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 UCSB LIBRARY 
 X-4172.5 
 
 NORTH COUNTRY 
 POETS.
 
 NORTH COUNTRY 
 POETS 
 
 POEMS AND BIOGRAPHIES 
 
 OF NATIVES OR EESIDENTS OF NORTHUMBERLAND, 
 
 CUMBERLAND, WESTMORELAND, DURHAM, 
 
 LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 WILLIAM ANDREWS, F.R.H.S. 
 
 (PRESIDENT OF THE HULL LITERARY CLUB,) 
 
 AUTHOR OF " HISTORIC YORKSHIRE," " HISTORIC ROMANCE," 
 " MODERN YORKSHIRE POETS," ETC., ETC. 
 
 (MODEEN SECTION) 
 
 LONDON : 
 SIMPKIN, MAKSHALL & CO. 
 
 MANCHESTER: ABEL HEYWOOD & SON. 
 
 HULL : 
 A. BEOWN & SONS, AND J. E. TUTIN. 
 
 1888.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The aim of the Editor of this work is to bring 
 together the best poems with original biographical 
 sketches of representative poets, who, by birth or 
 residence, are connected with the six Northern Counties 
 of England. In the present volume are included 
 authors who are living, or have died not prior to 1860. 
 It is expected that the Modern Section will be com- 
 pleted in about two more volumes. 
 
 The Editor is grateful for the kind assistance of 
 several authors who have written biographies, and to 
 the publishers who have been good enough to grant 
 permission for the reproduction of copyright poems. 
 
 That the work supplies a want is proved by the 
 flattering reception it has received from the press and 
 the public during its publication in monthly parts. 
 The success has far exceeded the expectations of the 
 Editor, and encouraged him to continue his labours. 
 
 Mr. J. R. TUTIX, of Hull, has kindly prepared the 
 index. 
 
 WILLIAM ANDREWS. 
 
 Hull Literary Club, 
 1st December, 1888.
 
 ANDKEWS, WILLIAM, 1, 16, 47, 57, 67, 171. 
 
 ASHTON, W. A., 207. 
 
 AXON, WILLIAM E. A., 25, 68, 82, 220. 
 
 BANKS, MKS. G. LINN^US, 48, 145. 
 
 BROCKIE, WILLIAM, 72. 
 
 BRISCOE, J. POTTER, 8. 
 
 BURNETT, W. H., 233. 
 
 CLARKE, SIDNEY, 282. 
 
 CURTIS, J. SIDNEY, 117. 
 
 DIRCKS, WILL. H., 152. 
 
 GAUNT, J., 135. 
 
 GREAME, ANDREW, 202, 216, 263. 
 
 HONEYWOOD, PATTY, 164. 
 
 JAPP, MAURICE M., 177. 
 
 LEGGOTT, JOHN H., 258. 
 
 LEWIN, WALTER, 187. 
 
 LISTER, R. J., 93. 
 
 NOBLE, JOHN ASHCROFT, 122, 197. 
 
 PARKER, J. OSCAR, 11, 159. 
 
 PERRIN, JOSEPH, 42. 
 
 QUAIL, JESSE, 87. 
 
 READMAN, JOSEPH, 167. 
 
 SYMINGTON, ANDREW JAMES, 61, 237. 
 
 THISTLETON, ALF. E., 113. 
 
 TOMLINSON, W. W., 109. 
 
 TROWSDALE, T. BROADBENT, 128. 
 
 WALKER, JOHN, 97, 187. 
 
 WASSERMANN, LILLIAS, 272. 
 
 WATSON, AARON, 20, 32, 226. 
 
 WELFORD, RICHARD, 77. 
 
 WILDRIDGE, T. TINDALL, 104, 139, 245.
 
 NORTH COUNTRY POETS, 
 
 Mrs. G. Linnceus Banks. 
 
 RS. George Linnasus Banks is favourably known as a poet 
 and novelist. She was born in Oldham Street, Manchester, 
 March 25th, 1821. Shortly after her birth, which occurred 
 during a thirteen weeks' frost, a smoky chimney it was 
 impossible to repair caused inflammation in her left eye, 
 and imperilled her eyesight, leaving the sixth nerve para- 
 lysed. Her grandfather, Mr. James Varley, a member of a 
 good Yorkshire family of Quaker descent, was a man of 
 mark, as a traveller, a linguist, a scientific chemist, and the discoverer of 
 chloride of lime for bleaching. He lost ten thousand pounds in a Chancery 
 suit in defence of his right to use it in his own bleach works, although Ten- 
 nant, his opponent, was nonsuited. He also discovered in England the fine 
 clay for biscuit china, previously obtained from Germany. Her father also 
 was a man of genius and culture ; artistic, scientific, and literary. The 
 education Mrs. Banks received, in part from a classical master, was largely 
 supplemented by home influences, a good library, and the intelligent, literary, 
 theatrical, and artistic friends who thronged her gifted father's house. At 
 the age of eleven, she wrote a song, and delighted her younger sister 
 and little friends with stories of her own invention. Her first contribution 
 to the press, in the Manchester Guardian, April 12th, 1837, was a sentimental 
 poem entitled " The Dying Girl to her Mother." It was followed at inter- 
 vals by others of a higher order. Later, at the request of Mr. Rogerson, 
 editor of the Odd Fellows' 1 Quarterly Magazine, she sent him a poem called 
 " The Neglected Wife," and gained by it a prize of three guineas, which was 
 her first literary honorarium. She was barely eighteen when she succeeded 
 to a long-established school for young ladies, at Cheetham, Manchester, which 
 she carried on with success. In 1844 was issued her " Ivy Leaves ; a 
 Collection of Poems." Two years later, viz., December 27th, 1846, she 
 was married at the Collegiate Church, Manchester, to George Linnaeus 
 Banks, of Birmingham, a many-sided man, poet, orator, and journalist. 
 She greatly assisted her husband in his literary labours, and conjointly 
 with him produced a most favourably received volume of verse under the 
 title of " Daisies in the Grass." Many of their songs have been set to 
 music, and are extremely popular. Mrs. Banks's first publication after 
 marriage was a " Lace Knitter's Guide," followed, after a long interval, by 
 " Light Work for Leisure Hours," a quarterly brochure still in progress 
 with the aid of a daughter. It was not until June, 1865, that she published 
 her first novel, " God's Providence House " (Bentley). It established her
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 reputation. Next in turn appeared a North Country story, " Stung 
 to the Quick " (1867) ; " The Manchester Man " (1876) ; a Wiltshire story 
 entitled " Glory " (1877) ; a Lancashire novel entitled " Caleb Booth's 
 Clerk " (1878) ; " Wooers and Winners," a Yorkshire story (1880) ; " For- 
 bidden to Wed " (1883) ; and " In His Own Hand " (1885). A cheap and 
 uniform edition of her novels was commenced in 1881 by Abel Hey wood & Son, 
 Manchester, and Simpkin, Marshall & Co., London. In addition to the fore- 
 going novels, excepting" God's Providence House," the series includes the 
 story "More than Coronets," a number of weird stories entitled " Through 
 the Night," and a second volume of short tales under the title of " The 
 Watchmaker's Daughter, and Other Stories," and a third volume entitled 
 " Sybilla, and Other Stories." In 1878, a collection of Mrs. Banks's later 
 poems was published under the title of " Ripples and Breakers," and 
 entitled the writer to a high place amongst the poets of the period. The 
 volume received many favourable reviews. The Athenteum said, " Mrs. Banks 
 writes with fluency and animation. Her view of sentiment is pure and 
 earnest." Other leading critical journals welcomed the work with words 
 of praise. Mrs. Banks has written much for the leading magazines, 
 including All the Year Round, Argosy, Gentleman's Magazine, Temple Bar, 
 Belgravia Annual, CasselVs Family Magazine, Quiver, GirVs Own Paper, The 
 Fireside, Odd Fellows' Quarterly, Once a Week, Country Words, many of the 
 Christmas Annuals, Holiday Numbers, &c., &c. During her residence 
 at Harrogate she lectured on " Woman as she was, as she is, and as she 
 may be," with considerable success, but her preference for privacy has 
 been the means of keeping from the platform one who might have done a 
 good work. She, however, baptized the Shakespeare Oak, planted by Mr. 
 Phelps, the tragedian, on Primrose Hill, at Shakespeare's tercentenary, and 
 delivered " an eloquent address " on the occasion. Several of her books 
 have been illustrated in part by her son, George Collingwood Banks, a 
 gentleman also of literary gifts as well as artistic skill. Two daughters 
 are also living out of a family of eight children. Her life has had its 
 sorrow and its sunshine, her writings are always ennobling, and her 
 actions kind. 
 
 WILLIAM ANDREWS. 
 
 INDUSTRIA ET PROBITATE.* 
 
 (TO MY SON.) 
 
 Our ancestor at Hastings fought, 
 A Norman baron, clad in mail ; 
 
 And on his shield and scarf were wrought 
 A motto ne'er by bloodshed bought ; 
 
 Yet valour had its spirit caught, 
 
 * The motto of the Varley family, to which the writer belongs.
 
 Mrs. G. Linnccus Banks. 
 
 And in the fight 
 
 That armed knight 
 Felt every blow was for the right, 
 
 And being right could never fail ; 
 It nerved his arm for victory 
 By " Industry and Probity." 
 
 Scorn not the motto as unmeet 
 For feudal times and battle-cry ; 
 
 For fields where fiery foemen greet 
 
 The ringing axe with iron sleet, 
 
 And tread out lives with bloody feet 
 Intent to slay ! 
 Sure in such fray 
 
 Some consciousness of right must sway 
 The leaders who thus dare to die ! 
 
 And golden spurs to victory 
 
 Are " Industry and Probity." 
 
 Those feudal times have passed away, 
 Earldom and barony are gone, 
 
 Castle and lands own other sway 
 
 Forfeit for treason, so they say ; 
 
 Not e'en to us remains to-day 
 The right to bear 
 Their 'scutcheon fair, 
 
 For rights like these with wealth decay ; 
 And even my birth-name is gone. 
 
 Yet cling I with tenacity 
 
 To " Industry and Probity." 
 
 We fight far other battles now, 
 
 No kingly quarrels ask our aid ; 
 Yet every manly heart and brow 
 Is scarred in fight as fierce, I trow ; 
 And whether pencil, pen, or plough 
 
 Be ours to wield, 
 
 Our surest shield
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 In struggling on, all will allow, 
 
 Is conscious right and earnest zeal ; 
 And so, my son, hold sturdily 
 By "Industry and Probity." 
 
 Tis all our ancestors have left 
 
 To mark their course in field or town ; 
 Whether through serried ranks they cleft, 
 Or drove the dagger to the heft, 
 And the fierce stag of life bereft, 
 
 Or battered wall 
 
 Echoed the call 
 First shouted by some craftsman deft, 
 
 Who, fighting, won his mural crown ; 
 Yet a right noble legacy 
 Is " Industry and Probity." 
 
 So, guard within thy inmost heart 
 
 That Norman's cry, howe'er attained ; 
 
 Assured that no ignoble part 
 
 Was played in battle, field, or mart, 
 
 By him who wrote upon his chart 
 That worthy line. 
 So make it thine ; 
 
 Hold up the words like stars to shine 
 Upon a life by vice unstained ; 
 
 And fight thy battle trenchantly 
 
 By " Industry and Probity." 
 
 BRIDAL ROBES. 
 
 A bridal robe should be 
 
 A dress to be worn for the day, 
 Then laid aside with all perfumes rare, 
 A treasure to guard with lifelong care, 
 
 A relic for ever and aye.
 
 Mrs. G. Linnceus Banks. 
 
 And never meaner use 
 
 Should sully its delicate snow ; 
 The bride's last robe in her maidenhood 
 Should be kept as perfect, pure, and good, 
 As when first it was donned, I trow. 
 
 For ever a dainty type 
 
 Of her chastity pure and white, 
 Folded up, like a rose in the bud, 
 Its beauty unseen, but understood 
 By all who can think aright. 
 
 Text from the marriage morn, 
 
 In its silence to preach through life, 
 Of duties, put on with every fold, 
 To change that life's silver into gold, 
 If love link true husband and wife. 
 
 And not till Death should call 
 The tried wife to his bridal bed 
 
 Should that well-saved robe again be worn, 
 Or that orange wreath again adorn 
 
 The auburn or lint-white head ; 
 
 And only wife who kept 
 
 As spotless her life as her dress, 
 Be honoured to wear her bridal gown, 
 Be honoured to wear her bridal crown, 
 
 When Death shall her pale lips press. 
 
 AH, ME ! 
 
 I measure life by gravestones, not by years ; 
 
 They are the milestones on my life's highway ; 
 For rain of heaven they have been wet with tears- 
 Are wet to-day !
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 Tears of the heart, not of the clouded eye, 
 
 Bedew these sepulchres of blighted blooms, 
 Where, unresponsive, the beloved ones lie 
 In far-off tombs. 
 
 Dear friends, who journeyed with rne hand in hand, 
 
 And dropped, way-worn, leaving sad me behind, 
 To seek alone that bright and better land 
 Faith looks to find. 
 
 My baby-buds, sweet blossoms of iny love, 
 
 With sentient leaves expanding day by day ; 
 Whose essence envious Death exhaled above. 
 And left me clay. 
 
 Fair human forms surrendered to the dust, 
 
 My human tears may dew your verdant graves ; 
 But there are buried hopes uncomned trusts 
 Where no grass waves. 
 
 There will be " resurrection of the dead ; " 
 
 Parted humanity expects to meet 
 All smiles and love where never tears are shed 
 In bliss complete. 
 
 Some hopes died early, others in their prime, 
 
 And the heart shrouds them in a viewless pall ; 
 But they will rise not in the after-time 
 At any call. 
 
 I measure life by gravestones, not by years ; 
 
 And these, intangible, count with the seen ; 
 The dead hopes buried in a rain of tears 
 
 The " should have been." 
 
 And not I only for, alas ! all men 
 
 Inurn dead hopes within their secret souls, 
 But seldom mark their graves for mortal ken 
 With open scrolls.
 
 Mrs. G. Linnczus Banks. 
 
 FALLING LEAVES. 
 
 The wind its trump hath blown 
 
 Adown the dell, 
 And lo ! what leaves are strown 
 
 On yon grey stone, 
 
 And o'er the well ! 
 
 Like human hopes they fall 
 Hopes born in Spring, 
 
 When Nature's cuckoo-call 
 Wakes life in all, 
 And everything. 
 
 Leaves matron Summer nurst 
 
 On sunny slopes, 
 Where their young verdure first 
 
 To beauty burst ; 
 
 Leafage and hopes. 
 
 But the autumnal gust 
 
 That sweeps life's dell, 
 
 Blows leaves as red as rust 
 Into the dust, 
 And death's dark well.
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 Samuel Collinson. 
 
 ULL, the chief town on the Humber, has been the 
 birthplace of many poets, and amongst the number is 
 Samuel Collinson, who was born there on October 31st, 
 1812, and now lives at Nottingham. He descends from a 
 Bridlington family. He served an apprenticeship with 
 Mr. Eobert Briggs, chemist, in Whitefriargate, Hull, 
 and subsequently removed to the Metropolis, where he 
 remained for seven years ; he then returned to his native 
 place, where he carried on business as a chemist and druggist, in Queen 
 Street, for about three years. Then this was in 1845 he went to reside at 
 Nottingham, since which time he has lived there. In 1870 Mr. 
 Collinson issued his first work. This was entitled " Autumn Leaves " (Low), 
 and is in its second edition. This diversified collection of poems, gathered 
 with great taste, from many fields of illustration, indicates a command of 
 language and richness of imagery, without being confused or without 
 straining after effect, qualities which are only attainable as a result of 
 patient culture and years of study. The sonnets are generally very good. 
 The principal poem in this volume is " Merope," in which the power of 
 description and the play of imagination are throughout well sustained, and 
 there is no falling off in the composition. In 1876 Mr. Collinson issued his 
 second volume, " Richard's Tower : an idyll of Nottingham Castle ; and 
 other poems " (Hodder and Stoughton), a work which added to his repu- 
 tation as a poet, since 1860 Mr. Collinson has acted as Secretary to the 
 Nottingham Chamber of Commerce, a position which he still occupies. 
 He filled a similar office to the General Exchange from 1856 down to within 
 a couple of years. He is also a stock and sharebroker, and honorary local 
 secretary of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution. Mr. Collinson was 
 instrumental in providing " The Robin Hood " lifeboat, which is located 
 at Boulmar, Northumberland. He was for a long period on the staff of 
 the Nottingham Journal, as art and dramatic critic. Mr. Collinson is a 
 water colourist of ability ; and has a strong leaning to antiquarian pursuits. 
 
 J. POTTEK BKISCOK. 
 
 MAY. 
 
 I love thee not, young May, with all thy flowers, 
 Thy blooming hawthorn with its odours sweet, 
 And all thy promises of Summer's heat, 
 Thy song birds and thy pale green leafy bowers.
 
 Samuel Collinson. 
 
 The sunshine on thy face gleams bright but chill, 
 
 Thy smile's deceitful, and upon rny brow 
 
 Thy false kiss falls, cold as a flake of snow 
 
 Unseasonable. On the breezy hill 
 
 Thy icy breath at eve and early morn 
 
 Spreads out the gauzy hoar frost's mantle white, 
 
 Withering the buds that, opening to the light, 
 
 Had ventured forth beneath the shadowing thorn. 
 
 I love thee not, whate'er old poets say, 
 
 Chill, treacherous, but beauteous young May. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 [From Mr. J. Potter Briscoe's Album, dated 1881.] 
 
 So fragmentary and so incomplete, 
 
 When severed from Eternity, is Time, 
 
 That the soul deems not earth its home or clime 
 
 Where it shall fade, like flowers fair and fleet. 
 
 It waits but here the rising dawn to meet, 
 
 And struggling up the mountain side to climb, 
 
 To catch the golden sunlight at its prime, 
 
 With joyous song Heaven's radiance to greet. 
 
 The earth to it is but a goodly hall, 
 
 Where music haunts the air in fitful strains ; 
 
 But ever to its ear there comes a call 
 
 To brighter skies, to the celestial plains, 
 
 Where, though the lyre be broken, the song be stilled, 
 
 The soul with harmony shall aye be filled.
 
 io North Country Poets. 
 
 THE LIFE BOAT. 
 
 On a lone hillside 'neath the starless night 
 
 And drifting clouds, I stand with listening ear 
 
 To the deep moaning through the bare woods near, 
 
 Of the chill winds that hurrying in their flight, 
 
 From the rough North or cliff-bound Eastern shore. 
 
 Bring with them memories of the beating surf 
 
 And sea bird's cry ; whilst at my feet the turf 
 
 Seems like the wind-swept sand near ocean's roar. 
 
 A wailing cry comes with the fiercer gale : 
 
 Is it the death shout of a drowning crew ? 
 
 The stars shine out, the mist clears off anew, 
 
 The drifting clouds down the horizon sail ; 
 
 The sailor's blessing comes as the winds are laid, 
 
 To those who sent the Lifeboat to their aid. 
 
 WHITBY ABBEY. 
 
 Time, sacrilegious hands of men, and storms 
 
 Have made thee but a ruin, roofless, bare ; 
 
 The rough winds wander 'midst thy pillars fair, 
 
 'Neath lofty arches, dight with sculptured forms 
 
 Of beauty, the destroyer's hands have spared. 
 
 Whilst Time, as if repentant of his blows, 
 
 Spreads o'er thy mouldering stones a veil that glows 
 
 With warmest colour ; where thy shrines are bared 
 
 Beneath the blue of Heaven, every arch 
 
 Lifts up its graceful many-moulded crown, 
 
 Grey with the lichen, or in golden brown, 
 
 Rich as at sunset gleam the boles of larch. 
 
 Thy triple windowed gable crowns the hill, 
 
 A land-mark where the gales the white sails fill.
 
 Thomas Newbigging. 
 
 ii 
 
 Thomas Newbigging. 
 
 EW men are better known in Lancashire than Mr. Thomas 
 Newbigging, who was born in Glasgow, September 30th, 
 1833. His father, John Gibson Newbigging, was a Scotch- 
 man, his maternal grandmother was also a Scot but his 
 maternal grandfather was of Yorkshire. His early boy- 
 hood was spent in the beautiful Vale of Fleet, a " haunted, 
 holy ground," whence poetry and romance have drawn 
 abundant inspiration. In his eleventh year he exchanged 
 the quiet charm of Gatehouse-of -Fleet for the bustling town of Blackburn 
 in Lancashire, and five years later, in 1849, he removed to Bury, where, 
 for two years, he served at his trade of mechanic. From 1851 to 1870 he 
 resided in the Rossendale district of Lancashire, first at Newchurch, and 
 later at Bacup, occupying during thirteen years of this period the post of 
 secretary and manager of the Rossendale Union Gas Company, and 
 identifying himself %vith the educational movements of the time ; he was 
 for several years honorary secretary and director of the Mechanics' 
 Institution of Bacup. 
 
 In 1859 he married Miss Lomax, daughter of Mr. Abraham 
 Lomax, of Sunnyside, Rossendale, by whom he has three sons and two 
 daughters. In 1870 Mr. Newbigging went out to Brazil as engineer and 
 manager of the Pernambuco Gas Works, whence he returned in 1875, and, 
 settling in Manchester where he still resides, began practice as civil and 
 consulting engineer. He is esteemed a leading authority on gas-engineer- 
 ing, and is often consulted by Committees of Parliament in a professional 
 capacity on Bills relating to gas supply. In the general election of 1886, 
 at the request of the Liberals who favoured Mr. Gladstone's Irish policy, 
 he contested the Rossendale I>ivi'sion with Lord Hartington. Although 
 defeated, Mr. Newbigging's speeches during the contest became known far 
 beyond the limits of the constituency for their keen analysis, clear and 
 cogent argument, and generous bearing towards his opponent. 
 
 Throughout this most active life Mr. Newbigging has found time for 
 no inconsiderable amount of literary work, always with him a work of love. 
 His published volumes, if not numerous, attest the singular versatility of 
 his mind and the wide range of his interests and sympathies, and even 
 more marked would this manysidedness appear if the great mass of his 
 contributions to the press could be scanned. He is the author of " The Gas 
 Manager's Handbook," which has reached a fourth edition ; joint author 
 and editor of " King's Treatise on the Manufacture and Distribution of 
 Coal Gas," the standard book on the subject. His other works are " Poems 
 and Songs," published during his residence in Rossendale; "History of 
 the Forest of Rossendale," written originally for the Bacup Times, and 
 afterwards brought out in book form, justly regarded as a model in its
 
 12 North Country Poets. 
 
 department of literature ; a second edition of " Poems and Songs " issued 
 in 1883; a volume of " Sketches and Tales " in 1884; and, more recently, 
 an appreciative biographical sketch and critical estimate of the work of 
 James Leach, the Lancashire composer of psalm and hymn tunes. In 
 1887 appeared a volume of his " Speeches and Addresses, Political, Social, 
 and Literary." The political speeches were those delivered in the 
 Rossendale contest and subsequently ; many of the addresses were given 
 before the Manchester Literary Club, of which Mr. Newbigging is a member, 
 and embrace a wide range of topics, including " Education," " Co-opera- 
 tion," "Robert Burns," and " John Critchley Prince." 
 
 But little space is left to speak of Mr. Newbigging as a poet. His 
 lyrics, for most of his poems are lyrical, often remind us of Burns in the 
 grace and vigour of their style, in the quaint homeliness of their humour, 
 and the pathetic melancholy which now and then creeps into his verse. 
 They bear abundant evidence that their author is a loving and close 
 observer of nature, and a man in full sympathy with his fellow-men, 
 however lowly their lot in life. They read like the spontaneous utterances 
 of a broad, manly, earnest spirit on life's somewhat prosy highway, 
 breaking now and again into involuntary song, singing because he must 
 and careless who hears. 
 
 J. OSCAB PAEKEK. 
 
 THERE'S PLEASURE AND HEALTH IN 
 CONTENTMENT. 
 
 There's pleasure and health in contentment, 
 
 There's fortune in freedom from care ; 
 But envy, and strife, and resentment, 
 
 Our happiest moments impair. 
 He's a wise man his passion that bridles, 
 
 He's a fool that will brawl and look sore ; 
 When self, pomp, and pelf are our idols, 
 
 Joy soon bids adieu to our door ! 
 
 A crown's but a cumbersome bauble, 
 That darkens the brow it adorns ! 
 
 And he that wins power oft exchanges 
 The down of his pillow for thorns. 
 
 The heart that is fainting and fearful, 
 Finds life but a pathway of pain ;
 
 Thomas Newbigging. 13 
 
 But he that is trusting and cheerful, 
 
 Descries the bright bow through the rain. 
 
 Though little in life we may boast of, 
 
 'Tis wisdom that little to prize ; 
 And trials, if men make the most of, 
 
 Are heaven's best gifts in disguise ! 
 The tiniest seed in earth's bosom 
 
 To loftiest tree doth upspring ; 
 And the birds of the air from the tempest 
 
 'Neath its branches may shelter and sing. 
 
 Life hath its eclipses of sorrow, 
 
 That hide the blue sky from our sight ; 
 But trust we the brighter to-morrow 
 
 God's manna comes down in the night ! 
 And while the rich harvest we gather, 
 
 We'll not the Good Giver forget ; 
 But, grateful, low bending together, 
 
 With gladness acknowledge the debt. 
 
 O TELL NOT ME OF SUNLESS HOURS. 
 
 Life is a dreary round, they say, 
 
 A lonely pathway paved with sorrow ; 
 Where tear-clad care holds potent sway, 
 
 And all seems cheerless, but to-morrow ; 
 So I would add my bitter sigh ; 
 
 So might I deem my soul benighted ; 
 So darkness dire might shroud my sky, 
 
 If Mary were not here to light it. 
 
 tell not me of sunless hours, 
 
 And sweet vows plighted to be broken ; 
 Why close thine eyes on couch of flowers, 
 
 And take the darkness for a token ?
 
 14 North Country Poets. 
 
 Why gaze upon the brow of night, 
 
 Nor mark the myriad stars that grace it ? 
 
 Thy grief ! go, view the world aright, 
 
 Thou'lt find some dear one born to chase it. 
 
 IN ROSSENDALE THERE LIVES A LASS. 
 
 In Eossendale there lives a lass 
 
 I know not where her peer may be 
 She's fairer than the fairest maid 
 
 That graces poet's minstrelsy. 
 The sunlight of her kindly face 
 
 Is dowry more than gold and land ; 
 Her smile, a richer treasure than 
 
 E'er rose 'neath touch of fairy's wand. 
 
 The spring-time wakens leaf and bud, 
 
 And sprinkles flowers on every spray ; 
 The summer gilds the mountain top, 
 
 And clothes the vale with verdure gay : 
 'Tis spring-time where my darling is, 
 
 The light of love illumes her eyes ; 
 The beauty of her tender glance 
 
 Broods o'er my soul like summer skies. 
 
 When o'er the russet moorland hills, 
 
 In wild career the whistling gale 
 Speeds on its wintry way, and fills 
 
 With drifting snow the narrow vale, 
 I sit beside the glowing hearth, 
 
 Nor count the moments as they glide : 
 'Tis summer in yon forest home, 
 
 With the dear angel by my side.
 
 Thomas Newbigging. 15 
 
 WILLIE IS WAITING FOR ME. 
 
 The mavis he sings by his nest, 
 The lark o'er his home on the lea ; 
 
 Each lass to the lad she loves best, 
 And Willie is waiting for me. 
 
 My mother says wooers are wild, 
 They ne'er let the lasses a-be ; 
 
 Oh ! kind is the bosom, and mild, 
 0' Willie, that's waiting for me. 
 
 Yestreen as we sat in the glen, 
 
 By the stream that runs murmuring free, 
 " My heart to my mou' gied a sten," 
 
 For Willie spak' something to me. 
 
 He said that his bosom was sad, 
 And 'twas mine ilka pleasure to gie ; 
 
 I'll ne'er be unkind to my lad, 
 For oh ! he is kind aye to me.
 
 1 6 North Country Poets. 
 
 William Cartwright Newsam. 
 
 N the year 1845 was published at Sheffield a charming 
 volume, entitled " The Poets of Yorkshire ; comprising 
 Sketches of the Lives and Specimens of the Writings of 
 those ' Children of Song ' who have been natives of or 
 otherwise connected with the County of York ; " com- 
 menced by William Cartwright Newsam ; completed, 
 and published for the benefit of his family, by John 
 Holland. The story of Mr. Newsam's struggles and 
 early death is told with a sympathetic pen, by Mr. Holland. Several 
 pleasing specimens of Mr. Newsam's poetry are also included. The story 
 of his career is sketched in Mr. W. H. Dawson's " History of Skipton," 
 the native town of Mr. Newsam, who was born in 1811, and died at 
 Sheffield in 1844. Mr. Holland speaks of him as a " worthy and ingenious 
 man." 
 
 His grandson, also named William Cartwright Newsam, is widely and 
 favourably known as a lyric author, has spent the greater part of his life 
 in Yorkshire, and as a contributor to the Northern press, his name must 
 be familiar to many readers. He was born at Nottingham in 1861. Many 
 of his songs have been set to music by leading composers, and become very 
 popular, and have been much praised by the critical press. Mr. Newsam 
 has set to music many of his own pieces, and is the composer of numerous 
 musical works. The list of his songs and musical pieces is a long and 
 interesting one, and shows tireless industry and ability. To numerous 
 magazines he has contributed poetry much above the merit usually found 
 in periodical publications. We give three examples of his poetry. 
 
 W. A. 
 
 LOOKING BACK. 
 
 Eeturned from travel, after many years, 
 
 Once more on old familiar ground I roam ; 
 I mark the little Church, unchanged it stands, 
 
 And all unchanged my childhood's village home ; 
 Unchanged the sunset lights the sapphire sea ; 
 
 Unchanged it smiles upon the village green, 
 Touching with gold the daisies on the lea, 
 
 And lighting, as of old, the peaceful scene.
 
 William Cartwright Newsam. 17 
 
 The old familiar sounds fall on my ear, 
 
 The shouts of merry children at their play ; 
 And from the fields, to seek the homesteads near, 
 
 The lowing cattle slowly wend their way. 
 All, all unchanged ! But still so changed to me 
 
 The unfamiliar forms that pass me by ; 
 Strange and unknown is every face I see, 
 
 And gone the friendly glance of every eye. 
 
 All, all are gone, and here I stand alone, 
 
 Without the pressure of a friendly hand ; 
 Where once I lived and loved, now all unknown, 
 
 I stray unnoticed through my native land ; 
 And, as I muse upon the fading past, 
 
 Amid the shadows of the dying day, 
 Long pent-up mem'ries now come crowding fast 
 
 Of forms and faces that have passed away. 
 
 Just as of old I hear the curfew bell, 
 
 The lilies tremble on the murmuring stream, 
 The fragrant blue-bells scent the shadowy dell, 
 
 And, as of old, once more I dream, I dream. 
 Just as of old, that one sweet face I see, 
 
 And, as of old, the blissful hour glides by. 
 Oh ! could the joy be given once more to me ! 
 
 To live again that one sweet hour and die ! 
 
 Give me that hour ! Take back the wasted years 
 
 That form the burden of my weary life ! 
 Give me that hour for all the sighs and tears 
 
 That were the guerdon of my life-long strife ! 
 Then, to recall the joys that now are o'er, 
 
 And lay my head upon that gentle breast, 
 Fain would I claim the joyful boon once more, 
 
 And for that blissful hour give all the rest !
 
 1 8 North Country Poets. 
 
 BY THE SEA. 
 
 I stood by the sea when the sun shone bright 
 And flooded its depths with a blaze of light, 
 And the golden sheen and emerald green, 
 Like gerns in the crown of a fairy queen, 
 
 Flashed forth in glittering splendour ; 
 And the soft winds sighed o'er the shining tide, 
 And the rnurm'ring waves to the breeze replied 
 
 In tones that were low and tender. 
 
 I stood by the sea when the moon was high, 
 And the stars shone out from the midnight sky, 
 And a wondrous sight was that shimmering light 
 That flashed from the crests of the surges bright, 
 
 Like stars in trembling motion ; 
 And the moon's soft ray on the waters lay, 
 And its gleaming track made a bright highway 
 
 Across the slumbering ocean. 
 
 I stood by the sea when the lightning flashed, 
 And the waves ran high, and the thunder crashed, 
 And the blinding spray, that was dashed away 
 By the howling wind, in the furious fray, 
 
 Brought death to the hardy toiler ; 
 When his ship at last by the stormy blast, 
 A dismantled wreck on the rocks was cast, 
 
 A prey to the ruthless spoiler. 
 
 The beautiful sea ! The treacherous sea ! 
 
 A joy and a terror it is to me. 
 
 A beautiful sight, by day or by night, 
 
 Is the tranquil sea, by whose margin bright 
 
 The fisherman loves to wander ; 
 A terrible thing when its rage doth bring 
 The angel of death with his sable wing, 
 
 To darken the homesteads yonder.
 
 William Cartwright Newsam. 19 
 
 SWEET MOTHER, DEAR. 
 
 Sweet mother, dear ! Sweet mother, dear ! 
 
 How flies my memory back to thee 
 And those bright days of thoughtless joy 
 
 When thou wert all in all to me. 
 Secure from every grief and care, 
 
 How calm and peaceful was my rest, 
 When folded in thy loving arms, 
 
 And pillowed on thy gentle breast. 
 
 Those halcyon days soon passed away, 
 
 And, as the years of life rolled on, 
 Sorrows came fast and faster still, 
 
 While pleasures faded, one by one. 
 The spring of life seemed bright and fair, 
 
 Its summer now will soon be o'er, 
 Its winter time is drawing near, 
 
 But springs return to me no more. 
 
 Sweet mother, dear ! long years have passed. 
 
 Long years of care, and toil, and strife, 
 Since, full of hope, I left thy side, 
 
 To launch upon the sea of life. 
 Now, buffeted by every storm, 
 
 By adverse Avinds and waves distressed, 
 Weary and worn with ceaseless toil, 
 
 I turn to thee and sigh for rest. 
 
 Sweet mother, dear ! Perchance thine eyes 
 
 May pierce the veil so dark to me ; 
 Perchance thou still canst lead me on, 
 
 And guide my faltering steps to thee. 
 Gladly I'll meet thee on the shore, 
 
 Where sighs no more disturb the breast, 
 Where all is peace for evermore ; 
 
 Then shall I rest, then shall I rest.
 
 20 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 William Brockie. 
 
 HOUGH Mr. William Brockie is still in active work as a 
 journalist and man of letters, bis recollection travels back 
 to the time when, almost every day, be bad sight of Sir 
 Walter Scott, and when bis daily life was spent among 
 many of the characters who have become immortal through 
 the " Waverley Novels." As a youth engaged in the 
 law, be beheld Jeffrey practising as an advocate in the 
 Parliament House at Edinburgh ; as a young Scot of strict 
 religious training, he listened on Sundays to the lofty and ornate eloquence 
 of Chalmers. Surviving into our own world, be still remembers, with some- 
 thing of his youthful awe, the giants of a former race. The Border country 
 produces poets by the score. On the Northumbrian side the people of the 
 villages will come to their doors and say, " There goes the poet Mitford," 
 or Johnston, or Thompson, as the case may be. It is some humble son of 
 the Muses, who has put words to the popular airs, so that his verses are sung 
 over all the country side. William Brockie had ambitions of a larger scope. 
 He was born, the descendant of one of the old yeoman families, at Lauder 
 East Mains, on the Scotch side of the Border, on March 1st, 1811. His 
 father gave him the best education his means could procure, and then, 
 without thinking proper to consult the lad on the subject of a calling, placed 
 hiirf in a lawyer's office at Melrose. There, as may be supposed, he would 
 often " pen a stanza when he should engross." When he was qualified to 
 practice as an attorney he took to farming, and when the landlord, in spite 
 of a promise given, raised the rent, he took to book-keeping, travelling for a 
 wholesale establishment, and finally to schoolmastering. It was possible 
 to combine this occupation with literature, and so he became editor of The 
 Border Watch, which was to the Border country what Hugh Miller's 
 Witness was to Edinburgh. Then he must needs almost ruin himself by 
 getting the paper into his own hands, and taking a partner who drank the 
 firm into difficulties. In the emergency thus produced, Mr. Brockie set his 
 eyes on what Dr. Johnson declared to be the finest of all sights for a Scots- 
 man, "the high-road which leads to England." In 1849, he became editor 
 of the North and South Shields Gazette, then a weekly newspaper, and con- 
 tinued in this position till 1852. For eight years longer he kept a school in 
 Shields, called an academy, getting married in the meantime to the daughter 
 of a Presbyterian minister, and finally taking leave of the Shields folks in 
 a scathing set of verses still locally I famous under the title of "Hookey 
 Walker's Farewell." From 1860 to 1873 Mr. Brockie edited the Sunderland 
 Times, at the end of that period resigning regular duties in order to engage 
 in general literary work, which he contributed to a large number of news- 
 papers and magazines. In a life of incessant work as a journalist, during 
 which he has acquired thirteen languages, ancient and modern, Mr. Brockie
 
 William Brockie. 21 
 
 has written much which was intended only for immediate consumption. 
 Nevertheless, he has found time to produce a shelf -full of books, among 
 which may be named, " The Confessional and other Poems," "Leaderside 
 Legends," " Indian Thought," "The Gypsies of Yetholm," " Legends and 
 Superstitions of the County of Durham," and " The History of the Priory 
 of Coldingham . ' ' Let me add that he is a man of high and earnest character, 
 respected wherever his name is known, and beloved by all who have the 
 advantage of his friendship. 
 
 AABON WATSON. 
 
 THE MIGHTY. 
 
 Where are the graves of the Mighty ? 
 
 Far in the forest and fen. 
 "Where are the graves of the Mighty ? 
 
 Down in the depths of the sea. 
 Where are the graves of the Mighty ? 
 
 Sunk in the sands of the desert. 
 Where are the graves of the Mighty ? 
 
 Lost in the lone savannah. 
 Tumuli, hummocks, and mounds, 
 
 Storyless, nameless, and dateless, 
 Spots which the Yezidi deems 
 
 Haunts of the fiend he worships. 
 
 Where are the bones of the Mighty ? 
 
 Ground by the waves into lime. 
 Where are the bones of the Mighty ? 
 
 Burnt in the Arab's rude oven. 
 Where are the bones of the Mighty ? 
 
 Mingled with soil to enrich it. 
 Where are the bones of the Mighty ? 
 
 Scattered as dust to the winds. 
 Earth has reclaimed her own ; 
 
 Water and air have theirs ; 
 And now there remains of the Mighty 
 
 Not even a rnarrowless fragment.
 
 22 North Country Poets. 
 
 Where are the halls of the Mighty ? 
 
 Vacant, dismantled, downfallen. 
 Where are the halls of the Mighty ? 
 
 Left to the owl and the ostrich. 
 Where are the halls of the Mighty ? 
 
 Eazed to the very foundation. 
 Where are the halls of the Mighty ? 
 
 Under the peasant's plough. 
 Only some rnossgrown stones, 
 
 Left in a nook secluded, 
 Draw a stray moonstruck pilgrim 
 
 Off the great world's high road. 
 
 Where are the sons of the Mighty ? 
 
 Shrunk in soul and sinew. 
 Where are the sons of the Mighty ? 
 
 Faint and chicken-hearted. 
 Where are the sons of the Mighty ? 
 
 Bondmen to serf and slave. 
 Where are the sons of the Mighty ? 
 
 Crouching to Pope and Kaiser. 
 The priest-sucked Latin soil 
 
 Brings forth few Eomans now ; 
 And Ida and Olympus 
 
 Are abandoned by the Gods. 
 
 Where are the deeds of the Mighty ? 
 
 Wrapped in oblivion's shade. 
 Where are the deeds of the Mighty ? 
 
 Ah, how few have survived them ! 
 Where are the deeds of the Mighty ? 
 
 Frustrated, undone, fruitless. 
 Where are the deeds of the Mighty ? 
 
 As if they had never been done. 
 No, it is false ? the fruits 
 
 Past generations have eaten, 
 And still there remains a store 
 
 For all generations to come.
 
 William B 'rookie. 23 
 
 What have we gained by the Mighty ? 
 
 Look around, and see. 
 What have we gained by the Mighty ? 
 
 Knowledge, religion, freedom. 
 What have we gained by the Mighty ? 
 
 All that the brutes have not. 
 What have we gained by the Mighty ? 
 
 To be called the sons of God. 
 Matter subdued, mind disenthralled, 
 
 Heaven's portals opened wide, 
 Life and immortality brought to Light : 
 
 This we have gained by the Mighty. 
 
 Where is the fame of the Mighty ? 
 
 Not on earth, which they have left. 
 Where is the fame of the Mighty ? 
 
 In Heaven, to which they have gone. 
 Where is the fame of the Mighty ? 
 
 With the souls of the saints made perfect. 
 Where is the fame of the Mighty ? 
 
 With God, who has received them. 
 Myriads of grateful voices 
 
 For ever and for ever, 
 Shout through the empyrean, 
 
 The triumphs of the Mighty. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Love is a friendly bark on the deep, 
 
 A planet in the stormy sky, 
 A bright cloud on which angels sleep, 
 
 A madness-soothing melody. 
 It softens the proud, gives nerve to the brave, 
 Uplifts the feeble, ennobles the slave,
 
 24 North Country Poets. 
 
 Eetards the swift, to the lame gives wings, - 
 And compasses all incredible things. 
 All beings its wondrous powers rehearse, 
 And its empire is the universe. 
 
 ETERNAL RECORDS. 
 
 The world is not a passing show, 
 Although things wither and decay, 
 
 And Time, in his unceasing flow, 
 Carries them rapidly away. 
 
 Whate'er has been, is, and shall be, 
 
 Through measureless eternity. 
 
 All Time is mirrored upon Space 
 In Nature's wondrous phototype ; 
 
 The history of the human race 
 Is writ on heaven in lines so deep 
 
 That, to the God-directed eye, 
 
 The Past is not a mystery. 
 
 Man's conscience, too, a record is, 
 Surcharged with the minutest lore ; 
 
 Had he no other roll but this, 
 
 The Judge Supreme would need no more 
 
 For not one jotting, foul or fair, 
 
 Can Time or Trouble cancel there.
 
 Edwin IVaugh. 
 
 Edwin Waugh. 
 
 DWIN Waugh, who has often been styled the Laureate of 
 Lancashire, was born at Rochdale, 29th January, 1818, 
 but although to the manner born as a genuine Lancashire 
 lad, he is of Northumbrian stock on his father's side. 
 The love of poetry and music may thus be regarded as a 
 double inheritance, since both the Borderers and " lusty 
 lads of Lancashire " have a reputation for harmony and 
 songcraft. Mr. Waugh was not born with a silver spoon 
 in his mouth, and has left an interesting record of the struggles of his 
 earlier years. After passing through Davenport's Commercial Academy, 
 he was apprenticed to a bookseller and printer, and like many other men 
 who have achieved distinction, he has " worked at the case." After ten 
 years of this drudgery he became Secretary of the Lancashire Public School 
 Association, which was established for the formation of a plan of National 
 Secular Elementary Education. Whilst not achieving this object, the 
 Association undoubtedly did much to pave the way for the education 
 measure subsequently carried by Mr. Forster. Five of the busiest years of 
 Mr. Waugh's life were given to this work. Since then he has devoted him- 
 self entirely to literature. The list of his writings is a long one, and as 
 many were issued in a somewhat ephemeral form, they became 
 difficult to obtain. This has been remedied by the appearance, a few years 
 ago, of a uniform edition extending to ten volumes. To this may now be 
 added a new volume of the poems of his later years. Mr. Waugh writes 
 pleasantly of persons and places, and has a very unusual power of 
 descriptive writing. In his prose stories there are many admirable points 
 of humour and pathos. His dialect poems have often great lyrical beauty 
 and are racy of the soil. To read them after some modern poetry, is like 
 feeling a waft of moorland breeze, laden with the perfume of wild-flowers 
 and orchards, after escaping from the warm and sickly odours of the green- 
 house. Mr. Waugh paints the lads and lasses of Lancashire as he has 
 known them, concealing neither their defects nor their virtues. The appetite 
 for fun and frolic, the adventurous spirit, the shrewd common sense, the 
 cheerful stoicism that makes a jest of misfortune, the tender home affections, 
 the love of wife and child, and all the sacred joys and sorrows that centre 
 round the humble home, find a fine and fitting expositor in Edwin Waugh. He 
 is so great as a dialect poet, that the delicate beauty of he verses he has 
 written in book-English are too often overlooked. They would have made 
 the reputation of any man except the author of " Come Whoam to Thi 
 Childer an' Me." Mr. Waugh has for years been in the receipt of a 
 Government pension, and is now resident in New Brighton, from whence 
 he is occasionally tempted to re- visit those literary circles of Manchester 
 where he is ever an honoured guest. 
 
 WILLIAM E. A. AXON.
 
 26 North Country Poets. 
 
 COME WHOAM TO THI GUILDER AN' ME. 
 
 Aw've just mended th' fire wi' a cob ; 1 
 
 Owd Swaddle has brought thi new shoon ; 
 There's some nice bacon-collops o'th hob, 
 
 An' a quart o' ale posset i'th oon ; 2 
 Aw've brought thi top-cwot, 3 doesto know, 
 
 For th' rain's cornin' deawn very dree ; 4 
 An' th' har'stone's as white as new snow ; 
 
 Come whoam to thi childer an' me. 
 
 When aw put little Sally to bed, 
 
 Hoo cried, 'cose her feyther 5 weren't theer, 
 So aw kiss'd 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'. 
 
 An' Dick, too, aw'd sich wark 6 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 een were quite red ; 
 
 He likes thee some weel, does yon lad ! 
 
 At th' lung-length, 7 aw geet 'ern laid still ; 
 
 An' aw hearken't folks feet that went by ; 
 So aw iron't o' my clooas reet well, 
 
 An aw hanged 'em o'th maiden to dry ; 
 
 1 Cob, a lump of coal. 4 Dree, wearily-continuous. 
 
 2 Oon, oven. s Feyther, father. 
 
 3 Top-cwot, top-coat. *Wark, work. 
 
 7 Th' lung-length, the long-length, the end.
 
 Edwin Waugh. 27 
 
 When aw'd mended thi stockiu'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 ; 2 an' a stick 
 
 An' some bacco an' pipes for mysel' ; 
 Aw've brought thee some coffee an' tay, 
 
 Iv thae'll feel i' my pocket, thae'll see ; 
 An' aw've bought tho a new cap to-day, 
 
 But aw al'ays bring summat for thee ! 
 
 " God bless tho', my lass ; aw'll go whoam, 3 
 
 An' aw'll kiss thee an' th' children 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' you childer and thee." 
 
 ^One-ly, lonely. 3 Whoam homo. 
 
 z Babs, babies, pictures. ^Gradely, proper, right. 
 
 THE DULE'S I' THIS BONNET O' MINE. 
 
 The dule's i' this bonnet o' mine ; 
 
 My ribbins '11 never be reet ; 
 Here, Mally, aw'm like to be fine, 
 
 For Jamie '11 be coming to-neet ; 
 He met me i'th lone 1 tother day, 
 
 Aw're gooin' for wayter 2 to th' well, 
 An' he begged that aw'd wed him i' May ; 
 
 Bi' th mass, 3 iv he'll let me, aw will. 
 
 1 Lone, lane. 2 Wayter, water. 
 
 3 Bi'th Mass, by the mass ; an expression brought down from Catholic times.
 
 28 North Country Poets. 
 
 When he took my two bonds into his, 
 
 Good Lord, heaw they trembled between ; 
 An' aw durstn't look up in his face, 
 
 Becose 1 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, thea knows, 
 
 Aw couldn't ha' axed 2 him mysel'. 
 
 But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung, 
 
 To let it eawt wouldn't be reet, 
 For aw thought to seem forrud 3 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' 4 o'th world to mysel', 
 
 Aw'd oather 5 ha' Jamie or noan. 
 
 Neaw, Mally, aw've towd tho my mind ; 
 
 What wouldto do iv 'twur thee ? 
 " Aw'd tak him just while he're inclined, 
 
 An' a farrantly bargain 5 he'd be ; 
 For Jamie's as gradely 6 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 ! " 
 
 Eh, dear, but it's time to be gwon, 
 
 Aw should'nt like Jamie to wait, 
 Aw connut for shame be too soon, 
 
 An' aw wouldn't for th' world be too late ; 
 Aw'ra o' ov a tremble too th' heel, 
 
 Dost think at my bonnet '11 do ? 
 " Be off, lass, thae looks very weel ; 
 
 He wants noan o'th bonnet, thae foo ! " 
 
 iBccose, because. 5 Gather, either. 
 
 z Axed, asked. Q A farrantly bargain, a decent 
 3 Frrud, forward. bargain, a good bargain. 
 
 * Pikein', picking, choosing. ''Gradely, proper, right.
 
 Edwin Waugh. 29 
 
 THE MOORLAND BREEZE. 
 
 Of 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. 
 
 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 
 
 That whistles o'er the lea. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 !
 
 30 North Country Poets. 
 
 Oh lay me down in moorland ground, 
 
 And make it my last bed, 
 With the heathy wilderness around, 
 
 And the silent sky o'erhead. 
 Let the fern and ling around me cling, 
 
 And the green moss o'er me creep ; 
 And the sweet wild mountain breezes sing 
 
 Above my slumbers deep. 
 
 CHRISTMAS MORNING. 
 
 Come 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 ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 We'll twine the fresh green 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 !
 
 Edwin Waugh. 31 
 
 Come, sing the carols old and true, 
 
 That mind us of good cheer, 
 And, like a heavenly fall of dew, 
 Eevive 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 ! 
 
 So now, God bless us one and all 
 
 With hearts 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 !
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
 
 T is by force of accident, merely, that Mrs. Browning can 
 be included among the "North Country Poets." Her 
 parents chanced to be temporarily resident in the county 
 of Durham when she was born. There has been much 
 dispute as to the facts. Mr. John H. Ingram contends 
 that Mrs. Browning was born in London ; Mrs. Ritchie, 
 another of the biographers of the poetess, says that she 
 was born at Burn Hall, Durham ; Mr. Browning, whose 
 word on the subject ought to be final, says that she was born at Carlton 
 Hall, in the county of Durham. Fortunately we are able to throw light on 
 the subject by means of a letter from the brother of the poetess. He says : 
 " Mrs. Browning was born at Coxheath Hall, county Durham. Mrs. 
 Althane, my second sister, was born in London. The rest of us were born 
 in Herefordshire. I am the sixth, and, as you may suppose, know nothing 
 of Coxheath. I am not even quite sure I am right in the name. I fancy 
 my father was only the tenant. He married when he was eighteen, and 
 Mrs. Browning was the eldest." There is no Coxheath Hall in the 
 county of Durham, but there is a village of Carlton. Mr. Barrett admits 
 that he may be mistaken in the name, but his evidence may be taken as 
 conclusive on the point most in dispute that it was in the county of 
 Durham, and not in London, that Mrs. Browning was born. 
 
 It must be held to be extraordinary, and yet most fitting, that the 
 greatest poetess the world has seen should have been united in marriage 
 to one of the greatest poets of the 19th century. There is in the history of 
 our men and women of letters no other example of a similar union. Very 
 appropriately, too, the acquaintance was brought about by a passage in one 
 of Mrs. Browning's poems. She had made a graceful and most discerning 
 reference to the author of "Bells and Pomegranates," in her ''Lady 
 
 Geraldine's Courtship," 
 
 " Or, from Browning some Pomegranate, which, when cut deep down the middle, 
 
 Shows within a heart blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity." 
 
 and the poet thereupon procured an introduction to her, when he found her 
 great spirit confined in so small and frail a body that she appeared to be 
 connected with mortality only by the very slenderest threads. This was in 
 1845. Elizabeth Barrett, whose father's name had originally been Moulton,. 
 had then published several volumes of verse and one prose work, " The 
 Greek Christian Poets and the English Poets." She had written an epic 
 at thirteen years of age, and in her twenty-first year her first proof-sheets 
 came from the printer, an " Essay upon Mind," and other poems, being 
 published as a volume in 1827. 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett was among the women of sound learning. She had 
 Plato bound up as a romance, in order to deceive her friends as to the
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 33 
 
 nature of her reading. Italian and Hebrew were among her accomplish- 
 ments. There seems to have been no moment in her life which was devoted 
 to light employments, and the poetic fire burned within her with so much 
 intenseness that it was for ever threatening to consume her insubstantial 
 frame. Of her poems she wrote : " They have my heart and life in them ; 
 they are not empty shells .... I have done my work not as mere hand and 
 head work, apart from the personal being, but as the completest expression 
 of that being to which I could attain, feeling its short-comings more deeply 
 than any of my readers, but feeling also that the reverence and sincerity 
 with which the work was done should give it some protection with the 
 reverent and sincere. " 
 
 The poetess was born, says Mr. Browning, in 1806. Other authorities, 
 among them Mr. Ingram, declare that she was not born until 1809. This 
 notice is based on the earlier date. In 1837 she became a confirmed 
 invalid. When Robert Browning met her she had been confined in a 
 darkened room for the long space of five years. Before her illness she 
 was, according to Miss Mitford, " of a slight, delicate figure, with a shower 
 of dark curls falling on either side of a most expressive face." She had 
 " large tender eyes, richly fringed by dark eyelashes, a smile like a sun- 
 beam," and a look of most extraordinary youthfulness. The marriage of 
 Elizabeth Barrett with Mr. Browning took place in 1846, and during the 
 courtship the poetess wrote her " Sonnets from the Portuguese," the most 
 passionate expression of a great and pure love that is to be found in the 
 literature of any country. The remainder of her life was spent in Italy, 
 where her son was born, where she wrote "Aurora Leigh" and " Casa 
 Guidi Windows," and where, in 1861, she died. Excepting only her love 
 for Mr. Browning, Italy had been her grand passion, and her residence at 
 Pisa was the realisation of a long and settled dream. There, every incident 
 of her life translated itself into poetry, as, for example, a child's song : 
 " I heard last night a little child go singing 
 'Neath Casa Guidi windows, by the church, 
 
 ' delta liberta, bella ! ' stringing 
 The same words still on notes he went in search 
 
 So high for, you concluded the upspringing 
 Of such a nimble bird to sky from perch 
 
 Must leave the whole bush in a tremble green." 
 
 With Mrs. Browning, poetry was passionate thought. Lyric expression 
 and her expression was always lyrical, even when she wrote in blank 
 verse was not in her case the utterance of an occasional mood, but a 
 natural and customary language, like the song-notes of a bird. Her verse, 
 with a few later exceptions, is always as hurried and impetuous as a moun- 
 tain stream, so that sometimes the thought is obscured by the rush of 
 language and rich imagery, and still more frequently there are faults of 
 phrase and rhyme which ought not to have been present in the work of a 
 poet with so exquisite an ear. These, however, are but the occasional flies 
 in amber. Mrs. Browning's poetry is a full and noble expression of the 
 soul of one of the greatest and loftiest-minded women the world has 
 known. 
 
 AARON WATSON.
 
 34 North Country Poets. 
 
 THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 
 
 Do ye hear the children weeping, O rny brothers, 
 
 Ere the sorrow comes with years ? 
 They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, 
 
 And that cannot stop their tears. 
 The young lambs are bleating in the meadows ; 
 
 The young birds are chirping in the nest : 
 The young fawns are playing with the shadows ; 
 
 The young flowers are blowing toward the west 
 But the young, young children, O my brothers, 
 
 They are weeping bitterly ! 
 They are weeping in the playtime of the others, 
 
 In the country of the free. 
 
 Do you question the young children in the sorrow, 
 
 Why their tears are falling so ? 
 The old man may weep for his to-morrow 
 
 Which is lost in Long Ago 
 The old tree is leafless in the forest 
 
 The old year is ending in the frost 
 The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest 
 
 The old hope is hardest to be lost : 
 But the young, young children, O my brothers, 
 
 Do you ask them why they stand 
 Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers 
 In our happy Fatherland ? 
 
 They look up with their pale and sunken faces, 
 
 And their looks are sad to see, 
 For the man's grief abhorrent, draws and presses 
 
 Down the cheeks of infancy 
 " Your old earth," they say, " is very dreary ; " 
 " Our young feet," they say, " are very weak ! 
 Few paces have we taken, yet are weary 
 Our grave-rest is very far to seek !
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 35 
 
 Ask the old why they weep, and not the children, 
 
 For the outside earth is cold, 
 And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, 
 
 And the graves are for the old ! " 
 
 " True," say the young children, " it may happen 
 
 That we die before our time ! 
 Little Alice died last year the grave is shapen 
 
 Like a snowball, in the rime. 
 We looked into the pit prepared to take her 
 
 Was no room for any work in the close clay ; 
 From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, 
 
 Crying, ' Get up, little Alice ! it is day.' 
 If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, 
 
 With your ear down, little Alice never cries ! 
 Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, 
 
 For the smile has time for growing in her eyes, 
 And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in 
 
 The shroud, by the kirk-chime ! 
 
 It is good when it happens," say the children, 
 
 " That we die before our time ! " 
 
 Alas, the wretched children ! they are seeking 
 
 Death in life, as best to have ! 
 They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, 
 
 With a cerement from the grave. 
 Go out, children, from the mine and from the city 
 
 Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do 
 Pluck you handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty 
 Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through ! 
 But they answer, " Are your cowslips of the meadows 
 
 Like our weeds anear the mine ? 
 Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, 
 From your pleasures fair and fine ! 
 
 " For oh," say the children, " we are weary, 
 And we cannot run or leap
 
 36 North Country Poets. 
 
 If we cared for any meadows, it were merely 
 
 To drop down in them and sleep. 
 Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping 
 
 We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; 
 And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, 
 
 The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. 
 For, all day, we drag our burden tiring, 
 
 Through the coal-dark, underground 
 Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron 
 
 In the factories, round and round. 
 
 " For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning, 
 
 Their wind comes in our faces, 
 Till our hearts turn, our heads, with pulses burning, 
 
 And the walls turn in their places 
 Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling 
 Turns the long light that droopeth down the wall 
 Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling 
 All are turning, all the day, and we with all ! 
 And all day, the iron wheels are droning ; 
 
 And sometimes we could pray, 
 ' ye wheels ' (breaking out in a mad moaning), 
 ' Stop ! be silent for to-day ! ' ' 
 
 Ay ! be silent ! Let them hear each other breathing 
 
 For a moment, mouth to mouth 
 Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing 
 
 Of their tender human youth ! 
 Let them feel that this cold metallic motion 
 
 Is not all the life God fashions or reveals 
 Let them prove their inward souls against the notion 
 
 That they live in you, or under you, O wheels ! 
 Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, 
 
 As if Fate in each were stark ; 
 And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, 
 
 Spin on blindly in the dark.
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 37 
 
 Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, 
 
 That they look to Him and pray 
 So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others, 
 
 Will bless them another day. 
 They answer, " Who is God that He should hear us, 
 
 While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred ? 
 When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us 
 
 Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word ! 
 And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) 
 
 Strangers speaking at the door ; 
 Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, 
 
 Hears our weeping any more ? 
 
 " Two words, indeed, of praying we remember ; 
 
 And at midnight's hour of harm, 
 ' Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, 
 
 We say softly for a charm, 
 We know no other words, except ' Our Father,' 
 
 And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, 
 God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, 
 
 And hold both within His right hand which is strong. 
 ' Our Father ! ' If He heard us, He would surely 
 
 (For they call Him good and mild) 
 Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, 
 ' Come and rest with me, my child.' ' 
 
 " But, no ! " say the children, weeping faster, 
 
 " He is speechless as a stone ! 
 And they tell us, of His image is the master 
 
 Who commands us to work on. 
 Go to ! " say the children, " Up in Heaven, 
 
 Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find ! 
 Do not mock us ; grief has made us unbelieving 
 
 We look up for God, but tears have made us blind." 
 Do ye hear the children weeping and disproving, 
 
 O my brothers, what ye preach ? 
 For God's possible is taught by His world's loving 
 
 And the children doubt of each.
 
 38 North Country Poets. 
 
 And well may the children weep before you ; 
 
 They are weary ere they run ; 
 They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory 
 
 Which is brighter than the sun : 
 They know the grief of men, but not the wisdom ; 
 
 They sink in the despair, without the calm 
 Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, 
 
 Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm, 
 Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly 
 
 No dear remembrance keep, 
 Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly : 
 
 Let them weep ! let them weep ! 
 
 They look up, with their pale and sunken faces, 
 
 And their look is dread to see, 
 For you think you see their angels in their places, 
 
 With eyes meant for Deity ; 
 " How long," they say, " how long, cruel nation, 
 
 Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart, 
 Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, 
 
 And tread onward to your throne aniid the smart ? 
 Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants, 
 
 And your purple shows your path ; 
 But the child's sob curseth deeper in the silence 
 Than the strong man in his wrath ! " 
 
 THE LADY'S YES. 
 
 " Yes ! " I answered you last night ; 
 
 " No ! " this morning, Sir, I say ! 
 Colours seen by candle-light, 
 
 Will not look the same by day. 
 
 When the tabors played their best, 
 Lamps above, and laughs below 
 
 Love me sounded like a jest, 
 Fit for Yes or fit for No !
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 39 
 
 Gall me false, or call rne free 
 
 Vow, whatever light may shine, 
 No man on thy face shall see 
 
 Any grief for change on mine. 
 
 Yet the sm is on us both 
 
 Time to dance is not to woo 
 Wooer light makes fickle troth 
 
 Scorn of me recoils on you ! 
 
 Learn to win a lady's faith 
 
 Nobly, as the thing is high ; 
 Bravely, as for life and death 
 
 With a loyal gravity. 
 
 Lead her from the festive boards, 
 
 Point her to the starry skies, 
 Guard her, by your truthful words, 
 
 Pure from courtship's flatteries. 
 
 By your truth she shall be true, 
 
 Ever true, as wives of yore 
 And her Yes, once said to you, 
 
 SHALL be Yes for evermore. 
 
 THE SLEEP. 
 
 He giveth His beloved sleep." PSALM cxxvii. 2. 
 
 Of all the thoughts of God that are 
 Borne inward into souls afar, 
 Along the Psalmist's music deep, 
 Now tell me if that any is, 
 For gift or grace, surpassing this 
 " He giveth His beloved, sleep " ? 
 
 What would we give to our beloved ? 
 The hero's heart, to be unmoved,
 
 40 North Country Poets. 
 
 The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep, 
 The senate's shout to patriot vows, 
 The monarch's crown, to light the brows ? 
 " He giveth His beloved, sleep." 
 
 What do we give to our beloved ? 
 
 A little faith all undisproved, 
 
 A little dust to overweep, 
 
 And bitter memories to make 
 
 The whole earth blasted for our sake ! 
 
 " He giveth His beloved, sleep." 
 
 " Sleep soft, beloved ! " we sometimes say, 
 
 But have no tune to charm away 
 
 Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep. 
 
 But never doleful dream again 
 
 Shall break the happy slumber when 
 
 " He giveth His beloved, sleep." 
 
 O earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
 O men, with wailing in your voices ! 
 delved gold, the wailers heap ! 
 
 strife, curse, that o'er it fall ! 
 God makes a silence through you all, 
 And giveth His beloved, sleep. 
 
 His dews drop mutely on the hill ; 
 His cloud above it saileth still, 
 Though on its slope men sow and reap ! 
 More softly than the dew is shed, 
 Or cloud is floated overhead, 
 " He giveth His beloved, sleep." 
 
 Yea ! men may wonder while they scan 
 A living, thinking, feeling man 
 In such a rest his heart to keep ; 
 But angels say, and through the word 
 
 1 think their blessed smile is heard 
 " He giveth His beloved, sleep."
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 41 
 
 For me, my heart that erst did go 
 Most like a tired child at a show, 
 That sees through tears the jugglers leap, 
 Would now its wearied vision close, 
 Would childlike on His love repose, 
 Who giveth His beloved, sleep ! 
 
 xVnd, friends ! dear friends, When it shall be 
 That this low breath is gone from me, 
 And round my bier ye come to weep, 
 Let one, most loving of you all, 
 Say, ' Not a tear must o'er her fall ' ; 
 " He giveth His beloved, sleep." 
 
 THE SOUL'S EXPRESSION. 
 
 With stammering lips and insufficient sound, 
 
 I strive and struggle to deliver right 
 
 That music of my nature, day and night 
 
 With dream and thought and feeling, interwound : 
 
 And inly answering all the senses round 
 
 With octaves of a mystic depth and height, 
 
 Which step out grandly to the infinite 
 
 From the dark edges of the sensual ground ! 
 
 This song of soul I struggle to outbear 
 
 Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole, 
 
 And utter all myself into the air : 
 
 But if I did it, as the thunder-roll 
 
 Breaks its own cloud, my flesh would perish there, 
 
 Before that dread apocalypse of soul.
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 David Holt. 
 
 HE father of David Holt was a successful cotton-spinner at 
 Holt Town, Manchester, where our poet was born in 
 1828. Reverses of fortune fell upon the family, and at an 
 early age he entered the gloomy portal of commercial life. 
 He had no remembrance of a time when he did not feel a 
 deep and passionate love for poetry, and, as a boy, 
 scribbled verses. At the age of seventeen, he published 
 " Poems, Rural and Miscellaneous/' a volume which 
 appears to have contained nothing remarkable ; and it was not until five 
 years later that, " A Lay of Hero Worship, and other Poems " (London : 
 William Pickering, 1850), introduced David Holt, as a poet, to his native 
 town. His third volume, " Janus, Lake Sonnets, etc. " (London : William 
 Pickering), was published in 1853, and embodied most of his best 
 work. From this time he does not seem to have written much, but in 1868, 
 his friend, Mr. Alexander Ireland, induced him to issue a small volume 
 of selections, bearing on its title page, " Poems by David Holt " (London : 
 Simpkin, Marshall, & Co. ; Manchester : A. Ireland & Co.), amongst 
 which were several poems of great beauty, not hitherto printed. 
 
 The life of David Holt was singularly uneventful. For thirty-four 
 years he was closely engaged in a railway office ; and the days were few 
 when he was absent from the city of his birth. In 1853 he married. The 
 union proved a most happy one ; and his wife and family of three sons 
 survived him. He died, in 1880, at the age of fifty-one years, and was 
 buried in the beautiful churchyard of Bowdon, Cheshire : fit place for one 
 whose heart had leaned out to the fields, through a life which was spent 
 in the streets. 
 
 David Holt has himself written that he believed he lacked entirely the 
 creative, and to a great extent the imaginative faculties ; and there is much 
 truth in the confession. I only know of two instances where stories are 
 woven into his poems, and they are both slight. Still he was a sweet 
 singer ; earnestness and sincerity are ever present in his writings, and his 
 graceful and melodious rhymes occasionally rise to something nobler. 
 
 His most ambitious poems are "A lay of hero worship " and "Janus;" 
 both contain fine passages, and will well repay perusal. Amongst his best 
 work are "Lake Sonnets," "The woodlands," "The mountain dream," 
 " Building up," " 1859 in Italy," " 'Twas a maiden and her lover," " The 
 departed," and " A promise." 
 
 By early associations, he was connected with the Society of Friends. 
 He was a man of chivalrous honour, a quiet, modest nature, and surpassing 
 gentleness : these qualities, together with wide knowledge and dry 
 humour, endeared him to all with whom he came in contact. 
 
 JOSEPH PEEEIN.
 
 David Holt. 43 
 
 THE WOODLANDS. 
 
 'tis sweet, 'tis sweet to wander in the greensward-paven alleys, 
 With the laden boughs above us, and the moss-clad trunks around ; 
 Or to lie and dream with Mature 'mid the fern-clad hills and valleys, 
 In a harmony of silence far surpassing sweetest sound. 
 
 O the woodlands, the woodlands, the sweet and shady places, 
 Lone romantic hollows haunted by the wild-bird and the bee ; 
 Ye may gaze for hours together on the sweet upturned faces 
 Of the flowers, whose gentle smiling it is almost heaven to see. 
 
 And they smile upon you ever with a pure and holy smiling 
 Of their lovely human sisterhood, and ever as you pass, 
 Look up to you beseechingly as though they were beguiling 
 You to take your seat beside them on the warm and sunny grass. 
 
 And think you they will answer if with gentle words ye woo them ? 
 
 0, believe me, they have voices sweet as any singing bird ; 
 
 But they speak to those who love them, and who lean their souls 
 
 unto them, 
 And by such, and by such only, are their gentle voices heard. 
 
 They will tell you tales of fairy-bands, that come and dance around 
 
 them, 
 
 And sing them songs of joyance through the livelong summer night, 
 Tracing circles in the greensward when the quiet moon hath bound 
 
 them 
 In the mystery of beauty with a veil of silver light. 
 
 And the merry, merry streamlet, as it plays amid the pebbles, 
 Chiming in with happy chorus to the wild-bird's sunny song, 
 With its softly murmur'd tenor, and its liquid-trilling trebles, 
 Makes the woodlands ring with music as its light waves dance along : 
 
 Ye may almost dare to fancy that ye will behold the issue 
 Of some Naiad from the waters with her eyes of liquid blue, 
 With rounded form of beauty, and with lips of vermeil tissue, 
 Sent expressly by the Muses to hold converse sweet with you.
 
 44 North Country Poets. 
 
 Or, if graver mood be on you, from the antique trunks all hoary, 
 Ye may list for Dryad-voices, with their sad and solemn strain, 
 Bewailing to the passing winds their far and faded glory, 
 And lamenting days departed which may never come again. 
 
 0, to couch on beds of violet, in a foliage-curtain'd pleasaunce, 
 There to feast upon their beauty, and to breathe their sweet perfume, 
 Meet to be inhal'd by angels so ethereal is its essence, 
 While they are meet for angels' gaze, so holy is their bloom ; 
 
 'Twere a joy almost too blissful for a mere mortal to inherit ; 
 Yet a simple joy, and Nature hath a thousand such in store 
 For all those who woo her beauties with a pure and constant spirit, 
 And for every fresh revealing, love those gentle beauties more. 
 
 Yes, to live mid leafy shadows, and to note the hours flit by us 
 
 By the sunbeams on the foliage, were a happy life to lead ; 
 
 And a life according sweetly with the pure and natural bias 
 
 Of some hearts devote to Nature, and well skilled her lore to read. 
 
 But the world hath claims upon us, and our social duties ever 
 Call us forth to crowded cities, there to jostle with the throng ; 
 Yet methinks it were much happier to depart from Nature never, 
 But to dwell amid the wild-woods and to pass our life in song. 
 
 BUILDING UP. 
 
 With infinite patience and toil to develop 
 Whate'er may be in us of good and of beauty, 
 To build up our nature with labour incessant, 
 That our Future may cast into shadow our Present : 
 This is our mission in life, and our duty. 
 
 But that which is built to endure, is built slowly, 
 And all that the world has of great and of noble, 
 Hath slowly been wrought out with toil and with trouble ;
 
 David Holt. 45 
 
 And they are the learned who end with discerning 
 That men may grow grey, and yet still be but learning. 
 
 It taketh brief time, and but little invention, 
 To build up a fabric of lath and of plaster, 
 But it taketh long years, and the mind of a master, 
 To build a cathedral, with arch and with column, 
 Meet for God's glory majestic and solemn. 
 
 AT THE GRAVE OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 (In Grasmere Churchyard). 
 
 Oh better far than richly sculptur'd tomb, 
 
 Oh fitter far than monumental pile 
 
 Of storied marble in cathedral aisle, 
 
 Is this low grassy grave, bright with the bloom 
 
 Of nature, and laid open to the smile 
 
 Of the blue heaven this stone that tells to whom 
 
 The spot is dedicate, who rests beneath 
 
 In this God's acre, this fair field of death ; 
 
 Oh meet it is, great Bard, that in the breast 
 
 Of this sweet vale, and 'neath the guardian hills 
 
 By thee so loved, thy venerated dust 
 
 Should lie in peace ; and it is meet and just 
 
 That evermore around thy place of rest 
 
 Should rise the murmur of the mountain rills.
 
 46 North Country Poets. 
 
 Arthur A. D. Bay I don. 
 
 j^TJfMONGST the rising poets of Yorkshire, Mr. Bayldon 
 promises to obtain a prominent place. He is a native of 
 Leeds, and was born on March 20th, 1865. He was edu- 
 cated at the Leeds Grammar School, and has devoted 
 much study to the productions of our best poets, whilst 
 his mind has been expanded by foreign travel, as he has 
 visited America, India, and other parts of the world. He 
 has been a resident in Hull for some time. Messrs. Geo. 
 Bell & Sons, London, published a volume of his poetry in 1887, under the 
 title of " Lays and Lyrics." The pieces are somewhat unequal, but on the 
 whole shew much talent. Several of the leading critical j ournals pronounced 
 the work as one of great promise, and as a first attempt it may be regarded 
 as a highly satisfactory performance. The following examples of Mr. 
 Bayldon's poetry are drawn from his volume. 
 
 W. A. 
 
 THE TWO WORLDS. 
 
 Sprung as from niist two rolling worlds I view'd : 
 One was all beauty, whirling swift and bright, 
 Peopled by shapes and visions of delight ; 
 
 The other swung a shapeless solitude, 
 
 Haunted by things which evermore must brood 
 In the dim wastes of melancholy Night. 
 A shadowy horror hung about the height 
 
 Of desolate steeps where footsteps ne'er intrude. 
 
 And as I gaz'd with wonder, lo ! there came 
 A whisper from my spirit's inmost lair : 
 
 " Yon glorious world is thine own dream of Fame, 
 Which thine Imagination paints so fair ; 
 
 And that dense orb, where mighty shadows move, 
 
 Eeflects the dream Eeality may prove."
 
 Arthur A. D. Bayldon. 47 
 
 THE SPHINX. 
 
 Alone upon the desert wild and bare, 
 Still gazing with thy melancholy eyes, 
 While ages sweep and empires sink and rise, 
 
 Thy mighty Image stands, whose features wear 
 
 The same lix'd look thy sculptor carved there. 
 No shadow falls but what thy form supplies- 
 Unchangeable as thy familiar skies 
 
 And thine eternal kingdom of despair. 
 
 Like shadows by thine Image come and go 
 A host of curious pilgrims from all lands, 
 
 And disappear as ages swiftly flow ; 
 
 And then the broad and ever-burning sands, 
 
 With solitude, and thy still steadfast face, 
 
 Break on our dreams of some forgotten race. 
 
 SONG TO THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Flashing form, so fair and fleeting ! 
 
 Arching hill, and vale, and sea, 
 To my spirit's ear repeating 
 
 Vows of love from Him to me. 
 
 Thou art fraught with heavenly duty 
 
 To the erring human race ; 
 Thou art bright with more than beauty, 
 
 Moulded from the sun's embrace. 
 
 O thou sweet one ! pure and holy, 
 
 Breathing melody above, 
 How I love to watch thee, lowly, 
 
 Till my heart swim's o'er with love. 
 
 While I speak thy swift hues tremble, 
 
 Fading, fleeting fast away. 
 Now the flying clouds assemble, 
 
 And thy tints, oh ! where are they ?
 
 4 8 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 George Linnceus Banks. 
 
 HOUGH not a Yorkshireman by birth, yet was G. Linnaeus 
 Banks one by parentage. His father, John Banks, and 
 William, the father of W. S. Banks, were brothers, born in 
 Wakefield. Of these, William, the elder, was placed at 
 Ackworth School by Sir Joseph Banks, to whom they 
 were collaterally related. Apprenticeship was the good 
 custom of the period, and John was accordingly appren- 
 ticed to the Earl of Mexborough's head gardener. Pre- 
 viously to his marriage with Sarah Hill (a descendant of historic Eichard 
 Penderell), he had settled in Birmingham as a seedsman and florist, and 
 there, in the Bull-Bing, was his fourth son, George Linnaeus, born March 
 2nd, 1821. 
 
 His parents were Wesleyans of a very rigid type. Home rule was of 
 the strictest. From home, " Banks's boys " were known as the incarnation 
 of mischief, banding with others for the perpetration of practical jokes 
 that would not be tolerated in these days ; young George with the rest. 
 He was sent to good schools, among them Dr. Guy's, and on one occasion 
 played truant for the whole term, except the first day. The Methodist 
 Magazine and " Ptomaine's Walk of Faith " sample the narrow bookshelf. 
 But at a very early age the embryo poet feasted on " Young's Night 
 Thoughts," and in order to read in quiet, and perhaps to emulate " Harvey's 
 Meditations among the Tombs," betook himself to the planted graveyard 
 of St. Philip's Church evening by evening. He was little more than 
 nine years old when he began to contribute squibs and epigrams to a 
 newly-started satirical paper called The Argus. He was not much older 
 when he was threatened with permanent blindness, saw only a glimmer 
 of light for months, and was finally cured by a quack who applied 
 leeches to his feet. His weakness in sight prevented his apprenticeship 
 to an engraver, to whom he went on probation. Then modelling was 
 tried, but affected his health. Finally he bound himself to a cabinet case- 
 maker, i.e., a maker of desks, work-boxes, &c., at that time profusely 
 inlaid with pearl and ebony. Here another talent was displayed. He 
 designed his own scrolls as he cut them out. His master failing, he 
 dropped his tools and became a salesman in different places, all along 
 keeping up his connection with the press. His first volume, " Blossoms 
 of Poesy," dedicated to Prince Albert, and published in 1841, served as an 
 introductory chapter to his marriage in December, 184G, to Isabella, eldest 
 daughter of James and Amelia "Varley, of Manchester. In 1848 he com- 
 menced his editorial career on The Harrogate Advertiser, which he, too late, 
 discovered to be a mere summer paper. Already free of the platform, he 
 filled the winter vacuum with lecturing throughout the north and founding 
 Mechanics' Institutes in Harrogate and elsewhere, eventuating in the
 
 George Linnceus Banks. 49 
 
 " North-West Sub-Union of Mechanics' Institutes," of which he became 
 first secretary. As a lecturer and public speaker he was most popular. 
 His lecture on " Gossip and Slander " will not be forgotten by those who 
 heard it. Whilst in Harrogate he published a second volume of poems, 
 " Staves for the Human Ladder" (1850). It was there, over the breakfast 
 table, that he wrote his celebrated poem, " What I live for." It went into the 
 Family Herald first, then into his next volume, " Peals from the Belfry " 
 (1853), and since has gone the world over. Dr. Guthrie, Dr. Ealeigh, and 
 others have tagged sermons and speeches with a stanza from it, 
 The Chevalier de Chatelain published a French translation, and 
 The Panama Star and Herald adopted the three concluding lines as its 
 motto. His other volumes exclusive of pamphlets and unprinted plays 
 and lectures wre " The Life of Blondin " (1862), " Finger-post Guide to 
 London, "and "All about Shakespeare " (1864), "Daisies in the Grass" (1865), 
 a volume containing poems by husband and wife coming last. It is not 
 possible here to enumerate even the chief of his lyrics, set to music by 
 well known composers, or the many public movements he inaugurated in 
 his native town and elsewhere. His successive editorships after Harrogate 
 were The Birmingham Mercury, The Dublin Daily Express, The Durham 
 Chronicle, The Sussex Mercury, The Windsor Royal Standard, and The 
 Exchange, a financial paper. The last two were his own property, and in- 
 volved him in considerable loss. Whilst in Durham he set on foot a 
 celebration of the Burns' Centenary, which left as a result a fine full-length 
 portrait of Kobert Burns in the Town Hall : the only English memorial of 
 the event. In recognition of his eloquent oration on this occasion, the 
 Glasgow committee forwarded to Mr. Banks a medallion profile of their 
 honoured bard, with a complimentary inscription at the back. But 
 whether in the North or South he was at work for the masses. In London 
 he inaugurated the Working Men's Shakespeare Tercentenary Movement, 
 which left the Shakespeare Oak on Primrose Hill as a testimony. Several 
 other public movements he set on foot in the metropolis, but his editorial 
 days were over. Towards the close of his life he did not write a great 
 deal, but, nevertheless, he produced some fine poems, perhaps the best being 
 the " Lay of the Captive Lark." Mr. Banks was ill for a considerable 
 time. He succumbed to long concealed cancer on the 4th of May, 1881, and 
 was buried in Abney Park Cemetery. 
 
 ISABELLA BANKS. 
 
 WHAT I LIVE FOR, 
 
 I live for those who love me, 
 
 Whose hearts are kind and true ; 
 
 For the Heaven that smiles above me, 
 And awaits my spirit too ;
 
 50 North Country Poets. 
 
 For all human ties that bind me, 
 For the task by God assigned me, 
 For the bright hopes yet to find me, 
 And the good that I can do. 
 
 I live to learn their story 
 
 Who suffered for my sake ; 
 
 To emulate their glory, 
 
 And follow in their wake : 
 
 Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages, 
 
 The heroic of all ages, 
 
 Whose deeds crowd History's pages, 
 And Time's great volume make. 
 
 I live to hold communion 
 
 With all that is divine, 
 To feel there is a union 
 
 'Twixt Nature's heart and mine ; 
 To profit by affliction, 
 Reap truth from fields of fiction, 
 Grow wiser from conviction, 
 
 And fulfil God's grand design. 
 
 I live to hail that season 
 
 By gifted ones foretold, 
 W T hen men shall live by reason, 
 
 And not alone by gold, 
 When man to man united, 
 And every wrong thing righted, 
 The whole world shall be lighted 
 As Eden was of old. 
 
 I live for those who love me, 
 
 For those who know me true, 
 For the Heaven that smiles above me, 
 
 And awaits my spirit too ; 
 For the cause that lacks assistance, 
 For the wrong that needs resistance, 
 For the future in the distance, 
 And the good that I can do.
 
 George Linnceus Banks. 51 
 
 LAY OF THE CAPTIVE LARK. 
 
 A PLAINTIVE PLEA FOB OUR POOR BIRDS OF SONG. 
 
 Deep in the thick of a tuft of clover 
 
 My mate and I 
 (And never was lover truer to lover 
 
 Than she and I) 
 Had built our nest, and in peace we lay, 
 
 Unrecking of snare 
 Awaiting the first faint blush of day 
 
 To bound to the air, 
 
 And open the service of life with a matin, 
 Couched in ornithological Latin, 
 When the fowler came, like a thief in the dark, 
 And broke up the home of the poor little Lark. 
 
 My mate she died of fright, 
 
 So did our nestlings twain ; 
 I was carried away by might 
 Out of the fields and out of sight 
 Of the hedgerows in the lane, 
 Into the strange abodes of men 
 Never to look on the downs again. 
 There I was sold for a top and a marble 
 
 By a gutter Arab, nine years old ; 
 I, of the minstrel tribe, who could warble 
 Melodies precious as liquid gold- 
 Sold as a very loon, 
 Devoid of soul or tune 
 Or as a knave, or slave, 
 And all for life 
 To a cobbler's wife. 
 
 Then they put me in a cage, 
 With sloping roof and bars 
 
 Me who could soar with the sage, 
 And talk to the silvern stars
 
 52 North Country Poets. 
 
 In the face of the morn 
 When the day is born, 
 And the babe buds sing 
 To the great Sun-king, 
 Biding forth on his car of cars. 
 
 And here I am in my cage, 
 With sloping roof and bars, 
 Immured for life 
 By a cobbler's wife, 
 In the pestilent air 
 Of a tumble-down square 
 
 That recoils from the light of the stars ; 
 
 Yet I'm wiser than the sage, 
 
 And happier than the sage, 
 With the Pleiades, and Mars, 
 
 And all the heavenly train 
 
 Talking to him in vain. 
 
 Out of all that he sees and hears 
 
 He cannot fashion one song ; 
 Nor set to music the tears, 
 
 Or the frowns of the human throng : 
 He can only tickle the brain 
 With facts, or with fancies, vain, 
 
 Showing how little he knows, 
 How very little he knows, 
 While no song flows 
 From him the whole day long, 
 To gladden the moiling throng. 
 
 Now, 'tis my delight to sing 
 For song is worship, and peace, and love, 
 Both on earth beneath, and in Heaven above ; 
 
 It is my delight to sing, 
 
 Because of the joy it will bring 
 
 To the sorrowing, 
 
 And the suffering ;
 
 George Linnczus Banks. 53 
 
 And because of the balm 'twill impart 
 To many a sad and weary heart, 
 And many an urchin trodden down 
 In the reeking slums of this cruel town. 
 
 'Twere pleasanter far to be 
 
 Out in the flowery lea, 
 
 Nestling low in the grass, 
 
 Where the fairy-mummers pass, 
 
 Or mounting up to Heaven 
 
 With the pinions my Maker has given ; 
 
 But better it is that I 
 
 Should be pent up here alone, 
 
 Without space to soar or to fly, 
 
 Leading the life of a drone, 
 Than the dwellers in courts and alleys dim 
 Should lack the grace of a daily hymn. 
 
 There never was monk in a church, 
 
 Had such congregations as I, 
 When throned on my slender pulpit perch 
 
 I preach to the passers-by, 
 Telling of all the beautiful things 
 Which can only be known to the spirit with wings. 
 
 There never was choir in a church, 
 
 Led off by the organ's note, 
 That could rival me on my choral perch 
 
 When I pour from my simple throat 
 The anthems composed in that prelude of time 
 When the Earth was rung in with a starry chime. 
 
 I often recur to the hours 
 
 When I borrowed the breath of the flowers 
 To perfume our nest in the purple clover ; 
 
 For, though I am but a bird, 
 
 I have feelings that will be stirred 
 By a thought of the old time now and then coming over ;
 
 54 North Country Poets. 
 
 And I'd like one day in the week 
 
 The haunts of my youth to seek, 
 To see if the elms and limes are standing still : 
 
 But if I were called away 
 
 For only an hour in the day, 
 Who is there my place in this human desert to fill ? 
 
 Whose cheery voice would chase 
 From the pallid and sunken face, 
 
 The beetling scowl and the look of blank despair ? 
 Whose tuneful, loving tone, 
 With the fervour of mine own, 
 
 Uplift the soul in alternate praise and prayer ? 
 Whose timely voice arouse 
 The sons of toil to their labour vows, 
 
 And soothe their hearts at the set of sun, 
 
 When the task for the daily bread was done ? 
 
 Ah, no ! ah, no ! 
 My duty here below 
 
 Is with the sad, the weary, the distressed : 
 I am a missionary bird, 
 Bearing God's holy Word 
 To mind distraught and heavy-laden breast ; 
 So I will keep my post and fill 
 These rookeries with my trill, 
 
 Till my brave heart break, or fleeting strength decay 
 Then I'll fold my wings in peace, 
 And await Death's kind release, 
 To rejoin my mate and nestlings far away !
 
 George Linn&us Banks. 55 
 
 DAY IS BREAKING. 
 
 A SONG OP PEOGBESS. 
 
 Day is breaking 
 On the mountain-tops of Time, 
 
 As they stand head-bared and hoary, 
 Watching from their heights sublime 
 The new Morning upward climb 
 
 In its creative glory 
 
 Day is breaking, 
 Like a firmament of light 
 
 Flushing far the heaving ocean ; 
 And the darkness of the Night 
 Melts before its gathering might 
 
 As a spectral thing in motion ! 
 
 Day is breaking ! 
 In the valleys, on the hills, 
 
 The earth is as an infant swathed in brightness ; 
 And the rivers and the rills 
 With a sparkling joy it fills, 
 
 As to lyric measure turns their rippling lightness ! 
 
 Day is breaking ! 
 And the matin of each bird 
 
 A ray of morn distilled in music ringing 
 Through the welkin far, is heard 
 Echoing, like the parting word 
 
 Of a lover to his earthly idol clinging ! 
 
 Day is breaking, 
 Like a host of angels sent 
 
 With some new revelation, 
 And the mourning nations bent, 
 Tiptoe wait the grand event 
 
 The mind's emancipation.
 
 56 North Country Poets. 
 
 Day is breaking ! 
 And from the grave of other years 
 
 In new birth Life awaking, 
 Above the dust of Death uprears 
 Its face, no longer wet with tears, 
 
 For mankind's Day is breaking. 
 
 Day is breaking ! 
 And as the story of its advent flies, 
 
 In the mart, on 'Change, 
 Sagacious men, far-seeing, questioning, wise, 
 Tarry to fathom in each other's eyes 
 
 The import deep and strange. 
 
 Day is breaking ! 
 A crimson rust feeds on the sword 
 
 Devoured by blood of its own shedding ; 
 And where the cannon thundering roared, 
 To nobler peace and self restored, 
 
 Man by the Light of God is treading.
 
 Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. 57 
 
 Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. 
 
 MONGST modern poets Sir Francis Hastings Doyle, Bart., 
 gained an important place, and made some lasting con- 
 tributions to English poetry. Several of his poems are 
 familiar to readers in the North of England, having 
 special local interest. His best known productions are "The 
 Private of the Buffs," " The Loss of the Birkenhead," 
 and " The Spanish Mother." He wrote some clever lines 
 on the St. Leger. Some verses in honour of Alice Ayres, 
 the nurse who perished in rescuing her mistress's children from the flames, 
 have been very widely quoted and warmly praised. He was born August 
 22nd, 1810, at Nun Appleton, near Tadcaster, Yorkshire, being the son of the 
 first baronet, Major-General Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. He was educated 
 at Eton, and Christ Church, Oxford, and had a distinguished university 
 career. At the Easter Term in 1832 he took his degree, passing First Class 
 in Classics. From 1836 to 1844 he was a Fellow of All Souls' College, 
 Oxford, and resigned on his marriage to Sidney, daughter of Sir Watkin 
 Williams Wynn (she died in 1867). He was called to the Bar shortly after 
 leaving Oxford. In 1846 he obtained the post of Receiver-General of Cus- 
 toms, and in 1870 was advanced to Commissioner of Customs. From 1867 to 
 1877 he was Professor of Poetry at Oxford, and on his quitting the chair 
 he had conferred upon him the honorary degree of D.C.L. Three of his 
 Lectures on Poetry were issued in book form ; one is an able vindication of 
 Provincial poetry, dealing at some length with the writings of the Rev. 
 William Barnes, the Dorsetshire poet. In 1886 he published his " Reminis- 
 cences and Opinions," and at different times issued volumes of verse. He 
 died June 8th, 1888. The following examples of his poetry are drawn from 
 his volume entitled " The Return of the Guards, and other Poems " 
 (London ; Macmillan & Co., 1883), and we beg to thank the publishers for 
 their courtesy in permitting their reproduction in these pages. 
 
 W. A. 
 
 THE LOSS OF THE "BIRKENHEAD." 
 
 Supposed to be told by a soldier who survived. 
 
 Eight on our flank the sun was dropping down ; 
 The deep sea heaved around in bright repose ; 
 When, like the wild shriek from some captured town, 
 A cry of women rose.
 
 58 . North Country Poets. 
 
 The stout ship " Birkeuhead " lay hard and fast, 
 
 Caught without hope upon a hidden rock ; 
 Her timbers thrilled as nerves, when thro' them passed 
 The spirit of that shock. 
 
 And ever like base cowards, who leave their ranks 
 
 In danger's hour, before the rush of steel, 
 Drifted away, disorderly, the planks 
 From underneath her keel. 
 
 So calm the air so calm and still the flood, 
 
 That low down in its blue translucent glass 
 We saw the great fierce fish, that thirst for blood, 
 Pass slowly, then repass. 
 
 They tarried, the waves tarried, for their prey ! 
 
 The sea turned one clear smile ! Like things asleep 
 Those dark shapes in the azure silence lay, 
 As quiet as the deep. 
 
 Then amidst oath, and prayer, and rush, and wreck, 
 
 Faint screams, faint questions waiting no reply, 
 Our Colonel gave the word, and on the deck 
 Form'd us in line to die. 
 
 To die ! 'twas hard, while the sleek ocean glow'd, 
 
 Beneath a sky as fair as summer flowers : 
 All to the boats ! cried one he was, thank God, 
 No officer of ours. 
 
 Our English hearts beat true we would not stir : 
 
 That base appeal we heard, but heeded not : 
 On land, on sea, we had our Colours, sir, 
 To keep without a spot. 
 
 They shall not say in England, that we fought 
 
 With shameful strength, unhonour'd life to seek ; 
 Into mean safety, mean deserters, brought 
 By trampling down the weak.
 
 Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. 59 
 
 So we made women with their children go, 
 The oars ply back again, and yet again ; 
 Whilst, inch by inch, the drowning ship sank low, 
 Still, under steadfast men. 
 
 What follows, why recall? The brave who died, 
 
 Died without flinching in the bloody surf, 
 They sleep as well beneath that purple tide 
 As others under turf. 
 
 They sleep as well ! and, roused from their wild grave, 
 
 Wearing their wounds like stars, shall rise again, 
 Joint-heirs with Christ, because they bled to save 
 His weak ones, not in vain. 
 
 If that day's work no clasp or medal mark ; 
 
 If each proud heart no cross of bronze may press, 
 Nor cannon thunder loud from Tower or Park, 
 This feel we none the less : 
 
 That those whom God's high grace there saved from ill, 
 
 Those also left His martyrs in the bay, 
 Though not by siege, though not in battle, still 
 Full well had earned their pay. 
 
 THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS. 
 
 " Some Seiks, and a private of the Buffs, having remained behind 
 with the grog-carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next 
 morning they were brought before the authorities, and commanded to 
 perform the kotou. The Seiks obeyed ; but Moyse, the English soldier, 
 declaring that he would not prostrate himself before any Chinaman 
 alive, was immediately knocked upon the head, and his body thrown on a 
 dunghill." See China Correspondent of the " Times." 
 
 Last night, among his fellow roughs, 
 
 He jested, quaffed, and swore ; 
 A drunken private of the Buffs, 
 
 Who never looked before. 
 To-day, beneath the foeman's frown, 
 
 He stands in Elgin's place,
 
 60 North Country Poets. 
 
 Ambassador from Britain's crown, 
 And type of all her race. 
 
 Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, 
 
 Bewildered, and alone, 
 A heart, with English instinct fraught, 
 
 He yet can call his own. 
 Ay, tear his body limb from limb, 
 
 Bring cord, or axe, or flame : 
 He only knows, that not through him 
 
 Shall England come to shame. 
 
 Far Kentish 1 hop-fields round him seem'd, 
 
 Like dreams to come and go ; 
 Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam'd, 
 
 One sheet of living snow ; 
 The smoke, above his father's door, 
 
 In gray soft eddyings hung : 
 Must he then watch it rise no more, 
 
 Doorn'd by himself, so young ? 
 
 Yes, honour calls ! With strength like steel 
 
 He put the vision by. 
 Let dusky Indians whine and kneel ; 
 
 An English lad must die. 
 And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, 
 
 With knee to man unbent, 
 Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, 
 
 To his red grave he went. 
 
 Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed ; 
 
 Vain, those all-shattering guns ; 
 Unless proud England keep- untamed, 
 
 The strong heart of her sons. 
 So, let his name through Europe ring 
 
 A man of mean estate, 
 Who died, as firm as Sparta's king, 
 
 Because his soul was great. 
 
 1P rhe Buffs, or East Kent Kegiment.
 
 Joseph Skipsey. 
 
 61 
 
 Joseph Skipsey. 
 
 OSEPH Skipsey, the author of " Carols from the Coal 
 Fields," and a native of Northumberland, who has passed 
 the greater part of his life underground, was born in the 
 year 1832. When only an infant in arms, he lost his 
 father, who was a miner ; and, as his widowed mother 
 was left with seven other children, Joseph was sent to 
 work in the pits, when but a child, where he had to 
 toil long hours, generally in the dark, and so it came 
 that during the dreary winter months he only saw the blessed sunlight 
 upon Sundays. Brave and determined to acquire knowledge, the child 
 became his own schoolmaster, and taught himself to read, write, and cipher, 
 whenever he could get a candle-end to enable himself to see printed bills, 
 or written notices, from which to copy the letters, and a bit of chalk with 
 which to write on the wooden doors of the pit. 
 
 His work, then, was to open and shut a trap-door for coal-trucks to pass 
 through ; and, till recent years, he was a pitman of Percy Main, near 
 North Shields. For over forty years, Mr. Skipsey wrought in the pits. 
 Then, in 1859, he became sub-storekeeper for a time at the Gateshead Iron 
 Works ; and that year published a volume of poems. In the autumn of 
 1863 he was appointed Sub-Librarian to the Literary and Philosophical 
 Society, Newcastle-upon-Tyne. This latter office, although congenial 
 to his tastes, had to be given up on account of the inadequacy of the re- 
 muneration to meet his domestic needs ; and Mr. Skipsey returned to his 
 former occupation in the coal-mines. In 1871 he published another 
 volume of " Poems ;" and in 1878 appeared "A Book of Miscellaneous 
 Lyrics," with a portrait of the author. Both these volumes were very 
 favourably received by the press and by men of literary standing ; and, thus 
 encouraged to prosecute his studies, in 1881, he issued " A Book of Lyrics, 
 including Songs, Ballads, and Chants." 
 
 Mr. Skipsey is now a caretaker of a Board School in Newcastle-upon- 
 Tyne. 
 
 Having devoted his leisure hours to the careful study of general litera- 
 ture, and more specially of English literature from the Elizabethan period 
 downwards, he was asked by Walter Scott to edit his series of the Canter- 
 bury Poets. This he did till lately, writing introductory notices, bio- 
 graphical and critical, for a number of the volumes "Coleridge," 
 " Shelley," " Poe," and " Burns' Songs." These introductions exhibit 
 discriminating taste, much originality, and fine critical acumen. The 
 many duties of his school-board appointment, however, left him so little 
 leisure for literary work that, overworked, he resigned the editorship of the 
 poets, and was succeeded in it by Mr. William Sharp. 
 
 In 1886 Mr. Skipsey published " Carols from the Coal Fields, and other
 
 62 North Country Poets. 
 
 Songs and Ballads." His poetry, particularly that relating to his own 
 special experiences, is strikingly pithy and direct. The scenes are 
 reproduced to the life, and we see what he describes. These poems, full 
 of pathos and power, are of no ordinary kind. What the poet's eye 
 has seen, and his heart has felt, is tersely and musically expressed. 
 " Bereaved " is the wail of a poor woman who has lost her two darlings 
 and her husband, and who, almost bereft of her senses, wishes to be laid in 
 peace beside them ; " The Hartley Calamity" is another poem which pictures 
 the appalling calamities to which a mining population is liable. From their 
 speciality, the general public will probably be most struck by these and such- 
 like poems relating to pit-life ; but there are also many others, on general 
 subjects, of a high and thoughtful order. " Thistle and Nettle " is a charm- 
 ing rustic idyll, archly told with simplicity and humour ; " The Violet and 
 the Rose " has the quaintness and symbolic condensation of Heine ; " The 
 Mystic Lyre " deals with life, space, progress, and the great harmonies of 
 the universe ; " A Cry for Poland " ends with " how long ?" ; " The Angel 
 Mother " is touchiugly sweet, natural and beautiful ; " The Reign of Gold " 
 is an indignant protest against the sordid spirit of the age, and has a fine 
 true manly ring about it ; " The Seaton Terrace Lass " is a ballad in which 
 the " old story " is well told in a light airy natural way. Along with it, we 
 name the rose-cheeked " Rosa Rea." " Slighted " is a poem full of pathos. 
 In a note at the end of "Carols from the Coal Fields," we are told 
 by Dr. R. Spence Watson, who has been an intimate friend of Mr. Skipsey's 
 for more than twenty years : " I must say a word or two more about Joseph 
 Skipsey himself, for we have in him a man of mark, a man who has made 
 himself, and has done it well. His life-long devotion to literary pursuits 
 has never been allowed to interfere with the proper discharge of his daily 
 duties. Whilst still a working pitman, he was master of his craft, and it 
 took an exceptionally good man to match him as a hewer of coal. When 
 after many long years of patient toil, he won his way to an official position, 
 he gained the respect of those above him in authority whilst retaining the 
 confidence and affection of the men. Simple, straight, and upright, he has 
 held his own wherever he has been placed. The life of the miner is one of 
 peril ; he lives with his own and the lives of those dear to him constantly 
 in his hand ; and Joseph Skipsey has had bitter and painful experience of 
 the cruel sorrows to which he is exposed. He -is personally known to not a 
 few of the men whom, in letters and art, England delights to honour, and 
 I think I may truly say he is honoured of them all. Perhaps, if we could 
 see things as they really are, Joseph Skipsey is the best product of the 
 north-country coal-fields, since George Stephenson held his safety lamp in 
 the blower at Killingworth pit." Mr. Skipsey having been introduced to 
 me by Mrs. G. Linnaeus Banks, some eighteen years ago, having 
 corresponded with me at intervals ever since, and having recently visited 
 me, I need only add that I quite agree with Dr. Watson's high estimate 
 of one who is truly a remarkable man. 
 
 ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.
 
 Joseph Skipsey. 63 
 
 MOTHER WEPT. 
 
 Mother wept, and father sighed ; 
 
 With delight a-glow 
 Cried the lad, "To-morrow," cried, 
 
 "To the pit I go." 
 
 Up and down the place he sped, 
 
 Greeted old and young, 
 Far and wide the tidings spread, 
 
 Clapt his hands and sung. 
 
 Came his cronies, some to gaze 
 
 Wrapt in wonder ; some 
 Free with counsel : some with praise ; 
 
 Some with envy dumb. 
 
 "May he," many a gossip cried, 
 
 " Be from peril kept ; " 
 Father hid his face and sighed, 
 
 Mother turned and wept. 
 
 THE VIOLET AND THE ROSE. 
 
 The Violet invited my kiss, 
 
 I kiss'd it and called it my bride ; 
 
 "Was ever one slighted like this?" 
 
 Sighed the Eose as it stood by my side. 
 
 My heart ever open to grief, 
 
 To comfort the fair one I turned ; 
 
 "Of fickle ones thou art the chief!" 
 Frown'd the Violet, and pouted and mourned. 
 
 Then to end all disputes, I entwined 
 The love-stricken blossoms in one; 
 
 But that instant their beauty declined, 
 And I wept for the deed I had done !
 
 64 North Country Poets. 
 
 THE REIGN OF GOLD. 
 
 It sounded in castle and palace, 
 
 It sounded in cottage and shed, 
 It sped over mountains and valleys, 
 
 And withered the earth as it sped ; 
 Like a blast in its fell consummation 
 
 Of all that we holy should hold, 
 Thrilled, thrilled thro' the nerves of the nation, 
 
 A cry for the reign of King Gold. 
 
 Upstarted the chiefs of the city, 
 
 And sending it back with a ring, 
 To the air of a popular ditty. 
 
 Erected a throne to the king : 
 'Twas based upon fiendish persuasions, 
 
 Cemented by crimes manifold : 
 Embellished by specious ovations, 
 
 That dazzled the foes of King Gold. 
 
 The prey of unruly emotion, 
 
 The miner and diver go forth, 
 And the depths of the earth and the ocean 
 
 Are shorn of their lustre and worth ; 
 The mountain is riven asunder, 
 
 The days of the valley are told ; 
 And sinew, and glory, and grandeur, 
 
 Are sapped for a smile of King Gold. 
 
 Beguiled of their native demeanour, 
 
 The high rush with heirlooms and bays ; 
 The poor with what gold cannot weigh, nor 
 
 The skill of the pedant^appraise ; 
 The soldier he spurs with his duty, 
 
 And lo ! by the frenzy made bold, 
 The damsel she glides with her beauty, 
 
 To garnish the brow of King Gold.
 
 Joseph Skipsey. 65 
 
 Accustomed to traffic forbidden 
 
 By honour by heaven each hour, 
 The purest, by conscience unchidden, 
 
 Laugh, laugh at the noble and pure ; 
 And Chastity, rein'd in a halter, 
 
 Is led to the temple and sold, 
 Devotion herself, at the altar, 
 
 Yields homage alone to King Gold. 
 
 Affection, on whose honey blossom, 
 
 The child of affliction still fed 
 Affection is plucked from the bosom, 
 
 And malice implanted instead ; 
 And dark grow the brows of the tender, 
 
 And colder the hearts of the cold : 
 Love, pity, and justice surrender 
 
 Their charge to the hounds of King Gold. 
 
 See, see, from the sear'd earth ascending, 
 
 A cloud o'er the welkin expands ; 
 See, see 'mid the dense vapour bending, 
 
 Pale women with uplifted hands ; 
 Smokes thus to the bridegroom of Circe, 
 
 The dear blood of hundreds untold; 
 Invokes thus the angel of mercy 
 
 A curse on the reign of King Gold. 
 
 It sounded in castle and palace, 
 
 It sounded in cottage and shed, 
 It sped over mountains and valleys, 
 
 And withered the earth as it sped ; 
 Like a blast in its fell consummation 
 
 Of all that we holy should hold, 
 Thrilled, thrilled thro' the nerves of the nation ; 
 
 " Cling ! clang ! for the reign of King Gold."
 
 66 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 John Duncan Richardson. 
 
 )OHN Duncan Kichardson is a poet of the people, and 
 ) amidst the trials of a life of toil has with gratifying 
 success cultivated a taste for literature. He has produced 
 a large number of poems, which have been appreciated in 
 temperance circles and amongst his fellow-working men. 
 A volume of his verse, issued in 1886, under the title of 
 "Keveries in Rhyme," was well received. He has 
 written much poetry and prose for a number of London 
 and provincial magazines and newspapers, and for eight years he acted as 
 the editor of The Hull and East Riding Good Templar. Mr. Richardson is a 
 native of South Shields, and was born in 1848. At an early age he 
 removed to Hull. 
 
 W. A. 
 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 Isle of the fair and the brave, 
 
 Shrine of each Briton's devotion, 
 Proudly thy banner doth wave, 
 
 World-wide and free as the ocean. 
 Strangers and exiles who roam, 
 
 Fleeing the yoke of oppression, 
 Find, in thy sea-girdled home, 
 
 Liberty's priceless possession. 
 
 Lasting as truth be thy fame, 
 
 First in the van of the Nations ; 
 Sweetest of music thy name, 
 
 Theme of thy sons' aspirations. 
 May the Eose and the Thistle combined, 
 
 Long bloom together in beauty, 
 And yield, with the Shamrock entwined, 
 
 Blossoms of love and of duty. 
 
 England, majestic and great, 
 Treasured in song and in story,
 
 John Duncan Richardson. 67 
 
 Honour and Truth at thy gate, 
 
 Point to a future of glory. 
 Nation of Nations ! thy might 
 
 Shall it desert thee ? No never ! 
 Faithful to God and the Eight, 
 
 Nothing thy kingdom shall sever. 
 
 BROKEN TOYS ; OR THE MOTHER'S 
 SOLILOQUY. 
 
 Tis eventide, and twilight adds 
 
 Its charms to soothe me, here, alone ; 
 My princes Heaven bless the lads ! 
 
 Lie sleeping on their nightly throne. 
 Wide-scatter'd on the floor, I see 
 
 The playthings of my careless boys, 
 And, musing on their merry glee, 
 
 I gather up the broken toys. 
 
 Methought, " It is not only here, 
 
 In this my realm, where I am Queen, 
 That toys are broken thus, I fear, 
 
 For human wrecks are daily seen ; 
 Fond hearts that too-confiding yield, 
 
 When smiling villainy decoys, 
 Losing the gem of beauty's shield, 
 
 Are cast aside as broken toys. 
 
 " We loud lament the woes of war, 
 
 The heroes martyr'd in the strife, 
 But, oh, the slaughter's greater far, 
 
 Upon the battlefield of life ! 
 The young by splendid sin betray'd, 
 
 Find out too late that vice destroys, 
 When, reckless made, and scorning aid, 
 
 They die the false world's broken toys."
 
 68 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 George Milner. 
 
 MONGST the public men of Manchester, none are held in 
 greater honour than Mr. George Milner, whose labours in 
 connection with education, literature, and church-work 
 have been productive of so much benefit to the community. 
 George Milner was born in 1829, and by the loss of his 
 father when an infant, was deprived of the educational 
 advantages he might otherwise have enjoyed. But if the 
 opportunities were scanty, they were made the most of, and 
 the passion for knowledge which he developed at an early age, not only led 
 to serious and continuous efforts for self -education, but also to a generous 
 desire to see the healing influences of literature extended to every class of 
 the community. This feeling has led him to devote much of his leisure to 
 voluntary teaching in classes connected with the famous Bennett-street 
 schools. If Mr. Milner had entered upon literature as a career, he would 
 have made a success ; but he was probably wiser in making it, according 
 to a famous phrase, a walking stick and not a crutch. A successful mer- 
 chant, a magistrate, the churchwarden of the Cathedral, the chairman of 
 the Art Museum ; Mr. Milner is, however, best known as the President of 
 the Manchester Literary Club, where his social qualities, critical acumen, 
 and power of saying the right thing in the right way, have gained him the 
 admiring esteem of all the members. His more than local position in 
 literature is due to " Country Pleasures," a book first issued in 1881, and 
 containing the " Chronicle of a Year, chiefly in a Garden," which is full 
 of delightful reading for the lovers of gardens and poetry. He has been a 
 frequent contributor to Longman's Magazine, The Manchester Quarterly, and 
 other periodicals. His verses have not yet been collected, but well deserve 
 to be rescued from that tomb of literature, the magazine. To a perfect 
 mastery of the forms of verse, he unites clear fancy and a power of 
 expression that ranges from genial humour to melancholy pathos. The 
 first poem we quote is from The Manchester Quarterly, the next three are 
 from Longman's Magazine, and the last is from Odds and Ends. 
 
 WILLIAM E. A. AXON. 
 
 A FLOWER PIECE. 
 
 Along this narrow path, behold, 
 What store of wealth outspread !- 
 
 The dandelion's burning gold, 
 The campion's ruby-red,
 
 George Milner. 69 
 
 Sweet speedwell's sapphire, daisy's pearl, 
 Fern's emerald in its virgin curl, 
 Broad ox-eye's patine silver clear, 
 Jacinth of bird's-foot, and the dear 
 Green lady's-mantle holding still 
 
 Its diamond-drop of morning dew ; 
 All these, and fifty more that fill 
 
 The hedge-row spaces through and through, 
 With grasses' fret-work carven rare 
 
 And cross'd as in a dainty frieze ; 
 And, lurking last, but heavenly fair, 
 
 Forget-me-not's turkois. 
 
 So dower'd I hardly care to raise 
 
 My eyes to where the mountains stand ; 
 
 Nor scarce have left a word to praise 
 Far-flashing seas or shining sand ; 
 
 But as I wander, rapt and slow, 
 
 I see the simple blossoms grow 
 
 To beauty greater than before ; 
 
 And tell my treasures o'er and o'er, 
 
 Or sing them thus, as best I may, 
 To yon bird's note that on the bough 
 
 Of hazel pipes his little lay 
 For love as I do now. 
 
 A MARCH EVENING. 
 
 The boughs are black, the wind is cold, 
 And cold and black the fading sky ; 
 
 And cold and ghostly, fold on fold, 
 Across the hills the vapours lie. 
 
 Sad is my heart, and dim mine eye, 
 
 With thoughts of all the woes that were ;
 
 7<D North Country Poets. 
 
 And all that through the forward year, 
 Prophetic, flit like phantoms by. 
 
 But, in the cheerless silence, hark, 
 
 Some throstle's vesper ! loud and clear, 
 Beside his mate I hear him sing ; 
 
 And, sudden at my feet I mark 
 A daffodil that lights the dark 
 Joy, joy, 'tis here, the Spring ! the Spring ! 
 
 GREY TOWER OF DALMENY. 
 
 The lovers are whispering under thy shade, 
 
 Grey tower of Dalmeny ; 
 I leave, them, and wander alone in the glade 
 
 Beneath thee, Dalmeny ; 
 
 Their thoughts are of all the bright years coming on, 
 But mine are of days and of dreams that are gone ; 
 They see the fair flowers Spring has thrown on the grass, 
 And the clouds in the blue light their eyes as they pass ; 
 But my feet are deep down in a drift of dead leaves, 
 And I hear what they hear not, a lone bird that grieves 
 But what matter, the end is not far for us all, 
 And Spring, through the Summer, to Winter must fall, 
 And the lovers' light hearts e'en as mine will be laid 
 At last and for ever low under thy shade, 
 
 Grey tower of Dalmeny. 
 
 TOO SOON. 
 
 Too soon, too soon ! 
 For but last month was lusty June, 
 With life at swinging flood of tide ; 
 Nor seems it long since May went by
 
 George Milner. 71 
 
 With Love and Hope at either side ; 
 And now 'tis only late July, 
 And yet, alas, methinks I hear 
 
 Too soon, too soon ! 
 Death whisper in the fading trees ; 
 And when the sun's red light is gone, 
 And Night unfolds her mysteries, 
 With failing heart almost I fear 
 In garden plots remote and lone 
 To find the dreadful Shadow near 
 
 Too soon, too soon ! 
 
 POST CARDS. 
 
 Take cedar, take the creamy card, 
 With regal head at angle dight ; 
 
 And though to snatch the time be hard, 
 To all our loves at home we'll write. 
 
 Strange group ! in Bowness' street we stand, 
 Nine swains enamoured of our wives, 
 
 Each quaintly writing on his hand, 
 In haste, as 'twere to save our lives. 
 
 O wondrous messenger, to fly 
 
 All through the night from post to post ! 
 Thou bearest home a kiss, a sigh 
 
 And not an obolus the cost ! 
 
 To-morrow, when they crack their eggs, 
 They'll say, beside each matin urn 
 
 " These men are still upon their legs : 
 Heaven bless 'em may they soon return." 

 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 Joseph Wilson. 
 
 OSEPH WILSON, one of the most successful of modern 
 Tyneside song-writers, was born in Newcastle on the 29th 
 November, 1841 ; and, according to his own graphic state- 
 ment, " just twenty minits efter he had myed his forst 
 ippeerince, te the stonishment o' the neybors, his bruther 
 Tom showed his fyce to dispute we 'im whe shud be the 
 pet o' the family." The father of these rival twins was a 
 joiner and cabinet-maker, and their mother a straw- 
 bonnet maker. The former died when thirty years of age, leaving the latter 
 withfour fatherless children to provide for and bring up. Atfourteen, to quote 
 his own words again, Joe went to be a printer. " Sang-writing," says he, 
 " had lang been me hobby, an' at sivinteen me forst beuk wes published. 
 Since that time it's been me aim te hev a place i' the hearts o' Tyneside 
 people, wi' writin bits o' hyemly sangs aw think they'll sing." These songs 
 he printed as well as sang himself, and having an excellent voice, and an 
 extraordinary power of representing local character in most of its peculiar 
 phases, he was induced to take numerous engagements at music halls and 
 concerts, where he immediately became a prime favourite. He was married 
 in 1869, and, two years later, he became landlord of the Adelaide Hotel, New 
 Bridge Street, Newcastle, where, ever and anon, he used to delight his 
 numerous old admirers, while winning for himself additional friends, by 
 writing, singing, and publishing one or other new song illustrative of the 
 manners and customs of " Canny Newcassel," and its neighbourhood. 
 He died on Sunday, the 14th February, 1875, at his residence in Railway 
 Street, Newcastle, at the early age of thirty-three. For some time before, 
 he had been suffering from that lingering and wasting disease, pulmonary 
 consumption, the germs of which he had inherited from his father ; and by 
 his untimely but not unexpected removal, a widow and three children, the 
 youngest of whom was only seven months old, were left in reduced circum- 
 stances, caused in a great measure by their genial bread-winner having been 
 so long ill. Having been much and deservedly respected by a large circle of 
 friends, especially amongst the working classes, and having been himself ever 
 ready to give his services as a vocalist, to help a brother in distress or benefit 
 any good institution, a subscription was at once raised for his bereaved 
 wife and family, and a considerable sum was realised by it. His mortal 
 remains lie in the Old Cemetery at Jesmond. Joseph Wilson's modest, 
 unassuming, and amiable personal qualities found a marked expression in 
 all that he wrote and sang, as well as in his whole physiognomy and 
 general deportment ; and the deep moral tone that pervades and actuates 
 his lyrics makes them stand out in shining contrast with the bulk of the 
 frothy, unmeaning, and ephemeral trash termed comic songs. His " Deeth 
 o' Renforth," " Aw wish yor muther wad cum," " The time that me 
 fethur wes bad," " Be kind te me dowter," " Dinnet clash the door,"
 
 Joseph Wilson. 73 
 
 " The row upon the stairs," and many others of his productions, will bear 
 comparison with the best things of the kind that ever were written ; and 
 many of them will certainly live as long as the language, the tincture of 
 dialectism that pervades them only adding a charm to their homeliness, as 
 it does to the productions of Robert Burns, James Hogg, Henry Scott 
 Biddell, William Barnes, and James Russell Lowell, A complete edition 
 of " Joe Wilson's Tyneside Songs, Ballads, and Drolleries," was published 
 some years ago by Mr. Thomas Allan, of Dean Street, Newcastle. 
 
 WILLIAM BEOCKIE. 
 
 AW WISH YOR MUTHER WAD CUM ; 
 
 OB, Won GEOKDY'S NOTIONS ABOOT MEN NUKSIN BAIRNS. 
 
 Cum, Geordy, had the bairn, 
 
 Aw's sure aw'll not stop lang, 
 Aw'd tyek the jewl mesel, 
 
 But really aw's not strang ; 
 Thor's flooer and coals te get, 
 
 The hoose-turns thor not deun, 
 So had the bairn, for fairs, 
 
 Ye've often deund for fun ! 
 
 Then Geordy held the bairn, 
 
 But sair agyen his will, 
 The poor bit thing wes gud, 
 
 But Geordy had ne skill, 
 He haddint its inuther's ways, 
 
 He sat both stiff an' num, 
 Before five minutes wes past, 
 
 He wished its muther wad cum ! 
 
 His wife had scarcely gyen, 
 
 The bairn begun te squall, 
 Wi' hikin't up an' doon, 
 
 He'd let the poor thing fall, 
 It wadden't had its tung, 
 
 Tho' sum aud teun he'd hum, 
 " Jack an' Jill went up a hill," 
 
 Aw wish yor muther wad cum !
 
 74 North Country Poets. 
 
 What weary toil, says he, 
 
 This nursin bairns mun be, 
 A bit ont's weel eneuf, 
 
 Aye, quite eiieuf for me, 
 Te keep a crying bairn, 
 
 It may be grand te sum, 
 A day's wark's not as bad, 
 
 Aw wish yor muther wad cum ! 
 
 Men seldum give a thowt 
 
 To what thor wives indure, 
 Aw thowt she'd nowt te de, 
 
 But clean the hoose, aw's sure, 
 Or myek me dinner an' tea : 
 
 It's startin te chow its thumb, 
 The poor thing wants its tit, 
 
 Aw wish yor muther wad cum ! 
 
 What a selfish world this is, 
 
 Thor's nowt mair se than man, 
 He laffs at wummin's toil, 
 
 And,winnet nurse his awn ; 
 It's startin te cry agyen, 
 
 Aw see tuts throo its gum, 
 Maw little bit pet dinnet fret, 
 
 Aw wish yor muther wad cum ! 
 
 But kindness dis a vast, 
 
 It's ne use gettin vext, 
 It winnet please the bairn, 
 
 Or ease a mind perplext ; 
 At last, it's gyen te sleep, 
 
 Me wife 'ill not say aw's num, 
 She'll think aw's a real gud nurse, - 
 
 Aw wish yor muther wad cum
 
 Joseph Wilson. 75 
 
 DINNET CLASH THE DOOR ! 
 
 Oh, dinnet clash the door ! 
 
 Aw've tell'd ye that before, 
 Can ye not let yor muther hev a rest ? 
 
 Ye knaw she's turnin aud, 
 
 An' for eers she's been se bad, 
 That she cannot bear such noises i' the least. 
 
 KOEUS : 
 
 Then oh, lass, dinnet clash the door se, 
 Yor yung an' yor as thowtless as can be. 
 
 But yor muther's turnin aud, 
 
 An' ye knaw she's vary bad, 
 An' she dissent like te hear ye clash the door. 
 
 Just see yor muther there, 
 
 Sittin feeble i' the chair, 
 It's quiet that she wants to myek her weel ; 
 
 She's been yor nurse throo life, 
 
 Been yor guide i' peace an' strife, 
 An' her cumfort ye shud study an' shud feel. 
 
 She once wes yung an' strang, 
 
 But bad health 'ill put foaks rang, 
 An' she cannet bear the noise that once she cud, 
 
 She's narvis as can be, 
 
 An' whativor else ye de, 
 Ye shud study what ye think 'ill de her gud ! 
 
 So dinnet clash the door, 
 
 Or myek ony idle stir, 
 For the stir 'ill only cause yor muther pain, 
 
 As quiet as can be 
 
 De yor wark, an' let her see 
 That ye'll nivor give her causes te complain.
 
 7 6 North Country Poets. 
 
 THE DEETH O' RENFORTH. 
 
 THE CHAMPION SCULLER OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Ye cruel Atlantic Cable, 
 What's myed ye bring such fearful news ? 
 When Tyneside's hardly yeble 
 
 Such sudden grief te bide. 
 Hoo me heart it beats iv'rybody greets, 
 As the whisper runs throo dowiey streets, 
 " We've lost poor Jimmy Eenforth, 
 The Champein o' Tyneside ! " 
 
 Hoo sad, hoo unexpected, 
 What diff'rent news we thowt te hear, 
 Till dismay'd an' affected, 
 
 Heart-broken mourners cried, 
 
 " Jimmy Eenforth's gyen, wor greet Champein's gyen, 
 Iv a country strange, away frae hyem, 
 We've lost poor Jimmy Eenforth, 
 The Champein o' Tyneside ? " 
 
 " Oh, Jim, what myed ye leave us ? 
 What myed ye leave the canny toon ? 
 A journey myed to grieve us, 
 
 Ye've gyen wi' the last tide, 
 An' the oar that fell, the last oar that fell 
 Frae yor helpless hand, just seem'd te tell 
 That Deeth wes the greet victor 
 I' races far an' wide ! " 
 
 Life lost withoot a warnin', 
 An' stopt yor short but grand koreer, 
 Then left us stricken, mournin', 
 Deprived o' wor greet pride ; 
 Hoo me heart it beats, iv'rybody greets, 
 As the whisper runs throo dowiey streets, 
 " We've lost poor Jimmy Eenforth, 
 The Champein o' Tyneside ! "
 
 James Clephan. 
 
 77 
 
 James Clephan. 
 
 OWN to the time when the repeal of taxes on knowledge 
 rendered it possible for the provinces to enjoy the luxury 
 of a daily newspaper, there nourished in the two upper- 
 most counties of England an editor who occupied a unique 
 position in journalism. He was poet and humourist, as 
 well as journalist and man of letters, and his paper, 
 although issued from a small town, and overshadowed by 
 the venerable and stately press of a great commercial 
 metropolis, had a far-reaching and wide-spreading influence, was scissored 
 and quoted by every other editor in the kingdom, and was known by name 
 to the majority of English-speaking people everywhere. The newspaper 
 was The Gateshead Observer ; the editor James Clephan. 
 
 James Clephan was born at Monkwearmouth Shore, on the 17th of 
 March, 1804, the second son of Eobert Clephan, of Stockton, baker. He 
 was educated at Stockton, and began the serious business of life there as an 
 apprentice to Mr. Eales, printer. When his indentures expired he migrated 
 to the Modern Athens, and found employment in the offices of Messrs. 
 Ballantine, who were then printing the Waverley novels. Three years 
 spent in that occupation qualified him for something better. The sub- 
 editorship of The Leicester Chronicle became vacant ; it was conferred upon 
 him, and he entered into active journalism. 
 
 Soon after the accession of the Queen, The Gateshead Observer, a com- 
 paratively young and unknown paper, lost its editor. It was an organ of 
 the Whig party in North Durham, and Mr. Clephan was a Liberal. He 
 came, saw, and conquered, and thereupon begun that remarkable career 
 which is indicated in the opening paragraph of this brief memoir. For 
 two and twenty years, wit and wisdom, politics and poetry, local lore and 
 ancient story flowed, commingling, from his pen terse, crisp, sharp and 
 clear. When the end of his brilliant editorship arrived, in 1860, represen- 
 tatives of every class in the flourishing communities between Tweed and 
 Tees combined to do him honour. 
 
 Mr. Clephan did not, however, abandon his profession altogether when 
 he left The Gateshead Observer. After a short interval of repose, he became 
 a free lance on those famous newspapers of Mr. Joseph Cowen, The New- 
 castle Daily and Weekly Chronicles writing as the humour seized him, and 
 upon subjects congenial to his tastes. For a number of years he conducted, 
 in the pages of The Weekly Chronicle, a special column devoted to the past 
 life of the Northern counties, wrote papers for the Newcastle Society of 
 Antiquaries, contributed to the press sketches of departed worthies, and 
 " helped the living to immortalise the dead." So he continued till the ripe 
 ae of fourscore years, when the infirmities of age compelled him to retreat 
 within the protection of his chamber. There his high spirits and genial
 
 78 -ir^JJ North Country Poets. 
 
 temperament enabled him to prolong life beyond the allotted span. With 
 calm and unclouded mind he surveyed his lot ; with undimmed eye and 
 unfailing memory he awaited the end. His bedside for many months was 
 the Mecca of literary pilgrimage in the North of England, and he was able 
 to sustain the burden and enjoy the visits of his friends until the last fort- 
 night of his life. On the morning of the 25th February, 1888, he passed 
 away, and a few days later, with mayors and magistrates, editors and 
 professors, clergymen and councillors, standing around, he was buried 
 among his kindred in Jesmond Cemetery, Newcastle. 
 
 EICHAKD WELFOED. 
 
 ANNETTE 
 
 Annette with her sister Tib, 
 
 By the cottage fireside sits ; 
 Eobin smokes his evening pipe ; 
 
 Susan, near him, knits and knits. 
 " Hist " " 'Tis nothing ! " why then flash 
 
 Nan's dark eyes with brighter glow ? 
 Why that blush upon her cheek ? 
 
 Tib is at no loss to know. 
 
 Ha ! Nanette ! 
 
 " Knit, knit, knit," the needles go 
 
 " Tick, tack, tick," the clock replies ; 
 Through his smoke-wreaths, " "Where's Nanette? " 
 
 Eobin to his good dame cries ; 
 Mother knows not, nor will Tib, 
 
 Cunning little damsel, own, 
 Though she heard the tap, before 
 
 Sister Nan was softly flown. 
 
 Where's Nanette ? 
 
 Annette, in the garden-walk, 
 
 Shaded by the woodbine, stands : 
 Not alone ! a whispered tale, 
 
 Old as Eve, her ear commands ; 
 Hal is gazing in her face 
 
 Never was there face so fair
 
 James Clephan. 79 
 
 Glistening in the starbeam pale, 
 Veil'd in woven twilight there. 
 
 Sweet Annette ! 
 
 " Good night ! " " Good night ! " and gently Nan 
 
 Lifts up the latch, and to her seat 
 Demurely glides, her little heart 
 
 Almost too full of bliss to beat ! 
 Ah ! young romance ! that shall in Nan 
 
 And Harry, as in Bob and Sue, 
 Be sober'd down till calmly they 
 
 Shall smoke and knit together, too. 
 Yes, Nanette ! 
 
 THE MEMORIAL FLOWER. 
 
 Cocken Woods are green and fair, 
 
 Year to year the wild flowers blow ; 
 Spring succeeds to Winter's snow, 
 
 Summer follows Christmas bare. 
 
 Song-birds from their slumber wake, 
 Fill with sound the ravish'd ear, 
 Swell the music of the Wear, 
 
 Build their nests in bush and brake. 
 
 Where the waters gush and glide, 
 Leaf and flower of every tinge 
 Shady footpaths sweetly fringe, 
 
 Winding by the river side. 
 
 From the cliffs and from the grass, 
 Nosegays wild the children glean, 
 Bed and blue, and white and green, 
 
 Jocund as they gleesome pass. 
 
 Finchale Abbey old and grey, 
 
 Kuin'd, roofless, wintry, hoar,
 
 8o North Country Poets. 
 
 Knows its summer pride no more, 
 Moulders, moulders, to decay. 
 
 Prior Uhtred's shade may haunt 
 
 Cloisters once his cherish'd home, 
 Gliding soft by Godric's tomb, 
 
 Listening for the choral chant. 
 
 Looking for his letter 'd lore 
 Jerome, Bede, Busebius, all 
 Eeady at his beck and call 
 
 Beady once, but now no more. 
 
 Never more the dying hours 
 
 Finchale's horologe shall knell, 
 Echoing the mother-bell, 
 
 Sounding from fair Durham's towers. 
 
 But these ruins linger still, 
 
 Mutely murmuring " Never more," 
 And, where planted down of yore, 
 
 Blooms the yellow daffodil. 
 
 Blooms, and marks the garden site, 
 
 Where the monks grew fruit and flower, 
 Boot and herb of healing power 
 
 Cool retreat for calm delight. 
 
 Faithful flower ! to moth and rust 
 
 Finchale's monks thou wilt not give : 
 Thou wilt have their memory live, 
 
 Fair and fragrant in the dust. 
 
 Thus may we, who fain would fill 
 Some small space in human eye 
 When entomb'd in earth we lie, 
 
 Plant on earth some Daffodil.
 
 James Clephan. 81 
 
 GOOD NIGHT ! 
 
 Downward sinks the setting sun, 
 Soft the evening shadows fall : 
 Light is flying, 
 Day is dying, 
 
 Darkness stealeth over all. 
 Good night ! 
 
 Autumn garners in her stores, 
 Foison of the fading year : 
 Leaves are dying, 
 Winds are sighing, 
 Whispering of the winter near. 
 Good night ! 
 
 Youth is vanish'd manhood wanes - 
 Age its forward shadows throws : 
 Day is dying, 
 Years are flying, 
 Life runs onward to its close. 
 Good night !
 
 82 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 Ben Brierley. 
 
 EN Brierley is best known as a prose writer, but although 
 his fame depends chiefly upon his skill as a story-teller, 
 and as a delineator of Lancashire life and character, 
 he has written verse of excellent quality. Probably his 
 reputation as poet would be greater if his reputation as 
 novelist and humourist were less. 
 
 Mr. Benjamin Brierley was born at the Rocks, a 
 cottage on the Rochdale Canal at Failsworth, 26th June, 
 1825. His father, who had been a gunner in the Artillery, was a handloom 
 weaver. Mr. Brierley has in his " Home Memories " given a graphic and 
 interesting account of the struggles and hardships of his early days. He 
 received the rudiments of education chiefly in the night school and Sunday 
 school, and after a brief experience of the factory, became a velvet-weaver. 
 He was present at the " plug drawings " in the Great Strike of 1842. 
 Afterwards he was employed in a Manchester silk-warehouse, and having 
 utilised his opportunities for self -improvement, was encouraged by Elijah 
 Ridings to send some of his verses to the Oddfellows' Magazine, which was 
 then edited by another Manchester author, John Bolton Rogerson. His 
 increasing interest in literature led him to write " A Day Out," in which 
 he describes a walk from Manchester to Daisy Nook, and sketches the quaint 
 characters to be found gathered in the rooms of "Red Bill's " village hostelry. 
 This little book was an instantaneous success. How well does the present 
 writer remember the delight with which he read it in the first week of its 
 appearance ! It was evident that a new writer had arisen capable of 
 interpreting the homely joys and sorrows, the stoical endurance, and the 
 love of fun of the Lancashire lads and lasses. The promise of this early 
 performance was fully maintained by "The Chronicles of Waverlow," 
 " Marlocks of Merriton," " The Cotters of Mossburn " and " Irkdale.'' 
 If these do not all show the freshness of his first work, they evidence the 
 ripening and mellowness that come from wider contact with the world. 
 
 Ben Brierley' s Journal has been issued since 1869, and has helped to 
 make the editor's name the household word it now is in Lancashire and 
 the North of England. 
 
 Of his poems, the " Epistle to Ned Waugh," " Monody on the Death of 
 Charles Swain," and the brief " In Memoriam " of his own daughter, are 
 excellent ; " The Wayver of Welbrook " is a bit of characteristic Lancashire 
 philosophy; and the "Waverlow Bells" has a homely pathos that goes 
 direct to the heart. 
 
 WILLIAM E. A. AXON.
 
 Ben Brier ley. 83 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 ANNIE, 
 
 Only child of Ben and Esther Brierley ; Born November 7th, 1866 
 Died June 13th, 1875. 
 
 We thought she was our own for yet awhile ; 
 That we had earned her, by our love of Heav'n, 
 To be a life's comfort, not a season's smile, 
 Then tears for ever. " 'Tis to be forgiven," 
 We deemed her mortal not an angel sent 
 From out a mission host, on mercy bent. 
 
 We were beguiled by her sweet ways of love 
 The growth of her affections round two stems 
 As if they were of her, and from above. 
 We did not note that from her heart the gems 
 Of her devotion were bestrewn in showers 
 Where'er she went, and gathered like spring flowers. 
 
 And her last words (coherent) " I have lived, 
 And have not lived," were full of earthly tone 
 And utterance. They, too, our hearts deceived ; 
 Nor were we mindful till, when left alone, 
 We heard the flutter of a dove-like wing, 
 And a sweet strain, such as the seraphs sing. 
 
 Then knew we she had come in mortal guise, 
 To teach us love, and charity, and grace ; 
 With sungold in her hair, heaven in her eyes, 
 And all that's holy in her preaching face. 
 The scales had fallen, and our vision then 
 Saw that an angel graced the homes of men.
 
 84 North Country Poets. 
 
 THE WAYVER OF WELBROOK. 
 
 Yo gentlemen o wi' yor beawnds and yor parks, 
 
 Yo may gamble an' sport till yo dee ; 
 But a quiet heause-nook, a good wife an' a book, 
 
 Are more to the likins o' mee-ee, 
 
 Wi' mi pickers and pins, 
 An' my wellers to tb' sbins, 
 My linderins, sbuttle, an' yealdhook ; 
 My treddles an' sticks, 
 My weigbt-ropes an' bricks, 
 Wbat a life ! said the wayver o' Welbrook. 
 
 I care no' for titles, nor heauses, nor lond, 
 
 " Owd Jone's " a name fittin' for me : 
 An' gi' me a thatch, wi' a wooden dur latch, 
 
 An' six feet o' greaund when I dee-ee, 
 Wi' my pickers, &c. 
 
 Some folks liken t' stuff ther owd wallets wi' mayte 
 Till they're as reaund an' as brawsen as frogs ; 
 
 But for me I'm content, when I've paid deawn my rent, 
 Wi' enoogh t' keep me up i' my clogs-ogs, 
 Wi' my pickers, &c. 
 
 An' some are too idle to use their own feet, 
 
 But mun keawer an' gallop i'th' lone ; 
 But when I'm wheelt or carried, it'll be to get buried, 
 
 An' then Dicky-up wi' owd Jone-one, 
 Wi' my pickers, &c. 
 
 Yo may turn up yor~noses at me an' th' owd dame, 
 
 An* thrutch us like dogs again tb' wo' ; 
 But as lung's I con nagur, I'll ne'er be a beggar, 
 
 So I care no' a rap for yo' o-o, 
 
 Wi' my pickers, &c.
 
 Ben Brier ley. 85 
 
 Neaw, Margit, turn reawn that owd hum-a-drum wheel, 
 
 An' my shuttle shall fly like a brid ; 
 An' when I no lenger con use hont or finger, 
 
 They'll say when I could do I did-id, 
 
 Wi' my pickers, &c. 
 
 WAVERLOW BELLS. 
 
 Old Jammie and Ailse went adown the brook side 
 Arm-in-arm, as when young, before Ailse was a bride ; 
 And what made them pause near the Hollybank Wells ? 
 'Twas to list to the chimes of the Waverlow bells. 
 
 " How sweet," said old Jammie, " how sweet on the ear, 
 Comes the ding-donging sound of yon curfew, my dear ! " 
 But old Ailse ne'er replies, for her bosom now swells 
 Oh, she'd loved in her childhood those Waverlow bells. 
 
 " Thou remember 'st," said Jammie, " the night we first met, 
 Near the Abbey field gate the old gate is there yet 
 When we roamed in the moonlight o'er fields and through dells, 
 And our hearts beat along with those Waverlow bells. 
 
 " And then that wakes morning so early at church, 
 When I led thee a bride through the old ivy porch, 
 And our new home we made where the curate now dwells, 
 And we danced to the music of Waverlow bells. 
 
 And when that wakes morning came round the next year, 
 How we bore a sweet child to the christ'ning font there ; 
 But our joy peals soon changed to the saddest of knells, 
 And we mourned at the sound of the Waverlow bells." 
 
 Then in silence a moment the old couple stood, 
 
 Their hearts in the churchyard, their eyes on the flood ; 
 
 And the tear as it starts a sad memory tells 
 
 Oh ! they heard a loved voice in those Waverlow bells.
 
 86 North Country Poets. 
 
 " Our Ann," said old Ailse, " was the fairest of girls ; 
 She had heaven in her face, and the sun in her curls ; 
 Now she sleeps in a bed where the worm makes its cells, 
 And her lullaby's sung by the Waverlow bells." 
 
 " But her soul," Jammie said, " she'd a soul in her eyes, 
 And their brightness is gone to its home in the skies ; 
 We may meet her there yet where the good spirit dwells, 
 When we'll hear them no more those old Waverlow bells. 
 
 Once again only once the old couple were seen 
 Stepping out in the gloaming across the old green, 
 And to wander adown by the Hollybank Wells, 
 Just to list to the chimes of the Waverlow bells. 
 
 Now the good folks are sleeping beneath the cold sod, 
 But their souls are in bliss with their daughter and God ; 
 And each maid in the village now mournfully tells 
 How old Jarnniie and Ailse loved the Waverlow bells.
 
 James As her oft Noble. 
 
 James Ashcroft Noble. 
 
 NE of our most genial men of letters, a writer whose pen is 
 equally graceful in prose and verse, and who has enriched 
 with many choice contributions the periodical literature 
 of the day, is Mr. James Ashcroft Noble, now of South- 
 port, author of "The Pelican Papers," "Morality in 
 Fiction," "Verses of a Prose Writer," and literary 
 editor of the Manchester Examiner. Mr. Noble was born 
 in Liverpool in the year 1844. His father was the son 
 of a Westmoreland yeoman, or "statesman," and for forty years held 
 a responsible position under the Pilotage Committee of the port of 
 Liverpool ; his mother was the daughter of a Liverpool merchant. 
 James Ashcroft, the eldest of five children, received part of his education at 
 the Liverpool College, and part at a private school conducted by Mr. Alfred 
 Parkin, some time a master at the College. To this preceptor young Noble 
 was warmly attached, and he seems to have fired the lad's love of literature 
 and led him to aspire to the literary life. It was intended that after leaving 
 school Ashcroft Noble should enter Trinity College, Dublin, but being in 
 delicate health the design had to be abandoned. He was placed in a solici- 
 tor's office with a view to being articled, but in a few months time this also 
 had to be relinquished owing to ill-health. Thereafter for some years 
 young Noble was obliged to forego the earning of his own livelihood, and to 
 pass much time at various health-resorts, his parents' means fortunately 
 enabling this to be done. But he was not idle during this period ; he not 
 only read voraciously, but contributed prose and verse to various periodicals. 
 Taking a lively interest in the theological controversies of the day, then con- 
 cerned with the memorable " Essays and Reviews," the first productions of 
 his pen which were honoured with print were a series of brief articles on "The 
 Present Crisis in the Church," which appeared in the Liverpool Mercury. 
 From that beginning as a writer he contributed various articles and poems 
 to All the Year Round, Chambers' 's Journal, The Victoria Magazine, and other 
 periodicals. When The Liverpool Albion was turned into a daily paper he 
 was offered his first regular literary work on its staff, in the capacity of 
 principal reviewer. While he filled that position Mr. Noble also published 
 his first work, " The Pelican Papers," now out of print. This volume, 
 which appeared at the end of 1872, was a series of sketches, verse, philoso- 
 phical, and literary essays, purporting to be " the reminiscences and remains 
 of a dweller in the Wilderness." One of its sketches gives Mr. Noble's 
 experiences of hydropathic establishments, and bore the title " Society 
 under Water." The Albion was short-lived as a morning daily. Mr. 
 Noble's next literary appointment was the editorship of the Liverpool Argus, 
 a weekly critical, political, and social journal, which was started about 1875. 
 It was as a contributor to this journal that the writer of this sketch first
 
 88 North Country Poets. 
 
 made Mr. Noble's acquaintance, and he can bear testimony to the kindness 
 and consideration Mr. Noble always showed to the members of his literary 
 staff. The Argus had some noted contributors while it remained under Mr. 
 Noble's editorship. Among them were Miss Frances Power Cobbe, Pro- 
 fessor Dowden, the late Professor Graham, Mr. T. H. Hall Caine, the 
 popular novelist (author of "The Deemster," "A Son of Hagar," &o.), 
 some of whose earliest literary efforts saw light in its columns, Mr. Wm. 
 Watson, a poet of considerable power, Mr. W. S. Caine, now M.P. for Barrow, 
 and others who have become public men. The Argus was too high class a 
 publication for Philistine Liverpool, and was not a success pecuniarily. 
 Mr. Noble resigned the editorship after carrying it on for about eighteen 
 months, though its publication was continued in a rather different form 
 for two or three years longer. In 1878 Mr. Noble became a regular writer 
 for the Spectator. In the same year an article of his on " The Sonnet 
 in England," which appeared in the Contemporary Review, gained him a 
 name as an authority on that particular form of poetic composition, in 
 which much of his own verse is cast. In 1880 he removed to London, 
 and became contributor to several important weekly and leading monthly 
 magazines. In 1884 Mr. Noble was prostrated by a severe attack of para- 
 lysis. Professor Terrier, considered the first authority of the day on brain 
 affections, was called in and at once pronounced the case to be a hopeless 
 one, and recovery impossible. Remembering how, during previous illnesses, 
 Mr. Noble had benefitted by the ait of Southport, however, his friends, 
 notwithstanding this grave verdict, had him removed thither, with the 
 gratifying result that Mr. Noble slowly began to recover. Though 
 he did not entirely regain his former vigour, he was able by degrees 
 to resume his literary labours. He was appointed reviewer or literary 
 editor to the Manchester Examiner, and with that work, and writing for the 
 Spectator and Academy, has chiefly occupied himself since his recovery. Mr. 
 Noble occasionally lectures on literary topics. One series of his lectures 
 on " The Current of Morality in English Fiction," was published in 1886 in 
 book form. In 1887 he collected from various quarters where they had 
 appeared a number of his poems, and issued them, with additional unpub- 
 lished pieces, in a volume entitled " Verses of a Prose Writer " (Edinburgh : 
 David Douglas, publisher). The author's intention in selecting this title, 
 was to indicate that he made no pretensions to be considered a poet. Never- 
 theless many of his verses show true poetic feeling. They are graceful and 
 musical, and although many of them are pitched in the minor key, probably 
 owing to the severe afflictions the writer has suffered, they breathe high 
 hopes and present elevated views of life, as well as idealising the joys of the 
 domestic circle. Mr. Noble married in 1873 the lady to whom he had previ- 
 ously dedicated his " Pelican Papers." One of the greatest sorrows of his 
 life was the loss of his first-born son, Philip, to whom he was passionately 
 attached. A section of his volume of poetry " In Memoriam Philip " 
 is devoted to the memory of this beloved child. One of our specimens of 
 verse is from this section, and it also makes a touching reference to his 
 own affliction. 
 
 JESSE QUAIL.
 
 James Ashcroft Noble. 
 
 THE RED THREAD OF HONOUR. 
 
 A MODERN BALLAD. 
 
 Among the hills of India 
 
 Dwelt warriors fierce and bold, 
 The sons of robber chieftains 
 
 Who, in the days of old 
 Fought for their mountain freedom, 
 
 And, if by Fate laid low, 
 Fell ever crowned with honour 
 
 Their faces to the foe. 
 
 Now 'twas an ancient custom 
 
 Among those hillsmen brave, 
 When thus they found their kinsman, 
 
 To dig for him no grave ; 
 But the torn blood-stained garments 
 
 They stripped from off the dead, 
 And then his wrist they circled 
 
 With green or crimson thread. 
 
 Many the green-decked warriors, 
 
 But only for a few 
 Was kept that highest honour, 
 
 The thread of sanguine hue ; 
 For 'twas alone the bravest 
 
 Of those who nobly shed 
 Their life-blood in the battle 
 
 Whose wrists were bound with red. 
 
 And when they thus had graced them 
 
 Who fell before the foe, 
 They hurled their lifeless bodies 
 
 Into the plain below. 
 The earth did ne'er imprison 
 
 Those hillsmen brave and free, 
 The sky alone should cover 
 
 The warriors of Trukkee.
 
 90 North Country Poets. 
 
 There came a time of conflict, 
 
 And a great armed throng 
 Of England's bravest soldiers, 
 
 Avengers of the wrong,- 
 Marched through the gloomy gorges, 
 
 Forded the mountain rills, 
 Vowing that they would vanquish 
 
 Those robbers of the hills. 
 
 The road was strange and dubious ; 
 
 Easy it was to stray ; 
 And of those English soldiers 
 
 Eleven lost their way. 
 Led by a trusty leader, 
 
 They reached a fearful glen, 
 And saw a mountain stronghold 
 
 Guarded by forty men. 
 
 Guarded by forty veterans 
 
 Of that fierce robber band ; 
 In every face defiance, 
 
 Weapons in every hand. 
 " Back ! " cried the trusty leader ; 
 
 The soldiers would not hear, 
 But up the foe-crowned mountain 
 
 Charged with their English cheer. 
 
 With loud huzzas they stormed it, 
 
 Nor thought to turn from death, 
 But for old England's honour 
 
 Yielded their latest breath. 
 Short was the fight but deadly, 
 
 For when our last man fell, 
 But sixteen of the forty 
 
 Were left the tale to tell.
 
 James Ashcroft Noble. 91 
 
 But those sixteen were noble 
 
 They loved a brave deed done ; 
 They knew a worthy foeman, 
 
 And treated him as one. 
 And when the English soldiers 
 
 Sought for their comrades slain, 
 They found their stiff stark corpses 
 
 Prostrate upon the plain ; 
 They lay with blood-stained faces, 
 
 Fixed eyes, and firm-clenched fists, 
 But the Eed Thread of Honour, 
 
 Was twined around their wrists. 
 
 FATHER AND CHILD. 
 
 The wife of Peter Wright, one of the men who perished in the South- 
 port life-boat, 10th December, 1886, was prematurely confined on the day 
 following the disaster ; and the baby, which was still-born, was placed on 
 its father's arm as he lay in his coffin, and buried with him. 
 
 Father and child together lie at rest, 
 
 The storm-worn man, the babe all undefiled ; 
 God's voice has blessed them and they shall be blest 
 Father and Child. 
 
 When by fierce wind black wave on wave was piled, 
 And Death came hurrying on the billow's crest, 
 
 One passed to peace amid the tempest wild ; 
 Storm-spared, the other finds a tranquil nest : 
 
 And now to both Death's face seems sweet and mild ; 
 Calmly they sleep, man's breast to baby's breast 
 Father and Child.
 
 Q2 North Country Poets. 
 
 AUTUMN, 1885. 
 
 [From " In Memoriam Philip."] 
 
 Yes, Autumn comes again and finds me here ; 
 Last year I thought I should be otherwhere, 
 Than 'mid these fading falling leaves ; for there, 
 Beneath life's tree whose leaves are never sere 
 But green throughout the great eternal year, 
 I thought to lie, and breathe the tranquil air, 
 And see my boy who, being for earth too fair, 
 Is fairer still in that celestial sphere. 
 Perchance for me his little heart did yearn ; 
 Haply to meet me at the golden gate 
 He oft would wander, stand awhile, and turn 
 Away to cry, " My father lingers late." 
 Content thee, little one ; my heart doth burn 
 For thee as thine for me, but God says " Wait ! " 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 Christmas Eve, 1880. 
 
 Thy prayer is granted ; thou hast joined the Choir 
 
 Invisible ; the Choir whose music makes 
 
 Life's discords grow to harmonies, and takes 
 
 Us unawares with sounds that are as fire 
 
 And light and melody in one. We tire 
 
 Of weary noon and night, of dawn that breaks 
 
 Only to bring again the cares, the aches, 
 
 The meannesses that drag us to the mire : 
 
 When lo ! amid life's din we catch thy clear 
 
 Large utterance from the lucid upper air, 
 
 Bidding us wipe away the miry stain, 
 
 And scale the stainless stars, and have no fear 
 
 Save the one dread of forfeiting our share 
 
 In the deep joy that follows noble pain.
 
 Samuel Waddington. 
 
 93 
 
 Samuel Waddington . 
 
 AMUEL Waddington was born at Boston Spa, Yorkshire, 
 in the year 1844. His ancestors, at the time of the 
 Commonwealth, lived at East Rigton, a little hamlet 
 adjoining Bardsey where the poet Congreve is said to 
 have been born, and from this village they removed to a 
 house known as Oglethorpe Hall, and afterwards to 
 Boston Spa. He was educated at St. John's School, 
 Huntingdon, and at Brasenose College, Oxford, where he 
 took his B.A. degree ia 1865. While at Oxford, Mr. Waddington sat for a 
 while at the feet of Dr. Pusey, attending the lectures on divinity which 
 that illustrious founder of the High Church school delivered in his own 
 private room at Christ Church. He does not, however, appear to have 
 been greatly influenced by Pusey's teaching, for when, after leaving the 
 University, he began to prepare for ordination, he found that his views 
 would not permit him to subscribe to the Articles of the Church of 
 England, and he consequently relinquished his original intention of being 
 ordained, and having obtained a nomination from the Duke of Richmond 
 for a vacancy at the Board of Trade, he entered that department, in which 
 he has now worked for many years. 
 
 During his leisure hours he has adopted literature as his laborum dulce 
 lenimen, and more especially the literature connected with the history and 
 composition of the " Sonnet." A few years ago, at the suggestion of a friend 
 (Mr. Austin Dobson), he determined on publishing a selection of " English 
 Sonnets by Living Writers " (Geo. Bell & Sons, London, 1881) ; and to this 
 selection he appended an essay on the " Sonnet " and its history. Of this 
 volume a second edition, enlarged, was published in 1884, in which year Mr. 
 Waddington also published a volume of his own poems entitled, " Sonnets 
 and Other Verse," and respecting these the best equipped of our sonnet 
 critics observed in the Academy that they prove that the author is 
 " not merely a tasteful collector of these cameos of verse, but a cunning and 
 delicate carver, whose carefully cut gems future collectors will not despise." 
 In addition to the above he has also published a selection of " English 
 Sonnets by Poets of the Past " (Bell and Sons, 1882) ; and a volume 
 of translated sonnets entitled, " Sonnets of Europe " (Walter Scott, 1886), 
 of which a second edition has just been issued ; as well as a selection of 
 religious verse, entitled, " Sacred Song." 
 
 Mr. Waddington is further known as the biographer of the poet Arthur 
 Hugh Clough, to whose writings his own compositions appear to bear con- 
 siderable affinity as regards thought and subject matter ; but it is as a 
 sonnet writer and sonnet critic that he is especially distinguished. 
 
 Contributions from his pen will be found in Mr. Davenport Adams' 
 "Latter-Day Lyrics," Mr. Andrew Lang's "Ballads of Books," Mr. 
 William Sharp's " Sonnets of this Century," and Mr. Gleeson White's 
 " Ballades and Kondeaus." 
 
 R.. J. LISTEK.
 
 94 North Country Poets. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 " And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire." GEAY. 
 
 Now o'er the topmost pine, 
 
 The distant pine-clad peak, 
 There dawns a golden streak 
 Of light, an orient line : 
 
 Phoebus, the light is thine, 
 Thine is the glory, seek 
 Each dale and dewy creek, 
 And in full splendour shine ! 
 
 Thy steeds now chafe and fret 
 To scour the dusky plain : 
 Speed forth with flashing rein, 
 
 Speed o'er the land, and yet, 
 Pray, linger in this lane, 
 Kissing each violet. 
 
 DORT. 
 
 So quiet, yet so quaint ! Shall curfew toll 
 
 The knell of days departed ? Nay, draw near, 
 The sovran balm of peace and rest is here ! 
 
 From street to street lethargic waters roll, 
 
 And like the symbols of an ancient scroll 
 
 The houses breathe an old-world atmosphere : 
 Grim Gomarists are gone, nor will we fear 
 
 Lest wiser Zwinglians they again control. 
 
 Yet hush ! High in the trees, around the church, 
 The rooks are holding synod, can the dead 
 Unrestful rise, and wrangle over-head ? 
 
 Then for the Gomarists we need not search ! 
 
 But Dort, Dort doffs their robe of ' graceless ' gloom, 
 
 And wears her tall magnolias in full bloom. 
 Dort, 1884.
 
 Samuel Waddington. 95 
 
 MORS ET VITA. 
 
 We know not yet what life shall be, 
 
 What shore beyond earth's shore be set ; 
 What grief awaits us, or what glee, 
 We know not yet. 
 
 Still, somewhere in sweet converse met, 
 Old friends, we say, beyond death's sea 
 
 Shall meet and greet us, nor forget 
 
 Those days of yore, those years when we 
 Were loved and true, but will death let 
 
 Our eyes the longed-for vision see ? 
 We know not yet. 
 
 THE INN OF CARE. 
 
 At Nebra, by the Unstrut, 
 So travellers declare, 
 There stands an ancient tavern, 
 It is the ' Inn of Care ' : 
 To all the world 'tis open ; 
 It sets a goodly fare ; 
 And every soul is welcome 
 That deigns to sojourn there. 
 
 The landlord with his helpers, 
 (He is a stalwart host), 
 To please his guest still labours 
 With ' bouilli ' and with roast ' 
 And ho ! he laughs so roundly, 
 He laughs, and loves to boast 
 That he, who bears the beaker 
 May live to share the ' toast.'
 
 96 North Country Poets. 
 
 Lticus a non lucendo 
 
 Thus named might seem the inn, 
 
 So careless is its laughter, 
 
 So loud its merry din ; 
 
 Yet ere to doubt its title 
 
 You do, in sooth, begin, 
 
 Go, watch the pallid faces, 
 
 Approach and pass within. 
 
 To Nebra, by the Unstrut, 
 May all the world repair 
 And meet a hearty welcome, 
 And share a goodly fare ; 
 The world ! 'tis worn and weary 
 'Tis tired of gilt and glare ! 
 The inn ! 'tis named full wisely, 
 It is the ' Inn of Care ! ' 
 
 THE NEOPHYTE. 
 
 His spirit is in apogee ! To-night 
 
 Far from our earth he speeds ; he heeds no more 
 
 The long waves breaking on life's echoing shore : 
 
 Lo, Truth, his aureole, as heaven grows bright ; 
 
 And Faith, his carcanet, as chrysolite 
 
 'Mid soul- wrought gems gleams thro' the opening door 
 
 Of purest Innocence ; on wings that soar 
 
 Thro' cloud-girt vistas to the Infinite, 
 
 Upward he journeys, and what limitless scope, 
 
 What boundless prospects to his vision rise 
 
 What thrones, how fair ! and oh, how full of hope 
 
 The heavenly mansions and the star-built skies ! 
 
 Yet love, dear love ! behold, the day shall be, 
 
 Earthward he will return, and kneel to thee.
 
 John Richardson. 
 
 97 
 
 John Richardson. 
 
 HE Cumberland dialect abounds in valuable illustrations 
 of the life and manners of an interesting people. Many 
 men and women have made it the vehicle of noble thought 
 and high aspiration, and among these almost unknown 
 writers John Itichprdson takes a high place. 
 
 He was born at Piper House, Naddle, near Keswick, 
 on the 20th August, 1817, and he died at Bridge House, 
 St. John's-in-the-Vale, on the 30th April, 1886. He 
 received a somewhat limited education at the schoolhouse in " the narrow 
 valley " celebrated by Sir Walter Scott in his " Bridal of Triermain," after - 
 . wards taking upon himself his father's trade, that of a mason, of which, we 
 are assured he made himself a proficient master. Early in life he began to 
 take building contracts on his own account, and many houses and farm 
 buildings in his own neighbourhood, and also in the town of Keswick, testify 
 to the efficient and substantial character of his work. His operations 
 included the church, the parsonage, and the school-house in St. John's 
 Vale ; Derwent place in Keswick, and other houses in the town and 
 district. I make special mention of these trade achievements in order to 
 point out the singular solidity and thoroughness of the poet's dual character. 
 In this calling he continued about a quarter of a century, and then 
 exchanged it for the more congenial, though perhaps, no less arduous toil 
 of teaching his neighbours' children in the new school which he had built. 
 He held the office of school-master for about 27 years, and relinquished it 
 11 months prior to his death. 
 
 He married at 23, and had a large family, the rearing of which was 
 doubtless a matter of frequent solicitude to him : nevertheless, Mr. 
 Richardson found leisure to mirror the spiritual side of his nature in the 
 vigorous and expressive folk-speech of his native county. Some few of 
 his productions appeared at scattered intervals in the Cumberland news- 
 papers, or were printed on leaflets for private circulation amongst his 
 friends. It was not until 1871, when he had traversed the half -century, 
 and four years beyond it, that his first book was issued to the public. This 
 was " Cummerland Talk," which consists of short tales and poems in the 
 dialect of his district. A second series of this work followed in 1876. The 
 volumes were published by George Coward, of Carlisle, and met with 
 genuine and well deserved success on their own inherent merits. 
 
 The book was highly praised by the late Dr. Gibson, who is admitted 
 to have been the most skilful writer in the county vernacular ; and a true 
 test of its popularity may be found in the fact that nearly every dalesman 
 or " statesman " in the country-side possesses a copy. All educated fell- 
 siders can quote from it at will, and it is a household treasure which 
 shares with the universally popular poems of Burns the unqualified
 
 98 North Country Poets. 
 
 admiration of the people. Within a somewhat narrower district, John 
 Richardson's book is to the Cumberland " statesmen " what Edwin 
 Waugh's poems are to the Lancashire people : both poets have the 
 magnetism of nature very strongly developed in all their works, with its 
 irresistible and indescribable appeal. 
 
 In addition to this book, Mr. Eichardson has contributed several 
 useful and interesting papers to the local literary and scientific societies, 
 some of which have been published in the " Transactions " of the County 
 Association. In the records of the Keswick Society, seven papers are 
 catalogued as having been read by him at meetings of the society on the 
 dates undermentioned : Nov. 29th, 1875 " The Cumberland Dialect and 
 the Bards who have written in it"; Nov. 6th, 1876 "Old Customs and 
 Usages of the District " ; Nov. 5th, 1877 " The Superstitions once common 
 in the Lake District " ; Dec. 2nd, 1878 " Sports and Pastimes in the Lake 
 Country " ; Feb. 21st, 1881 " Cumberland before the Union with Scot- 
 land "; Dec. 5th, 1881" Scottish Life and Character " ; Feb. 18th, 188i 
 " The Dialects of the Lake Country." This list of works is an interesting 
 one, and the papers contain much matter that is elsewhere unobtainable. 
 In 1879 or 1880, Mr. Richardson contributed to the columns of the West 
 Cumberland Times, under the appropriate title of " Stwories 'at Ganny uset 
 to tell," a series of sketches and anecdotes illustrative of life in the Cum- 
 berland dales in the time of the grandfathers of the present generation. 
 These scenes and incidents were of actual occurrence, and they are graphi- 
 cally portrayed in the language used by the original narrator, the poet's 
 mother. 
 
 Some of his poems, such as "John Crozier's Tally-ho" and " Laal 
 Isaac " both stirring ballads of the chase are still to be recognized as 
 constant favourites at festive gatherings of hunters. " It's Nobbut Me," 
 which is here given as an example of his simple, yet strong and touching, 
 descriptive power, is the most popular of his writings, and it is generally 
 believed that a personal experience is narrated in the lyric. " Git Ower 
 Me 'at Can," "Auld Scheul Frinds " and " Auld Jwohnny' Hoose " are 
 also very graphic and remarkable for their roughness, truth, and fulness of 
 nature. I select three poems, however, which are very popular, and which 
 I hope may prove interesting to the public. 
 
 Personally, Mr. Richardson was a quiet, estimable man, slow to speak, 
 but to the purpose when he did speak, and always working either with his 
 hands or his head. He was a general favourite, and I have all the more 
 pleasure in laying this little memorial before a wide circle of readers, when 
 I recollect that I have had the privilege of attending his school for some 
 little time, and am therefore entitled to add my own personal testimony as 
 to his kindness, generosity, and truthfulness. He was essentially a poet of 
 the people, and his verses have a great charm to all those who understand 
 the dialect in which they are written. 
 
 JOHN WALKER.
 
 John Richardson. 99 
 
 T'AULD FARMER'S MIDNEET 
 SOLILOQUY. 
 
 Is't thee 'at's cum heanim sa leatt, Zarah. ? 
 
 I been i' bed three 'oors or mair ; 
 I thowt thoo was langer nor common, 
 
 An' lissen't an' twin't mesel sair. 
 
 What ! hes t'er been owts iv a deu than ? 
 
 War owts o* them Gursmer f wok theer ? 
 When I use to gang menny year sen, 
 
 Fwok than use to com far an' near. 
 
 I think thoo hes somebody wi the' ; 
 
 I hard summet talken I's seur, 
 If 't sud be that ill Charlie Timer, 
 
 Send 'im oot gaily sharp, an' bar t' dooer. 
 
 What ses t'e ? O ! if it's Tom Sokelt, 
 Thoo'll give 'im some pie an' some yal ; 
 
 Thoo'll finnd t' kay i' my brutches pocket, 
 An' tell 'im to mak a good meall. 
 
 His fadder's a gay yabble steatsman ; 
 
 An' hes brass at Wakefield's an'aw ; 
 An' theer nobbut Tom an' anudder, 
 
 Thoo'll nivver deu better, I know. 
 
 If thoo can git Tom Sokelt, Zarah, 
 I'll gi' the' five hundred or mair : 
 
 Bit if thoo taks that tudder waistrel, 
 Thoo's nut hev a plack, I declare. 
 
 I've mair nor fower thoosand at Wakefields' 
 I dreem't yesterneet 'at t' bank brack ; 
 
 If t' dream sud co' trew, I'll be beggart ; 
 I may just tak a pwok o' me back.
 
 ioo North Country Poets. 
 
 I keep talken on, bit I hear nowt ; 
 
 What, mappen oor Zarah's asleep : 
 I've a hundred or two i 1 t'kist corner, 
 
 An' than I've a good stock o' sheep. 
 
 Theer three clips o' woo up it' woo-loft ; 
 
 Them Kendal chaps bad me elebben ; 
 I thowt I sud hev twelve an' sixpence, 
 
 An' noo', dang't, it's come 't doon to sebben. 
 
 Sec prices ur fair beggaration ; 
 
 I'll niver tak sebben, I's seur ; 
 But whoar mun we put it neist clippin ; 
 
 For t' woo-loft's mew't up to t' dooer. 
 
 I's rayder sleepy, bit mappen 
 
 I'll dream that ill dream agean : 
 Bit, what, hang them Wakefields, they'll brek niu 
 
 If I nobbut let them aleann. 
 
 WHAT USE TO BE LANG SEN. 
 
 I's grou'en feckless, auld, an' leamm, 
 Me legs an' arms ur far fra t' seamm, 
 
 As what they use to be : 
 Me back oft warks, an's seldom reet ; 
 I've sceurse a teuth to chow me meat, 
 
 An' I can hardly see. 
 
 Bit yance I cud ha' plew't or sown, 
 Or shorn me rigg, or thick gurse mown, 
 
 "Wi" enuy man alive : 
 An' yance, when in t' Crowpark we ran, 
 (An' theer war some 'at cud run than) 
 
 I corn in t' furst o' five. 
 
 At russeliu', if I say 't mesel, 
 Theer wasseut menny cud me fell, 
 An' theer war gooduns than :
 
 John Richardson. 101 
 
 I've russel't oft wi' Gwordie Urn, 
 An' still cud fell 'im in me turn, 
 An' he was neah bad man. 
 
 An' who wi' me cud follow t' hoonds ? 
 I've travel't Skiddaw roond an' roond ; 
 
 An' theer war hunters than : 
 Bit I was gayly oft wi t' furst, 
 An' went whoar nobbut odduns durst, 
 
 An' nin noo leeven can. 
 
 An' than at fair or merry-neet, 
 Nin like me cud ha' us't their feet ; 
 
 An' theer war dancers than : 
 What, noo they fidge an' run aboot, 
 Theer nowder jig, three reel, nor nowt, 
 
 An' steps they hevvent yan. 
 
 When I was young, lads us't to larn 
 To darce, an' run, an' russel, barn, 
 
 'Twas few 'at larn't to read : 
 Fwok thowt their barns war sharp an' reet, 
 If they cud use their hands an' feet ; 
 
 'Twas laal they car't for t' heid. 
 
 Fwok use' to drink good heamm brew't yal, 
 It steud on t' teable ivvery meall, 
 
 An' ye mud swig ye're fill : 
 Bit noo theer nowt bit svvashy tea, 
 Na wonder fwok sud warsent be, 
 
 Fair snafflins they'll be still. 
 
 This warld an' me are beuth alike, 
 We're beath on t' shady side o' t' dyke, 
 
 An' tumlen fast doon t' broo : 
 Theer nowt 'at ivver yan can see, 
 'At's hofe like what it use' to be ; 
 
 Aw things ur feckless noo !
 
 IO2 North Country Poets. 
 
 IT'S NOBBUT ME. 
 
 Ya winter neet, I mind it weel, 
 
 Oor lads 'ed been at t' fell, 
 An' bein tir't, went seun to bed, 
 
 An' I sat be mesel. 
 I hard a jike on t' window pane, 
 
 An* deftly went to see ; 
 Bit when I ax't, " Who's jiken theer ? " 
 
 Says t' chap, " It's nobbut me ! " 
 
 " Who's me " ? sa,ys I, " What want ye here ? 
 
 Oor fwok ur aw i' bed ; " 
 " I dunnet want your fwok at aw, 
 
 It's thee I want," he sed. 
 " What cant 'e want wi' me," says I ; 
 
 " An' who, the deuce, can't be ? 
 Just tell me who it is, an' than " 
 
 Says he, " Its nobbut me." 
 
 " I want a sweetheart, an' I thowt 
 
 Thoo mebby wad an' aw ; 
 I'd been a bit down t' deal to-neet, 
 
 An' thowt 'at I wad caw ; 
 What, cant 'e like me dus t'e think? 
 
 I think I wad like thee " 
 " I dunnet know who 't is," says I ; 
 
 Says he, " It's nobbut me." 
 
 We pestit on a canny while, 
 
 I thowt his voice I kent ; 
 An' than I steall quite whisht away, 
 
 An' oot at t' dooer I went : 
 I creapp, an' gat 'irn be t' cwoat laps, 
 
 'Twas dark, he cuddent see ; 
 He startit roond, an' said " Who's that ? " 
 
 Says I, " It's nobbut me."
 
 John Richardson. 103 
 
 An' menny a time he com ageann, 
 
 An' menny a time I went, 
 An' sed, " Who's that 'at's jiken theer? " 
 
 When gaily weel I kent : 
 An' mainly what t' seamm answer com 
 
 Fra back o' t' laylick tree ; 
 He sed, " I think thoo knows who 't is ; 
 
 Thoo knows it's nobbut me." 
 
 It's twenty year an' mair sen than, 
 
 An' ups an' doons we've hed ; 
 An' six fine barns hev blest us beath, 
 
 Sen Jim an' me war wed. 
 An' menny a time I've known 'ini steal, 
 
 When I'd yan on me knee, 
 To mak me start, an' than wad laugh 
 
 Ha ! Ha ! " It's nobbut me."
 
 IO4 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 Patty Honeywood. 
 
 OETRY has no sex, and shining through the warp and 
 woof of possy's web there is, as a rule, little to indicate 
 whether the mind which has reflected a thought or image 
 in verse is that of man or woman. Perhaps, indeed, so much 
 of the tender and sympathetic is essential to the poetic 
 temperament that, to judge in a large way, most good 
 verse has something of the feminine. Therefore it is that 
 the poetry of a lady may be naturally in accordance with 
 what to put it indefinitely we expect in poetry, with the bestowal of less 
 art-consciousness than in the productions of the sterner sex ; and hence, 
 other things being equal, excellence in a poetess should not surprise us. In 
 the early life of Patty Honeywood, we see how the germ of poetry which 
 surely lies undeveloped in many a breast, or who would read poems may 
 be early called into life. Quickened by her mother's voice repeating verses 
 which seemed to the child's memory in after years to leave dim traces of 
 ineffable sadness, she shewed, 'ere the period of infancy was passed, her 
 strong predilection for poetry. Books of poems, often difficult for the 
 young aspirant to read, and for long far above a child's comprehension, 
 were yet amongst her earliest and dearest treasures. The sunshine of 
 poetic example, and the rain of youthful sympathy's tears, at least made 
 the germ break its prison-house. A little rhyme shot forth, and henceforth 
 Ann Olivia Jackson was reputed a poetess. She scribbled books of girlish 
 rhymes, and upon all juvenile festivals was expected by her school friends 
 to provide poems suited to the occasion. She was born at Leeds in 1856, 
 and in 1875 her poetry first appeared in the Leeds Weekly Express, and not 
 long elapsed before the readers of all the larger Yorkshire papers became 
 familiar with her nom dc plume, " Patty Honeywood." In those papers her 
 verses still appear, as well as in literature other than local. She has also 
 written some excellent prose stories for the annuals and magazines. In 1883, 
 that interesting epoch in the life of a poet the publication of the first 
 volume of verses came to Patty Honeywood. The book went forward to its 
 welcome, and every possessor hopes for its successor. 
 
 Sweeping phrases are apt to err, yet if the qualities of Patty Honey- 
 wood's poetry had to be summed up in two words, it must be pronounced sad 
 and sweet. To extend our consideration a little further, it gains much of 
 its power by skilful antitheses, by parallels and comparisons of thought 
 continued so far and then broken off into abrupt divergencies or melting 
 away into half tints of suggestion. There are evidences of deep thought in 
 this, but the tuneful and poetic is never usurped by the heavy and 
 speculative ; you read but to be charmed. 
 
 T. TlNDALL WlLDRIDGE.
 
 Patty Honey wood. 105 
 
 CITY NOTES. 
 
 I mind me of a garden quaint, with flaunting iris flowers, 
 And sloping chasm river- ward, 
 And green embankment city- ward, 
 Where loomed the stately towers. 
 
 The kiss of June was on my lips, dark pansies on my breast, 
 And ever flowing ocean-ward, 
 With purple hazes upland-ward, 
 The river sought its rest. 
 
 I mind me when the night came down, and lights gleamed 
 one by one, 
 
 The toilers wending cottage-ward, 
 The wealthy passing mansion- ward, 
 Each with his labour done. 
 
 And last of all I heard the chimes sound like a voice from God, 
 A hymn to draw us other-ward, 
 A prayer to draw us heaven-ward, 
 Beyond the dark grave's sod. 
 
 PAST. 
 
 Let the dead past bury its dead. 
 
 Would you have it return in part, 
 Enwrapped in grave clothes to haunt 
 
 The innermost room of your heart ? 
 
 Embalm it with tears if you will, 
 Adorn it with memory's wreaths ; 
 
 But what is the cold clay to you 
 It neither hears nor breathes ?
 
 io6 North Country Poets. 
 
 Oh fold its hands in peace, 
 Hands once held out to you ; 
 
 No need to murmur its name, 
 It will not know if you do. 
 
 Oh God ! is the past with Thee ? 
 
 Shall I never see it more, 
 When I turn pale and chill, 
 
 When the battle and strife are o'er ? 
 
 Will some other voice with sobs 
 
 Cry out in its agony, 
 And shall I sleep, calm and still, 
 
 In the sleep that hath to be ? 
 
 THE HOLY ROOD. 
 
 A prophet's vision vague and crude, 
 Hosts wandering to and fro ; 
 
 A Christ upon a Holy Eood, 
 The shadows come and go. 
 
 A mighty abbey's wailing crowd, 
 
 The anthem's rise and fall ; 
 The moon's cold radiance, like a shroud, 
 
 Upon a ruined wall. 
 
 A sepulchre with open door, 
 
 A weeping woman's moan, 
 A shriven soul on Heaven's floor, 
 
 A God upon His throne. 
 
 *;=***** 
 
 The prophet's vision is fulfilled, 
 
 The wanderings are o'er ; 
 The Christ upon the Holy Rood 
 
 Is worshipped more and more.
 
 Florence Jackson. 
 
 107 
 
 Florence Jackson. 
 
 LORENCE Jackson, the younger sister of the preceding 
 poet, is widely known as the author of a number of clever 
 stories, and she has also written some charming poems. 
 Miss Jackson never writes poetry unless she is in the 
 mood, and the result is that her verses are always of 
 considerable merit. Like Emerson, she believes that " a 
 poet must wait many days to glorify one." The same 
 remark may be applied to her prose writing. Miss Jackson 
 never reproduces facts, or persons she knows, but allows the impressions 
 conveyed by them to influence her work. Her nom de plume is " Flo Jack- 
 son ; " but her nama is Trothy Florence Brown Jackson. Miss Jackson 
 was born at Leeds. 
 
 W. A. 
 
 WE SIX. 
 
 There were Tracy arid rne, and Roily Dick 
 
 (0 the sea rolled wild and free) ; 
 There were Lucy and Rose, and Marjory Daw 
 
 Was the sea more wild than we ? 
 
 There were golden sands and brown-sailed boats 
 (0 the white-washed cots, all three) ; 
 
 There were tall sunflowers and hollyhocks 
 Higher than Tracy and me. 
 
 But the summers went, and the summers came, 
 
 (Roily Dick's hair turned brown), 
 And the children out of the white-washed cots, 
 
 Have stretched their wings and flown. 
 
 There were Tracy and me, and Roily Dick 
 
 (Tracy on Ceylon's strand), 
 There were Susy and Rose, and Marjory Daw, 
 
 Who used to be barefoot and tanned.
 
 io8 North Country Poets. 
 
 The sunflowers grow by the cottage walls 
 (Eose sleeps cold and still), 
 
 She is the child of all the six, 
 The others have lives to fill. 
 
 Susy and rne we tread the streets 
 (Great town your smoke hangs low), 
 
 Always together to smile or weep, 
 Away from the ebb and the flow. 
 
 Marjory Daw and Eolly Dick, 
 
 (Madge with the sun-touched hair), 
 
 They two ride over the wide sea's rim 
 The sands stretch lone and bare. 
 
 THE VOICE OF CHANGE. 
 
 The brown rocks lie on the land, just as they did of old, 
 
 The boats go one by one, red sails gleaming gold ; 
 
 At the foot of the giant cliff, the waves sing ever and aye, 
 
 A dreamy song in the warm June air to the white gulls out at play. 
 
 Then where is the change that lurks, like a hidden and secret thing 
 (As green is the old cliff side, where the red-tipped daisies cling, 
 And gold the buttercups shine, as ever they shone before) ? 
 But the voice of the sea calls low, " The past shall return no more." 
 
 The hand of eternal Change is over my soul and thine, 
 The past is a half-closed door, the future is thine nor mine ; 
 Then come in the warm June air, lie still on the green cliff side, 
 Let the world spin on to her goal, the past and the future have died.
 
 James Armstrong. 
 
 109 
 
 James Armstrong. 
 
 AMES Armstrong, the poet of the moorlands that border 
 on the North Tyne and the Rede, was bom at Bardon 
 Mill on the 19th November, 1823. He claims to be a 
 lineal descendant of the famous moss-trooper, Johnnie 
 Armstrong, of Gilnockie. His life, for the most part, has 
 been spent near the wild and picturesque Wanny Crags. 
 Not much more than a century ago this district was 
 inhabited by lawless and turbulent clans, who were either 
 raiding across the Border or fighting among themselves. Such an evil 
 reputation had they that the Merchant Adventurers of Newcastle passed, 
 in 1564, a bye-law (unrepaaled till 1771) enacting that no apprentices should 
 be taken "proceeding from such lewde and wicked progenitors." The 
 character of the people has materially improved since the troublous times, 
 but the features of the country are pretty much the same. The landscapes 
 presented to the eye are either wild heathery uplands, broken here and 
 there by an outcrop of crag, or quiet pastoral dales with their peat-coloured 
 burns and bright strips of green haugh-land. The sounds that are borne on 
 the ear are the bleating of the mountain sheep and the plaintive cry of the 
 curlew. Uninteresting as these moorlands may seem to the stranger, they 
 exercise a singular fascination over the hearts of the dalesmen. Armstrong 
 was for some time in North America, but this absence from his native moors 
 only made them more dear to him. Lake Ontario was a poor substitute 
 for Sweethope Lough, and the Beaver River for the North Tyne. Armstrong 
 is now resident at Ridsdale, near Bellingham, and is well-known as an 
 angler, otter-hunter, and breeder of Dandie Dinmont terriers. The few 
 songs he has written are contained in a small volume entitled, " Wanny 
 Blossoms," which has already passed through two editions. Interspersed 
 with the poems are descriptions in prose of otter and fox hunts, together 
 with a treatise on fishing with the fly, worm, minnow, and roe. 
 Armstrong's muse is essentially a local muse, and the key-note to his songs 
 is love for his " muirland hame." The subjects which inspire him are not 
 numerous. A few lyrics in praise of his native hills and streams ; a few 
 fishing and hunting songs ; some humorous sketches of local character 
 " Pencil Jack," " Peer Oald Joe," " Johnnie the Caller," etc. ; three or 
 four ditties on rustic maidens, and one or two poems on other topics, form 
 Armstrong's contribution to Northumbrian verse. His poems have a 
 healthy, open-air charm about them, and the descriptive touches they con- 
 tain of the sights and sounds of the moorlands are usually very happy. He 
 sketches in the details of the picture with loving familiarity. Here we 
 have the wide moors with their knowes and flowes (their knolls and peat- 
 mosses) ; their cairns and scaurs ; their wimpling burns ; the bonnie 
 heather-bells ; the scarlet noops, or cloudberries ; the creeping cranberries ; 
 the sweet-scented wild thyme ; the lambs lying in clusters on the sunny
 
 1 10 North Country Poets. 
 
 brae ; the stell, or enclosure for sheep on the hill-side ; the red comb of the 
 muir-cock peeping above the heather ; the whirring gorcock ; the falcon in 
 the sky there with flashing wings ; the shy curlew ; the ravens hovering 
 around the grey cliff; the " lanesome " plover; the mountain-bee tooting 
 his wee horn ; and the wily fox breaking away from cover while the music 
 of the pack resounds through the dell. The most popular of Armstrong's 
 songs is the "Wild Hills O'Wannys," but "My Muirland Hame," and 
 "Aid Crag," have certain qualities about them which entitle them to rank 
 higher as poems. 
 
 W. W. TOMLINSON. 
 
 MY MUIRLAND HAME. 
 
 (Written when the author was on the banks of the Beaver River, 
 North America). 
 
 My bonnie, bonnie inuirland hauie, 
 
 I rue that I left thee, 
 An' a' Northurnbria's hills and dales, 
 
 To cross the Atlantic Sea. 
 ! gie me back my knowes 1 an' flowes 2 , 
 
 And tak yer wealth and fame, 
 Yer boundless woods and prairies wide, 
 
 Gie me my muirland hame. 
 
 My heart is yet in Borderland, 
 
 By streams an' sunny braes 3 , 
 Where wildly wave the heather-bells, 
 
 In the bright morning rays ; 
 Where a' my dauntless clansmen true, 
 
 That bear Gilnockie's name, 
 Still proudly tell o' days of yore, 
 
 Around my muirland hame. 
 
 Could I but see my Wannys wild, 
 
 An' hear the lavrocks sing ; 
 Could I but see yon heathery dell, 
 
 Where the blae-berries hing ; 
 
 1 A knoll. 2 A peat-moss. 
 
 3 A steep bank as the broken ground by a river side.
 
 James A rmstrong. 1 1 1 
 
 The inuir-cock's beck 4 could I but hear, 
 
 And see his bonnie kame, 
 Or hear the heather-bleater 5 hie 
 
 Around my muirland hame. 
 
 Nae sparkling streams, nae yellow trouts, 
 
 Nae heather-bells are here, 
 Nor laniinies loupin' on the braes, 
 
 My longing soul to cheer. 
 bear me back ! thou gallant ship, 
 
 Across the briny faem ; 
 That I may see my mountains free, 
 
 My bonnie muirland hame. 
 4 To nod and cluck as a strutting cock does. G The snipe. 
 
 AID CRAG. 
 
 High o'er wild Wanny's lofty crest, 
 
 Where the raven cleaves the cloud, 
 An' gorcocks 1 beck 2 around Aid Crag 
 
 Sae crousely 3 and sae proud, 
 Gurlin 4 thro' the glens o' Eede, 
 
 Wi' a weird and eerie strum. 5 
 When round yon auld cot 
 
 The winter winds they'd come. 
 
 When Otter-caps an' Hcpple Heugh, 
 
 Hartside and Cheviots' height, 
 When Peaden's peak and Darna brows 
 
 Ance mair were clad in white, 
 The fox an' otter in the snaw, 
 
 We track'd to their den, 
 An' when we cam to the auld cot 
 
 We were kindly welcom'd ben 6 . 
 
 1 The noor-cock, or red grouse. 2 To nod and cluck as a strutting cock 
 s Briskly. does 
 
 4 Hurtling, with moaning sound. 5 A low musical note, like the tap of 
 In ; inside. a drum.
 
 1 1 2 North Country Poets. 
 
 Wi' " Fling off yer plaids an' suaw lougs 7 , 
 
 We've wearied for ye lang ; 
 Tak' a waught 8 o' whusky, lads, 
 
 An' sing us a guid auld sang, 
 Of ' Kieldar Cowt,' or ' Brandy Leash,' 
 
 Or ' Johnnie o' Gilnockie ; ' 
 Ye ken we like the auld sangs best, 
 
 Sae, an auld yen let it be." 
 
 O, then we sang the auld sangs 
 
 We'd heard the auld folks sing, 
 Of monie a gallant reiver clan, 
 
 Wha fear'd nae lord nor king ; 
 But harried the faulds baith far an' wide, 
 
 Of wsther, cowt 9 , an' steer ; 
 An' when at need could wield the brand, 
 
 An' poise the Border spear. 
 
 An' aye we sang o' the auld times, 
 
 An' rnonie a tale we tauld 
 Of Tyne, and Eede, and Liddesdale, 
 
 An' moss-troopers sae bauld ; 
 Of midnight raid, an' morning fight, 
 
 By grey peel, cairn, or stream, 
 Till Fancy heard the slogan wild, 
 
 And saw the bright steel gleam. 
 
 An' aye we tauld the fairy tales, 
 
 And sang the rebel sangs, 
 Of dauntless Derwentwater's doom, 
 
 An' the exil'd Stuart's wrangs ; 
 We tauld of " Barty o' the Kame," 
 
 " Bed Cap," and " Bowrie " too, 
 An' sang of " Rob o' Eisinghame," 
 
 Until the grey cock crew. 
 
 7 Footless stockings drawn over 8 A large draught, 
 the legs during snowy weather. 9 A colt.
 
 The Rev. E. G. Charlesworlh. 
 
 The Rev. E. G. Charlesworlh. 
 
 HE Rev. E. G. Charlesworth, Vicar of Acklam, Middlesbro', 
 is the son of the late Edward Charlesworth, of the firm 
 of By water, Charlesworth, & Co., Bankers, Leeds, after- 
 wards formed into " The Leads Commercial Banking 
 Co.," a prosperous establishment until after the death of 
 his father. It was wound up in the year 18i7, paying all 
 its creditors in full. Mr. Charlesworth, who was a large 
 shareholder in the bank, held a subordinate office in it 
 for some time. He was educated at Bramham Vicarage, Leeds, and the 
 Grammar School, and after four years of business life, was prepared for 
 ordination by the Rsv. T. Myers, of Sheriff Hutton Vicarage, and St. Bees 
 College, Cumberland. His mother was a lineal descendant of " the 
 Claphams of Beamsley, " referred to in " The White Doe of Rylstone " 
 by the poet Wordsworth. 
 
 Mr. Charlesworth is the author of " The Chronicles of the Coniston 
 Family," a novel (dedicated by permission to J. Ruskin, M.A., of Brant- 
 wood, Coniston), a new edition of which has just been published. A critic 
 in the Morning Post wrote of it as follows : " It is graphically written, and 
 the reader's interest is not allowe d to flag. Mixed up with the tale are 
 other characters of more or less importance. The vicar and curate of 
 Coniston are among these, and are skilfully introduced into the plot. " 
 " The writer's style is lively, " says the same reviewer, " his descriptions 
 are vivid, and his sense of humour is not wanting." Mr. Charlesworth's 
 poems have appeared from time to time in current periodicals, including 
 Once a Week, Cassell's Magazine, Sunday Magazine, Sunday at Home, 
 Chambers's, The Quiver, London Society, Sunday Talk, and others. 
 
 Of his longest poem, " Ecce Christus," in acknowledgement of a copy 
 sent him, he received from the late Professor of Poetry at Oxford, Dr. 
 Shairp, the following comments : " The poem which you have sent to me 
 seems, as far as I can judge, interesting in thought, and the presentation 
 of it by no means common-place. Indeed the thought contained in the 
 first eighteen lines of page two strikes me as original, and well put, and 
 there are others like it. On the whole, your poem interested me much. It 
 has a quaint peculiarity of its own, which is stimulative to thought : 
 how far it would be popular, I cannot venture to say." 
 
 ALFRED E. THISELTON, B.A.
 
 114 North Country Poets. 
 
 THE SKYLARK. 
 
 Higher and higher to heavens rising 
 
 In circuits narrowing with ascent, 
 
 And growing self-abandonment 
 
 That lulls the trembling of his wing, 
 
 He poureth from his lofty stairs 
 
 Song-floods my fancy names " his prayers." 
 
 Higher and higher, now clouds among, 
 Falls to my ear a distant song 
 That tells of joy and rapture grown, 
 Of prayer made praise at foot of throne 
 Of worship, and of inward sun 
 Of " Gloria in Excelsis " won. 
 
 FAITH'S TRANSFIGURATION ! 
 
 Life is serious, a journey to another end. This journey becomes, easier, 
 the more the number of those we love increases in heaven." From a 
 letter of the Princess Alice. 
 
 The still air moved not stem or leaf 
 Whilst shadow on a grave-let lay 
 Crossed by a golden sunset ray ; 
 Image, I thought, of mingled grief 
 Of one knelt there with blest insight 
 And light on her heart- shadows cast, 
 Half sorrow's night to morning passed 
 Through Faith transfigured on its height : 
 God's answer to her closed eyes 
 
 This summer's night 
 
 As the day dies.
 
 The Rev. E. G. Charlesworth. 115 
 
 TO J. B. C. IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 His grave is by a shore he loved : 
 When east winds swelled a flowing tide, 
 His deepest spirit in him moved : 
 Sad, made his creeds the heart of one 
 Who judged him lost until he died ; 
 Her love then narrow thoughts outrun ; 
 And, looking back, said, " He was saved." 
 Broad Christ, Thy sympathy I see 
 With all this better latter rain ; 
 I feel it lightening her and me : 
 
 " Mere error of too confident brain 
 A speck, a nothing, is to Thee." 
 
 TO MEMORY. 
 
 Oh Memory, thou hast one bright page, 
 A sister's love ; thy saddest one 
 Is it which tells me " she is gone ; " 
 And, that a once ne'er setting sun 
 (Until through Death it seemed to set) 
 Shall soften not with kindly light 
 Fore-sighted griefs of coming night 
 Eecorded not in thy book yet. 
 
 Yet while I read this darkened page, 
 Hope adds to it " Her love shines on 
 My heart in some new form of light ; 
 Its fruit may be a thought's insight 
 A thought-gift, when in sudden need 
 Of judgment whither two ways lead, 
 Changing a wrong first choice of will, 
 That I reap good and miss some ill."
 
 1 1 6 North Country Poets. 
 
 TO LOVE. 
 
 A streak of reddening light on fallen leaves, 
 The parting word from a descending sun, 
 Seems, motion in my heart to have begun 
 Of some long dead forgotten thing which grieves : 
 Some long lost early hope which prematurely died : 
 I bid a swift increasing tear depart 
 As if it were stolen from a woman's heart, 
 Half wishful too from sight the past to hide. 
 Soon, twilight's growth slow blends all shapes in one. 
 Trees, * Abbey, river, daylight, disappear ; 
 That dead thing sinks which in me seemed to move ; 
 Love, thou art changed, yet still thy name is Love, ; 
 Shines nearer heaven now thy latter sun, 
 The lost looks in its light scarce worth a tear. 
 * Bolton 
 
 TO A SNOWDROP ON A GRAVE. 
 
 Sweet flower, first of Spring Spring nursed, 
 Bending white-robed to churchyard earth , 
 
 I know the grief which made thy birth. 
 This grave through winter also thine 
 Hath by it no memorial line ; 
 Yet mak'st thou rich its poverty, 
 For, one who hither carried thee 
 Meant thy lone voice to say above, 
 " Dead one, thou art not dead to love. "
 
 William Tirebuck. 
 
 117 
 
 William Tirebuck. 
 
 ILLIAM Tirebuck was born in Liverpool in 1854. His 
 early surroundings and education were those of average 
 English boys. An unquenchable desire for the educating 
 influences of active life led him into a merchant's office, 
 on the Liverpool Exchange, at an unusually early age, 
 and at office work he remained until he became correspon- 
 dent and cashier. 
 
 During these early years the pursuit of literature 
 presented its attractions, and the commercial correspondent contributed 
 fugitively to the Liverpool newspapers, until, finally, his inability to serve 
 two masters being realised, he threw commerce over altogether, and enlisted 
 in the service of one of the weeklies, and ultimately joined the Liverpool 
 Mail. It was in the Mail that his first verses appeared, and it was the 
 then editor of that journal who said, " Go on with verse let us have some 
 more it's your line," a sort of encouragement which is rare enough in the 
 careers of embryo poets. Subsequently, Mr. Tirebuck was connected as 
 sub-editor, literary and art critic with the Yorkshire Post for six years, 
 during which period the plans of his life were more firmly laid down, his 
 habits of reading and study became fixed, and the products of his labours 
 began to find places in the Art Journal, Magazine of Art, The Graphic, Times, 
 The Theatre, and other popular magazines. These efforts indicated earnest- 
 ness of purpose, high aims, and the poetic faculty in a marked measure. 
 They were manifestly the utterances of a man who scorned trifling, and 
 who essayed a solution of the serious problems of life. In style, they were 
 nervous, terse, and graceful withal. Just as he had freed himself from the 
 thrall of commerce, and drifted into journalism, so, with gathering 
 power, he renounced journalism and commenced author craft. He deter- 
 mined to become a writer of books, and with that object he has lived for 
 the last three years a secluded life in a quiet cottage by the sea on the bold 
 East coast of Scotland. 
 
 As an author, William Tirebuck promises to be somewhat prolific. 
 Apart from such irregular work as lecturing on " Blank Walls," " How the 
 Blind see," &c., and the occasional editing of the " Camelot Classics " or the 
 " Canterbury Poets," he has already published "William Daniels : Artist," 
 " Dante Gabriel Rosetti : his works and influence," " Great Minds in Art," 
 several songs set to music, a Dramatic Cantata for female voices, 
 entitled " The Discontented Maidens," an Operetta, and many short poems. 
 To these will be added in due course several works now in hand, including 
 a novel at present in the press, and to be published by Messrs.W. P. Nimmo, 
 Hay/and Mitchell, Edinburgh, entitled "St. Margaret," of which great 
 predictions may be made ; and another novel on the desk. He has also 
 in view several comedies and comediettas, a collection of short stories, 
 a book of essays, and a volume of " Lays and Roundelays."
 
 1 1 8 North Country Poets. 
 
 It is impossible to enter into a critical examination of Mr. Tirebuck's 
 claims to recognition as a poet within the space of this page. The 
 following selections, however, are some guarantee of their genuineness. His 
 works hitherto (whether in prose or verse) have been saturated with poetic 
 fervour and expression. He realises Bailey's great conception of a poet, in 
 that " he feels great truths and tells them." He feels strongly, and writes 
 strongly, as though the matter of his thoughts and feelings must not be 
 neglected, or dealt with indifferently. He seems to be qualifying for a high 
 place in literature. Already he touches the lyre with confident fingers, 
 though but in the Springtide of his manhood, scattering sweet music about 
 him and his zenith is not yet. What that zenith may prove it is not 
 difficult to predict if any faith may still be placed in the true toil and un- 
 faltering trust which have carried others to the front rank of earnest 
 writers. 
 
 J. SYDNEY CURTIS. 
 
 THE TAUNT. 
 
 What agony is ours when anger drives 
 
 In a loved one's heart our taunting point 
 
 E'en while it stabs, Contrition strives 
 The wounded spirit to anoint. 
 
 What wild remorse rebels, when words decline 
 
 To burst the barrier of the breast, 
 Where words of kindness, buried, whine, 
 
 And gnaw us with the unexpressed. 
 
 And oh, the pang, when hellish, dogged whim 
 Enslaves, though heav'nly conscience pricks ; 
 
 When words die dumb ; when, damned and grim, 
 The soul is on Love's crucifix ; 
 
 When silence fills the list'ning time and space ; 
 
 When love its own advance awaits ; 
 When choking speech declines to chase 
 
 Away the silence that it hates ! 
 
 And when, from out our hell of sin and shams, 
 
 We, guilty, look across the room, 
 How her freed tears but flow to blame, 
 
 And drive us to an inward doom ;
 
 William Tirebuck. 119 
 
 But oh, the joy, the joy ! when she again 
 Looks up ; when both, through tears, behold 
 
 Fresh tears that give the lie to pain, 
 And make our grateful weeping bold ! 
 
 Then, then, our sep'rate silences unite ; 
 
 Then, then, love fills the hated blank. 
 And yet that height of love's delight 
 
 Eeminds the heart how deep it sank. 
 
 THE WOOING OF THE POPPY. 
 
 A bee was seen 
 
 Upon the bean, 
 
 But now is like a singing sheen 
 Within the panting poppy. 
 
 Lo, ev'ry bean 
 
 Doth panting lean 
 Each flow'ring eye hath heard and seen 
 His music in the poppy. 
 
 How vain her head ! 
 
 Her face, how red ! 
 The wooing bee has surely said 
 Some sweetness to the poppy. 
 
 Behold the thrill 
 
 Of both, until 
 
 They swoon within each other's will 
 The buzzing bee and poppy ! 
 
 He's silent ; still ; 
 
 He sips his fill, 
 
 Although the jealous breezes chill 
 His wings within the poppy. 
 
 He's dizzy ; dead ! 
 
 He wooed and wed, 
 
 And died through love, the zephyrs said, 
 Of that impassioned poppy.
 
 I2O North Country Poets. 
 
 TO MARGARET. 
 
 Kare Margaret ! your influence thrills 
 My being with impassioned pain 
 
 Of ecstasy, that overfills 
 
 My deeper depths of joy again : 
 
 I look at you and all the world 
 
 From thought is by your beauty hurled. 
 
 Your eyes and lips are smile-allied, 
 Bright dimples smile allied between ; 
 
 But when your pearls are part espied, 
 Why, all the smiles as one are seen, 
 
 And shadowy hair, with laughter spread, 
 
 Then gleams like smiles around your head. 
 
 Tis strange ; at times I wish you less 
 Enthralling with imperial sway ; 
 
 Your beauty more an humbleness, 
 Or I less ready to obey : 
 
 Yet, if you glance, the wish has gone, 
 
 And I'm the willing humbled one. 
 
 I wish your eyes less brightly dark, 
 Or mine less prone their light to see 
 
 And yet, to strike the visual spark 
 Which flames my lurking ecstasy, 
 
 I look at you, and dread, yet dare, 
 
 And dare, yet dread, the lightning there ! 
 
 Yea, Margaret, your influence thrills 
 My being with impassioned pain 
 
 Of ecstasy, that overfills 
 
 My deepened depths of joy again : 
 
 I look at you, and all the world 
 
 From thought is by your beauty hurled.
 
 William Tirebuck. 121 
 
 THE BLESSING. 
 
 " Oh, bless her ! bless her ! bless the child ! " 
 A mother cried with love's excess ; 
 " God bless my little darling Bess ! " 
 
 And then, with rapture running wild, 
 The more she kissed the more to bless. 
 
 And soon, when Bess ran off to play 
 The mother to a doll of wood, 
 She said, as on her knee it stood, 
 
 " Oh, bless you, darling, night and day ! 
 I love you, just as mother would ! " 
 
 " Oh, bless you, bless you do you hear ? 
 
 Oh, bless you, darling bless you see ! 
 
 I love you look ! now you love me, 
 And kiss me, little dolly dear 
 
 Yes, that is as it ought to be ! " 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Ah, not in vain that child's embrace ; 
 That ardent kiss, that loving look ! 
 A worn old traveller on his crook 
 
 Stood list'ning at the holy place, 
 
 And with him Bessie's blessing took.
 
 122 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 Arthur Hugh dough. 
 
 HERE have been few poets whose lives have been more 
 strikingly deficient in the ordinary materials of biography 
 than was the life of Arthur Hugh Clough. His record 
 is one, not of external event, but of internal experience ; 
 and even the history of his mind is entirely devoid of 
 dramatic surprises : it is a history, not of convulsion or 
 revolution, but of orderly growth and development. We 
 know that during his life at Oxford, there occurred an 
 important change in many of his convictions, but it seemed to affect the 
 accidents rather than the essentials of his being ; and his poems, which 
 are a specially faithful reflection of his mind, leave behind them such a 
 wonderfully homogeneous impression, that even a trained critic, left 
 without the guidance of printed dates, might easily fail to distinguish 
 between the work of his youth and of his maturity. Mr. William Watson, 
 in one of his exquisitely carved epigrams, writes : 
 
 'Tis human fortune's happiest height, to be 
 
 A spirit melodious, lucid, poised, and whole : 
 Second in order of felicity, 
 I hold it, to have walk'd with such a soul. 
 
 Clough was such a spirit, and as we walk with him by the way such felicity 
 is ours. 
 
 Arthur Hugh Clough was born in Liverpool on the first day of the year 
 1819. When he was four years of age, his father migrated to the United 
 States, and the early years of his boyhood were spent in Charleston, 
 Virginia. In the autumn of 1828, the doughs returned to England, and 
 Arthur was sent to a school in Chester, whence he proceeded to Rugby in 
 the summer of 1821). Here, he came under the marvellous influence of the 
 greatest of English schoolmasters ; and in Clough, Dr. Arnold found a 
 pupil after his own heart, a youth largely dowered by nature with that 
 intellectua land ethical strenuoiiEiiess which it was Arnold's chief aim to 
 inspire and develop. His school career was a brilliant one. At fifteen, 
 he was the head of the fifth form ; he edited for some time the Ruyby 
 Magazine, to which he contributed his earliest verse ; he took an active part 
 in some of the school games, his name appearing in William Arnold's 
 " Rules of Football " as that of the best goal-keeper 011 record ; 
 and when, in October, 1837, he passed on to Oxford, having won the Balliol 
 scholarship in the preceding year, he had gained every honour which Rugby 
 had to bestow. Oxford was then the centre of the memorable Tractarian 
 movement, and a mind so sensitive as Clough's, so full of fine ardours and 
 high enthusiasms, could not fail to be affected by the ferment of new 
 thought in which he found himself. For some l:ttle time his intellectual 
 activities were turned into an unfamiliar channel, and the earliest evidence 
 that a disturbing element had come into his life was furnished by his 
 failure to take a first-class, and his unsuccessful competition for a
 
 Arthur Hugh Clough. 123 
 
 fellowship at Balliol. But, though Clough's mind was sensitive, it was 
 stable : and he was not long in recovering his equilibrium. In the spring 
 of 1842, he was elected Fellow of Oriel, and by this time he had worked his 
 way through the storm and stress in which, to use his own words, he had 
 been " like a straw," and had regained possession of himself. Still, such a 
 conflict seldom leaves a man where it found him, and in struggling to make a 
 stand against what he felt to be alien influences, Clough's intellectual attitude 
 had insensibly changed. An aggressive doubter he could never have 
 been, but he had become an eager questioner; and the final result of his 
 questioning was the resignation, in 1848, of his Oriel Fellowship, and also 
 of the tutorship to which he had been subsequently appointed. Then came 
 a month in Paris among the sights of the Revolution ; a visit to Liverpool, 
 during which he wrote " The Bothie of Tober-na-Vuolich ; " his appoint- 
 ment as Head of University Hall, London ; and a visit to Home, one result 
 of which was his second long poem, " Amours de Voyage, 1 ' his earliest 
 volume of verse, " Ambervalia," having been published during his residence 
 at Oxford. In 1852, he resigned his headship and went to America, settling 
 at Cambridge, Massachusetts, where he engaged himself in literary work, 
 and where he might have remained permanently, had he not been tempted 
 home by the offer of an examinership in the Education Office, which would 
 secure him a small, but regular and permanent income, now of some im- 
 portance to him, as he was looking forward to an immediate marriage. 
 This event took place in 1854, and for the next seven years, during which 
 three children were born to him, he lived quietly at home. It was a time 
 of happy content, but also of unwearying labour of many kinds, and at last 
 the strain began to tell. In 1860, he was compelled to take what was 
 believed to be only a temporary leave of absence from his duties. Malvern, 
 the Isle of Wight, and the Continent, were successfully visited, and in 
 September, 1861, on the Italian Lakes, he caught a chill, which by the time 
 of his arrival in Florence, during the following month, had developed into 
 a malarial fever. The fever wore itself out, but its victim was worn out 
 also. Paralysis, which had been threatening, struck him down, and on the 
 13th of November, 18(51, Arthur Hugh Clough passed away. His body lies 
 in the little Protestant cemetery, just outside the walls of Florence, upon 
 which the beautiful Tuscan hills look down. 
 
 Any attempt to anticipate the verdict of posterity upon Clough's con- 
 tribution to English poetry would be foolish and futile. To the more 
 serious and thoughtful of his contemporaries it must have a peculiar 
 interest, for it utters and utters with singular clearness and adequacy 
 their own aspirations, their own doubts, and not less, their own certainties. 
 For Clough, though in one sense a poet of doubt, was in a deeper sense a 
 poet of faith faith in the Heart of Goodness at the Heart of the Universe, 
 which will make its warmth felt, and its beatings heard by Him who, in 
 the darkness, is ' Not disobedient to the heavenly vision." What he 
 wrote in his early years he would have written to the last : 
 
 The Sumtnum Pulchrum rests in heaven above ; 
 Do thou, as best thou may'st, thy duty do : 
 
 Among the things allowed thee live and love ; 
 Some day thou shalt it view. 
 
 JAMES ASHCKOFT NOBLE.
 
 124 North Country Poets. 
 
 11 THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY." 
 
 What we, when face to face we see 
 The Father of our souls, shall be, 
 John tells us, does not yet appear ; 
 Ah ! did he tell what we are here ? 
 
 A mind for thoughts to pass into, 
 A heart for loves to travel through, 
 Five senses to detect things near, 
 Is this the whole that we are here ? 
 
 Eules baffle instincts instincts rules ; 
 "Wise men are bad and good are fools ; 
 Facts evil wishes vain appear, 
 We cannot go, why are we here ? 
 
 may W3 for assurance sake, 
 Some arbitrary judgment take, 
 And wilfully pronounce it clear, 
 For this or that 'tis we are here ? 
 
 Or is it right, and will it do, 
 To pace the sad confusion through, 
 And say : It doth not yet appear, 
 What we shall be, what we are here. 
 
 Ah yet, when all is thought and said, 
 The heart still overrules the head ; 
 Still what we hope we must believe, 
 And what is given us receive ; 
 
 Must still believe, for still we hope 
 That in a world of larger scope, 
 What here is faithfully begun 
 Will be completed, not undone. 
 
 My child, we still must think, when we 
 That ampler life together see, 
 Some true result will yet appear 
 Of what we are, together, here.
 
 Arthur Hugh C lough. 125 
 
 QUA CURSUM VENTUS. 
 
 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
 With canvas drooping, side by side, 
 
 Two towers of sail at dawn of day 
 
 Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; 
 
 When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, 
 And all the darkling hours they plied, 
 
 Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
 By each was cleaving, side by side : 
 
 E'en so but why the tale reveal 
 
 Of those, whom year by year unchanged, 
 
 Brief absence joined anew to feel, 
 
 Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? 
 
 At dead of night their sails were filled, 
 And onward each rejoicing steered 
 
 Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, 
 Or wist, what first with dawn appeared. 
 
 To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, 
 Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too, 
 
 Through winds and tides one compass guides- 
 To that, and your own selves, be true. 
 
 But blithe breeze ! And great seas, 
 Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 
 
 On your wide plain they join again, 
 Together lead them home at last. 
 
 One port, methought, alike they sought, 
 One purpose hold where'er they fare, 
 
 O bounding breeze ! rushing seas ! 
 At last, at last, unite them there !
 
 126 North Country Poets. 
 
 QUI LABORAT ORAT. 
 
 O only Source of all our life and light, 
 
 Whom as our truth, our strength, we see and feel, 
 But whom the hours of mortal moral strife 
 
 Alone aright reveal ! 
 
 Mine inmost soul, before Thee inly brought, 
 
 Thy presence owns ineffable, divine ; 
 Chastised each rebel self-encentred thought, 
 
 My will adoreth Thine. 
 
 With eye down-dropt, if then this earthly mind 
 Speechless remain, or speechless e'en depart ; 
 
 Nor seek to see for what of earthly kind 
 Can see Thee as Thou art ? 
 
 If well-assured 'tis but profanely bold 
 
 In thought's abstractest forms to seem to see, 
 
 It dare not dare the dread communion hold 
 In ways unworthy Thee, 
 
 not unowned, Thou shalt unnamed forgive, 
 In worldly walks the prayerless heart prepare ; 
 
 And if in work its life it seem to live, 
 Shalt make that work be prayer. 
 
 Nor times shall lack, when while the work it plies, 
 Unsurnrnoned powers the blinding film shall part, 
 
 And scarce by happy tears made dim, the eyes 
 In recognition start. 
 
 But, as Thou wiliest, give or e'en forbear 
 
 The beatific supersensual sight, 
 So, with Thy blessing blest, that humbler prayer 
 
 Approach Thee morn and night.
 
 Arthur Hugh Clough. 127 
 
 SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT 
 AVAILETH. 
 
 Say not, the struggle nought availeth, 
 The labour and the wounds are vain, 
 
 The enemy faints not, nor faileth, 
 
 And as things have been they remain. 
 
 If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars ; 
 
 It may be, in yon smoke concealed, 
 Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, 
 
 And, but for you, possess the field. 
 
 For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 
 Seem here no painful inch to gain, 
 
 Far back, through creeks and inlets making, 
 Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 
 
 And not by eastern windows only, 
 
 When daylight comes, comes in the light ; 
 
 In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, 
 But westward, look, the land is bright.
 
 128 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 James Burnley. 
 
 HE mighty Modern Babylon, which has lured from the 
 shire of many acres hundreds of its ablest offspring, 
 grievously robbed Yorkshire in 1885, when she gave to 
 James Burnley a permanent call, all too-tempting for 
 refusal, to take up a position of honour and literary 
 trust in the capital of the world of letters. Chiefly, too, 
 is the lament here in place, that Yorkshire poesy has lost 
 the strains of a sweet and gifted son of bong, by 
 Mr. Burnley's transferance southwards, for amid the engrossing work of an 
 important London editorial appointment, and with much literary labour 
 of a solid and serious sort constantly pressing for his attention, he has of 
 late been reluctantly compelled to sadly neglect the Muses. Mr. Burnley's 
 many admirers hope that ere long he will have ampler opportunities for 
 the production of many more of those graceful rhymes and fanciful poetic 
 pictures true and tender, many of them, others strong and deep, some 
 again whimsical and subtly fantastic of the old Yorkshire life, which in 
 time past have flowed so freely from his pen. His vigour is at its zenith 
 now, and to all seeming many more years of useful and active literary 
 productiveness lie before him. His first volume of verse, " Idonia, and 
 other Poems," issued from "the Sign of 'The Ship'" in 1869, gave 
 promise of a bright and successful future for its author in the sphere of 
 song, a promise which has had full fruition, for Mr. Burnley's verses, in 
 many of the magazines, and elsewhere, have always evoked the admiration 
 of the reader and the commendation of the critic. He is a master-hurler 
 of the pointed shaft of righteous satire, a sympathy-compelling interpreter 
 of the loftiest sentiment, and an apt and always heart-whole portrayer of 
 human passion. These high qualities are plentifully en evidence in Mr. 
 Burnley's poetry, and added thereto, one has such ample demonstration 
 of the singer's wealth of imagery that one can but regret he sings so 
 seldom. Outside his poesy, his participation in journalism, and his purely 
 editorial work, Mr. Burnley has firmly founded a reputation in a peculiar 
 line of literature. He is facile princeps as a writer on the lighter side of 
 trade-history and commercial lore. No man knows more than he of the 
 often strange stories of men and their movements which go to make up 
 the tale of our nation's wealth ; and on subjects pertaining to these themes 
 he is a large contributor to the " Encyclopaedia Britannica," and the 
 " Dictionary of National Biography." He wrote a good deal in Cassell's 
 " Great Industries of Great Britain," on Yorkshire and other topics ; and 
 among his published volumes, in this direction, may be mentioned " The 
 Romance of Invention " (Cassell) ; and " The Romance of Life 
 Preservation " (W. H. Allen & Co.). Mr. Burnley is now busied in 
 writing for Sampson Low & Co. " A History of Wool and Wool Combing; "
 
 James Burnley. 129 
 
 while he is also at work on " The Eomance of Modern Industry " (W. H. 
 Allen & Co.). 
 
 Before he settled in London, Mr. Burnley, who is a native of Shipley, 
 and was born in 1842, held an important literary appointment on the staff 
 of the Bradford Observer, and did much worthy penwork in the columns of 
 that journal, the Leeds Mercury, and other Yorkshire newspapers. His 
 " Phases of Bradford Life," reprinted in 1872, from the Bradford Observer, 
 was highly praised for its accuracy of description and capital character 
 drawing by some of the most censorious of the reviewers. Others of 
 Mr. Burnley's productions, all of which have been well received, are 
 " Looking for the Dawn : a Yorkshire Story ; " " Fetters ; " West-Eiding 
 Sketches ; " and " Two Sides of the Atlantic." He for a long time con- 
 ducted the Yorkshireman with conspicuous ability, and wrote much himself 
 in poetry and in prose for its pages. His Saunterer's Satchel, an annual, 
 drawing its title from Mr. Burnley's familiar Bradford Observer pen-nomen, 
 was also a capital local publication. 
 
 At various times Mr. Burnley has written much and acceptably, in 
 verse or otherwise, for Once a Week, All the Year Round, London Society, 
 Belgravia, Temple Bar, and others of the magazines ; and in journals as 
 dissimilar as the World, Fan, Globe, Funny Folks, and some of the publica- 
 tions emanating from La Belle Sauvage Yard. As a dramatic critic and 
 London correspondent for several provincial newspapers of standing, he 
 has done much good work ; and Yorkshiremen do not require telling of his 
 abilities as a skilful dialect writer. He is a dramatist of no mean power, 
 too, and does not by any means rank among the " great unacted," for his 
 play, " The Shadow of the Mill," ran twice with such success through the 
 provinces, a year or two ago, that he has been much pressed for the pro- 
 duction of other dramatic work. 
 
 Mr. Burnley has travelled extensively, and seen much of men and 
 manners in Europe and America, as some of his writings abundantly shew. 
 A few specimens of his poesy follow this brief allusion to the salient points 
 of Mr. Burnley's busy literary life. 
 
 T. BROADBENT TKOWSDALE. 
 
 T'YORKSHIREMAN I 1 LONDON, 
 
 I' this city o' millions to-neet 
 
 I knaw I can nobbut cahnt one, 
 An' to t'crahds 'at pass by me i' t'street 
 
 I'm noabdy an' nowt when I've done ; 
 An' I hearken to t'murmur o' wheels, 
 
 To voices 'at speyk nut to me, 
 For my heart is i' exile, an' feels 
 
 A lengin' owd Yorkshire to see.
 
 130 North Country Poets. 
 
 I miss the firm grasp o' the hand, 
 
 An' I miss the owd friends' cheery tones ; 
 I see bud I don't understand 
 
 These miles upo' miles o' mute stones ! 
 An' faces may pass up an' dahn, 
 
 No matter hah sunny they be, 
 They all thraw a shadda an' frahn, 
 
 'Cos they show nowt o' Yorkshire to me. 
 
 Here t'heighest an' t'lowest of all 
 
 Eub shoolders i' t'scram'le for gain, 
 An' t'gurt hez ta huddle \vi' t'srnall, 
 
 An' joy hez ta lig beside pain ; 
 Thear seems sich a muddle an' maze, 
 
 So mitch yet so little to see, 
 So monny queer, left-handed ways, 
 
 So initch 'at is doleful an' dree. 
 
 If I could but swop mitch 'at's here 
 
 For what I hev nah left behinnt, 
 My way'd be more breet an' more cleer 
 
 0' plezzar I'd hev fuller stint ; 
 Ay, then some o' t'clahds 'ud disperse, 
 
 No longer i' sorra I'd moan, 
 I'd need noan to sob here i' verse, 
 
 I needn't to feel so alone. 
 
 I'd bring here a Yorkshire green field, 
 
 I' t'place of an acre o' brick ; 
 A miln chimley, tew, they sud beeld, 
 
 To give us some reyt Yorkshire rick ; 
 I'd hev some gurt rocks, an' some hills, 
 
 A bit o' brahn moorland as weel, 
 Some snug little dells, an' some rills, 
 
 An' then I sud Yorkshire still feel.
 
 James Burnley. 131 
 
 Asteead o' this finnikin' tweng, 
 
 These Londoners din i' my ear, 
 I'd rayther all t'grammar went wreng, 
 
 Wi' t'tongue of a Yorkshireman near ; 
 For Yorkshire is' t'langwidge o' t'heart, 
 
 It's rough, bud it's true i' it's ring, 
 A Yorkshireman's whisper's a shahrt, 
 
 A Londoner's shahrt but a ting. 
 
 Yes, Yorkshire I am, an' sal keep, 
 
 I' t'spite o' these millions so mixed, 
 My lengin's noan likely to sleep, 
 
 I' Yorkshire my heart is firm fixed ; 
 Let fortun' dew just what it will, 
 
 Pass by me, or yield its control, 
 I' t'upshot ye'll finnd 'at I'm still 
 
 A Yorkshireman body an' soul. 
 
 AT SCARBOROUGH. 
 
 The castle crag, with ruin crowned, 
 
 O'erlooks the lashing ocean ; 
 The rocks below, by sea- weed browned, 
 
 Are bathed in wild commotion ; 
 And as the fading sunlight blends 
 
 With summer mists and sadness, 
 Along the shore, which dips and bends, 
 
 There gleams a glow of gladness. 
 
 The sands their gold half-circlet spread, 
 
 The pier points seaward finger ; 
 O'er Oliver's high inland head 
 
 The cloud of night doth linger ; 
 The Spa, with zig-zag paths above, 
 
 That climb from shore to crescent, 
 Yields music, laughter, folly, love, 
 
 In combination pleasant.
 
 132 North Country Poets. 
 
 Here fashion finds a welcome fair 
 
 For all its airs and graces ; 
 Here town-bred fops may strut and staro 
 
 Through lines of pretty faces ; 
 Here rustic maids and city dames, 
 
 And lord, and duke, and duchess, 
 May mingle free for pleasure's aims, 
 
 Defiant of Time's touches. 
 
 Sophia sits with Swinburne's verse, 
 
 And loves its lucid jingle, 
 While Edwin, thinking of her purse, 
 
 Pretends his thoughts to mingle ; 
 Irene rides her chestnut steed, 
 
 Her squire the fact'ry master, 
 And whether love or lucre lead, 
 
 'Tis Fate will gallop faster. 
 
 The ancient beau, with chuckle dry, 
 
 And ghastly cheek and hollow, 
 In mask of youth comes here to try 
 
 An art he cannot follow ; 
 And aged beauties, propped and primed 
 
 By artificial aidings, 
 All out of tune, and all mistimed, 
 
 Throw in the duller shadings. 
 
 Here yeomen bluff, of heavy hand, 
 
 Of manner rough but cheery, 
 Impart the flavour of the land, 
 
 And call up visions beery ; 
 Here kings of commerce flaunt their cash, 
 
 And bid with it for beauty ; 
 Here sin and folly rudely clash, 
 
 The last thing thought of, duty.
 
 James Burnley. 133 
 
 And music dances in the air, 
 
 With dulcet ebb and flowing, 
 And robes sweep by with rustlings rare, 
 
 And rich in colours glowing ; 
 And care and want dare not invade 
 
 This summer heav'n of fashion ; 
 For wealth the paradise was made 
 
 For wealth, and joy, and passion. 
 
 WAITING FOR THE SWALLOWS. 
 
 When the swallows fled to the sultry south, 
 
 And the leaves pined away and died ; 
 When my heart gave words to my quivering mouth 
 My tongue could not utter for pride ; 
 
 'Twas then, then ! that he wandered away, 
 And he never can hear what my heart would say 
 Until he comes back with the swallows ! 
 
 Though the snow has gone, the branches are bare, 
 
 Though each day brings a joy for some : 
 Yet branches must bud, and look green in the air 
 Ere the day of my joy will come ; 
 
 But then, then ! though 'tis weary to wait, 
 And Time seems a laggard, he's never too late, 
 But comes when he's due with the swallows ! 
 
 When the Spring peeps in at our cottage door, 
 
 And the common birds try to sing, 
 I shall watch for the cloud whose fleecy core 
 Will be specked with many a wing ; 
 And then, then ! I shall know there is rest, 
 For my soul will have done its earthly behest, 
 And he will be here with the swallows.
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 Though both wind and wave rage wild on the sea, 
 
 When they glimpse his ship's steady sail, 
 
 And they see the birds flying round it in glee, 
 
 Their breath will drop to a soothing gale ; 
 
 And then, mother, then ! you need watch me no more, 
 .For Death's gaunt shadow but waits at the door 
 Until he has come with the swallows ! 
 
 Then he'll need no words to tell how I love, 
 We shall kiss, and our souls will embrace, 
 And the angels will come and bear me above 
 With the bloom of his lips on my face ; 
 
 And then, then ! I shall sleep time away 
 Till he comes with fresh kiss to wake rne and say 
 He's ta'en his farewell of the swallows !
 
 Charles Frederick Forshaw. 
 
 Charles Frederick Forshaw. 
 
 R. Forshaw was born at Bilston, South Staffordshire, 
 January, 1863, but has resided in Bradford since his 
 childhood. At an age when most young men are com- 
 mencing the work of marking out a career, we find him 
 established as a senior partner in an extensive and well- 
 known firm of dentists, a lecturer of some note, a writer 
 of scientific articles and pamphlets, the author of two 
 volumes of poetry, and a liberal contributor of verse to 
 many of the leading newspapers in the north of England. He obtained 
 his diploma of Doctor of Dental Surgery by examination in June, 1885, 
 is Fellow of several learned societies, and the Honorary Representative 
 of the Society of Science, Letters and Art, of London. He is the 
 President of the West Riding Literary Club. Dr. Forshaw is an 
 enthusiastic collector of rare books, and his library of Yorkshire poetry, 
 embracing the works of Yorkshire authors from Csedman. to the production 
 of the latest amateur, and gathered from all conceivable sources, is as 
 unique as it is extensive. Amidst all the claims of a busy professional life, 
 and numerous lecturing and other engagements, Dr. Forshaw finds time to 
 send forth to the world a large number of poems on widely different 
 topics ; these circulate over a large area, and thus it is that his name is 
 familiar to newspaper and magazine readers all over the north of England. 
 His poetry is remarkable for its sweetness and simplicity. It appeals to 
 the affections, and its truthfulness and naturalness, combined with a simple 
 diction, render it very popular amongst those readers for whom it is mainly 
 intended. Dr. Forshaw has an eye for the beautiful, and a facility for 
 painting his pictures in homely phraseology which make them true to 
 nature. His verses breathe of home and happiness : they speak of affec- 
 tion, of sympathy, of love ; they tell us of hope, and they lead to an 
 appreciation of all that is good, and beautiful and holy. 
 
 Dr. Forshaw is at present editing a popular monthly publication, 
 entitled " Yorkshire Poets, Past and Present," a work which is meeting 
 with considerable success, and which will form a welcome addition to " The 
 Poets of Yorkshire," commenced by William Cartwright Newsam, and 
 completed by John Holland (Sheffield, 1845), " The Poets and Poetry of 
 Yorkshire," by William Grainge (Wakefield, 1868), " A Garland of 
 Yorkshire Poetry," selected by Abraham Holroyd (Saltaire, 1873), and 
 " Modern Yorkshire Poets," by William Andrews, F.R.H.S. (Hull, 1885.) 
 Dr. Forshaw has compiled the " Yorkshire Poets Birthday Book," and 
 has ready for publication a third volume of his poetry. 
 
 J. GAUNT.
 
 136 North Country Poets. 
 
 CHURCH BELLS. 
 
 How sweetly sound the joyous bells, 
 
 With all their freshness ringing ; 
 How soul-thrilling their music swells, 
 
 Like angels' voices singing ; 
 How gaily do they clang and clash 
 
 With melody and gladness, 
 And now with merry peal and dash, 
 
 As tho' in very madness. 
 
 Now, softly, on the cool, crisp air 
 
 Anon the sound comes stealing, 
 Dispelling all our gloom and care 
 
 With their harmonious pealing. 
 The cadence of those silv'ry chimes, 
 
 So wildly, softly blending, 
 Brings to each mind the olden times, 
 
 Sweet recollection sending. 
 
 And as we listen to the sound 
 
 That each one loves so dearly, 
 Our throbbing hearts for ever bound, 
 
 Deep-felt, true, strong, sincerely ; 
 And when from them we turn away, 
 
 O'erflowing with emotion, 
 It seems to me a gladsome ray 
 
 Of Heaven's own devotion. 
 
 It seems as though our many pains 
 
 Are gone, past re-appearing, 
 When these divine and mellow strains 
 
 Deiight and glad our hearing. 
 To me, I think these dear old bells 
 
 We love to hear vibrating, 
 To each the sweet, sweet story tells 
 
 That Christ our Lord is waiting.
 
 Charles Frederick Forshaw. 137 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Of all the happy, joyous days, oh, childhood's days are best, 
 Days when the eve aye brought to us still, calm, refreshing rest, 
 Days when our paths ran smoothly, and our way was strewn with 
 
 flow'rs, 
 When all was merry, light, and gay in those Elysian hours. 
 
 'Tis pleasant to recall the time when hearts with mirth ran free, 
 When every sight which met our eyes was brimming o'er with glee, 
 When nought of this world's vanity had stained our souls with sin, 
 When recked we not of misery amongst our kith and kin. 
 
 How beautiful when, in our dreams, we live those days again, 
 And, careless of the coming years, we think they hold no pain ; 
 We blend our childish voices in shrill re-echoing song, 
 As on some pleasant country lane we take our path along. 
 
 The flowers shed their fragrance, oh ! far more svreetly then, 
 And brighter seemed each coppice and wood and field and glen ; 
 The birds upon the hawthorn tree far merrier seemed to sing, 
 For bounteous nature lent her charm and crowned each one a king. 
 
 Oh ! childhood's days are far the best that earthly life shall know, 
 For they were free from vice and care, from sorrow, shame, and woe. 
 Could but those days return to us, how happy we should be 
 How full of tender love and hope, and blitheful harmony ! 
 
 A VILLAGE SCENE. 
 
 A ruined wall, 'neath sweetly blooming trees, 
 
 A rough hewn log, where one can take his ease, 
 
 And sitting on't, a weary man and old, 
 
 O'er whose shrunk form some eighty years had rolled ; 
 
 The sky all round, clear with an azure light, 
 
 The hedges, gay with blossoms pure and white ;
 
 138 North Country Poets. 
 
 The ancient church, with ivy overgrown, 
 Its yard, nigh filled with many a cross and stone ; 
 The dear old vicar, with his book in hand ; 
 Three farmers, talking of the price of land ; 
 The little school, where infants learn to sum ; 
 The teacher's voice, the children's busy hum ; 
 The gay green fields, the many pleasant stiles, 
 The landscape, stretching far away for miles, 
 The little brook, gay murm'ring on its way, 
 A cart, heaped up with richly perfumed hay. 
 Above, the trill of the melodious lark, 
 Beyond, the sound of watchdog's honest 'bark, 
 The cackle, from the scraping, scratching hens, 
 The grunt, proceeding from the brood pigs' pens, 
 The quack, quack, quack, from out the dirty pool, 
 Where ducks and geese alternately hold rule, 
 The cow's soft low, the flowers of many a hue ; 
 The scattered houses, only built for two, 
 Their roofs of thatch, now overspread with moss, 
 And narrow windows, each thick-barred across ; 
 The postman with his letters four a day, 
 The stumbling doctor, bent and worn and grey, 
 The pump, where housewives meet to talk the news, 
 The quaint old chapel, with its high-backed pews, 
 And last of all, the tavern, whitewashed o'er, 
 With spotless tables, neatly sanded floor, 
 The portly landlord and his stately wife. 
 How sweet 't must be to lead a village life !
 
 John Rowell Waller. 
 
 '39 
 
 John Rowell Waller. 
 
 OHN EOWELL WALLEK was born in April, 1854, at 
 Cragg Head, a remote fastness of the West Durham 
 Moors. In the course of time he was apprenticed to a 
 joiner at Houghton-le-Spring, where at the age of 
 thirteen the poesy-spirit came to him, " a ragged lad wi' 
 tangled hair," and a local paper printed his first rough 
 verse. He kept on scribbling from that time forward, 
 though not until he was sixteen did he send anything more 
 to the press ; since that age, however, scarce a week has passed without pub- 
 lication of his work in one form or another. In 1875 he made a connection 
 with the Yorkshire Chronicle, working at his trade in the day time at Upsall 
 Castle, near Thirsk. The next year found him at Bishop Auckland. In 
 1877 he removed to Forcett, and wrote a series of humorous articles for 
 Cosmos, and another series of prose sketches of his appeared in the Chronicle, 
 and in 1878 his first volume of poems, " Unstrung Links," was issued. 
 In 1881 his second volume appeared, " Wayside Flowers," while he was in 
 business as an ironmonger at Houghton-le-Spring. His strong convictions 
 and too open speech at this period threw him out of favour with a section of 
 the community to an injurious extent, and at the time of that book's publica- 
 tion, he was " upon the road," selling his tools to buy a breakfast. News- 
 paper work for the Middlesbro' Neivs, and later on, a situation with an 
 engineering firm at Sunderland, were evidences of his energy and commercial 
 value. The pen was never laid down ; in 1883 he published his "Woodland 
 and Shingle," a third volume of poems. By this time he had been living at 
 Wallsend-on-Tyne, his house the house of call for the literati of the north, 
 sometimes his gatherings numbering twelve or fifteen. In a discussion 
 upon one of these occasions he was led to adopt a line of thought far 
 different from that in which he had before become notorious. In 1886 he 
 issued his fourth volume, " Rambles and Musiugs." He is now with a large 
 engineering firm on the Tyne, in an official capacity. 
 
 His versification is excellent. He is the poet-praiser of beautiful 
 nature, and the recorder of human reflections, rather than the narrator of 
 action and episode. This must limit his fame in the present state of public 
 taste, which continuously asks for compositions equalling in intensity and 
 diversity every wickedness and folly belonging to human life. A purer 
 school, however, is by no means wanting, and Mr. Waller has reason to 
 be satisfied with the growing renown of his work. He is a man who has 
 made himself what he is by his own exertions, founded on the having of a 
 deep, conscientious, perceptive, and ardent nature. 
 
 T. TlNDALL WlLDRIDGE.
 
 140 North Country Poets. 
 
 THE LITTLE GRAVE UNDER THE SNOW 
 
 There's a neat little grave in our snug churchyard, 
 
 Concealed 'neath a mantle of snow, 
 Close down by the side of the rustic porch, 
 
 Where in summer the daisies grow ; 
 In the waning light of an afternoon, 
 
 A Sabbath not long ago, 
 We buried her deep in the cold, cold earth, 
 
 In that little grave under the snow. 
 
 Escaping the cares of the after-life, 
 
 The struggles, and sorrows, and tears, 
 The rumble and din of contending strife, 
 
 And the buffets of after years ; 
 Free from all these in the sheltering earth, 
 
 Till the trumpet of summons shall blow, 
 Free from the trials that follow our birth, 
 
 In the little grave under the snow. 
 
 True ! there's a father on earth, whose love 
 
 Its object and centre will miss ; 
 But there is a Father who watches above 
 
 To guide her through realms of bliss ; 
 The spirit is with its compassionate God, 
 
 And the angelic face is aglow 
 As a heaven-missioned being sits guard o'er the sod, 
 
 O'er that little grave under the snow. 
 
 Ah ! doubtless she looks from the land of blue, 
 
 And watches her mother in tears, 
 And the playmates whose hearts to her own beat true 
 
 Will she watch through the rolling years ? 
 Hovering over the home of the dead, 
 
 In the toiling world below, 
 Where the leaves from the churchyard trees are spread 
 
 O'er that little grave under the snow.
 
 John Rowell Waller. 141 
 
 And the Spring will come with its primrose tints, 
 
 And the Summer with its violets sweet, 
 And the Autumn arrayed in her mellowing light, 
 
 Will follow with gold-clad feet ; 
 Then Winter again with its ghostly throng 
 
 O'er the sleeper will rudely blow, 
 And the robin will twitter his sweet old song, 
 
 Near the little grave under the snow. 
 
 And the father will sit by the lonely hearth, 
 
 And think of his dear dead dove, 
 Whose soul from the body is parted and gone 
 
 To sit 'mong the angels above ; 
 And the children at times as they wander to church, 
 
 A look of mute sorrow will throw 
 On that mound of earth near the rustic porch 
 
 The little grave under the snow. 
 
 THE ORGANIST. 
 
 A hush of other realms it seemed 
 
 Keigned down the tessellated aisle, 
 And through one mullioned window beamed 
 
 A shaft of light, that, like a smile, 
 The grey wall kissed, and softly gleamed 
 Along the organ-pipes the while ; 
 And on the key-board's face it kissed 
 The white hand of the organist. 
 
 She sat within the church alone ; 
 Her holy face, so calm, so fair, 
 As lit by sweet communion, shone, 
 
 Contrasting with her midnight hair, 
 Low was her voice and soft its tone, 
 For hopes and dreams of Heaven were there 
 The playful sunbeam moved, and kissed 
 The fair arm of the organist.
 
 142 North Country Poets. 
 
 And trembling carne each mournful note, 
 
 As o'er the keys her fingers went ; 
 Far down the nave they seemed to float, 
 
 Till sadness seemed with gladness blent, 
 And pathos from the fair white throat 
 Pealed out, and by the font was spent : 
 The sunbeam quivered while it kissed 
 The bosom of the organist. 
 
 Deep prayers on mournful notes were flung, 
 
 And swept away on trustful wings, 
 And through the chancel's rest they rung 
 
 Sweet pleadings for diviner things, 
 And from the shrine of heart and tongue 
 Well'd up to God the secret springs ; 
 And, rising still, the sunbeam kissed 
 The pure lips of the organist. 
 
 And yet, with cadence deep aod low, 
 
 The mingled prayer and praise went forth ; 
 And heaving breast, and face aglow, 
 
 And touch inspired, bespoke their worth, 
 While thought and yearning seemed to flow 
 Away from scenes and forms of earth ; 
 
 And God's love, through the sunbeam, kissed 
 The moist eyes of the organist. 
 
 NORTHUMBRIAN LANES. 
 
 Oh ! green lanes of Northumberland ; 
 
 What Springs have come, all cowslip-drest, 
 To strew their gems on earth's green breast ; 
 What diamonds of the early dew, 
 In settings of the purest blue, 
 Have hung upon sweet violet tips, 
 And tried to kiss her luscious lips ;
 
 John Rowell Waller. 143 
 
 And e'en the pale anemone 
 Her sister violet might not see, 
 For, lo ! she hung her head close by 
 The moisture brimmed her lovely eye, 
 Till Sol shot down an amorous ray, 
 And sucked the glittering tear away, 
 Oh ! green lanes of Northumberland. 
 
 Oh ! green lanes of Northumberland, 
 
 What Summer winds have paused to play 
 Through white festoons of hawthorn spray, 
 And woo'd till all her sweets were given 
 In scents that must have come from heaven ; 
 But, best to me of all your charms, 
 The dog-rose in the woodbine's arms, 
 "Won ere the west wind's love was sung, 
 Her cheek-hued petals freely flung 
 Down on the slope where speedwells gleamed 
 And odorous clover dozed and dreamed ; 
 Prone in the grass the darnel lay 
 Too languid to salute the day, 
 
 Oh ! green lanes of Northumberland. 
 
 Oh ! brown lanes of Northumberland, 
 
 What Autumn nights have touched the flow'rs, 
 
 And shut them in the sunset hours ; 
 
 Have touched the hedgerows green and fair, 
 
 And hung the hawthorn berries there ; 
 
 The leaves in every shade of brown, 
 
 'Ere rude winds brought them swirling down, 
 
 Had robed the trees in richest dress 
 
 Of chrome and sepia loveliness ; 
 
 November chills came down the breeze, 
 
 And frosted on the weirdly trees ; 
 
 Lo ! dankling in deep guttersjay 
 
 The umber flecks of yesterday, 
 Oh ! brown lanes of Northumberland.
 
 144 North Country Poets. 
 
 Oh ! white lanes of Northumberland, 
 
 What Winter winds have brought the snows 
 To drift and fill the long hedgerows ; 
 The lonely moon's half-ghostly light 
 Gleamed o'er the slopes of spotless white, 
 Some nightshade berries, burning red, 
 Glared on the soft and flaky bed 
 Half startling with their crimson stain 
 Like blood-tracks on the Polar plain. 
 Lo ! deeper beauties, teeming still, 
 Are born of God's almighty will, 
 That all my life's rude lines along 
 Have taught me this sweet art of song, 
 
 Oh ! white lanes of Northumberland.
 
 Dora Greenwell. 
 
 145 
 
 Dora Greenwell. 
 
 Thomas and Dorothy Greenwell, of Greenwell Ford, near 
 the old lloman station of Lanchester, Durham, was born, 
 Dec. 6th, 1821, an only daughter, to whom was given the 
 mother's name, affectionately softened into Dora. Her 
 home was a commodious ancestral mansion. Her father, 
 a man of wealth and position, was active and popular asa 
 magistrate, and Deputy Lieutenant of the county, he and 
 his little girl numbering the historian Surtees amongst 
 their many friends. Nine miles from a town, postal service weekly, it may 
 be imagined that Dora had few playmates but her brothers. She, however, 
 made a companion of a " brawling brook," the Browny, that leaped and ran 
 through the estate, and she was given to wander alone by this, following its 
 picturesque course by path, or no path, resting on out-cropping grey rocks, 
 learning the secrets of nature, and filling her young mind with poetic images 
 before the power of expression came to her. By the time that was hers she 
 was a delicate girl, with but a frail hold on life, needing all care and 
 tendance. Yet song came to her early. It was not, however, until her 
 father's easy-going confiding nature, and a lawsuit, brought ruin on his 
 family, that she gave the out-pouring of her genius to the world. Song is 
 born of suffering, and when, in 1848, the family had to surrender the 
 luxurious estate their ancestors had held from the days of Henry VIII., 
 the wrench at the unexpected parting affected Dora exceedingly. It was a 
 blow from which she never wholly recovered, as her correspondence even 
 twenty years later could testify. She had grown up from shy and gentle 
 childhood to imaginative soul-searching womanhood, in those " pleasant 
 places " where she and her family thought they "were as safely planted as the 
 trees." Sad was the reverse when only the interest of Mrs. Greenwell's 
 own fortune remained to them. As Dora expressed it, " Money troubles 
 do away with the pleasant glossy part of life," and her opinion that 
 " Making both ends meet is such a miserable idea of perfection, I should 
 like them to tie in a handsome bow," was the playful expression of her 
 own painful experience. 
 
 On the sale of his house and lands, Mr. Greenwell, his wife, and 
 daughter, went to live for a time at Ovingham Eectory, Northumberland, 
 with the eldest son William, now Canon Greenwell, of Durham, the noted 
 antiquary and geologist. It was during her brief residence here, in 1848, 
 that Miss Greenwell sent her first volume of poems to the press. Pickering 
 was the publisher. Later we find her with her brother Allan, at Go! bourne 
 Kectory, in Lancashire ; but in 1854, when she was thirty-two, she settled 
 dowu with her mother in the quiet ecclesiastical precincts known as " The 
 Bailey," Durham, where Mrs. Greenwell's early years had been spent. In 
 the meantime a change had come over the quaint cathedral city, warming
 
 146 North Country Poets. 
 
 it into life. That behind-the-time, narrow-minded, exclusive section of its 
 society, which had pitied " Poor dear Dora" for her poetic gift and the 
 publication of her first " Poems," had bowed to the dictum of those higher 
 intelligences who had stamped them as the work of genius ; and her second 
 volume had a very different reception. The eighteen years spent by Miss 
 Greenwell under the shadow of the old cathedral, must be named as the 
 period of highest intellectual development, though pain and exhaustion 
 prostrated the frail body. That the mind rises above and is independent 
 of physical weakness is an experience by no means peculiar to Dora 
 Greenwell, though hers soared to altitudes out of ordinary reach. Yet how 
 much she suffered of bitter memory, of absolute pain, and how her religious 
 soul fought against surrender, and imbued earthly things with spiritual 
 meanings, is evident in all she has written, whether in her learned prose 
 or her symbolic poetry. She was too mystical for popularity with the 
 multitude, though she struck her harp with a masterly hand, as the few 
 poems we have space to quote can but faintly indicate. 
 
 She threw herself heart and soul into various philanthropic movements, 
 writing poems, essays, and booklets, too many for enumeration here, as 
 moved by the Irish Famine, the sufferings of Gang Children, the Cotton 
 Famine, and Vivisection, and she especially interested herself for a Home for 
 Imbecile Children. Her friendships were many and lasting, notably with 
 the Constable family of Edinburgh, and Professor Knight, with whom she 
 had a philosophic correspondence. Her conversation was full of point and 
 originality ; learned or piquant as the case might be. 
 
 When " Carmina Crucis " was published in 1869, Miss Greenwell's 
 newly adopted symbol appeared upon the title-page, a hand grasping a 
 cross, accompanied by the motto " Et Teneo, et Teneor," and so on all her 
 successive works. Of these, " The Two Friends," and " Colloquice Crucis," 
 a sequel published in 1871, are in prose the arguments of two imaginary 
 friends on Christianity. "The Soul's Legend," from which we extract 
 " The Red-breast," appeared in 1873; "Camera Obscura," in 1876, gives 
 us " The Blade of Grass." In this small book are also two prose-poems, 
 "The Broken Cither," and " My Little Companions," in which whosoever 
 runs may read reminiscences of her lost home at Greenwell Ford. Besides 
 these appeared from time to time her great prose work "Lacordaire " ; two 
 volumes of essays, one bearing the title "Liber Humanitatis ; " "The 
 Covenant of Life and Peace ; " " The Patience of Hope " (first published in 
 America, with an introduction by Whittier) ; an enlarged edition of her 
 Poems, and " The Songs of Salvation." 
 
 On the death of her mother, Miss Greenwell quitted Durham for 
 Clifton and her brother Allan, her health completely broken by long 
 watching by the invalid. From Clifton she retired to Great College Street, 
 Westminster, and after one or two other removes met with an accident and 
 died at Clifton, March 29th, 1881, mourned by many besides her proverbial 
 " loose fringe " of dependents. 
 
 ISABELLA BANKS.
 
 Dora Greenwell. 147 
 
 THE BLADE OF GRASS. 
 
 A sword shall go through thine own heart." Prophecy of ZACHARIAS. 
 
 Oh ! little blade of grass, 
 
 A little sword thou art, 
 That in thy haste to pass 
 
 Hast pierced thy mother's heart ! 
 
 Oh ! little blade of grass, 
 
 A little tongue thou art 
 Of cleaving flame, alas ! 
 
 Thou hast cleft thy mother's heart. 
 
 Oh ! little blade, upcurled 
 
 Leaf, sword, or fiery dart, 
 To win thy Father's world 
 
 Thou must break thy mother's heart ! 
 
 DESDICHADO. 
 
 Weep not for them who weep 
 For friend or lover taken hence, for child 
 That falls 'mid early flowers and grass asleep, 
 
 Untempted, undefiled. 
 
 Mourn not for them that mourn 
 For sin's keen arrow with its rankling smart, 
 God's hand will bind again what He hath torn, 
 
 He heals the broken heart. 
 
 But weep for him whose eye 
 Sees in the midnight skies a starry dome 
 Thick sown with worlds that whirl and hurry by, 
 
 And give the heart no home ;
 
 148 North Country Poets. 
 
 Who hears amid the dense 
 Loud trampling crash and outcry of this wild 
 Thick jungle world of drear magnificence, 
 
 No voice which says, my child ; 
 
 Who marks through earth and space 
 A strange dumb pageant pass before a vacant shrine, 
 And feels within his inmost soul a place 
 
 Unfill'd by the Divine ; 
 
 Weep, weep, for him, above 
 That looks for God, and sees unpitying Fate, 
 That finds within his heart, in place of love, 
 
 A dull, unsleeping hate. 
 
 THE RED-BREAST. 
 
 " Far, far away, is a land of woe and darkness, spirits of evil and fire. 
 Day after day a little bird flies there, bearing in his bill a drop of water to 
 quench the flame. So near to the burning stream does he fly that his 
 feathers are scorched by it, and hence he is named ' Bron-rhuddyn ' (breast- 
 burned)." A Carmarthenshire Legend of the Robin. 
 
 The souls in bliss to souls in woe 
 
 Would fain a message send : 
 It is not love, above, below, 
 
 That loves not to the end ; 
 This know I, though I little yet 
 
 Love's secret apprehend. 
 
 But how shall love with love prevail 
 
 Its message sweet to take, 
 What wing that will not droop and fail, 
 
 What spirit but will quake, 
 To bear it through the gloomy vale, 
 
 Across the fiery lake ?
 
 Dora Greenwell. 149 
 
 In heaven was silence ! sweet to hear 
 
 The songs that angels sing, 
 Yet sweeter then had been the clear 
 
 Quick rustle of a wing. 
 On earth was silence ! to the sun 
 
 The eagle soared ; apart 
 The dove, in grief or love for one 
 
 Sate, brooding o'er her heart ; 
 Wings, wings ! a heaven and earth of wings, 
 
 Outspread, unstirred, and free ; 
 I only heard one little bird 
 
 Make answer then, " Send rne." 
 
 A little bird, ^unseen, unheard, 
 
 When summer woods are gay, 
 That flits across a darkening path 
 
 And haunts a leafless spray ; 
 Its song is broken, sweet, and wild, 
 
 Its eye is bright and clear ; 
 It singeth best when to the West 
 
 The sinking sun draws near : 
 A bird beloved by man and child, 
 
 And to its Maker dear. 
 
 It trills not with the nightingale, 
 
 It moans not with the dove, 
 It hath no fond heart-piercing wail 
 
 Of passion nor of love ; 
 It mounts not with the lark on wings 
 
 Of rapture and desire, 
 It hath a heart that does not quail, 
 
 A wing that does not tire. 
 
 " I do not fear the valley drear, 
 
 Nor yet beyond the gate 
 What lies, though it indeed be vast, 
 
 And dim, and desolate. 
 
 *In spring the red-breast retires to woods and thickets. Durisg summer 
 it is rarely to be seen. Bewick's British Birds.
 
 150 North Country Poets. 
 
 My breast is scorched with fire, so near 
 The burning wind I fly ; to fear 
 Would now for me be late. 
 
 " For me the little children spread 
 
 Their crumbs upon the snow, 
 I stay with them, and I am fed 
 
 When the swallows flit and go ; 
 I have eaten of man's daily bread 
 
 Too long to shun his woe ; 
 I have met earth's sleety blast, 
 
 I have felt its driving rain : 
 The time of fear is overpast 
 
 For one, the mate of pain ; 
 
 " Yea, more ! upon the bitter cross 
 
 I saw One hang, who bore 
 Of all Creation's wrong and loss, 
 
 The weight and burden sore ; 
 And then from out a brow divine, 
 
 With anguish pierced and torn, 
 I strove, with this small beak of mine, 
 
 To wrest a single thorn. 
 
 " Too slender was my little bill ; 
 
 I strove and strove in vain ; 
 But then, in guerdon of my will, 
 
 My bosom met a stain, 
 Broad, ruddy, deep, that shields from ill, 
 
 And marks it unto pain." 
 
 Oh, little bird ! these words of thine 
 Methinks are true and wise ! 
 
 For he who looks on man who lives, 
 Who looks on God that dies,
 
 Dora Greenwell. 151 
 
 Baptized within the cloud, the sea, 
 Baptized within the fire, like thee, 
 May pass along the valley drear, 
 And through the gateway dim, nor fear 
 
 For aught beyond that lies.* 
 November, 15th, 1870. *1 Cor. x 2. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 Two birds within one nest ; 
 Two hearts within one breast ; 
 Two spirits in one fair 
 Firm league of love and prayer, 
 Together bound for aye, together blest. 
 
 An ear that waits to catch 
 A hand upon the latch ; 
 A step that hastens its sweet rest to win 
 A world of care without, 
 A world of strife shut out, 
 A world of love shut in.
 
 152 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 William Weaver Tomlinson. 
 
 OET, journalist, and general litterateur ; archaeologist, 
 linguist, botanist ; an omnivorous reader, a hard student, 
 and an indefatigable worker, Mr. W. W. Tomlinson, not- 
 withstanding the multiplicity and diversity of the interests 
 that have engaged him, has always, with a steady method 
 and purpose, devoted himself to one thing at a time, and 
 thus obtained a sound proficiency in many departments. 
 He was born on the 5th October, 1858, at Driffield, in 
 Yorkshire ; his early days were spent in the outskirts of Beverley, the 
 quaint sleepy old minster -town lying in gardens and trees in the richest 
 agricultural district of Holderness. He was educated under Mr. Dyson, 
 of Beverley, and on the removal of his family, in 1872, to Newcastle- 
 on-Tyne, he was sent for a short time to the Koyal Grammar School 
 there. At present he serves in the accountant's office of the North 
 Eastern Railway Company, in Newcastle, and resides at Whitley- 
 by-the Sea. Who does not conquer before thirty will never conquer 
 I think Schiller said something to this effect. Mr. Tomlinson is now 
 in his thirtieth year, and a much abridged catalogue of his various 
 achievements would, I think, give sufficient evidence of the fact that he 
 need not be abashed by the maxim. His numerous journalistic articles 
 have always a distinct literary value and finish, which, combined with the 
 wide knowledge and keen practicality he brings to bear, constitute him a 
 contributor to the press of no mean importance. At the period of the 
 Crofter disturbance he was sent by the Newcastle Chronicle, one of the most 
 influential provincial papers, as special correspondent to Tiree, and his 
 report was as copious as it was interesting. Of his archaeological 
 attainments and descriptive powers he gave ample evidence in 1887 in his 
 " Guide to Newcastle-on-Tyne," a work both concise and exhaustive. Since 
 then he has compiled an elaborate " Guide to Northumberland," just pub- 
 lished by Mr. Walter Scott, and by this his reputation as an historian and 
 archaeologist will be firmly established. Amongst the best-remembered lec- 
 tures which for some years past Mr. Tomlinson has been in the habit of 
 giving in the Hall of the Literary and Philosophical Society in Newcastle, 
 are those on " The Poets of Newcastle," "The Humorous Poets of the 
 Nineteenth Century," and " De Lamartine." Though Mr. Tomlinson has 
 printed much verse, the only collection of his poems in book form is 
 contained in a small volume entitled " First Fruits," published in 1881. 
 It is distinguished by the mastery it exhibits of poetic technique, which is 
 one of Mr. Tomlinson's strong points ; he is, in fact, intimately acquainted 
 with that most occult of mysteries, the technique of French verse, and he 
 has written on this as well as on the history of French poetry. As a 
 translator of Clement Marot, of Francois Coppee, of Leconte de Lisle, and
 
 William Weaver Tomlinson. 153 
 
 of other foreign poets, his renderings, close in their adherence to the 
 original, have at the same time a charm of their own. I have allowed 
 myself but little space for exposition or criticism of Mr. Tomlinson 
 as a poet, thinking that the quotation given below may well speak for him in 
 this respect ; and that a brief account of the man, as one of the generation 
 of men of letters likely to make a considerable mark in the near future, 
 would be more valuable. 
 
 WILL H. DIBCKS. 
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE FRIDSTOL. 
 
 In Hexham Abbey Church there is preserved a curious stone seat called 
 " The Fridstol," an interesting relic of pre-Reformation times, when the 
 monks had the privilege of affording sanctuary to those who had shed 
 human blood or committed some heinous crime. Four boundary-stones 
 marked the Lcuga, or circuit of the sanctuary, which extended for one mile 
 round the church. The sites of two are known from the names Maiden 
 Cross on the west, and White Cross Fields on the east. Near Beverley a 
 sanctuary-cross is standing in situ in a field by the side of the York Road. 
 The " Monk's Stone," near Tynemouth, is also believed to have marked the 
 limit of the leuga round the Priory. Anyone apprehending a fugitive 
 within the circuit rendered himself liable to a penalty, varying according 
 to the distance from the centre of the sanctuary. If the avenger of blood 
 dared to take a fugitive when seated within the Fridstol the offence was 
 unredeemable by any fine. There probably hung upon the door of the 
 church, as at Durham, a grotesque iron mask by way of knocker, with 
 candles kept burning at night-time behind its eyes and mouth, to direct the 
 fugitive approaching through the darkness. On being admitted, the man- 
 slayer, or malefactor, was obliged to make a full confession of his crime, 
 and take an oath to be " true and faithful " to the authorities of the church, 
 and to refrain from violating the king's peace in any way. Also, he was to 
 be ready to assist in the defence of the town if needs be. When he had 
 kissed the book and paid the requisite fees, he was admitted as a grithman 
 and domiciliated in the town. 
 
 " Why luik ye sae, ray ain true love? 
 
 What ill sight hae ye seen ? " 
 " A slayne man, wha has cast on me 
 
 The glamour o' his een. 
 
 " An' gin I flee not far away, 
 
 A deid man I shall be. 
 Swift is the sword ! My bonnie bairn, 
 
 What gars ye rin frae me ?
 
 154 North Country Poets. 
 
 " Ain I a ghaist (as he is ane), 
 
 Wha bodeth thee nae gude '? " 
 " feyther, dinna touch me noo, 
 
 Yer hands are rede wi' blude." 
 
 " Sweet wife o' mine, fare-weel ! This day 
 
 May end in dule for thee ; 
 The bird that sings the sunset's dirge 
 
 May sing a dirge for me ! " 
 
 He kissed her wan lips, and was gone 
 
 Or ere a tear could start ; 
 His limbs were light, and strong, but oh ! 
 
 They bore a heavy heart. 
 
 By muir and rnoss he took his way, 
 
 The dew yet on his feet ; 
 The larks were lilting as he sped 
 
 Adown the Clennell Street.* 
 
 From Coquet came an eerie sound 
 
 A sound of spates f set free 
 The while the water-kelpies sang, 
 
 And laughed with elfin glee. 
 
 Down came the moorland waters, clear 
 
 As amber in the sun ; 
 Not lightly would the dalesmen dare 
 
 The ford of Alwinton. 
 
 No way but one was left to him, 
 
 And that was through the ford ; 
 For lo ! behind, the morning sun 
 
 Flashed on a naked sword. 
 
 * Clennell Street a path through Kidland to Clennell. " Street " 
 here is used in its original Anglo-Saxon signification of a " way spread out 
 or paved." 
 
 t Spates rapid floods that come down a river after a great fall of rain 
 among the hills.
 
 William Weaver Tomlinson. 155 
 
 His feet were on the other bank, 
 
 When hark ! a sudden scream ! 
 And oh ! it was a little child 
 
 Had fallen in the stream. 
 
 He paused a moment, yea, but one, 
 
 To crush a base thought dead, 
 Then plunged to where a gleam of gold 
 
 Played round a golden head. 
 
 " Whatever ill betide to me, 
 
 This chance I may not rue, 
 Whereby I save, to smile again, 
 
 Those tender eyes of blue." 
 
 He laid her on the sunny bank, 
 
 Among the gowans there ; 
 Then fled again before the sword 
 
 That shimmered through the air. 
 
 A shadow from the olden times 
 
 Fell on him as he saw 
 The Draag-stone,* that had still the power 
 
 To chill men's hearts with awe. 
 
 Beneath the hold of Harbottell, 
 
 And through the little town, 
 He took his way across the moors 
 
 Where Yardhope hill looks down. 
 
 The curlews, rising warily, 
 
 Wheeled round him as he ran, 
 Then downward swooped ; too wily they 
 
 To fear a hunted man. 
 
 * Draag-Stone a huge mass of rock, thirty feet high, perched on Har- 
 bottle Crags. It is believed to have had some connection with Druidical 
 worship. A custom which prevailed till the beginning of the century, of 
 passing sick children over the Draag-Stone to promote their recovery, 
 is no doubt a remnant of the old superstition.
 
 156 North Country Poets. 
 
 A rude stone cross stood by the way, 
 
 And there, on bended knee, 
 A pilgrim to our Lady's Well* 
 
 Did tell his rosary. 
 
 He halted for a little space, 
 
 And made the holy sign ; 
 Then turned to where cold Elsdon lay 
 
 Beneath a tuft of pine. 
 
 And by its mote-hills, f where of old 
 
 The tribes in council met ; 
 And by its frowning pele he strode 
 
 Still on, with teeth hard-set. 
 
 Sweet far-off murmurs did the wind 
 
 Bring softly to his ear ; 
 But oh ! it brought the sound of feet 
 
 That followed and drew near. 
 
 Oh ! vain seemed all his effort now 
 
 To flee the vengeful hand : 
 The sky spun round his dizzy brain, 
 
 Bright as a whirling brand. 
 
 He might not rest, though every thew 
 
 Was like an iron cord ; 
 For lo ! behind, the mid-day sun 
 
 Flashed on a naked sword. 
 
 By Otterburn, where Douglas fell, 
 
 Yet won the glorious fight ; 
 By Corsenside and Bisingham, 
 
 He took his onward flight. 
 
 * Our Lady's Well a spring near Holystone, where Pauliuus is said to 
 have baptised many of his Northumbrian converts. 
 
 f Mote Hills remarkable diluvial mounds, levelled at the top, and fortified 
 with earthen ramparts by the ancient Britons, who are supposed to have 
 held their tribal councils here.
 
 William Weaver Tomlinson. 157 
 
 He saw above pale Sweethope Lough 
 
 The Wannys, old and grey, 
 Like spell-bound wizards doomed to scan 
 
 Some crystal orb for aye. 
 
 Still on he sped by Gunnerton, 
 
 And on by Swinburn Tower, 
 By Bewclay to the mighty wall 
 
 Up-raised by Eoman power. 
 
 The dew fell on the drowsy leaf, 
 
 And on the flower a-swoon ; 
 It lay upon his weary limbs, 
 
 That blessed the gentle boon. 
 
 Beneath was Corbridge, like an isle 
 
 Begirt with waves of wheat. 
 He travelled on with blood-shot eyes 
 
 And steps no longer fleet. 
 
 " What ho ! " they cried ; " a Kidland wight 
 
 More swift of hand than foot ! 
 God-speed ! to Hexhani town," was heard 
 
 From pele and wattled hut. 
 
 From Dilston's highest tower, that caught 
 
 The last rich light of day, 
 The warder blew a merry note 
 
 To cheer him on his way. 
 
 The goal was nearly won yet Fear 
 
 Still ruled his heart as lord ; 
 For lo ! behind, the setting sun 
 
 Flashed on a naked sword. 
 
 He staggered on two miles or more, 
 
 Then, with a sudden moan, 
 Sank by the Maiden-cross, beneath 
 
 Its sheltering shaft of stone.
 
 158 North Country Poets. 
 
 He rose and trailed his weary limbs 
 
 Towards Wilfrid's holy pile, 
 To claim the right of sanctuary 
 
 Its peace within its mile. 
 
 The massy door ! Yet one step more ! 
 
 He breathed the Virgin's name, 
 Then seized the grim carved head that hung 
 
 With eyes and mouth of flame. 
 
 The monks drew nigh ; between his lips 
 They poured the blood-red wine 
 
 " O, heaven, the sword ! " " Nay, 'tis the light 
 Upon the silver shrine." 
 
 They led him to the Stool of Peace 
 
 Within the chancel dim, 
 While children through the twilight sang 
 
 The holy vesper-hymn. 
 
 The windows lost their jewel -tints, 
 Dim grew each saint and seer ; 
 
 And lo ! the night stole down and stilled 
 The new-made grithman's fear.
 
 William E. A. Axon. 
 
 '59 
 
 William E. A. Axon. 
 
 >^ O insignificant number of the Englishmen and women who 
 have achieved a deserved literary reputation have drawn 
 their first breath in the grimy air of Manchester. 
 Among these Mr. Axon is to be numbered, but, unlike 
 very many of them, he has not turned his back upon his 
 native city for either broader or fairer fields. Such as 
 Manchester was and is, he has clung to her with an affec- 
 tion intensified by the moral aspects which the struggle 
 of humanity presents in such a place. He was born in 1846, and is " self- 
 educated in the best sense." At fifteen he became assistant librarian at the 
 Manchester Free Library, under the late Dr. Crestadoro, a position he 
 held until he was twenty-eight, when he made a brief trial of a commercial 
 life, and found it little to his taste. Since that short incursion into uncon- 
 genial fields, he has devoted himself to literary pursuits and journalism 
 with an ardour and intensity of devotion which are not to be measured even 
 by the mass of his published work, great as that is. Mr. George Milner, 
 on a recent occasion, thus referred to that work, in terms which do not 
 overrate either its extent or its versatility : " What he has done it would 
 be impossible for me to say. . . Nothing seems to come amiss to him. 
 The most gigantic pyramid of figures, the most abstruse statistical problem, 
 never proves too much for his literary digestion, and at the same time he is 
 ready to soar on the wing of the lightest fancy. . . In short, he is 
 steeped to the lips in literature, and a sworn knight of the pen sworn till 
 death." His researches have lain in many fields historical, archaeological, 
 statistical, and bibliographical. He has contributed to the transactions of 
 the Royal Society of Literature, the Lancashire and Cheshire Antiquarian 
 Society, the Statistical Societies of Manchester and London, the British 
 Association, the Library Association, the Manchester Literary Club, 
 Manchester Literary and Philosophical Society, Field Naturalists' Society, 
 Cryptogamic Society, and many others, as well as to numerous weekly, 
 monthly, and annual publications. He is also an active, honorary, or 
 corresponding member of several learned societies, both home and foreign. 
 A complete bibliography of his published work would occupy several of 
 these pages ; and still, it must be remembered, Mr. Axon is a young man. 
 Among his more important volumes are the " Handbook of the Public 
 Libraries of Manchester and Salford," " Annals of Manchester," " Cheshire 
 Gleanings," "Lancashire Gleanings," and "Stray Chapters in Literature 
 and Folk-lore. ' ' He is understood to be now engaged upon the preparation of 
 a work on the history and folk-tales of the Gypsies. Mr. Axon's poetical 
 work does not occupy a very large space in the imposing bulk of his literary 
 labours, but what he has done in this direction shows facility in versifica- 
 tion, an intuitive feeling for thoroughly good literary work, and a warm
 
 160 North Country Poets. 
 
 sympathy with many-hearted Nature. In his translations, where he shows, 
 perhaps, at his best as a poet, he is equally happy in themes grave and gay, 
 and in many of his sonnets occur touches of poetic fancy which are both 
 graceful and true. His translations cover a wide linguistic range, and em- 
 brace the poets of Italy, ancient and modern, France, Germany, Spain, 
 Portugal, and China. 
 
 Any sketch of Mr. Axon's life, however brief, would be most incomplete, 
 which failed to take note of his great interest in the poorer classes, and his 
 ceaseless activity in promoting every worthy plan to brighten the dulness 
 of their daily lives. He is, too, an indefatigable, but never offensively 
 obtrusive, propagandist for purer and healthier living among all classes. 
 He is a teetotaler and vegetarian from confirmed principle, but whatever 
 line of conduct he advocates it is always pressed in the broadest and most 
 catholic spirit. He loves humanity too much to belittle it by any show of 
 ex cathedra omniscience. 
 
 The following selections embrace one of his shorter idylls from the 
 Manchester Quarterly, a sonnet which first appeared in the Academy, and 
 two brief translations. 
 
 J. OSCAB PAKKEK. 
 
 THE ANCOATS SKYLARK. 
 
 [Perhaps it was difficult for people to understand the extraordinary 
 ignorance of town children in such districts as he was referring to 
 respecting the commonest natural objects. The other day he was 
 inspecting a School in Ancoats, and the boys in the first class were 
 repeating some poetry they had learnt about a skylark. He enquired 
 whether anyone had ever seen a lark ; there was a silence, but a boy 
 presently held out his hand to signify he wished to speak, and on his 
 saying, " Well, where did you see a lark ? " he answered, " In the public- 
 house at the corner of the street, in a cage." He (Mr. Oakeley) thought, 
 " Poor caged lark, and poor caged little lad." Speech of Mr. H. E. OAKELEY, 
 H ,M. Senior Inspector of Schools, at the opening of the Manchester School Board 
 Central Higher Grade School, July, 1884.] 
 
 The day was hot, the summer sun 
 Pierced through the city gloom ; 
 
 It touched the teacher's anxious face, 
 It brightened all the room. 
 
 Around him children of the poor, 
 
 111 fed, with clothing scant, 
 The flotsam of the social wreck, 
 
 The heirs of work and want.
 
 William E. A. Ax on. 161 
 
 The sunlight glorified their rags, 
 
 As he essayed to tell 
 The wonders of the country side, 
 
 Of clough, and burn, and fell. 
 
 .For, as he spoke, the schoolroom walls 
 
 Kept fading from his sight. 
 He stood upon his native hills ; 
 
 All bathed in golden light. 
 
 Once more he heard the skylark sing, 
 
 Sing right at heaven's door, 
 And fill the span of earth beneath 
 
 With music from its store. 
 
 A summer cloud sailed o'er the sky, 
 
 The sunlight passed away, 
 The teacher saw his puny boys 
 
 With city grime all grey. 
 
 " And which of you has heard a lark, 
 
 Or seen its fluttering wings 
 As o'er the hills of Lancashire 
 
 It rises and it sings ? 
 
 Ah, no, the hills are far away 
 
 From Ancoats' toil and stress. 
 The skylark, have you heard its song, 
 
 Or seen its homely dress ? " 
 
 A silence fell upon the class, 
 
 On all the listening ring ; 
 Then one said, " Sir, I've seen a lark, 
 
 And heard him loudly sing." 
 
 " And where, my little Ancoats lad, 
 
 Did you the layrock see ? " 
 " 'Twas in a wooden cage that hung 
 
 Outside the ' Cotton Tree.' "
 
 1 62 North Country Poets. 
 
 Alas, poor bird ! chained thus amidst 
 The city's smoke and gloom, 
 
 No more for thee the sunny sky, 
 The wild flower's sweet perfume. 
 
 Alas, poor caged Ancoats boy ! 
 
 That freedom's song ne'er heard 
 Trilled o'er the fells of Lancashire 
 
 By this bright poet-bird. 
 
 Alas, the teacher, who of hills 
 The dear delight has known, 
 
 And, now amidst the city slums, 
 Is bound by walls of stone ! 
 
 And yet the teacher finds it joy 
 To help the laddish throng ; 
 
 The boy is blythe and strong of heart, 
 The bird ne'er fails in song. 
 
 So may the teacher's magic art, 
 The bird's melodious ditty, 
 
 The sunshine of the boyish heart, 
 Ne'er fade from out the city. 
 
 ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS. 
 
 (FEOM THE SPANISH OF MANUEL M. FERNANDEZ). 
 
 Donosto to the public gave 
 Old stories, very badly told, 
 
 Well printed in a portly tome, 
 And bound in cloth and gold. 
 
 And those who read his limping lines 
 
 No trouble had in finding 
 The only gold about the book, 
 
 For it was on the binding.
 
 William E. A. Axon. 163 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF THE " IMITATIO CHRISTI." 
 
 (On receiving " L'Imitazioni ta Cristu minn Tommaso da Kempis." Malta, 1886.) 
 
 A solitary monk within his cell, 
 
 Whose walls did make an island of his life, 
 Surrounded by the waves of war and strife, 
 
 His hours obedient to the convent bell 
 
 Until the grave had closed upon his corse. 
 A life secluded from the haunts of men ; 
 A soul that found an utterance, by the pen, 
 
 For hope and sorrow, joy and sad remorse ; 
 
 A soul that longed for purity, that taught 
 Man's duty was to beat down pride and sin, 
 To conquer passion, keep all white within, 
 
 And shun a world with dark and evil fraught. 
 Ages have passed, yet still, amid the strife, 
 Is heard the music of that far-off life. 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 (FROM THE FKENCH OF J. B. ROUSSEAU). 
 
 So full of graces is thy wife, 
 
 So void of envy, void of strife, 
 
 That had it pleased the gods to give 
 
 To me three such, with whom to live, 
 
 To Lucifer the two I'd pay, 
 
 That he might fetch the third away.
 
 164 North Country Poets. 
 
 Thomas Parkinson Dotchson. 
 
 'v HOMAS Parkinson Dotchson was the son of Mr. Thomas 
 Dotchson, solicitor, Whitby. He was born October 23rd, 
 1865, and died October 20th, 1884. It is said that to be 
 crowned with a wreath of song, is to be crowned with sad- 
 ness, and this applies to the subject of this short notice. 
 His was a short life, full of rich promise, but the 
 mysterious " reaper with sickle keen," cut down the 
 flower just as it was bursting into bloom. Like all true 
 poets, the green pages of nature were his favourite study ; while the song 
 of the birds, the murmuring of the waving grasses, and the sobbing of 
 the restless sea, sounded to his listening ear like the undertone of earth's 
 passion music. 
 
 Most of his literary productions were in prose, but a few sweet poems 
 were left behind, that speak to us in prophetic tones of " what might have 
 been." 
 
 A collection of his work has been published in a "Memoriam 
 Volume," edited by Kobert Tate Gaskin, of Whitby. We give two of his 
 poems. 
 
 PATTY HONEYWOOD. 
 
 WHEN I AM DEAD. 
 
 The world will speed 
 With busy feet 
 Upon its way ; 
 And down the street 
 The sons of toil, 
 An anxious throng, 
 To daily tasks 
 Will move along 
 With heavy tread, 
 When I am dead. 
 
 The day will dawn 
 The golden sun 
 Will rise again 
 Its course to run ;
 
 Thomas Parkinson Dotchson. 165 
 
 And eyes will wake, 
 And lips will say 
 In trustful prayer 
 " Give us this day 
 Our daily bread," 
 When I am dead. 
 
 The flowers will bring, 
 To bless the earth, 
 The gladsome news 
 Of spring-time's birth ; 
 With happy sounds 
 The world will ring, 
 While sweetest songs 
 The lark will sing 
 Above my head, 
 When I am dead, 
 
 A softened step, 
 A silent tear, 
 Wrung from a heart 
 That beat sincere ; 
 A new-made grave, 
 Soon all is o'er, 
 And those I loved 
 Find many more 
 To love instead, 
 When I am dead. 
 
 THE MESSAGE OF THE CHIMES. 
 
 While musing o'er the year gone by, 
 I caught a sound of distant chimes, 
 That whispered " There are other times, 
 
 'Tis better for us these should die."
 
 1 66 North Country Poets. 
 
 But are these days for ever o'er ? 
 
 Much I would give them to regain ; 
 
 Toil in the hours that yet remain, 
 May locust-eaten years restore. 
 
 " Eise ! cast thy mournful dreams away ; 
 
 The Past to thee cannot return ; 
 
 Now let thy soul with ardour burn, 
 And let thy task be done to-day. 
 
 Await not some still brighter morn, 
 But grasp the moments as they fly ; 
 The Past is now laid down to die ; 
 
 The Future never may be born. 
 
 Let the Past serve to warn and guide ; 
 List to its voice but do not ask 
 For its return : Complete the task 
 
 That lies unfinished by thy side. 
 
 Let the bright Future serve to cheer 
 The eye and elevate the heart, 
 And give thee strength to do thy part 
 
 In that which to thy hand is near. 
 
 " Now now, alone is really thine ; 
 Seek not the living, 'mid the dead, 
 But work to-day and o'er thy head 
 
 A blue to-morrow yet shall shine."
 
 Henry Heavisides. 167 
 
 Henry Heavisides. 
 
 F all the poets South Durham has produced, there is not 
 one more widely known or more truly appreciated than 
 Henry Heavisides, the genial " Bard of Home." He was 
 born at Darlington, 29th November, 1791, where his 
 father, Michael, carried on the business of printer and 
 bookseller ; his mother was Miss Mary Marsh, who for two 
 years was governess to the children of Bishop Thurlow, 
 at Bishop Auckland. She was a woman of culture and 
 refinement, being the authoress of productions in both prose and verse, and 
 it was from this lady, I surmise, that our author inherited the poetic 
 faculty. After attending Darlington Grammar School, he was apprenticed 
 to his father, who, through ill-health and various difficulties, ultimately 
 declined business. At 20 years of age Henry left Darlington, and set out 
 to fight life's battle as best he could. He obtained employment at Stokesley, 
 and whilst there married Miss Jane Bradley. Leaving there he got 
 work on the Hull Packet, and subsequently at the office of the Leeds Mercury, 
 and at Bradford ; in 1814, however, he finally settled at Stockton-on-Tees, 
 where for the long period of 42 years he was foreman to Messrs. Jennett 
 and Co. In 1837 was published the first edition of the "Pleasures of 
 Home," a poem composed, as he himself says in the prefatory notice, "in 
 those leisure hours which every working man can call his own, after he has 
 performed the necessary and important labours of the day." It was received 
 favourably by the critics, and Allan Cunningham, in a letter to the bard, 
 dated 5th July, 1839, says " But few have sung with truer knowledge, or in 
 more moving strains, the sweets of the domestic hearth, or of the faces that 
 gladden it." 
 
 In 1840, the second edition, considerably enlarged, appeared ; and 
 again in 1859 and 1868 were issued third and fourth editions, the latter of 
 which was got up in a cheaper form, and contained a brief memoir written 
 by his son. 
 
 On March 29th, 1847, he was publicly presented with his portrait in 
 oils, subscribed for by his admirers, on the frame of which was the 
 following : " Presented to Henry Heavisides, author of the 'Pleasures of 
 Home,' etc., by John Crosby, Esq., Mayor of Stockton, on behalf of the sub- 
 scribers, as a small token of their high respect and esteem for his literary 
 genius and attainments." 
 
 His prose works embrace " The Minstrelsy of Great Britain," being a 
 glance at our lyrical poetry and poets, including a dissertation on the genius 
 and lyrics of Burns (1860) ; " Courtship and Matrimony (1864) second 
 edition 1868 ; and the " Annals of Stockton-on-Tees " (1865). In music, Mr. 
 Heavisides excelled, and for twenty-five years was bandmaster of the
 
 1 68 North Country Poets. 
 
 " Stockton Amateur Band," during which time he gave as many as 
 twenty-seven concerts, well patronised by the public. 
 
 As a lecturer he was much appreciated, his favourite themes being 
 " Courtship and Matrimony " and " The Genius of Burns " the MS. of 
 the latter is in the present writer's possession. 
 
 Mr. Heavisides was a tall man, rather sparely built, but muscular 
 indeed at one time he prided himself upon his athletic form, being well- 
 skilled in the art of natation ; a high brow, full eye, twinkling with sly 
 humor, and a firm, yet good humored mouth, were features which struck 
 one as belonging to a man of uncommon mould ; he was also noted for his 
 wonderful flow of spirits so much so, that when old age came upon him, 
 he was gayer, and more jovial by far, than most men a quarter the age ; 
 and though his long life was witness of trials and sorrows innumerable, yet 
 with calm and independent mien, he withstood the " slings and arrows of 
 fortune " patiently and manfully. He died 13th August, 1870, in the 79th 
 year of his age. 
 
 In his poetry slight blemishes may be found, yet a good deal he has left 
 us will bear favourable comparison with the more ambitious attempts of 
 Campbell, Goldsmith, or Crabbe, to the latter of whom he has been, not 
 without reason, compared. 
 
 JOSEPH READIIAN. 
 
 APOSTROPHE TO HOME. 
 
 Home ! dear Home ! where all delight to move, 
 Sweet couch of Peace and nursery of Love ! 
 Dear hallowed birth-place of domestic joy ! 
 Fountain of pleasures that can never cloy ! 
 blessed Home ! it boots not where thou art, 
 Thy charms, like ivy, twine around the heart ; 
 Steal on the mind, invest its mystic cell, 
 And bind each feeling there, as with a spell ; 
 To us endearing all within thy shade, 
 Each thing familiar God or man has made. 
 
 Whate'er the clime where human dwellings rise, 
 'Neath laughing Italy's unclouded skies, 
 Eound Andes' heights that 'bove the storm-clouds run, 
 Mid Turkey's minarets glittering in the sun, 
 On Ganges' banks, on China's wide domains, 
 Or Scandinavia's less luxuriant plains,
 
 Henry Heavisides. 169 
 
 Or e'en where Winter rules with aspect keen, 
 And dreary Lapland's stunted sons are seen, 
 However, humble, and however poor, 
 Still Home is Home, when comes the trying hour, 
 Still Home is Home, to those who know its worth, 
 Still Home is Home, the dearest place on earth ! 
 There, lovelier landscapes seem to glow around, 
 There, brighter flow'rets deck the sparkling ground, 
 There, every pleasing beauty seems more sweet, 
 And bosom friends in social converse meet ; 
 While scenes beloved are in our pathway cast, 
 Eousing the soul to dream on days long past, 
 As silvery voices on the zephyr swell, 
 And wake the echoes of the mountain dell. 
 
 Delightful Home ! though distant we may be, 
 Still there's a power that turns our thoughts to thee ; 
 Conjures up visions in the restless brain, 
 That draw us back to youthful scenes again ; 
 To harmless Childhood's pure and dreamy hours, 
 To Boyhood busy in fair Learning's bowers, 
 To kind companions scattered wide and far, 
 And pleasures gone we never more can share. 
 
 TO THE PRESS. 
 
 HAIL ! mighty Power ! that on the lucid page 
 
 Unfolds the thought rich with instruction sage, 
 
 That opes the gates of Knowledge to mankind, 
 
 And drives away the darkness of the mind ; 
 
 Hail, mighty instrument ! benignly given 
 
 To guide with Truth's bright torch our way to heaven, 
 
 To thee sweet Poesy her tribute pays, 
 
 Immortalizer of her choicest lays ! 
 
 She marks thy progress, and exults to see 
 
 The bloodless victories achieved by thee ;
 
 170 North Country Poets. 
 
 For wheresoe'er thy light resplendent streams, 
 Lo ! Ignorance retreats before thy beams, 
 Pale Superstition trembles with dismay, 
 Freedom expands, and Tyranny gives way. 
 potent Teacher of the human race ! 
 Nurse of fair Wisdom ! Sun of wit and grace ! 
 Industrious Storer of the classic hive ! 
 " Whose labours will the wrecks of Time survive," 
 Long be it thine th' ethereal spark to fan, 
 And rouse the latent energies of man ; 
 That Art; and Science 'neath thy fostering smile 
 May thrive progressive in our favoured isle ; 
 And meek-eyed Piety, at Faith's pure shrine, 
 Eevere thy worth, and feel thy power divine.
 
 Joseph H . Eccles. 
 
 171 
 
 Joseph H. Eccles. 
 
 OSEPH H. .ECCLES wrote many capital dialect poems, 
 and not a few popular English songs. His days were 
 spent at business and his nights devoted to literature. 
 He was the son of worthy parents in humble circum- 
 stances. He was born June 20th, 1824, at Ripponden, 
 near Halifax, and was a twin child. His school-days were 
 few, and only 2s. 9d. was spent on his education. From 
 boyhood he was a diligent student, and by self- 
 education made considerable progress in learning. In a letter written to 
 the late Abraham Holroyd, he said : " My early days were spent amongst 
 the woods and fields, and on the moorlands, and ever since my earliest 
 recollections, I have been a great admirer and lover of nature." He re- 
 moved to Leeds in 1845, and his busy life closed there on August 7th, 1883, 
 at the age of 59 years. He contributed largely to the local papers and 
 magazines, and produced several dialect almanacks, which included poetry 
 and prose from his pen. His English songs embraced, amongst other 
 popular compositions, " Come where the moonbeams linger," " Mother, I 
 have heard sweet music," " The angels are waiting for me," " I'd rather be a 
 violet," " Down where the blue-bells grow," " Snow- white blossoms." Mr. 
 Eccles wrote a large number of dialect poems, and issued seventy-one in a 
 volume under the title of " Yorkshire Songs." The book is one of sterling 
 merit, and attracted much favourable notice. He had, observed a critic, 
 the happy faculty of immortalising the little incidents of everyday life, and 
 this was the secret of the success of his poetry. Few had a keener insight 
 of men and manners. " The incidents of cottage life," said a writer in a 
 London monthly, " have formed the general theme of Mr. Eccles's verse, 
 but many of his lyrics will bear a far wider application. Human nature is 
 the same in the castle as the cabin, and much that he has written of the 
 peasant will apply to the wealthy. The homely pictures he has drawn 
 bear the impress of truth that comes from observation, and the quaint way 
 in which they are treated shows the hand of the true and skilful artist." He 
 was equally happy in pathetic or humorous productions. Perhaps his greatest 
 power was in sketching character. So true are his pieces to nature, that a 
 leading reviewer said they deserved the title of poetical photographs. I long 
 enjoyed the friendship of Mr. Eccles, and can bear testimony to his 
 ability and amiability. 
 
 W. A.
 
 172 North Country Poets. 
 
 DEEIN BE INCHES. 
 
 A'in deein be inches tha knaws weel enuf, 
 
 But net e'en a fig duz ta care ; 
 A'm a get aght road as sooin az I like 
 
 Ma cumpany I knaw tha can spare. 
 Goa fetch me that bottle ov fizzick daan stairs, 
 
 An bring me that noggin ov gin ; 
 I really feel ready ta faint inta t'earth 
 
 Tha knaws what a state I am in. 
 
 I cuddn't quite finish them two mutton chops, 
 
 A'm az weak az wurnman can be ; 
 I hav all soarts ov pains flyin right thro' ma boans, 
 
 But then tha's noa pity fer me. 
 A'l try an get t'doctor to giv me a chainge 
 
 Sich pain I noa longer can bide ; 
 A mun hev sum owd port ta strenthen me up, 
 
 An a drop ov gud brandy beside. 
 
 Av hed a stiff neck an saaud e ma heaad, 
 
 An felt dizzy times aght ov mind ; 
 But then its noa use, a kind wurd or thought 
 
 Tha nivver wonce hez e thee mind ; 
 Wen I sit daan an groan tha stans like a stoop 
 
 An nivver wonce tries fer ma sake 
 Ta walk a bit faster, though du what I will 
 
 Tha knaws 'at A'm all on a ake. 
 
 Pray keep aght that draft I feel all on a sweat ; 
 
 A'm suar at A'm wastin ta nowt ; 
 I sal hev them cowd shivvers az suar az A'm wick 
 
 Tha can't hav a morsel ov thowt. 
 Shut that door, an goa get spooin an t'glass, 
 
 An mix up a drop nice an strong ; 
 It's time tha did summat fer't sake ov thee wife 
 
 A'm fear'd tha wean't hev me soa long.
 
 Joseph H. Eccles. 173 
 
 A've waited fer gruel this haar an a hawf, 
 
 Summat strenthnin iz what I require ; 
 A'm faintin awaay, yet az trew az I liv, 
 
 Tha's nivver put t'pan onta t'fire. 
 I sal fade like a cannel et bottom ov t'stick, 
 
 Fer want ov attention an care ; 
 Be quick wi that glass, an bring me sum toast, 
 
 I feel fit ta sink through ma chair. 
 
 It's a queer piece ov bizziness (sed John tull hizsen ;) 
 
 It's cappin what wimmin can- du ; 
 Shoo's been cryin aght fer this last twenty years, 
 
 An sayin at shoo woddn't get through ; 
 Yet shoo eats an shoo drinks all 'at curns e her waay, 
 
 An lewks weel an strong az can be ; 
 Wai hear 'Am hauf pined, 'an get nowt but crusts, 
 
 It's noan her at's deein, it's ME ! 
 
 KEEP AGHT OV DEBT. 
 
 Keep aght ov debt it's gud advice, 
 
 A wize an thrifty plan ; 
 It's better far ta curb yer wants, 
 
 Ner owe ta ony man. 
 'Twill give yo pleashur at yer wark, 
 
 An mak life's pathwaay sweet ; 
 An wen yer daaily toil iz dun, 
 
 Yer heeads maay rest at neet. 
 
 Keep aght ov debt tho poor it purse, 
 An fortun seams ta fraan ; 
 
 It's better far ner borrowed rneeans 
 Yo kannot call yer awn.
 
 174 North Country Poets. 
 
 Yo then maay lewk at fowk e t'faice, 
 
 An calmly goa yer waay, 
 Which yo kannot du wen sunk e debt, 
 
 An hevent meeans ta paay. 
 
 Keep aght ov debt won penny saav'd 
 
 Iz wurth a hundurd spent ; 
 An unta ivvery thinkin mind, 
 
 Can bring moar pure content. 
 God's blessins ontut provident 
 
 Like mornin dewdrops fall, 
 Kefreshin ivvery noble thowt, 
 
 An givin strenth ta all. 
 
 Keep aght ov debt 'tis far the best, 
 
 Tho' shut from pleashur's scenes ; 
 'Twill saave yer naame, an keep yer faame, 
 
 Ta liv within yer meeans ; 
 An then the cheerin afturthowt 
 
 Will mak yo rich amends, 
 An keep yer credit gud beside, 
 
 Afoar boath foes an f rends. 
 
 Keep aght ov debt an allus try 
 
 Ta goa e t'honist track : 
 Ther iz noa rest fer them woa toil 
 
 Wi burdens on ther back, 
 Whoa darn't go aght e fleet ov daay, 
 
 Ner scarcely oppen t'door, 
 Afeard at bayliffs comin in, 
 
 Ta settle sum owd score. 
 
 Keep aght ov debt it's t'best advice 
 
 At man ta man can giv ; 
 An teaches t'true philosophy 
 
 Ov hah foaks owt ta liv.
 
 Joseph H. Eccles. 175 
 
 A load ov debt's a canker-wurm, 
 
 At bids all cumfort flee ; 
 Then tak advice keep agbt ov debt, 
 
 An yo rnaay happy be. 
 
 THE LOCK OF FLAXEN HAIR. 
 
 I have a lock of flaxen hair 
 
 Wrapt in a tiny fold, 
 "Pis hoarded with a miser's care, 
 
 'Tis dearer far than gold. 
 In other eyes of little worth, 
 
 Yet precious unto mine ; 
 For once, dear child, in life and health, 
 
 It was a lock of thine. 
 
 The numbered hours pass slowly by, 
 
 Days, weeks, and months depart, 
 And still the vacant place remains 
 
 Unchanged within the heart. 
 The loneliness is still the same, 
 
 The same great want is there ; 
 While memory loves to brood upon 
 
 The simple lock of hair. 
 
 The cold wind seems to sigh more loud, 
 
 When shades of evening fall ; 
 The clock, with more impressive sound 
 
 Ticks louder on the wall ; 
 For now no artless words I hear, 
 
 No smiling face I see, 
 No tone of childish mirth breaks forth, 
 
 So dear to home and me.
 
 176 North Country Poets. 
 
 'Tis past, 'tis gone, like some strange dream 
 
 That lingers with the mind ; 
 Some pleasant scene of happiness 
 
 The heart hath left behind ; 
 An atom from the fading dust, 
 
 A relic of the past, 
 That tells of transient hopes and joys, 
 
 Of things that could not last. 
 
 'Tis all that now remains of thee, 
 
 Light of our home and hearth ; 
 While sadly pass the silent hours, 
 
 And dark the days come forth : 
 Yet still I keep it for thy sake, 
 
 And guard it with fond care, 
 And oft I view, with throbbing heart, 
 
 Thy simple lock of hair.
 
 H. T. Mackenzie Bell. 
 
 177 
 
 H . T. Mackenzie Bell. 
 
 HOUGH Mr. Bell claims only a modest niche in the Temple 
 of Poesy, his place is his own. His verse is pre-eminently 
 marked by simplicity, independence, and sincerity. His 
 themes are chosen from everyday life, and his treatment 
 is correspondingly natural and pleasing. A new and re- 
 arranged edition of his poems issued some years ago by 
 Mr. T. Fisher Unwin, of London, has had the effect of 
 recommending him to a wider circle, the more that 
 the higher critical journals spoke of it in the most favourable terms, and 
 this may be said to have given Mr. Bell his introduction to the Academy 
 and other literary journals, in which his later contributions both in prose 
 and verse have appeared. 
 
 Henry Thomas Mackenzie Bell was born in Liverpool, on the 2nd of 
 March, 1856 ; his father, originally engaged in the River Plate trade, and a 
 long resident in Buenos Ayres, being then a merchant in Liverpool. His 
 mother is the sister of Thomas Mackenzie, once Solicitor General for Scot- 
 land, and subsequently the author of the celebrated " Studies in Roman 
 Law." 
 
 In infancy, Mr. Bell unfortunately suffered an attack of paralysis, 
 affecting the right side, chiefly the right hand, and necessitating, in after 
 years, the use of the left hand in writing. Owing to this fact, his educa- 
 tion was almost entirely carried on at home ; and with a view to the 
 improvement of his health he stayed at Malvern for about a year when 
 nine years old, and derived many pleasant impressions from the beauty of 
 its surroundings. His physical condition also happily improving, it was 
 proposed he should be sent in the autumn of 1874 to the University of 
 Edinburgh, the intention being to take his M.A. degree, and subsequently 
 to enter Trinity Hall, Cambridge, preparatory to his entrance on the legal 
 profession in London. Unfortunately, the strain of study for the examina- 
 tion proved too much for his health, and he was therefore compelled to go 
 abroad. He spent much time at Pau, and visited other parts of the 
 Pyrenees, subsequently journeying through Spain, where he visited San 
 Sebastian, Burgos, Madrid, and Cadiz. Of all places, Spain appears to 
 have influenced most strongly his mind, if we may correctly judge from his 
 writings. From Lisbon he went to Madeira, where he spent the winter, 
 and proceeded in the spring to Teneriffe. Returning by steamer, he 
 touched at Mogador, Safi, Mazagan, Tangiers, and Gibraltar, and visited 
 Seville, Cordova, Granada, Malaga, Valencia, and Barcelona on the home- 
 ward route, as well as Toulouse, Bordeaux, and Paris. In 1880 he visited 
 Switzerland and the Italian lakes, and spent considerable time in the chief 
 cities of Italy, Rome having especially an interest for him. His homeward 
 journey was made through Syracuse and Messina, via Straits of 
 Messina and Calabria to Salerno, visiting Pisa, Leghorn, and Genoa, and
 
 178 North Country Poets. 
 
 returning invigorated both in mind and body. Our justification for this 
 detail of Mr. Bell's travels is that he has made poetical record of his 
 impressions in a section of his work entitled " Verses of Travel." 
 
 In 1884 Mr. Bell made Baling his place of residence, and devoted him- 
 self professionally to literature, which had engaged him for some years. 
 " The Keeping of the Vow, and other Verses," consisting of songs, 
 and historical and miscellaneous pieces, was published in 1879, and in 1882 
 appeared his "Verses of Varied Life," containing his longest poem, "Edgar 
 Vanning," a tale in verse. " Old Year Leaves " was published in 1883, and 
 contains the contents of his two former volumes with the addition of some 
 new poems. These were all well received by the critics, and a short piece 
 entitled " Waiting for the Dentist " is regarded justly as a very successful 
 specimen of light humour, and the inspiration that favoured it must be 
 regarded as a very happy one. 
 
 Mr. Bell's latest and perhaps most important production is his literary 
 monograph, " A Forgotten Genius : Charles Whitehead," which is a careful 
 piece of work, showing considerable research and much sound critical 
 faculty. Mr. Bell, we believe, will not be disappointed in his belief that he 
 has accomplished the rescue of Whitehead from quite undeserved oblivion, 
 the object for which the volume was written. Mr. Bell has not recently 
 been publishing so much, though continually engaged in literary studies, 
 many of which will shortly appear in a volume issued by Messrs. Chatto 
 and Windus ; but some of his latest published work, as has been said, has 
 appeared in the Academy, and has met with a favorable reception. 
 
 Mr. Bell's energy and perseverance, his sincere enthusiasm for the 
 literary art, in face of the severe difficulties with which he has had to con- 
 tend, no less than his naturalness and efficiency as a poetic exponent, will, 
 we are sure, commend him to the interest and attention of our readers. 
 
 MAURICE M. JAPP. 
 
 DEATH OF CAPTAIN HUNT. 
 
 January 8th, 1761. 
 
 The bold crew of the Unicorn discern at dawn of light 
 Their longing is fulfilled at length they see the foe in sight. 
 Full swiftly now the order comes with speed to give them chase, 
 Their captain knows the French are lost if they can gain the race. 
 Hurrah ! the dastard's flight is vain, the vessels drawing nigh, 
 Each man with eager hope prepares to vanquish, or to die ; 
 And soon the cannons' ruthless roar is rolling all around 
 For two fierce hours, with fiendish hate, is heard its hellish sound. 
 Strange scene of wild, delirious joy, yet desolating woe, 
 For now a shot the captain strikes, and he is borne below.
 
 H, T. Mackenzie Bell. 179 
 
 Two seamen bear him softly down, and bleeding sore he lies, 
 While carefully to bind his wound the skilful surgeon tries. 
 The strife ne'er stays the bearers bring another blood-stained 
 
 man ; 
 
 " Surgeon," at once the captain speaks, " go, save him if you can, 
 My wound is mortal ; thus, for me your efforts kind are vain ; 
 Not so with him ; then use your power to mitigate his pain. 
 Nay, murmur not, but meekly now obey niy last behest ; 
 God soon shall soothe my sufferings where ' the weary are at 
 
 rest.' " 
 
 Alas ! how soon the span of life which to him still remained 
 Stole swift away ; yet ah ! 'twas well he consciousness retained, 
 JFor in a while his heart grew glad his men had won the day 
 His grandest earthly guerdon ere his spirit sped away. 
 Hero ! as filled with thoughtful love as thou wert true and brave, 
 Receive in heaven thy rich reward from Him who died to save. 
 
 QUIETUDE. 
 
 " Quietude, quietude," 
 
 My soul is sadly sighing; 
 
 For thee, in a mournful mood, 
 
 I ceaselessly am crying ; 
 
 But a voice murmurs softly clear, 
 
 " True quietude is never here." 
 
 Quietude, quietude, 
 Gome while Life's waves I'm breasting, 
 Bringing with thee all things good, 
 Pure peace, and joy, and resting, 
 Yet still the voice, " No, never here, 
 Can perfect quietude appear." 
 
 Quietude, quietude, 
 
 Grant me a single token 
 
 That sometimes Life's conflict rude
 
 180 North Country Poets. 
 
 By perfect peace is broken ; 
 
 A voice still whispers in my ear, 
 
 " True quietude is never here." 
 
 Quietude, O quietude, 
 
 Mine earthly course is ending, 
 
 Come, and now within me brood, 
 
 Each sin-stained fetter rending ; 
 
 Breathes then the voice with silver sound, 
 
 " In Heaven true quietude is found." 
 
 A LESTE* SUNRISE IN MADEIRA 
 
 Many-hued the sky this morn, 
 Beautiful the day is born, 
 Fleecy clouds on every side 
 Sunshine's coming seem to hide, 
 But the other cloudlets stand, 
 Keady waiting its command. 
 
 Ay, they are a gorgeous group, 
 Almost each tint in the troop, 
 Eed, and light blue, and maroon, 
 And some white appearing soon ; 
 And a glorious purple shade 
 Over all is softly laid. 
 
 O'er the mountains purple clouds 
 Of deep colour hang, like shrouds ; 
 Purple masses faint are shed 
 O'er the ocean's wave-strewn bed ; 
 Fine the light which now one sees 
 On the palms and tropic trees. 
 
 * The Leste is a south-east wind felt in Madeira, and frequently 
 prevalent for several days. At the beginning or close of a Leste the 
 sunrises and sunsets are superb.
 
 H. T. Mackenzie Bell. 181 
 
 Swiftly fades the splendid sky 
 To a dimly purple dye ; 
 Gently stirs the landward breeze 
 Shapely-formed banana trees ; 
 Dawn's first freshness wears away, 
 And begins the balmy day. 
 
 OLD YEAR LEAVES. 
 
 The leaves which in the autumn of the year 
 Fall auburn-tinted, leaving reft and bare 
 Their parent trees, in many a sheltered lair 
 
 Where Winter waits and watches, cold, austere, 
 
 Will lie in drifts ; and when the snowdrops cheer 
 The woodland shadows, still the leaves are there, 
 Though through the glades the balmy southern air 
 
 And birds and boughs proclaim that Spring is here. 
 
 So lost hopes, severed by the stress of life, 
 Lie all unburied yet before our eyes, 
 
 Though none but we regard their mute decay ; 
 And ever amid this stir and moil and strife 
 Fresh aims and growing purposes arise 
 Above the faded hopes of yesterday.
 
 182 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 John Macleay Peacock. 
 
 }_ OHN Macleay Peacock was born at Kincardine in Perth- 
 shire, on the 21st of March, 1817, the seventh of 
 eight children. His father died when the boy was quite 
 young, leaving the mother with scanty means of providing 
 for a growing family. John was sent to work early, at 
 first in a tobacco factory, where his wages were Is. 2d. 
 per week, afterwards at some bleaching works, and 
 ultimately as an apprentice boiler-maker. From time to 
 time he took a turn at theatricals, for which he had a decided taste and 
 some talent. At one period he associated himself with a company of 
 strolling players, with whom, if he did not take any special rank, he was 
 sufficiently successful. His chief education was derived from his travels. 
 He had a roving disposition, inherited, possibly, from his father, who was 
 a sailor ; and at one time or another he visited many parts of the world. 
 Spain, where he resided twice, impressed him greatly, and he wrote a 
 lengthy poem entitled " Musings in Spain," which, however, has never yet 
 been printed. Wherever he went he found friends, for he was open-hearted 
 as a child. He lived with a perfect confidence in others, receiving as a 
 necessary return their entire trust. Among the peasantry of Scotland, 
 Ireland and Spain, with whom, in his wanderings, he was much thrown, 
 he was received with all kindness and confidence, as a child would have 
 been received. I do not think anyone could have really known him without 
 loving him. I do not pretend he was faultless ; but he was so true and his 
 very faults seemed to arise so much from his innocence that they are readily 
 forgotten. 
 
 In Chartist times, Peacock was an energetic Chartist. Always he 
 evinced a keen interest in progressive movements, political and religious. 
 In writing verses he obeyed, as he himself says, "a monitor within, an 
 inward longing to breathe my thoughts and feelings to the world." His 
 poems are absolutely sincere expressions of himself, and anyone who knew 
 the man can recal him in his varying moods, while reading them. Many 
 of them relate to freedom, justice, and that bright time to come of which 
 good men who love mankind dream. Most of them have an undercurrent 
 of sadness, such as existed in his own life. His poems are his biography, 
 and therefore they appeal with power to the souls of others, and the more 
 they are studied the worthier do they appear. Peacock spoke from the 
 heart rather than from the intellect, and a heart like his, with its kinship 
 to nature, to beauty, and to human needs and hopes, could not but express 
 itself in poetry. 
 
 Physically, Peacock was never robust, and the arduous nature of his 
 trade (boiler-making) made him prematurely infirm. In Liverpool and 
 Birkenhead, where most of the best years of his life were spent, and where
 
 John Macleay Peacock. 183 
 
 his chief work was done, he was well known and highly respected. On the 
 23rd of April, 1864, he was chosen to plant the oak-tree in BirkenheadPark to 
 commemorate the Shakespeare Tercentenary. He died in Glasgow, after a 
 week's illness, of heart disease, to which he had long been subject, on the 4th 
 of May, 1877. 
 
 In 1864, a volume of Peacock's poems, entitled " Poems and Songs," 
 was published. This was followed, three years later, by a revised and 
 enlarged edition called " Hours of Reverie, or Happy Reminiscences." 
 After his death, I prepared a selection of what I considered his best poems. 
 This appeared in 1880. From my introductory notice to that volume I 
 have drawn some of the foregoing narrative, and that little work (now 
 published by W. & J. Arnold, of Liverpool) is the only volume of Peacock's 
 poems that is still in print. 
 
 WALTER LEWIN. 
 
 NIGHT SCENES IN THE CITY. 
 
 Doleful, and dreary, and sad, 
 
 Was the song that the night wind sung, 
 Oh ! pity the poor in the cold, ill-clad. 
 
 The famishing old and young. 
 Woe, woe, woe ! 
 
 Was the wail of each mournful blast, 
 When the flick'ring glow of a lamp fell low 
 
 On the face of a poor outcast, 
 And the wind in its murmuring seemed to say- 
 Die where you will, be it out of the way. 
 
 Homeless and friendless, in want, 
 
 Like a skeleton clad in rags, 
 A starving brother, death-stricken and gaunt, 
 
 Lay stretched on the stony flags. 
 Oh oh oh 1 
 
 Were groans from his heart that came, 
 So solemn and low and so full of woe, 
 
 A voice in the crowd cried Shame ! 
 Oh shame said the wind as it murmured by, 
 That one that is human for want should die.
 
 184 North Country Poets. 
 
 Pampered, and pompous, and fat, 
 
 Like the lords of some golden land 
 The great ones of wealth at a banquet sat, 
 
 In the hall of a palace grand. 
 Gold, gold, gold, 
 
 And glitter was everywhere. 
 And wine, I am told, a century old, 
 
 Was quaffed with their sumptuous fare. 
 And the wind and cold of that winter night 
 Came not to the feast in the golden light 
 
 Hungry, and weary, and worn, 
 
 Adversity's abject brood, 
 All shrivelled and pale, with a look forlorn, 
 
 At the gate of a workhouse stood. 
 Bread, bread, bread ! 
 
 Was their pitiful prayer and cry ; 
 Far rather a bed with the buried dead, 
 
 Than thus to be left to die 
 Die said the wind, as it murmured on 
 The hearts you would move are as hard as stone. 
 
 Sweatem and Swindle and Co., 
 
 With consciences schooled in guile, 
 Sat housed o'er a bubble they meant to blow, 
 
 And lived in a princely style. 
 Sham, sham, sham, 
 
 Is a game which our gods pursue, 
 As well might they palm on the world a flam, 
 
 As priests and patricians do. 
 But the wind was whisp'ring without the door, 
 Your bubbles and juggles make millions poor. 
 
 Wretched and reckless of life, 
 
 Like a Babel of maniacs wild, 
 At the poison-founts of the drink-fiend rife, 
 
 Were gathered the vice defiled.
 
 John Macleay Peacock. 185 
 
 Drink, drink, drink, 
 
 To stifle the heart and brain, 
 Of life but to think, is only to link 
 
 Life's moments to mental pain. 
 Drink on, said the wind, there is joy in drink, 
 To the poor who are left on life's sea to sink. 
 
 Flitting like shadows about, 
 
 On watch for their nightly prey, 
 Were lepers, in crime, from the world cast out, 
 
 And the fair, unfortunate gay. 
 Lost, lost, lost, 
 
 Proscribed with a searing brand, 
 And helplessly tossed on a dang'rous coast, 
 
 The wrecks of a Christian land ; 
 Yet voices were heard on the wind to prate, 
 And vaunt of the glories of Church and State. 
 
 Princes, and prelates, and peers, 
 
 That night were at sport and play. 
 Oh what for humanity's wants and tears, 
 
 Or what for the poor care they ? 
 Eeign, rule, ride, 
 
 With the rancour of craft and cant, 
 And force on their side to support their pride, 
 
 No matter who dies for want. 
 And the wild wind wails with a wintry breath, 
 In the sinks and slums of the starved to death. 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 When I was but a bairn, I heard 
 My guid auld grannie say, 
 
 That a' the warld was growin' gyte, 
 An' dafter every day.
 
 1 86 North Country Poets. 
 
 An' faith, guid frien', am thinkin' on't, 
 There's something wrang wi' man, 
 
 It's nought but war whaure'er we look, 
 Jb'rae Poland to Japan. 
 
 A' love looks like to flee the warld, 
 
 It's folly noo tae feel ; 
 He's king o' a' his kind wha can 
 
 Best cheat the muckle deil. 
 Yet aye I dream o' better days, 
 
 For truth is no yet lost, 
 Tho' in the strife an' storms o' life, 
 
 It's sairly tried an' toss'd. 
 
 Unto the law o' kindness yet, 
 
 The warld's wild heart will bend, 
 The force o' love has greatness in't 
 
 Men little comprehend. 
 We want a Rarey in the warld 
 
 Wi' some prodigious plan, 
 Wha'd pore his brains ower human bumps 
 
 To tame the creature man.
 
 W. Gershom Collingwood. 
 
 187 
 
 W . Gershom Collingwood. 
 
 N anthology embracing many of the choicest writings of 
 North Country Poets would necessarily be incomplete 
 without selections from the works of W. Gershom Colling- 
 wood. This gentleman, who now lives at Gillhead, 
 Windermere, was born at Liverpool in 1854, and received 
 his early education at the College in that city. He after- 
 wards studied at University College, Oxford, where he 
 took his M.A. degree, and at the Slade School, London. 
 Poetry and painting have in him a gifted exponent, and in more 
 serious work Mr. Collingwood has also sought the applause of the world. 
 His " Book of Verses " published by George Allen in 1885, is not a work 
 that is commonly to be seen ; yet it contains many little poems which are 
 delightful in their sweet simplicity and ingenuousness, and also stanzas of 
 reverent seriousness and hopeful trust. The book, I am afraid, loses by 
 quotation ; personally, I should like to give more numerous extracts in order 
 to illustrate the many-sided character of the author ; but the few examples 
 which 1 do give will doubtless shew intelligent readers that there are strong 
 grounds for the belief to which I here give expression, viz : that when 
 his powers have arrived at a fuller maturity we may look for other 
 creations which will entitle him to a high place among the poets of the 
 nineteenth century. 
 
 As matters now stand, Mr. Collingwood has a right to expect more than 
 a transitory admiration. He is a trustworthy authority on geology and 
 kindred subjects, and his singularly impressive lectures on Art, etc., have 
 earned for him at Liverpool, the Lake District, and elsewhere, a deservedly 
 high reputation. As a lecturer he takes a place in the front rank : he is 
 clear, concise, agreeable, and invariably interesting. 
 
 Mr. Collingwood enjoys the friendship and confidence of one of the 
 greatest writers of modern times. Mr. Ruskin had the good fortune to 
 secure his assistance and companionship during the progress of mutual 
 literary works ; and the esteem in which the art critic holds him is f riendlily 
 and characteristically shewn in a delightful preface which Mr. Ruskin has 
 written to " The Limestone Alps of Savoy " (forming the first supplement to 
 the "Deucalion"), which was published by Allen in 1884, and which appears 
 to be Mr. Collingwood's principal literary work. In these graceful fore- 
 words we find many echoes of a beautiful and idyllic friendship ; charming 
 reminiscences of a thoughtful companionship in Italy, Switzerland, and 
 France, and, in the book itself, a becoming, though by no means servile, 
 reverence for the tenets of an admiring teacher. That this pleasant 
 association has produced rich results may be seen at once by an examina- 
 tion of the work. It is full of pellucid thought, which, although reflecting Mr. 
 Ruskin in its deeper depths, has many brilliant facets which sparkle with
 
 i88 North Country Poets. 
 
 strong originality. The influence of the master is apparent, but it is an 
 influence altogether helpful and healthful. From unity of purpose, and a 
 charming admixture of the ideal and practical, this work has been evolved, 
 and it is of great value. 
 
 Another important book from the pan of this writer is " The Philosophy 
 of Ornament " published by Allen in 1883, a series of eight lectures on 
 the History of Decorative Art, given at the University College, Liverpool. 
 It is a clear and concise record of the dawn of Art, following the artistic 
 impulses of succeeding generations from the Palaeolithic age until the 
 present day. 
 
 Then we have " Astrology in the Apocalypse : an essay on Chaldaean 
 Science," same publisher which is a fine, scholarly compilation of 
 extreme interest. 
 
 Mr. Collingwood's pictures are for the most part in the hands of friends, 
 but it is no secret that he has remarkable facility in conception and 
 execution. The mediaeval influence is strongly apparent in many of his 
 imaginative paintings, and much of his work is tinctured with the golden 
 glamour of old romance. The writer understands that collections of this 
 artist's work are frequently on view in Kendal and elsewhere in Lakeland. 
 
 As a poet his song is sweet and sustained ; as an artist he is refined 
 and imaginative, and as a lecturer he is brilliant and deep. The small 
 collection of poems which he has published make us long for more, so that 
 it is to be hoped that he will relax his somewhat stern and self-imposed 
 rule of never contributing to magazines or periodical literature, and let the 
 world know more of the generous-hearted poet-artist who lives on the 
 hallowed shores of Lake Windermere. 
 
 JOHN WALKER. 
 
 THE WOOING OF THE LANCASHIRE 
 WITCHES. 
 
 There came two fairies tripping along, 
 
 On a Candlemas-day in the morn, ! 
 And one of them dibbled the daisy-roots, 
 
 And one of them hoed the corn, ! 
 " Eh, sister Comely, folk will sing 
 
 To spy your bonny crop in spring !" 
 " Ay, Homely, and how their shouts will ring 
 
 When your harvest home is borne, ! "
 
 W. Gershom Collingwood. 189 
 
 There came two loobies lounging along, 
 
 With Brummagem cane in fist, ! 
 And each of them smoothed his shoddy coat, 
 
 And hitched the cuff on his wrist, ! 
 And it's, " Gome with us, you country girls, 
 
 We'll deck you fine in silk and pearls ! " 
 But Comely laughed, and shook her curls, 
 
 And Homely wouldn't be kissed, ! 
 
 " What little fools, upon my soul ! 
 
 Don't look so shy and askance, O ! 
 My name's Lord Cotton ! " " And I'm Lord Coal ! 
 
 And it's rarely you'll get such a chance, O ! 
 We'll make you a palace, with chimneys for towers, 
 
 And parks with black diamonds in them for flowers, 
 And the people shall slave, ard the profit be ours, 
 
 And we'll be jolly and dance, ! " 
 
 The lasses they stood and stared and smirked, 
 
 They didn't know what to say, ! 
 " Well, don't if you won't ; there are those that will !" 
 
 But the lasses no more said nay, ! 
 But by May the daisies all were dead ; 
 
 And at Christmas where was the children's bread ? 
 " It was wedding in haste," they sighed and said, 
 
 By another Candlemas-day, O 1 
 
 LENT-LILIES. 
 
 I. 
 
 O IF I were where my heart is, 
 
 Lying among the Lent-lilies ! 
 
 The planes are budding in our square, 
 
 And crocuses were blazing there 
 
 A-row inside the rusty gate 
 
 A week ago ; and^yesterday,
 
 190 North Country Poets. 
 
 As afternoon was growing late, 
 
 Two ragged children passed this way 
 
 With handfuls of gold Lent-lilies. 
 
 But I remember where there is 
 
 A whole field full ! so thick, you see 
 
 Scarcely a green blade of the stalks, 
 
 Except the edges of the walks 
 
 Which cows tread down continually 
 
 At milking time ; and you can creep 
 
 Into a gold grave, soft and deep ; 
 
 And hardly see the sky o'erhead 
 
 The dark gold leaves with sunshine through, 
 
 Clear gold against the sunlit blue ; 
 
 And hear the becks that, mountain-fed, 
 
 Run by ; and hear the plash they make 
 
 When their brown water meets the lake, 
 
 With quiet in its swirl and flow 
 
 And I was there, a year ago ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Fie, foolish dreams ! but let me look 
 Among the pages of my book 
 If spells there be to quench this worst 
 Of world-desires, this Nature-thirst. 
 Maybe there's virtue in the shape 
 Of Greek words printed anciently, 
 Of verses running into cape 
 And bay upon a rippling sea 
 Of margin ribbed and growing wan, 
 With twice a hundred years bygone. 
 See here, to render this romaunt* 
 " Two lived together ; one was he 
 Whom outland folk had named ' 1'amaunt,' 
 And one again was called ' 1'amy.' 
 Each had the other in great love, 
 For they of yore were fashioned of 
 * The 'Afrjjs of Theocritus.
 
 W. Gershom Collingwood. 191 
 
 Pure gold ; and one knew verily 
 
 That his love's heart toward him was good ; 
 
 But this was many a year gone by. 
 
 if I knew that my love could 
 Find such reward, that every age 
 
 Might hear its fame ! " So ends the page 
 But I would be where my heart is, 
 Lying among the Lent lilies ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Let me go down and see my friend, 
 And bring this folly to an end ; 
 This night-longing and day-desire, 
 That sets my weary thought a-fire, 
 With her I'd while away the hours, 
 Watching her brown eyes and eyebrows ; 
 For there is quiet in the house, 
 And music there, and many flowers. 
 And in the sky there is sunshine, 
 And breaths of air serene and fine 
 Even in this London's smoky prison. 
 I'm like an invalid new risen 
 From month-long sickness, who can walk 
 Delicately, and laugh, and talk 
 Of travel when his body's pain 
 Shall cease, and he be strong again. 
 But you who know the mysteries 
 Of human will, resolve me why 
 
 1 find content in none of these, 
 But in the Lent-lilies would lie ; 
 To see the gold against the blue, 
 And hear beck-water rippling through. 
 Oh if I were where my heart is, 
 Lying among the Lent-lilies !
 
 192 North Country Poets. 
 
 AIMS IN LIFE. 
 
 " O IF I might do some great deed, and die ! " 
 She said, and hid her face among the grass ; 
 And, lying there, felt the warm breeze pass 
 
 Close overhead, and through the pines hard by, 
 " Some work that may not perish utterly 
 With all the trifles of the tedious mass 
 Whose naught sums up this death-in-life. Alas ! 
 
 To do this one great living deed, and die !" 
 
 But in the wind a whisper seemed to say, 
 
 God's voice, if e'er He spake ; none else was nigh,- 
 
 And from the grass it answered to her sigh, 
 
 " What were a great work worth, if thou delay 
 
 Each little task I set thee day by day, 
 To link the chain that spans eternity ? " 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED LOVE. 
 
 Love is a baron with counties seven, 
 
 And his suzerain is the Lord of Heaven. 
 (Tira-la-la through the budding corn !) 
 
 Love is my lord, and his liege am I, 
 
 Owing him faith and fealty. 
 
 (And I ride abroad in the rosy morn, 
 Through wet green grass of the meadows.) 
 
 I knelt at his throne ; I swore to his oath ; 
 
 And my ears ring yet with the plighted troth. 
 (Tira-la-la through the bladed corn!) 
 
 I folded my hands between his hands, 
 
 That burnt to my heart like fiery brands. 
 (And I ride along in the golden morn, 
 In the poplar's purple shadows.)
 
 W. Ger shorn Collingwood. 193 
 
 I kissed his foot and he kissed my brow, 
 
 And I feel the print of his kisses now. 
 (Tira-la-la through the waving corn !) 
 
 Now am I his faithful errant-knight, 
 
 Bound on his quest at noon or night. 
 (Biding away on the dewy morn, 
 Through rainbow-glitter of meadows.) 
 
 My lord hath a maid with sunlit hair, 
 
 And eyes like a grove when the sun shines there. 
 
 (Tira-la-la through lilies and corn !) 
 He led me to her and let me speak, 
 And kiss her eyes and her lips and cheek. 
 (And I ride alone in the sunny morn, 
 In the quivering beecheu shadows.) 
 
 How am I wrong in adoring her, 
 So pretty she is, and dear and fair ? 
 
 (Tira-la-la on my bugle-horn !) 
 And what other song can I sing to-day ? 
 With her scarf in my helm for the great tourney, 
 
 Riding out in the sultry morn 
 
 By folds and fields and meadows. 
 
 THE ALOE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 There's a tree that the fruit-trees scorn, 
 And plants that are scarce its peers ; 
 For its very leaf is a thorn, 
 And the tardy flower of it born 
 But once in a hundred years. 
 
 And that flower ? No flower I know, 
 How magic soe'er its name, 
 
 To southward or east, can show 
 Such a glory of golden flame !
 
 194 North Country Poets. 
 
 II. 
 
 There's a heart left lone in its gloom 
 
 By lovers of every degree ; 
 And it hides in a breast like a tomb, 
 For the love of that heart could bloom 
 
 But once for eternity. 
 
 And that love ? No passion whoso powers 
 Are prompt to a transient flare 
 
 Can vie with its fiery flowers, 
 
 Or the smouldering fragrance there ! 
 
 FORTUNE. 
 
 You may frown if you like, and I'll borrow 
 
 Your sauciest smiles ; 
 You may flirt, and I'll bid you good-morrow 
 
 In scorn of your wiles. 
 You may beckon, I loathe your alliance, 
 
 Am deaf to your call ; 
 You may threaten, I send you defiance, 
 Whatever befall. 
 
 For the sand must run 
 
 With our hopes and fears, 
 And all's one 
 
 In a hundred years. 
 
 You are bride of To-day, and the daughter 
 
 Of Yesterday dead. 
 And your pedestalled feet in the slaughter 
 
 Of millions are red ; 
 But the Fates, they alone have the presage, 
 
 Are queens of the earth ; 
 And the Fates have enshrouded your visage 
 
 O blind from your birth !
 
 W. Gershom Collingwood. 195 
 
 And seek it or shun, 
 
 Laughing or tears, 
 It's all one 
 
 In a hundred years. 
 
 You are feared by the high then oppress them ; 
 
 I've nothing at stake. 
 You're adored by the low, and may bless them ; 
 
 You've nothing I'd take. 
 Should you smite me, I smile at your blindness 
 
 My heart can endure ; 
 Should you kiss me, I wince at a kindness 
 That covers a lure. 
 
 When the thread is spun, 
 
 A snip of the shears, 
 And all's one 
 
 In a hundred years.
 
 196 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 William Watson. 
 
 ILLIAM Watson, to whom we owe some of the finest 
 sonnets produced in our generation, and one of the 
 noblest English elegiac poems produced in any generation, 
 was born on the 2nd of August, 1858, at Burley-in- 
 Wharfedale, in the county of York. Gray, in one of the 
 letters descriptive of his northern driving tours, men- 
 tions it as a pretty village, and such it remains to this 
 day, despite of modern additions tending to obscure its 
 ancient charm. Of Mr. Watson's remoter ancestors on the paternal side 
 little seems to be known, but his father admirably illustrated some of the 
 best and most characteristic features of the typical Yorkshireman. On his 
 mother's side Mr. Watson descended from an ancient and fine breed of 
 Wensleydale yeomanry, and some of his maternal ancestors notably his 
 grandfather seem to have possessed a certain measure of literary 
 facility ; but it is probable that one of the weightiest and most impressive 
 qualities of his mature verse a certain elevated plainness, with perhaps 
 more of intellectual than of purely emotional force was derived from his 
 father, who, though not distinguished in any marked degree by literary 
 culture his mental bent being rather in the direction of science was a man 
 of very massive and penetrating natural powers of mind. When the young 
 Watson was but two years of age, his father removed to Liverpool, and 
 embarked in what is known as the Dundee trade, achieving a fair amount 
 of modest affluence, and winning the esteem and respect of all who were 
 brought into contact with him. Here, in Liverpool, Mr. Watson received 
 his education, and at an early age manifested a passion both for the reading 
 and writing of poetry, having before the attainment of his fourteenth year 
 produced a considerable amount of verse, which he himself declares to have 
 been " marked by as complete an absence of the faintest promise of 
 future excellence as the adolescent verse of the very greatest geniuses." 
 If this were so his progress was certainly rapid, for when Mr. Watson 
 was but a boy of sixteen he contributed to a Liverpool journal, then 
 edited by the present writer, several short poems, which, if somewhat 
 imitative in the externals of expression, possessed a lyrical flow and 
 freedom, a coherence of thought, and a general felicity of phrasing 
 in which, without f ancif ulness, we may see a prophecy of that distinction of 
 style, that noteworthy mastery of the vehicle of language, by which his later 
 work is so eminently distinguished. Scott a.nd Byron seem to have been 
 the poets by whom Mr. Watson was first attracted, and he is probably to be 
 congratulated on not having been familiarised, at an age when such 
 familiarisation is of doubtful advantage to the formation of a sound style, 
 with the more subtle and complex developments of literary art. While on 
 the border-ground between boyhood and manhood, he came to some extent
 
 William Watson. 197 
 
 under the influence of the latter-day aesthetic school, and was temporarily 
 diverted into paths somewhat alien to his real tendencies and powers. 
 Traces of this influence are undoubtedly found in the title poem of his first 
 volume, " The Prince's Quest, and other Poems " (Kegan Paul, & Co., 
 1880), in which neither the arbitrary supernaturalism of the story, nor the 
 occasional archaism of the style, is really characteristic ; but the wholesale 
 repudiation of this early work, in which Mr. Watson seems inclined to 
 indulge, will not be endorsed by any discriminating reader. The record of the 
 Prince's wanderings in search of the dream-discerned City of Youth may 
 be and doubtless is finer in parts than as a whole ; but some of the parts 
 (I am thinking specially of half-a-dozen descriptions and one or two lyrics) 
 have a body of imagination and a vesture of expression which possess not 
 only an immediately arresting quality, but a permanent charm. Of the 
 shorter poems in this early volume I have not space in which to speak, but 
 some impression of their peculiar quality of feeling and utterance may be 
 derived from the first two of the selected poems, " A Song of Three Singers," 
 and " The Questioner," in the latter of which the student of poetical 
 technique may be interested to observe how the effect of solemnity is 
 secured and intensified by the recurrence of a single rhyme sound. After 
 the publication of " The Prince's Quest " volume Mr. Watson's next literary 
 achievement which demands notice is a century of " Epigrams," which 
 originally appeared in the columns of the Academy, and were afterwards pub- 
 lished in a dainty volume (Liverpool : G. G. Walmsley, 1884). Of these 
 exquisite cameos of verse, which, in the mass, are unique in English poetry, 
 I can only remark that they display in the most emphatic manner Mr. 
 Watson's wonderful aptitude for the adequately imaginative utterance of 
 condensed and concentrated thought. The finest of these epigrams may 
 have been equalled, the weaker of them may have been excelled by other 
 epigrammatists, but of the volume as a whole it is not too much to say that 
 it stands alone. Not less noteworthy is a magnificent sonnet-sequence, 
 entitled " Ver Tenebrosum," suggested by the events of the Soudanese war, 
 which appeared in the National Review of June, 1885, to which magazine 
 Mr. Watson also contributed the elegiac poem, " Wordsworth's Grave," in 
 which, perhaps, his genius finds its most massive and monumental embodi- 
 ment, and concerning which I have elsewhere expressed my conviction that 
 " a century hence ' Wordsworth's Grave ' will be numbered among the three 
 or four great elegies which our language enshrines." To the general reader 
 Mr. Watson is largely unknown, but he has been discovered by the lovers 
 of essential poetry, and the future of his fame is certain, for his work is 
 characterised by that grave sanity of thought and emotion, and that 
 perfection of lucidly imaginative expression, which, amid all the chances 
 and changes of literary fashion, constitute a valid claim to endurance in the 
 
 memory of the world. 
 
 JAMES ASHCROFT NOBLE.
 
 198 North Country Poets. 
 
 A SONG OF THREE SINGERS. 
 
 Wave and wind and willow-tree 
 Speak a speech that no man knoweth ; 
 Tree that sigheth, wind that bloweth, 
 Wave that floweth to the sea : 
 Wave and wind and willow-tree. 
 
 Peerless, perfect poets ye, 
 Singing songs all songs excelling, 
 Fine as crystal music dwelling 
 In a willing fountain free : 
 Peerless, perfect poets three ! 
 
 Wave and wind and willow-tree 
 Know not aught of poets' rhyming, 
 Yet they make a silver chiming, 
 Sunward climbing minstrelsy, 
 Soother than all songs that be. 
 
 Blows the wind it knows not why, 
 Flows the wave it knows not whither, 
 And the willow swayeth hither, 
 Swayeth thither witlessly, 
 Nothing knowing, save to sigh. 
 
 THE QUESTIONER. 
 
 I asked of heaven and earth and sea, 
 Saying : " O, wondrous trinity, 
 Deign to make answer unto me, 
 And tell me truly what ye be ? " 
 And they made answer : " Verily, 
 The mask before His face are we, 
 Because 'tis writ no man can see 
 His face and live ; " so spake the three.
 
 William Watson. 1 99 
 
 Then I : "0, wondrous trinity, 
 A mask is but a mockery 
 Make answer yet again to me, 
 And tell if aught besides are ye ? " 
 And they made answer : " Verily 
 The robe around His form are we, 
 That sick and sore mortality 
 May touch its hem and healed be." 
 Then I : " O wondrous trinity, 
 Vouchsafe once more to answer me, 
 And tell me truly, what is He 
 Whose very mask and raiment ye ? " 
 But they replied : " Of Time are we, 
 And of Eternity is He. 
 Wait thou, and ask Eternity ; 
 Belike his mouth shall answer thee." 
 
 EPIGRAMS. 
 
 I close your Marlowe's page, my Shakespeare's ope. 
 
 How welcome after gong and cymbal's din 
 The continuity, the long slow slope 
 
 And vast curves of the gradual violin. 
 
 To keep in sight Perfection, and adore 
 The vision, is the artist's best delight ; 
 
 His bitterest pang, that he can do no more 
 Than keep her longed-for loveliness in sight. 
 
 Think not thy wisdom can illume away 
 The ancient tanglement of night and day. 
 Enough, to acknowledge both, and both revere : 
 They see not clearliest who see all things clear.
 
 2OO North Country Poets. 
 
 Love, like a bird, hath perch'd upon a spray 
 For thee and me to hearken what he sings. 
 
 Contented, he forgets to fly away ; 
 
 But hush ! . . remind not Eros of his wings. 
 
 Onward the chariot of the Untarrying moves ; 
 
 Nor day divulges him nor night conceals ; 
 Thou hear'st the echo of unreturning hooves 
 
 And thunder of irrevocable wheels. 
 
 I pluck'd this flower, brighter flower, for thee, 
 There, where the river dies into the sea. 
 To kiss it the wild west wind hath made free : 
 Kiss it thyself and give it back to me. 
 
 SONNETS FROM " VER TENEBROSUM." 
 
 THE SOUDANESE. 
 
 They wrong'd not us, nor sought 'gainst us to wage 
 
 The bitter battle. On their God they cried 
 
 For succour, deeming justice to abide 
 In heaven, if banish'd from earth's vicinage. 
 And when they rose with a gall'd lion's rage, 
 
 We, on the captor's, keeper's, tamer's side, 
 
 We, with the alien tyranny allied, 
 We bade them back to their Egyptian cage. 
 Scarce knew they who we were ! A wind of blight 
 
 From the mysterious far north-west we came. 
 Our greatness now their veriest babes have learn'd, 
 
 Where, in wild desert homes, by day, by night, 
 Thousands who weep their warriors unreturn'd, 
 
 O England, O my country, curse thy name !
 
 William Wa t'son. 201 
 
 THE ENGLISH DEAD. 
 Give honour to our heroes fall'n, how ill 
 
 Soe'er the cause that bade them forth to die. 
 
 Honour to him, the untimely struck, whom high 
 In place, more high in hope, 'twas fate's harsh will 
 With tedious pain unsplendidly to kill. 
 
 Honour to him, doom'd splendidly to die, 
 
 Child of the city whose foster child am I, 
 Who, hotly leading up the ensanguined hill 
 His charging thousand, fell without a word 
 
 Fell, but shall fall not from our memory. 
 Also for them let honour's voice be heard 
 
 Who nameless sleep, while dull time covereth 
 With no illustrious shade of laurel tree 
 
 But with the poppy alone, their deeds and death.
 
 2O2 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 Robert Kidson. 
 
 N the fair region of Yorkshire, adjacent to Roche Abbey 
 and Hatfield Chase, in which, according to tradition, 
 Chaucer, the father of English poetry, spent part of his 
 youth, Robert Kidson was born in the year 1848. His 
 father, William Kidson, was for 50 years a draper at 
 Bawtry, and there his family was born. 
 
 Robert Kidson was apprenticed to a large carpet 
 salesman in London, and in 1871, at the age of twenty- 
 three, emigrated to America, where he still resides. In Brooklyn he 
 combines the art of carpet selling with that of journalism and writing 
 poetry. A series of " Trade Rhymes," which appeared in the Carpet Trade 
 and Review, and have been extensively copied in other newspapers, gained 
 for him the title of " The Poet of the Carpet Trade." He has taken a 
 prominent part in various agitations for the benefit of his fellow- workers, 
 and now in the early prime of life is respected by a large circle of friends. 
 Though a good deal connected with journalism he is a thorough democrat, 
 and rather proud of his position in the largest retail carpet house in 
 America. He is of Walter Scott's opinion, that literature is a good staff 
 but a poor crutch, and prefers to write when and what he likes. From 
 time to time he has published, in various magazines and newspapers in the 
 country of his adoption, poems on various subjects which he purposes 
 shortly to bring together in a volume. His writings are characterized by a 
 cheery optimism, which finds strong expression in the little poem which 
 follows, entitled, " Why should I write a weary poem ? " Sympathy with his 
 kind comes out in most of his verse, and is expressed in easy flowing 
 numbers. 
 
 Though so closely connected with trade, and though first taken note of 
 because of his " Trade Rhymes," yet readers of Robert Kidson's verse will 
 find also poems which savour little of the marts of commerce, but are crisp 
 with the salt sea air, or come like breezes from the mountain top and 
 nature's fairest and most secure retreats, breathing the perfumes of wild 
 flowers. 
 
 ANDKEW GBEAME. 
 
 WHY SHOULD I WRITE A WEARY POEM ? 
 
 Why should I write a weary poem 
 A hundred stanzas long, 
 
 "When I can satisfy my soul 
 With little trills of song ?
 
 Robert Kidson. 203 
 
 The lark and nightingale sustain 
 
 Their efforts of delight, 
 The Burns and Byron of their tribe, 
 
 They charm both day and night. 
 
 Piercing the fires of mid-day sun, 
 The lark, heaven-high sings he, 
 
 And in the impassioned Summer night 
 We hear Love's minstrelsy. 
 
 Brown coated, humble and obscure, 
 Seek I my hawthorn bush, 
 
 Nor lark, nor nightingale can daunt 
 The singing of the thrush. 
 
 MY FRIEND. 
 
 He has taken the vow of poverty, 
 
 'Tis an ancient vow, yet new 
 And strange to come from such as he, 
 
 I can scarcely believe it true ; 
 He was anxious, ambitious, strained each nerve 
 
 To gain a place and name, 
 But now he says that less will serve, 
 
 And he cares no more for fame. 
 
 He says he no longer seeks for wealth, 
 
 But that riches come to him, 
 All heaven is his, and his soul has health, 
 
 And he dwells with the seraphim ; 
 The hills are his, and the flocks and herds, 
 
 The earth and the universe, 
 The rhyme of streams, and the song of birds, 
 
 And the poet's sweetest verse.
 
 204 North Country Poets. 
 
 He says that his life of care and moil 
 
 Is over, and past, and gone, 
 And that now his soul delights in toil, 
 
 For devotion leads him on ; 
 He has left the selfish crowd behind, 
 
 And his life is now serene ; 
 Shakespeare was once his master-mind, 
 
 But now 'tis the Nazarene. 
 
 CHRISTMAS CHIMES. 
 
 We are the latest heirs of time ; 
 
 The ancient squire silent lies, 
 Who, years agone, heard this same chime 
 
 Of village bells ; whose wistful eyes 
 Glanced eagerly across the plain, 
 
 And scann'd with greed these snowy fields, 
 Now they are ours the garner'd grain 
 
 For squires dead no pleasure yields. 
 
 Oh Time ! what happy heirs are thine ! 
 
 Whose child is this I call my bride ? 
 Along the old ancestral line 
 
 What myriad shadowy lovers glide ; 
 Procession form'd to march to rhyme, 
 
 And lovers all, and old maids none, 
 We are the latest heirs of time, 
 
 We'll keep the pageant moving on. 
 
 We are the latest heirs in line 
 
 Of great republics long since dead, 
 Whilst tyrannies, old world, are thine ! 
 
 But here fair Freedom lifts her head 
 America par excellence ! 
 
 The bells of Heaven ring our chimes 
 God's Love is our inheritance, 
 
 And heirs are we to better times.
 
 Robert Kidson. 205 
 
 WHAT OF THE NIGHT 
 
 Watchman ! What of the night ? 
 Now that the roseate light 
 Like tidal flood receding, 
 Whoso flow is past impeding, 
 Hath left this Earth in gloom, 
 Like melancholy tomb, 
 Imprisoned in dense black, 
 Oblivion's pathless track. 
 
 What of the night, ye gazers ? 
 Now that twilight's hazes 
 Are lost in darkness deep, 
 Which field and mountain steep. 
 What of the night, ye toilers? 
 Slaves to tyrant spoilers, 
 Squeezing out life's blood, 
 To earn mere prison food. 
 What of the night, ye minions ? 
 On Pleasure's whirling pinions, 
 Who night as day are found 
 Taking the circling round. 
 
 What saw ye, angels eyes ? 
 Saw ye that bosom rise 
 With love's acute emotion. 
 Stirred like depths of ocean ; 
 Saw ye that lovely bride, 
 By love's bright fireside, 
 More warmth her heart contained 
 For him whose love she gained ; 
 Saw ye when black despair 
 Had gained an entrance there, 
 Alone she then did brood, 
 Drowned in widowhood.
 
 206 North Country Poets. 
 
 Oh, wept ye not to see 
 The world's great misery ; 
 A part, a selfish race, 
 Wealthy, but often base ; 
 The rest, the millions buried, 
 To death by squalor hurried. 
 
 What saw ye, demons' eyes ? 
 Saw ye vile passions rise, 
 Oh, kindled ye the fire 
 Of hellish base desire ; 
 Did ye the murderer nerve 
 Your dark designs to serve ; 
 Did ye take active part, 
 And aid with hellish art 
 Love's power to abuse, 
 And beauty to seduce : 
 Away arch fiends to hell, 
 Nor more sin's story tell. 
 
 Divine Compassion weeps 
 As half the planet sleeps, 
 As on it rolls in gloom, 
 Plunged in midnight's tomb. 
 Divine Omniscience sees 
 Worth poor, and sin in ease ; 
 But ever through the night 
 Mercy divine gleams bright, 
 So watchman cry, " 'Tis dawn ! 
 For Mercy makes it morn.
 
 William Hall Burnett. 207 
 
 William Hall Burnett. 
 
 ILLIAM Hall Burnett was born at Stokesley iu Cleveland, 
 on the 10th November, 1841. His parents being poor, 
 his early education was necessarily limited, so that his 
 intellectual attainments are entirely due to his own in- 
 domitable pluck and perseverance. He was a protege of 
 William Braithwaite, the well-known printer, and friend 
 of many celebrated authors, Inwards, Walker Ord, 
 Tweddell, Heavisides, Prince, Cleaver, Rogerson, etc. 
 He developed early a, penchant for elocution, so much so that he had recited 
 to considerable audiences before he was ten years of age. By the time he 
 had attained 13, he was at business, had taught himself " the winged art," 
 and was acting as correspondent at Stokesley for the York Herald, re- 
 maining on the staff for ten years. At 15 he went to Middlesbrough as 
 turn-over apprentice on the Middlesbrough News, of which journal he was 
 appointed editor at the age of 19. During his apprenticeship he regularly 
 contributed articles and poems to the Stockton Herald, the Leeds Mercury, 
 the Newcastle Chronicle, the Neivcastle Journal, Sheffield Independent, and other 
 leading newspapers. On attaining his majority, he became the manager 
 of the Middlesbrough Times, a position he held for a year, when, being 
 offered a larger salary, he accepted the editorship of the lledcar and 
 Saltburn-by-the-Sea Gazette. He had only acted in that capacity for a couple 
 of years before he was re-appointed editor of the Middlesbrough News, 
 which had changed its proprietory, again at an increased remuneration. 
 At this time the circulation of that paper (a weekly, in the early days of 
 journalism) was only about 1700, but thanks to the energy and verve of its 
 editor, this was more than doubled in a very short time. Later, 
 this energy was transferred to the Middlesbrough Weekly Exchange, a new 
 journal, which, under Mr. Burnett's editorship, soon ran the older paper off 
 the field. Subsequently he became editor of the Daily Exchange, which 
 however, was not able to resist the influence of Company Dailies, and the 
 terrible depression in the Cleveland iron trade, a depression which nearly 
 brought all the older papers to a standstill, and ruined most of the 
 leading business people in the place. During its palmiest days the 
 circulation of the Exchange (a Tory paper in a Radical town) exceeded 9,000. 
 Mr. Burnett left Middlesbrough at the end of 1887 for Blackburn, where 
 he is now located as editor of the Blackburn Standard, the recognised 
 Conservative paper in the town, which is acquiring new life under his 
 energetic and alert literary management. 
 
 In addition to writing many poems and much prose, Mr. Burnett is 
 the author of a novel, entitled " The Miner's Death, and What Came of It ; " 
 a brochure, "Broad Yorkshire," which has gone through two editions; 
 " A Guide to Redcar and Saltburn-by-the-Sea ;" " A Hand-book of
 
 208 North Country Poets. 
 
 Middlesbrough" (with Dr. Veitch, Sir Lowthian Bell, A. Macpherson, and 
 others), for the use of the British Association when they visited that place; 
 and a work of biographical interest called " Old Cleveland." The latter book 
 was subscribed for by the whole of the leading gentry of the district. In the 
 course of a lengthy notice of the volume The Guardian (London) of October 26th, 
 1887, said : " But the most interesting memoir in the volume will be found 
 by many readers, in the story of " Sister Mary," the devoted and energetic 
 founder of that first Middlesbrough Hospital which was the beginning of 
 cottage hospitals in England. Mr. Burnett gives a vivid picture of a 
 singularly beautiful life, marked as much by practical common sense as by 
 devotion of the highest kind. And though apparently, no great friend to 
 Ritualism, he is careful to acknowledge that her life derived its first im- 
 pulse and abiding impress from the teaching received in St. Saviour's 
 Church, at Leeds. The present volume is announced as merely the first 
 section of a projected series. It may be hoped that Mr. Burnett will 
 receive sufficient encouragement to enable him to carry out his purpose." 
 And Joseph Cowen, writing to Mr. Burnett concerning " Old Cleveland," 
 says : '< I have read your book with pleasure ; it is extremely interesting, 
 and very well done." That Mr. Burnett lived an active and useful life in 
 Middlesbrough is shewn by the fact that when he left it in 1887, he was 
 a member of nearly a score of committees, the Council of the Cleveland 
 Agricultural Society, and the Committee of the North Riding Infirmary 
 and the Cottage Hospital being amongst the number. 
 
 Mr. Burnett's many friends, both old and new, will be interested to 
 learn that he has several books ready for immediate publication and in 
 the press, amongst them being a considerably enlarged life of " Sister 
 Mary ; " '* Sunlight in the Slums ; " " The Blackburn and East Lancashire 
 Infirmary ; " and a series of " Holiday Rambles by Road and Field Path, " 
 with several illustrations by Herbert Railton. The two dialect poems 
 given here are from " Broad Yorkshire," the shorter one being a classic in 
 the Cleveland district. 
 
 _____________ W. A. ASHTON. 
 
 AH'S YORKSHIRE. 
 
 (In the present poem an attempt has been made rigidly to express 
 the phonetic value of Broad Yorkshire vowel sounds.) 
 
 All's Yorkshire ! bi mi truly ! 
 
 All is, Ah'm proud ti say ; 
 Just try ya ti get ower mah, 
 
 Ye'll hev eneaf ti deah. 
 Ab's oppen-gobbed and soft like ; 
 
 Ab knaw mare than Ab tell ; 
 The fellah that wad bite mah, 
 
 All seiif get bit bis sell. 
 
 Ah's Yorkshire.
 
 William Hall Burnett. 209 
 
 Ah's Yorkshire ! Ah's a plain stick, 
 
 What's that ? It's been mi luck, 
 Ti be like monny a dahmond, 
 
 Covered at top wi' muck. 
 Some foaks wear t' muck at insard 
 
 Seah deep it's scarcely seen, 
 Noah's flood a pure soft watter 
 
 Wad scaircely wesh em' clean. 
 
 Ah's Yorkshire. 
 
 Ah's Yorkshire ! Ah's true-hearted, 
 
 Ah luv a real awd frind, 
 An' Ah allus stick up for him, 
 
 An' his good neam defend. 
 If ony chap should call him, 
 
 An' Ah be stannin by, 
 Ah lets him knaw his bizness, 
 
 An' this is t' reason why 
 
 Ah's Yorkshire. 
 
 Ah's Yorkshire ti the back bean, 
 
 Out-spokken frank and free, 
 Ah hate a leiir as Ah hate 
 
 Awd Nick, that tell'd fost lee. 
 Ance Ah may be catch'd nappin', 
 
 We all may slip sum day, 
 Biit twice if ye get ower m.ah, 
 
 Ah nivver mair al say, 
 
 Ah's Yorkshire. 
 
 Ah's Yorkshire ! Ah's endivverin 
 
 Whativver foaks may say ; 
 Ah can't abear ti be i' debt, 
 
 Ah likes ti pay mi way. 
 Ah's green Ah knaw, but what's the good, 
 
 A credit and sike stuff, 
 Those 'at can pay for all they git 
 
 Al allus stand bum-pruf. 
 
 Ah's Yorkshire.
 
 2io North Country Poets. 
 
 Ah's Yorkshire ! Debt deiint fret mah, 
 
 Worrit an' mak ma thin, 
 There's nut a man iv England 
 
 Can say Ah've stick or pin 
 That's nivver yit been paid for. 
 
 Crack that nut if you can ! 
 Seah bem independent 
 
 Ah's a truly happy man ! 
 
 Ah's Yorkshire. 
 
 Ah's Yorkshire ! Bi mi truly ! 
 
 Ah is Ah'm proud ti' say ; 
 Ah's fond at grand awd county, 
 
 An trust at lang Ah may ; 
 England wer nowt without it, 
 
 An' its brave-hearted men, 
 Ah'll drink ther health, and wish em wealth, 
 
 Because Ah's yan mysen. 
 
 Ah's Yorkshire. 
 
 AN AWD MAN'S CONFESSION. 
 
 There was yance a tarm i' mi life when Ah was soft as suds need be, 
 "When Ah thought my nybours wer just as gud as each gud man 
 
 seeamed ti be. 
 That's a lang lang tarm gon back : Ah've altered my marn'd sen 
 
 then, 
 An' now Ah think there's very few folks that's hawf si gud as mysen. 
 
 Loke-a-day ! Ah went a sweet-hearting : Ah'd a bonny smooth- 
 
 feeaced lass ; 
 
 She teld mah she were fond o' ma' and things gat ti' sike a pass 
 That we wer about bein wed, an we'd actilly neamed the day, 
 When sha picked up another fella an' left ma ti gan mi oan way.
 
 William Hall Burnett. 211 
 
 Ah was tell'd at foaks were punished at played sike a wicked trick, 
 But she seemed ti me ti hi appy, tho' Ah meead but a sorry fick : 
 God luv her ; Ah wer fain ti fergiv her, but tho' now Ah's sivventy 
 
 gone, 
 Ah've walked the journey o' life by inysel unmarried and alone. 
 
 There was yance a tann i' my life, when Ah thought all parsons 
 
 wer good ; 
 
 Especially the noisy sooart ; for ther preachin stirred yer blood ; 
 An Ah thowt when Ah eeard em pray, the kindom of ivven had 
 
 come, 
 An' the divvel wad hev ti emigrate ti sum pleeace where he'd hev 
 
 niair rum. 
 
 But lose-a-me ! Ah've altered mi marn'd, an' nut afore 'twer tarm, 
 Fur them noisy, ranting parsons they nivver deeah gud but harm ; 
 The young fellows lead the wimmin astray, an' the awd 'uns trick 
 
 the men, 
 There's a varry few parsons i' the world at's a quarter as gud as 
 
 mysen. 
 
 Poor divvel, just hear 'em run him down ; and threaten their 
 
 hearers wi pains 
 
 Through a lang, lang, lang etarnity cursing ther bodies an' brains; 
 An' all the tarm if the divvel wer gon its plain eneeaf ti be seen 
 The parsons wad miss the best frind they hev, that is leeaking wi 
 
 common sense een. 
 
 The divvel's a good investment for thousans a parson fooak ; 
 He pays magnificent divvidends an' marn'd A'hm nut writing a 
 
 joke 
 He's the greatest frind at the parsons hev, they may pummel him 
 
 as they will, 
 An' shud he ivver be cheeaned ageean, what wagging tongues wad 
 
 be still !
 
 212 North Country Poets. 
 
 There was yance a tarm i' rny life, when Ah thowt all rogues 
 
 wer i' prison fast 
 What a feeal Ah was ! What a dubble feeal, Ah've seen these lang 
 
 years past. 
 
 The biggest rogues i' the universe are basking out i' the sun, 
 An' yan reads i' pious biographies the grand things they hev dun. 
 
 What honour there is iv our merchants : what honesty i' trade ; 
 Dar ony man honestly say now-a-days how monny a fortun' is 
 
 meead? 
 
 That new word, " liquidation," explains how monny a knave 
 Walks up to the seeats o' the nobles, that's ower meean ti be even 
 
 a slave. 
 
 Lose-a-me ! Wi ther bran new things an' ther toggery, how they 
 
 prance, 
 
 Wi impidence fra Lundun town, an' polish fresh fra France ! 
 Poor moths, that toy wi the candle o' prard, they'll bon ther wings 
 
 sum day, 
 An' they'll leean that prard is painful, as my feyther used to say. 
 
 There was yance a tarm i' mi life, when Ah thowt all gud fooaks 
 
 wer gud, 
 
 An' ther was ony yah karn'd o' leeing that was easily understood; 
 But lees can bi drissed like truth, an' leeak mightily like it annole, 
 An' the lees that are round about are them that meeast fret and 
 
 worry yer soul. 
 
 There was yance a tarm i' mi life, when Ah thowt a friend was a 
 
 friend, 
 
 An' you'd only ti' ask for the gowd if he'd ony money ti lend. 
 Ah'd a karnd of a silly idee, as weel, it wad pleeas him much ti 
 
 part, 
 An' he'd rush wi the cheque iv his hand ti pay, an' smile fra the 
 
 depths of his heart.
 
 William Hall Burnett. 213 
 
 Ah've altered rni marnd sen then an' this rnony a lang lang day, 
 
 The joy o' mi life has been ti honestly pay mi way ; 
 
 Ti honestly liv for mysel, an' mak the plizure o' life 
 
 A modest use o' the world's gud things, that on ivvery sard are rife. 
 
 The mooarning sun, the stars at neet, the blue o' the summer sea, 
 Are mair bi far ti mi heart o' hearts then frin'd an' kin can be : 
 An' the deein o' worthy things, apart fra praise or blame 
 Theease, theease, it is that el ivver bring a joy that is dearer nor 
 fame. 
 
 Ah, Fame ! that's another bauble that fills a young fellow's 
 
 dreeams, 
 
 The dearest ov earthly guerdons this breet deceeaver seeams ; 
 It's all mi eye ! The best ov all fame is that we carry insard, 
 That tells us there's joy in deeing the reet, whativver else betard. 
 
 Sike is mi view o' life, now Ah's come ti the clooase o' the day. 
 Ah've pairted wi mony illusions, but this Ah will allus say : 
 There's nivver atarrn i' life when the truth weant stand ya a friend, 
 An' a reet down honest man all allus hev summat ti spend. 
 
 STOKESLEY. 
 I. 
 
 I've read in story books full oft 
 
 Of pleasant cities o'er the wave, 
 With dome, and spire, and minaret, 
 
 And ruins marking Art's fair grave. 
 I've read of valleys of the South, 
 
 And happy islands far away, 
 Blooming beneath eternal sun 
 
 In all the wealth of nature gay.
 
 214 North Country Poets. 
 
 II. 
 
 But oh, within ray constant heart 
 
 A red roof'd village greenly dwells : 
 No traveller from the sunny South 
 
 Knows half the rapture in me swells 
 When muse I on the time that's past, 
 
 The old, old home of early youth, 
 Blooming with halcyon memories 
 
 Of early love, and troth, and truth. 
 
 III. 
 
 Even whilst I muse upon its joys, 
 
 My fancy doth in vagrance stray ; 
 My heart is like an empty room, 
 
 And all my thoughts are far away : 
 By Leven's stream, on Caldnioor's hill, 
 
 I wander, as in days gone by ; 
 The glorious meadows shine again, 
 
 Eefreshing oft my woe-worn eye. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The woods their queenliest foliage wear, 
 
 The streams chaunt to the summer sun, 
 The village bells across the vale 
 
 Chime in the evening shadows dun ; 
 The rooks in immemorial trees 
 
 Awake their chorus of delight, 
 And all sweet sounds and sights of earth 
 
 Possess the day and fill the night. 
 
 V. 
 
 The memory of early friends, 
 
 Long since like me in exile driven, 
 Comes like a soothing breeze of eve 
 
 To weary traveller often given. 
 Eefreshing love ! may I full oft 
 
 E'en now thy early portion share, 
 And friendship be the bond of Truth, 
 
 The cordial in life's draught of care.
 
 William Hall Burnett. 215 
 
 VI. 
 
 In the fair cities of the South 
 
 No loving hearts appeal to me ; 
 In carven stone and monument, 
 
 Naught but a frigid Art I see. 
 I love to note the pride of mind, 
 
 Aspiring to perfection's goal, 
 But what is sweet society 
 
 But heaven to the human soul ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Oh, there was one who taught me well, 
 
 E'en in the blush of life's young day, 
 How olden Eden is regained 
 
 By being true and pure alway. 
 I know since then full many a fall 
 
 Has led me on a lower road, 
 But still my heart aspires the same 
 
 To truth, humanity, and God. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Oh, queenly valley of the North, 
 
 I love thee with a lasting love ! 
 True as the needle to the pole, 
 
 I turn to thee where'er I rove. 
 Fair oasis of the wilderness, 
 
 Bright Eden left to me on earth ! 
 I love thee with a lasting love ! 
 
 I love thee ! Valley of the North.
 
 2l6 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 William Leighton. 
 
 DUNDEE, in the year 1841, was the birth-place of the 
 subject of this notice. In his seventh year his family 
 removed to Liverpool, where William Leighton received 
 his education and passed the remainder of his life. At 
 an early age he went to business in the office of a firm 
 of merchants, rising in a few years to the position of 
 managing and confidential clerk. He very early com- 
 menced writing poems, and, in spite of the constant 
 labour entailed by his position, made considerable progress in that art. 
 His death on April 22nd, 1869, at the early age of twenty-eight, closed a 
 career of much promise. His writings, in spite of unfavourable circum- 
 stances, shew a marked improvement with ripening years, and it was not 
 unnaturally expected that he would produce work of a still higher character. 
 Many of his poems on National subjects appeared originally in the Liverpool 
 Mercury, and he contributed to several of the magazines. In private life he 
 was esteemed by a large circle of friends for his cheerful and happy dis- 
 position, tender sympathies, and thoughtful kindness. 
 
 His productions are mainly distinguished by thoughtful tenderness, in 
 many cases with a religious bent. Perhaps one of his best pieces is that 
 entitled " Baby died to-day," which, for what it suggests, as much as for 
 what it expresses, has become very popular. 
 
 ANDREW GKEAME. 
 
 BABY DIED TO-DAY. 
 
 Lay the little limbs out straight ; 
 
 Gently tend the sacred clay ; 
 Sorrow- shaded is our fate 
 
 Baby died to-day ! 
 
 Fold the hands across the breast, 
 So, as when he knelt to pray ; 
 
 Leave him to his dreamless rest 
 Baby died to-day.
 
 William Leighton. 217 
 
 Voice, whose prattling infant lore 
 Was the music of our way, 
 
 Now is hushed for evermore 
 Baby died to-day. 
 
 Sweet blue eyes, whose sunny gleams 
 Made our waking moments gay, 
 
 Now can shine but in our dreams 
 Baby died to-day ! 
 
 Still a smile is on his face, 
 But it lacks the joyous play 
 
 Of the one we used to trace 
 Baby died to-day. 
 
 Give his lips our latest kiss ; 
 
 Dry your eyes and come away ; 
 In a happier world than this 
 
 Baby lives to-day ! 
 
 AWAKE. 
 
 The sun is flooding the eastern sky 
 With a blaze of silver light ; 
 
 The fresh green foliage waving high, 
 Is fringed with a flame of white ; 
 
 And far above, from the topmost air, 
 The showering lark-notes break ; 
 
 And the spirit of beauty floats everywhere- 
 Sweet my lady, awake ! 
 
 A slow breeze steals o'er the dewy land, 
 From its home in the dreamy South, 
 
 And scatters a perfume on every hand 
 As sweet as the breath of your mouth ;
 
 218 North Country Poets. 
 
 And the tremulous boughs, as they bend and sway, 
 
 A murmurous music make ; 
 And bright on the brooklet the sunbeams play 
 
 Sweet my lady, awake ! 
 
 The river that lay in its dusky repose 
 
 Through the long lone hours of night, 
 Now laughs in the lustre that sunrise throws 
 
 And ripples in rosy light ; 
 And the hills that loomed like shadowy ghosts 
 
 A clearer outline take ; 
 And the white sails glimmer along the coasts 
 
 Dear my lady, awake ! 
 
 The violet lifts its eye of blue 
 
 To the bending blue above ; 
 And the roses, bathed in a drench of dew, 
 
 Are breathing of beauty and love ; 
 And the lily stoops its head to kiss 
 
 Its shadow within the lake 
 never was morning so lovely as this ! 
 
 Dear my lady, awake ! 
 
 Awake ! for a music is flooding the air, 
 
 And melting along the deep. 
 When nature is all awake and so fair, 
 
 0, why should my lady sleep ? 
 A passionate sigh begins to start 
 
 And from the depth of each thicket and brake 
 A sigh that finds echo within my heart 
 
 0, sweet, my lady, awake ! 
 
 Awake ! and come where the zephyr moves 
 In ripples across the grass ; 
 
 Awake ! and come to the lake that loves 
 To mirror your form as you pass ; 
 
 And come, come, to the heart that pines 
 And languishes for your sake ; 
 
 And bright eyes shall blind each dew-drop that shines- 
 Dear my lady, awake !
 
 William Leighton. 219 
 
 MY NEST. 
 
 The shadows lengthen ; and the twilight is falling ; 
 
 The labours and cares of the day are ended : 
 A peace settles over the city's brawling, 
 
 Like the mirrowed glow of the sunset splendid. 
 And sparrow and robin and skylark and throstle 
 
 Are silent now in leafy recesses, 
 Calmly and warmly and safely they nestle 
 
 In the shadowy bliss of soft caresses. 
 
 On the skirts of the city my nest is waiting, 
 
 Warm with a glow that is grateful and tender ; 
 And the world, with its striving and sinning and hating, 
 
 Melts in the light of its sacred splendour. 
 What though my dove cot be poor and lowly ? 
 
 Love's kingly sway makes the dwelling royal ! 
 Peace, like a cherubim pure and holy, 
 
 Fills every heart with a faith life-loyal ! 
 
 Cosy warm nest ! every bounty and blessing 
 
 Linger about thee as years o'er thee gather ; 
 Joys bide within thee ; and mercies unceasing 
 
 Eain from the bountiful hand of the Father ! 
 Hope's budding promises break without number 
 
 Eich 'inong thy leaflets, and burst into blossom : 
 Sweet be thy glad waking hours ! and thy slumber 
 
 Calm as the sleep of a babe on the bosom !
 
 22O 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 Joseph Cooper. 
 
 OSEPH Cooper was born at Thornsett, near New Mills, 
 Derbyshire, 9th Nov. 1810, and received only the scanty 
 education which in his early days was thought sufficient 
 for the children of the poor. His mother was a deeply 
 religious woman, whose influence upon her son was of the 
 happiest. He was for years engaged in business in Man- 
 chester, and having made what is a competence for a man 
 of his moderation, he retired, and has for several years 
 past enjoyed a useful leisure at Eaves Knowl, where his cottage stands upon 
 a commanding eminence overlooking many picturesque miles of scenery in 
 North Derbyshire and East Cheshire. Mr. Cooper has given valuable 
 assistance in the local government of his native district as member of the 
 Board of Guardians, and Local Board, but the best energies of his 
 life have been devoted to the temperance cause. His earnestness, his 
 experience of life, his humour, his power of speech and song, have stood 
 him in good stead, and made him a most acceptable advocate of temperance. 
 Amongst the Good Templars he holds a position of distinction as an Honorary 
 Deputy of the Chief Templar. Mr. Cooper is a member of the Manchester 
 Literary Club, and in former years it was one of the characteristic events 
 of the gathering when Cooper gave the ' ' wdham Melludy . ' ' His temperance 
 verses have had a large circulation, and been printed by hundreds of thou- 
 sands, a large consignment having been sent to the Crimea for the use of 
 the English soldiers before Sebastopol. The " Temperance Minstrel," 
 " Temperance Reciter," " Gems and Tit-bits," are amongst the titles of his 
 publications, and in addition he has issued numerous broadsides bearing 
 upon the reform to which he has devoted himself. The quality of his 
 verses varies, but probably the best are " Bodle the Bouser," " An Owdham 
 Melludy," and " Helping God to make the Flowers grow." 
 
 WILLIAM E. A. Axon. 
 
 AN OWDHAM MELLUDY. 
 
 AIR. " Mon at Mesthur Grundy's." 
 
 Tother Setthurdy neet, aw tbowt it wur reet, 
 
 Afthor a hard week's laybur, 
 For t' get a quart, at tb' owd Wbite Hart, 
 
 Wi' Bill at Tom's my naybur ;
 
 Joseph Cooper. 221 
 
 So in aw went, an' sixpunse spent, 
 
 In a quart a real stingo, 
 It wur so good, it warmt my blood, 
 
 Aw wur t' double mon, by jingo. 
 
 In comes Sam Blakes, who sells wut cakes, 
 
 Keaw-heels, an' troipe, and trotters ; 
 Owd Bawsun Ned, ut Betty wed, 
 
 And in lawm Jenny totters, 
 I ask'd Ned t' sup he swoipt it op, 
 
 Says he by gum " What stingo ! " 
 Aw'll stond a quart w' o my heart ; 
 
 Awm a gradely mon, by jingo . 
 
 Owd Fidlur Ben, 'gan playin' then : 
 
 He made th' owd fiddle t' spake mon ; 
 We doanc'd an' sung th' ale wur so strung, 
 
 Aw bawstunt one o' my clogs, mon ; 
 At twelve o'clock, they turn'd eawt th' stock, 
 
 My yed it reelt wi' t' stingo ; 
 Aw wur drunk enoof ; aw fell it soof , 
 
 Au' could no' stur, by jingo ; 
 
 A mon in blue his trunchun drew, 
 
 And thump'd my on my back, so ; 
 Believe me, sur, aw could no' stur, 
 
 So he dragg'd me off to limbo : 
 Theer o' t' next day, awr forc'd t' stay, 
 
 My yed an' booans they warch't so ; 
 Aw made a vow, aw kept till now, 
 
 Aw'd drink no more owd stingo.
 
 222 North Country Poets. 
 
 BODLE THE BOUSER. 
 
 (A Lancashire Tale.) 
 
 A goggle-eyed fuddler, as usual, bout brass, 
 Sat studyin' one mornin' heaw t' raise another glass ; 
 He're a bit of a coalyer, or raither a snob, 
 But he noather liked wark nor them ut set him at th' job ; 
 He liked ale 0' three-penny ale ! 
 
 He walk'd int* owd Neddy's so neat and so nimbly, 
 Sayin' " Dang it, owd Ned, aw shud like t' goo up th' 
 
 chimbly ; " 
 
 So owd Neddy says " Dang it, owd Bodle, goo up, 
 An" I'll gi' thee a quart o' good ale for to sup, 
 
 O' good ale O, three-penny ale ! 
 
 So Bodle at wonst set th' tone foot o' th' top bar, 
 An' went climbing aloft like a gradely jack tar ; 
 Well, owd Neddy 'ur so pleas't, he sheawts " hey, lads, hey, 
 Owd Bodle's gwon chlyeri up th' chimbly to-day, 
 For some ale good three-penny ale ! " 
 
 Then owd Neddy sheawts " Bodle, goo on, lad, goo on, 
 Go through wi' it, Bodle, theaw'rt a reet un, bi th' mon ; 
 Aw like a brave fellow, aw do i' my heart, 
 An' if t' gets eawt at th' top, mon, aw'll gi' thee a quart 
 0' good ale good three-penny ale." 
 
 But while owd Ned sheawted like a nat'ral clown, 
 Bodle let goo his howd, an' coom shutterin' deawn ; 
 He leet wi' his hinder-end thump o' th' top bar, 
 Koll'b deawn, an' a gradely blash-boggart he wor, 
 for ale 0, three-penny ale ! 
 
 He're so buried i' soot, he could hardly be seen, 
 While owd Neddy stood leaughing an' wipin' his een, 
 Sayin'" Ta' thy woint, Bodle, theaw'st have a quart moor, 
 My chimbly wor ne'er swept uz chlyen afore ; 
 
 Nan, bring th' ale, that three-penny ale !
 
 Joseph Cooper. 223 
 
 So yo' seen wot contrivances men ban for drink, 
 To get it without oather credit or jink ; 
 For to credit a drunkard folks dunnot like th' job. 
 And jink's eawt o'tb' question wben a bole's in the fob, 
 Made by ale 0, three-penny ale ! 
 
 HELPING GOD TO MAKE THE 
 FLOWERS GROW. 
 
 One hot and sultry summer's eve, 
 
 After a scorching day, 
 A sweet girl with a watering-can 
 
 To the garden went her way ; 
 And as she sprinkled drooping plants, 
 
 Her stainless soul did glow, 
 To think that she was helping God 
 
 To make the flowers grow. 
 
 A mother, with a mother's care, 
 
 Went out to seek her child, 
 And seeing her engaged at work 
 
 Enquired with accents mild : 
 " What are you doing there, my love ? 
 
 I should be glad to know." 
 The child replied, " I'm helping God 
 
 To make the flowers grow." 
 
 ' Mid clashing tenets, dogmas, creeds, 
 
 This child's the one for me ; 
 It seems a photograph of Him 
 
 Who died upon the tree. 
 He spent His time in doing good, 
 
 Believing pain and woe, 
 In deserts wild and wilderness 
 
 Helping God's flowers to grow.
 
 224 North Country Poets. 
 
 He at the grave of Lazarus 
 
 Shed tears and heav'd a groan ; 
 Then said unto the lookers on, 
 
 " Take ye away the stone." 
 He could have done without their aid, 
 
 But wished the world to know 
 That God expects his followers 
 
 To help His flowers to grow 
 
 ' Tis written, He said, " Learn of me," 
 
 Be trustful as a child, 
 While passing through this sin-stained world 
 
 Walk blameless, undented. 
 Be beacon-lights set on a hill, 
 
 A good example show, 
 Haply your upright walk and talk 
 
 May help God's flowers to grow. 
 
 The fields are ripe for harvest-time, 
 
 The labourers are few ; 
 Take spade, or rake, or water-can, 
 
 There's work for all to do. 
 If you can't plough the stubborn field, 
 
 Or reap the corn, or mow, 
 You may remove the weed, and help 
 
 To make God's flowers to grow. 
 
 Cut down, root up the Upas trees 
 
 The wicked one hath sown, 
 Some that have stood for centuries, 
 
 Till they are hoary grown ; 
 Those licensed dens that dole out death, 
 
 And drape the land with woe, 
 Help us to close them if you wish 
 
 To help God's flowers to grow.
 
 Joseph Cooper. 225 
 
 Legions of learned, earnest souls 
 
 Are preaching with their might, 
 Wooing, also beseeching men 
 
 To come to the true light ; 
 But while the preacher buildeth up, 
 
 Dram-vendors overthrow ; 
 Christian, abstain, if you would help 
 
 To make God's flowers to grow. 
 
 Friends, you may help with a kind word, 
 
 Or sweet and gentle smile, 
 To lift the withered, drooping head 
 
 Of stricken son of toil. 
 We all can work on sunny days, 
 
 And the 'mid-winter's snow, 
 " Eemembering the forgotten " 
 
 Will help God's flowers to grow. 
 
 The earth's the garden of the Lord, 
 
 His flowers grow everywhere, 
 But flourish most in holy ground 
 
 Plots fertilised by prayer. 
 Our churches, chapels, Sabbath schools, 
 
 Where many here we know 
 Are by example, word, and purse, 
 
 Helping God's flowers to grow. 
 
 Friends, let us toil, while yet 'tis day, 
 
 Both to be, and to do good, 
 That we may hear the Master say 
 
 " Thou hast done what thou could." 
 When angels shout the harvest-home, 
 
 May heaven's register show 
 Our names among the " well done " band 
 
 Who helped God's flowers to grow.
 
 226 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 Lord Houghton. 
 
 T is twenty years," wrote the late Matthew Browne, 
 " since I heard a bundle of rags in a gutter singing, ' I 
 wandered by the brook-side, I wandered by the mill ; ' 
 and it is not three years since I heard the same bundle of 
 rags, scarcely changed in face, voice, coat, trousers, 
 spatterdashes, or otherwise, sing the same song in 
 another gutter." This was written in 1872. Another 
 sixteen years have passed away, and there has been no 
 diminution in the popularity of Lord Houghton's beautiful and tender song. 
 There have been greater poets who have stirred fewer hearts. Who would 
 not be glad to have written " Strangers Yet," which has within it the 
 promise of immortality, being one of the most cherished of English ballads ? 
 It is possible that a similar favourite passage of "In Memoriam " may be 
 forgotten before these lines : 
 
 He, who for Love has undergone 
 
 The worst that can befall 
 Is happier thousand-fold than one 
 
 Who never loved at all ; 
 A grace within his soul has reigned, 
 
 Which nothing else can bring 
 Thank God for all that I have gained, 
 By that high suffering ! 
 
 Yet Lord Houghton was so much the patron and eucourager of poets that 
 for that very reason he missed something of the poetic distinction to which 
 he was himself entitled. Critics have thought more of how he helped poor 
 David Gray than of how he now and then wrote poems which found their 
 way to an immeasurably wider audience than any which the author of 
 " The Luggie, and Other Poems," ever contrived to reach. Perhaps a 
 further reason why his genius has been under-rated is to be found in the 
 fact that he always, and as if by design, gave the impression of being in 
 everything an amateur. He was serious, but not quite earnest, an apparent 
 contradiction in terms which will be intelligible enough to those who knew 
 him. He had a keen appreciation of the pleasantness of life, and never 
 felt that spur which circumstances apply, sometimes with cruel keenness, 
 to less fortunate men. The dry details of Lord Houghton's life are 
 sufficiently well known ; the more intimate particulars are shortly to be 
 related by Mr. Wemyss Keid. 
 
 Richard Monckton Milnes was born at Ferrybridge, Yorkshire, in 
 June, 1809. He went to Trinity College, Cambridge, where, in 1831, he 
 took his M.A. degree. It was the sister university which conferred upon 
 him the honorary degree of D.C.L. For twenty-six years he sat in 
 Parliament as member for Pontefract, and was really, though not 
 obtrusively, useful. With general Liberal leanings, he had no very clearly 
 defined political creed, being interested, indeed, much more in social than
 
 Lord Houghton. 227 
 
 political questions. Lord Palmerston would have given him a seat in his 
 Government, but to have accepted it would have taken something from the 
 joys of life, and so it was declined. Milues interested himself much in the 
 reform of our penal institutions, and brought into the House of Commons 
 the first Bill which proposed the establishment of Juvenile Reformatories. 
 In 1863, he was raised to the House of Peers. Matthew Browne, already 
 quoted, was a reporter of the Committees of the House of Lords, and he 
 says that Lord Houghton had a habit of mastering a case and then going 
 to sleep. There was a Railway Bill before the Committee. The time had 
 come for giving the decision. " Shall we wake Mimes ? " said the 
 chairman, in a whisper audible enough to the public outside the barrier 
 (his peerage was then rather new) and just nudged " Mimes," whispering, 
 " What do you say, Houghton?" "Oh," said his lordship, opening hia 
 eyes, " give 'em the running powers ; " and walked off to the window again 
 to enjoy the view. This is a characteristic anecdote. Lord Houghton 
 had a happy facility in doing most things, and agitated himself greatly 
 about nothing. 
 
 I last saw Lord Houghton at a dinner of the Newspaper Press Fund. 
 It was a position in which he was invariably happy, for he made admirable 
 after-dinner speeches. He was the President of the Fund from its 
 foundation and up to his death. He was also the President of the London 
 Library, in succession to Carlyle. His contributions to literature were 
 considerable, seeing with how little eagerness he pursued the author's 
 trade. Besides several books of verse, he wrote two charming volumes of 
 gossip and criticism, entitled, " Monographs, Personal and Social." His 
 " Life and Letters of Keats " is still the standard work, though its 
 frankness drew a scathing rebuke from the poet Laureate. He contributed 
 " One Tract More " to the Tractarian Controversy, and wrote much on 
 the leading subjects of his day. In his later years Lord Houghton suffered 
 from a paralytic seizure, the effects of which remained slightly visible in 
 a shaking of the hand and a nervous habit of body ; but up to the last he 
 was a man of delightful manners, of keen intelligence, and unpretending 
 gentleness and simplicity. He died in 1885, the last of the aristocratic 
 
 patrons of literature. 
 
 AAKON WATSON. 
 
 STRANGERS YET. 
 
 Strangers yet ! 
 After years of life together, 
 After fair and stormy weather, 
 After travel in far lands, 
 After touch of wedded hands, 
 Why thus joined ? Why ever met, 
 If they must be strangers yet ?
 
 228 North Country Poets. 
 
 Strangers yet ! 
 
 After childhood's winning ways, 
 After care and blame and praise, 
 Counsel asked and wisdom given, 
 After mutual prayers to Heaven, 
 Child and parent scarce regret 
 When they part are strangers yet. 
 
 Strangers yet ! 
 
 After strife for common ends 
 After title of " old friends," 
 After passions fierce and tender, 
 After cheerful self-surrender, 
 Hearts may beat and eyes be met, 
 And the souls be strangers yet. 
 
 Strangers yet ! 
 
 Oh ! the bitter thought to scan 
 All the loneliness of man : 
 Nature, by magnetic laws, 
 Circle unto circle draws, 
 But they only touch when met, 
 Never mingle strangers yet. 
 
 Strangers yet ! 
 Will it evermore be thus 
 Spirits still impervious ? 
 Shall we never fairly stand 
 Soul to soul as hand to hand ? 
 Are the bounds eternal set 
 To retain us strangers yet ? 
 
 Strangers yet ! 
 Tell not Love it must aspire 
 Unto something other higher : 
 God himself were loved the best 
 Were our sympathies at rest, 
 Rest above the strain and fret 
 Of the world of strangers yet ! 
 
 Strangers yet !
 
 Lord Houghton. 229 
 
 THE TENT. 
 
 Why should a man raise stone and wood 
 
 Between him and the sky ? 
 Why should he fear the brotherhood 
 
 Of all things from on high ? 
 Why should a man not raise his form 
 
 As shelterless and free 
 As stands in sunshine or in storm 
 
 The mountain and the tree ? 
 
 Or if we thus, as creatures frail 
 
 Before our time should die, 
 And courage and endurance fail 
 
 Weak Nature to supply ; 
 Let us at least a dwelling choose, 
 
 The simplest that can keep 
 From parching heat and noxious dews 
 
 Our pleasure and our sleep. 
 
 The Fathers of our mortal race, 
 
 While still remembrance nursed 
 Traditions of the glorious place 
 
 Whence Adam fled accursed, 
 Bested in tents, as best became 
 
 Children, whose mother earth 
 Had overspread with sinful shame 
 
 The beauty of her birth. 
 
 In cold they sought the sheltered nook, 
 
 In heat the airy shade, 
 And oft their casual home forsook 
 
 The morrow it was made ; 
 Diverging many separate roads, 
 
 They wandered, fancy-driven, 
 Nor thought of other fixed abodes 
 
 Than Paradise or Heaven.
 
 230 North Country Poets. 
 
 And while this holy sense remained, 
 
 'Mid easy shepherd cares, 
 In tents they often entertained 
 
 The Angels unawares : 
 And to their spirits' fervid gaze 
 
 The mystery was revealed, 
 How the world's wound in future days 
 
 Should by God's love be healed. 
 
 Thus we, so late and far a link 
 
 Of generation's chain, 
 Delight to dwell in tents and think 
 
 The old world young again ; 
 With Faith as wide and Thought as narrow 
 
 As theirs, who little more 
 From life demanded than the sparrow 
 
 Gay-chirping by the door. 
 
 The Tent ! how easily it stands, 
 
 Almost as if it rose 
 Spontaneous from the green or sand, 
 
 Express for our repose : 
 Or rather, it is we who plant 
 
 This root, where'er we roam, 
 And hold, and can to others grant, 
 
 The comforts of a home. 
 
 Make the Divan the carpets spread, 
 
 The ready cushions pile ; 
 Best, weary heart ! rest, weary head ! 
 
 From pain and pride awhile : 
 And all your happiest memories woo, 
 
 And mingle with your dreams 
 The yellow desert glimmering through 
 
 The subtle veil of beams.
 
 Lord Houghton. 231 
 
 We all have much we would forget 
 
 Be that forgotten now ! 
 And placid Hope, instead, shall set 
 
 Her seal upon your brow : 
 Imagination's prophet eye 
 
 By her shall view unfurled 
 The future greatnesses that lie 
 
 Hid in the Eastern world. 
 
 To slavish tyrannies their term 
 
 Of terror she foretells ; 
 She brings to bloom the faith whose germ 
 
 In Islam deeply dwells ; 
 Accomplishing each mighty birth 
 
 That shall one day be born 
 From marriage of the western earth 
 
 With nations of the morn ! 
 
 Then fold the Tent then on again ; 
 
 One spot of ashen black 
 The only sign that here has lain 
 
 The traveller's recent track : 
 And gladly forward, safe to find 
 
 At noon and eve a home, 
 Till we have left our Tent behind, 
 
 The homeless ocean foam ! 
 
 THE BROOK-SIDE. 
 
 I wandered by the brook-side, 
 
 I wandered by the mill, 
 
 I could not hear the brook flow, 
 
 The noisy wheel was still ; 
 
 There was no burr of grasshopper, 
 
 Nor chirp of any bird, 
 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard.
 
 232 North Country Poets. 
 
 I sat beneath the elm-tree, 
 
 I watched the long, long, shade, 
 
 And as it grew still longer, 
 
 I did not feel afraid ; 
 
 For I listened for a footfall, 
 
 I listened for a word, 
 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 He came not, no, he came not, 
 The night came on alone, 
 The little stars sat, one by one, 
 Each on his golden throne ; 
 The evening air passed by my cheek, 
 The leaves above were stirr'd, 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 "Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 Fast, silent, tears were flowing, 
 When something stood behind, 
 A hand was on my shoulder, 
 I knew its touch was kind : 
 It drew rne nearer nearer, 
 We did not speak one word, 
 For the beating of our own hearts 
 Was all the sound we heard.
 
 Joseph Baron. 
 
 233 
 
 Joseph Baron. 
 
 HIS well-known Blackburn prose and verse writer was born 
 at Rishton, near the big borough on the Blakewater, on 
 the 7th of May, 1859, He was educated at the Blackburn 
 Grammar School, and first began to devote himself to 
 literature at seventeen years of age. The word " devote " 
 in his case is not misapplied, for his love of books and 
 " booky stuff," always of the best description, approaches 
 the zeal of a religious enthusiast for some favourite cult. 
 Poems in the Lancashire dialect, and in ordinary and old-fashioned English, 
 of both a serious and humorous description, drop from his pen like water 
 from some perennial spring. These appear from time to time mainly in 
 the local journals. He prefers, however, the mirth-making role, and if 
 writing prose he cannot resist the strength or weakness of a pun, which he 
 mercilessly perpetrates. His farce, "Grandfather's Clock," was produced 
 at the New Sadlers Wells Theatre, London, in December, 1883, and had a 
 good run. His poems and writings of various kinds are very voluminous. 
 The appended are specimens of his ready muse, which has already asserted 
 its powers in some of our leading periodicals. At the present time he has a 
 comedietta ready for production, and has also in hand other publications in 
 prose and verse. We may safely predict for this young author a successful 
 
 career. 
 
 W. H. BURNETT. 
 
 A BALLADE OF MEMORIE. 
 
 When from Pandora's fateful box 
 
 (Ah, cursed dowry for a bride !) 
 The giant evils flew in flocks, 
 
 Afflicting mortals far and wide, 
 Amongst them were Deceit and Pride, 
 
 With Falsehood, ever at their call, 
 And Slander, with its lightning stride, 
 
 But Memorie was worst of all.
 
 234 North Country Poets. 
 
 It seated Mind within the stocks, 
 
 For meaner senses to deride ; 
 It dashed high aims against the rocks, 
 
 To sink beneath its swollen tide 
 Of past defects, and so they died. 
 
 Frankenstein-like it did appal 
 The bravest hearts, and many cried, 
 
 " Ah ! Memorie is worst of all." 
 
 And still, like Bauquo's ghost, it mocks 
 
 All unto wickedness allied ; 
 Like sword of Damocles it shocks, 
 
 And happiness is yet denied ; 
 Away it flieth, terriiied, 
 
 For what were sweets it turns to gall. 
 Ah ! of all curses at men's side 
 
 Sure Memorie is worst of all. 
 
 L' ENVOI. 
 
 Prince, from all evils thou mayst hide, 
 Save one, which hath thee in its thrall ; 
 
 With thee through life it will abide 
 'Tis Memorie, the worst of all. 
 
 BALLADE OF FOOTE-BALLE 
 
 Ye jollie game wych alle creacyon lycks 
 
 It is ye playe of kyckyng att foote-balle, 
 And hym thatt playeth itt atween ye stycks 
 
 Certes he is ye chiefeste of y m alle. 
 
 Hys pate is lyke unto a stonie walle, 
 And mightie bootes hath he wherewyth to lame ; 
 
 Fulle manie a foeman doth he roughlie maul, 
 Yett foote-balle is a verie jollie game.
 
 Joseph Baron. 235 
 
 And bym thatt playeth backe, wyth weightie kycks, 
 
 And heavie charges, makynge foemen faile, 
 Untylle ye watcher layeth tenn to syx 
 
 Thatt he wyll cause ye left-wyng payr to spralle ; 
 
 And eftsoones doth he make y m to looke smalle 
 Through heartilie projectynge of hys frame 
 
 Upon ye twayne, soe they can scarcelie crawlle, 
 Yett foote-balle is a verie jollie game. 
 
 Alsoe ye forwarde, wyth an hondrede trycks 
 
 (Oh, whenne he drybleth looke oute for a squalle !) 
 He cometh downe lyke to a ton of brycks, 
 
 Although he seerneth soe exceedynge smalle ; 
 
 And though hys foemen be uncommon talle 
 He kycketh at theyr shynns wyth certayne aim 
 
 (" Takynge ye man," methynkes they doe it calle), 
 Yett foote-balle is a verie jollie game. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 Friendes, who delyte to idlie bragge and bralle. 
 
 Ye who avowe thatt tennys is too tame, 
 And lykewyse saye that cryckette lycks y m alle, 
 
 Yett foote-balle is a verie jollie game. 
 
 TWO SEEDS. 
 
 As the fallen seed of a former flower, 
 
 Blown and sown in the zephyr's play, 
 Quickened and suckled by sun and shower, 
 
 Buds and blossoms in one brief day ; 
 Flaunts and flares in the noonday whiteness, 
 
 Fades and dies ere the dews of night, 
 Leaving no ling'ring love for its brightness, 
 
 Lost to the rnem'ry when lost to sight, 
 So do the thoughts of a mushroom growth 
 
 Decay and die as they leave the mouth.
 
 236 North Country Poets. 
 
 But the acorn, deep in the dark earth lying, 
 
 Is bursting its bonds in the bliss of birth ; 
 Winter shall wane, and the spring be sighing, 
 
 Ere a glimpse of its greenness glads the earth, 
 And the far-off Future's ephemeral flowers 
 
 Shall be born to blossom, to fleet, and fade ; 
 But the oak tree there, '_that so loftily towers, 
 
 Shall shelter the weary beneath its shade, 
 And a thought which has grown from experience 
 
 Will shelter the weary centuries hence.
 
 Sir Henry Taylor. 
 
 237 
 
 Sir Henry Taylor. 
 
 IR Henry Taylor, dramatist and essayist, was engaged in 
 the Colonial Office, which he entered in January, 1824, 
 for nearly fifty years, and so was brought into intimate 
 personal contact with the leading statesmen and 
 most distinguished men of the time. During a long public 
 career of responsible duties, it was his lot to serve under 
 no fewer than twenty-six Chief Secretaries. 
 
 He was born at Middleham, in the county of 
 Durham, in 1800, and was the only son of George Taylor, Esq., of Wilton 
 Hall, Wilton-le-Wear. 
 
 In 1827, he published " Isaac Comnenus," a play founded on history, 
 but of which little notice was taken. In 1834, appeared his " Philip van 
 Artevelde," an historical romance, cast in dramatic and rythmical form. In 
 two parts, it is the history of the two Arteveldes, father and son, " citizens 
 of revolted Ghent, each of whom swayed for a season almost the whole 
 power of Flanders against their legitimate prince, and each of whom, paid 
 the penalty of ambition, by an untimely and violent death." This work 
 at once arid enduringly established his reputation as a poet. In this 
 play occurs the oft-quoted line : ' 
 
 The world knows nothing of its greatest men. 
 
 In 1836, appeared " The Statesman," a prose volume, containing views 
 and maxims relating to the transaction of public business, suggested by 
 his own experience of twelve years' official life in the Civil Service. His 
 other works are " Edwin the Fair, an Historical Drama " in five acts and 
 in verse, 1842 ; " The Eve of the Conquest, and other Poems," 1847 ; 
 " Notes from Life, in Six Essays," 1847 (treating of such subjects as 
 " Choice in Marriage," " Humility and Independence," " The Life Poetic," 
 and " Children ") ; " Notes from Books, in Four Essays," 1849 (including 
 an essay on " The Ways of the Eich and Great," and three others on 
 "Modern Poets," re-printed from the Quarterly Review); "The Virgin 
 Widow," a play in five acts, and chiefly verse, 1850 ; " St. Clement's Eve," 
 a play from French history during the period of Charles VI., 1862 ; a 
 collected edition of his " Poetical Works," in three volumes, 1863 ; " A 
 Sicilian Summer, and Minor Poems," 1868. Throughout these works 
 the style of thought and diction is of a high order, characterised by 
 severe simplicity, transparent purity, and pithy directness. His friend and 
 fellow official, Sir James Stephen, in common with the highest critical 
 authorities, frankly expressed the opinion that Taylor had established "a 
 wide, an honest, and an enduring fame." 
 
 " Philip van Artevelde", his greatest achievement, has gone through 
 many editions, and all his other publications have been more or less
 
 238 North Country Poets. 
 
 successful. In 1877, his complete works, in verse and prose, appeared in 
 a uniform series of six volumes. 
 
 He was made D.C.L. at Oxford ; and, in 1873, was created a Knight 
 Commander of the Order of St. Michael and St. George. He had long before 
 married Lord Monteagle's daughter, who still survives him. 
 
 He was the life-long friend and correspondent of Wordsworth, and of 
 Sir Aubrey de Vere ; and it was through Taylor that Wordsworth first 
 became acquainted with Miss Fenwick. Southey said, Henry Taylor was 
 the only one of a generation younger than his own whom he had taken 
 into his heart of hearts ; and, for that reason, he appointed him his literary 
 executor. 
 
 It was my valued privilege to correspond with Sir Henry, for many 
 years, from the days when he lived at Mortlake, down to his last illness ; 
 and to receive from him valuable literary assistance in various researches 
 connected with Cowper and Wordsworth. He kindly sent me the 1880 
 edition of " Philip van Artevelde;" wrote out one of his poems for me; and 
 gave me a cabinet photograph of himself, by Hawker of Bournemouth, in- 
 scribed with his autograph. I also possess the large splendid artistic 
 venerable and patriarchal photograph of Sir Henry, taken in the Isle of 
 Wight by his friend Mrs. Cameron. It was given me, however, not by him- 
 self, but by Carlyle, who knew both him and Mrs. Cameron. In 1885, Sir 
 Henry, knowing that the end could not be far off, published his " Autobio- 
 graphy," and also looked through his letters, marking those he deemed 
 worthy of preservation. He also, about this time, wrote several articles for 
 reviews ; one of these, a very noteworthy paper, was a sensible review of 
 Froude's work on Carlyle. For about a year, from increasing 
 infirmity, he was unable to get out of doors, and, latterly, was confined 
 entirely to his room, at " The Boost," Bournemouth. On March 29th, 
 1886, he died., aged eighty-six. Professor Dowden has, this year (1888), 
 edited and published a selection of his letters. These, and his other 
 writings, forcibly convey the impression that Sir Henry Taylor was a man 
 of sterling moral worth, intellectual power, sound wisdom, refined taste, 
 and mature judgment ; a man of thought and scholarship ; and, more 
 especially, a dramatic poet of great and peculiar ability, whose works, 
 thoroughly English in character, have deservedly given him an enduring 
 reputation among all thoughtful readers. He himself once asked, '* Who 
 would not rather be read a hundred times by one man, than once by a 
 hundred? " 
 
 ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF A REVOLUTIONIST 
 
 [From " Philip van Artevelde."] 
 
 There is no game so desperate which wise men 
 Will not take freely up for love of power,
 
 Sir Henry Taylor. 239 
 
 Or love of fame, or merely love of play. 
 These men are wise, and then reputed wise, 
 And so their great repute of wisdom grows, 
 Till for great wisdom a great price is bid, 
 And then their wisdom they do part withal. 
 Such men must still be tempted with high stakes : 
 Philip van Artevelde is such a man. 
 
 JOHN OF LAUNOY. 
 
 [From " Philip van Artevelde."] 
 
 I never looked that he should live so long. 
 
 He was a man of that unsleeping spirit, 
 
 He seemed to live by miracle : his food 
 
 Was glory, which was poison to his mind, 
 
 And peril to his body. He was one 
 
 Of many thousand such that die betimes, 
 
 "Whose story is a fragment, known to few ; 
 
 Then comes the man who has the luck to live, 
 
 And he's a prodigy. Weigh chance with chance, 
 
 And deem there's ne'er a one in dangerous times 
 
 Who wins the race of glory, but than him 
 
 A thousand men more gloriously endowed 
 
 Have fallen upon the course ; a thousand more 
 
 Have had their fortunes by haphazard wreck'd, 
 
 Whilst lighter barks push'd past them ; to whom add 
 
 A smaller tally, of the singular few, 
 
 Who, gifted with predominating powers, 
 
 Bear yet a temperate will, and keep the peace. 
 
 The world knows nothing of its greatest men.
 
 240 North Country Poets. 
 
 SORROW'S USES 
 
 [From " Philip van Artevelde." 
 
 He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mind. 
 Eternity mourns that. 'Tis an ill cure 
 For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them. 
 Where sorrow's held intrusive and turned out, 
 There wisdom will not enter, nor true power, 
 Nor aught that dignifies humanity. 
 
 MASTER MINDS. 
 
 [From " Philip van Artevelde'. 1 ] 
 
 Such souls, 
 
 Whose sudden visitations daze the world, 
 Vanish like lightning, but they leave behind 
 A voice that in the distance far away 
 Wakens the slumbering ages. 
 
 BATTLE OF SENLAC.* 
 
 Near Hastings, 14th Oct., 1066. 
 [From " The Eve of the Conquest."] 
 
 Long was the day, and terrible. The cries 
 Of " God to aid ! " " The Cross ! " " The Holy Cross ! 
 With songs of Eoland of Eoncevalles, 
 Were heard, then lost in dumbness and dismay. 
 A mighty roar ensued, pierced through and through 
 By shrillest shrieks incessant, or of man, 
 Or maddened horse that scream'd with fear and pain 
 Death agonies. The battle, like a ship 
 Then when the whirlwind hath it, torn and tost, 
 Stagger'd from side to side. The day was long ; 
 * Now " Battle."
 
 Sir Henry Taylor. 241 
 
 By dreadful change of onset or feign'd flight, 
 And rout and rally, direfully drawn out, 
 Disastrous, dismal. Night was near, and still 
 The victory undetermined, when a shaft 
 Pierced Harold in the throat. He fell and died. 
 Then panic seized the Saxon host, pursued 
 With hideous rage, till utter darkness hid 
 From human sight the horrors of the field. 
 
 COMPANY IN BANQUETING ROOM IN 
 PALACE OF THE DUKE OF ORLEANS. 
 
 [From " St. Clement's Eve."] 
 
 De Vierzon To see grim John 
 
 Do his endeavour at a gracious smile, 
 Was worth a ducat ; with his trenchant teeth 
 Clinched like a rat-trap. 
 
 De Cassincl Ever and anon 
 
 They open'd to let forth a troop of words 
 Scented and gilt, a company of masques 
 Stiff with brocade, and each a pot in hand 
 Fill'd with wasp's honey. 
 
 ARETINA SINGS 
 
 [From "A Sicilian Summer."] 
 
 I'm a bird that's free 
 Of the land and sea, 
 
 I wander whither I will ; 
 But oft on the wing, 
 I falter and sing, 
 
 Oh, fluttering heart, be still, 
 Be still, 
 
 Oh, fluttering heart, be still.
 
 242 North Country Poets. 
 
 I'm wild as the wind, 
 But soft and kind, 
 
 And wander whither I may ; 
 The eye-bright sighs, 
 And says with its eyes, 
 
 Thou wandering wind, oh stay, 
 Oh stay, 
 
 Thou wandering wind, oh stay. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 [From "A Sicilian Summer."] 
 
 Across the vale of life 
 The rainbow rears its soft triumphal arch, 
 And every roving path and brake and bower 
 Is bathed in colour'd light. Come what come may, 
 I know this world is richer than I thought 
 By something left to it from Paradise ; 
 I know this world is brighter than I thought, 
 Having a window into heaven. Henceforth, 
 Life hath for me a purpose and a drift. 
 
 DAWN OF HEART-JOY. 
 
 [From "A Sicilian Summer."] 
 
 Silisco Then shall this glorious Now be crowned the Queen 
 Of all the hours in ages past, 
 Since the first Morning's rosy finger touch'd 
 The bowers of Eden. Grace defend my heart 
 That now it bound not back to what it was 
 In days of old, forgetting all that since
 
 Sir Henry Taylor. 243 
 
 Has tried and tamed it ! No, Rosalba, no 
 Albeit yon waves be bright as on the day 
 When, dancing to the shore from Procida, 
 They brought me a new joy, yet fear me not 
 The joy falls now upon a heart prepared 
 By many a trouble, many a trial past, 
 And striking root, shall flourish and stand fast. 
 
 THE HON. EDWARD ERNEST VILLIERS. 
 
 [From " Memorial Lines," which might not inaptly be 
 applied to the Author himself. A. J. S.] 
 
 His life was private ; safely led, aloof 
 
 From the loud world, which yet he understood 
 
 Largely and wisely, as no worldling could. 
 
 For he, by privilege of his nature, proof 
 
 Against false glitter, from beneath the roof 
 
 Of privacy, as from a cave, surveyed 
 
 With steadfast eye its flickering light and shade, 
 
 And gently judged for evil and for good. 
 
 But, whilst he mixed not for his own behoof 
 
 In public strife, his spirit glowed with zeal, 
 
 Not shorn of action, for the public weal, 
 
 For truth and justice as its warp and woof, 
 
 For freedom a? its signature and seal. 
 
 His life, thus sacred from the world, discharged 
 
 From vain ambition and inordinate care, 
 
 In virtue exercised, by reverence rare 
 
 Lifted, and by humility enlarged, 
 
 Became a temple and a place of prayer. 
 
 In latter years he walked not singly there ; 
 
 For one was with him, ready at all hours 
 
 His griefs, his joys, his inmost thoughts to share, 
 
 Who buoyantly his burthens helped to bear, 
 
 And decked his altars daily with fresh flowers.
 
 244 North Country Poets. 
 
 C H A R ACT ER 
 
 [From " Lago Lugano."] 
 
 Be open, courteous, bland, 
 Be simple, cordial, not more strong to stand 
 Than just to yield, nor obvious to each jar 
 That shakes the proud ; for Independence walks 
 With staid Humility aye hand in hand, 
 Whilst Pride in tremor stalks. 
 
 MUSIC AND LIGHT 
 
 [From "Alwine and Adelais."] 
 
 With that, she sang a low, sweet melody, 
 Mysterious but penetrating too, 
 Which with a slow and subtle magic crept 
 Into the bosom of the darkness. Soon 
 It ceased, and as it ceased, a glorious light 
 Forth from the bosom of the darkness burst, 
 And filled the ways of life.
 
 George Lancaster. 
 
 245 
 
 George Lancaster. 
 
 EORGE Lancaster was born at North Ferriby, near Hull, 
 1846, but spent the greater part of his boyhood at Welton, 
 renowned for its beautiful scenery. He served an appren- 
 ticeship to the scholastic profession in Hull, and later 
 laboured for some years in an iron-merchant's office in the 
 same town. On the death of his employer he went to 
 Ontario, Canada, where in the public schools of Camp- 
 bellford and Bobcaygeon he took up his old occupation of 
 teaching. In 1879, he returned to England, and edited with great success 
 the satirical Hull Bellman. In the same year was published his first volume 
 of poetry, under the title of " Lays and Lyrics," which met with favourable 
 review. In 1883 he joined the literary staff of the Eastern Morning News. 
 In 1888, he issued a second volume of poems, " Legendsof Lowgate," which 
 has drawn the attention of the critical press. 
 
 George Lancaster is a school of poetry to himself. There is no living 
 writer to-day who gives looser rein to his fanciful pen, his erratic muse 
 often leading him into a wild fandango of comic nonsense-verse, and as 
 often into a rich maze of word-colouring that glows upon the imagination 
 like a bizarre but gloriously-colored arabesque. A great part of this effect 
 lies in his facility in rhyme. He seems to take a master's delight in 
 starting difficulties, merely to overcome them. He pitches upon some out- 
 of-the-way term, phrase, or name with which to finish his line, apparently 
 without a rhyme in the world of words to fit it and then comes jingle- 
 jangling up with an apt word that in the very unexpectedness of its sound 
 is a joke. Thus the ear is captivated, and though the composition from the 
 beginning may be devoid of seriousness or probability, we read it to the end 
 with pleasure. We may challenge his too constant want of dignity and 
 serious purpose, but his chief aim seems to be to provide popular fun. Yet it 
 must by no means be supposed that his scintillating brilliancy of word- 
 choice is his highest quality. The catching swing of his style, and the odd 
 use of the most florid expedients of poetic language, never shew to greater 
 advantage than when clothing a worthy subject ; and not a few of his poems 
 might be quoted in which the language, like a barbaric (nay, even sometimes 
 barbarous) gold setting, shews up a pure gem of poetry with a lustre that a 
 more conventional treatment would fail to equal. The poet often adopts 
 the terrible, but is true enough to life to mingle it with the ludicrous and 
 common. Thus we laugh with him at his introduction of the mystic, and 
 his trampling upon the artificial rules which divide the poetic from the 
 prosaic, yet, at the same time we cannot deny that his use of the weird, 
 much as we affect to despise it, has a due effect upon us. His " Terrible 
 Tale of a Tragedy," absurdly improbable, ludicrously framed, and packed 
 with impossible horrors as it is, affects us with sentiments that could, upon 
 ordinary considerations, only be inspired by the loftiest strain of the
 
 246 North Country Poets. 
 
 laureatic muse. Of course this is only to be fully explained by the curious 
 turn of the individuality of the poet ; but a partial reason is to be found in 
 the fact that some of his most gorgeous and eccentric pieces have the steel 
 core of a truth, a moral, or a sentiment. Often, too, the commonplaces of 
 life are scornfully dilated upon with repelling minuteness, when lo ! the 
 sunbeam of a poetic thought touches the dewy edge of some flower-petal of 
 poetry the burlesque wanes, and we acknowledge the poet. 
 
 Not a few of his compositions are in a pseudo old-English that gives 
 a kind of antique scumble to the effect. Even in strictly dialect pieces his 
 command of words is as remarkable as in thoss of more classic mould. 
 
 It is no detriment to Mr. Lancaster to say that a comic opera or, 
 failing that, a pantomime from him, would be intensely enjoyable, for his 
 muse shines in bouffe ; at the same time there is no subject, be it the 
 aspirations of a people, or the highest hopes and experiences of a soul, in 
 which his fertile genius has not power to point fresh views and re-impress 
 old truths. The following examples are taken from "Legends of Lowgate." 
 
 T. TlNDALL WlLDRIDGE. 
 
 HOW THE WIDOW'S GOOSE 
 CAME THERE. 
 
 'Twas a case which happened in court ; the prisoner's name Was 
 
 Ward. 
 She was charged with stealing a couple of geese from Mr. Hare's 
 
 farmyard. 
 
 There was a large and gaping crowd in the gallery's upper space, 
 And the magistrate cried, " Silence, there ! Now, farmer, state 
 
 your case." 
 ****** 
 
 " Well, your woshupp, it's not the fost time that I've been 
 
 robbed of geese, 
 I fed 'em for Christmas market, and they're worth twelve shillings 
 
 a-piece. 
 
 I counted 'em three times ower, and there was just fifty-one, 
 And then fost thing in the morning, I found that a couple had 
 
 gone. 
 There was feathers upon the pumpston, where the thief or thieves 
 
 had sat, 
 There was blood on the barnyard cobbles, and blood on the 
 
 staggarth yat,
 
 George Lancaster. 247 
 
 There was blood on the foadgarth causey, two hundred foot or 
 
 more, 
 And blood all up the village flags, right away to the prisoner's 
 
 door. 
 We found 'em in the prisoner's house, and then she'd the cheek 
 
 to say, 
 That the Lord had sent 'em to her, but she didn't know what 
 
 way. 
 I've heerd a deal o' canting talk, but that was a stroke ower 
 
 much, 
 And my missus said, ' I'll take my jerry if that doesn't beat the 
 
 Dutch.' " 
 
 ******* 
 " Well, never mind what your missus said, for that's no 
 
 evidence," 
 His worship growled, " and now let's hear the prisoner's defence." 
 
 ******* 
 " Well, your Worship, I'm a poor lone widow, a-washing early 
 
 and late, 
 
 To keep my two little children from out of the workus gate, 
 An the baby's very sickly, which they call him little Jim, 
 But Benny can eat pretty hearty, which there's nothing the 
 
 matter with him. 
 
 An I'll just tell you all about it, I'll keep back nothing at all, 
 An how it was that them two geese was hung on my pantry wall. 
 I'd been working extra hard that night, as I'll leave it to you to 
 
 say, 
 When I'd twenty-five white shirts in the starch, as was wanted 
 
 on Christmas day, 
 An everything seemed awkard like, for the irons did nothing but 
 
 stick, 
 
 An I was that put out o' patience, I wished 'em all to Old Nick. 
 An they just seemed to get more awkard, the more I seemed to 
 
 try, 
 Till at last I had to sit me down and have a real good cry.
 
 248 North Country Poets. 
 
 An then my poor little Benny, he makes no more to do, 
 
 But he said as he came to kiss me, ' Mammy, what's the matter 
 
 wiv oo ? 
 
 I'll pray for oo to Jesus, an I'll tell oo what I sail say, 
 I'll ask him to send oo a nice fat doose for dinner on Tissmus 
 
 day. 
 
 So don't try any more mammy, or else Jesus will be tross, 
 An I'll ask him to send oo a nice fat doose, an baby a nice big 
 
 hoss." 
 
 Well, I didn't take much notice then of what the poor laddie said, 
 But I kissed him and told him to say his prayers, and then he 
 
 might go to bed. 
 
 So he made no more to do, but he just knelt down at my knees, 
 An he says " Peas Jesus, send mammy a nice fat doose, do peas. 
 Mammy's trying all about pappa, but peas Jesus don't be tross, 
 An peas send mammy a nice fat doose, and baby a nice big hoss. 
 Pappa's dead and don to Heaven, tause Jesus sent him to 
 
 Heaven, 
 
 An baby's very poorly, an I'm tix and doin o' teven, 
 An mammy's trying for pappa, but peas Jesus don't be tross, 
 But peas send mammy a nice fat doose, and baby a nice big hoss. 
 An Jesus, oo needn't send me one, tause dat would be no use, 
 But if oo sends one to mammy, she'll dimnie a bit of her doose, 
 An peas make baby better, and I'm tix and doin o' teven. 
 An make Benny a dood boy, and take him to pappa in Heaven. 
 An mammy she can't help trying about pappa now an den. 
 But peas send mammy a nice fat doose, Jesus Trist sake, Amen." 
 
 Well, your Worship, I put him to bed as soon as he'd said his 
 
 prayers, 
 
 An then I began of my work again as soon as I came down stairs, 
 An it seemed to slip out o' me mind, and I gave it a thought no 
 
 more, 
 Till all of a sudden I was startled by a thundering knock at the 
 
 door.
 
 George Lancaster. 249 
 
 There wasn't a soul to be seen when I opened the door and 
 
 looked round, 
 But there, as dead as two door nails, were a couple of geese on 
 
 the ground. 
 
 I thought they'd been sent by Jesus in answer to poor little Ben, 
 So I fell on my bended knees, and I thanked Him there and then, 
 An that's the truth, your Worship. Me steal 'em? God forbid ! 
 For if Jesus didn't send 'em, I'm sure I don't know who did. 
 You can send me to jail, your worship, my conscience will be 
 
 clear, 
 The Lord knows I didn't steal 'em, so I don't feel any fear." 
 
 ****## 
 His Worship took a pinch of snuff, and kind o' shook his head, 
 And was just a-going to say, " Six Months," when a man in the 
 
 courthouse said : 
 
 * * * * * # * 
 
 If you'll just let me speak a word, your Worship, I think I can 
 
 throw some light 
 On this here case. I was out with a pal on a bit of a spree that 
 
 night. 
 
 We'd been up to farmer Barchard's, and he took out a bottle o' gin, 
 And presently after he took it out, we very soon took it in. 
 And then we'd a few drops o' rum, and lastly a noggin o' whisky, 
 And so when we started for home, we both felt a little bit frisky. 
 We were full of our pranks all the way, for the drink had got 
 
 into our heads, 
 And we knocked several parties up, that were safe and sound in 
 
 their beds, 
 And then when they put their heads out to see what we were 
 
 arter, 
 
 We laughed and pelted 'em well with handfuls of mud and water. 
 Then as we passed by the widow's, I heard a voice in the house, 
 And I stood at the window and listened, as still and as whisht as 
 
 a mouse, 
 
 When I heard a little lad praying, (Peas Jesus don't be tross, 
 But peas send mammy a nice fat doose and baby a nice big hoss.)
 
 250 North Country Poets. 
 
 So we thought it would be a good lark, to go to old farmer Hare's, 
 And sneak out one or two of his geese, to answer the wee laddie's 
 
 prayers. 
 And that's how they caine to be there, I'm willing to pay for 'em 
 
 double, 
 And all the costs as well, to get her out of her trouble." 
 
 His Worship said, " I'm bound to remark, my view of the case is 
 
 enlarged, 
 I'll attend to you by and bye, sir. Prisoner ! you are discharged." 
 
 MATILDA, YE PRYDE OF YE BELLE 
 TOWRE WALKE. 
 
 Oh, why is the Humber soe dysmal and browne, 
 
 As ytte flowes past ye harboures of Kyngstone old town ? 
 
 Oh, why doe yttes waters so ceaselessly sighe, 
 
 As they passe ye wide archbowes of Hesslegate bye ? 
 
 By gossipes of olde, 'tis a tale that is tolde, 
 
 Of a maiden so faire and a lover soe bolde ; 
 
 Of a maiden soe faire who was clycked from ye tyde, 
 
 Of a lover so bolde who despairingly dyed. 
 
 No peaches or blush-pynkes that growe on ye tree, 
 Were ever so blooming or viewlie as she ; 
 No columbine brantled soe proude on yttes stalke, 
 As Matilda, ye pryde of ye Belle Towre Walke. 
 
 So dimber her forme and so sparkysh her tongue, 
 She was praysed by ye olde and beloved by ye younge, 
 And alle were conceited to wende or toe talke 
 With Matilda ye pryde of ye Belle Towre Walke.
 
 George Lancaster. 251 
 
 They knew that her feyther, though granky and gruffe, 
 
 With plenty of housen, and acres, and stuffe, 
 
 Of kyth and of kyndred was left alle alone, 
 
 Save Matilda, on whom alle his wealth toe dispone. 
 
 Toe his daughter alone he was gentle and kinde. 
 Toe her and his drugshoppe he gave all his minde. 
 And there alle ye daie long he moggled and growled 
 Toe dower his daughter with sylver and golde. 
 
 Of suitors and gallants she drewe suche a crowde, 
 That Matilda with worshippe grew deynous and proude, 
 And she bade them toe live or condemned them toe die, 
 With a smile from her lyppes or a frowne from her eye. 
 
 One daie when she thwarted ye Humber's broad ponde, 
 Toe see her faire cousins in Barton beyonde, 
 Such a number of gallants went over toe ryde, 
 That ye ferrie-boate laboured and sagged in ye tyde. 
 
 Such sadde disappointmente amongst them that daie, 
 Her feyther was there, and he kept them at baie, 
 But she bade them to hope or condemned them to sighe, 
 With a smile from her lyppes or a frowne from her eye. 
 
 They had not gone far from ye Hesslegate syde, 
 When ye ferrie-boate loppered and lurched in ye tide, 
 And afore her weak feyther could catch her toe save, 
 Matilda was carried away bye ye wave. 
 
 Then gan alle ye gallants toe chitter and chelp, 
 Ye ranty olde feyther roared loudly for helpe, 
 " Whoever amongste you shall save her deare life, 
 Shall have halfe my fortune and her for a wife." 
 
 Up sprange Roger Grene. Not a moment to lose, 
 He dashed downe his bonnet and kycked off his shoes. 
 One leape from ye decke like a flashyt of light, 
 And after ye maiden he dived out of sighte.
 
 252 North Country Poets. 
 
 One stroke from his armes that were steady and brayve, 
 He has broughte her again to the toppe of ye wave. 
 " Yes, she breathes ! She is safe ! Eoger Grene my brave boie 
 You have won her for wife," shouts ye feyther with joie. 
 
 Not one of ye other feyn gallants coude swim, 
 
 With rage and with envie they gazed after him, 
 
 Till they saw his strong arme rounde her beautiful necke, 
 
 And watched him deposit her safelie on decke. 
 
 The gratefulle olde feyther moste joyfully cryed, 
 
 And kissed her pale cheekes as he knelt at her syde. 
 
 " Matilda ! My daughter ! I gave you for wife 
 
 Toe ye brayve Eoger Grene who has saved your deare life." 
 
 She looked up toe smile, while brayve Eoger stood bye 
 Toe see her revive and toe catche her replie. 
 He was brayve, but he hadde not much beauty or grace, 
 And ye dints of ye smallpoxxe were deep in his face. 
 
 " My feyther, I thank him for saving my life, 
 
 But you should not have promised to make me his wife. 
 
 My husband at leaste must be fitte to be seene, 
 
 And I never can marry with brayve Eoger Grene." 
 
 " Farewell then," cried Eoger, in accents of woe, 
 " Your heart is more colde than ye waters belowe. 
 Disdeyned by ye maiden I struggled toe save, 
 I'll come to your bridal from oute ye colde wave." 
 
 As he leapt in ye water and sank like a stone, 
 Great bubbles arose with a gurgling grone, 
 Blacke mud-cloudes rolled up like ye fogs of ye nighte, 
 And hid ye brayve Eoger for ever from sighte. 
 
 And ye waves which were clear as brayve Eoger wente downe, 
 Have ever since then risen dysnial and browne, 
 And 'tis said that ye waters still gurgle and sighe, 
 As they passe ye wide archbowes of Hesslegate bye.
 
 George Lancaster. 253 
 
 Matilda was wedded within a shorte spayce, 
 Toe a spruce-looking gallant of title and grace, 
 And there came to ye wedding feaste, soe it is said, 
 A figure of seeming most nauseous and dread. 
 
 His forme was alle dripping with slime and with ooze, 
 Black sea-serpentes crawled down his legges toe his shoes, 
 While aspicks and eeles of a horryble size 
 Crawled in atte his ears, and crawled oute atte his eyes. 
 
 Huge crayfishes stucke oute their homes from his cheste, 
 Grene seaweed grewe long on his hands and his breste, 
 And he cried from a mouthe of a cavernous mien, 
 " Disdeynful Matilda, beholde Eoger Grene." 
 
 Ye guests at ye wedding feaste fled with dismaie, 
 Matilda was borne shrieking loudlie awaie. 
 Ere morning pale deathe had despoyled her of charmes, 
 And ye bridegroome had clasped a dead bride in his armes. 
 
 They mayde her a grave in olde Trinitie's fayne, 
 And the dowlie olde feyther was smytten with payne 
 When his darling Matilda hadde left him alone, 
 So he tolde them toe carve her a statue of stone. 
 
 On cushions of marble her colde heade did reste, 
 With handes in a passion of prayre on her breste, 
 As if she woude pardone bye penitence winne, 
 For ye measurelesse depth of her pryde and her sinne. 
 
 And ofte when ye even was synking in gloome 
 He woude whymper and whine at ye syde of her toonibe, 
 And thinke that he sawe, in the statue's cold stayre, 
 A glympse of his daughter whoe once was soe faire.
 
 254 North Country Poets. 
 
 LINES SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY 
 ROBINSON CRUSOE. 
 
 Dear Nellie, I set sail to-morrow, 
 
 The world and its wonders to view, 
 But the bitterest drop in my sorrow 
 
 Is to think that I'm parting with you. 
 My heart is all yours, dearest Nell ; 
 
 And the last time we went to the Minster 
 I told you I mind it quite well 
 
 That you shouldn't be always a spinster. 
 
 My sweetheart ! my spouse I may call thee ; 
 
 I'll come back to claim thee my bride, 
 And if aught that is evil befall thee, 
 
 I'll lie in the grave at thy side. 
 E'en Death should not shatter our plight, 
 
 We would still be a bride and a groom ; 
 Our wedding should still be in white, 
 
 And our honeymoon down in the tomb. 
 
 Oh, why were such warring emotions 
 
 Implanted in one human heart ? 
 Such jarring and clashing devotions 
 
 As rend soul and body apart ? 
 With mingled delight and repining 
 
 My storm-beaten bosom is full, 
 And my heart is for ever declining 
 
 To stay with my body in Hull. 
 
 And why ? 'Tis no longer my own. 
 
 'Tis with thee wheresoever I haste ; 
 In the crowds of the busiest town, 
 
 In the depths of the solemnest waste, 
 In the forest primeval and savage, 
 
 In the uttermost isles of the sea, 
 Which the winds and the waters may ravage, 
 
 My heart will be ever with thee.
 
 George Lancaster. 255 
 
 And what shall I bring for thy bridal ? 
 
 The crown of an African Queen, 
 The spoils of an Indian idol, 
 
 Or pearls from the Bight of Benin ? 
 No ; scornful I know thou would'st toss 'em, 
 
 Far better I know what to bring 
 A wreath of the pure orange blossom, 
 
 A piece of pure gold for a ring. 
 
 When I gaze on the inflowing Humber, 
 
 As softly the Southend he laves, 
 I scarcely could tell you the number 
 
 Of kisses I cast on his waves. 
 O, Eiver, I charge thee, convey them 
 
 As far as the mouth of the Ouse, 
 And tell him to faithfully pay them 
 
 At York, to my desolate spouse. 
 
 My parents, I'm sorry to grieve 'em, 
 
 Their pressure was meant for the best, 
 It's rending my heartstrings to leave 'em, 
 
 But law is a trade I detest. 
 Do, Nellie, go down, there's a beauty 
 
 You know where they live up in Bootharn 
 And give 'em my love and my duty, 
 
 And say something gentle to soothe 'em. 
 
 I can't be a lawyer. The notion 
 
 Is simply abhorrent to me. 
 No ! give me a life on the ocean 
 
 Where I can be happy and free. 
 Old Ocean ! thy sunshiny ripples 
 
 To me are a depth of delight. 
 It is only a calling for cripples 
 
 To sit in an office and write.
 
 256 North Country Poets. 
 
 What ! be a professional liar ? 
 
 To plunder, to cheat, to beguile, 
 To make fees mount higher and higher, 
 
 To rob with respectable smile ; 
 To study fine speech and persuasion, 
 
 To screen wealthy rogues at a high rate, 
 To glory in trick and evasion ? 
 
 No ! rather a candid old pirate. 
 
 The wild goat skips round on the mountain, 
 
 The petrel flies out on the main, 
 The goldfish leaps up in the fountain, 
 
 The lion bounds over the plain, 
 The flocks feed in sweet-smelling valleys, 
 
 But where shall we look for the men ? 
 In dark-reeking cities and alleys, 
 
 With cash-book, and ledger, and pen. 
 
 I love all the brooks and the rivers 
 
 Because they go down to the sea. 
 Old Humber ! thy gates are the givers 
 
 Of freedom and glory to me. 
 Oh, bear me to climes where God's creatures 
 
 Have only God's law to obey, 
 With justice and truth for its features, 
 
 Without either fee or delay. 
 
 Last night I was dreaming a vision. 
 
 We dwelt on a beautiful isle, 
 And round us the landscape Elysian 
 
 Was spread in the sun's brightest smile. 
 Bare flowers in the forest were blushing, 
 
 Rich fruits bent the boughs on the trees, 
 And musical rivers were rushing 
 
 O'er coraline rocks to the seas.
 
 George Lancaster. 257 
 
 The mocking-bird sang in the myrtles, 
 
 The turtle dove coo'd on the palms, 
 And sea-swans were sporting with turtles, 
 
 Without any fears or alarms. 
 There were love-birds most sweet little lispers- 
 
 Each pluming and kissing his brother, 
 And butterflies carrying whispers 
 
 Of love from one rose to another. 
 
 Together we dwelt in a cottage 
 
 Embowered with creeper and vine ; 
 We gathered ripe fruits for our pottage, 
 
 And crushed the sweet grapes for our wine. 
 Our flocks in the valleys were bleating, 
 
 And Love was the crown of my life, 
 For graces and virtues were meeting 
 
 In thee as companion and wife. 
 
 Can Fate have such gifts in her giving ? 
 
 Or will she present me a stone ? 
 Perhaps I am doomed to be living 
 
 On such a fair island alone. 
 The summits of hope, as it seems, 
 
 Can seldom by mortals be mounted, 
 And Fate only grants us our dreams 
 
 With the best of the blessings discounted. 
 
 But my candle is sinking the gloom in, 
 
 The watchman is calling the hour, 
 And midnight is solemnly booming 
 
 From old Holy Trinity's tower. 
 He speaks like a prophet of sorrow, 
 
 Perhaps I may heed him too late. 
 Good-bye dearest Nellie. To-morrow 
 
 I go forth to wrestle with Fate.
 
 2 5 8 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 Rev. Robert W. Elliot, M.A. 
 
 HIS poet was born at Hull, the 26th day of February, 1829. 
 He was originally intended for the medical profession, 
 and indeed studied for that purpose two years, but after- 
 wards was led to change his plans. His bent was 
 towards the ministry of the Church of England, and with 
 a view of preparing for the important office placed himself 
 under the care of the Rev. J. E. Bromby, D.D., as tutor, 
 and subsequently under that of the Rev. C. H. Bromby, 
 D.D. These gentlemen were sons of the Rev. J. Bromby, for many 
 years the beloved and highly respected Vicar of Holy Trinity Church, 
 Hull. He became a member of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, and in 
 due course took the degree of B.A. in 1853, and that of M.A. in 1856. 
 
 In 1853 he married the eldest daughter of the late Captain 
 Roach, of Hull. In 1857 the Archbishop of York ordained him a deacon, 
 and appointed him in the same year to the curacy of Etton, near Beverley, 
 the Rev. Canon Musgrave, nephew of the Archbishop, at that time being 
 Rector. At the expiration of a little more than a year he was induced to 
 become assistant to the Rev. C. Hodgson, M.A., then District Secretary of 
 the Church Missionary Society in Yorkshire. It was intended that Mr. 
 Elliot should succeed Mr. Hodgson as Secretary, but he found the duties 
 of the office beyond his strength, and was compelled to relinquish the post. 
 After a year's work as Curate in Charge of the Parish of Sewerby, in 
 the East Riding of Yorkshire, he accepted the Curacy of St. Leonard's, 
 Malton. The Vicar, the Rev. G. P. Cordeux, M.A., resigned in 1863, 
 owing to ill health. So favourable was the impression made by Mr. Elliot 
 during his short curacy that on a petition being presented, signed by the 
 principal parishioners, the patron of the living, Earl Fitzwilliam, appointed 
 him as Mr. Cordeux's successor. Mr. Elliot is liberal in his views, but 
 has no sympathy with any extremes that have a tendency to nullify the 
 great work of the Reformation. 
 
 In literary matters Mr. Elliot very early tried his apprentice hand. 
 His first effort was sent to the Family Herald, and he had the 
 pleasure of finding his "Flowers enigmatically expressed" inserted 
 in the next number of that paper. His pen has been active ever 
 since. In 1851-5, at the suggestion of the editor of the Hull Advertiser, Mr. 
 Collins, he wrote a series of articles on popular subjects, which attracted 
 the attention and received the approbation of Mr. James Clay, M.P. for 
 Hull. Mr. Elliot was a contributor to the Hull Packet for two years ; and 
 when the idea of a Free Library in the town was first mooted he wrote 
 the leading article which appeared in that paper after the first meeting. 
 Contributions from his pen were also frequently to be found in Xotes and 
 Queries.
 
 Rev. Robert W. Elliot, M.A. 259 
 
 In 1854 he published a volume of " Sonnets on Various Subjects," 
 which was very favourably received by the press ; also, in the same year, 
 appeared the " Battle of Inkermann," the first edition being sold on the day of 
 issue, as well as an " Ode on the Queen's Visit to Hull." " A Day's Reverie 
 in Westminster Abbey," published in 1859, in " Titan," was very favourably 
 noticed by the press. Much poetry and prose by Mr. Elliot has from time 
 to time appeared in London Society, Hull Christmas Annual, Shipwrecked 
 Mariners 1 Magazine, Athenaum, Illustrated London News, Bristol Times, the 
 leading Yorkshire newspapers, and numerous periodicals. He has also 
 printed in the Malton Gazette a series of articles headed " Antiquarian 
 Notes and Foot Notes," dealing with such subjects as " Lantern Towers," 
 "Curious Bequests," "Fortified Churches," "Briefs," "Place-Names." 
 " Fairs," " Markets," " Chantries," and " Church Ales." In the same 
 paper he has issued, with a running comment on all important facts, the 
 most interesting entries in the Parish Registers of St. Leonard's, Malton, 
 and Norton. 
 
 As Vicar of the parish of St. Leonard's for 25 years, by the faithful 
 discharge of his ministerial duties and his willingness to assist in other 
 departments of public life, he has endeared himself to the people of Malton. 
 As Chairman of the Debating Club connected with the Literary Institute, 
 Vice-President of the Malton Field Naturalists' Society, and in other ways, 
 he has exerted himself to advance the intellectual and scientific culture of 
 the rising generation in this pleasant Yorkshire town. 
 
 JOHN H. LEOGOTT. 
 
 THE OPENING OF THE BELLS OF HOLY 
 TRINITY CHURCH, HULL, A.D. 1727. 
 
 The roses were red in the gardens of summer, 
 That gladden the valleys old Yorkshire enfolds, 
 
 The brooks and the woodlands were joyful with music, 
 The harvest was ripening afar on the wolds. 
 
 Softly the breeze o'er the Humber's wave winging, 
 Breathed with sea breath over steeple and street, 
 
 High in blue heaven the sky-lark was soaring, 
 Morning's first sun-smile with worship to greet. 
 
 Vessels with white sails were thronging the river, 
 Freighted with goods from all parts of the world, 
 
 Swiftly and gaily approaching the harbour, 
 Each with the flag of its nation unfurled.
 
 260 North Country Poets. 
 
 All through the town eyes were turned to the steeple, 
 Lifted in grandeur o'er God's House on high, 
 
 Hitherto silent in gloom and in sunshine, 
 
 Soon with sweet music to peal through the sky. 
 
 Shrined 'neath its battlements, olden and fretted, 
 
 Hung the eight bells, all awaiting the time 
 When sturdy hands in quick order should raise them, 
 To speak to the world with their voices sublime. 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 At length the longed-for moment came, 
 And forth they burst with wild acclaim : 
 Forth they went through the windows wide, 
 Over the Humber's flowing tide ; 
 Forth they went over mart and street 
 Alive with cheers and throng'd with feet ; 
 Forth they went over stately hall, 
 Sacred fane and cottage small ; 
 Forth they went over gardens fair, 
 Bright with blossoms sweet and rare ; 
 Forth they went over fort and tower, 
 Lofty tree and trellised bower ; 
 Forth they went to the distant fields, 
 Rich in grain the harvest yields ; 
 Forth they went over scenes of joy, 
 And others dark with grief's alloy ; 
 Forth they went till the stars shone bright, 
 And pierced the silent gloom of night ; 
 A glorious choir, they their anthem sung, 
 Their birth-day anthem and it flung 
 To the breezes, to tell to young and old 
 The truths their sounding tones unfold 
 Of the joys and griefs that all hearts feel, 
 As men's lives pass through woe or weal, 
 Seeking through sunshine or sorrow's gloom, 
 Their way to peace beyond the tomb.
 
 Rev. Robert W. Elliot, MA. 261 
 
 THE ROYAL ACADEMY, 1885. 
 
 " When the Children are Asleep." Thos. Faed, R.A. 
 
 Two lovely babes lie wrapt in sleep's repose, 
 With golden hair across their foreheads thrown, 
 Their cheeks are sweet as roses newly blown, 
 
 And their small hands as white as Alpine snows. 
 
 No cares of life as yet have touched their hearts, 
 No tears of grief have diuiuied their soft blue eyes, 
 Their dreams are bright as cloudless summer skies, 
 
 And joy to them its purest bliss imparts. 
 
 Hushed silence reigns beside their little bed, 
 The kitten rests in sleep from playful mirth, 
 The faggots brightly burn upon the hearth, 
 
 And light with gleams the rafters overhead. 
 
 The Highland mother, knitting, watches near, 
 
 Oft glances, listening, towards the rude latched door, 
 For her babes' father, coming o'er the moor 
 
 Through storm of blast and snow, with anxious fear. 
 
 A DARK DAY. 
 
 Downy seeds of thistles drifting lay like snow flakes on the moor, 
 With a wild and solemn music moaned the wind against the door ; 
 From the shieling's thatch dripped noiselessly the lush abundant 
 
 rain, 
 Bright and greenly in the sunset's gleam came out each lichen stain. 
 
 Long we watched the taper glimmer from the sorrow darkened room, 
 Till the stars shone out above us and it faded in the gloom, 
 Till the blossom of the furzes lighted not the scene around, 
 And the night in robes of sables clad the dreary waste of ground.
 
 262 North Country Poets. 
 
 Soon the storm passed into silence, and all things of life were still, 
 Save the utterance, never ceasing, of the spring-fed moorland rill ; 
 As we trod with silent voices, thinking thoughts we could not say 
 Of the dark and fearful sorrow that had marred a bridal day. 
 
 Oh ! the joy-smiles of the morning. Oh ! how bright the festive 
 
 scene ; 
 
 Oh ! how fair and sweet the maiden in her dress as white as sheen ; 
 Oh ! the blush of hidden feelings warmly burning in her cheek ; 
 Oh ! the glances rich in meaning words were powerless to speak. 
 
 But alas ! the happy bridegroom scarcely kissed her as his bride, 
 Ere death's cold, destructive finger touched her life-blood's flowing 
 
 tide ; 
 
 And her head lay on his bosom, as she dying breathed farewell ; 
 And the marriage peal ceased ringing, to give place to passing bell !
 
 Mrs. Susan K. Phillips. 
 
 263 
 
 Mrs. Susan K. Phillips. 
 
 ;_-^3|MONGST Yorkshire's long roll of famous singers, Mrs. 
 %*/V I Susan K. Phillips takes high rank. She was born in 
 1831 at Aldborough, near Boroughbridge, of which place 
 her father, the Rev. George Kelly Holdsworth, was Vicar. 
 In 1865, nine years after her marriage with Mr. Henry 
 Wyndham Phillips, the artist, she published her first 
 volume of poems under the title of " Verses and Ballads," 
 which was followed in 1870 and 1878 respectively by 
 "Yorkshire Songs and Ballads" and "On the Seaboard," and still later 
 by " Told in a Coble " (1884). Mrs. Phillips has contributed to several of 
 the leading magazines, such as Macmillan, Belgravia, Time, All the Year 
 Hound, Tiiisley's, Cassells', &c. Many of her verses, in fact most of them, deal 
 with various incidents in the lives of the sea coast people of Yorkshire. At 
 Whitby she is well-known and highly respected by the rough but kindly- 
 hearted fishermen, to whom she has been a friend during the dark days 
 of suffering and hardship which not unfrequently fall to their lot. The 
 pathos and mystery of the sea has been the theme of poets for long ages. 
 Its vastness and loneliness, and the dread sense of mighty uncontrollable 
 power, have affected the character of those who live on its bosom and watch 
 by its shores. To them the sound of the sea in calm weather is not as the 
 ripple of a child, but rather as the purring of a crouching tiger. This is 
 how Mrs. Phillips in her poem " On the Seaboard," describes this 
 
 influence :- - 
 
 We live our lives, who on the seaboard dwell, 
 Li-res face to face with peril, death and heaven ; 
 The strong sad sea in its eternal swell 
 Something of strong sad fellowship has given ; 
 Stern as its tempest, solemn as its roar, 
 Keen, true and frank as sunlight on its breast, 
 Its signet stamps their souls, who on the shore 
 Dare, love, and labour ; die, and sleep in rest. 
 
 In the short and simple annals of the poor, Mrs. Phillips has found a 
 worthy theme, which is made all the finer by the grace and power of her 
 verses. Tales of heroic deeds, done by obscure men in the darkness and 
 storm of winter nights, are told with a simple force and directness which 
 enchant the reader. Not once, but many times, have brave fishermen 
 given to their comrades the oar or buoy on which depended their only 
 chance of salvation amongst the roaring breakers. Such a story is enshrined 
 in the poem "Me and My Mate." The announcement of such and such 
 a ship being lost with all hands is not an unfrequent one in the newspapers. 
 To realise the awful meaning of such a paragraph to the wives and friends 
 of those who go down to the sea in ships, Mrs. Phillips's fine poem entitled, 
 " Lost with all hands," will help many a sympathetic reader. 
 
 It is, however, not always of the sea folk that Mrs. Phillips sings.
 
 264 North Country Poets. 
 
 Her sympathies are wide enough to embrace human life in many 
 states. It is generally the human interest that attracts her attention, 
 whatever may be the subject of her poems. The breezy moor, the 
 glittering sunlight, the restless ocean, are all subservient in her 
 work to the sympathy and feeling which illuminate the incidents of 
 every day life from year to year. "Two" is the title of a poem full of 
 pathos showing the beginning and ending of two lives in different circum- 
 stances. One was reared in luxury and wealth, the other in squalor and 
 poverty. The contrast is a sorrowful one, and full of pity. Truly " the 
 riddle is hard to read " the smooth verses tell us, but without any 
 unnecessary bitterness. In " The Buried Chime," whose cadences ripple 
 like a peal of far-off bells, Mrs. Phillips tells the story of a local tradition 
 relating to the loss of the bells intended for the Abbey of St. Hilda, a 
 famous North Country Shrine in the Middle Ages, the ruins of which now 
 crown the Head overlooking Whitby Bay. When first published in one 
 of the magazines some years ago, it was spoken of in terms of the highest 
 praise by lovers of musical rhythm, and it was copied very extensively into 
 newspapers and journals of the period. 
 
 All Mrs. Phillips' verses are characterized by a perfect finish, as if the 
 lines had been touched and retouched until they shone like jewels. They 
 have thus an interest for the student of literature, as well as appealing to 
 the larger class who are touched by her tender and delicate delineations of 
 life and character, and her setting of many a beautiful story and legend old. 
 
 ANDREW GKEAME. 
 
 THE BURIED CHIME. 
 
 Under the cliffs at Whitby, when the great tides landward flow, 
 Under the cliffs at Whitby, when the great winds landward 
 blow, 
 
 When the long billows heavily roll o'er the harbour bar, 
 And the blue waves flash to silver 'uiid the seaweeds on the 
 Scar, 
 
 When the loud thunder of the surf calls down the hollow shore, 
 And 'mid the caves at Kettleness, the baffled breakers roar ; 
 
 Under the cliffs at Whitby, who so will stand alone, 
 Where in the shadow of the Nab the eddies swirl and moan, 
 
 When to the pulses of the deep, the flood-tide rising swells, 
 Will hear amid its monotone, the clash of hidden bells.
 
 Mrs. S^lsan K. Phillips. 265 
 
 Up from the heart of ocean the mellow music peals, 
 Where the sunlight makes his golden path, and the sea-mew 
 flits and wheels. 
 
 For many a chequered century, untired by flying time, 
 The bells, no human fingers touch, have rung their hidden 
 chime, 
 
 Since the gallant ship that brought them, for the abbey on the 
 
 height, 
 Struck and foundered in the offing, with her sacred goal in 
 
 sight. 
 
 And the man who dares on Hallowe'en on the black Nab to 
 
 watch, 
 Till the rose-light on St. Hilda's shrine the midnight moonbeams 
 
 catch, 
 
 And calls his sweetheart by her name, as o'er the sleeping seas, 
 The echo of the buried bells comes floating on the breeze, 
 
 Ere another moon on Hallowe'en her eerie rays has shed, 
 "Will hear his wedding peal ring out from the church-tower on 
 the Head. 
 
 ME AND MY MATE. 
 
 A WHIXBY SXOKY. 
 
 Mates ? ay, we've been mates together 
 These three-score years and more : 
 
 Lord, how we used to lake and cuff 
 In't caves down there on t'shore ! 
 
 Will, he were as bad as orphaned, 
 His father were drowned at sea, 
 
 And his mother, poor fond dateless soul, 
 Could do naught with such as he.
 
 266 North Country Poets. 
 
 So my father, as were a kindly man, 
 Though slow in his speech and stern, 
 
 Sent us both off to the whalery, 
 Our bit and sup to earn. 
 
 And we were mates in the cold and the toil, 
 
 And mates o'er the cheery glass, 
 Till we parted, as better men have done, 
 
 For we'd words about a lass. 
 
 Poor Nance ! her red lips and bright blue eyes, 
 And her smiles for one and another, 
 
 I wot those pretty ways of hers 
 
 Came betwixt us, friend and brother. 
 
 And she wouldn't have neither him nor me, 
 
 But took up with an inland chap, 
 As daren't step in a boat nor haul a rope ; 
 
 But he'd brass we hadn't a rap. 
 
 Still, for all we heard her wedding-bells, 
 
 Changed blows are bitter coin : 
 We're hard to part, we Yorkshire folk, 
 
 But we're harder yet to join. 
 
 Well, it were dree work to meet on t' pier, 
 
 Nor once " Well, mate " to say ; 
 And one to start with the lifeboat crew, 
 
 And the other to turn away. 
 
 To go alone for the Sunday walk, 
 
 To smoke one's pipe alone ; 
 For while we shunn'd each other like, 
 
 We'd go with never a one. 
 
 Only when the herring got agate, 
 
 And the lobster pots were set, 
 We were partners in the Nance, you see, 
 
 So we went together yet.
 
 Mrs. Susan K. Phillips. 267 
 
 Together, but never a word we spoke ; 
 
 Out on the dancing waves, 
 Under sunlight, or moonlight, or great white stars, 
 
 As silent as men in their graves. 
 
 I tell you, we've sate as sullen as aught, 
 
 One at t' sheet and one at t' helm, 
 Till the very ripples seemed to call, 
 
 " Shame ! shame ! " in the sound of them. 
 
 Silent we pulled the fish aboard, 
 
 Silent we turned her head, 
 And steered her home, and leaped ashore, 
 
 And never a word we said. 
 
 The very bairns stood back afeard, 
 
 As we came glooming in ; 
 And ever and aye I knew my heart 
 
 Grew heavier in its sin. 
 
 One day the sky showed coarse and wild; 
 
 And the wind kept shifting like, 
 As a man that has planned a murder, 
 
 And doesn't know where to strike. 
 
 " Best stay ashore and leave the pots, 
 
 There's mischief brewing there ; " 
 So spoke old Sam as could read the clouds ; 
 
 But I had an oath to swear. 
 
 And I muttered : " Cowards might bide at home," 
 
 As I glanced at Will the while ; 
 And he swung himself aboard the Nance, 
 
 With one queer quiet smile. 
 
 Out ran the rope up went the sail 
 
 She shot across the bar, 
 And flew like a bird right through the surf, 
 
 As was whitening all the Scar.
 
 268 North Country Poets. 
 
 We reached the pots, and Will stretched out 
 
 To draw the bladder near ; 
 I looked astern, and there well-nigh broke 
 
 From my lips a cry of fear. 
 
 For, flying over the crested wave, 
 
 Terrible, swift, and black, 
 I saw the squall come sweeping on ; 
 
 All round us closed the wrack. 
 
 The boat heeled over to the blast, 
 
 The thunder filled the air, 
 Great seas came crashing over us ; 
 
 Scarce time to think a prayer. 
 
 But 'mid the foam that blinded us, 
 
 And the turmoil of the sea, 
 I saw Will seize the bladder up 
 
 And heave it right to me. 
 
 Can you understand, you landsmen ? 
 
 It was all the chance he had ; 
 Ay, thou mayst growl thy fill out there, 
 
 But I'll tell the truth, old lad ! 
 
 It was all the chance he'd got, I say, 
 
 And he gave it to his mate ; 
 I'd one hand on it, and one in his hair, 
 
 When they found us, nigh too late. 
 
 For Sam had sent the lifeboat out, 
 And they pulled us both aboard ; 
 
 There was not a plank of the Nance afloat ; 
 But I've got that bladder stored. 
 
 And whenever I'm vext, or things go wrong, 
 
 If Will should not be nigh, 
 I light my pipe, and sit nigh hand 
 
 Where it hangs there safe and dry.
 
 Mrs. Susan K. Phillips. 269 
 
 And I know through good and evil, 
 
 We are mates on to the end ; 
 For the Book says there is no greater love 
 
 Than to give one's life for one's friend. 
 
 TWO. 
 
 In the bitter gloom of a winter's morn 
 
 A babe was born. 
 
 The snow piled high against wall and door, 
 
 On the mighty oak boughs, the frost lay hoar ; 
 
 But warmth and light shrined the happy face, 
 
 Softly pillowed mid down and lace. 
 
 The bells clashed out from the reeling spire, 
 
 The night was reddened by many a fire ; 
 
 The cottage smiled for the joy of the hall, 
 
 As the poor man answered the rich man's call, 
 
 And his lot for a day was less forlorn, 
 
 Because a little child was born. 
 
 In the bitter gloom of a winter's morn 
 
 A babe was born. 
 
 The snow piled high in the narrow street 
 
 Trodden and stained by hurrying feet ; 
 
 On the hearth the embers lay cold and dead, 
 
 And the woman who crouched on the damp straw bed 
 
 Muttered a curse as the drunken sport 
 
 Swelled up to her lair from the crowded court ; 
 
 Eiot without and squalor within 
 
 To welcome a waif to a world of sin, 
 
 And a pitiful life was the more forlorn 
 
 Because a little child was born. 
 
 In a smiling home amid sun and flowers 
 A child grew up.
 
 270 North Country Poets. 
 
 Cahn, and beauty, and culture, and wealth, 
 
 To give power to life and grace to health ; 
 
 Gentle influence, thought, and care, 
 
 To train the darling of love and prayer. 
 
 The stately heirlooms of place and blood, 
 
 To crown the flower of maidenhood ; 
 
 With childhood's pearly innocence kept 
 
 On the folded leaves where the sunshine slept ; 
 
 So sweetly and richly foamed the cup 
 
 Life held, where the happy girl grew up. 
 
 Where " home " was a vague and empty word 
 
 A child grew up. 
 
 Where oath and blow were the only law 
 
 And ugly misery all she saw ; 
 
 Where want and sin drew hand in hand 
 
 Bound the haunts that disgrace our Christian land 
 
 A loveless, hopeless, joyless life 
 
 Of crime and wretchedness, struggle and strife ; 
 
 Never a glimpse of the sweet spring skies 
 
 To soften the flash in the wild young eyes ; 
 
 No drop of peace in the poisoned cup 
 
 Life held, where the reckless girl grew up. 
 
 On a summer eve as the slow sun set 
 A woman died. 
 
 At the close of a long and tranquil life, 
 Honoured and guarded, mother and wife, 
 With gentle hands whose work was done, 
 And gentle head whose crown was won ; 
 With children's children at her knee 
 And friends who watched her reverently : 
 Knowing her memory would remain 
 Treasured by grief, that scarce was pain, 
 With her heart's dearest at her side, 
 Blessing and blessed, the woman died.
 
 Mrs. Susan K. Phillips. 
 
 271 
 
 On a summer eve as the slow sun set 
 A woman died. 
 
 She had fought the failing fight so long, 
 But time was cruel and hard and strong ; 
 Without a faith, without a prayer, 
 With none to aid and none to care ; 
 With not a trace upon the page, 
 From desperate youth to loathsome age, 
 But sin and sorrow, wrong and chance, 
 And bitter blank of ignorance ; 
 With not a hand to help or save, 
 With not a hope beyond the grave, 
 Tossed in the black stream's rushing tide 
 Unrnourned, unmissed, the woman died. 
 
 And, we are all akin, runs the kindly creed ; 
 And the riddle of life is hard to read !
 
 272 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 Aaron Watson. 
 
 POET, in this utilitarian age, must needs prove his raison 
 d'etre. John Ruskin, himself an ardent lover of poetry, 
 as of everything else that is ideal and refining in influence, 
 confesses as much in one of his letters. " Now, not only," 
 he writes, " is this proverbially an age in which poetry is 
 little cared for ; but even with those who have most love 
 for it, and most need of it, it requires, especially if high 
 and philosophical, an attuned, quiet, and exalted frame 
 of mind for its enjoyment ; and if dragged into the midst of the noisy 
 interests of everyday life, may easily be made ridiculous or offensive." It 
 is, however, to idyllic and philosophical poetry that the great critic especially 
 refers. The effect of a quotation from Wordsworth delivered " on Change " 
 would be grotesque and absurd. Nevertheless, poetry of action and of 
 labour is eminently suited to the present time. We require to have held 
 up before us, for our example and encouragement, the heroisms of the 
 common-place the ideals of work-a-day life. And it is just for this reason 
 that such work as that of Mr. Aaron Watson is entirely acceptable. He is, 
 before all, a poet of the people. Invariably through the rhythm of his 
 verse comes a soul-stirring sound the sound of the heart throbs of humanity. 
 His are songs of struggle, of work, or of endurance ; of passionate outcry 
 against oppression and wrong ; of bitter mockery of whatever in our social 
 system is false, hollow and insincere ; of deep and tender sympathy with 
 the victims of these same falsities and insincerities, of keen recognition of 
 the pathos of uncomplaining endurance. 
 
 No small personal aim or grievance appears to cripple his muse. 
 Healthy in tone and in design, his poems and ballads form a refreshing con- 
 trast to the generality of those of our modern writers of verse who seem to 
 fancy that to be morbid is to be poetic. We feel grateful to Mr. Watson in 
 that he has avoided this, alas, too common disease of morbidity ; and only 
 regret that the claims of a busy life do not allow him sufficient leisure to 
 produce more work of a like sort. We are glad, however, to learn that he 
 has been engaged upon a subject, for which his talents and scholarly 
 attainments render him eminently fitted. The romance, we allude to, is 
 to deal with circumstances connected with the commencement of the reign 
 of James I., being a narrative of the last voyage of Sir Walter Ealeigh and 
 a search by some of his crew for the golden city of Manoa. 
 
 Mr. Watson is a native of Fritchley, in Derbyshire. While residing in 
 Manchester, whither he went at an early age to push his fortunes, he 
 became a contributor to the press, both in London and in Manchester itself. 
 Encouraged by the success of his first efforts, he next proceeded to 
 Newcastle-upon-Tyne, where, after a newspaper venture of his own, he was 
 appointed assistant editor of the Newcastle Weekly Chronicle. Four years
 
 Aaron Watson. 273 
 
 later, he joined the staff of the Newcastle Daily Chronicle as leader-writer 
 and special correspondent. After being engaged upon these two papers some 
 considerable period, he resigned, and the editor and staff showed their 
 appreciation of the value of his services by entertaining him with a farewell 
 banquet, and presenting him with a testimonial of the regard in which he 
 was held. 
 
 In London, whither he went in 1882, his success was speedily attained. 
 By a stroke of rare good fortune, his first article in the Pall Mall Gazette 
 at that time under the able editorship of Mr. John Morley chanced to 
 be made the subject of question in the House, and attracted thereby con- 
 siderable attention ; while a subsequent one, dealing with the treatment of 
 our invalided soldiers from Egypt, was the primary cause of a much needed 
 Commission of Inquiry upon the subject. His work then found a ready 
 market, and he contributed at this time to a great many of the leading papers 
 and magazines. He was appointed editor of the London Eclio in 1884, and 
 himself founded the Weekly Echo, which he succeeded in making a popular 
 journal for the people by dint of judicious management and much bright 
 writing of his own. Nothing seems to come amiss to his facile pen ; and 
 his style has won for it the commendation of many leaders of literature. 
 And now again, Mr. Watson is a resident in the North, living at Tynemouth, 
 where the ruins of one of our most famous Priories look out over the 
 North Sea. 
 
 LILLIAS WASSEBMANN. 
 
 BY THE NORTHERN SEA. 
 
 A Conversation. 
 
 We strolled beside the margin of the sea, 
 
 Ransome and I, a mile or so from where 
 
 My cottage nestled 'mid its shadowing trees 
 
 And roses bloom'd within my garden ground. 
 
 A little, snug, sweet, solitary place ; 
 
 No neighbours but the distant fisher-folk, 
 
 No visitors but sea-gulls, starlings, tern, 
 
 A thrush sometimes, and once an eagle strayed 
 
 From some far northern eyrie, broken-winged, 
 
 Heart-broken too, and very near to death. 
 
 I marked with red ink in my calendar 
 The day when Rausome carne ; and yet it seemed 
 That he was like my eagle, broken-winged, 
 And sick at heart, and with no strength for flight,
 
 274 North Country Poets. 
 
 And wearied past all hope, desire, or care. 
 
 " We laugh at you," he said ; and with the words 
 There came the shadow of his former smile ; 
 " We laugh at you that you are hidden here, 
 'Twixt desolate landscape and deserted sea ; 
 You, who have breasted with such strength of limb 
 The mighty surges of our city life, 
 And kept your head above the breaking waves 
 So many drown in. Come, what secret now, 
 What mystery of mysteries keeps you here ? " 
 
 " I love the sea, the sands, the dunes," I said, 
 " The storms of winter, and the summer calm, 
 The midnight sky above the lifting waves 
 The gleaming gems that stud Orion's belt, 
 And pallid glitter of his mighty sword." 
 
 " All which evades my question," he replied, 
 " Not being earnest. Let the secret out." 
 
 " I have my purpose, doubtless : that may be 
 To fashion ballades, rondeaus, villanelles, 
 Toys, playthings, in which artful use of words 
 Makes up for lack of thoughts ; for words, you know, 
 Are numerous in ' Webster ; ' thoughts are few." 
 
 " A truce to jesting," Eansome said. " For me, 
 I have no further use for ' purposes ; ' 
 We're friends no longer, having said farewell 
 This year or two, nor met to change our minds." 
 
 Here was strange news ; for Eansome, long ago, 
 When we were youths together he bright- souled, 
 Fresh, eager, buoyant, I less light of wing 
 Had been compact of purpose, and resolved, 
 In the knight-errant spirit, to subdue 
 The world to order, and to right all wrongs. 
 
 " 'Twere well," I said, " that I should question you. 
 What bee has stung you ; or what venomed asp 
 Has spread its numbing poison through your blood ? 
 You still have what the world calls youth, and fame
 
 Aaron Watson. 275 
 
 Has scarcely shunned you. As for wealth, we two 
 May pride ourselves we have the strength to earn. 
 Your purposes were noble : have you found 
 The task too heavy ? " 
 
 " There you hit the blot," 
 Ransome replied. " At most I am but one 
 Against the world. I toiled, indeed, and strove 
 As Paul strove with the beasts at Ephesus, 
 But now at last my strength has given out. 
 The mass of human misery is too great 
 For one to rear himself against the tide 
 And say, ' Go thou no further.' One, indeed ! 
 Nothing at all is left that one can do ; 
 And now-a-days a man must sit apart, 
 Twiddle his thumbs if he be dull of soul, 
 Or eat his heart up, if that heart can feel." 
 
 " 'Tis a sad doctrine, truly, that you teach," 
 I said, and looked within his orb-like eyes ; 
 " And 'tis a mercy that it is not true. 
 Why, even I, beside this lonely sea, 
 Amid this solitude at which you rail, 
 Live in good hope to do some true deed yet, 
 And help the world somewhat before I die. 
 Meanwhile I dig my little garden plot, 
 And tend my roses, till my path is clear. 
 Have you no garden ? Nay, I do not mean 
 A few square yards of soil, hedged round with thorn 
 And with a tree or two to lend you shade. 
 No minor duty that lies near to you ? 
 No smaller purpose that, while great ones wait, 
 May best be served by humble industry ? " 
 
 " All purpose, great and small, leads to one end, 
 Which is the gradual breaking of the heart." 
 So Ransome said, despondent. " Nothing thrives. 
 One only sees one's patient effort die." 
 
 " I have my thoughts on dying," I replied.
 
 276 North Country Poets. 
 
 " Death seems to me the vastest sham of all, 
 The one great imposition on our kind. 
 No effort, howsoever small and poor, 
 Ever died yet, if it deserved to live. 
 Look you, I throw this stone into the sea ; 
 The waves absorb it ; on the ocean floor 
 It lies with other ancients of its kind ; 
 But yonder ripple in the silvery calm 
 Makes all the world of waters tremulous- 
 Aye, down as deep as to the Kraken's bed. 
 How know I on what shores that ripple breaks, 
 On rock-strewn coasts, or cliffs, or populous sands, 
 Or fairy islands garlanded with flowers ? 
 These are the secrets that we need not know. 
 Enough to know is, what is done is done, 
 And what is done is done beyond recall. 
 
 No effort dies nor fails " 
 
 " Hold there, my friend, 
 
 Said Kansome. " That's the old familiar stuff 
 We learned as boys How many years ago ? 
 Your ripple is already out of sight : 
 'Twas imperceptible e'en while you talked. 
 It proves my argument, but shatters yours. 
 "Why, that's what man can do, nor more nor less 
 Just throw a stone into the heedless sea." 
 
 " You feel, but do not reason," I replied. 
 "You ask for the effect to follow cause 
 Too soon and visibly. 'Twere well to .wait. 
 The pears upon my trees are still but green, 
 But they will ripen in the summer sun. 
 Our vanity would do all things at once ; 
 God takes his time, and puts us all to shame. 
 I am for trust, for working with a will, 
 And waiting long to see what comes of it. 
 We can but do our part the doctrine's old, 
 Just as you say ! We can but do our part,
 
 Aaron Watson. 277 
 
 Perform the little duties or the great 
 Just as they come in order. For a deed 
 Well, I, like you, should like to do a deed 
 That men would speak of, and, not only that, 
 That men would profit by. We cannot tell ; 
 Often we needs must grope within the dark. 
 God lights us when he needs us. Patience, then ; 
 Have patience, cherish hope, and keep alive 
 The glow-worm faith, to shine until the dawn ! " 
 
 The sunny ripple broke about our feet, 
 And pools of brine held little bits of sky, 
 And wo went homeward o'er the purple sands. 
 
 PICTURES. 
 
 Night on the Thames, and yonder flush of light, 
 Centred above the purple mass of gloom, 
 Throbs over London. Silent as the tomb 
 
 The river seems, and is deserted quite, 
 
 Save where, far off, almost from reach of sight, 
 A boat creeps forward, so that I discern 
 A single figure crouching at the stern, 
 
 Dark as a shadow, still as is the night. 
 
 By either shore pillars of tremulous flame 
 Gleam in the lifting waters everywhere, 
 
 Eeflected from the endless lamps that sweep 
 
 Curving to that vast city. Ah, there came 
 A sound like to a sob borne on the air, 
 The moan of London in its restless sleep. 
 
 A little town surrounding a sweet bay, 
 
 With jutting headlands, under which the sea, 
 Unvexed by any breeze, stirs dreamily ; 
 
 Eed sails of fishing boats out far away ;
 
 278 North Country Poets. 
 
 A sky from which the light of a June day 
 Floods all the waters ; landward a few trees, 
 With heath and fern and bracken to ihe knees 
 
 Of one who strolls there, careless of his way. 
 
 A dainty picture, whether sea or land 
 
 One's eyes are fixed on ! There, the country sweet ; 
 And here the placid, slowly-swooning waves, 
 
 The brown-tiled houses nestling to the strand, 
 
 The blue smoke shimmering upwards, the one street, 
 And yonder churchyard, with its mossy graves. 
 
 IN A GARRET BRED." 
 
 You see that little chap on crutches there 
 Him with the bare head and the yellow hair 
 Well, that's my boy, the only child I've got ; 
 The last that's living out of all the lot ! 
 He isn't much to give a father pride ! 
 Well, perhaps he's not, but if that boy had died, 
 Sure as I stand, I should have lost my wife, 
 And all the comfort would have left iny life. 
 
 You smile because I speak of comfort, sir ; 
 There isn't much 'bout which to make a stir : 
 A room there at the top, two chairs, a bed, 
 And a patched, broken, cranky roof o'erhead 
 That's all I've got to boast of ; and to pay 
 For that comes hard, on fifteenpence a day. 
 'Twas of the roof that I was going to speak. 
 The boy there, who is crippled, thin, and weak, 
 And always ailing, has but just got out 
 After a long and almost killing bout.
 
 Aaron Watson. 279 
 
 Poor lad, he's always had to fight for breath, 
 Always seemed far less meant for life than death. 
 His spirit pulled him through ; a pluckier lad, 
 Or one more tender, parents never had. 
 Well, then, the roof above our garret there 
 Was rather meant for letting in the air 
 Than keeping out the rain. At nights we lie 
 And look up through the rafters to the sky. 
 The lad will count the stars as, one by one, 
 They seem to flicker feebly, and are gone ; 
 Or sometimes watch the moonbeam stealing through ; 
 And weave strange fancies that would startle you. 
 What's that ? Why don't I have the roof repaired ? 
 Why, who's to mend it ? How the landlord stared 
 When I asked him ! And then he turned about ; 
 And said if we complained he'd chuck us out ! 
 And so he would, too ; that's the landlord's way. 
 " It's good enough," he says, " for what we pay." 
 
 But there, I meant to speak about the lad. 
 Last time but one that he was taken bad 
 The rain was falling almost night and day, 
 And came down dripping on him where he lay ; 
 And so his mother took the boards (you see, 
 I'm just a sandwich man), and tenderly 
 Laid them above him to keep off the wet, 
 For that was all the help our means could get. 
 
 Well, that poor lad him who on crutches hops 
 Lay there in bed, a-counting of the drops, 
 And looking so as if it eased his pain 
 To listen to the dripping of the rain ; 
 And one day, " Mother," says he, to my wife, 
 Who's lost her health in saving of his life, 
 " How I do pity those, on these wet days, 
 Who've got no boards to cover them," he says.
 
 280 North Country Poets. 
 
 There, wbeu I beard it I burst into tears 
 Sucb as I've never sbed for years on years ; 
 I tbink tbat partly tbey were tears of joy, 
 And partly tears of pity for tbe boy ; 
 For I was proud of bim proud as could be ; 
 And yet all broken down with misery. 
 
 I've beard tbe parson say, time and again, 
 How Cbrist came down and lived among us men 
 In pity for us. Well, perbaps it's bad, 
 But I'm reminded of Him by the lad. 
 
 A PARTING. 
 
 Here is the place at which we must part ; 
 Here are severed the ways we tread. 
 You must go that way, I this, dear heart ! 
 
 And now I tbink of the words you said 
 
 Long ago, ere I knew you well. 
 
 Dear, shall I give you those words again ? 
 
 ' How wide the world is, and, sooth to tell, 
 
 How little we care for all we meet ! 
 
 Tbe greeting of friends in a crowded street, 
 
 Who meet without pleasure, and part without pain 
 
 That is what life is to me, ' you said, 
 
 ' And, believe me, I do not find it sweet.' 
 
 Yet life has seemed to be sweet since then ; 
 To you and to me it was sweet indeed ! 
 But now, how bitter it seems again. 
 
 Behold, from the grass I pluck a weed, 
 And blow the dust of its petals wide. 
 Does tbat remind you of aught beside 
 Tbe few last words that must now be said ?
 
 Aaron Watson. 281 
 
 Ah yes ! I see that you strive to hide 
 
 A tear or two. Will you bend your head, 
 
 And rest it where it has lain before 
 
 A moment. There, I had rather have died ! 
 
 Good bye ! The pain of parting is sore. 
 
 Here, you see, do the ways divide ; 
 
 Here, for ever, I leave your side ; 
 
 Hence, till death, we shall meet no more. 
 
 You to the east, and I to the west, 
 
 But wherever you go my thoughts will follow ; 
 
 Life without you will be empty and hollow, 
 
 Life without you, whom my soul loves best. 
 
 You to the east, and I to the west, 
 
 And wherever you go my heart will follow.
 
 282 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 The Rev. Wm. M or ley Punshon. 
 
 ' ILLIAM Morley Punshon was born at Doncaster, on the 
 29th May, 1824, and at the Grammar School of his native 
 town, and at Tadcaster, he received the rudiments of 
 education. When about 14 years of age he was sent to 
 Hull, where he entered his grandfather's office as junior 
 clerk. For three years he remained in the ancient and 
 thrice-loyal borough, occupying every minute he could 
 steal from office-work in posting himself in the politics 
 of the day, in cultivating his mental faculties, and in writing poetry. He 
 persuaded several young men to join him in his self-imposed tasks, and with 
 them started a sort of Mutual Improvement Society, which they called the 
 Menticultural Society, and in connection with which they published for a 
 short time a periodical entitled the " Hull Quarterly Magazine." Of this 
 society Punshon was the life and light, and at its meetings he first gave 
 evidence of the possession of those elocutionary powers which were to stamp 
 him as one of the most finished orators of the century, and to earn him his 
 proud title " The Poet of the Christian Pulpit." On the 23rd of May, 
 
 1839, he joined the Methodist Society at a meeting of the leaders of the 
 George Yard Chapel in Hull, and it was at Ellerby, one of the tiny hamlets 
 in the neighbourhood of that town, that on Sunday, the 2nd of August, 
 
 1840, when only sixteen years old, he preached his first sermon, one that 
 was remembered and talked of in the place years afterwards, when, as Dr. 
 Punshon, the head of the Wesleyan Connexion, he visited the scene of his 
 first attempt in the pulpit. 
 
 In 1840 Mr. Punshon left Hull for Sunderland, to fill a vacant stool in 
 an uncle's counting-house. There he stayed for another three years, and 
 then cast away day-book and ledger for ever. After a short course of 
 training and probation, he was proposed for the Wesleyan ministry in 1844, 
 and in the springtime of the following year, he went to take charge of a 
 new Wesleyan church that had been formed at Marden in Kent, by seceders 
 from the Established Church, who objected to the Ritualistic practices that 
 obtained there. Under Mr. Punshon's care the new congregation so in- 
 creased and flourished that a large and substantial chapel was built, and 
 speedily filled by those anxious to hear the new preacher. So popular did 
 he become that, so it is said, an offer was made to erect and endow a church 
 for him. He, however, was resolved to remain true to the Church of his 
 adoption, and therefore refused the tempting offer. 
 
 From 1845 to 1855 his life was one of hard work and frequent change. 
 From Marden he went to Whitehaven, and from there to Carlisle. For two 
 years he laboured in the latter city, leaving in 1849 to be ordained at the 
 Manchester Conference. In the same year he was married to Miss Maria
 
 The Rev. Wm. Morley Punshon. 283 
 
 Vickers. On his ordination he was appointed to Newcastle-on-Tyne, from 
 there he removed to Sheffield, and from Sheffield, in 1855, to Leeds. 
 
 During this period of alrnos tincessant labour Dr. Punshon, however, 
 found time to make his first appearance in Exeter Hall as a public lecturer, 
 his subject being " The Prophet of Horeb." This lecture, delivered on the 
 17th of January, 1854, to an audience of 3000 persons, established his 
 reputation as a master of oratory. He roused his hearers to enthusiasm, 
 played upon their every passion and emotion, claimed and obtained their 
 sympathy, and carried them away thrilled by a flood of magnificent 
 eloquence. His lectures were delivered from memory, and with such 
 wonderful exactness, that on their subsequent publication not a sentence 
 would be found altered. 
 
 Nor was it as a lecturer alone that Dr. Punshon displayed almost 
 transcendental abilities as an orator. No one who has heard him proclaim 
 from the pulpit the glorious message of Christ will ever forget the impas- 
 sioned manner, the voice of matchless pathos and harmony, that so 
 moved the crowded chapel, nor his low whisper, penetrating as the still 
 small voice of Conscience. Dr. Punshon's sermons were not only specimens 
 of convincing eloquence, they possessed literary merit of no mean order, as 
 a perusal of the published volumes will reveal. 
 
 In the thick of his pulpit and platform triumphs, Dr. Punshon did not 
 neglect the every-day work of the ministry. He became a member of the 
 Conference in 1859, and in due course occupied the Presidential seat. He 
 set to work to relieve the congregation at Spitalfield's from their financial 
 difficulties, and by his lecture on the Huguenots raised 1000 for that 
 purpose. He went out to Canada in 1868, and as President of the Canadian 
 Conference laboured with success in the new field there opened out to him. 
 On his return to England an effort was successfully made to provide a sum 
 of 10,000, in order to build chapels in watering-places where none existed, 
 and to restore and improve those already built. A similar work in the 
 metropolis was then undertaken, and in a thousand and one other ways, 
 both at the Mission House and elsewhere, he threw his whole soul and 
 energy into his efforts for the welfare and advancement of Wesleyan 
 Methodism. 
 
 But in the midst of life comes death, and Dr. Punshon was struck 
 down in the full strength of his manhood. He started for the sunny shores 
 of the Mediterranean, hoping that change and rest might bring renewed 
 health. But in vain, he returned suddenly home to die. On the 14th April, 
 1881, the end came. His last utterance was a charge to wife and children 
 to " Love Jesus, and meet me in Heaven," and then the spirit returned to 
 God who gave it. 
 
 SIDNEY CLAEKE.
 
 284 North Country Poets. 
 
 PERMANENCE OF CHARACTER. 
 
 " Every man's work shall be made manifest : for the day shall declare 
 it, because it shall be revealed by fire ; and the fire shall try every 
 man's work of what sort it is." 1 Cor. Hi., 13. 
 
 By trifles in our common ways 
 
 Our characters are slowly piled ; 
 We lose not all our yesterdays, 
 
 The man hath something of the child. 
 Part of the past to all the present cleaves ; 
 As the rose-odours linger, e'en in fading leaves. 
 
 The habits of each wayward hour 
 
 Increase by their indulgence gain, 
 Till we are slaves beneath their power, 
 
 Yet all unconscious of our chain ; 
 And to our fancied independence cling, 
 As birds, which, in their cage, the songs of freedom sing. 
 
 Never did flood sweep through the vale 
 
 Without some ravage left behind, 
 Some wreck to turn a young face pale ; 
 
 Some household comfort undermined ; 
 So hath each moment, used or wasted, left 
 To all an added grace, or of some charm bereft. 
 
 As, when the ancient temple rose, 
 
 In silence must the work be done ; 
 As light upon the morning flows, 
 
 The bright dower of the silent sun, 
 So heedless men their busy tasks have plied, 
 Nor known what palaces were rising by their side. 
 
 Full oft, in some unhappy night, 
 
 The fire hath wrapt around a house 
 Where Care had hid his griefs from sight, 
 
 And slumber stole o'er aching brows, 
 And startled sleepers, 'mid the fiery strife, 
 Are rudely roused from dreams, and battle for dear life ;
 
 The Rev. Wm. Morley Punshon. 285 
 
 Then all that darkness had concealed 
 
 Is by the ghastly dawn declared ; 
 And in that sickening light revealed, 
 No household mystery is spared ; 
 There was no time to alter 'mid the blaze ; 
 Just as they were, they met the stranger's curious gaze. 
 
 And is it to be so at last ? 
 
 All our life-work disclosed and tried ! 
 In memory of the faithless past 
 
 Who may the stern assize abide ? 
 Those who, on Sion's sure foundation old, 
 " Build " steadfast, day by day, the " silver " and the " gold." 
 
 INFLUENCE OF TRIFLES. 
 
 " Know ye not that a little leaven leaveneth the whole lump." 1 Cor. 
 v. 6. " Whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap." Gal. vi. 7. 
 
 Speak not of trifles light as air, 
 
 Or froth of Ocean's pride ; 
 For things, on which no thought we spare, 
 
 The mightiest forces hide. 
 As slumbers, in the clod, the fire, 
 As lingers music in the lyre, 
 So future destinies are born 
 From hours of prayer, or hours of scorn. 
 
 Where God in generous fulness dwells, 
 
 Nor small nor great is known ; 
 He paints the tiniest floweret-cells 
 O'er emerald meadows strown ; 
 And sees, but not with kinder eyes, 
 The heavens grow rich with sunset dyes ; 
 Both ministrant to beauty's sense, 
 Both signs of one Omnipotence.
 
 286 North Country Poets. 
 
 He comes not forth with pageant grand 
 
 His marvels to perform ; 
 A cloud " the bigness of a hand " 
 
 Can blacken heaven with storm. 
 A grain of dust, if He arrange, 
 The fortunes of a planet change. 
 An insect reef can overwhelm 
 The stately navies of a realm. 
 
 There are no trifles. Arks as frail 
 
 As bore God's prince of old, 
 On many a buoyant Nile stream sail 
 
 The age's heirs to hold. 
 From Jacob's love on Joseph shed, 
 Came Egypt's wealth and Israel's bread ; 
 From Kuth's chance gleaning in the corn, 
 The Psalmist sang ; The Christ was born. 
 
 Each spirit weaves the robe it wears, 
 
 From out life's busy loom, 
 And common tasks and daily cares 
 
 Make up the threads of doom. 
 Wouldst thou the veiled future read ? 
 The harvest answereth to the seed. 
 Shall Heaven e'er crown the victor's brow ?- 
 Ask tidings of the battle now. 
 
 Oh wise beyond all written page 
 
 Are those, who learn to say, 
 " Less worth were centuries of age 
 
 Than golden hours to-day ! " 
 For in the present all the past 
 And future years are folded fast, 
 And, in each laden moment, lie 
 The shapes of an eternity.
 
 The Rev. Wm. Morley Punshon. 287 
 
 SABBATH EVENING. 
 
 Another Sabbath sun is down, 
 Grey twilight creeps o'er thorpe and town. 
 How much of sorrow, unconfessed, 
 Lies hidden in yon darkening west ! 
 
 What burdens, uncomplaining borne ! 
 What masks o'er latent anguish worn ! 
 What pangs of heart-break ! plots of sin ! 
 Have this night's shadows folded in ! 
 
 We woke to-day with anthems sweet 
 To sing before the mercy-seat, 
 And, ere the darkness round us fell, 
 We bade the grateful vespers swell. 
 
 Whate'er has risen from heart sincere, 
 Each upward glance of filial fear, 
 Each litany, devoutly prayed, 
 Each gift upon Thine altar laid ; 
 
 Each tear, regretful of the past, 
 Each longing o'er the future cast, 
 Each brave resolve, each spoken vow, 
 Jesus, our Lord ! accept them now. 
 
 Whate'er beneath Thy searching eyes 
 Has wrought to spoil our sacrifice ; 
 Aught of presumption, over bold, 
 The dross we vainly brought for gold ; 
 
 If we have knelt at alien shrine, 
 Or insincerely bowed at Thine, 
 Or basely offered " blind and lame," 
 Or blushed beneath unholy shame ;
 
 288 North Country Poets. 
 
 Or, craven prophets, turned to flee 
 When duty bade us speak for Thee ; 
 'Mid this sweet stillness, while we bow, 
 Jesus, our Lord ! forgive us now. 
 
 Oh let each following Sabbath yield 
 For our loved work an ampler field, 
 A sturdier hatred of the wrong, 
 A stronger purpose to grow strong ; 
 
 And teach us erring souls to win, 
 And "hide " their " multitude of sin ; " 
 To tread in Christ's long-suffering way, 
 And grow more like Him day by day. 
 
 So as our Sabbaths hasten past, 
 And rounding years bring nigh the last ; 
 "When sinks the sun behind the hill, 
 When all the " weary wheels " stand still ; 
 
 When by our bed the loved ones weep, 
 And death-dews o'er the forehead creep, 
 And vain is help or hope from men : 
 Jesus, our Lord ! receive us then.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ARMSTRONG, JAMES 109 
 
 My Muirland Hame.... 110 
 
 Aid Crag Ill 
 
 AXON, WILLIAM E. A 159 
 
 The Ancoats Skylark 160 
 
 All is not gold that glitters 162 
 The Author of the " Imita- 
 
 tio Christi" 163 
 
 Epigram ( " So full of 
 graces" ) 163 
 
 BANKS, GEORGE LINN/EUS 48 
 
 What I live for 49 
 
 Lay of the Captive Lark.. 51 
 Day is breaking 55 
 
 BANKS, MRS. GEO. LINNAEUS 1 
 
 Industria et Probitate 2 
 
 Bridal Robes 4 
 
 Ah me ! 5 
 
 Falling Leaves 7 
 
 BARON, JOSEPH 233 
 
 A Ballade of Memorie 233 
 
 Ballade of Foot-balle 234 
 
 Two Seeds 235 
 
 BAYLDON, ARTHUR A. D 46 
 
 The Two Worlds 47 
 
 The Sphinx 47 
 
 Song to the Rainbow 47 
 
 BELL, H. T. MACKENZIE 177 
 
 Death of Captain Hunt ... 178 
 
 Quietude 179 
 
 A Leste Sunrise in Madeira 180 
 Old Year Leaves 181 
 
 BRIERLEY, BEN 82 
 
 In Memoriam 83 
 
 The Wayver of Welbrook.. 84 
 Waverlow Bells 85 
 
 BROCKIE, WILLIAM 20 
 
 The Mighty 21 
 
 Love 23 
 
 Eternal Records 24 
 
 BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT. 32 
 The Cry of the Children... 34 
 
 The Lady's Yes 38 
 
 The Sleep 39 
 
 The Soul's Expression ... 41 
 
 PAGE 
 
 BURNETT, WILLIAM HALL 207 
 
 Ah's Yorkshire 208 
 
 An Auld Man's Confession 210 
 Stokesley 213 
 
 BURNLEY, JAMES 128 
 
 T'Yorkshiremani' London 129 
 
 At Scarborough 131 
 
 Waiting for the Swallows. 133 
 
 CHARLESWORTH, REV. E. G 113 
 
 The Skylark 114 
 
 Faith's Transfiguration ... 114 
 To J. B.C. In Memoriam 115 
 
 To Memory 115 
 
 To Love 116 
 
 To a Snowdrop on a Grave 116 
 
 CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH 122 
 
 Through a glass darkly ... 124 
 
 Qua Cursum Ventus 125 
 
 Qui Laborat Orat 126 
 
 Say not the struggle 
 nought availeth 127 
 
 COLLINGWOOD, W. GERSHOM 187 
 
 The Wooing of the Lan- 
 cashire Witches 188 
 
 Lent-Lilies 189 
 
 Aims in Life 192 
 
 Old-fashioned Love 192 
 
 The Aloe Blossom 193 
 
 Fortune 194 
 
 COLLINSON, SAMUEL 8 
 
 May 8 
 
 Time 9 
 
 The Lifeboat 10 
 
 Whitby Abbey 10 
 
 COOPER, JOSEPH 220 
 
 An Owdham Melludy 220 
 
 Bodle the Bouser 222 
 
 Helping God to make the 
 
 flowers grow 223 
 
 DOTCHSON, THOMAS PARKINSON... 164 
 
 When I am dead 164 
 
 The Message of the Chimes 165 
 
 DOYLE, SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS... 57 
 The Loss of the " Birken- 
 
 head " 57 
 
 The Private of the Buffs... 59
 
 290 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ECCLES, JOSEPH H 171 
 
 Deein be inches 172 
 
 Keep aght ov debt 173 
 
 The Lock of Flaxen Hair. 175 
 
 ELLIOT, REV. ROBERT, M.A 258 
 
 The Opening of the Bells 
 of Holy Trinity Church, 
 
 Hull, A.D. 1727 259 
 
 The Royal Academy, 1885. 261 
 A Dark Day 261 
 
 FORSHAW, CHARLES FREDERICK... 135 
 
 Church Bells 136 
 
 Childhood 137 
 
 A Village Scene 137 
 
 GREENWELL, DORA 145 
 
 The Blade of Grass 147 
 
 Desdichado 147 
 
 The Red-breast 148 
 
 Home 151 
 
 HEAVISIDES, HENRY 167 
 
 Apostrophe to Home 168 
 
 To the Press 169 
 
 HOLT, DAVID 42 
 
 The Woodlands 43 
 
 Building up 44 
 
 At the Grave of Words- 
 worth 45 
 
 HONEYWOOD, PATTY 104 
 
 City Notes 105 
 
 Past 105 
 
 The Holy Rood 106 
 
 HOUGHTON, LORD 226 
 
 Strangers Yet 227 
 
 The Tent 229 
 
 The Brook-side , 231 
 
 JACKSON, FLORENCE 107 
 
 We Six 107 
 
 The Voice of Change 108 
 
 EJDSON, ROBERT 202 
 
 Why should I write a 
 
 weary poem? 202 
 
 My Friend 203 
 
 Christmas Chimes 204 
 
 What of the Night ? 205 
 
 LANCASTER, GEORGE 245 
 
 How the Widow's Goose 
 
 came there 246 
 
 Matilda, ye Pryde of ye 
 
 Belle Towre Walke 250 
 
 Lines supposed to be writ- 
 ten by Robinson Crusoe. 254 
 
 PAGE 
 
 LEIGHTOX, WILLIAM 216 
 
 Baby died to-day 216 
 
 Awake 217 
 
 My Nest 219 
 
 MILNBE, GEORGE 68 
 
 A Flower Piece 68 
 
 A March Evening 69 
 
 Grey Tower of Dalmeny... 70 
 
 Too Soon 70 
 
 Post Cards 71 
 
 NEWBIGGING, THOMAS 11 
 
 There's Pleasure & Health 
 
 in Contentment 12 
 
 O Tell me not of Sunless 
 
 Hours 13 
 
 In Rossendale there Lives 
 
 a Lass 14 
 
 Willie is waiting for me... 15 
 
 NEWSAM, WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.. 16 
 
 Looking Back 16 
 
 By the Sea 18 
 
 Sweet Mother, dear 19 
 
 NOBLE, JAMES ASHCROFT 87 
 
 The Red Thread of Honour 89 
 
 Father and Child 91 
 
 Autumn 92 
 
 George Eliot 92 
 
 PEACOCK, JOHN MACLEAY 182 
 
 Night Scenes in the City... 183 
 To a Friend 185 
 
 PHILLIPS, MRS. SUSAN K 263 
 
 The Buried Chime 264 
 
 Me and My Mate 265 
 
 Two 269 
 
 PUNSHOX, THE REV.WM. MOELEY 282 
 Permanence of Character. 284 
 
 Influence of Trifles 285 
 
 Sabbath Evening 287 
 
 RICHARDSON, JOHN DUNCAN 66 
 
 England 66 
 
 Broken Toys 67 
 
 RICHARDSON, JOHN 97 
 
 Tauld Farmer's Midneet 
 
 Soliloquy 99 
 
 What use to be lang sen ... 100 
 It's nobbut me 102 
 
 SKIPSEY, JOSEPH 61 
 
 Mother wept 63 
 
 The Violet and the Rose... 63 
 The Reign of Gold 64
 
 Index. 
 
 291 
 
 PAGE 
 TAYLOR, SIR HENRY 237 
 
 Portrait of a Eevolutionist 238 
 
 John of Launoy 239 
 
 Sorrow's Uses 240 
 
 Master Minds 240 
 
 Battle of Senlac 240 
 
 Company in Banqueting 
 Room in Palace of the 
 
 Duke of Orleans 241 
 
 Aretina Sings 241 
 
 Hope 242 
 
 Dawn of Heart- joy 242 
 
 The Hon. Edward Ernest 
 
 Villiers 243 
 
 Character 244 
 
 Music and Light 244 
 
 TIREBUCK, WILLIAM 117 
 
 The Taunt 118 
 
 The Wooing of the Poppy. 119 
 
 To Margaret 120 
 
 The Blessing 121 
 
 TOULINSON, WILLIAM WEAVER ... 152 
 The Ballad of the Fridstol 153 
 
 WADDINGTON, SAMUEL 93 
 
 Morning 94 
 
 Dort 94 
 
 MorsetVita 95 
 
 The Inn of Care 95 
 
 The Neophyte 95 
 
 WALLER, JOHN ROWELL 139 
 
 The Little Grave under 
 
 the Snow 140 
 
 The Organist 141 
 
 Northumbrian Lanes 142 
 
 PAOF. 
 
 WATSON, AARON 272 
 
 By the Northern Sea: a 
 
 Conversation 273 
 
 Pictures 277 
 
 " In a Garret Bred " 278 
 
 A Parting 280 
 
 WATSON, WILLIAM 196 
 
 A Song of Three Singers... 198 
 
 The Questioner 198 
 
 Epigrams : " I close your 
 Marlowe's page ; " " To 
 keep in sight perfection;" 
 " Think not thy wis- 
 dom;" "Love, like a 
 bird ; " " Onward the 
 chariot ; " "I plucked 
 
 this flower" 199-200 
 
 Sonnets : The Soudanese.. 200 
 The English Dead 201 
 
 WAUGH, EDWIN 25 
 
 Come whoam to thi Chil- 
 
 der an' Me 26 
 
 The Dule's i' this Bonnet 
 
 o' Mine 27 
 
 The Moorland Breeze 29 
 
 Christmas Morning 30 
 
 WILSON, JOSEPH 72 
 
 Aw wish yor Muther wad 
 
 cum 73 
 
 Dinnet Clash the Door ... 75 
 The Deeth o' Renforth ... 76
 
 INDEX OF POKMS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Ballade of Memorie 233 
 
 A Dark Day 261 
 
 Ah, me! 6 
 
 A Flower Piece 68 
 
 Ah's Yorkshire 208 
 
 Aid Crag Ill 
 
 Aims in Life ... 192 
 
 A Leste Sunrise in Madeira ... 180 
 
 All is not gold that glitters 162 
 
 A March Evening 69 
 
 An Awd Man's Confession ''lO 
 
 An Owdham Melludy 220 
 
 Annette 78 
 
 AParting 280 
 
 Apostrophe to Home 168 
 
 Aretina Sings (from " A Sici- 
 lian Summer") 42 
 
 A Song of Three Singers 198 
 
 At Scarborough 131 
 
 At the Grave of Wordsworth . . 45 
 
 Autumn, 1885 92 
 
 A Village Scene 137 
 
 Awake.. 217 
 
 Aw wish yor Muther wad cum 73 
 
 Baby died to-day 216 
 
 Ballade of Foote-Balle 234 
 
 Battle of Senlac (from " The 
 
 Eve of the Conquest ") ... 240 
 
 Bodle the Bouser 222 
 
 Bridal Robes 4 
 
 Broken Toys ; or, the Mother's 
 
 Soliloquy 67 
 
 Building up 44 
 
 By the Northern Sea 273 
 
 By the Sea 18 
 
 Childhood 137 
 
 Church Bells 136 
 
 City Notes 105 
 
 Character (from 'Lago Lugano') 244 
 
 Christmas Chimes 204 
 
 Christmas Morning 30 
 
 Come whoam to thi Childer 
 
 an' Me 26 
 
 Company in Banqueting Eoom 
 in Palace of the Duke of 
 Orleans (from " St. Cle- 
 ment's Eve ") 241 
 
 PAGE 
 Dawn of Heart-joy (from " A 
 
 Sicilian Summer ") 242 
 
 Day is Breaking 55 
 
 Death of Captain Hunt 178 
 
 Deein be inches 172 
 
 Desdichado 147 
 
 Dinnet clash the door 75 
 
 Dort 94 
 
 England 66 
 
 Epigrams : "I close your Mar- 
 lowe's page" 199 
 
 " To keep in sight perfection " 199 
 " Think not thy wisdom " ... 199 
 
 " Love, like a bird " 200 
 
 " Onward the chariot " 200 
 
 " I plucked this flower " ... 200 
 Epigram : "So full of graces " 163 
 
 Eternal Records 24 
 
 Falling Leaves 7 
 
 Faith's Transfiguration 114 
 
 Father and Child 91 
 
 Fortune 194 
 
 George Eliot 92 
 
 Good Night .. 81 
 
 Grey Tower of Dalmeny 70 
 
 Helping God to make the Flow- 
 ers grow 223 
 
 Home 151 
 
 Hope (from " A Sicilian Sum- 
 mer ") 242 
 
 How the Widow's Goose came 
 
 there 246 
 
 " In a Garret Bred " 278 
 
 Industria et Probitate 2 
 
 Influence of Trifles 285 
 
 In Memoriam : Annie ... 83 
 
 In Rossendale there Lives a 
 
 Lass 14 
 
 It's nobbut me 102 
 
 John of Launoy (from " Philip 
 
 van Artevelde ") 239 
 
 Keep aght of Debt 173 
 
 Lay of the Captive Lark 51 
 
 Lent-Lilies 189 
 
 Lines supposed to be written by 
 
 Robinson Crusoe ., .. 254
 
 Index of Poems. 
 
 293 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Looking Back 16 
 
 Love 23 
 
 Master Minds (from " Philip 
 
 van Artevelde ") 240 
 
 Matilda, ye Pryde of ye Belle 
 
 TowreWalke 250 
 
 May 8 
 
 Me and My Mate ... 265 
 
 Morning 94 
 
 MorsetVita 95 
 
 Mother Wept 63 
 
 Music and Light (from "Alwine 
 
 and Adelais " 244 
 
 My Friend 203 
 
 My Muirland Hame 110 
 
 My Nest 219 
 
 Night Scenes in the City 183 
 
 Northumbrian Lanes 142 
 
 Old-Fashioned Love 192 
 
 Old Year Leaves 181 
 
 O tell me not of Sunless Hours 13 
 
 Past 105 
 
 Permanence of Character 284 
 
 Pictures 277 
 
 Portrait of a Kevolutionist(f rom 
 
 " Philip van Artevelde ") .. 238 
 
 Post Cards 71 
 
 Qua Cursum Ventus 125 
 
 Quietude ... 179 
 
 Qui Laborat Orat 126 
 
 Sabbath Evening 287 
 
 Say not the struggle nought 
 
 availeth 127 
 
 Song to the Rainbow 47 
 
 Sorrow's Uses (from " Philip 
 
 van Artevelde " 240 
 
 Stokesley... 213 
 
 Strangers Yet 227 
 
 Sweet Mother, Dear 19 
 
 T' auld Farmer's Midneet So- 
 liloquy 99 
 
 The Aloe-Blossom 193 
 
 The Ancoats Skylark 160 
 
 The Author of the " Imitatio 
 
 Christi" 163 
 
 The Ballad of the Fridstol 153 
 
 The Blade of Grass 147 
 
 The Blessing 121 
 
 The Brook Side 231 
 
 The Buried Chime ., ..264 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Cry of the Children 34 
 
 The Deeth o' Eenforth 76 
 
 The Dule's i' this Bonnet o' 
 
 mine 27 
 
 The English Dead (from " Ver 
 
 Tenebrosum) ; a Sonnet . . 201 
 
 The Holy Eood 106 
 
 The Hon. Edward Ernest Vil- 
 
 liers (from " Memorial 
 
 Lines") ... 243 
 
 The Inn of Care 95 
 
 The Lady's Yes 38 
 
 The Life Boat 10 
 
 The Little Grave under the 
 
 Snow 140 
 
 The Lock of Flaxen Hair 175 
 
 The Loss of the " Birkenhead " 57 
 
 The Memorial Flower 79 
 
 The Message of the Chimes ... 165 
 
 TheMighty 21 
 
 The Moorland Breeze 29 
 
 The Neophyte 96 
 
 The Opening of the Bells of 
 
 Holy Trinity Church, Hull, 
 
 A.D. 1727 ... 259 
 
 The Organist : 141 
 
 The Private of the Buffs 59 
 
 The Questioner 198 
 
 The Eed-breast 148 
 
 The Red Thread of Honour ... 89 
 
 The Reign of Gold 64 
 
 There's Pleasure and Health in 
 
 Contentment 12 
 
 The Royal Academy, 1885 261 
 
 The Skylark 114 
 
 TheSleep 39 
 
 The Soudanese (from " Ver 
 
 Tenebrosum"); a Sonnet 200' 
 
 The Soul's Expression 41 
 
 The Sphinx 47 
 
 The Taunt 118 
 
 The Tent 229 
 
 The Two Worlds 46 
 
 The Violet and the Rose 63 
 
 The Voice of Change 108 
 
 The Wayver of Welbrook 84 
 
 The Woodlands 43 
 
 The Wooing of the Lancashire 
 
 Witches 188 
 
 The Wooing of the Poppy ... 119
 
 294 
 
 North Country Poets. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Through a Glass darkly 124 
 
 Time 9 
 
 To a Friend 185 
 
 To a Snowdrop on a Grave... 116 
 
 To J.B.C. In Memoriam 115 
 
 To Love 116 
 
 To Margaret 120 
 
 To Memory 115 
 
 Too soon 70 
 
 To the Press .... 169 
 
 Two 269 
 
 Two Seeds ... ..235 
 
 PAGE 
 T' Yorkshireman i' London ... 129 
 
 Waiting for the Swallows 133 
 
 Waverlow Bells 85 
 
 We Six 107 
 
 What I live for 49 
 
 What of the Night? 205 
 
 What use to be lang sen 100 
 
 When I am dead 164 
 
 Whitby Abbey 10 
 
 Why should I write a weary 
 
 Poem? 202 
 
 Willie is waiting for me 15
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 A bee was seen 119 
 
 A bridal robe should be 4 
 
 Across the vale of life 242 
 
 A goggle-eyed fuddler, as usual, bout brass 222 
 
 Ah's Yorkshire ! bi mi truly ! 208 
 
 A hush of other realms it seemed 141 
 
 Alone upon the desert wild and bare 47 
 
 Along this narrow path, behold 68 
 
 A'm deein be inches, tha knaws weel enuf 172 
 
 Among the hills of India 89 
 
 Annette, with her sister Tib 78 
 
 Another Sabbath sun is down 287 
 
 A prophet's vision, vague and crude 106 
 
 A ruined wall, 'neath sweetly blooming trees 137 
 
 A solitary monk within his cell 163 
 
 As the fallen seed of a former flower 235 
 
 As ships becalmed at eve, that lay 125 
 
 A streak of reddening light on fallen leaves ; 116 
 
 At Nebra, by the Unstrut 95 
 
 Aw've just mended th' fire wi' a cob 26 
 
 Be open, courteous, bland 244 
 
 By trifles in our common ways 284 
 
 Cocken woods are green and fair 79 
 
 Come all you weary wanderers 30 
 
 Cum, Geordy, had the bairn 73 
 
 Day is breaking 55 
 
 Dear Nellie, I set sail to-morrow 254 
 
 Deep in the thick of a tuft of clover 51 
 
 Doleful, and dreary, and sad 183 
 
 Donosto to the public gave 162 
 
 Downward sinks the setting sun 81 
 
 Downy seeds of thistles drifting lay like snowflakes on the moor... 261 
 
 Do you hear the children weeping, O my brothers 34 
 
 Father and child together lie at rest 91 
 
 Flashing form, so fair and fleeting 47 
 
 Give honour to our heroes fallen, how ill 201 
 
 Hail, mighty Power ! that on the lucid page 169 
 
 He has taken the vow of poverty 203 
 
 Here is the place at which we must part 280 
 
 He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend 240 
 
 Higher and higher to heavens rising 114 
 
 High o'er wild Wanny's lofty crest Ill 
 
 His grave is by a shore he loved 115 
 
 His life was private ; safely led, aloof 243 
 
 His spirit is in apogee ! To-night 96
 
 296 North Country Poets. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 How sweetly sound the joyous bells 136 
 
 I asked of heaven and earth and sea 198 
 
 I close your Marlowe's page, my Shakespeare's ope 199 
 
 I have a lock of flaxen hair 175 
 
 I live for those who love me 49 
 
 I love thee not, young May, with all thy flowers 8 
 
 I'm a bird that'sfree 241 
 
 I measure life by gravestones, not by years 5 
 
 I mind me of a garden quaint, with flaunting iris flowers 105 
 
 I never looked that he should live so long 239 
 
 In the bitter gloom of a winter's morn 269 
 
 I plucked this flower, O brighter flower, for thee 200 
 
 In Eossendale there lives a lass 14 
 
 I's grou'en feckless, auld, an' leamm 100 
 
 Isle of the fair and the brave 66 
 
 I stood by the sea when the sun shone bright 18 
 
 Is't thee 'at's cum heamm sa leatt, Zarah ? 99 
 
 I' this city o' millions to-neet 129 
 
 It sounded in castle and palace 64 
 
 I've read in story books full oft 213 
 
 I wandered by the brook-side 231 
 
 Keep aght ov debt it's gud advice 173 
 
 Last night, among his fellow roughs 59 
 
 Lay the little limbs out straight 216 
 
 Let the dead past bury its dead 105 
 
 Life is a dreary round, they say 13 
 
 Long was the day, and terrible. Theories 240 
 
 Love is a baron with counties seven 192 
 
 Love is a friendly bark on the deep 23 
 
 Love, like a bird, hath perched upon a spray 200 
 
 Many-hued the sky this morn 180 
 
 Mates? ay, we've been mates together 265 
 
 Mother wept, and father sighed 63 
 
 My bonnie, bonnie muirland hame 110 
 
 Night on the Thames, and yonder flush of light 277 
 
 Now o'er the topmost pine 94 
 
 O home ! dear home ! where all delight to move 168 
 
 " O if I might do some great deed, and die ! " 192 
 
 O if I were-where my heart is 189 
 
 O only source of all our life and light 126 
 
 'tis sweet, 'tis sweet to wander in the greensward-paven alleys 43 
 
 Of all the happy, joyous days, oh, childhood's days are best 137 
 
 Of all the blithesome melody 29 
 
 Of all the thoughts of God that are 39 
 
 Oh, better far than richly sculptur'd tomb 45 
 
 " Oh, bless her ! bless her ! bless the child !" 121 
 
 Oh, dinnet clash the door , 75 
 
 Oh! green lanes of Northumberland 142 
 
 Oh! little blade of grass .. 147
 
 Index of First Lines. 297 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Oh memory, thou hast one bright page 115 
 
 Oh, why is the Humber soe dysmal and browne 250 
 
 Old Jammie and Ailse went adown the brook side 85 
 
 On a lone hillside 'neath the sta.rless night 10 
 
 One hot and sultry summer's eve : 223 
 
 Onward the chariot of the Untarrying moves 200 
 
 Our ancestors at Hastings fought 2 
 
 "Quietude, O quietude," 179 
 
 Bare Margaret ! your influence thrills 120 
 
 Returned from travel after many years 16 
 
 Right on our flank the sun was dropping down 57 
 
 Say not, the struggle nought availeth 127 
 
 So fragmentary and so incomplete 9 
 
 So full of graces is thy wife .' 163 
 
 So quiet, yet so quaint ! Shall curfew toll 94 
 
 Speak not of trifles light as air 285 
 
 Sprung as from mist two rolling worlds I view'd 46 
 
 Strangers yet ! 227 
 
 Such souls, whose sudden visitations daze 240 
 
 Sweet flower, first of Spring Spring nursed 116 
 
 Sweet mother dear ! Sweet mother dear ! 19 
 
 Take cedar, take the creamy card 71 
 
 The bold crew of the Unicorn discern at dawn of light 178 
 
 The boughs are black, the wind is cold 69 
 
 The brown rocks lie on the land, just as they did of old 108 
 
 The castle crag, with ruin crowned 131 
 
 The day was hot, the summer sun 160 
 
 The dule's i' this bonnet o' mine 27 
 
 The leaves which in the Autumn of the year 181 
 
 The lovers are whispering under thy shade 70 
 
 The mavis he sings by his nest 15 
 
 Then shall this glorious Now be crowned the Queen 242 
 
 There is no game so desperate which wise men 238 
 
 There's a neat little grave in our snug churchyard 140 
 
 There came two fairies tripping along 188 
 
 There's a tree that the fruit-trees scorn 193 
 
 There's pleasure and health in contentment 12 
 
 There was yance a tarm i' mi life when Ah was soft as suds need be 210 
 
 The roses were red in the gardens of summer 259 
 
 There were Tracy and me, and Roily Dick 107 
 
 The shadows lengthen ; and the twilight is falling 219 
 
 The souls in bliss to souls in woe 148 
 
 The still air moved not stem or leaf 114 
 
 The sun is flooding the eastern sky 217 
 
 The wind its trump hath blown 7 
 
 The violet invited my kiss 63 
 
 The world is not a passing show 24 
 
 The world will speed 164 
 
 They wrong'd not us, nor sought 'gainst us towage 200
 
 298 North Country Poets. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Think not thy wisdom can illume away 199 
 
 Thy prayer is granted ; thou hast joined the Choir 92 
 
 Time, sacrilegious hands of men, and storms 10 
 
 'Tis eventide, and twilight adds 67 
 
 To keep in sight Perfection, and adore 199 
 
 Too soon, too soon ! 70 
 
 To see grim John do his endeavour 241 
 
 Tother Setthurdy neet, aw thowt it wur reet 220 
 
 'Twas a case which happened in court ; the prisoner's name was 
 
 Ward 246 
 
 Two birds within one nest 151 
 
 Two lovely babes lie wrapt in sleep's repose 261 
 
 Under the cliffs at Whitby, when the great tides landward flow ... 264 
 
 Watchman! what of the night ? 205 
 
 Wave and wind and willow-tree 198 
 
 We are the latest heirs of time 204 
 
 Weep not for them who weep 147 
 
 We know not yet what life shall be 95 
 
 We strolled beside the margin of the sea 273 
 
 We thought she was our own for yet awhile 83 
 
 What agony is ours when anger drives 118 
 
 What we, when face to face we see 124 
 
 When from Pandora's fateful box 233 
 
 When I was but a bairn, I heard 185 
 
 When the swallows fled to the sultry south 133 
 
 Where are the graves of the mighty 21 
 
 While musing o'er the year gone by 165 
 
 Why luik ye sae, my ain true love ? 153 
 
 Why should a man raise stone and wood 229 
 
 Why should I write a weary poem 202 
 
 With infinite patience and toil to develop 44 
 
 With stammering lips and insufficient sound 41 
 
 With that she sang a low, sweet melody 244 
 
 Ya winter neet, I mind it well 102 
 
 Ye cruel Atlantic Cable 76 
 
 Ye jollie game wych alle creacyon lycks 234 
 
 Yes, Autumn comes again and finds me here 92 
 
 "Yes!" I answered you last night 38 
 
 Yo gentlemen o wi yor heawnds and yor parks 84 
 
 You may frown if you like, and I'll borrow 194 
 
 You see that little chap on crutches there 278
 
 WORKS BY WILLIAM ANDREWS, F.R.H.S. 
 
 Mr. Andrews' works are exceedingly interesting, and contain much that 
 few have an opportunity of reading. Norwich Argus. 
 
 Learned, chatty and instructive. Derbyshire Times. 
 
 Mr. William Andrews has produced several books of singular value in their 
 historical and archaeological character. He has a genius for digging among 
 dusty parchments and old books, and for bringing out from among them that 
 which it is likely the public of to-day will care to read. Scotsman. 
 
 Mr. Andrews is a scholarly collector of curious out-of-the-way information, 
 which he presents in an attractive form. Public Opinion. 
 
 Cuthbert Bede, the popular author of " Verdant Green," writing to Society, 
 says : " Historic Yorkshire," by William Andrews, will be of great interest and 
 value to everyone connected with England's largest county. Mr. Andrews not 
 only writes with due enthusiasm for his subject, but has arranged and 
 marshalled his facts and figures with great skill, and produced a thoroughly 
 popular work that will be read eagerly and with advantage. This handsomely- 
 bound, luxuriously-printed, and gilt-edged volume would, indeed, form 
 a very appropriate school gift, as well as a book to be placed on the library 
 shelf of the student. A clear and copious index increases the value of a work 
 that will be read with interest by the historian, the folk-lorist, the antiquary, 
 and the lover of legendary lore. 
 
 LONDON : REEVES AND TURNER. 
 
 HISTORIC 
 
 Strange Stories, Characters, Scenes, Mysteries and Memorable Events 
 |irt ttje HH&tortj of Ifc itglcmb.. 
 
 In his present work Mr. Andrews has traversed a wider field than in his 
 last book, " Historic Yorkshire," but it is marked by the same painstaking 
 care for accuracy, and also by the pleasant way in which he popularises strange 
 stories and out of the way scenes in English history. There is much to amuse 
 in this volume as well as to instruct, and it is enriched with a copious index. 
 Notes and Queries. 
 
 A fascinating work. Whitehall Review. 
 
 LONDON : HAMILTON, ADAMS & CO. 
 
 MODERN YORKSHIRE POETS. 
 
 A dainty volume. Yorkshire Chronicle. 
 
 Very carefully and pleasantly written. Derby Gazette. 
 
 A most valuable addition to local literature. Eastern Morning News. 
 
 A delightful book. Glasgow Citizen. 
 
 LONDON : SIMPKIN, MARSHALL & CO. 
 
 PUNISHMENTS IN THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 There is much interesting information in this work, conveyed in a very 
 pleasant manner. Pictorial World. 
 
 An interesting and instructive treatise. The Nation, New York. 
 
 A capitally- written book, containing a vasL amount of curious out-of-the- 
 way information. Mr. Andrews is never for a moment dull, but gives forth 
 his antiquarian gossip with all the enthusiasm and point of a practised 
 raconteur. Sunday Times. 
 
 LONDON : W. STEWART & CO. 
 
 OXJPfclOTJS iEFITMl.FXIS. 
 
 A book which is sure to be widely read and appreciated. People's Journal. 
 
 It is a book that will often be taken down from the shelf when its 
 possessor is in a desultory mood ; and serious lessons as well as amusement 
 muse always reward a fresh dip into its pages. Christian Leader. 
 
 The subject is approached by Mr. Andrews with much freshness. Daily 
 Chronicle. LONDON : HAMILTON, ADAMS & CO. 
 
 FAMOUS FROSTS AND FROST FAIRS 
 
 IJT GREAT ISBI I 'IT t I V 
 
 tjvotttcleo front tlje ariic&t to tlje present ime. 
 
 The work is thoroughly well written, it is careful in its facts, and may be pronounced 
 exhaustive on the subject. Illustrations are given of several frost fairs on the Thames, and as 
 a trustworthy record this volume should be in every good library. The usefulness of the work 
 is much enhanced by a good index. Public Opinion. 
 
 A great deal of curious and valuable information is contained in these pages ...... A 
 
 comely volume. Literary World. 
 
 Not likely to fail in interest. Manchester Guardian. 
 
 LONDON : GEORGE REDWAY.
 
 UCSR LIBRARY 
 
 MONTGOMERY & SON, PRINTERS, SCALE LANE, HULL.

 
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 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRAP 
 
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