Man -- > Poem

[Man]

Poem




The Star-Splitter

You know Orien always comes up sideways.
Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains,
And rising on his hands, he looks in on me
Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something
I should have done by daylight, and indeed,
After the ground is frozen, I should have done
Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful
Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney
To make fun of my way of doing things,
Or else fun of Orion's having caught me.
Has a man, I should like to ask, no rights
These forces are obliged to pay respect to?"
So Brad McLaughlin mingled reckless talk
Of heavenly stars with hugger-mugger farming,
Till having failed at hugger-mugger farming,
He burned his house down for the fire insurance
And spent the proceeds on a telescope
To satisfy a life-long curiosity
About our place among the infinities.

"What do you want with one of those blame things?"
I asked him well beforehand. "Don't you get one!"
"Don't call it blamed; there isn't anything
More blameless in the sense of being less
A weapon in our human fight," he said.
"I'll have one if I sell my farm to buy it."
There where he moved the rocks to plow the ground
And plowed between the rocks he couldn't move,
Few farms changed hands; so rather than spend years
Trying to sell his farm and then not selling,
He burned his house down for the fire insurance
And bought the telescope with what it came to.
He had been heard to say by several:
"The best thing that we're put here for's to see;
The strongest thing that's given us to see with's
A telescope. Someone in every town
Seems to me owes it to the town to keep one.
In Littleton it may as well be me."
After such loose talk it was no surprise
When he did what he did and burned his house down.
Mean laughter went about the town that day
To let him know we weren't the least imposed on,
And he could wait--we'd see to him to-morrow.
But the first thing next morning we reflected
If one by one we counted people out
For the least sin, it wouldn't take us long
To get so we had no one left to live with.
For to be social is to be forgiving.
Our thief, the one who does our stealing from us,
We don't cut off from coming to church suppers,
But what we miss we go to him and ask for.
He promptly gives it back, that is if still
Uneaten, unworn out, or undisposed of.
It wouldn't do to be too hard on Brad
About his telescope. Beyond the age
Of being given one's gift for Christmas,
He had to take the best way he knew how
To find himself in one. Well, all we said was
He took a strange thing to be roguish over.
Some sympathy was wasted on the house,
A good old-timer dating back along;
But a house isn't sentient; the house
Didn't feel anything. And if it did,
Why not regard it as a sacrifice,
And an old-fashioned sacrifice by fire,
Instead of a new-fashioned one at auction?

Out of a house and so out of a farm
At one stroke (of a match), Brad had to turn
To earn a living on the Concord railroad,
As under-ticket-agent at a station
Where his job, when he wasn't selling tickets,
Was setting out up track and down, not plants
As on a farm, but planets, evening stars
That varied in their hue from red to green.

He got a good glass for six hundred dollars.
His new job gave him leisure for star-gazing.
Often he bid me come and have a look
Up the brass barrel, velvet black inside,
At a star quaking in the other end.
I recollect a night of broken clouds
And underfoot snow melted down to ice,
And melting further in the wind to mud.
Bradford and I had out the telescope.
We spread our two legs as it spread its three,
Pointed our thoughts the way we pointed it,
And standing at our leisure till the day broke,
Said some of the best things we ever said.
That telescope was christened the Star-splitter,
Because it didn't do a thing but split
A star in two or three the way you split
A globule of quicksilver in your hand
With one stroke of your finger in the middle.
It's a star-splitter if there ever was one
And ought to do some good if splitting stars
'Sa thing to be compared with splitting wood.

We've looked and looked, but after all where are we?
Do we know any better where we are,
And how it stands between the night to-night
And a man with a smoky lantern chimney?
How different from the way it ever stood?





Robert Frost
.



--> Man

[Man]

Poem




The Tuft of Flowers

I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.

The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the levelled scene.

I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.

But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been,--alone,

`As all must be,' I said within my heart,
`Whether they work together or apart.'

But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a 'wildered butterfly,

Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night
Some resting flower of yesterday's delight.

And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.

And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.

I thought of questions that have no reply,
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;

But he turned first, and led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,

A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.

I left my place to know them by their name,
Finding them butterfly weed when I came.

The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,

Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.

The butterfly and I had lit upon,
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,

That made me hear the wakening birds around,
And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,

And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
So that henceforth I worked no more alone;

But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;

And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.

`Men work together,' I told him from the heart,
`Whether they work together or apart.'





Robert Frost
.



--> Man

[Man]

Poem




The Wood-Pile

Out walking in the frozen swamp one grey day
I paused and said, "I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther--and we shall see."
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went down. The view was all in Straight up and down of tall slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather--
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled--and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting,
Or even last year's or the year's before.
The wood was grey and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labour of his axe,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.






Robert Frost
.



--> Man

[Man]

Poem









To E. T.

I slumbered with your poems on my breast
Spread open as I dropped them half-read through
Like dove wings on a figure on a tomb
To see, if in a dream they brought of you,

I might not have the chance I missed in life
Through some delay, and call you to your face
First soldier, and then poet, and then both,
Who died a soldier-poet of your race.

I meant, you meant, that nothing should remain
Unsaid between us, brother, and this remained--
And one thing more that was not then to say:
The Victory for what it lost and gained.

You went to meet the shell's embrace of fire
On Vimy Ridge; and when you fell that day
The war seemed over more for you than me,
But now for me than you--the other way.

How over, though, for even me who knew
The foe thrust back unsafe beyond the Rhine,
If I was not to speak of it to you
And see you pleased once more with words of mine?








Robert Frost
.



--> Man

[Man]

Poem





It's Been Years

It’s been years since we first met
Since we looked into each other's eyes
Not realizing that we were meant to be together
It's been years since we shared our first laugh
Our first smile
Since we shared our first kiss
I remember how strong your arms embraced me
How soft you held me
How warm and gentle you were
I remember how passionate that first kiss was
Now my heart is dancing
Happy, knowing that it's been years
It's been years since we first met
And you're still here kissing me just the same
You're still here holding me just the same
What I felt for you is still the same
It's been years
And that feeling will never change



- Takia Johnson -
.



--> Man

[Man]

Poem


WHEN YOUR CHILD COMES HOME MESSY


Red paint in the hair? Blue paint on the jeans?
Sand in the shoes? Peanut butter on a favorite shirt?
White socks that look brown? Sleeves a bit damp?




> ~~~Author Unknown~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


YOUR CHILD PROBABLY....

worked with a friend
solved a problem
created a masterpiece
negotiated a difference
learned a new skill
had a great time
developed new language skills





> ~~~Author Unknown~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


YOUR CHILD PROBABLY DIDN'T....

feel lonely
become bored
do a repetitive task that is babyish
do worksheets that are too easy
do sit down work that is discouraging







> ~~~Author Unknown~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


YOU PROBABLY....

paid good money for those clothes
will have trouble getting the red paint out
are concerned the caregiver isn't paying enough attention to your child






> ~~~Author Unknown~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


YOUR CAREGIVER PROBABLY....

was aware of your child's special needs and interests
spent time planning a challenging activity for the children
encouraged the children to try new things
was worried you might be concerned


Young children really learn when they are actively involved in play...not when someone is talking to them. There is a difference between "messy" and "lack of care." Your caregiver made sure your child was fed, warm, offered new skills and planned messy fun things to do because that's how your children learn!









> ~~~Author Unknown~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


ODE TO DAYCARE


Little children come to me
For hugs and books and such,
I care for all their simple needs
And also fix them lunch

I pick up toys, mop up spills,
And dry their little tears,
I change diapers,settle fights,
And kiss away their fears.

I tie shoes, button coats,
And push them on the swing,
I really love these kids you see,
But there is one thing.

Call me Mom, or Aunt, or Teacher, But please don't call me sitter,
Cause I never get to sit!.






> ~~~Author Unknown~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


JUST PLAYING


When I'm building in the block room,
Please don't say I'm "Just playing."
For, you see, I'm learning as I play,
About balance, I may be an Architect someday.

When I'm getting all dressed up,
Setting the table, or caring for the babies,
Don't get the idea I'm "Just Playing."
I may be a mother or father someday.

When you see me up to my elbows in paint,
Or standing at an easel,
Or molding and shaping clay,
Please don't let me hear you say,
"He is Just Playing."
For, you see, I"m learning as I play.
I just might be a teacher someday.

When you see me engrossed in a puzzle
Or some "playing" at my school,
Please don't feel the time is wasted in "play."
For, you see, I'm learning as I play.
I'm learning to solve problems and concentrate
I may be in business someday.

When you see me cooking or tasting foods,
Please don't think that because I enjoy it,
It is "Just Play."
I'm learning to follow directions
And see the differences.
I may be a cook someday.

When you see me learning to skip, hop, run,
and move my body,
Please don't say I'm "Just Playing."
For, you see, I'm learning as I play.
I'm learning how my body works.
I may be a doctor, nurse, or athlete someday.

When you ask me what I've done
at school today.
And I say, "I just played."
Please don't misunderstand me.
For, you see, I'm learning as I play.
I'm learnning to enjoy and be successful
in my work.
I'm preparing for tomorrow.
Today, I am a child and my work is play






> ~~~Author Unknown~~~



--> Man

[Man]

Poem


A CHILDCARE PROVIDER


A willing partner for working moms,
she comforts, pampers, soothes and calms.
With all the love she has to share,
she's great to have when mommy can't be there.


She loves to rock a fussy child,
corrects the one that gets too wild.
She hears her share of tearful pleas,
and comforts those with skinned up knees.


With little children she plays games of peek,
for bigger ones it's hide and seek.
She is an expert at each game,
but somehow loses just the same.


She helps them learn the alphabet,
and gives them hugs when they're upset.
She gently tucks them in their beds,
with dreamland tales for sleepyheads.


She is a true and trusted friend,
who helps them learn and play pretend.
Although she's paid, it's plain to see,
she serves them with a love that's free.





> ~~~Author Unknown~~~



--> Man

[Man]

Poem


TOUCHING THE FUTURE

I don't wear power suits,
make speeches,
or drive a fancy sports car.
I've never talked on a car phone,
made a big sale,
or been elected to the Senate.
I don't "do lunch",
have a big imppressive office or carry a beeper.
I spend my days wiping away tears,
giving hugs,
and serving chicken nuggets.
A good day is when I go through a whole day
without a temper tantrum,
bite mark,
or a toilet training accident.
My "office" is a room full of brightly colored toys
and laughing children.
You may not think that what I do is very important
and you may even whisper behind my back
"what a waste of a good mind."
But I know better.
I make a difference
because I'm changing the world
one child at a time.
Everyday I'm getting the once in a lifetime chance
to touch the future.
I'm proud to say "I'm a child care provider"






> ~~By Marti Doyle~~




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


THE HAND HOLDER ~ A Tribute to Childcare Providers


There is no job more important than yours,
no job anywhere else in the land.
Your are the keepers of the future:
you hold the smallest of hands.


Into your care you are trusted
to nurture and care for the young,
and for all of your everyday heroics,
your talents and skills go unsung.


You wipe tears from the eyes of the injured.
You rock babies brand new in your arms.
You encourage the shy and unsure child.
You make sure they are safe from all harm.


You foster the bonds of friendships,
letting no child go away mad.
You respect and you honor their emotions.
You give hugs to each child when they're sad.


You have more impact than does a professor,
a child's mind is molded by four;
so whatever you lay on the table
is whatever that child will explore.


Give each child the tools for adventure,
let them be artists and writers and more;
let them fly in the wind and dance on the stars
and build castles of sand on the shore.


It is true that you don't make much money
and you don't get a whole lot of praise,
but when one small child says, "I love you,"
you're reminded of how this job pays.





> ~~~~~ By Dori Rossmann





--> Man

[Man]

Poem


FOREVER IN MY HEART

Although I'm not their mother
I care for them each day,
I cuddle, sing and read to them
And watch them as they play.


I see each new accomplishment,
I help them grow and learn.
I understand their language,
I listen with concern.


They come to me for comfort,
And I kiss away their tears.
They proudly show their work to me,
I give the loudest cheers!


No, I 'm not their mother,
But my role is just as strong.
I nurture them and keep them safe,
Though maybe not for long.


I know someday the time will come,
When we will have to part.
But I know each child I cared for,
Is forever in my heart!










> ~~~ Author Unknown~~~





--> Man

[Man]

Poem


TODAY


Today like millions of other Americans
I went to work. I didn't design a beautiful skyscraper,
I didn't write a proposal to save an endangered species,
and I didn't drive a bus or fly a plane,
or write a crucial bill that would someday become a law.

However, I did spend time with some very important people.


I read a story to an attorney,
I sang the alphabet song with a Supreme Court Justice.
I ate Lunch with a pastor,
and patted the back of an engineer until he fell asleep.
Taught a policeman how to tie his shoes,
and introduced an astronaut to the color red.


Tomorrow, who knows whom I'll meet,
but one thing is for sure.....
They will be very IMPORTANT
For they are our precious children,
and the hope of our very future.




> ~~~ Author Unknown~~~





--> Man

[Man]

Poem


CHILDCARE PROVIDER, BABYSITTER & NANNY

Childcare provider:

A professional childcare server who contracts with a client
to hold one slot out of a limited number of available slots exclusively for your child,
with a pre- determined set of hours, for a pre-determined fee per year.
Installments of this fee are usually paid on a weekly/bi-weekly/or on a monthly basis.
This usually includes a provider who is certified in first aid and CPR.
Takes classes, workshop, and attends seminars and conference to stay current on the latest techniques in dealing with age appropriate development of the children in their care.
In most states these Providers have usually undergone criminal back ground checks of themselves and all members over 18 residing in their home.
They are required to have regular medical check ups for all personel in the daycare home.
The providers home undergoes inspections by their licensing agency and regular inspections from the state fire marshall.





> ~~~ Author Unknown~~~





--> Man

[Man]

Poem


CHILDREN LEARN WHAT THEY LIVE


If a child lives with criticism,
they learn to condem.


If a child lives with hostility,
they learn to fight.


If a child lives with ridicule,
they learn to be shy.


If a child lives with shame,
they learn to feel guilty.


If a child lives with tolerance,
they learn to be patient.


If a child lives with encouragement,
they learn confidence.


If a child lives with praise,
they learn to appreciate.


If a child lives with fairness,
they learn justice.


If a child lives with security,
they learn to have faith.


If a child lives with approval,
they learn to like themselves.


If a child lives with acceptance and friendship,
they learn to find love in the world.






> ~~~Dorothy Law Nolte, Ph.D.~~~





--> Man

[Man]

Poem


WHEN I PLAY I AM LEARNING


When I smile and coo back and forth with a special adult, I am learning I can make people respond; that I am loveable.

When I play with my hands and feet, I am learning that those things are a part of me and I make them move.

When I turn an object over and over, I am learning that objects look different on the other side.

When I make my mobile move by kicking the crib, I am learning that I can make things happen by moving my body.

When I crawl into small nooks and crannies, I am learning where I fit and about shapes and sizes.

When I push objects off the high chair tray, I am learning that things fall downward and are still there, even when I cannot see them.

When I fill and dump containers and line things up to fit in holes, I learn that I can make exciting things happen.

When I crawl up and down steps, I am learning to coordinate my arms and legs and balance.

When I push, pull and haul objects, I am learning how heavy objects are and how they move.

When I make things happen, I am learning that I have power.

When I play peek-a-boo, I learn that people exist even when I cannot see them. When I lift flaps, I am learning to hide things and make them reappear.

When I look at books, I am learning to use symbols - that pictures represent real things and have names.

When I stack objects, I am learning about shapes, sizes, balance and gravity.

When I fit things inside each other, I am learning the relationship of negative and positive spaces.

When I play pat-a-cake, I am learning to have fun with someone else.

When I play "Ring Around the Rosie", I am learning a game with a rule - don't fall till the end!

When I imitate the actions of other children, I am learning that I am one of them and can do what other people do.

When I chant sounds, I am learning the melodies, sounds and rhythms of my language.

When I stick things in holes, I am learning to line things up properly to fit.

When I bang objects on the floor, I am learning that things make all sorts of different noises.

When I push a ball back and forth, I am learning it's more fun to be with others than myself, and it's fun to take turns.

When I pretend to feed my doll, I am learning what it feels like to nurture someone.

When I pretend to put my doll to bed, I am learning what it feels like to be the powerful one.

When I pretend to drink from a toy cup, I am learning to use symbols - useful later in learning to read and do math.

When I climb on a climber, I am learning balance and coordination to develop strength.

When I scribble with crayons, I am learning that I can make marks by moving my hands and I can affect the shape and quality of the mark.

When I line up blocks to make a road, I am learning the relationship of shapes and to use symbols.

When I play with little people and cars, I am learning what it feels like to be a giant.

When I dance to music, I am learning to enjoy music and to have fun with others.



.





> ~~~ Author Unknown~~~





--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Mommy Brain


If you've left the crayons to melt in the car,
And forgotten just where the car keys are,
There's a perfectly good way to explain:
You see, you've come down with "Mommy Brain."


When you're not sure where the past 8 hours went,
Or whether the phone bill check's been sent,
If you've left the laundry drying in the rain,
It's just--you guessed it--Mommy Brain.


If you find yourself chatting for hours on end
About diaper prices with your cyberfriends,
You've just caught a particularly virulent strain
Of that affliction known as Mommy Brain.


If you left your bags at the grocery store
Or completely forgot what you went there for,
If you called the cat by your baby's name,
You can bet that Mommy Brain's to blame.


And if you know the words to "Goodnight Moon" by heart,
Or you study your sleeping babe like a work of art,
If you're always surprised by how time is flying,
And the thought of that first birthday starts you crying.....


It's unavoidable girls, and I feel your pain,
For I, too, suffer from Mommy Brain.
But I'll admit one thing--of this I'm sure:
I hope they never find a cure.





> ~~~ Author Unknown ~~~




--> Man

[Man]

Poem



NIGHT DANCE

Orion dances with the moon,
Cassiopeia swings her chair
Around Polaris. The Great Bear
Stands on her head, her little one
Clings to her skirts. The Pleiades
In formation coldly minuet.

All this if you slow your mind, to let
The stars move faster and faster
Until dawn's fingers open your eyes
To blurring day-skies.








> ~~~ Sean Haldane~~~




--> Man

[Man]

Poem



RAGES

They were terrible years,
Although I didn't say so:
Begun in hopes and fears,
But - when I'd turned the pages
Of that book of images -
Ended in hopes and rages.

From the dying woods
Foxes came one by one,
As if emissaries,
At a wavering run,
With strings of saliva
Slobbering from bared teeth.

I'd rush to find my gun,
(My Lee Enfield .303)
And hastily I'd shoot them,
Then, wearing rubber gloves,
Inter the blood-flecked things.
There were worse buryings:

I had to shoot Louis -
My hound with the fleur-de-lys
(A marking on his brow) -
Mauled by a fox, and Jenny
The poodle (a stray I'd found).
I put them in the same ground:

A knoll above the creek,
Unflooded in the Spring,
Their graves the ones with stones,
Among the skunks and foxes -
The kind of carrion
Louis had liked to roll on.

I was left with her:
A succubus,
And me her incubus.
I gave in to every lust
Until the end of loving -
Carrion, bones, and fur.

There, by the end of August
Corn and squash were frost-blacked.
In the winter of the year,
At fifty below zero,
Apple and pear trees cracked -
Like gunshots in my brain:

An echo chamber
With floors of crazy camber,
Its matter criss-cross tracked -
Blood-spots on sheets of snow
Where wolves of angry pain
Hunted my past's poor deer.





> ~~~ Sean Haldane~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




DOWN AND DOWN

Snow sheets tuck them in,
The whitest of down
Plumps their comforters
And keeps them snug,
The air is white on the ground
Where snow lies like a rug,
Ghost beeches gather round,
Wind in bare branches
The only sound...

This poem drives me in
To write it down.
For what? For whom? Nothing.
Our lives are snowflakes.
Perhaps if we collide
On our way down,
Death seems less like suicide






> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




SPIRES AND DESIRES

When I go mad and nominate the spires
Lost with the shafts of floodlight in the mist
As witness to unsatisfied desires,
And God lain buried long under the rubble
Comes out and shakes his fist and makes old trouble,
I could despair, I could, I even would:
But you exist.

God does not, except as muttering ghost
Well laid by lovers across centuries,
Who may have been, may not have been
More satisfied than I:
I could die, I could, I even would:
But you exist.

Here bombs' fire melted girders, toppled walls,
But spires remained as monument.
My desires, at this moment
Unquenched by rain, rise in the mist.
I could give up, I could, I even would:
But you exist.







> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




DESIRE IN BELFAST

AVEBURY

Among the timeless stones what takes the eye
Is a girl on a bicycle -
Pink blouse, and black skirt riding up her thigh -
Pedalling fast
As if in danger in this place,
Through time a-race.

The church clock strikes above the chanting choir
At practice, and the doves inside their cote
Cru-croo-cru, cru-croo-cru, cru-croo-cru,
Then lower - Ooo, Ooo, Ooo - throat to throat.

Impossible to tell which stones, which sheep
Against the downs from far - all seem to sleep,
Until the little ones jostle the big
To suckle and their plangent baas are heard
Quavering through the stilled air of dusk,
Circles dissolve, stones seem to push and shove -
Except the giant ones nothing will move.

Like weeping, laughing, dodderers and crones
Humped or crouching in the grass, the stones
Scarred by cutting flints, eroded, lined,
Holding hands to knobbly chins, must know
More than the visitors who come and go.

As the sun sinks I mount the avenue,
Each stone a foresight for a nimbus flash.
My heart is heavy as the sun's red ball,
For at the top is (nothing?): darkness, pall.

Some stones are coupled: male to female face,
Tall-short, slim-broad - great Mammas and Papas,
Their children straggle after them in lines
Doing what they have been set to do,
Pointing out the way the centuries through.
The living (no more living?) couples pass
Between them, interweaving on the grass,
Hand in hand to watch the red sun set.
These lovers haven't faced each other yet.



In the pub within the ancient ring
Yobs hit the jackpot on the fruit machine,
Neon lights flash, the jukebox flickering
As the pale barmaid hears a goddess sing:
'Taam after taam...'
Outside the plaintive bleating of a lamb:
The dugs are dry.
The dead sun's blood is streaming in the sky
Around the spearpoints of the church's tower.
The darkened stones retain their endless power.








> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




DESIRE IN BELFAST

Hothouse of desire,
In the Botanic Gardens,
Jungle damp, steaming pipes, banana fronds.
Against the railing of the goldfish pond,
Leaning back, she pulled up her dress,
Round-bellied as a Hindu goddess.

Volumes of desire,
Behind the shelves of the Linen Hall Library,
She sitting on my knee, I reading Dante:
'He kissed my mouth all trembling'
(La bocca mu baciò tutto tremante).



-- > Continued Below






> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




DESIRE IN BELFAST

School of desire,
Waiting for me in the park, her uniform skirt
Unbuttoned, knickers in her satchel -
We'd lie on leaves in the dirt.

Bush of desire,
Rhododendron dripping on us bare,
Blood-coloured petals caught in her hair.





-- > Continued Below






> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




DESIRE IN BELFAST



Flowers of desire,
Hydrangeas in the suburbs,
'Like blue notepaper', quoting Rilke, she said.
I wrote our story in fallen hawthorn petals,
Printing it in the crushed daisies and buttercups
We made our bed.

Reservoir of desire,
Children and pensioners playing with model boats,
Us on a wrought iron bench,
Hands in each other's clothes under our coats.




-- > Continued Below






> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




DESIRE IN BELFAST



Concert of desire,
At recitals or the symphony,
Thinking of afterwards - against a wall
In the dark puddles of an entry.

Journey of desire,
The last Cave Hill bus at night,
On the back seat of the empty upper deck,
My eye on the round mirror above the stairs,
Her fingernails dug into my neck.




-- > Continued Below






> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




DESIRE IN BELFAST



Song of desire,
The blackbird at Island Mahee
Which brought a saint eternity,
Us among the brambles kissing,
Purple-mouthed with blackberry.

River of desire,
The Lagan, factories wrecked by Luddite time,
Gladed by nettles, burrs, thorns,
Millwheels stopped in slime,
A muddy dell, us crouching in the mire.





-- > Continued Below






> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




DESIRE IN BELFAST



Hill of desire,
Woods, sheeps' paths, caves, paper and shit,
Peeping Toms... On the summit
Us lying in heather and gorse on fire.

Lane of desire,
Buttermilk Loney, where before the Twelfth
Townies dragged down branches for the bonfires
(And groped the two backward sisters
From the white, half-doored cottage),
She stepping around the cowpats
And singing 'A la claire fontaine'.





-- > Continued Below






> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




DESIRE IN BELFAST



Rain of desire,
Pouring down the windows of the car
We locked ourselves in
Parked off the Hightown Road on the moors
(B Specials patrolled in Land-Rovers with Sten guns),
Lying skin to skin.

City of desire,
Us walking hand in hand
('Stand still ye sinners!'
Bellowed at us by a soapbox preacher),
Half a million rages
Rising with the smoke from chimneys,
The air sparkling between our eyes.






-- > Continued Below






> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




DESIRE IN BELFAST



Poems of desire,
Graves ('one story and one story only'),
Blake's Book of Thel, Rilke's autumn day, Goethe
Tapping hexameters on his mistress's shoulder,
Breton's woman with the woodfire in her hair -
And from me to her how Spring would pass,
May blossom shivering from the tree
Falling white on grass.

Stones of desire,
The dolmen in the Giant's Ring.
Among the chocolate wrappers
And broken bottles glistening
By moonlight, us in our blanket, trembling.







-- > Continued Below






> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




DESIRE IN BELFAST



Stars of desire,
Orion ungirding his sword,
The rising Milky Way -
Sheathed in her I lay.

Coals of desire,
In January, heating a borrowed room,
Bursting frozen pipes in the attic,
Ceiling plaster falling on us naked.

Death of desire:
My disgust
At her sticky 'love'.
Desire had turned to lust.








-- > Continued Below






> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




THE KILLDEERS

Dead beetles that the spade upturns awake
In resurrection after winter sleep.
Every layer of life is on the move,
From deepest worms to flocks of geese
Migrating North. Partridge drum their wings.
Winnowing snipe zigzag and craze the sky.

Then plovers from the marsh scream out
'Killdeer! Killdeer!' Depression stoops our shoulders.
We brood in silence on the coming time
When we'll lie beetle-like under the earth
And never rise. There's nothing positive
Between us, no least faith that we might live.













> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




MIDWINTER RACING

The moment I entered you my heart
Began to race towards its pounding finish,
My brain light as a cross country skier
On the lunging skis of my body
As it surged up and over the leaps
Between long rhythmic pacings.

Then I lay perfectly still.
I didn't want to move, but my mind
Went wandering: perhaps a spark
From your inner hearth had passed to me -
Or had I brought the spark to you,
Kindled by the heat of my heart?

Outside I sawed wood for an hour,
Then waxed my skis and set off
On another race, a fast cross country run.
My eyes watered against the cold,
My face glowed under my woollen mask.
Ice breathed into my lungs puffed out in plumes.

At ten below zero the spark was still alive.
When I came back to you it burned
Somewhere deep in me: our casual kiss
Was more than a simple greeting,
It was the kiss of two fires lit from the same brand -
But now I knew which way the flame leapt first.














> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




INSIDE

Striated like the inside of a shell
Snow lies against our windows, blizzard gusts
Fill in the shovelled-out paths to our doors.
We're cut off, but we're not lonely here.
The smell and feel of life drift in our rooms,
Our cushions, bedspreads, carpeted floors
Are orients of colour, and though our walls
Are cold to the touch, their outside surface frosted,
We move inside them full and pulsing as hearts.

Our house is a shell in a sea of billowing snow
Whose fish are birds in kelp-trees in the storm,
Whose prowlers of the deep are wolves
In a seaweed forest, whose innermost lair
Is crannied as coral, glistening as mother of pearl.












> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




THE SHIFT

The sound of water,
The crunch of last year's grass
Between patches of snow.
Thoughts from years ago:
A blue cotton shift,
The smell of you.
(The herbal smell of grass.)

I say, 'I like that blouse.
Why not a shift that blue?'
She looks questioningly.
In the back of my eyes
In the shift you stand.
(I'll never plant the new
Fruit trees I planned.)

Blue blouse and shift -
Both go with blue eyes.
Her hair is light,
Yours black as night.
I let your image rise
In the caverns of my brain.
(I look into your eyes.)

In bed with her I lie.
I sense both of you.
Touch has no hue.
My throat is dry.
Your voice is lost
As I try to go to sleep.
(Outside, tree frogs peep.)

Uncoloured is the stream
Lost in the dark,
Unwarm the pallid limbs
That lie apart.
(I reach my hand
Towards your hand,
Sweetheart









> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




MY FRIEND

My friend who worked on a novel for ten years,
Which got panned in one line by the Times, now appears
In a 'critically acclaimed' novel by another,
As the man who ran off with the other's wife.
That's life!











> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




NOVEMBER NIGHT

November night. Smoke
(Bent dahlias and chrysanthemums poke
From dead leaves) of alder and oak.









> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




CANADIAN WAR MEMORIAL, GREEN PARK

I think of Bertram Warr,
A leaf fallen from a plane
In the year I was born -
Another poet gone.

And Isaac Rosenberg.
If he were to meet Warr
(Wherever they might be)
They might talk of Stepney:
Life in a slum,
A rat in a bombed house carrying a crumb.







> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




ONE CRUELTY

The lies I told myself were these:
'One cruelty would save another worse.'
(I might as well have told them to the trees
Or paraded them in sentimental verse.)

'I will be cruel to be kind
To both of us', I said.
'Better so than stay behind
And torture you with my despair and rage.

So, turn another page:
I'll leave you here
In pain, sorrow, fear -
To save you fear, sorrow, pain.'

When I came back again
I found you dead:
One cruelty enough to burst your brain
Inside your head.







> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




THE END OF TIME

'The sadness of the end of time.
Is this what it was all about?'

All has been and is,
Snapshot frame after snapshot frame
In a stationary projector drum.
Here we are, finally come
To where we started. And nothing has moved!
Yet we have loved.





> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~


--> Man

[Man]

Poem




MANY FACES

I don't know who I am moved by more -
Myself or you
In long lost photographs before
We came to where we were coming to.

Your many beauties make me catch
My breath, the many changes of my face
Through sorrow to ecstasy make my insides
Clutch. And what divides
Us now from us then? No more
Than what divides us from each other now:
Our many faces
Turned to each other across times and places.




> ~~~ Sean Haldane ~~~



--> Man

[Man]

Poem




Funeral Verse for a Fisherman

Just as the mist it rises
Then vanishes way down the stream
John too has come and then left us
Today it seems like a dream
That he was so much part of our lives
That he lived and loved as we do
Now he has left our hearts and his home
Like the fish that a fisherman threw
Back in the stream to go on its way
And that is what John is doing today
To a bright new world, see the sun glitter
As he drifts from sight, though our tears are bitter
We know that he, like the salmon’s leap
Will always be there in our memories deep.



--> Man

[Man]

Poem




Public speaking

With trembling limbs and knocking knees
You stand as on the dock
And try to make your voice sound
As steady as a rock
You've got to watch the words you stress
And you must watch the way you dress
You've got to make your breath stream last
And most of all not talk too fast.
Your subject must, of course your audience enthrall
And your voice must be heard in the corners of the hall
Without shouting, they must listen to every word you say
And if they don't believe their opinion you must sway
And lastly, whether speaking Latin, prose or rhyme
Just when you get going you've got to stop in time.



--> Man

[Man]

Poem




Dreams

What are dreams but journeys through the night?
Travels through black velvet and the light
Of starry staircases reaching to the moon
What are dreams but a journey I'll be taking soon?

And as I close my eyes and drift asleep
I slip away from all my tensions and my sorrow
And travel on a magic carpet of delight
That bridge that links today with my tomorrow..



--> Man

[Man]

Poem




Anniversary wishes

Today we're celebrating
Fifty years of married life
Those golden years spent Charles
With Maureen as your wife.
You shared the good years and the bad
Times of tears and laughter
And through it all your love survived
So in the years hereafter
I'm hoping that you life will be
As good to you as you are to me
And as we walk down memory lane
When our days had sunshine, little rain
Nostalgically we think how good they were
May God bless and keep you in his care.



--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Granddad's Baby Girl

Eyes that cannot see and yet
Perhaps she more than we
In granddad's arms, his little pet
Sees things we cannot see.
Maybe she knows her winning smile
Is old as Eve, a woman's guile
With which God drew strong arms to lift
Then silently adore, his prefect gift.
Timeless moments, more precious than many hours
Like dewdrops trembling on summer morning's flower
Each one savoured, a soul stripped bare
As age for youth, breathes thankful prayer
Togetherness, whispered words and love's sweet song
Fondled close, so restful, they belong.



--> Man

[Man]

Poem



The sounds of summer.

The polite handclaps of straw-hatted cricket lovers
The slow, repetitive thud of a tennis ball
Staccato shower on a thirsty pavement
Sails flapping, boats creaking in a sudden squall
All these are summer's sounds

Waves beating rhythmically against unyielding rocks
The sea lapping sensuously, softly, on the sand
The enticing tinkle of ice cream vendors
The boom and crashing cymbals of a brass band
These are summer's sounds

The encouraging shouts of footballers to their team-mates
Children's excited laughter as they run and slide
The splash, splash of spray in a fountain
The muffled thud, the punter' cheers as jockeys ride
These are summer's sounds

The buzz of bees busily going about their business
Hissing hoses bringing fragrance to night-scented stock
Drills deafening as roads are mended
The rasping, splashing. sloshing at the lock.
These are Summer's sounds.

When winter comes and we shiver in its damp and cold
When the winds are wild, the rain beating and the sleeting
Snow falls, not silently but with slushy sounds
We warm ourselves, hands beating, with central heating
And think of summer's sounds.



--> Man

[Man]

Poem



A day to remember

It was a very special day
A day to be savoured lest
Its very difference would slip away
And t'would be like the rest
Our happiness was tangible, those sunlit hours
Echoed by the trees, the bees the flowers
And all the summer greenery and birds in song
In symphony with the stream, rippling long.
Beside us, clearly showing stones, each a different hue
Reflecting images, a shadow, a leaf, a sky of blue.
The warmth of contentment viewing with that of sun
As we enjoyed those moments of laughter and of fun
There's a special timelessness about such a stolen day
Because, deep in our memories, we keep it stowed away.





--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Father of groom's poem

Mothers, they say, they love their sons
Yet today he's chosen another
To be his wife for the rest of his life
And he's saying goodbye to his mother.
But real love it's about letting them go
To stretch their wings and to fly
And hoping that if you give them some rope
They'll come home to you bye and bye
When he does I know he'll bring Mary too
She'll be warmly welcome as are all of you
To share in the magic of this happy day
When we've a new daughter a coming our way
In our hearts and our home there's plenty of room
So God bless them both our bride and groom.





--> Man

[Man]

Poem



The lane off the busy street.

Hidden I barely saw them
Shy and very discreet
Those whitewashed little cottages
In the lane off the busy street.

White walls were ablaze with the shadows
Of the flowers that bloomed outside
In that little piece of Heaven
That t'was only by chance I spied

It looked an oasis of calm
In the midst of the traffic that day
The wonderful colours of nature
In the midst of a city so grey

I sat on the big double decker
And thought of the people within
Surrounded by such peace and quiet
Just yards from the big city's din

The scene had an air of enchantment
As though under some good fairy's spell
Wrapped up in a bubble of sunshine
As fragile as any seashell.

When I tire of the clamour around me
And the traffic's pulsating beat
I return, in my mind to tranquillity
In that lane off the big city street.






--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Words

Snatches of conversation
Words I have overheard
Some with hidden meanings
Others quite absurd
Words I have heard from passers-by
Or shouted up four stories high
In buses, shop, why anywhere
There's surely bound to be someone there
Speaking of others I don't know
Or starting a sentence before they go
They're teasing, tantalising things
Those words that chance it sometimes brings
But oh what fun it is to try
To decipher the words of passers-by..






--> Man

[Man]

Poem



I, Too, Sing America
I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--

I, too, am America.


By Langston Hughes


--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Messy Room


Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!



By Shel Silverstein



--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Whatif


Last night, while I lay thinking here,
some Whatifs crawled inside my ear
and pranced and partied all night long
and sang their same old Whatif song:
Whatif I'm dumb in school?
Whatif they've closed the swimming pool?
Whatif I get beat up?
Whatif there's poison in my cup?
Whatif I start to cry?
Whatif I get sick and die?
Whatif I flunk that test?
Whatif green hair grows on my chest?
Whatif nobody likes me?
Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me?
Whatif I don't grow talle?
Whatif my head starts getting smaller?
Whatif the fish won't bite?
Whatif the wind tears up my kite?
Whatif they start a war?
Whatif my parents get divorced?
Whatif the bus is late?
Whatif my teeth don't grow in straight?
Whatif I tear my pants?
Whatif I never learn to dance?
Everything seems well, and then
the nighttime Whatifs strike again!


By Shel Silverstein



--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Bear In There


There's a Polar Bear
In our Frigidaire--
He likes it 'cause it's cold in there.
With his seat in the meat
And his face in the fish
And his big hairy paws
In the buttery dish,
He's nibbling the noodles,
He's munching the rice,
He's slurping the soda,
He's licking the ice.
And he lets out a roar
If you open the door.
And it gives me a scare
To know he's in there--
That Polary Bear
In our Fridgitydaire.


By Shel Silverstein



--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Picture Puzzle Piece


One picture puzzle piece
Lyin' on the sidewalk,
One picture puzzle piece
Soakin' in the rain.
It might be a button of blue
On the coat of the woman
Who lived in a shoe.
It might be a magical bean,
Or a fold in the red
Velvet robe of a queen.
It might be the one little bite
Of the apple her stepmother
Gave to Snow White.
It might be the veil of a bride
Or a bottle with some evil genie inside.
It might be a small tuft of hair
On the big bouncy belly
Of Bobo the Bear.
It might be a bit of the cloak
Of the Witch of the West
As she melted to smoke.
It might be a shadowy trace
Of a tear that runs down an angel's face.
Nothing has more possibilities
Than one old wet picture puzzle piece.



By Shel Silverstein



--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Still I Rise


You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.




By Maya Angelou



--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Phenomenal Woman


Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.



By Maya Angelou



--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Ode to Technology


My Ode to Technology:

All day I pass, as I stare at this machine,

Wishing something exciting will pop up on my screen.

My closest friend, my constant companion, is made of metal and wire,

This computer might have to follow me to my funeral pyre.



Dowloading music and movies was its sole purpose in college,

and occasionally used to write a paper or gain some knowledge.

But the days of Limewire, AIM, MSN and iTunes are gone,

So are the nights of hentai and amature porn.



Now that we have entered the "Work Force",

My computer has become solely an information source,

Slaves to Technology, since without it I would be lost,

It would be like being on Survivor, but without Jeff Prost!!!



(PS- Jeff Prost is the Host of the Reality Show Survivor)


By Hespera




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Rains in My Village



Words fail to spell thoughts,
on childhood images of my village...
as the mind journey to serene valleys
of orgasmic mounts and timeless delights...
my body transcend, from traps of senses,
as the hamlet gushes into pores of my being...

The dreamful terrain, fills my heart...
with the bounty of passion-filled aroma...
the freshening savor of sunlit blossom
and heady flavour of fallen leaves

The splatter and frenzy of torrents in June,
caressing hillocks with vapory breeze
and soothing the plains of oozing thirst...
yearning to spawn, the vim of lush...

Little springs of molten mists,
decking hills and laps of valleys...
chirping, singing and swaying with glimmer,
waddle of a trothed lass, doused in demure
at the sonnet and melody of splendid sky...

The hazy kiss of cupid clouds..
the draping cuddle of shimmering streams..
the heavenly milieu for greeting the virgin..
for the nuptial of valley with vapory wind...
valley, the virgin for seasons to come...


By Anilan Nair




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Oneness




see the oneness, the love:
to hurt any other, any being
is to hurt oneself


By Raj Arumugam




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


THE BLANKET

poems for kids

A tottering old man
In a small hut he lived
No doors and windows ,
Slept on a rickety wooden bench ;
Old blanket , torn in many places
Covered his body from cold .

One warm night he just retired
Keeping the blanket aside ;
In the night it was dark
And quiet , no one around .
Cold winds started blowing ;
At night a man , shivering
Peeped into the room
Picked up the blanket , ran away .

Awakened , old man saw
Somebody running with the blanket ;
Ran he , after him -- a chase followed ;
He caught up the man , said , "hello ",
" Why running away ; sit down , rest " .
" Sorry , took your blanket
Felt cold , thought I could use it " .
Replied the old man , " the blanket
Is torn and may not keep you warm ,
I ' ve a better one " .
Gave him the new one .
Before the man could thank him
The old man disappeared from the scene .






By Madhavajja




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Solitary Reaper- I am a Reaper of Dreams

Song unsung

Dreams never conceived

Tears not born

Secret unfolded

Promises never made

Sky never seen

Air not breathed

Land not trodden

Ocean un-plunged

Dew tats frozen

Love not made

Actions undone

Thoughts un-caressed

Words not spoken

Subject not preached

Emotions not shown

Mysteries folded

Oh my wretched spirit yearns for all.......







By Sophizz




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Elements


water fire nature life personal


Water quenches my thirst
fire warms my heart
earth keeps me steady
and air keeps me alive

Water, water, too much of it,
the flames are all extinguished
the cold is seeping in
warmth has fled

to keep the body warm
warm water it is
but water, water , water
it is too much to breathe

water on fire
water in the air
water on earth
when is it enough?

my body is water
now my world is water too
and with no warmth
I am suffocating

When it was fire all the way
I was burning and longing
for the same water
which is drowning me now

When i was feeling blown away
I wanted the earth under my feet
for without the ground and the sand
my life was all too beat

With earth I felt rooted
like a tree
which cannot move
and then i longed for fire and air
and water too

The elements rule me
I have to respect
But the universe is so vast and lonely
I wish the elements were friends







By Tamilsri




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


My heart


"For myself, those things that have died, in dying, entered my own heart."
-Selected Letters of Rainer Maria Rilke



Desires that could not
fill my heart
died
and now
are buried
there.
My heart
is
heavy now.







By White Wings




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Mow
A harvest home song.
Tune, Where The Bee Sucks

[This favourite song, copied from a chap-book called The Whistling Ploughman, published at the commencement of the present century, is written in imitation of Ariel's song, in the Tempest. It is probably taken from some defunct ballad-opera.]


Now our work's done, thus we feast,
After labour comes our rest;
Joy shall reign in every breast,
And right welcome is each guest:
After harvest merrily,
Merrily, merrily, will we sing now,
After the harvest that heaps up the mow.

Now the plowman he shall plow,
And shall whistle as he go,
Whether it be fair or blow,
For another barley mow,
O'er the furrow merrily:
Merrily, merrily, will we sing now,
After the harvest, the fruit of the plow.

Toil and plenty, toil and ease,
Still the husbandman he sees;
Whether when the winter freeze,
Or in summer's gentle breeze;
Still he labours merrily,
Merrily, merrily, after the plow,
He looks to the harvest, that gives us the mow.



--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Thornehagh-Moor Woods.
A celebrated Nottinghamshire poacher's song.
[Nottinghamshire was, in the olden day, famous in song for the achievements of Robin Hood and his merry men. In our times the reckless daring of the heroes of the 'greenwood tree' has descended to the poachers of the county, who have also found poets to proclaim and exult over their lawless exploits; and in Thornehagh-Moor Woods we have a specimen of one of these rude, but mischievous and exciting lyrics. The air is beautiful, and of a lively character; and will be found in Popular Music. There is a prevalent idea that the song is not the production of an ordinary ballad-writer, but was written about the middle of the last century by a gentleman of rank and education, who, detesting the English game-laws, adopted a too successful mode of inspiring the peasantry with a love of poaching. The song finds locality in the village of Thornehagh, in the hundred of Newark. The common, or Moor-fields, was inclosed about 1797, and is now no longer called by the ancient designation. It contains eight hundred acres. The manor of Thornehagh is the property of the ancient family of Nevile, who have a residence on the estate.]


In Thornehagh-Moor woods, in Nottinghamshire,
Fol de rol, la re, right fol laddie, dee;
In Robin Hood's bold Nottinghamshire,
Fol de rol, la re da;

Three keepers' houses stood three-square,
And about a mile from each other they were; -
Their orders were to look after the deer.
Fol de rol, la re da.

I went out with my dogs one night, -
The moon shone clear, and the stars gave light;
Over hedges and ditches, and steyls
With my two dogs close at my heels,
To catch a fine buck in Thornehagh-Moor fields.

Oh! that night we had bad luck,
One of my very best dogs was stuck;
He came to me both breeding and lame, -
Right sorry was I to see the same, -
He was not able to follow the game.

I searched his wounds, and found them slight,
Some keeper has done this out of spite;
But I'll take my pike-staff, - that's the plan!
I'll range the woods till I find the man,
And I'll tan his hide right well, - if I can!

I ranged the woods and groves all night,
I ranged the woods till it proved daylight;
The very first thing that then I found,
Was a good fat buck that lay dead on the ground;
I knew my dogs gave him his death-wound.

I hired a butcher to skin the game,
Likewise another to sell the same;
The very first buck he offered for sale,
Was to an old [hag] that sold bad ale,
And she sent us three poor lads to gaol.

The quarter sessions we soon espied,
At which we all were for to be tried;
The Chairman laughed the matter to scorn,
He said the old woman was all forsworn,
And unto pieces she ought to be torn.

The sessions are over, and we are clear!
The sessions are over, and we sit here,
Singing fol de rol, la re da!
The very best game I ever did see,
Is a buck or a deer, but a deer for me!
In Thornehagh-Moor woods this night we'll be!
Fol de rol, la re da!
.



--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Tobacco
[This song is a mere adaptation of Smoking Spiritualized. The earliest copy of the abridgment we have been able to meet with, is published in D'Urfey's Pills to Purge Melancholy, 1719; but whether we are indebted for it to the author of the original poem, or to 'that bright genius, Tom D'Urfey,' as Burns calls him, we are not able to determine. The song has always been popular. The tune is in Popular Music.]

Tobacco's but an Indian weed,
Grows green in the morn, cut down at eve;
It shows our decay,
We are but clay;
Think of this when you smoke tobacco!

The pipe that is so lily white,
Wherein so many take delight,
It's broken with a touch, -
Man's life is such;
Think of this when you take tobacco!

The pipe that is so foul within,
It shows man's soul is stained with sin;
It doth require
To be purged with fire;
Think of this when you smoke tobacco!

The dust that from the pipe doth fall,
It shows we are nothing but dust at all;
For we came from the dust,
And return we must;
Think of this when you smoke tobacco!

The ashes that are left behind,
Do serve to put us all in mind
That unto dust
Return we must;
Think of this when you take tobacco!

The smoke that does so high ascend,
Shows that man's life must have an end;
The vapour's gone, -
Man's life is done;
Think of this when you take tobacco!
.



--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Jack and Tom


An ould Border dittie. (Traditional.)

[The following song was taken down from recitation in 1847. Of its history nothing is known; but we are strongly inclined to believe that it may be assigned to the early part of the seventeenth century, and that it relates to the visit of Prince Charles and Buckingham, under the assumed names of Jack and Tom, to Spain, in 1623. Some curious references to the adventures of the Prince and his companion, on their masquerading tour, will be found in Halliwell's Letters of the Kings of England, vol. ii.]


I'm a north countrie-man, in Redesdale born,
Where our land lies lea, and grows ne corn, -
And such two lads to my house never com,
As them two lads called Jack and Tom!

Now, Jack and Tom, they're going to the sea;
I wish them both in good companie!
They're going to seek their fortunes ayont the wide sea,
Far, far away frae their oan countrie!

They mounted their horses, and rode over the moor,
Till they came to a house, when they rapped at the door;
And out came Jockey, the hostler-man.
'D'ye brew ony ale? D'ye sell ony beer?
Or have ye ony lodgings for strangers here?'

'Ne, we brew ne ale, nor we sell ne beer,
Nor we have ne lodgings for strangers here.'
So he bolted the door, and bade them begone,
For there was ne lodgings there for poor Jack and Tom.

They mounted their horses, and rode over the plain; -
Dark was the night, and down fell the rain;
Till a twinkling light they happened to spy,
And a castle and a house they were close by.

They rode up to the house, and they rapped at the door,
And out came Jockey, the hosteler.
'D'ye brew ony ale? D'ye sell ony beer?
Or have ye ony lodgings for strangers here?'

'Yes, we have brewed ale this fifty lang year,
And we have got lodgings for strangers here.'
So the roast to the fire, and the pot hung on,
'Twas all to accommodate poor Jack and Tom.

When supper was over, and all was sided down,
The glasses of wine did go merrily roun'.
'Here is to thee, Jack, and here is to thee,
And all the bonny lasses in our countrie!'
'Here is to thee, Tom, and here is to thee,
And look they may leuk for thee and me!'

'Twas early next morning, before the break of day,
They mounted their horses, and so they rode away.
Poor Jack, he died upon a far foreign shore,
And Tom, he was never, never heard of more!


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


As Tom Was A-Walking
Am Ancient Cornish Song.
[This song, said to be translated from the Cornish, 'was taken down,' says Mr. Sandys, 'from the recital of a modern Corypheus, or leader of a parish choir,' who assigned to it a very remote, but indefinite, antiquity.]


As Tom was a-walking one fine summer's morn,
When the dazies and goldcups the fields did adorn;
He met Cozen Mal, with a tub on her head,
Says Tom, 'Cozen Mal, you might speak if you we'd.'

But Mal stamped along, and appeared to be shy,
And Tom singed out, 'Zounds! I'll knaw of thee why?'
So back he tore a'ter, in a terrible fuss,
And axed cozen Mal, 'What's the reason of thus?'

'Tom Treloar,' cried out Mal, 'I'll nothing do wi' 'ee,
Go to Fanny Trembaa, she do knaw how I'm shy;
Tom, this here t'other daa, down the hill thee didst stap,
And dab'd a great doat fig in Fan Trembaa's lap.'

'As for Fanny Trembaa, I ne'er taalked wi' her twice,
And gived her a doat fig, they are so very nice;
So I'll tell thee, I went to the fear t'other day,
And the doat figs I boft, why I saved them away.'

Says Mal, 'Tom Treloar, ef that be the caase,
May the Lord bless for ever that sweet pretty faace;
Ef thee'st give me thy doat figs thee'st boft in the fear,
I'll swear to thee now, thee shu'st marry me here.'



--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Trotting Horse
[The common copies of this old highwayman's song are very corrupt. We are indebted for the following version, which contains several emendations, to Mr. W. H. Ainsworth. The song, which may probably be referred to the age of Charles II., is a spirited specimen of its class.]

I can sport as fine a trotting horse as any swell in town,
To trot you fourteen miles an hour, I'll bet you fifty crown;
He is such a one to bend his knees, and tuck his haunches in,
And throw the dust in people's face, and think it not a sin.
For to ride away, trot away,
Ri, fa lar, la, &c.

He has an eye like any hawk, a neck like any swan,
A foot light as the stag's, the while his back is scarce a span;
Kind Nature hath so formed him, he is everything that's good, -
Aye! everything a man could wish, in bottom, bone, and blood.
For to ride away, &c.

If you drop therein, he'll nod his head, and boldly walk away,
While others kick and bounce about, to him it's only play;
There never was a finer horse e'er went on English ground,
He is rising six years old, and is all over right and sound.
For to ride away, &c.

If any frisk or milling match should call me out of town,
I can pass the blades with white cockades, their whiskers hanging down;
With large jack-towels round their necks, they think they're first and fast,
But, with their gapers open wide, they find that they are last.
Whilst I ride away, &c.

If threescore miles I am from home, I darkness never mind,
My friend is gone, and I am left, with pipe and pot behind;
Up comes some saucy kiddy, a scampsman on the hot,
But ere he pulls the trigger I am off just like a shot.
For I ride away, &c.

If Fortune e'er should fickle be, and wish to have again
That which she so freely gave, I'd give it without pain;
I would part with it most freely, and without the least remorse,
Only grant to me what God hath gave, my mistress and my horse!
That I may ride away, &c.




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Useful Plow; or, The Plough's Praise.
[The common editions of this popular song inform us that it is taken 'from an Old Ballad,' alluding probably to the dialogue given at page 44. This song is quoted by Farquhar.]

A Country life is sweet!
In moderate cold and heat,
To walk in the air, how pleasant and fair!
In every field of wheat,
The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers,
And every meadow's brow;
To that I say, no courtier may
Compare with they who clothe in grey,
And follow the useful plow.

They rise with the morning lark,
And labour till almost dark;
Then folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep;
While every pleasant park
Next morning is ringing with birds that are singing,
On each green, tender bough.
With what content, and merriment,
Their days are spent, whose minds are bent
To follow the useful plow.

The gallant that dresses fine,
And drinks his bottles of wine,
Were he to be tried, his feathers of pride,
Which deck and adorn his back,
Are tailors' and mercers', and other men dressers,
For which they do dun them now.
But Ralph and Will no compters fill
For tailor's bill, or garments still,
But follow the useful plow.

Their hundreds, without remorse,
Some spend to keep dogs and horse,
Who never would give, as long as they live,
Not two-pence to help the poor;
Their wives are neglected, and harlots respected;
This grieves the nation now;
But 'tis not so with us that go
Where pleasures flow, to reap and mow,
And follow the useful plow.




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Vanities of Life.
[The following verses were copied by John Clare, the Northamptonshire peasant, from a ms. on the fly-leaves of an old book in the possession of a poor man, entitled The World's Best Wealth: A Collection of Choice Councils in Verse and Prose. Printed for A. Bettesworth, at the Red Lion in Paternoster-Row. 1720. They were written in a 'crabbed, quaint hand, and difficult to decipher.' Clare remitted the poem (along with the original ms.) to Montgomery, the author of The World Before the Flood, &c. &c., by whom it was published in the Sheffield Iris. Montgomery's criticism is as follows:- 'Long as the poem appears to the eye, it will abundantly repay the trouble of perusal, being full of condensed and admirable thought, as well as diversified with exuberant imagery, and embellished with peculiar felicity of language: the moral points in the closing couplets of the stanzas are often powerfully enforced.' Most readers will agree in the justice of these remarks. The poem was, probably, as Clare supposes, written about the commencement of the 18th century; and the unknown author appears to have been deeply imbued with the spirit of the popular devotional writers of the preceding century, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems to have modelled his smoother and more elegant versification after that of the poetic school of his own times.]
'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.' - Solomon.


What are life's joys and gains?
What pleasures crowd its ways,
That man should take such pains
To seek them all his days?
Sift this untoward strife
On which thy mind is bent,
See if this chaff of life
Is worth the trouble spent.

Is pride thy heart's desire?
Is power thy climbing aim?
Is love thy folly's fire?
Is wealth thy restless game?
Pride, power, love, wealth and all,
Time's touchstone shall destroy,
And, like base coin, prove all
Vain substitutes for joy.



CONTINUED BELOW




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Vanities of Life.

[The following verses were copied by John Clare, the Northamptonshire peasant, from a ms. on the fly-leaves of an old book in the possession of a poor man, entitled The World's Best Wealth: A Collection of Choice Councils in Verse and Prose. Printed for A. Bettesworth, at the Red Lion in Paternoster-Row. 1720. They were written in a 'crabbed, quaint hand, and difficult to decipher.' Clare remitted the poem (along with the original ms.) to Montgomery, the author of The World Before the Flood, &c. &c., by whom it was published in the Sheffield Iris. Montgomery's criticism is as follows:- 'Long as the poem appears to the eye, it will abundantly repay the trouble of perusal, being full of condensed and admirable thought, as well as diversified with exuberant imagery, and embellished with peculiar felicity of language: the moral points in the closing couplets of the stanzas are often powerfully enforced.' Most readers will agree in the justice of these remarks. The poem was, probably, as Clare supposes, written about the commencement of the 18th century; and the unknown author appears to have been deeply imbued with the spirit of the popular devotional writers of the preceding century, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems to have modelled his smoother and more elegant versification after that of the poetic school of his own times.]
'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.' - Solomon.


-- CONTINUATION

Dost think that pride exalts
Thyself in other's eyes,
And hides thy folly's faults,
Which reason will despise?
Dost strut, and turn, and stride,
Like walking weathercocks?
The shadow by thy side
Becomes thy ape, and mocks.

Dost think that power's disguise
Can make thee mighty seem?
It may in folly's eyes,
But not in worth's esteem:
When all that thou canst ask,
And all that she can give,
Is but a paltry mask
Which tyants wear and live.



CONTINUED BELOW




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Vanities of Life.

[The following verses were copied by John Clare, the Northamptonshire peasant, from a ms. on the fly-leaves of an old book in the possession of a poor man, entitled The World's Best Wealth: A Collection of Choice Councils in Verse and Prose. Printed for A. Bettesworth, at the Red Lion in Paternoster-Row. 1720. They were written in a 'crabbed, quaint hand, and difficult to decipher.' Clare remitted the poem (along with the original ms.) to Montgomery, the author of The World Before the Flood, &c. &c., by whom it was published in the Sheffield Iris. Montgomery's criticism is as follows:- 'Long as the poem appears to the eye, it will abundantly repay the trouble of perusal, being full of condensed and admirable thought, as well as diversified with exuberant imagery, and embellished with peculiar felicity of language: the moral points in the closing couplets of the stanzas are often powerfully enforced.' Most readers will agree in the justice of these remarks. The poem was, probably, as Clare supposes, written about the commencement of the 18th century; and the unknown author appears to have been deeply imbued with the spirit of the popular devotional writers of the preceding century, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems to have modelled his smoother and more elegant versification after that of the poetic school of his own times.]
'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.' - Solomon.


-- CONTINUATION

Go, let thy fancies range
And ramble where they may;
View power in every change,
And what is the display?
- The country magistrate,
The lowest shade in power,
To rulers of the state,
The meteors of an hour: -

View all, and mark the end
Of every proud extreme,
Where flattery turns a friend,
And counterfeits esteem;
Where worth is aped in show,
That doth her name purloin,
Like toys of golden glow
That's sold for copper coin. .



CONTINUED BELOW




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Vanities of Life.

[The following verses were copied by John Clare, the Northamptonshire peasant, from a ms. on the fly-leaves of an old book in the possession of a poor man, entitled The World's Best Wealth: A Collection of Choice Councils in Verse and Prose. Printed for A. Bettesworth, at the Red Lion in Paternoster-Row. 1720. They were written in a 'crabbed, quaint hand, and difficult to decipher.' Clare remitted the poem (along with the original ms.) to Montgomery, the author of The World Before the Flood, &c. &c., by whom it was published in the Sheffield Iris. Montgomery's criticism is as follows:- 'Long as the poem appears to the eye, it will abundantly repay the trouble of perusal, being full of condensed and admirable thought, as well as diversified with exuberant imagery, and embellished with peculiar felicity of language: the moral points in the closing couplets of the stanzas are often powerfully enforced.' Most readers will agree in the justice of these remarks. The poem was, probably, as Clare supposes, written about the commencement of the 18th century; and the unknown author appears to have been deeply imbued with the spirit of the popular devotional writers of the preceding century, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems to have modelled his smoother and more elegant versification after that of the poetic school of his own times.]
'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.' - Solomon.


-- CONTINUATION

Ambition's haughty nod,
With fancies may deceive,
Nay, tell thee thou'rt a god, -
And wilt thou such believe?
Go, bid the seas be dry,
Go, hold earth like a ball,
Or throw her fancies by,
For God can do it all.

Dost thou possess the dower
Of laws to spare or kill?
Call it not heav'nly power
When but a tyrant's will;
Know what a God will do,
And know thyself a fool,
Nor tyrant-like pursue
Where He alone should rule.


CONTINUED BELOW




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Vanities of Life.

[The following verses were copied by John Clare, the Northamptonshire peasant, from a ms. on the fly-leaves of an old book in the possession of a poor man, entitled The World's Best Wealth: A Collection of Choice Councils in Verse and Prose. Printed for A. Bettesworth, at the Red Lion in Paternoster-Row. 1720. They were written in a 'crabbed, quaint hand, and difficult to decipher.' Clare remitted the poem (along with the original ms.) to Montgomery, the author of The World Before the Flood, &c. &c., by whom it was published in the Sheffield Iris. Montgomery's criticism is as follows:- 'Long as the poem appears to the eye, it will abundantly repay the trouble of perusal, being full of condensed and admirable thought, as well as diversified with exuberant imagery, and embellished with peculiar felicity of language: the moral points in the closing couplets of the stanzas are often powerfully enforced.' Most readers will agree in the justice of these remarks. The poem was, probably, as Clare supposes, written about the commencement of the 18th century; and the unknown author appears to have been deeply imbued with the spirit of the popular devotional writers of the preceding century, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems to have modelled his smoother and more elegant versification after that of the poetic school of his own times.]
'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.' - Solomon.


-- CONTINUATION

Dost think, when wealth is won,
Thy heart has its desire?
Hold ice up to the sun,
And wax before the fire;
Nor triumph o'er the reign
Which they so soon resign;
In this world weigh the gain,
Insurance safe is thine.

Dost think life's peace secure
In houses and in land?
Go, read the fairy lure
To twist a cord of sand;
Lodge stones upon the sky,
Hold water in a sieve,
Nor give such tales the lie,
And still thine own believe.


CONTINUED BELOW




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Vanities of Life.

[The following verses were copied by John Clare, the Northamptonshire peasant, from a ms. on the fly-leaves of an old book in the possession of a poor man, entitled The World's Best Wealth: A Collection of Choice Councils in Verse and Prose. Printed for A. Bettesworth, at the Red Lion in Paternoster-Row. 1720. They were written in a 'crabbed, quaint hand, and difficult to decipher.' Clare remitted the poem (along with the original ms.) to Montgomery, the author of The World Before the Flood, &c. &c., by whom it was published in the Sheffield Iris. Montgomery's criticism is as follows:- 'Long as the poem appears to the eye, it will abundantly repay the trouble of perusal, being full of condensed and admirable thought, as well as diversified with exuberant imagery, and embellished with peculiar felicity of language: the moral points in the closing couplets of the stanzas are often powerfully enforced.' Most readers will agree in the justice of these remarks. The poem was, probably, as Clare supposes, written about the commencement of the 18th century; and the unknown author appears to have been deeply imbued with the spirit of the popular devotional writers of the preceding century, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems to have modelled his smoother and more elegant versification after that of the poetic school of his own times.]
'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.' - Solomon.


-- CONTINUATION

Whoso with riches deals,
And thinks peace bought and sold,
Will find them slippery eels,
That slide the firmest hold:
Though sweet as sleep with health,
Thy lulling luck may be,
Pride may o'erstride thy wealth,
And check prosperity.

Dost think that beauty's power,
Life's sweetest pleasure gives?
Go, pluck the summer flower,
And see how long it lives:
Behold, the rays glide on,
Along the summer plain,
Ere thou canst say, they're gone, -
And measure beauty's reign. .


CONTINUED BELOW




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Vanities of Life.

[The following verses were copied by John Clare, the Northamptonshire peasant, from a ms. on the fly-leaves of an old book in the possession of a poor man, entitled The World's Best Wealth: A Collection of Choice Councils in Verse and Prose. Printed for A. Bettesworth, at the Red Lion in Paternoster-Row. 1720. They were written in a 'crabbed, quaint hand, and difficult to decipher.' Clare remitted the poem (along with the original ms.) to Montgomery, the author of The World Before the Flood, &c. &c., by whom it was published in the Sheffield Iris. Montgomery's criticism is as follows:- 'Long as the poem appears to the eye, it will abundantly repay the trouble of perusal, being full of condensed and admirable thought, as well as diversified with exuberant imagery, and embellished with peculiar felicity of language: the moral points in the closing couplets of the stanzas are often powerfully enforced.' Most readers will agree in the justice of these remarks. The poem was, probably, as Clare supposes, written about the commencement of the 18th century; and the unknown author appears to have been deeply imbued with the spirit of the popular devotional writers of the preceding century, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems to have modelled his smoother and more elegant versification after that of the poetic school of his own times.]
'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.' - Solomon.


-- CONTINUATION

Look on the brightest eye,
Nor teach it to be proud,
But view the clearest sky
And thou shalt find a cloud;
Nor call each face ye meet
An angel's, 'cause it's fair,
But look beneath your feet,
And think of what ye are.

Who thinks that love doth live
In beauty's tempting show,
Shall find his hopes ungive,
And melt in reason's thaw;
Who thinks that pleasure lies
In every fairy bower,
Shall oft, to his surprise,
Find poison in the flower.

CONTINUED BELOW




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Vanities of Life.

[The following verses were copied by John Clare, the Northamptonshire peasant, from a ms. on the fly-leaves of an old book in the possession of a poor man, entitled The World's Best Wealth: A Collection of Choice Councils in Verse and Prose. Printed for A. Bettesworth, at the Red Lion in Paternoster-Row. 1720. They were written in a 'crabbed, quaint hand, and difficult to decipher.' Clare remitted the poem (along with the original ms.) to Montgomery, the author of The World Before the Flood, &c. &c., by whom it was published in the Sheffield Iris. Montgomery's criticism is as follows:- 'Long as the poem appears to the eye, it will abundantly repay the trouble of perusal, being full of condensed and admirable thought, as well as diversified with exuberant imagery, and embellished with peculiar felicity of language: the moral points in the closing couplets of the stanzas are often powerfully enforced.' Most readers will agree in the justice of these remarks. The poem was, probably, as Clare supposes, written about the commencement of the 18th century; and the unknown author appears to have been deeply imbued with the spirit of the popular devotional writers of the preceding century, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems to have modelled his smoother and more elegant versification after that of the poetic school of his own times.]
'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.' - Solomon.


-- CONTINUATION

Dost lawless pleasures grasp?
Judge not thou deal'st in joy;
Its flowers but hide the asp,
Thy revels to destroy:
Who trusts a harlot's smile,
And by her wiles is led,
Plays with a sword the while,
Hung dropping o'er his head.

Dost doubt my warning song?
Then doubt the sun gives light,
Doubt truth to teach thee wrong,
And wrong alone as right;
And live as lives the knave,
Intrigue's deceiving guest,
Be tyrant, or be slave,
As suits thy ends the best.


CONTINUED BELOW




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Vanities of Life.

[The following verses were copied by John Clare, the Northamptonshire peasant, from a ms. on the fly-leaves of an old book in the possession of a poor man, entitled The World's Best Wealth: A Collection of Choice Councils in Verse and Prose. Printed for A. Bettesworth, at the Red Lion in Paternoster-Row. 1720. They were written in a 'crabbed, quaint hand, and difficult to decipher.' Clare remitted the poem (along with the original ms.) to Montgomery, the author of The World Before the Flood, &c. &c., by whom it was published in the Sheffield Iris. Montgomery's criticism is as follows:- 'Long as the poem appears to the eye, it will abundantly repay the trouble of perusal, being full of condensed and admirable thought, as well as diversified with exuberant imagery, and embellished with peculiar felicity of language: the moral points in the closing couplets of the stanzas are often powerfully enforced.' Most readers will agree in the justice of these remarks. The poem was, probably, as Clare supposes, written about the commencement of the 18th century; and the unknown author appears to have been deeply imbued with the spirit of the popular devotional writers of the preceding century, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems to have modelled his smoother and more elegant versification after that of the poetic school of his own times.]
'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.' - Solomon.


-- CONTINUATION

Or pause amid thy toils,
For visions won and lost,
And count the fancied spoils,
If e'er they quit the cost;
And if they still possess
Thy mind, as worthy things,
Pick straws with Bedlam Bess,
And call them diamond rings.

Thy folly's past advice,
Thy heart's already won,
Thy fall's above all price,
So go, and be undone;
For all who thus prefer
The seeming great for small,
Shall make wine vinegar,
And sweetest honey gall.



CONTINUED BELOW




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Vanities of Life.

[The following verses were copied by John Clare, the Northamptonshire peasant, from a ms. on the fly-leaves of an old book in the possession of a poor man, entitled The World's Best Wealth: A Collection of Choice Councils in Verse and Prose. Printed for A. Bettesworth, at the Red Lion in Paternoster-Row. 1720. They were written in a 'crabbed, quaint hand, and difficult to decipher.' Clare remitted the poem (along with the original ms.) to Montgomery, the author of The World Before the Flood, &c. &c., by whom it was published in the Sheffield Iris. Montgomery's criticism is as follows:- 'Long as the poem appears to the eye, it will abundantly repay the trouble of perusal, being full of condensed and admirable thought, as well as diversified with exuberant imagery, and embellished with peculiar felicity of language: the moral points in the closing couplets of the stanzas are often powerfully enforced.' Most readers will agree in the justice of these remarks. The poem was, probably, as Clare supposes, written about the commencement of the 18th century; and the unknown author appears to have been deeply imbued with the spirit of the popular devotional writers of the preceding century, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems to have modelled his smoother and more elegant versification after that of the poetic school of his own times.]
'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.' - Solomon.


-- CONTINUATION

Wouldst heed the truths I sing,
To profit wherewithal,
Clip folly's wanton wing,
And keep her within call:
I've little else to give,
What thou canst easy try,
The lesson how to live,
Is but to learn to die.







--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Life and Age of Man
[From one of Thackeray's Catalogues, preserved in the British Museum, it appears that The Life and Age of Man was one of the productions printed by him at the 'Angel in Duck Lane, London.' Thackeray's imprint is found attached to broadsides published between 1672 and 1688, and he probably commenced printing soon after the accession of Charles II. The present reprint, the correctness of which is very questionable, is taken from a modern broadside, the editor not having been fortunate enough to meet with any earlier edition. This old poem is said to have been a great favourite with the father of Robert Burns.]

In prime of years, when I was young,
I took delight in youthful ways,
Not knowing then what did belong
Unto the pleasures of those days.
At seven years old I was a child,
And subject then to be beguiled.

At two times seven I went to learn
What discipline is taught at school:
When good from ill I could discern,
I thought myself no more a fool:
My parents were contriving than,
How I might live when I were man.

At three times seven I waxed wild,
When manhood led me to be bold;
I thought myself no more a child,
My own conceit it so me told:
Then did I venture far and near,
To buy delight at price full dear.

At four times seven I take a wife,
And leave off all my wanton ways,
Thinking thereby perhaps to thrive,
And save myself from sad disgrace.
So farewell my companions all,
For other business doth me call.

At five times seven I must hard strive,
What I could gain by mighty skill;
But still against the stream I drive,
And bowl up stones against the hill;
The more I laboured might and main,
The more I strove against the stream.

At six times seven all covetise
Began to harbour in my breast;
My mind still then contriving was
How I might gain this worldly wealth;
To purchase lands and live on them,
So make my children mighty men.

At seven times seven all worldly thought
Began to harbour in my brain;
Then did I drink a heavy draught
Of water of experience plain;
There none so ready was as I,
To purchase bargains, sell, or buy.

At eight times seven I waxed old,
And took myself unto my rest,
Neighbours then sought my counsel bold,
And I was held in great request;
But age did so abate my strength,
That I was forced to yield at length.

At nine times seven take my leave
Of former vain delights must I;
It then full sorely did me grieve -
I fetched many a heavy sigh;
To rise up early, and sit up late,
My former life, I loathe and hate.

At ten times seven my glass is run,
And I poor silly man must die;
I looked up, and saw the sun
Had overcome the crystal sky.
So now I must this world forsake,
Another man my place must take.

Now you may see, as in a glass,
The whole estate of mortal men;
How they from seven to seven do pass,
Until they are threescore and ten;
And when their glass is fully run,
They must leave off as they begun.



--> Man

[Man]

Poem


England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]


You sober-minded christians now draw near,
Labour to learn these pious lessons here;
For by the same you will be taught to know
What is the cause of all our grief and woe.

We have a God who sits enthroned above;
He sends us many tokens of his love:
Yet we, like disobedient children, still
Deny to yield submission to His will.


CONTINUED BELOW


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

-- CONTINUATION



The just command which He upon us lays,
We must confess we have ten thousand ways
Transgressed; for see how men their sins pursue,
As if they did not fear what God could do.

Behold the wretched sinner void of shame,
He values not how he blasphemes the name
Of that good God who gave him life and breath,
And who can strike him with the darts of death


CONTINUED BELOW


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

-- CONTINUATION



The very little children which we meet,
Amongst the sports and pastimes in the street,
We very often hear them curse and swear,
Before they've learned a word of any prayer.

'Tis much to be lamented, for I fear
The same they learn from what they daily hear;
Be careful then, and don't instruct them so,
For fear you prove their dismal overthrow.


CONTINUED BELOW


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

-- CONTINUATION



Both young and old, that dreadful sin forbear;
The tongue of man was never made to swear,
But to adore and praise the blessed name,
By whom alone our dear salvation came.

Pride is another reigning sin likewise;
Let us behold in what a strange disguise
Young damsels do appear, both rich and poor;
The like was ne'er in any age before.



CONTINUED BELOW


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

-- CONTINUATION



What artificial ornaments they wear,
Black patches, paint, and locks of powdered hair;
Likewise in lofty hoops they are arrayed,
As if they would correct what God had made.

Yet let 'em know, for all those youthful charms,
They must lie down in death's cold frozen arms!
Oh think on this, and raise your thoughts above
The sin of pride, which you so dearly love.



CONTINUED BELOW


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

-- CONTINUATION



Likewise, the wilful sinners that transgress
The righteous laws of God by drunkenness,
They do abuse the creatures which were sent
Purely for man's refreshing nourishment.

Many diseases doth that sin attend,
But what is worst of all, the fatal end:
Let not the pleasures of a quaffing bowl
Destroy and stupify thy active soul.



CONTINUED BELOW


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

-- CONTINUATION



Perhaps the jovial drunkard over night,
May seem to reap the pleasures of delight,
While for his wine he doth in plenty call;
But oh! the sting of conscience, after all,

Is like a gnawing worm upon the mind.
Then if you would the peace of conscience find,
A sober conversation learn with speed,
For that's the sweetest life that man can lead.



CONTINUED BELOW


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

-- CONTINUATION



Be careful that thou art not drawn away,
By foolishness, to break the Sabbath-day;
Be constant at the pious house of prayer,
That thou mayst learn the christian duties there.

For tell me, wherefore should we carp and care
For what we eat and drink, and what we wear;
And the meanwhile our fainting souls exclude
From that refreshing sweet celestial food? .



CONTINUED BELOW


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

-- CONTINUATION



Yet so it is, we, by experience, find
Many young wanton gallants seldom mind
The church of God, but scornfully deride
That sacred word by which they must be tried.

A tavern, or an alehouse, they adore,
And will not come within the church before
They're brought to lodge under a silent tomb,
And then who knows how dismal is their doom!



CONTINUED BELOW


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

-- CONTINUATION



Though for awhile, perhaps, they flourish here,
And seem to scorn the very thoughts of fear,
Yet when they're summoned to resign their breath,
They can't outbrave the bitter stroke of death!

Consider this, young gallants, whilst you may,
Swift-winged time and tide for none will stay;
And therefore let it be your christian care,
To serve the Lord, and for your death prepare.



CONTINUED BELOW


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

-- CONTINUATION



There is another crying sin likewise:
Behold young gallants cast their wanton eyes
On painted harlots, which they often meet
At every creek and corner of the street,

By whom they are like dismal captives led
To their destruction; grace and fear is fled,
Till at the length they find themselves betrayed,
And for that sin most sad examples made.



CONTINUED BELOW


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

-- CONTINUATION



Then, then, perhaps, in bitter tears they'll cry,
With wringing hands, against their company,
Which did betray them to that dismal state!
Consider this before it is too late.

Likewise, sons and daughters, far and near,
Honour your loving friends, and parents dear;
Let not your disobedience grieve them so,
Nor cause their aged eyes with tears to flow



CONTINUED BELOW


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

-- CONTINUATION



What a heart-breaking sorrow it must be,
To dear indulgent parents, when they see
Their stubborn children wilfully run on
Against the wholesome laws of God and man!

Oh! let these things a deep impression make
Upon your hearts, with speed your sins forsake;
For, true it is, the Lord will never bless
Those children that do wilfully transgress.

Now, to conclude, both young and old I pray,
Reform your sinful lives this very day,
That God in mercy may his love extend,
And bring the nation's troubles to an end.




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Lady Alice
[This old ballad is regularly published by the stall printers. The termination resembles that of Lord Lovel and other ballads. See Early Ballads, Ann. Ed. p. 134. An imperfect traditional copy was printed in Notes and Queries.]

Lady Alice was sitting in her bower window,
At midnight mending her quoif;
And there she saw as fine a corpse
As ever she saw in her life.

'What bear ye, what bear ye, ye six men tall?
What bear ye on your shoulders?'
'We bear the corpse of Giles Collins,
An old and true lover of yours.'

'O, lay him down gently, ye six men tall,
All on the grass so green,
And to-morrow when the sun goes down,
Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen.

'And bury me in Saint Mary's Church,
All for my love so true;
And make me a garland of marjoram,
And of lemon thyme, and rue.'

Giles Collins was buried all in the east,
Lady Alice all in the west;
And the roses that grew on Giles Collins's grave,
They reached Lady Alice's breast.

The priest of the parish he chanced to pass,
And he severed those roses in twain.
Sure never were seen such true lovers before,
Nor e'er will there be again. .




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Sir Arthur and Charming Mollee (TRADITIONAL)
[For this old Northumbrian song we are indebted to Mr. Robert Chambers. It was taken down from the recitation of a lady. The 'Sir Arthur' is no less a personage than Sir Arthur Haslerigg, the Governor of Tynemouth Castle during the Protectorate of Cromwell.]

As noble Sir Arthur one morning did ride,
With his hounds at his feet, and his sword by his side,
He saw a fair maid sitting under a tree,
He asked her name, and she said 'twas Mollee.

'Oh, charming Mollee, you my butler shall be,
To draw the red wine for yourself and for me!
I'll make you a lady so high in degree,
If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!

'I'll give you fine ribbons, I'll give you fine rings,
I'll give you fine jewels, and many fine things;
I'll give you a petticoat flounced to the knee,
If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!'

'I'll have none of your ribbons, and none of your rings,
None of your jewels, and other fine things;
And I've got a petticoat suits my degree,
And I'll ne'er love a married man till his wife dee.'

'Oh, charming Mollee, lend me then your penknife,
And I will go home, and I'll kill my own wife;
I'll kill my own wife, and my bairnies three,
If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!'

'Oh, noble Sir Arthur, it must not be so,
Go home to your wife, and let nobody know;
For seven long years I will wait upon thee,
But I'll ne'er love a married man till his wife dee.'

Now seven long years are gone and are past,
The old woman went to her long home at last;
The old woman died, and Sir Arthur was free,
And he soon came a-courting to charming Mollee.

Now charming Mollee in her carriage doth ride,
With her hounds at her feet, and her lord by her side:
Now all ye fair maids take a warning by me,
And ne'er love a married man till his wife dee.




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Sir John Barleycorn


[The West-country ballad of Sir John Barleycorn is very ancient, and being the only version that has ever been sung at English merry-makings and country feasts, can certainly set up a better claim to antiquity than any of the three ballads on the same subject to be found in Evans's Old Ballads; viz., John Barleycorn, The Little Barleycord, and Mas Mault. Our west-country version bears the greatest resemblance to The Little Barleycorn, but it is very dissimilar to any of the three. Burns altered the old ditty, but on referring to his version it will be seen that his corrections and additions want the simplicity of the original, and certainly cannot be considered improvements. The common ballad does not appear to have been inserted in any of our popular collections. Sir John Barleycorn is very appropriately sung to the tune of Stingo.

There came three men out of the West,
Their victory to try;
And they have taken a solemn oath,
Poor Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and ploughed him in,
And harrowed clods on his head;
And then they took a solemn oath,
Poor Barleycorn was dead.

There he lay sleeping in the ground,
Till rain from the sky did fall:
Then Barleycorn sprung up his head,
And so amazed them all.

There he remained till Midsummer,
And looked both pale and wan;
Then Barleycorn he got a beard,
And so became a man.

Then they sent men with scythes so sharp,
To cut him off at knee;
And then poor little Barleycorn,
They served him barbarously.

Then they sent men with pitchforks strong
To pierce him through the heart;
And like a dreadful tragedy,
They bound him to a cart.

And then they brought him to a barn,
A prisoner to endure;
And so they fetched him out again,
And laid him on the floor.

Then they set men with holly clubs,
To beat the flesh from his bones;
But the miller he served him worse than that,
For he ground him betwixt two stones.

O! Barleycorn is the choicest grain
That ever was sown on land;
It will do more than any grain,
By the turning of your hand.

It will make a boy into a man,
And a man into an ass;
It will change your gold into silver,
And your silver into brass.

It will make the huntsman hunt the fox,
That never wound his horn;
It will bring the tinker to the stocks,
That people may him scorn.

It will put sack into a glass,
And claret in the can;
And it will cause a man to drink
Till he neither can go nor stand.




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Barley-Mow Song
[This song is sung at country meetings in Devon and Cornwall, particularly on completing the carrying of the barley, when the rick, or mow of barley, is finished. On putting up the last sheaf, which is called the craw (or crow) sheaf, the man who has it cries out 'I have it, I have it, I have it;' another demands, 'What have'ee, what have'ee, what have'ee?' and the answer is, 'A craw! a craw! a craw!' upon which there is some cheering, &c., and a supper afterwards. The effect of the Barley-Mow Song cannot be given in words; it should be heard, to be appreciated properly, - particularly with the West-country dialect.]

Here's a health to the barley-mow, my brave boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
We'll drink it out of the jolly brown bowl,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
Cho. Here's a health to the barley-mow, my brave boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!

We'll drink it out of the nipperkin, boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The nipperkin and the jolly brown bowl,
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the quarter-pint, boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The quarter-pint, nipperkin, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the half-a-pint, boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The half-a-pint, quarter-pint, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the pint, my brave boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The pint, the half-a-pint, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the quart, my brave boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The quart, the pint, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

Well drink it out of the pottle, my boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The pottle, the quart, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the gallon, my boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The gallon, the pottle, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the half-anker, boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The half-anker, gallon, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the anker, my boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The anker, the half-anker, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the half-hogshead, boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The half-hogshead, anker, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the hogshead, my boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The hogshead, the half-hogshead, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the pipe, my brave boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The pipe, the hogshead, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the well, my brave boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The well, the pipe, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the river, my boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The river, the well, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the ocean, my boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The ocean, the river, the well, the pipe, the hogshead,
the half-hogshead, the anker, the half-anker,
the gallon, the pottle, the quart, the pint, the
half-a-pint, the quarter-pint, the nipperkin, and
the jolly brown bowl!
Cho. Here's a health to the barley-mow, my brave boys!
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
[The above verses are very much ad libitum, but always in the third line repeating the whole of the previously-named measures; as we have shown in the recapitulation at the close of the last verse.]






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[Man]

Poem


The Barley-Mow Song (Suffolk Version)
[The peasantry of Suffolk sing the following version of the Barley-Mow Song.]

Here's a health to the barley mow!
Here's a health to the man
Who very well can
Both harrow and plow and sow!

When it is well sown
See it is well mown,
Both raked and gavelled clean,
And a barn to lay it in.
He's a health to the man
Who very well can
Both thrash and fan it clean!






--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Lord Bateman
[This is a ludicrously corrupt abridgment of the ballad of Lord Beichan, a copy of which will be found inserted amongst the Early Ballads, An. Ed. p. 144. The following grotesque version was published several years ago by Tilt, London, and also, according to the title-page, by Mustapha Syried, Constantinople! under the title of The Loving Ballad of Lord Bateman. It is, however, the only ancient form in which the ballad has existed in print, and is one of the publications mentioned in Thackeray's Catalogue, see ante, p. 20. The air printed in Tilt's edition is the one to which the ballad is sung in the South of England, but it is totally different to the Northern tune, which has never been published.]

Lord Bateman he was a noble lord,
A noble lord of high degree;
He shipped himself on board a ship,
Some foreign country he would go see.

He sailed east, and he sailed west,
Until he came to proud Turkey;
Where he was taken, and put to prison,
Until his life was almost weary.

And in this prison there grew a tree,
It grew so stout, and grew so strong;
Where he was chained by the middle,
Until his life was almost gone.

This Turk he had one only daughter,
The fairest creature my eyes did see;
She stole the keys of her father's prison,
And swore Lord Bateman she would set free.

'Have you got houses? have you got lands?
Or does Northumberland belong to thee?
What would you give to the fair young lady
That out of prison would set you free?'

'I have got houses, I have got lands,
And half Northumberland belongs to me
I'll give it all to the fair young lady
That out of prison would set me free.'

O! then she took him to her father's hall,
And gave to him the best of wine;
And every health she drank unto him,
'I wish, Lord Bateman, that you were mine!

'Now in seven years I'll make a vow,
And seven years I'll keep it strong,
If you'll wed with no other woman,
I will wed with no other man.'

O! then she took him to her father's harbour,
And gave to him a ship of fame;
'Farewell, farewell to you, Lord Bateman,
I'm afraid I ne'er shall see you again.'

Now seven long years are gone and past,
And fourteen days, well known to thee;
She packed up all her gay clothing,
And swore Lord Bateman she would go see.

But when she came to Lord Bateman's castle,
So boldly she rang the bell;
'Who's there? who's there?' cried the proud porter,
'Who's there? unto me come tell.'

'O! is this Lord Bateman's castle?
Or is his Lordship here within?'
'O, yes! O, yes!' cried the young porter,
'He's just now taken his new bride in.'

'O! tell him to send me a slice of bread,
And a bottle of the best wine;
And not forgetting the fair young lady
Who did release him when close confine.'

Away, away went this proud young porter,
Away, away, and away went he,
Until he came to Lord Bateman's chamber,
Down on his bended knees fell he.

'What news, what news, my proud young porter?
What news hast thou brought unto me?'
'There is the fairest of all young creatures
That ever my two eyes did see!

'She has got rings on every finger,
And round one of them she has got three,
And as much gay clothing round her middle
As would buy all Northumberlea.

'She bids you send her a slice of bread,
And a bottle of the best wine;
And not forgetting the fair young lady
Who did release you when close confine.'

Lord Bateman he then in a passion flew,
And broke his sword in splinters three;
Saying, 'I will give all my father's riches
If Sophia has crossed the sea.'

Then up spoke the young bride's mother,
Who never was heard to speak so free,
'You'll not forget my only daughter,
If Sophia has crossed the sea.'

'I own I made a bride of your daughter,
She's neither the better nor worse for me;
She came to me with her horse and saddle,
She may go back in her coach and three.'

Lord Bateman prepared another marriage,
And sang, with heart so full of glee,
I'll range no more in foreign countries,
Now since Sophia has crossed the sea.'







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[Man]

Poem


The Jolly Waggoner
[This country song can be traced back a century at least, but is, no doubt, much older. It is very popular in the West of England. The words are spirited and characteristic. We may, perhaps, refer the song to the days of transition, when the waggon displaced the packhorse.]

When first I went a-waggoning, a-waggoning did go,
I filled my parents' hearts full of sorrow, grief, and woe.
And many are the hardships that I have since gone through.
And sing wo, my lads, sing wo!
Drive on my lads, I-ho!
And who wouldn't lead the life of a jolly waggoner?

It is a cold and stormy night, and I'm wet to the skin,
I will bear it with contentment till I get unto the inn.
And then I'll get a drinking with the landlord and his kin.
And sing, &c.

Now summer it is coming, - what pleasure we shall see;
The small birds are a-singing on every green tree,
The blackbirds and the thrushes are a-whistling merrilie.
And sing, &c.

Now Michaelmas is coming, - what pleasure we shall find;
It will make the gold to fly, my boys, like chaff before the wind;
And every lad shall take his lass, so loving and so kind.
And sing, & c.








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[Man]

Poem


The Greenside Wakes Song


[The wakes, feasts, or tides of the North of England, were originally religious festivals in honour of the saints to whom the parish churches were dedicated. But now-a-days, even in Catholic Lancashire, all traces of their pristine character have departed, and the hymns and prayers by which their observance was once hallowed have given place to dancing and merry-making. At Greenside, near Manchester, during the wakes, two persons, dressed in a grotesque manner, the one a male, the other a female, appear in the village on horseback, with spinning-wheels before them; and the following is the dialogue, or song, which they sing on these occasions.]

`'Tis Greenside wakes, we've come to the town
To show you some sport of great renown;
And if my old wife will let me begin,
I'll show you how fast and how well I can spin.
Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, den, don, dell O.'

`Thou brags of thyself, but I don't think it true,
For I will uphold thy faults are not a few;
For when thou hast done, and spun very hard,
Of this I'm well sure, thy work is ill marred.
Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, den, don, dell O.'

`Thou'rt a saucy old jade, and pray hold thy tongue,
Or I shall be thumping thee ere it be long;
And if that I do, I shall make thee to rue,
For I can have many a one as good as you.
Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, dan, don, dell O.'

`What is it to me who you can have?
I shall not be long ere I'm laid in my grave;
And when I am dead you may find if you can,
One that'll spin as hard as I've done.
Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, dan, don, dell O.'

`Come, come, my dear wife, here endeth my song,
I hope it has pleased this numerous throng;
But if it has missed, you need not to fear,
We'll do our endeavour to please them next year.
Tread the wheel, tread the wheel, dan, don, dell O.'








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[Man]

Poem


Gloucestershire Wassailers' Song
[It is still customary in many parts of England to hand round the wassail, or health-bowl, on New-Year's Eve. The custom is supposed to be of Saxon origin, and to be derived from one of the observances of the Feast of Yule. The tune of this song is given in Popular Misic. It is a universal favourite in Gloucestershire, particularly in the neighbourhood of
'Stair on the wold,
Where the winds blow cold,'
as the old rhyme says.]

Wassail! wassail! all over the town,
Our toast it is white, and our ale it is brown;
Our bowl is made of a maplin tree;
We be good fellows all; - I drink to thee.

Here's to our horse, and to his right ear,
God send our measter a happy new year:
A happy new year as e'er he did see, -
With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.

Here's to our mare, and to her right eye,
God send our mistress a good Christmas pie;
A good Christmas pie as e'er I did see, -
With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.

Here's to our cow, and to her long tail,
God send our measter us never may fail
Of a cup of good beer: I pray you draw near,
And our jolly wassail it's then you shall hear.

Be here any maids? I suppose here be some;
Sure they will not let young men stand on the cold stone!
Sing hey O, maids! come trole back the pin,
And the fairest maid in the house let us all in.

Come, butler, come, bring us a bowl of the best;
I hope your soul in heaven will rest;
But if you do bring us a bowl of the small,
Then down fall butler, and bowl and all.








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[Man]

Poem


Old Wichet and His Wife
[This song still retains its popularity in the North of England, and, when sung with humour, never fails to elicit roars of laughter. A Scotch version may be found in Herd's Collection, 1769, and also in Cunningham's Songs of England and Scotland, London, 1835. We cannot venture to give an opinion as to which is the original; but the English set is of unquestionable antiquity. Our copy was obtained from Yorkshire. It has been collated with one printed at the Aldermary press, and preserved in the third volume of the Roxburgh Collection. The tune is peculiar to the song.]

O! I went into the stable, and there for to see,
And there I saw three horses stand, by one, by two, and by three;
O! I called to my loving wife, and 'Anon, kind sir!' quoth she;
'O! what do these three horses here, without the leave of me?'

'Why, you old fool! blind fool! can't you very well see,
These are three milking cows my mother sent to me?'
'Ods bobs! well done! milking cows with saddles on!
The like was never known!'
Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!

O! I went into the kitchen, and there for to see,
And there I saw three swords hang, by one, by two, quoth she;
O! I called to my loving wife, and 'Anon, kind sir!'
'O! what do these three swords do here, without the leave of me?'

'Why, you old fool! blind fool! can't you very well see,
These are three roasting spits my mother sent to me?'
'Ods bobs! well done! roasting spits with scabbards on!
The like was never known!'
Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!

O! I went into the parlour, and there for to see,
And there I saw three cloaks hang, by one, by two, and by three;
O! I called to my loving wife, and 'Anon, kind sir!' quoth she;
'O! what do these three cloaks do here, without the leave of me?'

'Why, you old fool! blind fool! can't you very well see,
These are three mantuas my mother sent to me?'
'Ods bobs! well done! mantuas with capes on!
The like was never known!'
Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!

O! I went into the pantry, and there for to see,
And there I saw three pair of boots, by one, by two, and by three;
O! I called to my loving wife, and 'Anon, kind sir!' quoth she;
'O! what do these three pair of boots here, without the leave of
me?'

'Why, you old fool! blind fool! can't you very well see,
These are three pudding-bags my mother sent to me?'
'Ods bobs! well done! pudding-bags with spurs on!
The like was never known!'
Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!

O! I went into the dairy, and there for to see,
And there I saw three hats hang, by one, by two, and by three;
O! I called to my loving wife, and 'Anon, kind sir!' quoth she;
'Pray what do these three hats here, without the leave of me?'

'Why, you old fool! blind fool! can't you very well see,
These are three skimming-dishes my mother sent to me?'
'Ods bobs! well done! skimming-dishes with hat-bands on!
The like was never known!'
Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!

O! I went into the chamber, and there for to see,
And there I saw three men in bed, by one, by two, and by three;
O! I called to my loving wife, and 'Anon, kind sir!' quoth she;
'O! what do these three men here, without the leave of me?'

'Why, you old fool! blind fool! can't you very well see,
They are three milking-maids my mother sent to me?'
'Ods bobs! well done! milking-maids with beards on!
The like was never known!'
Old Wichet a cuckold went out, and a cuckold he came home!






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[Man]

Poem


Wooing Song of a Yeoman of Kent's Sonne
[The following song is the original of a well-known and popular Scottish song:-
'I hae laid a herring in saut;
Lass, 'gin ye lo'e me, tell me now!
I ha'e brewed a forpit o' maut,
An' I canna come ilka day to woo.'
There are modern copies of our Kentish Wooing Song, but the present version is taken from Melismata, Musical Phansies Fitting the Court, Citie, and Countree. To 3, 4, and 5 Voyces. London, printed by William Stansby, for Thomas Adams, 1611. The tune will be found in Popular Music, I., 90. The words are in the Kentish dialect.]

Icj have house and land in Kent,
And if you'll love me, love me now;
Two-pence half-penny is my rent, -
Ich cannot come every day to woo.
Chorus. Two-pence half-penny is his rent,
And he cannot come every day to woo.

Ich am my vather's eldest zonne,
My mouther eke doth love me well!
For Ich can bravely clout my shoone,
And Ich full-well can ring a bell.
Cho. For he can bravely clout his shoone,
And he full well can ring a bell.

My vather he gave me a hogge,
My mouther she gave me a zow;
Ich have a god-vather dwells there by,
And he on me bestowed a plow.
Cho. He has a god-vather dwells there by,
And he on him bestowed a plow.

One time Ich gave thee a paper of pins,
Anoder time a taudry lace;
And if thou wilt not grant me love,
In truth Ich die bevore thy vace.
Cho. And if thou wilt not grant his love,
In truth he'll die bevore thy vace.

Ich have been twice our Whitson Lord,
Ich have had ladies many vare;
And eke thou hast my heart in hold,
And in my minde zeemes passing rare.
Cho. And eke thou hast his heart in hold,
And in his minde zeemes passing rare.

Ich will put on my best white sloppe,
And Ich will weare my yellow hose;
And on my head a good gray hat,
And in't Ich sticke a lovely rose.
Cho. And on his head a good grey hat,
And in't he'll stick a lovely rose.

Wherefore cease off, make no delay,
And if you'll love me, love me now;
Or els Ich zeeke zome oder where, -
For Ich cannot come every day to woo.
Cho. Or else he'll zeeke zome oder where,
For he cannot come every day to woo.







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[Man]

Poem


The Young Man's Wish
[From an old copy, without printer's name; probably one from the Aldermary Church-yard press. Poems in triplets were very popular during the reign of Charles I., and are frequently to be met with during the Interregnum, and the reign of Charles II.]

If I could but attain my wish,
I'd have each day one wholesome dish,
Of plain meat, or fowl, or fish.

A glass of port, with good old beer,
In winter time a fire burnt clear,
Tobacco, pipes, an easy chair.

In some clean town a snug retreat,
A little garden 'fore my gate,
With thousand pounds a year estate.

After my house expense was clear,
Whatever I could have to spare,
The neighbouring poor should freely share.

To keep content and peace through life,
I'd have a prudent cleanly wife,
Stranger to noise, and eke to strife.

Then I, when blest with such estate,
With such a house, and such a mate,
Would envy not the worldly great.

Let them for noisy honours try,
Let them seek worldly praise, while I
Unnoticed would live and die.

But since dame Fortune's not thought fit
To place me in affluence, yet
I'll be content with what I get.

He's happiest far whose humble mind,
Is unto Providence resigned,
And thinketh fortune always kind.

Then I will strive to bound my wish,
And take, instead of fowl and fish,
Whate'er is thrown into my dish.

Instead of wealth and fortune great,
Garden and house and loving mate,
I'll rest content in servile state.

I'll from each folly strive to fly,
Each virtue to attain I'll try,
And live as I would wish to die.








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[Man]

Poem


The Leathern Bottel
Somersetshire version.
[In Chappell's Popular Misic is a much longer version of The Leathern Bottel. The following copy is the one sung at the present time by the country-people in the county of Somerset. It has been communicated to our pages by Mr. Sandys.]


God above, who rules all things,
Monks and abbots, and beggars and kings,
The ships that in the sea do swim,
The earth, and all that is therein;
Not forgetting the old cow's hide,
And everything else in the world beside:
And I wish his soul in heaven may dwell,
Who first invented this leathern bottel!

Oh! what do you say to the glasses fine?
Oh! they shall have no praise of mine;
Suppose a gentleman sends his man
To fill them with liquor, as fast as he can,
The man he falls, in coming away,
And sheds the liquor so fine and gay;
But had it been in the leathern bottel,
And the stopper been in, 'twould all have been well!

Oh! what do you say to the tankard fine?
Oh! it shall have no praise of mine;
Suppose a man and his wife fall out, -
And such things happen sometimes, no doubt, -
They pull and they haul; in the midst of the fray
They shed the liquor so fine and gay;
But had it been in the leathern bottel,
And the stopper been in, 'twould all have been well!

Now, when this bottel it is worn out,
Out of its sides you may cut a clout;
This you may hang upon a pin, -
'Twill serve to put odd trifles in;
Ink and soap, and candle-ends,
For young beginners have need of such friends.
And I wish his soul in heaven may dwell,
Who first invented the leathern bottel!




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[Man]

Poem


Long Preston Peg (A Fragment)
[Mr. Birkbeck, of Threapland House, Lintondale, in Craven, has favoured us with the following fragment. The tune is well known in the North, but all attempts on the part of Mr. Birkbeck to obtain the remaining verses have been unsuccessful. The song is evidently of the date of the first rebellion, 1715.]

Long Preston Peg to proud Preston went,
To see the Scotch rebels it was her intent.
A noble Scotch lord, as he passed by,
On this Yorkshire damsel did soon cast an eye.

He called to his servant, which on him did wait,
'Go down to yon girl who stands in the gate,
That sings with a voice so soft and so sweet,
And in my name do her lovingly greet.'





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[Man]

Poem


The Maskers' Song
[In the Yorkshire dales the young men are in the habit of going about at Christmas time in grotesque masks, and of performing in the farm-houses a sort of rude drama, accompanied by singing and music. The maskers have wooden swords, and the performance is an evening one. The following version of their introductory song was taken down literally from the recitation of a young besom- maker, now residing at Linton in Craven, who for some years past has himself been one of these rustic actors. From the allusion to the pace, or paschal-egg, it is evident that the play was originally an Easter pageant, which, in consequence of the decline of the gorgeous rites formerly connected with that season, has been transferred to Christmas, the only festival which, in the rural districts of Protestant England, is observed after the olden fashion. The maskers generally consist of five characters, one of whom officiates in the threefold capacity of clown, fiddler, and master of the ceremonies. The custom of masking at Christmas is common to many parts of Europe, and is observed with especial zest in the Swiss cantons, where the maskers are all children, and the performances closely resemble those of England. In Switzerland, however, more care is bestowed upon the costume, and the songs are better sung.]
Enter Clown, who sings in a sort of chant, or recititive.


I open this door, I enter in,
I hope your favour for to win;
Whether we shall stand or fall,
We do endeavour to please you all.

A room! a room! a gallant room,
A room to let us ride!
We are not of the raggald sort,
But of the royal tribe:
Stir up the fire, and make a light,
To see the bloody act to-night!


CONTINUED BELOW



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[Man]

Poem


The Maskers' Song
[In the Yorkshire dales the young men are in the habit of going about at Christmas time in grotesque masks, and of performing in the farm-houses a sort of rude drama, accompanied by singing and music. The maskers have wooden swords, and the performance is an evening one. The following version of their introductory song was taken down literally from the recitation of a young besom- maker, now residing at Linton in Craven, who for some years past has himself been one of these rustic actors. From the allusion to the pace, or paschal-egg, it is evident that the play was originally an Easter pageant, which, in consequence of the decline of the gorgeous rites formerly connected with that season, has been transferred to Christmas, the only festival which, in the rural districts of Protestant England, is observed after the olden fashion. The maskers generally consist of five characters, one of whom officiates in the threefold capacity of clown, fiddler, and master of the ceremonies. The custom of masking at Christmas is common to many parts of Europe, and is observed with especial zest in the Swiss cantons, where the maskers are all children, and the performances closely resemble those of England. In Switzerland, however, more care is bestowed upon the costume, and the songs are better sung.]
Enter Clown, who sings in a sort of chant, or recititive.

CONTINUATION

Here another of the party introduces his companions by singing to a violin accompaniment, as follows:


Here's two or three jolly boys, all in one mind;
We've come a pace-egging, I hope you'll prove kind:
I hope you'll prove kind with your money and beer,
We shall come no more near you until the next year.
Fal de ral, lal de lal, &c.

The first that steps up is Lord [Nelson] you'll see,
With a bunch of blue ribbons tied down to his knee;
With a star on his breast, like silver doth shine;
I hope you'll remember this pace-egging time.
Fal de ral, &c.

O! the next that steps up is a jolly Jack tar,
He sailed with Lord [Nelson], during last war:
He's right on the sea, Old England to view:
He's come a pace-egging with so jolly a crew.
Fal de ral, &c.

O! the next that steps up is old Toss-Pot, you'll see,
He's a valiant old man, in every degree,
He's a valiant old man, and he wears a pig-tail;
And all his delight is drinking mulled ale.
Fal de ral, &c.

O! the next that steps up is old Miser, you'll see;
She heaps up her white and her yellow money;
She wears her old rags till she starves and she begs;
And she's come here to ask for a dish of pace eggs.
Fal de ral, &a



CONTINUED BELOW



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[Man]

Poem


The Maskers' Song
[In the Yorkshire dales the young men are in the habit of going about at Christmas time in grotesque masks, and of performing in the farm-houses a sort of rude drama, accompanied by singing and music. The maskers have wooden swords, and the performance is an evening one. The following version of their introductory song was taken down literally from the recitation of a young besom- maker, now residing at Linton in Craven, who for some years past has himself been one of these rustic actors. From the allusion to the pace, or paschal-egg, it is evident that the play was originally an Easter pageant, which, in consequence of the decline of the gorgeous rites formerly connected with that season, has been transferred to Christmas, the only festival which, in the rural districts of Protestant England, is observed after the olden fashion. The maskers generally consist of five characters, one of whom officiates in the threefold capacity of clown, fiddler, and master of the ceremonies. The custom of masking at Christmas is common to many parts of Europe, and is observed with especial zest in the Swiss cantons, where the maskers are all children, and the performances closely resemble those of England. In Switzerland, however, more care is bestowed upon the costume, and the songs are better sung.]
Enter Clown, who sings in a sort of chant, or recititive.

CONTINUATION

The characters being thus duly introduced, the following lines are sung in chorus by all the party.


Gentlemen and ladies, that sit by the fire,
Put your hand in your pocket, 'tis all we desire;
Put your hand in your pocket, and pull out your purse,
And give us a trifle, - you'll not be much worse.
Here follows a dance, and this is generally succeeded by a dialogue of an ad libitum character, which varies in different districts, being sometimes similar to the one performed by the sword-dancers.






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[Man]

Poem


The Masonic Hymn
[This is a very ancient production, though given from a modern copy; it has always been popular amongst the poor 'brethren of the mystic tie.' The late Henry O'Brien, A.B., quotes the seventh verse in his essay On the Round Towers of Ireland. He generally had a common copy of the hymn in his pocket, and on meeting with any of his antiquarian friends who were not Masons, was in the habit of thrusting it into their hands, and telling them that if they understood the mystic allusions it contained, they would be in possession of a key which would unlock the pyramids of Egypt! The tune to the hymn is peculiar to it, and is of a plaintive and solemn character.]

Come all you freemasons that dwell around the globe,
That wear the badge of innocence, I mean the royal robe,
Which Noah he did wear when in the ark he stood,
When the world was destroyed by a deluging flood.

Noah he was virtuous in the sight of the Lord,
He loved a freemason that kept the secret word;
For he built the ark, and he planted the first vine,
Now his soul in heaven like an angel doth shine.

Once I was blind, and could not see the light,
Then up to Jerusalem I took my flight,
I was led by the evangelist through a wilderness of care,
You may see by the sign and the badge that I wear.

On the 13th rose the ark, let us join hand in hand,
For the Lord spake to Moses by water and by land,
Unto the pleasant river where by Eden it did rin,
And Eve tempted Adam by the serpent of sin.

When I think of Moses it makes me to blush,
All on mount Horeb where I saw the burning bush;
My shoes I'll throw off, and my staff I'll cast away,
And I'll wander like a pilgrim unto my dying day.

When I think of Aaron it makes me to weep,
Likewise of the Virgin Mary who lay at our Saviour's feet;
'Twas in the garden of Gethsemane where he had the bloody sweat;
Repent, my dearest brethren, before it is too late.

I thought I saw twelve dazzling lights, which put me in surprise,
And gazing all around me I heard a dismal noise;
The serpent passed by me which fell unto the ground,
With great joy and comfort the secret word I found.

Some say it is lost, but surely it is found,
And so is our Saviour, it is known to all around;
Search all the Scriptures over, and there it will be shown;
The tree that will bear no fruit must be cut down.

Abraham was a man well beloved by the Lord,
He was true to be found in great Jehovah's word,
He stretched forth his hand, and took a knife to slay his son,
An angel appearing said, The Lord's will be done!

O, Abraham! O, Abraham! lay no hand upon the lad,
He sent him unto thee to make thy heart glad;
Thy seed shall increase like stars in the sky,
And thy soul into heaven like Gabriel shall fly.

O, never, O, never will I hear an orphan cry,
Nor yet a gentle virgin until the day I die;
You wandering Jews that travel the wide world round,
May knock at the door where truth is to be found.

Often against the Turks and Infidels we fight,
To let the wandering world know we're in the right,
For in heaven there's a lodge, and St. Peter keeps the door,
And none can enter in but those that are pure.

St. Peter he opened, and so we entered in,
Into the holy seat secure, which is all free from sin;
St. Peter he opened, and so we entered there,
And the glory of the temple no man can compare.


--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Rural Dance About The May-pole
[The most correct copy of this song is that given in The Westminster Drollery, Part II. p. 80. It is there called The Rural Dance About The May-pole, The Tune, The First-Figure Dance at Mr. Young's Ball, May, 1671. The tune is in Popular Misic. The May-pole, for so the song is called in modern collections, is a very popular ditty at the present time. The common copies vary considerably from the following version, which is much more correct than any hitherto published.]

Come, lasses and lads, take leave of your dads,
And away to the may-pole hie;
For every he has got him a she,
And the minstrel's standing by;
For Willie has gotten his Jill,
And Johnny has got his Joan,
To jig it, jig it, jig it,
Jig it up and down.

'Strike up,' says Wat; 'Agreed,' says Kate,
'And I prithee, fiddler, play;'
'Content,' says Hodge, and so says Madge,
For this is a holiday.
Then every man did put
His hat off to his lass,
And every girl did curchy,
Curchy, curchy on the grass.

'Begin,' says Hall; 'Aye, aye,' says Mall,
'We'll lead up Packington's Pound;'
'No, no,' says Noll, and so says Doll,
'We'll first have Sellenger's Round.'
Then every man began
To foot it round about;
And every girl did jet it,
Jet it, jet it, in and out.

'You're out,' says Dick; ''Tis a lie,' says Nick,
'The fiddler played it false;'
''Tis true,' says Hugh, and so says Sue,
And so says nimble Alice.
The fiddler then began
To play the tune again;
And every girl did trip it, trip it,
Trip it to the men.

'Let's kiss,' says Jane, (36) 'Content,' says Nan,
And so says every she;
'How many?' says Batt; 'Why three,' says Matt,
'For that's a maiden's fee.'
But they, instead of three,
Did give them half a score,
And they in kindness gave 'em, gave 'em,
Gave 'em as many more.

Then after an hour, they went to a bower,
And played for ale and cakes;
And kisses, too; - until they were due,
The lasses kept the stakes:
The girls did then begin
To quarrel with the men;
And bid 'em take their kisses back,
And give them their own again.

Yet there they sate, until it was late,
And tired the fiddler quite,
With singing and playing, without any paying,
From morning unto night:
They told the fiddler then,
They'd pay him for his play;
And each a two-pence, two-pence,
Gave him, and went away.

'Good night,' says Harry; 'Good night,' says Mary;
'Good night,' says Dolly to John;
'Good night,' says Sue; 'Good night,' says Hugh;
'Good night,' says every one.
Some walked, and some did run,
Some loitered on the way;
And bound themselves with love-knots, love-knots,
To meet the next holiday.



--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Merry Fellows; or, He That Will Not Merry, Merry Be
[The popularity of this old lyric, of which ours is the ballad- printer's version, has been increased by the lively and appropriate music recently adapted to it by Mr. Holderness. The date of this song is about the era of Charles II.]
Now, since we're met, let's merry, merry be,
In spite of all our foes;
And he that will not merry be,
We'll pull him by the nose.
Cho. Let him be merry, merry there,
While we're all merry, merry here,
For who can know where he shall go,
To be merry another year.

He that will not merry, merry be,
With a generous bowl and a toast,
May he in Bridewell be shut up,
And fast bound to a post.
Let him, &c.

He that will not merry, merry be,
And take his glass in course,
May he be obliged to drink small beer,
Ne'er a penny in his purse.
Let him, &c.

He that will not merry, merry be,
With a company of jolly boys;
May he be plagued with a scolding wife,
To confound him with her noise.
Let him, &c.

[He that will not merry, merry be,
With his sweetheart by his side,
Let him be laid in the cold churchyard,
With a head-stone for his bride.
Let him, &c.]




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Midnight Messenger; or, A Sudden Call From an Earthly Glory to the Cold Grave
In a Dialogue between Death and a Rich Man; who, in the midst of all his Wealth, received the tidings of his Last Day, to his unspeakable and sorrowful Lamentation.
To the tune of Aim Not Too High.
[The following poem, and the two that immediately follow, belong to a class of publications which have always been peculiar favourites with the peasantry, in whose cottages they may be frequently seen, neatly framed and glazed, and suspended from the white-washed walls. They belong to the school of Quarles, and can be traced to the time when that writer was in the height of his popularity. These religious dialogues are numerous, but the majority of them are very namby-pamby productions, and unworthy of a reprint. The modern editions preserve the old form of the broadside of the seventeenth century, and are adorned with rude woodcuts, probably copies of ruder originals -

- 'wooden cuts
Strange, and uncouth; dire faces, figures dire,
Sharp-kneed, sharp-elbowed, and lean-ankled too,
With long and ghostly shanks, forms which once seen,
Can never be forgotten!'
- Wordsworth's Excursion.]

Death.

Thou wealthy man of large possessions here,
Amounting to some thousand pounds a year,
Extorted by oppression from the poor,
The time is come that thou shalt be no more;
Thy house therefore in order set with speed,
And call to mind how you your life do lead.
Let true repentance be thy chiefest care,
And for another world now, now prepare.
For notwithstanding all your heaps of gold,
Your lands and lofty buildings manifold,
Take notice you must die this very day;
And therefore kiss your bags and come away.

Rich Man.

(He started straight and turned his head aside,
Where seeing pale-faced Death, aloud he cried),
Lean famished slave! why do you threaten so,
Whence come you, pray, and whither must I go?


CONTINUED BELOW



--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Midnight Messenger; or, A Sudden Call From an Earthly Glory to the Cold Grave
In a Dialogue between Death and a Rich Man; who, in the midst of all his Wealth, received the tidings of his Last Day, to his unspeakable and sorrowful Lamentation.
To the tune of Aim Not Too High.
[The following poem, and the two that immediately follow, belong to a class of publications which have always been peculiar favourites with the peasantry, in whose cottages they may be frequently seen, neatly framed and glazed, and suspended from the white-washed walls. They belong to the school of Quarles, and can be traced to the time when that writer was in the height of his popularity. These religious dialogues are numerous, but the majority of them are very namby-pamby productions, and unworthy of a reprint. The modern editions preserve the old form of the broadside of the seventeenth century, and are adorned with rude woodcuts, probably copies of ruder originals -


CONTINUATION

Death.

I come from ranging round the universe,
Through courts and kingdoms far and near I pass,
Where rich and poor, distressed, bond and free,
Fall soon or late a sacrifice to me.
From crowned kings to captives bound in chains
My power reaches, sir; the longest reigns
That ever were, I put a period to;
And now I'm come in fine to conquer you.

Rich Man.

I can't nor won't believe that you, pale Death,
Were sent this day to stop my vital breath,
By reason I in perfect health remain,
Free from diseases, sorrow, grief, and pain;
No heavy heart, nor fainting fits have I,
And do you say that I am drawing nigh
The latter minute? sure it cannot be;
Depart, therefore, you are not sent for me!

CONTINUED BELOW



--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Midnight Messenger; or, A Sudden Call From an Earthly Glory to the Cold Grave
In a Dialogue between Death and a Rich Man; who, in the midst of all his Wealth, received the tidings of his Last Day, to his unspeakable and sorrowful Lamentation.
To the tune of Aim Not Too High.
[The following poem, and the two that immediately follow, belong to a class of publications which have always been peculiar favourites with the peasantry, in whose cottages they may be frequently seen, neatly framed and glazed, and suspended from the white-washed walls. They belong to the school of Quarles, and can be traced to the time when that writer was in the height of his popularity. These religious dialogues are numerous, but the majority of them are very namby-pamby productions, and unworthy of a reprint. The modern editions preserve the old form of the broadside of the seventeenth century, and are adorned with rude woodcuts, probably copies of ruder originals -


CONTINUATION

Death.

Yes, yes, I am, for did you never know,
The tender grass and pleasant flowers that grow
Perhaps one minute, are the next cut down?
And so is man, though famed with high renown.
Have you not heard the doleful passing bell
Ring out for those that were alive and well
The other day, in health and pleasure too,
And had as little thoughts of death as you?
For let me tell you, when my warrant's sealed,
The sweetest beauty that the earth doth yield
At my approach shall turn as pale as lead;
'Tis I that lay them on their dying bed.

I kill with dropsy, phthisic, stone, and gout;
But when my raging fevers fly about,
I strike the man, perhaps, but over-night,
Who hardly lives to see the morning light;
I'm sent each hour, like to a nimble page,
To infant, hoary heads, and middle age;
Time after time I sweep the world quite through;
Then it's in vain to think I'll favour you.

Rich Man.

Proud Death, you see what awful sway I bear,
For when I frown none of my servants dare
Approach my presence, but in corners hide
Until I am appeased and pacified.
Nay, men of greater rank I keep in awe
Nor did I ever fear the force of law,
But ever did my enemies subdue,
And must I after all submit to you?



CONTINUED BELOW



--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Midnight Messenger; or, A Sudden Call From an Earthly Glory to the Cold Grave
In a Dialogue between Death and a Rich Man; who, in the midst of all his Wealth, received the tidings of his Last Day, to his unspeakable and sorrowful Lamentation.
To the tune of Aim Not Too High.
[The following poem, and the two that immediately follow, belong to a class of publications which have always been peculiar favourites with the peasantry, in whose cottages they may be frequently seen, neatly framed and glazed, and suspended from the white-washed walls. They belong to the school of Quarles, and can be traced to the time when that writer was in the height of his popularity. These religious dialogues are numerous, but the majority of them are very namby-pamby productions, and unworthy of a reprint. The modern editions preserve the old form of the broadside of the seventeenth century, and are adorned with rude woodcuts, probably copies of ruder originals -


CONTINUATION

Death.

'Tis very true, for why thy daring soul,
Which never could endure the least control,
I'll thrust thee from this earthly tenement,
And thou shalt to another world be sent.

Rich Man.

What! must I die and leave a vast estate,
Which, with my gold, I purchased but of late?
Besides what I had many years ago? -
What! must my wealth and I be parted so?
If you your darts and arrows must let fly,
Go search the jails, where mourning debtors lie;
Release them from their sorrow, grief, and woe,
For I am rich and therefore loth to go.



CONTINUED BELOW



--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Midnight Messenger; or, A Sudden Call From an Earthly Glory to the Cold Grave
In a Dialogue between Death and a Rich Man; who, in the midst of all his Wealth, received the tidings of his Last Day, to his unspeakable and sorrowful Lamentation.
To the tune of Aim Not Too High.
[The following poem, and the two that immediately follow, belong to a class of publications which have always been peculiar favourites with the peasantry, in whose cottages they may be frequently seen, neatly framed and glazed, and suspended from the white-washed walls. They belong to the school of Quarles, and can be traced to the time when that writer was in the height of his popularity. These religious dialogues are numerous, but the majority of them are very namby-pamby productions, and unworthy of a reprint. The modern editions preserve the old form of the broadside of the seventeenth century, and are adorned with rude woodcuts, probably copies of ruder originals -


CONTINUATION

Death.

I'll search no jails, but the right mark I'll hit;
And though you are unwilling to submit,
Yet die you must, no other friend can do, -
Prepare yourself to go, I'm come for you.
If you had all the world and ten times more,
Yet die you must, - there's millions gone before;
The greatest kings on earth yield and obey,
And at my feet their crowns and sceptres lay:
If crowned heads and right renowned peers
Die in the prime and blossoms of their years,
Can you suppose to gain a longer space?
No! I will send you to another place.

Rich Man.

Oh! stay thy hand and be not so severe,
I have a hopeful son and daughter dear,
All that I beg is but to let me live
That I may them in lawful marriage give:
They being young when I am laid in the grave,
I fear they will be wronged of what they have:
Although of me you will no pity take,
Yet spare me for my little infants' sake



CONTINUED BELOW



--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Midnight Messenger; or, A Sudden Call From an Earthly Glory to the Cold Grave
In a Dialogue between Death and a Rich Man; who, in the midst of all his Wealth, received the tidings of his Last Day, to his unspeakable and sorrowful Lamentation.
To the tune of Aim Not Too High.
[The following poem, and the two that immediately follow, belong to a class of publications which have always been peculiar favourites with the peasantry, in whose cottages they may be frequently seen, neatly framed and glazed, and suspended from the white-washed walls. They belong to the school of Quarles, and can be traced to the time when that writer was in the height of his popularity. These religious dialogues are numerous, but the majority of them are very namby-pamby productions, and unworthy of a reprint. The modern editions preserve the old form of the broadside of the seventeenth century, and are adorned with rude woodcuts, probably copies of ruder originals -


CONTINUATION

Death.

If such a vain excuse as this might do,
It would be long ere mortals would go through
The shades of death; for every man would find
Something to say that he might stay behind.
Yet, if ten thousand arguments they'd use,
The destiny of dying to excuse,
They'll find it is in vain with me to strive,
For why, I part the dearest friends alive;
Poor parents die, and leave their children small
With nothing to support them here withal,
But the kind hand of gracious Providence,
Who is their father, friend, and sole defence.
Though I have held you long in disrepute,
Yet after all here with a sharp salute
I'll put a period to your days and years,
Causing your eyes to flow with dying tears.

Rich Man.

(Then with a groan he made this sad complaint):
My heart is dying, and my spirits faint;
To my close chamber let me be conveyed;
Farewell, false world, for thou hast me betrayed.
Would I had never wronged the fatherless,
Nor mourning widows when in sad distress;
Would I had ne'er been guilty of that sin,
Would I had never known what gold had been;
For by the same my heart was drawn away
To search for gold: but now this very day,
I find it is but like a slender reed,
Which fails me most when most I stand in need;
For, woe is me! the time is come at last,
Now I am on a bed of sorrow cast,
Where in lamenting tears I weeping lie,
Because my sins make me afraid to die:
Oh! Death, be pleased to spare me yet awhile,
That I to God myself may reconcile,
For true repentance some small time allow;
I never feared a future state till now!
My bags of gold and land I'd freely give,
For to obtain the favour here to live,
Until I have a sure foundation laid.
Let me not die before my peace be made!



CONTINUED BELOW



--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Midnight Messenger; or, A Sudden Call From an Earthly Glory to the Cold Grave
In a Dialogue between Death and a Rich Man; who, in the midst of all his Wealth, received the tidings of his Last Day, to his unspeakable and sorrowful Lamentation.
To the tune of Aim Not Too High.
[The following poem, and the two that immediately follow, belong to a class of publications which have always been peculiar favourites with the peasantry, in whose cottages they may be frequently seen, neatly framed and glazed, and suspended from the white-washed walls. They belong to the school of Quarles, and can be traced to the time when that writer was in the height of his popularity. These religious dialogues are numerous, but the majority of them are very namby-pamby productions, and unworthy of a reprint. The modern editions preserve the old form of the broadside of the seventeenth century, and are adorned with rude woodcuts, probably copies of ruder originals -


CONTINUATION

Death.

Thou hast not many minutes here to stay,
Lift up your heart to God without delay,
Implore his pardon now for what is past,
Who knows but He may save your soul at last?

Rich Man.

I'll water now with tears my dying bed,
Before the Lord my sad complaint I'll spread,
And if He will vouchsafe to pardon me,
To die and leave this world I could be free.
False world! false world, farewell! farewell! adieu!
I find, I find, there is no trust in you!
For when upon a dying bed we lie,
Your gilded baits are nought but misery.
My youthful son and loving daughter dear,
Take warning by your dying father here;
Let not the world deceive you at this rate,
For fear a sad repentance comes too late.
Sweet babes, I little thought the other day,
I should so suddenly be snatched away
By Death, and leave you weeping here behind;
But life's a most uncertain thing, I find.
When in the grave my head is lain full low,
Pray let not folly prove your overthrow;
Serve ye the Lord, obey his holy will,
That he may have a blessing for you still.
(Having saluted them, he turned aside,
These were the very words before he died):

A painful life I ready am to leave,
Wherefore, in mercy, Lord, my soul receive.!




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Milk-Maid's Life
[Of this popular country song there are a variety of versions. The following, which is the most ancient, is transcribed from a black- letter broadside in the Roxburgh Collection, entitled The Milk- Maid's Life; or, A Pretty New Ditty Composed and Penned, The Praise of the Milking-Pail to Defend. To a curious new tune called the Milke-Maid's Dump. It is subscribed with the initials M. P.; probably those of Martin Parker.]

You rural goddesses,
That woods and fields possess,
Assist me with your skill, that may direct my quill,
More jocundly to express,
The mirth and delight, both morning and night,
On mountain or in dale,
Of them who choose this trade to use,
And, through cold dews, do never refuse
To carry the milking-pail.

The bravest lasses gay,
Live not so merry as they;
In honest civil sort they make each other sport,
As they trudge on their way;
Come fair or foul weather, they're fearful of neither,
Their courages never quail.
In wet and dry, though winds be high,
And dark's the sky, they ne'er deny
To carry the milking-pail.

Their hearts are free from care,
They never will despair;
Whatever them befal, they bravely bear out all,
And fortune's frowns outdare.
They pleasantly sing to welcome the spring,
'Gainst heaven they never rail;
If grass well grow, their thanks they show,
And, frost or snow, they merrily go
Along with the milking-pail:

Base idleness they do scorn,
They rise very early i' th' morn,
And walk into the field, where pretty birds do yield
Brave music on every thorn.
The linnet and thrush do sing on each bush,
And the dulcet nightingale
Her note doth strain, by jocund vein,
To entertain that worthy train,
Which carry the milking-pail.

Their labour doth health preserve,
No doctor's rules they observe,
While others too nice in taking their advice,
Look always as though they would starve.
Their meat is digested, they ne'er are molested,
No sickness doth them assail;
Their time is spent in merriment,
While limbs are lent, they are content,
To carry the milking-pail.

Upon the first of May,
With garlands, fresh and gay,
With mirth and music sweet, for such a season meet,
They pass the time away.
They dance away sorrow, and all the day thorough
Their legs do never fail,
For they nimbly their feet do ply,
And bravely try the victory,
In honour o' the milking-pail.

If any think that I
Do practise flattery,
In seeking thus to raise the merry milkmaids' praise,
I'll to them thus reply:-
It is their desert inviteth my art,
To study this pleasant tale;
In their defence, whose innocence,
And providence, gets honest pence
Out of the milking-pail.





--> Man

[Man]

Poem


A Dialogue Betwixt An Exciseman and Death
[Transcribed from a copy in the British Museum, printed in London by J. C[larke]., 1659. The idea of Death being employed to execute a writ, recalls an epitaph which we remember to have seen in a village church-yard at the foot of the Wrekin, in Shropshire, commencing thus:-
'The King of Heaven a warrant got,
And sealed it without delay,
And he did give the same to Death,
For him to serve straightway,' &c.]

Upon a time when Titan's steeds were driven
To drench themselves beneath the western heaven;
And sable Morpheus had his curtains spread,
And silent night had laid the world to bed;
'Mongst other night-birds which did seek for prey,
A blunt exciseman, which abhorred the day,
Was rambling forth to seek himself a booty
'Mongst merchant's goods which had not paid the duty;
But walking all alone, Death chanced to meet him,
And in this manner did begin to greet him.

Death.

Stand, who comes here? what means this knave to peep
And skulk abroad, when honest men should sleep?
Speak, what's thy name? and quickly tell me this,
Whither thou goest, and what thy business is?

Exciseman.

Whate'er my business is, thou foul-mouthed scold,
I'd have you know I scorn to be controlled
By any man that lives; much less by thou,
Who blurtest out thou know'st not what, nor how;
I go about my lawful business; and
I'll make you smart for bidding of me stand.

Death.

Imperious coxcomb! is your stomach vexed?
Pray slack your rage, and hearken what comes next:
I have a writ to take you up; therefore,
To chafe your blood, I bid you stand, once more.

Exciseman.

A writ to take me up! excuse me, sir,
You do mistake, I am an officer
In public service, for my private wealth;
My business is, if any seek by stealth
To undermine the state, I do discover
Their falsehood; therefore hold your hand, - give over.

Death.

Nay, fair and soft! 'tis not so quickly done
As you conceive it is: I am not gone
A jot the sooner for your hasty chat,
Nor bragging language; for I tell you flat
'Tis more than so, though fortune seem to thwart us,
Such easy terms I don't intend shall part us.
With this impartial arm I'll make you feel
My fingers first, and with this shaft of steel
I'll peck thy bones! As thou alive wert hated,
So dead, to dogs thou shalt be segregated.

Exciseman.

I'd laugh at that; I would thou didst but dare
To lay thy fingers on me; I'd not spare
To hack thy carcass till my sword was broken,
I'd make thee eat the words which thou hast spoken;
All men should warning take by thy transgression,
How they molested men of my profession.
My service to the State is so well known,
That should I but complain, they'd quickly own
My public grievances; and give me right
To cut your ears, before tomorrow night.

Death.

Well said, indeed! but bootless all, for I
Am well acquainted with thy villany;
I know thy office, and thy trade is such,
Thy service little, and thy gains are much:
Thy brags are many; but 'tis vain to swagger,
And think to fight me with thy gilded dagger:
As I abhor thy person, place, and thread,
So now I'll bring thee to the judgment-seat.

Exciseman.

The judgment-seat! I must confess that word
Doth cut my heart, like any sharpened sword:
What! come t' account! methinks the dreadful sound
Of every word doth make a mortal wound,
Which sticks not only in my outward skin,
But penetrates my very soul within.
'Twas least of all my thoughts that ever Death
Would once attempt to stop excisemen's breath.
But since 'tis so, that now I do perceive
You are in earnest, then I must relieve
Myself another way: come, we'll be friends;
If I have wronged thee, I'll make th' amends.
Let's join together; I'll pass my word this night
Shall yield us grub, before the morning light.
Or otherwise (to mitigate my sorrow),
Stay here, I'll bring you gold enough to-morrow.

Death.

To-morrow's gold I will not have; and thou
Shalt have no gold upon to-morrow: now
My final writ shall to th' execution have thee,
All earthly treasure cannot help or save thee.

Exciseman.

Then woe is me! ah! how was I befooled!
I thought that gold (which answereth all things) could
Have stood my friend at any time to bail me!
But grief grows great, and now my trust doth fail me.
Oh! that my conscience were but clear within,
Which now is racked with my former sin;
With horror I behold my secret stealing,
My bribes, oppression, and my graceless dealing;
My office-sins, which I had clean forgotten,
Will gnaw my soul when all my bones are rotten:
I must confess it, very grief doth force me,
Dead or alive, both God and man doth curse me.
Let all Excisemen hereby warning take,
To shun their practice for their conscience sake.






--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Fairlop Fair Song
[The following song is sung at Fairlop fair, one of the gayest of the numerous saturnalia kept by the good citizens of London. The venerable oak has disappeared; but the song is nevertheless sung, and the curious custom of riding through the fair, seated in boats, still continues to be observed.]

Come, come, my boys, with a hearty glee,
To Fairlop fair, bear chorus with me;
At Hainault forest is known very well,
This famous oak has long bore the bell.

Cho. Let music sound as the boat goes round,
If we tumble on the ground, we'll be merry, I'll be bound;
We will booze it away, dull care we will defy,
And be happy on the first Friday in July.

At Tainhall forest, Queen Anne she did ride,
And beheld the beautiful oak by her side,
And after viewing it from bottom to top,
She said that her court should be at Fairlop.

It is eight fathom round, spreads an acre of ground,
They plastered it round to keep the tree sound.
So we'll booze it away, dull care we'll defy,
And be happy on the first Friday in July.

About a century ago, as I have heard say,
This fair it was kept by one Daniel Day,
A hearty good fellow as ever could be,
His coffin was made of a limb of the tree.

With black-strap and perry he made his friends merry,
All sorrow for to drown with brandy and sherry.
So we'll booze it away, dull care we'll defy,
And be happy on the first Friday in July.

At Tainhall forest there stands a tree,
And it has performed a wonderful bounty,
It is surrounded by woods and plains,
The merry little warblers chant their strains.

So we'll dance round the tree, and merry we will be,
Every year we'll agree the fair for to see;
And we'll booze it away, dull care we'll defy,
And be happy on the first Friday in July.





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[Man]

Poem


The Farmer's Boy
[Mr Denham of Piersbridge, who communicates the following, says - 'there is no question that the Farmer's Boy is a very ancient song; it is highly popular amongst the north country lads and lasses.' The date of the composition may probably be referred to the commencement of the last century, when there prevailed amongst the ballad-mongers a great rage for Farmers' Sons, Plough Boys, Milk Maids, Farmers' Boys, &c. &c. The song is popular all over the country, and there are numerous printed copies, ancient and modern.]

The sun had set behind yon hills,
Across yon dreary moor,
Weary and lame, a boy there came
Up to a farmer's door:
'Can you tell me if any there be
That will give me employ,
To plow and sow, and reap and mow,
And be a farmer's boy?

'My father is dead, and mother is left
With five children, great and small;
And what is worse for mother still,
I'm the oldest of them all.
Though little, I'll work as hard as a Turk,
If you'll give me employ,
To plow and sow, and reap and mow,
And be a farmer's boy.

'And if that you won't me employ,
One favour I've to ask, -
Will you shelter me, till break of day,
From this cold winter's blast?
At break of day, I'll trudge away
Elsewhere to seek employ,
To plow and sow, and reap and mow,
And be a farmer's boy.'

'Come, try the lad,' the mistress said,
'Let him no further seek.'
'O, do, dear father!' the daughter cried,
While tears ran down her cheek:
'He'd work if he could, so 'tis hard to want food,
And wander for employ;
Don't turn him away, but let him stay,
And be a farmer's boy.'

And when the lad became a man,
The good old farmer died,
And left the lad the farm he had,
And his daughter for his bride.
The lad that was, the farm now has,
Oft smiles, and thinks with joy
Of the lucky day he came that way,
To be a farmer's boy.






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[Man]

Poem


The Farmer's Son
[This song, familiar to the dwellers in the dales of Yorkshire, was published in 1729, in the Vocal Miscellany; A Collection of About Four Hundred Celebrated Songs. As the Miscellany was merely an anthology of songs already well known, the date of this song must have been sometime anterior to 1729. It was republished in the British Musical Miscellany, or The Delightful Grove, 1796, and in a few other old song books. It was evidently founded on an old black-letter dialogue preserved in the Roxburgh collection, called A Mad Kinde of Wooing; or, A Dialogue Between Will the Simple and Nan the Subtill, With Their Loving Argument. To the tune of the New Dance at the Red Bull Playhouse. Printed by the assignees of Thomas Symcock.]

'Sweet Nelly! my heart's delight!
Be loving, and do not slight
The proffer I make, for modesty's sake:-
I honour your beauty bright.
For love, I profess, I can do no less,
Thou hast my favour won:
And since I see your modesty,
I pray agree, and fancy me,
Though I'm but a farmer's son.

'No! I am a lady gay,
'Tis very well known I may
Have men of renown, in country or town;
So! Roger, without delay,
Court Bridget or Sue, Kate, Nancy, or Prue,
Their loves will soon be won;
But don't you dare to speak me fair,
As if I were at my last prayer,
To marry a farmer's son.'

'My father has riches' store,
Two hundred a year, and more;
Beside sheep and cows, carts, harrows, and ploughs;
His age is above threescore.
And when he does die, then merrily I
Shall have what he has won;
Both land and kine, all shall be thine,
If thou'lt incline, and wilt be mine,
And marry a farmer's son.'

'A fig for your cattle and corn!
Your proffered love I scorn!
'Tis known very well, my name is Nell,
And you're but a bumpkin born.'
'Well! since it is so, away I will go, -
And I hope no harm is done;
Farewell, adieu! - I hope to woo
As good as you, - and win her, too,
Though I'm but a farmer's son.'

'Be not in such haste,' quoth she,
'Perhaps we may still agree;
For, man, I protest I was but in jest!
Come, prythee sit down by me;
For thou art the man that verily can
Win me, if e'er I'm won;
Both straight and tall, genteel withal;
Therefore, I shall be at your call,
To marry a farmer's son.'

'Dear lady! believe me now
I solemnly swear and vow,
No lords in their lives take pleasure in wives,
Like fellows that drive the plough:
For whatever they gain with labour and pain,
They don't with 't to harlots run,
As courtiers do. I never knew
A London beau that could outdo
A country farmer's son.'







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[Man]

Poem


The Garden-Gate
[One of our most pleasing rural ditties. The air is very beautiful. We first heard it sung in Malhamdale, Yorkshire, by Willy Bolton, an old Dales'-minstrel, who accompanied himself on the union-pipes.]

The day was spent, the moon shone bright,
The village clock struck eight;
Young Mary hastened, with delight,
Unto the garden-gate:
But what was there that made her sad? -
The gate was there, but not the lad,
Which made poor Mary say and sigh,
'Was ever poor girl so sad as I?'

She traced the garden here and there,
The village clock struck nine;
Which made poor Mary sigh, and say,
'You shan't, you shan't be mine!
You promised to meet at the gate at eight,
You ne'er shall keep me, nor make me wait,
For I'll let all such creatures see,
They ne'er shall make a fool of me!'

She traced the garden here and there,
The village clock struck ten;
Young William caught her in his arms,
No more to part again:
For he'd been to buy the ring that day,
And O! he had been a long, long way; -
Then, how could Mary cruel prove,
To banish the lad she so dearly did love?

Up with the morning sun they rose,
To church they went away,
And all the village joyful were,
Upon their wedding-day:
Now in a cot, by a river side,
William and Mary both reside;
And she blesses the night that she did wait
For her absent swain, at the garden-gate







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[Man]

Poem


The Golden Glove; or, The Squire of Tamworth
[This is a very popular ballad, and sung in every part of England. It is traditionally reported to be founded on an incident which occurred in the reign of Elizabeth. It has been published in the broadside form from the commencement of the eighteenth century, but is no doubt much older. It does not appear to have been previously inserted in any collection.]

A wealthy young squire of Tamworth, we hear,
He courted a nobleman's daughter so fair;
And for to marry her it was his intent,
All friends and relations gave their consent.

The time was appointed for the wedding-day,
A young farmer chosen to give her away;
As soon as the farmer the young lady did spy,
He inflamed her heart; 'O, my heart!' she did cry.

She turned from the squire, but nothing she said,
Instead of being married she took to her bed;
The thought of the farmer soon run in her mind,
A way for to have him she quickly did find.

Coat, waistcoat, and breeches she then did put on,
And a hunting she went with her dog and her gun;
She hunted all round where the farmer did dwell,
Because in her heart she did love him full well:

She oftentimes fired, but nothing she killed,
At length the young farmer came into the field;
And to discourse with him it was her intent,
With her dog and her gun to meet him she went.

'I thought you had been at the wedding,' she cried,
'To wait on the squire, and give him his bride.'
'No, sir,' said the farmer, 'if the truth I may tell,
I'll not give her away, for I love her too well'

'Suppose that the lady should grant you her love,
You know that the squire your rival will prove.'
'Why, then,' says the farmer, 'I'll take sword in hand,
By honour I'll gain her when she shall command.'

It pleased the lady to find him so bold;
She gave him a glove that was flowered with gold,
And told him she found it when coming along,
As she was a hunting with her dog and gun.

The lady went home with a heart full of love,
And gave out a notice that she'd lost a glove;
And said, 'Who has found it, and brings it to me,
Whoever he is, he my husband shall be.'

The farmer was pleased when he heard of the news,
With heart full of joy to the lady he goes:
'Dear, honoured lady, I've picked up your glove,
And hope you'll be pleased to grant me your love.'

'It's already granted, I will be your bride;
I love the sweet breath of a farmer,' she cried.
'I'll be mistress of my dairy, and milking my cow,
While my jolly brisk farmer is whistling at plough.'

And when she was married she told of her fun,
How she went a hunting with her dog and gun:
'And now I've got him so fast in my snare,
I'll enjoy him for ever, I vow and declare!'







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[Man]

Poem


God Speed the Plow, and Bless the Corn-Mow. A Dialogue Between the Husbandman and Servingman
The tune is, I Am The Duke of Norfolk.
[This ancient dialogue, though in a somewhat altered form (see the ensuing poem), has long been used at country merry-makings. It is transcribed from a black-letter copy in the third volume of the Roxburgh collection, apparently one of the imprints of Peter Brooksby, which would make the composition at least as old as the close of the fifteenth century. There are several dialogues of a similar character.]


Argument.

The servingman the plowman would invite
To leave his calling and to take delight;
But he to that by no means will agree,
Lest he thereby should come to beggary.
He makes it plain appear a country life
Doth far excel: and so they end the strife.

My noble friends give ear, if mirth you love to hear,
I'll tell you as fast as I can,
A story very true, then mark what doth ensue,
Concerning of a husbandman.
A servingman did meet a husbandman in the street,
And thus unto him began:

Servingman.

I pray you tell to me of what calling you be,
Or if you be a servingman?

Husbandman.

Quoth he, my brother dear, the coast I mean to clear,
And the truth you shall understand:
I do no one disdain, but this I tell you plain,
I am an honest husbandman.

Servingman.

If a husbandman you be, then come along with me,
I'll help you as soon as I can
Unto a gallant place, where in a little space,
You shall be a servingman.

Husbandman.

Sir, for your diligence I give you many thanks,
These things I receive at your hand;
I pray you to me show, whereby that I might know,
What pleasures hath a servingman?

Servingman.

A servingman hath pleasure, which passeth time and measure,
When the hawk on his fist doth stand;
His hood, and his verrils brave, and other things, we have,
Which yield joy to a servingman.

Husbandman.

My pleasure's more than that to see my oxen fat,
And to prosper well under my hand;
And therefore I do mean, with my horse, and with my team,
To keep myself a husbandman.

Servingman.

O 'tis a gallant thing in the prime time of the spring,
To hear the huntsman now and than
His bugle for to blow, and the hounds run all a row:
This is pleasure for a servingman!
To hear the beagle cry, and to see the falcon fly,
And the hare trip over the plain,
And the huntsmen and the hound make hill and dale rebound:
This is pleasure for a servingman!

Husbandman.

'Tis pleasure, too, you know, to see the corn to grow,
And to grow so well on the land;
The plowing and the sowing, the reaping and the mowing,
Yield pleasure to the husbandman.

Servingman.

At our table you may eat all sorts of dainty meat,
Pig, cony, goose, capon, and swan;
And with lords and ladies fine, you may drink beer, ale, and wine!
This is pleasure for a servingman.

Husbandman.

While you eat goose and capon, I'll feed on beef and bacon,
And piece of hard cheese now and than;
We pudding have, and souse, always ready in the house,
Which contents the honest husbandman.

Servingman.

At the court you may have your garments fine and brave,
And cloak with gold lace laid upon,
A shirt as white as milk, and wrought with finest silk:
That's pleasure for a servingman!

Husbandman.

Such proud and costly gear is not for us to wear;
Amongst the briers and brambles many a one,
A good strong russet coat, and at your need a groat,
Will suffice the husbandman.
A proverb here I tell, which likes my humour well,
And remember it well I can,
If a courtier be too bold, he'll want when he is old.
Then farewell the servingman.

Servingman.

It needs must be confest that your calling is the best,
No longer discourse with you I can;
But henceforth I will pray, by night and by day,
Heaven bless the honest husbandman.








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[Man]

Poem


Fragment of the Hagmena Song
As sung at Richmond, Yorkshire, on the eve of the New Year, by the Corporation Pinder.
[The custom of singing Hagmena songs is observed in different parts of both England and Scotland. The origin of the term is a matter of dispute. Some derive it from 'au guy l'an neuf,' i.e., To the Misletoe This New Year, and a French Hagmena song still in use seems to give some authority to such a derivation; others, dissatisfied with a heathen source, find the term to be a corruption of [Greek representing] The Holy Month. The Hagmena songs are sometimes sung on Christmas Eve and a few of the preceding nights, and sometimes, as at Richmond, on the eve of the new year. For further information the reader is referred to Brand's Popular Antiquities, vol. i. 247-8, Sir H. Ellis's edit. 1842.]


To-night it is the New-year's night, to-morrow is the day,
And we are come for our right, and for our ray,
As we used to do in old King Henry's day.
Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh.

If you go to the bacon-flick, cut me a good bit;
Cut, cut and low, beware of your maw;
Cut, cut and round, beware of your thumb,
That me and my merry men may have some,
Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh.

If you go to the black-ark, bring me X mark;
Ten mark, ten pound, throw it down upon the ground,
That me and my merry men may have some.
Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh.







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[Man]

Poem


Harry's Courtship
[This old ditty, in its incidents, bears a resemblance to Dumble- Dum-Deary, see ante. It used to be a popular song in the Yorkshire dales. We have been obliged to supply an hiatus in the second verse, and to make an alteration in the last, where we have converted the 'red-nosed parson' of the original into a squire.]

Harry courted modest Mary,
Mary was always brisk and airy;
Harry was country neat as could be,
But his words were rough, and his duds were muddy.

Harry when he first bespoke her,
[Kept a dandling the kitchen poker;]
Mary spoke her words like Venus,
But said, 'There's something I fear between us.

'Have you got cups of China mettle,
Canister, cream-jug, tongs, or kettle?'
'Odzooks, I've bowls, and siles, and dishes,
Enow to supply any prudent wishes.

'I've got none o' your cups of Chaney,
Canister, cream-jug, I've not any;
I've a three-footed pot and a good brass kettle,
Pray what do you want with your Chaney mettle?

'A shippen full of rye for to fother,
A house full of goods, one mack or another;
I'll thrash in the lathe while you sit spinning,
O, Molly, I think that's a good beginning.'

'I'll not sit at my wheel a-spinning,
Or rise in the morn to wash your linen;
I'll lie in bed till the clock strikes eleven - '
'Oh, grant me patience gracious Heaven!

'Why then thou must marry some red-nosed squire,
[Who'll buy thee a settle to sit by the fire,]
For I'll to Margery in the valley,
She is my girl, so farewell Malley.'






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[Man]

Poem


Harvest-Home
[From an old copy without printer's name or date.]

Come, Roger and Nell,
Come, Simpkin and Bell,
Each lad with his lass hither come;
With singing and dancing,
And pleasure advancing,
To celebrate harvest-home!

Chorus. 'Tis Ceres bids play,
And keep holiday,
To celebrate harvest-home!
Harvest-home!
Harvest-home!
To celebrate harvest-home!

Our labour is o'er,
Our barns, in full store,
Now swell with rich gifts of the land;
Let each man then take,
For the prong and the rake,
His can and his lass in his hand.
For Ceres, &c.

No courtier can be
So happy as we,
In innocence, pastime, and mirth;
While thus we carouse,
With our sweetheart or spouse,
And rejoice o'er the fruits of the earth.
For Ceres, &c.







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[Man]

Poem


Harvest-Home Song
[Our copy of this song is taken from one in the Roxburgh Collection, where it is called, The Country Farmer's Vain Glory; In a New Song of Harvest Home, Sung to a New Tune Much in Request. Licensed According To Order. The tune is published in Popular Music. A copy of this song, with the music, may be found in D'Urfey's Pills To Purge Melancholy. It varies from ours; but D'Urfey is so loose and inaccurate in his texts, that any other version is more likely to be correct. The broadside from which the following is copied was 'Printed for P. Brooksby, J. Dencon [Deacon], J. Blai[r], and J. Back.']

Our oats they are howed, and our barley's reaped,
Our hay is mowed, and our hovels heaped;
Harvest home! harvest home!
We'll merrily roar out our harvest home!
Harvest home! harvest home!
We'll merrily roar out our harvest home!
We'll merrily roar out our harvest home!

We cheated the parson, we'll cheat him again;
For why should the vicar have one in ten?
One in ten! one in ten!
For why should the vicar have one in ten?
For why should the vicar have one in ten?
For staying while dinner is cold and hot,
And pudding and dumpling's burnt to pot;
Burnt to pot! burnt to pot!
Till pudding and dumpling's burnt to pot,
Burnt to pot! burnt to pot!

We'll drink off the liquor while we can stand,
And hey for the honour of old England!
Old England! old England!
And hey for the honour of old England!
Old England! old England!








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[Man]

Poem


The Milking-Pail
[The following is another version of the preceding ditty, and is the one most commonly sung.]

Ye nymphs and sylvan gods,
That love green fields and woods,
When spring newly-born herself does adorn,
With flowers and blooming buds:
Come sing in the praise, while flocks do graze,
On yonder pleasant vale,
Of those that choose to milk their ewes,
And in cold dews, with clouted shoes,
To carry the milking-pail.

You goddess of the morn,
With blushes you adorn,
And take the fresh air, whilst linnets prepare
A concert on each green thorn;
The blackbird and thrush on every bush,
And the charming nightingale,
In merry vein, their throats do strain
To entertain, the jolly train
Of those of the milking-pail.

When cold bleak winds do roar,
And flowers will spring no more,
The fields that were seen so pleasant and green,
With winter all candied o'er,
See now the town lass, with her white face,
And her lips so deadly pale;
But it is not so, with those that go
Through frost and snow, with cheeks that glow,
And carry the milking-pail.

The country lad is free
From fears and jealousy,
Whilst upon the green he oft is seen,
With his lass upon his knee.
With kisses most sweet he doth her so treat,
And swears her charms won't fail;
But the London lass, in every place,
With brazen face, despises the grace
Of those of the milking-pail.






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[Man]

Poem


The Miller and His Sons
[A miller, especially if he happen to be the owner of a soke-mill, has always been deemed fair game for the village satirist. Of the numerous songs written in ridicule of the calling of the 'rogues in grain,' the following is one of the best and most popular: its quaint humour will recommend it to our readers. For the tune, see Popular Music.]

There was a crafty miller, and he
Had lusty sons, one, two, and three:
He called them all, and asked their will,
If that to them he left his mill.

He called first to his eldest son,
Saying, 'My life is almost run;
If I to you this mill do make,
What toll do you intend to take?'

'Father,' said he, 'my name is Jack;
Out of a bushel I'll take a peck,
From every bushel that I grind,
That I may a good living find.'

'Thou art a fool!' the old man said,
'Thou hast not well learned thy trade;
This mill to thee I ne'er will give,
For by such toll no man can live.'

He called for his middlemost son,
Saying, 'My life is almost run;
If I to you this mill do make,
What toll do you intend to take?'

'Father,' says he, 'my name is Ralph;
Out of a bushel I'll take a half,
From every bushel that I grind,
That I may a good living find.'

'Thou art a fool!' the old man said,
'Thou hast not well learned thy trade;
This mill to thee I ne'er will give,
For by such toll no man can live.'

He called for his youngest son,
Saying, 'My life is almost run;
If I to you this mill do make,
What toll do you intend to take?'

'Father,' said he, 'I'm your only boy,
For taking toll is all my joy!
Before I will a good living lack,
I'll take it all, and forswear the sack!'

'Thou art my boy!' the old man said,
'For thou hast right well learned thy trade;
This mill to thee I give,' he cried, -
And then he turned up his toes and died.





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[Man]

Poem


The Messenger of Mortality; or Life and Death Contrasted in a Dialogue Betwixt Death and a Lady
[One of Charles Lamb's most beautiful and plaintive poems was suggested by this old dialogue. The tune is given in Chappell's Popular Music, p. 167. In Carey's Musical Century, 1738, it is called the 'Old tune of Death and the Lady.' The four concluding lines of the present copy of Death and the Lady are found inscribed on tomb-stones in village church-yards in every part of England. They are not contained, however, in the broadside with which our reprint has been carefully collated.]

Death.

Fair lady, lay your costly robes aside,
No longer may you glory in your pride;
Take leave of all your carnal vain delight,
I'm come to summon you away this night!

Lady.

What bold attempt is this? pray let me know
From whence you come, and whither I must go?
Must I, who am a lady, stoop or bow
To such a pale-faced visage? Who art thou?

Death.

Do you not know me? well! I tell thee, then,
It's I that conquer all the sons of men!
No pitch of honour from my dart is free;
My name is Death! have you not heard of me?

Lady.

Yes! I have heard of thee time after time,
But being in the glory of my prime,
I did not think you would have called so soon.
Why must my morning sun go down at noon?

Death.

Talk not of noon! you may as well be mute;
This is no time at all for to dispute:
Your riches, garments, gold, and jewels brave,
Houses and lands must all new owners have;
Though thy vain heart to riches was inclined,
Yet thou must die and leave them all behind.

Lady.

My heart is cold; I tremble at the news;
There's bags of gold, if thou wilt me excuse,
And seize on them, and finish thou the strife
Of those that are aweary of their life.
Are there not many bound in prison strong,
In bitter grief of soul have languished long,
Who could but find the grave a place of rest,
From all the grief in which they are oppressed?
Besides, there's many with a hoary head,
And palsy joints, by which their joys are fled;
Release thou them whose sorrows are so great,
But spare my life to have a longer date.

Death.

Though some by age be full of grief and pain,
Yet their appointed time they must remain:
I come to none before their warrant's sealed,
And when it is, they must submit and yield.
I take no bribe, believe me, this is true;
Prepare yourself to go; I'm come for you.

Lady.

Death, be not so severe, let me obtain
A little longer time to live and reign!
Fain would I stay if thou my life will spare;
I have a daughter beautiful and fair,
I'd live to see her wed whom I adore:
Grant me but this and I will ask no more.

Death.

This is a slender frivolous excuse;
I have you fast, and will not let you loose;
Leave her to Providence, for you must go
Along with me, whether you will or no;
I, Death, command the King to leave his crown,
And at my feet he lays his sceptre down!
Then if to kings I don't this favour give,
But cut them off, can you expect to live
Beyond the limits of your time and space!
No! I must send you to another place.

Lady.

You learned doctors, now express your skill,
And let not Death of me obtain his will;
Prepare your cordials, let me comfort find,
My gold shall fly like chaff before the wind.

Death.

Forbear to call, their skill will never do,
They are but mortals here as well as you:
I give the fatal wound, my dart is sure,
And far beyond the doctor's skill to cure.
How freely can you let your riches fly
To purchase life, rather than yield to die!
But while you flourish here with all your store,
You will not give one penny to the poor;
Though in God's name their suit to you they make,
You would not spare one penny for His sake!
The Lord beheld wherein you did amiss,
And calls you hence to give account for this!

Lady.

Oh! heavy news! must I no longer stay?
How shall I stand in the great judgment-day?
(Down from her eyes the crystal tears did flow:
She said), None knows what I do undergo:
Upon my bed of sorrow here I lie;
My carnal life makes me afraid to die.
My sins, alas! are many, gross and foul,
Oh, righteous Lord! have mercy on my soul!
And though I do deserve thy righteous frown,
Yet pardon, Lord, and pour a blessing down.
(Then with a dying sigh her heart did break,
And did the pleasures of this world forsake.)

Thus may we see the high and mighty fall,
For cruel Death shows no respect at all
To any one of high or low degree
Great men submit to Death as well as we.
Though they are gay, their life is but a span -
A lump of clay - so vile a creature's man.
Then happy those whom Christ has made his care,
Who die in the Lord, and ever blessed are.
The grave's the market-place where all men meet,
Both rich and poor, as well as small and great.
If life were merchandise that gold could buy,
The rich would live, the poor alone would die.
.





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[Man]

Poem


Mummers' Song; or, The Poor Old Horse.
As sung by the Mummers in the Neighbourhood of Richmond, Yorkshire, at the merrie time of Christmas.
[The rustic actor who sings the following song is dressed as an old horse, and at the end of every verse the jaws are snapped in chorus. It is a very old composition, and is now printed for the first time. The 'old horse' is, probably, of Scandinavian origin, - a reminiscence of Odin's Sleipnor.]


You gentlemen and sportsmen,
And men of courage bold,
All you that's got a good horse,
Take care of him when he is old;
Then put him in your stable,
And keep him there so warm;
Give him good corn and hay,
Pray let him take no harm.
Poor old horse! poor old horse!

Once I had my clothing
Of linsey-woolsey fine,
My tail and mane of length,
And my body it did shine;
But now I'm growing old,
And my nature does decay,
My master frowns upon me,
These words I heard him say, -
Poor old horse! poor old horse!

These pretty little shoulders,
That once were plump and round,
They are decayed and rotten, -
I'm afraid they are not sound.
Likewise these little nimble legs,
That have run many miles,
Over hedges, over ditches,
Over valleys, gates, and stiles.
Poor old horse! poor old horse!

I used to be kept
On the best corn and hay
That in fields could be grown,
Or in any meadows gay;
But now, alas! it's not so, -
There's no such food at all!
I'm forced to nip the short grass
That grows beneath your wall.
Poor old horse! poor old horse!

I used to be kept up
All in a stable warm,
To keep my tender body
From any cold or harm;
But now I'm turned out
In the open fields to go,
To face all kinds of weather,
The wind, cold, frost, and snow.
Poor old horse! poor old horse!

My hide unto the huntsman
So freely I would give,
My body to the hounds,
For I'd rather die than live:
So shoot him, whip him, strip him,
To the huntsman let him go;
For he's neither fit to ride upon,
Nor in any team to draw.
Poor old horse! you must die!





--> Man

[Man]

Poem

The New-Mown Hay
[This song is a village-version of an incident which occurred in the Cecil family. The same English adventure has, strangely enough, been made the subject of one of the most romantic of Moore's Irish Melodies, viz., You Remember Helen, the Hamlet's Pride.]

As I walked forth one summer's morn,
Hard by a river's side,
Where yellow cowslips did adorn
The blushing field with pride;
I spied a damsel on the grass,
More blooming than the may;
Her looks the Queen of Love surpassed,
Among the new-mown hay.

I said, 'Good morning, pretty maid,
How came you here so soon?'
'To keep my father's sheep,' she said,
'The thing that must be done:
While they are feeding 'mong the dew,
To pass the time away,
I sit me down to knit or sew,
Among the new-mown hay.'

Delighted with her simple tale,
I sat down by her side;
With vows of love I did prevail
On her to be my bride:
In strains of simple melody,
She sung a rural lay;
The little lambs stood listening by,
Among the new-mown hay.

Then to the church they went with speed,
And Hymen joined them there;
No more her ewes and lambs to feed,
For she's a lady fair:
A lord he was that married her,
To town they came straightway:
She may bless the day he spied her there,
Among the new-mown hay.







--> Man

[Man]

Poem

The Sweet Nightingale; or, Down in Those Valleys Below
An ancient Cornish song.
[This curious ditty, which may be confidently assigned to the seventeenth century, is said to be a translation from the ancient Cornish tongue. We first heard it in Germany, in the pleasure- gardens of the Marienberg, on the Moselle. The singers were four Cornish miners, who were at that time, 1854, employed at some lead mines near the town of Zell. The leader or 'Captain,' John Stocker, said that the song was an established favourite with the lead miners of Cornwall and Devonshire, and was always sung on the pay-days, and at the wakes; and that his grandfather, who died thirty years before, at the age of a hundred years, used to sing the song, and say that it was very old. Stocker promised to make a copy of it, but there was no opportunity of procuring it before we left Germany. The following version has been supplied by a gentleman in Plymouth, who writes:-

I have had a great deal of trouble about The Valley Below. It is not in print. I first met with one person who knew one part, then with another person who knew another part, but nobody could sing the whole. At last, chance directed me to an old man at work on the roads, and he sung and recited it throughout, not exactly, however, as I send it, for I was obliged to supply a little here and there, but only where a bad rhyme, or rather none at all, made it evident what the real rhyme was. I have read it over to a mining gentleman at Truro, and he says 'It is pretty near the way we sing it.'
The tune is plaintive and original.]

'My sweetheart, come along!
Don't you hear the fond song,
The sweet notes of the nightingale flow?
Don't you hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below?
So be not afraid
To walk in the shade,
Nor yet in those valleys below,
Nor yet in those valleys below.

'Pretty Betsy, don't fail,
For I'll carry your pail,
Safe home to your cot as we go;
You shall hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below.'
But she was afraid
To walk in the shade,
To walk in those valleys below,
To walk in those valleys below.

'Pray let me alone,
I have hands of my own;
Along with you I will not go,
To hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below;
For I am afraid
To walk in the shade,
To walk in those valleys below,
To walk in those valleys below.'

'Pray sit yourself down
With me on the ground,
On this bank where sweet primroses grow;
You shall hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below;
So be not afraid
To walk in the shade,
Nor yet in those valleys below,
Nor yet in those valleys below.'

This couple agreed;
They were married with speed,
And soon to the church they did go.
She was no more afraid
For to walk in the shade,
Nor yet in those valleys below:
Nor to hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sung in those valleys below,
As she sung in those valleys below..







--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Nobleman's Generous Kindness
Giving an account of a nobleman, who, taking notice of a poor man's industrious care and pains for the maintaining of his charge of seven small children, met him upon a day, and discoursing with him, invited him, and his wife and his children, home to his house, and bestowed upon them a farm of thirty acres of land, to be continued to him and his heirs for ever.
To the tune of The Two English Travellers.

[This still popular ballad is entitled in the modern copies, The Nobleman and Thraster; or, The Generous Gift. There is a copy preserved in the Roxburgh Collection, with which our version has been collated. It is taken from a broadside printed by Robert Marchbank, in the Custom-house Entry, Newcastle.]


A Nobleman lived in a village of late,
Hard by a poor thrasher, whose charge it was great;
For he had seven children, and most of them small,
And nought but his labour to support them withal.

He never was given to idle and lurk,
For this nobleman saw him go daily to work,
With his flail and his bag, and his bottle of beer,
As cheerful as those that have hundreds a year.

Thus careful, and constant, each morning he went,
Unto his daily labour with joy and content;
So jocular and jolly he'd whistle and sing,
As blithe and as brisk as the birds in the spring.

One morning, this nobleman taking a walk,
He met this poor man, and he freely did talk;
He asked him [at first] many questions at large,
And then began talking concerning his charge.

'Thou hast many children, I very well know,
Thy labour is hard, and thy wages are low,
And yet thou art cheerful; I pray tell me true,
How can you maintain them as well as you do?'

'I carefully carry home what I do earn,
My daily expenses by this I do learn;
And find it is possible, though we be poor,
To still keep the ravenous wolf from the door.

'I reap and I mow, and I harrow and sow,
Sometimes a hedging and ditching I go;
No work comes amiss, for I thrash, and I plough,
Thus my bread I do earn by the sweat of my brow.

'My wife she is willing to pull in a yoke,
We live like two lambs, nor each other provoke;
We both of us strive, like the labouring ant,
And do our endeavours to keep us from want.

'And when I come home from my labour at night,
To my wife and my children, in whom I delight;
To see them come round me with prattling noise, -
Now these are the riches a poor man enjoys.

'Though I am as weary as weary may be,
The youngest I commonly dance on my knee;
I find that content is a moderate feast,
I never repine at my lot in the least.'

Now the nobleman hearing what he did say,
Was pleased, and invited him home the next day;
His wife and his children he charged him to bring;
In token of favour he gave him a ring.

He thanked his honour, and taking his leave,
He went to his wife, who would hardly believe
But this same story himself he might raise;
Yet seeing the ring she was [lost] in amaze.

Betimes in the morning the good wife she arose,
And made them all fine, in the best of their clothes;
The good man with his good wife, and children small,
They all went to dine at the nobleman's hall.

But when they came there, as truth does report,
All things were prepared in a plentiful sort;
And they at the nobleman's table did dine,
With all kinds of dainties, and plenty of wine.

The feast being over, he soon let them know,
That he then intended on them to bestow
A farm-house, with thirty good acres of land;
And gave them the writings then, with his own hand.

'Because thou art careful, and good to thy wife,
I'll make thy days happy the rest of thy life;
It shall be for ever, for thee and thy heirs,
Because I beheld thy industrious cares.'

No tongue then is able in full to express
The depth of their joy, and true thankfulness;
With many a curtsey, and bow to the ground, -
Such noblemen there are but few to be found.







--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Old Adam
[We have had considerable trouble in procuring a copy of this old song, which used, in former days, to be very popular with aged people resident in the North of England. It has been long out of print, and handed down traditionally. By the kindness, however, of Mr. S. Swindells, printer, Manchester, we have been favoured with an ancient printed copy, which Mr. Swindells observes he had great difficulty in obtaining. Some improvements have been made in the present edition from the recital of Mr. Effingham Wilson, who was familiar with the song in his youth.]

Both sexes give ear to my fancy,
While in praise of dear woman I sing;
Confined not to Moll, Sue, or Nancy,
But mates from a beggar to king.

When old Adam first was created,
And lord of the universe crowned,
His happiness was not completed,
Until that an helpmate was found.

He'd all things in food that were wanting
To keep and support him through life;
He'd horses and foxes for hunting,
Which some men love better than wife.

He'd a garden so planted by nature,
Man cannot produce in his life;
But yet the all-wise great Creator
Still saw that he wanted a wife.

Then Adam he laid in a slumber,
And there he lost part of his side;
And when he awoke, with a wonder,
Beheld his most beautiful bride!

In transport he gazed upon her,
His happiness now was complete!
He praised his bountiful donor,
Who thus had bestowed him a mate.

She was not took out of his head, sir,
To reign and triumph over man;
Nor was she took out of his feet, sir,
By man to be trampled upon.

But she was took out of his side, sir,
His equal and partner to be;
But as they're united in one, sir,
The man is the top of the tree.

Then let not the fair be despised
By man, as she's part of himself;
For woman by Adam was prized
More than the whole globe full of wealth.

Man without a woman's a beggar,
Suppose the whole world he possessed;
And the beggar that's got a good woman,
With more than the world he is blest.






--> Man

[Man]

Poem


There Was an Old Man Came Over the Lea
[This is a version of the Baillie of Berwick, which will be found in the Local Historian's Table-Book. It was originally obtained from Morpeth, and communicated by W. H. Longstaffe, Esq., of Darlington, who says, 'in many respects the Baillie of Berwick is the better edition - still mine may furnish an extra stanza or two, and the ha! ha! ha! is better than heigho, though the notes suit either version.']

There was an old man came over the Lea,
Ha-ha-ha-ha! but I won't have him.
He came over the Lea,
A-courting to me,
With his grey beard newly-shaven.

My mother she bid me open the door:
I opened the door,
And he fell on the floor.

My mother she bid me set him a stool:
I set him a stool,
And he looked like a fool.

My mother she bid me give him some beer:
I gave him some beer,
And he thought it good cheer.

My mother she bid me cut him some bread:
I cut him some bread,
And I threw't at his head.

My mother she bid me light him to bed.
I lit him to bed,
And wished he were dead.

My mother she bid me tell him to rise:
I told him to rise,
And he opened his eyes.

My mother she bid me take him to church:
I took him to church,
And left him in the lurch;
With his grey beard newly-shaven.







--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Felon Sewe of Rokeby and the Freeres of Richmond
[This very curious ballad, or, more properly, metrical romance, was originally published by the late Doctor Whitaker in his History of Craven, from an ancient MS., which was supposed to be unique. Whitaker's version was transferred to Evan's Old Ballads, the editor of which work introduced some judicious conjectural emendations. In reference to this republication, Dr. Whitaker inserted the following note in the second edition of his History:-
This tale, saith my MS., was known of old to a few families only, and by them held so precious, that it was never intrusted to the memory of the son till the father was on his death-bed. But times are altered, for since the first edition of this work, a certain bookseller [the late Mr. Evans] has printed it verbatim, with little acknowledgment to the first editor. He might have recollected that The Felon Sewe had been already reclaimed property vested. However, as he is an ingenious and deserving man, this hint shall suffice. - History of Craven, second edition, London, 1812.
When Sir Walter Scott published his poem of Rokeby, Doctor Whitaker discovered that The Felon Sewe was not of such 'exceeding rarity' as he had been led to suppose; for he was then made acquainted with the fact that another MS. of the 'unique' ballad was preserved in the archives of the Rokeby family. This version was published by Scott, who considered it superior to that printed by Whitaker; and it must undoubtedly be admitted to be more complete, and, in general, more correct. It has also the advantage of being authenticated by the traditions of an ardent family; while of Dr. Whitaker's version we know nothing more than that it was 'printed from a MS. in his possession.' The readings of the Rokeby MS., however, are not always to be preferred; and in order to produce as full and accurate a version as the materials would yield, the following text has been founded upon a careful collation of both MSS. A few alterations have been adopted, but only when the necessity for them appeared to be self-evident; and the orthography has been rendered tolerably uniform, for there is no good reason why we should have 'sewe,' 'scho,' and 'sike,' in some places, and the more modern forms of 'sow,' 'she,' and 'such,' in others. If the MSS. were correctly transcribed, which we have no ground for doubting, they must both be referred to a much later period than the era when the author flourished. The language of the poem is that of Craven, in Yorkshire; and, although the composition is acknowledged on all hands to be one of the reign of Henry VII., the provincialisms of that most interesting mountain district have been so little affected by the spread of education, that the Felon Sewe is at the present day perfectly comprehensible to any Craven peasant, and to such a reader neither note nor glossary is necessary. Dr. Whitaker's explanations are, therefore, few and brief, for he was thoroughly acquainted with the language and the district. Scott, on the contrary, who knew nothing of the dialect, and confounded its pure Saxon with his Lowland Scotch, gives numerous notes, which only display his want of the requisite local knowledge, and are, consequently, calculated to mislead.

The Felon Sewe belongs to the same class of compositions as the Hunting of the Hare, reprinted by Weber, and the Tournament of Tottenham, in Percy's Reliques. Scott says that 'the comic romance was a sort of parody upon the usual subjects of minstrel poetry.' This idea may be extended, for the old comic romances were in many instances not merely 'sorts of parodies,' but real parodies on compositions which were popular in their day, although they have not descended to us. We certainly remember to have met with an old chivalric romance, in which the leading incidents were similar to those of the Felon Sewe.

It may be observed, also, in reference to this poem, that the design is twofold, the ridicule being equally aimed at the minstrels and the clergy. The author was in all probability a follower of Wickliffe. There are many sly satirical allusions to the Romish faith and practices, in which no orthodox Catholic would have ventured to indulge.

Ralph Rokeby, who gave the sow to the Franciscan Friars of Richmond, is believed to have been the Ralph who lived in the reign of Henry VII. Tradition represents the Baron as having been 'a fellow of infinite jest,' and the very man to bestow so valuable a gift on the convent! The Mistress Rokeby of the ballad was, according to the pedigree of the family, a daughter and heiress of Danby, of Yafforth. Friar Theobald cannot be traced, and therefore we may suppose that the monk had some other name; the minstrel author, albeit a Wickliffite, not thinking it quite prudent, perhaps, to introduce a priest in propria persona. The story is told with spirit, and the verse is graceful and flowing.]

Fitte the First
Ye men that will of aunters wynne,
That late within this lande hath bin,
Of on I will yow telle;
And of a sewe that was sea strang,
Alas! that ever scho lived sea lang,
For fell folk did scho wele.

Scho was mare than other three,
The grizeliest beast that ere mote bee
Her hede was greate and graye;
Scho was bred in Rokebye woode,
Ther war few that thither yoode,
But cam belive awaye.

Her walke was endlang Greta syde,
Was no barne that colde her byde,
That was fra heven or helle;
Ne never man that had that myght,
That ever durst com in her syght,
Her force it was sea felle.

Raphe of Rokebye, with full gode wyll,
The freers of Richmonde gav her tyll,
Full wele to gar thayme fare;
Freer Myddeltone by name,
Hee was sent to fetch her hame,
Yt rewed him syne full sare.

Wyth hym tooke hee wyght men two,
Peter of Dale was on of tho,
Tother was Bryan of Beare;
Thatte wele durst strike wyth swerde and knife,
And fyght full manlie for theyr lyfe,
What tyme as musters were.

These three men wended at theyr wyll,
This wickede sewe gwhyl they cam tyll,
Liggand under a tree;
Rugg'd and rustic was her here,
Scho rase up wyth a felon fere,
To fyght agen the three.

Grizely was scho for to meete,
Scho rave the earthe up wyth her feete,
The barke cam fra' the tree:
When Freer Myddeltone her saugh,
Wete yow wele hee list not laugh,
Full earnestful luik'd hee.

These men of auncestors were so wight,
They bound them bauldly for to fyght,
And strake at her full sare;
Until a kilne they garred her flee,
Wolde God sende thayme the victorye,
They wolde aske hym na maire.

The sewe was in the kilne hoile doone,
And they wer on the bawke aboone,
For hurting of theyr feete;
They wer sea sauted wyth this sewe,
That 'mang thayme was a stalwarth stewe,
The kilne began to reeke!

Durst noe man nighe her wyth his hande,
But put a rape downe wyth a wande,
And heltered her ful meete;
They hauled her furth agen her wyll,
Qunyl they cam until a hille,
A little fra the streete.

And ther scho made thayme sike a fray,
As, had they lived until Domesday,
They colde yt nere forgette:
Scho brayded upon every syde,
And ranne on thayme gapyng ful wyde,
For nathing wolde scho lette.

Scho gaf sike hard braydes at the bande
That Peter of Dale had in his hande,
Hee myght not holde hys feete;
Scho chased thayme sea to and fro,
The wight men never wer sea woe,
Ther mesure was not mete.


CONTINUED BELOW








--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Felon Sewe of Rokeby and the Freeres of Richmond
[This very curious ballad, or, more properly, metrical romance, was originally published by the late Doctor Whitaker in his History of Craven, from an ancient MS., which was supposed to be unique. Whitaker's version was transferred to Evan's Old Ballads, the editor of which work introduced some judicious conjectural emendations. In reference to this republication, Dr. Whitaker inserted the following note in the second edition of his History:-
This tale, saith my MS., was known of old to a few families only, and by them held so precious, that it was never intrusted to the memory of the son till the father was on his death-bed. But times are altered, for since the first edition of this work, a certain bookseller [the late Mr. Evans] has printed it verbatim, with little acknowledgment to the first editor. He might have recollected that The Felon Sewe had been already reclaimed property vested. However, as he is an ingenious and deserving man, this hint shall suffice. - History of Craven, second edition, London, 1812.
When Sir Walter Scott published his poem of Rokeby, Doctor Whitaker discovered that The Felon Sewe was not of such 'exceeding rarity' as he had been led to suppose; for he was then made acquainted with the fact that another MS. of the 'unique' ballad was preserved in the archives of the Rokeby family. This version was published by Scott, who considered it superior to that printed by Whitaker; and it must undoubtedly be admitted to be more complete, and, in general, more correct. It has also the advantage of being authenticated by the traditions of an ardent family; while of Dr. Whitaker's version we know nothing more than that it was 'printed from a MS. in his possession.' The readings of the Rokeby MS., however, are not always to be preferred; and in order to produce as full and accurate a version as the materials would yield, the following text has been founded upon a careful collation of both MSS. A few alterations have been adopted, but only when the necessity for them appeared to be self-evident; and the orthography has been rendered tolerably uniform, for there is no good reason why we should have 'sewe,' 'scho,' and 'sike,' in some places, and the more modern forms of 'sow,' 'she,' and 'such,' in others. If the MSS. were correctly transcribed, which we have no ground for doubting, they must both be referred to a much later period than the era when the author flourished. The language of the poem is that of Craven, in Yorkshire; and, although the composition is acknowledged on all hands to be one of the reign of Henry VII., the provincialisms of that most interesting mountain district have been so little affected by the spread of education, that the Felon Sewe is at the present day perfectly comprehensible to any Craven peasant, and to such a reader neither note nor glossary is necessary. Dr. Whitaker's explanations are, therefore, few and brief, for he was thoroughly acquainted with the language and the district. Scott, on the contrary, who knew nothing of the dialect, and confounded its pure Saxon with his Lowland Scotch, gives numerous notes, which only display his want of the requisite local knowledge, and are, consequently, calculated to mislead.

The Felon Sewe belongs to the same class of compositions as the Hunting of the Hare, reprinted by Weber, and the Tournament of Tottenham, in Percy's Reliques. Scott says that 'the comic romance was a sort of parody upon the usual subjects of minstrel poetry.' This idea may be extended, for the old comic romances were in many instances not merely 'sorts of parodies,' but real parodies on compositions which were popular in their day, although they have not descended to us. We certainly remember to have met with an old chivalric romance, in which the leading incidents were similar to those of the Felon Sewe.

It may be observed, also, in reference to this poem, that the design is twofold, the ridicule being equally aimed at the minstrels and the clergy. The author was in all probability a follower of Wickliffe. There are many sly satirical allusions to the Romish faith and practices, in which no orthodox Catholic would have ventured to indulge.

Ralph Rokeby, who gave the sow to the Franciscan Friars of Richmond, is believed to have been the Ralph who lived in the reign of Henry VII. Tradition represents the Baron as having been 'a fellow of infinite jest,' and the very man to bestow so valuable a gift on the convent! The Mistress Rokeby of the ballad was, according to the pedigree of the family, a daughter and heiress of Danby, of Yafforth. Friar Theobald cannot be traced, and therefore we may suppose that the monk had some other name; the minstrel author, albeit a Wickliffite, not thinking it quite prudent, perhaps, to introduce a priest in propria persona. The story is told with spirit, and the verse is graceful and flowing.]

CONTINUATION

Scho bound her boldly to abide,
To Peter of Dale scho cam aside,
Wyth mony a hideous yelle;
Scho gaped sea wide and cryed sea hee,
The freer sayd, 'I conjure thee,
Thou art a fiend of helle!

'Thou art comed hider for sum trayne,
I conjure thee to go agayne,
Wher thou was wont to dwell.'
He sained hym wyth crosse and creede,
Tooke furth a booke, began to reade,
In Ste Johan hys gospell.

The sewe scho wolde not Latyne heare,
But rudely rushed at the freer,
That blynked all his blee;
And when scho wolde have takken holde,
The freer leapt as I. H. S. wolde,
And bealed hym wyth a tree.

Scho was brim as anie beare,
For all their meete to laboure there,
To thayme yt was noe boote;
On tree and bushe that by her stode,
Scho venged her as scho wer woode,
And rave thayme up by roote.

Hee sayd, 'Alas that I wer freer,
I shal bee hugged asunder here,
Hard is my destinie!
Wiste my brederen, in this houre,
That I was set in sike a stoure,
They wolde pray for mee!'

This wicked beaste thatte wrought the woe,
Tooke that rape from the other two,
And than they fledd all three;
They fledd away by Watling streete,
They had no succour but their feete,
Yt was the maire pittye.

The fielde it was both loste and wonne,
The sewe wente hame, and thatte ful soone,
To Morton-on-the-Greene.
When Raphe of Rokeby saw the rape,
He wist that there had bin debate,
Whereat the sewe had beene.

He bade thayme stand out of her waye,
For scho had had a sudden fraye, -
'I saw never sewe sea keene,
Some new thingis shall wee heare,
Of her and Myddeltone the freer,
Some battel hath ther beene.'

But all that served him for nought, -
Had they not better succour sought,
They wer served therfore loe.
Then Mistress Rokebye came anon,
And for her brought scho meete ful soone,
The sewe cam her untoe.

Scho gav her meete upon the flower;
[Scho made a bed beneath a bower,
With moss and broom besprent;
The sewe was gentle as mote be,
Ne rage ne ire flashed fra her e'e,
Scho seemed wele content.]
Fitte the Seconde
When Freer Myddeltone com home,
Hys breders war ful faine ilchone,
And thanked God for hys lyfe;
He told thayme all unto the ende,
How hee had foughten wyth a fiende,
And lived thro' mickle stryfe.

'Wee gav her battel half a daye,
And was faine to flee awaye
For saving of oure lyfe;
And Peter Dale wolde never blin,
But ran as faste as he colde rinn,
Till he cam till hys wyfe.'

The Warden sayde, 'I am ful woe
That yow sholde bee torment soe,
But wee had wyth yow beene!
Had wee bene ther, yowr breders alle,
Wee wolde hav garred the warlo falle,
That wrought yow all thys teene.'

Freer Myddeltone, he sayde soon, 'Naye,
In faythe ye wolde hav ren awaye,
When moste misstirre had bin;
Ye all can speke safte wordes at home,
The fiend wolde ding yow doone ilk on,
An yt bee als I wene,

Hee luik'd sea grizely al that nyght.'
The Warden sayde, 'Yon man wol fyght
If ye saye ought but gode,
Yon guest hath grieved hym sea sore;
Holde your tongues, and speake ne more,
Hee luiks als hee wer woode.'

The Warden waged on the morne,
Two boldest men that ever wer borne,
I weyne, or ere shall bee:
Tone was Gilbert Griffin sonne,
Ful mickle worship hadde hee wonne,
Both by land and sea.

Tother a bastard sonne of Spaine,
Mony a Sarazin hadde hee slaine;
Hys dint hadde garred thayme dye.
Theis men the battel undertoke
Agen the sewe, as saythe the boke,
And sealed securitye,

That they shold boldly bide and fyghte,
And scomfit her in maine and myghte,
Or therfor sholde they dye.
The Warden sealed toe thayme againe,
And sayde, 'If ye in fielde be slaine,
This condition make I:

'Wee shall for yow praye, syng, and reade,
Until Domesdaye wyth heartye speede,
With al our progenie.'
Then the lettres wer wele made,
The bondes wer bounde wyth seales brade,
As deeds of arms sholde bee.


Theise men-at-arms thatte wer sea wight,
And wyth theire armour burnished bryght,
They went the sewe toe see.
Scho made at thayme sike a roare,
That for her they fear it sore,
And almaiste bounde to flee.

CONTINUED BELOW.






--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Felon Sewe of Rokeby and the Freeres of Richmond
[This very curious ballad, or, more properly, metrical romance, was originally published by the late Doctor Whitaker in his History of Craven, from an ancient MS., which was supposed to be unique. Whitaker's version was transferred to Evan's Old Ballads, the editor of which work introduced some judicious conjectural emendations. In reference to this republication, Dr. Whitaker inserted the following note in the second edition of his History:-
This tale, saith my MS., was known of old to a few families only, and by them held so precious, that it was never intrusted to the memory of the son till the father was on his death-bed. But times are altered, for since the first edition of this work, a certain bookseller [the late Mr. Evans] has printed it verbatim, with little acknowledgment to the first editor. He might have recollected that The Felon Sewe had been already reclaimed property vested. However, as he is an ingenious and deserving man, this hint shall suffice. - History of Craven, second edition, London, 1812.
When Sir Walter Scott published his poem of Rokeby, Doctor Whitaker discovered that The Felon Sewe was not of such 'exceeding rarity' as he had been led to suppose; for he was then made acquainted with the fact that another MS. of the 'unique' ballad was preserved in the archives of the Rokeby family. This version was published by Scott, who considered it superior to that printed by Whitaker; and it must undoubtedly be admitted to be more complete, and, in general, more correct. It has also the advantage of being authenticated by the traditions of an ardent family; while of Dr. Whitaker's version we know nothing more than that it was 'printed from a MS. in his possession.' The readings of the Rokeby MS., however, are not always to be preferred; and in order to produce as full and accurate a version as the materials would yield, the following text has been founded upon a careful collation of both MSS. A few alterations have been adopted, but only when the necessity for them appeared to be self-evident; and the orthography has been rendered tolerably uniform, for there is no good reason why we should have 'sewe,' 'scho,' and 'sike,' in some places, and the more modern forms of 'sow,' 'she,' and 'such,' in others. If the MSS. were correctly transcribed, which we have no ground for doubting, they must both be referred to a much later period than the era when the author flourished. The language of the poem is that of Craven, in Yorkshire; and, although the composition is acknowledged on all hands to be one of the reign of Henry VII., the provincialisms of that most interesting mountain district have been so little affected by the spread of education, that the Felon Sewe is at the present day perfectly comprehensible to any Craven peasant, and to such a reader neither note nor glossary is necessary. Dr. Whitaker's explanations are, therefore, few and brief, for he was thoroughly acquainted with the language and the district. Scott, on the contrary, who knew nothing of the dialect, and confounded its pure Saxon with his Lowland Scotch, gives numerous notes, which only display his want of the requisite local knowledge, and are, consequently, calculated to mislead.

The Felon Sewe belongs to the same class of compositions as the Hunting of the Hare, reprinted by Weber, and the Tournament of Tottenham, in Percy's Reliques. Scott says that 'the comic romance was a sort of parody upon the usual subjects of minstrel poetry.' This idea may be extended, for the old comic romances were in many instances not merely 'sorts of parodies,' but real parodies on compositions which were popular in their day, although they have not descended to us. We certainly remember to have met with an old chivalric romance, in which the leading incidents were similar to those of the Felon Sewe.

It may be observed, also, in reference to this poem, that the design is twofold, the ridicule being equally aimed at the minstrels and the clergy. The author was in all probability a follower of Wickliffe. There are many sly satirical allusions to the Romish faith and practices, in which no orthodox Catholic would have ventured to indulge.

Ralph Rokeby, who gave the sow to the Franciscan Friars of Richmond, is believed to have been the Ralph who lived in the reign of Henry VII. Tradition represents the Baron as having been 'a fellow of infinite jest,' and the very man to bestow so valuable a gift on the convent! The Mistress Rokeby of the ballad was, according to the pedigree of the family, a daughter and heiress of Danby, of Yafforth. Friar Theobald cannot be traced, and therefore we may suppose that the monk had some other name; the minstrel author, albeit a Wickliffite, not thinking it quite prudent, perhaps, to introduce a priest in propria persona. The story is told with spirit, and the verse is graceful and flowing.]

CONTINUATION

Scho cam runnyng thayme agayne,
And saw the bastarde sonne of Spaine,
Hee brayded owt hys brande;
Ful spiteouslie at her hee strake,
Yet for the fence that he colde make,
Scho strake it fro hys hande,
And rave asander half hys sheelde,
And bare hym backwerde in the fielde,
Hee mought not her gainstande.

Scho wolde hav riven hys privich geare,
But Gilbert wyth hys swerde of warre,
Hee strake at her ful strang.
In her shouther hee held the swerde;
Than was Gilbert sore afearde,
When the blade brak in twang.

And whan in hande hee had her ta'en,
Scho toke hym by the shouther bane,
And held her hold ful faste;
Scho strave sea stifflie in thatte stoure,
Scho byt thro' ale hys rich armoure,
Till bloud cam owt at laste.

Than Gilbert grieved was sea sare,
That hee rave off the hyde of haire;
The flesh cam fra the bane,
And wyth force hee held her ther,
And wanne her worthilie in warre,
And band her hym alane;

And lifte her on a horse sea hee,
Into two panyers made of a tree,
And toe Richmond anon.
When they sawe the felon come,
They sange merrilye Te Deum!
The freers evrich one.

They thankyd God and Saynte Frauncis,
That they had wonne the beaste of pris,
And nere a man was sleyne:
There never didde man more manlye,
The Knyght Marone, or Sir Guye,
Nor Louis of Lothraine.

If yow wyl any more of thys,
I' the fryarie at Richmond written yt is,
In parchment gude and fyne,
How Freer Myddeltone sea hende,
Att Greta Bridge conjured a fiende,
In lykeness of a swyne.

Yt is wel knowen toe manie a man,
That Freer Theobald was warden than,
And thys fel in hys tyme.
And Chryst thayme bles both ferre and nere,
Al that for solas this doe here,
And hym that made the ryme.

Raphe of Rokeby wid ful gode wyl,
The freers of Richmond gav her tyll,
This sewe toe mende ther fare;
Freer Myddeltone by name,
He wold bring the felon hame,
That rewed hym sine ful sare







--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Seeds of Love
[This very curious old song is not only a favourite with our peasantry, but, in consequence of having been introduced into the modern dramatic entertainment of The Loan of a Lover, has obtained popularity in higher circles. Its sweetly plaintive tune will be found in Popular Music. The words are quaint, but by no means wanting in beauty; they are, no doubt, corrupted, as we have derived them from common broadsides, the only form in which we have been able to meet with them. The author of the song was Mrs. Fleetwood Habergham, of Habergham, in the county of Lancaster. 'Ruined by the extravagance, and disgraced by the vices of her husband, she soothed her sorrows,' says Dr. Whitaker, 'by some stanzas yet remembered among the old people of her neighbourhood.' - History of Whalley. Mrs. Habergham died in 1703, and was buried at Padiham.]

I sowed the seeds of love, it was all in the spring,
In April, May, and June, likewise, when small birds they do sing;
My garden's well planted with flowers everywhere,
Yet I had not the liberty to choose for myself the flower that I loved so dear.

My gardener he stood by, I asked him to choose for me,
He chose me the violet, the lily and pink, but those I refused all three;
The violet I forsook, because it fades so soon,
The lily and the pink I did o'erlook, and I vowed I'd stay till June.

In June there's a red rose-bud, and that's the flower for me!
But often have I plucked at the red rose-bud till I gained the willow-tree;
The willow-tree will twist, and the willow-tree will twice, -
O! I wish I was in the dear youth's arms that once had the heart of mine.

My gardener he stood by, he told me to take great care,
For in the middle of a red rose-bud there grows a sharp thorn there;
I told him I'd take no care till I did feel the smart,
And often I plucked at the red rose-bud till I pierced it to the heart.

I'll make me a posy of hyssop, - no other I can touch, -
That all the world may plainly see I love one flower too much;
My garden is run wild! where shall I plant anew -
For my bed, that once was covered with thyme, is all overrun with rue?








--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Smoking Spiritualized
[The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently sufficient grounds, to the Rev. Ralph Erskine, or, as he designated himself, 'Ralph Erskine, V.D.M.' The peasantry throughout the north of England always call it 'Erskine's song,' and not only is his name given as the author in numerous chap-books, but in his own volume of Gospel Sonnets, from an early copy of which our version is transcribed. The discovery however, by Mr. Collier, of the First Part in a MS. temp. Jac. I., with the initials G. W. affixed to it, has disposed of Erskine's claim to the honour of the entire authorship. G. W. is supposed to be George Withers; but this is purely conjectural; and it is not at all improbable that G. W. really stands for W. G., as it was a common practice amongst anonymous writers to reverse their initials. The history, then, of the poem, seems to be this: that the First Part, as it is now printed, originally constituted the whole production, being complete in itself; that the Second Part was afterwards added by the Rev. Ralph Erskine; and that both parts came subsequently to be ascribed to him, as his was the only name published in connexion with the song. The Rev. Ralph Erskine was born at Monilaws, Northumberland, on the 15th March, 1685. He was one of the thirty- three children of Ralph Erskine of Shieldfield, a family of repute descended from the ancient house of Marr. He was educated at the college in Edinburgh, obtained his licence to preach in June, 1709, and was ordained, on an unanimous invitation, over the church at Dunfermline in August, 1711. He was twice married: in 1714 to Margaret Dewar, daughter of the Laird of Lassodie, by whom he had five sons and five daughters, all of whom died in the prime of life; and in 1732 to Margaret, daughter of Mr. Simson of Edinburgh, by whom he had four sons, one of whom, with his wife, survived him. He died in November, 1752. Erskine was the author of a great number of Sermons; A Paraphrase on the Canticles; Scripture Songs; A Treatise on Mental Images; and Gospel SOnnets.
Smoking Spriritualized is, at the present day, a standard publication with modern ballad-printers, but their copies are exceedingly corrupt. Many versions and paraphrases of the song exist. Several are referred to in Notes and Queries, and, amongst them, a broadside of the date of 1670, and another dated 1672 (both printed before Erskine was born), presenting different readings of the First Part, or original poem. In both these the burthen, or refrain, differs from that of our copy by the employment of the expression 'drink', instead of 'smoke tobacco.' The former was the ancient term for drawing in the smoke, swallowing it, and emitting it through the nostrils. A correspondent of Notes and Queries says, that the natives of India to this day use the phrase 'hooka peue,' to drink the hooka.]


Part I

This Indian weed, now withered quite,
Though green at noon, cut down at night,
Shows thy decay;
All flesh is hay:
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

The pipe so lily-like and weak,
Does thus thy mortal state bespeak;
Thou art e'en such, -
Gone with a touch:
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

And when the smoke ascends on high,
Then thou behold'st the vanity
Of worldly stuff,
Gone with a puff:
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

And when the pipe grows foul within,
Think on thy soul defiled with sin;
For then the fire
It does require:
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

And seest the ashes cast away,
Then to thyself thou mayest say,
That to the dust
Return thou must.
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
Part II
Was this small plant for thee cut down?
So was the plant of great renown,
Which Mercy sends
For nobler ends.
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

Doth juice medicinal proceed
From such a naughty foreign weed?
Then what's the power
Of Jesse's flower?
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

The promise, like the pipe, inlays,
And by the mouth of faith conveys,
What virtue flows
From Sharon's rose.
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

In vain the unlighted pipe you blow,
Your pains in outward means are so,
Till heavenly fire
Your heart inspire.
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

The smoke, like burning incense, towers,
So should a praying heart of yours,
With ardent cries,
Surmount the skies.
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.






--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Somersetshire Hunting Song
[This following song, which is very popular with the peasantry of Somersetshire, is given as a curious specimen of the dialect still spoken in some parts of that county. Though the song is a genuine peasant's ditty, it is heard in other circles, and frequently roared out at hunting dinners. It is here reprinted from a copy communicated by Mr. Sandys.]

There's no pleasures can compare
Wi' the hunting o' the hare,
In the morning, in the morning,
In fine and pleasant weather.

Cho. With our hosses and our hounds,
We will scamps it o'er the grounds,
And sing traro, huzza!
And sing traro, huzza!
And sing traro, brave boys, we will foller.

And when poor puss arise,
Then away from us she flies;
And we'll gives her, boys, we'll gives her,
One thundering and loud holler!
Cho. With our hosses, &c.

And when poor puss is killed,
We'll retires from the field;
And we'll count boys, and we'll count
On the same good ren to-morrer.
Cho. With our hosses and our hounds, &c.





--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Spanish Ladies
[This song is ancient, but we have no means of ascertaining at what period it was written. Captain Marryat, in his novel of Poor Jack, introduces it, and says it is OLD. It is a general favourite. The air is plaintive, and in the minor key. See Popular Music.]

Farewell, and adieu to you Spanish ladies,
Farewell, and adieu to you ladies of Spain!
For we've received orders for to sail for old England,
But we hope in a short time to see you again.

We'll rant and we'll roar like true British heroes,
We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas,
Until we strike soundings in the channel of old England;
From Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues.

Then we hove our ship to, with the wind at sou'-west, boys,
We hove our ship to, for to strike soundings clear;
We got soundings in ninety-five fathom, and boldly
Up the channel of old England our course we did steer.

The first land we made it was called the Deadman,
Next, Ram'shead off Plymouth, Start, Portland, and Wight;
We passed by Beachy, by Fairleigh, and Dungeness,
And hove our ship to, off the South Foreland light.

Then a signal was made for the grand fleet to anchor
All in the Downs, that night for to sleep;
Then stand by your stoppers, let go your shank-painters,
Haul all your clew-garnets, stick out tacks and sheets.

So let every man toss off a full bumper,
Let every man toss off his full bowls;
We'll drink and be jolly, and drown melancholy,
So here's a good health to all true-hearted souls!





--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Suffolk Harvest-Home Song
[In no part of England are the harvest-homes kept up with greater spirit than in Suffolk. The following old song is a general favourite on such occasions.]

Here's a health unto our master,
The founder of the feast!
I wish, with all my heart and soul,
In heaven he may find rest.
I hope all things may prosper,
That ever be takes in hand;
For we are all his servants,
And all at his command.

Drink, boys, drink, and see you do not spill,
For if you do, you must drink two, - it is your master's will.

Now our harvest is ended,
And supper is past;
Here's our mistress' good health,
In a full flowing glass!
She is a good woman, -
She prepared us good cheer;
Come, all my brave boys,
And drink off your beer.

Drink, my boys, drink till you come unto me,
The longer we sit, my boys, the merrier shall we be!

In yon green wood there lies an old fox,
Close by his den you may catch him, or no;
Ten thousand to one you catch him, or no.
His beard and his brush are all of one colour, -
[takes the glass and empties it off...]
I am sorry, kind sir, that your glass is no fuller.
'Tis down the red lane! 'tis down the red lane!
So merrily hunt the fox down the red lane!





--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Dialogue Between the Husbandman and the Servingman
[This traditional version of the preceding ancient dialogue has long been popular at country festivals. At a harvest-home feast at Selborne, in Hampshire, in 1836, we heard it recited by two countrymen, who gave it with considerable humour, and dramatic effect. It was delivered in a sort of chant, or recitative. Davies Gilbert published a very similar copy in his Ancient Christman Carols. In the modern printed editions, which are almost identical with ours, the term 'servantman' has been substituted for the more ancient designation.]

Servingman.

Well met, my brother friend, all at this highway end,
So simple all alone, as you can,
I pray you tell to me, what may your calling be,
Are you not a servingman?

Husbandman.

No, no, my brother dear, what makes you to inquire
Of any such a thing at my hand?
Indeed I shall not feign, but I will tell you plain,
I am a downright husbandman.

Servingman.

If a husbandman you be, then go along with me,
And quickly you shall see out of hand,
How in a little space I will help you to a place,
Where you may be a servingman.

Husbandman.

Kind sir! I 'turn you thanks for your intelligence,
These things I receive at your hand;
But something pray now show, that first I may plainly know
The pleasures of a servingman.

Servingman.

Why a servingman has pleasure beyond all sort of measure,
With his hawk on his fist, as he does stand;
For the game that he does kill, and the meat that does him fill,
Are pleasures for the servingman.

Husbandman.

And my pleasure's more than that, to see my oxen fat,
And a good stock of hay by them stand;
My plowing and my sowing, my reaping and my mowing,
Are pleasures for the husbandman.

Servingman.

Why it is a gallant thing to ride out with a king,
With a lord, duke, or any such man;
To hear the horns to blow, and see the hounds all in a row,
That is pleasure for the servingman.

Husbandman.

But my pleasure's more I know, to see my corn to grow,
So thriving all over my land;
And, therefore, I do mean, with my plowing with my team,
To keep myself a husbandman.

Servingman.

Why the diet that we eat is the choicest of all meat,
Such as pig, goose, capon, and swan;
Our pastry is so fine, we drink sugar in our wine,
That is living for the servingman.

Husbandman.

Talk not of goose nor capon, give me good beef or bacon,
And good bread and cheese, now at hand;
With pudding, brawn, and souse, all in a farmer's house,
That is living for the husbandman.

Servingman.

Why the clothing that we wear is delicate and rare,
With our coat, lace, buckles, and band;
Our shirts are white as milk, and our stockings they are silk,
That is clothing for a servingman.

Husbandman.

But I value not a hair your delicate fine wear,
Such as gold is laced upon;
Give me a good grey coat, and in my purse a groat,
That is clothing for the husbandman.

Servingman.

Kind sir! it would be bad if none could be had
Those tables for to wait upon;
There is no lord, duke, nor squire, nor member for the shire,
Can do without a servingman.

Husbandman.

But, Jack! it would be worse if there was none of us
To follow the plowing of the land;
There is neither king, lord, nor squire, nor member for the shire,
Can do without the husbandman.

Servingman.

Kind sir! I must confess't, and I humbly protest
I will give you the uppermost hand;
Although your labour's painful, and mine it is so very gainful,
I wish I were a husbandman.

Husbandman.

So come now, let us all, both great as well as small,
Pray for the grain of our land;
And let us, whatsoever, do all our best endeavour,
For to maintain the good husbandman.






--> Man

[Man]

Poem


King James I and the Tinkler (Traditional)
[This ballad of King James I and the Tinkler was probably written either in, or shortly after, the reign of the monarch who is the hero. The incident recorded is said to be a fact, though the locality is doubtful. By some the scene is laid at Norwood, in Surrey; by others in some part of the English border. The ballad is alluded to by Percy, but is not inserted either in the Reliques, or in any other popular collection. It is to be found only in a few broadsides and chap-books of modern date. The present version is a traditional one, taken down, as here given, from the recital of the late Francis King. (6) It is much superior to the common broadside edition with which it has been collated, and from which the thirteenth and fifteenth verses were obtained. The ballad is very popular on the Border, and in the dales of Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Craven. The late Robert Anderson, the Cumbrian bard, represents Deavie, in his song of the Clay Daubin, as singing The King and the Tinkler.]

And now, to be brief, let's pass over the rest,
Who seldom or never were given to jest,
And come to King Jamie, the first of our throne,
A pleasanter monarch sure never was known.

As he was a hunting the swift fallow-deer,
He dropped all his nobles; and when he got clear,
In hope of some pastime away he did ride,
Till he came to an alehouse, hard by a wood-side.

And there with a tinkler he happened to meet,
And him in kind sort he so freely did greet:
'Pray thee, good fellow, what hast in thy jug,
Which under thy arm thou dost lovingly hug?'

'By the mass!' quoth the tinkler, 'it's nappy brown ale,
And for to drink to thee, friend, I will not fail;
For although thy jacket looks gallant and fine,
I think that my twopence as good is as thine.'

'By my soul! honest fellow, the truth thou hast spoke,'
And straight he sat down with the tinkler to joke;
They drank to the King, and they pledged to each other;
Who'd seen 'em had thought they were brother and brother.

As they were a-drinking the King pleased to say,
'What news, honest fellow? come tell me, I pray?'
'There's nothing of news, beyond that I hear
The King's on the border a-chasing the deer.

'And truly I wish I so happy may be
Whilst he is a hunting the King I might see;
For although I've travelled the land many ways
I never have yet seen a King in my days.'

The King, with a hearty brisk laughter, replied,
'I tell thee, good fellow, if thou canst but ride,
Thou shalt get up behind me, and I will thee bring
To the presence of Jamie, thy sovereign King.'

'But he'll be surrounded with nobles so gay,
And how shall we tell him from them, sir, I pray?'
'Thou'lt easily ken him when once thou art there;
The King will be covered, his nobles all bare.'

He got up behind him and likewise his sack,
His budget of leather, and tools at his back;
They rode till they came to the merry greenwood,
His nobles came round him, bareheaded they stood.

The tinkler then seeing so many appear,
He slily did whisper the King in his ear:
Saying, 'They're all clothed so gloriously gay,
But which amongst them is the King, sir, I pray?'

The King did with hearty good laughter, reply,
'By my soul! my good fellow, it's thou or it's I!
The rest are bareheaded, uncovered all round.' -
With his bag and his budget he fell to the ground,

Like one that was frightened quite out of his wits,
Then on his knees he instantly gets,
Beseeching for mercy; the King to him said,
'Thou art a good fellow, so be not afraid.

'Come, tell thy name?' 'I am John of the Dale,
A mender of kettles, a lover of ale.'
'Rise up, Sir John, I will honour thee here, -
I make thee a knight of three thousand a year!'

This was a good thing for the tinkler indeed;
Then unto the court he was sent for with speed,
Where great store of pleasure and pastime was seen,
In the royal presence of King and of Queen.

Sir John of the Dale he has land, he has fee,
At the court of the king who so happy as he?
Yet still in his hall hangs the tinkler's old sack,
And the budget of tools which he bore at his back.







--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Onward to patience!


There's a time to fight
And a time to sit tight
I mutter to myself, the time ain't right
Shut up and sit, be quiet, be quiet

Waiting was never my strongest suit
I cannot be still, I cannot be mute
I simply explode,
On the tiniest goad
And the world starts again, in hot pursuit

I must admit, it was rather fun
To be on the edge, to be on the run
I tire easy now, put away the damn gun
I'm gettin' on, gettin' old, beat and done
Apathy has won, middle age has begun
I'm bitchin' about my nerves and snoozin' in the sun

I must learn, the way of the wise
Hide big black truths, drop little white lies
Glory my lows and suppress my highs
So I can be li'l Ms.Nothing in your eyes
And you are emboldened to give me your prize

By R Madhuri




--> Man

[Man]

Poem


SHE IS MY DARLIG...........


She is my daring daughter


Boundless land of nights


Wearing nature’s silent secrets


In her beautiful eyes.....


She is a innocent flower of my garden


She a child of music,art and anemones


She is my delights


She is my bright and shinning star


Her love like a ray of sunshine


She brightens up my day


Her first day of sehool seems like an ending,


I can sense she won’t be so depending.


Because her day will fill with a teacher and friends.


Some closeness will gone but her values will be strong


One day her special young man will come along her way


Than i feel my life has now fulfilled!


But always she is my daughter and I am her mom!


My love for her is indisputable


My life would be unimaginative!




I thank my mom and my daughters giving me understanding


Of how daughters are so special beings.





By Womanslove




--> Man

[Man]

Poem



How could I be so stupid?

How could I let my heart get torn apart?
How could I be so weak to believe you?
How could I let myself be used by you?
How could I you toy with my emotions when you knew my weakness?
How could I trust you ever so much?
How could I love you like I never loved before?
How could I be so stupid to think you could ever love someone like me?
Simple... it was because... I was too blind to see your lies!


By Cookie Monster



--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Needing A Hero

Heaven must have been needing a hero
cause they took you away from me
its hard to let you go
i know i have to anyway
heaven made a wonderful choice
when they took you
you will be another person's hero
it still tears me apart
knowing you aren't coming back
heaven must have been needing a hero
cause they took you away from me.



By Sarah Bergerson


--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Do you

There is always a question that lingers in my mind
i know that i have to ask
because one day you will understand
and listen to what i have to say
so i will ask this one question
do you ever think of me anymore?

do you ever stare at the starless sky?
do you just walk down the street knowing that your hand is missing something?
i know that i am
i stare at that empty sky
knowing my heart is as empty as the sky before me
i know that i always long for a hand to hold on to

i am tired of pondering all these questions
so just answer the question
do you ever think of me anymore?
you said we would last forever
but forever turned into never
so now i wait for time to go on
because i never knew forever could end



By Daniel Luuey


--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Dying for a heart

I'm dying for that moment
When all my dreams come true
When I say I love you
You say I love you too

You wrap your arms around me
And hold me to your side
Tell me there's no reason
For me to run and hide

When I'm in your arms
My problems disappear
I'll never have to worry
You'll always be right here

We'll always be together
My heart is what you own
You would never think
Of leaving me alone

I'm dying for a reason
To believe all this is true
That there will be a moment
Between me and you

It never seems to happen
Are all my chances gone?
Can somebody please show me
The moment I went wrong

Now I start to worry
Maybe it's to late
Maybe I'll stop searching
And finally accept my fate

Accept that it is over
And I am on my own
Maybe my real moment
Is being all alone




By Amber


--> Man

[Man]

Poem



I guess I need you ..

I don`t love you, you don`t love me.
We aren't in love anymore.

But whenever I dream I dream of you.
It don`t makes any sense.
I don`t think I love you,
I know I do.
And now I miss you,
I don't know why it have taken so long for me to understand,
that you are the one for me..
But you hate me
Why?
I can't even remember why it ended

All I want is to kiss you, but it all feels like a dream.
Because this will never happen.
I cry every night,
you`re in love with someone else.

Why can't you come back to me and let me feel your love again.
And when you come,
everything can be like before
that`s all I want...

I guess I love you after all..





By Katrine


--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Mother of a Soldier

Please don't go
its too dangerous
a mother's plea
when her son decides
to serve in the army
i have to do something
for my country
i can't stand
and watch this country
fall to its knees
you must understand
i have to do this
he puts out his argument
hoping she will understand

he left today
went to iraq
not before promising
to write every day

and he did
for months
followed by years
the letter became
less and less frequent
she became
more and more worried

them she got a letter
out of the blue
sorry maam
your som died today
she throws it down
runs and cries
why did she let him go
it was her own fault
she let her baby go
and now hes gone
forever.





By Sarah Bergerson





--> Man

[Man]

Poem



A Soldiers Prayer

God,

I'm kneeling here once again
thank you for keeping me safe
here in a land where they hate me
please keep me safe
to live another day
be with my family
and those who i love
be with me tomorrow
as i go out again
to stand for what i believe in
be with those along side me
help us do as you wish
let us win, if that be your will
if not, please keep us safe
thank you for being with me this far
stay by my side and keep me safe
i have to sleep now
so i can be rested enough
to go back out tomorrow
i love you,

A Soldier





By Sarah Bergerson





--> Man

[Man]

Poem



OVeR yOu

Why can't i let myself get over you is it because my love for you is so real and true... i sit up and think of you night and day just praying to god the pain will all soon go away...
it hurts to be with you but i don't know what i'd do without you. Please help me get through this, i won't be able to stand one last kiss....





By Lexi






--> Man

[Man]

Poem



A Piece to Ponder

Sitting in silence gives me the feeling of solitude. Everyhting is living only I feel as if I'm the only one planted onthis earth to walk these grounds alone.
I hear the crickets and the leaves rustle around me. Such familiar sounds, but right now it's as if I'm really hearing them for the first time. We all take this life for granted, no time to stop and think, but we think we have all the time in the world. We all have our time of passing, yet all we do is say "that would never happen to me."
Who does it happen to? If it doesn't happen to me, and it DOES hapen. Then who does it happen to? Did that person have time to think:
"Me!?"
"Should I be scared?"
Life is only a game of strategy.
We are the players, the opponents, and the pawns.
We all must think before we move.
If not we make a mistake. A falter in our opponents eyes. Time enough for them to get ahead, maybe even win.
We all play this game, whether we want to or not. Some forfeit, never to play again. We must believe in our hearts that the moves we make are the right ones.
Because there are only two ways to end the game:
to win
or to lose.








By Sweet Rebellion





--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Broken hearted

I've just recently found my heart
And it broke like glass
Hey, I've got something to say
i don't remember what made it so hard
i know you need someone to take the fall
but why does it have to be me?

I'm falling to pieces, just like my heart
i hate having to go to class
I'm not okay
i work so hard
to get better but in the end i fall
don't they see?

i just want to be told I'm loved
cause id like to keep my cheeks dry tonight
beating up my mind every second with my fist
there is nothing fair in this world
and there is nothing worth living for in this world

my grandparents make me feel so unloved
they said I'm not good enough for them, just tonight
i hate my life, i have to die, i insist
in the gut i cop my fist
I'm leaving this world
just like mum left this world!





By Unknown





--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Forever Fiesta



Doomed from the start, wasn't a coincidence we fell apart
directions pulling us in separate ways.
we got so close so fast, should've known it would never last
this friendship has seen better days

theres no need to say i'm sorry, since sorry's been said too many times, I wonder why.
don't try to make it better, can't stand all the stormy weather feelings, so don't you cry (I know you won't.)

just try to remember what we used to be, broken hearts and shopping carts, that was you and me.
the damage has been done. I guess its time to let it go. We'll never really know what could've been.

that chapter of my life has closed, my road map has proposed a whole new path out of the aftermath.
So now I chose to follow Him, don't really know if I'll sink or swim, a whole new life...I won't think twice.

just try to remember what we used to be, broken hearts and shopping carts, that was you and me.
the damage has been done. I guess its time to let it go. We'll never really know what could've been.

I know someday I'll see you there, so many memories we'll want to share, For now I guess we'll just move on, even though we're gone...






By Rae H






--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Broken mind

I got a broken mind.
You left me behind.
You left me in a bind.
And made me take my life.

I got a broken mind.
Now my heart is blind.
I thought you were kind.
But then I opened my eyes.

You filled me of hate and lies.
For your sake i tryed.
But you left me with a broken mind.
Now every night I cry.

Another poem dedicated to the love and pain in my life Danny!!








By Samantha Hupp






--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Do I Know You?

There's a tale to be told by every living soul.
We each have a story, waiting to be written.
Mine just happens to be from prison. Not just any prison, but a prison of mind.
I'm trapped by the force who wont let me go. I'm confined to a life of lonliness and hate. Alone in this world, nobody to talk to except for this person looking back at me, mocking me. This person who knows everything about me, but does nothing to help.
I cry,
she cries.
I do not have the courage to try and escape, in fear of being caught
Conversations go around in circles. The same thing back and forth, I get used to her copying me, and learn to enjoy her company. We soon can talk for hours. I laugh at the faces she makes at me. I soon know everything about her, as she knows everything about me.
But as my tears start to dry, my vision starts getting clearer. My dream fades to reality and I realize,
she's only a mirror.










By Sweet Rebellion






--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Alpha One do you copy?



:Alpha one do you copy
:i read you loud and clear
:good cause i got a few words for you

i think you already know what I'm about to say
heard me many times before
but never this way
couldn't find the words
so i rehearsed my lines
i memorized what I'm about to say
a million times

feel my heart
as its beating fast
see the tears for they will not last
you broke me
more then i can count
i will not let this
drag me down

eventually
the rain fades away
sooner or later
you see the light
all you had to do was let go of the fight

boy take a good look at me
memorize things you ain't gonna see
boy take a good look at me
I'm the best thing you had
but you LOST me...

life has a funny way of working out
one day your here and the next your out
but sooner or later you learn to let go
roll the credits before the curtain goes
you were my lesson learned
a book of pain
i wrote my final chapter
as i signed off my name..

::Alpha one do you copy
:b**** heard you
:OVER AND OUT!








By Anela







--> Man

[Man]

Poem



I can Breathe

I'm finally unfolding,
growing into me,
don't need anyone to tell me..
i know how to be free,
someone unhooked me,
opened my cage,
I'm free to breathe,
Ive escape..
from this burning stress,
the world is unknown,
but i know what i want,
will fight to the end,
will fight for what i want,
i had a love once,
but it turned out all wrong
cried for a second, cried for too long,
got myself up,
had to sing a different song
your in the past,
away from me,
burn a hole in your heart,
and leave me be........






By Anela







--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Am i perfect now...

You told me I was perfect,
Just not for you,
I know that's not true.
I know you want someone better,
Than I could ever be,
And for that I am sorry.

It appears that you like girls who are stick thin,
You know the ones who have no flab or skin,
The girls who resemble skeletons.
I never thought I'd sink this low,
But for you I'll change,
I'll just leave the healthy weight range.
Are you happy now,
I'm down 3 sizes and a half,
Am I good enough yet.

You also like bad girls,
The one's who are always smoking pot,
The one's who think they look hot,
But for you I'll change whether I like it or not.
Now I'm addicted to pot and cocaine,
But I'm still not good enough all the same.

Still nothing has worked,
Maybe if I were one of the girls who wear short, shorts
Maybe you'll like me if I were a wh.ore
Now I've signed up for prostitution,
I feel like it's the only solution,
Am I finally good enough for you.

Now I'm stuck in rehab,
And I feel like a load of cra.p
Stuck here because of an eating disorder, drug addiction and aids,
It's all my fault I'm here, I'm so ashamed,
I thought I had changed but deep down I'm still the same.
Maybe now you'll like me now that there's drama in my life,
Maybe to prove myself to you Ill go under the knife.
And now I'm on my death bed,
Because of my wrists that bleed,
All for the one who said,
I wasnt good enough yet.
The doctors say I will die,
But Ive already died on the inside,
I did this myself, the end of my life.
I hope you never forget the last words I said,
The words that were am I good enough now that Im dead





By Bethany







--> Man

[Man]

Poem



What do they know

"this is a poem my bf wrote for me"
i love my baby!

the people that keep us apart don't even know us. they don't even know what love is. i loved once, but she was evil and i was pushed. i was pushed and it tore my heart. as i feel my heart torn, i reached out and no one saved me. i hit the bottom and my heart broke completely in two. i lay there with a broken heart. all alone in in the dark. am i dead, am i alive, does it even matter. alone and cold in my new cell of dis-pare. doesn't anyone care? then in the dark i felt an essence that seemed to put my heart together and warm it again. was it an angel, i cant see its so dark. something brushed my cheek, warm and soft like silk. i open my eyes and take a breath. i grasps my chest, my heart is warm and beating strong. i roll over and i see my angel, the essence, my saving grace. its not a dream. you saved me from my nightmare. someone did save me. someone does love me. you saved me from my dark lonely nightmare and nothing is stronger then true love. they'll never keep us apart. what do they know? -my bf bob-








By Bob






--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Never trust what you cant see

She wished upon a star when she was little girl
wished for prince charming to sweep her off her feet,
but as that little girl grew up,
she found out prince charming was a cheat,
he showed her all the pretty things,
that little girls dream of..
but with time that little girl came to find,
that life style wasn't for me she said
with tears falling from her eyes like rain from the sky,
she learned the hard way,
not to trust those pretty eyes,
and tho that life style seems tempting..
it was his heart she longed for,
fell in love wanted love,
unlike any she wanted before,
he tore her heart right from her hands,
tore her soul and her pride,
tore them right from her eyes,
no more little girl,
shes a lady now...
a lady with secrets she cant tell,
but keep in mind lesson learned,
never trust what u cant see...









By Anela






--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Fairy tales arnt real..


That whole wish upon a star,
doesn't seem to get anyone very far,
and theres no prince at the end of the day,
to wipe away the pain

fairy tales don't exist,
and best friends always leave,
why does this world,
have to make people bleed

my heart is broken
it doesn't seem right today,
the sky is falling,
and its raining in my head again,

you dint always go with the flow,
and every time u try to rhyme it never goes,
your hanging on bye the skin of Ur teeth,
well someone will cut the string,
believe me..

my heart is broken
it doesn't seem right today,
the sky is falling,
and its raining in my head again,

i was too young,
to know what love was,
now i know what it is,
its nothing more then god given scars,
I'm shattered....












By Anela






--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Darkness is my last comfort

I walk into the arms of darkness
Not knowing what I'll find

I wish that I could turn back 'round
and figure, I'd rather die

What was I thinking, now what will I do
I wish I made the right choice, because I'd rather be there with you.

Seeing this is where I belong
I'll send this to you, and now I'm gone.







By Unknown







--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Nightmare

Winds howl above,
the simmering sun.
Not just the next,
but for many to come.
Awaken once again,
the same bad dream.
Sweating cold,
we hear you scream.
Screaming for breath,
wheezing for life.
Choking on death,
fighting with strife.
You awake with tears,
hung in your eyes.
Barcodes show,
and steal your lies.
The mattress sinks,
beneath your flesh.
Leaving you,
yourself to catch.



By Unknown / Never URs







--> Man

[Man]

Poem


My babe!


"robert"

life without you isnt life at all.
I miss every moment with you.
I wish i didnt have to miss you or leave all the days pent together behind.
I miss those midnight kisses and your bright smile.
I wish you were here to show me that life saving smile
and make me smile like old times.
Most of all i miss your love.





By Unknown







--> Man

[Man]

Poem


PAPA

To papa 12/24/2007


you were someone a man that saved the world you gave hope to other and you cared very well. gave me my first Dunant to get it all over my face. was there ever Sunday with a smile on your face you were the first thing on Sunday i would see the one i know would be there with a Dunant in his hand. when we were little and we helped you with the cans gave us each two dollars and we would be all happy. for some reason i thought you would never die i don't know why but i thought you would never be gone... i know it is going to be hard on alot of people but that was because so many loved you so much papa when you get there tell grandma i love her. this is so hard to say good bye because i never thought this day would ever come by.mom she love you more then you could even know she has been crying all night long and i know that she is having a hard time. papa look over me and keep us all safe i wish you were here so i could give you one more big kiss. I'm sorry i never went and saw you it makes me feel like shit but when i saw you before you got bad laying in that bed just killed me to know you may never be coming home again and i could not see you like that because it was not the papa that once loved me... i know it is hard to say bye to loved ones but papa i know you feel much better and are not in pain any more... and know you don't have to take all the pill like you did... now you can go up there and be the fun loving man you are keeping us all safe away from harm... papa i hope on June 7th you are with me to see me walk that Field I'm doing this for you to make you see I'm some one and i have a plan.. papa i will think of you all the time and ever time i have a Dunant you will be on my mind
papa i love you and you are my world merry Christmas and i hope you sleep well
love Nicole
to my papa






By NICOLE







--> Man

[Man]

Poem


He can't

He holds the blade
ten inches from his
writs.

he doesn't now what
he's doing but he's thinking
of her kiss.

he wants too cut deep
and forget the pain
he wants too forget her even
her name.

his ego is bruised and
shes still on his mind
he knew all along that
she was just a waste
of time.

he's so broken he
cant get her out of his
mind.

he knows shes at home
having a good time
while hes sitting in his
bedroom about too die.

as the blade cuts and starts
too bleed he cant feel the pain.

he stands on his feet then
he hits the ground.

as he dies slowly
without a frown







By Unknown / X SUFFOCATING UNDER WORDS OF SORROWx







--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Symphony

In the silence I'm breaking,
Waiting for the choir to stop,
I'm becoming cold and butter,
As each of my tears drop.

I'm writing words in my mind,
And I can feel myself bleed,
I'm counting away the minutes,
Lost in what I don't need.

I'm listening to the symphony,
That keeps playing in my head,
I close my eyes slowly,
And I can see you dead.

I'm taking each second,
As my queue to leave,
And as I lift my foot,
I can barely breathe.

I can see you everywhere,
See you right in front of me,
You've clouded my vision,
And I can barely see.

The agony you're causing me,
Is picking me apart piece by piece,
The anger and loneliness,
Won't seem to cease.

The stories you told me,
Bit the back of my mind,
The suicide note you left,
Won't let me leave you behind.

And the words you said to me,
Are words I'll always hide,
Yes, the symphony I'm playing,
I will forever keep inside.










By Danika Jackson / Twisted Illusion







--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Oh, Daddy

Daddy, where are you?
I wish you could come home,
I miss you and I need you,
Oh, I feel so alone.

So much is going on,
It's really scaring me,
I'm falling and breaking,
I long to be free.

I need you by my side,
Need you right here,
Daddy, losing you,
Was once my biggest fear.

I was only twelve,
You were only thirty four,
You were too young,
To knock on heavens door.

I've gone on with out you,
With out your hand to hold,
The last time I touched you,
Oh, daddy you were so cold.

I couldn't stop crying,
As I kissed you goodbye,
I never understood,
Daddy, oh, daddy why?

Can't you come back and tell me?
I'd love to see you again,
Daddy, can I come to you?
Daddy, just tell me when.

And daddy, you can wait,
Wait right there for me,
Daddy, oh, daddy,
Come and set me free.




By Danika Jackson / Twisted Illusion







--> Man

[Man]

Poem


UNWANTED

U is for unwanted
N is for never been cared for
W is for never been worried about
A is for alone
N is for never loved
T is for treatened
E is for evil
D is for devils faces in dreams




By Arooj







--> Man

[Man]

Poem


To Be Dancing

To be the spirit dancing
within your toxic soul
would mend every bone
within each broken tear
pulsating along the catacombs
of this wicked, angelic heart
let us fly tonight, I'm ready....





By Andrea Sunny







--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Safe Harbour


You are...
My blessing...
...my love
I've found you...at last
Though torrential tears
Flooded my lonely river
They carried me
To the welcome shores...
...of your open arms

Incessant rough waters
Tossed and turbulent
Smoothed my edges
Created a perfect fit
Into the sacred hollow...
...of your heart

Gales of intrinsic sorrow
Blown to steal my breath
Merely fanned the flames of faith
Inflated the sails of determination
For at journey's end...
...there was you

My quest for your light
A brilliant beacon
Pierced the emptiness
Of night's deep despair
Permeated the waters of destiny
Illuminated the harbour of our eternity
You are...
My blessing...
...my love



*written for Barry...my blessing






By Debbylyn








--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Our Embrace

Kissing soft feathers
from a sweet birds soul
that is what I feel each time
our lips ignite with the moon
upon the suns precious greeting
body rolls over to embrace
your passionate loving arms
there within the silence of beauty
heart is coated with peace








By Andrea Sunny








--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Falling Like Snow
Snow-flakes of love,
Falling together,
Long lasting breaths,
Love lasts forever

Cool nights breeze,
Holding you each day,
Loving you is so simple,
I really have to say

Heart keeps racing,
Like never before,
You are the girl,
I really do adore

Dream lover found,
In this place,
Feeling's so warm,
Inside your embrace

Pieces of time,
Love is so true,
I've fallen like snow,
Just for you


*Written for my gf*









By Robert Kerry Gardiner









--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Lyrical Goodbyes [Sonnet]

Midnight glow of porcelain reflection,
Upon enchanting waters shines sweet love,
Though romance is torn between affection,
For essence became whisked by crippled dove.

Tattered lyrics whimper lasting goodbyes,
In darkness white horses ride far away,
Surrounding trees shall sway within despise,
As misery's heart watch drenched in dismay.

Death will burden upon sunsets arise,
Farewell loving prince who rode until end,
Weeps of agony turn to shrilling cries,
As fair lady reads words carefully penned.

Her solider never made way back home,
In deaths embrace shall this warrior roam.




A Sonnet is a poem consisting of 14 lines (iambic pentameter) with a particular rhyming scheme:
abab cdcd efef gg
A Shakespearean (English) sonnet has three quatrains and a couplet, and rhymes abab cdcd efef gg.
Also with 10 syllables per line








By Unknown / SlaveToTheMusic









--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Farewell, My Darling...by Gem

The house feels so empty without you
Everything seems so out of place
You were always there to lean upon
To cuddle up to
Always so warm and inviting
You would cheer me up on my most miserable days
On my darkest nights. Never asked questions
When I fell on you and cried, you were there...
To cushion my fall
You would watch all the girly films with me
Let me hide behind you
When we watched the scary ones
Never complained when I was angry
And threw things at you
You were always there with open arms
You looked proud and touch
But you were soft inside, letting me fall asleep on you
Keeping me safe and warm
You were simply the best
Until the strain got too much, the wears and tears of life
Were getting you down
You were fading away, became so pale
So weak...
We both knew it was time for you to go
After fifteen years
This was goodbye
So farewell my darling sofa
You will be greatly missed.







By Gem / Gemma White









--> Man

[Man]

Poem


I bow my head

knowledge learning saraswati life christmas

I bow my head
to power of knowledge!
I bow my head
to power of intellect!
I bow my head
to power of wisdom!
Because it is subtle
blessing from divine kingdom
Because Gods and prophets
are scholars and wordsmiths
Few words of wisdom
are hidden coffers for ages
Few sayings of learning
are keys to eternal blessings
Few well read minds
can change their destiny!
Thus,I bow my head
to Ganges of learning!








By Ashish Dimri









--> Man

[Man]

Poem


At the sea-side

Unending shoreline
Never ending waves
Sweep through the sands
Reaching for the unknown,
Far on the horizon
There is a ship
Fast disappearing
First its deck
Then hull and sail
Small fishing boats bob
Desperate for a catch,
The gulls soar high
Eying the fishes
That strays to the surface
The sea murmurs
With a sigh of anguish
It can clean the shores
But not people’s sins,
That pollutes its waters,
Its underwater life
And the golden beaches
Threatening its
Very existence.
And when this anguish
Turn into anger
The gentle waves
Turn into giant Tsunami
Defining the death.








By C.Radhika.









--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Belief.

The sea of humanity,
Trekking up
And down,
The sacred hill
The young
And not so young
The elderly
With unsteady steps
With families
And without
Men and women
Even children
The rich and the poor
The educated
The illiterate
Region, religion,
Caste, creed
Not a barrier
For the believer
All united
In one pursuit
To have a glimpse
Of the lord
In the statue
Every head bowed
With unflinching faith
That there is god.
Yes there is god





By C.Radhika.









--> Man

[Man]

Poem


NOT SUITABLE FOR UNDER 18!

Time heals all the pains

But every time I touch my wounds

They are still fresh like yesterday

You move your hands

All over my bruise

Tears wet my dry eyes

A scream escape my lips

But you're too high to care

You just had your fun

And your ways

I hate you

I thought so

But more and more

I love you

Its some thing like an evil spell

You have put on me

And no matter how hard I try

I just can't resist you.

So take me harder

And take me higher

Be with me always

Hurt me and burn me


Coz, now I'm too reckless

And I wanna go your reckless




By Star Pretty K T M









--> Man

[Man]

Poem


The Lord of Lords never takes birth
On the day of 'Arudra*', he appeared first
The cosmic dance of Rudra began thus
On our Mother Earth, on this day of Winter Solstice!

The force of Rudra blew off the Sun
The Third of the Planets began its run
Menstrual cycle of the Virgin Mother began
Dark and Wet, She writhed in pain and angst

Rudra the force, charged her dark cloud
Lightning discharged, AUM, reverberated aloud
Life took root in the womb of Virgin Mother
Sun, Water and Wind, guided life further

****
The Godhead was born in a dungeon prison
To dispel darkness and provide us vision
On a dark, stormy and windy night
On our Mother Earth, on a day like Winter Solstice!

Krishna was born on the star of the East**
Three wise men1 knew all of his feats
He fought tyranny and cruelty as a child
Bought joy to the people of his tribe

He taught Action and Righteousness on battlefield
Pearls of Wisdom were our yield
The CROSS of an arrow nailed him on his feet
The fountain of Godhead's words ever lives!

********

The God of men was born in a stable
He healed the sick and performed miracles
Marked by a Star in the midst of night
On our Mother Earth, on this day of Winter Solstice!

Mithra2 raised the dead and made blind see
The lame walked and the devils flee
A new way of life began for his people
Not much is known of his twelve disciples

The CROSS on his shoulders charged their minds
Belief and confidence became new finds
Protector of the Romans and Sun of the God
Mithra held on till the arrival of Son of the Lord!

********

The Son of the Lord was born in a shed
To dispel darkness by shedding his blood
Marked by a Eastern Star and Three men of wise
On our Mother Earth, on this day of Winter Solstice!

The words of Jesus scorched the evil
The deeds of Jesus torched the devil
A new way of life began for his people
The world knew him through his disciples..

The CROSS on his shoulders charged their minds
Love and Forgiveness became new finds
His impact was phenomenal, wide and far
Even time got stamped by the birth of his star

****
Scores and Scores of men of Gods
Mohamed, Buddha, Rama and so many (un)forgotten Lords
Remember, Not in their million (un)spoken words
God resided in their hearts!

Whenever ONE star rose in the East
It lead three wise men to Savior, the Christ
Let LOVE rise in ALL directions
And lead all humans to their day of resurrection!

Happy Christmas!

-TBT

************************************************

* - Star of Ardra (Betelguese)
** - Star of Rohini (Aldebran)

1 - Three wise men referred here are Vithura, Bhishma and Dhrona
2 - Mithra is a persian Sun God, later adopted by Romans as their Sun God, till Roman Emperor embraced Christianity




By Unknown









--> Man

[Man]

Poem


away from competition



you must excuse me
you must excuse me but competition
does not take my fancy;
quiet days and hours are truthful
noisy anxiety and rankings
fester like untreated wounds;
kids are put through school to gain top marks
and they rank schools and parents compare grades their kids get
I wonder what value they put on their children:
children are mere extensions of their own flesh
and the children grow to be mere shadows of adults;
and they live their lives through their kids
and they inflict this generation on generation until something gives;
also at work and with corporations we go all the way
to be number one and nations and states and at games and even at the Olympics
the prize is more valued than the game…
no, I do not seek to reverse this trend; anyway it does not bother me
let them be, if most want to be happy damned;
so there is enough evil of this so where I can
I step aside and others compete but for me I stand aside
for the game, the game of life is more fun to play
and so you must excuse me from activity
linked to competition and rank and titles




By Raj Arumugam









--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Computer Kavithai



wen ur's efforts failed
don't shutdown it..
plz restart it..........



By Murughas









--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Simpler Times

-- A Simple history of humanity


once, we roamed the earth; slept in caves
ate when we could, carried little
and shared most things
sometimes including lovers and spouses;
we ate what nature offered,
mostly being nature’s wild children;
took what was offered, not much more than needed
and moved on; hunted, gathered, used toothbrushes nature produced
no labels, no established names and no commercial giants;
and died when we had to;
and we ate nuts and berries and our discoveries were basic;
we ate what we killed and knew the pain of the animal
and we knew the effort in the hunt and in the cutting;
we saw where milk came from
and our kids didn’t think milk is produced in cartons
and ham slices appear magically in packages in supermarkets;
it was simple: we ate and were eaten;
and we knew then the
laws were few and simple
and the laws were not fixed but as flexible as the lives of nomads;
there was nothing sacred, nothing profane:
nudity was sane, covering was just for warmth;
we owned what we could carry and
we could only destroy what we could scrape and pull;
gifts were merely what we could pick from trees or the ground
or from the beach
or what we could make of things from the earth
without processing
without additions;
there were no brands no trademarks and copyright and intellectual property laws;
there were no organizations, and
hierarchy was not complex but
just an order of men who could fight beasts
and men who were afraid to pee alone in the dark
and men who had such small willies;
and women who could produce many babies
and women who could reward five hunters in one night;
so there were just the strong and the weak
the large and the teeny-weeny;
and there were no toys of religions and fictions of heaven and hell –
and no complexities and ideologies or theology;
no martyrdom and religions to die for;
no states, no churches or temples or religious authority -
and boundaries shifted every season;
you lived, you ate, you mated and enjoyed mating like one enjoys eating
and you didn’t feel guilty about moving up and down over a partner;
and we didn’t have dirty words for the forbidden act;
and anyone could see breasts because they were so common
and only pubic hair covered private parts;
and you mated like dogs in public
and you produced babies;
and you ate and then you lost your teeth and died;
children invented games and old men invented tales
and women cooked food and looked after babies
and men hunted and got killed to feed the tribe;
and these were simpler times indeed, but then things changed…
and then we started having too much sex
and overpopulated the world
and the world became complicated since



By Raj Arumugam









--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Do You Frown?


there is a compliant
believer
and a questioning inquirer;
do you see contradiction
where there is none
and frown?
there is one who
uses terms and
one who does not;
do you see sameness
or difference?
there are two who believe
but each in some other
and each frowns at each other…
Why?
atheist
and believer:
do you see irreconcilable differences
or oneness in different ways?
there is one who kneels and prostrates and surrenders;
there is one who sits
and sees sameness; oneness –
Do you frown?
Do you see difference?
all right, no debate about differences
because you always want to see
differences – but
does difference make you frown?
Why?
Yes, yes, I know: because you are always right…




By Raj Arumugam









--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Riding the Plumed Serpent


Writing on the liquid mirror


Written in the sky

Written in the stars

Written on the wind

Pearl drops of lucid liquid

A mirror until the end of days

Days end and comes a liquid mirror

Sinks into the dusk

Resplendent the in the red glare of a setting sun

Veiled paradise of floating islands

Cloud sculpture floating in lucid pools

Smooth woolly warmth

Feathered serpent seeks the sun

Plumed serpent in the sky. Writing on the liquid mirror

Written in the sky

Written in the stars

Written on the wind

Pearl drops of lucid liquid

A mirror until the end of days

Days end and comes a liquid mirror

Sinks into the dusk

Resplendent the in the red glare of a setting sun

Veiled paradise of floating islands

Cloud sculpture floating in lucid pools

Smooth woolly warmth

Feathered serpent seeks the sun

Plumed serpent in the sky.






By Poetryman / Celestial









--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Written On The Winds


A winter's day dawned clear and cool.

Knee deep in the steamy blond grasses.


Man made clouds written on the winds.

Scribbling like a mad man on the vault of heaven.


Tree branches like bony fingers pointing at an empty blue sky.

And every where the bright winter sunshine.










By Poetryman / Celestial









--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Where the Dragon Flies go to Die


dragonflies soul sunset flies night stars birds dreams

By the pool of dreams in the cool of the evening

where the dragon Flies go to die.

White birds rise like fleeing souls

and skim the boundary between life and death

calling as though for something lost.

Evening snapped on through a bloodless sunset.


Sparse and reluctant stars rim the periphery of the sky.


It is a cloudless night.

Blessings










By Poetryman / Celestial









--> Man

[Man]

Poem


Sexy

Morning
Mist on the waters.
And Kisses....


Oregon
Rising through the air with the dawn in the Oregon Mountains.
The pine tree terraced hills veiled by fog like a coy exotic dancer.
The sun, her lover, piercing one veil after another, first with warmth--then with heat.
Till at last as we descend through the veils to the forest floor wherein she is revealed, shiny and rough as a rocky river.
The cold air grabs you like a rough lover leaving you delighted and breathless all at the same time.






By Poetryman / Celestial









--> Man

[Man]

Poem



All but you…



Sitting side by side

Walking hand in hand

Sipping one another’s drink

Kissing the lips of the other



Distant memories

Which all keep coming back.



All but you

Come back.



All but you

Stay.



All but you

Linger.



All but you

Fade.



All but you

Are heard.



All but you

Are speaking.



All but you

Play.



All but you

Are present.



All but you

Are true…!




By Love Stuck Romeo









--> Man

[Man]

Poem



My First Fairy

The gentle wind ruffles the leaves
While the river moved in a rhythmic sway.
Holding faith in my sister , I join her
In her journey to the magical tree

The red and white umbrella bobbed
As the wooden cart moved forward
My sister’s pull was the propelling force.
Wheels rattled on the cobble stones.

We reached the cool shade of an ancient tree.
A large scar in the middle of the tree
Created a dark universe within
Where she said she had seen them.

Eager and apprehensive to see them
What if I could not see them? I asked,
But my sister assured me
You are a good boy you will see them.

Dusk appeared in its varied colour cloak
Making the tree so imposing
Suddenly in a rush they appeared
Small bright light spots moving frantically.

It is them whispered my sister
I grew excited and cried
Catch one of them for me
Eager to hold one in my hands.

My sister caught one scattering the colony
She brought it to me
Within my hands gently placed
I opened them with care and bated breath.

And there in my hands
Was a little golden bug
But on closer observation
I found my first fairy.

-SVS






By Sri Vidya Suryanarayanan









--> Man

[Man]

Poem



I am in pain and in love…



Why do you sit there alone, sulk and cry to your own self?



I am in pain and am living every moment in pain.



Why are you in pain?



Because I am hurt.



Why are you hurting?



Because scars gave been left deep down on my heart and soul. My heart has been scratched with such ferocity that every ounce of blood that used to run through it has been laid waste. I am just a well gone dry, living in wait. Wait for my extinction.



But what I ask of you is not about the wounds and scars that you carry, not the hurt that dwells in you for that is all too apparent in your physical embodiment, in every movement of yours, in every word that leaves your mouth to melt into the ether into which it is released. I simply ask of you why are you hurting, why have you been scratched to the extent that you are a person living in anticipation of death? That is what I seek of you.



I am what I am now because I loved once.



You loved once? What has happened to your love now? Has the pond of love in you run dry or the sea unto which the river of your love ran disappeared?



Yes, the sea has disappeared and with it has the pond come to the verge of its extinction.



But why do say that? Is your pond so small that it could hold the river of love for one only within it? Why is it that you refuse to accept that your pain is your love in its true form? For it points to the streams of love that passed through you once. It brings to fore the value to be in love, for it is the quest of every man and women that breathes on this breast, breast of the succulent mother earth, to be in search of love. Love is what provided you with all; it is the start of your journey. And her leaving is not the end; it’s the pointer to another start. Only love and love alone can be the pain you suffer. For had their been no love their would have been no pain beating in your chest. It is the same as life, if there had been no death there would have been no life and no value of life in our lives.

It is not love that you rue here, as you sit alone. It is the lust, lust in the form of longing that is hurting you. Break of this shell and you shall see how beautiful pain is. For it is pain and pain alone, which is pure. It is no expectation, no longing, and no desire to leave you. It wishes to stay with you and it is the one and only one that you can trust for life, it shall never betray you.

So embrace this divine unity of love and pain, for if you do not, you shall continue to live in the haze you have created for yourself.






By Love Stuck Romeo









--> Man

[Man]

Poem



I am in pain and in love…



Why do you sit there alone, sulk and cry to your own self?



I am in pain and am living every moment in pain.



Will you have me?



Will you have me,

In whatever small little parts you wish to have me.

They could be as small,

As small as the smallest particle on this planet...

They could be small,

To the extent that they may not be visible…



Will you have me,

In as large parts as you wish to have me.

They could be as large,

As large as the largest particle on this planet…

They could be as large,

To the extent that anything else other than them may not be visible…



Will you have me,

In as large or as little a part as you wish…



For,

I am waiting,

For you,

To take me out,

From within me,

And consume me,

Consume my parts,

Amalgamate them with yours,

To create the one part,

The one part from which we came,

The one part in which we shall ultimately end…



Will you have me?







By Love Stuck Romeo









--> Man

[Man]

Poem



White Buffalo



On one summer time
Seven sacred council met under the sky
Days had passed with no game
Straved nearly to death
Two young men tried to hunt
Through the wilderness so wild
When they came upon a woman in white
She seemed to be floating in the air
And looked very much fair
Mesmerised by her beauty
One of them touched her with evil thoughts
On the spot was turned to bones on the rock
She warned the other of her arrival
At the scared council ground
The remaining huntsman rushed
To convey the tiding of their hunting spree
The seven sacred council waited for the lady
When she arrived carrying a bundle in her hands
She then opened it to bring forth a smoking pipe
“This is pipe of prayers,” she said
Smoke this pipe to live in prayerful mode
Respect the buffalo, woman and the children advise she
She spoke of all the things that were right
And to be followed by the tribe
In a wink changed into a female calf
And mystically disappeared from sight.
From that day forth the seven sacred council
Order their tribe to follow her rules
And in prosperity ruled the rest of their lives.







By Sri Vidya Suryanarayanan








--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Christmas is for Children

Chilly winds of December
Hot waves making quiet exit
Rustling of dry leaves
In shadow of their parent trees
Snow flakes hanging over them
Tiny bulbs blowing their light
Mercury going down and down
A bird prone its wings
Sitting outside the window

Inciting me to see out
Santa moving down the street

Festival mood all around
Ooh ooh!! aaha aaha!!
Running kids shout behind Santa

Christmas is for children
However we are children too
In the eyes of God who
Love us all as His children
Do not feel yourself old
Rather enjoy with children
Enjoy in their company
Nurse them with love and affection.







By Yash Chhabra








--> Man

[Man]

Poem



The Milking-Pail
[The following is another version of the preceding ditty, and is the one most commonly sung.]

Ye nymphs and sylvan gods,
That love green fields and woods,
When spring newly-born herself does adorn,
With flowers and blooming buds:
Come sing in the praise, while flocks do graze,
On yonder pleasant vale,
Of those that choose to milk their ewes,
And in cold dews, with clouted shoes,
To carry the milking-pail.

You goddess of the morn,
With blushes you adorn,
And take the fresh air, whilst linnets prepare
A concert on each green thorn;
The blackbird and thrush on every bush,
And the charming nightingale,
In merry vein, their throats do strain
To entertain, the jolly train
Of those of the milking-pail.

When cold bleak winds do roar,
And flowers will spring no more,
The fields that were seen so pleasant and green,
With winter all candied o'er,
See now the town lass, with her white face,
And her lips so deadly pale;
But it is not so, with those that go
Through frost and snow, with cheeks that glow,
And carry the milking-pail.

The country lad is free
From fears and jealousy,
Whilst upon the green he oft is seen,
With his lass upon his knee.
With kisses most sweet he doth her so treat,
And swears her charms won't fail;
But the London lass, in every place,
With brazen face, despises the grace
Of those of the milking-pail.












--> Man

[Man]

Poem



The Miller and His Sons
[A miller, especially if he happen to be the owner of a soke-mill, has always been deemed fair game for the village satirist. Of the numerous songs written in ridicule of the calling of the 'rogues in grain,' the following is one of the best and most popular: its quaint humour will recommend it to our readers. For the tune, see Popular Music.]

There was a crafty miller, and he
Had lusty sons, one, two, and three:
He called them all, and asked their will,
If that to them he left his mill.

He called first to his eldest son,
Saying, 'My life is almost run;
If I to you this mill do make,
What toll do you intend to take?'

'Father,' said he, 'my name is Jack;
Out of a bushel I'll take a peck,
From every bushel that I grind,
That I may a good living find.'

'Thou art a fool!' the old man said,
'Thou hast not well learned thy trade;
This mill to thee I ne'er will give,
For by such toll no man can live.'

He called for his middlemost son,
Saying, 'My life is almost run;
If I to you this mill do make,
What toll do you intend to take?'

'Father,' says he, 'my name is Ralph;
Out of a bushel I'll take a half,
From every bushel that I grind,
That I may a good living find.'

'Thou art a fool!' the old man said,
'Thou hast not well learned thy trade;
This mill to thee I ne'er will give,
For by such toll no man can live.'

He called for his youngest son,
Saying, 'My life is almost run;
If I to you this mill do make,
What toll do you intend to take?'

'Father,' said he, 'I'm your only boy,
For taking toll is all my joy!
Before I will a good living lack,
I'll take it all, and forswear the sack!'

'Thou art my boy!' the old man said,
'For thou hast right well learned thy trade;
This mill to thee I give,' he cried, -
And then he turned up his toes and died.








--> Man

[Man]

Poem



The Messenger of Mortality; or Life and Death Contrasted in a Dialogue Betwixt Death and a Lady
[One of Charles Lamb's most beautiful and plaintive poems was suggested by this old dialogue. The tune is given in Chappell's Popular Music, p. 167. In Carey's Musical Century, 1738, it is called the 'Old tune of Death and the Lady.' The four concluding lines of the present copy of Death and the Lady are found inscribed on tomb-stones in village church-yards in every part of England. They are not contained, however, in the broadside with which our reprint has been carefully collated.]

Death.

Fair lady, lay your costly robes aside,
No longer may you glory in your pride;
Take leave of all your carnal vain delight,
I'm come to summon you away this night!

Lady.

What bold attempt is this? pray let me know
From whence you come, and whither I must go?
Must I, who am a lady, stoop or bow
To such a pale-faced visage? Who art thou?

Death.

Do you not know me? well! I tell thee, then,
It's I that conquer all the sons of men!
No pitch of honour from my dart is free;
My name is Death! have you not heard of me?

Lady.

Yes! I have heard of thee time after time,
But being in the glory of my prime,
I did not think you would have called so soon.
Why must my morning sun go down at noon?



CONTINUED BELOW







--> Man

[Man]

Poem



The Messenger of Mortality; or Life and Death Contrasted in a Dialogue Betwixt Death and a Lady
[One of Charles Lamb's most beautiful and plaintive poems was suggested by this old dialogue. The tune is given in Chappell's Popular Music, p. 167. In Carey's Musical Century, 1738, it is called the 'Old tune of Death and the Lady.' The four concluding lines of the present copy of Death and the Lady are found inscribed on tomb-stones in village church-yards in every part of England. They are not contained, however, in the broadside with which our reprint has been carefully collated.]


CONTINUATION



Death.

Talk not of noon! you may as well be mute;
This is no time at all for to dispute:
Your riches, garments, gold, and jewels brave,
Houses and lands must all new owners have;
Though thy vain heart to riches was inclined,
Yet thou must die and leave them all behind.

Lady.

My heart is cold; I tremble at the news;
There's bags of gold, if thou wilt me excuse,
And seize on them, and finish thou the strife
Of those that are aweary of their life.
Are there not many bound in prison strong,
In bitter grief of soul have languished long,
Who could but find the grave a place of rest,
From all the grief in which they are oppressed?
Besides, there's many with a hoary head,
And palsy joints, by which their joys are fled;
Release thou them whose sorrows are so great,
But spare my life to have a longer date.


CONTINUED BELOW




--> Man

[Man]

Poem



The Messenger of Mortality; or Life and Death Contrasted in a Dialogue Betwixt Death and a Lady
[One of Charles Lamb's most beautiful and plaintive poems was suggested by this old dialogue. The tune is given in Chappell's Popular Music, p. 167. In Carey's Musical Century, 1738, it is called the 'Old tune of Death and the Lady.' The four concluding lines of the present copy of Death and the Lady are found inscribed on tomb-stones in village church-yards in every part of England. They are not contained, however, in the broadside with which our reprint has been carefully collated.]


CONTINUATION



Death.

Though some by age be full of grief and pain,
Yet their appointed time they must remain:
I come to none before their warrant's sealed,
And when it is, they must submit and yield.
I take no bribe, believe me, this is true;
Prepare yourself to go; I'm come for you.

Lady.

Death, be not so severe, let me obtain
A little longer time to live and reign!
Fain would I stay if thou my life will spare;
I have a daughter beautiful and fair,
I'd live to see her wed whom I adore:
Grant me but this and I will ask no more.


CONTINUED BELOW




--> Man

[Man]

Poem



The Messenger of Mortality; or Life and Death Contrasted in a Dialogue Betwixt Death and a Lady
[One of Charles Lamb's most beautiful and plaintive poems was suggested by this old dialogue. The tune is given in Chappell's Popular Music, p. 167. In Carey's Musical Century, 1738, it is called the 'Old tune of Death and the Lady.' The four concluding lines of the present copy of Death and the Lady are found inscribed on tomb-stones in village church-yards in every part of England. They are not contained, however, in the broadside with which our reprint has been carefully collated.]


CONTINUATION



Death.

This is a slender frivolous excuse;
I have you fast, and will not let you loose;
Leave her to Providence, for you must go
Along with me, whether you will or no;
I, Death, command the King to leave his crown,
And at my feet he lays his sceptre down!
Then if to kings I don't this favour give,
But cut them off, can you expect to live
Beyond the limits of your time and space!
No! I must send you to another place.

Lady.

You learned doctors, now express your skill,
And let not Death of me obtain his will;
Prepare your cordials, let me comfort find,
My gold shall fly like chaff before the wind.


CONTINUED BELOW




--> Man

[Man]

Poem



The Messenger of Mortality; or Life and Death Contrasted in a Dialogue Betwixt Death and a Lady
[One of Charles Lamb's most beautiful and plaintive poems was suggested by this old dialogue. The tune is given in Chappell's Popular Music, p. 167. In Carey's Musical Century, 1738, it is called the 'Old tune of Death and the Lady.' The four concluding lines of the present copy of Death and the Lady are found inscribed on tomb-stones in village church-yards in every part of England. They are not contained, however, in the broadside with which our reprint has been carefully collated.]


CONTINUATION



Death.

Forbear to call, their skill will never do,
They are but mortals here as well as you:
I give the fatal wound, my dart is sure,
And far beyond the doctor's skill to cure.
How freely can you let your riches fly
To purchase life, rather than yield to die!
But while you flourish here with all your store,
You will not give one penny to the poor;
Though in God's name their suit to you they make,
You would not spare one penny for His sake!
The Lord beheld wherein you did amiss,
And calls you hence to give account for this!

Lady.

Oh! heavy news! must I no longer stay?
How shall I stand in the great judgment-day?
(Down from her eyes the crystal tears did flow:
She said), None knows what I do undergo:
Upon my bed of sorrow here I lie;
My carnal life makes me afraid to die.
My sins, alas! are many, gross and foul,
Oh, righteous Lord! have mercy on my soul!
And though I do deserve thy righteous frown,
Yet pardon, Lord, and pour a blessing down.
(Then with a dying sigh her heart did break,
And did the pleasures of this world forsake.)

Thus may we see the high and mighty fall,
For cruel Death shows no respect at all
To any one of high or low degree
Great men submit to Death as well as we.
Though they are gay, their life is but a span -
A lump of clay - so vile a creature's man.
Then happy those whom Christ has made his care,
Who die in the Lord, and ever blessed are.
The grave's the market-place where all men meet,
Both rich and poor, as well as small and great.
If life were merchandise that gold could buy,
The rich would live, the poor alone would die.





--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Mummers' Song; or, The Poor Old Horse.
As sung by the Mummers in the Neighbourhood of Richmond, Yorkshire, at the merrie time of Christmas.
[The rustic actor who sings the following song is dressed as an old horse, and at the end of every verse the jaws are snapped in chorus. It is a very old composition, and is now printed for the first time. The 'old horse' is, probably, of Scandinavian origin, - a reminiscence of Odin's Sleipnor.]


You gentlemen and sportsmen,
And men of courage bold,
All you that's got a good horse,
Take care of him when he is old;
Then put him in your stable,
And keep him there so warm;
Give him good corn and hay,
Pray let him take no harm.
Poor old horse! poor old horse!

Once I had my clothing
Of linsey-woolsey fine,
My tail and mane of length,
And my body it did shine;
But now I'm growing old,
And my nature does decay,
My master frowns upon me,
These words I heard him say, -
Poor old horse! poor old horse!

These pretty little shoulders,
That once were plump and round,
They are decayed and rotten, -
I'm afraid they are not sound.
Likewise these little nimble legs,
That have run many miles,
Over hedges, over ditches,
Over valleys, gates, and stiles.
Poor old horse! poor old horse!

I used to be kept
On the best corn and hay
That in fields could be grown,
Or in any meadows gay;
But now, alas! it's not so, -
There's no such food at all!
I'm forced to nip the short grass
That grows beneath your wall.
Poor old horse! poor old horse!

I used to be kept up
All in a stable warm,
To keep my tender body
From any cold or harm;
But now I'm turned out
In the open fields to go,
To face all kinds of weather,
The wind, cold, frost, and snow.
Poor old horse! poor old horse!

My hide unto the huntsman
So freely I would give,
My body to the hounds,
For I'd rather die than live:
So shoot him, whip him, strip him,
To the huntsman let him go;
For he's neither fit to ride upon,
Nor in any team to draw.
Poor old horse! you must die!


--> Man

[Man]

Poem



The New-Mown Hay
[This song is a village-version of an incident which occurred in the Cecil family. The same English adventure has, strangely enough, been made the subject of one of the most romantic of Moore's Irish Melodies, viz., You Remember Helen, the Hamlet's Pride.]

As I walked forth one summer's morn,
Hard by a river's side,
Where yellow cowslips did adorn
The blushing field with pride;
I spied a damsel on the grass,
More blooming than the may;
Her looks the Queen of Love surpassed,
Among the new-mown hay.

I said, 'Good morning, pretty maid,
How came you here so soon?'
'To keep my father's sheep,' she said,
'The thing that must be done:
While they are feeding 'mong the dew,
To pass the time away,
I sit me down to knit or sew,
Among the new-mown hay.'

Delighted with her simple tale,
I sat down by her side;
With vows of love I did prevail
On her to be my bride:
In strains of simple melody,
She sung a rural lay;
The little lambs stood listening by,
Among the new-mown hay.

Then to the church they went with speed,
And Hymen joined them there;
No more her ewes and lambs to feed,
For she's a lady fair:
A lord he was that married her,
To town they came straightway:
She may bless the day he spied her there,
Among the new-mown hay. !




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[Man]

Poem



The Sweet Nightingale; or, Down in Those Valleys Below
An ancient Cornish song.
[This curious ditty, which may be confidently assigned to the seventeenth century, is said to be a translation from the ancient Cornish tongue. We first heard it in Germany, in the pleasure- gardens of the Marienberg, on the Moselle. The singers were four Cornish miners, who were at that time, 1854, employed at some lead mines near the town of Zell. The leader or 'Captain,' John Stocker, said that the song was an established favourite with the lead miners of Cornwall and Devonshire, and was always sung on the pay-days, and at the wakes; and that his grandfather, who died thirty years before, at the age of a hundred years, used to sing the song, and say that it was very old. Stocker promised to make a copy of it, but there was no opportunity of procuring it before we left Germany. The following version has been supplied by a gentleman in Plymouth, who writes:-

I have had a great deal of trouble about The Valley Below. It is not in print. I first met with one person who knew one part, then with another person who knew another part, but nobody could sing the whole. At last, chance directed me to an old man at work on the roads, and he sung and recited it throughout, not exactly, however, as I send it, for I was obliged to supply a little here and there, but only where a bad rhyme, or rather none at all, made it evident what the real rhyme was. I have read it over to a mining gentleman at Truro, and he says 'It is pretty near the way we sing it.'
The tune is plaintive and original.]

'My sweetheart, come along!
Don't you hear the fond song,
The sweet notes of the nightingale flow?
Don't you hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below?
So be not afraid
To walk in the shade,
Nor yet in those valleys below,
Nor yet in those valleys below.

'Pretty Betsy, don't fail,
For I'll carry your pail,
Safe home to your cot as we go;
You shall hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below.'
But she was afraid
To walk in the shade,
To walk in those valleys below,
To walk in those valleys below.

'Pray let me alone,
I have hands of my own;
Along with you I will not go,
To hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below;
For I am afraid
To walk in the shade,
To walk in those valleys below,
To walk in those valleys below.'

'Pray sit yourself down
With me on the ground,
On this bank where sweet primroses grow;
You shall hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below;
So be not afraid
To walk in the shade,
Nor yet in those valleys below,
Nor yet in those valleys below.'

This couple agreed;
They were married with speed,
And soon to the church they did go.
She was no more afraid
For to walk in the shade,
Nor yet in those valleys below:
Nor to hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sung in those valleys below,
As she sung in those valleys below.



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[Man]

Poem



The Nobleman's Generous Kindness
Giving an account of a nobleman, who, taking notice of a poor man's industrious care and pains for the maintaining of his charge of seven small children, met him upon a day, and discoursing with him, invited him, and his wife and his children, home to his house, and bestowed upon them a farm of thirty acres of land, to be continued to him and his heirs for ever.
To the tune of The Two English Travellers.

[This still popular ballad is entitled in the modern copies, The Nobleman and Thraster; or, The Generous Gift. There is a copy preserved in the Roxburgh Collection, with which our version has been collated. It is taken from a broadside printed by Robert Marchbank, in the Custom-house Entry, Newcastle.]


A Nobleman lived in a village of late,
Hard by a poor thrasher, whose charge it was great;
For he had seven children, and most of them small,
And nought but his labour to support them withal.

He never was given to idle and lurk,
For this nobleman saw him go daily to work,
With his flail and his bag, and his bottle of beer,
As cheerful as those that have hundreds a year.

Thus careful, and constant, each morning he went,
Unto his daily labour with joy and content;
So jocular and jolly he'd whistle and sing,
As blithe and as brisk as the birds in the spring.

One morning, this nobleman taking a walk,
He met this poor man, and he freely did talk;
He asked him [at first] many questions at large,
And then began talking concerning his charge.

'Thou hast many children, I very well know,
Thy labour is hard, and thy wages are low,
And yet thou art cheerful; I pray tell me true,
How can you maintain them as well as you do?'

'I carefully carry home what I do earn,
My daily expenses by this I do learn;
And find it is possible, though we be poor,
To still keep the ravenous wolf from the door.

'I reap and I mow, and I harrow and sow,
Sometimes a hedging and ditching I go;
No work comes amiss, for I thrash, and I plough,
Thus my bread I do earn by the sweat of my brow.

'My wife she is willing to pull in a yoke,
We live like two lambs, nor each other provoke;
We both of us strive, like the labouring ant,
And do our endeavours to keep us from want.

'And when I come home from my labour at night,
To my wife and my children, in whom I delight;
To see them come round me with prattling noise, -
Now these are the riches a poor man enjoys.

'Though I am as weary as weary may be,
The youngest I commonly dance on my knee;
I find that content is a moderate feast,
I never repine at my lot in the least.'

Now the nobleman hearing what he did say,
Was pleased, and invited him home the next day;
His wife and his children he charged him to bring;
In token of favour he gave him a ring.

He thanked his honour, and taking his leave,
He went to his wife, who would hardly believe
But this same story himself he might raise;
Yet seeing the ring she was [lost] in amaze.

Betimes in the morning the good wife she arose,
And made them all fine, in the best of their clothes;
The good man with his good wife, and children small,
They all went to dine at the nobleman's hall.

But when they came there, as truth does report,
All things were prepared in a plentiful sort;
And they at the nobleman's table did dine,
With all kinds of dainties, and plenty of wine.

The feast being over, he soon let them know,
That he then intended on them to bestow
A farm-house, with thirty good acres of land;
And gave them the writings then, with his own hand.

'Because thou art careful, and good to thy wife,
I'll make thy days happy the rest of thy life;
It shall be for ever, for thee and thy heirs,
Because I beheld thy industrious cares.'

No tongue then is able in full to express
The depth of their joy, and true thankfulness;
With many a curtsey, and bow to the ground, -
Such noblemen there are but few to be found.



--> Man

[Man]

Poem



Old Adam
[We have had considerable trouble in procuring a copy of this old song, which used, in former days, to be very popular with aged people resident in the North of England. It has been long out of print, and handed down traditionally. By the kindness, however, of Mr. S. Swindells, printer, Manchester, we have been favoured with an ancient printed copy, which Mr. Swindells observes he had great difficulty in obtaining. Some improvements have been made in the present edition from the recital of Mr. Effingham Wilson, who was familiar with the song in his youth.]

Both sexes give ear to my fancy,
While in praise of dear woman I sing;
Confined not to Moll, Sue, or Nancy,
But mates from a beggar to king.

When old Adam first was created,
And lord of the universe crowned,
His happiness was not completed,
Until that an helpmate was found.

He'd all things in food that were wanting
To keep and support him through life;
He'd horses and foxes for hunting,
Which some men love better than wife.

He'd a garden so planted by nature,
Man cannot produce in his life;
But yet the all-wise great Creator
Still saw that he wanted a wife.

Then Adam he laid in a slumber,
And there he lost part of his side;
And when he awoke, with a wonder,
Beheld his most beautiful bride!

In transport he gazed upon her,
His happiness now was complete!
He praised his bountiful donor,
Who thus had bestowed him a mate.

She was not took out of his head, sir,
To reign and triumph over man;
Nor was she took out of his feet, sir,
By man to be trampled upon.

But she was took out of his side, sir,
His equal and partner to be;
But as they're united in one, sir,
The man is the top of the tree.

Then let not the fair be despised
By man, as she's part of himself;
For woman by Adam was prized
More than the whole globe full of wealth.

Man without a woman's a beggar,
Suppose the whole world he possessed;
And the beggar that's got a good woman,
With more than the world he is blest.




--> Man

[Man]

Poem



There Was an Old Man Came Over the Lea
[This is a version of the Baillie of Berwick, which will be found in the Local Historian's Table-Book. It was originally obtained from Morpeth, and communicated by W. H. Longstaffe, Esq., of Darlington, who says, 'in many respects the Baillie of Berwick is the better edition - still mine may furnish an extra stanza or two, and the ha! ha! ha! is better than heigho, though the notes suit either version.']

There was an old man came over the Lea,
Ha-ha-ha-ha! but I won't have him.
He came over the Lea,
A-courting to me,
With his grey beard newly-shaven.

My mother she bid me open the door:
I opened the door,
And he fell on the floor.

My mother she bid me set him a stool:
I set him a stool,
And he looked like a fool.

My mother she bid me give him some beer:
I gave him some beer,
And he thought it good cheer.

My mother she bid me cut him some bread:
I cut him some bread,
And I threw't at his head.

My mother she bid me light him to bed.
I lit him to bed,
And wished he were dead.

My mother she bid me tell him to rise:
I told him to rise,
And he opened his eyes.

My mother she bid me take him to church:
I took him to church,
And left him in the lurch;
With his grey beard newly-shaven.




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[Man]

Poem



The Three Knights (Traditional)
[The Three Knights was first printed by the late Davies Gilbert, F.R.S., in the appendix to his work on Crhistmas Carols. Mr. Gilbert thought that some verses were wanting after the eighth stanza; but we entertain a different opinion. A conjectural emendation made in the ninth verse, viz., the substitution of far for for, seems to render the ballad perfect. The ballad is still popular amongst the peasantry in the West of England. The tune is given by Gilbert. The refrain, in the second and fourth lines, printed with the first verse, should be repeated in recitation in every verse.]

There did three Knights come from the west,
With the high and the lily oh!
And these three Knights courted one ladye,
As the rose was so sweetly blown.

The first Knight came was all in white,
And asked of her if she'd be his delight.

The next Knight came was all in green,
And asked of her if she'd be his queen.

The third Knight came was all in red,
And asked of her if she would wed.

'Then have you asked of my father dear?
Likewise of her who did me bear?

'And have you asked of my brother John?
And also of my sister Anne?'

'Yes, I've asked of your father dear,
Likewise of her who did you bear.

'And I've asked of your sister Anne,
But I've not asked of your brother John.'

Far on the road as they rode along,
There did they meet with her brother John.

She stooped low to kiss him sweet,
He to her heart did a dagger meet.

'Ride on, ride on,' cried the servingman,
'Methinks your bride she looks wondrous wan.'

'I wish I were on yonder stile,
For there I would sit and bleed awhile.

'I wish I were on yonder hill,
There I'd alight and make my will.'

'What would you give to your father dear?'
'The gallant steed which doth me bear.'

'What would you give to your mother dear?'
'My wedding shift which I do wear.

'But she must wash it very clean,
For my heart's blood sticks in every seam.'

'What would you give to your sister Anne?'
'My gay gold ring, and my feathered fan.'

'What would you give to your brother John?'
'A rope, and a gallows to hang him on.'

'What would you give to your brother John's wife?'
'A widow's weeds, and a quiet life.'
.




--> Man

[Man]

Poem



The Old Man and His Three Sons
[This traditional ditty is current as a nursery song in the North of England.]

There was an old man, and sons he had three,
Wind well, Lion, good hunter.
A friar he being one of the three,
With pleasure he ranged the north country,
For he was a jovial hunter.

As he went to the woods some pastime to see,
Wind well, Lion, good hunter,
He spied a fair lady under a tree,
Sighing and moaning mournfully.
He was a jovial hunter.

'What are you doing, my fair lady!'
Wind well, Lion, good hunter.
'I'm frightened, the wild boar he will kill me,
He has worried my lord, and wounded thirty,
As thou art a jovial hunter.'

Then the friar he put his horn to his mouth,
Wind well, Lion, good hunter.
And he blew a blast, east, west, north, and south,
And the wild boar from his den he came forth
Unto the jovial hunter.




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[Man]

Poem



The Life and Age of Man
[From one of Thackeray's Catalogues, preserved in the British Museum, it appears that The Life and Age of Man was one of the productions printed by him at the 'Angel in Duck Lane, London.' Thackeray's imprint is found attached to broadsides published between 1672 and 1688, and he probably commenced printing soon after the accession of Charles II. The present reprint, the correctness of which is very questionable, is taken from a modern broadside, the editor not having been fortunate enough to meet with any earlier edition. This old poem is said to have been a great favourite with the father of Robert Burns.]

In prime of years, when I was young,
I took delight in youthful ways,
Not knowing then what did belong
Unto the pleasures of those days.
At seven years old I was a child,
And subject then to be beguiled.

At two times seven I went to learn
What discipline is taught at school:
When good from ill I could discern,
I thought myself no more a fool:
My parents were contriving than,
How I might live when I were man.

At three times seven I waxed wild,
When manhood led me to be bold;
I thought myself no more a child,
My own conceit it so me told:
Then did I venture far and near,
To buy delight at price full dear.

At four times seven I take a wife,
And leave off all my wanton ways,
Thinking thereby perhaps to thrive,
And save myself from sad disgrace.
So farewell my companions all,
For other business doth me call.

At five times seven I must hard strive,
What I could gain by mighty skill;
But still against the stream I drive,
And bowl up stones against the hill;
The more I laboured might and main,
The more I strove against the stream.

At six times seven all covetise
Began to harbour in my breast;
My mind still then contriving was
How I might gain this worldly wealth;
To purchase lands and live on them,
So make my children mighty men.

At seven times seven all worldly thought
Began to harbour in my brain;
Then did I drink a heavy draught
Of water of experience plain;
There none so ready was as I,
To purchase bargains, sell, or buy.

At eight times seven I waxed old,
And took myself unto my rest,
Neighbours then sought my counsel bold,
And I was held in great request;
But age did so abate my strength,
That I was forced to yield at length.

At nine times seven take my leave
Of former vain delights must I;
It then full sorely did me grieve -
I fetched many a heavy sigh;
To rise up early, and sit up late,
My former life, I loathe and hate.

At ten times seven my glass is run,
And I poor silly man must die;
I looked up, and saw the sun
Had overcome the crystal sky.
So now I must this world forsake,
Another man my place must take.

Now you may see, as in a glass,
The whole estate of mortal men;
How they from seven to seven do pass,
Until they are threescore and ten;
And when their glass is fully run,
They must leave off as they begun.





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[Man]

Poem



England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]


You sober-minded christians now draw near,
Labour to learn these pious lessons here;
For by the same you will be taught to know
What is the cause of all our grief and woe.

We have a God who sits enthroned above;
He sends us many tokens of his love:
Yet we, like disobedient children, still
Deny to yield submission to His will.

The just command which He upon us lays,
We must confess we have ten thousand ways
Transgressed; for see how men their sins pursue,
As if they did not fear what God could do.


CONTINUED BELOW





--> Man

[Man]

Poem



England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

CONTINUATION

Behold the wretched sinner void of shame,
He values not how he blasphemes the name
Of that good God who gave him life and breath,
And who can strike him with the darts of death!

The very little children which we meet,
Amongst the sports and pastimes in the street,
We very often hear them curse and swear,
Before they've learned a word of any prayer.

'Tis much to be lamented, for I fear
The same they learn from what they daily hear;
Be careful then, and don't instruct them so,
For fear you prove their dismal overthrow.


CONTINUED BELOW





--> Man

[Man]

Poem



England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

CONTINUATION

Both young and old, that dreadful sin forbear;
The tongue of man was never made to swear,
But to adore and praise the blessed name,
By whom alone our dear salvation came.

Pride is another reigning sin likewise;
Let us behold in what a strange disguise
Young damsels do appear, both rich and poor;
The like was ne'er in any age before.

What artificial ornaments they wear,
Black patches, paint, and locks of powdered hair;
Likewise in lofty hoops they are arrayed,
As if they would correct what God had made.


CONTINUED BELOW





--> Man

[Man]

Poem



England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

CONTINUATION

Yet let 'em know, for all those youthful charms,
They must lie down in death's cold frozen arms!
Oh think on this, and raise your thoughts above
The sin of pride, which you so dearly love.

Likewise, the wilful sinners that transgress
The righteous laws of God by drunkenness,
They do abuse the creatures which were sent
Purely for man's refreshing nourishment.

Many diseases doth that sin attend,
But what is worst of all, the fatal end:
Let not the pleasures of a quaffing bowl
Destroy and stupify thy active soul.


CONTINUED BELOW





--> Man

[Man]

Poem



England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

CONTINUATION

Perhaps the jovial drunkard over night,
May seem to reap the pleasures of delight,
While for his wine he doth in plenty call;
But oh! the sting of conscience, after all,

Is like a gnawing worm upon the mind.
Then if you would the peace of conscience find,
A sober conversation learn with speed,
For that's the sweetest life that man can lead.

Be careful that thou art not drawn away,
By foolishness, to break the Sabbath-day;
Be constant at the pious house of prayer,
That thou mayst learn the christian duties there.


CONTINUED BELOW





--> Man

[Man]

Poem



England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

CONTINUATION

For tell me, wherefore should we carp and care
For what we eat and drink, and what we wear;
And the meanwhile our fainting souls exclude
From that refreshing sweet celestial food?

Yet so it is, we, by experience, find
Many young wanton gallants seldom mind
The church of God, but scornfully deride
That sacred word by which they must be tried.

A tavern, or an alehouse, they adore,
And will not come within the church before
They're brought to lodge under a silent tomb,
And then who knows how dismal is their doom!


CONTINUED BELOW





--> Man

[Man]

Poem



England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

CONTINUATION

Though for awhile, perhaps, they flourish here,
And seem to scorn the very thoughts of fear,
Yet when they're summoned to resign their breath,
They can't outbrave the bitter stroke of death!

Consider this, young gallants, whilst you may,
Swift-winged time and tide for none will stay;
And therefore let it be your christian care,
To serve the Lord, and for your death prepare.

There is another crying sin likewise:
Behold young gallants cast their wanton eyes
On painted harlots, which they often meet
At every creek and corner of the street,


CONTINUED BELOW





--> Man

[Man]

Poem



England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

CONTINUATION

By whom they are like dismal captives led
To their destruction; grace and fear is fled,
Till at the length they find themselves betrayed,
And for that sin most sad examples made.

Then, then, perhaps, in bitter tears they'll cry,
With wringing hands, against their company,
Which did betray them to that dismal state!
Consider this before it is too late.

Likewise, sons and daughters, far and near,
Honour your loving friends, and parents dear;
Let not your disobedience grieve them so,
Nor cause their aged eyes with tears to flow.


CONTINUED BELOW





--> Man

[Man]

Poem



England's Alarm; or the Pious Christian's Speedy Call To Repentence
For the many aggravating sins too much practised in our present mournful times: as Pride, Drunkenness, Blasphemous Swearing, together with the Profanation of the Sabbath; concluding with the sin of wantonness and disobedience; that upon our hearty sorrow and forsaking the same the Lord may save us for his mercy's sake.
[From the cluster of 'ornaments' alluded to in the ninth verse of the following poem, we are inclined to fix the date about 1653. The present reprint is from an old broadside, without printer's name or date, in possession of Mr. J. R. Smith.]

CONTINUATION

What a heart-breaking sorrow it must be,
To dear indulgent parents, when they see
Their stubborn children wilfully run on
Against the wholesome laws of God and man!

Oh! let these things a deep impression make
Upon your hearts, with speed your sins forsake;
For, true it is, the Lord will never bless
Those children that do wilfully transgress.

Now, to conclude, both young and old I pray,
Reform your sinful lives this very day,
That God in mercy may his love extend,
And bring the nation's troubles to an end.





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Lady Alice
[This old ballad is regularly published by the stall printers. The termination resembles that of Lord Lovel and other ballads. See Early Ballads, Ann. Ed. p. 134. An imperfect traditional copy was printed in Notes and Queries.]

Lady Alice was sitting in her bower window,
At midnight mending her quoif;
And there she saw as fine a corpse
As ever she saw in her life.

'What bear ye, what bear ye, ye six men tall?
What bear ye on your shoulders?'
'We bear the corpse of Giles Collins,
An old and true lover of yours.'

'O, lay him down gently, ye six men tall,
All on the grass so green,
And to-morrow when the sun goes down,
Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen.

'And bury me in Saint Mary's Church,
All for my love so true;
And make me a garland of marjoram,
And of lemon thyme, and rue.'

Giles Collins was buried all in the east,
Lady Alice all in the west;
And the roses that grew on Giles Collins's grave,
They reached Lady Alice's breast.

The priest of the parish he chanced to pass,
And he severed those roses in twain.
Sure never were seen such true lovers before,
Nor e'er will there be again.




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Sir Arthur and Charming Mollee (TRADITIONAL)
[For this old Northumbrian song we are indebted to Mr. Robert Chambers. It was taken down from the recitation of a lady. The 'Sir Arthur' is no less a personage than Sir Arthur Haslerigg, the Governor of Tynemouth Castle during the Protectorate of Cromwell.]

As noble Sir Arthur one morning did ride,
With his hounds at his feet, and his sword by his side,
He saw a fair maid sitting under a tree,
He asked her name, and she said 'twas Mollee.

'Oh, charming Mollee, you my butler shall be,
To draw the red wine for yourself and for me!
I'll make you a lady so high in degree,
If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!

'I'll give you fine ribbons, I'll give you fine rings,
I'll give you fine jewels, and many fine things;
I'll give you a petticoat flounced to the knee,
If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!'

'I'll have none of your ribbons, and none of your rings,
None of your jewels, and other fine things;
And I've got a petticoat suits my degree,
And I'll ne'er love a married man till his wife dee.'

'Oh, charming Mollee, lend me then your penknife,
And I will go home, and I'll kill my own wife;
I'll kill my own wife, and my bairnies three,
If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!'

'Oh, noble Sir Arthur, it must not be so,
Go home to your wife, and let nobody know;
For seven long years I will wait upon thee,
But I'll ne'er love a married man till his wife dee.'

Now seven long years are gone and are past,
The old woman went to her long home at last;
The old woman died, and Sir Arthur was free,
And he soon came a-courting to charming Mollee.

Now charming Mollee in her carriage doth ride,
With her hounds at her feet, and her lord by her side:
Now all ye fair maids take a warning by me,
And ne'er love a married man till his wife dee.



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Sir John Barleycorn
[The West-country ballad of Sir John Barleycorn is very ancient, and being the only version that has ever been sung at English merry-makings and country feasts, can certainly set up a better claim to antiquity than any of the three ballads on the same subject to be found in Evans's Old Ballads; viz., John Barleycorn, The Little Barleycord, and Mas Mault. Our west-country version bears the greatest resemblance to The Little Barleycorn, but it is very dissimilar to any of the three. Burns altered the old ditty, but on referring to his version it will be seen that his corrections and additions want the simplicity of the original, and certainly cannot be considered improvements. The common ballad does not appear to have been inserted in any of our popular collections. Sir John Barleycorn is very appropriately sung to the tune of Stingo.

There came three men out of the West,
Their victory to try;
And they have taken a solemn oath,
Poor Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and ploughed him in,
And harrowed clods on his head;
And then they took a solemn oath,
Poor Barleycorn was dead.

There he lay sleeping in the ground,
Till rain from the sky did fall:
Then Barleycorn sprung up his head,
And so amazed them all.

There he remained till Midsummer,
And looked both pale and wan;
Then Barleycorn he got a beard,
And so became a man.

Then they sent men with scythes so sharp,
To cut him off at knee;
And then poor little Barleycorn,
They served him barbarously.

Then they sent men with pitchforks strong
To pierce him through the heart;
And like a dreadful tragedy,
They bound him to a cart.

And then they brought him to a barn,
A prisoner to endure;
And so they fetched him out again,
And laid him on the floor.

Then they set men with holly clubs,
To beat the flesh from his bones;
But the miller he served him worse than that,
For he ground him betwixt two stones.

O! Barleycorn is the choicest grain
That ever was sown on land;
It will do more than any grain,
By the turning of your hand.

It will make a boy into a man,
And a man into an ass;
It will change your gold into silver,
And your silver into brass.

It will make the huntsman hunt the fox,
That never wound his horn;
It will bring the tinker to the stocks,
That people may him scorn.

It will put sack into a glass,
And claret in the can;
And it will cause a man to drink
Till he neither can go nor stand.



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The Barley-Mow Song
[This song is sung at country meetings in Devon and Cornwall, particularly on completing the carrying of the barley, when the rick, or mow of barley, is finished. On putting up the last sheaf, which is called the craw (or crow) sheaf, the man who has it cries out 'I have it, I have it, I have it;' another demands, 'What have'ee, what have'ee, what have'ee?' and the answer is, 'A craw! a craw! a craw!' upon which there is some cheering, &c., and a supper afterwards. The effect of the Barley-Mow Song cannot be given in words; it should be heard, to be appreciated properly, - particularly with the West-country dialect.]

Here's a health to the barley-mow, my brave boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
We'll drink it out of the jolly brown bowl,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
Cho. Here's a health to the barley-mow, my brave boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!

We'll drink it out of the nipperkin, boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The nipperkin and the jolly brown bowl,
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the quarter-pint, boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The quarter-pint, nipperkin, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the half-a-pint, boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The half-a-pint, quarter-pint, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the pint, my brave boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The pint, the half-a-pint, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the quart, my brave boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The quart, the pint, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

Well drink it out of the pottle, my boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The pottle, the quart, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the gallon, my boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The gallon, the pottle, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the half-anker, boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The half-anker, gallon, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the anker, my boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The anker, the half-anker, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the half-hogshead, boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The half-hogshead, anker, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the hogshead, my boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The hogshead, the half-hogshead, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the pipe, my brave boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The pipe, the hogshead, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the well, my brave boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The well, the pipe, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the river, my boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The river, the well, &c.
Cho. Here's a health, &c.

We'll drink it out of the ocean, my boys,
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
The ocean, the river, the well, the pipe, the hogshead,
the half-hogshead, the anker, the half-anker,
the gallon, the pottle, the quart, the pint, the
half-a-pint, the quarter-pint, the nipperkin, and
the jolly brown bowl!
Cho. Here's a health to the barley-mow, my brave boys!
Here's a health to the barley-mow!
[The above verses are very much ad libitum, but always in the third line repeating the whole of the previously-named measures; as we have shown in the recapitulation at the close of the last verse.]




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The Barley-Mow Song (Suffolk Version)
[The peasantry of Suffolk sing the following version of the Barley-Mow Song.]

Here's a health to the barley mow!
Here's a health to the man
Who very well can
Both harrow and plow and sow!

When it is well sown
See it is well mown,
Both raked and gavelled clean,
And a barn to lay it in.
He's a health to the man
Who very well can
Both thrash and fan it clean!




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Poem



Lord Bateman
[This is a ludicrously corrupt abridgment of the ballad of Lord Beichan, a copy of which will be found inserted amongst the Early Ballads, An. Ed. p. 144. The following grotesque version was published several years ago by Tilt, London, and also, according to the title-page, by Mustapha Syried, Constantinople! under the title of The Loving Ballad of Lord Bateman. It is, however, the only ancient form in which the ballad has existed in print, and is one of the publications mentioned in Thackeray's Catalogue, see ante, p. 20. The air printed in Tilt's edition is the one to which the ballad is sung in the South of England, but it is totally different to the Northern tune, which has never been published.]

Lord Bateman he was a noble lord,
A noble lord of high degree;
He shipped himself on board a ship,
Some foreign country he would go see.

He sailed east, and he sailed west,
Until he came to proud Turkey;
Where he was taken, and put to prison,
Until his life was almost weary.


CONTINUED BELOW !





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Lord Bateman
[This is a ludicrously corrupt abridgment of the ballad of Lord Beichan, a copy of which will be found inserted amongst the Early Ballads, An. Ed. p. 144. The following grotesque version was published several years ago by Tilt, London, and also, according to the title-page, by Mustapha Syried, Constantinople! under the title of The Loving Ballad of Lord Bateman. It is, however, the only ancient form in which the ballad has existed in print, and is one of the publications mentioned in Thackeray's Catalogue, see ante, p. 20. The air printed in Tilt's edition is the one to which the ballad is sung in the South of England, but it is totally different to the Northern tune, which has never been published.]

CONTINUATION


And in this prison there grew a tree,
It grew so stout, and grew so strong;
Where he was chained by the middle,
Until his life was almost gone.

This Turk he had one only daughter,
The fairest creature my eyes did see;
She stole the keys of her father's prison,
And swore Lord Bateman she would set free.


CONTINUED BELOW !





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Poem



Lord Bateman
[This is a ludicrously corrupt abridgment of the ballad of Lord Beichan, a copy of which will be found inserted amongst the Early Ballads, An. Ed. p. 144. The following grotesque version was published several years ago by Tilt, London, and also, according to the title-page, by Mustapha Syried, Constantinople! under the title of The Loving Ballad of Lord Bateman. It is, however, the only ancient form in which the ballad has existed in print, and is one of the publications mentioned in Thackeray's Catalogue, see ante, p. 20. The air printed in Tilt's edition is the one to which the ballad is sung in the South of England, but it is totally different to the Northern tune, which has never been published.]

CONTINUATION


'Have you got houses? have you got lands?
Or does Northumberland belong to thee?
What would you give to the fair young lady
That out of prison would set you free?'

'I have got houses, I have got lands,
And half Northumberland belongs to me
I'll give it all to the fair young lady
That out of prison would set me free.'


CONTINUED BELOW !





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[Man]

Poem



Lord Bateman
[This is a ludicrously corrupt abridgment of the ballad of Lord Beichan, a copy of which will be found inserted amongst the Early Ballads, An. Ed. p. 144. The following grotesque version was published several years ago by Tilt, London, and also, according to the title-page, by Mustapha Syried, Constantinople! under the title of The Loving Ballad of Lord Bateman. It is, however, the only ancient form in which the ballad has existed in print, and is one of the publications mentioned in Thackeray's Catalogue, see ante, p. 20. The air printed in Tilt's edition is the one to which the ballad is sung in the South of England, but it is totally different to the Northern tune, which has never been published.]

CONTINUATION


O! then she took him to her father's hall,
And gave to him the best of wine;
And every health she drank unto him,
'I wish, Lord Bateman, that you were mine!

'Now in seven years I'll make a vow,
And seven years I'll keep it strong,
If you'll wed with no other woman,
I will wed with no other man.'
That out of prison would set me free.'


CONTINUED BELOW !





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Lord Bateman
[This is a ludicrously corrupt abridgment of the ballad of Lord Beichan, a copy of which will be found inserted amongst the Early Ballads, An. Ed. p. 144. The following grotesque version was published several years ago by Tilt, London, and also, according to the title-page, by Mustapha Syried, Constantinople! under the title of The Loving Ballad of Lord Bateman. It is, however, the only ancient form in which the ballad has existed in print, and is one of the publications mentioned in Thackeray's Catalogue, see ante, p. 20. The air printed in Tilt's edition is the one to which the ballad is sung in the South of England, but it is totally different to the Northern tune, which has never been published.]

CONTINUATION


O! then she took him to her father's harbour,
And gave to him a ship of fame;
'Farewell, farewell to you, Lord Bateman,
I'm afraid I ne'er shall see you again.'

Now seven long years are gone and past,
And fourteen days, well known to thee;
She packed up all her gay clothing,
And swore Lord Bateman she would go see.



CONTINUED BELOW !





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Poem



Lord Bateman
[This is a ludicrously corrupt abridgment of the ballad of Lord Beichan, a copy of which will be found inserted amongst the Early Ballads, An. Ed. p. 144. The following grotesque version was published several years ago by Tilt, London, and also, according to the title-page, by Mustapha Syried, Constantinople! under the title of The Loving Ballad of Lord Bateman. It is, however, the only ancient form in which the ballad has existed in print, and is one of the publications mentioned in Thackeray's Catalogue, see ante, p. 20. The air printed in Tilt's edition is the one to which the ballad is sung in the South of England, but it is totally different to the Northern tune, which has never been published.]

CONTINUATION


But when she came to Lord Bateman's castle,
So boldly she rang the bell;
'Who's there? who's there?' cried the proud porter,
'Who's there? unto me come tell.'

'O! is this Lord Bateman's castle?
Or is his Lordship here within?'
'O, yes! O, yes!' cried the young porter,
'He's just now taken his new bride in.'



CONTINUED BELOW !





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Lord Bateman
[This is a ludicrously corrupt abridgment of the ballad of Lord Beichan, a copy of which will be found inserted amongst the Early Ballads, An. Ed. p. 144. The following grotesque version was published several years ago by Tilt, London, and also, according to the title-page, by Mustapha Syried, Constantinople! under the title of The Loving Ballad of Lord Bateman. It is, however, the only ancient form in which the ballad has existed in print, and is one of the publications mentioned in Thackeray's Catalogue, see ante, p. 20. The air printed in Tilt's edition is the one to which the ballad is sung in the South of England, but it is totally different to the Northern tune, which has never been published.]

CONTINUATION


'O! tell him to send me a slice of bread,
And a bottle of the best wine;
And not forgetting the fair young lady
Who did release him when close confine.'

Away, away went this proud young porter,
Away, away, and away went he,
Until he came to Lord Bateman's chamber,
Down on his bended knees fell he.



CONTINUED BELOW !





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Poem



Lord Bateman
[This is a ludicrously corrupt abridgment of the ballad of Lord Beichan, a copy of which will be found inserted amongst the Early Ballads, An. Ed. p. 144. The following grotesque version was published several years ago by Tilt, London, and also, according to the title-page, by Mustapha Syried, Constantinople! under the title of The Loving Ballad of Lord Bateman. It is, however, the only ancient form in which the ballad has existed in print, and is one of the publications mentioned in Thackeray's Catalogue, see ante, p. 20. The air printed in Tilt's edition is the one to which the ballad is sung in the South of England, but it is totally different to the Northern tune, which has never been published.]

CONTINUATION


'What news, what news, my proud young porter?
What news hast thou brought unto me?'
'There is the fairest of all young creatures
That ever my two eyes did see!

'She has got rings on every finger,
And round one of them she has got three,
And as much gay clothing round her middle
As would buy all Northumberlea.



CONTINUED BELOW !





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