For leagues along the landscape mild
Thy towers twin the scene command,
Embattlements of fairyland;
Romance incarnate to a child.
Though other cities cast a spell,
Ever thou holdst my heart in chains;
And still I hear across the plains
At midnight's stroke that ancient bell
Whose giant throbbing scarcely seems
A mortal sound at Heaven's gate:
It echoes round the exile's fate—
Oh Lincoln! City of my dreams!
The Fool
What say?
Tharp?
Yis: Aaron Tharp lived theer!
Not quite sharp?
Not quite—I fear!
T'wer very sad!
Though theer wor summat—'tis hard to say—
But he come to his end and went away;
He'd a nice little place as his feyther made,
All gone to pot, I be much afraid.
Old Aaron built it in his day,
A worthy feller true an' sound,
Respected by the country round;
To think as his name should be forgotten!
If he'd known what a fool he had begotten!
He toiled an' moiled into his grave
To leave a lad what couldn't save!
Noa note of grace, noa sense of cash!
He lost his all be bein' rash!
An' for what!—
For what!—
To play the fiddle!
'Hey diddle diddle!'
To make up tunes in his empty head
An' ruin his eyes wi' the books he read!
He raumed an' babbled all day long
About the way to sing a song!
Follered the lads at plough about
To hear 'em sing would make him shout!
He'd sit on the bar of the Ship at night:
To catch the tunes was his delight,
Or to play the fiddle about the town:—
An' all the while his trade went down!
That trade what poor old Aaron tended
It's fell to nowt an' can't be mended
Coz businesses is all the same
You've simply got to play the game
With all your soul an' all your heart
Or else you'll soon be in the cart.
He was encouraged by our parson!
T'wer wrong of parson!
It's very well for them to talk
To sing an' play and idle, walk,
But aren't they paid for doin' that?
They mind their bread is buttered fat.
Parsons is sensible you see,
O'most as cute as lawyers be,
Not quite—a course coz noa one could—
But very nigh—just as they should.
Parsons is sound at heart, I say,
They never quarrels wi' their pay,
Soa it wor wrong of Parson theer,
Coz Aaron nobbut lacked a cheer.
He made his tunes, he played about
An' none but Parson had a doubt
What he was bound for—poor young lad!
A course I'll own,—though he wor mad,—
Them tunes he played, them songs he sung,
They minded you of bein' young;
They took me back, a boy, agen
At work wi' Feyther down the Fen,
When all the birds they uster sing
At sunrise till the air would ring,
And sheep and cows would stir about
Wi' everything to make yer shout,
Yes it wor strange what he could do,
His fiddle seemed to mazzle you,
The labourers would catch a song—
An' they was catchy—all along;
They sing 'em yet; an' Georgy Bell
He plays 'em by the village well.
But all the while, trade didn't mend
Until at last ther' come the end.