to w r

To you, to you, my Willy Reay
Since you've been gone this many a day,
Out o'er the seas and far away,
A word or two
A word to ease my heart, I'd say
A word on you.

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 fondness sweet the names recall
Of you and yours.

When you return to this dear land
We'll down and see the castle grand,
Below whose feet two bridges stand,
Of rare design,
By which from bank to bank is spann'd,
Our Coaly Tyne.

We'll walk together down the way,
The glories of our town survey;
A visit to the Dene we'll pay;
Then down the burn
And arm in arm 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;
All rest we'll spurn
Till all the country-side we see,
When you return.

Till then, again, adieu, my friend,
And when you have an hour to spend
A rhyme to thy old crony send:
Dear Willy do;
Meanwhile, believe me to the end
A brother true.

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 allWe'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.