But O bless'd be God! the prayers I pray'd, For ever will I thank kind Heaven And O, but he's come home again, No more, no more, to part no more! My husband, who is home again! A THOUSAND LEAGUES AWAY. A SEA SONG. THE wind is blowing fresh, Kate, the boat rocks there for me; To long for you across the sea-a thousand leagues away, While round the Pole we toss and roll, A thousand leagues away. I half could be a landsman, Kate, while those dear eyes I see, To hear the gale rave by, without, while you sat snug with me; [play But I must hear the storm howl by, the salt breeze whistling Its weird sea-tune amongst the shrouds, a thousand leagues away, A thousand leagues away, dear Kate, A thousand leagues away, While south we go, blow high, blow low, I'm too rough for a landsman's lot—his tame life's not for me; What could I do ashore for you?-my fortune's on the sea; The mate of winds and billows still, I must my fate obey, And chase the whale, before the gale, a thousand leagues away, A thousand leagues away, dear Kate, The blubber boil, and stow the oil, A thousand leagues away. Something I have, and more shall have, if luck my fortune be, Enough at last a wife to keep and children round my knee; I 114 HOW PLEASANT IS THE FARMER'S LIFE. And do you love me well enough, Kate, from your heart to say, "I'm yours, though you must win me, Will, a thousand leagues away, A thousand leagues away, dear Will, A thousand leagues away, For you she'll wait; go, win your Kate, One kiss; the tide ebbs fast, love; I must no laggard be By fortune heard, your loving word will speed us far away, A thousand leagues away, HOW PLEASANT IS THE FARMER'S LIFE. How pleasant is the farmer's life! away from smoky towns He breathes the pleasant country air of meadows, hills and downs, And with a hale, old hearty age a healthy life he crowns; And it's O I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be. No prison'd life the farmer lives, bent over desk and book, Or cribb'd within a shop all day, till white and wan's his look, Till less like to a man he grows, and weaker than our Suke; And it's O I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be. As to your white-faced tradesman who fawns and smirks and smiles, Who cannot whirl a flail, boys, or walk a score of miles, What is his life to ours, we who leap the gates and stiles? And it's O I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be. Our arms are strong with labour, our cheeks are red with health, We never gain a penny'sworth by lying, trick or stealth, Yet cowhouse, sty and stackyard, show we have our share of wealth; And it's O I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be. How pleasant is the Spring-time! 'tis then we plough and Sow, And through the shining mornings, beside our teams we go, While in the fields the lambkins leap and frisk their joy to show; And it's O I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be. How pleasant is the Summer-time! 'tis then we make our hay, And scythe and rake and fork and cart are busy all the day, "Tis then we shear our bleating sheep with laugh and joke and play; And it's O I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be. Then comes the pleasant Autumn-time when sheaves are reap'd and bound, And, at our happy harvest-homes, the song and ale go round, And through the calm and quiet days our busy flails resound; And it's O I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be. And when our fields are stripp'd and bare, and white with sleet and snow, When work is done, beside the fire what merry nights we know, With Christmas cheer and New Year's games we set our hearts aglow; And it's O I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be. Then luck to all good farmers! God send them still, I say, Good seasons, plenteous harvests, and all they want each day, Full barns, and folds and stackyards, and thankful hearts, I pray; And it's O I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be. BALLAD. O THAT I were lying still in the grave cold and deep! O false is the sea-wind, and false, false the sea, Or I never welcomed his false face to shore ! O bonny is the red rose, the red rose on the tree, O weary's the world! O how dear, O how dear Accursed be the wind and wave, and cursed be the ship, more. My curse on the false heart wherever it may be, The cruel, cruel false heart that wiled her love from me; O love, it can cherish and love can stab and kill; O happy was my heart once, but now it would be still; |