich his verse by introducing into it any, or all, of those antique, and now disused, but most expressive words which are to be found in the earlier poets. It is no small part of the work of a great imaginative writer to enrich, and at the same time, to keep pure the literary language of his country. In this work there is also, to an extent, room for the provincial poet, notwiihstanding that he is popularly supposed to be a corrupter of that " well of Enghsh " which should be kept " undefiled." His first aim is, no doubt, to express the poetry which is in him, through that vehicle which is best for himself, and also best for many of his readers ; but, at the same time, his work, if carefully done, will always possess an historical interest and a philological value. As we have seen, the words of the older poets are often retained in the dialects ; and these, the modern poet might reclaim : and further, he could often find in the pages of his humbler brother an original word or phrase, strong and picturesque, with which he might materially enrich his own vocabulary. Of these original or peculiar words a few instances may now be given ; and, let INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XXVll it be noted, they are another addition to the provincial power of expression — another enlargement of the dialectal vocabulary. " Boggart " — a word of Celtic origin : Has th' boggarts taen houd o' my dad ? ^ Feeorin' — fairies — unca?my creatures, beings which have to do with the Evil One. But, 'tisn't lung o'th feeorin' That han to do wi'th' deil.'' Yammer — to yearn, to desire intensely, to make an eager noise with the teeth — a wonderfully expressive word, and one which is without a parallel in our literary speech — We wander'n abeawt to find rest on't, An' th' worm yammers for us i'th greawnd.^ Clemmin' - -starving for want of food : An' ony poor craytur 'at's clemmin', May come have a meawthful wi' me.* Marlock — to dance in an odd or quaint fashion — Aw marlocked upo' th' white hearth-stone.* Fratchin'— petulant, quarrelling. It's no use a peawtin' 2.n' fratchin'.^ YoNDERLY — a curiously picturesque and quite inimitable 1 " Come whoam to thy childer an' me.' 2 " What ails thee, my son Robin." ■^ " God bless these poor folk " * " God bless these poor folk." 5 " Come, Mary, link thi arm i' mine." 6 « Tickle Times." XXVni INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. word. It means thin, worn, shadowy, withdrawn, as it were, to a distance. Thae's looked \ery yondcrly mony a day.^ Eawl-leet — a fine synonym for twilight, and poetic in conception. Then deawn bi th' well i'th fairy-dell, Wi' trees aboon it knittin', Where, near an' fur, ther nowt astir But bats i'th ea-wl-leet flittin'." Neet-fo' and Th' edge o' dark. These, like the last word, are wonderfully poetic expressions for hvilight. The first is merely the Lancashire rendering of the English phrase "night-fall" (Tennyson uses "evenfall"), but the second is peculiar. It is said that the Celtic element is particularly strong in Lancashire. Such a phrase as this goes far to prove it. It is a specimen of Celtic felicity. Mornin'-side — the east. An a pratty bit o' garden greawnd, O' th' mornin'-side o'th fowd.^ These are but a few words out of a large number; but they are sufficient to indicate what the vein would be if it were followed up. The next point which invites our attention is that of euphony. Persons unaccustomed to the Lancashire dialect declare it, at first sight, to be harsh, uncouth, and awkward. Out of mere ignorance, and judging by the appearance only, people say the same thing of the language of the Principality. 1 "Jamie's Frolic." a " Th" Goblin Parson." ' " Come, Mary, link thi arm i' mine." INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XXIX An Englishman, taking up a page of Welsh, asks, " Shall I risk dislocation of jaw by attempting to pronounce such a jargon as that ? " But ask a girl in the Vale of Edeirnion to read the same passage for you, and you get out of the apparently strange jumble of consonants such mellifiuousness as one hears in " O Llangollen e Dolgellau." It is precisely so with the dialect of Lancashire. It is only harsh in the hands of those who cannot write it, or in the mouths of those who cannot read it. The chief characteristics of the dialect in this connection are — first, to broaden sounds; second, to soften them ; and, third, to draw out or elongate. It is emphatically a broad-chested speech. What are called '' head-notes" are infrequent. In considering this part of the subject, we must lay aside all conventional ideas as to the supposed vulgarity of certain sounds, and the supposed refinement of certain others. Keeping this in mind, let us look at some of the changes. In place of the thin " i " we get the broader sound of "oi ;" in place of "^z^" in "fall" and "all", we get the broad and open "o," as in "fo'," and " o' ; " in place of " pull " we get " poo ; " and for the short " dance," the longer " doance." Of course there are exceptions to this rule — notably the change of " ou " to the thinner sound "eaw," as in "heawse;'' but what is maintained is that the general tendency is to broaden sounds, and to increase quantity in the metrical sense, and that this is a gain as regards versification. In this respect we seem to differ from the Cheshire, Yorkshire, Westmoreland, and Dorsetshire dialects, which thin rather than broaden many of their sounds. In Westmoreland " poor " becomes " peer ; " " who " becomes "wha;" "after," "efter:" and "doings," XXX • INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. "deeins." Next there is the tendency to soften. In l>ancashire the "d" and "t," especially when occurring in the middle of the word, become "dh" and " th ; " "water" taking the form of " wayther ; " " wandering," "wantherin' ;" and in the plural, " wandthern ; " (As yo wander'n through life, ten 'at one that yo'n find ^) "shadow" becomes "shathow," or "shatha;" and "ladder," "ladther," or "lather." In this I believe there is a reminiscence of an older pronunciation. The antique forms "murther" and "burthen" are illustrations. Tenny- son, with his usually fine ear, has adopted the last in the poem called " The Daisy : " — And in my heart, for half the day. The rich Virgilian rustic measure Of Lari Maxume, all the way, Like haUsid-bur^hen music kept. And in Tyndal's New Testament we have : " They shall gadther out of his kingdom all things that do hurte," We may note, also, the softening of the hard " c " or " k ' by bringing after it the sound of " w," as in "cwortin"' (courting ) : — Sunshine comes back, As soon as aw crack O' beginning my cwortin' again. ^ This peculiarity we shall find in other dialects. Another important point is the frequent elimination of the 1 "The Grindlestone." a "Jamie's Frolic." INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. . XXXI Sibilant "s " from nouns by the plural termination in "n," as in " e'en '^ for " eyes," and " shoon " for " shoes." The " s " is also got rid of in such words as " was " by the substitution of "wur," and by such changes as "mun" for "must." Lastly, there is the lengthening or crooning sound, which is very peculiar, and which, though not exactly "lengthened sweetness long drawn out," is often, in Lancashire, an addition to the melody of the verse. I once heard the dialect fairly tested as to euphony in the little windy chapel at Ashworth, in Birtle-cum-Bamford. It was at the close of a sweet summer day tliat, coming down from the hills, I strolled through the open door into the sacred building, and heard the moorland "men and maidens" up in the quire-loft practising, with their leader, the psalms for the coming Sunday. Their speech was the pure dialect of South Lancashire, and was perfectly guiltless of fine accents and town affectations. It sounded odd and quaint at first ; but, after a few minutes, things seemed to adjust themselves, and we found that the Psalms of David, in the magnificent rendering of the older version — that of the Great English Bible, as it is called — fell naturally enough, and without that shock which one would expect, into the broad, strong J^afoi's of Lancashire. It is only necessary to add that I express no opinion here as to the desirability or otherwise of retaining or cultivating the use of the dialect. I have spoken only historically and critically — taking the speech as it exists, and seeking to show what are its capabilities and its limitations, It should also be remembered that I have dealt with the dialect only as a vehicle; what has been said is quite independent of the XXXll INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. question as to whether it has or has not been made the medium for the expression of true poetry. It would not be difficult, however, to show that in the hands of a few, and especially in those of Edwin Waugh, it has been found fully adequate for the expression of all the elementary emotions ; and that, although anything likesubdety or complexity of ideas is beyond its reach, love, humour, pathos, and a certain shrewd delineation of character are distinctly within the scope of its powers. G. M POEMS AND SONGS IN THE LANCASHIRE DIALECT. FAC-SIMILE OF THE FIRST DRAFT IN PENCIL OF '* COME WHOAM TO THY CHILDER AN' ME." i&mxt WUmx U m\\ (^UWv m' Pe. W'VE just mended th' fire wi' a cob;' Owd Swaddle has brought thi new shoon ; There's some nice bacon-coUops o'th hob, An' a quart o' ale posset i'th oon ; ' Aw've brought thi top-cwot,^ doesto know, For th' rain's comin' deawn very dree ; * An' th' har'stone's as white as new snow ; — Come whoam to thi childer an' me. 1 Cob, a lump of coal. ^ Top-c-wot, top-coat. " Oon, oven. * Dree, wearily-continuous. LANCASHIRE POF.MS AND SONGS: 11. When aw put little Sally to bed, Hoo cried, 'cose her feyther' weren't theer, So aw kissed th' little thing, an' aw said Thae'd bring her a ribbin fro' th' fair ; An' aw gav her her doll, an' some rags, An' a nice little white cotton-bo.' ;^ An' aw kiss'd her again ; but hoo said 'At hoo wanted to kiss thee an' o'. ^ Feyther, father. ^ Cotton-bo\ cottou-ball. COME WHOAM TO THY CHILDER AN' ME, III. An' Dick, too, aw'd sich wark' wi' him, Afore aw could get him up stairs ; Thae towd him thae'd bring him a drum, He said, when he're sayin' his prayers ; Then he looked i' my face, an' he said, " Has th' boggarts taen houd o' my dad?' An' he cried till his e'en were quite red ; — He likes thee some weel, does yon lad I IV. At th' lung-length,^ aw geet 'em laid still ; An' aw hearken't folks' feet 'at went by; So aw iron't o' my clooas reet well. An' aw hanged 'em o'th maiden to dry ; When aw'd mended thi stockin's an' shirts, Aw sit deawn to knit i' my cheer. An' aw rayley did feel rayther hurt, — Mon, aw'm one-ly^ when theaw artn't theer. " Aw've a drum an' a trumpet for Dick; Aw've a yard o' blue ribbin for Sal ; Aw've a book full o' babs * an' a stick An' some 'bacco an' pipes for mysel' ; ^ Wark, work. 2 Th' lung-lenglh, the long-length, the end. 3 One-ly, lonely. * Babs, babies, pictures. LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS : Aw've brought thee some coffee an' tay, — Iv thae']l^(f/ i' my pocket, thae'll see; An' aw've bought tho a new cap to-day, — But aw al'ays bring summat for thee! VI. "God bless tho', my lass ; aw'll go whoam,' An' aw'll kiss thee an' th' childer o' round ; Thae knows, that wherever aw roam, Aw'm fain to get back to th' owd ground ; Aw can do wi' a crack o'er a glass ; Aw can do wi' a bit of a spree ; But aw've no gradely* comfort, my lass, Except wi' yon childer and thee." * Whoam^ home. * Gradely, proper, right. ^xim mu ^im, m ^^n §mn? HAT ails thee, my son Robin ? My heart is sore for thee ; Thi cheeks are grooin' thinner, An' th' leet has laft thi e'e ; ' Theaw trails abeawt so lonesome, An' looks so pale at morn ; God bless tho, lad, aw'm sooty' To see tho so forlorn. II. Thi fuutstep's sadly awter't,' — Aw used to know it weel, — Neaw, arto fairy-stricken ; Or, arto gradely" ill ? Or, hasto bin wi' th' witches I'th cloofjS at deep o'th neet ? Come, tell mo, Robin, tell mo, — For summat is not reet ! ^ TA' leet has laft thi e'e, the light has left thine eye. ' Soory, sorry. 3 Azvter't, altered. * Gradely, properly, thoroughly. ^ Cloof, clough, glen. LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS : III. " Eh, mother, dunnut fret yo ; Aw am not like mysel' ; But, 'tisn't lung o'th feeorin" That han to do wi' th' deil ; There's nought 'at thus could daunt mo, I'th cloof, by neet nor day ; — It's yon blue e'en o' Mary's ; — They taen my life away." IV. " Aw deawt' aw've done wi comfort To th' day that aw mun dee. For th' place hoo sets her fuut on, It's fairy greawnd^ to me ; But, oh, it's no use speykin', Aw connut ston her pride ; An' when a true heart's breykin' It's very hard to bide ! " V. Neaw, God be wi' tho, Robin ; Just let her have her way; Hoo'U never meet thy marrow/ For mony a summer day ; ^ Feeor{n\ frightening, things that frighten. '^ Aw deawt, I doubt, I think, I surmise. * Fairy -grea-wnd, enchanted ground. * Marrow, match. WHAT AILS THEE, MY SON ROBIN ? Aw're just same wi' thi feyther,' When first he spoke to me : So, go thi ways, an' whistle ; An' th' lass'U come to thee ! ^ Feythey, father. Mt MUU^imt, u m T wur Dody o' Joseph's, a joiner by trade, A comical cowt, and a keen-bitten blade, He're as fause as a boggart, as th' neighbours weel knew, Though, when he'd a mind, he could look like a foo'. Deny down. II. But th' bravest and breetest o'th childer o' men. May haply be hamper't a bit now an' then ; Dody's axe wanted grindin', one wark-a-day morn. When there nob'dy about to gi' th' grindle a turn. Derry down. THE GRINDLESTONE. II III. Then he grunted, an' mumble't, an' glendur't around, An' he tooted about o'er the neigbourin' ground ; Still, never a soul to turn th' stone could he find, An' it made him a little bit thrutched in his mind. Derry down. IV. Till a soft-lookin' urchin coom wanderin' by, Wi' his thumb in his mouth, an' a tear in his eye ; Wi' his slate an' his satchel, he're creepin' to schoo'. An', — bi th' look of his e'en, — Dody know'd he're a foo'. Derry down. V. " Bi th' maskins," says Dody, " I'm losen't at last ! " An' he beckon't o'th lad that wur wanderin' past ! " Come hither, my tight little maister o' men ! " Then he poo'd out a sixpence, — an' fobbed it again. Derry down. VI. "There's a grindlestone here — dosto think thou can turn ; If thou does'nt know how, I can help tho to lam, I connot howd th' axe an' turn th' hondle mysel' ; Thourt a nice lad o' somebry's — come, give us a twell ! " Derry down. 12 LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS: VII. Th' lad laid howd o'th hondle, an' shap't like a mon ; For he lippen't o' sixpence, when th' turning wur done ; So, he twirl't at this grindle o' Dody o' Joe's, Till saut-water trickl't off th' end of his nose. Derry down. VIII. Dody felt at his axe, — an' he said, "Thou young foo'; Thou'lt get a rare twiltin' for stoppin' fro' schoo' ; Hie tho' off, like a red-shank, or th' dur may be teen'd : ' An' he gav' him a bit of a lifter beheend. Derry down. IX. Th' lad dried fro' his for-yed the breet briny drip ; An' he pike'd up his books, wi' a wimperin' lip ; An' he crope off to schoo', turnin' o'er in his mind Th' first lesson he'd larn't i' the pranks o' monkind. Derry down. X. As yo wander'n through life, ten 'at one that yo'n find A good lot o' folk that han axes to grind ; Give a turn when yo con ; but remember to th' end. It's turnin' th' wrang road to turn on a friend. Derry down. mt\ %\m ihm ^tm #m. OD bless these poor folk that are strivin' By means that are honest an' true, For some'at' to keep 'em alive in This world that we're scramblin' through As th' life ov a mon's full o' feightin',^ A poor soul that wants to feight fair, Should never be grudged ov his heytin',' For th' hardest o'th battle's his share. Chorus — As th' life ov a mon. II. This world's kin to trouble ; i'th best on't, There's mony sad changes come reawnd ; We wander'n abeawt to find rest on't, An' th' worm yammers'* for us i'th greawnd. ^ Some'ai, somewhat. ^ Feightin', fighting. ^ HeytirC, eating. ^ Yammer, to make an eager noise with the jaws, like hungry children at meal-time. 14 LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS : May he that'll wortch' while he's able, Be never long hungry nor dry ; An' th' childer 'at sit at his table, — God bless 'em \vi' plenty, say I. Chorus — As th' life ov a mon, III. An' he that can feel it a pleas ur' To leeten misfortin an' pain, — May his pantry be olez full measur', To cut at, and come to again ; May God bless his cup and his cupbort,^ A theawsan' for one that he gives ; An' his heart be a bumper o' comfort, To th' very last minute he lives 1 Chorus — As th' life ov a mon. IV. An' he that scorns ale to his victual, Is welcome to let it alone ; There's some can be wise with a little, An' some that are foolish wi' noan ; An' some are so quare i' their natur'. That nought wi' their stomachs agree ; But, he that would leifer^ drink wayter. Shall never be stinted by me. Chorus — As th' life ov a mon. ' Wortch, work. ^ Cupbort, cupboard. ^ J^eifer. rather. GOD BLESS THESE POOR FOLK. 1$ One likes to see hearty folk wortchin', An' weary folk havin' a rest ; One likes to yer poor women singin' To th' little things laid o' their breast : Good cooks are my favourite doctors ; Good livers my parsons shall be ; An' ony poor craytur 'at's clemmin',' May come have a meawthful wi' me. Chorus — As th' life ov a mon. VI. Owd Time, — he's a troublesome codger, — Keeps nudgin" us on to decay, An' whispers, " Yo're nobbut^ a lodger ; Get ready for goin' away ; " Then let's ha' no skulkin' nor sniv'lin', Whatever misfortins befo' ; God bless him that fends"* for his livin', An' houds up his yed^ through it o' ! Chorus — As th' life ov a mon. ^ Clemmin', starving for want of food. 2 Nicdgin , elbowing, jogging, pushing. 3 Nobbut, nought but, only. * Fends, provides, works for. 5 Houds up his yed, holds up his head. mmt, Wm. fin^ ^W ^m V pine. OME, Mary, link thi arm i' mine, An' lilt away wi' me ; An' dry that little drop o' brine, Fro' th' corner o' thi e'e ; • Th' mornin' dew i'th heather-bell's A bonny bit o' weet ; That tear a different story tells, — It pains my heart to see't. So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine. II. No lordly ho' o'th country side's So pleasant to my view, As th' little corner where abides My bonny lass an' true ; But there's a nook beside yon spring,— An* if theaw'U share't wi' me ; Aw'll buy tho th' bonny'st gowden ring That ever theaw did see ! So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine. COME, MARY, LINK THl ARM l' MINE. I7 III. My feyther's gan mo forty peawnd, r silver an' i' gowd ; An' a pratty bit o' garden greawnd, O' th' mornin' side' o'th fowd ; An' a honsome bible, clen an' new, To read for days to come ; — There's leaves for writin' names in, too, Like th' owd un 'at's awhoam. So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine. IV. Eawr Jenny's bin a-buyin' in, An' every day hoo brings Knives an' forks, an' pots ; an' irons For smoothin' caps an' things ; My gronny's sent a kist= o' drawers, Sunday clooas to keep , An' little Fanny's bought a glass Where thee an' me can peep. So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine. V. Eawr Turn has sent a bacon-flitch; Eawr Jem a load o' coals ; Eawr Charlie's bought some pickters, an' He's hanged 'em upo' th' woles ; ^ 1 J7j' mornin' side, the east side, the side from which morning comes. 2 Kist, chest. ^ Woles, walls. 8—2 1 8 LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS : Owd Posy's white-weshed th' cottage through ; Eawr Matty's made it sweet ; •• An' Jack's gan me his Jarman flute, To play bi th' fire at neet ! So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine. VI. There's cnps an' saucers ; porritch-pons,' An' tables, greyt an' smo' ; There's brushes, mugs, an' ladin'-cans; An eight-day's clock an' o'; There's a cheer^ for thee, an' one for me, An' one i' every nook ; Thi mother's has a cushion on't, — It's th' nicest cheer i'th rook.^ So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine. VII. My gronny's gan me th' four-post bed, Wi' curtains to 't an' o'; An' pillows, sheets, an' bowsters, too, As white as driven snow ; It isn't stuffed wi' fither-deawn ; * But th' flocks are clen an' new; Hoo says there's honest folk i'th teav/n That's made a warse un^ do. So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine. ' Forritch-pons, porridge-pans. ^ Cheer ^ chair. ^ Rook, lot, collection, number. * Fither-deaivn, the down of feathers. • A vjarse un, a worse one. COME, MARY, LINK THI ARM I MINE. 19 VIII. Aw peeped into my cot last neet ; It made me hutchin' fain ; ' A bonny fire were winkin' breet" r every window-pane ; Aw marlocked^ upo' th' white hearth-stone, An' drummed o'th kettle lid ; An' sung, " My neest* is snug an' sweet ; Aw'll go and fotch my brid^ ! " So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine. 1 Hutchin' fain, fidgetting glad. ^ Breet, bright. 3 Marlocked, frolicked. ^ Neest, nest. ^ Fotch my brid, fetch my bird. (S>ttivv\\\t. I. OUNG Chirrup wur a mettled cowt :' His heart an' limbs wur true ; At foot race, or at wrostlin'-beawt, Or aught he buckled to ; At wark or play, reet gallantly He laid into his game : An' he're very fond o' singin'-brids,' — That's heaw he geet his name. * A mettled cowt, a spirited colt. - Singin'-brids, singing-birds. CHIRRUP. 21 II. He're straight as ony pickin"-rod/ An' limber as a snig : - An' th' heartiest cock o'th village clod, At ony country rig : His shinin' e'en wur clear an' blue ; His face wur frank an' bowd ; An' th' yure abeawt his monly broo^> Wur crispt i' curls o' gowd. III. Young Chirrup donned his clinker't shoon,* An' startin' off to th' fair, He swore by th' leet o'th harvest moon, He'd have a marlock^ there ; He poo'd a sprig fro' th' hawthorn-tree, That blossomed by the way ; — " Iv ony mon says wrang*^ to me, Aw'll tan his hide to-day ! " IV. Full sadly mony a lass would sigh. As wand'rin' slyly near, 1 Pickin'-rod, the straight wooden rod with which hand-loom weavers pick, or throw the shuttle. 2 Limber as a snig, nimble as an eel. 3 Th'' yure abeawt his monly broo, the hair about his manly brow. •* Donned his clinker't shoon, put on his strong shoes, nailed with the great nails known by the name of " clinkers." ^ Marlock, a frolic. ^ Wrung, wrong. 2 2 LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS: They tooted' at his e'en to spy Iv love wur lurkin' theer ; So fair an' free he stept the green, An' trolhn' eawt a song, Wi' leetsome heart, an' twinklin' e'en. Went chirr upin' along. V. Young Chirrup woo'd a village maid, — An' hoo wur th' flower ov o', — Wi' kisses kind, i'th woodlan' shade, An' whispers soft an' low ; r Mally's ear twur th' sweetest chime That ever mortal sung ; An' Mally's heart beat merry time To th' music ov his tung. VI. The kindest mates, this world within, Mun sometimes meet wi' pain j But, iv this pain could Hfe begin, They'd buckle to again ; For, though he're hearty, blunt, an' tough. An' Mally sweet an' mild. For three-score year^ through smooth an' rough, Hoo lad- him like a child. 1 Tooted, peeped carefully. * Lad, led. ilt^ §nU'^ r tW$ %mmt 0' Wm. HE dule's i' this bonnet o' mine ; My ribbins'll never be reet ; Here, Mally, aw'm like to be fine, For Jamie'U be comin' to-neet ; He met me i'th lone' t'other day, — Aw're gooin' for wayter^ to th' well, — An' he begged that aw'd wed him May; — ■ Bi th' mass,3 iv he'll let me, aw will. II. When he took my two bonds into his. Good Lord, heaw they trembled between ; An' aw durstn't look up in his face, Becose" on him seein' my e'en ; My cheek went as red as a rose ; — There's never a mortal can tell Heaw happy aw felt ; for, thae knows. Aw couldn't ha' axed^ him mysel'. ^ Lone, lane. ^ Wayter, water. 3 Bi th' mass, by the mass ; an expression brought down from Cathohc times. •* Becose, because. ^ Axed, asked. 24 LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS : III. But th' tale wur at ih' end o' my tung, — To let it eawt wouldn't be reet, — For aw thought to seem forrud' wur wrong, So aw towd him aw'd tell him to-neet ; But, Mally, thae knows very weel, — Though it isn't a thing one should own, — If aw'd th' pikein'^ o'th world to mysel', Aw'd oather^ ha' Jamie or noan. IV. Neaw, Mally, aw've towd tho my mind ; What wouldto do iv 'iwur thee? " Aw'd tak him just while he're indined, An' a farrantly bargain" he'd be 3 For Jamie's as gradely^ a lad As ever stept eawt into th' sun ; — So, jump at thy chance, an' get wed, An' do th' best tho con, when it's done ! " V. Eh, dear, but it's time to be gwon, — Aw should'nt like Jamie to wait, — Aw connot for shame be too soon, An' aw wouldn't for th' world be too late : Aw'm o' ov a tremble to th' heel, — Dost think at my bonnet'll do ? " Be off, lass, — thae looks very weel ; — He wants noan o'th bonnet, thae foo ! " ^ Forriid, forward. ^ Pikein', picking, choosing. •* Oather, either. * A jarrantly bargain, a decent bargain, a good bargain. ' Gradeh, proper, right. Air — " The Night before Larry was Stretched." OME, Caleb, an' saltle thi shanks, x\n' let's ha' no moore o' thi bother ; Wi' thi camplin' din, an' thi pranks, Thou'rt wortchin' thisel' to a lother. Come, Nathan, poo up into th' nook, — I know thou'rt a comical crayter ; Let's join at a conk, an' a smooke. An' a bumper o' whot rum an' wayter. Fal-lal-der-dal. II. We're neighbours, an' very weel met ; We're o' merry lads, o' good mettle ; Here's Nathan, — wur never licked yet, — An' Caleb's i' farrantly fettle. Wi' a pipe, an' a tot, an' a crack. An' a crony, I'm just i' my glory ; So now, I'll tip th' world fro' my back, An' brast off wi' a bit of a storj. Fal-lal-der-dal. 26 LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS: in. T'other day, as I're rovin' areawt, I let of owd Robin o' Bumper's ; He's a terrible gullet for grout, — An', at poachin', they say'n he's a crumper; But, he's good at a tot an' a tale ; So, we popt into Peter o' Nancy's, An' I said to him, "Co' for some ale. Or aught i' this hole 'at thou fancies." Fal-lal-der-dal. IV. As we crope wi' er gills up to th' hob, Th' owd layrock began for to twitter ; An' he towd of a ticklesome job, 'At sent us o' into a titter ; One day, when he're prickin' a hare, A bit of a wacker coom o'er him. For, just as he're settin' a snare, Th' owd owner o'th lond stoode afore him. Fal lal-der-dal. V. "Hollo; what are you doing here?" Says Robin, " Why, nought nobbut walkin' ; " ** Walk off, then ! " cried he, with a sneer ; "This land belongs me, where you're stalking ! Says Robin, " Yo're reet, I'll be bound ; But, what's to be done, I can't tell, sir ; For, I'm like to walk somebody's ground, As I've noan 'at belungs to mysel', sir." Fal-lal-der-dal. WILLY-GROUND. 27 vr. This lond, — it's a ticklesome lot ; To wrangle about it's a blunder ; For, whether one owns it or not, He'll very soon ha' to knock under ; Both lonlords an' tenants mun flit ; Let's hope, without fratchin', or frownin', They'n let us walk on it a bit, An' then lend us a bit to lie down in. Fal-lal-der-dal, layrol-i-day. gt §it flf a ILL o' Sheepsheawter's ; Robin o'th Dree ; Rondle o' Scouter's ; Twilter, an' me ; We made Mally Grime's Owd kitchen roof ring, One merry yule-time, When met for to sing ! Tooral-loo ; falder-day ! II. Rondle sang counter ; Robin sang hass ; Twilter sang o' rnaks O' comical ways; Th' tenor wur fine, — Bill took it up well ; An' th' treble wur mine, — I sang it mysel' ! Tooral-loo ; falder-day ! A BIT OF A SING. 29 III. Th' first wur a psalm ; An' th' next wur a sung ; An' then we sang glees, Till th' rack-an'-hook rung ; An' merry owd Mall Chime't in, like a brid, As hoo tinkle't to th' tune, Upo' th' owd kettle lid. Tooral-loo ; falder-day ! IV. " Stop, an' rosin ! " cried Bill, " It's gettin' hee time ! " " Weet yor whistles ! " said Mall, *' It sweetens the chime ! " " A tot a-piece bring ! " Cried Rondle, " an' then, Like layrocks o'th wing, We'n tootle again ! " Tooral-loo ; falder-day ! V. We twittert an' sang Till midneet wur gone; We caper't off whoam, Bi th' leet o' the moon ; As we wander't o'er th' moss, Bil lap shoolder-hee ; An', " I'm fain that I'm wick !" Cried Robin o'th Dree. Tooral-loo ; falder-day ? 5; m t« y g to $ . Air — '' Derr?/ Down." I. OMMY FOBS wur a good-natur't sort of a lad ; He're a weighver by trade, an' he wove for his dad ; He're fond o' down-craiters ; an' th' neighbours o' said That he're reet in his heart, but he'd nought in his yeci. Derry down. ir. Nan o' Flup's wur a lass that wur swipper an' strung ; Hoo'd a temper o' fire, an' a rattlin' tung ; Hoo're as hondsome a filly as mortal e'er see'd, But hoo coom of a racklesome, natterin' breed. Derry down. HI. Nan had fritter't away o' th' for-end of her life, For hoo'd flirted o' round, though hoo'd ne'er bin a wife ; But, one day, when hoo fund hoo're turn't thirty year owd, Hoo began a-bein' flayed, hoo'd be left out i'th cowd. Derry down. TOMMY FOBS. 3I IV. Then hoo tooted around among th' lads about whoam, An' hoo thought hoo'd a bit of a chance wi' poor Tom ; An' hoo cutter't, an' foodle't, an' simper't, an' skenn'd, Till hoo geet him as fast as a thief, i'th far end. Derry down. Poor Tom vvur so maddle't i' heart and i' yed, That I doubt he'd ha' dee'd if they hadn't bin wed ; But, at last, they stroke bonds, an' agreed to be one ; Nanny tice't him to church — an' poor Tommy wur done. Derry down. VI. An' when th' news o' this weddin' geet down into th' fowd, Folk chuckle't an' thought that poor Tommy wur sowd ; An' th' women o' said, " Nan's to mich for yon lad ; He'd better ha' stopped till he dee'd wi' his dad." Derry don-n. VII. But they buckle't together, for better an' wur ; An', at first, o' wurreet between Tommy an' hur; For, they'rn meeterly thick, both bi dayleet an' dark, Till th' wayter o' life cool't 'em down to their wark. Derry down. 32 LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS: VIII. Then, Nanny soon cliange't, an' coom back to hersel' An' hoo cample't, an' snap't, as no mortal can tell ; An' poor Tommy Fobs soon fund out that his wife, Though an angel at first, wur a divole for life. Derry down. IX. Though Nan prove't a blister, an' kept him i' pain, Tom wur like an owd sheep, for he didn't complain : An' he crope to his looms, an' kept weighvin' away ; But, it made little odds, hoo went warse ev'ry day. Derry down. X. An' hoo hector't, an' plague't him, to sich a degree, That, mony a time, Tom'd ha' bin fain for to dee ; Th' lad did o' that he could to keep thick wi' his wife, Rut, it wurn't in her natur' to live a quiet life. Derry down. XI. An', it nettle't her so, that, at last, hoo began To fling aught at his yed that coom first to her han' It wur sometimes a pitcher, an' sometimes a pon ; Nanny didn't care what,— if it let o'lh owd mon. Derry down. TOMMY FOBS. 33 XII. An' if that didn't vex him, — her temper wur sich, — That hoo'd nip up a tough-lookin' lump of a switch ; An' sometimes it lapt round his hide wi' a bend, An' sometimes it coom across Tommy's nose-end. Derry down. XHI. An' thus, year by year, this poor couple toar't on, Till Tommy had groon a grey-yedded owd mon ; Then, Nanny took ill, an' wur laid up i' bed. An' hoo flang no moore pots at owd Tommy's white yed. Derry down. XIV. At last, Nanny dee'd ; an' th' owd lad felt it sore ; For, if hoo'd bin an angel, he'd not ha' grieve't more ; So, he linger't bi th' grave till they'd happed her up well ; An' then he coom cryin' away by his-sel'. Derry down. 8—' ■yi^~ UoMlin' li'hoam. I. ODDLIN' whoam fro' th' market rant ; Toddlin' whoam, content an' cant ; Wi' my yed i' my hat, an' my feet i' my shoon ; I'm fain to be toddhn' whoam. II. Toddlin' whoam, for th' fireside bliss, Toddlin' whoam, for th' childer's kiss ; God bless yon bit o' curlin' smooke ; God bless yon cosy chimbley nook ! I'm fain to be toddlin' whoam. TODDLIN' WHOAM. 35 III. Toddlin' whoam for twitterin' sungs ; Toddlin' whoam for prattlin' tungs ; Toddlin' whoam, to sink to rest Wi' th' wife, an' little brids i'th nest. I'm fain to be toddlin' whoam. W Bmtthtmt (Sate. ^^^n\\ m 5id's Garden." WAS when the dawn of mornin' Began to stir i'th sky, I donned mysel' to wander Afore the dew wur dry ; To wander in the gay greenwood, Reet early I did rove, — I could not sleep upon my bed For thinkin' of my love. II. Down in a bonny dingle, Where sometimes we did stray Our vows of love to mingle, At close of summer day ; It's there, where oft among her Jiair The flowers of spring I've wove, I sat me down to thmk upon The girl tliat I do love. THE GARLAND. 113 III. It's there I made a garlan', My darlin' for to don, And the posies that were in it, They shined like the sun ; The dewy posies, wild and sweet, All in the leafy grove ; It breaks my heart to think upon The girl that I do love. IV. The cowslip, and the speedwell, With a dewdrop in its e'e, — An' the wild rose, an' the bluebell, They blend so bonnilie ; An' the honey-suckle, wand'rin' wilcL, With violets blue, I wove ; They made me for to think upon The girl that I do love. V. An' when I poo'd my posies, The small birds they did sing ; An' when I wove my garlan'. They made the woods to ring ; On every tree, the wild birds' glee, Rang through the leafy grove, As I came away, at dawn of day. Still thinkin' of my love. -8 114 LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS'. VI. Oh, the mornin' sun it rises To cheer my heart's delight, An' the silver moon she wanders Among the clouds at night ; An' the twinklin' stars that look so fine, All in the heavens above, — At wark or play, by neet an' day, I'm thinkin' of my love. mm itttttty iit^ <»' mmtv. Air — ^^Has sorrow thy young days shaded f^ 1. EVER tell me that childer are tiresome; They're th' best little craiters alive ; An' i'th beautiful country aboon us They're throng as a humma-bee hive The sunhght of heaven beams round them, An' seldom a mortal can meet, In this changeable world that we're born to, With aught so unsullied an' sweet! Chorus — Never tell me that childer are tiresome, They're th' best little craiters alive ! An' i'th beautiful country aboon us. They're throng as a humma-bee hive. Il6 LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS: II. Wi' their prattlin' talk an' their marlocks , They keepen a body's heart green ; An' i'th gloomiest hour o' life's winter I can sun me i'th leet o' their e'en : Wi' th' sound o' their sweet chicken-music They maken my httle cote ring, Like a cagefull o' twitterin' angels That's sent down from heaven to sing ! Chorus — Never tell me that childer are tiresome, &:c. III. An' when I grow weary wi' thinkin', An' everything round me seems dark. They keepen my spirits fro' sinkin', An' senden me back to my wark : For I feel that there's somethin' to live for, Though everythin' else should depart ; An' there's nought in the wide world so precious As treasures that sweeten the heart ! Chorus — Never tell me that childer are tiresome, &c. lY. An' when eventide deepens around us, An' I get 'em laid snugly to rest, I sometimes creep up again softly, To look at 'em lyin' i'th nest : THESE BONNY BITS O' CHILDER. An' then the quiet tears come down dreepin' ; As I sit by the bedside alone ; For the face of a Httle child sleepin' Would soften the heart of a stone. Chorus — Then never say childer are tiresome, &c. 117 V. Oh, the sunshine of heaven enfolds them, An' seldom a mortal can meet In this changeable world that we're born to. With aught so unsullied an' sweet ! Then never say childer are tiresome ; They're th' best little craiters alive, An' i'th beautiful country aboon us They're throng as a humma-bee hive. i;© my ®Ut ^lUU. H, David was a famous king, An' maister man o' singers ; His fiddle was a witching thing When touched by David's fingers But David never stirred a string To melody as fine, oh, And David's fiddle couldn't sing Like this owd brid o' mine, oh ! II. My bonny little angel-neest, So tender, sweet an' funny, I wouldn't swap my music-kist To own a mint o' money. I sometimes think it's gradely wick ; There's singin' brids inside on't ; An' not a string but's swarmin' thick Wi' little elves astride on't ! TO My OLD FIDDLE. HI. For it can sob, an' moan, an' sigh, An* it can pout an' whimper ; An' it can coax an' wheedle sly, An' it can lisp and simper : An' it can laugh, an' crow, an' shout, An' it can wail so keen, oh, Folk connot see their gate about For th' wayter i' their e'en, oh ! IV Th' wood were groon i' fairy-lond That th' bits o' pegs were made on ; An' every nook on't thrills wi' life The minute that it's played on : For th' younger end o' fairy-folk. They're dancin' upo' th' bridge on'tj They're caperin' upo' th' fiddle-bow, An' ridin' upo' th' ridge on't ! V. As I go tweedlin' up an' down I meet wi' welcome free, oh ! There's never a mon that comes to town They're hauve as fain to see, oh : For th' childer bring'n me butter cakes, To tickle up my timber ; An' fuddlers bring'n me gills of ale, To make my elbow limber ! 119 I20 LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS; VI, My darlin' little singin' brid, We'n both grown owd together; An' we'n bin kind an' faithful friends. Through dark an' sunny weather : An' though nought else should make a moaa The day that I shall dee, oh, If they'n let this Uttle brid alone It'll sing a hymn for me, oh ! Am— "Grana Waile." I. HEN pitchers are empty an' pouches are bare,. It's time to be joggin' away ; When they're grievin' the heart an' they're stintin' the fare, . It's time to be joggin' away : When they're snappin' an' fratchin' an' peevishly catchin' At th' best that a body can say ; When love's taen amiss, with a winterly kiss. It's time to be joggin' away. li. At the close of the day, when the sun has gone down, It's time to be joggin' away. When night draws a curtain of deepenin' frown, It's time to be joggin' away : * When the sky has no moon, an' from dark clouds aboon No star shows a glimmer in' ray ; When the journey is lone, an' the gatherin' winds moan, It's time to be joggin' away. 122 LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS : III. When slander is loud, an' when tricksters are proud, It's time to be joggin' away. When truth meets with slight, an' when craft wins the fight, It's time to be joggin' away ; When rascals grow bold, an' when cronies grow cold, An' cross to the opposite way. When foemen look sly, an' when neighbours look shy, It's time to be joggin' away. IV. When the night brings no rest, an' the daylight no cheer, It's time to be joggin' away ; When the heart's full of pain, an' the head full of care, It's time to be joggin' away j When favours are sold, an' affection grows cold, An' kindness begins to decay ; When friendship has fled, an' we live with the dead. It's time to be joggin' away. V. When the shank's growin' slim, an' the eye's growin' dim. It's time to be joggin' away ; When the foot totters slow, an' the pulse flutters low, It's time to be joggin' away ; When the blood's gettin' thin, an' we're wearied wi' din, It draws to the close of the day ; Then farewell to all, for the passing bells call, — It's time to be joggin' away. pttU (Settle, iittU Clare. I. ADDIE, good dog, the day-wark's done, The sun's low in the west ; The lingering wild birds, one by one, Are flitting to the nest : Mild evening's fairy fingers close The curtains of the day, And the drowsy landscape seeks repose In twilight shadows grey. Little cattle, little care ; Lie thee down, Laddie ! 124 LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS: IL We never owned a yard o' ground, We'n little wealth in hand ; But thee an' me can sleep as sound As th' richest folk i'th land ; And when they're all alike laid down, And lapped in dreamless snooze, Between a monarch and a clown There's not a pin to choose. Little cattle, little care ; Lie thee down, Laddie ! III. Let the miser hug his glittering prey, An' think his joys complete ; Let him root among it all the day. An' count it o'er at neet ; He can trail it but to th' end o'th road. Where life's short tale is told ; Then death takes off his golden load. And leaves him in the cold. Little cattle, little care ; Lie thee down, Laddie ! IV. Then come, good dog, the day-wark's done ; We'll let the world roll by ; There's never a king below the sun As happy as thou an' I ; LITTLE CATTLE, LITTLE CARE. For though kings lie on beds of down. Sweet sleep they seldom find; An' there's not a jewel in all the crown That's worth a quiet mind. Little cattle, little care ; Lie thee down, Laddie ! 125 i^uAU <^ottfl. H' child cries i'th cradle ; Th' cake bruns o'th stone ; ' Th' cow moos i'th milkin' gap, At th' end o'th loan. II. The cat purs o'th hearthstone Th' clock ticks i'th nook ; Th' kettle sings o'th hob ; an' Th' pon hangs o'th hook.^" 1 The " bak-stone," or baking-stone. ■* The rack-and-hook, in the chimney. CRADLE SONG. 12/ III. Th' woint roars i'th chimbley ; Brings down the soot ; Mam knits, an' sings, an' Rocks with her fuut. IV. Nan's off a-churnin' Dick's gone to th' barn ; Lap little Billy up, To keep him warm. Round Billy's curly yed, Good fairies play ; Tentin' his little bed, Till break o' day. VL One day brings sunshine ; Th' next day brings rain ; No day brings Billy's dad Back here again. 128 LANCASHIRK POEMS AND SONGS : VII. Sleep, little darlin', sleep ; God watch o'er thee ! Thou'rt o' that's left i'th world, To comfort me ! wut mnu Mf^iut. I. MERRY little doffer lad Coom down to Shapper's mill, To see if he could get a shop ; He said his name wur " Bill." II. " Bill what, my lad ? " th' o'erlooker said ; " Arto co'de nought beside ? " "Oh, yigh," said th' lad ; "they co'n me things- Sometimes, — 'at's bad to bide ! " III. "But what's thi faither's name, my lad? Thou'll surely tell me that ! " Said th' lad, " Some co'n him 'Apple Dad,'- His gradely name's ' Owd Hat.' " 8-9 130 LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS: IV. " My uncle Joe's co'de ' Flopper Chops ! ' An' sometimes ' Owd Betide ! ' They co'n him thoose at th' weighvin'-shops ; An' I know nought beside." Said th' o'erlooker, " I know owd Joe, — He weighvs for Billy Grime ; But, what dun they co' thee, my lad, When they co'n at dinner-time ? " VI. Th' lad grinned, an' said, " They never han To co' me then, — no fear ! " Said th' o'erlooker, «' How's that, my lad ? " Said th' lad, " I'm al'ays theer ! " VII. " My lad, thou looks a lively cowt ; Keen as a cross-cut saw ; Short yure, sharp teeth, a twinklin' e'e, An' a little hungry maw ! VIII. " But, wheer hasto bin wortchin' at ? What's brought tho down ottr way?" Said th' lad, " I wortched for Tommy Piatt ; He's gan me th' bag, to-day." THE LITTLE DOFFER. 131 IX. " Thou's brought thi character, I guess ? " Says th' lad, " yo're wrang, I doubt : " Says th' o'erlooker to th' lad, " How's this ? ' Says th' lad, " I'm better bowt ! " X. Said th' o'erlooker, "I never see Sich a whelp sin I wur born ! But, I'll try what I can make o' thee : Come to thi wark to-morn ! " idOlt, prt^, ildgli! H, Pre fidgin' fain to drop my wark When gloamin' shades coom softly down; An' off I went, at ih' edge o' dark, To th' bonniest lass i' Rachda' town. I're i' sich a flutter to tak the gate That I'd hardly time to tee my shoon ; For my heart beat wild, with love elate, An' my tinglin' feet kept time to th' tune. Sing heigh, lads, heigh ; sing ho, lads, ho ; What's to betide us who can know ? HEIGH, LADS, HEIGH ! I33 II. On wings of bliss, away I flew, O'er moor, an' moss, an' posied lea ; I started mony a brid fro' th' bough, But never a brid as bliihe as me : An' when I coom to th' foamin' bruck, Bonk-full o' wayter, spreadin' wide, I took a sprint, went o'er like woint, An' let a yard o' t'other side. Sing heigh, lads, heigh ; sing ho, lads, ho ; What's to betide us who can know ? III. At sect o'th gable-end o'th cot I rubbed my bonds and raarlocked round ; An' I trimmed my clooas fro' yed to foot, For I felt mysel' o' fairy ground : But when I met wi' fickle Kate, Hoo lost no time to let me see That hoo'd set her cap another gate, An' hoo wanted no more truck wi' me. Sing heigh, lads, heigh; sing ho, lads, ho; What's to betide us who can know? IV. I hung about a while, an' I Coom trailing whoam bi Ih' leet o'th moon ; An' at every step I hove a sigh, For my heart had sunk into my shoon : 1,34 LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS: An' when I'd getten a mile o'th gate I sat me down by th' ovvd draw-well, An' I felt i' sich a doleful state That I'd hauve a mind to drown mysel'. Sing heigh, lads, heigh ; sing ho, ladsj ho ; What's to betide us who can know ? "What ails yon lad?" my faither said; '■ There's summat has ta'en him sadly down ; For he sits i'th nook, an' he hangs his yed ; An' I doubt he's lost his gate to th' town. Come, Robin ; don't tak' thy luck so ill ; Keep up thy heart, and caper round ; For if one love winnot another will, An' there's plenty o' lasses left o'th ground ! " Sing heigh, lads, heigh ; sing ho, lads, ho ; What's to betide us who can know? -^^^^ W(^M$mxt %(iv\ct. H, Nanny; thou'rt o' out o' gear; Do, pray tho, go peep into th' glass ; Thou looks dirty, an' deawly, an' queer ; Whatever's to do witho, lass ? " "Bless yo, Mary; if folk nobbut knew The trouble I have wi' yon lad ! — He's at th' alehouse again, wi' th' owd crew . It's enough to drive ony mon mad ! " 11. '*Eh, my wench I'm mich owder than thee, An' it grieves me to see tho like this ; So, pray tho, now, hearken to me ; An' don't go an' tak' it amiss : Thou once wur nice-lookin', an' mild. An' tidily donned, too, as well ; Cut, now, thou'rt quite sluttish an' wild About both thi house, an' thisel'. 136 LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS : III. " It's hard to keep things reet with aught That a body can manage to do ; But, a mon's sure to stray when he's nought But dirt an' feaw looks to come to : If thou wants to keep Jamie i'th house, Thou mun bait th' trap wi' comfort, my lass ; Or, there's lots o' nooks, canty an' crouse, Where he'll creep with his pipe an' his glass. IV. "Thou mun keep his whoam pleasant an' sweet; An' everything fit to be seen ; Thou mun keep thi hearth cheerful an' breet ; Thou mun keep thisel' tidy an' clean; A good-temper't wife will entice To a fireside that's cosy an' trim ; Men liken to see their wives nice : An' I'm sure that it's so wi' yor Jem. Thou mun have his meals cooked to his mind, At th' reet time, an' daicently laid ; Tak' pains ; an' thou'll very soon find How nice a plain dish can be made : Good cookin' keeps likin' alive, With a woman that's noan short o' wit ; An' there's never a craiter i'th hive But's fond of a toothsome tit bit 1 " TOOTHSOME ADVICE. 137 VI. " Eh, Mary ; I'm nought of a cook, But just rough an' ready, yo known ; As for roastin' an' boilin' bi th' book, — I'm o' httle more use than a stone ! " " Don thi bonnet ; an' hie tho wi' me ; I'll soon put tho reet, if thou'll come ; An' I'll larn tho some cookin', thou'll see, That'll help to keep Jamie at whoam ! " Air — " IVi'tk Wellington well go."" I. OCK Robin coom o' daicent folk ; He was the village pride, — The tightest, sweetest, soundest lad That stept the moorlan' side : Fro' top to toe he stood six feet : His voice was loud and clear ; But he could whisper low an' sweet When a bonny lass was near. II. Cock Robin had a witchin' tongue, It made folk laugh an' cry ; An' he won the hearts of owd an' young Wi' th' love-leet in his eye : COCK ROBIN. 139 An' as he wandered through the fields He made the valley ring ; An" th' country lasses pricked their ears. To yer young Robin sing. III. Young Robin was the blithest cowt That froUcked on the green ; The king of o' the lads i'th fowd, The darlin' of the scene : With happy heart, in nature's lap, He wandered wild and free, Though mony a sweet lass set her cap To catch his twinklin' e'e. IV. But there was one dear lass that bore From all the world the bell, An touched his heart for evermore With love's delightful spell : With modest charms, unknown to guile, She made her conquest sweet, An' brought the roving minstrel down To warble at her feet. 14° LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS; V. Now Robin feels the mystic power Of true love here below, An' Robin owns the richest dower That angels can bestow ! He flits no more from bough to bough ; His soarings wild have ceased ; His songs are all for Mally now, An' th' little brids i'th neest ! mvtx %ouu WD Roddle wur tattert an' torn, With a bleart an' geawly e'e; He're wamble, an' slamp, an' unshorn; A flaysnme cowt to see : Houseless, without a friend, The poor owd wand'rin' slave Crawled on to his journey's end, Wi' one of his feet i'th grave : Poor owd Roddle ! II. Owd Roddle wur fond of ale, Fro' tap to tap went he ; An' this wur his endless tale, " Who'll ston a gill for me?" He crept into drinkin'-shops At dawnin' o' mornin' leet; He lived upo' barmy slops, An' slept in a tub at neet : Poor owd Roddle ! 142 LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS; III. As Reddle one mornin'-tide Wur trailin' his limbs to town, A twinkle i'th slutch he spied, " Egad, it's a silver crown ! " '* Now, Roddle, go buy a shirt — A shirt an' a pair o' shoon ! " " A fig for yor shoon an' shirts ; My throttle's as dry's a oon ! " Poor owd Roddle ! IV. •• Come, bring us a weel-filled quart j I connot abide a tot ; To-day I've a chance to start With a foamin', full-groon pot ! This crown has a jovial look ; I'm fleyed it'll melt too fast ; But I'll live like a king i'th nook As long as my crown'U last ! '' Poor owd Roddle ! V. But he met with a friendly touch That ended his mortal woes ; For he fell in a fatal clutch, That turned up his weary toes r OWD RODDLE. U3 Though they missed him i' nooks o'th town Where penniless topers meet, Nob'dy knew how he'd broken down, Nor where he'd crept out o' seat : Poor owd Rod die ! VI. In a churchyard corner lone, Under a nameless mound, Where the friendless poor are thrown, Roddle lies sleepin' sound : And the kind moon shines at night On the weary wanderer's bed, And the sun and the rain keep bright His grassy quilt o'erhead. Pbor owd Roddle ! ^ ■■ ■■ ■■ " " ■' *■ ■' " " "^ S»y ^f0ulnitli«r, WMt. y gronfaither, Willie, VVur born o'th moorside, In a cosy owd house Where he lived till he died ; He wur strong-limbed an' hearty, An' manly, an' kind ; An' as blithe as a lark, for He'd nought on his mind. Derry down. II. His wife wur th' best craiter That ever wur made ; An' they'd three bonny lasses As ever broke brade ; MY GRONFAITHER, WILLIE. 1 45 An' five strappin' lads — They looked grand in a row, For they'rn six feet apiece — That makes ten yards in o' ! Derry down. in. My gronfaither's house Wur a cosy owd shop, As' as sweet as a posy Fro' bottom to top ; Parlour, loom-house, an' dairy ; Bedrooms, greight an' smo' ; An' a shinin' owd kitchen, — The best nook of o' ! Derry down. IV. He'd cows in a pastur', An sheep o'th moorside ; An' a nice bit o' garden Wur th' owd fellow's pride j With his looms an' his cattle, He'd plenty o' wark For his lads an' his lasses, Fro' dayleet to dark. Derry down. 10 146 LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS A gray-yedded layrock O' three-score an' twelve, He'd weave an' he'd warble, He'd root an' he'd delve Fro' daybreak to sunset, Then creep to his nook, At the sweet ingle-side, For a tot an' a smooke. Derry down. VI. An' fro' th' big end o' Pendic To Robin Hood's Bed ; Fro' Skiddaw to Tandle's Owd grove-tufted yed ; Fro' th' Two Lads to Tooter's, There's never a pot That's sin as much glee As my gronfaither's tot. Derry down. VII. Fro' Swarthmoor i' Furness, Where th' dew upo' th' fells Keeps twinkle to th' tinkle Of Ulverston bells ; MY GRONFAITHER, WILLIE. 147 Fro' Black Coombe to Blacks'nedge, No cup mon could fill, Did moore good an' less harm Than my gronfaither's gill. Derry down. VIII. As I journey through life May this fortin be mine, To be upreet an' downreet Fro' youth to decline : An' walk like a mon, Through whatever betide, Like my gronfaither, Willie, That live'to'th moorside. Derry down. (^omt to x\mv g^nltrlt. Air — " One Bumper at Fartiiig." OME lads, an' sit down to yo'r porritch ; I hope it'll help yo' to thrive ; For nob'dy con live as they should do Beavvt some'at to keep 'em alive : We're snug ; with a daicent thalch o'er us, While round us the winter winds blow ; Be thankful for what there's afore us ; There's some that han nothing at o'. Chorus — Then, come, an' sit down to yo'r porritch ; I hope it'll help yo' to thrive ; For nob'dy con live as they should do Beawt some'at to keep 'em alive. II. Sometimes I've a pain i' my stomach That's common to folk that are poor ; But I've mostly a mouthful o' some'at That suits my complaint to a yure : COME TO YOUR PORRITCH. 1 49 Come beef, suet-dumplin', or lobscouse, Come ale, or cowd wayter, I'll sing; An' a lump o' good cheese an' a jannock,' It makes me as proud as a king. Chorus — Then, come, an' sit down to yo'r porritch, &c. III. There's mony poor craiters are dainty, An' wanten thsir proven made fine; But if it be good, an' there's plenty, I'm never so tickle wi' mine : It's aitin' that keeps a man waggin'. An' hunger that butters his bread ; An' when a lad snighs^ at his baggin', It's time for to send him to bed. Chorus — Then, come, an' sit down to yo'r porritch, &c, IV. Some folk are both greedy an' lither;^ They'n guttle," — but wortch noan at o' ; An' their life's just a comfortless swither,^ Bepowlert an' pown* to an' fro ; 1 Jannock, a thick unleavened oaten cake, formerly common in rustic Lancashire. 2 Snighs, to slight, to despise. 3 Lither, lazy. * Guttle, to gourmandize. * Swither, a disturbance, a state of tremulous uncertainty. ^ Bepowlert an' pawn, jolted about, and beaten. 15° LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS Then, wortch away, lads, till yo'r weary : It helps to keep everything reet; Yo'n find tlie day run very cheery, An' sleep like a peg-top at neet. Chorus — Then, come, an' sit down to yo'r porritch, &c. fei^to, ione, mvA gd^ I |EIGH, Jone, owd brid, bring in some ale ; I'm fain to see tho wick an' weel. We'n make this cote ring like a bell Wi' jolly-hearted sound, lads ! We're just come liltin', full o' glee, Fro' th' moorlan' tops, so wild an' free ; Come, clear this floor, an' let 'em see Us dance a Cheshire round, lads 1 II. There's Jonathan can sing a song That's four-an'-twenty verses long. An' twitterin' Ben caps owd an' young For merry country cracks, mon ! There's Thistle Jack ; there's limber Joe,— He'll wrostle aught i'th town an' fo' ; Come cut an' long tail, he licks o'. An' lays 'em o' their backs, mon ! III. There's Ned wi' th' pipes, an' curly Bill, An' Turn o' Nell's fro' Wardle Hill, An' moorlan' Dan fro' the Blue Pots rill. An' fither-fuuted Dick, mon ! 152 LANCASHIRE POEMS AND SONGS Thou may wander far, an' pick an' choose, Where rindles run an' heather groos; Thou'll find no blither cowts ihan thoose Fro' here to Windle Nick, mon ! IV. We're brown as hazel-nuts wi' th' sun. For th' harvest's o'er, an' th' hay's weel won ; An' every heart runs o'er wi' fun, An' every lad's i' prime, mon ! Their e'en are wick wi' merry leet ; We'n trip it round wi' nimble feet ; With reet good will we'n blithely greet This bonny summer time, mon! Then bring a foamin' tankard in, An' weet yo'r whistles an' begin ; This roof shall ring with jovial din, — It's haliday to-day, lads ! God bless owd England's hearts of oak, Her toilin' swarms, an' sturdy folk; May they never yield to tyrant's yoke, I will both sing an' pray, lads ! POEMS AND SONGS IN LITERARY ENGLISH. Stern Monarch of the Solitude. By Richard Wane. ^Ut W\0ov\mu\ iUxuv, I. ENEATH a crag, whose forehead rude O'erfrowns the mountain side, — Stern monarch of the solitude, Dark-heaving, wild, and wide, — A floweret of the moorland hill Peeped out unto the sky, In a mossy nook, where a limpid rill Came tinkhng blithely by. II, Like a star-seed, from the night-skies flung Upon the mountains lone, Into a gleaming floweret sprung, — Amid the wild it shone ; And bush and brier, and rock and rill, And every wandering wind. In interchange of sweet good-will And mutual love did bind. 156 POEMS AND songs: III. In the gloaming grey, at close of day, Beneath the deepening blue, It lifted up its little cup, To catch the evening dew : The rippling fall, the moorfowl's call, The wandering night- wind's moan ; It heard, it felt, it loved them all, — That floweret sweet and lone. IV. The green fern wove a screening grove From noontide's fervid ray ; The pearly mist of the brooklet kist Its leaves with cooling spray ; And when dark tempests swept the waste. And north winds whistled wild, The brave old rock kept off the shock, As a mother shields her child. And when it died, the south wind sighed, The drooping fern looked dim ; The old crag moaned, the lone ash groaned, The wild heath sang a hym.n ; The leaves crept near, though fallen and sere, Like old friends mustering round ; And a dew-drop fell from the heather-bell Upon its burial ground. THE MOORLAND FLOWER. I57 VI. For it had bloovned content to bless Each thing that round it grew ; And on its native wilderness Its store of sweetness strew : Fair link in nature's chain of love, To noisy fame unknown, There is a register above, E'en when a flower is gona vn. So, lovingly embrace thy lot, Though lowly it may be, And beautify the little spot Where God hath planted thee : To win the world's approving eyes Make thou no foolish haste, — Heaven loves the heart that lives and dies To bless its neighbouring waste. Mt ^i^ovU. Ik^ -'ill la^'iM rj^i 1^ m fiC^ y^S 1 '~ I. HIS foolish world doth wink Its cunning lid ; And when it thinks, it thinks Its thoughts are hid. II. Its piety's a screen Where vice doth hide ; Its purity's unclean ; Its meekness, pride. III. Its charity's a bait To catch a name ; Its kindness covers hate ', Its praise is blame. IV. Its wisdom soweih seeds Which follies prove ; And its repentance needs Repenting of. THE WORLD. V, Its learning's empty talk ; Its heart is cold ; Its church is an exchange ; Its god is gold. VI. , Its pleasures all are blind, And lead to pain ; Its treasures are a kind Of losing gain. VII. Lust moves it more than love, Fear more than shame ; Its best ambitions have A grovelling aim. VIII. Its laws are a disgrace ; Its lords are slaves ; Its honours are misplaced, E'en on our graves. IX. Some sorrow doth attend Its happiest dreams ; And rottenness doth end Its rotten schemes. 159 i6o POEMS AND SONGS : Oh, cure this moral madness, — This soul-disease ; Shew us that Vice brings sadness, And Virtue, ease : XI. And teach us in the hour Of Sin's dismay. That Truth's the only flower Without decay. I. EEN blows the north wind ; the woodlands are bare ; The snow-shroad lies white on the flowerless lea; The red-breast is wailing the death of the year, As he cowers his wing in the frozen haw-tree. II. The leaves of the forest, now summer is o'er, Lie softly asleep in the lap of decay. And the wildtlower rests on the snow-covered shore, Till the cold night of winter has wandered away. Ill Oh, where are the small birds that sang in yon bowers When last summer smiled on the green-manded plaip? Oh, where do they shelter in winter's bleak hours ? Will they come back with spring, to delight me again ? 8— II 1 62 POEMS AND SONGS IV. But I may be gone, never more to behold The wildflowers peep, when the winter has fled ; The chill drifts of sorrow the wanderer may fold, And the sunshine of spring melt the snow on his bed. But come, ye sweet warblers, and sport in the spray, Whose tender revival I never may see; The young buds will leap to your welcoming lay, — 'Twill cheer the sad-hearted, as oft it cheered me. VI. And should ye, returning, then find me at rest. Stay sometimes, and sing near the grave of a friend ; Drop a rosemary leaf on his turf-covered breast, And rejoice that his troublesome journey's at end. Mt (fiJ^pt^iitt'^ ivmH^. WANDERED down by yonder park one quiet autumn day, When many a humble traveller was going on the way ; And there I saw a company of neighbours great and small, All gathered round an ancient gate that leads unto the hall. II. The faded leaves that rustled in the mournful autumn wind Awoke in me a train of thought that saddened all my mind : And through the crowd of anxious folk there went a smothered wail. So I sat me down upon a stone and hearkened to the tale. III. The sturdy farmer from his fields had hurried to the place, The cripple on his crutches, and the sick with pallid face ; The poor old dame had wandered with her bUnd man tc the ground, And the lonely widow, weeping, with her children gathered round. 164 POEMS AND songs: IV. The well-remembered beggar, too, was there, — but not to bef ■ And the stiff old Chelsea pensioner, upon a wooden leg : From hamlet, fold, and lonely cot, the humble poor were there. Each bringing in his moistened eye a tributary tear. V. Up spake the sturdy farmer to the porter, and he said, *'What news is this that's going round? They say the Captain's dead ! " The quaint old porter laughed, " Aha ! Thank God, it isn't true! It's but the Captain's dog that's dead,— they called it ' Captain ' too 1 " VI. Then sprang the cripple on his crutch, and nearly came tc ground ; The blind man wandered to and fro, and shook their hands all round ; The dame took snuff, the sick man smiled, and blest the happy day ; And the widow kissed her young ones, as she wiped their tears away. VII. Up rose the children's voices, mingling music with the gale, And the beggar's dog romped with them, as he barked and wagged his tail ; THE CAPTAINS FRIENDS. 165 The farmer slapt his thumbs, and cried, "Come on, I'll feast you all ! " And the stark old soldier with his stick kept charging at the wall. VIII. So, now the Captain's dog is dead and sleeping in the ground, A kind old master by the grave bemoans his gallant hound ; He says, " My hair is white and thin ! I have not long to stay ! And, oh, my poor old dog, how I shall miss thee on the way ! " IX. Then here's to every noble heart that's gentle, just, and brave, That cannot be a tyrant, and that grieves to see a slave. God save that good old Captain long, and bring his soul to joy '— The countryside will lose a friend the day he comes to die. mmxs^ (^vmt. I. HE wintry wind was wailing wild, Across the moorland wold ; The cloudless vault of heaven was bright With studs of gleaming gold; The weary cotter's heavy lids Had closed with closing day ; And, on his silent hearth, a tinge Of dying fire-light lay. II. The ancient village seemed asleep Beneath the starry sky ; A little river, sheathed in ice, Came gliding gently by ; The grey church in the grave -yard. Where " the rude forefathers lay," Stood, like a mother, waiting till Her children came from play. willy's grave, 167 III. No footsteps trod the tiny town ; The drowsy street was still ; Save where the wandering night-wind sang Its requiem wild and shrill : The stainless snow lay thick upon Those quaint old cottage eaves ; And wreathes of fairy frost-work hung Where grew last summer's leaves. IV. Each village home was dark and still, And closed was every door ; For gentle sleep had twined her arms Around both rich and poor, — Save in one liUle cot, where, by A candle's flickering ray A childless mother sighing sat. And combed her locks of grey. V. Her husband, and her children all, Were in the silent bed, Where, one by one, she'd laid them down, — And left them with the dead ; Then, toiling on towards her rest, — A lonely pilgrim, she, — For God and poverty were, now, Her only company. i68 poExMS AND songs: VI. Upon the shady window-sill, A well-worn bible lay ; Against the wall a coat had hung, For many a weary day ; And, on the scanty table-top, With crumbs of supper strewn, There stood, beside a porringer, Two Httle empty shoon. VII. The fire was waning in the grate ; The spinning-wheel at rest ; The cricket's song rang loudly in That lonely woman's nest ; As, with a napkin, thin, and worn. And wet with many a tear, She wiped the little pair of shoon Her darling used to wear. VIII. Her widowed heart had often leaped To hear his prattle small ; He was the last that she had left, — The dearest of them all ; And, as she rocked her to and fro, While tears came dreeping down. She sighed, and cried, " Oh, Willy, love,- These little empty shoon ! " WILLY'S GRAVE. IX. With gentle hand she laid them by,— She laid them by with care ; For, Willy, he was in his grave, — And all her thoughts were there : She paused before she dropped the sneck. That closed her lambless fold, — It grieved her heart to bar the door, And leave him in the coM. X. A thread-bare cloak she lapped around Her limbs, so thin and chill ; She left her lonely cot behind. While all the world was still ; And through the solitary night, She took her silent way. With weeping eyes, towards the spot Where little Willy lay. XI. The pallid moon had climbed aloft Into the welkin blue ; A snow-clad tree across the grave Its leafless shadow threw ; And, as that mournful mother sat Upon a mound thereby, The bitter wind of winter sighed To hear her lonely cry ! lyo POEMS AND SONGS: XII. My little Willy's cowd an' still, — He's not a cheep for me ! Th' last tremblin' leaf has dropt away Fro* this poor withered tree ! God help my heart 1, my comfort's gone ! I'm lonely under th' sky ! He'll never clip my neck again, An' tell me not to cry ! XIII. My darlin' lad ! He's laid i'th dust ! My little Willy's dead ! An' all that made me cling to life, Lies in his frosty bed ! He's gone ! He's gone ! My poor bare nest ' Oh, what's this world to me ! My little love ! I'm lonely now ! When mun I come to thee! XIV. He's crept into his last dark nook, And left me pinin' here ! An' never-moor his two blue e'en For me mun twinkle clear ! He'll never say his prayers again At his poor mammy's knee ! Oh, Willy, love ! I'm lonely now ; When mun I come to thee ! WILLY S GRAVE. 171 XV. The snow-clad yew-tree stirred with pain To hear that plaintive cry ; The old church listened ; and the spire Kept pointing to the sky ; With kindlier touch, the frosty wind Played in her locks of grey ; And the queenly moon, upon her head, Shone with a softened ray. XVL She rose to leave that lonely bed ; Her heart was grieving sore ; One step she took, and then, her tears Fell faster than before : She turned and gave another look, — • One lingering look she gave, — Then, sighing, left him lying in His little wintry grave. tmt isi llying. I. IME is flying ! Are we hieing To a brighter, better bourne ? Or, unthinking, Daily sinking Into night that knows not morn ? II. Oh, what is hfe But duty's strife ? A drill; a watchful sentry's round; A brief campaign For deathless gain ; A bivouac on battle ground : III. An arrow's flight ; A taper's light ; A fitful da)' of sun and cloud : A flower ; a shade ; A journey made Between a cradle and a shroud. TIME IS FLYING. 1 73 IV. Oh, what is death ? A swordless sheath ; A jubilee ; a mother's call ; A kindlj? breast, That offers rest Unto the poorest of us all ; V, The wretched's friend ; Oppression's end ; The outcast's shelter from the cold ; To regions dim, The portal grim Where misers leave their loads of gold ; VI. A voyage o'er ; — A misty shore, With time- wrecked generations strewn Where each mad age Has spent its rage Uoon a continent unknown. <^ T Wlii Moorlands. ING, hey for the moorlands, wild, lonely, and stern, Where the moss creepeth softly all under the fern; Where the heather-flower sweetens the lone highland lea. And the mountain winds whistle so fresh and so free ! I've wandered o'er landscapes embroidered with flowers, The richest, the rarest, in greenest of bowers, Where the throstle's sweet vesper, at summer day's close, Shook the coronel dews on the rim of the rose ; But, oh for the hills where the heather-cock springs From his iw^st in the bracken, with dew on his wings ! Sing, hey for the moorlands! THE MOORLANDS. 1 75 II. I've lingered by streamlets that water green plains, I've mused in the sunlight of shady old lanes, Where the mild breath of evening came sweetly and slow From green nooks where bluebells and primroses grow; But, oh the wild hills that look up at the skies, Where the green bracken wave to the wind as it flies ! Sing, hey for the moorlands ! III. Away with the pride and the fume of the town, And give me a lodge in the heatherland brown : Oh there, to the schemes of the city unknown, Let me wander with freedom and nature, alone ; Where wild hawks with glee on the hurricane sail, And the mountain crags thrill to the rush of the gale ! Sing, hey for the moorlands ! IV. In glens which resound to the waterfall's song, My spirit shall play the wild echoes among : I'd climb the dark steep to my lone mountain home. And, heartsome and poor, o'er the solitude roam : And the keen winds that harp on the heathery lea Should sing the grand anthem of freedom to me ! Sing, hey for the moorlands ! 5^0 tUt ^§vH'^vtt on my Wmdm Ml ARK is the lot of him with heart so dull By sensual appetite's unbridled sway, x\s to be blind unto the beautiful In common things that strew the common way. Trailing the dusty elements of death, He crawls, in his embruted blindness, proud ; To perishable ends he draws nis breath ; His life, a funeral passing through a crowd ; His soul, a shrunken corpse within ; his body, but a shroud, II. Nature ! kind handmaid of the thoughtful soul. Be thy sweet ministrations ever mine; Thy angel-influences keep me whole. And lead my spirit into things divine : * Holding thy lovely garment, when a child I walked in simple ecstasy with thee ; And now, with sadder heart, and travel-toiled, Thou hast a sanctuary still for me, Where oft I find repose from earthly care and misery. TO THE ROSE-TREE ON MY WINDOW SILL. 177 III. In cities proud, by grovelling factions torn, Where glittering pomp and stony-eyed despair, Murder and stealth, the lordly and the lorn, Sq.ualor and wealth, divide the Christian air ; — Where prowling outcasts hug with ignorant rage Some sense of wrong that smoulders deep within ; — Where mean intrigues their furtive battles wage; Where they are wrong that lose, and they are right that win, — And drowning virtue struggles with the waves of sin ; — IV. Where drooping penitence, and pious pride ; The sons of labour and the beasts of prey : The spoilers and the spoiled, are side by side, Josding unkindly on the crowded way ; — E'en there sweet Nature sings her heaven-taught songs,— Unheeded minstrel of the fuming street, — For ever wooing its discordant throngs With sounds and shapes that teem with lessons meet, — Like thee, fair rose-tree, on my window blooming sweet. *• V. Oh, floral comrade of my lonely hours, Sweet soother of my saddest mood, The summer's glow, the scents of summer flowers, Are filling all my solitude: S— 12 1 78 POEMS AND songs: The thick-leaved groves, whose sylvan rooflets ring With blending lyrics poured from every tree, The sleepy streams where swallows dip the wing, The wild flowers, nodding in the wind, I see, — And hear the murmurous music of the roving bee. VI. Taking my willing fancy by the hand, Thou leadest me through nature like a child. Where rustling forests robe the pleasant land, And lonely streamlets ripple through the wild ; — Through verdant nooks, where, on the long, cool grass The lingering dews light up the leafy shade. In dreamy bliss, my wandering footsteps pass. Sweeping from many a lush and bending blade The load of liquid pearls that such a twinkling made vu. Now, through a sunny glade, away, away, — Oh, let me wander thus a while with thee, — By many a pleasant streamlet we will play. And gad o'er many a field in careless glee : Thus gently, thou, when on life's pathway rude My heart grows faint as gloomy shadows lower, Leadest me back into a happier mood. By some sweet, secret, heaven-inspire'd power, That lurks in thy fringed leaf and orient-tinted flower. TO THE ROSE-TREE ON MY WINDOW SILL. 1 79 VIII. My spirit burst its prison-house of care, And dreamily, with lingering feet, I stray Where garden odours fill the golden air, And blossoms tremble to the wild birds' lay ; — O'er cool moist slopes, beneath the woodland shade, Where the blithe throstle in his chamber sings, Then wonders at the music he has made ; — Where the lush bluebell's little censer swings, And pleasant incense to the wandering breezes flings. IX. Upon a shady bank, as I recline. Gazing, with silent joy, the landscape o'er, I feel its varied glories doubly mine, — My heart's inheritance, my fancy's store ; Above me waves a roof of green and gold, — Delightful shelter from the noontide heat ; Beyond, a wandering streamlet I behold. Where wind and sunlight on the waters meet In silvery shimmerings, past description sweet. I hear the skylark, poised on trembling wings, Teaching the heavenly quire his thrilling lay, All nature seems to listen as he sings. Hushed into stillness by his minstrelsy ; — Igo POEMS AND SONGS : As the blithe lyric streams upon the lea, Steeping the wild flowers in melodious rain, The very dewdrops, dancing to the glee. Look up with me, but, like me, look in vain To find the heaven-hid singer of that matchless strain. XI. Now, on rough byways, sauntering through the sun, From fertile haunts of man I gladly stray, Up to the sweet brown moorlands, bleak and dun, While rindling waters tinkle o'er my way; Where the free eagle lords it in the sky ; Where red grouse, springing from the heath'ry steep, Wake the wild echoes with their lonely cry ; And whistling breezes unrestrained sweep O'er the old hills, that in the suniight seem asleep. XII. O'er yon wild height, between the rugged steeps, From crag to crag, in many an airy bound Of mighty glee, the mountain torrent leaps, And the lone ravine trembles to the sound : Through cave and cleft, along the narrow glen. The rushing thunders rage, and roll afar, Like untamed lions struggling in their den, — With unavailing rage, — each rocky scar Hurls back the prisoned roar of elemental war. TO THE ROSE-TREE ON MY WINDOW SILL. I Si XIII. As homeward, down a winding path I stray, Where mazy midges in the twilight throng In plaintive fits of liquid melody, I hear the lonely ousel's vesper-song ; Odours of unseen flowers the air pervade ; As I sit listening on a wayside mound, Watching the daylight and its business fade, The evening stillness fills with weird sound, And distant waters sing their ancient choral round. XIV. Mild evening brings the gauzy fringe of dreams That trails upon the golden skirts of day ; And here and there a cottage candle gleams With cheerful twinkle o'er my drowsy way ; As flaxen-headed elves, from rambles wild, With stragglmg footsteps, to their mothers hie With woodland trophies, and with garments soiled, All tired and pleased,— they know not, care not why;- So from my wand'rings I return, as daylight quits the sky. XV. Oh, flowery leader of these fancy flights, Epitome of Nature's charms to me. Filling my spirits with such fine delights As I can never more repay to thee, — 1 82 POEMS AND songs: For my behoof thou donn'st the summer's sheen, Smiling benignly on thy prison-spot, Though exiled from that native nook of green Where playmate zephyrs seek through bower and grot, Through all the summer roses seek, but find thee not. XVI, Fair lamp of beauty, in my cloistral shade, Though brief at best the time thou hast to shine, By an almighty artist thou wert made. And touched with light eternally divine. Like a caged bird, in this seclusion dim, — Where slanting sunbeams seldom find a way, — Singing with patient joy a silent hymn. That wafts my thought from worldly care away Into the realms of Nature's endless holiday. XVII. Sweet specimen of Nature's mystic skill. Dost thou know aught of human joys and woes ? Can'st thou be gladdened by the glad heart's thrill, Or feel the writhing spirit's silent throes ? To me thou art a messenger of love, — A leaf of peace amid the storms of woe — Dropt in my path by that celestial Dove Who made all things in heaven and earth below. That wandering man the beautiful and true might know. ■■««a-, , CSIifisitttmjs mxj^l ONG time ago, in Palestine, Upon a wintry morn. All in a lowly cattle shed, The Prince of Peace was born. II. The clouds fled from the gloomy sky ; The winds in silence lay ; And the stars shone bright, with strange delight, To welcome in that day. 184 POEMS AND SONGS III. His parents they were simple folk, And simple Uves they led ; And in the ways of righteousness This little Child was bred. IV. In gentle thought, and gentle deed, His early days went by ; And the light His youthful steps did lead Came down from heaven on high. He was the friend of all the poor That wanSer here below ; It was His only joy on earth To ease them of their woe. VI. In vain He trod His holy path, By sorrow sorely tried ; It was for all mankind He lived, Anrl for mankind He died. CHRISTMAS CAROL. 185 VII. Like Him, let us be jast and pure, Like Him, be true alway ; That we may find the peace of mind That never fades away. ioir J'ummn'';Si ^unUQlit ©lowing. OW, summer's sunlight, glowing, Streaks the woodland shade with gold ; And balmy winds are blowing Softly o'er the moorland-wold ; Now sweet smells the bluebell, 'Neath tiie valley's leafy screen ; And thick grows the wild rose, Clust'ring o'er the hedges green. The fern adorns the moorland steep ; The smiling fields are flowered o'er ; And modest liiile daisies peep Like children at a mother's door ! NOW summer's, sunlight glowing. 187 11. From dewy meadows springing, Yonder blinding skies among, The poet-lark is singing, As if his heart was made of song ! While gladly and madly In every grove tlie wild birds vie, All tingling and mingling In tipsy routs of lyric joy ! My throbbing heart with every part Is dancing to the chorus near, — The gush, the thrill, — the wizard trill, Like drops of water tinkling clear ! in. The cottage matron, knitting In her little garden, sings. As wild birds, round her flitting. Fan the blossom with their wings; And twining, combining. The honeysuckle and the rose, Sweet shading, and braiding, Round her winking lattice goes ; And wild bees through the flowers roam- The little happy buzzing thieves ! — Here and there, with busy hum, Rifling all the honeyed leaves. 1 88 POEMS AND SONGS: IV. Now, hamlet urchins roaming, All the sunny summer day, From dewy morn till gloaming, Through the rustling wildwood stray ; There blithely and lithely. By warbling brook and sylvan grot, They ramble and gambol, All the busy world forgot ; — Like birds that wing the sunny air, And warble in the tangled wild, Unhaunted by the dreams of care, — Oh, to be again a child ! Sweet scents and sunshine blending; The wildwoods, in their leafy pride, To the gentle south wind bending ; Oh, the bonny summer tide ! The tinkling, the twinkling, Where little limpid rivers lave ; The sipping, the dipping Of wild-flowers in the gilded wave ; — The fruitful leas, the blooming trees. The pleasant fields, embroidered fair ; The wild birds' little melodies, . Scattering gladness everywhere ! ^a ntm\^. 1 i HE land has its gardens of roses, Its flowers of every hue, Which close as the daylight closes, And wake to the morniag dew ; It has sweet scented groves of pleasure, Where the bee roves all day long, And, at eve, with her load of treasure, Flies home to a drowsy song. II. There, summer her mantle of verdure, With posies so sweet enweaves. That the sunshine delays on their beauty. Till it falls asleep in the leaves ; And the spell-bound rain comes dreeping, To brighten their eyes anew ; And their folds are by young winds fondled, And kist by the silvery dew. igo POEMS AND SONGS : III. But the grand old sea hides wonders That never met mortal eye, — Bright bowers that never have rustled To soft wind's dreamy sigh ; Strange groves of mystical beauty, And flowers of rainbow hue. Bloom wild in those old sea-gardens, All under the waters blue ! IV. And when the pale moon is sleeping. At night on the trembling sea, And the coral-paved halls of Neptune Re-echo the kelpies' glee : Oh, the floral festoons of magic, That curtain those pearly caves, Where the water-sprites revel in splendour, All under the drowsy waves ! V. Ye fairy-tinged groves of ocean, — Your delicate banners wave, Where the fisherman sleeps in the lonely deeps, In his cold uncrowded grave : Wave on your beautiful tendrils, In your gardens wild and free, Caressed by the gleaming waters, Of the grand old heaving sea ! ®Itin0isi (Sane §g. m i WAS evening ; sad November's gale Was moaning wild and cold ; Night's deep'ning shade had dimm'd the vale, And hid the distant wold ; In dreamy mood, as all grew still Beneath the waning sky, I sat beside my window-sill, And thought of things gone by. II. An old and lonely man was there, By labour sorely worn ; The frost of age had thinn'd his hair, And sorrow made him lorn ; His wrinkled cheek long time had play'd With wind, and rain, and sun ; That weary man, he sigh'd, and said — "It's dark — and nothing done." ig2 POEMS AND SONGS : III. On life, and death, and mortal fret, I musing then began ; And on the dangers that beset The pilgrimage of man : I thought of days for ever flown. And hopes for ever fled ; I sigh'd for friends asunder thrown, Or sleeping with the dead. IV. Since life's first wand'ring step began They've strewn the fatal way, And only here and there a man Has reach'd the close of day ; Like leaflets, drifted to and fro, When autumn's cold winds rave, Some fluttering wild, some trampled low, Some mould'ring in the grave The days are gone when light and free, I roved the mountains wild ; The light no more will shine for me On morning's hour that smiled : THINGS GONE BY. 193 No sun or rain can e'er again Revive youth's faded flowers ; No sad regret, nor sigh of pain, Recall the fleeted hours. 8—1; ®(r H mUvvM f adjj. H, this wild voyage o'er the sea of life Needs all the help that heaven to earth can give ; Through its dark storms, and shoals, and battle-strife, God must be pilot to the ships that live. II. Happy the heart that finds a haven of love, Where in the tempest it can sweetly moor, And taste, below, the bliss that but above, Is ever stainless, and is ever sure. III. And blest the hearth where pure affections glow — The husband's and the father's best retreat ; Where heavenward souls in one direction grow, With darUng tendrils round them twining sweet. TO A MARRIED LADY. 1 95 IV. Such be thy home ; through earth's mutations strange, A garden, where the flowers of heaven grow ; And, sheltered there from bhght, tlirough every change, Its loves, its hopes, no touch of ruin know. May Time, whose withering finger ever brings To Nature's best the doom of sure decline, Float over thee with gently -fanning wings, And find the twilight of thy life divine. VI. And, ever hand in hand, along your path, — For thee and thine thus doth the poet pray, — That ye may walk in Joy from life to death, And earth's night be the dawn of heaven's day. (BuUMU f ouv llUtt. I. ILL as ye ought your barren lands, And drain your moss and fen ; Give honest work to willing hands, And food to hungry men ; And hearken — all that have an ear — To this unhappy cry, — " Are poor folks' only chances here To beg, or thieve, or die ? " II. With kindly guerdon this green earth Rewards the tiller's care, And to the wakening hand gives forth The bounty slumbering there ; But there's another, nobler field Big with immortal gain, — The morasses of mind untilled ; — Go, — cultivate your men ! CULTIVATE YOUR MEN. III. Oh, ponder well, ye pompous men, With Mammon-blinded eyes, What means the poverty and pain That moaning round you lies : Go, plough the wastes of human mind Where weedy ignorance grows, — The baleful deserts of mankind Would blossom like the rose, IV. But penny-wise, pound-foolish thrift Deludes this venal age ; Blind selfs the all- engrossing drift. And pelf, the sovereign rage. E'en in the Church the lamp grows dim, That ought to light to heaven, And that which fed its holy flame, To low ambition's given. V. Just retribution hovers near This play of pride and tears ; To heaven all worldly cant is clear, Whatever cloak it wears ; And high and low are on one path, Which leads unto the grave, — Where false distinctions flit from death. And tyrant blends with slave. -: ♦I'-g-O- 197 mil pan'$ f OU0. H ! sweetly the morning of childhood Awoke me to careless delight ; And blithe as a bird of the wildwood I played in its beautiful light ; The world was a magical treasure That filled me with wonder anfi joy ; And I fluttered from pleasure to pleasure, Delighted — I couldn't tell why : If T thought of to-morrow, I dreamt not of sorrow ; And I smiled as the day went by. II. Gay youth, with its glittering hours, Came frolicking on, full of glee, Where hope's charming sunlighted bowers Were thickly in blossom for me ; — My hesrc was a harp whose emotion Awoke to all beautiful things. OLD MAN'S SONG. T99 And love was the dearest devotion That played in its tremulous strings : So, I dallied, delighted, And carelessly slighted Old Time and his rustling wings. III. Now, the noontide of life has gone by me. The visions of morning have died ; And the world is beginning to try me With struggles that chasten my pride ; — As the twilight of time, softly stealing. Comes o*er me with shadows of grey, I feel the sad truth now revealing, — It draws to the close of the day ; And thoughtfully eyeing The past, I sit sighing. And wondering how long I shall stay. mt m. HEN thy heart 'neath its trouble sinks down, And the joys that misled it are gone,— When the hopes that inspired it are flown, And it gropes in thick darkness, alone, — Let faith be thy cheer, 3corn the whispers of fear, Be righteous, and bravely bide on. II. When fancy's wild meteor-ray Allures thee from duty to roam. Beware its bewildering way, And rest with thy conscience at home ;- Give ear to its voice ; Let the stream of thy joys From the fountain of purity come. BIDE ON. 20 1 III. When, by failure and folly borne down, The future looks hopelessly drear ; And each day, as it flies, with a frown, Tells how helpless, how abject we are ; Let nothing dismay Thy bold effort to-day ; — Be patient, and still persevere. IV. Be steady, in joy and in sorrow ; Be truthful, in great and in small; Fear nothing but sin, and each morrow Heaven's blessing upon thee shall fall : In thy worst tribulation Shun low consolation. And trust in the God that sees all. mt mU(fxlmu\ WxUlii. HERE lives a lass on yonder moor, — She wears a gown of green ; She's handsome, young, and sprightly, With a pair of roguish e'en : She's graceful as the mountain doe That snuffs the forest air ; And she brings the smell of the heather-bell In the tresses of her hair. II. 'Twas roaming careless o'er the hills, As sunlight left the sky, That first I met this moorland maiden Bringing home her kye : Her native grace, her lovely face, The pride of art outshone ; — I wondered that so sweet a flower Should blossom thus alone. THE MOORLAND WITCH. 203 HI. Alas, that ever I should meet Those beaming eyes of blue, That round about my thoughtless heart Their strong enchantment threw. I could not dream that falsehood lurked In such an angel smile ; I could not fly the fate that lured With such a lovely wile. IV. And when she comes into the vale, To try her beauty's power, She'll leave a spell on many a heart That fluttered free before. But, oh, beware her witching smile, — 'Tis but a fowler's snare ; She's fickle as the mountain wind That frolics with her hair ! Mt athivctt i^Uch H, thou who dost these pointers see. And hear'st the chiming hour, Say, do I tell the time to thee. And tell thee nothing more; — I bid thee mark life's little day By strokes of duty done ; — A clock may stop at any time, But time will travel on. THE CHURCH CLOCK. 20C 11. I am a preacher to a few, — A servant unto all, As here I stand tick, ticking, Like a death-watch in a wall ; And, it were well that those who see These fingers gliding on, Should think a moment, now and then, How fast the moments run. IIT. There's some of you are wealthy, And some of you are proud ; And some are poor, and some are sad. And waiting for a shroud ; — Be patient yet a while, for see This little yard below, — The man who goes the longest way, Has not so far to go. IV. A christ'ning ; then, a wedding comes : And then, a passing bell ; 'Tis just the ancient tale that time Has always had to tell : The very clock that marks the hour. With licking wears away : The gladdest pulse of hfe contains The music of decay. ' •►•^» (fjhviisitmasi .^ong. N the dark-clouded sky no star shews a gleam ; The drift-laden gale whistles wild in the tree ; The ice-mantle creeps o'er the murmuring stream, That glittering runs through the snow-covered lea ; But, hark ! the old bells fling the news to the wind ! — Good Christians awake to their genial call ; The gale may blow on, we'll be merry and kind ; Blithe yule, and a happy new year to us all ! Chorus — Bring in the green holly, the box, and the yew. The fir, and the laurel, all sparkling with rime ; Hang up to the ceiling the mistletoe-bough, And let us be jolly another yule-time ! II. While, garnished with plenty, together we meet In carolling joy, as the glad moments flee. Thus sheltered away from the frost and the sleet, With friends all around us, in festival glee. CHRISTMAS SONG. 207 We'll Still keep the heavenly lesson in mind, — The gentle Redeemer was born at this tide; The wind may blow keenly, but we will be kind, And think of the poor folk that shiver outside. Chorus — Bring in the green holly, the box, and the yew, &c. III. He's a cur who can bask in the fire's cheery light, And hearken, unheeded, the winter wind blow. And care not a straw for the comfortless wight Who wanders about in the frost and the snow ; But we'll think of the mournful the while we are glad ; Our hearts shall be kind as the winter is keen ; And we'll share our good cheer with the poor and the sad, Who sorrow and struggle in corners unseen. Chorus — Bring in the green holly, the box, and the yew, &c. ^Umxiimuf^ 3o\\q. I. OME, all you lads that wander free Upon the mountains wild ; That love sweet nature's liberty, And will not be beguiled ; With you, as blithe as moorland wind, I'll rove by hill and glen ; Life's greatest bliss we oft shall find Far from the haunts of men. Chorus — Then, let the winds blow high or lov/. Beneath the changeful sky , This world so fine shall all be mme Until the day I die. II. I care not for the stately hall, It IS no place for me , My purse is light, my wants are small, My heart is fain and free ; mountaineer's song. 209 In lowly nest I take my rest, And shelter from the cold ; I bend to no man's haughty crest, I envy no man's gold. Chorus — Then, let the winds blow high or low, &c III. The king may wear his jewelled crown Upon a weary head ; The couch on which he lays him down May be a sleepless bed ; The massive walls of courtly halls May close him in with care ; In knightly towers, and guarded bowers, Black grief may find him there. Chorus — Then, let the winds blow high or low, &a IV. For me o'erhead, the heavens are spread, With hill and dale below ; Each murmuring stream, eacli sunny gleam, And all the winds that blow ; Where'er I stray, ray lonely way Strewn with delight I find ; My greatest wealth is rustic health. My bliss a peaceful mind. Chorus — Then, let the winds blow high or low, &c 8 — 14 2IO POEMS AND songs; V. For me, in posied mantle green, Glad nature decks the spring; For me, amidst the vernal scene, The happy wild-birds smg ; For my delight, each lovely sight The changing seasons thrills ; For me, the wild breeze, day and night. Harps on the heathery hills. Chorus — Then, let the winds blow high or low, Szc. mm mxA ixu. WISH I was on yonder moor, And my good dog wiih me, Through the bonny heather-flower Wading, wild and free : Wild and free ; Wild and free ; Where the moorland breezes blow. II. Oh, the wilderness is my delight, Where the whirring red grouse springs, From his heathery nest on the mountain's breast, With the dew upon his wings : Wild and free ; Wild and free ; Where the moorland breezes blow. 212 POEMS AND SONGS: III. At the gloaming hour, in grove and bower The throstle chants with glee , But the plover sings his evening hymn To the lone waste, wild and free : Wild and free ; Wild and free ; , Where the moorland breezes blow. IV. On the heathy hills I'll take my rest, And there my bed shall be ; With the lady-fern above my breast, Waving wild and free ; Wild and free ; Wild and free ; Where the moorland breezes blow. Iei0ft0 for (^MUx^l F all the craftsmen in this world, The cobbler lad for me, With his pegs an' tacks, an' his hemp an' wax, An' his lapstone on his knee. Welt it, an' pelt it ; Pelt it, an' welt it ; Sing, heigho for cobblers ! II. The lads that patch these poor men's shooti, I fain would have you know. They are the friends on whom depends What footing you must go. Twitch it, an' stitch it ; Stitch it, an' twitch it ; Sing, heigho for cobblers ! 214 POEMS AND SONGS: III. Saint Crispin was a lad of wax, And he tugged the 'tachin-end ; And he plied his awl in his good old stall, The soles of men to mend : Stump it, an' clink it ; Clink it, an' stump it ; Sing, heigho for cobblers ! IV. Then, here's good luck to the old cow's hide, Likewise the good lapstone ; Tiie man whose footsteps never slide, Shall seldom need to moan : Ring it, an' ding it ; Ding it, an' ring it; And, heigho for cobblers ! V. The man that keeps his top-knot cool Will never come to harm, If he sets a lad with a leather-brat To keep his poor feet warm : Thump it, an' stump it ; Stump it, an' thump it; Sing, heigho for cobblers ! HEIGHO FOR COBBLERS 215 vr. Good luck attend the cobbler's awl, His hemp, an' nails, an' tacks, — His knife, an' last, an' blackin'-ball, His bristles, an' his wax ! 'Tach it, an' catch it ; Catch it, an' 'tach it ; Sing, heigho for cobblers ! VII. And when, at last, he quits his awl. And lays him down to rest, He shall sleep sound 'neath a grassy mound With a lapstone on his breast: End it, an' mend it ; Mend it, an' end it; Sing, heigho for cobblers ! Cf!ltvi$tmaisi povuiu^. OME all you weary wanderers, Beneath the wintry sky ; This day forget your worldly cares, And lay your sorrows by ; Awake, and sing; The church bells ring ; For this is Christmas morning ! II. With grateful hearts salute the morn. And swell the streams of song, That laden with great joy are borne, The willing air along ; The tidings thrill With right good will ; For this is Christmas morning! CHRISTMAS MORNING. 217 III. We'll twine the fresh greea holly wreath, And make the yule-log glow ; And gather gaily underneath The winking mistletoe ; All blithe and bright By the glad fire-light ; For this is Christmas morning ! IV. Come, sing the carols old and true, That mind us of good cheer, And, like a heavenly fall of dew, Revive the drooping year ; And fill us up A wassail-cup ; For this is Christmas morning ! To all poor souls we'll strew the feast, With kindly heart, and free ; One Father owns us, and, at least. To-day we'll brothers be ; Away with pride. This holy tide ; For it is Christmas morning ! 2l8 POEMS AND SONGS VI. So now, God bless us one and all With liearts and hearthstones warm ; And may He prosper great and small, And keep us out of harm; And teach us still. His sweet good-will, This merry Christmas morning ! \m'^ \^ S»y %ix\m fautl ERE'S to my native land ; And here's to the heathery hills, Where the little birds sing on the blooming boughs, To the dancing moorland rills. II. There's a lonely little cot. And it stands by a spreading tree, Where a kind old face has looked from the door Full many a time for me ; — III. On the slope of a flowery dell. And hard by a rippling brook; And it's oh for a peep at the chimney-top, Or a ghnt of the chimney-nook ! IV. And there is a still churchyard, Where many an old friend lies ; And I fain would sleep in my native ground At last, when they close my eyes. 220 POEMS AND SONGS; When summer days were fine, The lads of the fold and I Have roved the moors, till the harvest moon Has died in the morning sky. VI. Oh, it's sweet in the leafy woods On a sunny summer's day; And I wish I was helping the moorland lads To tumble their scented hay ! Vli Though many a pleasant nook In many a land I've seen, I'd wander back to my own green hills, If the wide world lay between. VIII. They say there's bluer skies Across the foaming sea : — Each man that is born has a land of his own, And this is the land for me! Piunie. I. Y Minnie's as shy as a little wild rose, That fills all around with delight as it blows ; Its leaves, pleasant-scented, Unfolding, contented To sweeten the nook where it grows. II. Kate flutters her wings, and a lady would be ; She's ribboned, and jewelled, and flounced to the knee ; But she's keen, and she's cold. And she's proud of her gold, — The dule take her ribbons for me ! III. My Minnie's as poor as a little red- breast, "With nought in the wide world but God and its nest;*' Yet the star of a king Is a pitiful thing To the jewel that grows in her breast. 222 POEMS AND SONGS t IV. Kate's handsome and bold, and she's haughty and chill; She's a winterly smile for the heart she can kill ; And she bears off the bell From the girls of the dell, — With a clapper that never lies still. Though Minnie's as blithe as the skylark that springs From its roost in the meadow, with dew on its wings- 'Tis her own little nest, And the mate she loves best, That gladden the song that she sings. » VI. What care I for riches and gaudy array — What care I to flaunt with the heartlessly gay? If my little wild rose Love me on to life's close, And sweeten its troublesome way. f ife'^ UwW^Ut OW silver threads begin to shine Among my thinning hair ; And down the slope of life's decline I thoughtfully repair. The fire that once was in mine eyes Has dimmed its fervid ray, And every hour of life that flies, Is stealing light away. Oh, let me, with untroubled breast, A while in shadow lie, Before I lay me down to rest, And bid the world " Good bye." II. With Time, that wrestler old and grim. I've had a gallant round ; But ah, there's little chance with him Who bringeth all to ground. Although the world still roUeth on Its merry, motley way, My little part of life is done, Except to watch the play. 224 POEMS AND songs: Then let me, with untroubled breast, A while in shadow lie, Before I lay me down to rest, And bid the world "Good bye." III. In youth, to pleasure's lightest trill. My heart leaped light and free ; Now, she may play what tune she will, It is not so with me ; For though a smile may sometimes steal Across my furrowed brow. My joys are all akin, I feel, To contemplation now. Then let me, with untroubled breast, A while in shadow lie, Before I lay me down to rest, And bid the world "Good bye," iiDltW^n. HE green leaves answer to the night-wind's sigh And dew-drops winking, on the meadows lie; The sun's gone down O'er the drowsy town ; And the brooks are singing to the listening moon. II. The soft wind whispers on its moody way ; The plumy woodlands in the moonlight play ; Night's tapers gleam In the gliding stream ; Heaven's eyes are watching while the earth doth dream. Ill, The lovely light that dwells in woman's eyes, Softly curtained by the fringed lids lies ; Sleep's Lethean hand Waves o'er the land, And the weary toiler to his shelter hies. 8-15 226 POEMS AND SONGS: IV. Old nurse, whose lullaby can soothe them all, Oh, hap them kindly in thy downy pall ! They've gone astray On life's rough way ; But, rest them ; rest them for another day. V. The living, sleeping in their warm beds lie ; The dead are sleeping in the churchyard, nigh ; The mild moon's beam O'er all doth stream, And life and death appear a mingling dream. VI. Decay, that in my very breath doth creep, Thou surely art akin to this soft sleep, That shows the way To a bed of clay, Whose wakeless slumbers close the mortal day. VII. And thus, with ceaseless roll, time's silent wave Lands me each night upon a mimic grave, Whose soft repose Hints at life's close, — Death's fleets are cruising where life's current flow (^&ti §us$ iiu% ma ^n^iMi OD bless thee, old England, the home of the free ; A garden of roses, begirt by the sea ! The wild waves that fondle thy darling green shore Shall sing thy proud story till time be no more ; And nations unborn, looking over the wave, Shall tell of the isle of the free and the brave, Where liberty's battle, through ages of old. Was fought in the hearts of the just and the bold; — Old England, the Queen of the Sea! II. May truth ever flourish thy children among ; And deeds that awaken the spirit of song Inspire future bards with eniotion divine. Till earth has no anthem so noble as thine! Green cradle of manliness, beauty, and worth ! May thy name be a watchword of joy in the earth When I have long mouldered beneath the green sod,- A country devoted to freedom and God ; — Old England, the Queen of the Sea I ^wllipt a^at0L I. T the close of day, her melting lay As Philomel began, A maiden sang as she did stray, And thus the carol ran : II. Oh, the daisy, and the sweet bluebell, And the bonny celandine; My darling's feet have touched the dell, And made the posies fine. III. Soft whispering gales, on viewless wings, Come o'er the rippling sea ; But ah, no news the west wind brings From my true love to me. TWILIGHT CAROL. 229 IV. The wild bee roves the flowery wold ; Be still, dear heart of mine ; My darling is a cup of gold That's running o'er with wine. Sweet bird, whose tender warble fills The ear of fading day, ■ • Go, sing for me those liquid trills, Thai fond complaining lay. mu Wounded Wnvh WRITTEN ON THE ILLNESS OF AN EMINENT MUSICIAN. AY low thine ear with kindly care, And gently tread the ground ; Some mourner haunts the grassy lair ; What means this plaintive sound ? II. Here, 'mongst his little nestlings, lies A lark, with broken wing, Gazing aloft into the skies, Where once he used to sing. in. No more up-springing from the lawn, To greet the brightenmg sky. High-poised, 'mid rosy tints of dawn. He'll thrill the world with joy. THE WOUNDED LARK. 23 1 IV. No more above the sun-tipt bills He'll fan his happy wings ; His notes have sung to mournful trills, And sorrow's all he sings. So prone lies he, whose genial power Once led the tuneful train ; So fate has changed his joyous dower To cadences of pain. VI. Thus, daily, minstrel tones do creep In sadness, one by one, Into the silent land, where sleep The voices that are gone. Whi (^lA litrd'^ ^rclcome fiomc. I. nRING me a goblet of drink divine, To welcome a minstrel friend of mine ! Enfranchised from the dreary crowd, That wrapt his spirit like a shroud, Once more he climbs the moorlands dan, And hears his native rindles run ; Through pleasant vales he takes his way, Where wild-flowers with the waters play ; And listens with enchanted mind As wizard voices in the wind Sing of his darling native earth, The rude, the true, the hardy north ! His native dales, his native streams,— The angels of his exile-dreams, — Each dingle green, each breezy height, Awakes his spirit to delight. Oh, welcome to the fresh old hills ! The mossy crags, the tinkUng rills,— To field, and wood, and moorland glen, Welcome, welcome home again 1 THE OLD bard's WELCOME HOME. 233 Well may the pleasant summer air Fondly play with thy silver hair ; Well may the brooklet's ripples clear Leap as thy footsteps wander near ; Well may the wild-flowers on the lea, Nodding their pretty heads to thee, Scatter abroad their sweetest sweet, Their fond old poet friend to meet ; — They've waited, and have listened long, For thee, oh, white-haired son of song ! Though tempests rage and clouds are black, The sun keeps on his glorious track, Serenely shining, to the west, And, grandly smiling, sinks to rest. Thy task, old bard, is nearly done r Oh, may the evening coming on. Long lingering sweetly round thy way, Close like a cloudless summer day 1 foot ^vnvt\Ux$ g^U. OOR travellers all, Both great and small, How thoughtlessly we play In a country Of mortality, Where never a man can stay. 11. Our birth is but A starting foot Upon the fatal road, Where death keeps watch O'er life, to snatch The jewel back to God. III. Time's sickle reaps, In restless sweeps. The harvest of decay ; On every ground His sheaves are bound, And garnered in the clay POOR TRAVELLERS ALL. 235 IV. Though hints divine, In symbols fine, With warnings strew the way, — Beseeching us, And teaching us, The danger of delay, — V. We dally still. With fitful will, Among delusive joys ; Heeding them not. Except for sport, — As children play with toys. VI. We romp and run Mad in the sun ; We murmur at the cloud ; And where's the breast That's quite at rest Until it's in a shroud ? vn. Poor travellers all, Both great and small, How thoughtlessly we play In a country Of mortality, Where never a man can stay. • » « « » %vm %m^^ "Horn W'^m$ |an §mn Hx\T makes your leaves fall down, Ye drooping autumn flowers? What makes your green go brown, Ye fading autumn bowers? Oh, thou complaining gale, That wand'rest sad and lone. What sorrows swell the tale Of that funereal moan ? II. Have ye felt love like mine, And met with like return, That ye do thus decline, And thus appear to mourn? Ah, no ! content, methinks, Ye glide into decay. As pensive evening sinks At close of summer day. WHAT MAKES YOUR LEAVES FALL DOWN? 237 III. Fall down, ye leafy bowers ! And drift upon the gales ; Fade on, ye sleepy flowers ! It is my heart that wails ; Blow on, thou quiet wind i It was a fancied moan — The echo of a mind That feels its pleasure gone. ^las I Wxm WmA it \$ U MiU. 1. iLAS ! how hard it is to smile When all within is sad ; And rooted sorrow to beguile By mingling with the glad. The heart that swells with grief disdains Pretension's mean alloy, And feels far less its keenest pains Than mockeries of joy. II. How few among the thoughtless crowds Can tell the jealous care With which a gentle spirit shrouds Its pangs from worldly glare. The harp of sorrow woos the touch Of sympathy alone ; Its trembling fibres shrink from such As cannot feel their tone. ALAS ! HOW HARD IT IS TO SMILE. 239 in. The gay may sport upon the wave Of life's untroubled tides, — Like birds that warble on a grave, They dream not what it hides ; But pleasure's wretched masquerade Wakes sorrow's keenest throe ; — The saddest look is not so sad As the strained smile of woe. ilte ^m of tlxt 5^im^. I. E is a sterling nobleman Who lives the truth he knows ; Who dreads the slavery of sin, And fears no other foes. II. Who scorns the folly of pretence ; Whose mind from cant is free ; Who values men for worth and sense, And hates hypocrisy. III. Who glows with love that's free from taint ; Whose heart is kind and brave ; Who feels that he was neither meant For tyrant nor for slave. THE MAN OF THE TIME. 241 IV. Who loves the ground, where'er he roam, That's trod by human feet, And strives to make the world a home Where peace and justice meet. Whose soul to clearer heights can climb, Above the shows of things, — Cleaving the mortal bounds of tinie, On meditative wings. VI, Malice can never mar his fame ; A heaven-crowned king is he ; His robe, a pure immortal aim ; His throne, eternity. 8—16 Mi ^Mfl^mx'^ Uumii. APPY the heart that's simply pure ; Happy the heart that's nobly brave ; Happy the man that breaks the lure That winds like death round folly's slave. 11. Wandering in the worldly throng, The dust of earth still keeps us blind ; The judgment's weak, the passion's strong, The will as fitful as the wind. III. Disguised in joy's deceitful beams, A thousand fitful meteors ply About our path their demon-schemes, That dazzle only to destroy. THE WANDERER'S HYMN, 243 IV. Who can we ask for aid but Thee, Our only friend, our only guide? What other counsellor have we ? Where else, oh, where, can we abide ? Oh ! hear and help us while we pray ; And travel with us all the way ! Oh ! hold our hands, and be our stay ! Oh ! set us right whene'er we stray 1 gilonc, \\\mx the ilmmj gliiiu. LONE, upon the flowery plain, I rove, in solitary pain ; Looking around the silent lea For something I shall never see. II. Yon hedge-row blossoms as before, And roses shade yon cottage door ; But oh, T miss the tresses fair, And eyes that glowed with welcome there. III. The streamlet, still, in rippling pranks. Kisses the wild flower on its banks ; But I am lonely on the shore, To which my love returns no more. IV. The lark, aloft in sunny air, Carols, as if my love was there ; And the wind goes by, with mournful sound. Murmuring, " No more, on mortal ground." %^i l0 n f ouirrj Cnrty, WHO LENT ME AN OLD BOOK. I. HIS learned volume doth not tell A story so divine, Nor point a moral half so well As that young face of thine. IL Thou should'st have sent a rose to me, With morning dew bestarred ; It would have better likened thee, — - Sweet rosebud of the bard ! III. But mornings fly, and dewdrops dry, And many a lovely rose Is plucked, and thrown neglected by, Before it fairly blows. •46 POEMS AND SONGS : IV. Elsie ; thy budding lime is fair ; So may thy blooming be; And never blighting blast of care Untimely wither thee. Flower on, in gladness, free from stain, Until the autumn's past: And, like a fading rose, retain Thy sweetness to the last. (^hi %^avt it ^avl^ad Uv my "§uxc. H ! weave a garland for my brow, Of roses and of rue ; For once I loved a bonny lass, — Alas, she was not true ! But when she slighted all my grief, I knew that grief was vain, And I hid the wound that pained my heart. Until it healed again. II. Then, gentle lover, pine no more, — Thy tenderness is blind ; Sighing to one whose heart is cold Will never make her kind. Go, take some comfort to thy breast — The world is fair to see — And on some genial bosom rest Whose pulses beat for thee. S5a nu 3mm wmi I. WEET minstrel of the scented spring, Ten thousand silver bells, To welcome thee, are all a-swing, Upon the dewy fells. To sing with thee, I should be fain, Oh, harper blithe and free ! But love has bound me with a chain, That wrings the heart of me. II. Oh, hasten to my love, and tell Her how she makes me pine ; And ask her if she thinks it well To slight a heart like mine ; For, if my suit her scorn doth move, It shall no longer be; Although I know she's made for love, And I wish that she loved me. mx ! ^m\ »Ut §fett » foicly Paid. I. H ! had she been a lowly maid That stole this heart of mine, She would have filled the humblest shade With radiance divine : — The moon of beauty's starry skies, She glides serenely fair, Absorbing in her gleaming eyes The brightest planet there. II. Oh ! were she but a flower of spring Upon the dewy lea. To watch its lovely blossoming My heart's delight would be ; And when its leaves began to fade, Their fading I would moan ; And treasure up the sacred dust, To mingle with my own. %n ^u a lo^y W^xw 0f ?func. LI. on a rosy morn of June, When farmers make their hay, Down by yon bonny woodland green A milking maid did stray ; And oh, but she was sweet and fair, — The flower of all the vale ; In her hand a wild white rose she bare. And on her head a pail. II. Across the fields, as she did rove, The pretty maiden sang A plaintive lay of tender love That through the valley rang : Blithe as a linnet on the spray. Among ihe wildwood green, She lilted on her flowery way, — And vanished from the scene. ALL ON A ROSY MORN OF JUNK. 25 1 III. When next I saw that pleasant vale — Twelve moons had wandered by — A matron told her hapless tale With tear-drops in her eye ; For there had been, with winsome wile, A careless-hearted lad, And plucked the flower whose lovely smile Made all the valley glad. IV. The woods were gay and green again : The sun was smiling on ; But the charmer of the rural glen For evermore was gone : Now, mouldering near the churchyard way, All stricken in her pride, The white rose of the valley lay, With an infant by her side. ^'^)M m ^v T (Slatl Wtlmu U poru'isi gnvii Wm\v$, LAD welcome to morn's dewy hours The birds warble blithe to the gale, While the sun shimmers through the green bowers, And plays with the stream in the vale ; But, as clouds o'er the heavens come streaming, Then silence, with shade, creeps along : They pass, — and again the woods gleaming, At once wake to sunlight and song. 11. So I sport till the storm gathers o'er me ; Then pensively hushed in the gloom. My heart looks around and before me, For something the shade to illume ; Yet, though folding the wings of my gladness, I'm mute in the hurricane's howl. Thou com'st through the gloomiest sadness, A sunbeam of joy to my soul. GLAD WELCOME TO MORN's DEWY HOURS. 253 in. Fair star of remembrance endearing, Still lend me thy brilliant ray, My wanderings chast'ning and cheering, Till life, with its light, fade awayj And, oft as my pathway thoa greetest, I'll waken my harp-strings to thee, And sing how the brightest and sweetest Are always the soonest to flee. ^X\^t\\ Jrou'Siti gnylioUt I. HEN drowsy Daylight's drooping e'e Closes o'er the fading lea, — When Evening hums his vesper-song, And winking dews the meadow throng, I'll come to meet thee, Mary ! (I. The lazy hours refuse to fly ; As gaudy day goes creeping by, I count each moment with a sigh, Until the hour of shade steals nigh. That brings me to my Mary ! III. The flower is dear unto the lea, The blossom to the parent tree : — Thou'rt more than flower and leaf to me- This heart of mine, by love of thee, Must bloom or wither, Mary. WHEN DROWSY DAYLIGHT. 255 IV. The summer woods are waving fair; The bluebell scents the evening air ; The small bird woos its mate to share Its little nest and loving care : Oh, be my own, my Mary ! ^t (^mmt W^n 0f (BHlmil E gallant men of England, Of noble races bred, Remember how your fathers For liberty have bled ; Stand to your ancient banners, In a thousand battles torn, — The banners of Great Britain, To a thousand victories borne. II. When flags of tyrants, flying, Insult the air again, And freedom's sons are dying Upon the bloody plain, Rush to the gory havoc With all your native might, And carve your way to justice, Or perish for the right. YE GALLANT MEN OF ENGLAND. 257 IIL Ye sons of ancient heroes, And heirs of England's fame, Wherever danger threatens Be worthy of your name ; And hurl each bold aggressor Into his native lair, To rule the slaves and traitors That crawl around him there. IV. Though knaves and cowards tremble Beneath despotic sway. And fools to wily tyrants Resign, a willing prey, The race of island lions. Bred by the Western main, The freedom won by battle By battle can maintain. «— 17 WfN^^^?W| gr0toi|u^. (written on the occasion of the MANCHESTER LETTERPRESS PRINTERS' DRAMATIC ENTER- TAINMENT, APRIL 4TH, 1868.) HEN first, from old Westminster's hoary pile, The Art of Printing dawned on Briton's isle, In some dim chapel of that sacred fane The venerable Caxton ruled his train, — Whose artful toil, foredoomed by mystic tie, Flushed the young stream of England's liberty. England ! where noble hearts had wrestled long, In dumb contention between right and wrong, 'Twas there in cloistered shade, he wove the spell At whose behest the chain of silence fell ; And, nursing skill, with strange mutations fraught, Gave freedom to the prisoned realms of thought ! PROLOGUE. 259 Strange were the implements, the labour strange: The little rill of art was big with change ; With loving care, the initiated few There brought the infant mystery to view ; And, as in dim secluded gloom they toiled, Fate's folded skein of printed thought uncoiled; Whilst the hushed murmurs of the working throng Mingled with solemn strains of sacred song : There learned churchmen pondered in amaze, And kingly patrons dealt bewildered praise : Ah, little dreamt they what that germ contained, — What vast, upheaving powers, heaven-ordained ! *■■••• Rude were the artist's tools, the product slight ; Costly and few the works it brought to hght j Mysterious came the first imprinted page, To th' wondering gaze of an unletter'd age ; And small the inducement such an art to ply, When only clerks could read, and only kings could buy. But time, — the soil of hfe's eventful field, — Was doomed, by fate, the mighty plant to yield ; Doomed to sustain, and nurture, through the night Of undergrowth, until it burst to sight. And cheered the nations with its presence bright ! Slow grew the art, — though often checked, — \i grew ; Now, nipt with frost, now fed with rain and dew; Slow grew the struggling art, h\x\. yet it grew. In patient majesty the nursling rose ; Rooted by struggle, and made strong by blows j l6o POEMS AND SONGS : Till e'en its nurses watched it with surprise, And tyrants trembled as they saw it rise ! For, as it grew, to realms of light it led. And fed the freedom upon which it fed. Oh, freedom ! Spark of heaven-descended fire, That never fades from noble heart's desire! The bird that in the wild wood carols free, — No bird, imprisoned, sings so well as he ! Thanks to those lofty stars of England's night, Who cheered her struggling sons with steadfast light ! Thanks to the men who fought and suffered long, To make the right triumphant over wrong. Thanks to those gallant hearts of later breed. By whom the Press was from its trammels freed. — Now, thousands print what millions rush to read. But stay, my roving muse, — restrain thy flight, What is it brings the Press-gang here to-night? Come they, as erst, some wandering slave to seize ? Ah, no, — our mission is to free, and please : In mutual self-reliance to combine, To soothe tlie last sad hours of life's decline ; To help the feeble and to cheer the sad ; The worn-out workman's sinking heart to glad ; From bitter penury the sick to save, And soothe the totterer's way unto the grave. And feeble though our histrionic skill. It humbly seeks to lesson human ill. Then, oh, with generous hearts, give kind acclaim, And cheer the labour for its noble aim. PROLOGUE. 261 Oh, Printing, Art with mystic power fraught ! Thou swift dispenser of undying thought! Strew lofty lessons still, at heaven's behest : And teach us Charity above the rest ! And, till we're summoned hence, by fatal call, — Father of Nature's Chapel,' bless us all ! A In the old printing-offices of England, and even in many of the best printing-offices of the kingdom now, the workmen form a little court of law, summoned occasionally for the settlement of disputes among themselves. This court they call "The Chapel," and the President of the court is called "The Father of the Chapel." Doubtless these names arise from the tradition that the first English printing-office was in one of the chapels of Westminster Abbey. mt fast ^Ite|)Itn*a. N the wild top of Pendle The clouds gather grim ; To the shepherd of Pendle The pathway grows dim : The sleet blinds his sight As he peers for the light That still glimmers bright In the valley for him. II. O'er the wild ridge of Pendle The wintry winds sweep ; On the lone waste of Pendle The snowfall is deep : Near the bleak mountain's crest, Where the wildest drifts rest, With the snow on his breast, The wanderer's asleep. % \ .'f.^'- . ^ n er I he Wad. TLaoe [ TV !iie Uy v/a^tf ol Vtnd it »<(»»»>->R...»^ti^ The Lost Shepherd. By R. H. Whitehead. THE LOST SHEPHERD. 263 III. His mate trims her light For the shepherd in vain, As she hstens all night To the stormy refrain : Long, long she may mourn ; In vain the lamps burn To guide his return To his loved ones again. IV. She may gaze down the path Till sight fades away ; She may wait for his feet Till hair has grown grey : She may sigh, she may moan : She may dream, she may groan ; She may weep all alone, To her last dying day. V. No friends bore the bier To his lone wintry bed ; No kind hand was near To pillow his head : Wild hawks o'er him wing ; White snows round him cling : And stormy winds smg The dirge of the dead. s^-t-^a WUt pourlanrt gmgc. F all the blithesome melody That wakes the warm heart's thrill, Give me the wind that whistles free Across the moorland hill ; When every blade upon the lea Is dancing with delight, . And every bush, and flower, and .tree, Is singing in its flight. II. When summer comes I'll wear a plume With flowers of shining gold ; And it shall be the bonny broom, That loves the moorland wold ; And it shall wave its petals bright Above my cap so free, And kiss the wild wind in its flight Across the lonely lea. THE MOORLAND BREEZE. 265 III. Blithe harper of the moorland hills, The desert sings to thee ; The lonely heath with music thrills Beneath thy touch so free : With trembling glee its wilding strings Melodious revels keep, As o'er the waste on viewless wings, Thy fairy fingers sweep. IV. In yonder valley, richly green, I see bright rivers run ; They wind in beauty through the scene And shimmer in the sun ; And they may sing and they may shine Down to the heaving sea ; The bonny moorland hills are mine, Where the wild breeze whistles free. V. Oh lay me down in moorland ground, And make it my last bed, With the heathery wilderness around, And the bonny lark o'erhead : Let fern and ling around me cling, And green moss o'er me creep ; And the sweet wild mountain breezes sing Above my slumbers deep. _ ^g mt iittdly Wtmt% Air — " -Fi^^ the bumper fair" I. F all the joys on earth, The sweetest yet I've found it Upon the kindly hearth, With loving hearts around it ; Where Mally sits at ease, And, singing, plies her knitter, While children round my knees Delight me with thei? twitter. Chorus— Of all the joys on earth. The sweetest yet I've found it Upon the kindly hearth, With loving hearts around it. THE KINDLY HEARTH. 267 II. Give me a cosy chair Beside the glowing ingle, When kindly hearts are there, In simple bliss to mingle ; And there, though gloomy skies Above my roof are scowling, I'll bask in sunny eyes, While wintry winds are howling. Chorus — Of all the joys on earth, &c. III. Oh dearer far to me Than prison'd lark or linnei:, The home that rings with glee From happy creatures in it ; The little realm divine, With rosebuds ever clinging. Where heart-warm sunbeams shine, And birds of love are singing. Chorus — Of all the joys on earth, &c. IV. Oh happy is the wight. Beyond the cold world's knowing?, With nature true and bright Within his bosom glowing : 2 68 POEMS AND SONGS : Howe'er the seasons run, Or fickle fortune flout him, His kind heart, like the sun. Still warms the world about him. Chorus— Of all the joys on earth, &a V. Some may pine for fame, Some for piles of treasure ; Some may chase the flame That leads to painful pleasure ; Though lowly be my share. My pouches scant of money, I love the fireside fair Where aU is sweet and sunny. Chorus — Of all the joys on earth, &c I (^mX ptjlttl HE sun has dipped his golden rim Beyond the western sea ; The soft wind sings its evening hymn Unto the drowsy lea ; The wild waves' surging murmurs creep Along the lonely sand ; The kiss of twilight lulls to sleep The eyehds of the land. Good night, my love, good night ! II. Mysterious whispers, soft and low. Steal through the rustling leaves ; The dusky bat flits to and fro About the fading eves ; Yet daylight waits, to see thee close Those eyes divinely bright- For, whilst they shine, full well she knows It cannot yet be night. Good night, my love, good night ! m^jW M^mt- Oh, the heart is not so light. When the day is taking flight, And we feel the coming- night, As the sun goes down. W^lim tlte f Mtt (Scjes Bowtt. I. HEN life's glad day is gone, And the sun goes down ; When we muse all alone, As the sun goes down. Oh, the heart is not so light, When the day is taking flight, And we feel the coming night, As the sun goes down. 11. Oh, the flowers fall asleep. When the sun goes down: And the silence is deep, When the sun goes down ; But the skies of night grow fine. And the stars begin to shine, With a radiance divine, When the sun goes down. 272 POEMS AND songs; III. Oh, the curfew bell's tolled, When the sun goes down ; And the sheep seek the fold, When the sun goes down ; And the churchyard tower grey Calls life's children home from play, At the closing of the day, When the sun goes down. IV. Ere the lark sinks to rest, When the sun goes down. In his grass-shaded nest, When the sun goes down ; While the world begins to dream. Then his evening carols stream From the gathering starlight's gleam, When the sun goes down. V. So, remote from the throng, % When the sun goes down, Life's quiet shades among. When the sun goes down ; In the twilight's deepening grey, At the waning of the day, Let me sing my little lay. As the sun goes down. -«-(•-•- HE quiet Roch comes dancing down From breezy moorland hills ; It wanders through my native town, With its bonny tribute rills. Oh, gentle Roch, my native stream ! Oft, when a careless boy, I've prattled to thee, in a dream, As thou went singing by. Oft, on thy breast, my tiny barge I've sailed, in thoughtless glee ; And roved in joy thy pnsied marge, That first grew green to me. I've paddled in thy waters clear, In childhood's happy days ; Change as thou wilt, to me thou'rt dear While life's warm current plays. Like thee, my litile life glides down To the great absorbing main. From whose mysterious deeps unknown We ne'er return acrain. 8— iS -. - \ i /r\/\\\\<;A W\tt Wmit tft M^iSit. HEN stars begin to steal in sight Above the moorland hill ; When dreamy dusk leads on the night, And all the world grows still j When dcwy pearls on every blade Light up the twinkling lea, I hail the soft, sweet hour of shade, That brings my love to me. II. In pensive dreams I rove alone Where gardens scent the air ; But my fancy's on the mountains lone, And all my heart is there ; Rich groves, and posied fields may charm The thoughtless and the free, But my flower of love grows in the wild, And there I fain would be. 2-jC POEMS AND SONGS III. 1 see him springing down the steep, And singing as he comes ; I see his form in manly sweep, Bound o'er the heather-blooms! I see, I see his glowing eyes, That burn with loving glee ! He comes ! My own dear moorland ladl I know he comes to me 1 IV. Of all the hours that, night and day, In ceaseless circles run, Give me the hour whose shadows grey Pursue the setting sun ; It brings the dreamy time of rest That sets the prisoner free ; It brings the wild bird to its nest ; It brings my love to me ! Bright star, that leads the glorious throng That gem the midnight sky, When the noisy world has hushed its song. And laid its business by ; The kindly heavens have filled thy light With love's enchanting thrill : Shine sweetly when my bonny lad Comes lilting down the hill! ^ Wi$% my §om, it xvm $a wlih f on. I. H, I dream all day, and I muse all night, On the one dear girl that's my only light ; For my heart it is tender, and fond and true, And my thoughts, my love, have no home but you ; No home but you, No home but you ; My thoughts have no home in the world but you ! II. Oh, there's not a cloud on the soft blue sky, Where tlie blithe lark chants in the lift so high ; Yet my heart it is sad, for it's fond and true As the cloudless heaven's unchanging blue; Fond and true ; Fond and true ; And I wish, my love, it was so with you ! 278 POEMS AND SONGS : III. There's a sweet bird singing in my poor breast ; And, by night and day, he gives me no rest ; For his song it is Lender, and fond, and true ; And I wish, my love, he would sing to you ; Sing to you ; Sing to you ; Oh, I wish, my love, he would sing to you ! (Dit, t\u muij WM \\um. Y heart's away in the lonely hills, Where I would gladly be — On the rolling ridge of Blackstone Edge, Where the wild wind whistles free ! There oft in careless youth I roved, When summer days were fine ; And the meanest flower of the heathery waste Dehghts this heart of mine ! Oh, the wild, wild moors ; the wild, wild moors, And the stormy hills so free ; Oh, the wild, wild moors ; the wild, wild moors, The sweet wild moors for me. 28o POEMS AND SONGS : II. I fain would stroll on lofty Knowl, And Rooley Moor again ; Or wildly stray one long bright day In Turvin's bonny glen! The thought of Wardle's breezy height Fills all my heart with glee, And the distant view of the hills so blue Bring tears into my e'e ! Oh, the wild, wild moors ; the wild, wild moors, And the stormy hills so free ; Oh, the wild, wild moors ; the wild, wild moors, The sweet wild moors for me ! III. Oh, blessed sleep, that brings in dreams My native hills to me ; The heathery wilds, the rushing streams. Where once I wandered free ! 'Tis a glimpse of life's sweet morning light, A bright angelic ray. That steals into the dusky night, And fades with waking da)' ! Oh, the lonely moors, the breezy moors. And the stormy hills so free ; Oh, the wild, wild moors ; the wild, wild moors, The sweet wild moors for me. ^lif (!Ir00(niufl ^tavt H, have you seen my bosom's queen ? Oh, have you seen my dear ? She's stolen the summer from the scene, And left the winter here ! If you should meet those eyes so sweet, I warn you to beware ; They'll plant love's dart deep in your heart, And leave it in despair ! Chorus — Oh, my love, my only love ; There's witchery about thee ! My Httle bright-eyed croodling dove, I cannot live without thee ! II, The green field lights up with her smile ; The daisies kiss her feet ; The cowslip nods with dainty wile, To catch her glances sweet ; The little rosebuds clap their hands To greet that lovely face, And every sweet its odour sends To win my darling's grace ! Chorus — Oh, my love, my only love, &c. 282 POEMS AND SONGS : III. The sunshine daUies with her hair Till evening shades steal on. And still, enamoured, lingers there Long after daylight's gone ; And there all night, in slumbers sweet, The lovesick truant lies, And peeps out from her curls to meet The morning in her eyes ! Chorus — Oh, my love, my only love, &c. IV. The )'Oung winds follow her all day, Like lovers in the wake, With many a fond complaining lay, Still sighing for her sake ; They crowd about her rosy lips Their nectar'd sweets to win ; And chase her, as away she trips, To taste her breatli again ! Chorus — Oh, my love, my only love, &c. V. The wild birds listen to her song With sweet and glad surprise ; The rain-drops halt in downward throng To look into her eyes ; She fills the rosy glow of day With love's enchanting light, And when she takes herself away It might as well be night ! Chorus — Oh, my love, my only love, &c. g^s If mwt ai!v00uin^ m\ my Wmj, Air — "My bridheen bawn masthore.^^ I. S I went crooning on my way, With free and careless mind: A wild bird of the summer day, To pleasant life inclined ; I met a maid whose charms divine Woke love within my breast, And since that hour this heart of mine Has never been at rest. II. In matchless form and modest mien, She moved with winsome grace ; I saw her two bewitching e'en, I saw her lovely face ; Like the moon that from an envious cloud, Sails brightly o'er the scene, She came, then vanished in the crowd, And all was night again. ■284 POEMS AND SONGS : III. We met, like passing ships at sea, Upon a sunny day; She gave one fatal smile to me, And went her destined way, It was a fleeting angel's glance, That melted into air; It left me in a raptured trance, It left me in despair. IV. And oh ! if fate will have it so That we no more may meet, To my last hour I'll pining go, And bless that vision sweet ; For though we only met to part And far asunder glide, She left a jewel in my heart Worth all the world beside. *7«Sl>» (To an old English melody.) I. ROM my warra ingle-cheek, on a keen winter's day, When the woods and the fields were forlorn, I could see the white slopes where the snow- mantle lay, I could hear the cold blast in the thorn ; And as wild by my window the thick-falling snow Drifted by on the wintry wind, It threw a cold gloom o'er my snug shelter's glow, And it saddened the thoughts of my mind. II. Then a pretty bird came to my lattice to sing, And he peeped through the storm at my nest ; The cold drift lay white on his trembling wing, And it powdered his bonny red breast : His little eye shone through my dim window pane, As I paced o'er the soft warm floor ; And the sweet minstrel's song had this tender refraiii, " Novv's the time to remember the poor ' 286 POEMS AND SONGS: III. Then I crept to my hearthstone, so cosy and bright, Which the rage of the tempest defied, And I pensively mused on the shelterless wight That was wand'ring and shiv'ring outside ; And I thought, with a sigh, of the hardship and pain Which the houseless and old endure ; And I said, as I looked through ray window again, " Now's the time to remember the poor ! " IV. How little we dream when we're sheltered and glad, Whilst the cold blasts of winter are keen, Of the poor and the lonely, the sick and the sad, That are mourning in corners unseen : But this life it is short, both to high and to low^, And there's nought in the world that's sure ; We were bare when we came here, and bare we must go- " Now's the time to remember the poor! " (^aicwfU HE light of day is dying Beyond the heaving sea; The plaintive wind is sighing Across the fading lea : Farewell, farewell 1 The fire burns low, and I must go, To wander far alone ; Farewell ! II. Farewell, -the scenes of childhood Life's hopeful dream is o'er ; Farewell to field and wildwood ; I shall return no more : Farewell, farewell ! Fate wills it so, and I must go, To wander far alone ; Farewell 1 2S8 POEMS AND songs: III. Spring will come witli wildflowers To gem my native shore ; And June will deck the green bowers That I shall see no more : Farewell, farewell ! Fate wills it so that I must go, To wander far alone ; Farewell ! IV. Farewell, my love, for ever, From thee, too, 1 must part ; To know thee, and to sever, — The tale of this sad heart : Farewell, farewell! When roses grow on winter's snow, I'll come to thee again ; Farewell ! ^^^^^^ ^ra ^^PHP ^^^^ ^& ^ ^^ !^i i Ittdt tilth a S^I^fttl ^^iOftt. H, I met with a doleful wight, With his elbows on his knees ; His face was in mournful plight, For his heart was ill at ease. He sat on an old tree-root, In a shady nook, alone ; He was tattered from head to foot, And this was his weary moan, — Chorus — Oh, I married a shrew For her gold so fine ; Now the gold is gone. And the shrew is mine ! II. The man is a paltry knave That can coldly woo for pelf ; He's a mean and a heartless slave Whose centre is all himself 3 -19 290 POEMS AND SONGS: He travels on sunless ways ; His life is a funeral knell Of loveless nights and days ; I know the sad truth too well. Chorus — Oh, I married a shrew, &c. III. Oh, the treasures are dearly bought That canker the mind with care. And the spirit is mean that's caught In a cold and greedy snare : But the jewel of heaven is love. The light and the life of man ; The brightest ray from above. That shines on his mortal span. Chorus — Oh, I married a shrew, &c. IV, Oh, I'm tired of this life of mine, For I wander without a friend , And at every step I pine To get to the journey's end. To barter sweet love for gold Is the poorest exchange below ; And to live with a heart that's cold Is the bitterest lot to know. Chorus — Oh, I married a shrew, &c. gu a pity ltt0nung, €arlt|« S I crossed the fields with my milking pail, In a May morning, early, A bright-eyed lad came along the vale, And said that he loved me dearly ; He woo'd me in whispers, with many a vow ; He kissed me, and said he would marry, I trow ; I wish in my heart he was here just now, In a May morning, early. 292 POEMS AND SONGS: II. T shall never forget that sweet spring-tide In a May morning, early ; Nor the wild-bird's song on that greenwood side, In a May morning, early ; I shall never forget what my love did say ; Nor the light of his blue eyes' witching play ; Nor the path along which he walked away. In a May morning, early. III. Now I pace the fields with many a sigh, In a May morning, early ; And I gaze down the vale with a tearful eye, In a May morning, early ; And, should I not see my love before The winter has whitened the hedges o'er, The flowers of spring will bloom no more For me, in a morning, early. (^% t\u f ummer'isi 3\vut. H, the summer's sweet when lovers meet, And posies kiss the rover's feet ; When soaring larks salute the day, And milkmaids through the meadows stray. Chorus — Then raise the song, And chant it well, As we jog it along O'er hill and dell ; For what'U betide no man can tell ! II. With lingering feet we'll lounge along Where hawthorn blooms the hedges throns: ; ^ 7 And through the rustling greenwood stray, Where straggling sunbeams streak the way. Chorus — Then raise the song, &c. 294 POEMS AND SONGS HI. By sweet sequestered nooks we'll fare, Where dewy bluebells scent the air ; And watch the squirrel's airy bounds, While the throstle's song the wood resounds. Chorus — Then raise the song, &c. IV. In scented meadows we'll delay To tumble in the new-mown hay, While the mower whets his scythe and sings Of country fun and wedding-rings. Chorus — Then raise the song, &c. On banks of wild thyme we will play, Where cowslip's nod to the brooklet's lay ; Where the limpid stream meanders bright. With glittering glee in the golden light. Chorus — Then raise the song, &c. VI. And should some bonny lass catch my e'e, I'll let her go if she's not for me ; And merrily on I'll rove alone, For all will be well when I meet my own. Chorus — Then raise the song, &c. U gttow latitat i f ttttic. In Monosyllable. — Founded on an ancient rhyme. ONCE heard a priest Say a close tongue was best; An' he that says least Shall be most at rest ; And, as far as I've wrought I have still found it so ; Then, I'll say next to nought, But I know what I know ; Know, know; I know what I know. II. Yet a blind man may see By that which I say, What strange things they be That do fall in my way ; a 296 POEMS AND SONGS : He may guess all I mean From what I do show ; Then part I will screen, — But, I know what I know ; Know, know ; I know what I know. III. Some men spend their time In trick'and in strife, That so they may climb The proud hills of life ; Yet, when the day's o'er. They sleep with the low ; 1 need not say more, — But, I know what I know ; Know, know ; I know what I know. IV. Some sleek rogues there be, Who do cant by the way, That, so. they may slee Steal down on their prey ; Fierce wolves are these knaves, Like lambs that bleat so : Yet my breath I will save, — Bur, I know what I know ; Know, know ; I know what I know. I KNOW WHAT I KNOW. 297 V. I have liv'd a good while, And I've seen a good deal Of mirth, and of toil. And of woe, and of weal ; But when a man's old, I do think it is well For to rest in the fold Where the tir'd folk do dwell ; Dwell, dwell ; Where the tir'd folk do dwell. VI. Then keep a wise tongue If you'd be at rest ; And do nought that's wrong, If you would be blest ; And, when your days cease, And you come to ground, Your end shall be peace. And your sleep shall be sound ; Sound, sound ; Your sleep shall be sound. J 11 II 11 II II H 11 I I II l» »r-i» II ^ II I I 11 u M n ■■ ■■ tr " '■ "-^ ^JxxH jovial guulsinuu/ I. T'S of three jovial huntsmen^ and a-hunting they did go ; And they hunted, and they halloo'd, and they blew their horns also ; Look you there I And they all were very merry as they gathered in the vale. For every man amongst them was as brisk as bottled ale ; Look you there / * This humorous old hunting song, which I introduced into my country story, called " Old Cronies," was not commonly known until it attracted the attention of my friend, the late Randolph Caldecott; whose felicitous pencil enriched it with a series of quaintly-beautiful Illustrations; and, since then, it has had the honour of riding down upon the wings of his artistic genius to a fame which it never would have achieved by any merit of its own. The verses in italic are mine ; the rest belong to the old song. THREE JOVIAL HUNTSMEN. 299 ,11. They were staunch in wind and limb, and they 7vere sound frotn top to toe ; Their eyes were bright as frosty stars, their hearts were in a glotv ; Look you there ! And they chirruped, and they chuckled, and they tried their pleasant wits. As they capered up and down^ to show the mettle of their tits , Look you there I III. Then they stiuffed the sweet fresh morning air, and gathered up their reins, And the blood began to gallop through their healthy country veins ; Look you there I Says one, " My lads, L'jn fain I^m wick, to join the good old play ; For theris nought in all this world can lick a folly hunting day ; " Look you there I IV. " So mind your ^en," said he, *' an^ keep your noses 7uell Vth wind ; An' then, by scent or sect, yoUl leet