The Sailor - Sailor now no more, "Go you your way, and mind not me ; For I must have, whate'er betide, My Ass and fifty things beside, - The Wagon moves, and with its load Descends along the sloping road; And the rough Sailor instantly. Turns to a little tent hard by: For when, at closing-in of day, The family had come that way, Green pasture and the soft warın air Tempted them to settle there. Green is the grass for beast to graze, Around the stones of Dunmail-raise! The Sailor gathers up his bed, CANTO SECOND. IF Wytheburn's modest House of prayer, (And one, too, not in crazy plight,) Twelve strokes that clock would have been telling Under the brow of old Helvellyn Its bead-roll of midnight Then, when the Hero of my tale Dinning from the CHERRY-TREE! As Benjamin is now aware, Who, to his inward thoughts confined, Ile hears a sound and sees the light, Although before in no dejection, And there are reasons manifold That make the good, tow'rds which he 's yearning, Look fairly like a lawful earning. Nor has thought time to come and go, To vibrate between yes and no; For, cries the Sailor, "Glorious chance Our treat shall be a friendly bowl! "Come in, Come, come," cries he to Benjamin! And Benjamin ah, woe is me! Gave the word; the horses heard And halted, though reluctantly. * A term well known in the North of England, and applied to rural festivals where young persons meet in the evening for the purpose of dancing. "Blithe souls and lightsome hearts have we, Feasting at the CHERRY-TREE!" This was the outside proclamation, This was the inside salutation; What bustling-jostling high and low! A universal overflow! What tankards foaming from the tap! A steaming bowl, a blazing fire, To seek for thoughts of a gloomy cast, If such the bright amends at last. All care with Benjamin is gone, A Cæsar past the Rubicon! He thinks not of his long, long strife; And he hath now forgot his Wife, Terror over, Sleeping by her sleeping Baby. With bowl that sped from hand to hand, The gladdest of the gladsome band, Amid their own delight and fun, They hear when every dance is done, The fiddle's squeak,*- that call to bliss, They envy not the happy lot, But enjoy their own the more! While thus our jocund Travellers fare, Up springs the Sailor from his chair, Limps (for I might have told before That he was lame) across the floor, Is gone, returns, and with a prize ; * At the close of each strathspey, or jig, a particular note from the fiddle summons the Rustic to the agreeable duty of saluting his partner. |