Joe.—Weel Jim, hoo deea lad? What’s t’ news?
Which side is thoo on? Pinks or Blues?
Heer’s sike a mighty stir i’ t’ nation,
’Tis woth a lahtle conversation.
Ah want te knaw, is’t reeght or wrang;—
Unless thah nerves is varry strang,
Ah hev a paper i’ mah pocket,
’Ll lift thah heart oot ov its socket!
Which side is thoo on? Pinks or Blues?
Heer’s sike a mighty stir i’ t’ nation,
’Tis woth a lahtle conversation.
Ah want te knaw, is’t reeght or wrang;—
Unless thah nerves is varry strang,
Ah hev a paper i’ mah pocket,
’Ll lift thah heart oot ov its socket!
Jim.—A paper Joe! What is ’t aboot,
Sum munney matter, ther’s neea doot!
Sum Methodey or Ranter bother,
Or sum Tee-total thing or other.
Yan scarce can pass alang a street,
Bud sum sike like yan’s seer te meet,
Whea’d ommost sweear ’at black is white,
Te gain anoother proselyte,
Sum munney matter, ther’s neea doot!
Sum Methodey or Ranter bother,
Or sum Tee-total thing or other.
Yan scarce can pass alang a street,
Bud sum sike like yan’s seer te meet,
Whea’d ommost sweear ’at black is white,
Te gain anoother proselyte,
Joe.—A munney matter ’tis o’ coorse,
Fra’ quite an opposition soorce,
For by the Liverpool Recorder,
’Tis mare o’ the Succession order:
For it is sed by snug repoort,
Religious fooaks hev geen ’t support.
That which we noo te nooatice bring,
Ist’ Steeple Chase at P******ng.
Fra’ quite an opposition soorce,
For by the Liverpool Recorder,
’Tis mare o’ the Succession order:
For it is sed by snug repoort,
Religious fooaks hev geen ’t support.
That which we noo te nooatice bring,
Ist’ Steeple Chase at P******ng.
Jim.—Whah Joe, thoo’s neean o’ t’ warst o’ fellows,
Cum sit thee doon a piece an’ tell us,
If thoo sud think it neea disgrace,
Aboot this mighty Steeple Chase;
Ov hoo, an’ when, an’ whoor they run,
For honour, munney, or for fun.
Thoo’s just geen me an itchin eear,
Aboot the thing Ah wish’d te heear.
Cum sit thee doon a piece an’ tell us,
If thoo sud think it neea disgrace,
Aboot this mighty Steeple Chase;
Ov hoo, an’ when, an’ whoor they run,
For honour, munney, or for fun.
Thoo’s just geen me an itchin eear,
Aboot the thing Ah wish’d te heear.
Joe.—Thoo sees upon a sarten day,
Ah hennut seen, but heeard ’em say;
Greeat gentlemen hev hosses treean’d,
Fra’ lofty pedigree obteean’d,
Seea full o’ bleead, an’ queerly towght,
Te gallop thruff or ower owght:
All muster at a sarten pleeace,
An’ this they call the Steeple Chase.
A purse o’ Gold they then present,
An’ word is thruff the coontry sent,
For fower mahle, Ah think they run,
An’ he ’at beeats,—the steeaks his awn.
Sum breeaks ther necks, wi’ missin bridges,
An’ sum gits stuck, wi’ jumpin hedges.
Ey, te confarm t’ truth Ah sing,
They kill’d a hoss at P******ng.
Ah hennut seen, but heeard ’em say;
Greeat gentlemen hev hosses treean’d,
Fra’ lofty pedigree obteean’d,
Seea full o’ bleead, an’ queerly towght,
Te gallop thruff or ower owght:
All muster at a sarten pleeace,
An’ this they call the Steeple Chase.
A purse o’ Gold they then present,
An’ word is thruff the coontry sent,
For fower mahle, Ah think they run,
An’ he ’at beeats,—the steeaks his awn.
Sum breeaks ther necks, wi’ missin bridges,
An’ sum gits stuck, wi’ jumpin hedges.
Ey, te confarm t’ truth Ah sing,
They kill’d a hoss at P******ng.
Jim.—Wha Joe, thoo quite supprises me,
Te think ’at men ov heeigh degree,
Sud reeally hev neea mare respect
For owther men’s or hosses necks.
Te think ’at men ov heeigh degree,
Sud reeally hev neea mare respect
For owther men’s or hosses necks.
Joe.—A boss is nowght i’ sike a keease!
Bairn! sowls is nowght at t’ Steeple Chase!
They for a trifle swap an’ sell ’em,
An’ t’ parsons hezzen’t sense te tell ’em.
T’ Steeple Chase is suted quite,
Te glut t’ carnal appetite.
Thooase whea ther Baable love, an’ preear,
’Ll finnd bud bareish picking theer.
Bairn! sowls is nowght at t’ Steeple Chase!
They for a trifle swap an’ sell ’em,
An’ t’ parsons hezzen’t sense te tell ’em.
T’ Steeple Chase is suted quite,
Te glut t’ carnal appetite.
Thooase whea ther Baable love, an’ preear,
’Ll finnd bud bareish picking theer.
Jim.—Maund Joe, thoo izzen’t ower severe,
An’ ’at thah coonsel be sincere.
The Law hez monny curious links,
Man mooan’t speeak awlus as he thinks.
Thof Ah me-sel feel shock’d te think,
Men sud seea rush on ruin’s brink:
Mitch mare te be encouraged in,
What mun be a presumptuous sin.
An’ ’at thah coonsel be sincere.
The Law hez monny curious links,
Man mooan’t speeak awlus as he thinks.
Thof Ah me-sel feel shock’d te think,
Men sud seea rush on ruin’s brink:
Mitch mare te be encouraged in,
What mun be a presumptuous sin.
Joe.—The mare Ah see this standard reeas’d,
The mare an’ mare Ah stand ameeaz’d
Te think ’at parsons cannut see’t,
An’ tell ’em pleean it izzen’t reeght!
’At men sike tidings sud procleeam,
An’ thooase ’at beear t’Christian neeame
I’ spite ov all divine advice,
Te sanction sike a sweepin vice.
The mare an’ mare Ah stand ameeaz’d
Te think ’at parsons cannut see’t,
An’ tell ’em pleean it izzen’t reeght!
’At men sike tidings sud procleeam,
An’ thooase ’at beear t’Christian neeame
I’ spite ov all divine advice,
Te sanction sike a sweepin vice.
Jim.—Whativver be t’satisfaction,
It hez a woonderful attraction;
An’ macks ’em freely use ther shanks,
’Specially them o’ t’ heeigher ranks,
Fra’ Scarbro’, Malton, York, an’ Leeds,
They cum on lofty mounted steeds,
Ower dazzlin ommost te behold,
Wi’ silver’d whips, an’ cheeans o’ gold.
Theer’s bands o’ music, colours flying,
Hams, an’ legs o’ mutton frying,
Nimble waiters on the wing,
Te see ’em drink, an’ hear ’em sing,
Ther’s gamlin teeables, orange stalls,
Ther’s spices, nuts, an’ dancin dolls.
All things te sute the carnal taste,
May just be foond at t’ Steeple Chase.
It hez a woonderful attraction;
An’ macks ’em freely use ther shanks,
’Specially them o’ t’ heeigher ranks,
Fra’ Scarbro’, Malton, York, an’ Leeds,
They cum on lofty mounted steeds,
Ower dazzlin ommost te behold,
Wi’ silver’d whips, an’ cheeans o’ gold.
Theer’s bands o’ music, colours flying,
Hams, an’ legs o’ mutton frying,
Nimble waiters on the wing,
Te see ’em drink, an’ hear ’em sing,
Ther’s gamlin teeables, orange stalls,
Ther’s spices, nuts, an’ dancin dolls.
All things te sute the carnal taste,
May just be foond at t’ Steeple Chase.
Joe.—Thooase men hes gitten ’t i’ ther power
Regardless o’ the sufferin poor,
Te gallop ower hedge an’ dyke,
An’ deea an’ say, just what they like.
An’ all the while they run these rigs,
An’ sing, an’ drink, an’ dance ther jigs,
They’ll booast o’ noble ancestry,
An’ mighty steeple pedigree!
If onny wish the cause te knaw,
Whah they are able te deea seea,—
“’Tis munney macks the meer te gang,
Macks wrang seeam reeght, an’ reeght seeam wrang.”
Regardless o’ the sufferin poor,
Te gallop ower hedge an’ dyke,
An’ deea an’ say, just what they like.
An’ all the while they run these rigs,
An’ sing, an’ drink, an’ dance ther jigs,
They’ll booast o’ noble ancestry,
An’ mighty steeple pedigree!
If onny wish the cause te knaw,
Whah they are able te deea seea,—
“’Tis munney macks the meer te gang,
Macks wrang seeam reeght, an’ reeght seeam wrang.”
Jim.—The thing sud be te them meead knawn,
Ther gold an’ silver’s nut ther awn.
Ther cattle they abuse an’ kill,
Belangs to t’Lord o’ Zion’s hill.
They sud be warn’d i’ ivvery pleeace,
Te gie up sike like wicked ways.
Or seer as theer’s a God aboon,
They’ll pull ther awn destruction doon.
Ther gold an’ silver’s nut ther awn.
Ther cattle they abuse an’ kill,
Belangs to t’Lord o’ Zion’s hill.
They sud be warn’d i’ ivvery pleeace,
Te gie up sike like wicked ways.
Or seer as theer’s a God aboon,
They’ll pull ther awn destruction doon.
Joe.—They hev been warn’d an’ hev refus’d,
Whahl thooase gud things they hev abus’d;
By which abuse they breeak God’s Law,
An’ that he’ll sum day let ’em knaw.
This maks ’em breeathe pernicious breeath,
An’ swagger on the verge o’ deeath,
Whahl oothers—rayther than control,
’Ll breeak ther necks, an’ loss ther sowl.
Whahl thooase gud things they hev abus’d;
By which abuse they breeak God’s Law,
An’ that he’ll sum day let ’em knaw.
This maks ’em breeathe pernicious breeath,
An’ swagger on the verge o’ deeath,
Whahl oothers—rayther than control,
’Ll breeak ther necks, an’ loss ther sowl.
Jim.—A man tell’d me by way o’ jooak,
Bud kind o’ trimmel’d as he spooak,
They’d Doctors pleeaced wi’in a shoot,
Te slip necks in, ’at gat slipt oot.[A]
Bud kind o’ trimmel’d as he spooak,
They’d Doctors pleeaced wi’in a shoot,
Te slip necks in, ’at gat slipt oot.[A]
Joe.—It’s awful booastin this indeed,—
Bad sample o’ beeath fruit an’ seed.
Sike may upbraad the warld wi’ sizm,
It is next deer te Socialism.
Sike booastin they will sum day rue,
If we admit the Baable true.
All thooase mun pass a mighty change,
Afoore the happy hills they range!—
Bud tiv oor teeal let us ton back,
Lest we get farther fra’ oor track.
The day arrives, the smiling sun,
Procleeams the Steeple Chase begun.
On eeager eears the tumult steeals,
Ov prancin steeds, an’ rumblin wheels.
It wur a day ov winks an’ nods,
Ov lofty deeds, an’ lofty wods.
As thof they hed for ther defence!
The thunner ov Omnipotence!
T’ fooaks com rowlin in by skoors,
Fra’ neeab’rin toons, an’ off o’ t’ moors.
Like cloods ov locusts in they hale,
Fra’ Goadland, Sleights, an’ Harwood Dale.
’Tis seerly sum enchanted string,
That does sike croods tegither bring.
Like bees, they roond the steeple swarm,
In it they likely see neea harm.
Bad sample o’ beeath fruit an’ seed.
Sike may upbraad the warld wi’ sizm,
It is next deer te Socialism.
Sike booastin they will sum day rue,
If we admit the Baable true.
All thooase mun pass a mighty change,
Afoore the happy hills they range!—
Bud tiv oor teeal let us ton back,
Lest we get farther fra’ oor track.
The day arrives, the smiling sun,
Procleeams the Steeple Chase begun.
On eeager eears the tumult steeals,
Ov prancin steeds, an’ rumblin wheels.
It wur a day ov winks an’ nods,
Ov lofty deeds, an’ lofty wods.
As thof they hed for ther defence!
The thunner ov Omnipotence!
T’ fooaks com rowlin in by skoors,
Fra’ neeab’rin toons, an’ off o’ t’ moors.
Like cloods ov locusts in they hale,
Fra’ Goadland, Sleights, an’ Harwood Dale.
’Tis seerly sum enchanted string,
That does sike croods tegither bring.
Like bees, they roond the steeple swarm,
In it they likely see neea harm.
Jim.—Neea harm! What harm, Joe, can there be,
I’ seeing sike a rarity:—
Ov men an’ hosses heeighly fed,
Wi’ priests an’ squires at ther head;
Ov gentlemen, an’ ladies gay,
As bonny as the floors i’ May.
Theer riches, yooth, an’ beauty shine,
Array’d i’ silk, an’ superfine.
An’ farmers’ maidens, yoong an’ fair,
We wonder hoo they’ve taame te spare;
Wi’ lads ov manners rough an’ rude,
All mixing i’ yah multitude.
An’ poor awd men, ’at scarce can blaw,
Wi’ beards an’ whiskers white as snaw;
Sad sample ov oor fallen race,
All rollin up to t’ Steeple Chase.
An’ farmers’ sarvants leeave ther pleugh,
Callin ther maister black an’ blue,
Whea for ther credit an’ ther neeame,
Hed coonsel’d them te stay at heeame.
Ah met ’em as Ah com alang,
(They wonder’d whah Ah waddn’t gang,)
Wi’ roosy cheeks, an’ shoothers brooad,
Bettin weagers up o’ t’ rooad.
Ther leeaks an’ words at yance declare,
Ther treasure an’ ther hearts are theer.
If yah contrary sentence drop,
That mooth they quickly try te stop.
When roond the splendid stand they meet,
’Twad deea a blinnd man gud te see’t;
Besaads the men’s seea faanly drist!
The Steeple Chase,—whah whea wad miss’t?
I’ seeing sike a rarity:—
Ov men an’ hosses heeighly fed,
Wi’ priests an’ squires at ther head;
Ov gentlemen, an’ ladies gay,
As bonny as the floors i’ May.
Theer riches, yooth, an’ beauty shine,
Array’d i’ silk, an’ superfine.
An’ farmers’ maidens, yoong an’ fair,
We wonder hoo they’ve taame te spare;
Wi’ lads ov manners rough an’ rude,
All mixing i’ yah multitude.
An’ poor awd men, ’at scarce can blaw,
Wi’ beards an’ whiskers white as snaw;
Sad sample ov oor fallen race,
All rollin up to t’ Steeple Chase.
An’ farmers’ sarvants leeave ther pleugh,
Callin ther maister black an’ blue,
Whea for ther credit an’ ther neeame,
Hed coonsel’d them te stay at heeame.
Ah met ’em as Ah com alang,
(They wonder’d whah Ah waddn’t gang,)
Wi’ roosy cheeks, an’ shoothers brooad,
Bettin weagers up o’ t’ rooad.
Ther leeaks an’ words at yance declare,
Ther treasure an’ ther hearts are theer.
If yah contrary sentence drop,
That mooth they quickly try te stop.
When roond the splendid stand they meet,
’Twad deea a blinnd man gud te see’t;
Besaads the men’s seea faanly drist!
The Steeple Chase,—whah whea wad miss’t?
Joe.—Fra’ furst te last it is desaun’d,
Te pleease an’ fascinate the maand;
Te lift it, as on eagle’s wings,
An’ draave off thowghts o’ better things.
The stewards full o’ wardly wit,
Pronoonce ’at all things noo are fit,
When thoosands then roll up te see,
As drawn by Steeple witchery.
Fra’ whence they cum, or whoor they dwell,
If yoo’ve a paper it ’ll tell.
Ye ken the horses whea’s they are,
By t’ colours ’at ther riders wear.
Thus whether i’ the rooad or noa,
Wi’ whip an’ spur away they goa;
Ower hedge an’ dyke,—there’s nowght can stop ’em,
Unless an angry God unprop em.
Thus riding ower grass, or coorn
’Ats growin,—or ’ats leeatly sown,
There’s neean dare lift a hand, or say,
What hev ye deean, or whea’s te pay,
Whahl oaths profane, an’ lafter lood,
Are utter’d by the gaping crood;—
By some whea yance religion luv’d,
Not only sanction’d, bud appruv’d!
If ivv’ry ward an’ secret thowght,
Mun be yan day te judgment browght,
Oh, how unlike sike wark as this,
Is that which leads te glorious bliss!
Te see ’em thus seea blithe an’ merry,
Wur famous pastaame for Awd Harry.
If owght te him cud be delighting,
’Twad be to see ’em drunk an’ feighting.
He popt aboot amang t’ people,
At last he popt up on to’t steeple,
Open’d a pair ov dismal jaws,
Flapt his black wings, an’ yawn’d applause:
Like sum prood Emperor ov awd,
Upon the wether cock he rode,
’Whoor he mud all at yance survey,
The grand proceedings ov the day.
A flagstaff for a whip he seized,
An’ spurr’d the spire he wur seea pleeased,
Te think it sud his cause defend,
An’ that his bait hed answer’d t’end.
Te pleease an’ fascinate the maand;
Te lift it, as on eagle’s wings,
An’ draave off thowghts o’ better things.
The stewards full o’ wardly wit,
Pronoonce ’at all things noo are fit,
When thoosands then roll up te see,
As drawn by Steeple witchery.
Fra’ whence they cum, or whoor they dwell,
If yoo’ve a paper it ’ll tell.
Ye ken the horses whea’s they are,
By t’ colours ’at ther riders wear.
Thus whether i’ the rooad or noa,
Wi’ whip an’ spur away they goa;
Ower hedge an’ dyke,—there’s nowght can stop ’em,
Unless an angry God unprop em.
Thus riding ower grass, or coorn
’Ats growin,—or ’ats leeatly sown,
There’s neean dare lift a hand, or say,
What hev ye deean, or whea’s te pay,
Whahl oaths profane, an’ lafter lood,
Are utter’d by the gaping crood;—
By some whea yance religion luv’d,
Not only sanction’d, bud appruv’d!
If ivv’ry ward an’ secret thowght,
Mun be yan day te judgment browght,
Oh, how unlike sike wark as this,
Is that which leads te glorious bliss!
Te see ’em thus seea blithe an’ merry,
Wur famous pastaame for Awd Harry.
If owght te him cud be delighting,
’Twad be to see ’em drunk an’ feighting.
He popt aboot amang t’ people,
At last he popt up on to’t steeple,
Open’d a pair ov dismal jaws,
Flapt his black wings, an’ yawn’d applause:
Like sum prood Emperor ov awd,
Upon the wether cock he rode,
’Whoor he mud all at yance survey,
The grand proceedings ov the day.
A flagstaff for a whip he seized,
An’ spurr’d the spire he wur seea pleeased,
Te think it sud his cause defend,
An’ that his bait hed answer’d t’end.
Jim.—Tis not for thee te criticise,
On men seea greeat, seea rich, seea wise,
They aim, neea doot, as weel as thee,
Te gang te heeaven when they dee.
What thof ther munney be bud lent,
Thoo knaws ’at munney mun be spent.
Besaads they hev example too,—
If t’ parson’s theer—What’s that te thoo?
On men seea greeat, seea rich, seea wise,
They aim, neea doot, as weel as thee,
Te gang te heeaven when they dee.
What thof ther munney be bud lent,
Thoo knaws ’at munney mun be spent.
Besaads they hev example too,—
If t’ parson’s theer—What’s that te thoo?
Joe.—If thooase sud miss ther passage heeame,
A careless priesthood they may bleeame.
Blinnd guides they are, an’ t’Kirk’s ther moother,
An’ they wean’t gang te hear neea other.
We Christians run a diff’rent race,
Te what we call the Steeple Chase.
Besaads we finnd i’ Holy writ,
Ther’s neean cums theer ’at are nut fit.
A careless priesthood they may bleeame.
Blinnd guides they are, an’ t’Kirk’s ther moother,
An’ they wean’t gang te hear neea other.
We Christians run a diff’rent race,
Te what we call the Steeple Chase.
Besaads we finnd i’ Holy writ,
Ther’s neean cums theer ’at are nut fit.
Jim.—Thoo meeans te proove by argument,
Thooase ’at cums theer mun first repent,
An’ be throo Jesus Christ forgiven,
Afoore they’re i’ the rooad te heaven.
Neea carnal plissure they mun share,
Bud live a life ov faith an’ prayer.
If thooase alone hev saving grace,
Doon gangs at yance the Steeple Chase.
Thooase ’at cums theer mun first repent,
An’ be throo Jesus Christ forgiven,
Afoore they’re i’ the rooad te heaven.
Neea carnal plissure they mun share,
Bud live a life ov faith an’ prayer.
If thooase alone hev saving grace,
Doon gangs at yance the Steeple Chase.
Joe.—Seea legions fell fra’ leeght te dark,
Seea Dagon fell afoore the ark,
Seea God prood Pharaoh owerthrew,
Wi’ Sisera, an’ Goliath too.
Seea fell the lords i’ sad supprise,
Wheas hands hed put out Samson’s eyes.
Thooase mighty men wur turn’d te dust,
An’ seean the Steeple Chasers must.
Seea Dagon fell afoore the ark,
Seea God prood Pharaoh owerthrew,
Wi’ Sisera, an’ Goliath too.
Seea fell the lords i’ sad supprise,
Wheas hands hed put out Samson’s eyes.
Thooase mighty men wur turn’d te dust,
An’ seean the Steeple Chasers must.
Jim.—Whah, Joe, it caps me fair te ken,
Hoo thooase heeigh flying gentlemen,
Can fra’ ther chasing gang te t’ kirk,
An’ join i’t’ blessed Sunday’s wooark,
Singing wi’ all ther might an’ main,
This heaven inspir’d, this holy strain,
“Let all thy converse be sincere,
“Thy conscience as the noon-day clear,
“For God’s all seeing eye surveys
“Thy secret thoughts, thy works and ways;”—
An’ then fra’ t’ kirk te t’ Steeple Chase,
An’ set at nowght God’s luv an’ grace,
Call t’dissenters, an’ shoot thruff t’nation,
For “Apostolical succession!”
Hoo thooase heeigh flying gentlemen,
Can fra’ ther chasing gang te t’ kirk,
An’ join i’t’ blessed Sunday’s wooark,
Singing wi’ all ther might an’ main,
This heaven inspir’d, this holy strain,
“Let all thy converse be sincere,
“Thy conscience as the noon-day clear,
“For God’s all seeing eye surveys
“Thy secret thoughts, thy works and ways;”—
An’ then fra’ t’ kirk te t’ Steeple Chase,
An’ set at nowght God’s luv an’ grace,
Call t’dissenters, an’ shoot thruff t’nation,
For “Apostolical succession!”
Joe.—Te bring oor converse te a close,
Oor only aim is te expose,
The thing Almighty God doth hate,—
Nut te provoke unkind debate.
The day’s nut far ’at will reveal
The truth, an’ fix the final seal.
Oor only aim is te expose,
The thing Almighty God doth hate,—
Nut te provoke unkind debate.
The day’s nut far ’at will reveal
The truth, an’ fix the final seal.
| Sum may when its teea late te rue, | } |
| Finnd what they hoped wur false—is true | |
| Consarning everlasting woe! |
FOOTNOTES:
[A] It was a saying of one of the Riders, that he carried two or three loose necks in his pocket, in case anything happened to his own.
THE LUCKY DREEAM, OR AN AWD THING RENEWED.
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.
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!
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!
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.
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 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!”