Poems Chiefly from Manuscript Part 22

Pretty swallow, once again Come and pa.s.s me in the rain.

Pretty swallow, why so shy?

Pa.s.s again my window by.

The horsepond where he dips his wings, The wet day prints it full of rings.

The raindrops on his [ ] track Lodge like pearls upon his back.

Then again he dips his wing In the wrinkles of the spring, Then oer the rushes flies again, And pearls roll off his back like rain.

Pretty little swallow, fly Village doors and windows by, Whisking oer the garden pales Where the blackbird finds the snails;

Whewing by the ladslove tree For something only seen by thee; Pearls that on the red rose hing Fall off shaken by thy wing.

On that low thatched cottage stop, In the sooty chimney pop, Where thy wife and family Every evening wait for thee.

_The Sailor-Boy_

Tis three years and a quarter since I left my own fireside To go aboard a ship through love, and plough the ocean wide.

I crossed my native fields, where the scarlet poppies grew, And the groundlark left his nest like a neighbour which I knew.

The pigeons from the dove cote cooed over the old lane, The crow flocks from the oakwood went flopping oer the grain; Like lots of dear old neighbours whom I shall see no more They greeted me that morning I left the English sh.o.r.e.

The sun was just a-rising above the heath of furze, And the shadows grow to giants; that bright ball never stirs: There the shepherds lay with their dogs by their side, And they started up and barked as my shadow they espied.

A maid of early morning twirled her mop upon the moor; I wished her my farewell before she closed the door.

My friends I left behind me for other places new, Crows and pigeons all were strangers as oer my head they flew.

Trees and bushes were all strangers, the hedges and the lanes, The steeples and the houses and broad untrodden plains.

I pa.s.sed the pretty milkmaid with her red and rosy face; I knew not where I met her, I was strange to the place.

At last I saw the ocean, a pleasing sight to me: I stood upon the sh.o.r.e of a mighty glorious sea.

The waves in easy motion went rolling on their way, English colours were a-flying where the British squadron lay.

I left my honest parents, the church clock and the village; I left the lads and la.s.ses, the labour and the tillage; To plough the briny ocean, which soon became my joy-- I sat and sang among the shrouds, a lonely sailor-boy.

_The Sleep of Spring_

O for that sweet, untroubled rest That poets oft have sung!-- The babe upon its mother's breast, The bird upon its young, The heart asleep without a pain-- When shall I know that sleep again?

When shall I be as I have been Upon my mother's breast Sweet Nature's garb of verdant green To woo to perfect rest-- Love in the meadow, field, and glen, And in my native wilds again?

The sheep within the fallow field, The herd upon the green, The larks that in the thistle shield, And pipe from morn to e'en-- O for the pasture, fields, and fen!

When shall I see such rest again?

I love the weeds along the fen, More sweet than garden flowers, For freedom haunts the humble glen That blest my happiest hours.

Here prison injures health and me: I love sweet freedom and the free.

The crows upon the swelling hills, The cows upon the lea, Sheep feeding by the pasture rills, Are ever dear to me, Because sweet freedom is their mate, While I am lone and desolate.

I loved the winds when I was young, When life was dear to me; I loved the song which Nature sung, Endearing liberty; I loved the wood, the vale, the stream, For there my boyhood used to dream.

There even toil itself was play; Twas pleasure een to weep; Twas joy to think of dreams by day, The beautiful of sleep.

When shall I see the wood and plain, And dream those happy dreams again?

_Mary Bateman_

My love she wears a cotton plaid, A bonnet of the straw; Her cheeks are leaves of roses spread, Her lips are like the haw.

In truth she is as sweet a maid As true love ever saw.

Her curls are ever in my eyes, As nets by Cupid flung; Her voice will oft my sleep surprise, More sweet then ballad sung.

O Mary Bateman's curling hair!

I wake, and there is nothing there.

I wake, and fall asleep again, The same delights in visions rise; There's nothing can appear more plain Than those rose cheeks and those bright eyes.

I wake again, and all alone Sits Darkness on his ebon throne.

All silent runs the silver Trent, The cobweb veils are all wet through, A silver bead's on every bent, On every leaf a bleb of dew.

I sighed, the moon it shone so clear; Was Mary Bateman walking here?

_Bonny Mary O!_

The morning opens fine, bonny Mary O!

The robin sings his song by the dairy O!

Where the little Jenny wrens c.o.c.k their tails among the hens, Singing morning's happy songs with Mary O!

The swallow's on the wing, bonny Mary O!

Where the rushes fringe the spring, bonny Mary O!

Where the cowslips do unfold, shaking ta.s.sels all of gold, Which make the milk so sweet, bonny Mary O!

There's the yellowhammer's nest, bonny Mary O!

Where she hides her golden breast, bonny Mary O!

On her mystic eggs she dwells, with strange writing on their sh.e.l.ls, Hid in the mossy gra.s.s, bonny Mary O!

There the spotted cow gets food, bonny Mary O!

And chews her peaceful cud, bonny Mary O!

In the mole-hills and the bushes, and the clear brook fringed with rushes To fill the evening pail, bonny Mary O!

The cowpond once agen, bonny Mary O!

Lies dimpled like thy sen, bonny Mary O!

Where the gnat swarms fall and rise under evening's mellow skies, And on flags sleep dragon flies, bonny Mary O!

And I will meet thee there, bonny Mary O!

When a-milking you repair, bonny Mary O!

And I'll kiss thee on the gra.s.s, my buxom, bonny la.s.s, And be thine own for aye, bonny Mary O!