As far away as childhood seemsThou standest on thy Roman hill,And memory holds thee frozen, still,Engraved on steel where moonlight streams.For leagues along the landscape mildThy towers twin the scene command,Embattlements of fairyland;Romance incarnate to a child.Though other cities cast a spell,Ever thou holdst my heart in chains;And still I hear across the plainsAt midnight's stroke that ancient bellWhose giant throbbing scarcely seemsA mortal sound at Heaven's gate:It echoes round the exile's fate—Oh Lincoln! City of my dreams!The FoolWhat say?Tharp?Yis: Aaron Tharp lived theer!Not quite sharp?Not quite—I fear!T'wer very sad!Though theer wor summat—'tis hard to say—But he come to his end and went away;He'd a nice little place as his feyther made,All gone to pot, I be much afraid.Old Aaron built it in his day,A worthy feller true an' sound,Respected by the country round;To think as his name should be forgotten!If he'd known what a fool he had begotten!He toiled an' moiled into his graveTo leave a lad what couldn't save!Noa note of grace, noa sense of cash!He lost his all be bein' rash!An' for what!—For what!—To play the fiddle!'Hey diddle diddle!'To make up tunes in his empty headAn' ruin his eyes wi' the books he read!He raumed an' babbled all day longAbout the way to sing a song!Follered the lads at plough aboutTo hear 'em sing would make him shout!He'd sit on the bar of the Ship at night:To catch the tunes was his delight,Or to play the fiddle about the town:—An' all the while his trade went down!That trade what poor old Aaron tendedIt's fell to nowt an' can't be mendedCoz businesses is all the sameYou've simply got to play the gameWith all your soul an' all your heartOr else you'll soon be in the cart.He was encouraged by our parson!T'wer wrong of parson!It's very well for them to talkTo sing an' play and idle, walk,But aren't they paid for doin' that?They mind their bread is buttered fat.Parsons is sensible you see,O'most as cute as lawyers be,Not quite—a course coz noa one could—But very nigh—just as they should.Parsons is sound at heart, I say,They never quarrels wi' their pay,Soa it wor wrong of Parson theer,Coz Aaron nobbut lacked a cheer.He made his tunes, he played aboutAn' none but Parson had a doubtWhat he was bound for—poor young lad!A course I'll own,—though he wor mad,—Them tunes he played, them songs he sung,They minded you of bein' young;They took me back, a boy, agenAt work wi' Feyther down the Fen,When all the birds they uster singAt sunrise till the air would ring,And sheep and cows would stir aboutWi' everything to make yer shout,Yes it wor strange what he could do,His fiddle seemed to mazzle you,The labourers would catch a song—An' theywascatchy—all along;They sing 'em yet; an' Georgy BellHe plays 'em by the village well.But all the while, trade didn't mendUntil at last ther' come the end.They selled him up, lock stock an' stoan,An' off he went away, aloan;Because he sung but couldn't save.I think his feyther in the graveMust sure a-stirred, 'owever deep:That smash would waken any sleep!Young Aaron went—I dunno where—They say he's gone to Manchester,An' there, mayhap, mid soot an' smoke,Makes music for the city folk;Plays on his fiddle, time, agenThem tunes he larned down Martin FenFrom shepherds or from waggon-boysOr men at plough,—or any noise:He made his tunes out of the air,From birds or beasts—he didn't care!An' Parson, says he'll make a name(Our Parson, what's the one to blame!)As if he ever could agenFind such a hoam as Martin Fen;As if he could, by fiddle fad,Get half the name his feyther had.Lost in some smoky town he playsAn' thinks, I lay, on sunny days,Of all the things what makes life dearLike beans and bacon, cheese and beer;A dreamy good-for-nothing lad,Sure bound to lose all what he had.He might a-riz, an' come to beAs high asyou, or evenme!An' bin well known the country roundAs comfortable, warm, an' sound.His nameisknown for many a mile,It raises far-an'-wide, a smile:While folk they whisper 'Not right sharp'!A fool! a fool! wor Aaron Tharp.PRINTED ATTHE HOLYWELL PRESSOXFORD
As far away as childhood seemsThou standest on thy Roman hill,And memory holds thee frozen, still,Engraved on steel where moonlight streams.For leagues along the landscape mildThy towers twin the scene command,Embattlements of fairyland;Romance incarnate to a child.Though other cities cast a spell,Ever thou holdst my heart in chains;And still I hear across the plainsAt midnight's stroke that ancient bellWhose giant throbbing scarcely seemsA mortal sound at Heaven's gate:It echoes round the exile's fate—Oh Lincoln! City of my dreams!
As far away as childhood seemsThou standest on thy Roman hill,And memory holds thee frozen, still,Engraved on steel where moonlight streams.
For leagues along the landscape mildThy towers twin the scene command,Embattlements of fairyland;Romance incarnate to a child.
Though other cities cast a spell,Ever thou holdst my heart in chains;And still I hear across the plainsAt midnight's stroke that ancient bell
Whose giant throbbing scarcely seemsA mortal sound at Heaven's gate:It echoes round the exile's fate—Oh Lincoln! City of my dreams!
What say?Tharp?Yis: Aaron Tharp lived theer!Not quite sharp?Not quite—I fear!T'wer very sad!Though theer wor summat—'tis hard to say—But he come to his end and went away;He'd a nice little place as his feyther made,All gone to pot, I be much afraid.Old Aaron built it in his day,A worthy feller true an' sound,Respected by the country round;To think as his name should be forgotten!If he'd known what a fool he had begotten!He toiled an' moiled into his graveTo leave a lad what couldn't save!Noa note of grace, noa sense of cash!He lost his all be bein' rash!An' for what!—For what!—To play the fiddle!'Hey diddle diddle!'To make up tunes in his empty headAn' ruin his eyes wi' the books he read!He raumed an' babbled all day longAbout the way to sing a song!Follered the lads at plough aboutTo hear 'em sing would make him shout!He'd sit on the bar of the Ship at night:To catch the tunes was his delight,Or to play the fiddle about the town:—An' all the while his trade went down!That trade what poor old Aaron tendedIt's fell to nowt an' can't be mendedCoz businesses is all the sameYou've simply got to play the gameWith all your soul an' all your heartOr else you'll soon be in the cart.He was encouraged by our parson!T'wer wrong of parson!It's very well for them to talkTo sing an' play and idle, walk,But aren't they paid for doin' that?They mind their bread is buttered fat.Parsons is sensible you see,O'most as cute as lawyers be,Not quite—a course coz noa one could—But very nigh—just as they should.Parsons is sound at heart, I say,They never quarrels wi' their pay,Soa it wor wrong of Parson theer,Coz Aaron nobbut lacked a cheer.He made his tunes, he played aboutAn' none but Parson had a doubtWhat he was bound for—poor young lad!A course I'll own,—though he wor mad,—Them tunes he played, them songs he sung,They minded you of bein' young;They took me back, a boy, agenAt work wi' Feyther down the Fen,When all the birds they uster singAt sunrise till the air would ring,And sheep and cows would stir aboutWi' everything to make yer shout,Yes it wor strange what he could do,His fiddle seemed to mazzle you,The labourers would catch a song—An' theywascatchy—all along;They sing 'em yet; an' Georgy BellHe plays 'em by the village well.But all the while, trade didn't mendUntil at last ther' come the end.They selled him up, lock stock an' stoan,An' off he went away, aloan;Because he sung but couldn't save.I think his feyther in the graveMust sure a-stirred, 'owever deep:That smash would waken any sleep!Young Aaron went—I dunno where—They say he's gone to Manchester,An' there, mayhap, mid soot an' smoke,Makes music for the city folk;Plays on his fiddle, time, agenThem tunes he larned down Martin FenFrom shepherds or from waggon-boysOr men at plough,—or any noise:He made his tunes out of the air,From birds or beasts—he didn't care!An' Parson, says he'll make a name(Our Parson, what's the one to blame!)As if he ever could agenFind such a hoam as Martin Fen;As if he could, by fiddle fad,Get half the name his feyther had.Lost in some smoky town he playsAn' thinks, I lay, on sunny days,Of all the things what makes life dearLike beans and bacon, cheese and beer;A dreamy good-for-nothing lad,Sure bound to lose all what he had.He might a-riz, an' come to beAs high asyou, or evenme!An' bin well known the country roundAs comfortable, warm, an' sound.His nameisknown for many a mile,It raises far-an'-wide, a smile:While folk they whisper 'Not right sharp'!A fool! a fool! wor Aaron Tharp.
What say?Tharp?Yis: Aaron Tharp lived theer!Not quite sharp?Not quite—I fear!T'wer very sad!Though theer wor summat—'tis hard to say—But he come to his end and went away;He'd a nice little place as his feyther made,All gone to pot, I be much afraid.Old Aaron built it in his day,A worthy feller true an' sound,Respected by the country round;To think as his name should be forgotten!If he'd known what a fool he had begotten!He toiled an' moiled into his graveTo leave a lad what couldn't save!Noa note of grace, noa sense of cash!He lost his all be bein' rash!
An' for what!—For what!—To play the fiddle!'Hey diddle diddle!'To make up tunes in his empty headAn' ruin his eyes wi' the books he read!He raumed an' babbled all day longAbout the way to sing a song!Follered the lads at plough aboutTo hear 'em sing would make him shout!He'd sit on the bar of the Ship at night:To catch the tunes was his delight,Or to play the fiddle about the town:—An' all the while his trade went down!That trade what poor old Aaron tendedIt's fell to nowt an' can't be mendedCoz businesses is all the sameYou've simply got to play the gameWith all your soul an' all your heartOr else you'll soon be in the cart.
He was encouraged by our parson!T'wer wrong of parson!It's very well for them to talkTo sing an' play and idle, walk,But aren't they paid for doin' that?They mind their bread is buttered fat.Parsons is sensible you see,O'most as cute as lawyers be,Not quite—a course coz noa one could—But very nigh—just as they should.Parsons is sound at heart, I say,They never quarrels wi' their pay,Soa it wor wrong of Parson theer,Coz Aaron nobbut lacked a cheer.
He made his tunes, he played aboutAn' none but Parson had a doubtWhat he was bound for—poor young lad!A course I'll own,—though he wor mad,—Them tunes he played, them songs he sung,They minded you of bein' young;They took me back, a boy, agenAt work wi' Feyther down the Fen,When all the birds they uster singAt sunrise till the air would ring,And sheep and cows would stir aboutWi' everything to make yer shout,Yes it wor strange what he could do,His fiddle seemed to mazzle you,The labourers would catch a song—An' theywascatchy—all along;They sing 'em yet; an' Georgy BellHe plays 'em by the village well.
But all the while, trade didn't mendUntil at last ther' come the end.
They selled him up, lock stock an' stoan,An' off he went away, aloan;Because he sung but couldn't save.I think his feyther in the graveMust sure a-stirred, 'owever deep:That smash would waken any sleep!Young Aaron went—I dunno where—They say he's gone to Manchester,An' there, mayhap, mid soot an' smoke,Makes music for the city folk;Plays on his fiddle, time, agenThem tunes he larned down Martin FenFrom shepherds or from waggon-boysOr men at plough,—or any noise:He made his tunes out of the air,From birds or beasts—he didn't care!An' Parson, says he'll make a name(Our Parson, what's the one to blame!)As if he ever could agenFind such a hoam as Martin Fen;As if he could, by fiddle fad,Get half the name his feyther had.
Lost in some smoky town he playsAn' thinks, I lay, on sunny days,Of all the things what makes life dearLike beans and bacon, cheese and beer;A dreamy good-for-nothing lad,Sure bound to lose all what he had.He might a-riz, an' come to beAs high asyou, or evenme!An' bin well known the country roundAs comfortable, warm, an' sound.
His nameisknown for many a mile,It raises far-an'-wide, a smile:While folk they whisper 'Not right sharp'!A fool! a fool! wor Aaron Tharp.
PRINTED ATTHE HOLYWELL PRESSOXFORD