VILLAGE MINSTREL [Cont.]
[PAGE 2]
THE
VILLAGE MINSTREL [Cont.]
[PAGE 2]
[Stanzas LXI to CXIX]
LXI.
He knew the manners too of merry rout;
Statute and feast his village yearly knew;
And glorious revels too without a doubt
Such pastimes were to Hob, and Nell, and Sue,
Milkmaids and clowns that statute-joys pursue,
And rattle off, like hogs to London mart:
Weary of old, they seek for places new,
Where men hail maidens with a frothing quart,
And Hodge With sweetheart fix'd forgets his plough and cart:-
LXII.
Where cakes, and nuts, and gingerbread and all,
Tempt clowns to buy; and far more tempting still,
Where shining ribbons dizen out the stall,
And wenches drag poor sheepish Bob or Bill
Some long, long dallied promise to fulfil;
New wreath or bow for Sunday cap to buy -
"If yah set any store by one yah will!"
Each draws his purse, and makes them no reply,
But thinks returns ere long will suit, for clowns are sly.
LXIII.
And there the ballad-singers rave and rant,
And Hodge, whose pockets won't stand treats more high,
Hears which his simpering lass may please to want,
And, brushing through the crowd most manfully,
Outs with his pence the pleasing song to buy,
And crams it in her hand with many a smile;
The trifling present make the maid comply
To promise him her company the while,
And strutting on at night he hands her o'er the stile.
LXIV.
Here the poor sailor, with his hat in hand,
Hops through the crowd that wonderfully stares,
To hear him talk of things in foreign land,
'Bout thundering cannons and most bloody wars;
And as he stops to shew his seamy scars,
Pity soon meets the ploughman's penny then:
The sailor heartfelt thankfulness declares,
"God blesses" all, and styles them
"gentlemen,"
And fobs his money up, and 'gins his tale agen.
LXV.
Here's "Civil Will" too, with his "pins and
pegs,"
And he makes glorious fun among the chaps:
"Boys, miss my pegs," he cries, "and hit my legs,
"My timbers well can stand your gentle taps,"
Though sure enough he gets most ugly raps,
For here the rustic thinks the sports abound;
Whose aim at "Civil's" legs his fellows caps
Meets most applause - still "poor Will" stand his
ground,
" Boys throw your copper salve, and make another
wound."
LXVI.
But soldiers, they're the boys to make a rout,
With boasting bottle brimm'd with gin and rum,
The high-crown'd cap with ribbons hung about,
The tuteling fife, and hoarse rap-tapping drum:
Lud, clowns are almost mad where'er they come;
They're like so many kings 'mong country folk,
They push their beer like water round the room,
Who will and welcome there may drink and smoke,
Though chaps have often found they dearly sell a joke.
LXVII.
The bumptious serjeant struts before his men,
And "clear the road, young whopstraws!" will he say;
And looks as big as if king George himsen,
And wields his sword around to make a way:
With lace and ribbons dizen'd out so gay,
So flashing smart - full oft, as well's the swain,
The tempted maid his finery does betray,
Who leaves poor slighted Hodge behind in pain,
And many a chiding dame to sorrow and complain.
LXVIII.
And Lubin heard the echoing rabble-fight,
When men and maids were hir'd, and sports did close,
And wenches sought their sweethearts up at night,
And found 'em drunk, bedeck'd with soldier's clothes;
As they would pull and scold great tumults rose;
The serjeant's honour totter'd terribly,
From women's threat'nings hardly 'scap'd with blows;
They'd box his cap about his ears, if he
Gave not the contest up, and set the prisoner free.
LXIX.
Some homeward-bound were coupled, maid and swain,
And Dick from Dolly now for gifts did sue,
He'd giv'n her ribbons, and he deem'd again
Some kind return as nothing but his due;
And he told things that ploughmen little knew,
Of bleeding hearts and pains - a mighty spell!
Her Sunday-clothes might damage with the dew,
She quite forgot them while he talk'd so well;
And listened to his tales, till darkness round them fell.
LXX.
The statute nam'd, each servant's day of fun,
The village-feast next warms the muse's song;
'Tis Lubin's sphere, a thresher's lowly son;
Though little used to mix such routs among,
Such fitting subjects to the theme belong:
As pictur'd landscapes, destitute of trees,
Would doubtlessly be fancied painted wrong,
So lowly rural subjects, such as these,
Must have their simple ways discerning eyes to please.
LXXI.
The lovely morn in July's blushes rose,
That brought the yearly feast and holiday,
When villagers put on their bran-new clothes,
And milk-maids, drest like any ladies gay,
Threw "cotton drabs" and "worsted hose" away,
And left their pails unscour'd, well pleas'd I ween
To join the dance where gipsy fiddlers play,
Accompanied with thumping tambourine,
From night till morning-light upon the rushy green.
LXXII.
Where the fond swain delighteth in the chance
To meet the sun-tann'd lass he dearly loves;
And, as he leads her down the giddy dance,
With many a token his fond passion proves,
Squeezing her hands, or catching at her gloves,
And stealing kisses as chance prompts the while;
With eye fixt on her as she graceful moves,
To catch if such fond fancies her beguile, -
When happily her heart confesses in a smile.
LXXIII.
O rural love! as spotless as the dove's;
No wealth gives fuel to a borrow'd flame,
To prompt the shepherd where to choose his loves,
And go a forger of that sacred name;
Both hearts in unison here beat the same
Here nature makes the choice which love inspires:
Far from the wedded lord and haughty dame
This boon of heavenly happiness retires,
Not felon-like law-bound but wedded in desires.
LXXIV.
The woodman and the thresher now are found
Mixing and making merry with their friends;
Children and kin, from neighbouring towns around
Each at the humble banquet pleas'd attends:
For though no costliness the feast pretends,
Yet something more than common they provide;
And the good dame her small plum-pudding sends
To sons and daughters fast in service tied,
With many a cordial gift of good advice beside.
LXXV.
'Tis pleasing then to view the cotter's cheer,
To mark his gentle and his generous mind;
How free he is to push about his beer;
And well's he knows, with ceremony kind,
Bids help themselves to such as they may find;
Tells them they're welcome as the flowers in May:
And, full of merrimental cheer inclin'd,
Drink healths, and sings when supper's clear'd away,
And hopes they all may meet on next year's holiday.
LXXVI.
And then for sake of's boys and wenches dear,
Gives leave a dancing in his hut shall be;
While he sits smoking in his elbow-chair,
As pleas'd as Punch his children round to see,
With each a sweetheart frisking merrily.
"God bless ye all!" quoth he, and drinks his beer,
"My boys and wenches ye're a pride to me:
"Lead but an honest life - no matter where,
"And do as I have done, and ye'll have nought to fear.
LXXVII.
"To bring ye up, from toil I never flinch'd,
"Or fail'd to do the thing that's just and right;
"Your mother knows ourselves were often pinch'd,
"To fill your bellies and to keep ye tight:
"May God look down and bless ye all this night!
"May wives and husbands here, that are to be,
"Instead of sorrows prove your heart's delight! -
"I've brought ye up, expect no more from me,
"So take your trundle now, and good luck may ye see!"
LXXVIII.
Thus talk'd the father to his pipe and beer,
For those whom he'd admonish were the while
Too occupied in dancing him to hear;
Yet still with talk and beer he does beguile
His short releasement from his cares and toil;
Till Sir John's spirit stops his merry glee
And lays him quiet down: - his children smile,
Break up the dance, and pay the fiddler's fee,
And then the lass he loves each swain pulls on his knee.
LXXIX.
And the long rural string of merry games,
That at such outings maketh much ado,
All were to Lubin's skill familiar names;
And he could tell each whole performance through,
As plann'd and practis'd by the jovial crew:
Great sport to them was jumping in a sack,
For beaver hat bedeck'd with ribbons blue;
Soon one bumps down as though he'd broke his neck,
Another tries to rise, and wondrous sport they make.
LXXX.
And monstrous fun it makes to hunt the pig,
As soapt and larded through the crowd he flies:
Thus turn'd adrift he plays them many a rig;
A pig for catching is a wondrous prize,
And every lout to do his utmost tries;
Some snap the ear, and some the curly tail,
But still his slippery hide all hold denies;
While old men tumbled down sore hurts bewail,
And boys bedaub'd with muck run home with piteous tale.
LXXXI.
And badger-baiting here, and fighting cocks -
But sports too barbarous these for Lubin's strains;
And red-fac'd wenches, for the Holland smocks,
Oft puff and pant along the smooth green plains;
Where Hodge feels most uncomfortable pains
To see his love lag hindmost in the throng,
And of unfairness in her cause complains;
And swears and fights the jarring chaps among,
As in her part he'd die, 'fore they his lass should wrong.
LXXXII.
And long-ear'd racers, fam'd for sport and fun,
Appear this day to have their swiftness try'd;
Where some won't start, and "Dick's," the race nigh
won,
Enamour'd of some "Jenny" by his side,
Forgets the winning-post to court a bride;
In vain the mob urge on the jockey-clown
To lump his cudgel on his harden'd hide,
Ass after ass still hee-haws through the town,
And in disgrace at last each jockey bumps adown.
LXXXIII.
And then the noisy rout, their sports to crown,
Form round the ring superior strength to show,
Where wrestlers join to tug each other down,
And thrust and kick with hard revengeful blow,
Till through their worsted hose the blood does flow:
For ploughmen would not wish for higher fame,
Than be the champion all the rest to throw;
And thus to add such honours to his name,
He kicks, and tugs, and bleeds to win the glorious game.
LXXXIV.
And when the night draws on, each mirthful lout
The ale-house seeks, and sets it in a roar;
And there, while fiddlers play, they rant about,
And call for brimming tankards frothing o'er:
For clouds of smoke ye'd hardly see the door;
No stint they make of 'bacco and of beer;
While money lasts they shout about for more,
Resolv'd to keep it merry when it's here, -
As toils come every day, and feasts but once a year.
LXXXV.
With village-merriments digress'd awhile,
We now resume poor Lubin's joys again,
And haply find him bending o'er a stile,
Or stretch'd in sabbath-musings on the plain,
Looking around and humming o'er a strain;
Painting the foliage of the woodland trees;
List'ning a bird that's lost its nest complain;
Noting the hummings of the passing bees,
And all the lovely things his musing hears and sees.
LXXXVI.
Where ling-clad heaths and pastures now may spread,
He oft has heard of castle and of hall;
And curiosity his steps hath led
To gaze on some old arch or fretting wall,
Where ivy scrambles up to stop the fall:
There would he sit him down, and look, and sigh,
And by-gone days back to his mind would call,
The bloody-warring times of chivalry,
When Danes' invading routs made unarm'd Britons fly.
LXXXVII.
He lov'd to view the mossy-arched brigs, -
Bending o'er wall or rail, the pits or springs
Below to mark, - where willow's dripping twigs
To summer's silken zephyrs' feeblest wings
Bent in the flood and curv'd its thousand rings;
And where the sun-beam twitter'd on the walls;
And nodding bulrush down its drowk head hings;
And down the rock the shallow water falls,
Wild fluttering through the stones in feeble whimpering brawls.
LXXXVIII.
And oft, with shepherds leaning o'er their hooks,
He'd stand conjecturing on the ruins round:
Though little skill'd in antiquated books,
Their knowledge in such matters seem'd profound;
And they would preach of what did once abound,
Castles deep moated round, old haunted hall -
And something like to moats still 'camp the ground,
Where beneath Cromwell's rage the towers did fall;
But ivy creeps the hill, and ruin hides it all.
LXXXIX.
And ancient songs he hung enraptur'd on,
Which herdsmen on a hill have sat to sing,
'Bout feats of Robin Hood and Little John,
Whose might was fear'd by country and by king,
Such strength had they to twitch the thrumming string;
Their darts oft suck'd the life-blood of the deer;
And Sherwood Forest with their horns did ring.
Ah, these were songs which he would joy to hear,
And these were such as warm'd when antique scenes appear.
XC.
But who can tell the anguish of his mind,
When reformation's formidable foes
With civil wars 'gainst nature's peace combin'd,
And desolation struck her deadly blows,
As curst improvement 'gan his fields inclose:
O greens, and fields, and trees, farewel, farewel!
His heart-wrung pains, his unavailing woes
No words can utter, and no tongue can tell,
When ploughs destroy'd the green, when groves of willows fell.
XCI.
There once were springs, when daisies' silver studs
Like sheets of snow on every pasture spread;
There once were summers, when the crow-flower buds
Like golden sunbeams brightest lustre shed;
And trees grew once that shelter'd Lubin's head;
There once were brooks sweet whimpering down the vale:
The brooks no more - kingcup and daisy fled;
Their last fallen tree the naked moors bewail,
And scarce a bush is left to tell the mournful tale.
XCII.
Yon shaggy tufts, and many a rushy knot
Existing still in spite of spade and plough,
As seeming fond and loth to leave the spot,
Tell where was once the green - brown fallows now,
Where Lubin often turns a sadden'd brow,
Marks the stopt brook, and mourns oppression's power;
And thinks how once he waded in each slough,
To crop the yellow "horse-blob's" early flower,
Or catch the "miller's-thumb" in summer's sultry hour.
XCIII.
There once were days, the woodman knows it well,
When shades e'en echoed with the singing thrush;
There once were hours, the ploughman's tale can tell,
When morning's beauty wore its earliest blush,
How woodlarks carol'd from each stumpy bush;
Lubin himself has mark'd them soar and sing:
The thorns are gone, the woodlark's song is hush,
Spring more resembles winter now than spring,
The shades are banish'd all - the birds have took to wing.
XCIV.
There once were lanes in nature's freedom dropt,
There once were paths that every valley wound, -
Inclosure came, and every path was stopt;
Each tyrant fix'd his sign where paths were found,
To hint a trespass now who cross'd the ground:
Justice is made to speak as they command;
The high road now must be each stinted bound:
- Inclosure, thou'rt a curse upon the land,
And tasteless was the wretch who thy existence plann'd.
XCV.
O England! boasted land of liberty,
With strangers still thou mayst thy title own,
But thy poor slaves the alteration see,
With many a loss to them the truth is known:
Like emigrating bird thy freedom's flown;
While mongrel clowns, low as their rooting plough,
Disdain thy laws to put in force their own;
And every village owns its tyrants now,
And parish-slaves must live as parish-kings allow.
XCVI.
Ye fields, ye scenes so dear to Lubin's eye,
Ye meadow-blooms, ye pasture-flowers, farewel!
Ye banish'd trees, ye make me deeply sigh, -
Inclosure came, and all your glories fell:
E'en the old oak that crown'd yon rifled dell,
Whose age had made it sacred to the view,
Not long was left his children's fate to tell;
Where ignorance and wealth their course pursue,
Each tree must tumble down - old "Lea-close Oak,"
adieu!
XCVII.
Lubin beheld it all, and, deeply pain'd,
Along the paled road would muse and sigh;
The only path that freedom's rights maintain'd:
The naked scenes drew pity from his eye,
Tears dropt to memory of delights gone by;
The haunts of freedom, cowherd's wattled bower,
And shepherd's huts, and trees that tower'd high,
And spreading thorns that turn'd a summer shower,
All captives lost, and past to sad oppression's power.
XCVIII.
And oft with shepherds he would sit, to sigh
O'er past delights of many a by-gone day,
And look on scenes now naked to the eye,
And talk as how they once were clothed gay;
And how the runnel wound its weedy way,
And how the willows on its margin grew;
Talk o'er with them the rural feats of May, -
Who got the blossoms 'neath the morning dew
That the last garland made, and where such Blossoms grew:
XCIX.
And how he could remember well, when he
Laden with blooming treasures from the plain
Has mixt with them beneath a dotterel-tree,
Driv'n from his cowslips by a hasty rain,
And heard them there sing each delightful strain;
And how with tales what joys they us'd to wake;
Wishing with them such days would come again:
They lov'd the artless boy for talking's sake,
And said some future day a wondrous man he'd make.
C.
And you, poor ragged outcasts of the land,
That lug your shifting camps from green to green,
He lov'd to see your humble dwellings stand,
And thought your groups did beautify the scene:
Though blam'd for many a petty theft you've been,
Poor wandering souls, to fate's hard want decreed,
Doubtless too oft such acts your ways bemean;
But oft in wrong your foes 'gainst you proceed,
And brand a gipsy's camp when others do the deed.
CI.
Lubin would love to list their gibberish talk,
And view the oddity their ways display;
And oft with boys pursued his Sunday walk,
Where warp'd the camp beneath the willows grey,
And its black tenants on the green-sward lay;
While, on two forked sticks with cordage tied,
Their pot o'er pilfer'd fuel boils away,
With food of sheep that of red-water died,
Or any nauseous thing their frowning fates provide.
Cll.
Yet oft they gather money by their trade,
And on their fortune-telling art subsist:
Where her long-hoarded groat oft brings the maid,
And secret slives it in the sybil's fist
To buy good luck and happiness - to list,
What occupies a wench's every thought,
Who is to be the man: - while, as she wist,
The gipsy's tale with swains and wealth is fraught,
The lass returns well-pleas'd, and thinks all cheaply bought.
CIII.
In summer, Lubin oft has mark'd and seen
How eagerly the village-maids pursue
Their Sunday rambles where the camps have been;
And how they give their money to the crew
For idle stories they believe as true;
Crossing their hands with coin or magic stick,
How quak'd the young to hear what things they knew;
While old experienc'd dames saw through the trick,
Who said that all their skill was borrow'd from Old Nick.
CIV.
And thus the superstitious dread their harm,
And dare not fail relieving the distrest,
Lest they within their cot should leave a charm,
To let nought prosper and bring on some pest:
Of depth of cunning gipsies are possest,
And when such weakness in a dame they find,
Forsooth they prove a terrifying guest;
And though not one to charity inclin'd,
They mutter black revenge, and force her to be kind.
CV.
His native scenes! O sweet endearing sound;
Sure never beats a heart, howe'er forlorn,
But the warm'd breast has soft emotions found
To cherish the dear spot where he was born:
E'en the poor hedger, in the early morn
Chopping the pattering bushes hung with dew,
Scarce lays his mitten on a branching thorn,
But painful memory's banish'd thoughts in view
Remind him, when 'twas young, what happy days he knew.
CVI.
When the old shepherd with his woolly locks
Crosses the green, past joys his eyes will fill,
Where when a boy he us'd to tend his flocks;
Each fringed rushy bed and swelling hill,
Where he has play'd, or stretch'd him at his will,
Freshening anew in life's declining years,
Will jog his memory with its pleasures still.
O how the thought his native scenes endears;
No spot throughout the world so pleasingly appears:
CVIl.
The toil-worn thresher, in his little cot
Whose roof did shield his birth, and still remains
His dwelling place, how rough soe'er his lot,
His toil though hard, and small the wage he gains
That many a child most piningly maintains;
Send him to distant scenes and better fare,
How would his bosom yearn with parting-pains;
How would he turn and look, and linger there,
And wish e'en now his cot and poverty to share.
CVIII.
How dear the soldier feels the relic prove
Taken from home, or giv'n by love's sweet hand;
A box that bears the motto of true love -
How will he take his quid, and musing stand,
Think on his native lass and native land,
And bring to mind all those past joys again
From which wild youth so foolish was trepann'd;
Kissing the pledge that doth these ways retain,
While fancy points the spot far o'er the barring main.
CIX.
O dear delightful spots, his native place!
How Lubin look'd upon the days gone by;
How he, though young, would past delights retrace,
Bend o'er gull'd holes where stood his trees, and sigh,
With tears the while bemoist'ning in his eye;
How look'd he for the green, a green no more;
Mourning to scenes that made him no reply,
Save the strong accents they in memory bore,
"Our scenes that charm'd thy youth are dead, to bloom no
more."
CX.
O samely naked leas, so bleak, so strange!
How would he wander o'er ye to complain,
And sigh, and wish he ne'er had known the change,
To see the ploughshare bury all the plain,
And not a cowslip on its lap remain;
The rush-tuft gone that hid the skylark's nest;
Ah, when will May-morn hear such strains again;
The storms beat chilly on its naked breast,
No shelter grows to shield, no home invites to rest.
CXI.
"Ah," would he sigh, "ye, 'neath the church-yard
grass,
"Ye sleeping shepherds, could ye rise again,
"And see what since your time has come to pass,
"See not a bush nor willow now remain,
"Looking and list'ning for the brook in vain, -
"Ye'd little think such was your natal scene;
"Ye'd little now distinguish field from plain,
"Or where to look for each departed green;
"All plough'd and buried now, as though there nought had
been."
CXII.
But still they beam'd with beauties on his eye;
No other scenes were half so sweet to view;
And other flowers but strove in vain to vie
With his few tufts that 'scap'd the wreck and grew;
And skylarks too their singing might pursue,
To claim his praise - he could but only say,
Their songs were sweet, but not like those he knew,
That charm'd his native plains at early day,
Whose equals ne'er were found where'er his steps might stray.
CXIII.
When distant village feast or noisy fair
Short absence from his fields did him detain,
How would he feel when home he did repair,
And mix among his joys - the white-spire vane
Meeting his eye above the elms again:
Leaving his friends in the sweet summer-night,
No longer lost on unknown field or plain,
Far from the path with well-known haunts in sight,
He'd stray for scatter'd flowers with added new delight.
CXIV.
As travellers return'd from foreign ground
Feel more endearments for their native earth,
So Lubin cherish'd from each weary round
Still warmer fondness for those scenes of mirth,
Those plains, and that dear cot that gave him birth;
And oft this warmness for his fields he'd own,
Mix'd with his friends around the cottage-hearth,
Relating all the travels he had known,
And that he'd seen no spot so lovely as his own.
CXV.
Nor has his taste with manhood e'er declin'd:
You still may see him on his lonely way,
O'er stile or gate in thoughtful mood reclin'd;
Or 'long the road with folded arms to stray,
Mixing with autumn's sighs or summer gay;
And curious, nature's secrets to explore,
Brushing the twigs of woods or copse away,
To roam the lonely shade so silent o'er,
Sweet muttering all his joys where clowns intrude no more.
CXVI.
Ah, who can tell the anxiousness of mind,
All now he doth to manhood's cares aspire;
The future blessings which he hopes to find,
The wish'd-for prospects of his heart's desire;
And how chill fear oft damps the glowing fire,
And o'er hope's sunshine spreads a cloudy gloom:
Yet foil'd and foil'd, hopes still his songs inspire;
And, like the daisy on the cotter's tomb,
In melancholy scenes he 'joys his cheerless bloom.
CXVII.
He has his friends, compar'd to foes though few,
And like a corn-flower in a field of grain
'Mong many a foe his wild weeds ope to view,
And malice mocks him with a rude disdain;
Proving pretensions to the muse as vain,
They deem her talents far beyond his skill,
And hiss his efforts as some forged strain:
But as hopes smile their tongues shall all be still,
E'en envy turns a friend when she's no power to kill.
CXVIII.
Ah, as the traveller from the mountain-top
Looks down on misty kingdoms spread below,
And meditates beneath the steepy drop
What life and lands exist, and rivers flow;
How fain that hour the anxious soul would know
Of all his eye beholds - but 'tis in vain:
So Lubin eager views this world of woe,
And wishes time her secrets would explain,
If he may live for joys or sink in 'whelming pain.
CXIX.
Fate's close-kept thoughts within her bosom hide;
She is no gossip, secrets to betray:
Time's steady movements must her end decide,
And leave him painful still to hope the day,
And grope through ignorance his doubtful way,
By wisdom disregarded, fools annoy'd.
And if no worth anticipates the lay,
Then let his childish notions be destroy'd,
And he his time employ as erst it was employ'd.