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 amusement 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 hoary 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 lass 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]