The Works of Alfred Lord Tennyson

NORTHERN FARMER.

NEW STYLE.

DOSN'T thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaäy?
Proputty, proputty, proputty—that's what I 'ears 'em saäy.
Proputty, proputty, proputty-Sam, thou's an ass for thy paaïns :
Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs nor in all thy braaïns.

II.

Woä—theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam: yon's parson's 'ouse—
Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be eäther a man or a mouse?
Time to think on it then; for thou'll be twenty to weeäk.1
Proputty, proputty-woä then woä-let ma 'ear mysén speäk.

III.

Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as beän a-talkin' o' thee;
Thou's beän talkin' to muther, an' she beän a tellin' it me.
Thou'll not marry for munny-thou's sweet upo' parson's lass-
Noä-thou'll marry for luvv-an' we boäth on us thinks tha an ass.

IV.

Seeä'd her todaäy goä by-Saäint's-daäy—they was ringing the bells. She's a beauty thou thinks-an' soä is scoors o' gells,

Them as 'as munny an' all-wot's a beauty?—the flower as blaws. But proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty graws.

Do'ant be stunt:2 taäke time: I knaws what maäkes tha sa mad.
Warn't I craäzed fur the lasses mysén when I wur a lad?
But I knaw'd a Quaäker feller as often 'as towd ma this :
'Doänt thou marry for munny, but goä wheer munny is !'

VI.

An' I went wheer munny war: an' thy muther coom to 'and,
Wi' lots o' munny laaïd by, an' a nicetish bit o' land.

Maäybe she warn't a beauty :-I niver giv it a thowt

But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass as 'ant nowt?

VII.

Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weänt 'a nowt when 'e's dead,
Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and addle3 her bread :
Why? fur 'e's nobbut a curate, an' weänt niver git naw 'igher;
An' 'e maäde the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 'e coom'd to the shire.

1 This week.

2 Obstinate.

3 Earn.

VIII.

An thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' Varsity debt,
Stook to his taail they did, an' 'e 'ant got shut on 'em yet.
An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi' noän to lend 'im a shove,
Woorse nor a far-welter'd 1 yowe: fur, Sammy, 'e married fur luvv.

IX.

Luvv ? what's luvv? thou can luvv thy lass an' 'er munny too,
Maakin' 'em goä togither as they've good right to do.

Could'n I luvv thy muther by cause o' 'er munny laaïd by?
Naäy-fur I luvv'd 'er a vast sight moor fur it: reason why.

Ay an' thy muther says thou wants to marry the lass,

Cooms of a gentleman burn: an' we boäth on us thinks tha an ass. Woä then, proputty, wiltha?—an ass as near as mays nowt 2

Woä then, wiltha? dangtha!—the bees is as fell as owt.3

XI.

Breäk me a bit o' the esh for his 'eäd, lad, out o' the fence!
Gentleman burn! what's gentleman burn? is it shillins an' pence?
Proputty, proputty's ivrything 'ere, an', Sammy, I'm blest
If it isn't the saäme oop yonder, fur them as 'as it's the best.

XII.

Tis'n them as 'as munny as breaks into 'ouses an' steäls,
Them as 'as coäts to their backs an' taäkes their regular meäls.
Noä, but it's them as niver knaws wheer a meäl's to be 'ad.
Taäke my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp is bad.

XIII.

Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a beän a laäzy lot,
Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whiniver munny was got.
Feyther 'ad ammost nowt; leästways 'is munny was 'id.
But 'e tued an' moil'd 'issén deäd, an 'e died a good un, 'e did.

XIV.

;

Loook thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck cooms out by the 'ill!
Feyther run oop to the farm, an' I runs oop to the mill
An' I'll run oop to the brig, an' that thou'll live to see ;
And if thou marries a good un I'll leave the land to thee.

XV.

Thim's my noätions, Sammy, wheerby I means to stick ;
But if thou marries a bad un, I'll leave the land to Dick.
Coom oop, proputty, proputty—that's what I ’ears ’im saäy—
Proputty, proputty, proputty-canter an' canter awaäy.

1 Or fow-welter'd, said of a sheep lying on its back in the furrow.
2 Makes nothing.
3 The flies are as fierce as anything.

Like ballad-burthen music, kept,
As on The Lariano crept

To that fair port below the castle
Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept ;
Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake
A cypress in the moonlight shake,

The moonlight touching o'er a terrace One tall Agavè above the lake.

What more? we took our last adieu,
And up the snowy Splugen drew,

But ere we reach'd the highest summit I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you.

It told of England then to me,
And now it tells of Italy.

O love, we two shall go no longer
To lands of summer across the sea;

So dear a life your arms enfold
Whose crying is a cry for gold:

Yet here to-night in this dark city,
When ill and weary, alone and cold,

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry,
This nurseling of another sky

Still in the little book you lent me,
And where you tenderly laid it by :

And I forgot the clouded Forth,
The gloom that saddens Heaven and
Earth,

The bitter east, the misty summer
And gray metropolis of the North.

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain,
Perchance, to charm a vacant brain,

Perchance, to dream you still beside me, My fancy fled to the South again.

TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE.

COME, when no graver cares employ,
Godfather, come and see your boy :
Your presence will be sun in winter,
Making the little one leap for joy.

For, being of that honest few,
Who give the Fiend himself his due,

Should eighty-thousand college-councils Thunder Anathema,' friend, at you;

And further on, the hoary Channel
Tumbles a billow on chalk and sand;

Where, if below the milky steep
Some ship of battle slowly creep,

And on thro' zones of light and shadow Glimmer away to the lonely deep,

We might discuss the Northern sin
Which made a selfish war begin;

Dispute the claims, arrange the chances; Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win :

Or whether war's avenging rod
Shall lash all Europe into blood;

Till you should turn to dearer matters, Dear to the man that is dear to God;

How best to help the slender store, How mend the dwellings, of the poor;

How gain in life, as life advances, Valour and charity more and more.

Come, Maurice, come: the lawn as yet Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet;

But when the wreath of March has blossom'd, Crocus, anemone, violet,

Or later, pay one visit here,
For those are few we hold as dear;

Nor pay but one, but come for many, Many and many a happy year.

January, 1854.

IN THE GARDEN AT
SWAINSTON.

NIGHTINGALES warbled without,
Within was weeping for thee:
Shadows of three dead men
Walk'd in the walks with me,
Shadows of three dead men and thou
wast one of the three.

Nightingales sang in his woods :
The Master was far away:
Nightingales warbled and sang

Of a passion that lasts but a day;
Still in the house in his coffin the Prince
of courtesy lay.

Two dead men have I known

In courtesy like to thee:
Two dead men have I loved

With a love that ever will be:
Three dead men have I loved and thou
art last of the three.

THE FLOWER.

ONCE in a golden hour

I cast to earth a seed. Up there came a flower,

The people said, a weed. To and fro they went

Thro' my garden-bower, And muttering discontent Cursed me and my flower. Then it grew so tall

It wore a crown of light, But thieves from o'er the wall Stole the seed by night. Sow'd it far and wide

By every town and tower, Till all the people cried, 'Splendid is the flower.'

Read my little fable:

He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now,

For all have got the seed.

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