Part 1

LYRICAL TALES,

BY

MRS. MARY ROBINSON.

_LONDON_:

PRINTED FOR T. N. LONGMAN AND O. REES, PATERNOSTER-ROW, BY BIGGS AND CO. BRISTOL.

1800.

_CONTENTS._

Page All Alone 1 The Mistletoe, a Christmas Tale 10 The Poor, Singing Dame 17 Mistress Gurton’s Cat, a Domestic Tale 22 The Lascar, in Two Parts 30 The Widow’s Home 49 The Shepherd’s Dog 56 The Fugitive 67 The Haunted Beach 72 Old Barnard, a Monkish Tale 77 The Hermit of Mont-Blanc 86 Deborah’s Parrot, a Village Tale 97 The Negro Girl 107 The Trumpeter, an Old English Tale 115 The Deserted Cottage 123 The Fortune-Teller, a Gypsy Tale 129 Poor Marguerite 139 The Confessor, a Sanctified Tale 149 Edmund’s Wedding 156 The Alien Boy 162 The Granny Grey, a Love Tale 171 Golfre, a Gothic Swiss Tale, in Five Parts 179

ERRATA.

Page 30 line 3 for loath, read loathe.

Page 52 line 16 for long, read still.

Page 111 line 6 for negros read negroes.

Page 166 line 4 for weary read dreary.

TALES.

_ALL ALONE._

I.

Ah! wherefore by the Church-yard side, Poor little LORN ONE, dost thou stray? Thy wavy locks but thinly hide The tears that dim thy blue-eye’s ray; And wherefore dost thou sigh, and moan, And weep, that thou art left alone?

II.

Thou art not left alone, poor boy, The Trav’ller stops to hear thy tale; No heart, so hard, would thee annoy! For tho’ thy mother’s cheek is pale And withers under yon grave-stone, Thou art not, Urchin, left alone.

III.

I know thee well! thy yellow hair In silky waves I oft have seen; Thy dimpled face, so fresh and fair, Thy roguish smile, thy playful mien Were all to me, poor Orphan, known, Ere Fate had left thee—all alone!

IV.

Thy russet coat is scant, and torn, Thy cheek is now grown deathly pale! Thy eyes are dim, thy looks forlorn, And bare thy bosom meets the gale; And oft I hear thee deeply groan, That thou, poor boy, art left alone.

V.

Thy naked feet are wounded sore With thorns, that cross thy daily road; The winter winds around thee roar, The church-yard is thy bleak abode; Thy pillow now, a cold grave-stone— And there thou lov’st to grieve—alone!

VI.

The rain has drench’d thee, all night long; The nipping frost thy bosom froze; And still, the yewtree-shades among, I heard thee sigh thy artless woes; I heard thee, till the day-star shone In darkness weep—and weep alone!

VII.

Oft have I seen thee, little boy, Upon thy lovely mother’s knee; For when she liv’d—thou wert her joy, Though now a mourner thou must be! For she lies low, where yon grave-stone Proclaims, that thou art left alone.

VIII.

Weep, weep no more; on yonder hill The village bells are ringing, gay; The merry reed, and brawling rill Call thee to rustic sports away. Then wherefore weep, and sigh, and moan, A truant from the throng—alone?

IX.

“I cannot the green hill ascend, “I cannot pace the upland mead; “I cannot in the vale attend, “To hear the merry-sounding reed: “For all is still, beneath yon stone, “Where my poor mother’s left alone!

X.

“I cannot gather gaudy flowers “To dress the scene of revels loud— “I cannot pass the ev’ning hours “Among the noisy village croud— “For, all in darkness, and alone “My mother sleeps, beneath yon stone.

XI.

“See how the stars begin to gleam “The sheep-dog barks, ’tis time to go;— “The night-fly hums, the moonlight beam “Peeps through the yew-tree’s shadowy row— “It falls upon the white grave-stone, “Where my dear mother sleeps alone.—

XII.

“O stay me not, for I must go “The upland path in haste to tread; “For there the pale primroses grow “They grow to dress my mother’s bed.— “They must, ere peep of day, be strown, “Where she lies mould’ring all alone.

XIII.

“My father o’er the stormy sea “To distant lands was borne away, “And still my mother stay’d with me “And wept by night and toil’d by day. “And shall I ever quit the stone “Where she is left, to sleep alone.

XIV.

“My father died, and still I found “My mother fond and kind to me; “I felt her breast with rapture bound “When first I prattled on her knee— “And then she blest my infant tone “And little thought of yon grave-stone.

XV.

“No more her gentle voice I hear, “No more her smile of fondness see; “Then wonder not I shed the tear “She would have DIED, to follow me! “And yet she sleeps beneath yon stone “And I STILL LIVE—to weep alone.

XVI.

“The playful kid, she lov’d so well “From yon high clift was seen to fall; “I heard, afar, his tink’ling bell— “Which seem’d in vain for aid to call— “I heard the harmless suff’rer moan, “And griev’d that he was left alone.

XVII.

“Our faithful dog grew mad, and died, “The lightning smote our cottage low— “We had no resting place beside “And knew not whither we should go— “For we were poor,—and hearts of stone “Will never throb at mis’ry’s groan.

XVIII.

“My mother still surviv’d for me “She led me to the mountain’s brow, “She watch’d me, while at yonder tree “I sat, and wove the ozier bough; “And oft she cried, “fear not, MINE OWN! “Thou shalt not, BOY, be left ALONE.”

XIX.

“The blast blew strong, the torrent rose “And bore our shatter’d cot away; “And, where the clear brook swiftly flows— “Upon the turf at dawn of day, “When bright the sun’s full lustre shone, “I wander’d, FRIENDLESS—and ALONE!”

XX.

Thou art not, boy, for I have seen Thy tiny footsteps print the dew, And while the morning sky serene Spread o’er the hill a yellow hue, I heard thy sad and plaintive moan, Beside the cold sepulchral stone.

XXI.

And when the summer noontide hours With scorching rays the landscape spread, I mark’d thee, weaving fragrant flow’rs To deck thy mother’s silent bed! Nor, at the church-yard’s simple stone, Wert, thou, poor Urchin, left alone.

XXII.

I follow’d thee, along the dale And up the woodland’s shad’wy way: I heard thee tell thy mournful tale As slowly sunk the star of day: Nor, when its twinkling light had flown, Wert thou a wand’rer, all alone.

XXIII.

“O! yes, I was! and still shall be “A wand’rer, mourning and forlorn; “For what is all the world to me— “What are the dews and buds of morn? “Since she, who left me sad, alone “In darkness sleeps, beneath yon stone!

XXIV.

“No brother’s tear shall fall for me, “For I no brother ever knew; “No friend shall weep my destiny “For _friends_ are scarce, and _tears_ are few; “None do _I_ see, save on this stone “Where I will stay, and weep alone!

XXV.

“My Father never will return, “He rests beneath the sea-green wave; “I have no kindred left, to mourn “When I am hid in yonder grave! “_Not one!_ to dress with flow’rs the stone;— “_Then—surely_, I AM LEFT ALONE!”

_The MISTLETOE._ _A CHRISTMAS TALE._

A Farmer’s Wife, both young and gay, And fresh as op’ning buds of May; Had taken to herself, a Spouse, And plighted many solemn vows, That she a faithful mate would prove, In meekness, duty, and in love! That she, despising joy and wealth, Would be, in sickness and in health, His only comfort and his Friend— But, mark the sequel,—and attend!

This Farmer, as the tale is told— Was somewhat cross, and somewhat old! His, was the wintry hour of life, While summer smiled before his wife; A contrast, rather form’d to cloy The zest of matrimonial joy!

’Twas Christmas time, the peasant throng Assembled gay, with dance and Song: The Farmer’s Kitchen long had been Of annual sports the busy scene; The wood-fire blaz’d, the chimney wide Presented seats, on either side; Long rows of wooden Trenchers, clean, Bedeck’d with holly-boughs, were seen; The shining Tankard’s foamy ale } Gave spirits to the Goblin tale, } And many a rosy cheek—grew pale. }

It happen’d, that some sport to shew The ceiling held a MISTLETOE. A magic bough, and well design’d To prove the coyest Maiden, kind. A magic bough, which DRUIDS old Its sacred mysteries enroll’d; And which, or gossip Fame’s a liar, Still warms the soul with vivid fire; Still promises a store of bliss While bigots snatch their Idol’s kiss.

This MISTLETOE was doom’d to be The talisman of Destiny; Beneath its ample boughs we’re told Full many a timid Swain grew bold; Full many a roguish eye askance Beheld it with impatient glance, And many a ruddy cheek confest, The triumphs of the beating breast, And many a rustic rover sigh’d Who ask’d the kiss, and was denied.

First MARG’RY smil’d and gave her Lover A Kiss; then thank’d her stars, _’twas over_! Next, KATE, with a reluctant pace, Was tempted to the mystic place; Then SUE, a merry laughing jade A dimpled yielding blush betray’d; While JOAN her chastity to shew Wish’d “the bold knaves would serve _her_ so,” She’d “teach the rogues such wanton play!” And well she could, she knew the way.

The FARMER, mute with jealous care, Sat sullen, in his wicker chair; Hating the noisy gamesome host Yet, fearful to resign his post; He envied all their sportive strife But most he watch’d his blooming wife, And trembled, lest her steps should go, Incautious, near the MISTLETOE.

Now HODGE, a youth of rustic grace With form athletic; manly face; On MISTRESS HOMESPUN turn’d his eye And breath’d a soul-declaring sigh! Old HOMESPUN, mark’d his list’ning Fair And nestled in his wicker chair; HODGE swore, she might his heart command— The pipe was dropp’d from HOMESPUN’s hand!

HODGE prest her slender waist around; The FARMER check’d his draught, and frown’d! And now beneath the MISTLETOE ’Twas MISTRESS HOMESPUN’s turn to go; Old Surly shook his wicker chair, And sternly utter’d—“_Let her dare!_”

HODGE, to the FARMER’s wife declar’d Such husbands never should be spar’d; Swore, they deserv’d the worst disgrace, That lights upon the wedded race; And vow’d—that night he would not go Unblest, beneath the MISTLETOE. The merry group all recommend An harmless Kiss, the strife to end: “Why not?” says MARG’RY, “who would fear, “A dang’rous moment, once a year?” SUSAN observ’d, that “ancient folks “Were seldom pleas’d with youthful jokes;” But KATE, who, till that fatal hour, Had held, o’er HODGE, unrivall’d pow’r, With curving lip and head aside Look’d down and smil’d in conscious pride, Then, anxious to conceal her care, She humm’d—“_what fools some women are_!”

Now, MISTRESS HOMESPUN, sorely vex’d, By pride and jealous rage perplex’d, And angry, that her peevish spouse Should doubt her matrimonial vows, But, most of all, resolved to make An envious rival’s bosom ache; Commanded Hodge to let her go, Nor lead her to the Mistletoe; “Why should you ask it o’er and o’er?” Cried she, “_we’ve been there twice before_!”

’Tis thus, to check a rival’s sway, That Women oft themselves betray; While VANITY, alone, pursuing, They rashly prove, their own undoing.

THE _POOR, SINGING DAME_.

Beneath an old wall, that went round an old Castle, For many a year, with brown ivy o’erspread; A neat little Hovel, its lowly roof raising, Defied the wild winds that howl’d over its shed: The turrets, that frown’d on the poor simple dwelling, Were rock’d to and fro, when the Tempest would roar, And the river, that down the rich valley was swelling, Flow’d swiftly beside the green step of its door.

The Summer Sun, gilded the rushy-roof slanting, The bright dews bespangled its ivy-bound hedge And above, on the ramparts, the sweet Birds were chanting, And wild buds thick dappled the clear river’s edge. When the Castle’s rich chambers were haunted, and dreary, The poor little Hovel was still, and secure; And no robber e’er enter’d, or goblin or fairy, For the splendours of pride had no charms to allure.

The Lord of the Castle, a proud, surly ruler, Oft heard the low dwelling with sweet music ring: For the old Dame that liv’d in the little Hut chearly, Would sit at her wheel, and would merrily sing: When with revels the Castle’s great Hall was resounding, The Old Dame was sleeping, not dreaming of fear; And when over the mountains the Huntsmen were bounding She would open her wicket, their clamours to hear.

To the merry-ton’d horn, she would dance on the threshold, And louder, and louder, repeat her old Song: And when Winter its mantle of Frost was displaying She caroll’d, undaunted, the bare woods among: She would gather dry Fern, ever happy and singing, With her cake of brown bread, and her jug of brown beer, And would smile when she heard the great Castle bell ringing, Inviting the Proud—to their prodigal chear.

Thus she liv’d, ever patient and ever contented, ’Till Envy the Lord of the Castle possess’d, For he hated that Poverty should be so chearful, While care could the fav’rites of Fortune molest; He sent his bold yeomen with threats to prevent her, And still would she carol her sweet roundelay; At last, an old Steward, relentless he sent her— Who bore her, all trembling, to Prison away!

Three weeks did she languish, then died, broken hearted, Poor Dame! how the death-bell did mournfully sound! And along the green path six young Bachelors bore her, And laid her, for ever, beneath the cold ground! And the primroses pale, ’mid the long grass were growing, The bright dews of twilight bespangled her grave And morn heard the breezes of summer soft blowing To bid the fresh flow’rets in sympathy wave.

The Lord of the Castle, from that fatal moment When poor Singing MARY was laid in her grave, Each night was surrounded by Screech-owls appalling, Which o’er the black turrets their pinions would wave! On the ramparts that frown’d on the river, swift flowing, They hover’d, still hooting a terrible song, When his windows would rattle, the Winter blast blowing, They would shriek like a ghost, the dark alleys among!

Wherever he wander’d they followed him crying, At dawnlight, at Eve, still they haunted his way! When the Moon shone across the wide common, they hooted, Nor quitted his path, till the blazing of day. His bones began wasting, his flesh was decaying, And he hung his proud head, and he perish’d with shame; And the tomb of rich marble, no soft tear displaying, O’ershadows the grave, of THE POOR SINGING DAME!

_MISTRESS GURTON’s CAT._ _A DOMESTIC TALE._

Old MISTRESS GURTON had a Cat, A Tabby, loveliest of the race, Sleek as a doe, and tame, and fat With velvet paws, and whisker’d face; The Doves of VENUS not so fair, Nor JUNO’s Peacocks half so grand As MISTRESS GURTON’s Tabby rare, The proudest of the purring band; So dignified in all her paces— She seem’d, a pupil of the Graces! There never was a finer creature In all the varying whims of Nature!

All liked Grimalkin, passing well! Save MISTRESS GURTON, and, ’tis said, She oft with furious ire would swell, When, through neglect or hunger keen, Puss, with a pilfer’d scrap, was seen, Swearing beneath the pent-house shed: For, like some fav’rites, she was bent On all things, yet with none content; And still, whate’er her place or diet, She could not pick her bone, in quiet.

Sometimes, new milk GRIMALKIN stole, And sometimes—over-set the bowl! For over eagerness will prove, Oft times the bane of what we love; And sometimes, to her neighbour’s home, GRIMALKIN, like a thief would roam, Teaching poor Cats, of humbler kind, For high example sways the mind! Sometimes she paced the garden wall, Thick guarded by the shatter’d pane, And lightly treading with disdain, Fear’d not Ambition’s certain fall! Old China broke, or scratch’d her Dame And brought domestic friends to shame! And many a time this Cat was curst, Of squalling, thieving things, the worst! Wish’d Dead! and menanc’d with a string, For Cats of such scant Fame, deserv’d to swing!

One day, report, for ever busy, Resolv’d to make Dame Gurton easy; A Neighbour came, with solemn look, And thus, the dismal tidings broke. “Know you, that poor GRIMALKIN died “Last night, upon the pent-house side? “I heard her for assistance call; “I heard her shrill and dying squall! “I heard her, in reproachful tone, “Pour, to the stars, her feeble groan! “Alone, I heard her piercing cries— “_With not a Friend, to close her Eyes!_”

“Poor Puss! I vow it grieves me sore, “Never to see thy beauties more! “Never again to hear thee purr, “To stroke thy back, of Zebra fur; “To see thy emral’d eyes—so bright, } “Flashing around their lustrous light } “Amid the solemn shades of night! }

“Methinks I see her pretty paws— “As gracefully she paced along; “I hear her voice, so shrill, among “The chimney rows! I see her claws, “While, like a Tyger, she pursued “Undauntedly the pilf’ring race; “I see her lovely whisker’d face “When she her nimble prey subdued! “And then, how she would frisk, and play, “And purr the Evening hours away: “Now stretch’d beside the social fire; “Now on the sunny lawn, at noon, “Watching the vagrant Birds that flew, “Across the scene of varied hue, “To peck the Fruit. Or when the Moon “Stole o’er the hills, in silv’ry suit, “How would she chaunt her lovelorn Tale “Soft as the wild Eolian Lyre! “’Till ev’ry brute, on hill, in dale, “Listen’d with wonder mute!”

“O! Cease!” exclaim’d DAME GURTON, straight, “Has my poor Puss been torn away? “Alas! how cruel is my fate, “How shall I pass the tedious day? “Where can her mourning mistress find “So sweet a Cat? so meek! so kind! “So keen a mouser, such a beauty, “So orderly, so fond, so true, “That every gentle task of duty “The dear, domestic creature knew! “Hers, was the mildest tend’rest heart! “She knew no little _cattish_ art; “Not cross, like _fav’rite Cats_, was she “But seem’d the queen of Cats to be! “I cannot live—since doom’d, alas! to part “From poor GRIMALKIN kind, the darling of my heart!”

And now DAME GURTON, bath’d in tears, With a black top-knot vast, appears: Some say that a black gown she wore, As many oft have done before, For Beings, valued less, I ween, Than this, of Tabby Cats, the fav’rite Queen! But lo! soon after, one fair day, Puss, who had only been a roving— Across the pent-house took her way, To see her Dame, so sad, and loving; Eager to greet the mourning fair She enter’d by a window, where A China bowl of luscious cream Was quiv’ring in the sunny beam.

Puss, who was somewhat tired and dry, And somewhat fond of bev’rage sweet; Beholding such a tempting treat, Resolved its depth to try. She saw the warm and dazzling ray Upon the spotless surface play: She purr’d around its circle wide, And gazed, and long’d, and mew’d and sigh’d! But Fate, unfriendly, did that hour controul, She overset the cream, and smash’d the gilded bowl!

As MISTRESS GURTON heard the thief, She started from her easy chair, And, quite unmindful of her grief, Began aloud to swear! “Curse that voracious beast!” she cried, “Here SUSAN, bring a cord— I’ll hang the vicious, ugly creature— The veriest plague e’er form’d by nature!” And MISTRESS GURTON kept her word— And Poor GRIMALKIN—DIED!