THE BARD'S REFORMATION.

TUNE.-"London, fare thee well."

ADIEU to the Alehouse, where pounds I have spent, For drinkin' and smokin' bring little content,

Where laughin' an' grinnin',

An' bettin' an' winnin',
Cause sorrowful sinnin',

The roar and the rant,

A better beginnin' is now my intent.

Adieu to the fiddle, the dance, an' the song,
To the lads an' the lasses I've trip't it among,

Adieu unto Johnny,

Who dances so bonny,

The tightest of ony;

Yon flag it can tell*

The weight of his steps, an' he timeth them well.

Adieu to the glance of the love-lookin' e'e,
To the lip that is sweet as the mel of the bee;
The waist that is charmin'

The movement so warmin',
The purpose disarmin',

Of mortals like me;

An' prudence alarmin' commands me to flee.

*At the Suffield's Arms, in Middleton, a flag is shown broken by the dancing of Johnny Ogden, supposed at that time to be the best dancer in Lancashire.

Adieu to the lads, who are dons in the fray,
I've borne their sore bruises for mony a day;
There's Darby an' Dobbin',

Mad Ab' an' Rough Robin',
For kickin' or nobin'

Do carry the bay,

There's no country gobbin can bear it away.

Farewell to the lads who love frolic an' fun,
An' gayly support it when once 'tis begun;
There's Dick, Ned, an' Simon,

True lovers of joy, mon,

I ne'er found them coy, mon,

At fuddle or spree;

The tear an' the sigh, mon, before 'em will flee.

Farewell to the Doctor, whose wit is as bright
As the glim of the glow-worm on grey Summer's night;
His cordial, delicious,

His green peas for issues,

Pills, plasters, and washes,
Are flitted to Lees,

The sick of the village to free from disease.

"The Gentleman's" company I must refrain, Although the denial may cost me much pain;

He singeth so sweetly,

He diddles so neatly,

With snuff he will treat ye,

Ay, "honour" he will;

The toper of topers is "Gentleman Sprill."

So now to my own little nook I'll retire,

I'll bar out the storm, an' I'll trim up the fire,

This witchery breakin',

All folly forsakin',

To study betakin',

My mind to improve;

My muse ever wakin' to freedom an' love.

LINES,

WRITTEN IN THE TRAVELLERS' ROOM, WOLSELEY ARMS INN, WOLSELEY BRIDGE, STAFFORDSHIRE, NOV. 7, 1819.

FAIR is the prospect to my view,

Altho' it be confin'd!

But O! 'tis nothing like the scenes
Which I have left behind.

Yon eminence but shews a farm
With trees thick scatter'd round;
My hills rip out the rushing storm,
And by the clouds are crown'd.

And peaceful seems yon group of cots,
With chimnies painted white,
But there is one, though far away,
More pleasing to my sight.

And Colwich bells must sweeter ring,

Before they ring as sweet

As those which o'er Saint Leonard's hang,
The Sunday folks to greet.

And Trent, too, loiters by the way,
As journeying to the main;
My streams rush onward rapidly,
The briny gulph to gain.

O there is something wanting here,
Which cannot be supplied,

Save on those hills for ever dear,
Where once I did reside.

THE WELCOME.

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO HENRY HUNT, ESQ., ON HIS VISIT TO
MANCHESTER IN 1818.

TUNE-" "Croppies Rise Up."

I HAIL thee, because in the day of our danger,
When tyrants conspired to keep liberty down,
Thou turn'd not, thou shrank not, to terror a stranger,
Thou dared each threat, thou defiéd each frown.
As the oak of thy own native island unbending,
No storm could uplift thee, firm rooted in right;
Unworn and unwearied, for freedom contending,
How dreaded the host of oppressors thy might.

Thou raisedst thy voice, and the people awaking,
Beheld the foul source of corruption display'd;
And loyal stupidity quickly forsaking,

They found themselves plundered, oppress'd and
betray'd;

Then, loud as the storm, in its fury outrushing,
The shout of the thousands, for freedom arose;
And liberty only can soothe them to hushing,
And liberty only shall lull to repose.

We saw the fell spy on thy footsteps attending,

*

By vengeance-doom'd villains cheer'd on to his prey; That Sidmouth, that Canning, the lurcher commending, And the blood-lapping dæmon, the dire Castlereagh. O! how thy enemies round thee were lying,

All yearning and longing thy life to betray; But, the foul ambuscade timely descrying,

Thou scaped their tangle of black treachery.

Then, thrice art thou welcome-here brave men will meet thee;

The heart-lads of England, the core of the core, Thy friends, and thy brothers, will ev'rywhere greet

thee:

For patriots are brethren dear, all the world o'er. Oh! here's not a hand but could strike down a foeman, And here's not a heart that would shrink from the

deed;

All steady and ready, mechanic and yeomen,

The traitors may tremble, the tyrants take heed.

* Certainly more due to the writings of William Cobbett.