Part 3

Yah Kesenmas neeght, or then aboot, When meeasons all wur frozen oot, Ah went te see a coontry frind, An hospitable hoor te spend. For gains Ah cut across at moor, Whoor t'snaw seea furiously did stour:-- The hoose Ah geean'd, an' enter'd in, An' wor as welcome as a king. The stoorm ageean t'winder patter'd, An' hailsteeans doon t'chimler clatter'd, All hands wur in, an' seeam'd content, An' neean did frost or snaw lament. T'lasses all wur at ther sowing, Ther cheeks wi' health an' beauty glowing. Aroond the heearth in cheerful chat Twea'r three frindly neeaburs sat; Ther travels telling,--whoor they'd been, An' what they hed beeath heeard an' seen; Till yan us all did mitch amuse, An' thus a stoory introduce. "Ah recollect lang sin," sez he, "A stoory that wur tell'd te me, 'At seeams seea straange i' this oor day, That true or false Ah cannut say. A man liv'd in this neybourheead, Neea doot ov reputation gud, An' lang taame strave w' stiddy care, Te keep his hooshod i' repair. At length he hed a curious dreeam, For three neeghts runnin 'twur the seeam; 'At if on Lunnon Brigg he stood, He'd heear sum news wad deea him gud. He labour'd hard, beeath neeght an' day, Tryin te draave thooase thowghts away, Yet daily grew mare discontent, Till he at last te Lunnon went! Being quite a stranger te that toon, Lang taame he wander'd up an' doon, Till led by sum mysterious hand, On Lunnon Brigg he teeak his stand; An' theer he waited day by day, An' just wur boon te cum away, Seea mitch he thowght he wur te bleeam, Te gang seea far aboot a dreeam, When thus a man, as he drew neear, Did say, "Good friend, what seek you here, Where I have seen you soon and late?" His dreeam te him he did relate. "Dreams," sez the man, "are empty things, Mere thoughts that flit on silver'd wings; Unheeded we should let them pass:-- I've had a dream, and thus it was, That somewhere round this peopled ball, There's such a place as Lealholm Hall; Yet whether such a place there be, Or not, is all unknown to me. There in a cellar, dark and deep, Where slimy creatures nightly creep, And human footsteps never tread, There is a store of treasure hid. If it be so, I have no doubt, Some lucky wight will find it out: Yet so or not, is nought to me, For I shall ne'er go there to see!" The man did slyly twice or thrice, The cockney thenk for his advice, Then heeame ageean wi'oot delay, He cheerfully did tak his way, An' set aboot the wark, an' sped, Fund ivv'ry thing, as t' man hed sed, Wur ivver efter seen te floorish, T'finest gentleman i' all the parish. Fooaks wonder'd sare, an' weel they meeght, Whoor he gat all his ginnes breeght! If it wur true, in spite ov feeame, Te him it wor a lucky dreeam.

A STRANGE EFFUSION,

OR

WESLEYANISM AT EASBY,

IN THE STOKESLEY CIRCUIT:

_Written when the Methodists were deprived of the place of worship in which they had been accustomed to meet._

They're wakken'd at Easby, the Lord is amang 'em, Thof turn'd oot o' t' temple 'at used te belang 'em, Anoother we whooap afoore lang 'll be beelt, Whoor sinners thruff Christ may hev pardon for guilt. T' Lord seems te oppen a way out afoore 'em, Thof neybourin lions hev aim'd te devoor 'em. When t'awd maister mariner fail'd at the helm, They thowght it wad all the consarn owerwhelm; An' when they appear'd ov all succour bereft, They endeeavour'd te freeghten t' few 'at wur left. Bud the Lord wur detarmin'd te be ther protection, Te send 'em suppoort, an' gie 'em direction; If nobbut, like monny, they wadden't betray him, Bud stick te that text, beeath te luv an' obey him. They can't be content wi' ther steeple opinions, Bud they mun mack inrooads on others' dominions; Thof theers be in gen'ral the fat an' the wealthy, For t'want of gud physic, they seldom are healthy. Hoo strange 'at they sud sike fair temples erect, Te murder the sowls in--they're swoorn te protect! Bud stranger they'll finnd it o' yon side the fleead, Wi' ther hands an' ther garments all stain'd i' ther bleead! We needn't te wonder they mack sike a fuss, Ther craft is i' danger fra' rebels like us:-- For God can mack preeachers--hoo feearful the thowght-- Fra' cobblers, or meeasons, or blacksmiths, or owght! O yes! Dr. Pusey may whet his awd grinders, An' put on his captives ther fetters an' blinders; Ther's poor men iv Easby 'at ken his awd sang, An' see the defect ov beeath him an' his gang. He may scare 'em wi' taxes, wi' rates, an' oppression, All thooase whea are oot o' the line o' succession, Thof te prove 'at _he's_ in't, he's a varry poor chance, Unless he unite wi' the Romans at yance. Then t' Romans wad help him, an' think it all reeght, Te murder Dissenters, an' put oot ther leeght; Te cut 'em i' pieces, te butcher an' bon 'em, Bud till that's the keease they cannut owerton 'em! Nur Stowsley, nur Yatton, ther frinds will invite, Nur Skelton, nur Brotton, ther efforts unite; They'll finnd te ther mortification an' pain, They hev fowght wi' t' wind, an' hev labour'd i' vain!

LEALHOLM BRIDGE.

A SOLILOQUY DURING A VISIT, AFTER SOME YEARS' ABSENCE.

Ah, lovely Lealholm! Where shall I begin, To say what thou art now, and once hast been? Once the dear seat of all my earthly joys, That now, in recollection only, rise! Methinks, where'er I look no life appears, But all the place a cheerless aspect wears; Thy groves are desolate, thy swains are fled, And many of them number'd with the dead; Religion 's cold, the poor are sore oppress'd, Thy orphans weep, and widows are distress'd. O let us pray their griefs may shortly end, And God, their Father, still may prove their friend. This ancient Bridge some faint idea brings, Where still the swallow comes and dips her wings; The murmuring river, and the rumbling mill, Bear some resemblance to poor Lealholm still; Yon silent whirlpool beautifies the scene, Where shades of trees are in its deepness seen, Where leaping fishes on the surface play, And gladly seems to close, the summer's day; The broken waters from yon glen resound, Their constant rippling 's heard the village round; Yon burden'd iron pinion loudly shrieks, While tears of oil hang on his rusty cheeks; The greedy race, the water still supplies, The lofty wheel's broad shelves successive rise; The thund'ring engine doth her hands employ, And Hunter's place is fill'd by William Joy; The floating bubble swims upon the wave, While Ord[B] lies mould'ring in the silent grave; Behind yon hill the sun escapes from sight, And yields his empire to the shades of night. Alas! Poor Lealholm once in glory shone, But now, she like a widow, sits alone! Once from yon town the people flock'd like bees, To taste the sweetness of the country breeze; Pedestrians joyful, here and there were seen, While shays and whiskeys deck'd her level green; The banks of Esk, were crowded all along, Either with Anglers, or with lookers on. The full "Moon,"[C] then did through her valleys shine, So bright, some thought she never would decline; Year after year she in her sphere did move, And all seem'd animation, life, and love: But now, in mists and gloom she disappears, Eclips'd--her light no longer Lealholm cheers! Pluck'd from her orb, her borrow'd lustre's fled, And in the silent tomb, she rests her head. In distant lands my father's lot was cast, And we were left to feel the bitter blast. Death's fatal hand its victim did arrest, And tore him from the darlings of his breast. I, by a mother's care, when young was led, Down by the river to yon primrose bed, Where birds so sweetly sung the trees among, I thought those days were happy, bright, and long. Oft I, a boy, with others of my age, Did eager here in youthful sports engage. Oft in yon wood we rov'd when life was new, The rocks, and trees and rugged caves to view; Where woodbines wild, with sweets perfum'd the air, And all seem'd joyous, beautiful, and fair. Alas! where's now the grove? The trees are gone! And many the wide ocean are upon: A few remaining springers yet survive, And keep their owner's name and place alive! Just so it is with us, could we but see, Our fathers who are in eternity! Their offspring live, but they're for ever gone, Their portion's fixed, no more will they return! May we be wise, and lessons learn afresh, To trust no longer in an arm of flesh!-- Begin to seek, and rest not till we find The peace of God, which satisfies the mind. Then seeing all my earthly joys are fled, Where, O my soul! art thou for succour led? 'Tis Jesus, that can all thy wants supply, A fountain 's there which never will run dry: Arabia's grove, nor Sharon's flowery field, Such rich perfume, such holy incense yield: 'Tis Jesus' merit, and his dying love, 'Tis these perfume the glorious courts above!

FOOTNOTES:

[B] The Mill was built by Mr. Ord.

[C] Mrs. Moon, landlady of the Public House, who died during the Author's absence.

OLD SAM!

OR

THE EFFECTS OF THE GOSPEL.

Attend, all ye who Zion's tidings love, Whose hearts and hopes are fix'd on things above, Whose chief delight is centred in the fame, Of signs and wonders wrought through Jesus' name;-- All ye who virtue love, and evil hate, Attend, while I a simple tale relate. A preacher being to a village sent, To warn and woo the people to repent; Depending only on God's mighty grace, His pious soul was looking for success. For God, his people had a house prepared, In which his arm had many times been bared, And in that little village congregation, Were found some earnest seekers of salvation. Among the rest a noted Bruiser stood, Whose hands had oft been stain'd with human blood; A man of constitution so robust, He oft had laid Goliaths in the dust. He fully on the preacher fix'd his eye, But scarcely could declare the reason why; The subject, and the theme on which he dwelt, Caught his attention, and its force he felt. He thought the preacher all his actions knew, His words, like arrows, pierc'd his conscience through; His spirits fell, his heart was sick and sore, Such anguish he had never felt before. It seem'd to him as if an angel spoke, He felt within as if his heart was broke, He thought he heard mount Sinai's thunder roll, Which shook the very centre of his soul! Such mighty strokes soon humbled all his pride, He sank condemn'd, and loud for mercy cried. "What shall I do?" said he, "Nay, who can tell? Oh! how shall I escape the pit of Hell?" On bended knees he did salvation seek, Big tears roll'd down his long undaunted cheek:-- The people pray'd, the sinner wept the more,-- This man, who till that hour, ne'er wept before. After a time his mighty anguish ceas'd, The Lord of life his captive soul releas'd! The joy he felt he scarcely could contain, The people sung--"a sinner's born again!" Some time elaps'd--two of his mates had met, As custom was, and in a tavern sat, Conversing on events that daily pass'd, Till one the other thus address'd at last. "Heard you not what occurred the other day? Old Sam has been converted, people say!" "Old Sam!" the other says, with great surprise, "What Sam, the Boxer?" "Yes!" the other cries! "Depend upon't, though you may think it strange, But in old Sam there is a wondrous change!" "Nay,--he converted! Pshaw! 'tis all a whim; They've just as much converted me as him; And I can find a man, I have no doubt, That soon will beat all his religion out." "Perhaps not so," the other softly said, "I think Old Sam 's of better mettle made, I know that he was always bad to bend, And on his firmness I will still depend." The other rose, and would a wager bet, Old Sam was not so far converted yet, But that if pick'd at, he would turn again, And still he would the bloody cause maintain. To Sammy's door their way direct they took, For he had now the tavern's haunts forsook; They call'd a rebel out to lead the van, To vex and aggravate the poor old man. At length they reach'd, and rattled at the door, Standing around, like lions to devour His happy soul; but he had by his side, King David's faithful Shepherd for his guide. Old Sammy from his Bible reading rose, And straightway forth to meet the rebel goes; "Here's one," say they, "will fight for what you like!" He stamp'd, and raged, and dared old Sam to strike; Sam look'd and smiled, as he before him stood, Then shook his head, thinking the cause not good; At length his flaming passion to control, He cries, "The Lord have mercy on thy soul! Thy case I pity, O thou man of might, Although this practice once was my delight; Calm thy fierce rage, and to old Sam attend, Before destruction prove thy awful end. I clearly see the spirit thou art in, For I myself oft in the same have been; And many a one like thee I've made to bend, And brought their boasting valour to an end. 'Tis well for thee that I'm another man, Or thou wouldst rue the day that this began; I soon should settle all thy boasts and brags, And make thy bones fall rattling on the flags! Thou mayst thank God, whose power and grace divine, Have chang'd this proud, rebellious heart of mine; The love I feel to thee forbids the blow, Which soon would lay thy boasting prowess low. Restrain thy passion, give old Sam thine hand, Be thankful that thou dost before him stand; Go tell the men whom once I did adore, Their wager's lost, old Sam will fight no more; Tell them to save their money for their wives, Give up their folly, and reform their lives; To go and seek salvation while they may, Before the wrath of God drives them away!" Sam's noble speech so satisfied them all, That not one there durst him a coward call. "Although the wager 's fairly lost," say they, "We all must own old Sam hath won the day!" Now Sammy like a warrior stout and bold, Seeks new companions, and forsakes the old; While shouts of praise his ravish'd ears surround, He hears, and understands, the joyful sound! Yes, Sammy has a better master now, And more substantial friends to deal with too; Secure he leans on his Redeemer's breast, And sweetly sings himself away to rest.

THOUGHTS ON GOOD FRIDAY:

Occasioned by seeing two "_Sinkers_" dragged out of a Coal Pit; one of them killed, the other dreadfully wounded. At a short distance, a busy crowd were preparing their tents and posts for the approaching races, on Easter Monday and Tuesday. On mentioning the fatal occurrence, and naming the day, a bystander exclaimed, "O, Good Friday is nought!"

The morning sun shone dim, as if in pain, To see that day by man so soon despised. The feather'd choirs did heedless man reprove, Who had more cause than they, with early song To greet the morn, on which their Saviour bled. Alas! that man should e'er forget his love! Down, down the pit, the cheerful sinkers went, Nor grief, nor fear through all the gloom appear'd; Though at the bottom deep, grim death sat shrouded In horrid features, measuring their minutes! Foul was the air, and bad;--they saw him not, Nor dream'd he was so near, nor held dispute, On which the lot might fall, to be his victim:-- When suddenly, through wanton carelessness, Or the just judgment of an angry God, The kibble kick'd, brim full of splinter'd rock! Down fell at once his ponderous instrument, Full thirty fathom, whizzing as it went! Beneath its heavy crash a victim fell, And groan'd, nor ceas'd, till he had groan'd his last. Then from behind the scene the monster stept, And with his bony fingers hurl'd his dart: Its point another touch'd, but not so deep. Forth from the pit I saw the sufferers dragg'd, I heard deep groans, and saw their mangled flesh. The former then with grief was quick interr'd, The other a poor halting cripple lives. Where's now the man that says "Good Friday's nought?" With accidents like this, God's swift judgments, I could, if 'twere requested, fill these sheets; But to the man who thinks, and judges right, This may suffice. And is Good Friday nought? Is that day nought on which our Saviour bled, To buy our pardon, to save by suff'ring! Open salvation's fount for crimson crimes, And wash, and make us guilty lepers clean? Alas for man! He sees, he feels it not! Of old, men saw, and felt it, though far off. The martyrs saw, own'd, and observ'd it too, In fasting, prayer, and self-denial; This made them march, when call'd, with holy joy, To meet the dagger's point, or burning stake. The earth once felt, and felt to her foundations; The marble mountain felt, and quak'd, and shiver'd; The sun felt, and grew dark; the heavens wept, And hell beneath, in dismal groanings howl'd! The serpent felt,--and still feels in his bruis'd head. The Saviour!--Yes, the King of Glory felt, In that sad cup his subjects should have drunk:-- Both in the temple, and the wilderness, The street, the judgment hall,--in Pilate's scourge, In cruel mockings, and the scarlet robe! He felt it too beneath the rugged wood, When He fatigued climb'd Calvary's steep brow! He felt it in the hammer and the nails That pierc'd his flesh, though he offended not! He felt it in the reed, and crown of thorns! He felt it in the hyssop, vinegar, and gall, In strange upbraidings, and the soldier's spear! He felt it in that mighty crush, which should, And would have crush'd, his guilty murderers. He felt it till his mortal part expir'd! He feels it yet, and so do his disciples: But the proud stiff-neck'd sinner feels it not;-- Perverse, he _will not_, yet one day he shall! Though he at present, feast and garnish out His wife's, or children's birth days, and his own, With songs, and cards, and music, and the dance, Yet this, like Job's day, shall be blotted out! Though he _will not_, yet he shall regard it, When God appears in majesty, and power, Arm'd with thunder-bolts, and chariots of fire, On all his foes to pour his vengeance! Yes! All men then will wish to be his friends. E'en those who have his words and grace despis'd, Will wish their lives were to begin again!-- "Whither, O, whither shall the guilty flee, When consternation turns the good man pale!"

TO A WITHERED FLOWER!

Withering Flower, upbraid me not! Why cast on me that look so pale? Why dost thou my attention court, To listen to thy mournful tale? Why bow thy head? Why bend thy neck? Why look so drooping, wan, and cold? To give my careless thoughts a check,-- And tell me _I_ am getting old!

Fading Flower, upbraid me not! Still nodding with the gentle breeze. Or dost thou think I have forgot, I too am wasting by degrees? For scarce can I believe my sight, Who lately saw thee fresh and gay; That beauty could so early blight, Or such fresh colours fade away!

Drooping Flower, upbraid me not! But turn to Sol's enlivening ray. I in some climate cold or hot, Must also sicken and decay! Nay, why dost thou shake off thy leaf, And show thy heart so fair and clean? But mine to smite with inward grief,-- To feel the many plagues within.

Weeping Flower, upbraid me still! For half the conquest thou hast gain'd. Yes! listen to thy tale I will, Until its meaning be explain'd. Fair emblem thou of human life; In thee its changing tints are seen; Our visit here, so frail and brief, Is painted in those tints of thine!

When in thy bud so rich and gay, Thou did'st escape the spoiler's hand That would have reft thy charms away, 'Twas pity check'd--and let thee stand! While cherish'd by the blushing fair, And waving on thy hardy stem, Thy fragrance rich, perfum'd the air,-- Thou'rt blasted now to me and them!

Unlike to thee, whose task is done, When Man shall quit this vale of tears, After this life's short glass is run, Man shall exist in nobler spheres. All earthly glories fade away, So transient and so insecure; With us, alas, how short's their stay! Prefigur'd by a dying Flower!

Yet we have cause to bless the day, If weary of a life mispent, By this thy exit, any may Be led to ponder, and repent. Thou transient teller of the truth, May he who bids, and thunders roll, Forgive the follies of my youth, And stamp thy lesson on My soul!

THE COUNTRY LOVE FEAST.

(_Held in an old Barn, Farndale, Yorkshire._)