New Zealand MinstrelsyNew Zealand Minstrelsy[electronic resource]William GolderKevin CudbyCreation of machine-readable versionVirginia GowGiovanni TisoKevin CudbyRachel BeckerConversion to TEI.2-conformant markupVirginia GowGiovanni TisoKevin CudbyRachel BeckerCreation of digital imagesNew Zealand Heritage Imaging Facilityca. 250 kilobytesNew Zealand Electronic Text CollectionWellington, New ZealandModern English, GolMin
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2003707311New Zealand Minstrelsy, Containing Songs and Poems on Colonial SubjectsWilliam GolderR. Stokes and W. LyonLambton Quay, Wellington, New Zealand1852Source copy consulted: Hocken Library, University of Otago, DunedinSupplementary copy consulted: Alexander Turnbull Library, WellingtonErratongaWilliam GolderA BushrangingWilliam GolderCome to the BushWilliam GolderThe Bushman's Harvest HomeWilliam GolderThe Pastry BakerWilliam GolderColonial Courtship of 1841William GolderThe Fair Emigrant's FateWilliam GolderThe South-east StormWilliam GolderThe Thrashing FloorWilliam GolderThe Lover's InvitationWilliam GolderAnswer to the Lover's InvitationWilliam GolderThe Love LetterWilliam GolderThe Black SealWilliam GolderA Desperate CaseWilliam GolderEvening IndustryWilliam GolderWairau:—or Col. W—’s Dirge to the Memory of his BrotherWilliam GolderA-whalingWilliam GolderThe Setting SunWilliam GolderMr. T—’s Dirge to the Memory of W. Cook, Drowned April 10, 1847William GolderThe Effects of Good Government, or the Happy ChangeWilliam GolderThe Sun Shining OutWilliam GolderSonnet on the Wreck of the MariaWilliam GolderAn Old Bachelor's Soliloquy on his First HoneymoonWilliam GolderThe PloughWilliam GolderThe Prudent WifeWilliam GolderStanzas, Written While on the Voyage out to New Zealand on Board the "Bengal Merchant," January 14, 1840William GolderA Tribute to the Memory of FriendshipWilliam GolderAn Epigram on AmbitionWilliam GolderThe Christian's MarchWilliam GolderThe Penitent's PrayerWilliam GolderAnswer to the AboveWilliam GolderThe Pilgrim's HomeWilliam GolderThe Christian's JoyWilliam GolderReflections over a Lark's NestWilliam GolderStanzas, to a Young PoetWilliam GolderA LikenessWilliam GolderAn EnigmaWilliam GolderStanzas, Extemporaneously Written on a Stormy Night, Dalserf, November 4, 1833William GolderA Translation of an Episode in OssianWilliam GolderA Love Sonnet, Written for a Young Lady to Her Lover, to Whom She Soon After Got MarriedWilliam GolderStanzas, Extemporaneously Written During the Egress of 1833, and the Ingress of 1834William GolderThe Dying InfantWilliam GolderA Paraphrase of the 148th PsalmWilliam GolderSweet HomeWilliam GolderLangsyne AnticipatedWilliam GolderA SongWilliam GolderAn AcrosticWilliam GolderDonald's ReturnWilliam GolderThe Flower of ClydeWilliam GolderThe Lover's RequestWilliam GolderA Patriotic Breathing.—An OdeWilliam Golder
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1852EnglishLatinMaoriLiteraturePanorama of the Hutt Valley, Wellington N.Z., from St. James Parsonage, by T. B. Hutton, 1861[View of the River Hutt, P. Nicholson. ca. 1850 by William Swainson and his son, Henry Gabriel.]Hutt RiverSwainson, William, 1789-1855 : Fantails [at Fitzherberts?], Hutt [ca 1845]White, Frederick John, fl 1837-1848 : [Tree fern with three Maori at sunset. Hutt Valley? 1848 or 1849?]Bush cleared from Underwood near Mr Petres, Valley of the Hutt N Z. [1850s][Clearing bush, ca 1845]Editorial, New Zealand Gazette and Wellington Spectator, Saturday, October 15, 1842[Editorial Note, The New Gazette and Wellington Spectator, Wednesday, 15 December, 1841][Somes Island, Wellington] 1845Pukatia trunks, Hutt forest, 1847Falcon and poultry, Hawkshead. 1847[Hawkshead, Hutt Valley home of William Swainson. 184-][Stockade in clearing, Taita] 17 Oct. 184[6 or 1847?]Stratford's cottage, Hutt Road 1847Wairau April 1851[Maori dwellings and chapel with whalers' lookout Tutaewera near Kaiwharawhara, Wellington ca 1842]William CookShipwreck of the MariaRough sketch of the wreck of the Tyne on the 6th July 1845 / R. Park. - [1845?]Many-branched pine / W S - 1845Young cabbage tree - Our cows Hawkshead 1847[Hawkshead, Hutt Valley home of William Swainson. 184-][Obituary for Margaret, eldest daughter of William Golder, The New Zealand Gazette and Wellington Spectator, 20 June, 1840]Port Nicholson from the hills above Pitone in 1840 / drawn by Chas. Heaphy Esqre. London, Smith Elder & Co., [1845]Hutts [sic] of the first settlers Petoni Beach. [1840s]To the Editor of the "New Zealand Gazette, and Wellington Spectator" [Letter from William Golder, 12 October 1842; New Zealand Gazette and Wellington Spectator, Saturday, October 15, 1842]Alexander Marjoribanks’ poem on arrival in New ZealandThe Nature of Art21 May 2004Kevin Cudby
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NEW ZEALAND MINSTRELSY.
NEW ZEALAND MINSTRELSY:containing
SONGS AND POEMS
ON COLONIAL SUBJECTS.
With an Appendix.BY
WILLIAM GOLDER,author of “recreations for solitary hours”.“Him, who ne’er listen’d to the voice of praise,The silence of neglect can ne’er appal.”Beattie.WELLINGTON:R. STOKES AND W. LYON, LAMBTON-QUAY;
AND SOLD BY THE AUTHOR, RIVER HUTT.,
1852
Preface.
In offering this little work to the Nobility and Inhabitants
in general of Port Nicholson, as MemoryColonya tribute to the
memory of the early settlers of our Colony, I confess it
is not without some compulsion in my own mind that
I thus make my debut, though several, long before
this, have asked me to do so, and which I hitherto
had declined. But as certain circumstances unforseen,
and which I could not avert, will now force me again
out of my obscurity into the arena of the literary circle,
I beg thus coolly to submit myself to the sympathies,
merited or unmerited, of a generous yet impartial
public. Yet now, as it must be, in appearing again as
an author, it is not, I confess, without some slight PoetryColonySocietyhope
that this little attempt in the matter of song may tend
not only to add to the literature of our Colony, thereby
extracting some of the sweets which lie hid among the
many asperities of colonial life; but also to endear our
adopted country the more to the bosom of the bonâ
fide settler; as such, in days of yore, has often induced a
people to take a firmer hold of their country, by not only
inspiring them with a spirit of patriotic magnanimity,
but also in making them the more connected as a people
in the eyes of others. For instances of which, I need not
here refer the intelligent reader to the ancient history of
any other nation than the one to which he as an individual may belong. But even although no such great distinctions may be mine, yet MemoryFutureColonymay we not endeavour to hand down to our posterity some familiar remembrance of the beginning of our Colony, and the struggles its first settlers had to contend with when perhaps those in a future age may be reaping the benefits arising from the toils of the past with comparative ease and comfort? Should such be the result of this humble attempt, the
original object of the author, in composing some of the
pieces in the work, will be so far attained.
Allow me here to say that Poetrymost of the contents of
the present offering were written several years ago,
with no idea of ever seeing them published in this
country, but merely as a pleasing pastime picturing
out experiences and observations, for want of better
employment, when I used to sit in my lonely bush
cottage musing over the fire in the long winter evenings. As the composing of the several pieces then
gave me pleasure, I hope they will not fail to impart
some of the same enjoyments to those who may now
favour the work with their patronage and perusal; and
that the work itself might, as some have hoped, form
a pleasing gift of remembrance to a distant friend.
I have also given, by way of Appendix, some pieces
selected from my “Recreations for Solitary Hours,”
which I published before I left home, most of which
were written in early years.
In conclusion, I beg to return Societymy grateful acknowledgements
to those distinguished persons who have
deigned to assist me forward with the work; and also
to my subscribers in general for their wellwishes and
patronage hitherto conferred upon their humble servant,
The Author.Hutt, September 22, 1852.
Contents of the New Zealand Minstrelsy.
PageErratonga9A Bushranging10Come to the Bush11The Bushman’s Harvest Home12The Pastry Baker13Colonial Courtship of 184114The Fair Emigrant’s Fate16The South-East Storm17The Thrashing Floor18The Lover’s Invitation19Answer to the Lover’s Invitation19The Love Letter20The Black Seal21A Desperate Case22Evening Industry23Wairau, or Colonel Wakefield’s Dirge to the Memory of his Brother24A Whaling25The Setting Sun26Mr. T——’s Dirge to the Memory of W. Cook27The Effects of Good Government, or the Happy Change29The Sun Shining Out30Sonnet on the Wreck of the Maria31Addition to the Thrashing Floor31An Old Bachelor’s Soliloquy over his First Honey Moon32The Plough33The Prudent Wife34Stanzas written while on the Voyage out to New Zealand35A Tribute to the Memory of Friendship38An Epigram on Ambition40PageThe Christian’s March41The Penitent’s Prayer42Answer to the above43The Pilgrim’s Home44The Christian’s Joy45
Appendix.
Reflections over a Lark’s NestiStanzas to a Young PoetiiiA LikenessvAn EnigmaviStanzas contemporaneously written on a Stormy Night, Dalserf, November 4, 1833viiA Translation of an Episode in OssianixA Love Sonnet, written for a Young Lady to her Lover, to whom she soon after got marriedxStanzas extemporaneously written during the Egress of 1833, and the Ingress of 1834xThe Dying InfantxiiA Paraphrase of the 148th PsalmxiiiSweet HomexviLangsyne AnticipatedxviiA SongxviiiAn AcrosticxviiiDonald’s ReturnxixThe Flowers of ClydexxA Patriotic Breathing—An Odexxi
New Zealand Minstrelsy.
Erratonga.
Tune—“Maid of Islay.”Through Hutt’s vale the ErratongaSmooth and clear meand’ring glides,NatureWhere wild nature blooms in beauty,Clothes with grandeur both its sides;While the lofty mountain rangesAll around their pride declare,New Zealand Flora and FaunaForests evergreen displaying,Fragrant shrubs perfume the air.’Twas beside this lovely river,Where it gently winds its way,’Mong the willows lean’d a lover,Mourned his dearest far away:—JoyMemoryLove“Ever may ye flow, sweet river,Bliss diffusing round,” he cried;“Ye remind me of those pleasuresI with my true love enjoyed.“Oft, by such a stream as thou art,JoyLoveFondly we our joys express’d;“Vowing true love to each other,As I strain’d her to my breast.Ocean“Why should fate thus now divide us,Roaring oceans roll between?Loss“Oft my heart is wrung with anguish,Musing on our parting scene.Prosperity“Then I thought the time might hasten,When with plenty I’d return;“How it lingers, while it grieves me,She must long my absence mourn.Religion“Oh! may Heaven still preserve her,Kindly me to her restore;—“What on earth will e’er divide us,When we meet to part no more.”
A Bushranging.
Tune—“Come o’er the stream, Charlie.”Let ’s go a bushranging, thou fairest of lassies;Let’s go a bushranging, and visit each scene,Whose beauties unchanging which nought e’er surpasses,While clad in mantles of gay evergreen.JoyThe morning delights us, all nature invites us,To taste her enjoyments wherever we rove;Then, come, let us wander where streamlets meander,Or through the dark forest, or pine shady grove.Chorus—Let’s go a bushranging, &c.MāoriThe wild sons of nature, though warlike in feature,Shall smile thee a welcome, appearing serene;While New Zealand Flora and Faunastrains of the tui, whose sweetness will woo thee,Shall render enchantments enliv’ning each scene.Let’s go a bushranging, &c.WorkLandLo! see yon bush clearing, its aspect how cheering!Where Industry toils, and fresh gardens do grow;The axe still resounding, hard labour abounding,While bushmen exult o’er the forest laid low.Let’s go a bushranging, &c.EmpireBritannia may glory, repeating the story,Of sons ever hardy, extending her sway;WorkChangeWhile woodlands encumbered, for ages unnumbered,Must to their bold enterprize ever give way.We’ll go a bushranging, &c.
Come to the Bush.
Tune—“March to the Battle Field.”Come to the bush, my boys,Where Fortune’s way ’s before ye;Leave the city’s idle joys,And follow fame and glory.WorkWarYour billhooks get, and have them whet,Your axes put in order;By morning’s light, with all your might,Attack the forest border.Come to the bush, &c.WorkBy sweat of face the human raceWas doom’d to gain a living;So let us till the fertile soil,Nor be in doubts misgiving.Come to the bush, &c.WorkFor Industry is still the wayTo gain wild fortune’s favour;ReligionAnd Heaven will bless with good successA manly bold endeavour.Come to the bush, &c.CommerceLet traders pore their ledgers o’er,Contrasting gains with losses;While we shall try a better ploy,Nor dread the fear of crosses.Come to the bush, &c.Now, why sit down, complain and frown,Though stubborn fate should teaze ye?But, up, be brave! down with the knave!Should England’s flesh-pots please ye?ColonyCome to the bush, my boys,Where fortune’s way ’s before ye;Leave the city’s idle joys,And follow fame and glory.
The Bushman’s Harvest Home.
Tune—“Begone! Dull Care.”NatureThe sun sinks lowBehind yon western hill;Clouds gilded glow,The evening dews distill,The twilight shades in haste succeed,So sober’d all become;The busy bushman quits his toil,To seek his harvest home.Chorus—His harvest home, his harvest home,The bushman’s harvest home;Who would not bless, with all success,The bushman’s harvest home?NatureThe ev’ning breezeIts coolness breathes along;While from yon treesThe night-bird croaks its song.ProsperityWorkThe clearing, filled with golden grain,Declares its time is come,To crown his toils, to cheer his soul,And bless his harvest home.His harvest home, &c.NatureThe upward moonNow sheds her silv’ry sheen,—Night’s cheering boon,Amid a sky serene.WorkFamilyPleased with his lot, and daily toil,No cares his peace o’ercome;His young ones greet, with noisy glee,Their father’s harvest home.His harvest home, &c.HomeFamilyJoyWith homely cheerHis board is quickly spread,His partner dearDelights to make him glad.From circle gay, and blazing hearthNo wish has he to roam;Content and happy, he enjoysHis humble harvest home.His harvest home, &c.
The Pastry Baker.
Tune—“Kate Dalrymple.”Oh come, sister Polly, and something you’ll hear,But first let us go from the hearing of mother;Oh, I’ve got a secret to tell you, my dear,So, pray, never mention it to any otherMy heart ever aches for the pastry baker,I’m almost in quakes for the pastry baker,But, should I die, who should pay undertaker?—In short, I’m in love with the pastry baker.SocietyThey say he ’s a rogue; and, as ev’ry one knows,He’s a slave-driving dog to his men of labour;He calls them his friends, yet he thinks them his foes;And a curious fellow he is for a neighbour.A hunter of the world is the pastry baker,A money-gripping carl is the pastry baker;In truth-speaking terms, some would call him no Quaker,Should it answer the ends of the pastry baker.LoveYet, when he would woo me, he calls me his dove,His angel, and every name that is bonny;I would be ingrate not to give him my loveFor his in return, though ’tis more for his money.SocietyProsperityA man full of matter is the pastry baker,So free with his flatter is the pastry baker;But when of his riches he makes me partaker,—What a lady I shall be for the pastry baker!
Colonial Courtship of 1841.
Tune—“Roy’s Wife.”Courtship ’s truly all a bubble,SocietyLoveCourtship ’s truly all a bubble;It breaks in air, and is nae mair,Though aft it gi’es us meikle trouble.When I was in my bloomin’ teens,I lovers had, baith blythe and bonny;Then ilk ane vow’d, by a’ that ’s guid;He lo’ed me dearly mair than ony.Chorus—Courtship ’s truly, &c.As ilka ane I couldna wed,—The lad I lo’ed maist didna offer;At length they left me ane by ane,As I was careless o’ ilk proffer.Courtship ’s truly, &c.SocietyMy kin me scorn’d, and sairly blamed,And did me wi’ their banters laden;I vow’d I’d rather lea’ my hame,Than ’mang sic folk to dee a maiden.Courtship ’s truly, &c.On message sent, I chanced, yestreen,Upon the beach to meet wi’ Jamie;At first he spak o’ win’ and rain,Then straight an offer he did gi’e me.Courtship ’s truly, &c.I thought upon my want o’ hame,And how I’ve been my time a killin’;SocietyAn offer noo!—Could I refuse?—Quoth I,—I’m ready sin’ ye’re willin’.Courtship ’s truly, &c.SocietySo, quickly to Mess John we hied,Without prepare or farther swither;An’ soon the marriage knot was tied,—Noo, I’ve got wed wi’nae great bother.Courtship ’s truly, &c.
The Fair Emigrant’s Fate.
Tune—“Burns’ Highland Mary.”OceanWithin the bar the barque, now moor’d,Rides free from all commotion:Its sea-worn inmates feel at ease,Safe from the tossing ocean.The sky is cloudless, azure bright,The deep confirms the story;The yet unfurled sails, so white,Reflect the sun’s noon glory.LoveUpon the poop, a lady fair,Her ’kerchief white is waving;Sweet token of a true love’s care!Stern fate she now is braving.PerceptionShe scan’s the first approaching boat,—Then hopes the next succeeding,Brings him she loves; yet she knows notHe died the day preceding.To bear his love,—’twas his last wish,—What words could comfort borrow!Oh! who could break her hopeful heartWith such a tale of sorrow.She sought his place; she heard the tale;She saw him shrouded lying;On him she sank;—her heart is broke:Her spirit fled while sighing.SufferingLossJoyWho would not, o’er her hapless fate,Breathe one deep sigh of sorrow?Last night she dream’d of wedded love,—How changed th’ eventful morrow!She wove a wreath of hope and joy;—How soon these flowers have shedded!Let myrtles round her tomb be strewn,Since, only there, she’s wedded.
The South-East Storm.
Tune—“Rest, Warrior! rest.”OceanWeatherThe clouds gather thick on the far southern sky,—Opposing winds meet, and are whirling on high;What blackness of darkness now broods o’er the whole,While lightnings gleam forth, and the thunders do roll.How changed is the bay! its blue welt’rings are lost,Green ocean waves rush in, and foaming ’tis toss’d;From fleet low’ring clouds how the torrents down pour,—Now Neptune presides, and a tempest does roar.Roar! tempest, roar!—Roar! tempest, roar!LossOceanThe boat, lately left, is now far from the shore;—Haste! haste! strike the sail, and pull hard at the oar;—But the waves running high, caught in gale, and o’ercome,The boat and the crew are engulfed in the foam.New Zealand Flora and FaunaSea gulls, winging round, as they dip for their prey,Are scar’d, screaming wildly they flit through the spray:—Yon barque has slipped cable, and ’s founder’d on shore;The master may storm, but the tempest shall roar.Roar! tempest, roar! &c.The gray mantling vapours the hill sides enshroud,While through the dark forest the wind ’s piping loud;The lofty pines crack as they yield to the squalls,—New Zealand Flora and FaunaA ratao’erthrown; oh, how thund’ring it falls!HomeWorkCold! cold! is each blast,—and the cottager mournsAll labour now stay’d till fair weather returns;—But make the hearth blaze, and let shut be the door;Keep comfort within though the tempest should roar.Roar! tempest, roar!—Roar! tempest, roar!
The Thrashing Floor.
Tune—“Garb of Old Gaul.”ProsperityWorkThwack, thwack, bounds the flail now on ev’ry thrashing floor,Bespeaking sweet comfort, and plenty got in store;The harvest completed, and produce well secured,The bushman can smile o’er privations endured.FamilyHis wife, light of heart, now with gladness can sing,And his young ones, with mirth, makes his cottage to ring,All joyful in the hope, that of bread they’ll have no lack,As loud, his floor resounds, with merry thwack! thwack! thwack!Thwack, thwack, bounds the flail, may the bushman still be blestWith a bountiful return for his labours without rest;ChangeLandThe forest grounds converting to fertile fields of grain,Though blacken’d stumps, the ghosts of bygone times, may remain.WorkJoyLibertyHis toils give him pleasure when nought else can please,His heart, of independence is proud, still scorning ease,So actively he wields his flail, and making tell each stroke,As loud, his floor resounds, with merry thwack! thwack! thwack!
The Lover’s Invitation.
Tune—“Kelvin Grove.”Will ye come to Waiwetu, bonny lassie, O,My dwelling there to view, bonny lassie, O?It stands beside the rill, as it wimples by the hill,May it meet with thy good will, my bonny lassie, O,My garden richly blooms, bonny lassie, O,Still shedding sweet perfumes, bonny lassie, O,Though cheering all may be, and might greatly pleasure thee,Ye’re the sweetest flower to me, my bonny lassie, O.My fields all promise fair, bonny lassie, O,I none with them compare, bonny lassie, O;But still thy presence here would those blessings more endear,And my lone spirits cheer, my bonny lassie, O.ProsperityFor what is wealth to me, bonny lassie, O,If distant still you be, bonny lassie, O?HomeSo make my place thy home, nor let me cheerless roam,But to my bosom come, my bonny lassie, O.
Answer to the Lover’s Invitation.
Tune—“Kelvin Grove.”To me ye’re truly kind, dearest laddie, O,To bear me thus in mind, dearest laddie, O;If truth may be confess’d, on the heart that ’s in my breast,In love thou art impress’d, my dearest laddie, O.ProsperityLibertyLove’Tis not thy garden rare, dearest laddie, O,Nor yet thy fields so fair, dearest laddie, O,That can avail with me; for, as love is ever free,’Tis thine that conquers me, my dearest laddie, O.So thou may’st make me thine, dearest laddie, O,In truth and love to join, dearest laddie, O;SocietyMy hand I’ll thee bestow, though my kindred should say no,And with thee I shall go, my dearest laddie, O.
The Love Letter.
Tune—“Of all the Airths the Wind can blaw.”Go, little token of my love,To Scotia’s flow’ry lea,And seek my Mary’s happy home,Beside the hawthorn tree.LoveTo her my heart’s emotions bear,—In loving her I’m blest;As fond attachment’s warmth of loveStill glows within my breast.In dreams of night I her enjoy,And fancy oft by day,That through our once frequented walksWith her I fondly stray.But, tell her, MemoryReligionI remember stillHer parting pledge so free;Nor will forget the fervent wishShe breathed to Heav’n for me.Oh! tell her I am ever true,Nor will forget my vow;OceanI grieve that seas between us roll,And to stern fate we bow.But now, could I myself encloseBeneath thy tender fold,And borne to her, ’twould please me moreThan India’s store of gold.
The Black Seal.
Tune—“Bruce’s Address.”PerceptionLoveJoy“Welcome post!” the lover sings,“A billet from my love he bringsMy soul shall feast on pleasant things,Can I my joys conceal?”How soon these joys have changed to fears!And soon his eyes are dimm’d with tears;For, see! upon its fold it bearsA doleful black seal!“O’er me sad bodings rush amain;”—He cries,—“but see th’ address again,“The writing’s strange,”—it gives me pain,Alas! what woes I feel.”Thus trembling, as with tearful eyesHe scans it o’er, then deeply sighs,“I fear ’tis true! she’s gone!”—and triesTo break the black seal.“I see! he cries, “’tis but a freak;She lives! my truth her loves bespeak;I’ll dance for joy, no cares me seek,—How happy now I feel!”JoyOceanReligionShe says, “for me she’ll cross the sea.”Oh blest!—my heart bounds full of glee;May Heaven bring her safe to me!I’ll kiss the black seal.
A Desperate Case.
Tune—“My mither mend my auld breeks.” What maks the Doctor groan in bed,Oh! what can be the matter?Can’t be the migram in his headThat sets his eyes to water?“Oh no!” he cried, “I’ve got a wound,I fear it will prove fatal:No symptom in my case is sound,Which stings me like a nettle.”Fal, lal, lal, &c.New Zealand Flora and Fauna“This morn I long’d for pigeon soup,So went a-pigeon-shooting;The kawkaws long me sore did dupe,At last a bird sat suiting.Sly Cupid, lurking by a root,Unseen had trimm’d his arrow;As I aim’d high, the bird to shoot,He pierc’d my heart and marrow!”Fal, lal, lal, &c.“Th’ effect was such, that Lovedown I fell,And writhed in pains uncommon;Their keenness more than tongue can tell,—Aye, more than pangs of woman!Alas! no med’cine will me save,Which gives me greater sorrow;Go! bid the sexton dig my grave,For I’ll be dead to-morrow.”Fal, lal, lal, &c.
Evening Industry.
Tune—“’Twas in the merry month of May.”NatureThe moon had fill’d her horn on high,And pour’d on earth her silv’ry sheen,A still and cloudless azure skyProclaim’d her night’s own radiant queen.The clearing, round beneath her smile,Seem’d gladden’d, as by day’s bright noon;WorkThe eager bushman, late at toil,Rejoiced at having such a boon.’Mong prostrate logs his work he plied,His axe disturbing night’s dull ear;To breathe, on axe he lean’d, and eyedThe moon, whose smile his heart did cheer.MemoryLossThe thoughts of home, and former joys,Insensibly stole o’er his mind;And fond remembrance drew a sighFor friends, endear’d, he left behind.SufferingAt once his crosses, toils, and cares,From first endured, in bold array,Upon him sprung in unawares,As better feelings fain to sway;FamilyHomeBut from his humble cottage, lone,His wife’s sweet strains fell on his ear,Which his attention roused, anonHis drooping spirits fain to cheer.“Those wand’ring thoughts still let me spurn,”—He cried,—“since she’d my cares beguile;LoveNor shall I hapless fortune mourn,Since love alone can lighten toil!”With this, again, his axe he plied,Cheer’d by her mellow’d strains the while;And ev’ry stroke he gave replied,’Tis surely love that lightens toil!
Wairau:—or Col. W—’s Dirge to the Memory of His Brother.
Tune—“Wallace’s Lament.”Though NatureJoypleasing, around thee, thy scenes, Waiarau!’Tis painful to think on the deeds of thy day;ReligionThough all to their fates, so resistless must bow,WarI grieve for the victims who fell in thy fray.But chiefly I mourn thee, my own dearest brother!And shrink at the thought of thy mangled remains;LossThe loss I sustain can be felt by no other,MemoryAs long as thy mem’ry my bosom retains.EthnographyThe savage may glory in deeds unrepaid,And cowardly taunt thee, now low in thy grave;They’ll yet in Moralitythe balance of justice be weigh’d,And vengeance shall visit when nought can them save.But still, LoveI’m depriv’d of thy friendship, my brother!Which none can replace, as thy worth all can tell;The cold hand of death now thy ashes may smother,MemoryThy mem’ry shall live, though I sigh thee farewell.
A-Whaling.
Tune—“Molly Ashtore.” My Jamie is a-whaling gone,Afar upon the sea;Now like a widow left alone,No comfort comes to me.He bade me wait on his return,His toils would soon be o’er;But boding ill, I ever mourn,—I’ll never see him more.I know he faithful is, and true,Nor would he ere deceive;My thoughts of him deep sighs renew,Nor can I cease to grieve:To think on dangers he must brave,Love absent I deplore;For should he meet a wat’ry grave,I’ll never see him more.In mournings I shall ever go,Nor seek for comfort here;For nightly dreams disturb me so,And gives me much to fear:No charm could pleasing scenes impart,Like him whom I adore;No other’s love shall gain my heart,Should he return no more.
The Setting Sun.
Tune—“Jock o’ Hazeldean.” Behind yon lofty western hillHalf sunk the orb of day;Along the length’ning shadows fellOf tree and lowly spray.The cottage windows vied to showRespect to his last ray;As, like to furnaces they glow,T’illume departing day.Fair Emma by her window sat,And needlework had plied,—It now lies idle in her lap,Her lily hand beside.On window-sill her elbow leans,Her chin rests on her hand,Her face betraying anxious thought,Which feelings would command.Her cheek has lost its rosy bloom,The tear stands in her eye;The downward sun while watching, oftHer bosom heaves a sigh.“Fair orb of day,” at length she cries,“Though now ye look adieu,Ye go to gladden flow’ry fieldsNow bathed in pearly dew.Ye go to childhood’s fondest scenes,To happy mem’ry true, —Ye’re rising o’er my Henry’s home,While sinking from my view.Oh! Would ye bear him my regards,Tell him my heart is true;—I know he seeks your morning beamsLong ere ye come to view.Methinks I hear his vows renew’dOf truth and love to me;—’Tis thus, though distance us divide,We converse hold in thee.Assure him, I am ever his;As to thy trust thou’rt true:—But as ye hasten from my gaze,Meet his in peace, adieu!
Mr. T—’s Dirge to the Memory of W. Cook, Drowned April 10, 1847.
Tune—“The Flowers of the Forest.”Awake! to a measure, my lute, to give pleasureTo my aching heart, while a loss I deplore;All comfort refusing, I long have been musing,The fate of my friend, whom I’ll never see more.To tell all my sorrow, what words could I borrow?With patience enduring, like Job, all his woes,Silence ill befriending, my bosom near rendingWith grief;—now let friendship my passion disclose.Oh! day doom’d to sorrow, all feelings to harrowWith worst of misfortunes that e’er could befall;—How blind we ’re by nature regarding the future,Till met by our fates, and o’ercome past recall!So he, quite a stranger to rashness and danger,On duty embarked in his skiff on the wave;—His journey defeated, for e’er half completed,He met his destruction, with none near to save.Oh! friendship departed, I feel quite deserted,I sigh when I think on our pleasures enjoy’d,In music uniting, sweet converse exciting,—Now gone like a dream, and, aye me! what a void.Around me all nature, how altered each feature,Its beauties as blasted to me are become;—He’s torn from my bosom in manhood’s fresh blossom,By death unexpected, and called to his home.How fleeting the pleasure! how short is the measure!Of earthly enjoyments, by Heaven’s decree:—Though felt most severely, regretted sincerely,His fate be by others, ’tis still more by me.Farewell our enjoyment, sweet friendship’s employment,How harsh to my ear has all music become!—But why should it grieve me, if thus, to relieve theeFrom sorrows, thou’rt called to a bright happy home.But now I feel lonely and pensive, when onlyThe hour of our meeting comes daily around;Thy footsteps when nearing, no more meets my hearing,Nor thy welcomed presence beside me is found.Still fancy would cheer me, and whisper thou’rt near me,While fondly rememb’ring thy virtues with love;—But why I ’m so earthy? for truly thou’rt worthyThose far better meetings thou’rt called to above.
The Effects of Good Government, or the Happy Change.
Tune—(Original.)“I shall sing thee a ditty,”Said a mother to her kitty,As she dandled her high on her knee;“It is best to be in cheer,Amid plenty, my dear,As it gives me more comfort in thee.In England thy mamma and daddy were poor,Little pleasure could there we enjoy;And many were the pinchings we had to endure.Which oft seem’d our loves to destroy.”So we hasten’d to New Zealand,In full hopes to find a freeland,Where both taxes and tithes would be none;Where of happiness, ’twas said,To be quite a hot house bed,But we found such a thing little known;For our Governors ruled with a stiff iron rod,—All labour was quite at a stand;For nothing had they done to advance the public good,Making sorrow prevail through the land.Now then, dance high, my dovey,We have alter’d times, my lovie,Let us happy be now, as we may;Once we could not get a sow,Now your dad has brought a cow;—Hearty thanks to our Governor Grey!To face grinding tyrants no longer he toils,For scarcely a living, though spare;—Thus Providence over good government smiles,And frees us from sorrow and care.Another spring, my dearie,There is nought like being cheerie,As the best thanks our gratitude can pay;With—Long live our Governor!Defended from the fates of war;And blessings on kind Lady Grey!O’er us long may he rule, and true happiness enjoy,Like the sun shedding gladness around!Making others rejoice, may his pleasures be high,And his name through all ages redound.
The Sun Shining Out.
Tune—“We’ve aye been provided for, and sae will we yet.” When the sunshine of day is eclipsed by a cloud,Presaging a storm, with the winds whistling loud,How gloomy Nature seems;—but as shadows take the rout,How cheerful she becomes, when the sun’s shining out.Chorus—When the sun’s shining out, when the sun’s shining out.How cheerful she becomes when the sun’s shining out.So when troubles o’ertake us, while journ’ying through life.Perplexing our souls with a chaos of strife;How hopelessly we mourn, wishing life to have an end,But our sorrows fly away, when we’re bless’d with a friend.When were bless’d with a friend, &c.See the lover deploring the frowns of his dear,How sorrowful he feels at her coyness severe,Whose case can be compared, so desponding throughout;But when she smiles upon him, then his sun’s shining out.Then his sun’s shining out, &c.When depressions of trade, and the terrors of war,Exert all their powers every pleasure to mar;Yet time, on the wing, will bring changes about,To gladden ev’ry soul, like the sun shining out.Like the sun shining out, &c.
A Sonnet on the Wreck of the Maria.
Maria, wafted o’er the surging deep,Her varied burden bore—but chiefly thoseOf cheerful spirits flush’d with the high hopesOf quickly meeting welcomes to their homes,From anxious waiting friends,—one lover, there,Rejoices soon his dear betrothed to meet:Ah! what fond raptures makes his bosom beatAt such a thought: who could supposeUntimely Fate then stared them in the face?—Benighted and deceived Maria roamsFar from her tract—then struck, with awful sweep,On Terawiti’s rock!—A moment’s scopeWas scarcely theirs to breath salvation’s prayer,Till all, save two, one watery grave had shared.
Addition to The Thrashing Floor, verse 2, (at p. 18.)
Thwack, thwack, bounds the flail, while the grains about do fly,And the straws around him float as his swingle wheels on high,Then descending quick it tells, while his labour gives him joy,And his bosom beats harmonious with his pleasing employ.Aye, pleasing sure it is, at having comforts now in view,And his first fruits inviting him his fortunes to pursue;Light spirited he plies his toil, in trashing out his stack,Which makes his floors resound with merry thwack, thwack, thwack.
An Old Bachelor’s Soliloquy on His First Honeymoon.
Tune—“Logie o’ Buchan.” I like my young wifie!—I heard a youth sing,Whas locks were as grey as an old goose’s wing;And aye as he sang, how he smirked and he smiled,That one would have thought him sweet fancy’s own child;Quoth he, my braw housie did aften complain,That it wanted a guide wha I could ca’ my ain.I like my young wifie!—though thrice I’m her age,And bless the sweet time she my heart did engage;She’s carefu’ and tidy, she’s all I desire,Saesnod she keeps a’ thing, I can’t but admire;As for my auld breeks that I ance threw aside,They’re now sae renew’d, I can wear them wi’ pride.I like my young wifie!—for sweet is her smile,And sae kindly she speaks,—a’ my cares to beguile;And gaily she sings, like a seraph on high,Which makes my heart flutter with rapture and joy;A’ things, when considered, I see and maintainThat Nature ne’er meant that we should be alane.I like my young wifie!—because she likes me,Which makes me oft wonder how some disagree;Whate’er be my will, it is her’s a’ the same,And if I meet sorrow, to soothe is her aim;Or, if I feel joyful, she heightens my joy,Till, with a sweet kiss, I show—happy am I!I like my young wifie!—for I can declareWhat comforts she makes I ne’er dreamed of before;Her aim is to please me, and keep me in cheer,And all the great blessings of life to endear;May Heaven still spare me so precious a boon,And let our whole life be as one honeymoon!
The Plough.
Tune—“Buy a Broom.”To sing of the plough, and the joys thence arising,With labour made easy, how welcome, I trow;For long I’ve been sharing hard labour, preparingMy lands, for the pleasure of using the plough.Of using the plough, of using the plough,My lands for the pleasure of using the plough.My grubhoe has long had hard active employment,In clearing the roots from the old forest ground;But now, at its leisure, it may rest with pleasure,Its work is completed, which once did abound.Which once did abound, &c.How hard, in the outset, to clear off a forest,With back often aching, and sweat bedew’d brow;Such labours got over, I now can discoverHow pleasing indeed ’tis to follow the plough.To follow the plough, &c.My spade did its duty when only small patchesI tilled; but uniting them all as one now,My oxen all ready, so active and steady,Must now give their labour to till with the plough.To till with the plough, &c.How many the trials, privations and sorrows,I’ve often endured from beginning till now;But since my endeavours are crown’d with high favours,I’ll smile o’er the past, and sing speed to the plough!Sing speed to the plough, &c.Let thoughtless goldhunters make haste for the diggings,Beguiled by false visions ’mid dangers enow;But I’ll seek my treasure with comfort and pleasure,In reaping rich harvests by guiding the plough.By guiding the plough, &c.
The Prudent Wife.
Tune—“Bonnie Prince Charlie.”We’ll go to the bush, and adieu bid the city gay,Where much vexation encumbers us daily;Where life’s little pleasures have nought of vivacity,Yet are expensive in seeming so gaily.Off with all rout and ball, ever shall be my call,Tea-table gossips me sicken sincerely;Oh for joy! whose alloy never can peace destroy,Such have I wished, and will seek it most dearly.My silks and brocade, though I change for the russet gown,Love won’t be less, while contentment’s my measureOf happiness true, of which here it is little known,Even ’mid circles in quest of such pleasure.Ill the toil, to beguile time that will yet recoilPainful sensations, to end in deep sorrow;But t’emprove time, my love, still let it us behove,Nought we’ll regret on the coming of morrow.This mansion of paint, with our humble bush dwelling, shallNe’er be compared for true comfort and pleasure;For industry’s ’joyments, all others excelling, shallYield us delights in good earnest and measure.Such alone will atone for any loss that’s known,Fancied or real, in such an exchange, love;While to be ever free from the annoyance weOft now endure, will repay in full change, love.When daily toils o’er, and around our hearth blazing,Assembled we sit with our fam’ly so cheerie;We’ll smile o’er the past while enjoying the blessing,Which bounteous Providence grants to the weary;No employ I’ll enjoy better than to destroyAny regrettings that chance may bring o’er thee.Be in cheer, husband dear, love shall be comforter;Leave all thy sorrows for good that’s before thee.
Stanzas, written while on the voyage out to New Zealand on board the “Bengal Merchant,” January 14, 1840.
Britannia! proud of enterprising sons,While half the world still owns her sceptre sway,And round her vast dominions is the sun’sGreat circuit giving an alternate day;—But what adds to the prominent displayOf that magnificence which she has wonIn early ages, more than being stayTo powers which otherwise would be undone,And source of some which be, and what will be begun?In every quarter of this active worldThere beat some hearts that sacred hold her name,And where her meteor flag has been unfurled,Or power endanger’d:—were she put to shame?—Her sons obedient, readily forth cameAt her command, and lion-like obeyed!—Thus loyal,—still their courteousness the sameTo friend or foe, who helpless seek their aid,As still their actions by humanity are swayed.Britannia glories!— and her pride has meritIn deeds heroic, which her sons displayIn quest of savage nations, which inheritThe sea-girt isles, which long obscurely layBeyond her former ken; and then t’assayTo civilise and lead them by the roadOf sound instruction
Alluding to the labours of the British missionaries in paving the way as it were for a greater extension of the British empire, while those heathen nations reaping the benefit of their labours shew a willingness to come under the authority and protection of Britain.
—(changing into dayTheir moral night)—to serve the Living God,From whom thus short’ning distance through the Saviour’s blood.Fear not, New Zealander! we do not comeWith hostile feelings, but with all good will;Though we adopt your country as our home,’Tis but to teach you industry and skill;For Wakefield shall efficiently fulfillHis mission undertaken, nor prove falseTo duty’s whole performance; trust ye stillHis government; so shall ye ne’er have causeTo murmur ’gainst the safety of Britannia’s laws.Too long indeed in darkness have ye pined,Been long enslaved by superstition’s chain;Rejoice! we’ve come your fetters to unbind;—No faithless friendship offer we for gain;So strive all knowledge taught thee to attain:Lay past your trappings of unnat’ral war,And court sweet peace— so thus what we would deignWill be accomplish’d, and exceed by farAll other vict’ries which would general pleasure mar.How sweet the joys arising from employ!And rich the fruits of an industrious toil!We’ll teach you how those blessings to enjoy,And prize your rich fertility of soilOn which your lot is cast,—then sweetly smileYour deserts shall, and blossom as the rose;Such pleasures will your thirst for war beguile,And friendships raise between invet’rate foes;So peace and blessings shall your future days compose.’Tis true, the country we have left behindHas fields less fertile, less propitious skies;—Though oft shall scenes frequented, now resign’d,Be drawn by fancy—as before our eyes;And friendship’s love,—a painful sacrifice—At parting, as on earth to meet no more:May no sad feeling in our breasts arise,At disappointed hopes, or change deplore—But rather bless the time we reached New Zealand’s shore.With loud huzzas we left our Fatherland,While in full sail our barque rush’d through the tide,And we committed all into the handOf Providence:—So thus, in stately prideBorne o’er the mountain waves, we’ve hither hied;In hailing destined shores no voice was mute.—And should our hearts of gratitude be voidTo Him who kept us, when again we footThe earth—but render praise to Him in each pursuit?Oh happy plan!
Alluding to the Wakefield method of purchasing territory for colonization; then bestowing part of the land for the benefit of the natives, instead of taking the land by force, and exterminating its inhabitants, as has often been done by other nations in former years.
—ingenuously devised!—To colonise New Zealand’s lovely isle;Bid Britons welcome—let their scheme be priz’d,And let your vallies with fresh beauties smile;No longer need your rich luxuriant soilBring forth to waste, without an owner’s care,While nature amply recompenses toilWith good abundance:—so make commerce, share;Prove to the world no country can with your’s compare.Your generations yet unborn shall blessThe time when we your country colonized;And they again shall to their seed expressTheir pleasure at a plan so well devised,At seeing twofold blessings realised,From changes which their grandsires have sustain’d,In days of yore, in being civilized;And grateful for the favours so obtained,A mission ’mong their neighb’ring isles shall have maintain’d.
A Tribute to the Memory of Friendship.
A Fragment from a Poem in MS.Friendship ’s a blessing much to be esteem’d,Though faithful friends are miracles indeedIn this degen’rate world. A would-be friendHas some self-purpose close behind the mask,Which makes him as a parasite adhereWith studied blindness to thy faults;— ev’n theseTo virtues are transform’d, if ends are serv’d.Is he a friend who willingly assentsTo all thy errors, tamp’ring with thy good,And fears to hold the mirror to thy face,As did the humble prophet to the king,Shewing his naked likeness for reproof?—Is he a friend, who smiles but to betray?Or who, to court thy favours, would indulgeThy passions with smooth flattery?—a curse!Smoothing thy way as ’twere to horror’s pit.—Oh what a blessing is a faithful Friend!One who’d not only make thy cares his own,Or to thy sorrows lend a willing ear,Still ready with his aid: but one who feelsAn interest in the welfare of thy soul;Though sympathising with thy frailties,Yet bold to check thy follies, and directAttention to thy dangers, as becomesThe real nature of a faithful friend.—Aye, this is friendship!—worthy all esteem!—With whom no earthly treasure is compar’dHere let me pause;—Remembrance begs to payA tribute to the memory of oneWho well deserved the title of a Friend!Ah, Giffen! oft in fancy have I rovedThe scenes of our enjoyments, and conversedWith thy dear fancied presence, which beguiledLong hours of sorrow, judging none else fitTo hear my mournful tale; and though this earth’sGreat bulk would us divide, ’twas happiness,Though labouring ’mid adversities, to thinkIn thee I had a friend in whom my soulDelighted, and reposed its confidence,With more than brother’s love! Sweet fellowshipOf early years!—remembrance of thy joys,As of immortal bloom, have cheered me much,Inspiring this fond hope—we yet may meet,And youthful friendship have renew’d in years.—Vain dream of mine!—Th’ unspeakable delightof joining hands, and welcoming with joyTo either’s breast a long lost friend, ’s denied!—Though baulked my hopes, the will of Heaven be done!No more on this earth’s surface can we meet,Save dust with dust might mingle. Now alone,And in the blow which death’s rude hand has given,I’ve learn’d the lesson, “Vain are earthly hopes!”And felt its force press home upon my heart—He’s worthy the poor requiem I sing!—Esteem’d by all who knew him in his youth,For diligence, and piety, and love!And in his manhood much beloved by thoseWho call’d him to the charge of souls for God:—But how prescribed the course of his career!—Three summer sun’s had little more than smiledUpon his labours, when his Master sawIt meet to call him to his heavenly rest.Should I at his advancement thus repine?No!—let me rather prove myself a friend!—Rejoicing at his happiness—set freeFrom worldly trials, and admitted inTo the enjoyments of eternal bliss.If happy here to meet, though but to part,Where death makes havoc oft of all our joys,Who will describe the pleasure when we hail,Around our Father’s throne, a friend endeared,Where joy’s complete, and parting is no more!
An Epigram on Ambition.
’Tis strange how high ambition takes its flight,But stranger far how low it meanly stoopsIn quest of honour.—Envy stops at nought—Now like an eagle soaring to the sun,As fain to roost upon his flaming disk;Then like a sow when digging in the mire,With craving appetite to catch a worm.
The Christian’s March.
From Acts xiv, 22, and Ephes. vi, l0, 11, 12, 13.Tune—“Garb of Old Gaul.”
As in music there are many tunes, though unconnected with words, expressive of much feeling, corresponding with the several sympathies existing in the soul of man, so have I taken the liberty of shewing how they can be improved by applying some to subjects of a sacred nature.
We are bound for the glorious kingdom of God,Which on us, though once rebels, is freely bestowed,By Jesus, our great king, who o’er sin did achieveA vict’ry he bequeathes unto all who believe.While his banners of love are unfurled around,Let us haste to his standard, and steadfast be found;In his footsteps we’ll follow the path which he has trod,Till we reach to the glorious kingdom of God.So this earthly campaign we’ll with patience endure,Still believing the promise, “our prize shall be sure;”Though on every hand we’re assailed by our foes,Who our progress to glory would fainly oppose;Yet we’ll gallantly gird on our armour so bright,In the strength of his name standing firm to the fight,With the sword of the Spirit resisting to blood;So we’ll force our way through to the kingdom of God.When this warfare is o’er, to our heavenly restWe’ll be welcomed with pleasure, and crown’d with the blest;There, as kings and as priests, bearing victory’s palm,We will sing halleluias to God and the Lamb;Then let onward be our motto, and to th’ end endure,For he’s faithful who promised,—in him we’re secure;While following his footsteps, and path which he has trod,We shall safely arrive in the kingdom of God.
The Penitent’s Prayer.
From Psalm xxx, 7, 8, 9, 10; cxliii, 7, 8, 9.Tune—“Maid of Islay.”Why, my soul, thus sunk in sorrow,Why go mourning all day long!Oh! what language can I borrow,To express my grief so strong!Woe-begone and wrung with anguish,Hopeless, helpless, now am I!’Neath the curse of Heav’n I languish,Can I now for mercy cry.I’ve in sin been long rebelling,Spurning God’s most sacred laws,Oft his Spirit’s powers repelling,As he strove to plead his cause;Sore provoked, he’s fled for ever,Left me wretched in despair.Might he yet return? Ah! never!—Ne’er can I in mercy share.Hell, my terror, yawns to have me,Satan claims me as his prey;—Fool-undone! ah, who can save me?Can I dare for mercy pray?Help, oh help me, Jesus Saviour!Who can save me now but thee?—Though unworthy of such favour,Surely thou hast died for me.But his blood I’ve long derided,Can I hope for pardon free?Let me to thy cross be guided;Let me yield myself to thee.Thee I trust, O Saviour!—snatch meFrom this death—a fearful doom!In thy fold receive and watch me,From thy side no more to roam.
Answer to the above.
From Isaiah xliv, 21, 22.Same Tune.Mournful sinner! thee I pity;Now shall I be found of thee:Gladly shall I come to meet thee,As from sin ye turn to me.Could I view thy self-destruction,When I hid my face from thee;While my Spirit’s fond correctionOft ye spurn’d, insulting me?Can I thus shew anger ever,When thy sins thou wilt forsake?Love’s my nature, and can neverSpurn thy pray’r, for Jesus’s sake.Thy return makes joy in heaven,Angels strike their harps and sing;Since they’ve seen thy sins forgiven,Louder heavenly echoes ring.Oh! be watchful lest thine en’my,Moved with envy, work thy fall;When thou’rt tried, as sure thou wilt be,Then on me, thy helper, call.Watch in pray’r, and I’ll befriend thee;See, thy Saviour pleads for thee;Though thou’rt weak, I shall defend thee,While ye truly trust on me.
The Pilgrim’s Home.
From Heb. xi, 13.Tune—“Sweet Home.”An earthly sojourner I long long have been,Still happiness pursuing, but vain vain I ween;A pilgrim indeed, with much travel o’ercome,My soul longs for rest in its own native home.Home, home, long sought home!Oh! when shall my soul find its own happy home?Though time’s gay delights would entice me the while,To taste their enjoyments, my cares to beguile;But fleeting those joys, and soon tasteless become,Declaring my soul here can ne’er find its home.Home, home, long sought home!Can earth stand compared with a heavenly home?Then, farewell this world!—’tis a nursery of care;In thee there’s no rest, I must seek it elsewhere;Retracing my journey, I forthwith must roam;The heavenly Canaan I’ll choose for my home.Home, home, long lost home!My joys shall abound in that bright happy home!My Father will gladly receive me with love,To hail my return will my brothers behove;To think of such meetings, it makes me becomeImpatient to join those enjoyments of home.Home, home, long sought home!How ardently daily I long for my home!The trials 1 meet oft may grieve me to pain,But these I’ll endure, for they’ll soon prove my gain;If foretaste results would my feelings o’ercome,How happy, when safe in the bosom of home.Home, home, sweet sweet home!How happy, when safe in the bosom of home!
The Christian’s Joy.
Tune—“Begone! Dull Care!”Awake! my soul,To sing thy Saviour’s praise;Let love controlThe victory of grace.That grace which still exalts my mindAbove each paltry careOf earth, and its enticing charm,That would my soul ensnare;That grace which conquered all desire,Earth’s honours to obtain,And o’er my carnal passions strong,A victory to gain.Creation round,Assist me to proclaimHis love profound,And honour of his name;That love beyond all height and depth,Which made him leave his throne,To ransom rebels sold to sin,And claim them as his own.Then glory, honour, power, and praise,Be to his glorious name;Our soul’s salvation we ascribeTo that Atoning Lamb.Ye ransomed! singYour great Redeemer’s love!Exalt him kingAll other lords above;For worthy he who conquer’d death,Destroying Satan’s sway;And proved himself, to bliss on high,The true and living way.In him we’ll live, in him we’ll trust,Rejoicing in his grace;While in his name salvation’s freeTo all the human race.
Appendix.
Selections from my “Recreations for Solitary Hours.”
Reflections over a Lark’s Nest.
Written at an early age.As o’er a field I strolling paced my way,With careless step, and dash’d from ev’ry sprayThe glist’ning dew, which thick like diamonds hung,—Then from her nest a lark affrighten’d sprungAt my approach,—and chirping, seemed to say;—“Refrain thy footsteps, vagrant stranger—stayThy hand from mischief on my tender young;Poor innocents! oh, do not thou them wrong;Oh, spare them! they are all my only care;And let them in thy love and favour share;That I from helpless infancy may rearThem to maturity. Yet they may cheerThee in thy walks, when chaunting choicest lays,—Or teach mankind to sing his Maker’s praise!”My pace I check’d at this the lark’s request,Which fraught with softest sympathy my breast;PerceptionI look’d around with careful scanning eye,Where rose the lark. Now, there, do I descry,Her humble habitation, low, besideA tuft of grass. FamilySocietyFour mouths now open wide,As asking for an alms, as I draw nearTo see the nest, and tender hatch so dearAnd precious to their dam. They feel mista’en,Their mouths they shut, and huddle down again:—So young—their eyes yet seal’d—they’ve not discern’dMe from their mother; yet they have not learn’dA stranger’s voice. Then why should 1 extortMyself from all humanity to hurtSuch poor defenceless creatures? Or purloinThem from a parent’s care? Or e’er destineThem to an unjust death?—To treat them illI never can,—as I’ve detested stillSuch cruel deeds. But to the mother’s pray’r,I’ll lend a willing ear. FamilyHomeNatureFor, see! what careShe has bestow’d upon her little broodto make them happy. Lo! how well is madeHer small, neat, grounded nest. Were we to scanIts structure with minuteness, and the plan,In which it is so carefully contrived,Then would we ask, From whom has she derived,Such art and knowledge? Was it e’er from man?Or was she taught by any artizanTo build her nest? No! Nature is her guide,From whom she wisdom learns,—how to provideFor this her progeny. And what’s designed,Is neatly done! How softly it is lined,For comfort to her young, her only care,That are, as yet, of Nature’s clothing bare.And, lo! the outward bulwarks of its form,How well ’tis built ’gainst the usurping worm,To save her eggs, and tender brood from harm.What wisdom’s this? What mother could do more!To shield her infant charge, Sing, ye that soarAloft! With loudest carols make the airResound, to cheer your mates in their domestic care.How interesting! FamilySocietyHow agreeableIs their behaviour! Discord ne’er can dwellWithin this habitation. There they lieTogether hugged in social harmony.Lo! what a grand example these affordTo fam’lies where wild mut’ny, much deplored,Oft sows its dire, death-working seeds of strife,Carroding still the sweets of social life,With discontent and jealousy. ExpelSuch fiendish feelings which torment the soul.Here innocence and socialityAre in this brood pourtray’d, as there they lieIn meek contentment.JoyTruly they excite,To sympathetic feelings of delight!
Stanzas, To a Young Poet.
“Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climbThe steep, where fame’s proud temple shines afar.”Beattie.Hail, friendly youth! fair orient genius!In answer I employ my pen of steel;Nor can my muse be so ungenerousAs not in thee a growing pleasure feel;Nor can my soul its innate joy conceal,To hear, in symphony, ye tune the lyre:—Music and SongThen rouse, ye sacred Nine! your powers revealAnd kindle in his breast each quick’ning fire,As he with inward music loves to join the choir.ReligionSocietyAh! tender youth, ye little know what careMay dare in ambush, yet waylay thy steps;May heaven, still kindly you in favour spare,And guide thy feet from such engulphing traps,Which oft arrest the progress of adepts;Who, oft are met by barriers of scorn,And adverse fortunes,—disappointed hopes,’Mid which their labours painfully were borne,Then left to meet their fates forgotten and forlorn.SocietyOh! fly fair Flattery, whose delusive tongueBeguiles with vain enticing words of wind—Whose company, the root of every wrong,If once indulged, you no escape will find,While in its close embrace thou art confin’d—Which Siren-like, most charmingly will lullWith praise melodious the unwary mind;Till pride inflates thee, thus t’ensure thy fall;—Then keen remorse will vex and harrow up thy soul.Be noble-minded! circumspect, reserve,ImaginationOf building fancy’s airy towers beware;Lest heedlessly through self-conceit ye swerve,And from thy giddy height—so press’d with care,—Ye headlong tumble,—grasping at the air,To break thy fall, to dreadful fate consigned—SufferingHonourA dire arousement! waking in despair,When all thy hopes and prospects with the wind,Are fled, and not a wreck of fame is left behind.FutureHonourIs’t future praise—a vain anticipationOf phantom fame—ye harbour in your breast?Or is it sport? a sordid degradationOf genius’ gift, of which thou art possess’d:FutureHonourSocietyThe tongue of Time will have it loud express’d,When round th’ eventful wheel of fortune’s whirl’d,To point thy lot high seated with the blest,Or high exalted, be to ruin hurl’d,Then hiss’d and scoff’d at by a scandalizing world!ProsperityReligionHonourBut what ennobles more the human mindThan meditating on the works of God:Exciting magnanimity refined’Bove all which wealth or honour e’er bestow’d:—SocietyHonourBut, ah! what secular’ties make inroad,To vex sweet peace, or raise the tattling sneer;A neighbour’s name with infamy to load,Exposing virtue to opprobrious jeer:—From such base degradations of thy muse forbear!SocietyReligionProsperityChangeGo on! and may you prosper in your sphere,But mark attentive, e’er ye’ve gone afar,Lest Envy should in unawares appearAgainst thy hopes and prospects waging war,Employing all, thy progress to debar:—Why should I on such themes of grievance dwell?Be stirr’d!—let no despondence e’er thee mar,Aim to improve, as ye aspire t’excell;—Be virtue’s friend! and Heav’n will bless thy muse.—Farewell.
SocietyPoetryHonourA Likeness.I’m like, ’mid great society’s fry,An old book in a library,That’s handed down from yore;Whose boards are sadly tatter’d and torn,Which lies there uncall’d for, neglected and lorn,On which the damp mould gathers hoar.Per’dventure some novice may stray,And just pick it up by the way,To see what’s in’t contain’d;Aside, though unjudged, he’ll throw’t by,With mein as disgusted, condemning he’ll cry,“Its subject is tasteless and strain’d!”Anew were it handsomely bound,And gilt with elegance round,PerceptionThe vagrant eye t’impede,Then hastily he’d snatch, and expose it to view,To all recommend it as recently new,And better was never indeed.The book as it is must remain,Till judges more candid will deign,To scan with candour soundIts many contents,—there the seemingly wise,Instruction and wisdom may find to surprize,Though yet unexplain’d, and profound.
ReligionAn Enigma.That I’m in existence, I verily vow,Though still 1’m unknown to the wide world around,From heaven’s supernal, expanding concave,To hell’s dark, infernal and soundless profound.SocietyThough I am to all that’s angelic unknown,With Christ, the great King, whom the Jews did despise,A pilgrim, where’er he sojourn’d, I have trodIn poverty’s humblest, contemptuous guise.Though once I was poor, now in riches I loll,Yet me no depending admirers caress;Through all tribulations I’ve carried my cross,Still greatly rejoicing ’mid ev’ry distress.Mark! when from the wing of the light’ning, you hearThe great resurrection proclaim’d;—then in state,Spreading dread in a chariot of thunder I’ll ride,Attending on Christ to the doom-giving seat:Then woe to the righteous who hear not my fame,The wicked are pardoned who give me a name!
Stanzas, Extemporaneously Written on a Stormy Night, Dalserf, November 4, 1833.
HomeLoud roars the wind; while round the chimney top,The midnight spirits breathe with dol’rous groan;And furies round the rattling windows yell,As me to startle musing here alone.Thus, in my cabin by the fireside set,Where glimm’ring embers lend their little light,I listen to the sound of tempests strongLoud raging—vexing sore the ear of night.WeatherThis is November’s desolating train!Which strips the forest of its summer bloom,While scenes, which once gave pleasure, waste are laid,And all a cheerless aspect now assume.The orchard grounds are thickly strew’d with leaves,Which once with verdant foliage clad each bough;—They teach a truth, important as ’tis true,That man must from this stage of being go.Now short, and lurid’s the withdrawing day,As if the sun was wearied of its toil;While cheerless night lengthens its sable shroud,And winter storms roll in with rude turmoil.Six hours have pass’d, since ’neath the western wave,The sun has sunk as never more to rise;Night reigns triumphant!—oft the wat’ry cloudsHave thickly overspread the scowling skies;Then furiously, as heaven’s flood-gates wideWere opened, prone in torrents poured the rain:So, hear! amid the bawlings of the wind,It rattles on each weather-beaten pane.How furious every blast! as all their forceCollected strong were in each swelling gust;Thus striving to o’erturn the peasant’s cot,And level stately buildings with the dust.Low bend the lofty trees ’neath weighty winds,In dread collision lash’d, and wave on highTheir naked arms, as with redoubled rageThe stormy tempest bellows through the sky!Hark! Clyde’s loud roar commingles with the storm’s,While down its course the heavy billows roll;And other brimful rills augment its weight,As forth it rushes to’ard its destined goal.FamilyThe family ’s all abed:—thus late, I’m likeThe moping owl when blinking to the moon,As o’er the firelight list’ning to the storm,I musing pore now near nocturnal noon.SocietyHas ev’ry homeless wand’rer shelter found,’Neath hospitable roof, or humbler shed?Or has there any from th’ unfriendly door,Been spurn’d, who has not where to lay his head?ReligionOh Heaven! who has nature in control,Spare! spare! oh spare! and quell the angry storm;Oh! pity now the poor belated wretch,The haughty niggard scorns to house from harm.MemoryIn nights as this, still retrospection callsTo mind,WarWeatherthe unhappy nights of storm endured,In war campaigns, and on the raging main,Which seem’d t’engulf the tossing bark unmoor’d.
My father being in the army, and serving in some of the scenes which occurred in Germany when Napoleon escaped from the Elbe, and whither I was carried while a young boy, accounts for such reflections.
OceanWeatherReligionI feel for those, whose fates are to endure,The midnight hazards of the stormy waves:Oh Heaven! shield them with thy guardian pow’r,Them ward from wrecks, and from untimely graves.ReligionHomeLet Heav’n be praised! who me from such preserved,And in His providence has kindly bless’dMe with a home,—thus cabin’d from the storm,Provided with a couch, on which to rest.
A Translation of an Episode in Ossian.
LoveLossUpon the rocks of winds, which loudly roar,Oh weep! thou lovely maid of Inistore.And bend thy fair head o’er the stormy waves,Thou lovelier than the mountain ghost that movesO’er Morven’s silence, in the glowing raysOf yonder sun, in its meridian blaze.For now thy youth’s laid low!—Ah! he is fallen,Pale, pale beneath the sword of brave Cuthullen!No more shall valour raise, nor aught that bringsThy love again to match the blood of kings,For Trenor, graceful Trenor, is no more!Thy youth has died, Oh Maid of Inistore!His gray dogs howling all at home do lie,They see his haunting spirit passing by;His bow unstrung now in the hall is found,And in his hall of hinds, no more is heard his sound.
ReligionFutureLoveA Love Sonnet, written for a Young Lady to Her Lover, to whom She soon after got Married.
Oh! Heaven, mark me from above,Thus pledging undivided loveTo him my heart can most adore,And whose affection I implore.Believe me, Damon, I am true,And still my soul is bent on you!Time flies away as flies the wind,—Oh haste the hour when we’ll be join’d,When nothing shall us part but death,Still loving to the latest breath.Then oh! be kind, my suit regard,Love in return is love’s reward;So do accept, as I resignMy heart to thee, my Valentine.
Stanzas, extemporaneously written during the Egress of 1833, and the Ingress of1834.
See! how in uniform th’ approaching yearAdvances boldly; nought its course prevents;With its long line of infantry, while FearForebodes sad changes, Hope its blest events.See! like a courser with a flowing maneWhich on the breezes floats, it comes apace;While Time is urgent as with slackened rein,He pushes forward as to gain a race.SocietyWe hail thee with triumphal shouts of joy,Though expectation trembles in alarms;While emulously all with either vie,Who first will do obeisance to thy charms.The old one, which we once with honours crown’d,Now passing, looks behind to bid adieu;While novelty of changes fond doth bound,And spurns the old in haste t’enjoy the new.MemoryA few short minutes more, and then is pastThe lingering year, as it had never been;With all its joys and cares;— it hastens fastT’escape, and launch us to another scene.Ah! now’t has fled; no more to be recall’d,’Tis mingling with the years beyond the flood;To be forgot;—so thence have thousands roll’d,With loads of crime much crimson’d o’er with blood!We vainly hope revivals will ensue,And happiness, with each approaching year;ImaginationWild fancy holds the picture up to view,Full drawn, though no realities appear.JoyFutureHow fair’s the aspect which receives our joy,Aye me! who knows what follows in the train;’Tis myst’ry all, conceal’d from human pry,Which time alone is able to explain.How blind is man! futurity to know,Though all with fondness hail the risen year;For who can tell how fortune’s tide may flow,Or what perplexing cares may rise severe.Where are some now who once saluted fondLast year’s approach? Alas! they’re in the tomb;FriendshipOh! Armstrong, chiefly thou, who could respondTo friendship’s pleasures, now hast met thy doom.MemoryFriendshipFrom childhood, nought could break that genial tie,By which our hearts in fellowship were join’d;But Death has made a breach, which makes me sigh,As still thy memory’s cherish’d in my mind.
The Dying Infant.
Who knows the yearnings of a mother’s soul,While bending o’er the babe, she dearly loves,When dying on her knee. Her bosom heaves,With deep drawn sighs;—Lo! ev’ry sigh’s a prayer,As ardently she gazes on its face,And lightly wipes its sweat bedewed brow.Poor, helpless babe! in thee is clearly seenThe frailty of our nature, and the painsTo which we’re still subjected, and must bearFrom infancy to manhood and old age.Sweet Innocent! no cares perplex thy mind,As patiently ye bear the afflicting rod.But well may’st thou endure thy little ills,They’re only for a moment, then they’re o’er,While angels wait to tend thy soul to bliss.Thy race shall soon be run; and soon shall endThe time appointed for thy sojourn here,When ye’ll be freed from sorrow and from sin.As yet, thy heart was void of worldly wiles;No charms of earth have thy affection bound,To make thee grieve, when thou art call’d away.No wish hast thou to be of older date,When thus in view of heaven’s immortal land,Who would not wish t’ enjoy thy happy state,—So near thy exit from this vale of tears,—Rather than drag a life of fourscore yearsIn toils and misery. ’Tis true indeed,That life is sweet to all afraid to die;No fear of death appears to haunt thy mind;Resigned to Heav’n, ye seem t’await His will:—“Depart ye hence, for this is not your rest.”How hard it is to part with what we love;—Self makes the loss too hard to be endured,When what we love is from our bosoms torn.Oh! Heaven grant sweet comfort to the mindsOf grieving parents, when thou see’st fitThem of their little darling to deprive.’Tis Thou, alone, who lift’st our comforts high,And when Thou wilt Thou sink’st them in the grave.Then pour Thy Spirit’s consolating balmInto their wounded hearts, that they may praiseThy name in love, for all Thou dost bestow;And when Thou should’st deprive them of Thy gift,Enable them to say, “Thy will be done”!
A paraphrase of the148th Psalm.
Give praise all nature to the eternal Lord,In Hallelujahs loudly raise the song;Him glorify, and in his praise accord,Ye depths with heights which to the heavens belong;Ye seraphs tune the lyre, your notes prolongT’ exalt the honours of th’ Almighty’s name.Let heaven, earth, and sea in concert strong,Be all alive, with love’s inspiring flame,To sing his praise in rapt devotion’s high acclaim.Ye hosts of angels, high your anthems raise,While minist’ring ye prostrate round the throne,His boundless mercies sing in endless praise,And tell of love whose greatness is unknown;Ye countless spheres, in adoration ownTh’ Almighty’s power,—and all the starry train,—Sun, moon, and planets, as ye journey onProclaim His majesty:—protract each strain,Nor cease till boundless space with echoes ring amain.Thou heaven of heavens, the Godhead’s vast abode,Still catch the sound, renew ’t in loftier praise;Ye clouds, remember your creating God,And dedicate to Him your loudest lays—Extol Him, as He you at first did raiseBy His command, from nothing, thus to be,And also hath established your daysFor ever to endure;—nor yet shall HeE’er make to pass away this sure and firm decree.Whate’er the world contains in earth or air,In concert wake, on Him your praise bestow.Ye dragons, His almighty power declareIn your creation. And, ye floods below!Whose stormy billows, tossing to and fro,Oft lash the skies, in acclamation roar.All fish which through the pathless deep do go,His power make known, as ye your caves explore,And joyfully His praise resound from shore to shore.Ye awful thunders, as on high ye rollA cannonading, to obey His will,With hail; and snows and vapours Him extol,Ye winds of storms, or breezes, which fulfillHis high behest, pipe forth with all your skillHis glory as ye blow. And heaving, rearYour heads ye mountains; also every hillExult in praise:—and every tree draw near,From shrubs to cedars tall, to join the general cheer.And all ye creatures of the bestial tribe,Or wild or tame, and insects of the air,Proclaim His greatness; let your joy ascribePraise for His bountifulness; and declareYe reptiles all His exc’llence: be not spareYe birds in praise, whether such as ascend,Or perch, or walk, and whether of plumage fair,Harmonious be your anthems without endTo him who tuned your voices—Nature’s Greatest Friend!Should man be silent ’mid such general joy?—Ye kings with all your people lowly bend,And render homage due to the Most High:All princes praise Him;—judges who pretendTo have a power o’er fellows, condescendWith them ye rule t’ exult him God alone,Whose seat no one usurping dare ascend:Adore Him at the footstool of His throne,Whose blessing makes your power an image of His own.Let youth to Him in service spend its prime,Him praise in soul’s each sympathetic move;Let infancy and hoary age their timeCombined employ t’ adore the God of Love;For excellent’s His name, and far aboveBoth earth and heaven. Aloud His praises singSaints whom He loves: so, well it does behoveHis own Isra’l, a tribute thus to bringProclaiming halleluias to the Eternal King.
Sweet Home.
Sweet home! how I hail thee, though humble and low,For rich are thy pleasures ’bove splendour and show;Thy charms all allure me, wherever I roam,With fondness to seek thy enjoyments, sweet home!Home! home! sweet, sweet home!There is no place on earth like my dear native home.As landscapes of mountains, and woodlands all green,More pleasant appear when at distance they’re seen,Than when on their summits we carelessly roam,—So felt by the soul, are the pleasures of home.Home! home! sweet, &c.Yes, home! thou art prized with a hallow’d delight,Where friendship and peace, as twin-sisters uniteIn kindest embraces, all blest from above,Whose social delights give endearments to love.Home! home! sweet, &c.All hail! Caledonia, dear to my breast;Sweet land of my fathers, in thee how I’m blest!Though storms on the wing of the dark rolling year,Ride round thy bleak mountains, so barren, so drear.Home! home! sweet, &c.Still dear are thy scenes of each homely delight,Where wildness and picturesque grandeur unite,With wide spreading plains and high hazy hills hoar,While down the deep glens foaming cataracts roar.Home! home! sweet, &c.Lo! such are thy glories where Freedom doth rove,As free as the mountain breeze, meek as the dove;While brave are thy sons, independent, and free,—Thy valiant protectors by land or by sea.Home! home! sweet, &c.Though groves of rich spices were never thy boast,The slave is made free when he reaches thy coast,Where thistles grow wild, and nod proudly each plume,To breezes full fraught with the heather’s perfume.Home! home! sweet, &c.Sweet land of my sires! where their ashes now rest,Though me from thy bosom, stern Fortune should thrust,Heav’n grant me the pleasure, where’er I may roam,Of spending in peace my last moments at home.Home! home! sweet, &c.
Langsyne Anticipated.
Addressed to Mr. A. S.Tune—“Auld Langsyne.”May friendship ever be revered,When hearts to each incline,’Twill pleasure give to future days,To think on auld langsyne.This heart shall beat to friendship’s tune,Though cease to beat should thine,Remembrance still shall cheer my soul,To think on auld langsyne.When worn with toil, and bent with age,We weary must recline,May we with pleasure then reviewThe days of auld langsyne.A hapless wretch he is indeedWho friendless must repine,And ne’er can cast a pleasing thoughtOn days of auld langsyne.When seas, wide rolling, ’tween us roar—Though fortune cease to shine,I’ll happy be to think of joys,And friends of auld langsyne.But should we ever meet again,Then hand in hand we’ll join,And welcome to each throb’ing breast,The friend of auld langsyne.
A Song.
All Fate! ye’ll ne’er disheart’ me,Though fortune should desert me,My muse shall still alert be,Till Heaven calls me home.What though my kin should scorn me,Yet never I’ll forlorn be;My heart by Hope shall borne be.Till better days shall come.Oh Hope! thon giv’st me pleasure—Industry, thou’rt my treasure,Contentment, thou’rt my measure,Of happiness and love:For though misfortunes fear me,Those friends with joy to cheer me,To comfort, they’ll draw near me,Their faithfulness to prove.
An Acrostic.
On a Pupil about nine years of age, written while hearing her lesson—
Rosebank School.Grace and beauty here combine,Richer than the rose new blown;Am’rous by her charms divine;Can I generous love disown,Ever wishing she were mine.Careful Heaven! her preserve,Unknown to love, to careful duty;Let not youth to folly swerve,Let not pride corrode her beauty,Ever shall this heart incline,Ne’er but to wish that she were mine.
Donald’s Return.
Tune—“The Flowers of the Forest.”Far over yon mountain, and down by a fountain,Whose dark winding waters roll down to the sea,There sat a young lady row’d up in her plaidie,—’Twasbonny young Mary the flower of the lea.She lean’d ’neath a willow; the soft fog her pillow;With heart fill’d with sorrow, the tear in her e’e,While watching the motion of the restless ocean,For Donald her true love was far on the sea.The skies widely darken’d, but Mary still hearken’d,To hear what she could through the roar of the main,—And still sorely weeping, as watch she was keeping,Oft sighing, “I’ll ne’er see my Donald again!”The waves high were lashing, ’gainst rocks loudly dashing,While much she his abscence in sighs would deplore,—“Oh, is he returning!”—she cried sadly mourning,—“Or will he be lost ’mid the storm’s angry roar.”“Ah! surely he’s wrecked,”—but soon she is checked,By spying a boatie much tossed on the sea:“Oh! is it his spirit? and well he does meritMy love in return for his true love to me.”The time soon elapsed, young Mary was claspedFast into the arms of her lover again:—“Oh! is this my dearie? Oh! speak! why so eerie?For I am thy Donald now come from the main.”“When waves big were swelling, ’twas sadly repelling,When conscience did speak, and the tempest did roar;To think, when we parted, ye seemed broken hearted,And often I feared I would ne’er make the shore.”—“Oh! Donald, ye cheer me; thank Heav’n now ye’re near me;I long thought ye’d been by some danger o’ercome:”—“Oh! now never fear thee, my ain dearest deary;Awa’frae thee, Mary, nae mair I shall roam.”
The Flower of Clyde.
Tune—“Clean peas’ strae.”Were I the lord of great estates,And wealthy to extreme,I’d let all wond’ring people see,Who I do most esteem.But would I e’er my love confess,She’d never deign to me,For I’m a humble shepherd swain.And she’s of high degree.The rose that blows in Sharon’s vale,I never can compareWith the sweet flower of winding Clyde,That blooms so fresh and fair:She in her garden to the sunOf fortune smiles so fair,And nodding loads the passing breezeWith sweet perfumes so rare.O could 1 reach her lofty stalk,She would not long be there;For I would plant her in my breast,And bless her beauty fair.Though I at distance may admire,And never can enjoy;—Oh! Heaven shield her from each stormThat would her charms destroy.
The Lover’s Request.
Tune—“Flora and Charlie.”Ah! who can feel that tender passionGlowing in a lover’s breast,Inspired with joys at love’s persuasion,Felt, but cannot be express’d?Though often slighted most severely,Hers my heart doth still remain,Fondly inquiring most sincerely,Shall we never love again?How Cupids round my slumbers hover,Pointing me her likeness fair!But fancy’s freaks, I soon discover,Fly, to change my joys to care.While glows my breast, to love her dearly,tFae, why should’st thou me refrain,—Let me but ask this once sincerely,Shall we never love again?Oh! cease to tease me perturbation,Retrospection loves to scanMy joys and cares in close rotation,Since that hour our loves began.Hopeful fancy—blissful vision—Fondly I your joys retain;Hasten, O Time! that blest decisionWhen we’ll dearly love again.
A Patriotic Breathing.—An Ode.
Written at the passing of the Reform Bill in 1832.Let joy pervade our isle;Britannia seems to smile;For long her bosom heaved with pain,And long her tears have flowed in vain,As still she scorn’d with proud disdain,A despot’s sordid knavery.No wonder she’s undone,Since each unfilial sonFor corrupt interest did convoke,Enrobed in hypocritic cloak,On Freedom’s neck to bind the yoke,Of galling wretched slavery.Let honour rouse each soul,’Bove tyranny’s control;—Let every heart his freedom shield,And never to despondence yield,But on new Constitution’s field,Display true manlike bravery.Hark! from the oppressor’s thralls,On us Britannia calls,To shield her liberties and laws—To give promotion to her cause—To raze corruptions without pause—And freedom free from slavery.Remember days of old,And ancestors so bold,Who for their rights have fought and bled,And ever scorn’d tyrannic dread,And rather choosed the gory bed,Than yield to abject slavery.May Scotia ne’er complain,Or vex her Sovereign’s reign,—Let Freedom’s banners be unfurl’d,And waved o’er the surrounding world,And from their seats have tyrants hurl’d,To reap the fruits of knavery.
FINIS.Printed at the Spectator Office.
Subscribers’ Names.
CopiesCopiesHis Excellency Sir George Grey, K.C.B.20Mr. A. Calmert3His Excellency J. E. Eyre, Esq.10.. A. Cockcroft1Lt.-Col. McCleverty2.. Pierce Cottar1Lt.-Col. Gold1.. J. Clark1Mr. Justice Stephen2.. J. Cail1A. Domett, Esq., Colonial Secretary2.. J. Collins, Mungaroa1Mr. J. Acourt, Hutt1.. M. Cook, River Hutt1..Mr. T. Burt, do.1.. W. Craighead, do.1..J. Burcham, do.1.. J. Cole, do.1.. J. Barb1.. C. Cundey, do.2.. J. Buckridge1.. P. Cheyne, do.1R. Burton, Esq., do.1.. J. Cuthbey, do.1Mr. P. Bruce, do.1.. L. Daniels, do.1W. M. Bannatyne, Esq., J.P.2.. A. Dalgetty, do.1A. de B. Brandon, Esq.1.. J. Dodge, do.1C. D. Barraud, Esq.1Mrs. Donaldson, do.1W. Bowler, Esq.1R. J. Duncan, Esq.2Mr. Brusfield1Mr. J. Dommett1.. W. Bannister1.. R. Donaldson1.. Brigham1.. W. Edwards1K. Bethune, Esq.1.. E. J. Ellerm1Mr. W. Baird1.. J. Edwards, Hutt1.. J. Bryant1Mrs Earp, do.2.. R. Bannister2Mr. W. Everett1.. J. Box1W. Fitzherbert, Esq., J.P., Hutt2.. E. J. Billing1Mr. G. Farmer, do.1.. J. Burdett1.. W. Frethy, do.1.. P. Buckthought1.. S Fagan, do.1.. J. Brown1Serjt. Fogarty, 65th regt.1.. J. W. Bragg2W. Finnimore1.. Mr. Buik, Hutt1Mr. J. W. Forbes1E. Catchpool, Esq.1J. Firth1C. Clifford, Esq., J.P.1W. Gibson, Esq.1S. Carkeek, Esq., J.P.1Mr. R. Gordon1G. Crawford, Esq.1.. J. Gunn1Mr. P. Christison1.. J. H. Gillard1.. T. Crowther2J. Greville, Esq.2.. T. Cumming1E. A. Hargreaves, Esq.1.. J. W. Collett1W. Hoggard, Esq.1C. G. Cooper. Esq.1P. M. Hervey, Esq.1J. Hoggard, Esq.1Mr. J. Herbert1Mr. James McBeth3Mr. J. Halbert1.. John McBeth1.. W. Howe1.. P. Murch1.. C. Howe1..
J. May1.. B. Hayden1.. J. M. L.1W. Hickson, Esq., J.P.1.. T. McKenzie1Serjt. Higginson, 65th regt.1.. J. Martin1H. S. Harrison, Esq., Hutt3.. W. Meech1Mr. D. Hughey, do.1.. A. Milne, Hutt1.. C. Hales, do.1.. J. McKenzie, do.1.. C. Hunt, do.1J. Manson, do.1.. A. McHardie, do.1.. J. Mason, Esq., do.1.. D. McHardie, sen., do.1Mr. W. Milne, do.1.. D. McHardie, jun., do.1.. A. Masters, do.1.. J. Hall, do.2.. T. McKay, do.1.. W. Humphries, do.1W. McDowall, do.1.. H. Jackson, do.1.. Morrison, sen., Wairarapa1W. Inglis, Esq.1Mr. J. Odlum1D. Johnston, Esq.1Rev. J. J. P. O’Reily3Mr. J. Joseph1Hon. Mrs. Petre, Hutt2Messrs. Isaacs & Levy3Dr. H. J. Philips, do.2Mr. R. Jenkins2Mr. W. Philips, do.1J. Knowles, Esq.1.. T. Poad, do.1J. King, Esq.1.. J. Percy, do.1Mr. C. Keys, Hutt1.. W. Pickering1.. R. Kibblewhite, do.1.. A. M. Pearce1.. H. Knowles, do.1G. Pickett, Esq.1A. Ludlam, Esq., J.P., do.2Mr. M. Quin1Mr. J. Landsdale, do.1.. H. Read1.. A. Lawson, do.1W. B. Rhodes, Esq., J.P.10.. H. Lynch, do.1Mr. J. Rule, Hutt1.. P. Laing2.. A. Rennall, do.1W. Lyon, Esq.6.. J. Rush, do.1Dr. Logan1R. R. Strang, Esq., J.P.2Mr. G. Luxford1Lieut. Slegg, 65th regt.1A. E. McDonogh, Esq., J.P.1J. Smith, Esq.2Major Murray, 65th regt.1R. Stokes, Esq.6Capt. Marshall, 65th regt.2Capt. Sharp1W. Marshall, Esq.1Mr. N. Sutherland1Mr. S. Maxton2.. J. Sutherland1Mrs. Mason1.. J. Stafford1Mr. T. Mills3.. W. Southee1Mr. McKay2.. J. Stevens1.. J. Masters2Mrs. Swainson, Hutt4.. J. H. Marriott1Mr. O. Smith, do.1.. H. McRay1.. J. Sellars, Esq.3A. McDonald, Esq.1.. D. Speedy, do.1Dr. Monteith2.. J. Scott, do.1Miss Smith, do.1Mr. G. Vennell1Mr. Stratten, do.1Mr. J. B. Wemyss, Hutt2Mr. F. Smith, Hutt1Mr. Wilcox, do.1.. J. Smith, do.1G. Wilkie, Hutt1.. J. Scarrow, do.1.. W. Whitewood, do.2A. Stilling, Esq.2.. R. Wadsworth1Sir Godfrey J. Thomas, Bart.1James Wallace, Esq.1J. Taine, Esq.1J. H. Wallace, Esq.1Mr. J. Turner1J. H. Wodehouse, Esq.3Mr. W. Taylor, Hutt1Mr. J. E. Watkin1..J. Telford1.. R. Wyeth2.. W. Thompson, Hutt1.. J. Wilson1J. M. Taylor, Esq.1R. Waitt, Esq.2Mr. W. Trotter, Hutt1Mr. B. Wells1Mr. H. Udy, do.1.. J. Williamson1.. S. Vennell, do.1.. John Sellers1J. Varnham, Esq.1J. Yule, Esq.1Mr. A. Yale, Hutt1
Errata.
Page 10, in 3rd line of " Bushranging," for in mantles read in their mantles.
——Page 14, 3rd line from top, for who should pay read who would pay.
In Appendix—
Page iii, 2nd line from foot, for were borne read are borne.
——Page xvi, 4th verse and 4th line, for so barren read as barren.
[The following, which is the concluding verse of the song entitled, “Love Letter,“page 20, was unfortunately omitted:—]
Methinks I see her kiss thee o’erAnd press thee to her breast;How blest could I return each pledgeOf truth on thee imprest:But go!—and may ye reach her safe,And say I sadly mournHer absense, while I longing waitHer dear love’s in return.
Prospectus.
Should the present Publication be deemed worthy the attention of my Friends and readers in general, and also should a sufficient number of Subscribers offer, to defray expenses, I shall again entertain them with another offering about the time of the Anniversary Fête, entitled “The PigeonsversusPigeon Shooters,” a Poem of the year 1845, in 4 cantos, with Notes illustrative of early colonial life. The following lines begin canto 3:—
By this the moon had gained her height,And reign’d the peerless queen of night,In all her radiant majesty,Amid a clear unclouded sky,And seem’d as she’d an influence shedO’er stars around, as if they’d dread’Gainst her their puny lights to bear,Or rather wishing to conferOn her the greatest honour, theyHad stoop’d obesience to her sway.She, looking from her ebon throne,Improvements view’d and smiled uponThe Bushman’s clearings, and the changeWrought on the wilderness so strange,For ages useless, now subdued,Adorn’d with springing grain, which shewedFair promises, though stumps still stoodThe ghosts of bygone ages rude,Like tombstones which the dead deplore,—So they the forest now no more.My cottage, buried in the shadeWhich the great spreading pine had made,Through whose close crowded top a rayOf moonshine scarce could find its way.Dark as a dungeon where I stood,Near to my door, in wondering mood,With anxious face turned upward, asI fain unriddle would the causeOf some more ominous eclipse,Ere times of science did elapse,Than what was made by Pigeons bentOn holding farther parliament. * * * * * *