Poems Chiefly from Manuscript Part 19

As vulgar as the dirt he treads upon He calls his cows or drives his horses on; He knows the lamest cow and strokes her side And often tries to mount her back and ride, And takes her tail at night in idle play, And makes her drag him homeward all the way.

He knows of nothing but the football match, And where hens lay, and when the duck will hatch.

_Hodge_

He plays with other boys when work is done, But feels too clumsy and too stiff to run, Yet where there's mischief he can find a way The first to join and last [to run] away.

What's said or done he never hears or minds But gets his pence for all the eggs he finds.

He thinks his master's horses far the best, And always labours longer than the rest.

In frost and cold though lame he's forced to go-- The call's more urgent when he journeys slow.

In surly speed he helps the maids by force And feeds the cows and hallos till he's hoa.r.s.e; And when he's lame they only jest and play And bid him throw his kiby heels away.

_Farm Breakfast_

Maids shout to breakfast in a merry strife, And the cat runs to hear the whetted knife, And dogs are ever in the way to watch The mouldy crust and falling bone to catch.

The wooden dishes round in haste are set, And round the table all the boys are met; All know their own save Hodge who would be first, But every one his master leaves the worst.

On every wooden dish, a humble claim, Two rude cut letters mark the owner's name; From every nook the smile of plenty calls, And rusty flitches decorate the walls, Moore's Almanack where wonders never cease-- All smeared with candle snuff and bacon grease.

_Love and Solitude_

I hate the very noise of troublous man Who did and does me all the harm he can.

Free from the world I would a prisoner be And my own shadow all my company; And lonely see the shooting stars appear, Worlds rus.h.i.+ng into judgment all the year.

O lead me onward to the loneliest shade, The darkest place that quiet ever made, Where kingcups grow most beauteous to behold And shut up green and open into gold.

Farewell to poesy--and leave the will; Take all the world away--and leave me still The mirth and music of a woman's voice, That bids the heart be happy and rejoice.

ASYLUM POEMS

_Gipsies_

The snow falls deep; the forest lies alone; The boy goes hasty for his load of brakes, Then thinks upon the fire and hurries back; The gipsy knocks his hands and tucks them up, And seeks his squalid camp, half hid in snow, Beneath the oak which breaks away the wind, And bushes close in snow-like hovel warm; There tainted mutton wastes upon the coals, And the half-wasted dog squats close and rubs, Then feels the heat too strong, and goes aloof; He watches well, but none a bit can spare, And vainly waits the morsel thrown away.

Tis thus they live--a picture to the place, A quiet, pilfering, unprotected race.

_The Frightened Ploughman_

I went in the fields with the leisure I got, The stranger might smile but I heeded him not, The hovel was ready to screen from a shower, And the book in my pocket was read in an hour.

The bird came for shelter, but soon flew away; The horse came to look, and seemed happy to stay; He stood up in quiet, and hung down his head, And seemed to be hearing the poem I read.

The ploughman would turn from his plough in the day And wonder what being had come in his way, To lie on a molehill and read the day long And laugh out aloud when he'd finished his song.

The pewit turned over and stooped oer my head Where the raven croaked loud like the ploughman ill-bred, But the lark high above charmed me all the day long, So I sat down and joined in the chorus of song.

The foolhardy ploughman I well could endure, His praise was worth nothing, his censure was poor, Fame bade me go on and I toiled the day long Till the fields where he lived should be known in my song.

_Farewell_

Farewell to the bushy clump close to the river And the flags where the b.u.t.ter-b.u.mp hides in for ever; Farewell to the weedy nook, hemmed in by waters; Farewell to the miller's brook and his three bonny daughters; Farewell to them all while in prison I lie-- In the prison a thrall sees nought but the sky.

Shut out are the green fields and birds in the bushes; In the prison yard nothing builds, blackbirds or thrushes, Farewell to the old mill and dash of the waters, To the miller and, dearer still, to his three bonny daughters.

In the nook, the large burdock grows near the green willow; In the flood, round the moorc.o.c.k dashes under the billow; To the old mill farewell, to the lock, pens, and waters, To the miller himsel', and his three bonny daughters.

_The Old Year_

The Old Year's gone away To nothingness and night: We cannot find him all the day Nor hear him in the night: He left no footstep, mark or place In either shade or sun: The last year he'd a neighbour's face, In this he's known by none.

All nothing everywhere: Mists we on mornings see Have more of substance when they're here And more of form than he.

He was a friend by every fire, In every cot and hall-- A guest to every heart's desire, And now he's nought at all.

Old papers thrown away, Old garments cast aside, The talk of yesterday, Are things identified; But time once torn away No voices can recall: The eve of New Year's Day Left the Old Year lost to all.

_The Yellowhammer_

When shall I see the white-thorn leaves agen, And yellowhammers gathering the dry bents By the d.y.k.e side, on stilly moor or fen, Feathered with love and nature's good intents?

Rude is the tent this architect invents, Rural the place, with cart ruts by d.y.k.e side.

Dead gra.s.s, horse hair, and downy-headed bents Tied to dead thistles--she doth well provide, Close to a hill of ants where cowslips bloom And shed oer meadows far their sweet perfume.

In early spring, when winds blow chilly cold, The yellowhammer, trailing gra.s.s, will come To fix a place and choose an early home, With yellow breast and head of solid gold.

_Autumn_

The thistle-down's flying, though the winds are all still, On the green gra.s.s now lying, now mounting the hill, The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot; Through stones past the counting it bubbles red hot.

The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread, The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.

The fallow fields glitter like water indeed, And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.

Hill tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun, And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run; Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air; Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.

_Song_

I peeled bits of straws and I got switches too From the grey peeling willow as idlers do, And I switched at the flies as I sat all alone Till my flesh, blood, and marrow was turned to dry bone.

My illness was love, though I knew not the smart, But the beauty of love was the blood of my heart.

Crowded places, I shunned them as noises too rude And fled to the silence of sweet solitude.

Where the flower in green darkness buds, blossoms, and fades, Unseen of all shepherds and flower-loving maids-- The hermit bees find them but once and away.

There I'll bury alive and in silence decay.

I looked on the eyes of fair woman too long, Till silence and shame stole the use of my tongue: When I tried to speak to her I'd nothing to say, So I turned myself round and she wandered away.

When she got too far off, why, I'd something to tell, So I sent sighs behind her and walked to my cell.