Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

LYRICAL TALES,

BY

MRS. MARY ROBINSON.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR T. N. LONGMAN AND O. REES, PATERNOSTER-ROW, BY BIGGS AND CO. BRISTOL.

1800.

CONTENTS.

ERRATA.

Page [30] line 3 for loath, read loathe.

Page [52] line 16 for long, read still.

Page [111] line 6 for negros read negroes.

Page [166] line 4 for weary read dreary.

TALES.

ALL ALONE.

I.

Ah! wherefore by the Church-yard side,

Poor little LORN ONE, dost thou stray?

Thy wavy locks but thinly hide

The tears that dim thy blue-eye’s ray;

And wherefore dost thou sigh, and moan,

And weep, that thou art left alone?

II.

Thou art not left alone, poor boy,

The Trav’ller stops to hear thy tale;

No heart, so hard, would thee annoy!

For tho’ thy mother’s cheek is pale

And withers under yon grave-stone,

Thou art not, Urchin, left alone.

III.

I know thee well! thy yellow hair

In silky waves I oft have seen;

Thy dimpled face, so fresh and fair,

Thy roguish smile, thy playful mien

Were all to me, poor Orphan, known,

Ere Fate had left thee—all alone!

IV.

Thy russet coat is scant, and torn,

Thy cheek is now grown deathly pale!

Thy eyes are dim, thy looks forlorn,

And bare thy bosom meets the gale;

And oft I hear thee deeply groan,

That thou, poor boy, art left alone.

V.

Thy naked feet are wounded sore

With thorns, that cross thy daily road;

The winter winds around thee roar,

The church-yard is thy bleak abode;

Thy pillow now, a cold grave-stone—

And there thou lov’st to grieve—alone!

VI.

The rain has drench’d thee, all night long;

The nipping frost thy bosom froze;

And still, the yewtree-shades among,

I heard thee sigh thy artless woes;

I heard thee, till the day-star shone

In darkness weep—and weep alone!

VII.

Oft have I seen thee, little boy,

Upon thy lovely mother’s knee;

For when she liv’d—thou wert her joy,

Though now a mourner thou must be!

For she lies low, where yon grave-stone

Proclaims, that thou art left alone.

VIII.

Weep, weep no more; on yonder hill

The village bells are ringing, gay;

The merry reed, and brawling rill

Call thee to rustic sports away.

Then wherefore weep, and sigh, and moan,

A truant from the throng—alone?

IX.

“I cannot the green hill ascend,

“I cannot pace the upland mead;

“I cannot in the vale attend,

“To hear the merry-sounding reed:

“For all is still, beneath yon stone,

“Where my poor mother’s left alone!

X.

“I cannot gather gaudy flowers

“To dress the scene of revels loud—

“I cannot pass the ev’ning hours

“Among the noisy village croud—

“For, all in darkness, and alone

“My mother sleeps, beneath yon stone.

XI.

“See how the stars begin to gleam

“The sheep-dog barks, ’tis time to go;—

“The night-fly hums, the moonlight beam

“Peeps through the yew-tree’s shadowy row—

“It falls upon the white grave-stone,

“Where my dear mother sleeps alone.—

XII.

“O stay me not, for I must go

“The upland path in haste to tread;

“For there the pale primroses grow

“They grow to dress my mother’s bed.—

“They must, ere peep of day, be strown,

“Where she lies mould’ring all alone.

XIII.

“My father o’er the stormy sea

“To distant lands was borne away,

“And still my mother stay’d with me

“And wept by night and toil’d by day.

“And shall I ever quit the stone

“Where she is left, to sleep alone.

XIV.

“My father died, and still I found

“My mother fond and kind to me;

“I felt her breast with rapture bound

“When first I prattled on her knee—

“And then she blest my infant tone

“And little thought of yon grave-stone.

XV.

“No more her gentle voice I hear,

“No more her smile of fondness see;

“Then wonder not I shed the tear

“She would have DIED, to follow me!

“And yet she sleeps beneath yon stone

“And I STILL LIVE—to weep alone.

XVI.

“The playful kid, she lov’d so well

“From yon high clift was seen to fall;

“I heard, afar, his tink’ling bell—

“Which seem’d in vain for aid to call—

“I heard the harmless suff’rer moan,

“And griev’d that he was left alone.

XVII.

“Our faithful dog grew mad, and died,

“The lightning smote our cottage low—

“We had no resting place beside

“And knew not whither we should go—

“For we were poor,—and hearts of stone

“Will never throb at mis’ry’s groan.

XVIII.

“My mother still surviv’d for me

“She led me to the mountain’s brow,

“She watch’d me, while at yonder tree

“I sat, and wove the ozier bough;

“And oft she cried, “fear not, MINE OWN!

“Thou shalt not, BOY, be left ALONE.”

XIX.

“The blast blew strong, the torrent rose

“And bore our shatter’d cot away;

“And, where the clear brook swiftly flows—

“Upon the turf at dawn of day,

“When bright the sun’s full lustre shone,

“I wander’d, FRIENDLESS—and ALONE!”

XX.

Thou art not, boy, for I have seen

Thy tiny footsteps print the dew,

And while the morning sky serene

Spread o’er the hill a yellow hue,

I heard thy sad and plaintive moan,

Beside the cold sepulchral stone.

XXI.

And when the summer noontide hours

With scorching rays the landscape spread,

I mark’d thee, weaving fragrant flow’rs

To deck thy mother’s silent bed!

Nor, at the church-yard’s simple stone,

Wert, thou, poor Urchin, left alone.

XXII.

I follow’d thee, along the dale

And up the woodland’s shad’wy way:

I heard thee tell thy mournful tale

As slowly sunk the star of day:

Nor, when its twinkling light had flown,

Wert thou a wand’rer, all alone.

XXIII.

“O! yes, I was! and still shall be

“A wand’rer, mourning and forlorn;

“For what is all the world to me—

“What are the dews and buds of morn?

“Since she, who left me sad, alone

“In darkness sleeps, beneath yon stone!

XXIV.

“No brother’s tear shall fall for me,

“For I no brother ever knew;

“No friend shall weep my destiny

“For friends are scarce, and tears are few;

“None do I see, save on this stone

“Where I will stay, and weep alone!

XXV.

“My Father never will return,

“He rests beneath the sea-green wave;

“I have no kindred left, to mourn

“When I am hid in yonder grave!

“Not one! to dress with flow’rs the stone;—

“Then—surely, I am left alone!”

The MISTLETOE.
A CHRISTMAS TALE.

A Farmer’s Wife, both young and gay,

And fresh as op’ning buds of May;

Had taken to herself, a Spouse,

And plighted many solemn vows,

That she a faithful mate would prove,

In meekness, duty, and in love!

That she, despising joy and wealth,

Would be, in sickness and in health,

His only comfort and his Friend—

But, mark the sequel,—and attend!

This Farmer, as the tale is told—

Was somewhat cross, and somewhat old!

His, was the wintry hour of life,

While summer smiled before his wife;

A contrast, rather form’d to cloy

The zest of matrimonial joy!

’Twas Christmas time, the peasant throng

Assembled gay, with dance and Song:

The Farmer’s Kitchen long had been

Of annual sports the busy scene;

The wood-fire blaz’d, the chimney wide

Presented seats, on either side;

Long rows of wooden Trenchers, clean,

Bedeck’d with holly-boughs, were seen;

The shining Tankard’s foamy ale

}

Gave spirits to the Goblin tale,

}

And many a rosy cheek—grew pale.

}

It happen’d, that some sport to shew

The ceiling held a Mistletoe.

A magic bough, and well design’d

To prove the coyest Maiden, kind.

A magic bough, which Druids old

Its sacred mysteries enroll’d;

And which, or gossip Fame’s a liar,

Still warms the soul with vivid fire;

Still promises a store of bliss

While bigots snatch their Idol’s kiss.

This Mistletoe was doom’d to be

The talisman of Destiny;

Beneath its ample boughs we’re told

Full many a timid Swain grew bold;

Full many a roguish eye askance

Beheld it with impatient glance,

And many a ruddy cheek confest,

The triumphs of the beating breast,

And many a rustic rover sigh’d

Who ask’d the kiss, and was denied.

First Marg’ry smil’d and gave her Lover

A Kiss; then thank’d her stars, ’twas over!

Next, Kate, with a reluctant pace,

Was tempted to the mystic place;

Then Sue, a merry laughing jade

A dimpled yielding blush betray’d;

While Joan her chastity to shew

Wish’d “the bold knaves would serve her so,”

She’d “teach the rogues such wanton play!”

And well she could, she knew the way.

The Farmer, mute with jealous care,

Sat sullen, in his wicker chair;

Hating the noisy gamesome host

Yet, fearful to resign his post;

He envied all their sportive strife

But most he watch’d his blooming wife,

And trembled, lest her steps should go,

Incautious, near the Mistletoe.

Now Hodge, a youth of rustic grace

With form athletic; manly face;

On Mistress Homespun turn’d his eye

And breath’d a soul-declaring sigh!

Old Homespun, mark’d his list’ning Fair

And nestled in his wicker chair;

Hodge swore, she might his heart command—

The pipe was dropp’d from Homespun’s hand!

Hodge prest her slender waist around;

The Farmer check’d his draught, and frown’d!

And now beneath the Mistletoe

’Twas Mistress Homespun’s turn to go;

Old Surly shook his wicker chair,

And sternly utter’d—“Let her dare!”

Hodge, to the Farmer’s wife declar’d

Such husbands never should be spar’d;

Swore, they deserv’d the worst disgrace,

That lights upon the wedded race;

And vow’d—that night he would not go

Unblest, beneath the Mistletoe.

The merry group all recommend

An harmless Kiss, the strife to end:

“Why not?” says Marg’ry, “who would fear,

“A dang’rous moment, once a year?”

Susan observ’d, that “ancient folks

“Were seldom pleas’d with youthful jokes;”

But Kate, who, till that fatal hour,

Had held, o’er Hodge, unrivall’d pow’r,

With curving lip and head aside

Look’d down and smil’d in conscious pride,

Then, anxious to conceal her care,

She humm’d—“what fools some women are!”

Now, Mistress Homespun, sorely vex’d,

By pride and jealous rage perplex’d,

And angry, that her peevish spouse

Should doubt her matrimonial vows,

But, most of all, resolved to make

An envious rival’s bosom ache;