Abner and the Widow Jones, a Familiar Ballad
To My Old Oak Table
The Horkey, a Provincial Ballad
The Broken Crutch, a Tale
Shooter's Hill
A Visit to Ranelagh
Love of the Country
The Woodland HallÓ
Barnham Water
Mary's Evening Sigh
Good Tidings; or, News from the Farm

ABNER AND THE WIDOW JONES,

A Familiar Ballad.

Well! I'm determin'd; that's enough:—
Gee, Bayard! move your poor old bones,
I'll take to-morrow, smooth or rough,
To go and court the Widow Jones.

Our master talks of stable-room,
And younger horses on his grounds;
'Tis easy to foresee thy doom,
Bayard, thou'lt go to feed the hounds.

The first Determination.

But could I win the widow's hand,
I'd make a truce 'twixt death and thee;
For thou upon the best of land
Should'st feed, and live, and die with me.

And must the pole-axe lay thee low?
And will they pick thy poor old bones?
No—hang me if it shall be so,—
If I can win the Widow Jones.

Twirl went his stick; his curly pate
A bran-new hat uplifted bore;
And Abner, as he leapt the gate,
Had never look'd so gay before.

Old Love revived.

And every spark of love reviv'd
That had perplex'd him long ago,
When busy folks and fools contriv'd
To make his Mary answer—no.

But whether, freed from recent vows,
Her heart had back to Abner flown,
And mark'd him for a second spouse,
In truth is not exactly known.

Howbeit, as he came in sight,
She turn'd her from the garden stile,
And downward look'd with pure delight,
With half a sigh and half a smile.

Rustic Salutation.

She heard his sounding step behind,
The blush of joy crept up her cheek,
As cheerly floated on the wind,
"Hoi! Mary Jones—what wont you speak?"

Then, with a look that ne'er deceives,
She turn'd, but found her courage fled;
And scolding sparrows from the eaves
Peep'd forth upon the stranger's head.

Down Abner sat, with glowing heart,
Resolv'd, whatever might betide,
To speak his mind, no other art
He ever knew, or ever tried.

[Illustration: a couple.]

A clear Question.

And gently twitching Mary's hand,
The bench had ample room for two,
His first word made her understand
The plowman's errand was to woo.

"My Mary—may I call thee so?
For many a happy day we've seen,
And if not mine, aye, years ago,
Whose was the fault? you might have been!

"All that's gone by: but I've been musing,
And vow'd, and hope to keep it true,
That she shall be my own heart's choosing
Whom I call wife.—Hey, what say you?

Past Thoughts stated.

"And as I drove my plough along,
And felt the strength that's in my arm,
Ten years, thought I, amidst my song,
I've been head-man at Harewood farm.

"And now, my own dear Mary's free,
Whom I have lov'd this many a day,
Who knows but she may think on me?
I'll go hear what she has to say.

"Perhaps that little stock of land
She holds, but knows not how to till,
Will suffer in the widow's hand,
And make poor Mary poorer still

The Avowal.

"That scrap of land, with one like her,
How we might live! and be so blest!
And who should Mary Jones prefer?
Why, surely, him who loves her best!

"Therefore I'm come to-night, sweet wench,
I would not idly thus intrude,"—
Mary look'd downward on the bench,
O'erpower'd by love and gratitude.

And lean'd her head against the vine,
With quick'ning sobs of silent bliss,
Till Abner cried, "You must be mine,
You must,"—and seal'd it with a kiss.

The Interest of an old Horse asserted.

She talk'd of shame, and wip'd her check,
But what had shame with them to do,
Who nothing meant but truth to speak,
And downright honour to pursue?

His eloquence improv'd apace,
As manly pity fill'd his mind;
"You know poor Bayard; here's the case,—
He's past his labour, old, and blind:

"If you and I should but agree
To settle here for good and all,
Could you give all your heart to me,
And grudge that poor old rogue a stall?

His Character.

"I'll buy him, for the dogs shall never
Set tooth upon a friend so true;
He'll not live long, but I for ever
Shall know I gave the beast his due.

"'Mongst all I've known of plows and carts,
And ever since I learn'd to drive,
He was not match'd in all these parts;
There was not such a horse alive!

"Ready, as birds to meet the morn,
Were all his efforts at the plough;
Then, the mill-brook with hay or corn,
Good creature! how he'd spatter through!

Character continued.

"He was a horse of mighty pow'r,
Compact in frame, and strong of limb;
Went with a chirp from hour to hour;
Whip-cord! 'twas never made for him.

"I left him in the shafts behind,
His fellows all unhook'd and gone,
He neigh'd, and deem'd the thing unkind.
Then, starting, drew the load alone!

"But I might talk till pitch-dark night,
And then have something left to say;
But, Mary, am I wrong or right,
Or, do I throw my words away?

Something like Consent.

"Leave me, or take me and my horse;
I've told thee truth, and all I know:
Truth should breed truth; that comes of course;
If I sow wheat, why wheat will grow."

"Yes, Abner, but thus soon to yield,
Neighbours would fleer, and look behind 'em;
Though, with a husband in the field,
Perhaps, indeed, I should not mind 'em.

"I've known your generous nature well,
My first denial cost me dear;
How this may end we cannot tell,
But, as for Bayard, bring him here."

Parting of the Lovers.—Sad News.

"Bless thee for that," the plowman cried,
At once both starting from the seat,
He stood a guardian by her side,
But talk'd of home,—'twas growing late.

Then step for step within his arm,
She cheer'd him down the dewy way;
And no two birds upon the farm
E'er prated with more joy than they.

What news at home? The smile he wore
One little sentence turn'd to sorrow;
An order met him at the door.
"Take Bayard to the dogs to-morrow."

The Journey renewed.

Yes, yes, thought he; and heav'd a sigh,
Die when he will he's not your debtor:
I must obey, and he must die,—
That's if I can't contrive it better.

He left his Mary late at night,
And had succeeded in the main,
No sooner peep'd the morning light
But he was on the road again!

Suppose she should refuse her hand?
Such thoughts will come, I know not why;
Shall I, without a wife or land,
Want an old horse? then wherefore buy?

Perplexity

From bush to bush, from stile to stile,
Perplex'd he trod the fallow ground,
And told his money all the while
And weigh'd the matter round and round.

"I'll borrow," that's the best thought yet;
Mary shall save the horse's life.—
Kind-hearted wench! what, run in debt
Before I know she'll be my wife?

These women wo'nt speak plain and free.—
Well, well, I'll keep my service still;
She has not said she'd marry me,
But yet I dare to say she will.

A fresh Thought—Turns back.

But while I take this shay brain'd course,
And like a fool run to and fro,
Master, perhaps, may sell the horse!
Therefore this instant home I'll go.

The nightly rains had drench'd the grove,
He plung'd right on with headlong pace;
A man but half as much in love
Perhaps had found a cleaner place.

The day rose fair; with team a-field,
He watch'd the farmer's cheerful brow;
And in a lucky hour reveal'd
His secret at his post, the plough.

Coming to the Point—Generosity

And there without a whine began,
"Master, you'll give me your advice;
I'm going to marry—if I can—
And want old Bayard; what's his price!

"For Mary Jones last night agreed,
Or near upon't, to be my wife:
The horse's value I don't heed,
I only want to save his life."

"Buy him, hey! Abner! trust me I
Have not the thought of gain in view;
Bayard's best days we've seen go by;
He shall be cheap enough to you."

Symptoms of good Feelings.

The wages paid, the horse brought out,
The hour of separation come;
The farmer turn'd his chair about,
"Good fellow, take him, take him home.

"You're welcome, Abner, to the beast,
For you're a faithful servant been;
They'll thrive I doubt not in the least,
Who know what work and service mean."

The maids at parting, one and all,
From different windows different tones;
Bade him farewel with many a bawl,
And sent their love to Mary Jones.

Victory!

He wav'd his hat, and turn'd away,
When loud the cry of children rose;
"Abner, good bye!" they stopt their play;
"There goes poor Bayard! there he goes!"

Half choak'd with joy, with love, and pride,
He now with dainty clover fed him,
Now took a short triumphant ride,
And then again got down and led him.

And hobbling onward up the hill,
The widow's house was full in sight,
He pull'd the bridle harder still,
"Come on, we shan't be there to-night."

Victory!

She met them with a smile so sweet,
The stable-door was open thrown;
The blind horse lifted high his feet,
And loudly snorting, laid him down.

O Victory! from that stock of laurels
You keep so snug for camps and thrones,
Spare us one twig from all their quarrels
For Abner and the Widow Jones.

[Illustration: a table.]

TO MY OLD OAK TABLE.

Friend of my peaceful days! substantial friend,
Whom wealth can never change, nor int'rest bend,
I love thee like a child. Thou wert to me
The dumb companion of my misery,
And oftner of my joys;—then as I spoke,
I shar'd thy sympathy, Old Heart of Oak!
For surely when my labour ceas'd at night,
With trembling, feverish hands, and aching sight,
The draught that cheer'd me and subdu'd my care,
On thy broad shoulders thou wert proud to bear
O'er thee, with expectation's fire elate,
I've sat and ponder'd on my future fate:
On thee, with winter muffins for thy store,
I've lean'd, and quite forgot that I was poor.

Where dropp'd the acorn that gave birth to thee?
Can'st thou trace back thy line of ancestry?
We're match'd, old friend, and let us not repine,
Darkness o'erhangs thy origin and mine;
Both may be truly honourable: yet,
We'll date our honours from the day we met;
When, of my worldly wealth the parent stock,
Right welcome up the Thames from Woolwich Dock
Thou cam'st, when hopes ran high and love was young;
But soon our olive-branches round thee sprung;
Soon came the days that tried a faithful wife,
The noise of children, and the cares of life.
Then, midst the threat'nings of a wintry sky,
That cough which blights the bud of infancy,
The dread of parents, Rest's inveterate foe,
Came like a plague, and turn'd my songs to woe.

Rest! without thee what strength can long survive,
What spirit keep the flame of Hope alive?
The midnight murmur of the cradle gave
Sounds of despair; and chilly as the grave.
We felt its undulating blast arise,
Midst whisper'd sorrows and ten thousand sighs.
Expiring embers warn'd us each to sleep,
By turns to watch alone, by turns to weep,
By turns to hear, and keep from starting wild,
The sad, faint wailings of a dying child.
But Death, obedient to Heav'n's high command,
Withdrew his jav'lin, and unclench'd his hand;
The little sufferers triumph'd over pain,
Their mother smil'd, and bade me hope again.
Yet Care gain'd ground, Exertion triumph'd less,
Thick fell the gathering terrors of Distress;
Anxiety, and Griefs without a name,
Had made their dreadful inroads on my frame;
The creeping Dropsy, cold as cold could be,
Unnerv'd my arm, and bow'd my head to thee.
Thou to thy trust, old friend, hast not been true;
These eyes the bitterest tears they ever knew
Let fall upon thee; now all wip'd away;
But what from memory shall wipe out that day?
The great, the wealthy of my native land,
To whom a guinea is a grain of sand,
I thought upon them, for my thoughts were free,
But all unknown were then my woes and me.

Still, Resignation was my dearest friend,
And Reason pointed to a glorious end;
With anxious sighs, a parent's hopes and pride,
I wish'd to live—I trust I could have died!
But winter's clouds pursu'd their stormy way,
And March brought sunshine with the length'ning day,
And bade my heart arise, that morn and night
Now throbb'd with irresistible delight.
Delightful 'twas to leave disease behind,
And feel the renovation of the mind!
To lead abroad upborne on Pleasure's wing,
Our children, midst the glories of the spring;
Our fellow sufferers, our only wealth,
To gather daisies in the breeze of health!

'Twas then, too, when our prospects grew so fair,
And Sabbath bells announc'd the morning pray'r;
Beneath that vast gigantic dome we bow'd,
That lifts its flaming cross above the cloud;
Had gain'd the centre of the checquer'd floor;—
That instant, with reverberating roar
Burst forth the pealing organ——mute we stood;—
The strong sensation boiling through my blood,
Rose in a storm of joy, allied to pain,
I wept, and worshipp'd GOD, and wept again;
And felt, amidst the fervor of my praise,
The sweet assurances of better days.

In that gay season, honest friend of mine,
I mark'd the brilliant sun upon thee shine;
Imagination took her flights so free,
Home was delicious with my book and thee,
The purchas'd nosegay, or brown ears of corn,
Were thy gay plumes upon a summer's morn,
Awakening memory, that disdains control,
They spoke the darling language of my soul:
They whisper'd tales of joy, of peace, of truth,
And conjur'd back the sunshine of my youth:
Fancy presided at the joyful birth,
I pour'd the torrent of my feelings forth;
Conscious of truth in Nature's humble track,
And wrote "The Farmer's Boy" upon thy back!
Enough, old friend:—thou'rt mine; and shalt partake,
While I have pen to write, or tongue to speak,
Whatever fortune deals me.—Part with thee!
No, not till death shall set my spirit free;
For know, should plenty crown my life's decline,
A most important duty may be thine:
Then, guard me from Temptation's base control,
From apathy and littleness of soul
The sight of thy old frame, so rough, so rode,
Shall twitch the sleeve of nodding Gratitude;
Shall teach me but to venerate the more
Honest Oak Tables and their guests—the poor:
Teach me unjust distinctions to deride,
And falsehoods gender'd in the brain of Pride;
Shall give to Fancy still the cheerful hour,
To Intellect, its freedom and its power;
To Hospitality's enchanting ring
A charm, which nothing but thyself can bring.
The man who would not look with honest pride
On the tight bark that stemm'd the roaring tide,
And bore him, when he bow'd the trembling knee,
Home, through the mighty perils of the sea,
I love him not.—He ne'er shall be my guest;
Nor sip my cup, nor witness how I'm blest;
Nor lean, to bring my honest friend to shame,
A sacrilegious elbow on thy frame;
But thou through life a monitor shalt prove,
Sacred to Truth, to Poetry, and Love.

Dec. 1803.

THE HORKEY. A Provincial Ballad.

ADVERTISEMENT.

In the descriptive ballad which follows, it will be evident that I have endeavoured to preserve the style of a gossip, and to transmit the memorial of a custom, the extent or antiquity of which I am not acquainted with, and pretend not to enquire.

In Suffolk husbandry the man who, (whether by merit or by sufferance I know not) goes foremost through the harvest with the scythe or the sickle, is honoured with the title of "Lord," and at the Horkey, or harvest-home feast, collects what he can, for himself and brethren, from the farmers and visitors, to make a "frolick" afterwards, called "the largess spending." By way of returning thanks, though perhaps formerly of much more, or of different signification, they immediately leave the seat of festivity, and with a very long and repeated shout of "a largess," the number of shouts being regulated by the sums given, seem to wish to make themselves heard by the people of the surrounding farms. And before they rejoin the company within, the pranks and the jollity I have endeavoured to describe, usually take place. These customs, I believe, are going fast out of use; which is one great reason for my trying to tell the rising race of mankind that such were the customs when I was a boy.

I have annexed a glossary of such words as may be found by general readers to require explanation. And will add a short extract from Sir Thomas Brown, of Norwich, M. D. who was born three years before Milton, and outlived him eight years.

"It were not impossible to make an original reduction of many words of no general reception in England, but of common use in Norfolk, or peculiar to the East-Angle counties; as, Bawnd, Bunny, Thurck, Enemis, Matchly, Sainmodithee, Mawther, Kedge, Seele, Straft, Clever, Dere, Nicked, Stingy, Noneare, Fett, Thepes, Gosgood, Kamp, Sibrit, Fangast, Sap, Cothish, Thokish, Bide-owe, Paxwax. Of these, and some others, of no easy originals, when time will permit, the resolution shall be attempted; which to effect, the Danish language, new, and more ancient, may prove of good advantage: which nation remained here fifty years upon agreement, and have left many families in it, and the language of these parts had surely been more commixed and perplex, if the fleet of Hugo de Bones had not been cast away, wherein three-score thousand souldiers, out of Britany and Flanders, were to be wafted over, and were, by King John's appointment, to have a settled habitation in the counties of Norfolk and Suffolk." Tract the viii. on Languages, particularly the Saxon. Folio, 1686, page 48.

THE HORKEY.

A Provincial Ballad.

What gossips prattled in the sun,
Who talk'd him fairly down,
Up, memory! tell; 'tis Suffolk fun,
And lingo of their own.

Ah! Judie Twitchet![A] though thou'rt dead,
With thee the tale begins;
For still seems thrumming in my head
The rattling of thy pins.

[Footnote A: Judie Twitchet was a real person, who lived many years with my mother's cousin Bannock, at Honnington.]

Thou Queen of knitters! for a ball
Of worsted was thy pride;
With dangling stockings great and small,
And world of clack beside!

"We did so laugh; the moon shone bright;
"More fun you never knew;
"'Twas Farmer Cheerum's Horkey night,
"And I, and Grace, and Sue——

"But bring a stool, sit round about,
"And boys, be quiet, pray;
"And let me tell my story out;
"'Twas sitch a merry day!

"The butcher whistled at the door,
"And brought a load of meat;
"Boys rubb'd their hands, and cried, 'there's more,'
"Dogs wagg'd their tails to see't.

"On went the boilers till the hake[Footnote: A sliding pot-hook]
"Had much ado to bear 'em;
"The magpie talk'd for talking sake,
"Birds sung;—but who could hear 'em?

"Creak went the jack; the cats were scar'd,
"We had not time to heed 'em,
"The owd hins cackled in the yard,
"For we forgot to feed 'em!

"Yet 'twas not I, as I may say,
"Because as how, d'ye see;
"I only help'd there for the day;
"They cou'dn't lay't to me.

"Now Mrs. Cheerum's best lace cap
"Was mounted on her head;
"Guests at the door began to rap,
"And now the cloth was spread.

"Then clatter went the earthen plates—
"'Mind Judie,' was the cry;
"I could have cop't[Footnote: Thrown] them at their pates;
"'Trenchers for me,' said I.

"'That look so clean upon the ledge,
"'And never mind a fall;
"'Nor never turn a sharp knife's edge;—
"'But fashion rules us all.'

"Home came the jovial Horkey load,
"Last of the whole year's crop;
"And Grace amongst the green boughs rode
"Right plump upon the top.

"This way and that the waggon reel'd,
"And never queen rode higher;
"Her cheeks were colour'd in the field,
"And ours before the fire.

"The laughing harvest-folks, and John,
"Came in and look'd askew;
"'Twas my red face that set them on,
"And then they leer'd at Sue.

"And Farmer Cheerum went, good man,
"And broach'd the Horkey beer;
"And sitch a mort[Footnote: Such a number.] of folks began
"To eat up our good cheer.

"Says he, 'Thank God for what's before us;
"'That thus we meet agen,'
"The mingling voices, like a chorus,
"Join'd cheerfully, 'Amen.'—

"Welcome and plenty, there they found 'em,
"The ribs of beef grew light;
"And puddings—till the boys got round 'em,
"And then they vanish'd quite!

"Now all the guests, with Farmer Crouder,
"Began to prate of corn;
"And we found out they talk'd the louder,
"The oftner pass'd the Horn.

"Out came the nuts; we set a cracking;
"The ale came round our way;
"By gom we women fell a clacking
"As loud again as they.

"John sung 'Old Benbow' loud and strong,
"And I, 'The Constant Swain,'
"'Cheer up my Lads,' was Simon's song,
"'We'll conquer them again.'

"Now twelve o'clock was drawing nigh,
"And all in merry cue;
"I knock'd the cask, 'O, ho!' said I,
"'We've almost conquer'd you.'

"My Lord[Footnote: The leader of the reapers.] begg'd round, and held
his hat,
"Says Farmer Gruff, says he,
"There's many a Lord, Sam, I know that,
"Has begg'd as well as thee.'

"Bump in his hat the shillings tumbl'd
"All round among the folks;
"'Laugh if you wool,' said Sam, and mumbl'd,
"'You pay for all your jokes.'

"Joint stock you know among the men,
"To drink at their own charges;
"So up they got full drive, and then
"Went out to halloo largess.[Footnote: See advertisement.]

"And sure enough the noise they made!!—
—"But let me mind my tale;
"We follow'd them, we wor'nt afraid,
"We'ad all been drinking ale.

"As they stood hallooing back to back,
"We, lightly as a feather,
"Went sideling round, and in a crack
"Had pinn'd their coats together.

"'Twas near upon't as light as noon;
"'A largess,' on the hill,
"They shouted to the full round moon,
"I think I hear 'em still!

"But when they found the trick, my stars!
"They well knew who to blame,
"Our giggles turn'd to ha, ha, ha's,
"And arter us they came.

"Grace by the tumbril made a squat,
"Then ran as Sam came by,
"They said she could not run for fat;
"I know she did not try.

"Sue round the neathouse[Footnote: Cow-house.] squalling ran,
"Where Simon scarcely dare;
"He stopt,—for he's a fearful man—
"'By gom there's suffen[Footnote: Something.] there!'

"And off set John, with all his might,
"To chase me down the yard,
"Till I was nearly gran'd[Footnote: Strangled.] outright;
"He hugg'd so woundly hard.

"Still they kept up the race and laugh,
"And round the house we flew;
"But hark ye! the best fun by half
"Was Simon arter Sue.

"She car'd not, dark nor light, not she,
"So, near the dairy door
"She pass'd a clean white hog, you see,
"They'd kilt the day before.

"High on the spirket [Footnote: An iron hook.] there it hung,—
"'Now Susie—what can save ye?'
"Round the cold pig his arms he flung,
"And cried, 'Ah! here I have ye!'

"The farmers heard what Simon said,
"And what a noise! good lack!
"Some almost laugh'd themselves to dead,
"And others clapt his back.

"We all at once began to tell
"What fun we had abroad;
"But Simon stood our jeers right well;
—"He fell asleep and snor'd.

"Then in his button-hole upright,
"Did Farmer Crouder put,
"A slip of paper twisted tight,
"And held the candle to't.

"It smok'd, and smok'd, beneath his nose,
"The harmless blaze crept higher;
"Till with a vengeance up he rose,
"Grace, Judie, Sue! fire, fire!

"The clock struck one—some talk'd of parting,
"Some said it was a sin,
"And kilch'd their chairs;—but those for starting
"Now let the moonlight in.

"Owd women, loitering for the nonce,[Footnote: For the purpose.]
"Stood praising the fine weather;
"The menfolks took the hint at once
"To kiss them altogether.

"And out ran every soul beside,
"A shanny-pated[Footnote: Giddy, thoughtless.] crew;
"Owd folks could neither run nor hide,
"So some ketch'd one, some tew.

"They skriggl'd[Footnote: To struggle quick.] and began to scold.
"But laughing got the master;
"Some quack'ling[Footnote: Choaking.] cried, 'let go your hold;'
"The farmers held the faster.

"All innocent, that I'll be sworn,
"There wor'nt a bit of sorrow,
"And women, if their gowns are torn,
"Can mend them on the morrow.

"Our shadows helter skelter danc'd
"About the moonlight ground;
"The wondering sheep, as on we pranc'd,
"Got up and gaz'd around,

"And well they might—till Farmer Chcerum,
"Now with a hearty glee,
"Bade all good morn as he came near 'em,
"And then to bed went he.

"Then off we stroll'd this way and that,
"With merry voices ringing;
"And Echo answered us right pat,
"As home we rambl'd singing.

"For, when we laugh'd, it laugh'd again,
"And to our own doors follow'd!
"'Yo, ho!' we cried; 'Yo, ho!' so plain
"The misty meadow halloo'd.

"That's all my tale, and all the fun,
"Come, turn your wheels about;
"My worsted, see!—that's nicely done,
"Just held my story out!!"

Poor Judie!—Thus Time knits or spins
The worsted from Life's ball!
Death stopt thy tales, and stopt thy pins,
—And so he'll serve us all.