Edward Woodley Bowling

    I.

    I cannot rest o' the night, Mother,
        For my heart is cold and wan:
    I fear the return o' light, Mother,
        Since my own true love is gone.
    O winsome aye was his face, Mother,
        And tender his bright blue eye;
    But his beauty and manly grace, Mother,
        Beneath the dark earth do lie.


    II.

    They tell me that I am young, Mother,
        That joy will return once more;
    But sorrow my heart has wrung, Mother,
        And I feel the wound full sore.
    The tree at the root frost-bitten
        Will flourish never again,
    And the woe that my life hath smitten
        Hath frozen each inmost vein.


    III.

    Whene'er the moon's shining clear, Mother,

    Where are they all departed,
        The loved ones of my youth,
    Those emblems white of purity,
        Sweet innocence and truth?
    When day-light drives the darkness,
        When evening melts to night,
    When noon-day suns burn brightest,
        They come not to my sight.

    I miss their pure embraces
        Around my neck and throat,
    The thousand winning graces
        Whereon I used to dote.
    I know I may find markets
        Where love is bought and sold,
    But no such love can equal
        The tender ties of old.

    My gentle washer-woman,
        I know that you are true;
    The least shade of suspicion
        Can never fall on you.
    Then fear me not, as fiercely
        I fix on thee...

    She wore a sweet pink bonnet,
        The sweetest ever known:
    And as I gazed upon it,
        My heart was not my own.
    For - I know not why or wherefore -
        A pink bonnet put on well,
    Tho' few other things I care for,
        Acts upon me like a spell.

    'Twas at the May Term Races
        That first I met her eye:
    Amid a thousand Graces
        No form with her's could vie.
    On Grassy's sward enamelled
        She reigned fair Beauty's Queen;
    And every heart entrammell'd
        With the charms of sweet eighteen.

    Once more I saw that Bonnet -
        'Twas on the King's Parade -
    Once more I gazed upon it,
        And silent homage paid.
    She knew not I was gazing;
        She ...

    By the waters of Cam, as the shades were descending,
        A Fellow sat moaning his desolate lot;
    From his sad eyes were flowing salt rivulets, blending
        Their tide with the river which heeded them not -

    "O! why did I leave," - thus he wearily muttered -
        "The silent repose, and the shade of my books,
    Where the voice of a woman no sound ever uttered,
        And I ne'er felt the magic of feminine looks?

    "Then I rose when the east with Aurora was ruddy;
        Took a plunge in my Pliny; collated a play;
    No breakfast I ate, for I found in each study
        A collation which lasted me all through the day.

    "I know not what temptress first came to my garden
        Of Eden, and lured me stern wisdom to leave;
  ...

    "Et potis es nigrum vitio praefigere Delta." - PERSIUS.


    It was a young Examiner, scarce thirty were his years,
    His name our University loves, honours, and reveres:
    He pondered o'er some papers, and a tear stood in his eye;
    He split his quill upon the desk, and raised a bitter cry -
    'O why has Fortune struck me down with this unearthly blow?
    "Why doom'd me to examine in my lov'd one's Little-go?
    "O Love and Duty, sisters twain, in diverse ways ye pull;
    "I dare not 'pass,' I scarce can 'pluck:' my cup of woe is full.
    "O that I ever should have lived this dismal day to see"!
    He knit his brow, and nerved his hand, and wrote the fatal D.

                *            *            *            *            *            *

    O how shall I write a love-ditty
        To my Alice on Valentine's day?
    How win the affection or pity
        Of a being so lively and gay?
    For I'm an unpicturesque creature,
        Fond of pipes and port wine and a doze
    Without a respectable feature,
        With a squint and a very queer nose.

    But she is a being seraphic,
        Full of fun, full of frolic and mirth;
    Who can talk in a manner most graphic
        Every possible language on earth.
    When she's roaming in regions Italic,
        You would think her a fair Florentine;
    She speaks German like Schiller; and Gallic
        Better far than Rousseau or Racine.

    She sings - sweeter far than a cymbal
        (A sound which I never have heard);
  ...

    As hard at work I trimmed the midnight lamp,
        Yfilling of mine head with classic lore,
    Mine hands firm clasped upon my temples damp,
        Methought I heard a tapping at the door;
    'Come in,' I cried, with most unearthly rore,
        Fearing a horrid Dun or Don to see,
    Or Tomkins, that unmitigated bore,
        Whom I love not, but who alas! loves me,
    And cometh oft unbid and drinketh of my tea.

    'Come in,' I rored; when suddenly there rose
        A magick form before my dazzled eyes:
    'Or do I wake,' I asked myself 'or doze'?
        Or hath an angel come in mortal guise'?
    So wondered I; but nothing mote surmise;
        Only I gazed upon that lovely face,
    In reverence yblent with mute surprise:
        Sure n...

    Breathless is the deep blue sky;
    Breathless doth the blue sea lie;
    And scarcely can my heart believe,
    'Neath such a sky, on such a wave,
    That Heaven can frown and billows rave,
    Or Beauty so divine deceive.

    Softly sail we with the tide;
    Silently our bark doth glide;
    Above our heads no clouds appear:
    Only in the West afar
    A dark spot, like a baneful star,
    Doth herald tempests dark and drear.

    And now the wind is heard to sigh;
    The waters heave unquietly;
    The Heaven above is darkly scowling;
    Down with the sail!    They come, they come!
    Loos'd from the depths of their wintry home,
    The wild fiends of the storm are howling.

    Hold tight, and tug at the straining oar,...

    THE TWO MAIDENS.


    [The following Verses were written for a country Penny Reading].

    Two Bedfordshire maidens in one village dwelt;
    Side by side in their Church every Sunday they knelt;
    They were not very pretty and not very plain;
    And their names were Eliza and Emily Jane.

    Now Carpenter Smith was young, steady and still,
    And wherever he went, worked and played with a will:
    To bed he went early, and early did rise;
    So, of course, he was healthy, and wealthy, and wise.

    But John he grew tired of a bachelor's life,
    So he looked all around him in search of a wife;
    And his eyes, as they wandered, again and again
    Returned to Eliza and Emily Jane.

    And whenever those maidens encountered...

    "ONE GLASS OF BEER."

    Ne quid nimis.


    Tom Smith was the son of a Bedfordshire man;
    (The Smiths, we all know, are a numerous clan)
    He was happy and healthy and handsome and strong,
    And could sing on occasion a capital song.

    His father had once been a labourer poor,
    But had always contrived to keep want from the door;
    And by work and by thrift had enough in his pocket
    To rent a small farm from his landlord, and stock it.

    He died: Tom succeeded: the ladies all said
    It was high time he went to the Church to be wed;
    And Sarah and Clara, and Fanny and Bess,
    Confessed if he "offer'd" perhaps they'd say "Yes."

    But Tom fixed his eyes on the Miller's young daughter,
    And was only...

    FRED AND BILL.


    Two twins were once born in a Bedfordshire home;
    Such events in the best managed households may come;
    Tho', as Tomkins remarked in a voice rather gruff,
    "One child at a time for poor folks is enough."

    But it couldn't be helped, so his wife did her best;
    The children were always respectably drest;
    Went early to school; were put early to bed;
    And had plenty of taters and bacon and bread.

    Now we all should suppose that the two, being twins,
    Resembled each other as much as two pins:
    But no - they as little resembled each other
    As the man in the moon is "a man and a brother."

    Fred's eyes were dark brown, and his hair was jet black;
    He was supple in body, and straight in t...

    HOME, SWEET HOME.


    I'm a Bedfordshire Chap, and Bill Stumps is my name,
    And to tell it don't give me no manner of shame;
    For a man as works honest and hard for his livin',
    When he tells you his name, needn't feel no misgivin'.

    And works's what I live by.    At dawn o' the day,
    While some folks is snorin', I'm up and away;
    When I stops for my Bavor [1], 'twould dew your heart good,
    To see how I relish the taste o' my food.

    I'm fond o' my hoein', and ploughin', and drill,
    And my hosses all knows me and works with a will;
    I'm fond o' my 'chinin', and thackin' and drainin',
    For when work's to be done, 'taint no use a complainin.'

    I whistles a tune if the mornins be dark;
    When I goes hom...

[NOTE. - The following lines were written to celebrate the 'bump' by which the Lady Margaret 1st Boat became "Head of the River" in 1871. On the next evening Professor Selwyn delighted the eyes and the hearts of all Johnians by sculling down the river to salute the Head of the River.    The title of psychroloutes [*] needs no explanation to those who know the Selwyns, who are no less renowned as swimmers than as oarsmen.]


    "Tell me, Muse, what colour floateth round the River's ancient head:
    Is it white and black, or white and blue, is it scarlet, blue, or red?"
    Thus I prayed, and Clio answered, "Why, I thought the whole world knew
    That the red of Margareta had deposed the flag of blue!
    Babes unborn shall sing in rapture how, desiring Close [1] affinity,
    Goldie, rowing...

    Smoking lately in my "Funny," as I'm wont, beneath the bank,
    Listening to Cam's rippling murmurs thro' the weeds and willows dank,
    As I chewed the Cud of fancy, from the water there appeared
    An old man, fierce-eyed, and filthy, with a long and tangled beard;
    To the oozy shore he paddled, clinging to my Funny's nose,
    Till, in all his mud majestic, Cam's gigantic form arose.
    Brawny, broad of shoulders was he, hairy were his face and head,
    And amid loud lamentations tears incessantly he shed.
    "Son," he cried, "the sorrows pity of thy melancholy sire!
    Pity Camus! pity Cambridge! pity our disasters dire!
    Five long years hath Isis triumphed, five long years have seen my Eight
    Rowing second, vainly struggling 'gainst an unrelenting fate.
 ...

    Let penny-a-liners columns pour
        Of turgid efflorescence,
    Describe in language that would floor
        Our Cayleys, Rouths, and Besants,
    How Oxford oars as levers move,
        While Cambridge mathematics,
    Though excellent in theory, prove
        Unstable in aquatics.

    Our muse, a maiden ne'er renowned
        For pride, or self-reliance,
    Knows little of the depths profound
        Of "Telegraphic" science:
    But now her peace she cannot hold
        And like a true Camena,
    With look half-blushing and half-bold,
        Descends into the arena.

    Sing who was he that steered to win,
        In spite of nine disasters,
    And proved that men who ne'er give in
        Must in the end be masters?...

    Ridicula nuper cymba, sicut meus est mos,
    Flumineas propter salices et murmura Cami,
    Multa movens mecum, fumo inspirante, iacebam.
    Illic forte mihi senis occurrebat imago
    Squalida, torva tuens, longos incompta capillos;
    Ipse manu cymbam prensans se littore in udo
    Deposuit; Camique humeros agnoscere latos
    Immanesque artus atque ora hirsuta videbar:
    Mox lacrymas inter tales dedit ore querelas -
    "Nate," inquit, "tu semper enim pius accola Cami,
    Nate, patris miserere tui, miserere tuorum!
    Quinque reportatis tumet Isidis unda triumphis:
    Quinque anni videre meos sine laude secundo
    Cymbam urgere loco cunctantem, et cedere victos.
    Heu! quis erit finis?    Quis me manet exitus olim?
    Terga boum tergis vi non ced...

    He has gone to his grave in the strength of youth,
        While life shone bright before him;
    And we, who remember his worth and truth,
        Stand vainly grieving o'er him.

    He has gone to his grave; that manly heart
        No more with life is glowing;
    And the tears to our eyes unbidden start,
        Our sad hearts' overflowing.

    I gaze on his rooms as beneath I pace,
        And the past again comes o'er me,
    For I feel his grasp, and I see his face,
        And his voice has a welcome for me.

    I gaze on the river, and see once more
        His form in the race competing;
    And I hear the time of his well-known oar,
        And the shouts his triumph greeting.

    Flow on, cold river!    Our bitter grie...

[NOTE. - The following imitation of Cowper's Boadicea was written in 1858; most of its predictions have since been fulfilled.]

    When the Cambridge flower-show ended,
        And the flowers and guests were gone,
    And the evening shades descended,
        Roamed a man forlorn alone.

    Sage beside the River slow
        Sat the Don renowned for lore
    And in accents soft and low
        To the elms his love did pour.

    "Julia, if my learned eyes
        Gaze upon thy matchless face:
    'Tis because I feel there lies
        Magic in thy lovely grace.

    "I will marry! write that threat
        In the ink I daily waste:
    Marry - pay each College debt -
        College Ale no more will taste.

    "Granta, ...