THE PET LAMBS
They sported in pastures so happy and free
Through clover and daisies they scamper’d with glee,
On nice little hills they delighted to play,
And never were lambkins more happy than they.
They roamed with their mother by babbling brooks,
They slept at their pleasure in warmest of nooks,
Of dogs or of cattle they had nought to fear,
Being happy and safe if their mother was near.
. . .
Here’s a song for Tommy Dowker,
With his happy smiling face,
He spends his time in hawking goods,
Which is his proper place;
I like to see him now and then
To have a little chat,
That is when I see him smile
Beneath his broad-brimmed hat.
Very kind is Tommy Dowker,
And is ever honest found;
Many ladies save their orders
Until Tommy comes around,
Knowing well that he can serve them
With the best that can be had,
And never sells them any fish
That is the least bit bad.
. . .
Fairest flowers were blooming sweetly,
When a happy child she strayed,
Ankle deep amongst the clover
Where the merry lambkins played,
Where the songbirds in the holly,
And the clover-spangled lea,
Seemed to whisper, dearest Pollie,
Here is happiness for thee.
Famed Grasmere sports will soon be here,
When Lords and Ladies gay,
Will join the throng, nor deem it wrong,
To spend a happy day;
The finest wrestlers still are there,
And men and boys will run,
From far and near gents will appear,
To see the harmless fun.
Then to Grasmere we will go, my boys
Nor deem the journey long,
With sprigs of fern stuck in our hats,
We’ll join the merry throng.
The mountain race is quite a treat,
For clever men, well trained,
Run up the hill with right good-will,
Which makes this race so famed.
When on the top, they seem so small,
Though plainly they’re in sight,
They bound down rocks like deer to fox
That have been put to flight.
Then to Grasmere we will go, my boys,
There will be lots of fun,
To see the gallant wrestlers,
And men and dogs that run.
. . . .
‘Twas sweet spring time in Westmorland,
With pleasant April showers,
And each succeeding day brought forth
Fresh verdure and sweet flowers;
And I was down in Westmorland,
Though not from trouble free,
For it was whispered my old love
Had broke her faith with me.
There came a gent to Westmorland,
A noble gent was he,
He saw my lassie’s winsome face,
He thought her fair and free;
He thought to win her hand and heart,
And asked her to agree,
To share with him her old old love
She long had pledged to me
Tramps! Tramps! Tramps!
That we meet full of rheumatic cramps,
Or men strong an hale we send into jail,
Who are thought to be terrible scamps!
. . . .
Thus, many good people will talk,
And many good writers will pen,
And not even think, when slinging their ink,
Of the wrongs they are doing these men.
He was not always tramping the roads,
But happily lived at his home,
With children and wife, he loved as his life,
And never had reason to roam.
. . . . .
But, alas, for poor John, when hard times
Crept on like a Ghost in the night,
For twenty long weeks employment he seeks,
And then has not any in sight.
He heard those he loved cry for bread,
He saw them bowed down in despair –
As he, sad at heart, from them did depart
To seek for employment elsewhere.