Pay up,-say nought,-'What's that to thou?'
It is the parson's horse or cow!
I know the living dare not grumble, Nor at the parson's conduct stumble!
And when the simple truth is told, Of dead men they can get no hold.
We thought no hammer was to sound, Upon this consecrated ground,- Yet cow or horse may grind our bones And rub their sides against the stones!
Some think things so are constituted, That masons' tools are all polluted, But that the parson's horse or cow, Like th' Church, is consecrated too!
Thus they may gallop o'er our graves, And split our coffins into halves; In spite of widows tears and groans, May pastime make of dead folks' bones!
This is too hard for flesh and blood!
A thing which cannot be withstood; A thing which inward grief imparts To pious minds and tender hearts.
But men enthrall'd must never speak, Nor for redress attempt to seek, But with such creatures be content, As Bishops have ordain'd and sent.
Like him who dwells upon the coast, Who of the priesthood makes his boast, Regardless what the flock endure, "If he can but the fleece secure!"
His present residence and living, Are of his earthly father's giving; So none his title dare dispute, For Bishops cannot turn him out!
Though life and conduct be profane, He knows that men dare not complain; Or soon he'd show them his degrees, And take revenge in _tythes_ and _fees_!
Such workmen's labour is in vain To keep their hands from bloody stain; In vain they strive to show the road, That leads to glory and to God!
No wonder if such Church decay, If members leave it day by day, Where tyrannising is the law,- And till a change, it must be so.
The remedy will be unknown, Till Priests are of the Spirit born; Till they get hearts refin'd and pure, Dissenters must their scorn endure!
TO THE MOOR BIRDS IN A STORM.
Ye birds of the Moor, I doubt you'll be poor, The storm is quite likely to last; The owl and the crow, are shelter'd below, But you are expos'd to the blast!
The snow lies so deep, the hill is so steep, My footsteps are feeble and slow, O lend me your wings, ye dear little things, To carry me over the snow!
Nay, I have no gun, so you need not run, Nor cackle, nor spread out your tails; No danger is near, you've nothing to fear, The poacher is down in the dales.
The wind whistle's woe, through the valley below, To the birds that are down in the wood; You may hear by report, that the gun is afloat, To scatter their feathers and blood.
If you'll be content, till the storm shall be spent, And suffer no envy or strife; No doubt but you may, on some future day, Get fat, and escape with your life!
But if you encroach, or chance to approach, The web-footed classes domain; If wide you should stray, or fall out by the way, A thousand to one but you're slain!
LINES ON RETURNING A BORROWED STICK OF SLENDERISH SIZE,
Which had been lent with a strict charge to take particular care of it, and to return it as soon as done with.
To MR. WILLIAM HORNER, of Ripon.
Dear Billy, with thanks, I return thee thy switch, Which has many times kept me out of the ditch.
I have found oft when stumbling o'er hillock or stone, A slender supporter is better than none!
When the stars were beclouded and darkness prevail'd, And the rain was descending, its aid never fail'd; For it grop'd out my way, and assisted my sight,- When my foot would have slipp'd, it kept me upright.
It never forsook me, or broke my command, Unless it was when it slipt out of my hand; Then myself it might blame, for not taking more care, For when duty demanded it always was there.
It is rare upon earth to find such a friend, On which one can always so safely depend;- When help was most needed it paid most regard, And never reprov'd me for using it hard!
THE THUNDER STORM.
The praise be thine, Almighty, matchless King, Whose care and power, my muse presumes to sing; Whose tender care protects, while thousands sleep, The wakeful sea-boy on the mighty deep.
Thou dost from perils screen his naked head, Which in a moment fill the world with dread; Thou, while thy lightnings flash, and thunders roll, Dost whisper secret peace into his soul!
The praise be thine, whose interposing power, Protected us across yon lonely moor, And through that night of terror and alarm, Mysteriously preserv'd us all from harm!
That night of awful peril we record, Ascribing all the glory to the Lord; When from yon distant Meeting we return'd, And pious friends at home our absence mourn'd!
The moon and stars at once withdrew their light, And thus increas'd the horrors of the night, Loud claps of thunder shook the sons of pride, And female courage was severely tried!
The time pass'd on in conversation sweet, While flaming lightning flash'd around our feet,- Yet by the flash, in each believer's face We read the sign of confidence and peace.
Some to our God did then devoutly pray, While others sung that awful hour away; A voice was heard, "Ye need not be afraid, Whose hope is on the Rock of Ages stay'd!"
Our virgins trimm'd their lamps, and sweetly sung, And tenderly around each other clung, While, as through fire and flood they took their way, Salvation was the burden of their lay.
'Midst dismal darkness the black clouds were driven, With all the fearful majesty of heaven; And then as if an angel cleft the cloud, And show'd to man the glowing wrath of God, More quick than either thought, or sight of man, From north to south the flaming fluid ran; The east and west burst into a blaze, And guilty man beheld it with amaze!
It seem'd to warn the world against that day, When earth and sky shall melt, and pass away!
The distant mountains seem'd to own his nod, And cried to man, "Prepare to meet thy God!"
All glory be to our eternal King, Who brought us all safe home His praise to sing.
May we both hear and keep his Holy Word, And so fulfil the royal law of God!
THE MISER'S AWAY!
The miser's away, and he'll never come back, Any more his rusty old guineas to crack, By his niggardly fare, of potatoes and fish, His successor enjoys a more plentiful dish.
I once had occasion to pass by his door, Whose threshold so seldom was cross'd by the poor, A kitten came out in its innocent play, And pleasantly three-thrumm'd-"The Miser's away!"