Random Rhymes and Rambles Part 5

Home of my boyish days, how can I call Scenes to my memory, that did befall?

How can my trembling pen find power to tell The grief I experienced in bidding farewell?

Can I forget the days joyously spent, That flew on so rapidly, sweet with content?

Can I then quit thee, whose memory's so dear, Home of my boyish days, without one tear?

Can I look back on days that's gone by, Without one pleasant thought, without one sigh?

Oh, no! though never more these eyes may dwell On thee, old cottage home, I love so well: Home of my childhood, wherever I be, Thou art the nearest and dearest to me.

Can I forget the songs sung by my sire, Like some prophetic bard tuning the lyre?

Sweet were the notes that he taught to the young; Psalms for the Sabbath on Sabbath were sung; And the young minstrels enraptured would come To the lone cottage I once called my home.

Can I forget the dear landscape around, Where in my boyish days I could be found, Stringing my hazel-bow, roaming the wood, Fancying myself to be bold Robin Hood?

Then would my mother say-where is he gone?

I'm waiting of shuttles that he should have won: She in that cottage there knitting her healds, While I her young forester was roaming the fields.

But the shades of the evening gather slowly around, The twilight it thickens and darkens the ground, Night's sombre mantle is spreading the plain.

And as I turn round to look on thee again, To take one fond look, one last fond adieu; By night's envious hand thou art s.n.a.t.c.hed from my view, But O, there's no darkness, to me no decay; Home of my boyhood, can chase thee away.

Ode ta Spring Sixty-four.

O welc.u.m, young princess, thou sweetest of dawters, An' furst bloomin issue o' king sixty-four, Wi thi brah dekked wi gems o' the purest o' waters, Tha tells us thi sire, stern winter is ower.

We hail thi approach wi palm-spangled banners; The plant an' the sapling await thy command; An' natur herseln, to show hur good manners, Now spreads hur green mantle all ower the plain.

Tha appears in the orchard, the gardin, an' grotto, Whare sweet vegetation anon will adorn; Tha smiles on the lord no more than the cottar, Fer thi meanest o' subjects tha nivver did scorn.

O hasten ta labour! ye wise, O be going!

Theze wurds they are borne on the wing o' the wind; Tha bid us be early e pleuin an' sowing, Fer he o' neglects thee tha'll leave um behind.

My Drechen Dear.

Night's sombre mantle is spreading over, Ah, woe is me, these long tedious days; Why dist thou leave me, my venturous lover?

Why did thou cross the raging seas?

Its melancholy here I'm lying, Half broken-hearted, drechen dear; Each blast I hear, love, for thee is sighing, Each billow roaring a shed tear.

How can they say that all-perfect nature Has nothing done or made in vain?

When that beneath the roaring water, Does hideous rocks and cliffs remain.

No eyes these rocks or cliffs discover, That lurks beneath the raging deep; To mark the spot where lies the lover, That leaves the maiden to sigh and weep.

The miser robb'd of his golden pleasure, Views tempests great in his wild despair; But what is all his loss of treasure, To losing thee, my drechen dear?

O cease, O cease, thou cruel ocean!

And give my lover a peaceful rest; For what thy storming and all thy motion, Compared with that within my breast.

O could I now over the wild waves stooping, The floating corpse of thee could spy; Just like a lily in autumn drooping, I'd bow my head, kiss thee, and die.

Address t't First Wesherwuman.

E sooth sho wor a reeal G.o.d-send, To't human race the greatest frend, An' lived no daht at t'other end O' history.

Hur name is nah, yah may depend, A mistery.

But sprang sho up fra royal blood, Or sum poor slave beyond the flud?

Me blessing on the sooap an' sud Sho did invent; Hur name sall renk among the good, If aw get sent.

If n.o.bbut in a rainy dub, Sho did at furst begin ta skrub, Or hed a proper wes.h.i.+n tub, Its all the same; Aw'd give a craan, if aw'd to sub, To get hur name.

In this wide wurld aw'm let afloat, Th' poor possessor of wun koat; Yet linnen clean aw on thee dote, An' thus a.s.sert, Tha'rt wurthy o' grate Shakespere's note; A clean lin' s.h.i.+rt.

Low iz mi lot an' hard mi ways, While paddlin' thro' life's stormy days; Yet aw will sing t'owd la.s.se's prase, Wi' famous glee.

Tho' rude an' ruff sud be mi lays, Sho'st la.s.s for me.

Bards hev sung the fairest fair, There rosy cheeks an' auburn hair, The dying lover's deep despair, There harps hev rung; But useful wimmin's songs are rair, An' seldom sung.

In a Pleasant Little Valley.

In a pleasant little valley near the ancient town of Ayr, Where the laddies they are honest, and the la.s.sies they are fair; Where Doon in all her splendour ripples sweetly thro' the wood, And on its banks not long ago a little cottage stood, 'Twas there in all her splendour, on a January morn, Appeared old Colia's genius,-when Robert Burns was born.

Her mantle large of greenish hue and robe of tartan shone, And round its mystic border seen was Luger, Ayr, and Doon; A leaf-clad holly bough was twined so graceful round her brow, She was the darling native muse of Scotia's Colia: So grand old Colia's genius on this January morn, Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

She vowed she ne'er would leave him till he sung old Scotia's plains, The daisy, and the milk-white thorn he tuned in lovely strains; And sung of yellow autumn, or some lovely banks and braes: And make each cottage home resound with his sweet tuneful lays, And sing how Colia's genius, on a January morn, Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

She could not teach him painting like her Cunningham at home, Nor could she teach him sculpturing like Angelo of Rome: But she taught him how to wander her lovely hills among, And sing her bonny burns and glens in simple rustic song; This old Colia's genius did that January morn, Vow in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

And in the nights of winter when stormy winds do roar, And the fierce das.h.i.+ng waves is heard on Ayr's old craggy sh.o.r.e, The young and old encircled are around the cheerful fire, Will talk of Rob the Ploughman and tune the Scottish lyre; And sing how Colia's genius on a January morn, Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

Johnny o' t' Bog an' Keighley Feff-fee Goast: A Tale o' Poverty.