Samuel Bamford Poems

Farewell, my native dells and bowers,
Farewell ye fragrant scented flowers;
No more your dewy tints I twine,
My love to deck- with garland fine;
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Come not to me on a bed
Of pale-faced sickness and of pining;
Oh, clasp me close on the battle-field red,
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Now the Devil, saith report,
Once would hold a justice court,
He'd a notion for trying his hand,
He sent constables from hell
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Ha! han they ta'en our cap and flag?
Whot! han the Dandies ta'en 'em?
An' did Reformers' courage lag,
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Most reverend sir, I pray permit,
To approach where you in judgment sit,
A humble, lowly, country bard,
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My daisy sweet is drooping,
Alone upon the lee;
A frost there came in evil hour
And nipt it cruelly.
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The eye of the morning is open wide,
And the sun comes up from the heaving tide
That rolls at the foot of his burning throne,
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I must die—but not like a slave
To his tyrant in penitence bending;
I shall die like an Englishman brave,
I have liv'd so, and so be my ending!
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On Mount St. John's too dearly purchas'd day,
When broken Gallia fled the bloody fray;
And he, the mighty chief that's now afar,
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Oh! come from the valley, Oh! come from the plain,
And arise to the hills of your fathers again;
For a chief hath unfurled his banner on high,
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