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.