* * * * *
With a sentence or two, by way of continuation to the appeal already
made in behalf of George Bloomfield, it was purposed to conclude the
present article; but just as the sheet was ready for the press a packet
of his manuscript papers arrived, and extracts from these will exemplify
his character and his necessities. The following address to one of his
old friends is a fair specimen of his talent for versifying:--
TO MR. THOMAS WISSET, OF SAPISTON, PSALM SINGER, PARISH CLERK, AND
SEXTON, &C. &C.
Respectfully I would impart,
In language most befitting,
The sorrows of an aching heart,
With care and trouble smitten.
I’ve lost the best of wives, d’ye see,
That e’er to man was given;
Alas! she was too good for me,
So she’s remov’d to heaven.
But while her happiness I trace,
Fell poverty pursuing,
Unless another takes her place,
’Twill be my utter ruin.
My children’s clothes to rags are worn,
Nor have we wit to mend ’em;
Their tatters flying all forlorn--
Kind Providence, defend ’em.
Dear Tom, thou art St. Andrew’s clerk,
And glad I am to know it;
Thou art a witty rhyming spark,
The merry village poet.
Make some fond woman to me fly.
No matter what her form be;
If she has lost a leg or eye,
She still with love may charm me.
If she loves _work_, Oh! what delight,
What joy it will afford her,
To darn our clothes from morn to night,
And keep us all in order.
Would some kind dame but hear my plaint,
And would thou to me give her,
St. Andrew!--he shall be my saint,
And thou his clerk for ever.
Dear Tom, may all thy joys increase,
And to thee be it given,
When singing here on earth shall cease,
To pitch the key in Heaven.