to w r

To W. R.

A Friend in Australia.

TO you, on you, my Willy Reay,

To you, on you, so many a day,

Out o'er the seas and far away,—

A word or two,

A wee to ease my heart, I'd say

A word on you.

In this my wifie's thought's express'd,

For well I know within her breast

She ranks you with the truest, best

Of friends that I

Possess, or ever yet possest

In days gone by.

We've had our troubles great and small

Since last we met you, but 'mid all

We've thought of you and yours, and shall,

While life endures,

With rapture sweet the names recall

Of you and yours.

And often in the night-tide hours,

When, toil-relieved, and memory pours

Into our souls her sweetest showers,

Her healing dew,

Distilled from joy and sorrow's flowers,

We'll talk of you.

Of all the funny tales you'd tell

About the folks upon the Fell,

Where Teams flows onward yet to swell

Our own dear Tyne,

We'll talk as if beneath a spell

Almost divine.

The twinkle of your eye when aught

Grotesque or sweet your fancy caught,

And ended in some happy thought,

Or feeling deep;

Of this with painful pleasure fraught,

We'll talk and weep.

Your jokes that never left a sting,

Of your bright laugh, whose merry ring

Told of the pureness of its spring,

The hours away,

We'll talk, talk, talk of every thing

You'd do or say.

Nor only of the joys that were,

But what the golden hour will bear

When you return, we'll talk; for ne'er,

Befall what may,

Can we of your return despair,

Nay, never! nay.

That cruel thought we could not dree,

That cruel thought we'll flee and flee,

Till you again have cross'd the sea;

For come you will,

And with your heart-inspiring glee,

Our feelings thrill.

Then will we mock at curst mischance,

And sing our song and dance our dance;

And on our native hobbies prance,

Unlike yon crew

Who merely ape the apes of France

In all they do.

A little fun will oft engage

The moments of the deepest sage;

And tho' we're somewhat touched with age,

Our jokes we'll crack,—

Nay, Glee on Care a war will wage

When you come back.

As wont, we'll ramble up and down

Our smoky and yet rare old town;

Most rare I say, and with a frown

What! Willy, what!

Would we not face a king or clown,

Would say it's not?

We'll down and see the castle grand,

So firmly built, so nobly planned;

And at whose feet two bridges stand,

Of rare design,

By which from bank to bank is spann'd,

Our Coaly Tyne.

We'll see St. Nicholas as of old,

For beauty worth its weight in gold,

Nor heed if others suns behold,

In fanes afar,

To which compared our own, we're told,

Is but a star.

Confound the carpers who compare

The virtues of our jewels fair,

As if they loved away to scare

Some vision which

Might otherwise with magic rare

Our lives enrich!

Have we not ills enough and more,

But we must keep a bolted door,

Lest some stray fay from Beauty's shore,

Of Love begot,

Glide in to charm us evermore?

La! have we not?

But whither flies the Muse?

A throng Of feelings hurries her along;

Yet like the tinkler in the song,

In all her flight,

Just when she seems to go most wrong,

She goes most right!

Your nags so hide-bound, stiff, and tough,

May suit old hags, gaunt, grim, and gruff,

But not the gipsy elves, enough,

Whose spirits high

Would into airy nothing puff

The world they fly!

On winged steeds they'd go; nor will

Our Muse less swift scour onward still,

When thrill our heart-strings as they thrill,

Nay, almost crack,

At thought of how the time we'll kill

When you come back!

We'll then, as I have said and say,

The glories of our town survey;

A visit to the Dene we'll pay;

Then down the burn

We'll link ho! ho! we'll link that day,

When you return.

Away to canny Shields will we,

And bonny Whitley-by-the-Sea,

Then up to Hexham in our glee;

Nay, rest we'll spurn

Till all the country-side we see,

When you return.

That will we view, and many a thing

To which our sweetest feelings cling,

And from our harps shall flow a spring

From rapture born,

That many a lad and lass shall sing,

When you return.

When you return; when Mary Jane

And you come sailing o'er the main,

No storm will blow the ship to strain—

Each charm-bound wave

Will duck its head down till you gain

Our harbour safe.

That day of days?—Run, Sally, run!

And stop the tune in love begun,

Or I shall harp till I'm undone,

And have, alack!

No strength to hug our cronies, none!

When they come back.

Not, not so fast. Ah, there, now there,

You've bumped your chin against the chair

And bit your tongue—well I declare!

That tongue that's rung

Me many a curtain song so rare,

Since we were young.

"Ha, ha!" you cry: well, darling, well,

I'm glad that naught occurr'd to quell

The music of that golden bell,

And that its clack

May help my welcome cry to swell

When Will comes back.

Till then, again, adieu, my friend,

And when you have an hour to spend

On rhyme, a rhyme thy crony send:

Do, Willy do;

Meanwhile, believe me to the end,

A brother true.