I early ramble


The sharp wind shivers in the warm gorse blossoms

& trembles in the dead grass oer the heath
The silver rain pearls in the wild flowers bosoms
& moistens minute flowers of moss beneath
There i' the morning dew I early ramble
What time beneath the fern the weary moth
Hides from the sun in dew drops hangs the bramble
As down the rabbit track I venture forth

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Housewives tales


Housewives discoursing 'bout their hens & cocks

Spinning long stories wearing half the day
Sad deeds bewailing of the prowling fox
How in the roost the thief had knav'd his way
& made their market-profits all a prey
& other losses too the dames recite
Of chick & duck & gosling gone astray
All falling prizes to the swopping kite
& so the story runs both morning noon & night

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Image by my friend #CarryAkroyd




Swifter than thought


Where the deer with their shadows passed swifter than thought
& the hare from the braken went limping along
Where the pheasants red eye for a moment was caught
Then vanished away like a spinning bees song
Ye green shades of Burghley how lovely you seem
Your sweet spreading oaks & your braken so green
Your green plots as sweet as a shepherd boys dream
Neath the shade of dark trees where Ive many a day been
& sitting in braken or roots of the lime
Amusing my leisure in ballads & rhyme

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The storm


Slow boiling up on the horisons brim 
 
Hugh massey clouds mountainious large & grim 
 
Sluggish & slow upon the air they ride 
 
As pitch black ships oer the blue ocean glide 
 
Curling & hovering oer the gloomy south 
 
As curls the sulphur from the canons mouth 
 
More grizly in the sun the tempest comes 
 
& thro the wood wi threatnd vengance hums
Hissing more loud & loud among the trees 
 
The frighted wild wind trembles to a breeze 
 
Just turns the leaf in terryf[y]ing sighs 
 
Bows to the spirit of the storm & dies 
 
In wild pulsations beats the heart of fear 
 
At the low rumbling thunder creeping near

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Tantey Baker


Brave cordial bless thy honest maker 
At Stamford town old tantey baker 
Sells juice o thine woud cure the ague 
A tartan stroke 
A quarts gen manys legs a shaker 
& mine its broke 
Ah that I ha'nt a pen to scrawl 
Like burns's wiskey quill wi all 
Now I ha namd ‘th'hole i'th' wall’ 
Much mores the pity 
Theres none throught stamford but shoud call 
I'bakers gitty

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Hues of every dye


Yet but awhile the slumbering weather flings

Its murky prison round. then winds wake loud
With sudden stir the startled forest sings
Winters returning song cloud races cloud
& the horizon throws away its shroud
Sweeping a stretching circle from the eye
Storms upon storms in quick succession crowd
& oer the sameness of the purple sky
Heaven paints with hurried hand wild hues of every dye


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Winter geese


Yon ponds thick ice for waiting stock to drink 


A wild confusion momentary wakes 

From gabbling geese that loiter on the brink 

Long lockd from water by the winter grim 

They mope & linger round their haunts in vain 

Till such scant chances gives them leave to swim 

& there they clamour till its froze again 

Now as one fails the beaten track to meet 

Of milking maids & early foddering boys 

The snow harsh presses neath ones hastning feet 

Crumping & crumping with incessant noise 

& brushing branches bye till then unstird 

A powdery shower keeps constant pothering round 

& een from movments of a startld bird 

The trees white cloathing shivers to the ground 



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