HERE'S to them, to them that are gane; Here's to them, to them that are gane; Here's to them that were here, the faithful and dear,

That will never be here again-no, never.

But where are they now that are gane?
Oh, where are the faithful and true?

They're gane to the light that fears not the night,

An' their day of rejoicing shall end—no, never.

Here's to them, to them that were here; Here's to them, to them that were here; Here's a tear and a sigh to the bliss that's gane

Fareweel, O fareweel!

I'll see him nae mair.

Lang, lang was he mine, Lang, lang-but nae mair; I maunna repine,

But my heart it is sair.

His staff's at the wa',

Toom, toom is his chair!

His bannet, an' a'!

An' I maun be here!

But oh! he's at rest,
Why sud I complain?
Gin my soul be blest,
I'll meet him again.

Oh, to meet him again,

Where hearts ne'er were sair! Oh, to meet him again, To part never mair!

SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY?

SAW ye nae my Peggy?
Saw ye nae my Peggy?
Saw ye nae my Peggy comin'
Through Tillibelton's broom?
I'm frae Aberdagie,
Ower the crafts a' Craigie,
For aught I ken o' Peggy,
She's ayont the moon.

'Twas but at the dawnin', Clear the cock was crawin', I saw Peggy cawin'

Hawky by the brier.

Early bells were ringin,' Blythest birds were singin', Sweetest flowers were springin', A' her heart to cheer.

Now the tempest's blawin',
Almond Water's flowin',
Deep and ford unknowin',

She maun cross the day. Almond Water, spare her, Safe to Lynedoch bear her! Its braes ne'er saw a fairer, Bess Bell nor Mary Gray.

Oh, now to be wi' her!
Or but ance to see her
Skaithless, far or near,

I'd gi'e Scotland's crown.
Byeword, blind's a lover-
Wha's yon I discover?
Just yer ain fair rover,
Stately stappin' down.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD was born at Honington, In Suffolk, December 3, 1766. His father was a poor tailor, who died when Robert was an infant; his mother was a school-mistress, who had hard work to support herself and the child, and who gave him all the education he ever received. At the age of eleven he was hired out to a farmer, and afterward he was apprenticed to his brother George, a shoemaker, in London. He used to spend his leisure in reading the newspapers, being especially interested in the speeches of Burke and Fox, which he read with a dictionary on his lap. He says he learned to pronounce hard words at a dissenters' meeting, and frequented a debating society. Having read some poetry in the "London Magazine," he attempted verse himself, and produced two pieces entitled "The Milkmaid" and "The Sailor's Return," which he sent to a newspaper.

In 1784 he returned to the farm in Sapiston where he had worked before, but two months later he resumed shoemaking. In 1790 he married the daughter of a boat-builder, and some years afterward they hired a room in Bell Alley, Coleman Street, London, where he had the privilege of using the garret for a workshop. There he wrote his celebrated poem, "The

THE FARMER'S BOY.

SPRING.

ARGUMENT.

Invocation, &c. Seed-time. Harrowing. Morning walks. Milking. The dairy. Suffolk cheese. Spring coming forth. Sheep fond of changing. Lambs at play. The butcher, &c.

O COME, blest spirit ! whatsoe'er thou art, Thou kindling warmth that hoverest round my heart,

Sweet innate, hail! thou source of sterling joy,
That poverty itself cannot destroy,
Be thou my muse; and faithful still to me,
Retrace the paths of wild obscurity.
No deeds of arms my humble lines rehearse;
No Alpine wonders thunder through my verse,
The roaring cataract, the snow-topt hill,
Inspiring awe, till breath itself stands still;
Nature's sublimer scenes ne'er charm'd mine eyes,
Nor science led me through the boundless skies;
From meaner objects far my raptures flow:
O point these raptures! bid my bosom glow!
And lead my soul to ecstasies of praise
For all the blessings of my infant days!
Bear me through regions where gay fancy dwells:
But mould to truth's fair form what memory tells.

Farmer's Boy." He composed the sections entitled "Autumn" and "Winter," and carried them entire in his memory, before putting them on paper. The manuscript was rejected by numerous booksellers, and he was admonished not to attempt any thing more on the themes that Thomson was supposed to have made his own. At length it was offered to the "Monthly Magazine," and the editor sent Bloomfield to Capel Lloft, who read the poem carefully, and by his recommendation it found a publisher. It was issued in 1800, won immediate popularity, nearly 30,000 copies being sold, and was translated into several foreign languages. Bloomfield received £250 for it, and was given numerous presents by people of rank and wealth who admired it, especially the Duke of Grafton, who also appointed him to a place in the Seal-office.

Bloomfield published three other volumes of poetry in 1802, 1804, and 1806, and in 1811 "The Banks of the Wye," describing a tour in South Wales. Soon after this he became bankrupt-mainly, it is said, through liberality to his poor relations. His last publications were 'May Day with the Muses" and "Hazlewood Hall." He died August 19, 1823, nearly or quite insane on account of his pecuniary troubles.

66

Live trifling incidents, and grace my song, That to the humblest menial belong; To him whose drudgery unheeded goes, His joys unreckon'd, as his cares or woes, Though joys and cares in every path are sown, And youthful minds have feelings of their own, Quick springing sorrows, transient as the dew, Delights from trifles, trifles ever new. 'Twas thus with Giles: meek, fatherless, and poor, Labor his portion, but he felt no more; No stripes, no tyranny his steps pursued; His life was constant, cheerful servitude; Strange to the world, he wore a bashful look, The fields his study, Nature was his book, And as revolving seasons changed the scene From heat to cold, tempestuous to serene, Though every change still varied his employ, Yet each new duty brought its share of joy.

Where noble Grafton spreads his rich domains Round Euston's water'd vale, and sloping plains, Where woods and groves in solemn grandeur rise, Where the kite brooding unmolested flies; The woodcock and the painted pheasant race, And skulking foxes, destined for the chase; There Giles, untaught, and unrepining stray'd Through every copse, and grove, and winding glade;

There his first thoughts to Nature's charms inclined,

That stamps devotion on th' inquiring mind.

A little farm his generous master till'd,
Who with peculiar grace his station fill'd;
By deeds of hospitality endear'd,

Served from affection, for his worth revered;
A happy offspring blest his plenteous board,
His fields were fruitful, and his barns well stored,
And fourscore ewes he fed, a sturdy team,
And lowing kine that grazed beside the stream.
Unceasing industry he kept in view;
And never lack'd a job for Giles to do.

Fled now the sullen murmurs of the north,
The splendid raiment of the Spring peeps forth;
Her universal green, and the clear sky,
Delight still more and more the gazing eye.
Wide o'er the fields, in rising moisture strong,
Shoots up the simple flower or creeps along
The mellow'd soil; imbibing fairer hues,
Or sweets from frequent showers and evening dews;
That summon from their sheds the slumbering
ploughs,

While health impregnates every breeze that blows.
No wheels support the diving, pointed share;
No groaning ox is doom'd to labour there;
No helpmates teach the docile steed his road;
(Alike unknown the ploughboy and the goad ;)
But, unassisted through each toilsome day,
With smiling brow the ploughman cleaves his way,
Draws his fresh parallels, and widening still,
Treads slow the heavy dale, or climbs the hill:
Strong on the wing his busy followers play, [day;
Where writhing earth worms meet th' unwelcome
Till all is changed, and hill and level down
Assume a livery of sober brown:
Agaia disturb'd, when Giles with wearying strides
From ridge to ridge the ponderous harrow guides;
His heels deep sinking every step he goes,
Till dirt adhesive loads his clouted shoes.
Welcome, green headland! firm beneath his feet;
Welcome the friendly bank's refreshing seat;
There, warm with toil, his panting horses browse
Their sheltering canopy of pendent boughs;
Till rest, delicious, chase each transient pain,
And new-born vigour dwell in every vein.
Hour after hour, and day to day succeeds;
Till every clod and deep-drawn furrow spreads
To crumbling mould; a level surface clear,
And strew'd with corn to crown the rising year;
And o'er the whole Giles once transverse again,
In earth's moist bosom buries up the grain.
The work is done; no more to man is given;
The grateful farmer trusts the rest to Heaven.
Yet oft with anxious heart he looks around,
And marks the first green blade that breaks the
ground:

In fancy sees his trembling oats uprun,
His tufted barley yellow with the sun;
Sees clouds propitious shed their timely store,
And all his harvest gather'd round his door,
Bat still unsafe the big swoln grain below,
A favourite morsel with the rook and crow;
From field to field the flock increasing goes:
To level crops most formidable foes;
Their danger well the wary plunderers know,
And place a watch on some conspicuous bough;
Yet oft the skulking gunner by surprise
Will scatter death amongst them as they rise.

These, hung in triumph round the spacious field,
At best will but a shortlived terror yield:
Nor guards of property; (not penal law,
But harmless riflemen of rags and straw ;)
Familiarized to these, they boldly rove,
Nor heed such sentinels that never move.
Let then your birds lie prostrate on the earth
In dying posture, and with wings stretch'd forth
Shift them at eve or morn from place to place,
And death shall terrify the pilfering race;
In the mid air, while circling round and round,
They call their lifeless comrades from the ground;
With quickening wing, and note of loud alarm,
Warn the whole flock to shun th' impending harm.

This task had Giles, in fields remote from home:
Oft has he wish'd the rosy morn to come:
Yet never famed was he nor foremost found
To break the seal of sleep; his sleep was sound;
But when at daybreak summon'd from his bed,
Light as the lark that caroll'd o'er his head.-
His sandy way, deep worn by hasty showers,
O'erarch'd with oaks that form'd fantastic bowers,
Waving aloft their towering branches proud,
In borrow'd tinges from the eastern cloud,
Gave inspiration, pure as ever flow'd,
And genuine transport in his bosom glow'd.
His own shrill matin join'd the various notes
Of nature's music, from a thousand throats:
The blackbird strove with emulation sweet,
And echo answer'd from her close retreat;
The sporting whitethroat on some twig's end borne,
Pour'd hymns to freedom and the rising morn;
Stopt in her song, perchance the starting thrush
Shook a white shower from the blackthorn bush,
Where dewdrops thick as early blossoms hung,
And trembled as the minstrel sweetly sung.
Across his path, in either grove to hide,
The timid rabbit scouted by his side;
Or pheasant boldly stalk'd along the road,
Whose gold and purple tints alternate glow'd.

But groves no farther fenced the devious way, A wide-extended heath before him lay, Where on the grass the stagnant shower had run, And shone a mirror to the rising sun, Thus doubly seen to light a distant wood, To give new life to each expanding bud; And chase away the dewy footmarks found, Where prowling Reynard trod his nightly round; To shun whose thefts was Giles's evening care, His feather'd victims to suspend in air, High on the bough that nodded o'er his head, And thus each morn to strew the field with dead. His simple errand done, he homeward hies; Another instantly its place supplies. The clattering dairy maid, immersed in steam, Singing and scrubbing midst her milk and cream, Bawls out "Go fetch the cows!"-he hears no more For pigs, and ducks, and turkeys throng the door, And sitting hens, for constant war prepared; A concert strange to that which late he heard. Straight to the meadow then he whistling goes; With well known halloo calls his lazy cows; Down the rich pasture heedlessly they graze, Or hear the summons with an idle gaze; For well they know the cowyard yields no more Its tempting fragrance nor 'ts wintry store,

Reluctance marks their steps, sedate and slow;
The right of conquest all the law they know :
The strong press on, the weak by turns succeed,
And one superior always takes the lead;
Is ever foremost, wheresoe'er they stray:
Allow'd precedence, undisputed sway:
With jealous pride her station is maintain'd,
For many a broil that post of honour gain'd.
At home, the yard affords a grateful scene;
For Spring makes e'en a miry cowyard clean.
Thence from its chalky bed behold convey'd
The rich manure that drenching Winter made,
Which piled near home, grows green with many a
A promised nutriment for Autumn's seed. [weed,
Forth comes the maid, and like the morning smiles;
The mistress too, and follow'd close by Giles.
A friendly tripod forms their humble seat,
With pails bright scour'd, and delicately sweet.
Where shadowing elms obstruct the morning ray,
Begins the work, begins the simple lay;

The full charged udder yields its willing streams,
While Mary sings some lover's amorous dreams;
And crouching Giles, beneath a neighbouring tree,
Tugs o'er his pail, and chants with equal glee:
Whose hat with tatter'd brim, of nap so bare,
From the cow's side purloins a coat of hair,
A mottled ensign of his harmless trade,
An unambitious, peaceable cockade,

As unambitious too that cheerful aid
The mistress yields beside her rosy maid:
With joy she views her plenteous, reeking store,
And bears a brimmer to the dairy door;
Her cows dismiss'd the luscious mead to roam,
Till eve again recalls them loaded home.
And now the dairy claims her choicest care,
And half her household find employment there:
Slow rolls the churn, its load of clogging cream
At once foregoes its quality and name;
From knotty particles first floating wide
Congealing butter's dash'd from side to side;
Streams of new milk through flowing coolers stray,
And snow-white curd abounds, and wholesome
whey.

Due north th' unglazed windows, cold and clear
For warming sunbeams are unwelcome here.
Brisk goes the work beneath each busy hand,
And Giles must trudge, whoever gives command;
A Gibeonite, that serves them all by turns:
He drains the pump, from him the fagot burns;
From him the noisy hogs demand their food;
While at his heels run many a chirping brood,
Or down his path in expectation stand,
With equal claims upon his strewing hand.
Thus wastes the morn, till each with pleasure sees
The bustle o'er, and press'd the new-made cheese.
Unrivall'd stands thy country cheese, O Giles!
Whose very name alone engenders smiles;
Whose fame abroad by every tongue is spoke,
The well-known butt of many a flinty joke,
That pass like current coin the nation through:
And, ah! experience proves the satire true.
Provision's grave, thou ever craving mart,
Dependant, huge metropolis! where art
Her poring thousands stows in breathless rooms,
Midst poisonous smokes and steams, and rattling
looms;

Where grandeur revels in unbounded stores;
Restraint, a slighted stranger at their doors!
Thou, like a whirlpool, drain'st the country round.
Till London market, London price, resound
Through every town, round every passing load,
And dairy produce throngs the eastern road:
Delicious veal, and butter, every hour,
From Essex lowlands, and the banks of Stour:
And further far, where numerous herds repose,
From Orwell's brink, from Waveny, or Ouse.
Hence Suffolk dairy wives run mad for cream,
And leave their milk with nothing but its name:
Its name derision and reproach pursue,
And strangers tell of "three times skimm❜d sky.
blue."

Tó cheese converted, what can be its boast;
What, but the common virtues of a post!
If drought o'ertake it faster than the knife,
Most fair it bids for stubborn length of life,
And, like the oaken shelf whereon 'tis laid,
Mocks the weak efforts of the bending blade;
Or in the hog-trough rests in perfect spite,
Too big to swallow, and too hard to bite.
Inglorious victory! Ye Cheshire meads,
Or Severn's flowery dales, where plenty treads,
Was your rich milk to suffer wrongs like these,
Farewell your pride! farewell renowned cheese!
The skimmer dread, whose ravages alone,
Thus turn the mead's sweet nectar into stone.

Neglected now the early daisy lies:

Nor thou, pale primrose, bloom'st the only prize!
Advancing Spring profusely spreads abroad
Flowers of all hues, with sweetest fragrance stored;
Where'er she treads, Love gladdens every plain,
Delight on tiptoe bears her lucid train;
Sweet Hope with conscious brow before her flies,
Anticipating wealth from summer skies
All nature feels her renovating sway;
The sheep-fed pasture, and the meadow gay,
And trees, and shrubs, no longer budding seen,
Display the new-grown branch of lighter green;
On airy downs the idling shepherd lies,
And sees to-morrow in the marbled skies.
Here then, my soul, thy darling theme pursue,
For every day was Gies a shepherd too.

Small was his charge; no wilds had they to roam;

But bright enclosures circling round their home.
No yellow-blossom'd furze, nor stubborn thorn,
The heath's rough produce, had their fleeces torn;
Yet ever roving, ever seeking thee,
Enchanting spirit, dear Variety!
O happy tenants, prisoners of a day!
Released to ease, to pleasure, and to play;
Indulged through every field by turns to range,
And taste them all in one continual change.
For though luxuriant their grassy food,
Sheep long confined but loathe the present good;
Bleating around the homeward gate they meet,
And starve, and pine, with plenty at their icet.
Loosed from the winding lane, a joyful throng,
See, o'er yon pasture, how they pour along!
Giles round their boundaries takes his usual stroll;
Sees every pass secured, and fences whole;
High fences, proud to charm the gazing eye,
Where many a nestling first essays to fly;