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 FrontiapUct. 
 
 rase.
 
 WILD FLOWERS; 
 
 PASTORAL AND LOCAL POETRY. 
 
 ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, 
 
 AU PilOR OF THE FAllMER'S BOY AND RURAL TALES. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR VERNOR, HOOD, AND SUAHPE, POULIHV 
 
 AND LONGilAN, HURST, REES, AND ORME, 
 
 PATERNOSTER-ROW ; 
 
 AC the Union Prinlins-Office, St. Johji's Square, by IV. Wilso/it
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 MY ONLY SON. 
 
 MY DEAfe BOY, 
 
 g; 
 
 In thus addressing myself to you, and in ex- 
 pressing my regard for your person, my anxiety 
 for your health, and my devotion to your wel- 
 fare, I enjoy an advantage over those dedicators 
 
 aj 
 
 ag wJu) indidge in adulation; / shall at Uast he 
 
 n believed. 
 
 Should you arrive at that period when reason 
 shall be maturet and affection or curiosity induce
 
 ir DEDICATION. 
 
 pou to look ba^k on your father's poetical progress 
 through life, you may conclude that he had many 
 to boast as friends, whose names, in a dedication, 
 would have honoured both him and his children r 
 but you must also reflect, that to particularize 
 tuch friends was a point of peculiar delicacy. The 
 earliest patron of my unprotected strains has the 
 warm thanks which art his due, for the introduc- 
 tion of blessings which have been difftised through 
 our whole family, and nothing ivill ever change 
 this sentiment. But amidst a general feeling of 
 gratitude, which those who know me will never 
 dispute, I feel for you, Charles, what none but 
 parents can conceive ; and on your account, my 
 dear boy, tliere can be no harm in telling the 
 world that I hope these " Wild Flowers" will be 
 productive ofsiveets of the worldly kind.; for your 
 unfortunate lameness (should it never be removed) 
 may preclude you from the means of procuring 
 comforts and advantages which might otherwise 
 have fallen to your share.
 
 DEDICATION. v 
 
 What a lasting, what an unspeakable satisfac- 
 tloi would it be to know that the Ballads, the 
 Plowman Stories, and the " Broken Crutch" of 
 your father would eventually/ contribute to lighten 
 your steps to manhood, and make your own crutch, 
 through life, rather a memorial of affection than 
 an object of sorrow. 
 
 With a parents feelings, and a parents cares 
 and hopes, 
 
 I am, Charles, yours, 
 
 R. B.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PACK 
 
 Abner and the Widow Jones, a Familiar Ballad - - - 1 
 
 To my Old Oak Table 21 
 
 The Horkey, a Provincial Ballad 33 
 
 The Broken Crutch, a Tale 51 
 
 Shooter's Hill '^'* 
 
 A Visit to Ranelagh 8^ 
 
 Love of the Country 89 
 
 .The Woodland Hall6 93 
 
 Bamliam Water 9-5 
 
 Mary's Evening Sigh ..-..--- 101 
 
 Good Tidings; or, News from the Farm - 105
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 A MAN of the first eminence, in whose day 
 (fortunately perhaps for me) I was not destined 
 to appear before the public, or to abide the Her- 
 culean crab-tree of his criticbra. Dr. Johnson, has 
 said, in his preface to Shakespeare, that " Nothing 
 can please many, and please long, but just re- 
 presentations of general nature." My representa- 
 tions of nature, whatever may be said of their ^*m^- 
 ness, are not general, unless we admit, what I 
 suspect to be the case, that nature in a village is 
 very much like nature every where else. It will 
 be observed that all my pictures are from humble 
 Hfe, and most of my heroines servant maids. Such 
 I would have them: being fully persuaded that 
 in no other way would my endeavours, either to 
 please or to instruct, have an equal chance o 
 success*
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 The patli I Lave thus taken, from necessity, 
 as well as from choice, is well understood and 
 approved by hundreds, who are capable of ranging 
 in the higher walks of literature. But with due 
 deference to their superior claim, I confess, that 
 no recompense has been half so grateful or half 
 so agreeable to me as female approbation. To be 
 readily and generally understood, to have my 
 simple Tales almost instinctively relished by those 
 who have so decided an influence over the lives, 
 hearts, and manners of us all, is the utmost stretch 
 of my ambition. 
 
 I here venture, before the public eye, a selec- 
 tion from the various pieces which have been the 
 source of much pleasure, and the solace of my 
 leisure hours during the last four years, and since 
 the publication of the " Rural Tales." Perhaps, 
 in some of them, more of mirth is intermingled 
 than many who know me would exi)ect, or than 
 the severe will be inclined to approve. But surely
 
 PREFACE. ix 
 
 what I can say, or can be expected to say, on 
 subjects of country life, would gain little by the 
 seriousness of a preacher, or by exhibiting falla- 
 cious representations of what has long been termed 
 Rural Innocence. 
 
 The Poem of " Good Tidings" is partially 
 known to the world, but, as it was originally in- 
 tended to assume its present appearance and size, 
 I have gladly availed myself of an endeavour to 
 improve it ; and, from its present extended circula- 
 tion, I trust it will be new to thousands. 
 
 I anticipate some approbation from such readers 
 as have been pleased with tlie " Rural Tales ;" yet, 
 though I will not falsify my own feelings by as- 
 suming a diffidence which I do not conceive to be 
 either manly or becoming, the conviction that some 
 reputation is hazarded in " a tliird attempt," is im- 
 pressed deeply on my mind.
 
 X PREFACE. 
 
 With such sentiments," and with a lively sense of 
 the high hoaotir, and a hope of the bright recom- 
 pense, of applause from the good, when heightened 
 by the self-approving voice of my own conscience; 
 I commit the book to its fate. 
 
 ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.
 
 ABNER 
 
 THE WIDOW JONES, 
 
 A FAMILIAR BALLAD. 
 
 W ELL i I'm determiu'd ; thaf s enough : 
 Gee, Bayard ! move your poor old bones, 
 
 I'll take to-morrow, smooth or rough. 
 To go and court the Widow Jones. 
 
 Our master talks of stable-room, 
 And younger horses on his grounds ; 
 
 Tis easy to foresee thy doom. 
 
 Bayard, thou'lt go to feed the hounds.
 
 ABNER AND 
 
 The first Determination. 
 
 But could I win the widow's hand, 
 
 I'd make a truce 'twixt death and thee ; 
 
 For thou upon the best of land 
 
 Should'st feed, and Uve, and die with me. 
 
 And must the pole-axe lay thee low 1 
 And will they pick thy poor old bones? 
 
 No hang me if it shall be so, 
 
 If I can win the Widow Jones. 
 
 Twirl went his stick ; his curly pate 
 A bran-new hat uplifted bore ; 
 
 And Abner, as he leapt the gate. 
 Had never look'd so gay before.
 
 THE WIDOW JONES. 
 
 Old Love revived. 
 
 And every spark of love revived 
 That had perplex'd him long ago. 
 
 When busy folks and fools contriv'd 
 To make his Mary answer no. 
 
 But whether, freed from recent vows. 
 Her heart had back to Abner flown. 
 
 And mark'd him for a second ^ouse,. 
 In truth is not exactly known. 
 
 Howbeit, as he came in sight,. 
 
 She tum'd her from the garden stile, 
 And downward look'd with pure delight, 
 
 With half a sigh and half a smile.
 
 ABNER AND 
 
 Rustic Salutation. 
 
 She heard his sounding step behind. 
 The blush of joy crept up her cheek, 
 
 As cheerly floated on the wind, 
 
 ** Hoi ! Mary Jones what won't you speak?" 
 
 Then, with a look that ne'er deceives. 
 She turn'd, but found her courage fled ; 
 
 And scolding sparrows from the eaves 
 Peep'd forth upon the stranger's head. 
 
 Down Abner sat, with glowing heartj 
 
 Resolv'd, whatever might betide. 
 To speak his mind, no other art 
 
 He ever knew, or ever tried.
 
 THE WIDOW JONES. 
 
 A close Question. 
 
 And gently twitching Mary's hand. 
 The bench had ample room for two. 
 
 His first word made her understand 
 The plowman's errand was to woo. 
 
 " My Mary may I call thee so"? 
 
 " For many a happy day we've seen, 
 " And if not mine, aye, years ago, 
 
 " Whose was the fault? you might have been! 
 
 " All that's gone by : but I've been musing, 
 " And voVd, and hope to keep it true, 
 
 " That she shall be my own heart's choosing 
 " Whom I call wife Hey, what say you?
 
 ABNER AND 
 
 Past Thoughts stated. 
 
 ** And as I drove my plough along, 
 
 *' And felt the strength that's m my arm, 
 
 " Ten years, thought I, amidst my song, 
 *' I've been head-man at Harewood farm. 
 
 ** And now, my own dear Mary's free, 
 " Whom I have lov'd this many a day, 
 
 " Who knows but she may think on me ? 
 *' I'll go hear what she has to say. 
 
 ** Perhaps tliat little stock of land 
 
 " She holds, but knows not how to till, 
 
 " Will suffer in tlie widow's hand, 
 " And make poor Mary poorer still.
 
 THE WIDOW JONES. 
 
 The Avowal. 
 
 '' TIat scrap of land, with one like her, 
 *' How we might live ! and be so blest ! 
 
 ** And who should Mary Jones prefer 1 
 ** Why, surely, him who loves her best ! 
 
 ** Therefore I'm come to-night, sweet wench, 
 " I would not idly thus intrude," 
 
 Mary looked downward on the bench, 
 O'erpower'd by love and gratitude. 
 
 And lean'd her head against the vine. 
 With quick'ning sobs of silent bliss. 
 
 Till Abiier cried, " You must be mine, 
 " You must," and seal'd it with a kiss.
 
 ABNESl AND 
 
 The Interest of an old Horse asserted. 
 
 She talk'd of shame, and wip'd her cheek. 
 But what had shame with them to do. 
 
 Who nothing meant but truth to speak. 
 And downright honour to pursue 1 
 
 His eloquence improv'd apace. 
 
 As manly pity fill'd his mind ; 
 " You know poor Bayard ; here's the case, 
 
 " He's past his labour, old, and blind : 
 
 " If you and I should but agree 
 " To settle here for good and all, 
 
 " Could you give all your heart to me, 
 " And grudge that poor old rogue a stall ?
 
 THE WIDOW JONES. 
 
 His Character. 
 
 " I'll buy him, for the dogs shall never 
 " Set tooth upon a friend so true ; 
 
 " He'll not live long, but I for ever 
 *' Shall know I gave the beast his due. 
 
 " 'Mongst all I've known of plows and carts, 
 " And ever since I leam'd to drive, 
 
 " He was not match'd in all these parts ; 
 " There was not such a horse alive! 
 
 " Ready, as birds to meet the mom, 
 " Were all his efforts at the plough ; 
 
 " Then, the mill-brook with hay or com, 
 " Good creature ! how he'd spatter through !
 
 10 ABNER AND 
 
 Character continued. 
 
 ** He was a horse of mighty pow'r, 
 
 " Compact in frame, and strong of limh ; 
 
 ** Went with a chirp from hour to hour ; 
 " Whip-cord ! 'twas never made for hinu 
 
 *' I left him in the shafts behind, 
 " His fellows all unhook'd and gone, 
 
 " He neigh'd, and deem'd tlie thing unkind, 
 * Then, startbg, drew the load alone ! 
 
 " But I might talk till pitch-dark night, 
 " And then have something left to say ; 
 
 ** But, Mary, am I wrong or right, 
 ^* Or, do I throw my words away %
 
 THE WIDOW JONES. 11 
 
 Something like Consent. 
 
 ** Leave me, or take me and my horse ; 
 
 *' I've told tliee truth, and all I know : 
 ** Trutli should breed truth ; that comes of course; 
 
 " If I sow wheat, why wheat will grow." 
 
 ** Yes, Abner, but thus soon to yield, 
 
 * Neighbours would fieer, and look behind 'em ; 
 " Though, with a husband in the field, 
 
 " Perhaps, indeed, I should not mind 'em. 
 
 *' I've known your generous nature well, 
 
 " My first denial cost me dear ; 
 *' How this may end we cannot tell, 
 
 ^* But, as for Bayard, bring him here."
 
 12 ABNER AND 
 
 Parting of the Lovers. Sad News. 
 
 " Bless thee for that," the plowman cried. 
 At once both starting from the seat. 
 
 He stood a guardian by her side. 
 
 But talk'd of home, ^'twas growing late. 
 
 Then step for step within his arm. 
 She cheer'd him down the dewy way ; 
 
 And no two birds upon the farm 
 
 E'er prated with more joy than they. 
 
 What news at home ? The smile he wore 
 One little sentence tum'd to sorrow ; 
 
 An order met him at the door, 
 
 " Take Bayard to the dogs to-morrow."
 
 THE WIDOW JONES. 13 
 
 The Journey renewed. 
 
 Yes, yes, thought he ; and heav'd a sigh. 
 Die when he will he's not your debtor : 
 
 I must obey, and he must die, 
 That's if I can't contrive it better. 
 
 ne left his Mary late at night, 
 
 And had succeeded in the main. 
 No sooner peep'd the morning liglit 
 
 But he was on the road again ! 
 
 Suppose she should refuse her hand 1 
 
 Such thoughts will come, I know not why ; 
 
 Shall I, without a wife or laud, 
 
 Want an old horse? then wherefore buy?
 
 14 ABNER AND 
 
 Perplexity. 
 
 From bush to bush, from stile to stile. 
 Perplexed he trod the fallow ground. 
 
 And told his money all the while, 
 
 And weigh'd the matter round and round. 
 
 *' I'll borrow," thafs the best thought yet; 
 
 Mary shall save the horse's hfe. 
 Kind-hearted wench ! what, run in debt 
 
 Before I know she'll be my wife 1 
 
 These women won't speak plain and free. 
 Well, well, rU keep my service still ; 
 
 She has not said she'd marry me. 
 But yet I dare to say she will^
 
 THE WIDOW JONES. 15 
 
 A fresh Thought.~Tums back. 
 
 But while I take this shay-brain'd course. 
 
 And like a fool run to and fro. 
 Master, perhaps, may sell the horse ! 
 
 Therefore this instant home I'll go. 
 
 The nightly rains had drench'd the grove. 
 He plung'd right on with headlong pace ; 
 
 A man but half as much in love 
 Perhaps had found a cleaner place. 
 
 The day rose fair ; with team a-field. 
 He watch'd the farmer's cheerful brow j 
 
 And in a lucky hour reveal'd 
 His secret at his post, the plough.
 
 16 ABNER AND 
 
 Coming to the Point. Generosity. 
 
 And there without a whuie began, 
 " Master, you'll give me your advice ; 
 
 ** I'm going to marry if I can 
 
 * And want old Bayard ; what's his price 1 
 
 * For Mary Jones last night agreed, 
 " Or near upon't, to be my wife : 
 
 ** The horse's value I don't heed, 
 ** I only want to save his life." 
 
 * Buy him, hey ! Abner ! trust me I 
 *' Have not the thought of gain in view ; 
 
 " Bayard's best days we've seen go by ; 
 *' He shall be cheap enough to you."
 
 THE WIDOW JONES. it 
 
 Symptoms of good Feelings. 
 
 The wages paid, the horse brought out, 
 
 The hour of separation come ; 
 The farmer turn'd his chair about, 
 
 " Good fellow, take liim, take him home. 
 
 " You're welcome, Abner, to the beast, 
 " For you've a faithful servant been ; 
 
 " They'll thrive I doubt not in the least, 
 " Who know what work and service mean." 
 
 The maids at parting, one and all. 
 
 From different windows different tones ; 
 
 Bade him farewell with many a bawl. 
 And sent their love to Mary Jones.
 
 18 ABNER AND 
 
 Victory ! 
 
 He wav'd his hat, and turn'd away. 
 When loud the cry of children rose ; 
 
 " Abner, good bye !" they stopt Iheir play ; 
 " There goes poor Bayard ! there he goes I" 
 
 Half choak'd with joy, with love, and pride, 
 He now with dainty clover fed him. 
 
 Now took a short triumphant ride. 
 And then again got down and led him. 
 
 And hobbling onward up the hill, 
 The widow's house was full in sight. 
 
 He puU'd the bridle harder still, 
 
 " Come on, we shan't be there to-night.'*
 
 THE WIDOW JONES. 10 
 
 Victory ! 
 
 Slie met them with a smile so s^veet, 
 The stable-door was open thrown ; 
 
 The blind horse lifted high his feet. 
 And loudly snorting, laid him down. 
 
 Victory ! from that slock of laurels 
 You keep so snug for camps and thrones. 
 
 Spare us one twig from all Iheir quarrels. 
 For Abiier and the Widow .Tones.
 
 "*.
 
 Fage SI.
 
 TO 
 
 MY OLD OAK TABLE. 
 
 Friend of my peaceful days ! substantial friend. 
 Whom wealth can never change, nor int'rest bend, 
 I love thee like a child. Thou wert to me 
 The dumb companion of my misery. 
 And oftner of my joys ; then as I spoke, 
 I shar'd thy sympathy. Old Heart of Oak! 
 For surely when my labour ceas'd at night, 
 Witli trembling, feverish hands, and aching sight. 
 The draught that cheer'd me and subdu'd my care. 
 On thy broad ^loulders thou wert proud to bear.
 
 22 TO MY OLD OAK TABLE. 
 
 O'er thee, with expectation's fire elate, 
 I've sat and ponder 'd on my future fate : 
 On thee, with winter muHins for thy store, 
 I've lean'd, and quite forgot that I was poor. 
 
 Where dropp'd the acorn tliat gave birth to tliee ? 
 Can'st thou trace back thy line of ancestry ? 
 We're match'd, old friend, and let us not repine. 
 Darkness o'erhangs tliy origin and mine ; 
 Both may be truly honourable : yet. 
 We'll date our honours from the day we met ; 
 When, of my worldly wealth the parent stock. 
 Right welcome up the Thames from Woolwich Dock 
 Thou cam'st, when hopes ran high and love was young : 
 But soon our olive-branches round thee s[)rung; 
 Soon came the days that tried a faithful wife. 
 The noise of children, a:id the cares of life.
 
 TO MY OLD OAK TABLE. 23 
 
 Tlien, midst the threafnings of a wintrj' sky. 
 That cough which blights the bud of infancy, 
 The dread of parents, Rest's inveterate foe. 
 Came Hke a plague, and turn'd my songs to woe. 
 
 Rest ! without thee wliat slrengtli can long survive, 
 What spirit keep the flame of Hope alive ? 
 The midnight murmur of the cradle gave 
 Sounds of despair ; and chilly as the grave 
 We felt its undulating blast arise, 
 Midst whisper'd sorrows and ten thousand siglis. 
 Expiring embers warn'd us each to sleep. 
 By turns to watch alone, by turns to weep, 
 By turns to iiear, and keep from starting wild. 
 The sad, famt waitings of a dying child. 
 But Death, obedient to Heav'n's high command. 
 Withdrew his jav'lui, and unclench 'd liis hand ;
 
 24 TO MY OLD OAK TABLE. 
 
 Tlie little sufferers triumph'd over pain. 
 
 Their mother smil'd, and bade me hope again. 
 
 Yet Care gain'd ground, Exertion triumph'd less. 
 
 Thick fell the gathering terrors of Distress ; 
 
 Anxiety, and Griefs without a name. 
 
 Had made their dreadful inroads on my frame ; 
 
 The creeping Dropsy, cold as cold could be, 
 
 Unnerv'd my arm, and bow'd my head to thee. 
 
 Thou to thy trust, old friend, hast not been true ; 
 
 These eyes the bitterest tears they ever knew 
 
 Let fall upon thee ; now all wip'd away ; 
 
 But what from memory shall wipe out that day ? 
 
 The great, the wealthy of my native land. 
 
 To whom a guinea is a grain of sand, 
 
 I thought upon them, for my thoughts were free. 
 
 But all unknown were then my woes and me.
 
 TO MY OLD OAK TABLE. 25 
 
 Still, Resignation was my dearest friend. 
 And Reason pointed to a glorious end ; 
 With anxious sighs, a parent's hopes and pride, 
 
 I wish'd to live 1 trust I could have died ! 
 
 But winter's clouds pursu'd their stormy way. 
 
 And March brought sunshine with the length'ning day. 
 
 And bade my heart arise, that morn and night 
 
 Now throbb'd with irresistible delight. 
 
 Delightful 'twas to leave disease behind. 
 
 And feel the renovation of the mind ! 
 
 To lead abroad upborne on Pleasure's wing. 
 
 Our children, midst the glories of tlie spring ; 
 
 Our fellow-sufferers, our only wealth. 
 
 To gather daisies in the breeze of health ! 
 
 'Twas then, too, when our prospects grew so fair. 
 And Sabbath bells announc'd the morning pra/r;
 
 526 TO MY OLD OAK TABLE. 
 
 Beneath that vast gigantic dome we bow'd. 
 That hfls its flaming cross above the cloud ; 
 Had gain'd the centre of the chequer'd floor ; 
 That instant, with reverberating roar 
 
 Burst forth the peahng organ mute we stood ;- 
 
 Tlie strong sensation boihng through my blood. 
 Rose in a storm of joy, allied to pain, 
 I wept, and worshipp'd God, and wept again; 
 And felt, amidst the fervor of my praise. 
 The sweet assurances of betle?: days. 
 
 In that gay season, honest friend of mine, 
 I mark'd tiie brilliant sun upon thee shine ; 
 Imagination took her flights so free. 
 Home was delicious with my book and thee. 
 The purchas'd nosegay, or brown ears of com. 
 Were thy gay ))lumes upon a summer's mom.
 
 TO MY OLD OAK TABLE. 
 
 Awakening raemorj', that disdains control. 
 
 They spoke the darling language of my soul : 
 
 They whjsper'd tales of joy, of peace, of truth. 
 
 And conjur'd back the sunshine of my youtli : 
 
 Fancy presided at the joyful birth, 
 
 I pour'd tlie torrent of ray feelings forth ; 
 
 Conscious of truth in Nature's humble track. 
 
 And rote " The Farmer's Boy" upon thy back ! 
 
 Enough, old friend : thou'rt mine ; and shalt partake. 
 
 While I have pen to write, or tongue to speak. 
 
 Whatever fortune deals me. Part with thee ! 
 
 No, not till death shall set my spirit free ; 
 
 For know, should plenty crown my life's decline, 
 
 A most important duty may be thme : 
 
 Then, guard me from Temptation's base control. 
 
 From apathy and littleness of soul:
 
 TO MY OLD OAK TABLE. 
 
 The sight of thy old frame, so rough, so rude. 
 Shall twitch the sleeve of nodding Gratitude ; 
 Shall teach me but to venerate the more 
 Honest Oak Tables and their guests the poor ; 
 Teach me unjust distinctions to deride, 
 And falsehoods gender *d in the brain of Pride ; 
 Shall give to Fancy still the cheerful hour. 
 To Intellect, its freedom and its power ; 
 To Hospitality's enchanting ring 
 A charm, which nothing but thyself can bring. 
 The man who would not look with honest pride 
 On the tight bark that stemm'd the roaring tide. 
 And bore him, when he bow'd the trembling knee, 
 Home, through the mighty perils of the sea, 
 I love him not. He ne'er shall be my guest ; 
 Nor sip my cup, nor witness how I'm blest ;
 
 TO MY OLD OAK TABLE. 
 
 Nor lean, to bring my honest friend to shame, 
 A sacrilegious elbow on thy frame ; 
 But thou through life a monitor shalt prove, 
 Sacred to Trutii, to Poetry, and Love. 
 Dec. 1803.
 
 THE 
 
 HORKE\^. 
 a provincial ballad, 
 
 Advertisement. 
 
 In tlie descriptive ballad which follows, it will be evident 
 that I have endeavoured to preserve tlie style of a gossij), 
 ajid to transmit the memorial of a custom, the extent or 
 antiquity of which I am not acquainted with, and pretend 
 not to uiquire. 
 
 In Suflblk husbandry the man who, (whether by merit or 
 by sufferance I know not) goes foremost through the harvest 
 with tlie scythe or tlie sickle, is honoured with tlie title of 
 " Lord," and at the Horkey, or harvest-home feast, collects 
 what he can, for himself and bretliren, from the farmers and 
 visitors, to make a " frolic" aftei-wards, called " tlie largess 
 spending." By way of returning thanks, though perhaps 
 fomierly of much more, or of different signification, they 
 immediately leave tlie seat of festivity, and with a very 
 long and repeated shout of a " largess," tlie number of 
 shouts being regulated by tlie sums given, seem to wish to 
 make themselves heard by the people of the surrounding 
 faims. And before they rejoin the company within, the 
 pranks and the jollity I have endeavoured to describe, 
 usually take place. These customs, I believe, are going 
 fast out of use ; wliich is one great reason for my trying to 
 tell the rising race of mankind that such were the customs 
 when I was a boy.
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 I have annexed a glossary of such words as may be fonnd 
 by general readers to require explanation. And will add a 
 short extract from Sir Thomas Brown, of Norwich, M. D. 
 who was bora three years before Milton, and outlived him 
 eight years. 
 
 " It were not impossible to make an original reduction 
 of many words of no general reception in England, but of 
 common use in Norfolk, or peculiar to tlie East-Angle 
 counties ; as Bawnd, Bunny, Thurck, Enemis, Matchly, 
 Samniodithee, Mawther, Kedge, Seele, Straft, Clever, 
 Dere, Nicked, Stingy, Noneare, Feft, Thepes, Gosgood, 
 Kamp, Sibrit, Fangast, Sap, Cothish, Thokish, Bide-owe, 
 Paxwax. Of these, and some others, of no easy originals, 
 when time will permit, the resolution shall be attempted ; 
 which to effect, the Danish language, new, and more an- 
 cient, may prove of good advantage : which nation re- 
 mained here fifty j-ears upon agreement, and have left 
 many families in it, and the language of these parts had 
 surely been more commixed and perplex, if the fleet of 
 Hugo de Bones had not been cast away, wherein three- 
 score thousand souldiers, out of Britany and Flanders, were 
 to be wafted over, and were, by King John's appointment, 
 to have a settlfed habitation in the counties of Norfolk and 
 Snffolk." Tract the viii. on Languages, particularly the 
 Saxon. Folio 1686, page 48.
 
 rage SS.
 
 THE 
 
 HORKEY. 
 
 A PROVINCIAL BALLAD. 
 
 What gossips prattled in the sun. 
 
 Who talk'd him fairly down. 
 Up, Memory ! tell ; 'tis Suffolk fun. 
 
 And lingo of their own. 
 
 Ah ! Judie Twichet !* though thou'rt dead. 
 With thee the tale begins ; 
 ' For still seems thrumming in my head 
 The rattling of thy pins. 
 
 Judie Twitchet was a real person, who lived many 
 years with my mother's cousin Bannock, at Hooingtou. 
 D
 
 34 , THE HORKEY. 
 
 Silence commanded. 
 
 Thou Queen of knitters ! for a ball 
 
 Of worsted was thy pride ; 
 Witli dangling stockings great and small. 
 
 And world of clack beside ! 
 
 We did so laugh ; the moon shone bright ; 
 
 ** More fun you never knew ; 
 *< Twas Farmer Cheerum's Horkey night, 
 
 *' And I, and Grace, and Sue 
 
 *' But bring a stool, sit round about, 
 
 *' And boys, be quiet, pray ; 
 " And let me tell my story out; 
 
 ' Twas sitch a merry day !
 
 THE HORKEY. 35 
 
 The Story beKun. 
 
 " The butcher whbtled at the door, 
 
 " And brought a load of meat ; 
 " Boys rubb'd tlieir hands, and cried, 'there's more/ 
 
 " Dogs wagg'd their tails to see't. 
 
 ** On went tlie boilers till tlie hake* 
 
 " Had much ado to bear 'em ; 
 " The magpie talk'd for talking sake, 
 
 *' Birds sung ; but who could hear 'em ? 
 
 ** Creak went the jack ; the cats were scar'd, 
 
 " We had not time to heed 'em, 
 ** The owd hins cackled in the yard, 
 
 " For we forgot to feed 'em ! 
 
 * A sliding pot-hook.
 
 56 THE HORKEY. 
 
 Judie sure to be right. 
 
 ** Yet ^twas not I, as I may say, 
 
 " Because as how, d'ye see, 
 " I only help'd there for the day ; 
 
 " They cou'dn't lay^t to me. 
 
 ** Now Mrs. Cheerum's best lace cap 
 " Was mounted on her head ; 
 
 ** Guests at the door began to rap, 
 " And now the cloth was spread. 
 
 " Then clatter went the earthen plates 
 " * Mind, Judie,' was the cry ; 
 
 ** I could have cop't* them at their pates ; 
 " 'Trenchers for me,' said I. 
 
 * ThrowB. '
 
 THE HORKEY. 37 
 
 The Horkey Load. 
 
 " * That look so clean upon the ledge, 
 
 " * And never mind a fall ; 
 " 'Nor never turn a shaq) knife's edge; 
 
 " * But fashion rules us all/ 
 
 " Home came the jovial Horkey load, 
 
 " Last of the whole year's crop ; 
 " And Grace amongst the green boughs rode 
 
 " Right plump upon the top. 
 
 " This way and that the waggon reel'd, 
 
 " And never queen rode higher ; 
 " Her cheeks were colour'd in the field, 
 
 " And ours before the fire.
 
 38 THE HORKEY. 
 
 The Harvest Supper. 
 
 " The laughing harvest-folks, and John^ 
 
 " Came in and look'd askew ; 
 " "Twas my red face that set them on> 
 
 " And then they leer'd at Sue^ 
 
 " And Farmer Cheerum went, good man, 
 " And broach'd the Horkey beer ; 
 
 " And sUch a mort* of folks began 
 " To eat up our good cheer^^ 
 
 " Says he, Thank God for what's before us-; 
 
 " That thus we meet agen,' 
 * The mingling voices, like a chorus, 
 
 " Join'd cheerfully, Amen.' 
 * SucL a uambcr.
 
 THE HORKEY. 35 
 
 All old Kind ol Contest. 
 
 " Welcome and plenty, there they found 'em, 
 
 " The ribs of beef grew light ; 
 " And pudduigs till the boys got round 'em, 
 
 " And then they vanish'd quite ! 
 
 * Now all the guests, with Farmer Crouder, 
 
 " Began to prate of com; 
 " And we found out they talk'd the louder, 
 
 " The oflner pass'd the Horn. 
 
 * Out came the nuts ; we set a crackmg ; 
 
 " The ale came round our way ; 
 " By gom, we women fell a clacking 
 
 " As loud agaiu as tliey.
 
 40 THE HORKEY. 
 
 Something very true. 
 
 " John sung * Old Benbow' loud and strong, 
 " And I, * The Constant Swain/ 
 
 " ' Cheer up, my Lads,' was Simon's song, 
 " * We'll conquer them again/ 
 
 " Now twelve o'clock was drawing nigh, 
 
 ** And all in merry cue ; 
 " I knock'd the cask, ' O, ho !' said I, 
 
 u < We've almost conquer'd you/ 
 
 " My Lord* begg'd round, and held his hat, 
 
 " Says Farmer Gruff, says he, 
 " * There's many a Lord, Sam, I know that, 
 
 " ' Has begg'd as well as thee/ 
 The leader of the reapers.
 
 THE HORKEY. 41 
 
 Rastic Wit. 
 
 " Bump in his hat tlie shilllings tumbled 
 
 " All round among the folks ; 
 " ' Laugh if you wool/ said Sam, and mumbled, 
 
 " * You pay for all your jokes/ 
 
 " Joint 6tock you know among the men, 
 " To drink at their o^vn charges ; 
 
 *' So up they got full drive, and then 
 " Went out to halloo largess.* 
 
 " And sure enough the noise they made ! ! 
 
 ** But let me mind my tale ; 
 " We follow'd them, we wor'nt afraid, 
 
 " We'ad all been drinking ale. 
 * See adverdsement.
 
 4Z THE HORKEY. 
 
 A bit of Fun. 
 
 " As they stood hallooing back to back,, 
 
 '* We, lightly as a feather,. 
 * Went sideling round, and in a crack 
 
 " Had pinn'd their coats together^ 
 
 ** Twas near upon't as light as noon ; 
 
 ** * A largess,' on the hill, 
 *' They shouted to the full round raoon> 
 
 *' I think I hear 'em still ! 
 
 *' But when they found the trick, my stars ! 
 
 " They well knew who to blame, 
 *' Our giggles turn'd to ha, ha, ha's, 
 
 " And alter us they came.
 
 THE HORKEY. 43 
 
 The Chase, 
 
 * Grace by the tumbril made a squat, 
 
 " Then ran a* Sam came by, 
 ** They said she could not run for fat ; 
 
 " / know she did not try. 
 
 ** Sue round the neathouse* squalling ran, 
 " Where Simon scarcely dare ; 
 
 "He St opt, for he's a fearful man 
 
 ** ' By gom there's suffen\ there T 
 
 " And off set John, with all bis might, 
 " To chase me down the yard, 
 
 *' Till I was nearly grau'di outright; 
 " He hugg'd so wouady hard. 
 * Cew-house. t ScmetLiiig. | Strangled.
 
 U THE HORKEY. 
 
 " Still they kept up the race and laugh, 
 " And round the house we flew ; 
 
 " But hark ye ! the best fun by half 
 " Was Simon arter Sue. 
 
 " She car'd not, dark nor light, not she, 
 
 ** So, near the dairy door 
 " She pass'd a clean white hog, you see, 
 
 " They'd kilt the day before. 
 
 " High on the spirket^ there it hung, 
 " * Now, Susie what can save ye V 
 
 *' Round the cold pig his anns he flung, 
 " And cried, * Ah ! here I have ye !' 
 * An iron hook.
 
 THE HORKEY. 45 
 
 Something like Mischief. 
 
 " The farmers heard what Simon said, 
 
 " And what a noise ! good lack ! 
 ** Some almost laugh'd themselves to dead, 
 
 " And others clapt his back. 
 
 " We all at once began to tell 
 
 " What fun we had abroad ; 
 *' But Simon stood our jeers right well ; ' 
 
 " He fell asleep and snor'd. 
 
 " Then in his button-hole upright, 
 
 " Did Farmer Crouder put 
 " A slip of paper, twisted tight, 
 
 " And held the candle to't.
 
 46 THE HORKEY. 
 
 Keserve thrown off. 
 
 ** It smok'd, and smok'd, beneath his nose, 
 " The harmless blaze crept higher ; 
 
 *' Till with a vengeance up he rose, 
 " Grace, Judie, Sue ! fire, fire ! 
 
 ** The clock struck one some talk'd of parting, 
 
 *' Some said it was a sin, 
 *' And hifch'd their chairs ; but those for starting 
 
 * Now let the moonlight in. 
 
 ** Owd women, loitering /or the nonce*, 
 
 " Stood praising the fine weather ; 
 *' The menfolks took the hint at once 
 
 " To kiss them altogether. 
 
 For the purpose.
 
 THE HORKEY. 47 
 
 Mirth witliout Misolijef. 
 
 *' And out ran every soul beside, 
 
 " A shanny-pated* crew; 
 *' Owd folks could neither run nor hide, 
 
 *' So some ketch' d one, some tew. 
 
 " They skri^^Fdi and began to scold, 
 
 ** But laughing got the master ; 
 ** Some quack'lingX cried, ' let go your hold ;' 
 
 " Tlie farmers held the faster, 
 
 *' All innocent, that I'll be sworn, 
 
 " There wor'nt a bit of sorrow, 
 ** And women, if their gowns are torn, 
 
 " Can mend them on the morrow, 
 * Giddy, thoughtless, t To struggle quick. ^ Choaking..
 
 48 THE HORKEY. 
 
 The Separation. 
 
 " Our shadows helter skelter danc'd 
 " About the moonlight ground ; 
 
 ** The wondering sheep, as on we pranc'd, 
 " Got up and gaz'd around. 
 
 " And well they might till Farmer Cheerum, 
 
 " Now with a hearty glee, 
 ** Bade all good mom as he came near 'em, 
 
 *' And then to bed went he. 
 
 ** Then oflf we stroU'd this way and that, 
 " With merry voices ringing ; 
 
 " And Echo answered us right pat, 
 ** As home we rambl'd singing.
 
 THE HORKEY. 49 
 
 Conclusion. 
 
 " For, when we laugh'd, it laugh'd again, 
 " And to our own doors follovv'd ! 
 
 *' ' Yo, ho !' we cried ; Yo, ho !' so plain 
 " The misty meadow halloo'd. 
 
 " Thaf s all my tale, and all the fun, 
 " Come, turn your wheels about ; 
 
 " My worsted, see ! that's nicely done, 
 " Just held my story out ! \" 
 
 Poor Judie ! Thus Time knits or spins 
 The worsted from Life's ball ! 
 
 Death stopt tliy tales, and stopt thy pins, 
 ^And so he'll serve us all. 
 
 E
 
 THE 
 
 BROKEN CRUTCH. 
 
 A TA LE. 
 
 1'tell you, Peggy,*' said a voice behind 
 A hawlhorn hedge, with wild briars tliick eutwin'd. 
 Where unseen trav'llers down a shady way 
 Joumey'd beside tlie swatlis of new-mown hay, 
 " I tell you, Peggy, 'lis a time to prove 
 " Your fortitude, your virtue, and your love. 
 " From honest poverty our lineage sprung, 
 " Your motlier was a servant quite as young ; 
 " You weep ; perhaps she wept at leaving home, 
 " Courage, my girl, nor fear the days to come.
 
 52 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 
 
 A Father's Advice and Blessing. 
 
 " Go still to church, my Peggy, plainly drest, 
 
 " And keep a living conscience in your breast ; 
 
 " Look to yourself, my lass, the maid's best fame, 
 
 ** Beware, nor bring the Meldrums into shjime : 
 
 ** Be modest, to the voice of age attend, 
 
 *' Be honest, and you'll always find a friend : 
 
 " Your uncle Gilbert, stronger far tlian I, 
 
 " Will see you safe ; on him you must rely ; 
 
 " I've walk'd too far ; this lameness, oh ! the pain ; 
 
 " Heav'n bless thee, child ! I'll halt me back again ; 
 
 " But when your first fair holiday may be, 
 
 " Rise with the lark, and spend your hours witli me." 
 
 Young Herbert Brooks, in strength and manhood bold, 
 Who, round the meads, his own possessions, stroU'd, 
 O'erheard the charge, and with a heart so gay, 
 Whistled his spaniel, and pursu'd his way.
 
 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 53 
 
 A Hint for a Libertine. 
 
 Soon cross'd his path, and short obeisance paid. 
 
 Stout Gilbert Meldrum and a country maid ; 
 
 A box upon his shoulder held full well 
 
 Her worldly riches, but the truth to tell 
 
 She bore the chief herself ; that nobler part. 
 
 That beauteous gem, an uncorrupted heart. 
 
 And tlien that native loveliness ! that cheek ! 
 
 It bore the very tints her betters seek. 
 
 At such a sight the libertine would glow 
 
 Witli all the warmth that he can ever know ; 
 
 Would send his thoughts abroad without control. 
 
 The glimmering moon-shine of his little soul. 
 
 " Above the reach of justice I shall soar, 
 
 " Her friends may weep, not punish; they're too'poor : 
 
 " That very tliought the rapture will enhance, 
 
 *' Poor, young, and friendless; what a glorious chance!
 
 54 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 
 
 llerberl's Character. 
 
 " A few spare guineas may the conquest make, 
 
 *' I love the treachery for treachery's sake, 
 
 *' And when her wounded honour jealous grows, 
 
 " I'll cut away ten thousand oaths and vows, 
 
 " And tell my comrades, with a manly stride, 
 
 " How I, a girl out-witted and out-lied." 
 
 Such was not Herbert he had never known 
 
 Love's genuine smiles, nor suffer'd from his frown ; 
 
 And as to that most honourable part 
 
 Of planting daggers in a parent's heart, 
 
 A novice quite : he past his hours away. 
 
 Free as a bird, and buxom as the day ; 
 
 Yet, should a lovely girl by chance arise. 
 
 Think not that Herbert Brooks would shut his eyes. 
 
 On thy calm joys with what delight I dream. 
 Thou dear green vallev of my native stream !
 
 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 55 
 
 Regret for Devastation by Enclosures. 
 
 Fancy o'er thee still waves th' enchanting wand. 
 
 And every nook of tliine is fairy land, 
 
 And ever will be, though the axe should smite 
 
 In Gain's rude service, and in Pity's spile, 
 
 Thy clustering alders, and at length invade 
 
 The last, last poplars, that compose tliy shade : 
 
 Thy stream shall then in native freedom stray. 
 
 And undermine the willows in its way, 
 
 These, nearly worthless, may survive this storm. 
 
 This scythe of desolation call'd " Reform." 
 
 No army past that way ! yet are they fled. 
 
 The boughs that, when a school-boy, screen'd my head : 
 
 I hate the murderous axe ; eslianging more 
 
 The w inding vale from what it was of yore, 
 
 Tiiau e'en mortality in all its rage. 
 
 And all the chansre of faces in au age.
 
 56 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 
 
 The Tale pursued. 
 
 " Warmth," will they term it, that I speak so free ; 
 They strip thy shades, thy shades so dear to me ! 
 lu Herbert's days woods cloth'd both hill and dale ; 
 But peace. Remembrance ! let us tell the tale. 
 His home was in the valley, elms grew round 
 His moated mansion, and the pleasant sound 
 pf woodland birds that loud at day-break sing. 
 With the first cuckoos that proclaim the spring, 
 Flock'd round his dwelling ; and his kitchen smoke. 
 That from the towering rookery upward broke. 
 Of joyful import to tlie poor hard by, 
 Stream'd a glad sign of hospitality ; 
 So fancy pictures ; but its day is o'er ; 
 The moat remains, the dwelling is no more ! 
 Its name denotes its melancholy fall. 
 For village children call the spot " Burnt-Hall."
 
 Page 57.
 
 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 57 
 
 The Church. 
 
 But where's the maid, who in the meadow-way 
 Met Herbert Brooks amongst the new-mown hay ? 
 
 Th' adventure charm'd him, and next morning rose 
 The Sabbath, with its silence and repose. 
 The bells ceas'd chiming, and the broad blue sky 
 Smil'd on his peace, and met his tranquil eye 
 Inverted, from the foot-bridge on his way 
 To that still house where all his fathers lay ; 
 There in his seat, each neighbour's face be knew 
 The stranger girl was just before his pew ! 
 He saw her kneel, with meek, but cheerful air. 
 And whisper the response to every prayer ; 
 And, when the humble roof with praises rung. 
 He caught tlie Hallelujah from her tongue, 
 Remerab'ring with delight the tears that fell 
 When the poor father bade his child farewell }
 
 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 
 
 Love strengthen'd by Reflection. 
 
 And now, by kindling tenderness beguil'd. 
 He blest the prompt obedience of that child. 
 And link'd his fate with hers : for, from tliat day, 
 Whether the weeks past cheerily away, 
 Or deep revolvhig doubts procui-'d him pain. 
 The same bells chim'd and there she was again ! 
 What could be done? they came not there to woo. 
 On holy ground, though love is holy too. 
 
 They met upon tlie foot-bridge one clear mom. 
 She in the garb by village lasses worn ; 
 He, with unbutton'd frock that careless flew. 
 And buskin'd to resist the morning dew ; 
 Witli downcast look she courtsied to the ground. 
 Just in his path no room to sidle round. 
 
 " Well, pretty girl, this early rising yields 
 " The best enjoyment of the groves and fields.
 
 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 59 
 
 An Interview. 
 
 " And makes the heart susceptible and meek, 
 " And keeps alive that rose upon your cheek. 
 " I long'd to meet you, Peggy, though so shy, 
 " I've watch'd your steps, and leam'd your history ; 
 " You love your poor lame father, let that be 
 " A happy presage of your love for me. 
 " Come then, I'll stroll these meadows by your side, 
 " I've seen enough to wish you for my bride, 
 " And plainly tell you so. Nay, let me hold 
 " This guiltless hand, I prize it more than gold ; 
 " Of that I have my share, but now pursue 
 " Such lasting weallh as I behold in you. 
 " My lands are fruitful, and my gardens gay, 
 " jMy houshold cheerful as the summer's day ; 
 " One blessing more will crown my happy life, 
 " Like Adam, pretty girl, I want a wife."
 
 60 THE BROKEN CRUTCPL 
 
 Frequent Meetings. Family Pride. 
 
 Need it be told his suit was not denied. 
 With youth, and wealth, and candour on his side ? 
 Honour took charge of love so well begun. 
 And accidental meetings, one by one, 
 Increas'd so fast midst time's miheeded flight, 
 Tliat village rumour married them outright ; 
 Though wber matrons, doubtful in debate. 
 Pitied deluded Peggy's hapless fate. 
 Friends took th' alarm, " And will he then disgrace 
 ** The name of Brooks with this plebeian race ]" 
 Others, more lax in virtue, not in pride. 
 Sported the wink of cunning on one side ; 
 *' He'll buy, no doubt, whnt Peggy has to sell, 
 " A little gallantry bv^comes him well." 
 Meamvhile tlie youth, with self-deterrain'd aim. 
 Disdaining fraud, and pride's unfeeling claim.
 
 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 6l 
 
 Marriage proposed. 
 
 Above control, pursued his generous way. 
 
 And talk'd to Peggy of the marriage day. 
 
 Poor girl ! she heard, with anguish and with doubt. 
 
 What her too-knowing neighbours preach'd about. 
 
 That Herbert would some nobler match prefer. 
 
 And surely never, never manj her ; 
 
 Yet, with what trembling and delight she bore 
 
 The kiss, and heard tlie vow, " I'll doubt no more ;" 
 
 " Protect me, Herbert, for your honour's sake 
 
 " You will," she cried, " nor leave my heart to break." 
 
 Tlien wrote to uncle Gilbert, joys, and fears. 
 
 And hope, and trust, and sprinkled all witli tears. 
 
 Rous'd was the dormant spirit of the brave. 
 E'en lameness rose to succour and to save ; 
 For, though they both rever'd young Herbert's name. 
 And knew his unexceptionable fame ;
 
 62 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 
 
 Doubts. -Parental Feelings. 
 
 And though the girl had honestly declar'd 
 Love's first approaches, and their counsel shar'd. 
 Yet, that he truly meant to take for life 
 The poor and lowly Peggy for a wife ; 
 Or, that she was not doom'd to be deceiv'd. 
 Was out of bounds : it could not be believ'd. 
 " Go, Gilbert ; save her ; I, you know, am lame ; 
 ** Go, brother, go ; and save my child from shame. 
 ** Haste, and I'll pray for your success the while, 
 ** Go, go ;" then bang'd his crutch upon the stile : 
 It snapt. E'en Gilbert trembled while he smote. 
 Then whipt the broken end beneath his coat ; 
 *' Aye, aye, I'll settle them ; I'll let them see 
 *' Who's to be conqu'ror this time, I or he !" 
 
 Then off he set, and witfi enormous strides, 
 RebeUious mutteriugs and oaths besides,
 
 Page 6- 
 
 ^
 
 #.
 
 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 6S 
 
 Gilbert on the Road. An Adventure. 
 
 O'er cloverfield and fallow, bank and briar, 
 
 Pursu'd tlie nearest cut, and fann'd the fire 
 
 That burnt within him. Soon the Hall he si)ied. 
 
 And the grey willows by the water side ; 
 
 Nature cried " halt \" nor could he well refuse ; 
 
 Stop, Gilbert, breathe awhile, and ask the news. 
 
 " News 1" cried a stooping grandame of the vale, 
 
 " Aye, rare news too ; 111 tell you such a tale ; 
 
 " But let me rest ; this bank is dry and wann ; 
 
 " Do you know Peggy Meldrum at the farm ? 
 
 " Young Herbert's girl ? He'as cloath'd her all in white, 
 
 " You never saw so beautiful a sight ! 
 
 " Ah ! he's a fine young man, and such a face ! 
 
 " I knew his grandfatlier and all his race ; 
 
 " He rode a tall while horse, and look'd so big, 
 
 " But how shall I describe his hat and wig?"
 
 64> THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 
 
 A promising Story cut short. 
 
 " Plague take his wig," cried Gilbert, " and his hat, 
 
 " Where's Peggy Meldrura ? can you tell me that T' 
 
 *' Aye ; b\jt have patience, man ! you'll hear anon, 
 
 " For I shall come to her as I go on, 
 
 " So hark'ye friend ; his grandfather I say," 
 
 *' Poh, poh," cried Gilbert, as he turn'd away. 
 
 Her eyes were fix'd, her story at a stand. 
 
 The snuff-box lay half open'd in her hand ; 
 
 *' You great ill-manner'd clown ! but I must bear it ; 
 
 " You oaf; to ask the news, and then won't hear it !" 
 
 But Gilbert had gain'd forty paces clear. 
 
 When the reproof came murmuring on his ear. 
 
 Again he ask'd the first that past him by ; 
 A cow-boy stopt his whistle to reply. 
 " Why, I've a mistress coming home, that's all, 
 *' They're playing Meg's diversion at the Hall ;
 
 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 65 
 
 A Cow-Boy's Brevity. 
 
 " For master's gone, with Peggy, and his cousin, 
 
 *' And all the lady-folks, about a dozen, 
 
 *' To church, down there ; he'll marry one no doubt, 
 
 *' For that it seems is what they're gone about ; 
 
 *' I know it by their laughing and their jokes, 
 
 ** Tho' they wor'nt ask'd at church like other folks." 
 
 Gilbert kept on, and at the Hall-door found 
 The winking servants, where the jest went round : 
 All expectation ; aye, and so was he. 
 But not with heart so merry and so free. ^ 
 
 The kitchen table, never clear from beef. 
 Where hunger found its solace and relief. 
 Free to all strangers, had no charms for liim. 
 For agitation worried every limb ; 
 Ale he partook, but appetite had none. 
 And grey-hoimds watch'd in vain to catch the bone.
 
 66 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 
 
 Silting upon Tlionis. 
 
 All sounds alarra'd liiin, and all thoughts perplex'd, 
 With dogs, and beef, himself, and all tliuigs vex'd. 
 Till with one mingled caw above his head, 
 Their gliding shadows o'er the court-yard spread, 
 The rooks by thousands rose : the bells struck up ; 
 He guess'd the cause, and down he set the cup. 
 And listening, heard, amidst the general hum, 
 A joyful exclamation, " Here they come!" 
 Soon Herbert's cheerful voice was heard above. 
 Amidst the rustling hand-maids of his love. 
 And Gilbert follow'd without thought or dread. 
 The broad oak stair-case thunder'd with his tread ; 
 Light tript the party, gay as gay could be. 
 Amidst their bridal dresses ^there came he ! 
 And with a look that guilt could ne'er withstand, 
 Approach'd his niece and caught her by the hand.
 
 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 6? 
 
 Anger disarmed. 
 
 " Now are you married, Peggy, yes or no? 
 
 *' Tell me at once, before I let you go !" 
 
 Abrupt lie spoke, and gave her ann a swing. 
 
 But the same moment felt the wedding ring. 
 
 And stood confus'd. She wip'd th' empassion'd tear, 
 
 " I am, I am ; but is my father here 1" 
 
 Herbert stood by, and sharing with his bride. 
 
 That perturbation which she strove to hide ; 
 
 " Come, honest Gilbert, you're too rough tliis time, 
 
 " Indeed here's not the shadow of a crime ; 
 
 " But Where's your brother 1 When did you arrive 1 
 
 " We waited long, for Nathan went at five !" 
 
 All this was Greek to Gilbert, downright Greek ; 
 He knew not what to think, nor how to speak. 
 The case was this ; that Nathan with a cart 
 To fetch tliem both at day-break was to start,
 
 68 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 
 
 All ExpSanation. 
 
 And so he did but ere he could proceed. 
 
 He suck'd a charmuig portion with a reed. 
 
 Of that same wedding-ale, which was that day 
 
 To make the hearts of all the village gay ; 
 
 Brim full of glee he trundled from the Hall, 
 
 And as for sky-larks, he out-sung them all ; 
 
 Till growuig giddy with his morning cup. 
 
 He, stretch'd beneath a hedge, the reins gave up ; 
 
 The horse graz'd soberly without mishap. 
 
 And Nathan had a most delightful nap 
 
 For three good hours ^Then, doubting, when he woke. 
 
 Whether his conduct would be deem'd a joke. 
 
 With double haste perforni'd just half his part. 
 
 And brought the lame John Meldrum in his cart 
 
 And at the moment Gilbert's wrath was high. 
 
 And while young Herbert waited his reply,
 
 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 69 
 
 A general Meeting. 
 
 The sound of rattling wheek was at the door ; 
 
 " There's my dear fatlier now," they heard no more. 
 
 The bridegroom glided like an arrow down. 
 
 And Gilbert ran, though something of a clown. 
 
 With his best step ; and cheer'd with smiles and pray'rs. 
 
 They bore old John in triumph up the stairs : 
 
 Poor Peggy, who her joy no more could check. 
 
 Clung hke a dewy woodbme round his neck, 
 
 And all stood silent Gilbert, off his guard. 
 
 And mar^'elling at virtue's rich reward, 
 Loos'd the one loop that held his coat before, 
 Down thumpt the broken crutch upon the floor ! 
 They started, half alarm'd, scarce knowing why. 
 But through the glist'uing rapture of his eye 
 The bridegroom sniil'd, then chid tljeir simple fears. 
 And rous'd the blushing Peggy from her tears ;
 
 70 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 
 
 Gilbert put upon bis Defence. 
 
 Around the uncle in a ring they came. 
 
 And mark'd his look of mingled pride and shame. 
 
 " Now honestly, good Gilbert, tell us tme 
 " What meant this cudgel ? What was it to do 1 
 " I know your heart suspected me of wrong, 
 " And that most true affection urg'd along 
 " Your feelings and your wrath ; you were beside 
 ** Till now the rightful guardian of the bride. 
 " But why this cudgel?" " Guardian! thafs the case, 
 " Or else to day you had not seen my face, 
 " But John about tlie girl was so perplex'd, 
 " And I, to tell the truth, so mortal vex'd, 
 " That when he broke this crutch, and stampt and cried, 
 " For John and Peggy, Sif, I could have died, 
 ** I know I could ; for she was such a child, 
 ** So tractable, so sensible, and mild.
 
 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 71 
 
 The plain Truth. 
 
 " That if between you roguery had grown, 
 
 " (Begging your pardon,) 'twould have been your own j 
 
 " She would not hurt a fly. So oflf I came 
 
 " And had you only sought to blast her fame, 
 
 " Been base enough to act as hundreds would, 
 
 " And ruin a poor maid because you could, 
 
 " With this same cudgel, (you may smile or frown) 
 
 " An' please you. Sir, I meant to knock you down." 
 
 A burst of laughter rang throughout the hall. 
 And Peggy's tongue, though overborne by all, 
 Pour'd its warm blessings, for, without control 
 The sweet unbridled transport of her soul 
 Was obviously seen, till Herbert's kiss 
 Stole, as it were, the eloquence of bliss. 
 " Welcome, ray friends; good Gilbert, here's my hand ; 
 " Eat, drink, or rest, tlie/re all at your command :
 
 72 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 
 
 Mil Lh .\nd Recor.Ciiiittiou. 
 
 *' And whatsover pranks the rest may play, 
 
 ** Still you shall be the hero of to-day, 
 
 " Doubts might torment, and blunders may have teaz'd^ 
 
 *' But ale can cure them ; let us all be pleas'd. 
 
 " Thou, venerable man, let me defend 
 
 " The father of my new dear bosom friend ; 
 
 *' You broke your crutch, well, well, worse luck might be, 
 
 " I'll be your crutch, John Meldrum, lean on me, 
 
 " And when your lovely daughter shall complain, 
 
 ** Send Gilbeit's wooden argument again. 
 
 " If still you wonder that I take a wife 
 
 ** From the unpolish'd walks of humble life, 
 
 " I'll tell you on what gromid my love began, 
 
 ** And let the wise confute it if they can. 
 
 ** I saw a girl, with nature's uiitaught grace, 
 
 " Turn from my gaze a most engaging face ;
 
 THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 
 
 Herbert's Apologj'. 
 
 ** I saw her drop the tear, I knew full well 
 
 " She felt for you much more than she could tell.. 
 
 " I found her understanding, bright as day, 
 
 " Through all impediments still forc'd its way ; 
 
 " On tliat foundation shall my soul rely, 
 
 " The rock of genuine humility, 
 
 " Call'd as she is to act a nobler part, 
 
 " To rule my houshold, and to share ray heart,. 
 
 " I trust her prudence, confident to prove 
 
 " Days of delight, and still unfading love ; 
 
 .' For, while her inborn tenderness survives, 
 
 " That heav'nly charm of mothers and of wives,. 
 
 " I'll look for joy : Here come the neighbours all ; 
 
 " Broach the old barrel, feast them great and small, 
 
 " For I'm determiu'd while the sun's so bright, 
 
 ** That this shall be a wedding-day outright:
 
 7'i THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 
 
 John Meldrum's Wi^li Conclusion. 
 
 " How cheerly sound the bells ! my charmer, come, 
 
 " Expand your heart, and know yourself at home. 
 
 *' Sit down, good John ;" " I will," the old man cried, 
 
 " And let me drink to you. Sir, and the biide ; 
 
 *' My blessing on you : I am lame and old, 
 
 " I can't make speeches, and I wo'nt be bold ; 
 
 " But from my soul I wish, and wish Avith pain, 
 
 *' TJiat brave good gentlemen would not disdain 
 
 " The poor, because they're poor : for, if they live 
 
 " Midst crimes that parents never can forgive, 
 
 " If, like the forest beast, they wander wild, 
 
 " To rob a father, or to crush a child, 
 
 " Nature ivill speak, aye, just as Nature feels, 
 
 " And wish a Gilbert Meldrum at their heels."
 
 SHOOTER'S HILL * 
 
 Health ! I seek thee ; dost thou love 
 
 The mountain top or quiet vale. 
 Or deign o'er humbler hills to rove 
 
 On showery June's dark south-west gale 1 
 If so, I'll meet all blasts that blow. 
 
 With silent step, but not forlorn ; 
 Though, goddess, at thy shrine I bow. 
 
 And woo thee each returning mom. 
 
 * Sickness may be often an incentive to poetical com- 
 position ; I found it so ; and I esteem the following lines 
 only because they remind me of past feelings which I would 
 not willingly forget.
 
 76 SHOOTER'S HILL. 
 
 I seek thee where, with all his might, 
 
 The joyous bird his rapture tells. 
 Amidst the half-excluded light. 
 
 That gilds the fox-glove's pendant bells ; 
 Where, cheerly up this bold hill's side 
 
 The deep'nmg groves triumpliant climb ; 
 In groves Delight and Peace abide. 
 
 And Wisdom marks the lapse of time. 
 
 To hide me from the public eye. 
 
 To keep the throne of Reason clear. 
 Amidst fresh air to breathe or die, 
 
 I took my staff and wander'd here. 
 Suppressing every sigh tliat heav<. 
 
 And covetmg no wealth but thee, 
 I nestle in the honied leaves. 
 
 And hug my stolen liberty.
 
 SHOOTER'S HILL. 77 
 
 O'er eastward uplands, gay or rude. 
 
 Along to Erith's ivied spire, 
 I start, with strength and hope renew'd. 
 
 And cherish life's rekindling fire. 
 Now measure vales with straining eyes, 
 
 Now trace the church-yard's humble names ; 
 Or, climb brown heaths, abrupt that rise. 
 
 And overlook the winding Thames. 
 
 I love to mark the flow'ref s eye, 
 
 To rest where pebbles form my bed, 
 WJiere shapes and colours scatter'd lie 
 
 In varying millions round my head. 
 The soul rejoices when alone. 
 
 And feels her glorious empire free ; 
 Sees God in every shining stone. 
 
 And revels in variety.
 
 78 SHOOTER'S HILL. 
 
 Ah me ! perhaps within my sight. 
 
 Deep in tlie smiling dales below. 
 Gigantic talents, Heav'n's pure light. 
 
 And all the rays of genius glow 
 In some lone soul, whom no one sees 
 
 With power and u'ill to say " Arise," 
 Or chase away the slow disease. 
 
 And Want's foul picture from his eyes. 
 
 A worthier man by far than I, 
 
 With more of industry and fire. 
 Shall see fair Virtue's meed pass by. 
 
 Without one spark of fame expire ! 
 Bleed not my heart, it will be so. 
 
 The throb of care was thine full long ; 
 Rise, like the Psalmist from his woe. 
 
 And pour abroad the joyful song.
 
 SHOOTER'S HILL. 79 
 
 Sweet Health, I seek thee ! hither bring 
 
 Thy balm that softens human ills ; 
 Come, on the long-drawn clouds that fling 
 
 Their shadows o'er the Surry-Hills. 
 Yon green-topt hills, and far away 
 
 Where late as now I freedom stole, 
 And spent one dear delicious day 
 
 On thy wild banks, romantic Mole, 
 
 Aye, there's the scene !* beyond the sweep 
 
 Of London's congregated cloud. 
 The dark-brow'd wood, the headlong steep. 
 
 And valley-paths without a crowd ! 
 Here, Thames, I watch thy flowing tides, 
 
 Thy thousand sails am proud to see ; 
 But where the Mole all silent glides 
 
 Dwells Peace and Peace is wealth to me. 
 
 Box-Hill, and the beautiful neighbourhood of Dorking, 
 in Surry.
 
 80 SHOOTER'S HILL. 
 
 Of Cambrian mountains still I dream. 
 
 And mouldering vestiges of war ; 
 By time-worn cliff or classic stream 
 
 Would rove, liut prudence holds a bar. 
 Come then, O Health ! I'll strive ta bound 
 
 My wishes to this airy stand ; 
 Tis not for me to trace around 
 
 The wonders of my native land. 
 
 Yet, the loud torrent's dark retreat. 
 
 Yet Grampian hills shall Fancy give. 
 And, towering in her giddy seat. 
 
 Amidst her own creation live. 
 Live, if thou'lt urge my clunbing feet, 
 
 Give strength of nerve and vigorous breath. 
 If not, with dauntless soul I meet 
 
 The deep solemnity of death.
 
 SHOOTER'S HILL. 81 
 
 This fer-seen monumental tower 
 
 Records th' achievements of the brave, 
 And Angria's subjugated power. 
 
 Who plunder'd on the eastern wave. 
 I would not that such turrets rise 
 
 To point out where my bones are laid ; 
 Save that some wandering bard might prize 
 
 The comforts of its broad cool shade. 
 
 O Vanity ! since thou'rt decreed 
 
 Companion of our lives to be, 
 I'll seek the moral songster's meed. 
 
 An earthly immortality ; 
 Most vain ! O let me, from the past 
 
 Remembering what to man is given. 
 Lay Virtue's broad foundations fast. 
 
 Whose glorious turrets reach to Heav'n. 
 
 G
 
 VISIT TO RANELAGH. 
 
 To Ranelagh, once in my life. 
 
 By good-natur'd force I was driv'n j 
 The nations had ceas'd their long strife. 
 
 And Peace* beam'd her radiance from Heav'n. 
 What wonders were there to be found 
 
 That a clown might enjoy or disdain 1 
 First we trac'd the gay ring all around. 
 
 Aye and then we went round it again. 
 
 A grand Fete, in honour of the peace of 180?.
 
 84 A VISIT TO RANELAGH. 
 
 A thousand feet rustled on mats, 
 
 A carpet that once had been green ; 
 Men bow'd with their outlandish hats. 
 
 With comers so fearfully keen ! 
 Fair maids, who at home in their haste 
 
 Had left all clothing else but a train. 
 Swept the floor clean, as slowly they pac'd. 
 
 And then walk'd round and swept it again. 
 
 The music was truly enchanting ! 
 
 Right glad was I when I came near it ; 
 But in fashion I found I was wanting : 
 
 Twas the fashion to walk and not hear it! 
 A fine youth, as beauty beset him, 
 
 Look'd smilingly round on the train ; 
 " The king's nephew," they cried, as they met him; 
 
 Then we went round and met him again.
 
 A VISIT TO RANELAGH. 85 
 
 Huge paintings of Heroes and Peace 
 
 Seem'd to smile at the sound of the fiddle. 
 Proud to fill up each tall shining space 
 
 Round the lantliom* that stood in the middle. 
 And George's head too ; Heav'n screen him ! 
 
 May he finish in peace his long reign ! 
 And what did we when we. had seen him 1 
 
 Why ^went round and saw him again. 
 
 A bell rang, announcing new pleasures, 
 
 A crowd in an instant prest hard. 
 Feathers nodded, perfumes shed their treasures. 
 
 Round a door that led into tlie yard. 
 Twas peopled all o'er in a minute. 
 
 As a white flock would cover a plain ! 
 We had seen every soul that was in it, 
 
 Then we went round and saw them again. 
 
 * The intervals between the pillars in the centre of tlie 
 Rotunda were filled up by transparent paintings.
 
 86 A VISIT TO RANELAGH. 
 
 But now came a scene worth the showing. 
 
 The fireworks ! midst laughs and huzzas. 
 With explosions the sky was all glowing. 
 
 Then down stream'd a million of stars ; 
 With a rush the bright rockets ascended. 
 
 Wheels spurted blue fires like a rain ; 
 We tum'd with regret when 'twas ended. 
 
 Then star'd at each other again. 
 
 There thousands of gay lamps aspir'd 
 
 To the tops of the trees and beyond ; 
 And, what was most hugely admir'd. 
 
 They look'd all up-side-down in a pond ! 
 The blaze scarce an eagle could bear ; 
 
 And an owl had most surely been slain ; 
 We retum'd to the circle, and there 
 
 And there we went round it again.
 
 A VISIT TO RANELAGH. 87 
 
 "Tis not wisdom to love without reason, . 
 
 Or to censure without knowing why : 
 I had witness'd no crime, nor no treason, 
 
 " O life, 'tis thy picture," said I. 
 Tis just thus we saunter along, 
 
 M ontlis and years bring their pleasures or pain ; 
 We sigh midst the right and the tvrong; 
 
 And then, we go round them again !
 
 LOVE or THE COUNTRY. 
 
 WRITTEN AT CLARE-HALL, HERTS. 
 
 JUNE, 1804. 
 
 Welcome silence! welcome peace ! 
 
 O most welcome, holy shade ! 
 Thus I prove as years increase. 
 
 My heart and soul for quiet made. 
 Thus I fix my firm belief 
 
 While rapture's gushing tears descend. 
 That every flower and every leaf 
 
 Is moral Trutli's unerring friend.
 
 90 LOVE OF THE COUNTRY. 
 
 I would not for a world of gold 
 
 That Nature's lovely face should tire ; 
 Fountain of blessings yet untold ; 
 
 Pure source of intellectual fire ! 
 Fancy's fair buds, the germs of song, 
 
 Unquicken'd midst the world's rude strife. 
 Shall sweet retirement render strong. 
 
 And morning silence bring to life. 
 
 Then tell me not that I shall grow 
 
 Forlorn, that fields and woods will cloy ; 
 From Nature and her changes flow 
 
 An everlasting tide of joy. 
 I grant that summer heals ^^ill burn. 
 
 That keen will come the frosty night ; 
 But both shall please : and each in turn 
 
 Yield Reason's most supreme delight.
 
 LOVE OF THE COUNTRY. 91 
 
 Build me a shrine, and I could kneel 
 
 To Rural Gods, or prostrate fall ; 
 Did I not see, did I not feel. 
 
 That one Great Spirit governs all. 
 O heav'n permit that I may lie 
 
 Where o'er my corse green branches wave ; 
 And those who from life's tumult fly 
 
 With kindred feeUngs press my grave.
 
 90
 
 THE 
 
 WOODLAND HALLO. 
 
 (perhaps) adapted for music. 
 
 In our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood, 
 
 I am mistress, no mother have I ; 
 Yet biitlie are my days, for my htiiet is good. 
 
 And kind is my lover hard by ; 
 They both work together beneath the green shade, 
 
 Botli woodmen, my father and Joe. 
 Where I've listen'd whole hours to tlie echo that made 
 
 So much of a laugh or Hall6.
 
 94 THE WOODLAND HALLO. 
 
 From my basket at noon they expect tlieir supply. 
 
 And with joy from my threshold I spring ; 
 For the woodlands I love, and the oaks waving high. 
 
 And Eho tliat sings as I sing. 
 Though deep shades delight me, yet love is my food. 
 
 As I call the dear name of my Joe ; 
 His musical shout is the pride of the wood. 
 
 And my heart leaps to hear the Hallo. 
 
 Simple flowers of the grove, little birds live at ease, 
 
 I wish not to wander from you ; 
 I'll still dwell beneath the deep roar of ees, 
 
 For I know that my Joe will be true. 
 The trill of the robin, the coo of the dove. 
 
 Are charms that I'll never forego ; 
 Bat resting through life on the bosom of love. 
 
 Will remember the Woodland Hallo.
 
 Pge9*
 
 BARNHAM WATER. 
 
 Fresh from the Hall of Bounty sprung*. 
 With glowing heart and ardent eye. 
 
 With song and rhyme upon my tongue. 
 And fairy visions dancing by. 
 
 The mid-day sun in all his pow'r 
 
 ' The backward valley painted gay ; 
 
 Mine was a road without a flower. 
 
 Where one small streamlet cross'd the way. 
 
 * On a sultry afternoon, late in the summer of 1802, 
 Euston-Hall lay in my way toThetford, which place I did not 
 reach until the evening, on a visit to my sister : the lines 
 lose much of their interest except they could be read on the 
 spot, or at least at a corresponding season of the year.
 
 96 BARNHAM WATER. 
 
 What was it rous'd my soul to love 1 
 
 What made the simple brook so dear % 
 It glided like the weary dove. 
 
 And never brook seem'd half so clear. 
 Cool pass'd the current o'er my feet, 
 
 Its shelving brink for rest was made. 
 But every charm was incomplete. 
 
 For Bamham Waler wants a shade- 
 
 There, faint beneath the fervid sun, 
 
 I gaz'd in ruminating mood ; 
 For who can see the current run 
 
 And snatch no feast of mental food 1 
 " Keep pure thy soul," it seem'd to say, 
 
 " Keep that fair path by wisdom trod, 
 " That thou may'st hope to wind thy way 
 
 " To fame worth boasting, and to God."
 
 BARNHAM WATER. 97 
 
 I.ong aiid delightful was the dreain, 
 
 A waking dream that Fancy yields, 
 TiU with regret I left the stream, 
 
 And plung'd across the barren fields ; 
 To where of old rich abbeys smil'd 
 
 In all the pomp of gothic taste. 
 By fond tradition proudly styl'd. 
 
 The mighty " City in the East." 
 
 Near, on a slope of burning sand. 
 
 The shepherd boys had met to play. 
 To hold the plams at their conunand. 
 
 And mark the trav'ller's leafless way. 
 The trav'ller with a cheerful look 
 
 Would every pinuig thought forbear. 
 If bouglis but shelter'd Bamham brook 
 
 He'd stop and leave liis blessing there.
 
 ^ BARNHAM WATER. 
 
 The Danish mounds of partial green. 
 
 Still, as each mouldering tower decays, 
 Far o'er the bleak unwooded scene 
 
 Proclaim their wond'rous length of days. 
 My burning feet, my aching sight. 
 
 Demanded rest, why did I weep 1 
 The moon arose, and such a night ! 
 
 Good Heav'n ! it was a sin to sleep. 
 
 All rushing came thy hallow'd sighs. 
 
 Sweet Melancholy, from my breast ; 
 ** 'Tis here that eastera greatness lies, 
 
 " That Might, Renown, and Wisdom rest ! 
 " Here funeral rites* the priesthood gave 
 
 " To chiefs who sway'd prodigious powers, 
 " The Bigods and the Mowbrays brave, 
 
 ** From Framlicgham's imperial towers.
 
 BARNHAM WATER. 99 
 
 Full of the mighty deeds of yore, 
 
 I bade good night the trembling beam ; 
 Fancy e'en heard the battle's roar, 
 
 Of what but slaughter could I dream 1 
 Bless'd be that night, that trembling beam, 
 
 Peaceful excursions Fancy made ; 
 All night I heard the bubbling stream, 
 
 Yet, Barnham Water wants a shade. 
 
 Whatever hurts my country's fame. 
 
 When wits and mountaineers deride. 
 To me grows serious, for I name 
 
 My native plains and streams with pride. 
 No mountain charms have I to sing. 
 
 No loftier minstrel's rights invade ; 
 From trifles oft mi/ raptures spring ; 
 
 Sweet Barnham Water wants a shade.
 
 MARY^S EVENING SIGH. 
 
 How bright with pearl the western sky I 
 
 How glorious far and wide. 
 Yon lines of golden clouds that lie 
 
 So peaceful side by side F 
 Their deep'ning tints, the arch of light. 
 
 All eyes with rapture see ; 
 E'en while I sigh I bless the sight 
 
 That lures my love from me.
 
 102 MARY'S EVENING SIGH. 
 
 Green hill, that shad'st the valley here. 
 
 Thou bear's! upon thy brow 
 The only wealth to Mary dear. 
 
 And all she'll ever know. 
 There, in the crimson light I see. 
 
 Above thy summit rise. 
 My Edward's form, he looks to me 
 
 A statue in the skies. 
 
 Descend, my love, the hour is come, 
 
 Why linger on the hill ] 
 TTie sun hath left my quiet home. 
 
 But thou canst see him still ; 
 Yet why a lonely wanderer stray. 
 
 Alone the joy pursue ? 
 The glories of the closing day 
 
 Can charm, thy Mary too.
 
 MARY'S EVENING SIGH. 103 
 
 Dear Edward, when we stroU'd along 
 
 Beneath the waving corn. 
 And both confess'd the power of song. 
 
 And bless'd the dewy mom ; 
 Your eye o'erflow'd, " How sweet," you cried, 
 
 (My presence then could move) 
 *' How sweet, with Mary by my side, 
 
 " To gaze and talk of love \" 
 
 Thou art not false ! that cannot be ; 
 
 Yet I my rivals deem 
 Each woodland charm, the moss, the tree. 
 
 The silence, and the stream ; 
 Whate'er my love, detains thee now, 
 
 I'll yet forgive thy slay ; 
 But with to-morrow's dawn come thou. 
 
 We'll brush the dews away.
 
 GOOD TIDINGS; 
 
 0R> 
 
 I^EWS FHOM THE FARM. 
 
 How vain this tribute ; vain this lowly lay ; 
 Yet nought is vain which gratitude inspiresi 
 The Muse, besides, her duty thus approves 
 To virtue, to her country, to mankind I 
 
 THOMSON.
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 J. O the few who know that I have employed my thoughts 
 on the importance of Dr. Jenner's discovery, it has 
 generally and almost unexceptionably appeared a subject 
 of little promise ; peculiarly unfit indeed for poetry. My 
 method of treating it has endeared it to myself, for it in- 
 dulges in domestic anecdote. The account given of my 
 infeuicy and of my father's burial, is not only poetically, but 
 strictly true, and with me it has its weight accordingly. I 
 have witnessed the destruction described in my brotlier's 
 femily ; and I have, in my own, insured the lives of four 
 children by Vaccine Inoculation, who, I trust, are destined 
 to look back upon the Small-pox as the scourge of days 
 gone by. My hopes are high, and my prayers sincere, for 
 its universal adoption. 
 
 The few notes subjoined are chiefly from " Woodville on 
 Inoculation ;" and if I may escape the appearance of affec- 
 tation of research, or a scientific treatment of tlie subject, 
 I think the egotism, so conspicuous in tlie poem, (as facts 
 give force to argument,) oo^t to be forgiven.
 
 GOOD TIDINGS; 
 
 OR, 
 
 NEWS FROM THE FARM, 
 
 Where's the Blind Child, so admirably fair,. 
 With guileless dimples, and with flaxen hair 
 That waves in ev'ry breeze 1 he's often seen 
 Beside yon cottage wall, or on the green. 
 With others match'd in spuit and in size. 
 Health on their cheeks, and rapture in their eyes ; 
 That full expanse of voice, to childhood dear. 
 Soul of their sports, is duly cherish'd here :
 
 108 GOOD TIDINGS. 
 
 And, hark ! that laugh is his, that jovial cry ; 
 He hears the ball and trundling hoop brush by. 
 And runs the giddy course with all his might, 
 A very child in every thing but sight ; 
 With circumscrib'd, but not abated pow'rs, 
 Play ! the great object of his in^t hours ; 
 In many a game he takes a noisy part. 
 And shows the native gladness of his heart j 
 But soon he hears, on pteasiire all intent. 
 The new suggestion and the quick assent ; 
 The grove invites, delight thrills every breast 
 To leap the ditch and seek the dovray nest 
 Away they start, leave balls and hoops behind. 
 
 And one companion leave tlie boy is blind I 
 
 His fancy paints their distant paths so gay. 
 That childish fortitude awhile gives way.
 
 Page 109.
 
 GOOD TIDINGS, IO9 
 
 He feels his dreadful lossyet short the paiu. 
 Soon he resumes his cheerfulness again.; 
 Pond'riug how best his moments to employ, 
 He sings his Uttle songs of nameless joy, 
 Creeps on the warm green turf for many an hour, 
 And plucks by chance the white and yellow flow'r ; 
 Smoothing their stems, while resting on his knees. 
 He binds a nos^ay which he never sees;; 
 Along the homeward j)ath then feels Iiis way^ 
 Lifting his brow against the shining day. 
 And, with a playful rapture round his eyes. 
 Presents a sighing parent with the prize. 
 
 She blest that day, which he remembers too. 
 When he could gaze on heav'ji's ethereal blue. 
 See the green Spring, and Summer's countless dies, 
 And all t!ie colours of 'the morning ris. 
 S
 
 110 GOOD TIDINGS. 
 
 * When was this work of bitterness begun 1 
 
 * How came the blindness of your only son T 
 Thus pity prompts full many a tongue to say. 
 But never, till she slowly wipes away 
 
 Th' obtruding tear that trembles in her eye. 
 
 This dagger of a question meets reply ; 
 
 " My boy was healthy, and my rest was sound, 
 
 *' When last year's com was green upon the ground ; 
 
 *' From yonder town infection found its way ; 
 
 ^ Around me putrid dead and dying lay, 
 
 ** I trembled for his fate : but all my care 
 
 * Avail'd not, for he hreath'd the tainted air ; 
 
 * Sickness ensu'd in terror and dismay 
 
 " I nurs'd him in my arms both night and day, 
 
 ** When his soft skin from head to foot became 
 
 ** One swelling purple sore, unfit to name:
 
 GOOD TIDINGS. Hi 
 
 *' Hour after hour, when all was still beside, 
 
 " When the pale night-light in its socket died, 
 
 " Alone I sat ; the thought still sooths my heart, 
 
 " That surely I perform'd a mother's part, 
 
 " Watching with such anxiety and pain 
 
 " Till he might smile and look on me again ; 
 
 " But that was not to be-^ask me no more : 
 
 "God keep small-pox and blindness from your door!" 
 
 Now, ye who think, whose souls abroad take wing, 
 And trace out human troubles to their spruig. 
 Say, should Heav'n grant us, in some hallow'd hour, 
 Means to divest this demon of his power. 
 To loose his horrid grasp from early worth. 
 To spread a saving conquest round the earth. 
 Till ev'ry land shall bow the grateful knee. 
 Would it not be a glorious day to see ?
 
 112 GOOD TIDINGS. 
 
 That day is come ! my soul, in strength arise. 
 Invoke no muse, no power below the skies ; 
 To Heav'n the energies of verse belong, 
 Truth is the tlieme, and truth shall be the song^ 
 Ann with conviction every joyful line. 
 Source of all mercies, for the praise is thine ! 
 
 Sweet beam'd the star of peace upon those days 
 When Virtue watch'd my diildhood's quiet ways. 
 Whence a warm spark of Nature's holy ilame 
 <5ave the farm-yard an honourable name. 
 But left one theme unsung : then, who had seen* 
 In herds that feast upon the vernal green. 
 Or dreamt that in the blood of kine there ran 
 Blessings beyond the sn^nance of man 1 
 We tread the meadow, aud we scent tlie thorn, 
 We hail the day-spring of a summer's mom
 
 GOOD TIDINGS. 113 
 
 Nor mead at dawning day, nor thymy heathy 
 Transcends the fragrance of the heifer's breath : 
 May that dear fragrance, as it floats along 
 O'er ev'ry flow'r that lives in rustic song ; 
 May all the sweets of meadows and of kine 
 Embalm, O Health ! this offering at thy shrine. 
 
 Dear must tliat moment be when first the mind. 
 Ranging llie paths of science unconfin'd. 
 Strikes a new light ; when, obvious to the sense^ 
 Springs tlie fresh spark of bright intelligence; 
 So felt tlie towering soul of Montagu, 
 Her sex's glory, and her country's too ; 
 Who gave the spotted plague one deadly blow,- 
 And bade its mitigated poison flow 
 With half its terrors ; yet, with k)athing still, 
 Wc bous'd a visitant with povv'r to kill.
 
 114 GOOD TIDINGS. 
 
 Then wlien the healthful blood, tliough often tried, 
 
 Foil'd the keen lancet by tlie Severn side. 
 
 Resisting, uncontaminated still. 
 
 The purple pest and unremitting skill ; 
 
 When the plain truth tradition seem'd to know. 
 
 By simply pointing to the harmless Cow, 
 
 Though wise distrust to reason might appeal ; 
 
 Wliat, when hope triuraph'd, what did Jenner feel ! 
 
 Where even hope itself could scarcely rise 
 
 To scan the vast, inestimable prize ! 
 
 Perhaps supreme, alone, triumphant stood 
 
 The great, the conscious power of doing good. 
 
 The power to will, and wishes to embrace 
 
 Th' emancipation of the human race ; 
 
 A joy that must all mortal praise outlive, 
 
 A wealth that grateful nations cannot give.
 
 GOOD TIDINGS. 115 
 
 Forth sped the truth immediate from his hand. 
 And continnations sprung in ev'ry land ; 
 In ev'ry land, on beauty's lily arm. 
 On infant softness, like a magic charm, 
 Appear'd the gift that conquers as it goes ; 
 The dairy's boast, the simple, saving Rose ! 
 Momentous triumph fiend ! thy reign is o'er ; 
 Thou, whose blind rage hath ravag'd ev'ry shore. 
 Whose name denotes destruction, whose foul breatli 
 For ever hov'ring round the dart of death. 
 Fells, mercilessly fells, tlie brave and base. 
 Through all the kindreds of the human race. 
 Who has not heard, in warm, poetic tales. 
 Of eastern fragrance and Arabian gales 1 
 Bowers of delight, of languor, and repose. 
 Where beauty triumph 'd as tlic song arose ?
 
 Il6 GOOD TIDINGS. 
 
 Fancy may revel, fiction boldly dare. 
 
 But truth shall not forget that thou wert there. 
 
 Scourge of the world I who, borne on ev'ry wind. 
 
 From bow'rs of roses* sprang to curse mankind. 
 
 The Indian palm thy devastation knows : 
 
 Thou sweep'st the regions of eternal snowsf t 
 
 Climbing the mighty period of his years. 
 
 The British oak his giant bulk uprcars ; 
 
 He, in liis strength, while toU'd the passing bell, 
 
 Rejoic'd whole centuries as thy victims fell : 
 
 Armies have bled, and shouts of vict'ry rung. 
 
 Fame crown'd their deaths, thi/ deaths are all unsung : 
 
 * Tlie first medical account of tlie small-pox is given by the 
 Arabian physicians, and is traced no farther back than the siege of 
 Alexandria, about the year of Christ, 640. Woodville. 
 
 t First introduced into Greenland in 1733, and almost depopulated 
 the country. Ibid.
 
 GOOD TIDINGS. 117 
 
 Twas thine, while victories claim'd th' immortal lay. 
 Through private life to cut thy desperate way ; 
 And when full power the wond'rous magnet gave 
 Ambition's sons to dare the ocean wave. 
 Thee, in their train of horrid ills, they drew 
 Beneath the blessed sunshine of Peru*. 
 But why unskiird th' historic page explore 1 
 Why thus pursue thee to a foreign shore 1 
 A homely narrative of days gone by. 
 Familiar griefs, and kindred's tender sigh 
 Shall still survive ; for thou on ev'ry mind 
 Hast left some traces of tliy wratli behind, 
 
 * In 15'20, says Mr. Woodville, when tlie small-pox visited New 
 Spain, it proved fatal to one half of the people in the provinces to 
 which tlie infection extended ; being carried tliitlier by a negro 
 slave, who attended Narvaez in his expedition against Cortes. He 
 adtls, about fifty years after tlie discovery of Peru, the small-pox 
 was carried over from Europe to America by way of Carthagena, 
 when it oveixan the Continent of the New World, and destroyed 
 upwards of 100,000 Indians in the single province of Quito. IliJit. 
 of Inoculation,
 
 118 GOOD TIDINGS. 
 
 There dwelt, beside a brook that creeps along 
 Midst infant hills and meads unknown to song. 
 One to whom poverty and faith were giv'n. 
 Calm village silence, and the hope of heav'n : 
 Alone she dwelt ; and while each morn brought j>eace. 
 And health was smiling on her years' increase. 
 Sudden and fearful, rushing through her frame. 
 Unusual pains and feverish symptoms came. 
 Then, when debilitated, faint, and poor. 
 How sweet to hear a footstep at her door ! 
 To see a neighbour watch life's silent sand. 
 To hear the sigh, and feel the helping hand ! 
 Soon woe o'erspread the interdicted ground. 
 And consternation seiz'd tlie hamlets round : 
 Uprose the pest its widow'd victim died ; 
 And foul contagion spread on ev'ry side ;
 
 GOOD TIDINGS. 119 
 
 The helping neighbour for her kind regard. 
 Bore home that dreadful tribute of rewaid, 
 Home, where six children, yielding to its pow'r. 
 Gave hope and patience a most trying hour ; 
 One at her breast slill drew the living stream. 
 And, sense of danger never marr'd his dream ; 
 Yet all exclaim'd, and with a pitying eye, 
 "*Whoe'er survives the shock, t?iat child will die!' 
 But vain the fiat, Heav n restor'd them all. 
 And destin'd one of riper years to fall. 
 Midnight beheld the close of all his pain. 
 His grave was clos'd when midnight came again; 
 No bell was Iieard to toll, no funeral pray'r. 
 No kindred bow'd, no Avife, no chiklreu there ; 
 Its horrid nature could inspire a dread 
 That cut the bonds of custom like a thread.
 
 120 GOOD TIDINGS. 
 
 The humble churcli-tow'r higher seem'd to show, 
 
 Illumin'd by their trembling light below ; 
 
 Tlie solemn night-breeze struck each shiv'ring cheek j 
 
 Religious reverence forbade to speak : 
 
 The starting Sexton his short sorrow chid 
 
 When the earth murmur'd on the coffin lid. 
 
 And felling bones and sighs of holy dread 
 
 Sounded a requiem to the silent dead ! 
 
 * Why tell us tales of woe, thou who didst give 
 
 * Thy soul to rural themes, and bade them live ? 
 
 * What means this zeal of thine, this kindling fire 1 
 ' The rescu'd infant and the dying sire ]' 
 
 Kind heart, who o'er the piclur'd Seasons glow'd. 
 When smiles approv'd the verse, or tears have flow'd. 
 Was then the lowly minstrel dear to thee ? 
 Himself appeals ^What, if thrit child were he !
 
 Page ISO.
 
 GOOD TIDINGS. 121 
 
 What, if those midnight sighs a farewell gave. 
 While hands, all trembling, clos'd his father's grave ! 
 Though love enjoin'd not infant eyes to weep. 
 In manhood's zenith shall his feelings sleep 1 
 Sleep not, my soul ! indulge a nobler flame ; 
 Still the destroyer persecutes thy name. 
 
 Seven winters cannot pluck from memory's store 
 That mark'd affliction which a brother bore ; 
 That storm of trouble bursting on his head. 
 When the fiend came, and left two children dead ! 
 Yet, still superior to domestic woes. 
 The native vigour of his mind arose. 
 And, as new summers teem'd with brighter views. 
 He trac'd the wand'riiigs of liis darling Muse, 
 And all was joy this instant all is pain. 
 The foe implacable returns again.
 
 122 GOOD TIDINGS. 
 
 And claims a sacrifice ; llie deed is done 
 
 Another child has fall'n, another son* ! 
 
 His young cheek even now is scarcely cold, 
 
 And shall his early doom remain untold 1 
 
 No ! let the tide of passion roll along, 
 
 Truth will be heard, and God \\'\\\ bless the song. 
 
 Indignant Reason, Pity, Joy, arise, 
 
 j\nd speak in thunder to the heart that sighs : 
 
 Speak loud to parents ; knew ye not the time 
 
 When age itself, and manhood's hardy prime. 
 
 With horror saw their short-liv'd friendships cud. 
 
 Yet dar'd not visit e'en the dying friend ? 
 
 Contagion, a foul serpent lurking near, 
 
 Mock'd Nature's sigh and Friendship's holy tear. 
 
 * I had proceeded thus far with the Poem, when the above fact 
 became a powerful stimulus to my feelings, and to the earnestness 
 of my exhortations.
 
 GOOD TIDINGS. 123 
 
 Love ye your children 1 let that love arise, 
 Pronounce the sentence, and the serpent dies ; 
 Bid welcome a mild stranger at your door. 
 Distress shall cease, those terrors reign no more. 
 Love ye your neighbours ? let that love be shown ; 
 Risk not their children while you guard your own ; 
 Give not a foe dominion o'er your blood. 
 Plant not a poison, e'en to bring forth good ; 
 For, woo the pest discreetly as you will. 
 Deadly infection must attend him still. 
 Then, let the serpent die ! this glorious prize 
 Sets more than life and health before our eyes. 
 For beauty triumphs too ! Beauty ! sweet name. 
 The mother's feelings kindling into flame ! 
 For, where dwells she, who, while the virtues grow. 
 With cold indift'ercuce marks the archins brow ?
 
 124 GOOD TIDINGS. 
 
 Or, with a lifeless heart and recreant blood. 
 
 Sighs not for daughters fair as well as good ? 
 
 That sigh is nature, and cannot decay, 
 
 'Tis universal as the beams of day ; 
 
 Man knows and feels its truth ; for. Beauty's call 
 
 Houses the coldest mortal of us all ; 
 
 A glance warms age itself, and gives the boy 
 
 The pulse of rapture, and the sigh of joy. 
 
 And is it then no conquest to insure 
 
 Our lilies spotless and our roses pure 1 
 
 Is it no triumph tliat the lovely face 
 
 Inherits every line of Nature's grace ? 
 
 That the sweet precincts of the laughing eye 
 
 Dread no rude scars, no foul deformity ? 
 
 Our boast, old Time himself shall not impair. 
 
 Of British maids pre-eminently fair ;
 
 GOOD TIDINGS. J 25 
 
 But, as he rolls his years on years along, 
 
 Shall keep the record of immortal song ; 
 
 For song shall rise witli ampler power to speak 
 
 The new-bom influence of Beauty's cheek. 
 
 Shall catch new fires in every sacred grove. 
 
 Fresh inspiration from the Ups of Love, 
 
 And write for ever on the rising mind 
 
 Dead is one mortal foe of human kind! 
 
 Yes, we have conquer'd ! and the thought should raise 
 A spirit in our prayers as well as praise. 
 For who will say, in Nature's wide domain 
 Tliere lurk not remedies for every pam 1 
 Who will assert, where Turkish banners fly. 
 Who still shall reign the plague shall never die ? 
 Or who predict, with bosom all unblest. 
 An everlasUna: fever in the West?
 
 126 GOOD TIDINGS. 
 
 Forbid it Heav'n ! Hope cheers us with a smile. 
 
 The sun of Mercy's risen on our isle : 
 
 Its beams already, o'er th' Atlantic wave. 
 
 Pierce the dark forests of the suffering brave : 
 
 There, e'en th' abandon'd sick imbib'd a glow. 
 
 When warrior nations, resting on the bow, 
 
 Astonish'd heard the joyful rumour rise. 
 
 And call'd the council of their great and wise : 
 
 The truth by female pray'rs was urg'd along, 
 
 Youth ceas'd the chorus of the warrior song. 
 
 And present ills bade present feelings press 
 
 With all the eloquence of deep distress ; 
 
 Till forth their chiefs* o'er dying thousands trodf 
 
 To seek the white man and his bounteous God : 
 
 * TTie chiefs of the Cherokee Indians, in North America, have ap- 
 plied to the government of the United States for information on the 
 Subject of Vaccine Inocnlation, and have spread the practice in the 
 Woods.
 
 GOOD TIDINGS. 127 
 
 Well sped their errand ; with a patriot zeal 
 They spread the blessing for their country's weal. 
 
 Where India's swarthy millions crowd the strand. 
 And round that isle, which crowns their pointed land. 
 Speeds the good angel with the balmy breath. 
 And checks the dreadful tyranny of death : 
 Whate'er we hear to hurt the peace of life. 
 Of Candian treachery and British strife. 
 The sword of commerce, nations bought and sold. 
 They owe to England more than mines of gold ; 
 England has sent a balm for private woe ; 
 England strikes do^vn the nations' bitterest foe. 
 
 Europe, amidst the clangor>of her arms. 
 While life was threaten'd with a thousand harms. 
 And Charity was freezing to its source. 
 Still saw fair Science keep her steady course ;
 
 158 600D TIDINGS. 
 
 And, while whole legions fell, by friends deplor'd, 
 New germs of life sprung up beneath the sword. 
 And spread amain. ^Then, in our bosoms, why 
 Must exultation mingle witli a sigh ] 
 
 Thought takes the retrospect of years just fledy 
 And, conjuring up the spirits of tlie dead, 
 Wliispers each dear and venerated name 
 Of the last victims ere the blessing came. 
 Worthies, who through the lands that gave them bu-tli 
 Breath'd the strong evidence of growing worth ; 
 Parents, cut down in life's meridian day. 
 And childhood's thousand thousand swept away j 
 Life's luckless mariners ! ye^ we deplore 
 Who sunk within a boat's length of tl>e shore*., 
 
 * So lately as the year 1793, Ihe small-pox was carried to tlic 
 Isle of Fiance by a Dutch ship, and there desUoyed five thousand 
 four hundred persons in six weeks. Woodville.
 
 GOOD TIDINGS. 129 
 
 A stranger youth, from his meridian sky, 
 Buoyant with hopes, came here but came to die t 
 O'er his sad fate I've ponder'd hours away. 
 It suits the languor of a gloomy day : 
 He left his bamboo groves, his pleasant shore. 
 He left his friends to hear new oceans roar. 
 All confident, ingenuous, and bold. 
 He heard tlie wonders by the white men told ; 
 Witli firm assurance trod the rolling deck. 
 And saw his isle diminish to a speck, 
 Plough'd the rough waves, and gain'd our northern clime. 
 In manhood's ripening sense and nature's prime. 
 Oh ! had the fiend been vanquish'd ere he came. 
 The gen'rous youth had spread my country's fame. 
 Had known that honour dwells among the brave. 
 And England had not prov'd the stranger's grave : 
 
 K
 
 GOOD TIDINGS. 
 
 Then, ere his v^-abing sand of life had run. 
 Poor Abba Thule might have seen his sonJ* 
 
 Rise, exultation ! spirit, louder speak ! 
 Pity, dislodge thy dewdrops from my cheek : 
 Sleep sound, forefathers ; sleep, brave stianger boy. 
 While truth impels the current of my joy: 
 To all mankind, to all the earth 'tis giv'n. 
 
 Conviction travels like tlie light of heav'n : 
 Go, blessing, from thy birth-place still expand. 
 For that dear birth-place is my native landl 
 A nation consecrates th' auspicious day, 
 ^d wealth, and rank, and talents lead the way ! 
 Time, with triuznphant hand, shall truU. diffuse, 
 Nor ask the unbought efforts of the Muse. 
 
 bro^^Ao^SS^^^ Inlands, was 
 
 Rotlierhithe, ia 1734. ' """^ '''^^ ^"ie Small-pox at
 
 f 
 
 GOOD TIDINGS. 131 
 
 Mothers ! the pledges of your loves caress. 
 And heave no sighs but sighs of tenderness. 
 Fatlicrs, be finn ! keep down the fallen foe. 
 And on the memory of domestic woe 
 Build resolution. Victory shall increase 
 Th' incalculable wealth of private peace ; 
 And such a victory, nnslain'd with gore. 
 That strews its laurels at the cottage door. 
 Sprung from the farm, and from the yellow mead. 
 Should be the glory of the pastoral reed. 
 In village paths, hence, may we never find 
 Their youth on crutches, and their children blind ; 
 Nor, when the milk-maid, early from her bed, 
 
 j Beneath the may-bush that embow'rs her head, 
 
 I . . . 
 
 Smgs like a bird, e'er grieve to meet again 
 
 The fair cheek injur'd by the scars of pain ;
 
 132 GOOD TIDINGS. 
 
 Pure, in her morning path, where'er she treads. 
 
 Like April sunshine and the flow'rs it feeds. 
 
 She'll boast new conquests ; Love, new shafts to fling ; 
 
 And Life, an uncontaminated spring. 
 
 In pure delight didst thou, my soul, pursue 
 
 A task to conscience and to kindred due. 
 
 And, true to feeling and to Nature, deem 
 
 The dairji's boast thy own appropriate theme ; 
 
 Hail now the meed of pleasurable hours. 
 
 And, at the foot of Science, strew thy flow'rs I 
 
 THE END. 
 
 W. Wilson, Priuter, St. John's Square.
 
 esv 
 
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