His yearly task

At length the stir of rural labours still
& industry her care awhile foregoes
When winter comes in earnest to fulfil
His yearly task at bleak Novembers close
& stops the plough & hides the field in snows
When frost locks up the stream in chill delay
& mellows on the hedge the jetty sloes
For little birds then toil hath time for play
& nought but threshers flails awake the dreary day

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He doth dithering sit

The boy that scareth from the spiry wheat
The melancholy crow in hurry weaves
Beneath an ivied tree his sheltering seat
Of rushy flags & sedges tied in sheaves
Or from the field a shock of stubble thieves
There he doth dithering sit & entertain
His eyes with marking the storm driven leaves
Oft spying nests where he spring eggs had ta'en
& wishing in his heart twas summer-time again

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My life

My life hath been one love—no blot it out

My life hath been one chain of contradictions


Madhouses Prisons wh---re shops—never doubt


But that my life hath had some strong convictions

That such was wrong—religion makes restrictions

I would have followed—but life turned a bubble


& clumb the jiant stile of maledictions


They took me from my wife & to save trouble


I wed again & made the error double


Yet abscence claims them both & keeps them too

& locks me in a shop in spite of law


Among a low lived set & dirty crew


Here let the Muse oblivions curtain draw


& let man think—for God hath often saw


Things here too dirty for the light of day


For in a madhouse there exists no law—


Now stagnant grows my too refined clay
I envy birds their wings to flue away

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Life was

Life was & is & still will be

Of cares the endless history

By hopes conceived by trouble penned

Which joys began & sorrows end

 

If at the first a smile appears

'Tis but the prologue unto tears

Where each leaf is when turned oer

The echo of those turned before

 

Life was & is & will be on

A ruin with its glory gone

A wreck that braves the storms in vain

For calms it neer shall know again

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I venture forth

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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Willows & brambles

Tho' fine provd the morning O sad provd the ramble
Adown by the Willows adown by the lee
Adown by the cottage where Hedge rows of bramble
Hides it from all strangers but unlucky me

For there I espied and admird a young rosie
I lovd & had hopes in possesing the flower
Till Cupid flew laughing away with the posie
& left me the thorns which I feel at this hour

O Willows & brambles what deamon beset me
To make me to go where your cottage arose
Yet still was you all I could hope to forget ye
But o theres no hopes in forgetting the rose

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Peaceful windings

Wereover many a stile neeth willows grey
The winding footpath leaves the public way
Free from the dusty din & ceasless chime
Of bustling waggons in the summer time
Crossing a brook—were braving storms in vain

Two willows fell & still for brigs remain
Corn field & clover closes leading down
In peacful windings to the neighbouring town

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Dear spots

Tho thou wert not the place of my being & birth

Tho I spent not the sports of my childhood in thee

Mid the dear spots we call edens on earth

Thou art one of the fairest thats known unto me

Five beautiful springs thee & thine have I known

Thy woods & thy brooks winding peacful at will

Thy heaths & like hermitage standing alone

Thy cottage that smoaks by the side of a hill

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The dear haunts

I lovd the dear haunts of the sweet solitudes

That round its lome walls in the circle do lye

Were no living thing all the season intrudes

But a bird or a bee humming wearisome bye

& Ive hunted for spots by the brook & have found

The lonliest existing an hour to abide

With nought but the green light of trees flitting round

& the shadow that seemed stretchd asleep by my side

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My wild eye in rapture

Swamps of wild rush beds & sloughs squashy traces
Grounds of rough fallows wi thistle & weed
Flats & low vallies of king cups & daiseys
Sweetest of subjects are ye for my reed

Ye commons left free in the rude rags of nature
Ye brown heaths be cloathed in furze as ye be
My wild eye in rapture adores e'ery feature
Yere as dear as this heart in my bosom to me

O native endearments I woud not forsake ye
I woud not forsake ye for sweetest of scenes
For sweetest of gardens that nature coud make me
I woud not forsake ye dear vallies & greens

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Thy truth

I love thee nature in my inmost heart
Go where I will thy truth seems from above
Go where I will thy landscape forms a part
Of heaven—e'en these fens where wood nor grove
Are seen—their very nakedness I love
For one dwells nigh that secret hopes prefer
Above the race of women—like the dove
I mourn her abscence—fate that would deter
My hate for all things—strengthens love for her

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Sweet solitude

Sweet solitude what joy to be alone

In wild wood shady dell to stay for hours
Twould soften hearts if they were hard as stone
To see glad Butterflies & smiling flowers
Tis pleasant in these quiet lonely places
Where not the voice of Man our pleasure mars
To see the little bees with coal black faces
Gath'ring sweets from little flowers like stars

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Solitude

    O how sweet I cannot tell
    With thee at that hour to dwell
    Stretchd the mossy bank beside
    Lye to view the random tide
    Where no clowns has chopt from thence
    Bush nor stake to mend his fence

    Cornerd stones & pebbles round
    Breaking dasht wi mellow sound
    Wether this or that to see
    I am blest if Im wi thee
    & full dear has been the hour
    Spent wi in thy noon day bower
    Prest wi thee thy mossy seat
    O its unexpressive sweet

(Lines deleted from the published version by his publisher)

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Fenny dells

Sweet solitude thou partner of my life 
Thou balm of hope & every pressing care 
Thou soothing silence oer the noise of strife 
These meadow flats & trees—the Autumn air 
Mellows my heart to harmony—I bear 
Lifes burthen happily—these fenny dells 
Seem Eden in this sabbath rest from care 
My heart with loves first early memory swells 
To hear the music of those village bells

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King of the east

Aye now it delights ye to look at the sky
Those are hawks sailing proud as the clouds & as high
See there ones at rest hanging still even now
As fixed in the air as a bird on a bough
These are sweet sights in sooth but the milking maid sees
The sky every morning wear sweeter than these
When she hies to her cows while the sun large & round
Starts up like a table of fire from the ground
& she sees it so often she gives it no praise
Though some never saw it not once all their days
This morning I marked in what splendour he rose
Like a king of the east ere his journey he goes

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A farm house

On a heath stood a farm house as lone as coud be
Let em look where they woud nothing else coud they see
But here an odd furze bush & there an odd tree
            Green corn field & fallow land brown
More lonsomly too in a hollow it lay
The hermit like tennants no neighbours had they
To pop in & chat a few hours of the day
            Twas two mile or more from a town

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Beside the fire

Beside the fire large apples lay to roast

& in a hugh brown pitcher creaming ale

Was warming seasoned with a nut meg toast

The merry group of gossips to regale

With in the chimney top the threating gale             

Howld angrily & loud but coud not scare                           

The crickets raptures from its merry tale                          

Around her feet the glad cat curld her tail

Listing the crickets song with half shut eyes            

While in the chimney top loud roars the gale

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Old meadow lake

Ive often gazed with pleasure by the edge 
Of the old meadow lake floodwashed & crookd, 
The water rat slow rustling in the sedge 
The fish ring wavering in the clear I've looked 
In rapture on the mellow summer shine 
Of the still water gleaming in the sun 
Just wrinkled by the plash of quiet kine 
Who knee deep in the flags would drink—& done, 
Back to their feed on the shorn sward again 
The flags the bulrush & the barbd leaf 
Of water-weed bethread with lighter vein 
& water-lily giving flies relief

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The dreary fen

The dreary fen a waste of water goes

With nothing to be seen but Royston crows
The traveller journeying on the road for hours
Sees nothing but the dykes & water-flowers
The lonely lodges scattered miles away
Lock up from fear & robbers all the day
The merry maiden that no place dislikes
Runs out & fills her kettle from the dykes
She hurries wildly from the face of men
& knows no company but cock and hen
Here highland maiden sees in Sundays hour
The glorious sight of sainfoin grounds in flower
& meets the savoury smells that wake the morn
The woodbine hedges & the poppied corn

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Patty

O once I had a true love
As blest as I could be
Patty was my turtle dove
& Patty she loved me
We walked the fields together
By roses & woodbine
In Summers sunshine weather
& Patty she was mine

We stopped to gather primroses
& violets white & blue
In pastures & green closes
All glistening with the dew
We sat upon green mole-hills
Among the daisy flowers
To hear the small birds merry trills
& share the sunny hours

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