Читать книгу Revised Edition of Poems - Bill o'th' Hoylus End - Страница 2

Come, hand me down that rustic harp,

   From off that rugged wall,

For I must sing another song

   To suit the Muse’s call,

For she is bent to sing a pœan,

   On this eventful year,

In praise of the philanthropist

   Whom all his friends hold dear —

      The Grand Old Man of Oakworth,

      Beyond his eightieth year!

No flattery!  My honest Muse,

   Nor yet be thou servile;

But tinkle up that harp again,

   A moment to beguile.

Altho’ the bard be rude and rough,

   Yet, he is ever proud

To do the mite that he can do,

   And thus proclaim aloud —

      The Grand Old Man of Oakworth,

      Of whom we all are proud!

For base indeed were any bard

   That ever sang on earth,

Did he not wish his neighbour well,

   And praise his sterling worth.

Leave state affairs and office

   To those of younger blood,

But I am with the patriot,

   The noble, wise, and good —

      The Grand Old Man of Oakworth,

      The wise, the great, the good!

This worthy old philanthropist,

   Whom all his neighbours greet;

Who has a smile for every one

   Whom he may chance to meet —

Go to yon pleasant village,

   On the margin of the moor,

And you will hear his praises sung

   By all the aged poor —

      The Grand Old Man of Oakworth,

      A friend unto the poor!

Long may he live! and happy be,

   The patriot and the sire;

And may some other harp give praise,

   Whose notes will sound much higher.

His thirst for knowledge, worth, and lore —

   His heart was ever there —

This worthy old philanthropist,

   Beyond his eightieth year! —

      The Grand Old Man of Oakworth,

      Beyond his eightieth year.