There was an Old Man of Blackheath,
Whose head was adorned with a wreath
Of lobsters and spice, pickled onions and mice,
That uncommon Old Man of Blackheath.

There was a Young Person in green,
Who seldom was fit to be seen;
She wore a long shawl, over bonnet and all,
Which envelloped that Person in green.

There was an old person who sung,
‘Bloo—Sausages! Kidnies! and Tongue!
Bloo! Bloo! my dear Madam,
My name is Old Adam.
Bloo! Sausages—Kidnies, and Tongue!’

There were three girls in the Kalmoe house
we called “No-more-daughters's”:
Toksun,
Poksun,
and Kilsun;
and this time around another charcoal daughter
—which explains the family's god-awful name.
The father came home full of booze anger,
announced he'd throw out this good-for-nothing
woman who had nothing but daughters,
grabbed her by the hair of the head
—she was still in postpartum care—
knocked down the rotten fence on the way out
and burst into floods of tears. A capital sight!

The other side was that No-more-daughters's

For a single move a thousand
years have gone flowing past

while for the next move a thousand
years have passed and still

no sound of a stone
striking the board.

Parting turns to fire;
it burns up my innards.
Tears become rain; perhaps they'll quench that fire.
But sighs
become the wind; will the fire live or die?

The green corn waving in the dale,
The ripe grass waving on the hill:
I lean across the paddock pale
And gaze upon the giddy mill.

Its hurtling sails a mighty sweep
Cut thro' the air: with rushing sound
Each strikes in fury down the steep,
Rattles, and whirls in chase around.

Beside his sacks the miller stands
On high within the open door:
A book and pencil in his hands,
His grist and meal he reckoneth o'er.

His tireless merry slave the wind
Is busy with his work to-day:
From whencesoe'er, he comes to grind;

I saw her on the bridal night:
Rich jewels decked her hair;
But in her eye—once sparkling bright—
I marked a yearning care.
Before the altar, side by side,
Without a smile or word,
They stood—the bridegroom and the bride—
The victim and her lord!

Upon her cold and pallid brow
There hung a single gem;
It needed but her passive vow
To gain a diadem!
That vow was uttered—still the bride
Before the altar stands;
With heightened form and seeming pride,
She listens to the banns.

Her hair fell o'er her angel face,

O Thou, whose sober precepts can controul
The wild impatience of the troubled soul,
Sweet Nymph serene! whose all-consoling pow'r
Awakes to calm delight the ling'ring hour;
——O hear thy suppliant's ardent pray'r!
——Chase from my pensive mind corroding care,
Steal thro' the heated pulses of the brain,
Charm sorrow to repose—and lull the throb of pain.

——O, tell me, what are life's best joys?
——Are they not visions that decay,
——Sweet honey'd poisons, gilded toys,
——Vain glitt'ring baubles of a day?
O say what shadow do they leave behind,

You think yourself a woman,
because you have children and lovers;
but in a street
with only Orion and the Pleiades to see us,
you begin to sing, you begin to skip.

Yet once again do I behold the forms
Of these huge mountains, and yet once again,
Standing beneath these elms, I hear thy voice,
Beloved Derwent, that peculiar voice
Heard in the stillness of the evening air,
Half-heard and half-created.