Young Robin of the plain, erst blithest blade
That e'er with sickle keen the fields disrayed,
Who whistling drove the smoking team along,
Or trimmed the thorny fence, with rustic song,
Through every season busy still, and gay,
He ploughed, he sowed; he made and stacked the hay.
Not dreary winter reached to Robin's breast:
He threshed, he winnowed, and he cracked his jest.
But now not spring's return with joys he sees,
Nor flowery plain he heeds, nor budding trees,
Nor linnet warbling from the dewy brakes,
Nor early lark who towering circles takes,
Nor tuneful thrushes from the hedge that sing,
Nor the shrill blackbird's welcome to the spring.
Against a gate he leans in rueful plight,
And eyes the plain that late was Snaith Marsh hight.
‘Ah! wae is me,’ thus doleful 'gan he mourn;
‘Ah! wae the time when ever I was born,
But far more waeful still that luckless day,
Which with the commons gave Snaith Marsh away;
Snaith Marsh, our whole town's pride, the poor man's bread,
Where, though no rent he paid, his cattle fed,
Fed on the sweetest grass which here rife grew,
Common to all, nor fence nor landmark knew,
Whose flowery turf no crooked share had razed,
Nor wide-destroying scythe its green effaced.
But now, ah! now, it stoops, sad seet I ween,
In mony a row, with rails suspended 'tween.
‘Wae warth the day when, 'ticed sure by Old Nick,
All to grow rich at once, like neighbour Dick,
To town I hied and, on a luckless fair,
For cattle here to graze, wared all my gear,
And boldly ventured at one cast to buy
A deft fine breeding mear, and newted whye,
Ten ewes, a tup, and more, a flock of geese,
All which I thought would here so fast increase,
That, though they'd cost me all my worldly store,
I rekenned soon to gain as mickle more;
But now Snaith Marsh's taid and all my gain blown o'er.
‘My goodly stock, ere yet they tasted food,
By cross-grained hinds were driv'n from their abode,
Though, lest bad neighbours might have owed me spite,
I forehand taid a house to give me right,
With bonny Susan where I hoped to dwell;
But now I prove that proverb on my sell,
Which says, that one grief brings another on:
Too sure, alas, and mine will ne'er have done.
For Susan, whom I thought my sweetheart true,
Whenas my crosses came, 'gan look askue;
And what, than all beside, my heart most pains,
For landed Roger now my love disdains,
Roger, not to be named with me, I trow,
More than muckmidden vile with barley mow;
But Roger has a house in yonder lane,
And my sad loss proves every way his gain.
Yet wilt thou, Susan, wilt thou, selfish lass,
For sake of sordid wealth thy love debase?
No, do not think content is in mich store,
But be to Robin kind, as heretofore,
And we'll in love be blessed, though Snaith Marsh be no more.
‘Alas! will Roger e'er his sleep forgo,
Afore larks sing, or early cock 'gins crow,
As I've for thee, ungrateful maiden, done,
To help thee milking, ere day-wark begun,
And when thy well stript kye would yield no more,
Still on my head the reeking kit I bore.
And, oh! bethink thee then what lovesome talk
We've held together ganging down the balk,
Maundering at time which would na' for us stay,
But now, I ween, mais no such haste away.
Yet oh! return eftsoon and ease my woe,
And to some distant parish let us go.
And there again them leetsome days restore,
Where unassailed by meety folk in power,
Our cattle yet may feed, though Snaith Marsh be no more.
‘But wae is me, I wot I fand am grown,
Forgetting Susan is already gone,
And Roger aims ere Lady Day to wed:
The banns last Sunday in the church were bid.
But let me, let me first i' the churchyard lig,
For soon I there must go, my grief's so big.
All others in their loss some comfort find:
Though Ned's like me reduced, yet Jenny's kind;
And though his fleece no more our parson takes,
And roast goose, dainty food, his table lacks,
Yet he, for tithes ill-paid, gets better land,
While I am every way o' th' losing hand:
My adlings wared, and yet my rent to pay,
My geese, like Susan's faith, flown far away,
My cattle, like their master, lank and poor,
My heart with hopeless love to pieces tore:
And all these sorrows came, syne Snaith Marsh was no more.’
That e'er with sickle keen the fields disrayed,
Who whistling drove the smoking team along,
Or trimmed the thorny fence, with rustic song,
Through every season busy still, and gay,
He ploughed, he sowed; he made and stacked the hay.
Not dreary winter reached to Robin's breast:
He threshed, he winnowed, and he cracked his jest.
But now not spring's return with joys he sees,
Nor flowery plain he heeds, nor budding trees,
Nor linnet warbling from the dewy brakes,
Nor early lark who towering circles takes,
Nor tuneful thrushes from the hedge that sing,
Nor the shrill blackbird's welcome to the spring.
Against a gate he leans in rueful plight,
And eyes the plain that late was Snaith Marsh hight.
‘Ah! wae is me,’ thus doleful 'gan he mourn;
‘Ah! wae the time when ever I was born,
But far more waeful still that luckless day,
Which with the commons gave Snaith Marsh away;
Snaith Marsh, our whole town's pride, the poor man's bread,
Where, though no rent he paid, his cattle fed,
Fed on the sweetest grass which here rife grew,
Common to all, nor fence nor landmark knew,
Whose flowery turf no crooked share had razed,
Nor wide-destroying scythe its green effaced.
But now, ah! now, it stoops, sad seet I ween,
In mony a row, with rails suspended 'tween.
‘Wae warth the day when, 'ticed sure by Old Nick,
All to grow rich at once, like neighbour Dick,
To town I hied and, on a luckless fair,
For cattle here to graze, wared all my gear,
And boldly ventured at one cast to buy
A deft fine breeding mear, and newted whye,
Ten ewes, a tup, and more, a flock of geese,
All which I thought would here so fast increase,
That, though they'd cost me all my worldly store,
I rekenned soon to gain as mickle more;
But now Snaith Marsh's taid and all my gain blown o'er.
‘My goodly stock, ere yet they tasted food,
By cross-grained hinds were driv'n from their abode,
Though, lest bad neighbours might have owed me spite,
I forehand taid a house to give me right,
With bonny Susan where I hoped to dwell;
But now I prove that proverb on my sell,
Which says, that one grief brings another on:
Too sure, alas, and mine will ne'er have done.
For Susan, whom I thought my sweetheart true,
Whenas my crosses came, 'gan look askue;
And what, than all beside, my heart most pains,
For landed Roger now my love disdains,
Roger, not to be named with me, I trow,
More than muckmidden vile with barley mow;
But Roger has a house in yonder lane,
And my sad loss proves every way his gain.
Yet wilt thou, Susan, wilt thou, selfish lass,
For sake of sordid wealth thy love debase?
No, do not think content is in mich store,
But be to Robin kind, as heretofore,
And we'll in love be blessed, though Snaith Marsh be no more.
‘Alas! will Roger e'er his sleep forgo,
Afore larks sing, or early cock 'gins crow,
As I've for thee, ungrateful maiden, done,
To help thee milking, ere day-wark begun,
And when thy well stript kye would yield no more,
Still on my head the reeking kit I bore.
And, oh! bethink thee then what lovesome talk
We've held together ganging down the balk,
Maundering at time which would na' for us stay,
But now, I ween, mais no such haste away.
Yet oh! return eftsoon and ease my woe,
And to some distant parish let us go.
And there again them leetsome days restore,
Where unassailed by meety folk in power,
Our cattle yet may feed, though Snaith Marsh be no more.
‘But wae is me, I wot I fand am grown,
Forgetting Susan is already gone,
And Roger aims ere Lady Day to wed:
The banns last Sunday in the church were bid.
But let me, let me first i' the churchyard lig,
For soon I there must go, my grief's so big.
All others in their loss some comfort find:
Though Ned's like me reduced, yet Jenny's kind;
And though his fleece no more our parson takes,
And roast goose, dainty food, his table lacks,
Yet he, for tithes ill-paid, gets better land,
While I am every way o' th' losing hand:
My adlings wared, and yet my rent to pay,
My geese, like Susan's faith, flown far away,
My cattle, like their master, lank and poor,
My heart with hopeless love to pieces tore:
And all these sorrows came, syne Snaith Marsh was no more.’