ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

1766-1823.

["Rural Tales, Ballads and Songs." 1802.]

ROSY HANNAH.

A SPRING, o'erhung with many a flower,
The gray sand dancing in its bed,
Embanked beneath a hawthorn bower,

Sent forth its waters near my head:
A rosy lass approached my view;

I caught her blue eye's modest beam:
The stranger nodded "How-d' ye-do?"
And leaped across the infant stream.

The water heedless passed away:

With me her glowing image stayed:

I strove, from that auspicious day,

To meet and bless the lovely maid.

I met her where beneath our feet

Through downy moss the wild thyme grew; Nor moss elastic, flowers though sweet,

Matched Hannah's cheek of rosy hue.

I met her where the dark woods wave,
And shaded verdure skirts the plain;
And when the pale moon rising gave

New glories to her rising train.

From her sweet cot upon the moor,

Our plighted vows to heaven are flown:

Truth made me welcome at her door,
And rosy Hannah is my own.

["Remains." 1824.]

TO HIS WIFE.

I rise, dear Mary, from the soundest rest,
A wandering, way-worn, musing, singing guest.
I claim the privilege of hill and plain;
Mine are the woods, and all that they contain;
The unpolluted gale, which sweeps the glade;
All the cool blessings of the solemn shade;
Health, and the flow of happiness sincere;
Yet there's one wish-I wish that thou wert here;
Free from the trammels of domestic care,

With me these dear autumnal sweets to share;

To share my heart's ungovernable joy,

And keep the birthday of our poor lame boy.

Ah! that's a tender string! Yet since I find

That scenes like these can soothe the harassed mind,
Trust me, 't would set thy jaded spirits free
To wander thus through vales and woods with me.
Thou know'st how much I love to steal away
From noise, from uproar, and the blaze of day;
With double transport would my heart rebound
To lead thee where the clustering nuts are found;
No toilsome efforts would our task demand,
For the brown treasure stoops to meet the hand.
Round the tall hazel beds of moss appear
In green swards nibbled by the forest deer,
Sun, and alternate shade; while o'er our heads
The cawing rook his glossy pinions spreads:
The noisy jay, his wild-woods dashing through ;
The ring-dove's chorus, and the rustling bough;

The far-resounding gate; the kite's shrill scream;
The distant ploughman's halloo to his team.
This is the chorus to my soul so dear;

It would delight thee too, wert thou but here:
For we might talk of home, and muse o'er days
Of sad distress, and Heaven's mysterious ways;
Our checkered fortunes with a smile retrace,
And build new hopes upon our infant race:
Pour our thanksgivings forth, and weep the while;
Or pray for blessings on our native isle.

But vain the wish! Mary, thy sighs forbear,

Nor grudge the pleasures which thou canst not share:
Make home delightful, kindly wish for me,

And I'll leave hills, and dales, and woods for thee. WHITTLEBURY FOREST, Sept. 16, 1804.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

1784-1842.

["Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song." 1810.]

BONNIE LADY ANN.

THERE'S kames o' honey 'tween my luve's lips,

An' gold amang her hair,

Her breasts are lapt in a holie veil,

Nae mortal een look there.

What lips dare kiss, or what hand dare touch,
Or what arn o'luve dare span,

The honey lips, the creamy palm,
Or the waist o' Lady Ann!

She kisses the lips o' her bonnie red rose,

Wat wi' the blobs o' dew;

But nae gentle lip, nor semple lip,

Maun touch her Lady mou.

But a broider'd belt, wi' a buckle o' gold,

Her jimpy waist maun span;

O she's an armfu' fit for heaven,

My bonnie Lady Ann!

Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers,

Tied up wi' silver thread,

An' comely sits she in the midst,

Men's longing een to feed.

She waves the ringlets frae her cheek,

Wi' her milky, milky han',

An' her cheeks seem touch'd wi' the finger o' God,
My bonnie Lady Ann!

The morning cloud is tassell'd wi' gold,
Like my luve's broider'd cap,

An' on the mantle which my luve wears
Is monie a golden drap.

Her bonnie eebrow's a holie arch

Cast by no earthlie han';

An' the breath o' Heaven's atween the lips

O' my bonnie Lady Ann!

I am her father's gardener lad,

An'

poor, poor is my fa';

My auld mither gets my sair-won fee,

Wi' fatherless bairnies twa.

My een are bauld, they dwall on a place
Where I darena mint my han';

But I water, and tend, and kiss the flowers
O' my bonnie Lady Ann.

THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG.

"This rural beauty, who caused such terrible devastation, and who, it is said, first made a poet of her lover, became afterwards his wife; and in her matronly character, she inspired that beautiful little effusion of conjugal tenderness, 'THE POET'S BRIDAL SONG.' When first published, it was almost universally copied, and committed to memory; and Allan Cunningham may not only boast that he has woven a wreath to 'grace his Jean,'

'While rivers flow and woods are green,'

but that he has given the sweet wife, seated among her children in sedate and matronly loveliness, an interest even beyond that which belongs to the young girl he has described with raven locks and cheeks of cream, driving rustic admirers to despair, or lingering with her love at eve,

'Amid the falling dew

When looks were fond, and words were few!