Random Rhymes and Rambles
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The Bould Bucaneers:
A MILITARY DESCRIPTION OF THE SECOND EXCURSION TO MALSIS HALL, THE RESIDENCE OF JAMES LUND, ESQI remember perusing when I was a boy,The immortal bard – Homer’s siege of old Troy;So the Malsis encampment I’ll sing if you will,How our brave army bivouced on the plains o’ Park hill.Near the grand Hall o’ Malsis our quarters we toke,When Lieutenant-col. Don Frederick spoke,Commanding his aide-camp Colonel de Mann,To summons and muster the chiefs o’ the clan.Majors Wood, Lamb, and Pollard came up to the lines,Each marching their companies up to the nines;The twirlers an’ twisters the knights o’ the coil,An’ spuzzers an’ sorters fell in at the roll.The light-infantry captains wer Robin and Shack,And the gallant big benners the victuals did sack;Captain Green he commanded the Indigo troop,These Beer Barrel chargers none with them can cope.The amazon army led on by Queen Bess,Each feminine soldier so grand was her dress,Though they chatted and pratted, twor pleasant to seeThem laughing and quaffing their hot rum an’ tea.There wor music to dainties and music to wine,An’ for faar o’ invaders no hearts did repine;Although a dark cloud swept over the plain,Yet our quarter wor sheltered from famine an’ rain.Drum-Major Ben Rushworth and Bandmaster Master Wright,Drank to each other wi’ pleasure that night;We’d full-flowing bumpers, we’d music an fun,From the larder an’ cellar o’ Field-Marshall Lund.Private Tom Berry got into the hall,When a big rump o’ beef he made rather small;An’ Flintergill Billy o’ the Spuzzer’s Brigade,Got his beak in the barrel, an’ havock he made.The Field Marshall declared and his good lady too,They ne’er was attacked wi’ so pleasant a foe;With this all the clansmen gave them three cheers,In return they saluted the bold Bucaneers.The Veteran
I left yond fields so fair to view; I left yond mountain pass and peaks;I left two een so bonny blue, A dimpled chin and rosy cheeks.For an helmet gay and suit o’ red I did exchange my corduroy;I mind the words the Sergeant said, When I in sooth was but a boy.Come, rouse thee, lad, be not afraid; Come, join and be a brave dragoon:You’ll be well clothed, well kept, well paid, An’ captain be promoted soon.Your sweetheart, too, will smile to see Your manly form an’ dress so fine;Then gea’s your hand an’ follow me, — Our troop’s the finest in the line.The pyramids behold our corps Drive back the mighty man o’ Fate!Our ire is felt on every shore, In every country, clime, or state.The Cuirassers at Waterloo We crushed; – they wor the pride o’ France!At Inkerman, wi’ sabre true, We broke the Russ and Cossack lance!Then come, my lad, extend your hand, Thine indolence I hold it mean;Now follow me, at the command, Of our most gracious Sovereign Queen?A prancing steed you’ll have to ride; A bonny plume will deck your brow;Wi’ clinking spurs an’ sword beside, — Come? here’s the shilling: take it now!The loyal pledge I took and gave, — It was not for the silver coin;I wish to cross the briny wave, An’ England’s gallant sons to join.Since – many a summer’s sun has set, An’ time’s graved-scar is on my brow,Yet I am free and willing yet To meet ould England’s daring foe.The Vale of Aire
[It was early in the morning that I took my ramble. I had noticed but little until I arrived at the foot of the quaint old hamlet of Marley. My spirits began to be cheered, for lively gratitude glowed in my heart at the wild romantic scenery before me. Passing the old mansion house, I wended my way towards the huge crag called the “Altar Rock.” Wild and rugged as the scenery was, it furnished an agreeable entertainment to my mind, and with pleasure I pushed my way to the top of the gigantic rock, where I viewed the grandeur of the vale below. The blossom on the branches, the crooked Aire gliding along like sheets of polished crystal, made me poetic. I thought of Nicholson, the poet of this beautiful vale, and reclining on a green moss covered bank, I said these words.]
Poet Nicholson, old Ebor’s darling bard, Accept from me at least one tributary line;Yet how much more should be thy just reward, Than any wild unpolished song of mine.No monument in marble can I raise, Or sculptured bust in honour of thy name;But humbly try to celebrate thy praise, And give thee that applause thou shouldst duly claim.All hail, the songsters that awake the morn, And soothe the soul with wild melodious strains;All hail, the rocks that Bingley hills adorn, Beneath whose shades wild nature’s grandeur reigns.From off yon rock that rears its head so high, And overlooks the crooked river Aire;While musing nature’s works full meet thy eye, The envied game, the lark and timid hare.In Goitstock falls, and rugged Marley hills, In Bingley’s grand and quiet sequester’d dale,Each silvery stream, each dike or rippled rills, I see thy haunt and read thy “Poacher’s Tale.”So, Homer like, thy harp was wont to tune, Thy native vale and glorious days of old,Whose maidens fair in virtuous beauty shone, Her sages and her heroes great and bold.No flattering baseness could employ thy mind, The free-born muse detests that servile part:In simple lore thy self-taught lay I find More grandeur far than all the gloss of art.Though small regard be paid to worth so rare, And humble worth unheeded pass along;Ages to come will sing the “Vale of Aire,” Her Nicholson and his historic song.The Pauper’s Box
Thou odious box, as I look on thee,I wonder wilt thou be unlocked for me?No, no! forbear! – yet then, yet then,’Neath thy grim lid lie the men —Men whom fortune’s blasted arrows hit,And send them to the pauper’s pit.O, dig a grave somewhere for me,Deep, underneath some wither’d tree;Or bury me on the wildest heath,Where Boreas blows his wildest breath,Or ’mid some wild romantic rocks:But, oh! forbear the pauper’s box.Throw me into the ocean deep,Where many poor forgotten sleep;Or fling my corpse in the battle mound,With coffinless thousands ’neath the ground;I envy not the mightiest dome,But save me from a pauper’s tomb.I care not if ’twere the wild wolf’s glen,Or the prison yard, with wicked men;Or into some filthy dung-hole hurled —Anywhere, anywhere! out of the world!In fire, or smoke, on land, or sea,Than thy grim lid be closed on me.But let me pause, ere I say moreAbout thee, unoffending door;When I bethink me, now I pause,It is not thee who makes the laws,But villains who, if all were just,In thy grim cell would lay their dust.But yet, ’twere grand beneath yond wall,To lay with friends, – relations all;If sculptured tombstones were never there,But simple grass with daisies fair;And were it not, grim box, for thee’Twere paradise, O cemetery.