THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 POEMS, BALLADS, AND BUCOLICS.
 
 POEMS, BALLADS, 
 AND BUCOLICS. 
 
 BY 
 
 H. D. RAWNSLEY, M.A. 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 AND NEW YORK. 
 1890.
 
 ?R 
 
 TO 
 
 PHILLIPS BROOKS, 
 
 OF BOSTON, U.S.A., 
 
 IN MEMORY OF A DAY AT CROSTHWAITE, 
 
 AND WITH GRATITUDE FOR ALL HE HAS DONE FOR 
 
 THE RELIGIOUS THOUGHT OF ENGLAND ; 
 
 AND TO THOSE OF HIS FELLOW-CITIZENS WHO 
 
 REMEMBER THAT THEIR FOREFATHERS 
 
 SAILED FROM LINCOLNSHIRE, 
 
 I DEDICATE THIS BOOK. 
 
 937S93
 
 
 TO 
 
 PHILLIPS BROOKS, 
 
 OF BOSTON, U.S.A., 
 
 IN MEMORY OF A DAY AT CROSTHWAITE, 
 
 AND WITH GRATITUDE FOR ALL HE HAS DONE FOR 
 
 THE RELIGIOUS THOUGHT OF ENGLAND ; 
 
 AND TO THOSE OF HIS FELLOW-CITIZENS WHO 
 
 REMEMBER THAT THEIR FOREFATHERS 
 
 SAILED FROM LINCOLNSHIRE, 
 
 I DEDICATE THIS BOOK. 
 
 937S93
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Some of these poems have appeared in contemporary 
 periodicals. The Ballads, for the most part, record heroic 
 deeds done in Great Britain and America during the past 
 few years. The Bucolics are sketches from real life in 
 Lincolnshire. The language of these latter has been 
 made familiar by the poet Laureate. Those who find 
 alterations in the diction will remember that changes have 
 taken place in the dialect within the past fifty years. 
 In a few instances variations in the spelling of the same 
 word have been admitted because both forms are met 
 with, in others the usual way of spelling has been 
 adopted, e.g., "grav/s " for " groas." The " o " before an 
 " i," wherever met with, should be pronounced very softly; 
 it serves generally to give a broad sound to the " i," as in 
 " squoire," " toime." Sometimes the "o" has been omitted 
 for fear of over emphasis in pronunciation, this especially 
 when the "oi" precedes a " k," as in the word " loike," 
 and when the word is a rhyming word at the end of a line. 
 The " s " of the possessive case has also been at times 
 purposely left out from the word "it." Readers of dialect 
 will bear in mind that the dialect herein spoken, and 
 the folk-lore alluded to, are those of the old Danish 
 colony whose children live between Horncastle, Louth, 
 and Boston. 
 
 H. D. R. 
 
 Crosthwaite Vicarage, 
 
 KlCSWICK.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 introductory, i 
 
 the poet's home-going ■ . 2 
 
 grand-dad's annie, dead, .13 
 
 a welcome to stanley, 20 
 
 the old partner gone, 34 
 
 sister rose gertrude, 35 
 
 the old-fashioned ''tortossy" cat, ... 46 
 
 the ballad of the ''cleopatra," .... 53 
 
 dref'Ams, 63 
 
 father damien, 65 
 
 the evil eye 70 
 
 the foreman king 74 
 
 the monkey-o'-herse-back methody man, . . 79
 
 X CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 A BRAVE DOCTOR, 87 
 
 IN THE PIG MARKET, 90 
 
 THE VILLAGE CARPENTER, 92 
 
 A SAD LETTER 99 
 
 THE ISLAND HOME, lOI 
 
 "CHAASING THE SUN," Ill 
 
 DEATH THE BEFRIENDER I16 
 
 OLD TIMES 122 
 
 LINCOLNSHIRE WITCHES 130 
 
 DANIEL PERITON, 136 
 
 THE WIDOWER FROM LATRIGG I4I 
 
 THE BALLAD OF ROSEMARIE, I44 
 
 THE LEGEND OF ST. BEES 155 
 
 RAM BUKSH, THE LEPER, 1 68 
 
 IN A GARDEN, 1 73 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS BELLS, 1 75 
 
 AN OLD CONSPIRACY, 181 
 
 ELIJAH AT THE BROOK CHERITH l86 
 
 A LIBEL 190 
 
 A WOMAN SAVIOUR I93 
 
 A FARM-YARD SOLILOQUY, 197
 
 CONTENTS. XI 
 
 Page 
 THE BRAVE PIT LADS OF PENICUICK, . . . -202 
 
 A HERO'S CROWN, 206 
 
 CATHERINE IVATSON, 208 
 
 A GALLANT QUARRYMAN 212 
 
 THE FOX AND HOUND 214 
 
 DEAD MAN'S POOL 217 
 
 NEW FANGLEDV WAAYS 228 
 
 THE ENGINE-DRIVER, 238 
 
 AT THE RAM-SHOW DINNER, 244 
 
 VALEDICTORY, 246
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 Here are balla'ds ! who will buy ? 
 Not on dainty shelves to lie, 
 But for pockets plain enough, 
 Honest homespun in the rough ; 
 Fit for lord or labourer's hand, 
 Up in rocky Cumberland, 
 Fit for villager and squire, 
 Down in breezy Lincolnshire ; 
 Food for all who bring a heart 
 Bent upon the nobler part. 
 And an eye to which the tear 
 Springs, while laughter ripples near.
 
 THE POET'S HOME-GOING. 
 
 " I shall soon depart for Venice on my way homeward." ^ 
 
 His heart was where the summer ever shines, 
 He saw the English swallow eastward come, 
 
 And still among the olives and the vines. 
 
 Or underneath the dark sun-scented pines 
 
 Of Asolo, he hummed his latest lines. 
 And bade his white-winged songs go flying home. 
 
 Then when the red sails round by Lido came 
 
 To rest, and vacant now the gondolier 
 Beneath the Lion and those masts aflame 
 Lounged, bickering o'er his boy's piazza-game, 
 One darker boat came quaywards, called his name. 
 And straight toward the sunset seemed to steer. 
 
 1 Extract from a letter of Browning's to a friend written from 
 Asolo a few weeks before his death, — Cf. The Athcnceum, Jan. 4th,
 
 THE POET'S HOME-GOING. 3 
 
 High at the prow a Lion ramped, pure gold ; 
 
 Pure gold and with the Hly in her hand 
 The Maid, whose virgin arms did once enfold 
 The world's Salvation, leaned to bless the hold. 
 And smiled on him whose music had extolled 
 
 The Lion and the Lily of the land. 
 
 His face was pale, but not with fear nor pain, 
 His hand still held the harp ; I heard his voice 
 
 Come ringing with a new majestic strain, 
 
 Rememberable music : through the rain 
 
 Of tears I saw across the water-plain 
 
 His eyes were towards the Florence of his choice. 
 
 And up into the lordly Palace Hall 
 
 Those strangers passed who called him to the shore, 
 And o'er one sleeping did they lay for pall 
 Italia's love and England's loss, and all 
 Cried, "He whose spirit the Heaven from Earth doth call, 
 
 Freed men, and lo, is freed for evermore." 
 
 " Free as the stars to rush upon the dark ; 
 Free as the dawn to rise above the sea ; 
 Free as the flood to feel its highest mark
 
 THE POET'S HOME-GOING. 
 
 On this Rialto ; free from care or cark ; 
 Free as the heart of yonder dwindling bark 
 To touch all havens where the blest ones be." 
 
 " But freed the most to find his being whole, 
 
 ' The broken arc, in Heaven a perfect round ' ; 
 Free with the freedom of that kindred soul 
 Whose love and life through all the under-roU 
 Of sorrowful dark, has kept him to the goal. 
 And free to utter his full self in sound." 
 
 Then with those strangers silently we went, 
 
 Pushed from the steps, left Venice flaming bright 
 Above her sunset waters ; backward bent 
 Towers shook, so swift astern the waves were sent 
 Domes danced, and back the harp's accompaniment 
 Came with his voice to call us toward the night. 
 
 And other voices called, for other prows 
 
 Pushed after, gorgeous, sweet for myrtle flowers, 
 
 With long-robed men therein, upon whose brows 
 
 Were caps of honour such as he who knows 
 
 Bellini's Doge can tell of, men of vows 
 
 By their tight lips, the men who built the towers.
 
 THE POET'S HOME-GOING. 5 
 
 And strange-clad legates, cardinals of Rome, 
 
 Painters, and music-makers of old time, 
 Not great in fame, but gi'eater to have come 
 To life through struggle ; and with these were some 
 Ladies with lustrous hair above the dome 
 
 Of perfect foreheads, moulders of men's rhyme. 
 
 These wept ; those cried, "To what far island steers 
 The boat that bears our poet-soul away ? 
 
 We built the city, but his glory rears 
 
 Anew the walls, eternal as the years ; 
 
 We took the sea to marriage, but he wears 
 
 The ring that weds our Venice. Let him stay ! " 
 
 The voices failed, night fell, the harp was still, 
 
 A new star rose to shine upon our way ; 
 We scarce could hear that far-off planet's thrill, 
 Yet the bright jewel burned, and burned to fill 
 The dusk with music. " Death can no more kill," 
 The constellation seemed in song to say. 
 
 Then the stars paled, yet paled not that bright star. 
 
 But grew : the grey sea heaved from dusk to gold. 
 And sailing we were ware of hills afar —
 
 THE POET'S HOME-GOING. 
 
 The amethystine hills where angels are — 
 That rose from burnished calm no tempests mar 
 To skies of peace that never can grow old. 
 
 The earth seemed fairer than the fairest day 
 Seen by a bridegroom on his marriage morn, 
 
 For love and life did haunt those hills alway, 
 
 And aspiration that would still essay 
 
 Climbed up those heights by God's directest way 
 To find One seated there of woman born. 
 
 These were the hills we knew," the pilot said, 
 " Yet shoreward now no angry breakers roll ; 
 The bay is more magnificently spread, 
 To rosier height rears up yon mountain head, 
 Such hills as in the ' Heavenly Song' are read. 
 The gardens of the glory of the soul." 
 
 We neared the land, and multitudes foreknew 
 
 His coming, waved a forestry of palm. 
 The Singer's face most like an angel grew, 
 Far off we saw what fires rekindled flew 
 Forth from his eyes, as near the vessel drew. 
 And o'er the waves to meet us came a Psalm—
 
 THE POET'S HOME-GOING. 7 
 
 " O girder of Truth's sword upon men's thigh, 
 • And looser of men's fear for mortal harm, 
 If but they leave their castles to the sky, 
 And go forth dauntless when the foe draws nigh, 
 Thine was the clarion call to victory 
 Against the world's inevitable swarm ! " 
 
 They clanged the harps, the Singer stepped ashore : 
 " For you, for you," they cried, " we waited long ! " 
 One brought a golden orb, another bore 
 The crown that cannot wither ; one before 
 Went with a trumpet, saying, " Evermore 
 
 Shall this our brother gladden us with song ! " 
 
 Then as the Singer's forehead felt the crown. 
 
 Thoughts that had long time struggled into birth 
 Took form melodious, wonderful, full-grown, 
 And many souls came near to him half-known. 
 Souls strong through loss and loving like his own, 
 Friends of his mind and making upon earth. 
 
 On either side to let him forward move 
 
 The gracious congregation did divide ; 
 But those clear eyes that flashed for joy to prove
 
 THE POET'S HOME-GOING. 
 
 The bliss of recognition, seemed to rove, 
 As looking for fulfilment of all love, 
 As yearning still, and still unsatisfied. 
 
 There might I see how many a great one came 
 
 And asked of Venice. Blithe Carpaccio 
 The laugher ; he who left undying name 
 High on Euganean hills ; that queenly Dame 
 On whom the Doges wrought their deed of shame, 
 Dethroned in Cyprus, throned in Asolo. 
 
 And there young Shelley, spoken with at last, 
 Moved towards him ; fiery, tender Tintoret, 
 With strong Bellini : there no more downcast 
 Nor exiled, Dante ; and great Goethe passed 
 To welcome, with that bard from England last. 
 His dark hair with the dews of Isis wet. 
 
 With these was one, the (jrecian, he whose song 
 
 Rang round the quarry walls of Syracuse 
 And gave the slave his freedom from the thong 
 And chain and noon-tide prison-toil among 
 Hot cliffs ; and fair Colonna joined the throng, 
 Willi lier, made pure of heart, the Lesbian Muse.
 
 THE POET'S HOME-GOING. 9 
 
 And towards him, bowing low, Cellini led 
 Brave Palissy the Potter; 'neath his bar 
 
 Of brow stared Angelo, the whiles he read 
 
 The comer ; looked Galuppi, he who wed 
 
 The viol ; Galileo bent his head, 
 
 And Newton with the secret of a star. 
 
 And Burns was there ; and Keats who spake of Rome ; 
 
 And Byron, half ashamed for thoughts to rise 
 Of Venice ; Coleridge, but how changed, had come 
 And Southey, glad for his regathered home, 
 And full of blossomed knowledge, from his dome 
 
 Of curls looked close with penetrative eyes. 
 
 And Milton did no sightless eyeball raise. 
 
 Familiar with Heaven's light above his peers ; 
 
 Therewith walked one who strove not for the bays. 
 
 Nor felt the inalienable lust of praise, 
 
 Contented with one measure all his days, 
 Loved of our Laureate, prince of soimeteers. 
 
 Two stood with stars about them — men who sang 
 
 Of that far home of freedom in the West ; 
 And one who asked of France — how lilies sprang ?
 
 I o - THE POE T 'S HOME- GOING. 
 
 How olives flourished ? then 1 heard a clang 
 Of Tuscan lutes, and from the midst there rang 
 Rossetti's voice in welcome to the guest. 
 
 But most the Singer seemed with awe to scan 
 One with a forehead god-like, whom they call, 
 
 Yea even in Heaven the chief, our " Avon swan" — 
 
 He gazed. Gazed Lionardo, and the man 
 
 Who felt Ferrara's bonds, and Titian, 
 
 Held with large eyes the new-come guest in thrall. 
 
 And Chaucer, fresh as an eternal spring. 
 
 Came through the crowd to claim him of his band ; 
 And Wordsworth, head and shoulders as a king 
 Above the souls who found life — Heaven's great thing 
 To be Earth's greatest, gave him welcoming. 
 
 And towards the throne went forward hand in hand. 
 
 So up and on to perfect happiness, 
 
 With perfect power, toward the fountains clear 
 Of thought and hope, and love and faithfulness, 
 That pour in music through the clouds to bless 
 Our labouring planet, did these spirits press 
 Harmonious, saying things that angels hear.
 
 THE POET'S HOME-GOING. n 
 
 And glad to go, to stay half resolute 
 
 For loveliness, they led him. Roses chief 
 With lilies lit the way ; like flames did shoot 
 Gold cypress trees ; there grew the mandrake root 
 To harmless blossom ; thistles bare sweet fruit, 
 And spiny thorns had burgeoned into leaf. 
 
 There most was perfect the fulfilled desire 
 Of all they are, who in pure love find all. 
 But still the Singer cried, "Our souls aspire, 
 And bright before us burns th' unquenched fire, 
 And up on eagles' wings that cannot tire 
 We go to greet the highest that doth call." 
 
 "And I, even here, one angel voice would find, 
 Not changed in tone, yet fuller than of yore. 
 
 Oh, could mine eyes behold her, she whose mind 
 
 Was mirror of God's being to me blind 
 
 Who smote my harp in darkness, she who twined 
 The cords of loss that brought me to this 
 shore ! " 
 
 E'en as he spake, with amaranth on her brow, 
 And all the long upgathered love of years,
 
 12 THE POET'S HOME.GOING. 
 
 Came one whose eyes from distance seemed to know 
 Her bliss his perfect glory ; with such glow 
 Souls met and mingled, the sad Earth below 
 
 Felt the far joy in Heaven, and ceased from tears.
 
 13 
 
 GRAND-DAD'S ANNIE, DEAD. 
 
 Heavy strooak of th' Lord, wur that when Annie wur 
 took ! 
 I'd amoast a mind to quar'l and speak reight oop to His 
 faace ; 
 Sich a luvvable creater, sich a hand at her book, 
 
 So gev' hoaver to meii, and grawing at sich a paace ! 
 
 And fur all I wur Clerk in th' Choorch, at the sarvice theer 
 i' "the yard," 
 When we coomed to hap her oop, where the graaves 
 looks hoaver the Fen, 
 Tho' I nivver gev' waay i' my life at funeral times, 'twas 
 hard. 
 And loomps got stuck i' my throat and I muddled and 
 messed " Amen."
 
 14 GRAND-DAD'S ANNIE, DEAD. 
 
 Yon's her graiive i' the middle, I've setten it round wi' 
 
 traays ; ^ 
 
 " Man Cometh up like a flower," that's nivver noa reason 
 
 why 
 
 " The beasts of the forest " should ramp o'er the mounds 
 
 fur theer meat and graaze [lie. 
 
 Theer, wheer the flowers of men, God's tenderest gresses 
 
 And reg'lar as Saturday night brings Sunday near, i' th' 
 laane 
 The children gether th' flowers howr Annie luvved best 
 of all, 
 And dress her owt nisht fur the Sunday, wi' a daisy- 
 buttercup chaain. 
 And talk at the graave, and tell her they've browt her a 
 cowslip ball. 
 
 Fur Annie was noorse you might call her to ivvery bairn i' 
 
 th' school, 
 
 Not very sizeable neather to hug 'em abovvt as she did. 
 
 She'd help 'em all round wi' their readin' and 'rithmetic 
 
 summing rule, 
 
 And doctor theer cloas in th' plaay-time an' all with her 
 
 neeadle and thrid. 
 
 ' Hurdles.
 
 GRAND-DAD'S ANNIE, DEAD. 15 
 
 Aw sich a gell at her thimble, we've got the last frock as 
 
 she had, 
 
 She'd bean at hivvery hinch of the Winsey- Kersey-mere, 
 
 Lappeted threea times thruff, and darned was it nivver so 
 
 bad, 
 
 Fur Annie, she couldn't abide the deadest ^ bit of a tear. 
 
 Theer's howr Luce, bad lass, as seems quoite t'other wajiy 
 bred, 
 Rags to her back, and rags to her skirts, and rags to her 
 feeat ; 
 And Annie last daay as she sat i' her reight mind oop in 
 her bed. 
 She tailored awaayat Luce tomaakeherrespectableneiit. 
 
 Well she was took quoite sudden, " confixion " theer in the 
 braain ; 
 
 Squoire's oan son died on it ; it's quoite a quolity ill, 
 I fun it owt i' a book as maakes things sensible plaain. 
 
 It's humours as rises oop fro' the body, and sewer to kill. 
 
 Took upo' Monday morn and died Good Friday at seven. 
 
 I'm glad she went that daay, it's a great daay still wi' 
 
 the Lord, 
 
 ^ Least.
 
 1 6 GRAND-DAD'S ANNIE, DEAD. 
 
 It's a daay when I think He must lean and look fro' the 
 gaate of Heaven, 
 To welcome the least as 'uU coom wi' a child's oan trust 
 on His word. 
 
 Well, howivver, she coomed fro' school, at tea she was hoff 
 of her feead, 
 But down i' the floor she went ascrubbin' awaay like owt ; 
 And we sed, " She's lit i' her stummick on summat as 
 hesn't agreead"; 
 "If the lass nobbut keeaps of her legs she'll be better 
 to-morrow," we thowt. 
 
 But nivver noa sleep that night : wi' her sum, and her 
 pencil and slaiite, 
 As busy as beas she wur, and her head rampageously 
 wild ; 
 And now she would be fur mendin' of Luce or Lizzy or 
 Kaate, 
 And setten 'em off fur school like a muther, the poor 
 little child. 
 
 But before the birds was awaake she crep to question the 
 clock,
 
 GRAND-DAD'S ANNIE, DEAD. 17 
 
 And down at her time she went, fur Grand-dad's toast 
 
 an' his tea ; 
 And oop she coomed for to put the frill to her Easter 
 
 frock, 
 Poor bairn, fur an Easter mornin' she nivver should live 
 
 to seea. 
 
 But we coaxed her into her bed, and she coaxed hers^n 
 oop as fast. 
 She would hev* the clogs she 'ed bowt, setten close to her 
 head i' the chair ; 
 And she shaaked all the pence fro' the box she 'ed saaved 
 the six months past, 
 Fur to git howr Luce, agean Easter, just sich another 
 pair. 
 
 She was quoite disturbed i' her mind fur mea. " Next 
 Sunday at Choorch 
 It's Easter Sunday, Grand-dad, thou must hev' summat 
 new on, tha knoas ; 
 Fur the rooks upon Easter Sunday 'uU be watchin' whoiile 
 waay to the poorch. 
 And if ivver they seea " Rag-Jack " they maake sad 
 work of his cloas."
 
 i8 GRAND-DAD'S ANNIE, DEAD. 
 
 And I sed, " Well bairn, work's bad, and I can't go gentle- 
 man-fine, 
 But I'll promise I'll wear summat new, and that thou'lt 
 nivver guess : 
 It's a pair of Tar-marl garters — tar-marl, you may call it 
 twine," 
 And she laughed, did Annie, right owt to think of my 
 Easter dress. 
 
 But she laay till Thursday mornin', agrawin' from wuss to 
 wuss. 
 And we went fur the doctor twice, he wur busy, he 
 cudn't coam ; 
 And parson's wife stepped in, and she sent a widder to 
 nuss, 
 And doctor he popped in laate, and he sez, *' She's agooin' 
 hoam." 
 
 I went clean bet to my work, I broak my favourite plaane, 
 I mashed my fingers to bits wi' missin' the naiiils I 
 druvv : 
 Fur I didn't expec' to seea owr Annie alive agaain, 
 And a Gran'-dad's heart may be owd, but a Gran'-dad's 
 heart can luvv.
 
 GRAND-DAD'S ANNIE, DEAD. 19 
 
 And she slep, and slep, and slep, and her faace like an 
 aangel shone ; 
 But wonce, upo' Friday mornin', she called fur a neeadle 
 and thread, 
 Stitched awaay till the work as the Lord had gi'en 'er wur 
 done, 
 And then laay back wi' a smile, and grand-dad's Annie 
 wur dead.
 
 20 
 
 A WELCOME TO STANLEY. 
 
 How shall we bring the weary traveller home ? 
 
 Not with the roll of drum and trumpet's blare 
 Nor pomp of indefatigable bells, 
 For he has said so many sad farewells. 
 
 He comes not flushed from war, but worn with care ; 
 
 He went not forth to conquer but to save ; 
 
 And though from half a world he hath removed 
 The cloud of death and darkness, those he loved 
 
 Lie far in some unvisitable grave : 
 
 Wherefore let England now go forth to meet him 
 With hands outstretched, and silent — eye to eye, 
 Because the heart is full and tears are by. 
 
 So let our England greet him. 
 And bring the long lost weary wanderer home. 
 
 But let the harp in tender accent ring ! 
 
 For he was nursed among the woods and vales
 
 ^ WELCOME TO STANLEY. 2\ 
 
 That never have forgot the bardic days, 
 Since Kentigern, the exile, to God's praise 
 Poured out the psahn upon the hills of Wales. 
 And haply he, the little shepherd, strolled 
 By Elgy's stream that nourished Asa's care — 
 His hall of learning and his home of prayer. 
 ^ Who knows how much of those stout hearts of old 
 Breathed from the ground, and made the child the 
 man 
 Fearless, unflinching, feeling Heaven could bend 
 Its purpose to th' inalienable end 
 Of resolution's plan. 
 Wherefore the harp in tender tone shall ring. 
 
 Bid East and West go meet him at the shore ! 
 
 Morn, noon, or night ! for he hath mighty friends ! 
 The sun his mate in tropic lands was made, 
 And for the woe of that weird forest's shade 
 
 On him the daystar lovingly attends. 
 
 Or, if he come at midnight's silver noon. 
 His hair as white as Dian's, she will throw 
 Upon his head the glory of her snow, 
 
 1 H. M. Stanley, born near Denbigh, was educated in a school 
 at St. Asaph.
 
 2 2 A WELCOME TO STANLEY. 
 
 The magic of the mountains of the moon. 
 
 But should he homeward steer when for his rest 
 The dark falls down above the sunset bars, 
 Behold, for him wide Heaven shall light her stars, 
 
 A welcome from the West. 
 So let the nations meet him at the shore. 
 
 Lo, spirit guests the wanderer homeward bring 
 Unnumbered, known and visible to God, 
 Friends dark of skin with large pathetic eyes 
 And faith to follow still to paradise, 
 Who died but never disobeyed his nod. 
 He too, the daring soldier ' left alone 
 To eat his heart out in enforced delay 
 Till the Manyuema's hand was stretched to slay. 
 And his adventurous spirit journeyed on : 
 Nor least the gentle Exile ^ pale with pain, 
 For whom Abdullah's son the Mahdi yearned, 
 Led by a daughter's hand and safe returned : 
 These come across the Main, 
 The hero home with gratitude to bring. 
 
 And with them stand the mighty travellers dead. 
 
 Whether with hope undaunted they set forth 
 
 * Major Barttelot. - Emin Pasha.
 
 A WELCOME TO STANLEY. 23 
 
 O'er pathless seas or roamed a trackless shore, 
 Faced the Equator, heard the icebergs roar 
 
 And plunge in the inhospitable North : 
 
 With high congratulation lo they move 
 
 And meet him ; they who reached a brother's hand 
 To those who wandered lost by sea or land, 
 
 And brought them solace of their nation's love. 
 
 There too, with Afric writ upon his heart. 
 The breaker of the yoke from off the slave 
 Comes from long rest in yonder Abbey nave 
 
 To bear a welcoming part, 
 And stands, great ghost, among the mighty dead. 
 
 Shall they not greet those comrades tried and true. 
 Whose hearts were swift as arrows in their will 
 
 And bold as lions for the desperate fray 1 
 
 Witness the rout of that momentous day 
 When Mazamboni's drums from hill to hill 
 Sounded for war : — ^ one, wan and maimed of foot, 
 
 Who watched the sick and famished pine and die 
 
 In Ugarrowa's toils and treachery ; 
 And 2 one who sought in vain the manioc root 
 To save the ten he strove for ; ^ one whose eye 
 1 Captain Nelson. - Mr. Bonney. ^ Mr. Jephson.
 
 24 A WELCOME TO STANLEY. 
 
 So nearly saw the Mahdi's spears of flame 
 Close round ; one ^ skilled and brave fierce death 
 to tame ; 
 One ^ wounded like to die ; 
 These England greets, his comrades — tried and true. 
 
 Then, while the soft harp sounds, let voices praise 
 The wonder of a heart whose cords are steel. 
 Within whose adamantine casket stored 
 ■'Bides the sure oath that keeps the solemn word ; 
 A heart of flint that still like man can feel. 
 But holds such secret fires within enshrined 
 That danger doth but make its darkness light 
 With dazzling courage, woe and want's despite 
 Seem but the natural fuel of its mind ; 
 A heart whose judgment, like a strong man armed, 
 Leaps to the gate when others quail and fear, 
 Whose eyes, through all perplexity, see clear — 
 Whose life is trebly charmed. 
 So the heart's wonder let the soft harp praise. 
 
 Next may the harper tell in changing tone 
 
 Of all those seven long wanderings in the land, 
 ' Dr. Parke. - Lieut. Stairs.
 
 A WELCOME TO STANLEY. 25 
 
 Dread night avowed where light shall one day be ; 
 
 The fierce equator known from sea to sea ; 
 Peoples and tongues, unnumbered as the sand, 
 That war and waste for ever, slay and burn ; 
 
 Huge rivers rolling east and rolling west ; 
 
 Vast inland oceans ; that white mountain's breast 
 Whence Nilus gathers strength into his urn ; 
 And that mysterious wood whose teeming womb 
 
 Breeds dark perpetual mist of rain, and pours 
 
 Atlantic clouds by Aruwimi's shores 
 Above a weltering tomb. 
 These let the harp tell forth in changing tone. 
 
 Sing sweetly, so the wanderer may forget 
 The weary heartache of the thousand miles, 
 The thrice re-travelled length of bitter road, 
 Famine, and loss, and disappointment's load, 
 The dwarf's dread arrow-flights, the wild men's 
 
 wiles, 
 That river of six nations and seven names 
 Roaring in twilight underneath its wood. 
 The cone shaped huts, the fierce confederate brood 
 Of savage harpies that no glutting tames, 
 The foodless interspace of dearth and death,
 
 26 A WELCOME TO STANLEY. 
 
 The maddening fever, ulcerous limbs and feet. 
 The stupor of despair no hope could cheat, 
 And then the last long breath. 
 These must the singer make him quite forget. 
 
 But most the forest memories all must fade. 
 
 The fearsome, fretful, forest, dank and deep, [plash. 
 Whence venomous vapours rise, where rains down 
 And scarce the elephant's head avails to crash 
 
 Its way through coils of tangle, where foes creep 
 
 Or stand like ruddy tree-stems, poise the spear 
 In silence, flash and vanish; where the ground 
 Reeks fever, and sharp pitfall barbs abound, 
 
 If ever for the nonce the track show clear. 
 
 Ah ! who shall tell that forest's pitiless spite. 
 The mournful booming of the foeman's drum. 
 The death-like drowse of morn, the noontide's hum, 
 
 The whispers of the night — 
 Yea, let the singer bid such memories fade. ^ . 
 
 But ring the harp, and let it bring to mind 
 
 How war-drums down the river ceased to boom, 
 And sudden sunshine with transfiguring light 
 Put swift the leaden-winged morn to flight
 
 A WELCOME TO STANLEY. 27 
 
 And burst the wood's impenetrable gloom 
 
 With splendours unimagined. Then the trees, 
 White-stemmed as ivory pillars, rose from earth, 
 Ten thousand voices mingled in their mirth, 
 
 And waving like a banner in the breeze 
 
 Rich scarves flew o'er the river, wheeled and 
 burned 
 In rainbow lines ; in multi-coloured droves 
 Rare butterflies toyed up and told their loves, 
 
 And Paradise returned. 
 Let the harp ring and bring these things to mind. 
 
 Nor shall the harper cease till he have told 
 
 How when six moons had faded — scarcely seen 
 For that malignant woody vale that made 
 Uay night, and night a deeper, deadlier shade — 
 There rose a shout, and sunlight's marvellous sheen 
 Lay on the mounded hills, and on the plain 
 Where grass was large and Mazamboni king: 
 And how the famished on the flocks did fling, 
 And slew and ate, so strength was born again. 
 Yea, and with strength, unconquerable zeal 
 
 To follow on through sunlight and through storm 
 Of spear and arrow, him of god-like form,
 
 28 A WELCOME TO STANLEY. 
 
 Who thus could sorrow heal. — 
 Let not the harper cease till this be told. 
 
 Then, while the song grows, gladdening all who hear. 
 
 Bid one December morn the joy recal, 
 When they who clomb, victorious, slope to slope, 
 Saw from their Pisgah hope beyond all hope — 
 
 Nyanza laid along Unyoro's wall, 
 
 And — ^^like a serpent coiling — down below, 
 Semliki, with the sunlight on its breast, 
 While southward far with glory to the crest 
 
 Rose Ruwenzori's ridges swathed in snow. 
 
 Most let the harper with triumphant song 
 Sing of that hour supreme the saviour stood, 
 Above Nyanza's shallowy silver flood. 
 
 With him he sought for long. 
 So may the harp sound, gladdening all who hear. 
 
 Strike loud the harp ! and louder sing the lay ! 
 Sing of the travellers' joy that swallowed pain, 
 Scatter the glow as wide as Nilus pours 
 Through those twin sister Lakes the fruitful stores 
 Of Afric's heart to mingle with the main, 
 For never soul did gladlier see the dawn,
 
 A WELCOME TO STANLEY. 29 
 
 Nor eyes with greater joyance scale the heights 
 Than his, who saw the rosy morning lights 
 Flash up the terraced slopes and forest-lawn, 
 And fill the Heavens as with a magic boon 
 Of some enchanted world's inconstant grace 
 That came, like clouds from azure depths of 
 space, 
 Dissolved to cloud as soon. 
 Strike the loud harp ! and loudly ring the lay. 
 
 Here shall the singer change awhile his song 
 
 To tell of sorrow, and the Leader led 
 
 Half way adown the hill whence none return : 
 The anxious watching for the fires to burn, 
 
 To coldness in the brain, and bring the dead 
 
 Back to the living, all an April moon ; 
 The faithful love that o'er the sick man bent, 
 The faithless lust whose murderous intent 
 
 Brought judgment at the breaking of the swoon ; 
 
 Thence homeward thro' Ukanju's constant spring. 
 And Usangora's tawny land of drouth, 
 Beyond the waters gleaming in the south. 
 
 The Salt Lake's crystal ring. 
 These let the singer tell in changing song.
 
 30 A WELCOME rO STANLEY. 
 
 Louder and yet more loud the song may swell, 
 
 For every dawn is nearer now to joy. 
 The joyful sound of that familiar voice 
 Sound of the sea-blue surges that rejoice 
 
 Along the palm-girt beach of Bagamoy, 
 
 And joy for that unutterable spell, 
 
 Born of the wilderness, the call to prayer, 
 
 When old sweet memories throb, and all our care 
 
 Fades at the sovran bidding of a bell, 
 
 When all the clouds of sorrow ever come 
 
 Between the wanderer and his promised land 
 Melt at the grasp of some warm-hearted hand 
 
 That gives a welcome home. 
 Loud sweep the harp let such song loudest swell. 
 
 Last let the harper sing in solemn tone, 
 Unseen but felt the guardian spirit's hand 
 That gently led, that firm impelled him on 
 Till all the ways of safety had been won, 
 From dawn to brightening dawn — the while his band 
 Drave the dark hordes in half a hundred fights 
 Along Semliki's vale of silver shine, 
 Out-faced with brave but daily-minished line. 
 Fierce heats, and withering cold upon the heights ;
 
 A WELCOME TO STANLEY. 31 
 
 The hand that brooked no bitterness of delay, 
 That brought the exile from the snares and wile 
 Of King and caitiffs, from the fount of Nile, 
 
 And traitorous Wadelai. 
 So shall the harper sing in solemn tone. 
 
 And while the song has solemnized the soul, 
 Let all the people standing on the shore 
 Lift up their hands and voices in accord, 
 To thank the great Deliverer, even the Lord 
 Whose wings are stretched in mercy as of yore 
 To guide the weary wanderer on his way, 
 Whose wisdom still miraculously feeds, 
 Sustains and guides, to light through darkness 
 leads, 
 And for the night of anguish gives the day ; 
 But most for those far purposes divine 
 Of peace to all the warrior tribes that sit 
 In pain and iron until love's lamp be lit, 
 And God's true Mahdi shine. 
 That solemn sound shall sink into our soul. 
 
 But ah, how changed the hero steps ashore ! 
 Is this the man beside yon Abbey grave.
 
 32 A WELCOME TO STANLEY. 
 
 The strong stern man a moment woman-weak, 
 Who dashed the tear of friendship from his 
 cheek 
 
 When the great hymn went rolling down the nave ? 
 
 Not this the man I met in that weird place, 
 Where Egypt keeps her gods beside the Nile, 
 Who smiled back Sheik Ed Beled's sturdy smile 
 
 And stared the royal Raamses in the face ? 
 
 This is not he whom England used to know. 
 Or he has searched the very heart of care. 
 He went forth strong, with silver in his hair, 
 
 He comes as white as snow — 
 Changed but unchanged, the hero steps ashore. 
 
 Therefore we bring the weary traveller home 
 
 Not with the roll of drum and trumpet's blare. 
 Nor pomp of indefatigable bells, 
 For he has said so many sad farewells. 
 
 He comes not flushed from war but worn with 
 care, 
 
 He went not forth to conquer but to save. 
 And though from half a world he hath removed 
 The cloud of death and darkness, those he loved 
 
 Lie far in some unvisitable grave.
 
 A WELCOME TO STANLEY. Zl 
 
 Wherefore our England now goes forth to meet him 
 With hands outstretched, and silent — eye to eye, 
 Because her heart is full and tears are by, 
 
 So does our England greet him, 
 And brings the long lost weary wanderer home.
 
 34 
 
 THE OLD PARTNER GONE. 
 
 Deai>, ay dead, but I thowt 
 He was nivver a-gooin' to die ; 
 
 But he nivver not wanted for nowt 
 As long as the cloas wur to dry. 
 
 Thoff he very gain lost me the wash 
 From quolity oop at the Hall, 
 
 Fur I mowed Miss Hallus's sash 
 
 When his carpenter ^ coomed fur to call. 
 
 When the Vicarage laadies caame 
 
 To ax after Ellerby's staJite, 
 D'ya. think if he'd mea to blaame 
 
 He wudn't ha' spoak owt straight .'' 
 
 Fur I sed, " Now EUerby, saay, 
 Hev I ivver waasted your dinner 
 
 1 The coffin-maker.
 
 THE OLD PARTNER GONE. 35 
 
 Coom give me a character," " Naay," 
 He sed, " I've nowt agin her.' 
 
 " And you hallus 'ed plenty to yeiit, 
 
 And nivver went owt ' Rag-Jack ' ; 
 And I nivver was one to cheat 
 
 My belly to put on my back ?" 
 
 And he sed, " Not as I can mind." 
 " And you're quoit contented to goa ? 
 
 If the Lord wud leave you behind 
 F"ur a bit you'd not hev it soa?" 
 
 He was stunt, soa I shook him i' bed ; 
 
 '' Now give the young laadies your word " ; 
 And he sidled and nodded his head, 
 
 " He was quoit content with the Lord." 
 
 Oh yees, he was quoit content. 
 
 As a Christian 'ed ought to beii ; 
 And quoit lamb-quiet he went 
 
 At the last, when he went fro' mea. 
 
 I nivver not fetched him at night, 
 Tho' noil dowt in his beer he wur flighty ;
 
 36 THE OLD PARTNER GONE. 
 
 He warnt not a choorchman, but quoit 
 Well-affected toward the Halmoighty. 
 
 He was offens a botheration, 
 
 And my kneeas they are still fur to rub ; 
 Fur 'e cudn't remember my staation 
 
 Was downstairs along o' the tub. 
 
 But I nivver gev 'im a dovvn-raatin', 
 And wud goa oop iron i' hand, 
 
 And tell him yung. laadies wur waaitin' 
 Fur frills he mud understand. 
 
 Sometimes his owd paiiins they wud lighten. 
 He'd hing hissen oaver a chair ; 
 
 And lor how his faiice seemed to brighten, 
 And he wrestlin' out sich a prayer. 
 
 And " Muther," he'd saiiy, " I'm wi' Jesus" ; 
 
 " That's just where 1 want you to beii," 
 1 wud answer. The Saviour He seeas us 
 
 When two in His name do agreea. 
 
 And I really do think that He'd seeiid us, 
 .And knew that my back was nigh broak ;
 
 THE OLD PARTNER GONE. 37 
 
 Fur the haangel of Death caiime and freeiid us, 
 When the Hall was a-fillin wi' fwoak. 
 
 And after a long daily's vvashin', 
 
 I'd gitten mea oop to bed, 
 And I felt that the raain was a-lashin', 
 
 And silin in oaverhead, 
 
 Clear fit to drown boath on us nearly, 
 
 So I stirred and th' owd man stirred an' all ; 
 
 And " Muther," he sed, " 1 feel queearly," 
 And the clock bang'd twelve at the Hall. 
 
 The wind was a-shaakin' the winders. 
 
 The chimley was all in a moil, 
 But I got to the kindlin' and cinders. 
 
 And bellus'd the kettle to boil. 
 
 And I mashed him the tea, and I pour'd it, 
 — Yon blue un's the very saame cup — 
 
 Noa milk, far we cudn't afford it, 
 And I puffed it fur him to sup. 
 
 And I reached to 'is owd lips the saucer ; 
 He sed nowt, but that wasn't straange.
 
 38 THE OLD PARTNER GONE. 
 
 For he moastly sed nothink ; and lor, Sir ! 
 I seead i' a moament the chaange. 
 
 Soa 'e went, it was awkard 'is goin', 
 Fur dryin' daay was soa near ; 
 
 But the Lord I reckon is knowin' 
 
 Reight times fur to call us oop theere. 
 
 And I wean't saay as I wur unwillin', 
 Thoff cumpany's good at nights ; 
 
 But the parish has stopped 'is two shillin' 
 I hed, and shud still hev by rights.
 
 39 
 
 SISTER ROSE GERTRUDE. 
 
 If, Lord, Thy hand to each a sum doth give 
 Of joy, take mine to be on others shed ; 
 And if Thou seekest vengeance, strike me dead- 
 
 So others live. 
 
 Sister Rose with the meek blue eye, 
 
 And the Dominic dress, and the milk-white hood, 
 You have long resolved, you have crossed the flood, 
 You have out-faced death, and the leper's ban. 
 For the glory of God and the love of man : 
 
 At least you can never die. 
 
 It is true you sat in your " nurse's " gown 
 And waved a hand to the twilit shore ; 
 It is true, when the funnels began to roar 
 And the stern to lash in the Mersey tide, 
 You looked back over the vessel's side. 
 
 And thought of the Combe and the Down.
 
 40 SIS7'ER ROSE GERTRUDE. 
 
 But your soul had long ago crossed the seas, 
 To the purple clifts with their ladders of sun, 
 To the beach where the pitiless breakers run, 
 Where the lepers wail on the prisoning strand, 
 And Christ's love only can reach a hand 
 
 To lessen the sore disease. 
 
 Sister Rose, there the roses are fair. 
 The wild convolvulus shines like hre, 
 The air is as soft as soul can desire, 
 The honey-bird gleams, and the fern trees wave, 
 But the ocean moans round an island grave, 
 
 And Death has poisoned the air. 
 
 Sister Rose, you will land in a bay 
 
 Where the fish like jewels will swim or sleep, 
 But the shark's fierce fin sails out of the deep. 
 Fair is the d<iy, but all night in the south 
 The dread volcano flames from its mouth 
 
 Anger and sore dismay. 
 
 One can bear to sit down by a corpse awhile, 
 To see the face-cloth drawn from a face 
 Which has won from death a renewal of grace;
 
 SISTER ROSE GERTRUDE. 4' 
 
 But how will it be when the face that is death 
 Still breathes and heaves through its knots with breath, 
 And counterfeits still a smile? 
 
 One can wait and watch by a coffin, when 
 
 The lid is closed and the cry unheard ; 
 
 But what if the dead man called or stirred, 
 
 And what if the pain of our agony 
 
 Was to tend the dead and to hear the cry 
 Of the still uncoffined men ? 
 
 One can love and pity the wounded and weak. 
 The mangled body whose face is whole, 
 Whose eyes look forth with the look of a soul ; 
 But, ah, when the body has ceased to be 
 The thing God made it, no eyes to see, 
 
 No ears, and no lips to speak? 
 
 Sister Rose, when saw you the Lord ? 
 
 Did you gaze at Him coming adown the hill 
 When the leper cried, and He said, " I will, 
 Be clean ! " or when did the angels meet 
 And strew the lilies about your feet, 
 
 And press your hands to the sword ?
 
 42 SISTEE HOSE GERTRUDE. 
 
 — Sword of the spirit, and lilies of life, 
 
 Flower of the heart, and weapon of fire, 
 
 Tender and keen with the soul's desire 
 
 To dare this deed, and to face disease 
 
 With the flush of your health ; in the Southern Seas 
 To be unto Death for wife. 
 
 When you were a child did the angels come 
 That day that you gave your cowslip ball 
 To the crippled boy ? Did you hear the call, 
 When the birds were crying about the nest 
 In the copse, and you carried with beating breast 
 
 The poor winged pigeon home ? 
 
 When your youth with the birds and the flowers was filled, 
 
 With the sun and the dew of the Somerset lane. 
 
 Did you go to the prisoner's house of pain. 
 
 Or take your little white heart of pity 
 
 Into the grim and ulcerous city. 
 And feel that God's will had willed ? 
 
 Had you read of Sienna's Saint and the dove 
 That hovered above the maiden's head ? 
 Or of her who giving the leper a bed,
 
 SJSTEK ROSE GERTRUDE. 43 
 
 Found Christ ? Or of him who learned to die 
 That the dying might live at Molokai, 
 That thus you are sworn to love ? 
 
 Or was it a faded leaf with a prayer 
 They found on a fallen soldier's breast, 
 Which has sent you forth on your holy quest 
 To beat down death, and if God must give 
 The blow, to bear it, so brothers may live, 
 
 And sisters your sunlight share? 
 
 It matters little, the angels came. 
 
 Passed thro' the streets of the troubled town 
 
 To the quiet village beneath the down ; 
 
 They touched your soul and they opened ) our eyes, 
 
 They fired an altar of sacrifice, 
 
 And cast your heart in the flame. 
 
 And ever since then, your grey hills gleamed 
 As grey as the native hills He knew 
 Who loved His friends to the death, and drew 
 The whole world after : yea, yonder mill, 
 With its arms outstretched on the top of the hill, 
 
 Like a cross in the darkness seemed.
 
 44 SISTER ROSE GERTRUDE. 
 
 Sister Rose Gertrude, the gates of Heaven 
 
 Are open for you, and your heart that was small 
 Is wide to embrace the world at the call 
 Of Love at the gates. Let England prove 
 At the height of its power, its power to love, 
 
 To you is the high task given. 
 
 Sister Rose Gertrude — who has just sailed to be the Superior of 
 the Leper's Hospital at Kalawao on the Island of Molokai, the home 
 of the late Father Damien — is the daughter of the Vicar of Combe 
 Down, near Bath, sometime Chaplain of the Union and H. M. Prison 
 at Bath. She is described as being a young, fresh, beautiful girl, 
 with large eyes of deepest blue, and a fair rosy complexion. A 
 member of the Roman ("Catholic Church, she feels that "suffering is 
 her lot and her profession. Love which cannot suffer is unworthy of 
 the name of love." For years past it has been her desire to go forth 
 and tend the lepers on their lonely island home of sorrow, and she 
 has equipped herself for the work by study in the hospitals and at the 
 Pasteur Institute in Paris. " It had always been,"she said to a lady 
 who interviewed her on the eve of her departure, "my wish and my 
 desire to do some of God's work on earth, into which I could throw 
 my whole being, where there was scope for the fullest self-sacrifice, 
 and where I could follow Him who said : ' Greater love hath no man 
 than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. ' " She handed 
 shyly a little old Prayer-book to the lady, and said, " I don't know 
 whether I ought to tell you, but unless I do I shall not have explained 
 one of the reasons of my great wish to go and live with and help the 
 lepers. In Miss F 's small clear hand-writing a prayer was
 
 SISTER ROSE GERY'RUDE. 45 
 
 written on the leaf— the touching, pathetic prayer which is said to 
 have been found on the breast of the Prince Imperial when he was 
 
 carried dead from the battlefield in Zululand. Miss F pointed 
 
 to the passage, "If Thou givest on this earth a certain sum of 
 happiness, take, O God! my share, and bestow it on the most 
 worthy. . . . If Thou seekest vengeance on man, strike me ! "
 
 46 
 
 THE OLD-FASHIONED "TORTOSSY" CAT. 
 
 COOM in, sir, I've wiped the cheeir, sit down ; yees, I'll 
 
 taake yur hat, 
 Ay, it's a straange owd-fanned ^ owd thing. Doan't touch 
 
 her, she'll scrat ! 
 Theer now, sir, I could tell ye soom things along of owr 
 
 cat. 
 
 Nivver was parshal to tabbies, and black uns is awkard 
 
 and queer. 
 Allays alookin' in when you doan't expec' that they're near, 
 Cooms fro' the divil, fwoaks saay, to listen and let 'im hear. 
 
 But, howivver, if ivver the divil was plagued \vi' a cat 
 
 hissen, 
 It's wi' Tortossy-shell i' the winder, why, talk o' nine lives, 
 
 she's ten ! 
 
 1 Old-fashioned.
 
 THE OLD-FASHIONED '' TORTOSSY" CAT. 47 
 
 Theer ain't sich a clivir owd thieaf, noa not fur miles, i' the 
 Fen. 
 
 We've nivver no 'casion to buy, fur whenivver my laady 
 
 cooms in. 
 After layin' fur daays in the deyke, — you may tell by the 
 
 drip ov her skin — 
 Shea's sewer to coom straangen fat, thoff her leg bea 
 
 mashed oop i' a gin. 
 
 Not that she wur soa allays, as a kit she was maazin 
 
 graave, 
 Reg'lar born Wesleyan, and mind ye, knew how to be- 
 
 haave ; 
 Lor* when muther wur bad, how she maade the choorch 
 
 minister raave I 
 
 Fur muther wur took quoite suddent i' one of her brown- 
 
 kittey ^ fits. 
 And parson he coomed and 'e read reight thruff her 
 
 favourite bits. 
 And all muther sed at the hend was, " Lawks, 'ow quoiet 
 
 cat sits." 
 
 * Bronchitis.
 
 48 THE OLD-FASHIONED " TOKTOSSY" CA T. 
 
 And 'e gloomed, and 'e shet the book and sez 'e, " Cat's 
 
 ain't in the Word, 
 And hadn't she need o' comfort, and wasn't it quoite absurd 
 Fur 'im to bea readin' Paul, and nivver a verse to beii 
 
 heard." 
 
 Quoite a Quaaker cat she wur, soii sober and taame, 
 But Squire's sons got at her and plaayed her "the straw- 
 berry game," 
 And ivver sin that the critter warn't what you might call 
 the saame. 
 
 Fur they buttered twoa oyster tubs, and set' em each side 
 
 o' the bed, 
 Ran a long twine fro' the twoa, put a ring-collar oiiver 'er 
 
 'ead, 
 And "theer she might find hersen i' meat wi' blackbirds," 
 
 they sed. 
 
 It was oop and down i' the strawberry beds she was made 
 
 to fleeii, 
 Bangin' hersdn to bits, and the lads they laughed to seeJi, 
 Scared the birds furst-raiite, but was nivver the saame to 
 
 meii.
 
 THE OLD-FASHIONED "■TORTOSSV CAT. 49 
 
 And she addled ^ mea nowt by the job, thoff the critter 'ed 
 
 sarved 'em true, 
 Not so much as a berry "- fur thanks, — and the cat spoilt 
 
 too — 
 She didn't yeat, but I reckon cat's missis could yeat a few. 
 
 Pussy, thou knoast we are talkin' o' theea — do ye 'ear 
 
 'ow she purrs ? 
 Cats is sensible things, you maay tell by the sparks i' 
 
 theer furs — 
 'Lectric — doctor, 'e maakes the stuff i' a box that whirrs. 
 
 But, hovvivver, the cat went wild and turned oop 'or noase 
 
 at a mouse, 
 Thieaved at the coops she did till the neivhbours gev' 'er 
 
 the souse, 
 And she coomed hoame wringin'wet wi' a string round 'er 
 
 neck to the house. 
 
 It bothered feyther a deal to sarve muther's cat that waay, 
 And 'e tongued 'em and called 'em adeal, and they went 
 
 oop o' Session daay, 
 And blaamt if the Justices didn't consent to maake 'im 
 
 paay ! 
 
 * Earned. "^ Strawberry. 
 
 D
 
 50 THE OLD-FASHIONED " TORTOSSY'' CAT. 
 
 But things went fro' wuss to wuss till the neahbours was 
 
 all turned foe, 
 And we cudn't keeap pussy at hoam and we judged the 
 
 poor thing mun goa, 
 And feyther 'e gev' 'is consent with a "hiff" and a 
 
 "spoiisin' soa." 
 
 But 'e begged like a lawyer i' wig and gown, " She was 
 
 friend o' his wife 
 As wur dead, and was we sewer that 'er endin' wud end 
 
 the strife. 
 He'd deal reyther kill a pig. " And the cat sat purrin' fur life. 
 
 But yon hypocrite theer i' the winder, she didn't git hoaver 
 
 us 
 Wi' all her soft sawdrin' purr, ivvery daay she wur cause 
 
 o' some fuss, 
 And 'er manners abowt the house wur grawin' from bad to 
 
 wuss. 
 
 And feyther at last gev' in, " Now, gells," sez 'e, " you'll 
 
 greea, 
 If the critter, maade oop i' a poake to beii drowned i' the 
 
 drean, gits freea.
 
 THE OLD-FASHIONED " TORTOSSY" CAT. 51 
 
 You noan on you doan't nivver ask for 'er condemnation 
 fro' mea." 
 
 Well, hincourse, the thing was sattled i' terms, and the 
 
 poake wur brovvt, 
 And a couple o' bricks, and the cat popped in — by goy ! 
 
 'ow she fovvt, — 
 And feyther he took the twine and 'e neeadled awaay like 
 
 owt. 
 
 Awaay to the drean we went, and the neahbours set oop a 
 
 cheear, 
 " White noased doa i' the hutch won't yeat 'er young 
 
 uns to year ! 
 Fwoaks maay goa to market, and chickens wean't bea soa 
 
 dear." 
 
 It wur dusk when we splashed 'er in, and Tortossy-shell 
 
 went down, 
 Bagged wi' a couple o' bricks she wur sartin sewer to 
 
 drown, 
 And the fwoaks cried owt, " We're shut 0' the clivirest 
 
 thieaf i' the town."
 
 52 THE OLD-FASHIONED " TORTOSSY" CAT. 
 
 But blaamt if the very saame night, when all on us got to 
 
 bed, 
 If we didn't 'ear Tortossy mew, " Mun bea Tortossy's 
 
 ghoast," we sed ; 
 But the ghoast cud kill rabbits, 'owivver, that night theer 
 
 wur threea on 'em dead. 
 
 And theer i' the morn when we hoppened the door, owt- 
 
 side, i' the mat, 
 A-lickin' the fur fro' 'er lips and groomin' 'ersen, who sat, 
 And pleased and peart as a queen? howr owd-fanned 
 
 Tortossy cat ! 
 
 Howivver owd Tortossy scheamed 'ersen freea we cudn't 
 
 decide, 
 But feyther 'e called us all round o' the night afoor 'e died, 
 And sez he, " Cells, I neadled yon cat i' the poake, but the 
 
 knots wur noiin on 'em tied."
 
 53 
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE " CLEOPATRA." 
 
 Hear how the stars and stripes— above stripes the stars, 
 
 For by suffering men grow great — 
 In the foam of Atlantic waves, the fiercest of wars — 
 
 Rage of waters and hate 
 
 Of wind — did a noble deed 
 
 Whereof the eternal seed, 
 
 When this our little world 
 
 Into thousand atoms is hurled, 
 
 And there is no more sea, 
 
 Shall still bear fruit and be. 
 
 We waved our caps, we crossed the cove, 
 
 And out into the bay, 
 And many a lass who lost her love 
 
 Was sad of heart that day, 
 Each sailor loves some maid the best ; 
 Our ship went east, our thoughts went west.
 
 54 THE BALLAD OF THE "-CLEOPATRA: 
 
 The great sail whitened to the sun, 
 
 And cheerly sang the foam, 
 But backward still some hearts must run 
 
 To that last eve at home, 
 When in the mellow harvest corn 
 They named the far-off marriage morn. 
 
 Our " Cleopatra's " golden head 
 Scarce heaved, so smooth of keel 
 
 We flew, our topsail canvas spread, 
 Our skipper at the wheel. 
 
 Sixteen aboard, a crew as sound 
 
 As ever sought a fishing ground. 
 
 You hail from Gloucester, friend, you know 
 Jack Pendleton — a man you say, 
 
 Our skipper — ay, not one to throw 
 Much breath or many words away, 
 
 But just and brave, a man who won 
 
 All hearts of men, was Pendleton. 
 
 I sometimes think that God still comes 
 In human shape and common kind.
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE ''CLEOPATRA:' 55 
 
 And calls from fisher-faring homes 
 
 A simple crew of varied mind 
 To teach men in a cross-sea trip 
 The mystery of fellowship. 
 
 But be that false or be that true, 
 
 Our skipper's spell was over all, 
 His word was law in love, no crew 
 
 Came merrier to a " bosun's " call, 
 And in the love to him we bore 
 Each came to love his brother more. 
 
 Once in a dream it seemed to me, 
 
 Like Jesus, as I read one day. 
 Our skipper walked a stormy sea ; 
 
 I saw his face burn through the spray. 
 And I remember that he said, 
 " With Me is life— be not afraid." 
 
 He seldom spoke of God or Heaven, 
 
 But moved as in another world, 
 And ever one day out of seven 
 
 The kedge was cast, the sails were furled,
 
 56 THE BALLAD OF TLLE ''CLEOPATRAr 
 
 We raised a hymn, he made a prayer, 
 And told us of a Father's care. 
 
 Oh ! hard is any seaman's lot 
 
 When nets are foul and winds are wild, 
 But when in calm the nets are shot 
 
 And decks with silver store are piled, 
 And lines come laden home with spoil, 
 The fisher's heart forgets the toil. 
 
 And many a day we sailed and knew 
 
 A golden east and rosy west, 
 But still our thoughts like swallows flew 
 
 To that dear harbour loved the best. 
 "To-morrow," cried the skipper, "come 
 What will to-day, we'll steer for home." 
 
 But as he spoke we felt the breath 
 Of some far iceberg fill the sail, 
 
 And with a hand as cold as death 
 
 The storm wrack burst in sleet and hail. 
 
 And all the sea writhed mad with pain 
 
 Beneath the thundering hurricane.
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE ''CLEOPATRA:' 57 
 
 Our shrouds were snapt like packers' thread, 
 The blocks flew out, the schooner heeled, 
 
 We saw the white sea overhead, 
 
 We cut the sheets and back she reeled, 
 
 Then all a-board a billow leapt, 
 
 And stem to staggering stern it swept. 
 
 Oh ! bitterest wave, it tore from me 
 My own son's son, it crashed the mast, 
 
 It smote us all upon our knee, 
 And when the whelming flood was past 
 
 Three were not : one upon the deck 
 
 Lay dying, and our craft a wreck ! 
 
 God knows how through that day and night 
 
 The groaning vessel rose and sank, 
 We envied him with face so white 
 
 Beside the shattered watei tank, 
 He seemed so calm, his tempest past. 
 We could not die, we fought the blast. 
 
 Then one cried out : "A sail ! a sail !" 
 Dear God ! the dead man was forgot.
 
 58 THE BALLAD OF THE '' CLEOPATRA." 
 
 They see our flag's distress, they hail — 
 Brave land to bear so brave a Scot — 
 Our stars and stripes remember still 
 Your bold sea captain's generous will ! 
 
 Oh ! life is dearer than we guess'd, 
 
 And hope is harder to forego, 
 Each saw the port he loved the best 
 
 Once more upon the weather bow ; 
 But without word our skipper seemed 
 As one who prayed or one who dreamed. 
 
 The mountain ridge of hurrying wave 
 
 Rose up, but ever as it fell 
 We caught between us and the grave 
 
 That huge red hull, and we could tell 
 How men as brave as lions there 
 For brother men would do and dare. 
 
 Our boats were stove, their boats were whole, 
 Lord help them I out the davits swing ! 
 
 What ! shall they pull for such a goal 
 
 And launch on Death from death to bring
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE ''CLEOPATRA." 59 
 
 Life, but at Death's most certain price? 
 God asks, not man, such sacrifice. 
 
 The waters hissed, the waters curled. 
 Thrashed into dust the waters screamed, 
 
 From height to hell we back were hurled, 
 But still our skipper prayed or dreamed, 
 
 And still above our battered crew 
 
 The stars and stripes in pity flew. 
 
 Then spake the skipper tried and true, 
 
 And there was that about his word 
 That pierced our very beings through 
 
 As if it were a spirit's sword, 
 And there was that about his face 
 Made each forget the storm a space. 
 
 " Mates, have we such dark fear of death. 
 Is that old Gloucester dock so dear, 
 
 That we would purchase life and breath. 
 Albeit the succour come so near, 
 
 At risk of such a hungry grave 
 
 For yonder friends who haste to save ?
 
 6o THE BALLAD OF THE ''CLEOPATRA:' 
 
 " Have the}' no homes, no bairns, no wives ? 
 
 Shall we like cowards stand to see 
 Men, brothers, dare to rescue lives, 
 
 — Our lives so poor — at such a fee ? " 
 And as he spoke his eyes were bright 
 With something of an angel light. 
 
 Oh ! God forgive my silence then, 
 
 My wife's dear call came through the wind ; 
 
 But with the skipper there were ten 
 Of self-forgetful hero mind. 
 
 Amen ! Amen ! and with that cry 
 
 They swore for them no man should die. 
 
 Down came the stripes, down came the stars ! 
 
 Did e'er doomed hulk so well pretend 
 Her pumps were sound, no leak, no scars, 
 
 Nor any need of succouring friend? 
 And with the dead man at our side 
 We felt that we indeed had died. 
 
 Right merry gleams the Peter blue, 
 'Tis sad to haul the Peter down,
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE ''CLEOPATRA:' 6 1 
 
 But when the flag for life flies true 
 
 And every other hope is flown, 
 To haul those colours down and feel 
 Hope dead, it tries a heart of steel ! 
 
 Our vessel groaned as she would break, 
 O'erhead a billow seemed to boom ; 
 
 When next I heard the skipper speak 
 I lay in some strange cabin room — 
 
 He smiled and said, " God crossed us, mate, 
 
 That day we dared to choose our fate." 
 
 The facts on which the ballad has been founded appeared in an 
 English paper shortly after the occurrence. The writer was 
 fortunately able to have them verified by an American friend, 
 Mr. Yarnall, of Philadelphia, who wrote direct to the Shipping 
 Agency for him and obtained the following reply : — 
 
 " Peter Wright and Sons, Philadelphia, Sept. 25, 1886. 
 " Ellis Yarnall, Esq. 
 " Dear Sir, — Annexed please find information required by you. 
 "Very truly, 
 
 "Frank D. P. Weall. 
 
 " Capt. Geo. W. Pendleton, American fishing schooner ' Cleo- 
 patra,' of Gloucester, Mass. 
 
 " Capt. Edmund Miller Hughes, American line steamer ' Lord 
 Gough.' Date of rescue, December 27th, 1885."
 
 62 THE BALLAD OF THE ''CLEOPATRA." 
 
 The "Lord Gough," though of the American hne of steamers 
 (Liverpool to Philadelphia), is a British vessel ; her captain is, I 
 think, a Scotchman. On the 27th December the " Lord Gough," 
 on her way to Philadelphia, saw the flag of distress on the mast of 
 the "Cleopatra." The wind was blowing a gale, making it a 
 matter of serious risk for the " Lord Gough " to send a boat to the 
 rescue. But Captain Hughes thought it his duty to do this, and 
 he called for volunteers. The second officer (I think) and a crew 
 volunteered, and a boat was lowered. Suddenly, however, the 
 signal of distress was lowered from the mast of the " Cleopatra." 
 Captain Hughes was much perplexed ; it seemed almost certain 
 that the vessel was in extremity. On the whole he thought it his 
 duty to send the boat. The brave fellows made their way over 
 the perilous waters, and the schooner was reached. There they 
 found the master and eleven men, but for the " Lord Gough," 
 utterly without hope. Three others of the crew had been washed 
 away, and the body of a fourth lay on the deck. In two trips the 
 survivors were conveyed to the "Lord Gough." The master of 
 the schooner went in the second trip of the boat, but before doing 
 so, he read with such solemnity as he could in the awful storm, the 
 burial service over the remains of his comrade, and then the body 
 was committed to the deep. Of course, the first inquiry made by 
 Captain Hughes of the American captain was. Why did he haul 
 down his signal? The reply was: — "■Sir, we saw that you were 
 preparing to tnake an effoi't to save us, but we saw, also, that it was 
 a sea in which it was very doubtful whether a boat would live. I 
 said, then, to viy men, ' Shall we let those brave felloivs risk their 
 lives to save oursV and they said 'No!'' Then I hauled down 
 the flag."
 
 63 
 
 DREEAMS. 
 
 Theer'S dreejims i' the Bible, my dear, 
 And part of the Promise was dreeiims ; 
 
 But mind ya they're terrible queer 
 When they waakens a body with screams. 
 
 And its singlar they moastlins shud come 
 Wi' a bit o' bad news to their taail ; 
 
 Mebbe just when you've setten fro' home, 
 And not hoaver fond o' the raail. 
 
 But thou knaws it's not Christians aloane 
 As dreeams, fur dreeams cooms to the brute, 
 
 Howr dog dreeams of shakkin' a boane, 
 
 But it's worst when ya dreeam o' Ripe Fruit. 
 
 I dreeamed o' Ripe Fruit tother night, 
 And I set oop o' hend i' the bed ;
 
 64 DREE A MS. 
 
 And I woake my owd man wi' my fright, 
 
 And " Ripe Fruit ! " was the words that I sed. 
 
 " Is it couzen or hant as is ta'en?" 
 
 And he grunted, " Git on, let ma lig " ; 
 
 " Is it one of Will's waggoners slaain ? " ' 
 And he gruffed and soon snoored like a pig. 
 
 But next mornin' as sewer as I'm here, 
 
 A " black-hedge " 'ed coomed thruff the post ; 
 
 Was it hant ? Was it couzen ? My dear, 
 It was one of Will's " caulvers " wur lost ! 
 
 ^ Killed by accident.
 
 65 
 
 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 Father Damien is dead, 
 
 Mourn for Father Damien, 
 He who broke the leper's bread, 
 
 Most compassionate of men. 
 
 Crowns of gold to kings we give, 
 But for those who life lay down 
 
 That their brother men may live. 
 Immortality is crown. 
 
 Lilies bring, bring passion flower, 
 Strew white poppies o'er his sleep, 
 
 Damien's love could charm with power 
 Gardens from the barren steep ; 
 
 Not a lava-bed but gave 
 
 Fruit and fragrance to his hand.
 
 66 FA THER DAMIEN. 
 
 Wherefore over Damien's grave 
 Let the blossoming roses stand. 
 
 Fierce the " Cona " winds may blow, 
 Howling down the northern heights, 
 
 Round our huts as white as snow 
 Moan by day and roar by nights. 
 
 Damien hears them not, no more 
 Breasts the blast to bring us aid, 
 
 He has reached a stormless shore 
 Where the winds of God are laid. 
 
 Red as rubies flash the birds 
 Over Damien's resting-place — 
 
 So like rubies flashed his words 
 When he gave us heart of grace. 
 
 Fair as foam the sea-birds flew 
 
 Glad when Damien passed them by- 
 Free as foam his love, we knew. 
 Hovered over Molokai. 
 
 Southward look by sea and shore 
 How the great fire-fountains toss !
 
 FATHER D AMI EN, 67 
 
 So burned on the zeal he bore, 
 So flames out at night our loss. 
 
 He who staunched the leper's sore, 
 
 He who bade the leper smile, 
 He who taught us holy lore, 
 
 Gave us faith and blessed our isle ; 
 
 Built us homes, from beasts made men, 
 
 Out of madness and despair 
 Wrought sweet patience — Damien — 
 
 Damien has ceased from care. 
 
 Seas less sapphire, skies less blue 
 
 Meet in Kalawao's bay, 
 Fish that swam, of iris hue. 
 
 Through the corals cease their play. 
 
 Desolate the forest yearns. 
 
 Where the south wind holds its breath, 
 Murmuring move the tall tree-ferns, 
 
 Sighing as for Damien's death. 
 
 Hark! from Molokai a call, 
 Wailing, weeping up the glen,
 
 68 .FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 " Lord, have mercy on us all, 
 Reft of Father Damien." 
 
 Who shall strive our woes to heal, 
 Give the sick ones drink and food. 
 
 Who shall make the leper feel 
 Joy in human brotherhood ? 
 
 Who shall teach us God is love- 
 God we cursed for this our ill — 
 
 Who by sacrifice shall prove 
 Christ the Lord is with us still ? 
 
 Who will show us gain from loss. 
 
 Bid us faint not on our way, 
 Bear uphill our heavy cross 
 ■ Till we reach our Golgotha ? 
 
 *&'■ 
 
 So the lepers wail and wail, 
 
 Down the shore and up the glen ; 
 
 Shall their sorrow nought avail 
 Crying still for Damien ? 
 
 Yea, at night, when on the wave 
 Winds are hushed, and no birds cry
 
 FATHER DA MI EN. 69 
 
 Comes a voice from Damien's grave, 
 Sounding out to Molokai : 
 
 " Leper men no longer weep 
 
 Though ye now seem fatherless ; 
 Damien has but entered sleep 
 
 Damien's spirit lives to bless!"
 
 70 
 
 THE EVIL EYE. 
 
 Now Liza, didn't I tell tha a straanger wud coom to-daay ? 
 Fur I stirred th' owd cup last night, but the tea leaves 
 swum and swum, 
 And the shrouds burnt bright in the candle thoff I snuffed 
 and snuffed awaay, 
 When things goa that-how siver, a straanger is bound 
 to coom. 
 
 It's maazin' happen you've lit huppon Eve of St. Mark 
 to-year, 
 Fur my owd man as is gone, 'e wur boarn huppon Eve 
 of St. Mark, 
 Why 'e'd second sight fro' 'is birth, 'e cud tell when the 
 sperrits wur near. 
 And cud seea the stars i' the nooiin, that huther fwoaks 
 seeas at dark.
 
 THE EVIL EYE. 7^ 
 
 They doan't goa now to the choorches, but lor, when 1 
 wur a gell, 
 Theer wur watchers went cloase huppo twelve, to knaw 
 whoa was gooin' to die, 
 Owr maister 'e hedn't noa 'casion, fur 'e knawed thoff 'e 
 nivver wud tell, 
 Wonst goa ya wur foorst to goa hivvery year when St. 
 Mark's coomed by. 
 
 I mind one Skipputh as went, and he coom'd back maaz'd 
 i' the head, 
 And blaamt if 'e didn't get sight of hall owd Worl- 
 laby's lot, 
 The gaainest neahbour an' all, and by goy, i' the year they 
 wur deiid, 
 Fur the " demmuck " ^ tuk taaties and caulves and the 
 fam'ly reight down to the cot. 
 
 We wur all on us skeared i' them daays, theer wur corp- 
 lights seean i' the ditches. 
 And meg-ullats2 skrikin' o' death, and death-carts 
 stoppin' at doors, 
 
 1 Epidemic. " Screech-owls.
 
 72 THE EVIL EYE. 
 
 And coffins that joomped fro' the cooals, and wise men 
 along o' the witches, 
 And women as hoaver-looked ya, ^ the bad uns, by scoors 
 and scoors. 
 
 One time when owr sow went wrong, and Molly the cow 
 wur draape. 
 And the butter wud hardlins coom, and the hens got 
 crawin' at morn, 
 And fur all the management ^ put i' the threea-haacre top 
 o' the raape, 
 Theer was nowt paaid cuttin' or feeadin', and ketlocks ^ 
 clear meslin ■* the corn. 
 
 I minds my owd feyther went hoff to Scamblesby moun- 
 tain-side, 
 And 'e fun the wise man i' the house, one Cossit, and 
 telled 'im 'is staate, 
 And the chimly began to rooar, and my feyther wur like 
 to hev died, 
 Fur 'e thowt all the divvils i' hell wur a-bealin' ^ a-back 
 o' the graate. 
 
 1 Looked with an evil eye at you. ^ Manure. ^ Wild mustard. 
 * Entirely mingling with and destroying. * Bellowing.
 
 THE EVIL EYE. 73 
 
 Soa 'e downed with 'is munny and left, 'e nivver let on 
 what he wore/ 
 But I knaw Cossit gev fur the butter white hairs fro' a 
 black cat's taail, 
 And 'e 'vised 'im to wring the hens necks, chaange the 
 land, and to git a new boar, 
 And to turn the first sod as draape trod when she 
 coomed fro' the milkin' paail. 
 
 'E wur daft fur 'is paains, fur the parson wud like enew 
 done it fur nowt, 
 When Stoane's wur hoaver-looked 'e got 'im to coom to 
 the sty, 
 And 'e went to the Choorch next Sunday and 'is pigs got 
 as well as owt, 
 Yeeas, I do belieeve that the parson can sattle the 
 " Evil Eye." 
 
 1 Paid.
 
 74 
 
 THE FOREMAN KING. 
 A Ballad of the Ohio. 
 
 Fourteen comrades laid in a row ! 
 
 The Louisville people shudder and stare ; 
 
 The hush is horrible ; I declare 
 The sob of that woman bending low, 
 
 And the " Oh, God help us ! " and then the prayer 
 
 Blesses the curse of the silent air, 
 My tears are beginning to flow. 
 
 Dumb drowned corpses fit for the clay, 
 But meant for the holiest work God sends— 
 Toil from the morn till the hard day ends 
 
 For wife and for babe. A rivet gave way 
 So the caisson flooded, you know my friends 
 When a rivet gives way and a wall-plate bends 
 
 In a caisson, it ends the day.
 
 THE FOREMAN KING. 75 
 
 You are gazing long on the pale white face, 
 But the pale white face, it can stare you out. 
 "Did they suffer in death ? " you ask ; no doubt. 
 
 Rats in a trap die hard; you may trace 
 Pain in the look of a beast's death pout, 
 And the beast leaves little it cares about — 
 
 These were leaving the hope of their race. 
 
 Look at the fingers and hands that were strong, 
 Strong for the hammer, and pick, and spade, 
 Fighting like demons was never their trade ! 
 
 But scrabbles of flesh the whole cheek long, 
 Tufts of hair clenched tightly, are made 
 Signs of a battle where none were afraid 
 
 And where all that they did was done wrong. 
 
 Like enough ! for with Heaven before 
 
 And Hell behind, it was swim or sink, 
 
 And death that had closed on them all but a chink 
 Was foaming up thro' the floor. 
 
 Prisoners they, could they stop to think ? 
 
 In a case like theirs we should none of us shrink 
 From pushing a bit for the door.
 
 76 THE FOREMAN KING. 
 
 But here lies a man like a prince, so tall, 
 
 Such a proud fixed smile, on his lips no pain, 
 You might almost think he would wake again. 
 
 He has long since waked to a clearer call 
 Than the cries of a wife and her sobs in vain, 
 He has gone with the mates whom he loved, to reign 
 
 Foreman King of them all. 
 
 I speak, I was one of the four that past 
 Out from that prison of pain and death. 
 Of struggle, of throttle, and stamping beneath. 
 
 Tearing at flesh while the flood rose fast, 
 Fighting like devils all hooves and teeth ; 
 I can tell there was one drew a bold man's breath, 
 
 Yea, God's brave breath, to the last. 
 
 For the river hissed in, and we saw the sky, 
 A narrow slit in the caisson's top, 
 And first one climbed o'er his fellows to drop 
 
 Back with an oath to be trodden and die — 
 
 " He has had his chance, stamp him into a sop, 
 Let his body be rags so the rift it stop ! " 
 
 And the water it rose breast high.
 
 THE FOREMAN KING. 77 
 
 And I who was smallest knew the wave 
 
 Gurgling cold at the nape, at the chin, 
 
 And I struck at the fallen and felt it no sin, 
 Got him beneath my feet ; then a brave 
 
 Calm voice cried out thro' the dark and the din : 
 
 " Mates, be men ! let the weaker win ! 
 Let the strong be strong but to save ! " 
 
 Then lips were hushed that had loudest cursed, 
 
 And hands were stayed that had fought like giaours. 
 
 The calm voice cried, " The man who towers 
 Above his brothers will not fare worst ! 
 
 There are heads will be sooner beneath than ours ! 
 
 Help them, by God, and by God's own powers ! 
 Let all that are short go first ! " 
 
 Then I felt from the whirl of death that an host 
 Of hands were laid on me, struck for the light 
 And gained the heaven ; there pale with affright 
 
 Another, a third, and a fourth, like a ghost [fight 
 
 Bubbled up thro' the man-hole, the blood of the 
 Red on their brows ; and the voice cried " Right ? 
 
 Say the Foreman died at his post."
 
 78 THE FOREMAN KING. 
 
 A Central News Telegram from New York, January lo, 1890, 
 reports : — A horrible death has overtaken fourteen workmen en- 
 gaged in laying the foundations of a new bridge over the Ohio river 
 to connect the towns of Louisville and Jeffersonville, Eighteen 
 men were working within a large caisson in the river bed, when, 
 owing to some accident, which remains at present unexplained, the 
 water rushed in beneath. All saw the terrible fate which must 
 overtake them if they could not escape before the water rose to the 
 top. The only means of exit was a small valve door at the top of 
 the caisson, just large enough to allow one man at a time to pass. 
 To gain this was everyone's object, and according to the narrative 
 of the survivors an awful struggle ensued. With almost certain 
 death staring them in the face, nearly all acted on the principle ol 
 sauve qui pent, and fought desperately for the first chance. Mean- 
 while the waters gained rapidly, and every man knew that some 
 must die. The foreman, a tall man, now shouted, " Let all the 
 short men go first, mates. Our heads will be out of the water 
 longer than theirs." This gallant advice had the effect of checking 
 some of the men in their fight for egress, but it availed little or 
 nothing to save life. Four only succeeded in passing the door, and 
 the brave foreman was amongst the fourteen left behind to die.
 
 79 
 
 THE MONKEY-O'-HERSE-BACK METHODY 
 
 MAN. 
 
 I WAS taavin'i about i' "the yard," like the critter among 
 the graaves. 
 When parson he coomed thruff the garden and in at the 
 choorchyard gaate, 
 And he seed that summat was oop, for it's not very offens I 
 raaves, 
 And he sez, " Good mornin'," sez he, " and isn't it reyther 
 laiite ? " 
 
 And I turned round, stunt at the word, I 'ed wind the owd 
 clock that morn, 
 'Ed scratted the clat- fro the wheeiils and gean her works 
 a shak. 
 Sich a chitterin' thing to be sewer, a reglar recklin-born, •* 
 Maade by a tinker feller as 'edn't a cwoat to 'is back. 
 
 1 Walking excitedly. - Dirt. ^ A poor weakling.
 
 8o MONKE Y-O'-HERSE-BACK METHODY MAN. 
 
 And sez I, "Ting-tang^ esn't gone! If we're laate oop 
 
 theer i' the tower, 
 
 There'll be many a tick-tack liar to weeak i' the farmer's 
 
 fob, 
 
 For nivver a cart as passes, but reckons a taaking the 
 
 hour, [job." 
 
 We've nivver deceaved 'em yit, sin I beean along o' the 
 
 But the words warn't coald fro' my mouth when dang it 
 
 the quarter went, 
 
 " Clock agin, clerk," nods the parson, and into the 
 
 choorch wea past. 
 
 It warn't to be called a sarvice, noa ting tang, noa 
 
 horganiment, [hea went soa fast. 
 
 I mowed the Aamens and I mashed the Psalms, fur 
 
 And arter sarvice he grunted, as I wur a hingin' the gown, 
 
 "What's oop?" "A deal," I sez, for I nivver was 
 
 parson-shan,2 
 
 "And I reckon I shan't be better till I've beean a time or 
 
 twoa down [Methody man. 
 
 O' my kneeiis, along o' the Monkey-o'-herse-back 
 
 * The small bell rung before the service. '^Afraid of the parson.
 
 MONKE Y-0'- HERSE- BA CK ME THOD V MA N. 8 1 
 
 " But I'll owt wi' it all, it's best for stummick and mebbe 
 for mind. 
 You knaw up a Sunday mornin' it's eight o'clock bell 
 as goas, 
 And I cooms to sea to the fires and to gie the owd clock a 
 wind, 
 Birds gits into the chaamber, so I cooms i' my wuk-a- 
 day cloas. 
 
 " We 'ed fired and 'ed clocked,— eh.! dear, what a clat of 
 a job to be sewer — 
 Wants a new roape for the weights, theer's summat 
 wrong wi' a chime — 
 And I looked owt Halminak plaaces and hid the keay by 
 the door, 
 And hoff to breakfast I went to be cleean by sarvice time. 
 
 " I heeard a hamblin' sound, and I gits myssen oop o' the 
 pad, 
 And a voice like thunderee cooms bealin' a back o' my 
 head. 
 Thinks I wi' myssen, thinks I, it's nobbut the doctor's lad, 
 It's somebody wants to be boarn, or somebody wants to 
 be dead.
 
 8 2 MONKE Y- O'-HERSE-BA CK ME THOD Y MA N. 
 
 " Not noa bizness o' mine, and ' Feller !' the chap cries out, 
 But I taakes noa noatish, and 'Feller!' agean he sings 
 in a rooar. 
 ' My man !' and ' Feller !' Wi' that I turned myssen faace 
 to the shout, 
 ' My naame's not ' Feller,' my naame's i' the Bible, it's 
 Jeremy Hoaare. 
 
 "'Now what's your bizness?' I sez, 'And what do you 
 
 want o' mea ?' 
 
 And he draws hissel oop i' the saddle wi' a sanck- 
 
 shimonious leer, 
 
 ' By your appearance, my friend, i' your wuk-a-day cloas, 
 
 I sea [the beer.' 
 
 You're a-gooin' to spend this Sabbath an all, along o' 
 
 " Lor' how the blood went oop, me as doan't take nowt you 
 
 may saay, [fair, 
 
 Not to call owt, from Fattus ^ reight thruffto Horncestle 
 
 Mea, a clerk i' the choorch, to be called and my-friended 
 
 that waay, 
 
 Mea comin' hoam fro' the choorch, i' cloas for the 
 
 puppos I wear. 
 
 ' "Fat-horse,'' an annual horse-fair.
 
 MONKE V- O'-HERSE-BA CK METHOD Y MAN. 83 
 
 " Naay, naay, if the parson's tub i' the choorch is a barrel 
 ov aale, 
 Ya may call the clerk's seat by its side a aale bench 
 reight enuff ; 
 Nivver no sarvice wi'ovvt me, and allays theer wi'owt 
 fail, 
 And nivver no missin' the eight o'clock bell the whole 
 year thruff. 
 
 " So I turned and snapt at my monkey, and answered him 
 plaain and straaight — 
 ' I'm not a-gooin' to spend my Sabbath along o' the 
 swill, 
 Not no moor than you, a-ridin' your raail of a gaate, 
 And who giv you God's daay to goa about speakin' ill ?' 
 
 " For I seead by the cut of his faace he wur one of them 
 ranter chaps, 
 Good, no doubt, i' the gab when theer's onything good 
 to git, 
 Fussin' about the country and settin' their hell-fire 
 traps. 
 And I thowt by the colour he 'eci plaayed hissen wi' the 
 jug a bit.
 
 84 MONKEY-a-HERSE-BACK METHODY MAN. 1 
 
 " Sez he, ' My friend, I'm one as God O'mighty oardained 
 
 To goa about lettin' fwoaks knoa the terrible staiite 
 
 they're in, 
 
 And mightn't I bea quite sewer 'twas the sperrit o' luvv 
 
 had reined 
 
 His herse and bidden 'im speiik to a man wi' the looks 
 
 " ' Oardained of who ?' I sez. ' You may ranter and canter 
 awaay, 
 Aye, and pison the ponds you wesh in by leavin' your 
 sins behind, 
 For hafter yon Baptist dippin' owd EUerby's cows went 
 wrong — 
 But oardained, you were nivver oardained a preacher, 
 least waay to my mind. 
 
 •' Oardained, you're not oardained, not hauf so much as 
 myssen, 
 For I am a clerk i' the choorch, and goiis to the Supper 
 
 an' all, 
 Nivver a woman wed nor choorched, but I sez Aamen, 
 And I moiistlins sattles the ' Lesson,' and gies the 
 parson 'is call.
 
 MONKE V C - HERSE-BA CK ME THOD Y MAN. 85 
 
 " ' Tailed in the sperrit was ya ? It's a fool rides faace to 
 the taail, 
 Or blaamt if I shouldn't ha' thowt that a knaave had 
 got hold o' the rein ; 
 But when clerks i' their wuk-a-daay cloas is thowt to be 
 sinners i' aale, 
 It's not the sperrit o' luvv, it's the Methody man's mis- 
 taaen. 
 
 "'Tellin' fwoaks o'theirsins, thou'rt a strean pretty haiingel 
 o' graace, 
 When parson sez a bit rough he hus'es and we'es it the 
 while, 
 Goin' about insultin' the loikes o' mea to my faace, 
 
 Rubbin' in salt to the soares and forgettin' the wine and 
 ile.' 
 
 " I was o'most fit to be crajized, the feller he maade me so 
 mad, 
 But he seead he was oop to his neck wi' noan but hissen 
 to thank, 
 So he looked as much as to saiiy, ' You're hoaver-eardly 
 bad,' 
 And hoff he popped at a canter the Methody mountebank.
 
 8 6 MONKE V- 0' -HEKSE-BA CK ME THOD Y MAN. 
 
 " And I dowt till I've bin down a bit o' my kneeas I shan't 
 be reight, 
 It's solidly spoilt the sarvice this mornin' from fust to 
 last. 
 I could mebbe forgit the feller, but it's ting-tang went so 
 laate, 
 And all i' the town to hear it a gooin' a quarter past. 
 
 " It's bad enuff to be blaamt for mindin' my Sunday traade, | 
 Windin' them clatty owd works, and ringin' yon eight 
 
 o'clock bell, ^ 
 
 But hafter I'd sattled the Lessons and seead that the fires 
 was maade, 
 I had taen the Book this mornin' and studied five 
 chapters as well. 
 
 " Noa dowt it's wrong to be craazed, and them as trusts to 
 the Lord 
 Should let sich Monkey-o'-herse-back men goa canterin 
 
 by, 
 
 But it's not very nisht to be called that how, when you've 
 read i' the Word 
 Bang thruff three o' Colosshans and two o' Malachi."
 
 87 
 
 A BRAVE DOCTOR. 
 
 To ike Memory of Doctors Rabbeth a?!d Lysaght. 
 
 When with a wreath in hand for hero men 
 His roll the angel of the judgment calls, 
 
 Doctor, thy name, though quite forgot till then, 
 Shall sound about the city's golden walls. 
 
 There she lay, the rose in her cheek. 
 
 Her nostrils wide, and the sweat on her brow. 
 
 I have lost my own — I suppose I am weak. 
 But I never can see a sick child now. 
 
 Her hands were twitching, they dropped her dolly. 
 Her large eyes followed us round the room. 
 
 They were soon to be fixed, poor dear little Polly, 
 Stifled to death ! what a pitiful doom !
 
 88 A BRAVE DOCTOR. 
 
 When the day was closing the doctor came — 
 Strong big man, but his voice was mild, 
 
 He felt her pulse, and he saw the flame 
 On her cheek, and he said, "Poor child! poor child !" 
 
 Then the nurse passed by, so grave, with a sponge, 
 
 For Polly's eyes had begun to stare, 
 And a bright thing flashed with a harmless plunge, — 
 
 The doctor had given her lungs sweet air ! 
 
 1 could not look — I had lost my own, 
 
 And my heart was there with the four in heaven — 
 But I heard the doctor say in a tone 
 
 I shall never forget, " It's the last chance given." 
 
 The lamp burnt low, and her breathing went 
 
 And came with a sort of silvery sigh. 
 " What a beautiful child ! I could be content 
 
 For such," the doctor muttered, " to die." 
 
 He turned on his heel and he strode away ; 
 
 " Call me, nurse, if the child cannot rest, 
 Or the canular blocks : I always say 
 
 For a wound like that one must do one's best."
 
 A BRAVE DOCTOR. 89 
 
 It was night ; the nurses had gone to bed ; 
 
 I was watching alone, and I heard a click, 
 The breathing laboured, her face went red 
 
 Then grey, and I summoned the doctor quick. 
 
 The tube is clotted ! my God, she is lost ! 
 
 And the child, with a wonderful meek surmise. 
 Looked, and I saw as a man at his post 
 
 Wavers, then wills, the doctor's eyes. 
 
 " Poor little Polly, she's younger than I," — 
 I seemed to see such a thought in his face, — 
 
 " Should a man for a child's sake fear to die ? 
 What about Christ in such a case?'' 
 
 Then he stooped his brave strong mouth to the vent, 
 And he sucked the poisoned canular clear. 
 
 And her silvery breathing came and went. 
 
 " Nurse, be careful ! Good-night ! little dear !" 
 
 So he went to his rest. Good-night ! good-night ! 
 
 But he went with the dread diphtheria ban ; 
 He had given his life for a child. Was it right ? 
 
 Men called him a fool — God calls him a man.
 
 90 
 
 IN THE PIG MARKET. 
 
 Now durst onyone buy my pigs ? 
 
 Guineas I want, ya may 'low mea more, 
 Coomed of a sow as coomed fro' Briggs, 
 
 Tha knaws th' owd boar ? 
 
 I'll give yon little owd recklin in, 
 Danged if I wean't if ya taake the lot, 
 
 They're sweeat and clean as a baaby's skin, 
 And nivver a spot. 
 
 Some hes pigs as greeasy as wax, 
 Look at yon lot how the crew-clat clings, 
 
 Reg'lar cwoats o' maail to theer backs, 
 The howry things ! 
 
 How yon chitterin' recklin stares, 
 
 It'll not sleeap at its swill tha mun knaw,
 
 
 TN THE PIG MARKET. 9^ 
 
 Nivver likes to seea pigs at prayers 
 Upo' kneeas i' the straw. 
 
 Weigh ? if the bairns is like the muther. 
 And doa theer duty to flesh and boane, 
 
 Forty coom Christmas year ! her bruther 
 Hinged fifty stoane. 
 
 Coom git 'oame and git thy owd woman, 
 She knaws pork when she seeas it kilt, 
 
 Nivver noa better pigs selt to noa man, 
 "Heder"or "gilt"!i 
 
 to' 
 
 Sellin' ! sellin' ! it's givin' awaay, 
 
 If ya 'low mea ma price ya'U git 'em fur nowt, 
 Whoy, the pigs 'ud amoast speeak oop and saay, 
 
 " Ya begged, not bowt." 
 
 Guineas I want to-daay fur my pigs ! 
 
 Dal little luvvies ya're wuth far more ! 
 Gev us tha hand, sow coomed fro' Briggs, 
 
 Tha knaws th' owd boar. 
 
 1 A female pig before she has had a litter.
 
 92 
 
 THE VILLAGE CARPENTER. 
 
 I AM a village carpenter ; 
 
 When last we travelled along this road 
 
 She lightened half of my bitter load. 
 And now I carry her. 
 
 Yes, come up close, the coffin is right, 
 
 The best wood job I have done in my life ; 
 Did you think I was going to shame the wife ? 
 
 Tennon and mortice tight ! 
 
 Sit down here till the storm blows o'er, 
 
 You are cold, I feel it as warm as May ; 
 
 The sun shines bright as it shone that day 
 We rested here before. 
 
 There lies the very same stick, I declare, 
 
 She broke from the hedge for the pack on my shoulder ;
 
 THE VILLAGE CARPENTER. 93 
 
 I can hear her laugh and her sigh when I told her 
 Thorns could not carry care. 
 
 For I was the village carpenter, 
 Work in the place was woefully slack, 
 So we tramped ; I carried the tools on my back 
 
 For love of my darling there. 
 
 I remember a passionless face flashed by ; 
 
 The wife looked down at her dusty feet, 
 
 " I suppose I shall never take a seat 
 In a carriage before I die." 
 
 ^e>^ 
 
 Oh God ! how the sun went under a cloud ; 
 I rose and I clenched my fist, and cried, 
 " Is a cold heart better with plenty and pride 
 
 Than want that feels and is proud ?" 
 
 We wandered on from village to town, 
 We shunned the commoner lodging place. 
 She wiped the morning dews from her face, 
 
 She shook the dust from her gown. 
 
 Her face lies under a colder dew. 
 Body and gown are both as dust ;
 
 94 THE VILLAGE CARPENTER. 
 
 But she has travelled to rest, I trust, 
 Where never a tempest blew^. 
 
 Work would not come though we sought it wide. 
 We toiled through sun, and we braved the storm ; 
 And then — she was far too frail of form — 
 
 She sickened, and then she died. 
 
 But or ever she slept, she rambled, and spake 
 Of that old old village she loved from birth. 
 I am seeking there six feet of earth 
 
 For her dear dead body's sake. 
 
 I had no friends in the far-off spot, 
 I wrought this coffin with mine own hand ; 
 We started together through the land, 
 
 The last time, too, God wot. 
 
 She cheered me on over hill, over dale, 
 She shared each crust that the people gave ; 
 I have often wished I might share her grave. 
 
 But what can a wish avail ? 
 
 I have done with wishes, I wished for pay, 
 
 Half-pay and full work, so it gained her bread,
 
 THE VILLAGE CARPENTER. 95 
 
 I wished her to live. — She is dead ! she is dead ! 
 I have wished my hfe away. 
 
 Uphill and down, to me all was one, 
 
 Her coffin it made the journey level ; 
 
 In wrath I asked if a god or devil 
 To me this deed had done. 
 
 How had I sinned to be treated so ? 
 Did ever a man love better than 1 1 
 I could curse right out, but I could not cry, 
 
 And on and on did I go. 
 
 Sometimes downhill, with a passionate pace, 
 
 Her coffin tilted against the sun ; 
 
 Sometimes in anger it seemed to run 
 Full into the moon's white face. 
 
 No pity by night, no pity by day. 
 The stars in heaven were keen and cold, 
 The earth from the morn to the sunset rolled 
 
 Compassionless on its way. 
 
 The woodland moaned and the hedges cried, 
 The long wet roads were bitter and wild.
 
 96 THE VILLAGE CARPENTER. 
 
 And never a face upon me smiled, 
 Her face it was shut inside. 
 
 Hoarse voices blaming me came with the wind, 
 The passers by gazed all askance 
 As if I had killed her ; and on in a trance 
 
 I pushed, nor looked behind. 
 
 One met me once who had wronged me sore, 
 Right up to the coffin he came and spoke. 
 Kindly, I think, but I could but choke, 
 
 I hated him all the more. 
 
 I pushed down the streets of a darkened town, 
 I saw on the window-blinds the shade 
 The wives bent over their needles made, 
 
 Where, oh where, was my own ? 
 
 The Christmas bells came over the lea, 
 It was hollow mockery all they rang ; 
 I heard the carols, but what they sang 
 
 Seemed madness unto me. 
 
 And once on a night the stars from heaven 
 Fell fierce with a flash across our way ;
 
 THE VILLAGE CARPENTER. 97 
 
 I had cursed her God, but I could not pray, 
 Nor care to be forgiven. 
 
 But yestermorn on the ridge of a hill, 
 Where quite foredone with the toil I stopt, 
 A robin down on her coftin dropt 
 
 And sang his sweetest trill. 
 
 All thro' the day with a song in mine ears, — 
 
 For she loved the bird with the red on its breast, — 
 I pushed on bravely, my soul had rest. 
 
 And I felt on my cheek the tears. 
 
 Dreamed of my darling, then woke and wept, 
 And dreamed again ; to-day I am strong, 
 For she sang a lilt to the robin's song, 
 
 And smiled on me as I slept. 
 
 This morning the coffin seemed so light, 
 I whistled myself, half-ashamed, poor dear, 
 That a passer-by should see us and hear ; 
 
 But I felt that to whistle was right. 
 
 For all the way now through wind and weather 
 
 This hand-cart has no weight for my hand, 
 G
 
 98 THE VILLAGE CARPENTER. 
 
 We are travelling both to a happier land, 
 And our souls are still together. 
 
 "A poor man entered the town of Thirsk last evening pushing a 
 handcart before him, on which was his wife's coffin. He was a car- 
 penter who had gone off from his home with his wife in search of 
 work. Slie had died in a town somewhere on the east coast. 
 Being without money or friends, he had made a coffin, and had 
 either borrowed or knocked together a handcart, and was making 
 his way by road back to his native village to bury her." — Extract 
 from local paper
 
 99 
 
 A SAD LETTER. 
 
 " Dear gell, thy Joe is gone to glory, 
 Took sudden upo' Sunday night." 
 
 So of the drear pathetic story 
 Wrote one who could not write. 
 
 " He will not keeap, his corp's that bad, 
 We bury 'im at threea to-morrow." 
 
 Words fit to send a lover mad, 
 Sad words not meant for sorrow. 
 
 " We shall not send to meeat thee, gell, 
 But cloathes they needn't be no bother, 
 
 Fur Emma's 'black' 'uU sarve thee well . 
 That job, thy luvvin' mother." 
 
 So in such wise a mother told 
 Of Joe the village lover's death,
 
 lOO A SAD LETTER. 
 
 And of a world made blank and cold 
 For her Elizabeth. 
 
 Though happy they whose souls have words, 
 Whose thoughts flame out in golden speech, 
 
 Our human hearts have tender chords, 
 Such silence best can reach.
 
 lOI 
 
 THE ISLAND HOME. 
 A Ballad of the East River, New York. 
 
 Love leads us by a devious way, 
 
 And sets us sudden face to face, 
 Then what we scarce had hoped, we say. 
 
 And silent stand a little space — 
 One single word will change our fate, 
 The silence is too long : too great : 
 And then an answer comes, and then 
 We are the happiest of men. 
 
 But sometimes even so, a veil 
 
 Is hung between our beating hearts ; 
 
 We dare not wholly tell the tale 
 
 We secret spoke, but spoke in parts, 
 
 Till, on a day far off, we feel 
 
 Our souls so one, we tear the seal,
 
 I02 THE ISLAND HOME. 
 
 And after to the inmost core 
 Are one, and one for evermore. 
 
 New York ! its rugged streets half Hght, 
 Half dark, crossways of blinding sun ; 
 How crisp the air, how swift of flight 
 
 Above our heads steam-horses run ; 
 How filled with folk, how smooth of feet, 
 The cars go jingling down the street ; 
 How keen the talk, where each one plies 
 The task of New World rivalries ! 
 
 But oft-times from the withering heat 
 And withering cold of city ways, 
 
 I ask if heaven gives no retreat, 
 Where souls in quietude iriay raise 
 
 Their thoughts above a seething tide 
 
 Of restlessness personified ; 
 
 No tranquil island o'er the stream. 
 
 Where hearts a little while may dream. 
 
 Must gentle youth in such a strife, 
 As good as orphaned for the press,
 
 THE ISLAND HOME. 103 
 
 Pour out its tender vase of life ? — • 
 
 Then how shall fare the fatherless ! 
 The waifs, the strays, whose mothers die 
 In unremembered misery, 
 And what can keep a city pure, 
 Whose sons of shame such woes endure ? 
 
 Hard by, East River sought the sea. 
 
 The Adirondacks' stream was rolled 
 To build the continents to be, 
 
 When this New World shall prove the Old. 
 " Is there no island home," I cried, 
 "In yonder river's cleansing tide, 
 Where babes forlorn a home may share 
 And grow to grace in fruitful air?" 
 
 The rope was loosed, the helmsman steered. 
 
 We had no need of oarsman's hand, 
 And soon our boat of mercy neared 
 
 An island palace nobly planned. 
 Above the stream with walls and towers 
 It rose, about it trees and flowers : 
 "And here," said they, "we train our youth — 
 Else lost — for duty and for truth."
 
 I04 THE ISLAND HOME. 
 
 Upon the place there lay a charm, 
 
 Deep peace, where any soul might grow ; 
 Around it, with a saviour arm. 
 
 The solemn Hudson seemed to flow. 
 A sweet bell tinkled— out there ran 
 Brave boyhood, soon to be the man, 
 And girls, as full of life as grace, 
 Made sunshine in that merry place. 
 
 These, through a leaf-embowered screen 
 Passed on to game of romp and ball ; 
 And those, with deftest hands were seen 
 
 To ply for play the axe and awl. 
 A kind old greybeard to me came ; 
 "We teach," said he, "our tasks in game. 
 So scholars trained in head or hand 
 May prove an honour to the land. 
 
 Just then, with happy bridal face, 
 A girl toward the gateway moved, 
 
 Linked with her lover ; you could trace 
 Even in their walk how well they loved. 
 
 They seemed of gentle blood and life, 
 
 As on they strolled, that man and wife,
 
 THE ISLAND HOME. 105 
 
 And yet a guide they needed not — 
 Spirits familiar with the spot. 
 
 P)Ut deep and silent as the tide, 
 
 As strong to keep two shores apart, 
 The bridegroom and his new-made bride 
 
 Felt each an ache within the heart ; 
 A secret stream, a silent flood, 
 A fear unuttered, understood, 
 The strange unrest no reasonings move. 
 Of something hid 'twixt souls that love. 
 
 And still from stair to stair they went, 
 
 They watched the children backward pour ; 
 
 The masters, o'er the scholars bent ; 
 From class-room and from corridor 
 
 Heard sounds that told how well the hive 
 
 Of youth and industry must thrive, 
 
 When all the moments on the wing 
 
 Sweet store for future use will bring. 
 
 " Yon lad, his mother died of dread 
 The morn his father met his fate :
 
 ic6 THE ISLAND HOME. 
 
 So spake our guide, " that, underfed 
 
 And blind, we found beside the gate,— 
 Left by a passing boat ; his eyes 
 Have seen a glimpse of Paradise, 
 His ears have heard the angel chime, 
 His heart is set to serve his time. 
 
 " But all are nameless, leave behind 
 The very call to which they came, 
 For some were born to fate unkind, 
 
 And some have felt the breath of shame ; 
 So entering to this island home. 
 They must forget from whence they come. 
 Forget their old dead selves, and here 
 Learn life is new and love sincere." 
 
 "And shall these nameless ones go forth 
 
 Mere cyphers ? " " Nay, when fully grown 
 They pass, to leaven with their worth 
 
 The great bewildering busy town : 
 And ere they go, the name is told 
 By which their mothers called of old, 
 And from that morn, they learn to date 
 Their names, and move to meet their fate.
 
 THE ISLAND BO ME. 107 
 
 " Forth to the world of strife they go 
 Poor lads, but oft rich princes come : 
 
 Where'er they work, whate'er they do, 
 Their hearts are with their island home : 
 
 And I have seen," the greybeard said, 
 
 " Sons, nurtured here, our city's head, 
 
 And youths, whose hands we taught to work. 
 
 The pride and blessing of New York. 
 
 " Ay, and yon city's fostering care 
 
 Broods o'er the isle with generous wing ; 
 You saw but now that happy pair. 
 
 They brought a marriage offering. 
 He looked me straight into mine eyes — 
 But time forgets and years disguise — 
 And then he laughed, I heard him say, 
 "Tis scarce a moon since wedding day.' 
 
 " He looked me close, he looked me thro', 
 He said, ' You sure are teacher here ? 
 
 Now tell me. Master, tell me true, 
 Is that life whole, that love sincere. 
 
 That still must keep within its breast, 
 
 The least faint something unexprest
 
 io8 THE ISLAND HOME. 
 
 To her he loves, that fain would hide 
 One secret from his new-made bride?' 
 
 " ' Nay, Sir,' 1 answered, ' I am old, 
 
 And I have done with love and life, 
 But if once more I might enfold 
 
 In these grey arms my own true wife, 
 No thought in all this interspace, 
 But I would tell her face to face, 
 No moment's joy, nor hour of care, 
 But with my loved one I would share.' 
 
 " Then to his bride the young man turned, 
 
 ' Old Master mine, you answer well, 
 You kindle fires that still have burned 
 
 Within my heart the tale to tell. 
 Dear love, henceforth 'twixt me and thee, 
 No secret of my life shall be. 
 Here, in this island home, my youth 
 Was trained, I speak God's very truth. 
 
 U ( 
 
 Here learned I how East River's tide 
 Takes tender age in saviour arm ; 
 This greybeard standing at our side. 
 He threw o'er waking life his charm.
 
 THE ISLAND HOME. 109 
 
 And I, not knowing whence I came, 
 Learned here how honest work was fame, 
 And passing hence was consecrate 
 To duty, for our God and state.' 
 
 " You should have seen how that fair wife 
 Blushed at the word, and kissed his brow, 
 
 Then taking both his hands, ' My life. 
 
 My love,' she cried, ' thrice honoured now. 
 
 No secrets shall be unconfessed, 
 
 Soul wide to soul, breast bare to breast, 
 
 1 too, thine own, whatever come. 
 
 Was nurtured in this island home.' 
 
 " The very silence seemed to speak, 
 
 I saw his lips a moment part, 
 And then, with tears upon his cheek, 
 
 He pressed her, heart to beating heart, 
 And wond'ring, towards the river's side. 
 They went, the bridegroom and the bride, 
 And walked that dear familiar shore. 
 One Life, one Love, for evermore." 
 
 Extract from a speech delivered by Lord Chief Justice Coleridge
 
 I 1 o THE ISLAND HOME. 
 
 at the supper given to the criminal classes by the Si. Giles' Chris- 
 tian Mission, Tuesday, December i, 1885 :— 
 
 " It is one of the most interesting recollections of a very interest- 
 ing passage of my hfe, the visit that I paid when I was in America, 
 to a great institution in the harbour of New York. The physical 
 conditions of that institution are, no doubt, peculiarly advantageous. 
 It is situated on one of the islands, and is a sort of boys' and girls' 
 home. When I was there, some 1,600 or 1,700 boys and girls were 
 in the home, which, cut off from New York by the swift stream, is 
 only accessible by boats. They are all taught some trade. They 
 are sent there not as a punishment, but they are allowed to be sent 
 by the law of New York for minor offences, offences which would 
 condemn many a poor little fellow here to be a felon for life. They 
 are sent to this institution, where their names are concealed, and 
 where they are not treated as under punishment, but as Christian 
 boys and girls, and taught as far as they can be taught to get on 
 themselves in life. I was told that there was no dishonour nor 
 discredit in after life in having been in this place ; that constantly 
 young men who had flourished in life came back and left donations 
 for the assistance of this institution — an institution helped, indeed, 
 by the State of New York, but chiefly carried on by voluntary con- 
 tributions, and by some of the first men, and men of the largest 
 business, in that crowded and immensely wealthy city. And I was 
 told a story, for the truth of which I do not vouch, but for the pos- 
 sibility of which I may vouch, otherwise it would not have been 
 told me. A young man and young woman, very thriving people, 
 came to see this institution. They had just been married. They 
 went through the building, and when they left, each of them gave a 
 considerable donation. As they left the place, the young man said 
 to the young wife, ' I have told you everything about myself but 
 one thing, I was a boy here.' 'Well, my love,' said the young 
 wife, ' I have told you everything about myself but one thing, I 
 was a girl here.'"
 
 Ill 
 
 "CHAASING THE SUN"; OR, "THE TRAK WI' 
 THE TERRIBLE NAAME." 
 
 I NIVVER went howt o' the town, 
 
 I'm noan o' your fidgetty-rigs ; 
 It's twenty year sin' I had a black gown 
 
 To my back, and I keeaps noa pigs. 
 But if there's owt that I like as well 
 As my cat, it's a book abowt Heaven and Hell. 
 
 There's summat as warms your blood 
 
 In a trak about fvvoaks as sins. 
 For praise the Lord — He is good. 
 
 It nivver ends saame as't begins. 
 We all on us hev our faults, but then 
 It's a strangen plaace for quar'ls is the Fen. 
 
 Not that I quar'l, but, lor ! 
 Wi' chickens a scratting your stocks,
 
 112 '' CHAAS/NG THE SUNr 
 
 And bairns a slamming the door, 
 
 Or clamming the hollyhocks, 
 It's nowt but the graace of Heaven I saay 
 As keeps ya neahbourly daay by daay. 
 
 For they're nowt but a mask o' fieends, 
 From the mill reight down to the drean, 
 
 Nivver cud call 'em friends, 
 Sich tongues and so blaamedly mean : 
 
 There's Stubbs's, and Johnson's and Ellerby's lot, 
 
 Fieends from the man reight thruff to the cot. 
 
 And it's not for want of a teacher, 
 
 For parson he's plaiiin and straight ; 
 And one of the wust's a preacher. 
 
 And they goa to choorch fust-rate. 
 But to keeap fro' guile, oh, it's 'maiizin' hard, 
 When you're called to your faace i' your oiin back- 
 yard. 
 
 I tried all ways to git on, 
 
 But my owd man was so bad, 
 And mebbe it's well he's gone. 
 
 For he spent what booath on us had ;
 
 ' ' CHAASING THE SUN. " 113 
 
 And was I, his wife, to sajiy nowt, and hear 
 The things fwoaks sed when they see'd him i' 
 beer ? 
 
 But, howivver, he went at last, 
 
 And I'd a'most nowt to do, 
 For my work-a-daay toime wur past, 
 
 And the bairns at sarvice too, 
 So I took to larning mysen to read, 
 And the laadies up at the Hall agreead. 
 
 I cud scrat i' the paapers a bit. 
 
 And guess at the praayers i' chuch ; 
 But now I can reeiid as I knit, 
 
 Reight thruff, be it ivver so much ; 
 And the laadies knaws I luvv nowt so well 
 As a trak as treeats of Heaven and Hell. 
 
 I've mastered " Brands from the Flames," 
 And " SaJife," and " Wheer are you now ? " 
 
 And a mess wi' terrible names 
 As browt the sweat to my brow. 
 
 But the laadies softened them off, besure, 
 
 They'd meant that packet for fwoaks next door. 
 
 H
 
 114 ''CHAASING THE sun:' 
 
 I weant hev no more fro' the Hall, 
 
 I shall tek in the Baptists' next, 
 A maakin' one crip and crawl 
 
 And turn i' one's bed — I was vext : 
 For tha knaws very well that theer's traks and 
 
 traks, 
 And scorn's for choorch-fwoak and soom's for blacks. 
 
 It's my opinion Miss Kaate 
 
 Hes gotten the wrong soort sent ; 
 Noa dowt that soom's fust-rate, 
 
 But some on 'em's devilment. 
 There's one I've kep' wropped up for long, 
 Wi' a naame I reckon quite dreadful wrong. 
 
 It's lock'd i' my drawer upstairs, 
 
 The laadies found me fro' home, 
 And left it me unawares ; 
 
 I keeap it wropped up till they come. 
 By the words on the coover howtside I could sea 
 It was not for a hungry soul like mea. 
 
 Mind the knots round the book, 
 It's reytherly queerly done.
 
 ''C HA A SING THE SUN." 115 
 
 And hankercher's owd ; now look 
 
 At the naame, " A Chaasing the Sun ! " 
 Did you ivver see loikes o' the soort afoar, 
 For a trak to be lent fro' door to door ? 
 
 " Chaasing the Sun," — as I read, 
 
 I shaakes to menshun the word ! 
 " Chaasing the Sun," i'deead, 
 
 The sun belongs to the Lord 
 They'll find if they chaases it fast or slow 
 That God O mighty will let 'em know ! 
 
 Noa, noa, I'm fond of a trak. 
 
 But the Devil he mebbe can write 
 And shuffle his oan i' a pack 
 
 That's hotherwise Christian quite. 
 But the laadies, I reckon, is much to blaame 
 For leaving yon trak wi' a terrible naame.
 
 Tl6 
 
 DEATH THE BEFRIENDER. 
 A Ballad of the People's Palace. 
 
 " Rabbi Jehudah hath said, 
 
 The Messiah which was for to come 
 Is with us, but waits to be known, 
 
 Hid in His mother's home 
 Till the sown appear unsown, 
 And the travailing earth is afraid. 
 
 " Hath not the prophet written 
 
 That the great Prince — He who shall stand 
 For the people — cannot arise 
 
 Till trouble perplex the land, 
 And the world be full of cries, 
 And the powers of Heaven be smitten ? 
 
 " Did not the Carpenter's Son 
 Tell the beginnings of sorrow
 
 DEA TH THE BEFRIENDER. 1 1 7 
 
 Before the Day of the Lord, 
 
 New wars heard on the morrow, 
 Earthquake, famine, and sword. 
 And Love as cold as a stone ? 
 
 " Yea, the earth has quaked, like a moon 
 The day-star glimmers o'erhead. 
 And suns ! men make them for night. 
 
 The murderers hack the dead. 
 The streets flame fiercely alight. 
 The Messiah must sure come soon ! 
 
 " Hath not one sign been seen. 
 
 How the wells are stopped and dry — 
 Wells of the heart of pity — 
 
 Here where our children ply 
 Their needles, and curse the city 
 That swears by the Nazarene ? 
 
 " Age stands in the presence of prime,^ 
 The son dishonours the sire. 
 True wisdom is gall and hate, 
 The poor who wander for hire 
 
 ^ Cf. Mishna, Sota, ix. 15.
 
 Il8 DEATH THE BEI-RIENDER. 
 
 Find none compassionate. 
 This most betolcens the time." 
 
 So half in wrath and half in grief 
 Old Moses muttered at my side, — 
 
 I bound on errand of relief, 
 He busy with the wares he cried. 
 
 With hopeless eyes and jaded face 
 
 The weary hundreds passed and passed ; 
 
 Some found last night no sleeping place, 
 And some to-day would seek their last. 
 
 Down the long miles of loveless street 
 The dismal houses stared forlorn, 
 
 A hay cart rolling by breathed sweet, — 
 All else was sickly London morn. 
 
 Now here, now there, with gleaming cross. 
 High lifted o'er the flock unfed, 
 
 A towery temple seemed to toss 
 Its passionless defiant head. 
 
 Then on our left with purple dome, 
 With ample stair and wide-roofed hall.
 
 DEA TIJ THE BEFRIENDER. i i 9 
 
 The poorest people's Palace-home 
 Sprang up, with looks of love for all. 
 
 Slow entering in the royal place, 
 Where sits the Queen above the door, 
 
 One went with sorrow on his face. 
 And pain and patience, w-an and poor. 
 
 His hairs were white, but not with sin. 
 In decent black the man was dressed, 
 
 But, ah ! his coat, thread-worn and thin. 
 Hung loose about a withered breast. 
 
 Too proud he seemed for such a plight, 
 
 But hunger glittered in his eyes. 
 Where caverned deep, I saw the light 
 
 That burns before the last lamp dies. 
 
 I asked his state and whence he came : 
 " I once had friends," he made reply, 
 
 " On Lincoln's wold they know my name, 
 I could not beg, but I can die. 
 
 " My wife beside our child was laid, 
 I dared not pass the churchyard gate.
 
 I20 DEATH THE BEFRIENDER. 
 
 My door was locked, my last debt paid, 
 I wandered off disconsolate, 
 
 " I left the golden breadths of corn. 
 The whirling mills, the fruitful fen, 
 
 They loved me well where I was born, 
 None knew me in this maze of men. 
 
 " I craved employ, with no avail," — 
 And here his voice grew hoarse and low,- 
 
 " They looked me o'er, they heard my tale, 
 They bade me to the workhouse go. 
 
 " I asked it not — one gave me bread, 
 A pictured paper wrapped it round ; 
 
 There of the People's Hall I read, 
 And hither faint my way was found. 
 
 " Oh, bitter quest, to prove in vain ! 
 
 Books feed, but are not body's food ! 
 But now, well past my hunger's pain. 
 
 The right of resting here is good. 
 
 " This gorgeous roof of royal span, 
 This golden gallery's purple dome,
 
 DEATH THE BEFRIENDER. 12 1 
 
 At least have made a dying man 
 Feel love has still on earth a home. 
 
 )) 
 
 He spake, and swooning smote the floor, 
 His face showed where his soul had flown ; 
 
 Dead, in the Palace of the Poor, 
 
 In Christian England's wealthiest town ! 
 
 '&' 
 
 Then half in wrath and half in grief 
 Old Moses muttered at my side — 
 " The poorest poor shall find relief, 
 Messiah can no longer hide !" 
 
 "A little before 2 o'clock on the afternoon of Wednesday the 17th, 
 a poorly but respectably dressed old man, cleanly in appearance, 
 and with well blacked shoes, staggered into the premises of the 
 People's Palace, dying ot starvation. Too weak to coherently ex- 
 plain his condition, he was led into the office, and supplied by the 
 clerks there in attendance with a basin of soup and some bread, 
 which, however, his famished stomach refused to retain for a moment. 
 He was then placed in a cab and conveyed to the London Hospital, 
 where he lingered for about an hour and died, the coroner's jury 
 subsequently returnmg a verdict of ' Death from starvation.' " — The 
 Times, Oct. 27, 1888. Subsequent inquiry elicited the fact that he 
 was a Lincolnshire man, a widower, who had left his home for 
 London in search of work, and had failed to find it.
 
 122 
 
 OLD TIMES. 
 
 I'SE nobbut a middlinish creatur to-daay, but how's thysen? 
 Straange sight o' paiiins in my back — now, Betsy, a 
 cheeir fur the gent. 
 Coomed abowt Witches, hev ya? Tha man knaw, when 
 they dreained the fen 
 A deal o' years sin' I can mind, the Witches and Jinny 
 Wisps ^ went. 
 
 Not but what I wur glad, sewer-loy, that the Witches shud 
 goa. 
 Fur I do beleave owd Saatan was a'back of the whoale 
 live lot. 
 But fwoaks i' them daays was hoffens quoite turned, they 
 wur frightened soa. 
 And now they goii scamperin' clear into hell reight 
 lathery hot. 
 
 1 Will o' the vvisji.
 
 OLD TIMES. 123 
 
 Theer was Harniss, the postin' boy, who nivver went near 
 noa plaace/ 
 'E seead a corp-light burn, and it did 'im a sight o' good. 
 Our parson's man met a Witch or a Jinny Wisp faace to 
 faace, 
 And 'e took to preaachin', 'e did, in the chapel down by 
 the wood. 
 
 Yees, odd uns wur good i' them daiiys, they wasn't all 
 solidly bad, 
 Tha knaws, if theer wasn't noiine good, the world wud 
 coom to a hend, 
 And a few on 'em went oop o' Sunday, when my ovvd man 
 wur a lad, 
 But they maade sad work in God's House i' them toimes 
 they cudn't intend — 
 
 Didn't knaw better, poor things ; why, I've seen my oiin 
 sen i' the choorch 
 Happies, and pears, and taates skelped^ down by the 
 chanshel-wall, 
 Wool i' the gallery gethered, and lambs penned oop i' the 
 poorch, 
 ^ Place of worship. -Thrown.
 
 124 OLD TIMES. 
 
 And milk teeamed owt 'i big tins, and the parson along 
 ov it all. 
 
 Naiiy, I can't saay what they meant by theer dooment, they 
 called it tithes. 
 We vvur all of us poor i' them toimes — not a fardin' to 
 spend at the fairs. 
 Cooals ? theer wasn't noa cooiils, we baaked upo' peeat 
 and dithes ' — 
 Cow-cassons roiilled i' the sun and cutten i' nishtish 
 squares. 
 
 I' harvest men addled a shillin', but flour was six a stoane, 
 Nivver yeilt wheaten bread 'cep' o' one daiiy howt o' the 
 seven : 
 Tea — it was not fur bairns, and we got neiither flesh nor 
 boane — 
 Squire's dinner o' Christmas daay, was omoast like gooin 
 to Heaven ! 
 
 But then, theer wur cows and commons ! wc hed milk to 
 howr barley bread. 
 
 ' Fuel, made of dung or cow-castings dried in the sun. 
 
 I
 
 OLD TIMES. 125 
 
 Best part of the fens wur i' waiter, and a deal o' wheat 
 wasn't sown. 
 A reg'lar " Yaller-Belly " ^ was my owd man as is dead. 
 And heknawed,and I knawed when two haacres o' wheat 
 sarved Henderby Town. 
 
 Commons ? Yees, then theer wur commons, and waiiste 
 reight hoaver the wold. 
 Roots wur nowt, it wur rabbits, and menny a man i' the 
 shire 
 Began low down upo' rabbits, and chaanged fro' silver to 
 gold, 
 As but fur theer grey owd jackets 'ud nivver hev got 
 noa 'igher. 
 
 But the poor got shotten like dogs ! Oop theer o' Barring- 
 ton Hill 
 They found a skeletin man with a hoal i' his head, they 
 saay. 
 Fwoaks didn't knaw, but I knawed he'd gotten a leaden 
 pill 
 Like scoors, along o' the rabbits; they sarved the poachers 
 that waay. 
 1 The Fen-men were not called frogs, but " yaller-bellies. "
 
 126 OLD TIMES. 
 
 Shot 'im, and happed 'im oop ; theer wasn't no paiipers then 
 To fuss; whoy, howr paiiper was nowt but a feller as 
 reightled the clocks, 
 Picked oop news as he went, and added a deiil hissen^ 
 And mebbe his oiin wur the best as fell from his 
 chatterin' box. 
 
 Eh, luvvy ! them toimes is chaanged — theer's nivver no 
 gibbets now ! 
 I can mind at Saucetripp Cross the last as they hing'd 
 i' the chaains, 
 And his poor owd feyther an' all as wur forced to foller 
 the plow 
 I' the fieiilds cloas by, and the craws a-pickin' his oan 
 son's braiiins ! 
 
 Theer's a deal o' talk oop o' the Sessions, o' taakin' a 'aiipoth 
 o' thread, 
 Whoy stealin' 'ed used to be sunimat, but now theer's 
 noabody steals ! 
 A nichst fat yowe wur temptin' when the bairns were pinin' 
 fur bread, 
 Lor ! fwoaks knaws nowt o' temptation as can look 
 reight thruff to theer meals.
 
 OLD TIMES. 127 
 
 It wasn't not oanly theer bellies wur pinched, theer backs 
 
 wui- cold, [git 
 
 And loike enuff poor things, fur the oanly stuff they cud 
 
 Was the wool they cud scrat together, fro' the sheep walks 
 
 oop o' the wold— 
 
 I hev spun a quarter myssen ov a night when the rushes 
 
 wur lit. 
 
 But the poorest wur clean i' them daiiys, new fangledy 
 ribbins wur dear. 
 We dressed oop o' winseys then, cleiin kerchiefs and 
 brats and smocks ; 
 Nivver noa dallackments then but stuff as ud wesh and 
 weear, 
 And nivver a gell but larned to whiten the Sunday 
 frocks. 
 
 Nat'ral sooap we used, fur a " Linken Bar " cost a deal, 
 It lathered like owt and rembled the clat and the spots 
 o' greease. 
 We wur clean fur sewerness i' them daays, tho' hoffens we 
 wanted a meiil, 
 And were proud as a mouse amoast ov a bit o' hoam- 
 maade cheease.
 
 128 OLD TIMES. 
 
 Homespun ? Yees, yees, i' them daiiys, and now not a 
 wheeal to be seean ; 
 But, lor ! if I had a hemp-bunch I could still mebbe 
 draw owt a line, 
 For we maade owr oan aprons and sheeats and bleeached 
 them milk-white i' the greean, 
 Wattered and sunned them well, and the webs the finest 
 o' fine. 
 
 Tha knaw'st what it saays i' the Word 'bowt Saatan 
 a-rooarin' round, 
 And "mischief fi:r idle hands" ; th' owd feller must haate 
 the spinnin' ; 
 Fur when lasses wur saafe at hoiime, and twistin' theer 
 quarter o' pound, 
 Theer was nowt o' nonsense at nights, noa time ya may 
 saay fur sinnin'. 
 
 But fur all that we hungered and scratted from light to 
 the dark i' them daays, 
 Theer wur fiddles and heels and toils i' the barn, when 
 the barley wur got ;
 
 OLD TIMES. 129 
 
 And the ," Plough-Jags " ^ called o' Plough Munday, and 
 we laughed fit to brost at theer plaays, 
 And the queeiir " Moddish Dancers" at Yule got caakes 
 and brown aale spiced hot. 
 
 But I've gotten a fit o' the gab, my dear, thou must 'scuse 
 an owd tongue, 
 Fur an owd tongue 's nowt to doa but to clack o' the 
 times gone past ; 
 I was minded to tell o' the witches and wizards when I 
 wur young, 
 Thou must call, and must set meii on witches agean and 
 howd mea fast. 
 
 ^ Lads who went about in costume on Plough Monday, and acted 
 a rude drama.
 
 I -^o 
 
 LINCOLNSHIRE WITCHES 
 
 I'm not of the sort as is feared o' crossin' the choorch-yard 
 
 o' nights, 
 The man with his head off his showders he nivver gev' mea 
 
 the frights. 
 I've gethered star-shot^ i' the fieiilds, but I doan't think it 
 
 fell fro' the skies, 
 And as fur them " fairy-rings," it's all a parshel o' lies. 
 But I'll 'low that I moastlins 'uU burn the hegg-shell I've 
 
 'ed to my tea, 
 To prevent them howry owd witches fro' crossin' the 
 
 Mablethorpe sea — 
 Fur tha knoas theer wur witches of old i' the Bible, and 
 
 divvils an' all, 
 And our parson 'e's alius a-preeachin' we ain't gotten shut 
 
 o' the " Fall." 
 Fwoaks talks abowt vervein and dill, and pins putten 
 
 hunder the floor, 
 
 'A white gelatinous fungus.
 
 LINCOLNSHIRE WITCHES. 131 
 
 But " wicken " 1 's the thing, I'll uphowd it, fur keepin' the 
 
 witch fro' the door. 
 I 'member our maister's owd " gaffman,"— it's gone upo' 
 
 seventy year — 
 They wur takkin' threea hay-loaden waggins, the Screm- 
 
 bleby witch wur theer, 
 And she crossed the rooad wi' her stick, and two o' them 
 
 waggins fell, 
 But the "gaffman" druv reight forrart, and the witch— soa 
 
 I've heard tell — 
 Wur all of a dither, and shak', and she skirled ^ out fit to be 
 
 mad, [gad." 
 
 " The divvil shall goii with the man as goas wi' the wicken 
 Whoy didn't we clam the witches.? they cud nivver be 
 
 hodden by noa man — 
 Fur a witch wud chaange to a hare, and back agean into a 
 
 woman. 
 My feyther wonst watched fur my laady, and set on his 
 
 owd splayed bitch, 
 And just as shea popped i' the cat-hole, dog clammed the 
 
 Scrembleby Witch, 
 Teared a pieace owt' 'ner an' all ; when they coomed to her 
 
 cottage door 
 
 ' Rowan-tree. "^ Shrieked.
 
 132 LINCOLNSHIRE WITCHES. 
 
 Yon hare was chaanged back to a woman, but theer wur 
 
 the blood o' the floor. 
 Tha mun knaw, if tha nobbut draws blood fro' a witch the 
 
 witches is done. 
 My bruther wonst scrawmed an owd witch — ay, 'e's dead 
 
 these forty year gone — 
 'E was amblin' one night fro' the fair, and she joomped on 
 
 'is 'erse's back, 
 'E 'ad gotten a reeap hook i' hand, and 'e fetched the owd 
 
 critter a whack. 
 And theer i' the morn o' the pillion wur blood, and blood 
 
 i' the rooad ; 
 'E wur nivver disturbed no moor by the witch when he 
 
 venter'd abrooad. 
 Till we got clear shut o' the witches, the country was all of 
 
 a tew, 
 Theer wur nivver no sureness i' baakin, and hoffens we lost 
 
 the brew, 
 And the wizard's wud cockle the barley, and the witches 
 
 wud smut the coarn, 
 And blaamt if they wudn't wish ill to the babbies afore 
 
 they wur boarn. 
 Theer wur toimes when the cows i' good milkin' wi' plenty 
 
 o' gress 'ud goa dry,
 
 LINCOLNSHIRE WITCHES. 133 
 
 Fwoaks laaid it to "otchen,"' — I knawed wi' mysen 'twur 
 
 the witch's eye. 
 We'd a gell o' the farm as vvur witched, and she got quoite 
 
 disgraaced wi' a wen, 
 And it wudn't not stirr thoff she went to the gallus and 
 
 touched threea men — 
 And the touch of a man that is hinged is as good as a 
 
 king's, they saay. 
 Eh, the witches wur bad sewer-ly, but the " wise uns " 
 
 wur wuss ony daay, 
 Fur the "wise uns," my dear, cud wish tha, and fetch 
 
 tha fro' far awaay. 
 My owd man used to tell he was kiddin' ^ o' furze upo' 
 
 Hagnaby Hill, 
 'E wur wished, and coom reightlins hoff, and noa time to 
 
 get "mittens" nor "bill," 
 But he fun hissen down at the Bull, and the "wise man" 
 
 gawmin' theer, ['is cheeir, 
 
 And fixed he wur all ov a moament, and cudn't ha' rembled ' 
 Noa, not fur a thousand pounds, and the fire got scorchin' 
 
 his kneeas ; 
 "Sit furder, tha fool," groomped the "wise un," and my 
 
 maister sed " Yees, if you pleease." 
 1 The Hedgehog. - Making faggots. ^ Moved,
 
 134 LINCOLNSHIRE WITCHES. 
 
 But I wean't saiiy the " wise iins " did novvt to addle 
 
 theer daaily bread, 
 Fur one they called Stainton o' Louath, he telled where 
 
 they fun' a man dead ; 
 And but fur owd Cossit to 'vise us when Bessie with king- 
 cough took ill, 
 Wes hud nivver ha' knawed o' the vally o' sow-beetles^ took 
 
 fur a pill. 
 Eh, luvvy ! I moind it as clearly as if it wur nobbut to- 
 
 weeak. 
 How I went when our threeii hogs wur stoalen fur all they 
 
 'ed gitten owr streeak ; 
 And the " wise man " he grooaned i' the sperit, his chimly 
 
 was all of a rooar, 
 We sattled i' terms, and I bid 'im threea pound, thoff he 
 
 axed fur moore. 
 Then he showed mea the feller as stoiile 'em, and he gev 
 
 me a hetherd-stoan ^ charm. 
 And be hangt if it wasn't our neahbour who wukked on the 
 
 next dooar farm ! 
 Od blaam 'im; we nivver sed nowt, but the " wise man " 
 
 'e put on 'is back [sack. 
 
 A curse fur a thousand years, till Saiitan hes gotten the 
 * Wood-lice. '^ Adder-stone, old spindle whorls used as a charm.
 
 LINCOLNSHIRE WITCHES. 135 
 
 They telled mea that ivvery Lammas till the theeaf wur 
 
 laaidi' the "yard," 
 He wud snort like a herse round his paster, and wud 
 
 plunge and gallop it hard ; 
 Noa dovvt it wur 'long o' the "wise un," for wizards is 
 
 under a curse, 
 They feeal that th' owd feller has got 'em, and they luvvs 
 
 to seea other fwoaks wurse. 
 But the last o' the "wise uns" as died, he sent fur the 
 
 parson, I red 
 r the paapers, " I've lived a wise man, and I's dyin' a 
 
 fool, sir ! " he sed. 
 Fwoaks saay that it's dreainin' as druv 'em, but I saay it's 
 
 along o' God's graace, 
 And the nasty owd things isn't hended, they nobbut hev 
 
 chaanged theer plaace. 
 Fur my grand-daughter's gell, i' her missiony booak, was 
 
 a-readin' to mea, 
 They're a sight o' tormentaation to the blackamoors 
 
 hoaver the sea- 
 Well, the Lord knaws his oan, and the divvil will cling to 
 
 his can to the last. 
 But I'm solidly Christian-glad that the toimes of the 
 
 witches is past.
 
 136 
 
 DANIEL PERITON. 
 
 A Ballad of the Conemaugh Flood. 
 
 The windows of Heaven were open wide, 
 The storm cloud broke, and the people cried 
 
 Will Conemaugh dam hold out ? 
 But the great folks down at Johnstown played, 
 They ate, they drank, they were nought afraid. 
 For Conemaugh dam holds Conemaugh lake, 
 By Conemaugh dam their pleasure they take. 
 
 Fine catching are Conemaugh trout. 
 
 The four mile lake at the back of its wall 
 Is growing to five, and the rains still fall, 
 
 And the flood by night and by day 
 Is burrowing deep thro' buttress and mound. 
 Fresh waters spring and spurt from the ground ;
 
 DANIEL PERI TON. I37 
 
 While God is thundering out of His cloud 
 The fountain voices are crying aloud, 
 Away to the hills ! away ! 
 
 Away to the hills ! leave altar and shrine, 
 Away to the hills ! leave table and wine, 
 
 Away from your trade and your tills ; 
 Let the strong man speed with the weakest child, 
 And the mother who just on her babe has smiled 
 Be carried, leave only the dead on their biers, 
 No time for the tomb, and no time for tears ; 
 
 Away, away to the hills ! 
 
 Daniel Periton heard the wail 
 
 Of the waters gathering over the vale, 
 
 With sorrow for city and field, — 
 Felt already the mountain quake 
 'Twixt living and dead. For the brethren's sake 
 Daniel Periton dared to ride 
 Full in front of the threatening tide. 
 
 And what if the dam do yield ? 
 
 To a man it is given but once to die, 
 
 Though the flood break forth he will raise his cry
 
 138 DANIEL PERITON. 
 
 For the thousands there in the town. 
 At least some child may be saved by his voice, 
 Some lover may still in the sun rejoice, 
 Some man that has fled, when he wins his breath, 
 Shall bless the rider who rode thro' Death, 
 
 For his fellows' life gave his own. 
 
 He leapt to his horse that was black as night, 
 He turned not left and he turned not right, 
 
 Down to the valley he dashed; 
 He heard behind him a thunderous boom, 
 The dam had burst and he knew his doom ; 
 " Fly, fly for your lives ! " it was all he spoke, 
 " Fly, fly, for the Conemaugh dam has broke ! " 
 
 And the cataract after him crashed. 
 
 They saw a man with the God in his face. 
 Pale from the desperate whirlwind pace. 
 
 They heard an angel cry. 
 And the steed's black mane was flecked as he flew. 
 And its flanks were red with the spur's red dew, 
 Into the city and out of the gate. 
 Rider and ridden were racing with fate, 
 
 Wild with one agony.
 
 DANIEL PERITON. ^39 
 
 " Flash on the news that the dam has burst," ^ 
 And one looked forth, and she knew the worst, 
 
 " My last message ! " she said. 
 The words at her will flashed on before 
 Periton's call and the torrent's roar : 
 And not in vain had Periton cried. 
 His heart had caught a brave heart to his side, 
 
 As bold for the saving he sped. 
 
 The flood came down and its strong arms took 
 The city, and all together shook, 
 
 Tower and church and street. 
 Like a pack of cards that a player may crush, 
 The houses fell in the whirlpool rush. 
 Rose and floated and jammed at the last, 
 Then a fierce flame fed by the deluge blast 
 
 Wove them a winding sheet. 
 
 God have mercy ! was ever a pyre 
 Lit like that of tlie flood's fierce fire I 
 
 * Miss Ogle, a telegraph clerk, saw the waters coming down 
 on the town, and died at her post. "This is my last message" 
 —so ran her telegram— but the message was unfinished, the waters 
 overwhelmed her.
 
 14° DANIEL PERITON. 
 
 Cattle and men caught fast, 
 Prisoners held between life and death, 
 While the flame struck down with its sulphurous breath. 
 And the flood struck up with its strong cold hand, 
 No hope from the water, no help from the land. 
 
 And the torrent thundering past ! 
 
 Daniel Periton, still he rides, 
 
 By the heaving flank and the shortening strides. 
 
 The race must be well-nigh won. 
 " Away to the hills J " but the cataract's bound 
 Has caught and has dashed him from saddle to ground, — 
 And the man who saw the end of the race, 
 Saw a dark dead horse, and a pale dead face. 
 
 Did they hear Heaven's great "Well done.^" 
 
 Daniel Periton is believed to have seen tlie first signs of the break- 
 ing of the Conemaugh dam. He took horse and dashed madly 
 down in front of the certain deluge-wave, into and through Johns- 
 town, crying, "To the hills, to the hills ! " 
 
 He was overwhelmed by the oncoming flood, and perished in an 
 heroic attempt to warn his fellow-townsmen of their peril.
 
 141 
 
 THE WIDOWER FROM LATRIGG. 
 
 ( 
 
 When last I stood on Latrigg's brow, 
 
 'Twas thirty years agone, 
 But clear can I remember how 
 
 The lake and valley shone. 
 
 Then one was standing at my side, 
 
 " Has Heaven," she said, " more grace ? 
 
 Can God indeed of bounty hide 
 A lovelier resting place ? " 
 
 Tears have been mine, and want, and pain, 
 And death has come between. 
 
 But like sweet sun thro' April rain 
 I still behold that scene. 
 
 Far Borrowdale is all as blue, 
 Helvellyn lies as brown,
 
 142 THE WIDOWER FROM LATRIGC. 
 
 As silver coils the Greta thro' 
 The meadows by the town. 
 
 Yon pale white flood at Skiddaw's feet 
 • So gleamed — about bis knees 
 
 Rose valley incense just as sweet 
 From fields as glad as these. 
 
 Their rubies out the larches hang, 
 As rich their tresses glow ; 
 
 You heard that bird? no merrier sang 
 The thirty years ago. 
 
 How sad and soft the river calls ! 
 
 How hums the town beneath ! 
 And never yet on Walla's walls 
 
 Did spring more gently breathe. 
 
 Still with its island home of prayer ^ 
 Close bosomed, lies the lake, 
 
 Ageless with youth no years will wear, 
 In calm no storm can break. 
 
 ' St. Herbert's Isle oti Derwentwater.
 
 THE WIDOWER FROM LA TRIGG. 143 
 
 Yet as I gaze, one little spot 
 
 In this vast changelessness 
 Seems lovelier, one remembered plot 
 
 Is changed, but changed to bless. 
 
 The old church tower on yonder mound 
 
 Shines white, as then it shone ; 
 There one I love is sleeping sound, 
 
 And I am here alone. 
 
 Dear voice, send answer up the steep, 
 " Has Heaven indeed more grace. 
 
 Does God of His compassion keep 
 A lovelier resting place ? "
 
 144 
 
 THE BALLAD OF ROSEMARIE ; OR, THE 
 WHITE COCKADE. 
 
 Christmas is here, and Christ is King ! 
 
 No need to rhyme of Belted-Will, 
 Nor Clym o' the Clough I care to sing, 
 
 The Robin Hood of Penrith Hill ;— 
 I tell how helplessness has power 
 More sure to guard than moat or tower. 
 
 Red are the roses by the tower 
 That looks rose-red on Caldew's tide, 
 
 But fallen and frayed the milk-white flower — 
 Gaunt Warwick's badge of battle pride, — 
 
 Yet Rose, one blossom cannot fade 
 
 Thy knightly flower, the White Cockade ! 
 
 It chanced on a November's day 
 The cruel northern winds did blow,
 
 THE BALLAD OF ROSEMARLE. i45 
 
 And darkly Caldew swept away 
 
 From Carrock muffled white with snow, 
 A bitter wind from over Forth 
 Brought news of rebels from the north. 
 
 The sun on Carlisle's walls may shine, 
 
 'Tis set for hearts of loyal blood, 
 For brave Prince Charlie quaffs the wine 
 
 Where for his king stout Dacre stood, 
 And Carlisle's burgher sons must flee, 
 Or sing " neck-verse " at Harrabee.^ 
 
 Oh ! better had the ship that sailed 
 With those seven rebels drunk the seas, 
 
 And better had the pibroch wailed 
 For Death to dance in Hebrides, 
 
 Than that old Carlisle's walls should ring 
 
 With shouts of " Bonnie Charlie's King." 
 
 But one is in the castleyard 
 Who hears no screel of pipe nor song, 
 
 ' One of the Penitential Psalms repeated by the condemned at 
 
 the gallows on Harraby Hill. 
 
 K
 
 146 THE BALLAD OF ROSEMARLE. 
 
 He paces moody 'twixt his guard, 
 
 And deems the night is all too long. 
 This night, God knows, his good wife lies 
 In her first mother's agonies. 
 
 Ouoth Dacre : — " By our Ladj-, sire, 
 Whose rose adorns old Halton's gate,^ 
 
 Grant me a boon ! — my heart's desire — 
 My lady lies disconsolate, 
 
 And is it meet when babes are born 
 
 The mother should be left forlorn?'' 
 
 Prince Charlie laughed a laugh and said, 
 " Let ring-doves coo, but men of war 
 
 Who wear the bonnet and the plaid 
 Leave dreams of wives and babes afar ; 
 
 When James the Third has won his claim 
 
 Shall Dacre go to tend his dame ! " 
 
 ' The entrance gateway to Rose Castle, built by Bishop Halton 
 in the 14th century, still stands, and bears above it in a large 
 scutcheon the rose, in emblem probably of tlie Virgin Mary to whoni 
 Rose ('astle was dedicated 
 
 I
 
 THE BALLAD OF ROSEMARIE. '47 
 
 Morn broke — and Criffel o'er the flood 
 Frowned upon Skiddaw, veiled in cloud, 
 
 The eastern heavens were wet with blood, 
 And Crossfell's fiends were howling loud, 
 
 By Dalston tower, with never a gleam 
 
 Of light, ran dreary Caldew's stream. 
 
 All night the country-side had seen 
 The blaze in heaven of farmyard fires, 
 
 The geese are gathered from the green. 
 The sheep are folded in the byres, 
 
 And doors of church and pele are barred, 
 
 For Cumbria's yoeman-sons die hard. 
 
 A cry ! the rebels come ! they come 
 With bonnets blue and bare of knee, 
 
 But with no sound of pipe nor drum, 
 Pride of Glenfinnan's chivalry, 
 
 And at their head with naked blade 
 
 Rides one who wears the white cockade. 
 
 ' The church and pele towers on the border were the refuge fo 
 the farmers and villagers in time of foray.
 
 14^ THE BALLAD OF ROSEMARIE. 
 
 " Now Dalston loons," Macdonald cries, 
 "We have no quarrel, friends, with you, 
 
 But tell us where Rose Castle lies, 
 And at your peril tell us true. 
 
 Your Baron Bishop in his hold, 
 
 He dines from silver, drinks from gold. 
 
 " Your Bishop's horses fill the stall, 
 He has good store of buckled shoon, 
 
 We scarce for lack of such can crawl 
 Your English roads to pibroch tune — 
 
 No man need fear, no maid need flee, 
 
 But shod our Highland lads must be. 
 
 " Nor dread for your great lord, we care 
 For those our God anoints, too much, 
 
 We will not hurt a single hair, 
 
 His books and "shaws" we will not touch 
 
 Yea, if the Rosemary were out. 
 
 We would not pluck a single sprout." 
 
 Then spake a voice, thick doors behind, 
 " The time for Rosemary is past,
 
 THE BALLAD OF ROSEMARIE. I49 
 
 But if you chance a sprig to find, 
 
 Unharmed by this November blast, 
 Swear you will come as now you go, 
 And I the way to Rose will show." 
 
 " Ay ! that will I right gladly swear. 
 
 For Rosemary is out of time. 
 And Rosemary or not, no hair 
 
 Shall cry for vengeance on our crime ; 
 But horse and shoon we needs must take 
 All for the Lord's anointed sake." 
 
 Then through the fields, Macdonald's men 
 Moved merry with their yeoman guide ; 
 
 They had no thought of Athol's glen 
 When Caldew glittered at their side, 
 
 And soon beneath its sheltering wood 
 
 The "Castle Rose" before them stood. 
 
 Flanked by the tower that Strickland planned, 
 
 High lifted o'er its terraced moat, 
 Macdonald bade his trooper band, 
 
 Its simple strength and beauty note.
 
 150 THE BALLAD OL' ROSEMARIE. 
 
 And paused their captain's word to wait. 
 Then challengeless they passed the gate, 
 
 Macdonald's broadsword on the door 
 Made noise, the rookery rose in air, 
 
 Came hurried steps across the floor. 
 And voices whispered from the stair : 
 
 " God's mercy ! " cried the serving man, 
 
 And backward to the Hall he ran. 
 
 Then grave, but white with wild alarm. 
 An aged serving maid stepped out, 
 
 " Ye cannot mean a woman harm, 
 My lady must not hear this rout, 
 
 She is delivered in this hour 
 
 Of babe that is of babes the flower ! 
 
 " Keep silence friends and follow me. 
 The roast is ready in the Hall, 
 
 There cat and drink and welcome be, 
 But let her hear no foot to fall. 
 
 For if she may not sleep to-day. 
 
 Her gentle life will pass away."
 
 THE BALL A D OF K OSEMA RIE. i 5 ' 
 
 Back at her prayer the troopers fell, 
 
 They saw the working of her face, 
 They too had served a master well, 
 
 They too held faithfulness in grace, 
 Leaned on their swords, no word they spoke, 
 And thus her voice the stillness broke. 
 
 " But if your heart no mother's woes 
 
 Can reach, respect the rites divine, 
 E'en now the service forward goes. 
 
 Within our castle's ancient shrine, 
 The prayer is said, the name is given, 
 That God will ratify in Heaven." 
 
 " Fear not, fear not," Macdonald said, 
 
 "I have a wife and bairnies three. 
 What will they call your little maid?" 
 
 " Good sire, they name her Rosemarie : 
 Mary the Rose without a thorn, 
 From her they call the babe new born." 
 
 Then round Macdonald turned, " I swore 
 If Rosemary were but in bloom,
 
 152 THE BALLAD OF ROSEMARLE. 
 
 I would not burst the castle door, 
 
 Nor let my gallants sack a room ! 
 Here, nurse ! go, take my white cockade, 
 And pin it on the little maid ; 
 
 " And say we will in silence wait. 
 
 The while the christening prayer goes on, 
 
 Then under yon rose-scutcheoned gate 
 We will as silently be gone — 
 
 That white cockade shall be a dower. 
 
 More sure to guard than moat or tower. 
 
 " For if our troopers come this way, 
 And yon cockade and babe be shown. 
 
 They shall not dare to rob or slay. 
 
 While brave Prince Charlie seeks his own. 
 
 God speed his cause, and long life be 
 
 To 'Castle Rose' and Rosemarie !" 
 
 Rosemary (Molly) Dacre, the heroine of this ballad, married 
 Sir Walter Clerk, fifth baronet of Penicuik, and communicated
 
 THE BALLAD OF ROSEMARIE. 153 
 
 the following account of the White Cockade incident to the 
 publisher of Blackwood' s Magazine, April 21st, 1817 : — 
 
 "Sir, — According to your request this morning, I send you some 
 account of the particulars that attended my birth, which I do with 
 infinite pleasure, as it reflects great honour on the Highlanders, to 
 whom I always feel the greatest gratitude, that at the time when 
 their hearts were set on plunder, the fear of hurting a sick lady and 
 child instantly stopped their intentions. 
 
 "The incident occurred 15th November, 1745. My father, Mr, 
 Dacre, then an officer in His Majesty's Militia, was a prisoner in 
 the Castle of Carlisle, at that time in the hands of Prince Charles. 
 My mother (a daughter of Sir George le Fleming, Bart., Bishop of 
 Carlisle) was living at Rose Castle, six miles from Carlisle, where 
 she was delivered of me. She had given orders that I should imme- 
 diately be privately baptised by the Bishop's chaplain (his lordship 
 not being at home) by the name of Rosemary Dacre. At that 
 moment a company of Highlanders appeared, headed by a Captain 
 Macdonald, who having heard that there was much plate and valu- 
 ables in the Castle, came to plunder it. Upon the approach of the 
 Highlanders an old grey-headed servant ran out and entreated 
 Captain Macdonald not to proceed, as any noise or alarm might 
 occasion the death of both the lady and the child. The Captain 
 inquired when the lady had been confined. 'Within the hour,' 
 the servant answered. Captain Macdonald stopped. The servant 
 added, 'They are just going to christen the infant." Macdonald, 
 taking off his cockade, said, ' Let her be christened with this 
 cockade in her cap, it will be her protection now and after if any of 
 our stragglers should come this way. We will wait the ceremony 
 in silence'; which they accordingly did, and then went into the 
 courtyard and were regaled with beef, cheese, and ale, etc. They 
 then went off without the smallest disturbance. 
 
 "The white cockade was safely preserved, and shown me from
 
 154 THE BALLAD OF KOSEMARIE. 
 
 time to time, always reminding me to respect the Scotch, and the 
 Highlanders in particular. I think I have obeyed the injunction 
 by spending my life in Scotland, and also by hoping at last to die 
 there. ^ (Signed) Rosemary Clerk." 
 
 Later historical search has proved by examination of the Kirk- 
 linton parish register that the baptism took place at Rose Castle the 
 3rd November, on which day no Highlanders had crossed the border. 
 It is possible that the old servant is responsible for the fact as he 
 stated it. Necessity is the mother of invention. It is behaved that 
 the Macdonald spoken of was not Donald Macdonald of Moidart, 
 but possibly Macdonald of the Edinburgh City-guard or some 
 petty offtcer. It is thought that the object of the Highlanders was 
 not so much loot as horses and shoes : they suffered terribly for 
 lack of both. It is to their never-ending glory that the villagers 
 for the most part were not harried, and no women suffered wrong 
 at the hands of Prince Charlie's men in 1745. 
 
 The white cockade in question was given by Lady Clerk to 
 George IV. when he came to Edinburgh.
 
 155 
 
 THE LEGEND OF ST. BEES. 
 
 It fell upon the very day 
 
 When God's dear Son was given, 
 That looking westward through the spi'ay, 
 
 Men saw a vessel driven, 
 Its boats and bulwarks swept away, 
 
 Oars shattered, mainsail riven. 
 
 And who is this with book in hand 
 
 Stands ever at the helm ? 
 Though waves roll mountains to the land, 
 
 Her heart no fear can whelm. 
 Sure such a presence, such command 
 
 Would rule a stormier realm ! 
 
 Across the bar they crash ! they gride ! 
 When, mightier than before,
 
 156 THE LEGEND OF ST. BEES. 
 
 Upon the shoulders of the tide 
 
 One wave the vessel bore ; 
 Back from her hull the waters glide 
 
 And leave her safe ashore ! 
 
 Then out and stepped the ladye fair, 
 
 She was but one of three, 
 The foam-pearls fell from her red hair, 
 
 As she sank upon her knee, 
 And there they knelt in silent prayer 
 
 Beside the surly sea. 
 
 " Now who is here," the ladye said, 
 " That knows of Christ our Lord ? 
 
 And who will give us home and bread 
 For sake of His dear Word ? 
 
 Nought have we left, but loom and thread, 
 Of all we brought aboard." 
 
 Forth from the crowd, upon the beach 
 There stepped an aged hind, 
 
 Quoth he, " To-day our churches teach 
 Christ came for all mankind.
 
 THE LEGEND OF ST. BEES. 157 
 
 If our great ladye's hall ye reach, 
 Christ's pity ye shall find. 
 
 " For at her gates or rich or poor 
 
 To-day find equal dole, 
 There men, or knight, or priest, or boor, 
 
 Are one — God keep her soul ! 
 If but you win her castle door 
 
 Your sorrows shall be whole." 
 
 The ladye, never a word she said. 
 
 But beckoned him to guide, 
 And up along the cliflfs so red. 
 
 Above the sounding tide. 
 She followed where the shepherd led, 
 
 Her maidens at her side. 
 
 Above the hill, across the moor, 
 
 To Egremond they hie ; 
 Without is dusk, within the door 
 
 The lights burn merrily ; 
 Inside are gathered rich and poor 
 
 For Yule-tide joUity.
 
 IS^ THE LEGEND OF ST. BEES. 
 
 " For Jesu's sake," the porter cried, 
 The steward clanked his keys, 
 
 The lord he swore, a royal tide 
 Had brought him such as these. 
 
 And the ladye led them straight aside 
 And bade their hearts have ease. 
 
 Anon she asked them of their race 
 
 And of their late distress, 
 Why emblems of the gospel grace 
 
 Were broidered in their dress ; 
 But most she questioned face by face 
 
 Of its pure saintliness. 
 
 And little, or of yea or nay. 
 
 The strangers made reply, 
 But the ladye did them all array 
 
 In robes most courteously, 
 And bade her ship-wrecked guests to stay 
 
 Till winter should go by. 
 
 Now comes the spring, and now the swift 
 Screams over land and lea.
 
 THE LEGEND OF ST. BEES. 159 
 
 The ragged edges of the thrift 
 
 Are pink against the sea, 
 And where the rosy ledges Hft 
 
 Is gold as gorse can be. 
 
 The goat-herds up at Rothington 
 
 Have oft the strangers seen, 
 The heart of many a weary one 
 
 For the sight has gladder been ; 
 They say that one is a holy nun. 
 
 Yet seems a very queen. 
 
 But queen or nun, with maidens twain 
 
 The fisher folk aver 
 She earns her bread, with more of pain 
 
 Than the busy gossamer ; 
 They know how oft she winds the skein, 
 
 H ow late the spindles whirr. 
 
 For lowly, in a lowly cot, 
 
 These high-souled maidens spin, 
 Contented with their humble lot 
 
 If they their bread may win —
 
 i6o THE LEGEND OF Sr. BEES. 
 
 So happy that the busy spot 
 Seems freed from touch of sin. 
 
 Sometimes into the narrow room 
 Great lords and ladies pry, 
 
 To watch the wonder-working loom 
 Build up its tapestry, 
 
 Whereon the small sand-roses bloom 
 In deathless broidery. 
 
 Now sets more northerly the sun, 
 Glad Midsummer is near, 
 
 Unharmed the woodland boar may run, 
 The doe no arrow fear ; 
 
 And Egremond's great lord is won 
 His lady's suit to hear. 
 
 " Now by the child that shall be born, 
 A boon, Sir Knight, I crave. 
 
 Our farms are green with store of corn, 
 Much food for years we have ; 
 
 Mind ye the shipwrecked maids forlorn 
 Who came across the wave '^.
 
 THE LEGEND OF ST. BEES. i6i 
 
 " Good sire, I ask thee not beyond 
 
 What duly may be given, 
 'Tis meet the lord of Egremond 
 
 Should treasure lay in heaven, 
 And from these holy maids have bond 
 
 That so his soul be shriven." 
 
 The lord, he laughed with such an oath 
 
 As made the wood-birds fly : 
 " If spinsters' prayers can save us both, 
 
 Then spinsters' prayers I'll buy. 
 But Dame, I like not, on my troth, 
 
 To found a nunnery. 
 
 " This morn, the fells seemed far away 
 
 For quivering of heat. 
 The Ehni went winding through the hay 
 
 Right warmly to my feet ; 
 And Dame, look west, how sultry grey 
 
 The sun and ocean meet ! 
 
 iThe River Ehn or Ehen flows from the Ennerdale lake by 
 Egremont to the sea.
 
 1 62 THE LEGEND OF ST. BEES. 
 
 " Midsummer's Vigil is to-night, 
 
 And ladye, I have sworn, 
 All lands whereon the snow lies white 
 
 Upon the morrow morn, 
 I give these wrecked ones out of right 
 
 To mend their case forlorn." 
 
 " Now God send grace, for well I trow," 
 
 Quoth Egremond's ladye, 
 " The hand that holds, can loose the snow 
 
 From off the northern sea. 
 And many a godless oath ere now 
 
 Has won for Heaven a fee." 
 
 The lord, he whistled, from his wrist 
 The blinking hawk he shook. 
 
 That light-heart oath he little wist 
 Was written in God's book. 
 
 As homeward through the mellowing mist 
 His careless way he took. 
 
 But swift and sure beyond the moor 
 The lord's promise has sped,
 
 THE LEGEND OF ST. BEES. 1 63 
 
 Has entered in the little door 
 
 Beneath the rocks so red, 
 And all night long, beside the shore, 
 
 Are prayers and "aves" said. 
 
 The lord has gotten him to rest. 
 
 His ladye at his side, 
 He little dreams the dame's request 
 
 Shall bring back Christmas-tide— 
 That bitter winds at God's behest 
 
 Shall make his oath abide. 
 
 A black frost fell upon the hill, 
 
 A white frost on the wood. 
 The barn-owl felt the bitter chill, 
 
 And stayed to warm her brood, 
 And the watchman durst not stand him still 
 
 For freezing of his blood. 
 
 But ere the night had passed about. 
 
 The warder he might know 
 From out the north, a fleecy rout 
 
 Of clouds came scudding low,
 
 1 64 THE LEGEND OF ST. BEES. 
 
 And when the morrow's sun shone out, 
 The grass was white with snow. 
 
 Lord Lucy looked from out his tower, 
 While still the morn was red ; 
 
 " Now by the holy angel's power 
 The ground is overspread — 
 
 I vow those maids have won for dower 
 From Esk to Tomline Head ! " 
 
 He cares not for his loss, beyond 
 Hurt hay or blasted corn, 
 
 He only thinks him of the bond 
 With those three maids forlorn. 
 
 For the lord of faithful Egremond 
 Will do as he hath sworn. 
 
 Then loud he called for chart and seal, 
 For seneschal and knight — 
 
 " Go, sires, and bring me answer leal 
 What lands the snow makes white, 
 
 For God has heard weak lips appeal 
 And answered them to-night."
 
 THE LEGEND OF ST. BEES. 165 
 
 And down he rode with half content 
 
 Toward the rose-rocked Bay, 
 Behind, on Herdus Hill and Dent 
 
 Was full Midsummer's day. 
 But every step he shorewards went 
 
 Was snow-white as the May. 
 
 Now has he won to Tomline Head, 
 
 But his dame has won before. 
 The loom is hushed, unplied the thread. 
 
 The maids are on the shore. 
 And she whose hair is russet red 
 
 Is praying, one of four. 
 
 The lord, he leaned upon his rein— 
 
 " God give you grace," he cried, 
 " As much as under snow has lain 
 
 This strange Midsummer tide 
 Is to your use, and shall maintain 
 
 An house of prayer beside." 
 
 Then up she rose from off her knees, 
 The Lady Bega hight.
 
 1 66 THE LEGEND OF ST. BEES. 
 
 And with those maidens whom the seas 
 Had wrecked on Christmas night, 
 
 She entered, Abbess of St. Bees, 
 Into an Abbey's right. 
 
 And long as Egremond may wear 
 The Pike-fish in his crest, 
 
 Shall Cumbria's shepherd-sons declare 
 How Lucy's soul had rest, 
 
 And how the good St Bega's prayer 
 By summer's snow was blest. 
 
 The remains of the monastery of St. Bees, some four miles soutli 
 of Whitehaven, on the Cvmiberland coast, are situated about lialf-a- 
 mile from the shore in a hollow, well sheltered from the north-west 
 storms which sweep across the Irish Channel, by the broad-backed 
 bluff of Tomline Head, more generally known as St. Bee's Head. 
 
 In respect to this religious foundation, Tanner says — " Bega, a 
 holy woman from Ireland, is said to have founded, about the year 
 650, a small monastery in Copeland, where afterwards a church was 
 built in memory of her." 
 
 St. Bega is said to have been the daughter of an Irish king. She 
 ran away from her father's house, having determined to be a nun ; 
 and in order to avoid marrying a Norse chieftain, she joined some 
 strange sailors, and took ship and sailed to the coast of Cumberland. 
 The traditionary account of the founding of the nunnery of St.
 
 THE LEGEND OF ST. BEES. 167 
 
 Bees is to be found in Wm. Samford's MS. ; from this MS. it would 
 appear that a ship, containing a lady abbess and her sisters, "being 
 driven in by stormy weather at Whitehaven, the abbess applied for 
 relief to the Lady of Egremond, who, taking compassion on her 
 destitution, obtained of her lord a dwelling-place for them, at the 
 now St. Bees, where they sewed and spinned, and wrought carpets 
 and other work, and lived very godly li\-es, as got them much love." 
 It goes on to say that the Lady of Egremond, at the request of the 
 abbess, spoke to her lord to give them some land " to lay up trea- 
 sure in heaven," and that "he laughed and said he would give them 
 as much as snow fell upon the next morning, being Midsummer 
 Day, and on the morrow as he looked out of his castle window, all 
 was white with snow for three miles together. And thereupon 
 builded this St. Bees Abbie, and gave all those lands were snowen 
 unto it, and the town and haven of Whitehaven." Etc.
 
 i68 
 
 RAM BUKSH, THE LEPER. 
 
 " To His compassionate Excellency, 
 One Ram Buksh who is ready to die — 
 He in the light, and I in the dark, 
 He full sun and I but a spark — 
 Prayeth. I once like a wild goat ran, 
 Tigers right to their lair would trace, 
 Met the elephant face to face, 
 Smote the leopard, and slew the buck, 
 Strangled the cobra before he struck ; 
 Pride of the village, beloved of my wife, 
 Now am I stricken and weary of life ; 
 Under the whole community's ban, 
 A lonely, loathsome, leprous man. 
 
 " I, the hunter, so strong, so fleet. 
 
 Now the hunted, scarce crawl on my feet,
 
 RAM BUKSH, THE LEPER. 169 
 
 No whole part of my body sound, 
 
 One huge festering, fearful wound. 
 
 Though my soul weep sore, no tear on my cheek, 
 
 Lidless eyes that shrink from the glare. 
 
 Ears decayed, where was hair, no hair ; 
 
 Nose shrunk inwards so none can trace 
 
 The look of a man in my knotted face. 
 
 Toes ! they have withered off one by one, 
 
 There falls my last forefinger's bone ! 
 
 So wizened my windpipe, lungs so weak. 
 
 Though my heart cry loud my lips scarce speak. 
 
 " Weary of being : Hear my cry ! 
 
 I, Ram Buksh, for I fain would die. 
 
 My life is a plague-spot here on earth, 
 
 I am loathed by the mother that gave me birth 
 
 The Pariah dogs when they scent me near 
 
 Growl and slink to their oftal heap, 
 
 I am weary of waking, I fain would sleep 
 
 It is known to all, if a leper consent 
 
 To be buried alive, the gods are content : 
 
 And never afflict his village again 
 
 With the leper's curse and the leper's pain.
 
 1 7© RAM BUKSH, THE LEPER. 
 
 I am willing to die : yea, I have no fear ; 
 Cherisher of the afflicted, hear ! 
 
 " The sun is sweet in the heaven still, 
 
 May it shine for you ! but the high gods' will. 
 
 And the wish of the village I full well know, 
 
 Is that I, the leper, to death should go ; 
 
 Dust in my mouth till my mouth cease breath,. 
 
 For so the gods will alone give ease. 
 
 And save the village from sore disease ; 
 
 So will this plague of my body's rot 
 
 Pass from the people and be forgot ; 
 
 So never more will the leper crawl 
 
 A carrion corpse in the shade of the wall 1 
 
 Oh compassionate ! hear what he saith. 
 
 Ram Buksh, the leper, and grant him death. 
 
 " Hear the prayer of a leper ! Forgive 
 
 The wish of the living not to live ; 
 
 For the will of my heart that still must beat 
 
 Is to lie beneath the dust of the street, 
 
 Out of sight of mine own wife's eyes, 
 
 Out of sound of the hunter's rout 
 
 When they bring the tiger home with a shout.
 
 RAM BUKSH, THE LEPER. i?! 
 
 Where the heavy curse I shall no more hear, 
 
 The earth is a lighter load to bear ! 
 
 But the law is good — you are law to the land, — 
 
 Wherefore I beg this boon of your hand, 
 
 To lie beneath where no torment lies, 
 
 For the people's sake and for Paradise." 
 
 Thus, that his brothers escape the ban, 
 Prayed Ram Buksh, the leper man. 
 
 On iMonday, January istli, 1890, H.R.H. the Prince of Wales 
 presided at a subscription dinner at the Hotel Metropole, in aid of 
 the National Leprosy Fund. Father Daniien's brother was of the 
 company. Speaking of the lepers in India, the Prince stated that 
 there were considerably over 200,000 of them, and that not more 
 than one per cent, were in hospitals or asylums in 1887. 
 
 The vast majority of these roamed over the country as beggars — 
 shunned, friendless, and uncared for, until they dropped down and 
 died, or perhaps drowned themselves in some public well. Let me 
 —continued the Prince — read to you one of the saddest and most 
 pathetic petitions I have ever heard of, which was presented by a 
 leper to the late Lord I^awrence when he was Viceroy : — 
 
 " Hail, Cherisher of the Afflicted,— Be it known to your en- 
 lightened mind that your devoted servant has been a leper for many 
 years. My limbs have fallen off piece by piece ; my whole body 
 has become a mass of corruption. I am weary of life. I wish to 
 die. My life is a plague and a disgust to the whole village, and my
 
 172 RAM BUKSH, THE LEPER. 
 
 death is earnestly longed for. It is well known to all that for a 
 leper to consent to die, to permit himself to be buried alive, is 
 approved of by the gods, who will never afflict another individual of 
 the same village with a similar malady. Therefore, I solicit your 
 permission to be buried alive. The whole village wishes it, and I 
 am happy and content to die. You are the ruler of the land, and 
 without your leave it would be criminal. I hope that I may obtain 
 my prayer. I pray that the sun of prosperity may shine on you. 
 — (Signed) Ram Buksh, Leper." 
 
 This petition, it is hardly necessary to say. Lord Lawrence did 
 not grant, but the unfortunate leper was nevertheless buried alive a 
 day or two afterwards. He (the Prince of Wales) was glad to say 
 that there was a possibility, he hoped a probability, of the State 
 taking a more active part than hitherto in the prevention and treat- 
 ment of leprosy in India.
 
 173 
 
 IN A GARDEN. 
 
 The cowslip glowed, the tulip burned, 
 The grass was green as green could be ; 
 
 There, as in sweet content we turned, 
 Beneath the budding linden tree, 
 
 We saw the westering sunbeams shake 
 
 Large glory o'er the mountain lake. 
 
 The cushat cooed, the blackbird's cry 
 About the terrace garden rang ; 
 
 Still as we wooed, my love and I, 
 The throstle still enraptured sang, 
 
 And still the waters danced with glee 
 
 Beneath the budding linden tree. 
 
 The tulips trembled still with flame. 
 The cowslips gleamed along the walk,
 
 174 iN A GARDEN. 
 
 Yet, dear one, when the last word came 
 
 And silence only seemed to talk, 
 We looked and found the lake was gone, 
 Flowers dim, birds hushed, and one star shone. 
 
 Beloved ! by many an up and down, 
 
 O'er level lawns, unlevel ways, 
 Through weeds and flowers, when birds had flown, 
 
 And when birds sang, have passed the days 
 Since our new dawn forbade the night ; 
 But, lo ! o'erhead Love's star is bright.
 
 r75 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS BELLS. 
 
 No flocks and bells 
 Are on the fells, 
 
 The sheep are in the vale ; 
 But near and far, 
 From belfry bar, 
 
 There goes a good old tale, 
 The bells of Christmastide that ring, 
 Against the coming of the King. 
 
 With joy and hope, 
 The merry rope 
 
 Leaps dancing from the ground ; 
 With steady sway, 
 From stay to stay, 
 
 The solemn bells swing round. 
 And silent hills, that watch and hear, 
 Beat back the news along the mere.
 
 176 THE CHRISTMAS BELLS. 
 
 Though winds are chill, 
 The heron's bill 
 
 Is busy by the lake ; 
 The white owls crow 
 Across the snow, 
 
 They needs their meal must make, 
 They cannot pause to wonder why 
 The night air throbs with melody. 
 
 Where great men dine 
 Flows talk and wine, 
 
 The meats are flashed about ; 
 But as they drink 
 They little think 
 
 What music is without ; 
 And at the wmdows idly beat 
 The words those merry bells repeat. 
 
 But on the farm 
 Has come a charm, 
 
 The airiest of spells ; 
 Rob still must bide 
 To open wide 
 
 The barn, to hear the bells ;
 
 THE CHRISTMAS BELLS. '77 
 
 With lingering step to-night he plies 
 His frosty farm-yard ministries. 
 
 Upon his tramp, 
 The shepherd's lamp 
 
 To-night stands steady, oft ; 
 For up the hill 
 The church bells still 
 
 Sound cheerily and soft ; 
 Though he has heard their tune for years 
 A strange new thing is in his ears. 
 
 On pillow props, 
 Poor Elsie stops 
 
 In middle of her prayer ; 
 Such sounds were given 
 From out of heaven, 
 
 She says, to guide her there ; 
 And hands upon the window latch. 
 Let in the humming at the thatcli. 
 
 The old man reads. 
 
 The grandchild heeds, 
 
 M
 
 178 THE CHRISTMAS BELLS. 
 
 And crawls along the floor, 
 With fret and cry 
 Its fingers try 
 
 The bolts upon the door ; 
 And soon the elder children stand 
 Out in the lane, a listening band. 
 
 But by the fire 
 The aged sire. 
 
 He rocks him to and fro. 
 Those sad church bells 
 Their music tells 
 
 Of Christmas long ago. 
 Outside the children laugh to hear, 
 Inside the old man drops a tear. 
 
 Laid on his back 
 Behind some stack, 
 
 Less cold the beggar feels ; 
 Loudest of all 
 To him they call, 
 
 Those gladsome Christmas peals. 
 Men's hearts — but why he does not know- 
 At such a season warmer grow.
 
 THE CHRISTMAS BELLS. 179 
 
 Not recking much 
 Whose souls they touch, 
 
 The breathless ringers ring, 
 They little ken. 
 Those simple men, 
 
 What messages they wing. 
 But as each echoing bell comes up 
 An angel fills its iron cup. 
 
 From their full throats 
 A thousand notes 
 
 To village hearts are sent, 
 And some are glad, 
 And some are sad. 
 
 But all are much content; 
 For as is meet, the bells recall 
 How Christ was born to save them all. 
 
 Not curtains long. 
 Nor windows strong. 
 
 Keep out the roundelay. 
 For high and low. 
 Who list, may know 
 
 What words the church bells say ;
 
 i8o THE CHRISTMAS BELLS. 
 
 Their Christmas tale alone is barred 
 From hearts whom selfishness makes hard. 
 
 Still, as of old, 
 Christ's birth is told 
 
 To men of humblest home ; 
 Still throbbing air 
 Can make minds 'ware 
 
 That Christmas-tide is come, 
 And he who has not where to rest 
 May hear the joyous tidings best.
 
 i8i 
 
 AN OLD CONSPIRACY. 
 
 They met in haste, they met with guile, 
 Old Hanan mumbling in his beard, 
 
 Proud Pilate with a weary smile, 
 And Herod trembling to have heard. 
 
 And Caiaphas, the man of sin, 
 
 Arch-leader of the Sanhedrin. 
 
 They closed the doors, the soldier stood, 
 They asked him of the Crucified : 
 
 Stained with the water and the blood, 
 His spear was leaned against his side. 
 
 And he had felt the body cold 
 
 That Joseph in fine linen rolled. 
 
 " Now swear thee, dog, thou didst not break 
 The legs of Him who hung with three-
 
 1 8 2 AN OLD CONSPIRA C Y. 
 
 Worst malefactor — for the sake 
 Of bribe to set this Jesus free. 
 Thy spear but grazed, it gave no wound, 
 Swear that this Christ not died but swooned." 
 
 " Csesar, I swear," the soldier said, 
 " But all the world that came to see 
 
 Knows well this Christ was good as dead 
 Before we nailed Him to the tree ; 
 
 He drank no cup to dull the pain, 
 
 Who swears He swooned but swears in vain." 
 
 Then crafty Caiaphas began, 
 
 "Nay, sirs. He died, talk not of swound, 
 
 Nacdimon is a careful man, 
 
 He would not waste a hundred pound 
 
 To spice a body but in faint 
 
 And save it from corruption's taint I 
 
 " Say, while the watch lay right and left, 
 
 Deep drugged, friends came, the seal was broke, 
 
 Rolled the great stone far up its cleft, 
 And as this poor Pretender spoke.
 
 AM OLD CONSPIRACY. 183 
 
 Made Him arise the promised day, 
 And bore His corpse by stealth away. 
 
 " Better this word than as at first, 
 
 With larger monies spread the tale, 
 For that wild fisher, mad, accursed, 
 
 Doth with the people much prevail, 
 And dares the priests bring forth the Lord 
 Unrisen, and so make vain his word." 
 
 • 
 There Pilate smiled, " The people know 
 
 Your priests were fearful He should rise ; 
 Peter's bold challenge doth allow 
 
 No answer but your craven lies. 
 Methinks it doth more Roman seem 
 To say Christ comes, but comes in dream. 
 
 " Mine own wife, Procula, who sent 
 
 To bid me nothing have to do 
 With that just Man and innocent, 
 
 Has dreamed she sees Him come and go : 
 Down the deep Tyropean way 
 He seemed to walk this very day."
 
 184 AN OLD CONSPIRACY. 
 
 Ah ! how " that Fox's " face grew white, 
 
 That Idiim^an Sadducee ! 
 " Dreams cannot hurt us though they fright, 
 
 Yea, let Him come in dream to me, 
 And do the marvels He refused 
 When in mine hall He stood accused." 
 
 Thereon the soldier blunt replied, 
 
 " Masters, I know one who hath thrust 
 
 His hand into that Vision's side. 
 And I have heard from him, I trust. 
 
 How this same dream can break wheat-bread 
 
 And by the food of men be fed. 
 
 " Yea, can speak words so men may hear, 
 
 Talks Galilasan roughly still, 
 But, like a dream, doth disappear, 
 
 Appears, when doors are closed, at will ; 
 Walked to Emmaus without pain. 
 Though feet were pierced as plain as plain." 
 
 Lo ! even as he ended, came 
 A sigh of silence on the air,
 
 AN OLD CONSPIRACY. 185 
 
 And with His wondrous eyes aflame, 
 
 For love, not hate, the Christ was there ! 
 None spake — thereafter nought was said 
 Of Christ, dream — risen — swooned — or dead !
 
 i86 
 
 ELIJAH AT THE BROOK CHERITH. 
 
 He stood in presence of the King — 
 His soul in presence of the Lord — 
 He said, " The brooks shall no more sing, 
 No more the flowers and grass shall spring, 
 For dew shall fail from off the lea, 
 And rain for years shall only be 
 According to my word ! " 
 
 Proud Ahab's lips were curled with scorn, 
 
 And Jezebel, with serpent hiss. 
 Cried, " Now, by Baal, and the horn 
 Of Sidon's altar, we have sworn, 
 The clouds shall rain, the springs shall flow. 
 Or, Prophet of Jehovah, know 
 
 Thy head shall fall for this ! "
 
 ELIJAH AT THE BROOK CHEKITH. 187 
 
 Then forth from Ahab's presence went 
 
 That dark-eyed man whose hair was long ; 
 
 The people wondered, women bent 
 
 Forth from their lattices, men sent 
 
 Long glances after him — he dared 
 
 Curse the King's land, and yet is spared !— 
 But he passed through the throng. 
 
 He left the city ; beast and man 
 Were glad ; full fountains spouted clear ; 
 
 Long strings of camels to the Khan 
 
 Brought clover green ;^ the caravan 
 
 Told of the miles of emerald grain, 
 
 The former and the latter rain 
 
 Seemed sure, no drought was near ! 
 
 The people turned them to the west. 
 The sun sank down, the soft dew fell. 
 
 They only saw on Carmel's crest 
 
 Fires burn to Baal ; he, God's guest, 
 
 Went eastward underneath the moon, 
 
 And thought him of the sultry noon, 
 Ahab and Jezebel. 
 
 ' The camels bring into Eastern cities each day great loads of 
 green bersim or clover as provender for horses and cattle.
 
 I 88 ELIJAH A T THE BROOK CHERITH. 
 
 And, as he went, he heard the Lord 
 Say, "Get thee to the torrent bed 
 Before the Jordan ! Deeply stored. 
 There shall the water drink afford, 
 Yea, even in drought ; there at thy need 
 By hungry ravens that I feed 
 My prophet shall be fed." 
 
 Then down by gulfy Cherith's side 
 Elijah, with his shepherd crook, 
 Passed fearless, there did he abide ; 
 At morning and at eventide 
 He heard the rush of wings, and saw 
 The birds that brought with beak and claw 
 Flesh ; and he drank the brook. 
 
 Forth as he gazed, he watched the noon 
 Scorch into dust the grass and grain ; 
 Barren as salt beneath the swoon 
 Of that unending fierce simoon, 
 Right from the sea of salt to where 
 White Hermon's ridges rose in air 
 Lay yellow, Jordan's plain.
 
 ELIJAH A T THE BROOK CHERITH. i 89 
 
 The land grew iron underneath, 
 
 The heavens were brass from day to day, 
 
 Proud Ahab, with his scornful breath, 
 
 Cursed the bold Prophet to his death. 
 
 But every morn and eventide 
 
 The brook its constant gift supplied, 
 And birds brought food alway. 
 
 The lion met him eye to eye, 
 
 And pawed the torrent bed, athirst ; 
 At morn and evening from the sky 
 Fell shadows where the brook was dry. 
 Then bread, and to the Prophet's hand 
 From out the cool of Cherith's sand 
 
 The fountains upward burst. 
 
 And since that time both man and beast. 
 The bird that flies, the brook that sings, 
 
 Have come together to one feast. 
 
 Love hath in common need increased. 
 
 Still in the desert God prepares 
 
 A table for the man who dares 
 To speak the Truth to kings.
 
 IQO 
 
 A LIBEL. 
 
 COOM, wenches, git to work ! 
 Now, Keziah, theer's thy fork, 
 
 And the waggin's in the corn ! 
 When the craws tum-poake that waay 
 And are yawlin' soa, they saay 
 
 It 'uU chaange befoor the morn. 
 
 Howr Betsey got a plaace, 
 
 But she pulled an awkard faace^ 
 
 Nivver 'lowed howt to the Fair — 
 And they've silver laaid fur dinner, 
 And sez graace ! If she graws thinner 
 
 Work weant hurt — she's flesh to spare. 
 
 But Jemima — she's at home ; 
 We was foorced to let her come, 
 She was dithery of her 'ead.
 
 A LIBEL. 191 
 
 Poor lass ! she hed a stroake — 
 Let the tea-things down — they broake — 
 Wasn't saafe i' hand, they sed. 
 
 And they meant kind when they sacked her, — 
 Gev the gell a good character, — 
 
 Quoite content, they told our Ben ; 
 But when squoire's wife coomed by 
 And axed questions — mebbe I 
 
 Was'nt saafe i' hand mysen. 
 
 Fur she saays, sez she, " 1 hear 
 Your Jemima's head is queer, 
 
 And Jemima she hes fits." 
 And I pulls mysen oop straight, 
 Reight i' front of my oarn grate. 
 
 Fit to teear her into bits. 
 
 " Marm," I sez, " it is a shaame 
 Fur to naame the very naame ! 
 
 Howr Jemima maay be weeak, 
 And when silver cooms to taable, 
 Not honwillin but honhaable — 
 
 Unheppen, soa to speeak.
 
 192 
 
 A LIBEL. 
 
 " If the gell weiint wesh a plaate, 
 If she ligs till hoaver laate, 
 
 Can't sarve pigs nor milk a cow- 
 Why, then, marm, I've newt to saay 
 When you taake her naiime awaay 
 
 By the things you've menshuned now. 
 
 " No, marm, noa ! we maay be poor, 
 And my maister sez, what's moor, 
 We are poor as rats, and wuss ! 
 And he sez theer's noa disgraace— 
 He would tell it to your faace— 
 In bein' poor like hus. 
 
 " But howr famly nivver hed 
 Fits ! it nivver shall be sed 
 
 Fits howr gell from sarvice sent. 
 Noa, Jemima in 'er wits 
 Maay be weeak — she doant hev fits ! 
 
 And the squoire's wife she went."
 
 193 
 
 A WOMAN SAVIOUR. 
 
 God from man's forge sends ministers of flame 
 Who gird the earth, returning whence they came ; 
 In Heaven's great forge, the heart, He mouldeth still 
 The angel spirits sent to do His will. 
 
 You know White Mountains, and the rail 
 That runs by Wakefield, Boston way? 
 
 A woman saved the home-bound mail 
 The other day. 
 
 A woman, not a strong one, mind, 
 Her babe still clinging to her breast 
 
 But thro' the storm of hail and wind 
 She did her best. 
 
 Beyond the curve a whirlwind blast 
 Had rooted up the wall of pine, 
 
 N
 
 194 A WOMAN SAVIOUR. 
 
 She heard the cars come thundering fast 
 Along the line. 
 
 Death round the curve ! Death round the curve ! 
 
 The driver's eyes are blind with sleet, — 
 That woman, with a strong man's nerve, 
 
 Leapt to her feet. 
 
 Left child and fire, thro' storm and wrack, 
 Thro' roar of wind and rattling rain 
 
 She dashed along the deadly track 
 To stop the train. 
 
 Stood firm, and like an angel's wing 
 The white scarf o'er her head she waved ! 
 
 Stood firm, and did the only thing 
 That could have saved. 
 
 For lo ! the engine's eyes have caught 
 
 Sight of the signal in her hands ; 
 And at her feet to stillness brought 
 
 The swift train stands. 
 
 Harsh voices cried in anger then, 
 "Why stop us in our hot career?"
 
 A IV03IAN SAVIOUR. 195 
 
 " I came, because the lives of men 
 To God are dear. 
 
 '' I came though voices called me back — 
 Mine own babe's voice — I came to say 
 
 The trees are strewn across the track 
 And bar your way. 
 
 " I came, mine infant, four weeks old — 
 
 And storms like this can slay a man, 
 But pity seemed my babe to fold 
 
 Warm as I ran. 
 
 " I came, for Heaven gave strength and nerve, 
 I snatched this scarf from out the room, 
 
 I heard you thundering to the curve, 
 I knew your doom." 
 
 Then fell a hush, then rose a prayer. 
 
 Warm-hearted hands her brave hand prest ; 
 
 The saviour woman, silent there. 
 Had done her best.
 
 196 A WOMAN SAVIOUR. 
 
 Boston, August i, 1890. — The Boston bound White Mountain ex- 
 press on the Boston and Maine railroad was 20 minutes late when it 
 passed through North Wakefield, N.H., about 4.45 p.m. yesterday. 
 A storm of wind and rain was raging, but despite the murky 
 atmosphere the heavy train was rushing onward at high speed in 
 the endeavour to make up the lost time. Hardly had it left the 
 North Wakefield station when the engineer saw a woman on the 
 track frantically waving a white cloth. Evidently there was danger 
 ahead. A push at the throttle shut off the motive power, and a 
 quick twist of the air-brake lever was instantly responded to by a 
 slackening of speed. The train stopped with the cowcatcher of the 
 great locomotive almost in front of the woman. 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 " The track around the curve is all covered with trees. I came 
 to warn you." 
 
 Just ahead there was a curve, a sharp turn, so sharp that after an 
 obstruction upon it had come into the engineer's view no human 
 power could have prevented a calamity. The woman was Mrs. 
 Emily Branson. From her house near the track she saw the wind 
 hurl several huge trees across the rails. She was alone with her 
 two little children. 
 
 " I hated to leave my children alone in the storm," said she, "but 
 I knew there was nothing else to be done. So I caught up a towel, 
 the first thing that was handy, and ran up to meet the train. I'm 
 glad I got here in time." — New York Tribune.
 
 197 
 
 A FARM-YARD SOLILOQUY. 
 
 OwR parson 'e called one daay, he wur straangen fond o' 
 
 the breeiid, 
 Kep' 'em hissen he did, 'e 'd a deal o' bairns to feead : 
 "Wants to be kilt," sez he, and 'e dobs his stick at the sty; 
 " It wudn't be wuss, my friend, if we wur as fit to die. ' 
 
 "Parson," I sez, "you're reight, I nivver larnt nowt at 
 
 school 
 An' doant tend reglar in choorch, but 1 mails it a gineral 
 
 rule 
 Nivver to gev yon critter it swill wi'out scrattin 'is 'ead, 
 And thinkin' a deal o' that vuss about ' Giv us our daaily 
 
 bread.' 
 
 "And he oops wi' his eye does the critter, quite knawin' and 
 
 grunts, 'Amen,' 
 Just like a clerk he does, and I thinks, thinks I, wi' myssen,
 
 J 98 A FARM-YARD SOLILOQUY. ' 
 
 Theer's a many as grunts a deal wi' a deal better stuff to 
 
 yeat, [meat. 
 
 But noiin ov 'em does theer duty by dooin' so well by theer 
 
 " Fur nivver a daay sin' I threatened yon critter fur pork in 
 
 the spring, — 
 Sow laaid upo' six ov its brothers, the laazy lumberin' 
 
 thing,— 
 Nivver a daay nor a meal but God O'mighty he knaws 
 It's done it best by it vlttel, and still 'e spreeads and graws. 
 
 "Nivver looked back it hesn't i' feeiidin' from fust to last — 
 ' Man's life,' so it sez i' the Psalms, ' is nobbut a shadder 
 
 that's past,' 
 Daavid nivver sed nowt o'the pigs, they wur cloave-footed 
 
 things — but it's ciueer, 
 Pigs to coom oop like a flower, o'moast, and die i' a year. 
 
 " Yees, and theer ciuoite content is pigs, content to die, 
 It's nobbut an owry world and narrer an all, is the sty ; 
 And gentlemen quoite is pigs, they'll lig i' the straw till 
 
 they're fed. 
 And they weant coom clatterin' in like the bairns to clam 
 
 their bread.
 
 A FARM-YARD SOLILOQUY. I99 
 
 " Parson, I've offens thowt it wur all along o' the swine, 
 
 That young man coomed to hissen as hed been so gentle- 
 man-fine : 
 
 Doesn't thou think when they gethered the hacorns theer i' 
 the yard, 
 
 He knawed that they niwer complained thoff the husks 
 wur terrible hard ? 
 
 " When you wur a preeaching in choorch tother daay o' 
 the Prodigal son, ['un ; 
 
 I wur back here siver i' thowt whoale toime along o' this 
 
 Thinks I, 'twur the pigs as turned 'im, they gev 'im the 
 ring that was gilt, 
 
 And took off his clatty owd yanks ^ — I wur glad 'twas a caulf 
 as they kilt. 
 
 " Kilt ! why I'm happen a sinner and rough and tough i' 
 the heart, [market cart, 
 
 And I leaves the owd mare to hersen now and then i' the 
 
 But theer's one thing I nivver could doa sin' I hed taails 
 to my cwoiit, 
 
 I nivver could coax it, and feed it, and then laay knife to 
 it throat. 
 
 ^ Leather leggings used by farm servants.
 
 200 A FARM-YARD SOLILOQUY. 
 
 " To my waay o' thinkin' it's moast loike killin' a bairn o' 
 
 your oan — 
 Pigs cries like a woman can cry, and groans like a man 
 
 can groan ; 
 Not that they knaws afoorhand, Him as maade 'em 'uU 
 
 seeii to that, 
 Cudn't doji noavvays else, sin' they work so well to git fat. 
 
 " I doant so much mind when they're dead, I can scraape 
 
 and scald wi' the best ; 
 Husk 'em, and wesh 'em, and hing 'em, and git 'em reight 
 
 famoushly drest — 
 Dead ! we man all on us die, so I sooan gits reconciled, 
 Besides, I'm a bit pork-proud, when I've browt it oop fro' 
 
 a child. 
 
 " But as sewer as the dajiy o' condemnation gits round 
 
 agaain — 
 Yon's under sentence o' death come Monday next to be 
 
 slaiiin : — 
 I'm hoff to the field or market when he's gotten the last on 
 
 'is meeals, 
 And missus she superintens — for women thinks nowt o' 
 
 their squeeiils.
 
 A FARM- YARD SOLILOQUY. 201 
 
 " But I maas it a law, poor thing, to soften it hoff at the 
 
 hend, 
 Scrats his 'ead a bit longer, and talks to 'im saiime as a 
 
 friend ; 
 And the last few meeals ov his life 1 reckon it's Christian 
 
 kind 
 To stir him in extra stuff and sugar 'is swill to 'is mind. 
 
 " Fwoaks may talk as they like, but I've fun that theer's 
 
 pigs and pigs, 
 I've larnt a deeal fro' that un as theer i' the crew-yard ligs, 
 ' Doa your best by your master's meeat,' I 'ears him 
 
 saay, 
 ' Noa world's too small fur content, git ready agean the 
 
 daay.' "
 
 202 
 
 THE BRAVE PIT LADS OF PENICUICK. 
 
 We can march to death or glory 
 When the sun is shining over, 
 And the daylight shall discover 
 -All our deeds' heroic story. 
 
 But with spade and plain pickaxes 
 At the cannon's mouth to labour — 
 Neighbour hardly seen of neighbour 
 
 For the gloom— our courage taxes. 
 
 Penicuick ! ^ now praise the mother 
 Of the lads who proved the proudest, 
 When earth's cannon roared its loudest 
 
 And the pit was filled with smother. 
 
 1 Penicuick = Hill of the Cuckoo, pronounced Penicook.
 
 THE BRAVE PIT LADS OF PENICUICK. 203 
 
 Who knew now was time or never — 
 Who flew back through fume and stifle 
 Deeming risk of life a trifle, 
 
 Daring death to crown endeavour. 
 
 Boys to whistle, laugh, and sing, 
 Bare-legged laddies like the rest. 
 
 Boys to dance a Highland fling, 
 Boys to find the falcon's nest. 
 
 Boys impatient of their books — • 
 So the Dominie would say — 
 
 Merry-hearted as the brooks, 
 When the cuckoo calls in May. 
 
 But we loved them up above 
 And we loved them down beneath, 
 
 Such brave lads the " corves " to shove- 
 Never tired nor out of breath. 
 
 If a brattice-cloth went wrong. 
 If a pit prop wanted bringing, 
 
 Robbie sure would come along, 
 Set all right, and go off singing.
 
 204 THE BRAVE PIT LADS OF PENICUICK. 
 
 If a trolley rail had "scattered," 
 Or a waggon wouldn't run — 
 
 Tarn was there, and nothing mattered, 
 All was whistle, all was fun. 
 
 And, when air was well nigh spent, 
 And we gasped our blows between. 
 
 Through the gloom young Mitchell went, 
 Glad as up on Shottstown green. 
 
 In your heart such laddies grow 
 
 If you have a heart to love. 
 Ah ! we loved them here below— 
 
 Now we love them up above. 
 
 I but heard the muffled thunder, 
 And the fiery blast flew by, — 
 
 God save all the poor men under 
 There in that far gallery ! 
 
 Then towards me, bruised and bleeding, 
 From bewildering darkness ran 
 
 Two brave boys, of nothing heeding — 
 " Help our comrades all you can !"
 
 THE BRAVE PIT LADS OF PENICUICK. 205 
 
 Help whom ? Death, no longer lurking, 
 Reigns ; again earth's guns will roar — 
 
 Flame will flash from work to working, 
 After it the reek will pour. 
 
 Stand still, laddies ! who draw breath 
 Know their doom, and they who fell 
 
 In that sulphur-wind of Death 
 Know not — all with them is well. 
 
 " Nay ! " they cried, " though death we meet ; 
 
 Comrades sealed to certain doom 
 Shall — if we but keep our feet — 
 
 Hear our voices through the gloom. 
 
 " Hear us bid them up and follow. 
 
 Break their dark imprisonment!" 
 So into Death's dreadful hollow, 
 
 Back the gallant laddies went. 
 
 After the first terrific explosion in the Penicuick Pit, when 
 volumes of smoke were pouring down the shaft, and the cry, "The 
 pit's afire," had struck terror into the stoutest heart, three pit 
 lads — Robert Tolmie, Thomas Foster, and Mitchell Hamilton — 
 refused to avail themselves of the comparative safety that their near- 
 ness to the upcast shaft gave them, and against the advice of the 
 older men, insisted on running back into the workings with the hope 
 of warning comrades in a further part of the pit. They perished on 
 their brave errand.
 
 2o6 
 
 A HERO'S CROWiN[. 
 
 Basil ! that name demands a kingly deed, 
 And thou hast set a crown on it, to shine 
 As bright as the Equator's burning line ; 
 
 For while the stars in heaven alone could plead, 
 
 The stars that bend o'er all — though the sharks' greed 
 Made terror of the deep, thou didst divine 
 A drowner asked for life, yea, even for thine, 
 
 And in the darkness, springing to his need, 
 Thou didst forget thy happy English home — 
 
 Thy mother's yearning and thy father's face, 
 Didst only see the fierce wave break to flame 
 
 About a dying man of unknown race. 
 And thou didst gather diamonds of the foam 
 To sparkle ever round a hero's name. 
 
 Basil Thomson, son of the Archbishop of York, has just received 
 the Humane Society's Medal for an act of gallantry off the coast of
 
 A HERO'S CROWN. 207 
 
 New Guinea. Two men quarrelled in a boat that was coming oft' to 
 his ship, and tlie cry of "Man overboard !" was heard. Thomson 
 could only make out by the sparkling of the phosphorescence on 
 the water where the drowning man was, but, regardless of the fact 
 that it was dark, and that the water was infested with sharks, he 
 knew his duty and did it. He dashed in to succour the poor fellow, 
 and was able to support him till the boat could come to the rescue. 
 — September, 1890.
 
 205 
 
 CATHERINE WATSON. 
 
 Catherine Watson bravely run 
 To the rescue ! long as sun 
 Floods the Firth with gold, your name 
 Shall be golden as your fame ; 
 Never boy in yonder bay 
 But shall feel above his play 
 Towering up the granite cross 
 Mindful of our love and loss ; 
 Never fisherman shall ride 
 Homewards on the swelling tide 
 But shall dream beside his boat 
 That he sees your body float, 
 With those hands that stretched to save 
 Drifting helpless on the wave ; 
 And when tempests cease to roar 
 They who gather by the shore,
 
 CATHERINE WATSON. 209 
 
 That wild ocean-forest thing 
 Whose strong roots do clutch and cling 
 Round the stones, shall haply find 
 Branches of the weed that twined 
 Round your hair in Berwick Bay, 
 Lest the tides should steal away 
 All that we, who loved you dear, 
 Held in veneration here. 
 
 Catherine Watson ! you but saw 
 Boys who played beneath the " Law" 
 Strip and run to meet the tide, 
 Then you heard how voices cried. 
 And with not a look behind. 
 With your loose hair on the wind 
 Of your speed, you raced across 
 Sand and shallow to our loss, 
 Entered boldly to the wave 
 That roared at you, calm and brave, 
 Strong to die or strong to save. 
 
 Catherine Watson ! though no more 
 
 You are seen upon the shore, 
 O
 
 2IO CATHERINE WATSON. 
 
 Never more with brush in hand 
 At our fisher huts you stand, 
 Smiling on our children's faces, 
 Catching all their pretty graces 
 With your pencil, laughing free, 
 Dandling babes upon your knee, 
 Talking to our wives at home 
 Of the boats that sure will come 
 Round by Fidra laden well, — 
 Still we fishers feel your spell, 
 And at times we hear your brave 
 Voice sound cheerly o'er the wave, 
 Saying that you still can love 
 Berwick Law, and Berwick Cove,— 
 Still for children in the Bay 
 Glad would give your life away. 
 
 On the shore of East Bay, North Berwick, stands a very beautiful 
 granite cross of Celtic design. At its base are engraved the words : 
 " Erected by public subscription to the memory of Catherine Watson 
 of Glasgow, aged 19, who was drowned in the East Bay, 27th July, 
 1889, while rescuing a drowning boy. The child was saved— the 
 brave girl was taken." 
 
 A fisherman standing near gave me the following account of this 
 heroic attempt at rescue : —
 
 CATHERINE WATSON. 21 r 
 
 " Well you see, sir, she was just a hot favourite with us all ; came 
 down year after year ; a grand swimmer, and such a painter ! would 
 come and stand by hours watching our bairnies and would paint 
 the boys and girls, and call in and chat at the doors, and take the 
 babies into her arms, and talk on about the boats and nets just as 
 if she was one of us. Well, she had just been in the water herself 
 and had gone up to the house. Forth Lodge, I think they call it, 
 that faces right on to the beach ; and she looked out of the room 
 where she was dressing and saw the boys run out to the tide for a 
 bathe, and heard a cry, and knew they had got out of their depth. 
 So she just dashed out of the house and away across the sand and 
 into the sea as bold as a lion. There was a great sea running and 
 the boy told us he heard her say, " Now put your hand on my 
 shoulder and all will be right," and then she sank like a stone. A 
 boat came up and saved the boys and not a body knew she had 
 gone under ; forgot all about her in the rescue of the lads. Eh 
 man ! but it was a sair pity for we loved her all of us. 
 
 "And then we could not find the poor body; dragged and 
 dragged and dragged, and at last one Monday morning very early, 
 when the boats were just going out, I said I felt sure she would be 
 found somewhere at the point there, and they said the tide would 
 have carried her up the Firth ; and I remember well the boat 
 rounded the rocks, and I heard them sing out and knew they had 
 found her, and they brought her in. Eh man ! I was just beside 
 myself — and there in her hair, long grand hair, was one of those 
 great sea-weeds strong as iron with a big stone at its root ; and I 
 cut the stem and let the stone fall on the beach, for I was sair put 
 out of the way. I would have gi'en a hundred pounds to have kept 
 the stone ; for you ken it was the stone that kept her in the bay. 
 Eh ! she was a hot favourite, as brave a leddy as ever drew breath." 
 And the rough man's eyes filled with tears.
 
 2 12 
 
 A GALLANT QUARRYMAN. 
 
 Forth from the quarry drag the largest stone, 
 And bid the sculptor grave his name, his deed, 
 So that each village babe may grow to read — 
 
 Each grandsire tell — each father show his son, 
 
 And let these simple words be writ thereon — 
 " A stone fell rail-wards, and he knew the need, 
 He recked not of the engine's roaring speed. 
 
 But for a hundred lives he gave his one. 
 
 " Honour the man whom love and labour brought 
 To live so well he could so nobly die ! 
 In the hard school of ' drill and hammer ' taught, 
 
 He helped his brothers' hand continually. 
 
 When duty called he dashed aside the thought 
 
 Of self — left pick, left barrow, leapt to die." 
 
 John Chiddy, a quarrymaii at Hanham, near Bristol, saw that a 
 block of stone had fallen upon the rails, heard the roar of the
 
 A GALLANT QUARKYMAN. 213 
 
 " Flying Dutchman," and knew that unless that stone was removed 
 the express would be wrecked. He leapt down the bank, seized 
 the stone, flung it clear of the line, but was caught by the engine 
 and killed instantaneously, April 2, 1878.
 
 214 
 
 THE FOX AND HOUND. 
 
 " I HEARS the wheeals o' the market cart coom lumberin' 
 
 round, 
 They'll stop this side o' the corner, fur twenty thousand 
 
 pound. 
 Fur niwer a herse but 'e knaws he may baate at the Fox 
 
 and Hound : 
 Fox's earth ! but it's men, not dogs, as foUers him into 
 
 the ground. 
 
 "Theer's a shackulty noise in carts when carts is droonk — 
 
 tha can tell. 
 Yees, yees, they've chaanged the sign, it 'ed used to be 
 
 called the Bell ; 
 Corps-bell, I reckon's reight naame, but the Spotted Dog 
 
 hings as well — 
 For wheerivver the liquor is laaid fur a scent, it 'ull hunt a 
 
 man to hell.
 
 THE FOX AND HOUND. 215 
 
 " Now, giv' it a naame!^ I beg ! Two fourpennies, cold 
 wi'out?" [o' stout? 
 
 " Cold wi'in, tha should saay." " Noa, thankee ! " "A pint 
 
 Giv' it a naame, luwy, doa." " Much luw in the cup, noa 
 doubt ! 
 
 Yon man was mad wi' his missus this morn, and still 
 she's hall of a pout. 
 
 " Giv' it a naame ! Ay, do ; it's just what it wants is a 
 
 naame ! 
 A pot of poison ! a pint of murder ! a gill of flaame ! 
 It's my opinion if fwoaks ud nobbut christen it saame 
 As they doa theer bairns i' the choorch once an' all, theer 
 
 'ud be a deal less o' the gaame. 
 
 " I was oop at the Sessions to-year mysen along o' the 
 
 swill. 
 Fur Bogg had been to the Stattis ^ and gotten a solid fill ; 
 An' Bogg, he scrawmed my faace, and treated me shaame- 
 
 ful ill, 
 But he hired a barrister chap — one o' them as can fooarce 
 
 ya to saay what he will. 
 
 1 A common form of invitation to drink. 
 
 2 The Statute, or Hiring-Fair.
 
 2i6 THE FOX AND HOUND. 
 
 And the monkey theer wi' his powdery head, he maade 
 
 me a hass : 
 Didn't I take a pint mysen? and droonk? Bogg had 
 nobbut a glass. 
 A glass ! well he might be fresh — fresheesh if it came to 
 
 that pass, 
 But droonk ! — the jurymen knew a man droonk was in 
 quoite a different class.' 
 
 " So I paaid ; but they classed him wrong, and for want of 
 
 a naame an' all. 
 Pshaw! 'fresheesh!' 'took a glass!' 'looked in at the 
 
 Golden Ball!' 
 Give it a naame, I beg ! Let'the Fieend wi' owr land i' thrall 
 Be naamed Fieend clear to 'is faace — we are men— and the 
 
 droonkard a droonkard call ! "
 
 DEAD MAN'S POOL. 
 
 Do you know the pool in the Dead Man's field 
 At the top of the hill right over the wood ? 
 
 It was there that I who had sinned was healed — 
 The Lord is good. 
 
 I am only a simple labouring man, 
 
 I was wild in my day, I wasted my youth, 
 
 But a preacher came in a caravan. 
 He spoke God's truth. 
 
 And I turned to the Lord as a friend to a friend ; 
 
 It is forty years since I made my vow. 
 He has followed me on to the daylight's end, 
 
 He is with me now. 
 
 Our minister says, I need have no shame 
 Of telling how spirit can body renew,
 
 2l8 
 
 DEAD MAN'S POOL. 
 
 How the soul is more than this mortal frame 
 Of flesh and thevv. 
 
 I took to ditching — was never a shirk — 
 But the cold got into my marrow bones, 
 
 The pains grew bad, then I went to the work 
 Of breaking stones. 
 
 I hammered away and the square heap grew, 
 But hope grew less, and at every stroke 
 
 A piece right out of my body flew — 
 My heart was broke. 
 
 But I limped to my task and struggled on, 
 And then, for I felt I was not worth pay, 
 
 I left the job, my strength it was done ; 
 She toiled away. 
 
 Slaved for us both, but the bread grew hard, 
 
 On Sunday never a butter pat, 
 And butter is any day better than lard ! 
 
 She was fond of the cat, — 
 
 But we parted with her, for milk was dear. 
 And the dog I had loved as a child of my own,
 
 DEAD MAN 'S POOL. 2 1 9 
 
 He lies at the root of the rose tree there, 
 For * no meat ! no bone !' 
 
 Then the Hall folks went, I was growing weak, 
 
 We heard the bell at the Union chime, 
 I saw the tear on my old wife's cheek. 
 
 It was workhouse time. 
 
 And the doctor came and he shook his head, 
 He brought another who thumped and stared. 
 
 And all the words that that other said 
 Were — " Be prepared." 
 
 I laughed in his face ! Prepared to die ? 
 
 For forty years I have lived and striven 
 To meet my God continually 
 
 On earth, in heaven. 
 
 And I think that as surely here on earth 
 
 As up in heaven He sends His grace 
 To the souls who are ready through pain or mirth 
 
 To see His face. 
 
 But, however, I lay in pain on my bed, 
 And my wife she moaned in her sleep all night,
 
 220 DEAD MAN'S POOL. 
 
 And the Bible bits came into my head 
 As clear as light. 
 
 I remembered how Jesus cured the blind, 
 And healed the halt and maimed with a word ; 
 
 Then somehow the woman came to mind 
 Who besought the Lord 
 
 And took the place of a dog beneath 
 
 The table, and asked for a crumb as dole, 
 
 And heard the blessing, " Great is thy faith. 
 Thy child is whole." 
 
 Then I minded the great man there with his Lord- 
 In the Book of Kings, it is plain to be seen— 
 
 He was angry, but went to the Jordan's ford. 
 Washed and was clean; 
 
 Dipped seven times, he did, in the flood 
 And his flesh came soft as the flesh of a child. 
 
 And I thought of the pool on the hill o'er the wood 
 And I fairly smiled. 
 
 Then a voice said, " Great is thy faith and go, 
 Wash seven times in the Dead Man's pool ! "
 
 DEAD MAN 'S POOL. 2 2 i 
 
 Another, the Devil's voice, cried, " No ! 
 Lie still, poor fool ! " 
 
 And never a word to my wife I said, 
 
 But at dawn when the valley was wrapped in grey 
 I crept on my knees to the door from my bed 
 
 And crawled away. 
 
 Crawled and prayed to God in my pain, 
 , "Grant me the pool on the moor to win ! 
 And a voice said mocking, "Thy faith is vain. 
 Great was thy sin." 
 
 And the way was long and the hill was steep. 
 And the sin of my youth was a heavy weight, 
 
 And home that day I was forced to creep 
 Disconsolate. 
 
 A friend came to me, the carpenter's son. 
 He brought me crutches — I spoke no word. 
 
 But I felt the good deed that the lad had done 
 Was meant by the Lord. 
 
 And up next morn and away to the spring, 
 In the power of prayer, I stumbled slow,
 
 222 DEAD MAN'S POOL. 
 
 How the lark in the heaven for joy did sing ! 
 How the sun did glow ! 
 
 I reached the pool, though the hill was hard 
 I felt God's presence was at my side, 
 
 I cast myself on the silent sward 
 And prayed and cried : 
 
 - " Oh, Lord of pity for men who are poor, 
 
 And men who in pain for their bread must strive, 
 Bless Thou this Dead Man's pool on the moor 
 To make alive." 
 
 Knelt oa my handkerchief there on the soil — 
 Knelt and prayed till I felt the beads 
 
 Drop from my brow, for prayer is toil 
 When a man's soul needs. 
 
 But the pool on the moor had little of grace, 
 
 The wild birds verily passed it by. 
 It lay as white as a dead man's face 
 
 Beneath the sky. 
 
 No lilies bloomed and no marish-bean 
 Stood out in its feathery loveliness,
 
 DEAD MAN'S FOOL. 223 
 
 No cinque-foils glittered, nor sparkled green 
 The water-cress. 
 
 But 1 bethought me of him who was loth 
 
 To change his Damascus rivers clear 
 For the Jordan's yellow tide, and wroth 
 
 Still turned to hear. 
 
 And well I knew it was God, my Guide, 
 
 Who led me on to that lonely pool, 
 Though the Voice in muffled mockery cried, 
 
 " Believe not, Fool ! " 
 
 Then I doffed my clothes and I said the grace, 
 " Father and Son and the Holy Ghost " ; 
 
 I minded the man in the leper's case, 
 Lord of the host. 
 
 He dipped seven times and I too dipped seven ; 
 
 He in the valley, I on the hill — 
 And I felt new wonderful strength was given 
 
 By God's good will. 
 
 He dipped seven times in the Jordan's flood 
 And his flesh like a child's flesh came again,
 
 2 24 DEAD MAN'S POOL. 
 
 And there in the pool on the hill o'er the wood 
 I left my pain. 
 
 And the sun shone fairer, the flowers more sweet, 
 New melody thrilled in the blue above, 
 
 For I stood once more like a man on my feet 
 To labour and love. 
 
 I sang as the lark sang, joy had come, 
 And health and hope, each step that I trod 
 
 On earth seemed heaven, and heaven seemed home. 
 I praised my God. 
 
 Ah, still the two Voices are in debate 
 
 By the live man's spring and the dead's man's pool- 
 One cries, " Be whole, for thy faith is great ! " 
 
 The other, " Believe not, Fool ! " 
 
 I am indebted to Miss F. P. Cobbe for the story of Thomas 
 Odell's faith and healing, and have by her kind leave extracted from 
 a proof of her article on Faith-healing and Fear Killing, which ap-
 
 DEAD MAN'S POOL. 225 
 
 peared in the Contemporary Review of 1887, the account she had 
 intended to give of it, but withdrew from publication on hearing 
 that Odell was still at that time alive. "I recorded," she vvTOte, 
 "my interview with the man the next day, and shall here print my 
 memorandum as it stands, merely omitting names and places. The 
 simple-hearted faith of the good fellow as he told me his story was 
 to me exceedingly touching. 
 
 " When we reached the village Thomas O. was absent. On our 
 return down the road we saw him striding over a low hedge and 
 walking firmly across the field to meet us. On my expressing 
 respectful curiosity about his case, he invited us into his cottage : a 
 small one, but very tidy. He sat down with us at a little table and 
 told his story. 
 
 '"You know, sir,' O. began, turning to the rector, 'how dreadful 
 ill I was, and how you found me the last time you called, lying in 
 great pain on a mat before the fire.' This the rector had already 
 told me. * Well, ma'am, the doctors they gave me up. Dr. S. of 
 this parish, and Dr. G. of B. who was called in, said there was no 
 hope for me, and I must prepare myself. Well, I could have 
 laughed at them, for I've been trying to prepare myself nigh these 
 forty years ; and I don't fear to go whenever God calls me. But I 
 was thinking of all this one night, a fortnight ago— a Thursday 
 night ; and I went over in my mind all the miracles that Christ did 
 when He was on earth : how He cured the blind man ; and how, 
 when the woman came to Him about her daughter. He said : " It is 
 not meet to take the children's bread and give it to dogs." And she 
 said : " Truth, Lord ; yet the dogs eat of the crumbs that fall from 
 their master's table." And Christ said to her : "O woman! great 
 is thy faith." And I thought what wonderful things faith could do, 
 and then I thought of Naaman, and how he was cured by dipping 
 seven times in Jordan."
 
 2 26 DEAD MAN'S FOOL. 
 
 " * Ay,' I interrupted, ' I have dipped seven times in Jordan too.' 
 " ' Lord bless you, ma'am, did you ? Well, I couldn't, you see, 
 because I don't know where Jordan is ; but I do know where the 
 spring is in Dead Man's field. You know, sir, where it is — on the 
 top of the hill over the wood.' (It is a remarkable-looking pool on 
 the summit of a hill, which I had noticed by chance the previous day 
 in my walk. It has never hitherto been supposed to have any healing 
 quality.) 'And so a Voice said to me, "Go and wash in that 
 spring, and you will be cured." And I thought and thought about it 
 all night. And then another Voice said, "Don't go ; the cold water 
 will do you harm." And I knew very well whose voice that was. 
 It was the voice of the Devil. He wanted to stop me go'ng. And 
 so I was determined to try to get up the hill. And I tried hard the 
 first day, but I had to turn back : I couldn't get on, I was so bad. 
 And the next day was the same. Oh ! I was terrible weak and bad. 
 And the next day my neighbour here ' — (the carpenter, I think he 
 said) — * came in the evening, and brought with him a pair of crutches 
 which he said he had made for me, thinking they would help me to 
 go about the village. And I knew the Lord had put it into his head 
 to make the crutches, to help me to get to the spring ; and I was 
 thankful. 
 
 " * Well, next mornin' I.says to my missis : " What sort of day is 
 it?" And she says, "It is a very fine day." And I took my 
 crutches and set off, but I didn't tell her, nor nobody, where I was 
 going. It was terrible hard work to walk all the way, and I often 
 thought I should never get there ; but at last I did get up to the 
 side of the spring. And then I took out my handkerchief, and I 
 knelt down upon it, and prayed God to bless the water to me and cure 
 me of my disease, if it was His will. And I washed myself seven times, 
 and I said, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the 
 Holy Ghost," and then I knelt down again and thanked God.
 
 DEAD MAN'S FOOL. 227 
 
 " 'Well, when I got up I was like another man. The pain was 
 gone, and I felt ever so much stronger. And I first took up my 
 crutches and carried them home ; and from that day to this I have 
 been getting better every day, and have got no pain. And I'm 
 getting fine and strong, and am able to set potatoes and go about a 
 little; and I hope I may get quite well. Anyway I'm very thank- 
 ful to the Lord for the reliei ; but I'm ready to live or die as He 
 pleases.'"
 
 228 
 
 NEW FANGLEDY WAAYS. 
 
 She. 
 
 I HA AXES the new-fangled y waiiys ! 
 Ya can hardlins git hoaver the raail 
 Wi'owt the blessed owd traain 
 
 Coomin' bustin' aback o' the cart ; 
 And toimes when it's silin* o' raain, 
 The chap at the gaate-house saays, 
 
 " Tha mun just waait theer fur the maail !" 
 I haates 'em wi' all my 'art. 
 
 Theer's not haiife the corn as wur sown, 
 It's moostard fur moiles i' the fen, 
 Yaller as gowd, but howdaacious 
 Fur robbin' the naater o' land. 
 And miller 'es gotten oop town, 
 A steamer and bit o' band, 
 
 1 Pouring down.
 
 NE W FANCIED Y WAA YS. 229 
 
 Wind's nowt now ; my graacious ! 
 Where will it stop and when ? 
 
 He. 
 
 Not toaner^ doant trubble mea, wife, 
 Not steam i' the raail or the mill, 
 But gigs beant belt so brooad, 
 
 Doan't run i' the ruts as they shud ; 
 One can't wi' a middlinish fill 
 
 Cum cumfrable saame as one cud, 
 Thoff th' erse may quarter the roaad, 
 One's amoast shaaked owten one's life. 
 
 Fwoiiks 'es grawed soa deshedly fine, 
 Whoy, Squoire's oans^n i' howr daays, 
 Thoff 'is missus wur maazin' smart, 
 Went hoam i' a " booby-hutch." ^ 
 Now hall the wheeals 'es a line, 
 
 And the dooar 'es a beeast i' a smutch,^ 
 It's dog-cart not market-cart ! 
 I haates the new-fangledy waays ! 
 
 1 The one or the other. - A covered car. ' Crest.
 
 230 NEW FANGLEDY WAAYS. 
 
 She. 
 It's not nobbut gigs 'es gone proud, 
 It's gells is altered an' all, 
 Brooaches atop o' theer gowns 
 
 And bonnets wi' fancicul wings. 
 I'll up'owd it them lassies at Brown's 
 Nivver hentered a milkin' stall, 
 
 Plaays the pianner, poor things. 
 And sings like laiidies aloud. 
 
 And look at the work i' the choorch, 
 It's minister's moiist to blaame, 
 Sich minchin' and graacin' ways 
 Wi' petticuts down to 'is toas. 
 Theer's a halminak putten i' poorch 
 Wi' shillins and pence i' roas, 
 And sarvice a heap o' new days — 
 I doan't like nojin o' the gaiime. 
 
 He. 
 
 Naay, naay, let parson aloan, 
 I nivver wur parson-sweet, 
 
 But he's puttin' the gletibe rent hnver, 
 Wot's sarvice to likes o' hus ?
 
 NE W FANGLED Y WAA YS. 231 
 
 Moiist men hes a fad o' theer oan ; 
 
 Choorch bells maas a sight o' fuss 
 And skeers the birds from the tower, 
 Them starnells ^ the plaague o' the wheat 1 
 
 Not but wot it wur summat sivver, 
 When we went one daay owt o' seven 
 In a hat and owr Soondaay cloiis, 
 Them daays it wur gooin' to choorch ; 
 Workadaays beant nothink to Heaven, 
 But wife, I contend, them as goiis 
 Toa sarvice a workadaay nivver 
 
 Shud leave theer guns i' the poorch. 
 
 She. 
 Then " braames," ^ one hes 'em to buy, 
 And shops 'low nowt fur good luck. 
 And thread, theer's nobbut no moor 
 Nor haafe of a skein o' the reels. 
 Fwoaks dresses and goas to choorch high, 
 And 'es silver spoons to theer meals. 
 But they maas not a mossel o' " pluck " ^ 
 To be gi'en at the Christmas door. 
 » Starlings. - Blackberries. ' A kind of rough mince-meat.
 
 2 32 NE W FA NGL EDY WAA YS. 
 
 And as fur a pig-feast daay, 
 
 Ya can scarce git one fur ya swill, 
 We 'ed used to bea axed fur miles 
 Wi'ovvt once naamin' the stuff; 
 And we'd yeat the whoale pig thruff, 
 Fro' his head to his hocks, as they saay; 
 Sich drinkin' o' healths, sich smiles, 
 And " Be sewer tha cooms when we kill ! " 
 
 He. 
 
 I dojin't soa much moind fur the feast, 
 We got moor nor wur good fur the gittin', 
 Noa soort o' kind o' use 
 
 Next daay, a-feeiild or a-fowd; 
 Fur a belly bangful's the deuce. 
 
 And what wi' the hot an' the cowd . 
 One got blowed owt like a beast. 
 And the pig gone clean at a sittin'. 
 
 But samples they beiint the saiime. 
 Things is grawed fra wuss to wuss 
 Sin' toime o' the Roosian war. 
 When the chaps coomed cadgin' around,
 
 NE W FANGLED Y WAA VS. 233 
 
 When farmers, which wur fur a shaame, 
 Maade weight wi' a hiron bar 
 Or a dead lamb hid i' the truss, 
 
 And haay bein' selled by the pound. 
 
 She. 
 Ay, and choorchin's different done : 
 When I wur a noorsin', fwoak 
 
 As 'ud goa upo' week daay dobbut 
 
 Got " liberty " hunawares ; ^ 
 But now the parson he nobbut 
 'Lows Sundaay afoor the prayers, 
 Wi' quolity lookin' hon, 
 And the clerk's paay put i' a poake. 
 
 And sarvice bea altered quite, 
 Wi' his dancin' hither and thither, 
 And kneelin' fur Litany theer. 
 And the Lessons aback ov a bird I 
 I'm all of a sweat and dither 
 Wi' 'is oops and 'is downs ; and hear ?— 
 Hummin' but nivver a word ! 
 And boys in theer bedgowns white ! 
 1 Were churched in private.
 
 234 NEW FANGLEDY WAAYS. 
 
 He. 
 
 He maay minch and graace as 'e likes, 
 But I howds to a pew wi' a door; 
 It's sa blaiimedly cowd fur one kneiis 
 And neckhole, as things is now ; 
 And as fur the singin' — it's moor 
 
 Like a fair-daay branglement row ; 
 One can't git a noate th' orgin strikes, 
 
 And the psalm 's like a swarmin' o' beiis. 
 
 When I wur a boy the clerk gaave 
 The noate wi' 'is pick-poipe plaain : 
 Ehj dear ! dost 'e moind that daay 
 
 When he puffed and the whistle wur stuck ? 
 And "John," sed the parson, quoite graave, 
 " Wot's 'oop ?" an' we 'card 'im saay 
 Loud howt, " It's along o' the raain, 
 
 Pick-poipe weant speak fur the muck ! " 
 
 She. 
 I'd nivver noa horgin pride, 
 And them munkeys i' white as sings 
 I can't abeer to see 'em, 
 It maas 'em as peert as daws ;
 
 NEIV FANGLEDY VVAAYS. 235 
 
 And gells brings civigates ^ wi' 'em 
 To staay to the Supper, tha knaws, 
 And goiis to the raails alongside 
 
 O' theer missus, the himperent things ! 
 
 Just look at the maask o' holly 
 
 They wear ! The owd choorch beant dressed 
 r a weeJik : we did it in one daay, 
 Stook hivvery pew hend wi' a bough : 
 And tunnops i' harvest, the folly ! 
 
 Fur shaame ! but it's hall chaanged now, 
 Why fwoaks upo' funeral Sundaay 
 Stands oop i' the praayers wi' the rest ! 
 
 He. 
 Yees, chaanges sewerloy theer beii : 
 Tha knaws when a man goas dead 
 We puts howr hats o' is coffin 
 I' choorch, to shew owr respec. 
 But t' parson he shaakes 'is 'ead, 
 'E objecs : whoy doant 'e objec 
 To the getherins cooniin' soii offin 
 Fur the blackamoors hoaver the sea? 
 1 Certificates.
 
 236 NEW FANGLEDY IVAAYS. 
 
 Parson he means noa harm, 
 Thoff he doant knaw wots ^ fro' the wheat ; 
 I've nowt agean my friend, 
 
 But his sarmon's soa deshedly quick 
 I can nivver git round whoale farm 
 
 And back to the threea-haacre rick 
 Befoor he's gotten to hend, 
 And wea stannin' oop on howr feeat. 
 
 She. 
 Ay, ay ! but ya sooner back 
 
 Fur the baacon and taates, tha knaws, 
 And mebbe the chaange is best, 
 And mebbe howrsens is to blaiime ; 
 And as long as we're hunder the thack 
 What matters which waay wind blaws. 
 If nobbut howr moinds is at rest 
 And howr 'arts is still the saame. 
 
 And God O'mighty abuvv 
 Is o'mighty on berth as well. 
 And happen chaanges is fatten 
 Howrsens fur a chaange o' staiite. 
 ' Oats.
 
 NE W FANGLED Y WAAYS. 237 
 
 Howr John's a-coortin' the gell ! 
 I reckons, hke cat hke kitten, — 
 We boath on us knaw ony-raate 
 One thing doant chaange, and that's Uivv.
 
 238 
 
 THE ENGINE-DRIVER. 
 
 On the Pennsylvanian Railway. 
 
 It may seem a simple thing — 
 Just one eye upon the gauge, 
 
 And another on the glancing semaphore — 
 But the man who wins his wage 
 By the engine's furnace-door 
 
 Needs a heart that ne'er looks back, 
 As he flies along the track, 
 With his demon of a fire-drake on the wing. 
 
 Leaping gulf and piercing hill, 
 Into tunnels with a scream, [eye, 
 
 Where the reek it chokes the breath and blinds the 
 Neath the cloud of his own steam, 
 Under stars that upward fly 
 To mingle with the stars 
 That flash their colours at the cars, 
 Goes the driver thro' the night-time with a will.
 
 I 
 
 THE ENGINE-DRIVER. 239 
 
 Daring heart at night it needs, 
 But by day the heights appal — 
 
 Dizzy height above, below him dreadful hollow. 
 You may almost hear Death call. 
 You may almost see Death follow, 
 As he roars along with thunder, 
 And the great piles quiver under, 
 While the echo of his coming after speeds. 
 
 What a school for heart and head ! 
 Head and hand and eye as one ! 
 
 On the Pennsylvanian road our very cars 
 Make us gallants as they run, 
 Light the track with hero stars, 
 Take our mortal clay and give 
 Immortality to live 
 When our flesh like ash is scattered cold and dead I 
 
 It seems gone a month at most, 
 I was engine-mate with Bill — 
 
 He the driver, I the fireman, comrades true, 
 Proud of " Rocket " standing still. 
 
 Proud of " Rocket " as she flew.
 
 240 THE ENGINE-DRIVER. 
 
 Talk of sweethearts, men and wives ! 
 Why, the man who fires or drives 
 Loves his engine ! We were making up time lost. 
 
 We had had an awkward ride, 
 For the cars were full behind, 
 
 Slope against us, rails all slippery with rain ; 
 Bill was troubled in his mind, 
 
 Snapped his watch and coiled the chain 
 To a knot — " Ten minutes late ! " 
 As we entered on the straight, 
 And I looked at him and set the fire doors wide. 
 
 How we hissed along that mile ! 
 How the wires beside the track 
 Dipped and danced, and rushed behind us out of 
 sight ! 
 How the great cars at our back 
 Swung to left and swung to right, 
 As with thunderclaps we ran 
 Under bridge and over span, 
 Till my mate's face beamed and broadened to a smile ! 
 
 Fate was swifter than our pace. 
 For I sudden heard a cry,
 
 THE ENGINE-DRIVER. 241 
 
 And the engine shook and shuddered in its gear — 
 God have mercy ! on we fly 
 To our doom in hot career ! 
 For a switch set hard aback 
 Has turned us from the track, 
 And hke lightning thro' the siding points we race ! 
 
 Then my mate set teeth and said, 
 " Will our coupling give or hold ?" 
 
 And I felt the cars make sudden backward pull ; 
 For with spirit lion-bold 
 
 He put steam to fiercest full, 
 On the cars set fiercest brake, 
 "Jump," he cried, "Jim, for God's sake ! " 
 So 1 jumped — but Bill the driver shot ahead — 
 
 Never turned nor waved a hand, 
 
 Like an arrow from the bow, 
 
 Straight to death the gallant engine-driver dashed ; 
 
 But the heavy cars stopped slow, 
 
 While the " Rocket " leapt and crashed 
 
 Through the siding to its fate, 
 
 Dust to dust — and Bill went straight 
 
 To the glory of the Saviour's hero-land. 
 
 Q
 
 242 THE ENGINE-DRIVER. 
 
 Well and nobly had he driven ! 
 And I saw him 'neath the pile — 
 
 Twisted axles, rails like serpents, blood and grime- 
 Smiling just as he would smile 
 When his engine made up time, 
 On his face no sign of fear — 
 He had found the road all clear, 
 As he raced along the track right into Heaven. 
 
 My thanks are due to my friend Mr. Mather, M.P., for the motive 
 of this ballad. He was visiting the engineering shops of the 
 Pennsylvanian Railroad at Altona, and spoke of the courage and 
 coolness that must be needed by the engine-drivers on that line. 
 One of the Managers assented and said : "We keep a note of all the 
 plucky things done by our servants, and one of the most heroic and 
 one of the most remarkable, as showing how minds trained to face 
 danger and to think of others can resolve in a moment to act for the 
 best, is the following : — 
 
 "A driver of an express with heavy cars behind him suddenly 
 found that without any signal he had been turned off the main line 
 into a siding. The one hope of escape for his train was that it 
 should be brought to a standstill before he liad gone the full 
 length of the siding, but he saw that there were trucks in the way, 
 and that he could not possibly bring the whole train to a stand 
 in time to prevent collision. His only chance of saving the train 
 was to break the couplings between his engine and the cars. Swift
 
 THE ENGINE-DRIVER. 243 
 
 as thought he resolved, applied the brakes hard all to the cars and 
 simultaneously put on full steam ahead. The sudden strain asunder 
 thus procured snapped the couplings. The cars came to a standstill, 
 while he and his released engine flew forward with double speed to 
 destruction. His stoker who had jumped just at the right moment, 
 was saved to tell the story of his mate's heroic deed." ,
 
 244 
 
 AT THE RAM-SHOW DINNER. 
 After the Member's Speech. 
 
 " Gentlemen all, you hev heard 
 What the Parliament-man hes sed, 
 
 And I weant gaain-saay but it's trew ; 
 But, gentlemen, doan't be led 
 
 By the Parliament-man, or my word 
 — If ya taake my word — you'll rew. 
 
 For he sed he 'ed knawed of men 
 Boorn upo tunnops and taates 
 
 As 'ed raaised theersens oop fast, 
 As 'ed got to maake law for the staates, 
 
 Chaanged to a wig fro' the pen. 
 Sat on the wool-sack at last. 
 
 Tories the boys for my school, 
 Nivver wur sweeat upo' Whigs,
 
 AT THE RAM-SHOW DINNER. '2 AS 
 
 Now moind, it's trewth thofif I tell it, 
 We mun raaise beast, herses and pigs, 
 
 And graw good mutton and wool, 
 Not sit on the wool-sack, but sell it."
 
 246 
 
 VALEDICTORY. 
 
 Father, to you who taught me 
 
 To care for the wold and the fen, 
 Father, to you who brought me 
 
 Love of the Lincohi men, 
 These poor songs — in a tongue 
 
 That is dying, homely and harsh — 
 To you who are dead I have sung 
 
 From the fen and the wold and the marsh. 
 
 CLASGOW : PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEIIOSE.
 
 IV0J?/^S BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 Sonnets at the English Lakes. 3s. 6d. Second Edition. 
 Longmans & Co., London. 
 
 Sonnets Round the Coast. 3s. 6d. Swan, Sonnenschein & Co., 
 London. 
 
 Edward Thring, Teacher and Poet. 3s. 6d. Fisher Unwin, 
 London. 
 
 St. Kentigern of Crosthwaite and St. Herbert of Der- 
 vventwater. Second Edition. is. Thurnam & Sons, 
 Carlisle. 
 
 A Coach Drive at the Lakes, is. T. Bakewell, Keswick. 
 
 Edited by the Author. 
 
 International Sermons. — Christ for To-day. 2s. 6d. Swan, 
 Sonnenschein & Co., London. 
 
 In the Light.— a Biography of Miss Seeley. 3s. 6d. Seeley 
 Bros., London.
 
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