Chapter VIII: Part 8

His word wor his bond, for he hated a lie,
An sickophants doubly despised;
He wor ne'er know to cringe to a rich fly-bi-sky,
It wor worth an net wealth 'at he prized.
Aw shall ne'er meet another soa honest an true,
As aw write ther's a tear i' mi ee;
Nah he's gooan to his rest, an aw'll give him his due,--
He wor allus a gooid friend to me.

A Pair o' Black Een.

One neet as aw trudged throo mi wark,
Thinks aw, nah mi labor is done,
Aw feel just inclined for a lark,
For its long sin aw had onny fun.

An ov coorse awd mi wife i' mi mind,
Shoo's a hot en, but then, what bi that!
For when on a spree aw'm inclined,
Aw could nivver get on baght awr Mat.

Sally Slut wor a croney o' hers,
A bonny an warm-hearted lass,
An shoo'd latly been wed to a chap,
'At could booast booath some brains an some brass.

But someha, awr Mat seemed to think,
'At Sally, soa hansum an trim;
For a partner throo life owt to luk
Wi' somdy mich better nor him.

An shoo profiside trubble an care,
Wor i' stoor at noa far distant day,
An shoo muttered "poor Sal, aw declare,
Tha's thrown thisen reight cleean away."

As sooin as aw gate hold o'th' sneck,
Aw walked in wi' a sorrowful face,
Then aw sank like a hawf empty seck
Into th' furst seeat aw coom to i'th' place.

"Gooid gracious, alive! What's to do?"
Says Matty, "whativver's amiss?"
"A'a, lass! tha'll nooan think at its true,--
It's a tarrible come-off is this,"

"Tha knows Sally Slut,--A'a dear me!
To-day as aw went across th' green,
Aw met her,--an what should aw see,--
Why, shoo'd getten a pair o' black een,"

"That scamp! But aw'll sattle wi' him!"
Says Mat, as shoo threw on her shawl,--
"Aw warned her agean weddin Tim,--
But aw'll let him see;--sharply an all!"

Off shoo flew an left me bi misen,
An aw swoller'd mi teah in a sniff,
An aw crept up to bed, thear an then,--
For aw knew shoo'd come back in a tiff.

An shoo did, in a few minnits mooar;
An worn't shoo mad? nivver fear!
An th' laader aw reckoned to snooar,
An th' laader shoo skriked i' mi ear.

Tha thowt tha'd put me in a stew,--
But aw treeat sich like conduct wi' scorn!
But tha didn't fooil me, for aw knew,
Shoo'd black een ivver sin shoo wor born.

Shoo can booast ov her een,--that shoo can!
But shoo's nowt at aw envy,--net me!
Unless it's her bavin a man,
Asteead ov a hawbuck like thee.

A Screw Lawse.

When rich fowk are feastin, an poor fowk are grooanin,
Ther's summat 'at connot be reight.
Wol one lot are cheerin, another lot's mooanin
For want ov sufficient to ait.
Ther must be a screw lawse i'th' social machine,
An if left to goa on varry long,
Ther'll as sewer be a smash as befoortime ther's been,
When gross wrangs ov thooas waik mak em strong.
Discontent may long smolder, but aght it'll burst,
In a flame 'at ther efforts will mock;
An they'll leearn when too lat, 'at they've met the just fate,
Ov thooas who rob th' poor o' ther jock.

A Sad Mishap.

"Come, John lad, tell me what's to do,
Tha luks soa glum an sad;
Is it becoss tha'rt short o' brass?
Or are ta poorly, lad?
Has sombdy been findin fault,
Wi' owt tha's sed or done?
Or are ta bothered wi' thi loom,
Wi' th' warp tha's just begun?

Whativver 'tis, lad, let me know,--
Aw'll help thi if aw can;
Sometimes a woman's ready wit
Is useful to a man.
Tha allus let me share thi joys,--
Let's share when grief prevails;
Tha knows tha sed aw should, John,
I'th' front o'th' alter rails.

We've just been wed a year, lad,
Come Sundy next but three;
But if tha sulks an willn't spaik,
Aw'st think tha'rt stawld o' me.
Aw've done mi best aw'm sewer, John,
To be a wife to thee;
Come tell me what's to do, John,
Wol aw caar o' thi knee."

----------

"Aw've brass enuff to pay mi way,--
Aw'm hearty as needs be;--
Ther's noabdy been findin fault,
An aw'm nooan stawl'd o' thee.
But aw'm soa mad aw connot bide,--
For commin hooam to-neet,
Mi pipe slipt throo between mi teeth,
An smashed to bits i'th' street.
Aw cant think what aw could be doin,
To let the blam'd thing drop!
An a'a! it wor a beauty,
An colored reight to th' top."

If.

Dear Jenny, if fortun should favour mi lot,
Mi own bonny wife tha shall be;
For trubbles an worries we'll care net a jot,
For we'll rout 'em wi' frolic an glee.

We'll have a snug cot wi' a garden at th' back,
An aw'll fix peearks i'th' cellar for hens;
Then a fresh egg for braikfast tha nivver need lack,
When thi fancy to sich a thing tends.

Some cheers an a table, an two-o'-three pans,
Some pots an a kettle for tea;
A bed an a creddle an smart kist o' drawers,
An a rockin-cheer, lass,--that's for thee.

Some books, an some picters to hing up o'th' wall,
To mak th' place luk nobby an neat;
An a rug up o'th' harstun to keep thi tooas warm,
An some slippers to put on thi feet.

An when Sundy comes,--off to th' chapel or church,
An when we get back we'll prepare,
Some sooart ov a meal,--tho its hooamly an rough,
If its whooalsum we nivver need care.

If we're blest wi' a bairn, we mun ne'er be put aght,
If it shows us its tempers an tiffs;
Soa Jenny, have patience, for th' change i' thi state,
Depends varry mich on theas "Ifs."

A True Tale.

Ther's a Squire lives at th' Hall 'at's lukt up to,
As if he wor ommost a god.
He's hansum, he's rich, an he's clivver,
An fowk's praad if he gives 'em a nod.
He keeps carriages, horses an dogs,
For spooartin, or fancy, or labor,
He's a pew set apart in a church,
An he's reckoned a varry gooid naybor.

Ther's a woman bedrabbled an weet,
Crouched daan in a doorhoil to rest;
Her een strangely breet,--her face like a sheet,
An her long hair hings ovver her breast.
Want's shrivell'd her body to nowt,
An vice has set th' stamp on her face;
An her heart's grown soa callous an hard,
'At it connot be touched wi' disgrace.

Ther's a child bundled up i' some rags,
'At's whinin its poor life away;
Neglected an starvin on th' flags,
On this wild, cold an dree winter's day.
An its father is dinin at th' Hall,
An its mother is deein wi' th' cold,
Withaat even a morsel o' breead,
Yet its father is rollin i' gold.

Ther's a grey heeaded man an his wife,
Who are bow'd daan wi' grief,--net wi' years:--
Ivver mournin a dowter they've lost,
Ivver silently dryin ther tears.
Shoo wor th' hooap an pride o' ther life,
Till a Squire put strange thowts in her heead;
Then shoo fled an they ne'er saw her mooar,
Soa they mourn her as if shoo wor deead.

Ther's One up aboon sees it all;
He values noa titles nor brass,
He cares noa mooar for a rich Squire,
Nor He does for a poor country lass,
His messengers now hover near,
Till that mother an child yield ther breath,
An th' Squire has noa longer a fear,
For his secret is lockt up in death.

Peter's Prayer.

His face wor varry thin an pale,
His een wor strangely breet;
His old rags flapt i'th' wintry gale,
An shooless wor his feet.
His teeth they chattered in his heead,
His hands had lost ther use,
He humbly begg'd a bite o' breead,
But nobbut gate abuse.

A curse wor tremblin on his tongue,
But with a mad despair,
He curbed it wi' an effort strong,
An changed it for a prayer.
"Oh, God!" he cried, "spare,--spare aw pray!
Have mercy an forgive;
Befooar too lat, show me some way
My wife an bairns can live!"

"Aw read i'th' papers ivvery day,
Ov hundreds,--thaasands spent
For shot an shell, an things to swell
This nation's armament.
Into fowk's hearts, oh, God! instil
A love ov peace, an then,
Maybe we'st have some better times,
An men can help thersen.

Aw nobbut want a chonce to live,
One cannot wish for less;
Wars fill this world wi' misery,--
Peace gives us happiness.
If monarchs dooant get quite as mich,
Ther joys need not decrease;--
Pray think o'th' poor as weel as th' rich;--
We've but one soul apiece."

Mak th' Best Ont.

Mak th' best on't,--mak th' best on't,--tho' th' job be a bad en,
God bless mi life! childer, its useless to freeat!
This world's reight enuff, but it wod be a sad en,
If we all started rooarin for what we cant get.

Who knows but what th' things we mooast wish for an covet,
Are th' varry warst things we could ivver possess;
Let's shak hands wi' awr luck, an try soa to love it,
'At noa joy ov awr life shall be made onny less.

Mak th' best on't,--mak th' best on't,--ne'er heed if yor naybor
Can live withaat workin wol yo have to slave;
Ther's nowt sweetens life like some honest hard labor,
An it's th' battles yo feight 'at proves yo are brave.

Ne'er heed if grim poverty pays yo a visit,
'Twill nivver stop long if yo show a bold front;
It's noa sin to be poor, if yo cant help it,--is it?
Soa keep up yor pecker an gie sorrow a shunt.

Mak th' best on't,--mak th' best on't,--if Fortune should favor,
An a big share o' blessins pour into yor lap,
'Twill give to yor pleasures a mich better flavor,
If yo share yor gooid luck wi' some other poor chap.

Depend on't, ther's nowt tends to mak life as jolly,
As just to mak th' best ov what falls to yor lot;
For freeatin at best is a waste an a folly,
An it nivver will help to mend matters a jot.

On Strike.

He wandered slipshod through the street,
His clothes had many a rent;
His shoes seemed dropping from his feet,
His eyes were downward bent.
His face was sallow, pale and thin,
His beard neglected grew,
Upon his once close shaven chin,
Like bristles sticking through.

I'd known him in much better state,
As "old hard-working Mike,"
I asked, would he the cause relate?
Said he, "Awm aght on th' strike.
Yo're capt, noa daat, to see me thus,
Aw'm shamed to meet a friend;
It's varry hard on th' mooast on us,
We wish 't wor at an end.

Aw cannot spend mi time i'th' haase,
An see mi childer pine;
They havn't what'll feed a maase,
But that's noa fault o' mine.
Th' wife's varry nearly brokken daan,--
Shoo addles all we get,
Wol aw goa skulkin all throo th' taan,
I' sorrow, rags an debt.

But then yo know it has to be,
Th' committee tells us that;
They owt to know,--but as for me,
Aw find it's hard,--that's flat.
They say 'at th' miaisters suffer mooar
Nor we can ivver guess;--
But th' sufferin they may endure,
Maks mine noa morsel less.

But then th' committee says it's reight;
Soa aw mun rest content,
An we mun still, goa on wi' th' feight,
What comes o' jock or rent.
Aw dooant like to desart mi mates,
But one thing aw dooant like;
When th' table shows but empty plates
It's hard to be on th' strike.

Gooid day,--for cake awst ha to fend,
Them childer's maaths to fill;
Th' committee say th' strike sooin will end;
Aw hooap to God it will."

Be Happy.

Some fowk ivverlastinly grummel,
At th' world an at th' fowk ther is in it;
If across owt 'at's pleasant they stummel,
They try to pick faults in a minnit.

We all have a strinklin o' care,
An they're lucky 'at ne'er meet a trubble,
But aw think its unkind, an unfair,
To mak ivvery misfortun seem double.

Some grummel if th' sun doesn't shine,--
If it does they find cause for complainin;
Discontented when th' weather wor fine,
They start findin fault if its rainin.

Aw hate sich dissatisfied men,
An fowk 'at's detarmined to do soa,
Aw'd mak 'em goa live bi thersen,
Aght o'th' world,--like a Robinson Crusoe.

To mak th' pleasures surraandin us less,
Ivvery reight-minded man must think sinful;
When ther's soa mich to cheer us an bless,
Ov happiness let's have a skinful.

Aw truly mooast envy that man,
Who's gladly devotin his leisure,
To mak th' world as breet as he can,
An add to its stock ov pure pleasure.

It's true ther's hard wark to be done,
An mooast on us drop in to share it;
But if sprinkled wi' innocent fun,
Why, we're far better able to bear it.

May we live long surraanded wi' friends,
To enjoy what is healthful an pure;
An at last when this pilgrimage ends,
We shall nivver regret it aw'm sure.

Its True.

Ther's things i'plenty aw despise;--
False pride an wild ambition;
Tho' ivvery man should strive to rise,
An better his condition.
Aw hate a meean an grovlin soul,
I' breast ov peer or ploughman,
But what aw hate the mooast ov all,
Is th' chap 'at strikes a woman.

For let ther faults be what they may,
He proves 'at he's a low man,
Who lifts his hand bi neet or day,
An strikes a helpless woman.

Ther taunts may oft be hard to bide,--
Ther tempers may be fiery,
But passions even dwell inside
The convent an the priory.
An all should think where'er we dwell,
Greek, Saxon, Gaul or Roman;
We're net sich perfect things ussel,
As to despise a woman.

For let ther faults, &c.

It's true old Eve first made a slip,
An fill'd this world wi' bother;
But Adam had to bite his lip,--
He couldn't get another.
An tho' at th' present day they swarm,
That chap proves his own foeman,
Who doesn't tak his strong reight arm,
An twine it raand a woman.

For let ther faults, &c.

A chap may booast he's number one,
An lord it o'er creation;
May spaat an praich, but when he's done,
He'll find his proper station.
He may be fast when at his best,
But age maks him a slow man,
An as he sinks, he's fain to rest,
On some kind-hearted woman.

For let ther faults, &c.

Aw wodn't gie a pinch o' salt,
For that cold-hearted duffer,
Who glories o'er a woman's fault,
An helps to mak her suffer.
Ther's net a cock e'er flapt a wing,
'At had th' same reight to crow, man;
As th' chap who wi' a weddin ring,
Has made a happy woman.

Then let ther faults be what they will,
Ther net for me to show, man;
But if yo seek for comfort, still,
Yo'll find it in a woman.

Natty Nancy.

"Mooar fowk get wed nor what do weel,"
A've heeard mi mother say;
But mooast young lads an lasses too,
Think just th' contrary way.
An lasses mooar nor lads it seems,
To wed seem nivver flaid;
For nowt they seem to dreead as mich
As deein an old maid.
But oft for single life they sigh,
An net withaat a cause,
When wi' ther tongue they've teed a knot,
Ther teeth's too waik to lawse.
Days arn't allus weddin days,
They leearn that to ther sorrow,
When panics come an th' brass gets done,
An they've to try to borrow.
When th' chap at th' strap shop's lukkin glum,
An hardly seems to know yo;
An gooas on sarvin other fowk
As if he nivver saw yo.
An when yo're fain to pile up th' foir,
Wi' bits o' cowks an cinders;--
When poverty says, "here' aw've come,"
Love hooks it aght o'th' winders.
Friends yo once had are far too thrang
To ax yo to yer drinkin;
They happen dunnot meean owt wrang,--
But one cannot help for thinkin.
An when yo're lukkin seedy like,
Wi' patched an tattered clooas;
Yo'll find when yer coit elbows gape,
Sich friends oft shut ther doors.
Ther are poor fowk 'at's happier far,
Nor rich ens,--ther's noa daat on't,
For brass cannot mak happiness,
But sewerly it's a pairt on't.
Aw'll tell yo ov a tale aw heeard,--
It's one 'at tuk mi fancy,--
Abaat a young chap an his wife,
They called her Natty Nancy.
They called her Natty, yo mun know
Becoss shoo wor soa clivver,
At darnin, cookin, weshin clooas
Or onny job whativver.
Well, they began as monny do
'At arn't blest wi' riches;
He hugg'd all th' fortun he possessed
I'th' pocket ov his britches.
It worn't mich, it wodn't raich
Aboon a two-o'-three shillin;
But they wor full ov hooap an health,
An they wor strong an willin.
An fowk wor capt to see ha sooin
Ther little cot grew cooasy;
Shoo'd allus summat cheerful like,
If't nobbut wor a pooasy.
Soa time slipt on, an all went weel
When Dick sed, "Natty, lass,
A-latly aw've begun to feel
Aw'st like a bigger haase.
For when aw tuk this cot for thee,
We'd nubdy but ussen;
But sin that lad wor born ther's three,
An ther'll sooin be four, an then?"
"Why, Dick," shoo sed, "just suit thisen,
Here's raam enuff for me;
But if tha'rt anxious for a change,
Aw'm willin to agree."
Soa sooin they tuk a bigger haase,
They tew'd throo morn to neet,
To mak it smart, an varry sooin
'Twor th' nicest haase i'th' street.
An when a little lass wor born
They thowt ther pleasur double;
But Dick, alas! had nah to taste
A little bit o' trubble.
For times wer growin varry hard,
An wark kept gettin slacker;
He'd furst to goa withaat his ale,
An then to stop his bacca.
But even that did net suffice
To keep want at a distance,
An they'd noa whear i'th' world to turn,
To luk for some assistance.
An monny a time he left his meal
Untouched, tho' ommost pinin;
An trail'd abaat, i' hooaps to find
Some breeter fortun shinin.
For long he sowt, but sowt in vain,
Although his heart wor willin
To turn or twist a hundred ways,
To get an honest shillin.
One day his wife coom back throo th' shop,
Her heart seem'd ommost brustin;
Shoo sob'd, "Oh, Dick,--what mun we do,
Th' shop keeper's stall'd o' trustin.
We've nowt to ait, lad, left i'th' haase,--
Aw know th' fault isn't thine,
But th' childer's bellies mun be fill'd
Tho' thee an me's to pine."
Dick seized his hat an aght o'th' door
He flew like somdy mad,
Detarmined 'at he'd get some brass,
If brass wor to be had.
He furst tried them he thowt his friends,
An tell'd his touchin stooary;
They button'd up ther pockets
As they sed, "We're varry sooary."
They tell'd him to apply to th' taan,
Or sell his goods an chattels;
Dick felt at last 'at he'd to feight
One o' life's hardest battles.
For when he'd tried 'em ivvery one
He fan aght to his sorrow,
'At fowk wi' brass have far mooar friends,
Nor them 'at wants to borrow.
Wi' empty hands, hooamwards he went,
An thear on th' doorstep gleamin,
Wor ligg'd a shillin, raand an white;--
He thowt he must be dreamin.
He rub'd his een, an eyed it o'er,
A-feeard lest it should vanish,
He sed, "some angel's come aw'm sewer,
Awr misery to banish."
He pickt it up an lifted th' sneck,
Then gently oppen'd th' door,
An thear wor Nancy an his bairns,
All huddled up o'th' flooar.
"Cheer up!" he sed, "gooid luck's begun,
Here,--tak this brass an spend it;
It isn't mine, lass, but aw'm sewer
Aw think the Lord has sent it."
A'a! ha her heart jumpt up wi' joy!
Shoo felt leet as a feather;
An off shoo went an bowt some stuff,
Then they set daan together.
Befooar they'd weel begun, at th' door,
They heeard a gentle tappin,
"Goa Dick," shoo sed, "luk sharp,--awm sewer
Aw heead sombody rappin."
It wor a poor old beggar man
Who ax'd for charity;
"Come in!" sed Dick, "it's borrow'd stuff,
But tha shall share wi' me.
Soa set thi jaws a waggin lad,--
It's whooalsum, nivver heed it,
An if tha ivver has a chonce,
Pay back to them 'at need it."
Wi' th' best they had th' old chap wor plied,
An but few words wor spokken,
Till th' old chap pushed his plate aside,
An silence then wor brokken.
"Aw'm varry old an worn," he sed,
This life's soa full o' cares,
Yet have aw sometimes entertained
An angel unawares.
Ther's One aboon reads ivvery heart,
An them 'at he finds true,
Altho' He tries 'em sooar,--at last,
He minds to pool 'em throo.
Then nivver let yor faith grow dim,
Altho yo've hard to feight;
Just let yer trust all rest o' Him,
An He'll put all things straight,
He quietly sydled aght o'th' door,
An when they lukt araand,
A purse they'd nivver seen befooar
Wor liggin up o'th' graand.
Dick pickt it up--what could it be?
He hardly dar to fancy;--
"Why, its addressed to thee an me!
To Dick an Natty Nancy!"

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They oppened it wi' tremblin hands,
An when they saw the treasure;
'Twor hard to say which filled 'em mooast,
Astonishment or pleasur.
Ther wor a letter for 'em too,
An this wor ha it ended,--
"You once helped me, may this help you,--
From one you once befriended,"

---------

They nivver faand aght who he wor,
Altho' they spared noa labor;
But for his sake they ne'er refuse
To help ther needy naybor.

Fugitive poems.

By John Hartley.

Not written in the Yorkshire Dialect.

Angels of Sunderland. In Memoriam, June 16th, 1893.

On the sixteenth of June, eighteen eighty-three,
The children of Sunderland hastened to see,
Strange wonders performed by a mystic man,
Believing,--as only young children can.
And merry groups chattered, as hand in hand,
They careered through the streets of Sunderland.

In holiday dress, and with faces clean,
And hearts as light as the lightest, I ween;--
The hall was soon crowded, and wondering eyes,
Expressed their delight at each fresh surprise;
The sight of their bright, eager faces was grand,--
Such a mass of fair blossoms of Sunderland.

With wonder and laughter the moments fly,
And the wizard at last bade them all good-bye,
But not till he promised that each one there,
In his magical fortune should have a share;--
Such a wonderful man with such liberal hand,
Had never before been in Sunderland.

They danced, and they shouted, and full of glee,
They rushed to find out what these presents could be,
And the sea of young faces was borne along,
Until checked by a barrier, stout and strong;
And then the bright current was brought to a stand,
And a heart piercing shriek rang through Sunderland.

Then the hearts of the little ones filled with fear,
With a sickening sense of a danger near;
And with frantic efforts they strove to flee,
To the homes where they knew there would safety be;
And deaf alike to request or command,
Rushed to death,--the sweet flowers of Sunderland.

Swift flew the alarm from street to street,
And swiftly responded the hurrying feet.
Fathers and mothers with grief gone wild,
Cried as they ran, "Oh, my child! my child!"
Women half fainting, and men all unmanned,--
'Twas a sad, sad day for Sunderland.

Pen cannot tell what keen anguish wrung,
Their bleeding hearts, as the fair and young,
Were dragged from the struggling, groaning mass,
Mangled, disfigured and dead, Alas!
And offers of help came from every hand,
For they were the children of Sunderland.

Quickly and tenderly, one by one,
They were brought to light, till the task was done;
The wounded were tended with kindness and skill;
Side by side lay the dead,--all so ghastly and still;--
What a terrible tale told that silent band,
As the Sabbath sun rose over Sunderland.

In the promise of beauty and strength cut down,
Two hundred spirits from earth had flown;
Two hundred frail caskets that love could not save,
Awaiting their last earthly home in the grave;
And a crowd of white angels expectant stand,
To welcome the angels from Sunderland.

Woe in the cottage, and woe in the hall;--
Woe in the hearts of the great and the small;--
Woe in the streets,--in the houses of prayer;
Woe had its dwelling place everywhere.
Suffering and sorrow on every hand,--
Woe-woe-woe throughout Sunderland.

Who can give comfort in grief such as this?
Man's arm is helpless,--no power is his.
There is but One unto whom we can flee,
One who in mercy cries, "Come unto me."
One who in pity outstretches His hand,
To the heart-broken mourners of Sunderland.

Sad will the homes be for many a day,
Where the light of the household has been snatched away;
But through the dull cloud of our sorrow and pain,
Shines the hope that at last we may meet them again;
For on the bright shores of the 'better land,'
Are gathered the treasures of Sunderland.

Trusting Still.

When shall we meet again?
One more year passed;
One more of grief and pain;--
Maybe the last.
Are the years sending us
Farther apart?
Or love still blending us
Heart into heart?
Do love's fond memories
Brighten the way,
Or faith's fell enemies
Darken thy day?
Oh! could the word unkind
Be recalled now,
Or in the years behind
Buried lie low,
How would my heart rejoice
As round it fell,
Sweet cadence of thy voice,
Still loved so well.
Sometimes when sad it seems
Whisperings say:
"Cherish thy baseless dreams,
Yet whilst thou may,
Try not to pierce the veil,
Lest thou should'st see,
Only a dark'ning vale
Stretching for thee."
But Hope's mist-shrouded sun
Once more breaks out,
Chasing the shadows dim,
Heavy with doubt.
And far ahead I see,
Two rays entwine;
One faint, as soul of me,
One bright like thine.
And in that welcome sign,
Clearly I view,
Proof of this trust of mine,--
Thou art still true.

Shiver the Goblet.

Shiver the goblet and scatter the wine!
Tempt me no more with the sight!
I care not though brightly as ruby it shine,
Like a serpent I know it will bite.
Give me the clustering fruit of the vine,--
Heap up my dish if you will,--
But banish the poison that lurks in the wine,
That dulls reason and fetters the will.

Oft has it lured me to deeds I detest,--
Filled me with passions debased;
Robbed me of all that was dearest and best,
And left scars that can ne'er be effaced.
Oh! that the generous rich would but think,
As they scatter their wealth far and wide,
Of the evil that lives in the ocean of drink,
Of the thousands that sink in its tide.

They give of their substance to help the poor wretch,
The victim of custom and laws;
But never attempt the strong arm to outstretch,
To try to abolish the cause.
The preacher as well may his eloquence spare,
Nor his tales of "glad tidings" need tell,
If by precepts he urge them for heaven to prepare,
Whilst his practice leads downward to hell.

Erect new asylums and hospitals raise,--
Build prisons for creatures of sin;--
Can these be a means to improve the world's ways?
Or one soul from destruction e'er win?
No!--License the cause and encourage the sale
Of the evil one's strongest ally,
And in vain then lament that the curse should prevail,--
And in vain o'er the fallen ones sigh.

Strike the black blot from the laws of the land!
And take the temptation away;
Then give to the struggling and weak one's a hand,
To pilot them on the safe way.
Can brewers, distillers, or traffickers pray
For the blessing of God, on the seed
Which they sow for the harvest of men gone astray?
Of ruin, the fruit of their greed?

No bonds can be forged the drink-demon to bind,
That will hinder its power for ill;
For a way to work mischief it surely will find,
Let us watch and contrive as we will.
Then drive out the monster! The plague-breathing pest;
And so long as our bodies have breath,
Let us fight the good fight, never stopping for rest,
Till at last we rejoice o'er its death.

Little Sunshine.

Winsome, wee and witty,
Like a little fay,
Carolling her ditty
All the livelong day,
Saucy as a sparrow
In the summer glade,
Flitting o'er the meadow
Came the little maid.
A youth big and burly,
Loitered near the stile,
He had risen early,
Just to win her smile.
And she came towards him
Trying to look grave,
But she couldn't do it,
Not her life to save.
For the fun within her,
Well'd out from her eyes,
And the tell-tale blushes
To her brow would rise.
Then he gave her greeting,
And with bashful bow,
Said in tones entreating,
"Darling tell me now,
You are all the sunshine,
This world holds for me;
Be my little valentine,
I have come for thee."
But she only tittered
When he told his love,
And the gay birds twittered
On the boughs above;
He continued pleading,
Calling her his sun--
Said his heart was bleeding,--
Which seemed famous fun.
Then he turned to leave her.
But she caught his hand,
And its gentle pressure
Made him understand,
That in spite of teasing,
He her heart had won,
And through life hereafter,
She would be his sun.

----------

Now they have been married
Twenty years or more,
But she's just as wilful
As she was before.
And she's just as winsome
In his eyes to-day,
As when first be met her,
Mischievous and gay.
Will the years ne'er tame her?
Will she ne'er grow old?
Does the grave man blame her?
Does he never scold?
Does he never weary
Of her ready tongue?
Does he love her dearly
As when he was young?
Yes--she was the sunshine
Of his youthful day,
And her light laugh cheers him
Now he's growing gray.
Happy little woman,
That time cannot tame;
Happy sober husband,
Loving still the same.
Happy in her lightness
When life's morn was bright,
Happy in her brightness
As draws on the night.

Passing Events.

Passing events,--tell, what are they I pray? Are they some novelty?--Nay, nay, nay! Ever since the world its course began, Since the breath of life was breathed into man, Still rolling on with the wane of time, Through every nation, in every clime; In every spot where man has his home, Ever they long for events to come.

Hours or days or years it may be, Before hopes realization they see; And no sooner it comes than it hastes away, And others rush after no longer to stay. And there scarcely is time to know its in sight, E'er its found to be leaving with marvellous flight, And what had been longed for with eager intent, Is chronicled but as a passing event.

Hope's joys are uncertain;--anxiety rules, Expectancy's paradise, peopled by fools; And the present has oft so much bustle and care, That the joys spread around we have no time to share. He is surer of peace who leaves future to fate, And the present joy snatches before it's too late; But he's safest by far, who in mem'ry holds fast, The sweet tastes and joys of events that are past.

Those Days have Gone.

Those days have gone, those happy days,
When we two loved to roam,
Beside the rivulet that strays,
Near by my rustic home.
Yes, they have fled, and in the past,
We've left them far behind,
Yet dear I hold, those days of old,
When you were true and kind.

You dreamed not then of wealth or fame,
The world was bright and fair,
I seldom knew a grief or game,
That you, too, did not share.
And though I mourn my hapless fate,
In mem'ry's store I find,
And dearly hold those days of old,
When you were true and kind.

Say, can the wealth you now possess,
Such happiness procure,
As did our youthful pleasures bless,
When both our hearts were pure?
No,--and though wandering apart,
I strive to be resigned;
And dearer hold those days of old,
When you were true and kind.

And if your thoughts should turn to me,
With one pang of regret,
Know that this heart, still beats for thee,
And never will forget;
Those tender links of long ago
Are round my heart entwined,
And dear I hold those days of old,
When you were true and kind.

I'd a Dream.

I'd a dream last night of my boyhood's days,
And the scenes where my youth was spent;
And I roamed the old woods where the squirrel plays,
Full of frolicsome merriment.
And I walked by the brook, and its silvery tone,
Seemed to soothe me again as of yore;
And I stood by the cottage with moss overgrown
And the woodbine that trailed round the door.

No change could I see in the garden plot,
The flowers bloomed brightly around,
And one little bed of forget-me-not
In its own little corner I found.
The sky had a home-look, the breeze seemed to sigh,
In the strain I remembered so well,
And the little brown sparrows looked cunning and shy,
As though anxious some story to tell.

But as quietness reigned and a loneliness fell,
O'er the place that had once been so gay;
Its sunlight had saddened since I bade farewell,
And left it for lands far away.
The door stood ajar and I sought for a face,
Of the dear ones I longed so to see;
But others I knew not were now in the place,
And their presence was painful to me.

A pang of remorse seemed to shoot through my heart,
As I left with a sorrowing tread,
From all the familiar objects to part;
For I knew that the loved ones were dead.
The home once my own, now knows me no more,
The treasures that bound me all gone,
And I woke with cheeks tear-stained, and heart sadly sore,
To find that a home I had none.

To my Harp.

Wake up my harp! thy strings begin to rust!
Has the soul fled that once within thee dwelt?
Idle so long, shake off that coat of dust!
Are there no souls to cheer, no hearts to melt?
Are there no victims under tyrants' yoke,
Whose wrongs thy stirring music should proclaim?
Or have the fetters of mankind been broke?
Or are there none deserving songs of fame?

Awake! awake! thy slumber has been long!
And let thy chords once more arouse the heart;
And teach us in thy most impassioned song,
How in our sphere we best may play our part.
Tell the down-trodden, who with daily toil,
Wear out their lives, another's greed to fill;
That they have rights and interests in the soil,
And they can win them if they have the will.

Tell the high-born that chance of birth ne'er gave
To them a right to carve another's fate;
Nor yet to make the humbler born a slave,
Whose heart with goodness may be doubly great.
Tell the hard-handed poor, yet honest man,
That though through roughest ways of life he plod,
Nature hath placed upon his birth no ban,--
All men are equal in the sight of God.

And yet a softer, pitying strain let pour,
To soothe the anguish of the troubled soul,
And fill the heart bereaved, with hope once more,
And from the brow the heavy grief-cloud roll.
Cheer on the brave who struggle in the fight,--
And warn oppression of the gathering storm,
And drag the deeds of false ones to the light,--
And herald in the day of true reform.

Nor leave the gentler, loving themes, unsung,
Compassionate the maiden's tender woes,
Revive the faint who are with fears unstrung,
And solace them who writhe in suffering's throes.
Awake! awake! there's need enough of thee,
Nor let again such sloth enchain thy tongue,
And may thy constant effort henceforth be,
To plant the right, and to uproot the wrong.

Backward Turn, Oh! Recollection.

Backward turn, oh! recollection!
Far, far back to childhoods' days;
To those treasures of affection,
'Round which loving memory plays
Show to me the loving faces
Of my parents, now no more,--
Fill again the vacant places
With the images of yore.

Conjure up the home where comfort
Seemed to make its cosy nest;
Where the stranger's only passport,
Was the need of food and rest.
Show the schoolhouse where with others,
I engaged in mental strife,
And the playground, where as brothers
Running, jumping, full of life.

Now I see the lovely maiden,
That my young heart captive led;
Like a sylph, with gold curls laden,
And her lips of cherry red.
Now fond voices seem to echo,
Tones as when I heard them last;
And my heart sighs sadly, Heigh, ho!
For the joys for ever past.

From the past back to the present,
Come, ye wandering thoughts again;
Memories however pleasant,
Will not rid to-day of pain,
Now we live, the past is buried,--
We are midway in life's stream;
Onward, onward! ever hurried,--
And the futures but a dream.

Alice.

Dear little Alice lay dying;--
I see her as if 'twas to-day,
And we stood round her snowy bed, crying,
And watching her life ebb away.

'Twas a beautiful day in the spring,
The sun shone out warmly and clear;
And the wee birds, their love songs to sing
Came and perched on the trees that grew near.

In the distance, the glistening sea,
Could be heard in a deep solemn tone,
As if murmuring in sad sympathy,
For our griefs and our hopes that had flown.

The windows, wide open, allowed
The soft wind to fan her white cheek,
As with uncovered heads, mutely bowed,
We stood watching, not daring to speak.

We were only her playmates,--no tie
Of relationship drew us that way,
We'd been told that dear Alice must die,
And she'd begg'd she might see us that day.

We were all full of sorrow, and tears
We all shed,--but not one showed surprise;
Of her future we harboured no fears,
For we knew she was fit for the skies.

Ever gentle and kind as a dove,
To each one she knew she had been;
She had ruled her dominion by love,
And we all paid her homage as Queen.

Her strange beauty, now, as I look back,
I can see as I ne'er saw it then;
But words to describe it I lack,
It could never be told by a pen.

Half asleep, half awake, as she lay,
With her golden curls round her pale face;
A smile round her lips 'gan to play,
And her eyes gazed intently on space.

With an effort she half raised her head,
And looked lovingly round us on all,
Then she motioned us nearer the bed;
And we silently answered her call.

Then she put out her tiny white hand,
The friend nearest her took it in his;
And so faintly she whispered "Good-bye,"
As he printed upon it a kiss.

One by one, boy and girl, did the same,
And she bade them 'farewell' as they passed
Calling everyone by their name,
'Till it came to my turn;--I was last,

"Good-bye, Harry," she breathed very low,
And her eyes to my soul seemed to speak;
And she strove not to let my hand go,
Till I stooped down and kissed her pale cheek.

Then she wearily laid down her head,
And she closed her blue eyes with a sigh;--
"Don't forget me, dear Harry, when dead,
But meet me in Heaven by-and-bye."

And that whisper I never forgot,
And her hand's dying clasp I feel still;
For I swore, that whatever my lot,
I'd be true to that child,--and I will.

It may be a foolish conceit,
But it oft is a solace for me,
To think, when life's troubles I meet,
There's an angel in Heaven cares for me.

Friends deplore my lone bachelor state,
Some may pity, and others deride;
But they know not for Alice I wait,
Who took with her my heart when she died.

Looking Back.

I've been sitting reviewing the past, dear wife,
From the time when a toddling child,--
Through my boyish days with their joys and strife,--
Through my youth with its passions wild.
Through my manhood, with all its triumph and fret,
To the present so tranquil and free;
And the years of the past that I most regret,
Are the years that I passed without thee.

It was best we should meet as we did, dear wife,--
It was best we had trouble to face;
For it bound us more closely together through life,
And it nerved us for running the race.
We are nearing the end where the goal is set,
And we fear not our destiny,
And the only years that I now regret,
Are the years that I passed without thee.

'Twas thy beauty attracted my eye, dear wife,
But thy goodness that kept me true;
'Twas thy sympathy soothed me when cares were rife,
'Twas thy smile gave me courage anew.
Thy bloom may be faded by time, but yet,
Thou hast still the same beauty to me,
And no part of my past do I now regret,
Save the years that I passed without thee.

We have struggled and suffered our share, dear wife,
But our joys have been many and sweet;
And our trust in each other has taken from life,
The heartaches and pangs others meet.
I still bless the day, long ago, when we met,
And my prayer for the future shall be,
That when the call comes and thy life's sun has set,
I may never be parted from thee.

I Know I Love Thee.

I shall never forget the day, Annie,
When I bid thee a fond adieu;
With a careless good bye I left thee,
For my cares and my fears were few.
True that thine eyes seemed brightest;--
True that none had so fair a brow,--
I _thought_ that I loved thee then, Annie,
But I _knew_ that I love thee now.

I had neither wealth nor beauty,
Whilst thou owned of both a share,
I bad only a honest purpose
And the courage the Fates to dare.
To all others my heart preferred thee,
And 'twas hard to part I know;
For I _thought_ that I loved thee then, Annie,
But I _know_ that I love thee now.

Oh! what would I give to-night, love,
Could I clasp thee once again,
To my heart that is aching with loving,--
To my heart where my love does reign.
Could I hear thy voice making music,
So gentle, so sweet and so low,
I _thought_ that I loved thee then, Annie,
But I _know_ that I love thee now.

I have won me wealth and honour,--
I have earned a worldly regard,
But alas they afford me no pleasure,
Nor lighten my lot so hard.
Oh come for my bosom yearneth,
All its burden of love to bestow,--
Once I _thought_ that I really loved thee,
But I _know_ that I love thee now.

Canst thou ever forgive me the folly,
Of failing to capture the prize,
Of thy maiden heart, trustful and loving,
That shone thro' thy tear bedimmed eyes.
But I knew not until we had parted,
How fiercely love's embers could glow;
Or how _truly_ I loved thee then, Annie,
Or how _madly_ I'd love thee now.

Bachelors Quest.

She may be dark or may be fair,
If beauty she possesses;
But she must have abundant hair--
I doat on flowing tresses.
Her skin must be clear, soft and white
Her cheeks with health's tints glowing,
Her eyes beam with a liquid light,--
Red lips her white teeth showing.
She must be graceful as a fawn,
With bosom gently swelling,
Her presence fresh as early dawn,--
A heart for love to dwell in.
She must be trusting, yet aware
That flatterer's honey'd phrases
Are often but a wily snare,
To catch her in love's mazes.
Accomplishments she must possess,
These make life worth the having;
And taste, especially in dress
Yet still inclined to saving.
In cookery she must excel,
To this there's no exception,
And serve a frugal meal as well
As manage a reception.
Untidyness she must abhor,
In every household matter;
And resolutely close the door
To any gossip's chatter.
She must love children, for a home
Ne'er seems like home without 'em.
And women seldom care to roam,
Who love their babes about 'em,
Should she have wealth, she must not boast
Or tell of what she brought me;
Content that I should rule the roost,--
(That's what my father taught me.)
If I can find some anxious maid
Who all these charms possesses,
I shall be tempted, I'm afraid,
To pay her my addresses.

Waiting at the Gate.

Draw closer to my side to-night,
Dear wife, give me thy hand,
My heart is sad with memories
Which thou canst understand,
Its twenty years this very day,
I know thou minds it well,
Since o'er our happy wedded life
The heaviest trouble fell.

We stood beside the little cot,
But not a word we said;
With breaking hearts we learned, alas,
Our little Claude was dead,
He was the last child born to us,
The loveliest,--the best,
I sometimes fear we loved him more
Than any of the rest.

We tried to say "Thy will be done,"
We strove to be resigned;
But all in vain, our loss had left
Too deep a wound behind.
I saw the tears roll down thy cheek,
And shared thy misery,
But could not speak a soothing word,
I could but grieve with thee.

He looked so calm, so sweet, so fair
Why should we stand and weep?
Death had but paused a moment there,
And put our pet to sleep.
The weary hours crept sadly on,
Until the burial day;
Then in the deep, cold, gravel grave,
We saw him laid away.

His little bed was taen apart,
His toys put out of sight;
His brother and his sister soon
Grew gay again and bright.
But we, dear wife, we ne'er threw off,
The sorrow o'er us cast;
And even yet, at times, we grieve,
Though twenty years have passed.

We know he's in a better land,
A heaven where all is bliss;
Nor would we try if we'd the power
To bring him back to this.
Draw closer to my side, dear wife,
And wipe away that tear,
Heaven does not seem so far away,
I seem to feel him near.

He'll come no more with us to dwell,
For our life's lamp burns dim;
But He who doeth all things well,
Will draw us up to Him.
Come closer, wife, let us not part,
We have not long to wait;
A something whispers to my heart,
"Claude's waiting at the Gate."

Love.

Love--love--love--love,-- A tiny hand in a tiny glove; A witching smile that means,--well,--well, Whether little or much its hard to tell. A tiny foot and a springy tread, Short curls running riot all over her head; A waist that invites a fond embrace, Yet by modesty girt seems a holy place; Not a place where an arm should be idly thrown, But should gently rest, as would rest my own. An angel whose wings are but hid from view, Whose charms are many and faults so few, As near perfection as mortal can be, Is the one that I love and that loves but me. They tell me that love is blind,--.oh, no! They can never convince a lover so; Love cannot be blind for it sees much more, Then others have ever discovered before. Oh, the restless night with its pleasing dreams, Sweet visions through which her beauty beams; The pleasant pains that find vent in sighs,-- And the hopes of a earthly paradise Where we shall dwell and heart to heart In unison beat. Of the world a part Yet so full of our love for each other that we Shall sail all alone on life's troublesome sea, In a charmed course, of perpetual calm, Away from all danger, sccure from harm.

Ah, yes,--such is love to the maiden and youth, That have implicit trust in each others truth;-- Such love was mine, but alas, alas! The things I had hoped for ne'er came to pass. But I thank the star of my destiny, That guided a true plain woman to me; That amid the bustle and worry and strife, Has proved a good mother and faithful wife, Though the fates did not grant me an angel to wed, They gave me a woman for helpmate instead.

Do your Best and Leave the Rest.

As through life you journey onward
Many a hill you'll have to climb;
Many a rough and dang'rous pathway,
You'll encounter time and time.
Now and then a gleam of sunshine,
Will bring hope to cheer your breast;
Then press onward,--ever trusting,--
Do your best and leave the rest.

Though your progress may be hindered,
By false friends or bitter foes;
And the goal for which you're striving,
Seems so far away,--who knows?
You may yet have strength to reach it,
E'er the sun sinks in the west;
Ever striving,--still undaunted;--
Do your best and leave the rest.

If you fail, as thousands must do,
You will still have cause for pride;
You will have advanced much further,
Than if you had never tried.
Never falter, but remember,
Life is not a foolish jest;
You all are in the fight to win it;--
Do your best and leave the rest.

If at last your strength shall fail you,
And your struggles have proved vain;
There is One who will sustain you;--
Soothe your sorrow,--ease your pain,
He has seen your earnest striving,
And your efforts shall be blest;
For He knows, that you, though failing,
Did your best,--He'll do the rest.

To my Daughter on her Birthday.

Darling child, to thee I owe, More than others here will know; Thou hast cheered my weary days, With thy coy and winsome ways. When my heart has been most sad, Smile of thine has made me glad; In return, I wish for thee, Health and sweet felicity. May thy future days be blest, With all things the world deems best. If perchance the day should come, Thou does leave thy childhood's home; Bound by earth's most sacred ties, With responsibilities, In another's life to share, Wedded joys and worldly care; May thy partner worthy prove,-- Richest in thy constant love. Strong in faith and honour, just,-- With brave heart on which to trust. One, to whom when troubles come, And the days grow burdensome, Thou canst fly, with confidence In his love's plenipotence. And if when some years have flown, Sons and daughters of your own Bless your union, may they be Wellsprings of pure joy to thee. And when age shall line thy brow, And thy step is weak and slow,-- And the end of life draws near May'st thou meet it without fear; Undismayed with earth's alarms,-- Sleeping,--to wake in Jesus' arms.

Remorse.

None ever knew I had wronged her,
That secret she kept to the end.
None knew that our ties had been stronger,
Than such as should bind friend to friend.
Her beauty and innocence gave her
Such charms as are lavished on few;
And vain was my earnest endeavour
To resist,--though I strove to be true.

She had given her heart to my keeping,--
'Twas a treasure more precious than gold;
And I guarded it, waking or sleeping,
Lest a strange breath should make it grow cold.
And I longed to be tender, yet honest,--
Alas! loved,--where to love was a sin,--
And passion was deaf to the warning,
Of a still small voice crying within.

I feasted my eyes on her beauty,--
I ravished my ears with her voice,--
And I felt as her bosom rose softly,
That my heart had at last found its choice.
'Twas a wild gust of passion swept o'er us,--
Just a flash of tumultuous bliss;--
Then life's sunlight all vanished before us,
And we stood by despair's dark abyss.

'Tis past,--and the green grass grows over,
The grave that hides her and our shame;
None ever knew who was her lover,
For her lips never uttered his name.
But at night when the city is sleeping,
I steal with a tremulous tread,
And spend the dark solemn hours weeping,
O'er the grave of the deeply wronged dead.

My Queen

Annie--Oh! what a weary while
It seems since that sad day;
When whispering a fond "good bye,"
I tore myself away.
And yet, 'tis only two short years;
How has it seemed to thee?
To me, those lonesome years appear
Like an eternity.