Revised Edition of Poems Part 7

A Kersmas song I'll sing, mi lads, If ye'll bud hearken me; An incident i' Kersmas time, I' eighteen sixty-three; Whithaht a stypher i' the world- I'd scorn to tell a lie- I dined wi a gentleman O' gooise an' giblet pie.

I've been i' lots o' feeds, mi lads, An' hed some rare tucks-aght; Blood-puddin days with killin' pigs, Minch pies an' thumpin' tarts; But I wired in, an' reight an' all, An' supp'd when I wor dry, Fer I wor dinin' wi' a gentleman O' gooise an' giblet pie.

I hardly knew what ail'd ma, lads, I felt so fearful prahd; Mi ears p.r.i.c.ked up, mi collar rahse, T'ards a hawf-a-yard; Mi chest stood aght, mi charley in, Like horns stuck aght mi tie; Fer I dined wi' a gentleman O' gooise an' giblet pie.

I often think o' t'feed, mi lads, When t' gentleman I meet; Bud nauther on us speiks a word Abaht that glorious neet; In fact, I hardly can misel, I feel so fearful shy; Fer I ate a deal o' t'rosted gooise, An' warm'd his giblet pie.

The Grand Old Man.

I sing of a statesman, a statesman of worth, The grandest old statesman there is upon earth; When his axe is well sharpened we all must agree, He can level a nation as well as a tree.

He can trundle such words from his serpent-like tongue As fairly bewilder both old men and young; He can make some believe that's black which is white, And others believe it is morn when it's night.

He has tampered with kings, and connived with the Czar; His Bulgarian twaddle once caused a great war, Where thousands were slain, but what did he heed, He still went to Church the lessons to read.

A b.u.mbailey army to Egypt he sent, In search of some money which long had been spent; He blew up the forts, then commended his men, And ordered them back to old England again.

In the far distant Soudan the Mahdi arose, No doubt he intended to crush all his foes; But Gladstone sent Gordon, who ne'er was afraid, Then left him to perish without any aid.

"If I," said poor Gordon, "get out of this place, That traitor called Gladstone shall ne'er see my face- To the Congo I'll go, if I am not slain, And never put foot in old England again."

When the sad news arrived of the fall of Khartoum, And of how our brave Gordon had met his sad doom, Gladstone went to the theatre and grinned in a box, Tho' he knew that old England was then on the rocks.

He allowed the Dutch Boers on Majuba Hill, Our brave little army to torture and kill; And while our poor fellows did welter in gore, He gave up the sword to the treacherous Boer.

Brave, though black Cetewayo, the great Zulu King, To civilised England they captive did bring; He sent back the Zulu, where first he drew breath, Unguarded and helpless, to meet his own death.

"Had I done," says Bismark, "so much in my life, As Gladstone has done in fomenting sad strife, I could not at this day have looked in the face Of king, prince or peasant of my n.o.ble race."

He has tampered and tarnished his national fame; He has injured Great Britain in interest and aim- Caused strife, war and bloodshed too reckless I ween, Not caring for honour of England or Queen.

He invokes the great G.o.ds their rich blessing to shower, As he stumps our great nation to get into power; E'en now from old Ireland he cravenly begs, That she will a.s.sist him to get on his legs.

Ode to Bacchus.

Pueple G.o.d of joyous wit, Here's to thee!

Deign to let the bardie sit Near thy knee; Thy open brow, and laughing eye, Vanquis.h.i.+ng the hidden sigh, Making care before thee fly, Smiling Bacchus, G.o.d of wine!

Thy stream intoxicates my song, For I am warm; I love thee late, I love thee long; Thou dost me charm; I ever loved thee much before, And now I love thee more and more, For thou art loved the wide world o'er, Charming Bacchus, G.o.d of wine!

"Angels hear that angels sing,"

Sang the bard, While the muse is on the wing, Pay regard; See how Bacchus' nectar flows, Healing up the heartstrings' woes, Making friends, and _minus_ foes, Gracious Bacchus, G.o.d of wine!

Ever on thee I depend, As my guest; Thou wilt bring to me the friend I love best; Friends.h.i.+p is the wine of love; Angels dwell with it above, Cooing like the turtle-dove Lovely Bacchus, G.o.d of wine!

Laughing Genius, a "Good night!"

Yet, stay awhile!

Ere thou tak'st thy upward flight, Upon me smile; Drop one feather from thy breast On the bard, that he may rest, Then he will be doubly bless'd, Glorious Bacchus, G.o.d of wine!

Kings are great, but thou art just, Night and day; What are kings but royal dust- Birds of prey?

Though in splendour they may be- Menials bow, and bend the knee- Oh, let me dwell along with thee, Famous Bacchus, G.o.d of wine!

[Picture: Picture of plant]

Sall o't' Bog.

Mi love is like the pa.s.sion dock, That grows i' t'summer fog; An' tho' shoo's but a country la.s.s, I like mi Sall o' t'Bog.

I walk'd her aght up Rivock End, An' dahn a bonny dell, Whear golden b.a.l.l.s an' kahslips grow, An' b.u.t.tercups do smell.

We sat us dahn on top o' t'gra.s.s, Clois to a runnin' brook, An' harken'd t'watter wagtails sing Wi' t'sparrow, thrush, an' rook.

Aw lockt her in mi arms, an' thowt As t'sun shane in her een, Sho wor the nicest cauliflaar At ivver aw hed seen.

'Twor here we tell'd wur tales o' love, Beneath t'owd hezzel tree; How fondly aw liked Sall o' t'Bog, How dearly shoo loved me!

An' if ivver aw deceive thee, Sall, Aw vah bi all aw see, Aw wish 'at aw mud be a kah, An' it beleng ta thee.

But aw hev plump fergetten nah What awther on us said; At onny rate we parted friends, An' boath went hooam to bed.

Song of the Months.

High o'er the hill-tops moan the wild breezes, As from the dark branches I hear the sad strain: See the lean pauper by his grim hearth he freezes, While comfort and plenty in palaces reign.

Dark is the visage of the rugged old ocean, To the caves in the billow he rides his foamed steed: As o'er the grim surge with his chariot in motion, He spreads desolation, and laughs at the deed.

No more with the tempest the river is swelling, No angry clouds frown, nor sky darkly lower; The bee sounds her horn, and the gay news is telling That spring is established with suns.h.i.+ne and shower.

In the pride of its beauty the young year is s.h.i.+ning, And nature with blossom is wreathing the trees; The white and the green in rich cl.u.s.ters entwining, And sprinkling their sweets on the wings of the breeze.

O May, lovely G.o.ddess! what name can be grander?

What sunbeam so bright as thine own smiling eye; With thy mantle of green, richly spangled in splendour, At whose sight the last demon of winter doth fly?

From her home in the gra.s.s see the primrose is peeping, While diamond dew-drops around her are spread; She smiles thro' her tears like an infant that's sleeping, And to laughter is changed as her sorrows are fled.