The Poet's Consolement Of His Wife In Adversity. Poem by Samuel Bamford

Now to the wilderness away!
Beloved, come with me;
Since yon base lord hath ta'en our home,
And we are bare and free:
For I have found a little nest
To shelter thee and me;
Love, I have found a place of rest,
And let us thither flee.

What, though our bed be not of down—
Though moss and fern it be,
Shorn by the steep of Tandle side,
Where the wind blows sweet and free;
The rest of peace, and healthful sleep,
Shall comfort thee and me:
Then stay not love, to gaze and weep,
But come and happy be.

What, though our pillow be not down—
Though heather flowers it be,
Shorn by the steep of Gerrard's side,
Where the rill glents bonnilie;
Thy dreams by night shall be as bright
As good wife dame doth see:
Love, take thy rest upon my breast,
Which beats so true for thee.

I'll bring thee sweet milk from the cow,
And butter from the churn,
And fuel from the dingle shaw,
And water from the burn;
And thou shalt be so happy there,
Thou never wilt return:
Love, thou shalt be so happy there,
Thou wilt forget to mourn.

We've seen the world, we've known the world,
Its frown, its promise fair—
Its vanities of vanity,
Its pleasure and its care;
The strife for life, the death-woe rife,
The hope against despair,
The loss, the gain; oh! why remain?
Our lost one is not there!

Then come, my wife, my only love,
Bright hours are yet unflown;
Come home unto the solitudes,
Afar from tower and town.
Like birds we have been wandering,
Where storms have rudely blown;
Now let us rest our weary wing,
Before the sun goes down.