Part 20 (2/2)

To a few verses I recently wrote I have given the t.i.tle ”My last ramble.”

The lines run as follow:-

As I stroll round by Exley Head Down by the Wheathead Farm, My thoughts fall back to days bygone- Thoughts which my soul doth charm; Each hill and clough, each hedge and stile, To me they are most dear; And as I pa.s.s them one by one They bring to me a tear.

In old Fell Lane when I was young, A ruined mansion stood, With roofless cots filled up with sticks Brought from the Holme House Wood.

And now I cross the Intake Brig Where I used to sport and play, And bathe, and plunge, and water splash Full many a happy day.

I gaze upon the old farm-gate, And long to have a swing Along with all my boyish mates, As happy as a king; For the carriage of the n.o.ble man, Or the chariot of the State, Never carried n.o.bler hearts Than did the old farm-gate.

I now pa.s.s by the Intake Farm, And I am much amazed; It has the charm for me to day As first I on it gazed.

And farther as I wind my way And climb the old Blackhill, A scene appears before my sight To me more charming still.

The silvery Tarn-once my delight, For there I took my skates, On many a happy winter day, With my dear little mates.

The old Tarn House I see again, The seat of Aaron King; And as I gaze from east to west Such sights of wonder spring.

As far as e'er my eye can see, Hills on each other rise, Towering their heads in majesty Far in the western skies; And as I view the landscape round, No artist here could dream The beauties of the Vale of Aire, With its crooked, wimpling stream.

This was my walk one summer morn, When all was on the wing: I heard the cuckoo tell his name, I heard the lark to sing.

I left the Tower upon the hill Dedicated to the Queen, And for old Keighley back again, Charmed with all I'd seen.

I must now wind up my rough-and-ready stories. Let me say that if, by the recital of some of the incidents which happened during my nomadic career, I have caused any pleasure or amus.e.m.e.nt to my readers, I feel amply repaid. If anything which I have said has given offence or caused displeasure in any quarter, kindly permit me to say that it was done quite unwittingly.

The Christmas season will soon be here, and in preparation for that glad time let us put away envy and malice, and offer peace and good-will unto all. I think the following poem will seasonably conclude my present series of writings:-

CHRISTMAS DAY

Sweet lady, 't is no troubadour That sings so sweetly at your door, To tell you of the joys in store- So grand and gay; But one that sings ”Remember t' poor, 'Tis Christmas Day.”

Within some gloomy walls to-day Just cheer the looks of h.o.a.ry gray, And try to smooth their rugged way With cheerful glow; And cheer the widow's heart, I pray, Crushed down with woe.

O! make the weary spent-up glad, And cheer the orphan la.s.s and lad; Make frailty's heart, so long, long sad, Your kindness feel; And make old crazy-bones stark mad To dance a reel.

Then, peace and plenty be your lot, And may your deed ne'er be forgot That helps the widow in her cot Out of your store; Nor creed, nor seed, should matter not- The poor are poor.

[_The End_]

<script>