Wild Flowers by Robert Bloomfield
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Robert Bloomfield >> Wild Flowers
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WILD FLOWERS
OR,
PASTORAL AND LOCAL POETRY.
By ROBERT BLOOMFIELD
Author of "The Farmer's Boy" and "Rural Tales".
LONDON:
Printed for Vernor, Hood, and Sharpe, Poultry;
and Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme, Paternoster-Row.
1806.
WRIGHT, Printer, No. 32, St. John's Square, Clerkenwall.
PREFACE
A man of the first eminence, in whose day (fortunately perhaps for me) I
was not destined to appear before the public, or to abide the Herculean
crab-tree of his criticism, Dr. Johnson, has said, in his preface to
Shakspeare, that--"Nothing can please many, and please long, but just
representations of general nature." My representations of nature, whatever
may be said of their _justness_, are not _general_, unless we admit, what
I suspect to be the case, that nature in a village is very much like
nature every where else. It will be observed that all my pictures are from
humble life, and most of my heroines servant maids. Such I would have
them: being fully persuaded that, in no other way would my endeavours,
either to please or to instruct, have an equal chance of success.
The path I have thus taken, from necessity, as well as from choice, is
well understood and approved by hundreds, who are capable of ranging in
the higher walks of literature.--But with due deference to their superior
claim, I confess, that no recompense has been half so grateful or half so
agreeable to me as female approbation. To be readily and generally
understood, to have my simple Tales almost instinctively relished by those
who have so decided an influence over the lives, hearts, and manners of us
all, is the utmost stretch of my ambition.
I here venture, before the public eye, a selection from the various pieces
which have been the source of much pleasure, and the solace of my leisure
hours during the last four years, and since the publication of the "Rural
Tales." Perhaps, in some of them, more of mirth is intermingled than many
who know me would expect, or than the severe will be inclined to approve.
But surely what I can say, or can be expected to say, on subjects of
country life, would gain little by the seriousness of a preacher, or by
exhibiting fallacious representations of what has long been termed _Rural
Innocence_.
The Poem of "Good Tidings" is partially known to the world, but, as it
was originally intended to assume its present appearance and size, I have
gladly availed myself of an endeavour to improve it; and, from its present
extended circulation, I trust it will be new to thousands.
I anticipate some approbation from such readers as have been pleased with
the "Rural Tales;" yet, though I will not falsify my own feelings by
assuming a diffidence which I do not conceive to be either manly or
becoming, the conviction that some reputation is hazarded in "a third
attempt," is impressed deeply on my mind.
With such sentiments, and with a lively sense of the high honour, and a
hope of the bright recompence, of applause from the good, when heightened
by the self-approving voice of my own conscience, I commit the book to its
fate.
ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.
DEDICATION.
TO MY ONLY SON.
MY DEAR BOY,
In thus addressing myself to you, and in expressing my regard for your
person, my anxiety for your health, and my devotion to your welfare, I
enjoy an advantage over those dedicators who indulge in adulation;--I
shall at least be believed.
Should you arrive at that period when reason shall be mature, and
affection or curiosity induce you to look back on your father's
poetical progress through life, you may conclude that he had many to boast
as friends, whose names, in a dedication, would have honoured both him and
his children; but you must also reflect, that to particularize such
friends was a point of peculiar delicacy. The earliest patron of my
unprotected strains has the warm thanks which are his due, for the
introduction of blessings which have been diffused through our whole
family, and nothing will ever change this sentiment. But amidst a general
feeling of gratitude, which those who know me will never dispute, I feel
for you, Charles, what none but parents can conceive; and on your account,
my dear boy, there can be no harm in telling the world that I hope these
"Wild Flowers" will be productive of sweets of the worldly kind; for your
unfortunate lameness (should it never be removed) may preclude you from
the means of procuring comforts and advantages which might otherwise have
fallen to your share.
What a lasting, what an unspeakable satisfaction would it be to know that
the Ballads, the Plowman Stories, and the "Broken Crutch" of your father
would eventually contribute to lighten your steps to manhood, and make
your own crutch, through life, rather a memorial of affection than an
object of sorrow.
With a parent's feelings, and a parent's cares and hopes,
I am, Charles, yours,
R. B.
CONTENTS
Abner and the Widow Jones, a Familiar Ballad
To My Old Oak Table
The Horkey, a Provincial Ballad
The Broken Crutch, a Tale
Shooter's Hill
A Visit to Ranelagh
Love of the Country
The Woodland Hallo
Barnham Water
Mary's Evening Sigh
Good Tidings; or, News from the Farm
ABNER AND THE WIDOW JONES,
A Familiar Ballad.
Well! I'm determin'd; that's enough:--
Gee, Bayard! move your poor old bones,
I'll take to-morrow, smooth or rough,
To go and court the Widow Jones.
Our master talks of stable-room,
And younger horses on his grounds;
'Tis easy to foresee thy doom,
Bayard, thou'lt go to feed the hounds.
The first Determination.
But could I win the widow's hand,
I'd make a truce 'twixt death and thee;
For thou upon the best of land
Should'st feed, and live, and die with me.
And must the pole-axe lay thee low?
And will they pick thy poor old bones?
No--hang me if it shall be so,--
If I can win the Widow Jones.
Twirl went his stick; his curly pate
A bran-new hat uplifted bore;
And Abner, as he leapt the gate,
Had never look'd so gay before.
Old Love revived.
And every spark of love reviv'd
That had perplex'd him long ago,
When busy folks and fools contriv'd
To make his Mary answer--_no_.
But whether, freed from recent vows,
_Her_ heart had back to Abner flown,
And mark'd him for a second spouse,
In truth is not exactly known.
Howbeit, as he came in sight,
She turn'd her from the garden stile,
And downward look'd with pure delight,
With half a sigh and half a smile.
Rustic Salutation.
She heard his sounding step behind,
The blush of joy crept up her cheek,
As cheerly floated on the wind,
"Hoi! Mary Jones--what wont you speak?"
Then, with a look that ne'er deceives,
She turn'd, but found her courage fled;
And scolding sparrows from the eaves
Peep'd forth upon the stranger's head.
Down Abner sat, with glowing heart,
Resolv'd, whatever might betide,
To speak his mind, no other art
He ever knew, or ever tried.
[Illustration: a couple.]
A clear Question.
And gently twitching Mary's hand,
The bench had ample room for two,
His first word made her understand
The plowman's errand was to woo.
"My Mary--may I call thee so?
For many a happy day we've seen,
And if not mine, aye, years ago,
Whose was the fault? you might have been!
"All that's gone by: but I've been musing,
And vow'd, and hope to keep it true,
That she shall be my own heart's choosing
Whom I call wife.--Hey, what say you?
Past Thoughts stated.
"And as I drove my plough along,
And felt the strength that's in my arm,
Ten years, thought I, amidst my song,
I've been head-man at Harewood farm.
"And now, my own dear Mary's free,
Whom I have lov'd this many a day,
Who knows but she may think on _me?_
I'll go hear what she has to say.
"Perhaps that little stock of land
She holds, but knows not how to till,
Will suffer in the widow's hand,
And make poor Mary poorer still
The Avowal.
"That scrap of land, with one like her,
How we might live! and be so blest!
And who should Mary Jones prefer?
Why, surely, him who loves her best!
"Therefore I'm come to-night, sweet wench,
I would not idly thus intrude,"--
Mary look'd downward on the bench,
O'erpower'd by love and gratitude.
And lean'd her head against the vine,
With quick'ning sobs of silent bliss,
Till Abner cried, "You must be mine,
You must,"--and seal'd it with a kiss.
The Interest of an old Horse asserted.
She talk'd of shame, and wip'd her check,
But what had shame with them to do,
Who nothing meant but truth to speak,
And downright honour to pursue?
His eloquence improv'd apace,
As manly pity fill'd his mind;
"You know poor Bayard; here's the case,--
He's past his labour, old, and blind:
"If you and I should but agree
To settle here for good and all,
Could you give all your heart to me,
And grudge that poor old rogue a stall?
His Character.
"I'll buy him, for the dogs shall never
Set tooth upon a friend so true;
He'll not live long, but I for ever
Shall know I gave the beast his due.
"'Mongst all I've known of plows and carts,
And ever since I learn'd to drive,
He was not match'd in all these parts;
There was not such a horse alive!
"Ready, as birds to meet the morn,
Were all his efforts at the plough;
Then, the mill-brook with hay or corn,
Good creature! how he'd spatter through!
Character continued.
"He was a horse of mighty pow'r,
Compact in frame, and strong of limb;
Went with a chirp from hour to hour;
Whip-cord! 'twas never made for him.
"I left him in the shafts behind,
His fellows all unhook'd and gone,
He neigh'd, and deem'd the thing unkind.
Then, starting, drew the load alone!
"But I might talk till pitch-dark night,
And then have something left to say;
But, Mary, am I wrong or right,
Or, do I throw my words away?
Something like Consent.
"Leave me, or take me and my horse;
I've told thee truth, and all I know:
Truth _should_ breed truth; that comes of course;
If I sow wheat, why wheat will grow."
"Yes, Abner, but thus soon to yield,
Neighbours would fleer, and look behind 'em;
Though, with a husband in the field,
Perhaps, indeed, I should not mind 'em.
"I've known your generous nature well,
My first denial cost me dear;
How this may end we cannot tell,
But, as for Bayard, bring him here."
Parting of the Lovers.--Sad News.
"Bless thee for that," the plowman cried,
At once both starting from the seat,
He stood a guardian by her side,
But talk'd of home,--'twas growing late.
Then step for step within his arm,
She cheer'd him down the dewy way;
And no two birds upon the farm
E'er prated with more joy than they.
What news at home? The smile he wore
One little sentence turn'd to sorrow;
An order met him at the door.
"Take Bayard to the dogs to-morrow."
The Journey renewed.
Yes, yes, thought he; and heav'd a sigh,
Die when he will he's not your debtor:
I must obey, and he must die,--
That's if I can't contrive it better.
He left his Mary late at night,
And had succeeded in the main,
No sooner peep'd the morning light
But he was on the road again!
Suppose she should refuse her hand?
Such thoughts will come, I know not why;
Shall I, without a wife or land,
Want an old horse? then wherefore buy?
Perplexity
From bush to bush, from stile to stile,
Perplex'd he trod the fallow ground,
And told his money all the while
And weigh'd the matter round and round.
"I'll borrow," that's the best thought yet;
Mary shall save the horse's life.--
Kind-hearted wench! what, run in debt
Before I know she'll be my wife?
These women wo'nt speak plain and free.--
Well, well, I'll keep my service still;
She has not _said_ she'd marry me,
But yet I dare to say she will.
A fresh Thought--Turns back.
But while I take this shay brain'd course,
And like a fool run to and fro,
Master, perhaps, may sell the horse!
Therefore this instant home I'll go.
The nightly rains had drench'd the grove,
He plung'd right on with headlong pace;
A man but half as much in love
Perhaps had found a cleaner place.
The day rose fair; with team a-field,
He watch'd the farmer's cheerful brow;
And in a lucky hour reveal'd
His secret at his post, the plough.
Coming to the Point--Generosity
And there without a whine began,
"Master, you'll give me your advice;
I'm going to marry--if I can--
And want old Bayard; what's his price!
"For Mary Jones last night agreed,
Or near upon't, to be my wife:
The horse's value I don't heed,
I only want to save his life."
"Buy him, hey! Abner! trust me I
Have not the thought of gain in view;
Bayard's best days we've seen go by;
He shall be cheap enough to you."
Symptoms of good Feelings.
The wages paid, the horse brought out,
The hour of separation come;
The farmer turn'd his chair about,
"Good fellow, take him, take him home.
"You're welcome, Abner, to the beast,
For you're a faithful servant been;
They'll thrive I doubt not in the least,
Who know what work and service mean."
The maids at parting, one and all,
From different windows different tones;
Bade him farewel with many a bawl,
And sent their love to Mary Jones.
Victory!
He wav'd his hat, and turn'd away,
When loud the cry of children rose;
"Abner, good bye!" they stopt their play;
"There goes poor Bayard! there he goes!"
Half choak'd with joy, with love, and pride,
He now with dainty clover fed him,
Now took a short triumphant ride,
And then again got down and led him.
And hobbling onward up the hill,
The widow's house was full in sight,
He pull'd the bridle harder still,
"Come on, we shan't be there to-night."
Victory!
She met them with a smile so sweet,
The stable-door was open thrown;
The blind horse lifted high his feet,
And loudly snorting, laid him down.
O Victory! from that stock of laurels
You keep so snug for camps and thrones,
Spare us _one twig_ from all their quarrels
For Abner and the Widow Jones.
[Illustration: a table.]
TO MY OLD OAK TABLE.
Friend of my peaceful days! substantial friend,
Whom wealth can never change, nor int'rest bend,
I love thee like a child. Thou wert to me
The dumb companion of my misery,
And oftner of my joys;--then as I spoke,
I shar'd thy sympathy, Old Heart of Oak!
For surely when my labour ceas'd at night,
With trembling, feverish hands, and aching sight,
The draught that cheer'd me and subdu'd my care,
On thy broad shoulders thou wert proud to bear
O'er thee, with expectation's fire elate,
I've sat and ponder'd on my future fate:
On thee, with winter muffins for thy store,
I've lean'd, and quite forgot that I was poor.
Where dropp'd the acorn that gave birth to thee?
Can'st thou trace back thy line of ancestry?
We're match'd, old friend, and let us not repine,
Darkness o'erhangs thy origin and mine;
Both may be truly honourable: yet,
We'll date our honours from the day we met;
When, of my worldly wealth the parent stock,
Right welcome up the Thames from Woolwich Dock
Thou cam'st, when hopes ran high and love was young;
But soon our olive-branches round thee sprung;
Soon came the days that tried a faithful wife,
The noise of children, and the cares of life.
Then, midst the threat'nings of a wintry sky,
_That cough_ which blights the bud of infancy,
The dread of parents, Rest's inveterate foe,
Came like a plague, and turn'd my songs to woe.
Rest! without thee what strength can long survive,
What spirit keep the flame of Hope alive?
The midnight murmur of the cradle gave
Sounds of despair; and chilly as the grave.
We felt its undulating blast arise,
Midst whisper'd sorrows and ten thousand sighs.
Expiring embers warn'd us each to sleep,
By turns to watch alone, by turns to weep,
By turns to hear, and keep from starting wild,
The sad, faint wailings of a dying child.
But Death, obedient to Heav'n's high command,
Withdrew his jav'lin, and unclench'd his hand;
The little sufferers triumph'd over pain,
Their mother smil'd, and bade me hope again.
Yet Care gain'd ground, Exertion triumph'd less,
Thick fell the gathering terrors of Distress;
Anxiety, and Griefs without a name,
Had made their dreadful inroads on my frame;
The creeping Dropsy, cold as cold could be,
Unnerv'd my arm, and bow'd my head to thee.
Thou to thy trust, old friend, hast not been true;
These eyes the bitterest tears they ever knew
Let fall upon thee; now all wip'd away;
But what from memory shall wipe out that day?
The great, the wealthy of my native land,
To whom a guinea is a grain of sand,
I thought upon them, for my _thoughts_ were free,
But all unknown were then my woes and me.
Still, Resignation was my dearest friend,
And Reason pointed to a glorious end;
With anxious sighs, a parent's hopes and pride,
I wish'd to live--I trust I could have died!
But winter's clouds pursu'd their stormy way,
And March brought sunshine with the length'ning day,
And bade my heart arise, that morn and night
Now throbb'd with irresistible delight.
Delightful 'twas to leave disease behind,
And feel the renovation of the mind!
To lead abroad upborne on Pleasure's wing,
Our children, midst the glories of the spring;
Our fellow sufferers, our only wealth,
To gather daisies in the breeze of health!
'Twas then, too, when our prospects grew so fair,
And Sabbath bells announc'd the morning pray'r;
Beneath that vast gigantic dome we bow'd,
That lifts its flaming cross above the cloud;
Had gain'd the centre of the checquer'd floor;--
That instant, with reverberating roar
Burst forth the pealing organ----mute we stood;--
The strong sensation boiling through my blood,
Rose in a storm of joy, allied to pain,
I wept, and worshipp'd GOD, and wept again;
And felt, amidst the fervor of my praise,
The sweet assurances of better days.
In that gay season, honest friend of mine,
I mark'd the brilliant sun upon thee shine;
Imagination took her flights so free,
_Home_ was delicious with my book and thee,
The purchas'd nosegay, or brown ears of corn,
Were thy gay plumes upon a summer's morn,
Awakening memory, that disdains control,
They spoke the darling language of my soul:
They whisper'd tales of joy, of peace, of truth,
And conjur'd back the sunshine of my youth:
Fancy presided at the joyful birth,
I pour'd the torrent of my feelings forth;
Conscious of _truth_ in Nature's humble track,
And wrote "The Farmer's Boy" upon thy back!
Enough, old friend:--thou'rt mine; and shalt partake,
While I have pen to write, or tongue to speak,
Whatever fortune deals me.--Part with thee!
No, not till death shall set my spirit free;
For know, should plenty crown my life's decline,
A most important duty may be thine:
Then, guard me from Temptation's base control,
From apathy and littleness of soul
The sight of thy old frame, so rough, so rode,
Shall twitch the sleeve of nodding Gratitude;
Shall teach me but to venerate the more
Honest Oak Tables and their guests--the poor:
Teach me unjust distinctions to deride,
And falsehoods gender'd in the brain of Pride;
Shall give to Fancy still the cheerful hour,
To Intellect, its freedom and its power;
To Hospitality's enchanting ring
A charm, which nothing but thyself can bring.
The man who would not look with honest pride
On the tight bark that stemm'd the roaring tide,
And bore him, when he bow'd the trembling knee,
Home, through the mighty perils of the sea,
I love him not.--He ne'er shall be my guest;
Nor sip my cup, nor witness how I'm blest;
Nor lean, to bring my honest friend to shame,
A sacrilegious elbow on thy frame;
But thou through life a monitor shalt prove,
Sacred to Truth, to Poetry, and Love.
Dec. 1803.
THE HORKEY. A Provincial Ballad.
ADVERTISEMENT.
In the descriptive ballad which follows, it will be evident that I have
endeavoured to preserve the style of a gossip, and to transmit the
memorial of a custom, the extent or antiquity of which I am not acquainted
with, and pretend not to enquire.
In Suffolk husbandry the man who, (whether by merit or by sufferance I
know not) goes foremost through the harvest with the scythe or the sickle,
is honoured with the title of "_Lord_," and at the Horkey, or harvest-home
feast, collects what he can, for himself and brethren, from the farmers
and visitors, to make a "frolick" afterwards, called "the largess
spending." By way of returning thanks, though perhaps formerly of much
more, or of different signification, they immediately leave the seat of
festivity, and with a very long and repeated shout of "a largess," the
number of shouts being regulated by the sums given, seem to wish to make
themselves heard by the people of the surrounding farms. And before they
rejoin the company within, the pranks and the jollity I have endeavoured
to describe, usually take place. These customs, I believe, are going fast
out of use; which is one great reason for my trying to tell the rising
race of mankind that such were the customs when I was a boy.
I have annexed a glossary of such words as may be found by general readers
to require explanation. And will add a short extract from Sir Thomas
Brown, of Norwich, M. D. who was born three years before Milton, and
outlived him eight years.
"It were not impossible to make an original reduction of many words of no
general reception in _England_, but of common use in _Norfolk_, or
peculiar to the _East-Angle_ counties; as, Bawnd, Bunny, Thurck, Enemis,
Matchly, Sainmodithee, Mawther, Kedge, Seele, Straft, Clever, Dere,
Nicked, Stingy, Noneare, Fett, Thepes, Gosgood, Kamp, Sibrit, Fangast,
Sap, Cothish, Thokish, Bide-owe, Paxwax. Of these, and some others, of no
easy originals, when time will permit, the resolution shall be attempted;
which to effect, the Danish language, new, and more ancient, may prove of
good advantage: which nation remained here fifty years upon agreement, and
have left many families in it, and the language of these parts had surely
been more commixed and perplex, if the fleet of _Hugo de Bones_ had not
been cast away, wherein three-score thousand souldiers, out of Britany and
Flanders, were to be wafted over, and were, by King _John's_ appointment,
to have a settled habitation in the counties of _Norfolk_ and _Suffolk_."
Tract the viii. on Languages, particularly the Saxon. Folio, 1686, page
48.
THE HORKEY.
A Provincial Ballad.
What gossips prattled in the sun,
Who talk'd him fairly down,
Up, memory! tell; 'tis Suffolk fun,
And lingo of their own.
Ah! _Judie Twitchet!_[A] though thou'rt dead,
With thee the tale begins;
For still seems thrumming in my head
The rattling of thy pins.
[Footnote A: Judie Twitchet was a real person, who lived many years with
my mother's cousin Bannock, at Honnington.]
Thou Queen of knitters! for a ball
Of worsted was thy pride;
With dangling stockings great and small,
And world of clack beside!
"We did so laugh; the moon shone bright;
"More fun you never knew;
"'Twas Farmer Cheerum's _Horkey night_,
"And I, and Grace, and Sue----
"But bring a stool, sit round about,
"And boys, be quiet, pray;
"And let me tell my story out;
"'Twas _sitch_ a merry day!
"The butcher whistled at the door,
"And brought a load of meat;
"Boys rubb'd their hands, and cried, 'there's more,'
"Dogs wagg'd their tails to see't.
"On went the boilers till the _hake_[Footnote: A sliding pot-hook]
"Had much ado to bear 'em;
"The magpie talk'd for talking sake,
"Birds sung;--but who could hear 'em?
"Creak went the jack; the cats were _scar'd_,
"We had not time to heed 'em,
"The _owd hins_ cackled in the yard,
"For we forgot to feed 'em!
"Yet 'twas not I, as I may say,
"Because as how, d'ye see;
"I only help'd there for the day;
"They cou'dn't lay't to me.
"Now Mrs. Cheerum's best lace cap
"Was mounted on her head;
"Guests at the door began to rap,
"And now the cloth was spread.
"Then clatter went the earthen plates--
"'Mind Judie,' was the cry;
"I could have _cop't_[Footnote: Thrown] them at their pates;
"'Trenchers for me,' said I.
"'That look so clean upon the ledge,
"'And never mind a fall;
"'Nor never turn a sharp knife's edge;--
"'But fashion rules us all.'
"Home came the jovial _Horkey load_,
"Last of the whole year's crop;
"And Grace amongst the green boughs rode
"Right plump upon the top.
"This way and that the waggon reel'd,
"And never queen rode higher;
"_Her_ cheeks were colour'd in the field,
"And ours before the fire.
"The laughing harvest-folks, and John,
"Came in and look'd askew;
"'Twas my red face that set them on,
"And then they leer'd at Sue.
"And Farmer Cheerum went, good man,
"And broach'd the _Horkey beer_;
"And _sitch a mort_[Footnote: Such a number.] of folks began
"To eat up our good cheer.
"Says he, 'Thank God for what's before us;
"'That thus we meet agen,'
"The mingling voices, like a chorus,
"Join'd cheerfully, 'Amen.'--
"Welcome and plenty, there they found 'em,
"The ribs of beef grew light;
"And puddings--till the boys got round 'em,
"And then they vanish'd quite!