Northumberland Yesterday and To-day Part 20

Sair feyl'd, hinny!

Sair feyl'd now; Sair feyl'd, hinny, Sin' aw ken'd thou."

AW WISH YOE m.u.t.h.e.r WAD c.u.m!

"c.u.m, Geordy, haud the bairn, Aw's sure aw'll not stop lang, Aw'd tyek the jewl me-sel, But really aw's not strang.

Thor's flooer and coals te get, The hoose-torns thor not deun, So haud the bairn for fairs, Ye're often deun'd for fun!"

Then Geordy held the bairn, But sair agyen his will, The poor bit thing wes gud, But Geordy had ne skill, He haddint its m.u.t.h.e.r's ways, He sat both stiff an' num,-- Before five minutes wes past He wished its m.u.t.h.e.r wad c.u.m!

His wife had scarcely gyen, The bairn begun te squall, Wi' hikin't up an' doon He'd let the poor thing fall, It waddent haud its tung, Tho' sum aud teun he'd hum,-- 'Jack an' Gill went up a hill'-- "Aw wish yor m.u.t.h.e.r wad c.u.m!"

"What weary toil," says he, "This nursin bairns mun be, A bit on't's weel eneuf, Ay, quite eneuf for me; Te keep a crying bairn, It may be grand te sum, A day's wark's not as bad-- Aw wish yor m.u.t.h.e.r wad c.u.m.

"Men seldom give a thowt Te what thor wives indure, Aw thowt she'd nowt te de But clean the hoose, aw's sure.

Or myek me dinner an' tea-- It's startin' te chow its thumb, The poor thing wants its t.i.t, Aw wish yor m.u.t.h.e.r wad c.u.m."

'What a selfish world this is, Thor's nowt mair se than man; He laffs at wummin's toil, And winnet nurse his awn;-- It's startin' te cry agyen, Aw see tuts throo its gum, Maw little bit pet, dinnet fret,-- Aw wish yor m.u.t.h.e.r wad c.u.m.

"But kindness dis a vast.

It's ne use gettin' vext.

It winnet please the bairn, Or ease a mind perplext.

At last--its gyen te sleep, Me wife'll not say aw's num, She'll think aw's a real gud norse, Aw wish yor m.u.t.h.e.r wud c.u.m!"

_Joe Wilson_

THE AULD FISHER'S LAST WISH

The morn is grey, and green the brae, the wind is frae the wast Before the gale the snaw-white clouds are drivin' light and fast; The airly sun is glintin' forth, owre hill, and dell, and plain, And Coquet's streams are glitterin', as they run frae muir to main.

At Dewshill wood the mavis sings beside her birken nest, At Halystane the laverock springs upon his breezy quest; Wi' eydent e'e, aboon the craigs, the gled is high in air, Beneath brent Brinkburn's shadowed cliff the fox lies in his lair.

There's joy at merry Thristlehaugh tie new-mown hay to win; The busy bees at Todstead-shaw are bringing honey in; The trouts they loup in ilka stream, the birds on ilka tree; Auld Coquet-side is Coquet still--but there's nae place for me!

My sun is set, my eyne are wet, cauld poort.i.th now is mine; Nae mair I'll range by Coquet-side and thraw the gleesome line; Nae mair I'll see her bonnie stream in spring-bright raiment drest, Save in the dream that stirs the heart when the weary e'e's at rest.

Oh! were my limbs as ance they were, to jink across the green.

And were my heart as light again as sometime it has been, And could my fortunes blink again as erst when youth was sweet, Then Coquet--hap what might beside--we'd no be lang to meet'

Or had I but the cushat's wing, where'er I list to flee, And wi' a wish, might wend my way owre hill, and dale, and lea.

'Tis there I'd fauld that weary wing, there gaze my latest gaze.

Content to see thee ance again--then sleep beside thy braes!

--_Thomas Doublerday_.

A SONNET.

Go, take thine angle, and with practised line.

Light as the gossamer, the current sweep; And if thou failest in the calm, still deep, In the rough eddy may a prize be thine.

Say thou'rt unlucky where the sunbeams shine; Beneath the shadow, where the waters creep Perchance the monarch of the brook shall leap-- For fate is ever better than design.

Still persevere; the giddiest breeze that blows, For thee may blow with fame and fortune rife.

Be prosperous; and what reck if it arose Out of some pebble with the stream at strife, Or that the light wind dallied with the boughs?

Thou art successful.--Such is human life!

--_Thomas Doubleday_.

A VISION OF JOYOUS-GARDE.

"And so sir Launcelot brought sir Tristan and La Beate Isoud unto Joyous-gard, the which was his owne castle that hee had wonne with his owne hands."--_Malory_.

"Bamburgh ... the great rock-fortress that was known to the Celts as Dinguardi, and was to figure in Arthurian romance as Joyous Garde ...

"--_C.J. Bates_ (History of Northumberland).

I wandered under winter stars The lone Northumbrian sh.o.r.e; And night lay deep in silence on the sea.

Save where, unceasingly, Among the pillared scaurs Of perilous Farnes, wild waves for ever more Breaking in foam, Sounded as some far strife through the star-haunted gloam.

Before me, looming through the night, Darker than night's sad heart, King Ida's castle on the sheer crag set Waked darker sorrow yet Within me for the light, Beauty, and might of old loves rent apart, Time-broken, spent, And strewn as old dead winds among the salt-sea bent.

Till, dreaming of the glittering days, And eves with beauty starred, Time fell from me as some night-cloud withdrawn, And in enchanted dawn, All in a golden haze, I saw the gleaming towers of Joyous Garde In splendour rise, Tall, pinnacled, and white to my dream-laden eyes.

While thither, as in days of old, Launcelot homeward came, War-wearied, and yet wearier of the strife Of love that tore his life;

Burning, beneath the cold Armour of steel, a never-dying flame: The fierce desire Consuming honour's gold on the heart's altar fire!

And thither in great love he brought The fugitives of love, Isoud and Tristram fleeing from King Mark.

One day 'twixt dark and dark These lovers, by fate caught In love's bright web, dreamed with blue skies above Of love no tide Of wavering life may part, or death's swift sea divide.

But Launcelot, in their bliss forlorn, Fled from the laughter clear Of happy lovers, and love's silent noon; All night beneath the moon He strode, his spirit torn For Guenevere! All night on Guenevere He cried aloud Unto the moonlit foam and every windy cloud.

Then faded, quivering, from my sight The memory-woven dream.

The towers of Joyous Garde shall never more Lighten that desolate sh.o.r.e; No longe'r through the night Wrestling with love, beneath the pale moon gleam That anguished form!-- But keen with snow and wind, and loud with gathering storm.