Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore
The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike
The dash of ocean on his winding shore,
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind,
Unnumbered branches waving in the blast,
And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once
Nor less composure waits upon the roar
Of distant floods, or on the softer voice
Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip
Through the cleft rock, and chiming as they fall
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length
In matted grass, that with a livelier green
Betrays the secret of their silent course.
Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,
But animated nature sweeter still
To soothe and satisfy the human ear.
Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one
The livelong night: nor these alone whose notes
Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain,
But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime
In still repeated circles, screaming loud,
The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl
That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.
Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh,
Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns
And only there, please highly for their sake.
WILLIAM COWPER
The Post-Boy
Hark! ’tis the twanging horn o’er yonder bridge,
That with its wearisome but needful length
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright; –
He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
With spatter’d boots, strapp’d waist, and frozen locks;
News from all nations lumb’ring at his back.
True to his charge, the close-pack’d load behind,
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the destin’d inn:
And, having dropp’d th’ expected bag, pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;
To him indiff’rent whether grief or joy.
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet
With tears, that trickled down the writer’s cheeks
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,
Or charg’d with am’rous sighs of absent swains,
Or nymphs responsive, equally affect
His horse and him, unconscious of them all.
But oh th’ important budget! usher’d in
With such heart-shaking music, who can say
What are its tidings? have our troops awak’d?
Or do they still, as if with opium drugg’d,
Snore to the murmurs of th’ Atlantic wave?
Is India free? and does she wear her plum’d
And jewell’d turban with a smile of peace,
Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh – I long to know them all;
I burn to set th’ imprison’d wranglers free,
And give them voice and utt’rance once again.
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful ev’ning in.
WILLIAM COWPER
Washing Day
The Muses are turned gossips; they have lost
The buskined step, and clear high-sounding phrase,
Language of gods. Come, then, domestic Muse,
In slip-shod measure loosely prattling on,
Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream,
Or droning flies, or shoes lost in the mire
By little whimpering boy, with rueful face –
Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded washing day.
Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend,
With bowed soul, full well ye ken the day
Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on
Too soon; for to that day nor peace belongs,
Nor comfort; ere the first grey streak of dawn,
The red-armed washers come and chase repose.
Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth,
Ere visited that day; the very cat,
From the wet kitchen scared, and reeking hearth,
Visits the parlour, an unwonted guest.
The silent breakfast meal is soon despatched,
Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks
Cast at the louring, if sky should lour.
From that last evil, oh preserve us, heavens!
For should the skies pour down, adieu to all
Remains of quiet; then expect to hear
Of sad disasters – dirt and gravel stains
Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once
Snapped short, and linen-horse by dog thrown down,
And all the petty miseries of life.
Saints have been calm while stretched upon the rack,
And Montezuma smiled on burning coals;
But never yet did housewife notable
Greet with a smile a rainy washing day.
But grant the welkin fair, require not thou
Who callest thyself, perchance, the master there,
Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat,
Or usual ’tendence; ask not, indiscreet,
Thy stockings mended, though the yawning rents
Gape wide as Erebus; nor hope to find
Some snug recess impervious. Shouldst thou try
The ’customed garden walks, thine eye shall rue
The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs,
Myrtle or rose, all crushed beneath the weight
Of coarse-checked apron, with impatient hand
Twitched off when showers impend; or crossing lines
Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet
Flaps in thy face abrupt. Woe to the friend
Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim
On such a day the hospitable rites;
Looks blank at best, and stinted courtesy
Shall he receive; vainly he feeds his hopes
With dinner of roast chicken, savoury pie,
Or tart or pudding; pudding he nor tart
That day shall eat; nor, though the husband try –
Mending what can’t be helped – to kindle mirth
From cheer deficient, shall his consort’s brow
Clear up propitious; the unlucky guest
In silence dines, and early slinks away.
I well remember, when a child, the awe
This day struck into me; for then the maids,
I scarce knew why, looked cross, and drove me from them;
Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope
Usual indulgencies; jelly or creams,
Relic of costly suppers, and set by
For me their petted one; or buttered toast,
When butter was forbid; or thrilling tale
Of ghost, or witch, or murder. So I went
And sheltered me beside the parlour fire;
There my dear grandmother, eldest of forms,
Tended the little ones, and watched from harm;
Anxiously fond, though oft her spectacles
; With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins
Drawn from her ravelled stocking, might have soured
One less indulgent.
At intervals my mother’s voice was heard,
Urging dispatch; briskly the work went on,
All hands employed to wash, to rinse, to wring,
Or fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and plait.
Then would I sit me down, and ponder much
Why washings were; sometimes through hollow hole
Of pipe amused we blew, and sent aloft
The floating bubbles; little dreaming then
To see, Montgolfier, thy silken ball
Ride buoyant through the clouds, so near approach
The sports of children and the toils of men.
Earth, air, and sky, and ocean hath its bubbles,
And verse is one of them – this most of all.
ANNA LAETITIA BARBAULD
Cock Robbin
Who did kill Cock Robbin?
I, said the Sparrow,
With my bow and Arrow,
And I did kill Cock Robbin.
Who did see him die?
I, said the Fly,
With my little Eye,
And I did see him die.
And who did catch his blood?
I, said the Beetle,
With my little Dish,
And I did catch his blood.
And who did make his shroud?
I, said the Fish,
With my little Needle,
And I did make his shroud.
Who’ll dig his grave?
I, said the Owl,
With my pick and shovel,
I’ll dig his grave.
Who’ll be the parson?
I, said the Rook,
With my little book,
I’ll be the parson.
Who’ll be the clerk?
I, said the Lark,
If it’s not in the dark,
I’ll be the clerk.
Who’ll carry the link?
I, said the Linnet,
I’ll fetch it in a minute,
I’ll carry the link.
Who’ll be chief mourner?
I, said the Dove,
I mourn for my love,
I’ll be chief mourner.
Who’ll carry the coffin?
I, said the Kite,
If it’s not through the night,
I’ll carry the coffin.
Who’ll bear the pall?
We, said the Wren,
Both the cock and the hen,
We’ll bear the pall.
Who’ll sing a psalm?
I, said the Thrush,
As she sat on a bush,
I’ll sing a psalm.
Who’ll toll the bell?
I, said the Bull,
Because I can pull,
I’ll toll the bell.
All the birds of the air
Fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,
When they heard the bell toll
For poor Cock Robbin.
ANON
Poet to Blacksmith
Seamus, make me a side-arm to take on the earth,
A suitable tool for digging and grubbing the ground,
Lightsome and pleasant to lean on or cut with or lift,
Tastily finished and trim and right for the hand.
No trace of the hammer to show on the sheen of the blade,
The thing to have purchase and spring and be fit for the strain,
The shaft to be socketed in dead true and dead straight,
And I’ll work with the gang till I drop and never complain.
The plate and the edge of it not to be wrinkly or crooked –
I see it well shaped from the anvil and sharp from the file;
The grain of the wood and the line of the shaft nicely fitted,
And best thing of all, the ring of it, sweet as a bell.
EOGHAN RUA Ó SÚILLEABHÁIN
translated by Seamus Heaney
Written near a port on a dark evening
Huge vapours brood above the clifted shore,
Night on the ocean settles, dark and mute,
Save where is heard the repercussive roar
Of drowsy billows, on the rugged foot
Of rocks remote; or still more distant tone
Of seamen in the anchored bark that tell
The watch relieved; or one deep voice alone
Singing the hour, and bidding ‘Strike the bell.’
All is black shadow, but the lucid line
Marked by the light surf on the level sand,
Or where afar the ship-lights faintly shine
Like wandering fairy fires, that oft on land
Mislead the pilgrim – such the dubious ray
That wavering reason lends, in life’s long darkling way.
CHARLOTTE SMITH
Caller Oysters
Happy the man who, free from care and strife,
In silken or the leathern purse retains
A splendid shilling. He nor hears with pain
New oysters cry’d, nor sighs for cheerful ale.
– PHILLIPS
Of a’ the waters that can hobble
A fishin yole or salmon coble,
And can reward the fishers trouble,
Or south or north,
There’s nane sae spacious and sae noble
As Firth o’ Forth.
In her the skate and codlin sail.
The eil fou souple wags her tall,
Wi’ herrin, fleuk, and mackerel.
And whitens dainty;
Their spindle-shanks the labsters trail,
Wi’ partans plenty.
Auld Reikie’s sons blyth faces wear.
September’s merry month is near.
That brings in Neptune’s caller chere.
New oysters fresh:
The halesomest and nicest gear
Of fish or flesh.
O! then we needna gie a plack
For dand’ring mountebank or quack.
Wha o’ their drogs sae bauldly crack,
And spred sic notions.
As gar their feckless patient tak
Their stinkin potions.
Come prie, frail man! for gin thou art sick.
The oyster Is a rare cathartic.
As ever doctor patient gart lick
To cure his ails:
Whether you hae the head or heart-ake.
It ay prevails
Ye tiplers, open a, your poses,
Ye wha are faush’d wi’ plouky noses,
Fling owr your craig sufficient doses,
You’ll thole a hunder,
To fleg awa’ your simmer roses,
And naething under.
Whan big as burns the gutters rin,
Gin ye hae catcht a droukit skin,
To Luckie Middlemist’s loup in
And sit fu snug
O’er oysters and a dram o’ gin,
Or haddock lug.
When auld Saunt Giles, at aught o’clock,
Gars merchant lowns their chopies lock,
There we adjourn wi’ hearty fock
To birle our bodies,
And get wharewi’ to crack our joke,
And clear our noddles.
Whan Phœbus did his windocks steek,
How aften at that ingle cheek
Did I my frosty fingers beek.
And taste gude fare?
I trow there was nae hame to seek
Whan steghin there.
While glakit fools, o’er rife o’ cash,
Pamper their weyms wi’ fousom trash.
I think a chiel may gayly pass:
He’s no ill boden
That gusts his gabb wi’ oyster sauce,
And hen weel soden.
At Musselbrough, and eke Newhaven,
The fisher wives will get top livin,
When lads gang out on Sunday’s even
To treat their joes,
And tak of fat pandours a prieven,
Or mussel brose:
Than sometimes ’ere they flit their doup,
They’ll ablins a’ their siller coup
For liquor clear frae cutty stoup,
To weet their wizen,
And swallow o’er a dainty soup,
For fear they gizzen.
A’ ye wha canna stand sae sicker,
Whan twice you’ve toom’d the big ars’d bicker,
Mix caller oysters wi’ your liquor,
And I’m your debtor,
If greedy priest or drouthy vicar
Will thole it better.
ROBERT FERGUSSON
The Daft-Days
Now mirk December’s dowie face
Glours our the rigs wi’ sour grimace,
While, thro’ his minimum of space,
The bleer-ey’d sun,
Wi’ blinkin light and stealing pace,
His race doth run.
From naked groves nae birdie sings,
To shepherd’s pipe nae hillock rings,
The breeze nae od’rous flavour brings
From Borean cave,
And dwyning nature droops her wings,
Wi’ visage grave.
Mankind but scanty pleasure glean
Frae snawy hill or barren plain,
Whan Winter, ’midst his nipping train,
Wi’ frozen spear,
Sends drift owr a’ his bleak domain,
And guides the weir.
Auld Reikie! thou’rt the canty hole,
A bield for mony caldrife soul,
Wha snugly at thine ingle loll,
Baith warm and couth;
While round they gar the bicker roll
To weet their mouth.
When merry Yule-day comes, I trow
You’ll scantlins find a hungry mou’;
Sma’ are our cares, our stamacks fou
O’ gusty gear,
And kickshaws, strangers to our view,
Sin Fairn-year.
The Map and the Clock Page 14
