Poems Chiefly from Manuscript Part 14

Then again they all tried, and the tinker he swore That the hogshead had grown twice as heavy or more.

Nay nay, said the toper, and reeled as he spoke, We're all getting weak, that's the end of the joke.

The ploughman came up and cut short his old tune, Hallooed "woi" to his horses and though it was June Said he'd help them an hour ere he'd keep them adry; Well done, said the blacksmith with hopes running high; He moves, and, by jingo, success to the plough!

Aye aye, said the cobbler, we'll conquer him now.

The hogshead rolled forward, the toper fell back, And the host laughed aloud as his sides they would crack To see the old tinker's toil make such a gap In his coat as to rend it from collar to flap.

But the tinker he grumbled and cried Fiddle-dee!

This garment hath been an old tenant with me; And a needle and thread with a little good skill When I've leisure will make it stand more weathers still.

Then crack went his breeks from the hip to the knee With his thrusting--no matter; for nothing cared he.

So long as Sir John rolled along to the door, He's a chip of our block, said the blacksmith, and swore; And as sure as I live to drive nails in a shoe He shall have at my cost a full pitcher or two.

And the toper he hiccuped--which hindered an oath-- So long as he'd credit, he'd pitcher them both.

But the host stopt to hint when he'd ordered the dray Sir Barleycorn's order was purchase and pay.

And now the old knight is imprisoned and ta'en To waste in the tavern man's cellar again.

And now, said the blacksmith, let forfeits come first For the insult swipes offered, or his hoops I will burst.

Here it is, my old hearties--Then drink your thirst full, Said the host, for the stingo is worth a strong pull.

Never fear for your legs if they're broken to-day; Winds only blow straws, dust, and feathers away.

But the cask that is full, like a giant he lies, And giants alone can his spirits capsize.

If he lies in the path, though a king's coming bye, John Barleycorn's mighty and there he will lie.

Then the toper sat down with a hiccup and felt If he'd still an odd coin in his pocket to melt, And he made a wry face, for his pocket was bare.

--But he laughed and danced up, What, old boy, are you there?

When he felt that a stiver had got to his knee Through a hole in his fob, and right happy was he.

Says the tinker, I've brawled till no breath I have got And not met with twopence to purchase a pot.

Says the toper, I've powder to charge a long gun, And a stiver I've found when I thought I'd got none;

So helping a thirsty old friend in his need Is my duty--take heart, thou art welcome indeed.

Then the smith with his tools in Sir John made a breach, And the toper he hiccuped and ended his speech; And pulled at the quart, till the sn.o.b he declared When he went to drink next that the bottom was bared.

No matter for that, said the toper, and grinned; I had but a soak and neer rested for wind.

That's the law, said the smith, with a look rather vexed, But the quart was a forfeit; so pay for the next.

Thus they talked of their skill and their labour till noon When the sober man's toil was exactly half done, And there the plough lay--people hardly could pa.s.s And the horses let loose polished up the short gra.s.s And browsed on the bottle of flags lying there, By the gipsey's old budget, for mending a chair.

The miller's horse tied to the old smithy door Stood stamping his feet, by the flies bitten sore, Awaiting the smith as he wanted a shoe; And he stampt till another fell off and made two:

Till the miller, expecting that all would get loose, Went to seek him and cursed him outright for a goose; But he dipt his dry beak in the mug once or twice And forgot all his pa.s.sion and toil in a trice.

And the flybitten horse at the old smithy post Might stamp till his shoes and his legs they were lost.

He sung his old songs and forgot his old mill-- Blow winds high or low, she might rest her at will.

And the cobbler, in spite of his bustle for pelf, Left the shop all the day to take care of itself.

And the toper who carried his house on his head, No wife to be teazing, no bairns to be fed, Would sit out the week or the month or the year Or a life-time so long as he'd credit for beer.

The ploughman he talked of his skill as divine, How he could plough thurrows as straight as a line; And the blacksmith he swore, had he but the command, He could shoe the king's hunter the best in the land; And the cobbler declared, was his skill but once seen, He should soon get an order for shoes from the queen.

But the tinker he swore he could beat them all three, For gi' me a pair of old bellows, says he, And I'll make them roar out like the wind in a storm And make them blow fire out of coal hardly warm.

The toper said nothing but wished the quart full And swore he could toss it all off at a pull.

Have one, said the tinker; but wit was away, When the bet was to bind him he'd nothing to pay.

And thus in the face of life's sun-and-shower weather They drank, bragged, and sung, and got merry together.

The sun he went down--the last gleam from his brow Flung a smile of repose on the holiday plough; The glooms they approached, and the dews like a rain Fell thick and hung pearls on the old sorrel mane Of the horse that the miller had brought to be shod, And the morning awoke, saw a sight rather odd-- For a bit of the halter still hung at the door, Bit through by the horse now at feed on the moor; And the old tinker's budget lay still in the weather, While all kept on singing and drinking together.

_The Flitting_

I've left my own old home of homes, Green fields and every pleasant place; The summer like a stranger comes, I pause and hardly know her face.

I miss the hazel's happy green, The blue bell's quiet hanging blooms, Where envy's sneer was never seen, Where staring malice never comes.

I miss the heath, its yellow furze, Molehills and rabbit tracks that lead Through beesom, ling, and teazel burrs That spread a wilderness indeed; The woodland oaks and all below That their white powdered branches s.h.i.+eld, The mossy paths: the very crow Croaks music in my native field.

I sit me in my corner chair That seems to feel itself from home, And hear bird music here and there From hawthorn hedge and orchard come; I hear, but all is strange and new: I sat on my old bench in June, The sailing puddock's shrill "peelew"

On Royce Wood seemed a sweeter tune.

I walk adown the narrow lane, The nightingale is singing now, But like to me she seems at loss For Royce Wood and its s.h.i.+elding bough.

I lean upon the window sill, The trees and summer happy seem; Green, sunny green they s.h.i.+ne, but still My heart goes far away to dream.

Of happiness, and thoughts arise With home-bred pictures many a one, Green lanes that shut out burning skies And old crooked stiles to rest upon; Above them hangs the maple tree, Below gra.s.s swells a velvet hill, And little footpaths sweet to see Go seeking sweeter places still,

With bye and bye a brook to cross Oer which a little arch is thrown: No brook is here, I feel the loss From home and friends and all alone.

--The stone pit with its shelvy sides Seemed hanging rocks in my esteem; I miss the prospect far and wide From Langley Bush, and so I seem

Alone and in a stranger scene, Far, far from spots my heart esteems, The closen with their ancient green, Heaths, woods, and pastures, sunny streams.

The hawthorns here were hung with may, But still they seem in deader green, The sun een seems to lose its way Nor knows the quarter it is in.

I dwell in trifles like a child, I feel as ill becomes a man, And still my thoughts like weedlings wild Grow up to blossom where they can.

They turn to places known so long I feel that joy was dwelling there, So home-fed pleasure fills the song That has no present joys to hear.

I read in books for happiness, But books are like the sea to joy, They change--as well give age the gla.s.s To hunt its visage when a boy.

For books they follow fas.h.i.+ons new And throw all old esteems away, In crowded streets flowers never grew, But many there hath died away.

Some sing the pomps of chivalry As legends of the ancient time, Where gold and pearls and mystery Are shadows painted for sublime; But pa.s.sions of sublimity Belong to plain and simpler things, And David underneath a tree Sought when a shepherd Salem's springs,

Where moss did into cus.h.i.+ons spring, Forming a seat of velvet hue, A small unnoticed trifling thing To all but heaven's hailing dew.

And David's crown hath pa.s.sed away, Yet poesy breathes his shepherd-skill, His palace lost--and to this day The little moss is blossoming still.

Strange scenes mere shadows are to me, Vague impersonifying things; I love with my old haunts to be By quiet woods and gravel springs, Where little pebbles wear as smooth As hermits' beads by gentle floods, Whose noises do my spirits soothe And warm them into singing moods.

Here every tree is strange to me, All foreign things where eer I go, There's none where boyhood made a swee Or clambered up to rob a crow.

No hollow tree or woodland bower Well known when joy was beating high, Where beauty ran to shun a shower And love took pains to keep her dry,

And laid the sheaf upon the ground To keep her from the dripping gra.s.s, And ran for stocks and set them round Till scarce a drop of rain could pa.s.s Through; where the maidens they reclined And sung sweet ballads now forgot, Which brought sweet memories to the mind, But here no memory knows them not.

There have I sat by many a tree And leaned oer many a rural stile, And conned my thoughts as joys to me, Nought heeding who might frown or smile.

Twas nature's beauty that inspired My heart with rapture not its own, And she's a fame that never tires; How could I feel myself alone?

No, pasture molehills used to lie And talk to me of sunny days, And then the glad sheep resting bye All still in ruminating praise Of summer and the pleasant place And every weed and blossom too Was looking upward in my face With friends.h.i.+p's welcome "how do ye do?"

All tenants of an ancient place And heirs of n.o.ble heritage, Coeval they with Adam's race And blest with more substantial age.

For when the world first saw the sun These little flowers beheld him too, And when his love for earth begun They were the first his smiles to woo.

There little lambtoe bunches springs In red tinged and begolden dye For ever, and like China kings They come but never seem to die.

There may-bloom with its little threads Still comes upon the th.o.r.n.y bowers And neer forgets those p.r.i.c.kly heads Like fairy pins amid the flowers.