Wild Flowers | Page 2

or curiosity induce you to look back on your father's poetical
progress through life, you may conclude that he had many to boast as
friends, whose names, in a dedication, would have honoured both him
and his children; but you must also reflect, that to particularize such
friends was a point of peculiar delicacy. The earliest patron of my
unprotected strains has the warm thanks which are his due, for the
introduction of blessings which have been diffused through our whole
family, and nothing will ever change this sentiment. But amidst a
general feeling of gratitude, which those who know me will never
dispute, I feel for you, Charles, what none but parents can conceive;
and on your account, my dear boy, there can be no harm in telling the
world that I hope these "Wild Flowers" will be productive of sweets of
the worldly kind; for your unfortunate lameness (should it never be
removed) may preclude you from the means of procuring comforts and
advantages which might otherwise have fallen to your share.
What a lasting, what an unspeakable satisfaction would it be to know
that the Ballads, the Plowman Stories, and the "Broken Crutch" of your
father would eventually contribute to lighten your steps to manhood,
and make your own crutch, through life, rather a memorial of affection
than an object of sorrow.
With a parent's feelings, and a parent's cares and hopes,
I am, Charles, yours,
R. B.

CONTENTS
Abner and the Widow Jones, a Familiar Ballad
To My Old Oak Table

The Horkey, a Provincial Ballad
The Broken Crutch, a Tale

Shooter's Hill
A Visit to Ranelagh
Love of the Country
The
Woodland Halló
Barnham Water
Mary's Evening Sigh
Good
Tidings; or, News from the Farm
ABNER AND THE WIDOW JONES,
A Familiar Ballad.
Well! I'm determin'd; that's enough:--
Gee, Bayard! move your poor
old bones,
I'll take to-morrow, smooth or rough,
To go and court
the Widow Jones.
Our master talks of stable-room,
And younger horses on his grounds;

'Tis easy to foresee thy doom,
Bayard, thou'lt go to feed the
hounds.
The first Determination.
But could I win the widow's hand,
I'd make a truce 'twixt death and
thee;
For thou upon the best of land
Should'st feed, and live, and die
with me.
And must the pole-axe lay thee low?
And will they pick thy poor old
bones?
No--hang me if it shall be so,--
If I can win the Widow
Jones.
Twirl went his stick; his curly pate
A bran-new hat uplifted bore;

And Abner, as he leapt the gate,
Had never look'd so gay before.
Old Love revived.
And every spark of love reviv'd
That had perplex'd him long ago,


When busy folks and fools contriv'd
To make his Mary answer--no.
But whether, freed from recent vows,
Her heart had back to Abner
flown,
And mark'd him for a second spouse,
In truth is not exactly
known.
Howbeit, as he came in sight,
She turn'd her from the garden stile,

And downward look'd with pure delight,
With half a sigh and half a
smile.
Rustic Salutation.
She heard his sounding step behind,
The blush of joy crept up her
cheek,
As cheerly floated on the wind,
"Hoi! Mary Jones--what
wont you speak?"
Then, with a look that ne'er deceives,
She turn'd, but found her
courage fled;
And scolding sparrows from the eaves
Peep'd forth
upon the stranger's head.
Down Abner sat, with glowing heart,
Resolv'd, whatever might betide,

To speak his mind, no other art
He ever knew, or ever tried.
[Illustration: a couple.]
A clear Question.
And gently twitching Mary's hand,
The bench had ample room for
two,
His first word made her understand
The plowman's errand was
to woo.
"My Mary--may I call thee so?
For many a happy day we've seen,

And if not mine, aye, years ago,
Whose was the fault? you might
have been!
"All that's gone by: but I've been musing,
And vow'd, and hope to

keep it true,
That she shall be my own heart's choosing
Whom I call
wife.--Hey, what say you?
Past Thoughts stated.
"And as I drove my plough along,
And felt the strength that's in my
arm,
Ten years, thought I, amidst my song,
I've been head-man at
Harewood farm.
"And now, my own dear Mary's free,
Whom I have lov'd this many a
day,
Who knows but she may think on me?
I'll go hear what she has
to say.
"Perhaps that little stock of land
She holds, but knows not how to till,

Will suffer in the widow's hand,
And make poor Mary poorer still
The Avowal.
"That scrap of land, with one like her,
How we might live! and be so
blest!
And who should Mary Jones prefer?
Why, surely, him who
loves her best!
"Therefore I'm come to-night, sweet wench,
I would not idly thus
intrude,"--
Mary look'd downward on the bench,
O'erpower'd by
love and gratitude.
And lean'd her head against the vine,
With quick'ning sobs of silent
bliss,
Till Abner cried, "You must be mine,
You must,"--and seal'd
it with a kiss.
The Interest of an old Horse asserted.
She talk'd of shame, and wip'd her check,
But what had shame with
them to do,
Who nothing meant