TRANSCRIBERS' NOTES

Dialect has been retained. Printer's errors and corrections are described at the end of the text.

Note that there is an [index] to the poems at the end of the text.

AWD ISAAC,
THE STEEPLE CHASE,
AND OTHER
POEMS;

WITH A GLOSSARY OF THE

YORKSHIRE DIALECT:

BY JOHN CASTILLO.

WHITBY:
PUBLISHED BY HORNE & RICHARDSON.

1843.

[PREFACE.]

The Author of the following Poems prefixes a “Preface” to them, lest he should seem to be wanting in respect to his readers, did he not comply with a custom which is universal. In doing so, however, he would eschew two kinds of Preface, viz: that in which the author arrogates to himself the merit of having produced a work entirely new, both in subject, and in manner of expression, and on that score claims the plaudits of his friends and the public;—and that in which the author professes to feel himself inadequate to the task of composing a book, but at the pressing solicitation of his friends, with great distrust of his abilities for such a work, he yields to their entreaties, and pleads his inability in mitigation of the critic’s wrath. With respect to the former, the writer of the present volume professes not to offer to his readers any thing new, either as to matter, or to language; and as to the latter, the following pieces were most of them composed several years ago, at distant intervals of time, and were frequently perused by his friends long before he had thoughts of publishing them:—the character of his poetry is therefore pretty well known to those who are likely to become purchasers of his book; and it would be but a bungling apology did he attempt to shelter its defects under the plea of inability for his task.

It will be unnecessary to say much of the subjects sung of in the following poems. Though they are various, the author hopes they will all be found to contain a moral, which, if acted upon in common life, would direct the conduct to a beneficial end. Many of them are founded on facts which occurred in the writer’s neighbourhood, and which he has endeavoured to turn to a useful purpose. Others are of an experimental cast, and are the breathings of the poet’s heart when inflamed by Love Divine! It has been his constant aim to exhibit the workings of grace in the heart, its effects on the life, and the glorious futurity to which it conducts its possessor. For this purpose, he has seized on a variety of incidents known to many of his friends, which have furnished him with matter on which to graft a spiritual thought. Life in its spring tide, or when ebbing in death, home with its simple yet hallowed joys, a religious assembly rapt in devotion and love, a landscape endeared by the associations of youth or of kindred, a dilapidated church, a withering flower, a text of scripture—have supplied him with topics;—and he trusts that the doctrines which he has inculcated in connection with them will always be found to agree with the Word of God.

Of the “Dialect” in which some of the pieces are composed, the author deems it necessary to say a few words. It is well known that every county in England has its peculiarities of expression and pronunciation. These peculiarities, though often unintelligible to persons brought up at a distance, are yet the native language of the common inhabitants; and there is, in their estimation, a point and power in them, which are not to be found in more polished periods. The author has availed himself of the dialect of his native county to convey to a particular class of persons some important truths, which may, perhaps, be more welcomely received because clad in that garb. There may, indeed, appear to delicate ears, a rudeness approaching to barbarism, in the dialect which he has employed; but what is wanting in polish, will, in the estimation of those for whom he writes, be more than compensated by force and vigour. Truth is truth—however humble the habiliments in which it is dressed: nor does it come with less power to the heart because conveyed in language with which those for whom it was intended are familiar. Indeed, there is in that very familiarity something which arrests the attention and affects the heart. Of the correctness of this view, the author has many times seen proof, in the interest with which some of the pieces in the dialect have been listened to, by persons whose education being limited they could not perhaps have appreciated the beauties of polished verse, but were at once arrested and delighted when the artless tale was narrated in their mother tongue. To make this part of the work as complete as possible, great care has been used to render the orthography correct: published specimens of the Dialect have been consulted, as well as living authorities, and no pains have been spared that could contribute to make it complete both to the eye and to the ear. A difference of orthography may occasionally appear, caused by the necessity of making a rhyme;—excepting a few rare instances of this kind, a standard has been adopted which has not been departed from. For the assistance of those who are unacquainted with the dialect of the North Riding of Yorkshire, a copious glossary is appended to the work, by reference to which the meaning of any unknown term or phrase will at once be seen.

The author prays that the blessing of God may accompany his work!

AWD ISAAC.
(PART FIRST.)

Yah neeght as Ah went heeame fra’ wark,
A lahtle bit afoore ’twur dark,
Quite blithe an’ cheerful as a lark,
Ah thowght me-sel;
Ah sat me doon, te rist a bit,
At top o’t’ hill.

Fooaks just wur turnin oot ther ky;—
A lahtle plain awd man com by;—
“Cum set ye doon, gud frind,” sez I,
“An’ rist yer legs;”
He’d beean a bit o’ floor te buy,
An’ twea’r three eggs.

Ah fand him varry fain te stop;—
His staff he set up as a prop;—
His hooary heead he lifted up,
An’ thus compleean’d:—
(Sum fragments ov a gud like feeace,
Ther still remeean’d.)

“Yoo see,” sez he, “mah deear young frind,
Mah travel’s ommost at an end;
Wi’ age mah back begins te bend,
An’ white’s mah hair;
Ov this warld’s griefs, yoo may depend,
Ah’v hed mah share.”

His teeal tho’ simple, it wur grand,
An’ varry gud te understand,—
His stick steead up aboon his hand,
T’awd fashion’d way;
His cooat an’ hat wur wether tann’d,
A duffil gray.

“Ah think,” sez Ah, “’at Scriptur sez,
Gray hairs is honorable dress,
If they be fund i’reeghteousness,
By faith obtain’d;
An’ think, by what yer leeaks express,
That praaze yoo’ve gain’d.

Wi’ age it izzen’t gud te jooak,
An’ts ommost ower warm te woak,
Sit doon, an’ hev a bit o’ tawk,
O’ things ’at’s past;
Awd men like yoo, hez seeaf beeath heeard
An’ seen a vast.”

“A vast Ah hev beeath heeard an’ seen,
An’ felt misfotten’s arrows keen,
As yoo remark, whahl Ah hev beean
On this life’s stage;
It’s sike a varry changin scene,
Fra’ yooth te age.

Hoo great, an’ yet hoo feeble’s man,
His life at langest’s bud a span;”
His history be thus began,
Wi’ teears te tell;
An’ if yer ears be owght like maane,
’Twill pleease ye weel.

“Lang sin’ Ah lost mah wife,” sez he,
“Which wur a heavy cross te me;
An’ then mah sun teeak off tot’ sea,
A fine young man,
An’ Ah neea mare his feeace mun see,
It’s ten te yan.

Ah happen’d te be off yah day,
A kind ov sweetheart, as they say,
Com in an’ teeak mah lass away,
Wi’ hoosin stuff;
An’ noo, poor thing, she’s deead, they say,
A lang way off.

It’s noo neen yeear, an’ gaain i’ten,
Sin’ Ah at t’bark wood joined sum men,
’Twur theer Ah fell an’ leeam’d me-sen,
I’ spite o’ care;
Ah wur foorc’d te gie up theer an’ then,
An’ woark ne mare.

Bud t’neeaburs hez beean varry gud,
Or else lang sin’ Ah’d stuck i’t’ mud,
An’ seea throo them an’ t’help o’ God,
Ah gits mah breead;
An’ whooap they’ll be rewarded for’t,
When Ah’s law leead.

Bud seein all mah cumforts gooan,
Ah didden’t knaw what way te ton,
Then Ah began te sigh an’ mooan,
Beeath neeght an’ day;
Ah bowght a Baable, an’ began
Te reead an’ pray.

An’ as Ah reead, an’ as Ah preea’d,
Ah thowght it thunner’d ower mah heead,
An’ offens Ah’ wur sadly flay’d
Wi’ dismal noises,
Sumtaames i’ bed Ah thowght Ah heeard
Some ungkerd voices.

A preeacher chanc’d te cum this way,
Ah’v cause te ivver bless the day,
Kind Providence leead me that way
This man te heear;
Ah, like a sheep, had geean astray
For monny a yeear.

He sed ’twur t’luv o’ Christ cumpell’d him,
Bud seean as ivver Ah beeheld him,
Ah thowght ’at sum kind frind hed tell’d him
All mah heart;
For ivv’ry word, like arrows pointed,
Meead it smart.

Ah thowght, till then, ’at Ah wur reeght,
Bud he set mah sins all i’mah seeght,
At last Ah fell doon at his feet
Wi’ solid grief;
Ah thowght Ah sud ha’ deead afoore
Ah fund relief.

Ah reeally thowght, if yoo’ll beleeave me,
’At hell wur oppen te receeave me,
Sum sed the Lord wad seean releeave me,
He wur mah keeper;
Bud all they sed did nowght but greeave me,
An’ cut me deeper.

Ah dreeaded th’ Almighty’s froon,
An’ wander’d greeatin up an’ doon,
Nowther i’t’ coontry nor i’t’ toon
Neea rist Ah fand;
Mah sins, like stars, did me surroon’,
Or heeaps o’ sand.

Then varry seean t’repoort wur rais’d,
An’ all roond t’village it wur blaz’d,
Awd Isaac, he wur gangin craz’d
An’ nowght seea seer;
Mah cottage then for days an’ days
Neea sowl com near.

At thowghts ov ivverlastin pains,
An’ bein bund iv endless chains,
Mah bleead, like ice, ran thruff mah veins
Wi’ shivrin dreead;
Ah cudden’t sleep, an’ Ah forgat
Te eat mah breead.

At last this gud man com ageean,
For which mah heart wur glad an’ fain,
Just like a thorsty land for rain,
Ah sat quite neear him;
Whahl ivv’ry organ ov mah sowl,
Wur bent te heear him.

Bud seean as Ah his sarmon heeard,
A still small voice mah sperits cheear’d,
An’ Ah, that varry neeght wur meeade,
A happy man;
Te praaze the Lord wi’ all mah heart,
Ah then began.

Ah knew He hed mah sins forgeean,
Whahl Ah hed in His prisance beean,
An’ that His bleead cud wesh me cleean,
An’ white as snaw,
An’ mack me fit wi’ Him te reen
Whahl heer belaw.

Sin’ then, i’ all mah conflicts heer,
Ah flees te Him wi’ faith an’ preear,
An’ He, in marsey, lends an eear.
Thruff his deear Son;
An’ this is t’way, wi’ whooap an’ feear,
Ah travels on.

Oft, when Ah thus draws neear te Him,
He macks mah een wi’ teears te swim,
Then fills mah heart quite up te t’ brim
Wi’ t’luv o’ God;
An’ when Ah gets mare faith i’ Him,
Ah hods mah hod.

Sumtaames Ah’v hed yon beck te swim,
An’ monny a time this hill te clim,
Wi’ heavy heart an’ weeary lim’
An’ sweeaty broo;
Bud all ’at ah can trist Him in,
He helps me throo.

In all the straits ov life, sez he,
Hooivver bare mah cubburt be,
Wi’ broon breead crust, an’ woormwood tea,
Or even gall,
Whereivver Ah finnds Christ te be,
He sweet’ns all.

Mah neeaburs all, Ah deearly luv ’em,
An’ oft Ah’s foorc’d for t’repruv ’em
Te seek the Lord Ah tries te muv ’em,
Wi’ heart sincere,
Bud t’answers oft ’at Ah gets frev em,
’S quite severe.

Ah’v oft felt sorry te me-sel,
Beeath greeav’d an’ sham’d the truth te tell,
When Ah hev heeard oor awd kirk bell
Ring in te preear;
Ah’s flay’d ’at sum ’ll hear’t i’ hell
Upbreead ’em theer.

They’ll sit or lig upon ther deead,
An’ tawk aboot all kinds o’ treead,
An’ laff, an’ lee, quite undismay’d,
Till they’ve rung in;
Sike fooaks te t’ warld thay’re owther wed,
Or neear akin.

Sum sez ther priest’s a stumlin block,
He nivver leeads ’em on te t’ rock,
Like thooase ’at mends a threead-bare frock
Wi’ a new piece,
He cares bud lahtle for his flock,
If he gets t’fleece.

Bud oors, he is a Christian breeght,
He preeaches Christ wiv all his meeght,
Fills each beleeaver wiv deleeght,
’At gangs te heear him;
An’ therefoore ov his people’s bleead
The truth ’ll clear him.

Ah’v heeard him tell ’em pat an’ plain,
’At they mun all be boorn again,
Or suffer ivverlastin pain,
I’ t’warld te cum;
Bud if they’ll flee te Christ i’ time,
For all ther’s rum.

I’th’ pulpit or i’ conversation,
He’s awlus on for t’sowl’s salvation,
Wi’ kind reproof or exhoortation.
Or coonsel sweet;
An’ thooase ’at follows his persuasion,
They’ll be reeght.

Ther’s sum ’at sez, bud they’re misteean,
When they’re babtized they’re boorne ageean;
Just heer they miss t’ fundation steean,
An’ beelds o’t’ sand;
An’ they’ve neea dreead, till t’hoose is doon
Bud it ’ll stand.

Ah’s flay’d,” sez he, “ift’ truth wur knawn,
Ther’s monny a precious soul o’erthrawn,
For that gud seed ’at he hez sawn
Wi’oot effect;
Bud bleeam for ivver is ther awn,
Thruff sad neglect.

Ah’v seen yoong men, an’ women too,
An’ men wi’ hair all off ther broo,
Afoore he’s reead his lesson throo,
’S beean fast asleep;
Whahl others ’at far better knew
'S beean seen te weep.

They’ll rock an’ riggle like a ship,
Till sum kind frind gies them a nip,
Or wakken’d up wi’ t’saxton’s whip,
Or others’ coughing;
Then, mebby, when they’ve rubb’d their een,
They’ll start a laffin.

Sum’s liv’d te three or fower skoor,
An’ lang time heer’s had rulin pow’r,
They’ve woorn deep tracks across ’at moor,
Wi’ constant gangin;
Bud still, all t’whahl, for this warld’s loore,
Ther heearts wur langin.

Thersels they’ve nivver fairly seen,
They’ve nivver knawn ther sins forgeean,
Tho’ monny a time ther prayers hev beean
As lood as t’clark;
And thof they’ve hed twea pair of een,
They’ve deed i’t’ dark.

Ther’s sum ’at neeame o’ Christian beears,
An’s hed that neeame for monny yeears,
’At’s berreed ow’r t’heead an’ t’eears,
I’ warldly care;
An’ oft at kirk, we’ve cause te feear,
They market theer.

Ah wur at a sarten hoose yah day,
An’ t’awd man tiv his son did say,
If all be weel, thoo mun away,
Te moorn te t’ kirk,
An’ try te git oor wreeghts next week,
Te cum te woark.

An’ Tommy, he’s i’ sike a tackin,
’At cooat ’ll spoil for want o’ mackin,
If t’ tailor’s theer, thoo mun be at him,
Te cum an’ all;
That’s weel contrav’d, an’ then yah thrang,
’Ll deea for all.

Thoo needn’t stop te gang roond t’ farm,
Bud mun be theer i’ reeght gud taame,
Or mebby, if thoo dizzen’t maand,
Thoo’ll loss thy chance;
Ther’s sumtaames three or fower at him,
All at yance.

It’s ower far te gang a-feeat,
An’ if ’t be warm thoo’s seer te sweeat,
Thee Moother, she’ll deea nowght bud freeat,
Seea tak awd Dragon;
An’ tell him he mun cum next week.
An’ mend oor waggon.

Then if ye chance i’t’ coorse o’t’ weeak,
O’t’ Sunday’s subject for te speeak,
You’ll finnd awd memory seea weeak,
It’s all forgitten;
Thus wounded sowls ’at’s beean hawf heeal’d
T’awd sarpent’s bitten.

That skull ’at’s moolded green an’ gray,
T’awd saxton dug up t’other day,
Knaws varry neear as mitch as thay
O’t’ Sunday’s sarmon;
Yoo may as weel o’t’ subject tawk
Te sum awd Jarman.

That poor awd man’s noo deead an’ geean,
Tis hard te say what way he’s teean,
’At used te stand ageean t’funt steean,
Te tack fooaks watches;
Whahl careless lads i’t’ singin pew
Wur cuttin natches.

An’ seea for want o’ cultivation,
They shuffle on withoot salvation,
A vast, Ah’s flay’d, ’s o’ this perswasion,
Beeath yoong an’ awd;
Te be forgeean they ha’ neea nooation,
Till deead an’ cawd.

Bud they’ll finnd oot afoore’t be lang,
’At they’ve all t’ taame beean sadly wrang,
Ther wills may then be ower strang,
Te breeak or bend;
An’ noo they say they’re ower thrang,
They can’t attend.

I’ summer taame they’ll leeave t’awd nest,
An’ driss up i’ ther varry best,
An’ gallop off alang wi’ t’rest,
Te t’ fair or reeaces;
A vast gits what they nivver kest
At sike like pleeaces.

Ther’s sum gets theer wi’ wooden legs on,
An’ monny poor awd men wi’ wigs on,
Just sarvs t’yoong fooaks te run ther rigs on,
A fine example,
Whahl doon i’t’ dust ther poor awd lims
Sumtaames they trample.

Ther’s sum can nowther sit nor lig,
Aboot t’election they’re seea big,
They say they’re Britons, rump an’ rig,
Bud whea can trist ’em,
When, frev a Toory tiv a Whig,
A glass ’ll twist ’em?

Ther’s others rayther shoat o’ seeght,
Fort’ seeak o’ twea’r three sovrens breeght,
Gies in ther vooat, an’ thinks it reeght,
Te t’ Roman stranger;
Then others pleeaster up i’t’ street,
“The Church in danger!”

An’ seea they yan prevent another,
Wi’ drinking, politics, an’ bother,
Thof t’ best ov all can’t seeave his bruther,
Nor ransom him;
That spark ’at’s left they try te smuther,
Wi’ stratigem.

As for thooase Methodeys, they say,
They mack seea varry mitch te deea,
Ther’s sum wad deea nowght else bud pray
An’ reead, an’ preeach,
Till they git all meead Methodeys,
Within ther reeach.

Bud ther wur neean o’ this amaze,
I’ neean ov oor foore elder’s days,
Thof ther gud deeds an’ honest prayers,
An’ pious reeadins,
Hez beean, neea doot, as gud as theers,
Wiv all ther meetins.

Te see ’em doon o’ beeath ther knees,
I’ kirk, or field, or under trees,
Wi’ brokken hearts an’ teearful ees,
Wur quite uncommon;
An’ if they hevn’t deed i’ t’ faith,
Then what’s cum’d on ’em.

Te preeach ’em all geean doon te hell,
It is a dreeadful teeal te tell,
An’ we mun wiv oor kindred dwell,
Seea we, like them,
Will on life’s ooacean tak oor chance,
An’ sink or swim.

They mack sike wark amang yoong fooaks,
They breeak up all oor jovial spooarts,
They thin oor ranks, an’ storm oor pooarts
Wi’ strange confusion;
Ther’s nowght bud we mun cry’t all doon,
A mere delusion.

Bud us ’at seldum hev attended,
They deeant git us seea eeasy mended,
An awd stiff yack ’s nut eeasy bended,
That’s varry true;
Bud thooase ’at winnut bend yoo see,
Mun breeak i’ noo.

They trifle on fra’ yeear te yeear,
Like watches woorn oot ov repair,
Thof if they wad, its varry cleear,
They mud be mended;
Bud they perceeave neea danger neear,
Till life is ended.

Awd Satan seea pollutes the maund,
They winnut stooap te t’ means desaun’d.
Till t’ hair spring gits wi’t mainspring twain’d,
An seea hard curl’d,
They’re foorc’d away te git refined
I’ t’other warld.

He leeads sum on like mountebanks,
As straight as thof they ran on planks,
An’ tells ’em, i’ ther jovial pranks,
He’ll nut deceeave ’em;—
Then oft on Jordan’s stormy banks,
Ther cumforts leeave ’em.

He leeads sum on another way,
An’ whispers tiv ’em neeght an’ day,
’At they need nowther reead nor pray,
They’ve deean nowght wrang;
An’ if they hev, he’ll set it reeght,
Afoore ’t be lang,

Ther’s others oft beean in alarm,
Bud Felix like, when t’heart wur warm,
Hez sed, “Go, an’ sum other taame,
Ah’ll send for thee;”
When they that taame, they didden’t knaw
Mud ivver see.

They rob thersels o’ ther awn reeght,
They reeally winnut cum te t’ leeght,
Lest o’ ther sins they git a seeght,
An’ sud be seeav’d;
An’ be ov all ther plissures sweet,
At yance bereeav’d.

Till deep sunk doon i’ t’ burning leeake
They then begin te feear an’ queeake,
Where vengeance can neea pity teeake,
Which theer hez sent ’em,
An’ furious feeinds i’ horrid sheeape,
Mun theer torment ’em.

They leeak for sum yan te deliver,
Bud theer they’ll finnd neea cumfort nivver,
Theer they may weeap an’ wail for ivver,
Ther harvest’s past;
Ther summer’s ended, refuge fails ’em,
An’ they’re lost.

Ther dreeadful doom an’ destiny,
Let us git all we can te flee,
By preeachin Christ where’er we be,
I’ deead an’ word,
Till all oor frinds ther folly see,
An’ ton te God.

“Ah beean i’ t’ way noo seeaven yeear,”
An’ as he spak, a briny teear
Ran doon his cheeks as crystal cleear,
Fra’ owther ee;
“Thenk God, Ah feeal whahl Ah sit heer,
’Tis weel wi’ me.

Bud neeght is cummin on ameean,
An’t leeaks as if ’twur boon te reean,
Or else mah stoory’s nut hawf deean,
’At Ah’v te tell;
Bud mebby we may meeat ageean,
Till then, farewell!”

Tho’ he hed all thooase sorrows booarn,
Compozur in each feeature shooan,
Thof he’d te woark and live alooan,
Fra’ day te day;
Ah wish’d his keease hed been mah awn,
An’ com away.

AWD ISAAC.
(PART SECOND.)

TO WHICH IS ADDED,
HIS DYING ADVICE.

Oft hev Ah lang’d yon hill te clim,
Te hev a bit mare prooase wi’ him,
Wheas coonsel like a pleeasin dreeam,
Is deear te me;
Sin’ roond the warld sike men as he
Seea few ther be.

Corrupted bukes he did detest,
For his wur ov the varry best;
This meead him wiser than the rest
O’ t’ neeaburs roond,
Tho’ poor i’ t’ purse, wi’ senses blest,
An’ judgment soond.

Befoore the silvery neeght ov age,
The precepts ov the sacred page,
His meditation did engage,
That race te run;
Like thooase, who ’spite o’ Satan’s rage,
The praaze hed won.

Bud noo his een’s geean dim i’ deeath,
Neea mare a pilgrim here on eearth,
His sowl flits fra’ her shell beneeath,
Te reealms o’ day,
Whoor carpin care, an’ pain, an’ deeath,
Are deean away.

Wi’oot the author’s neeame or leeave,
They’d put his stoory thruff the sieve,
An’ roond his circuit set the screeve
O’ justice keen,
Fra’ crotchet cramp, or semibreeve,
Te sift him cleean.

The charge ’at they ageenst him bring,—
He harps teea mitch upon yah string,
Or triumphs like a lahtle king,
Ow’r fashions gay;
He’s ower religious!—That’s the thing
They meean te say.

Yet still Awd Isaac tells his teeal,
Ower monny a weeary hill an’ deeal,
An’ ’ll sumtaames into cities steeal,
Nor silent be;
Till infants try te lisp his theeame
Across the sea.

Oor last, an’ lasting interview,
His wonted theeame he did renew,
Fra’ which, a paraphrase he drew,
An’ thus began,
I’ conversation clear, an’ frindship true,
Like man te man.

“Ah lahtle thowght, as weel thoo knaws,
Thoo te t’ public wad expooase,
Mah awd gray cooat, wi’ all its flaws,
An’ stick an’ all,
For want o’ which, the aged prood
Seea offens fall.

Ah varry leeatly gat a hint,
They’d put oor stoory into prent,
An’ copies roond the coontry sent
Beeath left and reeght;
Bud if ’twur deean wi’ gud intent,
Gud luck gang wi’ ’t.

Noo all Ah sed wur meeant for gud,
If it wur reeghtly understud;
Te sum neea doot, t’language wud
Seeam quite abrupt;—
We’re all alike, ov flesh and bleead,
An’ hearts corrupt.

Fooaks oft leeaks mare at bleead an’ breedin,
Than at t’subject they are reeadin,
An’ thus awd prejudice is feedin,
I’ system’s narrow,
For want o’ pains te crack the beean
Th’oft miss t’marrow.

Men still i’ spite ov all oor caution,
’Ll hanker efter heeigh promotion;
Like Evan’s Pills, or Rowland’s Lotion
Saain’d by t’King;
We’re seea inclin’d te self-devotion—
That’s the thing.!

T’ Naation still seeams discontent,
Ther’s strange debeeates i’ parliament,
Petitions on petitions sent
Theer, all implorin;
An’ sum i’ dungeons deep lament
Whahl they’re snoorin.

Still ower t’land t’clood hangs dull,
An’ we may thrust, an’ they may pull;
Wi’ “Eys an’ Nooas” the paper’s full,
Wi’ applause an’ laughter:
An’ all the gud for poor John Bull
’S te cum hereafter.

Still let us calmly wait the end,
On God, an’ nut on man, depend.
Oor Nation’s woond is bad te mend,
Ommost incurable!
His Israel he will still defend,
Wi’ kindness durable.

Bud numbers streeangely hev backslidden,
An’ deean thooase things ’at wur forbidden,
An’ caused His feeace for te be hidden,
By actions fowl,
Till scarce a ray ov whooap is left
Te cheer the sowl.

T’coonsel Ah wad recommend
Is all te strave ther lives te mend,
An’ persevere unto the end
I’ word an’ deed.
An’ thooase ’ll nivver want a Frind
I’ t’ taame o’ need.

Bud Ah mun cut mah stoory shoort,
Or it may mack the critics spoort,
Oor subject’s ov too greeave a soort
Te dwell upon.
Afoore ye spreead yer next repoort,
Ah sal be geean.

For sin’ we met an’ pearted last,
Ah finnd mah strenth decreeasing fast,
Like floor’s beneeath the Nowthern blast,
Yance fresh an’ gay,
Seea man is doom’d te droop an’ waste,
An’ fade away.

Ah wad befoore Ah tack mah leave,
Te all, mah deein coonsel give,
An’ if i’ the truth they deea beleeave
Or apprehend,
That truth, whahl Ah’v a day te live
Ah will defend.”

HIS DYING ADVICE.

When Eden’s floory garden smiled,
Nor Eve the Sarpent hed beguil’d,
Man stood upreeght an’ undefiled
I’ maand an’ feeature,
An’ sweetest conversation held
Wi’ his Creator.

Bud when that awful monster sin
Hed gain’d its ugly entrance in
The warld, oor sorrows did begin;
Then Heaven froond,
An’ t’ glitt’ring swoord o’ Justice gleeam’d
On all aroond.

Sin spreead destruction wide, an’ seean
Grim deeath began his feearful reign;—
Satan wi’ lees an’ malice keen
Went teea an’ fraw,
The frail, the noble sons o’ men
Te owerthraw.

Bud the Almighty sent his aid,
Enoch an’ Abraham obey’d,
An’ Noah, Job, an’ Daniel pray’d,
An’ Gideon too;
An’ mighty fooas throo mighty faith
They did subdue.

Then ancient Israel’s altar’s blazed,
An’ solemn congregations gazed,
An’ Holy men ther voices raaized,
An’ trumpets soonded.
Then heathen armies stood amazed,
An’ wur confoonded.

Then Joshua congker’d i’ the vale,
An’ gud Elijah did prevail;—
The wicked worshippers o’ Baal
He owerthrew,
An’ showed te them the living God
An’ only true.

An’ while the sacrifice was pure,
Destruction com nut neegh ther door;
I’ moont or tent they wur secure
By neeght or day;
Whahl thraving groups o’ flocks an’ herds,
Aroond ’em lay.

They towght an’ showed ther childer hoo
Ther Fathers kept ther solemn voo,
When the Almighty leead ’em throo
The desert land;
An’ hoo thooase fell ’at wad nut boo
Te His command.

An’ seea sud we oor childer teeach,
An’ i’ ther ears gud doctrine preeach,
Befoore corrupt ideas reeach
The tender maand;
An’ when they up te manhood graw,
The gud they’ll finnd.

Ey, tell ’em whea the sarpent stung,
Hoo Moses an’ hoo Deborah sung,
An’ hoo the Holy Hebrews yoong
Did walk throo fire;
An’ try te tune ther infant tongues
Te David’s lyre.

Remind ’em ov a Saviour’s love,
Leearn ’em the way God will approve,
Te pray, an’ fix ther thowghts above
Eearth’s fleeting joys,
Which at ther best, when tried ’ll proov,
Bud empty toys.

Consult the worthies ov’ each age,
Wheas lives are doon i’t’ sacred page,
Nor rest till all the heart engage
Like them i’ feight.
Then we like them oor hostile fooas,
Sal put te flight.

Te us they as examples stand,
As guide-poosts in a weeary land,
Or like seea monny beeacons grand,
On mountains heeigh,
Te shoo the way Jehovah’s plann’d;
Or deeanger neeigh.

Bud men graw noo seea warldly wise,
Seea prooan te vanity an’ lies,
T’best o’ coonsel they’ll despise,
Seea queer they live,
They’ll scarce a proper question ax,
Or answer give.

Mankind i’ gen’ral can espy,
The mooat ’at’s in anoother’s eye,
An’ big an’ busy as Paul Pry,
’Ll mark it doon;—
It helps fra’ silly passers by
Te hide ther awn.

Theer’s numbers seeams o’ t’ better soort,
Aroond oor chapels still resoort,
An’ o’ convarsion mack a spoort,
An’ sins forgeean,
An’ at the truly pious shoot,
Ther arrows keen.

Bud the Almighty sees ther ways,
An’ thof he lenthens oot ther days,
An’ his just rath he noo delays,
’Tis seer te cum;
The stootest o’ the human race,
Mun meet ther doom.

Ey, when ther jolly days are spent,
If they i’ taame deea nut repent,
They’ll seerly doon te hell be sent
Te revell theer,
Te curse, an’ fooam, an’ pay ther rint
I’ black despair.

Freeat nut thysel when thoo doast see
The wicked i’ prosperity,
Te floorish like a green bay tree,
Or cedar tall;
He like a leeaf, by firm decree,
Mun feeade an’ fall!

Consider thoo what hez beean sed,
An’ o’ ther threeats be nut afraaid,
Beware lest thoo sud be betray’d
By ther deceit;—
An’ t’Lord gie thee, an’ nut upbreead,
His Sperit’s leeght!”

The coontry’s all anxiety,
Te knaw Awd Isaac’s pedigree,
An’ sum cry oot ’tis all a lee,
A meead up thing;—
Te sike we think it nut woth whahl,
Oor proofs te bring.

For all that wish te knaw—may read,
The sum an’ substance ov his creed;—
May catch, an’ saw the lahtle seed
Wi’ greeat success.
Bud whoor he liv’d, or whoor he deed,
’Tis left te guess.

DIALOGUE ON A STEEPLE CHASE

AT P******NG, IN YORKSHIRE.

Joe.—Weel Jim, hoo deea lad? What’s t’ news?
Which side is thoo on? Pinks or Blues?
Heer’s sike a mighty stir i’ t’ nation,
’Tis woth a lahtle conversation.
Ah want te knaw, is’t reeght or wrang;—
Unless thah nerves is varry strang,
Ah hev a paper i’ mah pocket,
’Ll lift thah heart oot ov its socket!

Jim.—A paper Joe! What is ’t aboot,
Sum munney matter, ther’s neea doot!
Sum Methodey or Ranter bother,
Or sum Tee-total thing or other.
Yan scarce can pass alang a street,
Bud sum sike like yan’s seer te meet,
Whea’d ommost sweear ’at black is white,
Te gain anoother proselyte,

Joe.—A munney matter ’tis o’ coorse,
Fra’ quite an opposition soorce,
For by the Liverpool Recorder,
’Tis mare o’ the Succession order:
For it is sed by snug repoort,
Religious fooaks hev geen ’t support.
That which we noo te nooatice bring,
Ist’ Steeple Chase at P******ng.

Jim.—Whah Joe, thoo’s neean o’ t’ warst o’ fellows,
Cum sit thee doon a piece an’ tell us,
If thoo sud think it neea disgrace,
Aboot this mighty Steeple Chase;
Ov hoo, an’ when, an’ whoor they run,
For honour, munney, or for fun.
Thoo’s just geen me an itchin eear,
Aboot the thing Ah wish’d te heear.

Joe.—Thoo sees upon a sarten day,
Ah hennut seen, but heeard ’em say;
Greeat gentlemen hev hosses treean’d,
Fra’ lofty pedigree obteean’d,
Seea full o’ bleead, an’ queerly towght,
Te gallop thruff or ower owght:
All muster at a sarten pleeace,
An’ this they call the Steeple Chase.
A purse o’ Gold they then present,
An’ word is thruff the coontry sent,
For fower mahle, Ah think they run,
An’ he ’at beeats,—the steeaks his awn.
Sum breeaks ther necks, wi’ missin bridges,
An’ sum gits stuck, wi’ jumpin hedges.
Ey, te confarm t’ truth Ah sing,
They kill’d a hoss at P******ng.

Jim.—Wha Joe, thoo quite supprises me,
Te think ’at men ov heeigh degree,
Sud reeally hev neea mare respect
For owther men’s or hosses necks.

Joe.—A boss is nowght i’ sike a keease!
Bairn! sowls is nowght at t’ Steeple Chase!
They for a trifle swap an’ sell ’em,
An’ t’ parsons hezzen’t sense te tell ’em.
T’ Steeple Chase is suted quite,
Te glut t’ carnal appetite.
Thooase whea ther Baable love, an’ preear,
’Ll finnd bud bareish picking theer.

Jim.—Maund Joe, thoo izzen’t ower severe,
An’ ’at thah coonsel be sincere.
The Law hez monny curious links,
Man mooan’t speeak awlus as he thinks.
Thof Ah me-sel feel shock’d te think,
Men sud seea rush on ruin’s brink:
Mitch mare te be encouraged in,
What mun be a presumptuous sin.

Joe.—The mare Ah see this standard reeas’d,
The mare an’ mare Ah stand ameeaz’d
Te think ’at parsons cannut see’t,
An’ tell ’em pleean it izzen’t reeght!
’At men sike tidings sud procleeam,
An’ thooase ’at beear t’Christian neeame
I’ spite ov all divine advice,
Te sanction sike a sweepin vice.

Jim.—Whativver be t’satisfaction,
It hez a woonderful attraction;
An’ macks ’em freely use ther shanks,
’Specially them o’ t’ heeigher ranks,
Fra’ Scarbro’, Malton, York, an’ Leeds,
They cum on lofty mounted steeds,
Ower dazzlin ommost te behold,
Wi’ silver’d whips, an’ cheeans o’ gold.
Theer’s bands o’ music, colours flying,
Hams, an’ legs o’ mutton frying,
Nimble waiters on the wing,
Te see ’em drink, an’ hear ’em sing,
Ther’s gamlin teeables, orange stalls,
Ther’s spices, nuts, an’ dancin dolls.
All things te sute the carnal taste,
May just be foond at t’ Steeple Chase.

Joe.—Thooase men hes gitten ’t i’ ther power
Regardless o’ the sufferin poor,
Te gallop ower hedge an’ dyke,
An’ deea an’ say, just what they like.
An’ all the while they run these rigs,
An’ sing, an’ drink, an’ dance ther jigs,
They’ll booast o’ noble ancestry,
An’ mighty steeple pedigree!
If onny wish the cause te knaw,
Whah they are able te deea seea,—
“’Tis munney macks the meer te gang,
Macks wrang seeam reeght, an’ reeght seeam wrang.”

Jim.—The thing sud be te them meead knawn,
Ther gold an’ silver’s nut ther awn.
Ther cattle they abuse an’ kill,
Belangs to t’Lord o’ Zion’s hill.
They sud be warn’d i’ ivvery pleeace,
Te gie up sike like wicked ways.
Or seer as theer’s a God aboon,
They’ll pull ther awn destruction doon.

Joe.—They hev been warn’d an’ hev refus’d,
Whahl thooase gud things they hev abus’d;
By which abuse they breeak God’s Law,
An’ that he’ll sum day let ’em knaw.
This maks ’em breeathe pernicious breeath,
An’ swagger on the verge o’ deeath,
Whahl oothers—rayther than control,
’Ll breeak ther necks, an’ loss ther sowl.

Jim.—A man tell’d me by way o’ jooak,
Bud kind o’ trimmel’d as he spooak,
They’d Doctors pleeaced wi’in a shoot,
Te slip necks in, ’at gat slipt oot.[A]

Joe.—It’s awful booastin this indeed,—
Bad sample o’ beeath fruit an’ seed.
Sike may upbraad the warld wi’ sizm,
It is next deer te Socialism.
Sike booastin they will sum day rue,
If we admit the Baable true.
All thooase mun pass a mighty change,
Afoore the happy hills they range!—
Bud tiv oor teeal let us ton back,
Lest we get farther fra’ oor track.
The day arrives, the smiling sun,
Procleeams the Steeple Chase begun.
On eeager eears the tumult steeals,
Ov prancin steeds, an’ rumblin wheels.
It wur a day ov winks an’ nods,
Ov lofty deeds, an’ lofty wods.
As thof they hed for ther defence!
The thunner ov Omnipotence!
T’ fooaks com rowlin in by skoors,
Fra’ neeab’rin toons, an’ off o’ t’ moors.
Like cloods ov locusts in they hale,
Fra’ Goadland, Sleights, an’ Harwood Dale.
’Tis seerly sum enchanted string,
That does sike croods tegither bring.
Like bees, they roond the steeple swarm,
In it they likely see neea harm.

Jim.—Neea harm! What harm, Joe, can there be,
I’ seeing sike a rarity:—
Ov men an’ hosses heeighly fed,
Wi’ priests an’ squires at ther head;
Ov gentlemen, an’ ladies gay,
As bonny as the floors i’ May.
Theer riches, yooth, an’ beauty shine,
Array’d i’ silk, an’ superfine.
An’ farmers’ maidens, yoong an’ fair,
We wonder hoo they’ve taame te spare;
Wi’ lads ov manners rough an’ rude,
All mixing i’ yah multitude.
An’ poor awd men, ’at scarce can blaw,
Wi’ beards an’ whiskers white as snaw;
Sad sample ov oor fallen race,
All rollin up to t’ Steeple Chase.
An’ farmers’ sarvants leeave ther pleugh,
Callin ther maister black an’ blue,
Whea for ther credit an’ ther neeame,
Hed coonsel’d them te stay at heeame.
Ah met ’em as Ah com alang,
(They wonder’d whah Ah waddn’t gang,)
Wi’ roosy cheeks, an’ shoothers brooad,
Bettin weagers up o’ t’ rooad.
Ther leeaks an’ words at yance declare,
Ther treasure an’ ther hearts are theer.
If yah contrary sentence drop,
That mooth they quickly try te stop.
When roond the splendid stand they meet,
’Twad deea a blinnd man gud te see’t;
Besaads the men’s seea faanly drist!
The Steeple Chase,—whah whea wad miss’t?

Joe.—Fra’ furst te last it is desaun’d,
Te pleease an’ fascinate the maand;
Te lift it, as on eagle’s wings,
An’ draave off thowghts o’ better things.
The stewards full o’ wardly wit,
Pronoonce ’at all things noo are fit,
When thoosands then roll up te see,
As drawn by Steeple witchery.
Fra’ whence they cum, or whoor they dwell,
If yoo’ve a paper it ’ll tell.
Ye ken the horses whea’s they are,
By t’ colours ’at ther riders wear.
Thus whether i’ the rooad or noa,
Wi’ whip an’ spur away they goa;
Ower hedge an’ dyke,—there’s nowght can stop ’em,
Unless an angry God unprop em.
Thus riding ower grass, or coorn
’Ats growin,—or ’ats leeatly sown,
There’s neean dare lift a hand, or say,
What hev ye deean, or whea’s te pay,
Whahl oaths profane, an’ lafter lood,
Are utter’d by the gaping crood;—
By some whea yance religion luv’d,
Not only sanction’d, bud appruv’d!
If ivv’ry ward an’ secret thowght,
Mun be yan day te judgment browght,
Oh, how unlike sike wark as this,
Is that which leads te glorious bliss!
Te see ’em thus seea blithe an’ merry,
Wur famous pastaame for Awd Harry.
If owght te him cud be delighting,
’Twad be to see ’em drunk an’ feighting.
He popt aboot amang t’ people,
At last he popt up on to’t steeple,
Open’d a pair ov dismal jaws,
Flapt his black wings, an’ yawn’d applause:
Like sum prood Emperor ov awd,
Upon the wether cock he rode,
’Whoor he mud all at yance survey,
The grand proceedings ov the day.
A flagstaff for a whip he seized,
An’ spurr’d the spire he wur seea pleeased,
Te think it sud his cause defend,
An’ that his bait hed answer’d t’end.

Jim.—Tis not for thee te criticise,
On men seea greeat, seea rich, seea wise,
They aim, neea doot, as weel as thee,
Te gang te heeaven when they dee.
What thof ther munney be bud lent,
Thoo knaws ’at munney mun be spent.
Besaads they hev example too,—
If t’ parson’s theer—What’s that te thoo?

Joe.—If thooase sud miss ther passage heeame,
A careless priesthood they may bleeame.
Blinnd guides they are, an’ t’Kirk’s ther moother,
An’ they wean’t gang te hear neea other.
We Christians run a diff’rent race,
Te what we call the Steeple Chase.
Besaads we finnd i’ Holy writ,
Ther’s neean cums theer ’at are nut fit.

Jim.—Thoo meeans te proove by argument,
Thooase ’at cums theer mun first repent,
An’ be throo Jesus Christ forgiven,
Afoore they’re i’ the rooad te heaven.
Neea carnal plissure they mun share,
Bud live a life ov faith an’ prayer.
If thooase alone hev saving grace,
Doon gangs at yance the Steeple Chase.

Joe.—Seea legions fell fra’ leeght te dark,
Seea Dagon fell afoore the ark,
Seea God prood Pharaoh owerthrew,
Wi’ Sisera, an’ Goliath too.
Seea fell the lords i’ sad supprise,
Wheas hands hed put out Samson’s eyes.
Thooase mighty men wur turn’d te dust,
An’ seean the Steeple Chasers must.

Jim.—Whah, Joe, it caps me fair te ken,
Hoo thooase heeigh flying gentlemen,
Can fra’ ther chasing gang te t’ kirk,
An’ join i’t’ blessed Sunday’s wooark,
Singing wi’ all ther might an’ main,
This heaven inspir’d, this holy strain,
“Let all thy converse be sincere,
“Thy conscience as the noon-day clear,
“For God’s all seeing eye surveys
“Thy secret thoughts, thy works and ways;”—
An’ then fra’ t’ kirk te t’ Steeple Chase,
An’ set at nowght God’s luv an’ grace,
Call t’dissenters, an’ shoot thruff t’nation,
For “Apostolical succession!”

Joe.—Te bring oor converse te a close,
Oor only aim is te expose,
The thing Almighty God doth hate,—
Nut te provoke unkind debate.
The day’s nut far ’at will reveal
The truth, an’ fix the final seal.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] It was a saying of one of the Riders, that he carried two or three loose necks in his pocket, in case anything happened to his own.

THE LUCKY DREEAM, OR AN AWD THING RENEWED.

Yah Kesenmas neeght, or then aboot,
When meeasons all wur frozen oot,
Ah went te see a coontry frind,
An hospitable hoor te spend.
For gains Ah cut across at moor,
Whoor t’snaw seea furiously did stour:—
The hoose Ah geean’d, an’ enter’d in,
An’ wor as welcome as a king.
The stoorm ageean t’winder patter’d,
An’ hailsteeans doon t’chimler clatter’d,
All hands wur in, an’ seeam’d content,
An’ neean did frost or snaw lament.
T’lasses all wur at ther sowing,
Ther cheeks wi’ health an’ beauty glowing.
Aroond the heearth in cheerful chat
Twea’r three frindly neeaburs sat;
Ther travels telling,—whoor they’d been,
An’ what they hed beeath heeard an’ seen;
Till yan us all did mitch amuse,
An’ thus a stoory introduce.
“Ah recollect lang sin,” sez he,
“A stoory that wur tell’d te me,
’At seeams seea straange i’ this oor day,
That true or false Ah cannut say.
A man liv’d in this neybourheead,
Neea doot ov reputation gud,
An’ lang taame strave w’ stiddy care,
Te keep his hooshod i’ repair.
At length he hed a curious dreeam,
For three neeghts runnin ’twur the seeam;
’At if on Lunnon Brigg he stood,
He’d heear sum news wad deea him gud.
He labour’d hard, beeath neeght an’ day,
Tryin te draave thooase thowghts away,
Yet daily grew mare discontent,
Till he at last te Lunnon went!
Being quite a stranger te that toon,
Lang taame he wander’d up an’ doon,
Till led by sum mysterious hand,
On Lunnon Brigg he teeak his stand;
An’ theer he waited day by day,
An’ just wur boon te cum away,
Seea mitch he thowght he wur te bleeam,
Te gang seea far aboot a dreeam,
When thus a man, as he drew neear,
Did say, “Good friend, what seek you here,
Where I have seen you soon and late?”
His dreeam te him he did relate.
“Dreams,” sez the man, “are empty things,
Mere thoughts that flit on silver’d wings;
Unheeded we should let them pass:—
I’ve had a dream, and thus it was,
That somewhere round this peopled ball,
There’s such a place as Lealholm Hall;
Yet whether such a place there be,
Or not, is all unknown to me.
There in a cellar, dark and deep,
Where slimy creatures nightly creep,
And human footsteps never tread,
There is a store of treasure hid.
If it be so, I have no doubt,
Some lucky wight will find it out:
Yet so or not, is nought to me,
For I shall ne’er go there to see!”
The man did slyly twice or thrice,
The cockney thenk for his advice,
Then heeame ageean wi’oot delay,
He cheerfully did tak his way,
An’ set aboot the wark, an’ sped,
Fund ivv’ry thing, as t’ man hed sed,
Wur ivver efter seen te floorish,
T’finest gentleman i’ all the parish.
Fooaks wonder’d sare, an’ weel they meeght,
Whoor he gat all his ginnes breeght!
If it wur true, in spite ov feeame,
Te him it wor a lucky dreeam.

A STRANGE EFFUSION,

OR

WESLEYANISM AT EASBY,

IN THE STOKESLEY CIRCUIT:

Written when the Methodists were deprived of the place of worship in which they had been accustomed to meet.

They’re wakken’d at Easby, the Lord is amang ’em,
Thof turn’d oot o’ t’ temple ’at used te belang ’em,
Anoother we whooap afoore lang ’ll be beelt,
Whoor sinners thruff Christ may hev pardon for guilt.
T’ Lord seems te oppen a way out afoore ’em,
Thof neybourin lions hev aim’d te devoor ’em.
When t’awd maister mariner fail’d at the helm,
They thowght it wad all the consarn owerwhelm;
An’ when they appear’d ov all succour bereft,
They endeeavour’d te freeghten t’ few ’at wur left.
Bud the Lord wur detarmin’d te be ther protection,
Te send ’em suppoort, an’ gie ’em direction;
If nobbut, like monny, they wadden’t betray him,
Bud stick te that text, beeath te luv an’ obey him.
They can’t be content wi’ ther steeple opinions,
Bud they mun mack inrooads on others’ dominions;
Thof theers be in gen’ral the fat an’ the wealthy,
For t’want of gud physic, they seldom are healthy.
Hoo strange ’at they sud sike fair temples erect,
Te murder the sowls in—they’re swoorn te protect!
Bud stranger they’ll finnd it o’ yon side the fleead,
Wi’ ther hands an’ ther garments all stain’d i’ ther bleead!
We needn’t te wonder they mack sike a fuss,
Ther craft is i’ danger fra’ rebels like us:—
For God can mack preeachers—hoo feearful the thowght—
Fra’ cobblers, or meeasons, or blacksmiths, or owght!
O yes! Dr. Pusey may whet his awd grinders,
An’ put on his captives ther fetters an’ blinders;
Ther’s poor men iv Easby ’at ken his awd sang,
An’ see the defect ov beeath him an’ his gang.
He may scare ’em wi’ taxes, wi’ rates, an’ oppression,
All thooase whea are oot o’ the line o’ succession,
Thof te prove ’at he’s in’t, he’s a varry poor chance,
Unless he unite wi’ the Romans at yance.
Then t’ Romans wad help him, an’ think it all reeght,
Te murder Dissenters, an’ put oot ther leeght;
Te cut ’em i’ pieces, te butcher an’ bon ’em,
Bud till that’s the keease they cannut owerton ’em!
Nur Stowsley, nur Yatton, ther frinds will invite,
Nur Skelton, nur Brotton, ther efforts unite;
They’ll finnd te ther mortification an’ pain,
They hev fowght wi’ t’ wind, an’ hev labour’d i’ vain!

LEALHOLM BRIDGE.

A SOLILOQUY DURING A VISIT, AFTER SOME YEARS’ ABSENCE.

Ah, lovely Lealholm! Where shall I begin,
To say what thou art now, and once hast been?
Once the dear seat of all my earthly joys,
That now, in recollection only, rise!
Methinks, where’er I look no life appears,
But all the place a cheerless aspect wears;
Thy groves are desolate, thy swains are fled,
And many of them number’d with the dead;
Religion ’s cold, the poor are sore oppress’d,
Thy orphans weep, and widows are distress’d.
O let us pray their griefs may shortly end,
And God, their Father, still may prove their friend.
This ancient Bridge some faint idea brings,
Where still the swallow comes and dips her wings;
The murmuring river, and the rumbling mill,
Bear some resemblance to poor Lealholm still;
Yon silent whirlpool beautifies the scene,
Where shades of trees are in its deepness seen,
Where leaping fishes on the surface play,
And gladly seems to close, the summer’s day;
The broken waters from yon glen resound,
Their constant rippling ’s heard the village round;
Yon burden’d iron pinion loudly shrieks,
While tears of oil hang on his rusty cheeks;
The greedy race, the water still supplies,
The lofty wheel’s broad shelves successive rise;
The thund’ring engine doth her hands employ,
And Hunter’s place is fill’d by William Joy;
The floating bubble swims upon the wave,
While Ord[B] lies mould’ring in the silent grave;
Behind yon hill the sun escapes from sight,
And yields his empire to the shades of night.
Alas! Poor Lealholm once in glory shone,
But now, she like a widow, sits alone!
Once from yon town the people flock’d like bees,
To taste the sweetness of the country breeze;
Pedestrians joyful, here and there were seen,
While shays and whiskeys deck’d her level green;
The banks of Esk, were crowded all along,
Either with Anglers, or with lookers on.
The full “Moon,”[C] then did through her valleys shine,
So bright, some thought she never would decline;
Year after year she in her sphere did move,
And all seem’d animation, life, and love:
But now, in mists and gloom she disappears,
Eclips’d—her light no longer Lealholm cheers!
Pluck’d from her orb, her borrow’d lustre’s fled,
And in the silent tomb, she rests her head.
In distant lands my father’s lot was cast,
And we were left to feel the bitter blast.
Death’s fatal hand its victim did arrest,
And tore him from the darlings of his breast.
I, by a mother’s care, when young was led,
Down by the river to yon primrose bed,
Where birds so sweetly sung the trees among,
I thought those days were happy, bright, and long.
Oft I, a boy, with others of my age,
Did eager here in youthful sports engage.
Oft in yon wood we rov’d when life was new,
The rocks, and trees and rugged caves to view;
Where woodbines wild, with sweets perfum’d the air,
And all seem’d joyous, beautiful, and fair.
Alas! where’s now the grove? The trees are gone!
And many the wide ocean are upon:
A few remaining springers yet survive,
And keep their owner’s name and place alive!
Just so it is with us, could we but see,
Our fathers who are in eternity!
Their offspring live, but they’re for ever gone,
Their portion’s fixed, no more will they return!
May we be wise, and lessons learn afresh,
To trust no longer in an arm of flesh!—
Begin to seek, and rest not till we find
The peace of God, which satisfies the mind.
Then seeing all my earthly joys are fled,
Where, O my soul! art thou for succour led?
’Tis Jesus, that can all thy wants supply,
A fountain ’s there which never will run dry:
Arabia’s grove, nor Sharon’s flowery field,
Such rich perfume, such holy incense yield:
’Tis Jesus’ merit, and his dying love,
’Tis these perfume the glorious courts above!

FOOTNOTES:

[B] The Mill was built by Mr. Ord.

[C] Mrs. Moon, landlady of the Public House, who died during the Author’s absence.

OLD SAM!

OR

THE EFFECTS OF THE GOSPEL.

Attend, all ye who Zion’s tidings love,
Whose hearts and hopes are fix’d on things above,
Whose chief delight is centred in the fame,
Of signs and wonders wrought through Jesus’ name;—
All ye who virtue love, and evil hate,
Attend, while I a simple tale relate.
A preacher being to a village sent,
To warn and woo the people to repent;
Depending only on God’s mighty grace,
His pious soul was looking for success.
For God, his people had a house prepared,
In which his arm had many times been bared,
And in that little village congregation,
Were found some earnest seekers of salvation.
Among the rest a noted Bruiser stood,
Whose hands had oft been stain’d with human blood;
A man of constitution so robust,
He oft had laid Goliaths in the dust.
He fully on the preacher fix’d his eye,
But scarcely could declare the reason why;
The subject, and the theme on which he dwelt,
Caught his attention, and its force he felt.
He thought the preacher all his actions knew,
His words, like arrows, pierc’d his conscience through;
His spirits fell, his heart was sick and sore,
Such anguish he had never felt before.
It seem’d to him as if an angel spoke,
He felt within as if his heart was broke,
He thought he heard mount Sinai’s thunder roll,
Which shook the very centre of his soul!
Such mighty strokes soon humbled all his pride,
He sank condemn’d, and loud for mercy cried.
“What shall I do?” said he, “Nay, who can tell?
Oh! how shall I escape the pit of Hell?”
On bended knees he did salvation seek,
Big tears roll’d down his long undaunted cheek:—
The people pray’d, the sinner wept the more,—
This man, who till that hour, ne’er wept before.
After a time his mighty anguish ceas’d,
The Lord of life his captive soul releas’d!
The joy he felt he scarcely could contain,
The people sung—“a sinner’s born again!”
Some time elaps’d—two of his mates had met,
As custom was, and in a tavern sat,
Conversing on events that daily pass’d,
Till one the other thus address’d at last.
“Heard you not what occurred the other day?
Old Sam has been converted, people say!”
“Old Sam!” the other says, with great surprise,
“What Sam, the Boxer?” “Yes!” the other cries!
“Depend upon’t, though you may think it strange,
But in old Sam there is a wondrous change!”
“Nay,—he converted! Pshaw! ’tis all a whim;
They’ve just as much converted me as him;
And I can find a man, I have no doubt,
That soon will beat all his religion out.”
“Perhaps not so,” the other softly said,
“I think Old Sam ’s of better mettle made,
I know that he was always bad to bend,
And on his firmness I will still depend.”
The other rose, and would a wager bet,
Old Sam was not so far converted yet,
But that if pick’d at, he would turn again,
And still he would the bloody cause maintain.
To Sammy’s door their way direct they took,
For he had now the tavern’s haunts forsook;
They call’d a rebel out to lead the van,
To vex and aggravate the poor old man.
At length they reach’d, and rattled at the door,
Standing around, like lions to devour
His happy soul; but he had by his side,
King David’s faithful Shepherd for his guide.
Old Sammy from his Bible reading rose,
And straightway forth to meet the rebel goes;
“Here’s one,” say they, “will fight for what you like!”
He stamp’d, and raged, and dared old Sam to strike;
Sam look’d and smiled, as he before him stood,
Then shook his head, thinking the cause not good;
At length his flaming passion to control,
He cries, “The Lord have mercy on thy soul!
Thy case I pity, O thou man of might,
Although this practice once was my delight;
Calm thy fierce rage, and to old Sam attend,
Before destruction prove thy awful end.
I clearly see the spirit thou art in,
For I myself oft in the same have been;
And many a one like thee I’ve made to bend,
And brought their boasting valour to an end.
’Tis well for thee that I’m another man,
Or thou wouldst rue the day that this began;
I soon should settle all thy boasts and brags,
And make thy bones fall rattling on the flags!
Thou mayst thank God, whose power and grace divine,
Have chang’d this proud, rebellious heart of mine;
The love I feel to thee forbids the blow,
Which soon would lay thy boasting prowess low.
Restrain thy passion, give old Sam thine hand,
Be thankful that thou dost before him stand;
Go tell the men whom once I did adore,
Their wager’s lost, old Sam will fight no more;
Tell them to save their money for their wives,
Give up their folly, and reform their lives;
To go and seek salvation while they may,
Before the wrath of God drives them away!”
Sam’s noble speech so satisfied them all,
That not one there durst him a coward call.
“Although the wager ’s fairly lost,” say they,
“We all must own old Sam hath won the day!”
Now Sammy like a warrior stout and bold,
Seeks new companions, and forsakes the old;
While shouts of praise his ravish’d ears surround,
He hears, and understands, the joyful sound!
Yes, Sammy has a better master now,
And more substantial friends to deal with too;
Secure he leans on his Redeemer’s breast,
And sweetly sings himself away to rest.

THOUGHTS ON GOOD FRIDAY:

Occasioned by seeing two “Sinkers” dragged out of a Coal Pit; one of them killed, the other dreadfully wounded. At a short distance, a busy crowd were preparing their tents and posts for the approaching races, on Easter Monday and Tuesday. On mentioning the fatal occurrence, and naming the day, a bystander exclaimed, “O, Good Friday is nought!”

The morning sun shone dim, as if in pain,
To see that day by man so soon despised.
The feather’d choirs did heedless man reprove,
Who had more cause than they, with early song
To greet the morn, on which their Saviour bled.
Alas! that man should e’er forget his love!
Down, down the pit, the cheerful sinkers went,
Nor grief, nor fear through all the gloom appear’d;
Though at the bottom deep, grim death sat shrouded
In horrid features, measuring their minutes!
Foul was the air, and bad;—they saw him not,
Nor dream’d he was so near, nor held dispute,
On which the lot might fall, to be his victim:—
When suddenly, through wanton carelessness,
Or the just judgment of an angry God,
The kibble kick’d, brim full of splinter’d rock!
Down fell at once his ponderous instrument,
Full thirty fathom, whizzing as it went!
Beneath its heavy crash a victim fell,
And groan’d, nor ceas’d, till he had groan’d his last.
Then from behind the scene the monster stept,
And with his bony fingers hurl’d his dart:
Its point another touch’d, but not so deep.
Forth from the pit I saw the sufferers dragg’d,
I heard deep groans, and saw their mangled flesh.
The former then with grief was quick interr’d,
The other a poor halting cripple lives.
Where’s now the man that says “Good Friday’s nought?”
With accidents like this, God’s swift judgments,
I could, if ’twere requested, fill these sheets;
But to the man who thinks, and judges right,
This may suffice. And is Good Friday nought?
Is that day nought on which our Saviour bled,
To buy our pardon, to save by suff’ring!
Open salvation’s fount for crimson crimes,
And wash, and make us guilty lepers clean?
Alas for man! He sees, he feels it not!
Of old, men saw, and felt it, though far off.
The martyrs saw, own’d, and observ’d it too,
In fasting, prayer, and self-denial;
This made them march, when call’d, with holy joy,
To meet the dagger’s point, or burning stake.
The earth once felt, and felt to her foundations;
The marble mountain felt, and quak’d, and shiver’d;
The sun felt, and grew dark; the heavens wept,
And hell beneath, in dismal groanings howl’d!
The serpent felt,—and still feels in his bruis’d head.
The Saviour!—Yes, the King of Glory felt,
In that sad cup his subjects should have drunk:—
Both in the temple, and the wilderness,
The street, the judgment hall,—in Pilate’s scourge,
In cruel mockings, and the scarlet robe!
He felt it too beneath the rugged wood,
When He fatigued climb’d Calvary’s steep brow!
He felt it in the hammer and the nails
That pierc’d his flesh, though he offended not!
He felt it in the reed, and crown of thorns!
He felt it in the hyssop, vinegar, and gall,
In strange upbraidings, and the soldier’s spear!
He felt it in that mighty crush, which should,
And would have crush’d, his guilty murderers.
He felt it till his mortal part expir’d!
He feels it yet, and so do his disciples:
But the proud stiff-neck’d sinner feels it not;—
Perverse, he will not, yet one day he shall!
Though he at present, feast and garnish out
His wife’s, or children’s birth days, and his own,
With songs, and cards, and music, and the dance,
Yet this, like Job’s day, shall be blotted out!
Though he will not, yet he shall regard it,
When God appears in majesty, and power,
Arm’d with thunder-bolts, and chariots of fire,
On all his foes to pour his vengeance!
Yes! All men then will wish to be his friends.
E’en those who have his words and grace despis’d,
Will wish their lives were to begin again!—
“Whither, O, whither shall the guilty flee,
When consternation turns the good man pale!”

TO A WITHERED FLOWER!

Withering Flower, upbraid me not!
Why cast on me that look so pale?
Why dost thou my attention court,
To listen to thy mournful tale?
Why bow thy head? Why bend thy neck?
Why look so drooping, wan, and cold?
To give my careless thoughts a check,—
And tell me I am getting old!

Fading Flower, upbraid me not!
Still nodding with the gentle breeze.
Or dost thou think I have forgot,
I too am wasting by degrees?
For scarce can I believe my sight,
Who lately saw thee fresh and gay;
That beauty could so early blight,
Or such fresh colours fade away!

Drooping Flower, upbraid me not!
But turn to Sol’s enlivening ray.
I in some climate cold or hot,
Must also sicken and decay!
Nay, why dost thou shake off thy leaf,
And show thy heart so fair and clean?
But mine to smite with inward grief,—
To feel the many plagues within.

Weeping Flower, upbraid me still!
For half the conquest thou hast gain’d.
Yes! listen to thy tale I will,
Until its meaning be explain’d.
Fair emblem thou of human life;
In thee its changing tints are seen;
Our visit here, so frail and brief,
Is painted in those tints of thine!

When in thy bud so rich and gay,
Thou did’st escape the spoiler’s hand
That would have reft thy charms away,
’Twas pity check’d—and let thee stand!
While cherish’d by the blushing fair,
And waving on thy hardy stem,
Thy fragrance rich, perfum’d the air,—
Thou’rt blasted now to me and them!

Unlike to thee, whose task is done,
When Man shall quit this vale of tears,
After this life’s short glass is run,
Man shall exist in nobler spheres.
All earthly glories fade away,
So transient and so insecure;
With us, alas, how short’s their stay!
Prefigur’d by a dying Flower!

Yet we have cause to bless the day,
If weary of a life mispent,
By this thy exit, any may
Be led to ponder, and repent.
Thou transient teller of the truth,
May he who bids, and thunders roll,
Forgive the follies of my youth,
And stamp thy lesson on My soul!

THE COUNTRY LOVE FEAST.

(Held in an old Barn, Farndale, Yorkshire.)

Sing, O my muse, in praise of Zion sing,
In praise of those who her glad tidings bring,
In praise to Him who left the courts above,
To manifest to us his Father’s love!
Celestial powers, my heart and voice inspire,
If such a worm as I can feel your heav’nly fire;
To such a theme, to such a noble song,
Sublimer strains than I can reach belong.
Glory to God, whose mercy and free grace,
Are not confin’d to either time or place,
To bless, and save the fallen sons of men,
To cleanse believers, and to pardon sin.
O what an humble, yet exalted place,
Where Christians meet, the great I AM to praise.
A Barn!—A Temple! what a place is this!
Emblem of heav’n, and type of future bliss!
An earthen floor serves us on which to tread,
The roof is cover’d with the spider’s web:—
To such is man’s best righteousness compar’d,
By which full many a lofty head’s ensnar’d.
No crimson pews distinguish rich from poor,
No brass inscriptions glitter on the floor,
No marble monuments adorn the wall,
No polish’d altars where men prostrate fall,
No tapestry doth hang the pulpit round,
No costly vaults are in this temple found,
No pealing organ’s note delights the ear,
But what is better far,—our God is here!
Wherever two or three sincerely meet,
Who have towards Zion’s city turn’d their feet,
’Tis there our God himself vouchsafes to be,
To bind the strong, and set the prisoner free.
The world’s applause we cheerfully disdain,
And shelter here from company profane.
For as we differ, ’tis by Jesus’ grace,
And ’tis His presence dignifies the place.
Before us here the bread of life is spread,
Behind are stalls where now the ox is fed.
Like that in Bethlehem where Jesus lay,
This stable now beholds a glorious day!
Here Pilgrims meet their travels to relate,
And when, and where they enter’d mercy’s gate.
They tell us how their eyes with tears did fill,
When unbelief was wilful of its will.
They tell us how their sins did them oppress,
And fill’d their inmost souls with deep distress;
And how the Lord their burden did remove,
Pardon’d their sins, and fill’d their hearts with love.
They all rejoice to see each other’s face,
To hear each prospers in the work of grace.
With one consent their cheerful hearts aspire,
And ecstasies of joy their bosoms fire.
Such times as these we think too soon are gone,
Our happy souls cemented into one!
We pray, and part, each to his distant home,
And still we cry, “Lord, let thy kingdom come!”
Both far and near his Kingdom doth extend,
Temples are rising both by sea and land.
The Bethel flag, high waving in the air,
Calls seamen to engage in praise and prayer,
Whole streets, reform’d, the great assembly join,
Speak with new tongues, and sing in songs divine.
Poor trembling sinners wipe their watery eyes,
And lamentations pierce the bowing skies!
Blasphemers fall beneath the power of God,
And statesmen flock to hear his Holy Word;
While some of them a portion find to spare,
Waste Zion’s walls and bulwarks to repair.
See golden prospects round us rise,
See the dejected raise their downcast eyes,
The liberated captives shout applause
To Zion’s King, and his victorious cause!

ODE TO BRITAIN.

Shine, Britain! Shine! Thy virtues we commend;
Thy light to distant nations shall extend.
A city on a hill cannot be hid,
Nor can’st thou be, while Heav’n lifts up thy head.
Shine, Britain! Shine! O send the bible forth,
To each benighted corner of the earth;
Till all with joy its richest blessings taste,
And share with us the glorious Gospel Feast.
O happy people! Highly favour’d Isle!
Which shares the sunshine of Jehovah’s smile.
The scenes thy sons and daughters have enjoy’d,
Kings have desir’d to see, but were denied.
We hope the sound of discord soon will cease,
And angels sing a universal peace!
When barren lands with plenty shall abound,
And Christ be worshipp’d the wide world around.
At thoughts of this the lonely desert sings,
To see his altars throng’d with prostrate Kings;
To see great men of honour and renown,
Cast off the coronet to wear a crown!
Hasten, O Lord, the long—long wish’d for day,
When favour’d with thy truth’s enlightening ray,
Poor Hottentots shall raise the song divine,
And savage Turks, the heav’nly concert join.
When Blacks and Whites, a vast redeemed throng,
Shall all unite to swell the mighty song;
Worship one God, and hail Him Lord and King,
Through the whole world the Saviour’s praises sing.

A VOICE FROM THE DEAD!

Written on being uncivilly treated, when erecting some Tombstones in —— Church Yard, where the Author was denied the use of any part of the Church, Porch, or Stable; was forbidden to Letter the Stone in the Church Yard, though it was more than a mile from the Church to the nearest convenient place for such a work; and was also denied the Keys of the Gate:—yet at that very time, the parson’s horse and cow, were feeding on the grass, tearing up the graves, and breaking down the stones, while none dared to complain! On seeing the horse’s leg sink into a grave up to the lisk, the following thoughts suggested themselves.

What foot is that disturbs my rest,
Which through my coffin lid hath press’d,
And caus’d my bones the air to feel?—
It is the parson’s horse’s heel!

’Tis hard so much as there’s to pay,
That corpses cannot quiet lay,
But are by cow or horse plough’d up,
For priests to reap a three-fold crop!

Through such a process they must pass,
The grave, the tombstone, and the grass,
And Easter Offering beside:—
These claims must never be denied!

What though they do the grass devour,
And leave their dung against the door!
Pay up,—say nought,—’What’s that to thou?’
It is the parson’s horse or cow!

I know the living dare not grumble,
Nor at the parson’s conduct stumble!
And when the simple truth is told,
Of dead men they can get no hold.

We thought no hammer was to sound,
Upon this consecrated ground,—
Yet cow or horse may grind our bones
And rub their sides against the stones!

Some think things so are constituted,
That masons’ tools are all polluted,
But that the parson’s horse or cow,
Like th’ Church, is consecrated too!

Thus they may gallop o’er our graves,
And split our coffins into halves;
In spite of widows tears and groans,
May pastime make of dead folks’ bones!

This is too hard for flesh and blood!
A thing which cannot be withstood;
A thing which inward grief imparts
To pious minds and tender hearts.

But men enthrall’d must never speak,
Nor for redress attempt to seek,
But with such creatures be content,
As Bishops have ordain’d and sent.

Like him who dwells upon the coast,
Who of the priesthood makes his boast,
Regardless what the flock endure,
“If he can but the fleece secure!”

His present residence and living,
Are of his earthly father’s giving;
So none his title dare dispute,
For Bishops cannot turn him out!

Though life and conduct be profane,
He knows that men dare not complain;
Or soon he’d show them his degrees,
And take revenge in tythes and fees!

Such workmen’s labour is in vain
To keep their hands from bloody stain;
In vain they strive to show the road,
That leads to glory and to God!

No wonder if such Church decay,
If members leave it day by day,
Where tyrannising is the law,—
And till a change, it must be so.

The remedy will be unknown,
Till Priests are of the Spirit born;
Till they get hearts refin’d and pure,
Dissenters must their scorn endure!

TO THE MOOR BIRDS IN A STORM.

Ye birds of the Moor, I doubt you’ll be poor,
The storm is quite likely to last;
The owl and the crow, are shelter’d below,
But you are expos’d to the blast!

The snow lies so deep, the hill is so steep,
My footsteps are feeble and slow,
O lend me your wings, ye dear little things,
To carry me over the snow!

Nay, I have no gun, so you need not run,
Nor cackle, nor spread out your tails;
No danger is near, you’ve nothing to fear,
The poacher is down in the dales.

The wind whistle’s woe, through the valley below,
To the birds that are down in the wood;
You may hear by report, that the gun is afloat,
To scatter their feathers and blood.

If you’ll be content, till the storm shall be spent,
And suffer no envy or strife;
No doubt but you may, on some future day,
Get fat, and escape with your life!

But if you encroach, or chance to approach,
The web-footed classes domain;
If wide you should stray, or fall out by the way,
A thousand to one but you’re slain!

LINES ON RETURNING A BORROWED STICK OF SLENDERISH SIZE,

Which had been lent with a strict charge to take particular care of it, and to return it as soon as done with.

To Mr. William Horner, of Ripon.

Dear Billy, with thanks, I return thee thy switch,
Which has many times kept me out of the ditch.
I have found oft when stumbling o’er hillock or stone,
A slender supporter is better than none!

When the stars were beclouded and darkness prevail’d,
And the rain was descending, its aid never fail’d;
For it grop’d out my way, and assisted my sight,—
When my foot would have slipp’d, it kept me upright.

It never forsook me, or broke my command,
Unless it was when it slipt out of my hand;
Then myself it might blame, for not taking more care,
For when duty demanded it always was there.

It is rare upon earth to find such a friend,
On which one can always so safely depend;—
When help was most needed it paid most regard,
And never reprov’d me for using it hard!

THE THUNDER STORM.

The praise be thine, Almighty, matchless King,
Whose care and power, my muse presumes to sing;
Whose tender care protects, while thousands sleep,
The wakeful sea-boy on the mighty deep.
Thou dost from perils screen his naked head,
Which in a moment fill the world with dread;
Thou, while thy lightnings flash, and thunders roll,
Dost whisper secret peace into his soul!

The praise be thine, whose interposing power,
Protected us across yon lonely moor,
And through that night of terror and alarm,
Mysteriously preserv’d us all from harm!
That night of awful peril we record,
Ascribing all the glory to the Lord;
When from yon distant Meeting we return’d,
And pious friends at home our absence mourn’d!

The moon and stars at once withdrew their light,
And thus increas’d the horrors of the night,
Loud claps of thunder shook the sons of pride,
And female courage was severely tried!
The time pass’d on in conversation sweet,
While flaming lightning flash’d around our feet,—
Yet by the flash, in each believer’s face
We read the sign of confidence and peace.

Some to our God did then devoutly pray,
While others sung that awful hour away;
A voice was heard, “Ye need not be afraid,
Whose hope is on the Rock of Ages stay’d!”
Our virgins trimm’d their lamps, and sweetly sung,
And tenderly around each other clung,
While, as through fire and flood they took their way,
Salvation was the burden of their lay.

’Midst dismal darkness the black clouds were driven,
With all the fearful majesty of heaven;
And then as if an angel cleft the cloud,
And show’d to man the glowing wrath of God,
More quick than either thought, or sight of man,
From north to south the flaming fluid ran;
The east and west burst into a blaze,
And guilty man beheld it with amaze!

It seem’d to warn the world against that day,
When earth and sky shall melt, and pass away!
The distant mountains seem’d to own his nod,
And cried to man, “Prepare to meet thy God!”
All glory be to our eternal King,
Who brought us all safe home His praise to sing.
May we both hear and keep his Holy Word,
And so fulfil the royal law of God!

THE MISER’S AWAY!

The miser’s away, and he’ll never come back,
Any more his rusty old guineas to crack,
By his niggardly fare, of potatoes and fish,
His successor enjoys a more plentiful dish.
I once had occasion to pass by his door,
Whose threshold so seldom was cross’d by the poor,
A kitten came out in its innocent play,
And pleasantly three-thrumm’d—“The Miser’s away!”

The way weary traveller, to shorten the mile,
Sometimes has occasion to go by the style;
The gain that he gets, his spirit revives,
He cuts off an elbow, and sooner arrives.
Through one of his fields the pathway doth lie,
And very few ’scap’d the dint of his eye.
The gate as it opens and creaks, seems to say,
’Pass stranger, and welcome’—“The Miser’s away!”

In his ancient old Intake, long kept without fence,
And without cultivation, for fear of expence,
By the plough, or the spade, the rough is made plain,
And the hopeful young husbandman scatters the grain.
Where the bones of the gimmer decay’d on the ground,
And nettles and briars were every where found,
Fine corn is now growing, all smiling and gay;
It had not been so, but—“The Miser’s away!”

The birds haste away to the green holly bush,
The blackbird now tries to outrival the thrush;
They tip the tall branches on fluttering wing,
Make nearer approaches, and merrily sing.
The flowers in the garden around the bee-hive,
With unwonted freshness begin to revive,
To each new beholder their beauties display,
And whisper in perfume—“The Miser’s away!”

Here among his old books his Sabbaths he spent,
On logic and physic sat making comment;—
He thought it would be the best method to use,
To save both his carcase, his money, and shoes;—
He’d be his own doctor, and preacher likewise,
And his old yellow heap, like a mountain would rise!
The riches he heap’d up, by night and by day,
Another has found, for—“The Miser’s away!”

THE MISTAKE:

Containing a Moral for high looks, and forward folks.

Ye sportsmen bright of skill, and sight,
Who range o’er hill and dale;
Awhile give ear, and you shall hear,
A true and homely tale.
Ye friends at home, who seldom roam,
Much farther than the mill,
Be sure you’re wise, and mind your eyes,
Or let your guns lie still.
It happen’d where, as you shall hear,
A building was erected,
That to complete its breadth and height,
Some workmen were collected.

One morning chill, before yon hill
Was gilded with the sun,
Or adze, or axe, or mallet had,
Their battering begun;
Two favourite ducks, had ’scaped the fox,
Well fed, and feather’d too;
In sportive play, aspiring they
Took wing, and off they flew.
With airy wheel, they quick did scale,
The lofty wall unscar’d,
The trees they topt, and down they dropt
A gun-shot from the yard.

A joiner ran, to fetch a gun
The wild ducks to secure,—
The gun he brought, with which he thought,
To make at least one fewer.
Through mist and dew, the contents flew,
A duck began to cry,
And one took flight, and left our sight,
Nor could we it espy.
This done, the man full swiftly ran,
To gather up his game,—
Both fore and aft, the people laugh’d,
To see his wild duck tame!

He set her down, she gaz’d around,
Wond’ring at such abuse,—
But for her weight, or else she might
Have pass’d for a wild goose.
In friendship sweet, the ducks soon meet,
And talk their frolic o’er,
And in their play, they seem to say,
They’ll fly so high no more.
Our thoughts oft may, our skill betray,
But actions they speak louder;
If he’d been still, he’d saved his skill,
Likewise his shot and powder!

THE BROKEN SEAL.

To sing of Southcotes clouded fame,
My muse presumes and tries to soar;
Though some may say, “Blot out her name,
Let it be seen or heard no more,”
I have a secret to reveal,
Effected by a broken Seal!

This poor Joanna had her day;—
While fair and bright the morning shone,
She led too many far astray,
Whose souls much better things had known;
She soon their ancient tribe could tell,
And signed their title with a Seal.

A poor, illiterate, labouring man,
Who went Joanna’s voice to hear,
A stranger to salvation’s plan,
Had linger’d on from year to year;
He thought she preach’d the gospel real,
And he of course must have a Seal!

Without a heart transform’d and new,
Joanna Southcote took him in,
And seal’d him her disciple true,
Without repenting of his sin;—
He slyly from his wife did steal,
The price of his mysterious Seal!

Her creed on such conditions hung,
That while her seals continued whole,
Then hope was bright, and faith was strong,
And they could neither fail nor fall;
But none could rescue those from hell,
Who chanc’d to crack or break the Seal!

When, lo, upon a certain day,
Examining his little store,
Joanna’s passport to survey;
His pocket book he rummag’d o’er,
But consternation turn’d him pale,
When he perceiv’d he’d broke his Seal!

His heart was stung with deep dismay,
With anguish, and tormenting fears,
Which like a trumpet night and day,
Did sound this sentence in his ears,
“Thou never canst thy crime conceal,
Remember thou hast broke thy Seal!”

He thought the Almighty from on high,
Would soon his red hot lightnings pour,
And he, a sinner doom’d to die,
Might then expect the hottest shower;—
God would on him his wrath reveal,
For he had broke the fatal Seal!

He more than either once or twice,
With heavy heart and tearful eye,
Went to a preacher for advice,
Who soon his sickness did descry;
By what his conscience seem’d to feel,
His heart was broken with his Seal!

The preacher then without delay,
Did point him to the sinner’s friend,
Exhorting him to watch and pray,
And on the Son of God depend,
Whose efficacious blood could heal
His soul, though he had broke his Seal!

One day in agonizing prayer,
Believing on the Son of God,
On the dark borders of despair,
He found redemption in His blood,
And from the transport he did feel,
He bless’d the day he broke the Seal!

THE STONE:

Composed to gratify a Scottish Rhymer, and brother mason.

A stone!—and what about a stone?
What sense is there in that?
I answer, in itself there’s none:
But hold, I’ll tell you what!
Oft while in craggy woods I’ve been,
All silent, and alone,
A thousand beauties I have seen,
Conceal’d within a stone!

While passing through life’s troubled scenes,
O’erwhelm’d with care and grief,
A stranger in this wilderness,
And needful of relief:
Not wishful then to every one,
To make my troubles known,—
The thing most useful in this world,
I’ve gained it by a stone!

Some boast of riches, and estates,
Of chariots, and of steeds,
Of ships that sail by wind or steam,
And some of mighty deeds:
But all the treasure I desire,
In cities, or alone,
Is peace of conscience, health of mind,
And hewing at a stone!

Our kings, and nobles, dukes and lords,
Whose splendid castles rise,
Whose palaces, and lofty towers,
Reach almost to the skies;
Of Greece and Corinth make their boast,
Yet are oblig’d to own,
Some honour due, from first to last,
To those who hew the stone!

In every town, in modern days,
Some system new prevails,
Men deviate from former ways,
The mason’s art now fails:
Yet masons will be masons still,
And will each other own,
And smile at all attempts of skill
To imitate a stone!

The work will stand, and not disgrace,
The master-builder’s plan,
Defying rain, and tempests fierce,
For twice the age of man!
With all their compositions curl’d,
And round their columns thrown,
The grandest temple in the world,
We read was built of stone!

When this fair earth at first arose,
And man was made upright,
Him, the great God of Heaven chose,
And view’d him with delight.
Had he thus stood, (’tis thought by some,)
And in God’s image shone,
It never would have been our doom,
To hew and polish stone.

But man soon fell, by mortal sin,
And since the deed is done,
And we its captives long have been,
Th’ effect we cannot shun:
Yet though man from perfection fell,
And sin did make him groan,
The Lord in Zion laid for him,
“A sure foundation stone!”

When men began to multiply,
And sin defil’d the heart,
The Lord look’d down with pitying eye,
With man he could not part.
The sun by day, and moon by night,
And twinkling stars that shone,
He made them all rejoice, and sing,
Of “Christ, the corner stone!”

Whoe’er upon this stone shall fall,
Shall surely broken be,
Yet he may still be heal’d again,
And be from sin set free:
But he on whom this stone shall fall,
Shall see the Almighty’s frown;
He shall be crush’d as powder small,
By this stupendous stone!

Moses, that mighty man of God,
Who Israel’s flock did lead,
Whose feet the path of duty trod,
And oft for them did plead,
In conversation with the Lord,
His face with glory shone,
And from awful Sinai bore,
The “Tables made of stone!”

But lo, revolting Israel’s seed,
In Horeb, as we’re told,
Had during Moses’ absence made,
A calf of molten gold;
Such folly made his griev’d heart ache,
With pangs till then unknown,
And down he threw at once, and brake
The “Tables made of stone!”

Though ours be not such flagrant sins,
But lie perhaps conceal’d,
The day is coming when all things,
Now hid shall be reveal’d:
And some we have great cause to fear,
If they the truth would own,
Have little gods which they revere
Of gold, or precious stone.

When once through Israel’s armies brave,
The boasting challenge ran,
When great Goliath sent to Saul,
To find him out a man,
Who would in single combat fight,
Till one should be o’erthrown,
How little did he think that day
Of falling by a stone!

With steps that made the earth to bend,
And spirit swell’d with pride,
He boasting shook his greaves of brass,
And Israel’s God defied.
From Jesse’s loins a stripling sprung,
Who made the monster groan,
When from the whirling sling he threw,
The feeble,—fatal stone!

Proud armies have been overthrown,
And cities sack’d within,
And towers and temples broken down,
The sad effects of sin:—
And once an Angel did foreshow,
The fall of Babylon,
When in the heaving deep he threw,
A great and mighty stone!

When David’s highly favour’d son,
His temple first began,
They from the mountains brought a stone,
Which seem’d a pest to man:
The masons view’d it o’er and o’er,
But oft with haughty scorn,
Rejected it, and roll’d aside
This strange, unshapely stone!

From first to last it tumbling lay,
An object of disdain,
Till time, upon a certain day,
The mystery did explain.
The last, and loftiest pinnacle,
To finish and adorn
They sought, but none would do so well
As this rejected stone!

A finer building ne’er was seen,
By any mortal eye,
The timbrels rung, and Israel sung,
And old men wept for joy.
And having thus their temple rear’d
Themselves are forc’d to own,
That which the builders once refus’d
Is now the Corner Stone!

’Tis thus Jehovah’s favour’d sons,
With hearts by grace refined,
Are all compar’d to living stones,
For nobler ends design’d.
Thus he the mighty structure rears,
And perfects them in one,
A glorious Church,—and Jesus is
The chief, the corner stone!

A stone by Daniel was perceiv’d,
And still the record stands,
Which from the mountains should proceed,
Cut out as without hands;
Whose dignity should greater grow,
And mighty Kings dethrone,
Till all the earth be fill’d below,
With this amazing stone!

So “in due time God sent his Son,”
According to His word,
Whose sacred mission was begun,
And seal’d with precious blood;
Who, while He dwelt on earth below,
Did make salvation known,
And caus’d His heavenly love to flow
In hearts once hard as stone!