Chapter 11

The frog croaks loud, and maidens dare not pass But fear the noisome toad and shun the grass; And on the sunny banks they dare not go Where hissing snakes run to the flood below. The nuthatch noises loud in wood and wild, Like women turning skreeking to a child. The schoolboy hears and brushes through the trees And runs about till drabbled to the knees. The old hawk winnows round the old crow's nest; The schoolboy hears and wonder fills his breast. He throws his basket down to climb the tree And wonders what the red blotched eggs can be: The green woodpecker bounces from the view And hollos as he buzzes bye "kew kew."

_Badger_

When midnight comes a host of dogs and men Go out and track the badger to his den, And put a sack within the hole, and lie Till the old grunting badger passes bye. He comes and hears--they let the strongest loose. The old fox hears the noise and drops the goose. The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry, And the old hare half wounded buzzes bye. They get a forked stick to bear him down And clap the dogs and take him to the town, And bait him all the day with many dogs, And laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs. He runs along and bites at all he meets: They shout and hollo down the noisy streets.

He turns about to face the loud uproar And drives the rebels to their very door. The frequent stone is hurled where eer they go; When badgers fight, then every one's a foe. The dogs are clapt and urged to join the fray; The badger turns and drives them all away. Though scarcely half as big, demure and small, He fights with dogs for bones and beats them all. The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray, Lies down and licks his feet and turns away. The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold, The badger grins and never leaves his hold. He drives the crowd and follows at their heels And bites them through--the drunkard swears and reels.

The frighted women take the boys away, The blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray. He tries to reach the woods, an awkward race, But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chace. He turns agen and drives the noisy crowd And beats the many dogs in noises loud. He drives away and beats them every one, And then they loose them all and set them on. He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men, Then starts and grins and drives the crowd agen; Till kicked and torn and beaten out he lies And leaves his hold and cackles, groans, and dies.

_The Fox_

The shepherd on his journey heard when nigh His dog among the bushes barking high; The ploughman ran and gave a hearty shout, He found a weary fox and beat him out. The ploughman laughed and would have ploughed him in But the old shepherd took him for the skin. He lay upon the furrow stretched for dead, The old dog lay and licked the wounds that bled, The ploughman beat him till his ribs would crack, And then the shepherd slung him at his back; And when he rested, to his dog's surprise, The old fox started from his dead disguise; And while the dog lay panting in the sedge He up and snapt and bolted through the hedge.

He scampered to the bushes far away; The shepherd called the ploughman to the fray; The ploughman wished he had a gun to shoot. The old dog barked and followed the pursuit. The shepherd threw his hook and tottered past; The ploughman ran but none could go so fast; The woodman threw his faggot from the way And ceased to chop and wondered at the fray. But when he saw the dog and heard the cry He threw his hatchet--but the fox was bye. The shepherd broke his hook and lost the skin; He found a badger hole and bolted in. They tried to dig, but, safe from danger's way, He lived to chase the hounds another day.

_The Vixen_

Among the taller wood with ivy hung, The old fox plays and dances round her young. She snuffs and barks if any passes bye And swings her tail and turns prepared to fly. The horseman hurries bye, she bolts to see, And turns agen, from danger never free. If any stands she runs among the poles And barks and snaps and drives them in the holes. The shepherd sees them and the boy goes bye And gets a stick and progs the hole to try. They get all still and lie in safety sure And out again when every thing's secure And start and snap at blackbirds bouncing bye To fight and catch the great white butterfly.

_Turkeys_

The turkeys wade the close to catch the bees In the old border full of maple trees And often lay away and breed and come And bring a brood of chelping chickens home. The turkey gobbles loud and drops his rag And struts and sprunts his tail and then lets drag His wing on ground and makes a huzzing noise, Nauntles at passer-bye and drives the boys And bounces up and flies at passer-bye. The old dog snaps and grins nor ventures nigh. He gobbles loud and drives the boys from play; They throw their sticks and kick and run away.

_The Poet's Death_

The world is taking little heed And plods from day to day: The vulgar flourish like a weed, The learned pass away.

We miss him on the summer path The lonely summer day, Where mowers cut the pleasant swath And maidens make the hay.

The vulgar take but little heed; The garden wants his care; There lies the book he used to read, There stands the empty chair.

The boat laid up, the voyage oer, And passed the stormy wave, The world is going as before, The poet in his grave.

_The Beautiful Stranger_

I cannot know what country owns thee now, With France's forest lilies on thy brow. When England knew thee thou wert passing fair; I never knew a foreign face so rare. The world of waters rolls and rushes bye, Nor lets me wander where thy vallies lie. But surely France must be a pleasant place That greets the stranger with so fair a face; The English maiden blushes down the dance, But few can equal the fair maid of France. I saw thee lovely and I wished thee mine, And the last song I ever wrote is thine.

Thy country's honour on thy face attends; Men may be foes but beauty makes us friends.

_The Tramp_

He eats (a moment's stoppage to his song) The stolen turnip as he goes along; And hops along and heeds with careless eye The passing crowded stage coach reeling bye. He talks to none but wends his silent way, And finds a hovel at the close of day, Or under any hedge his house is made. He has no calling and he owns no trade. An old smoaked blanket arches oer his head, A whisp of straw or stubble makes his bed. He knows a lawless law that claims no kin But meet and plunder on and feel no sin-- No matter where they go or where they dwell They dally with the winds and laugh at hell.

_Farmer's Boy_

He waits all day beside his little flock And asks the passing stranger what's o'clock, But those who often pass his daily tasks Look at their watch and tell before he asks. He mutters stories to himself and lies Where the thick hedge the warmest house supplies, And when he hears the hunters far and wide He climbs the highest tree to see them ride-- He climbs till all the fields are blea and bare And makes the old crow's nest an easy chair. And soon his sheep are got in other grounds-- He hastens down and fears his master come, He stops the gap and keeps them all in bounds And tends them closely till it's time for home.

_Braggart_

With careful step to keep his balance up He reels on warily along the street, Slabbering at mouth and with a staggering stoop Mutters an angry look at all he meets. Bumptious and vain and proud he shoulders up And would be something if he knew but how; To any man on earth he will not stoop But cracks of work, of horses and of plough. Proud of the foolish talk, the ale he quaffs, He never heeds the insult loud that laughs: With rosy maid he tries to joke and play,-- Who shrugs and nettles deep his pomp and pride. And calls him "drunken beast" and runs away-- King to himself and fool to all beside.

_Sunday Dip_

The morning road is thronged with merry boys Who seek the water for their Sunday joys; They run to seek the shallow pit, and wade And dance about the water in the shade. The boldest ventures first and dashes in, And others go and follow to the chin, And duck about, and try to lose their fears, And laugh to hear the thunder in their ears. They bundle up the rushes for a boat And try across the deepest place to float: Beneath the willow trees they ride and stoop-- The awkward load will scarcely bear them up. Without their aid the others float away, And play about the water half the day.

_Merry Maid_

Bonny and stout and brown, without a hat, She frowns offended when they call her fat-- Yet fat she is, the merriest in the place, And all can know she wears a pretty face. But still she never heeds what praise can say, But does the work, and oft runs out to play, To run about the yard and ramp and noise And spring the mop upon the servant boys. When old hens noise and cackle every where She hurries eager if the eggs are dear, And runs to seek them when they lay away To get them ready for the market day. She gambols with the men and laughs aloud And only quarrels when they call her proud.

_Scandal_

She hastens out and scarcely pins her clothes To hear the news and tell the news she knows; She talks of sluts, marks each unmended gown, Her self the dirtiest slut in all the town. She stands with eager haste at slander's tale, And drinks the news as drunkards drink their ale. Excuse is ready at the biggest lie-- She only heard it and it passes bye. The very cat looks up and knows her face And hastens to the chair to get the place; When once set down she never goes away, Till tales are done and talk has nought to say. She goes from house to house the village oer, Her slander bothers everybody's door.

_Quail's Nest_

I wandered out one rainy day And heard a bird with merry joys Cry "wet my foot" for half the way; I stood and wondered at the noise,

When from my foot a bird did flee-- The rain flew bouncing from her breast I wondered what the bird could be, And almost trampled on her nest.

The nest was full of eggs and round-- I met a shepherd in the vales, And stood to tell him what I found. He knew and said it was a quail's,

For he himself the nest had found, Among the wheat and on the green, When going on his daily round, With eggs as many as fifteen.

Among the stranger birds they feed, Their summer flight is short and low; There's very few know where they breed, And scarcely any where they go.

_Market Day_

With arms and legs at work and gentle stroke That urges switching tail nor mends his pace, On an old ribbed and weather beaten horse, The farmer goes jogtrotting to the fair. Both keep their pace that nothing can provoke Followed by brindled dog that snuffs the ground With urging bark and hurries at his heels. His hat slouched down, and great coat buttoned close Bellied like hooped keg, and chuffy face Red as the morning sun, he takes his round And talks of stock: and when his jobs are done And Dobbin's hay is eaten from the rack, He drinks success to corn in language hoarse, And claps old Dobbin's hide, and potters back.

_Stonepit_

The passing traveller with wonder sees A deep and ancient stonepit full of trees; So deep and very deep the place has been, The church might stand within and not be seen. The passing stranger oft with wonder stops And thinks he een could walk upon their tops, And often stoops to see the busy crow, And stands above and sees the eggs below; And while the wild horse gives its head a toss, The squirrel dances up and runs across. The boy that stands and kills the black nosed bee Dares down as soon as magpies' nests are found, And wonders when he climbs the highest tree To find it reaches scarce above the ground.

_"The Lass With The Delicate Air"_

Timid and smiling, beautiful and shy, She drops her head at every passer bye. Afraid of praise she hurries down the streets And turns away from every smile she meets. The forward clown has many things to say And holds her by the gown to make her stay, The picture of good health she goes along, Hale as the morn and happy as her song. Yet there is one who never feels a fear To whisper pleasing fancies in her ear; Yet een from him she shuns a rude embrace, And stooping holds her hands before her face,-- She even shuns and fears the bolder wind, And holds her shawl, and often looks behind.

_The Lout_

For Sunday's play he never makes excuse, But plays at taw, and buys his Spanish juice. Hard as his toil, and ever slow to speak, Yet he gives maidens many a burning cheek; For none can pass him but his witless grace Of bawdry brings the blushes in her face. 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 hoarse; 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 rushing 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 butter-bump 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 moorcock 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 dyke 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 dyke side. Dead grass, 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 grass, 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 grass 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. Willow switches I broke and peeled bits of straws, Ever lonely in crowds, in Nature's own laws-- My ball room the pasture, my music the bees, My drink was the fountain, my church the tall trees. Who ever would love or be tied to a wife When it makes a man mad all the days of his life?

_The Winter's Come_

Sweet chestnuts brown like soling leather turn; The larch trees, like the colour of the Sun; That paled sky in the Autumn seemed to burn, What a strange scene before us now does run-- Red, brown, and yellow, russet, black, and dun; White thorn, wild cherry, and the poplar bare; The sycamore all withered in the sun. No leaves are now upon the birch tree there: All now is stript to the cold wintry air.

See, not one tree but what has lost its leaves-- And yet the landscape wears a pleasing hue. The winter chill on his cold bed receives Foliage which once hung oer the waters blue. Naked and bare the leafless trees repose. Blue-headed titmouse now seeks maggots rare, Sluggish and dull the leaf-strewn river flows; That is not green, which was so through the year Dark chill November draweth to a close.

Tis Winter, and I love to read indoors, When the Moon hangs her crescent up on high; While on the window shutters the wind roars, And storms like furies pass remorseless by. How pleasant on a feather bed to lie, Or, sitting by the fire, in fancy soar With Dante or with Milton to regions high, Or read fresh volumes we've not seen before, Or oer old Burton's Melancholy pore.

_Summer Winds_

The wind waves oer the meadows green And shakes my own wild flowers And shifts about the moving scene Like the life of summer hours; The little bents with reedy head, The scarce seen shapes of flowers, All kink about like skeins of thread In these wind-shaken hours.

All stir and strife and life and bustle In everything around one sees; The rushes whistle, sedges rustle, The grass is buzzing round like bees; The butterflies are tossed about Like skiffs upon a stormy sea; The bees are lost amid the rout And drop in [their] perplexity.

Wilt thou be mine, thou bonny lass? Thy drapery floats so gracefully; We'll walk along the meadow grass, We'll stand beneath the willow tree. We'll mark the little reeling bee Along the grassy ocean rove, Tossed like a little boat at sea, And interchange our vows of love.

_Bonny Lassie O!_

O the evening's for the fair, bonny lassie O! To meet the cooler air and walk an angel there, With the dark dishevelled hair, Bonny lassie O!

The bloom's on the brere, bonny lassie O! Oak apples on the tree; and wilt thou gang to see The shed I've made for thee, Bonny lassie O!

Tis agen the running brook, bonny lassie O! In a grassy nook hard by, with a little patch of sky, And a bush to keep us dry, Bonny lassie O!

There's the daisy all the year, bonny lassie O! There's the king-cup bright as gold, and the speedwell never cold, And the arum leaves unrolled, Bonny lassie O!

O meet me at the shed, bonny lassie O! With a woodbine peeping in, and the roses like thy skin Blushing, thy praise to win, Bonny lassie O!

I will meet thee there at e'en, bonny lassie O! When the bee sips in the bean, and grey willow branches lean, And the moonbeam looks between, Bonny lassie O!

_Meet Me in the Green Glen_

Love, meet me in the green glen, Beside the tall elm tree, Where the sweet briar smells so sweet agen; There come with me, Meet me in the green glen.

Meet me at the sunset Down in the green glen, Where we've often met By hawthorn tree and foxes' den, Meet me in the green glen.

Meet me in the green glen, By sweet briar bushes there; Meet me by your own sen, Where the wild thyme blossoms fair. Meet me in the green glen.