Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A SIMPLE SERMON FOR COUNTRY COTTAGERS, by ROWLAND EYLES EGERTON-WARBURTON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A SIMPLE SERMON FOR COUNTRY COTTAGERS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: A workman worth your weight in gold
Last Line: Who works for him his wage is sure!
Alternate Author Name(s): Egerton-warburton, R. E.
Subject(s): Country Life; Houses


A WORKMAN worth your weight in gold,
Good Samuel, think not over bold
Your Master, if his friendly pen
For you and for your fellow men,
For all who by their labour live,
A word of honest counsel give.

No harm I trust in my intent,
And since the Vicar gives consent,
A homely Sermon I propose
To preach in verse, instead of prose.
This read, till nodding both your heads,
To Nan, while she her needle threads;
No doctrine to perplex your brain,
The practice that I preach is plain—
Plain as the needlework she sews,
It needs no spectacles on nose;
And if 'tis more, by toil opprest,
Than you at once can well digest,
My sermon into portions split,
And read it over, bit by bit.

The text that I shall take is this,
Writ in the Book of Genesis;
See chapter three, and verse nineteen,
Words speaking clearly what they mean:
"By sweat thy bread thou here shalt earn,
Till thou again to dust return."

Think not that I intend to rant,
Nor call what I begin with "cant;"
I'd rather tear it, shred by shred,
Than leave what I would say unsaid.
Thank, on your knees, the GOD of Heaven
Each morn for rest to labour given;
And thank HIM, ere you seek your bed,
For strength bestow'd to earn your bread.
Handle, when labouring in the field,
With skill each weapon that you wield,
Or axe, or bill-hook, spade, or rake,
To fell, to delve, to tine and stake
The hedge, or summer hay to make.

With whomsoever you engage,
Give honest work for honest wage;
If e'er in idleness detected,
Or chidden for some task neglected,
Though nettled conscience feel the smart,
Curse not the Master in your heart;
Nor vent your wrath in oath outright
Of loud abuse, when out of sight:
The inward curse, the outward oath,
A GOD there is who heareth both.

When threatening clouds a shower denote,
Ere yet it falls, put on your coat,
'Tis better for yourself and Master,
Than, later on, the "Poor Man's Plaister."

How many a pamper'd son of wealth
Would envy then your vigorous health,
And envy too, as well he might,
The vigour of your appetite,
When, down the pathway, bustling Nan
At noon-day brings the dinner-can.

To betters met upon the way
Take off your hat and bid "Good day;"
Not that in worth they better be
Than you, but it is Heaven's decree
That all men should, in their gradation,
Due honour yield to every station.

Your years tho' they may reach four score,
And doctors ne'er have cross'd your door,
Reject not, till on deathbed laid,
The visit by the parson paid,
Who comes to comfort and to aid:
Some ill,—your body sound and whole,—
Some evil habit may control
And harm unconsciously your soul;
As through a dwelling creeps dry rot
And spreads decay, though heeded not.

Home straightway trudge when work is o'er,
Where, latch uplifted, at the door
Stands Nancy, with a smile to greet
And welcome back your weary feet;
Then dusts, though not a speck appear,
Your wonted seat behind the speer;
While ruddy children climb the chair
Your loaf and evening meal to share.

O happy circle, happy spot!
More happy still the owner's lot!
Can he who, born and nurtur'd there,
Has breath'd the breath of Heaven's pure air,
From childhood, who has known the worth
Of such a Paradise on earth,
In mine or mill his hands engage,
Inveigled by their weekly wage?
A guinea, or it may be more,
The spirit merchant keeps the score.
Can he his arm in furnace thrust,
Till baked himself to oven dust?
Who, then, the ruddy glow can trace
Beneath the soot that masks his face?
Few years, it may be five or ten,
He pines and struggles, and what then?
A cinder then the labourer stout,
From which the gas is all burnt out;
As refuse from the threshold cast,
He in the workhouse dies at last!
Works such as these the labourer's bane,
So long as they his life-blood drain;
For every cake of soap with which
They wash the fingers of the rich,
The fumes that from the boiler reek
Make pallid many a sunken cheek.

A King once Italy o'errun
Named Attila, a warlike Hun;
Who is it comes our fields to spoil,
Invading now our fruitful soil?
More pestilent a scourge is he
Than Attila—King Alkali!
He comes not hither sword in hand,
His breath spreads poison o'er the land;
He opens wide his filthy mouth,
And winds disperse it north and south!
King Alkali, though England's curse,
What cares he while he fills his purse?
Behold the wide-spread desolation!
Behold the wither'd vegetation!
The once broad oak a gibbet now,
With sapless trunk and blighted bough;
In vain the housewife drains the teat,
The tainted milk no longer sweet;
Rank grass where once sweet herbage grew,
With vitriol fed instead of dew;
Oats sulphur-shrivell'd, poison'd wheat,
Nought left to either sell or eat.

The truth of this let Widnes tell,
Woe be to those who near it dwell!
Though many are the ills they share,
None ever died of sunstroke there;
Quite impotent the mid-day beam
To harm them, wrapp'd in smoke and steam;
They neither need in Widnes street,
The light of sunshine nor the heat:
Their boast that they can both surpass
With furnace fire and flaming gas.

Ere stifled in this loathsome den,
Return we to your home again.
A word in season let me drop,
Though needless, on your garden crop.
Clothe, shelter'd by the cottage wall,
One narrow bed, however small,
With wholesome herb and scented flower.
Let jessamine the porch embower;
Let roses nod against the pane,
The quarries with their blush to stain;
Let sweetbriar shed its fragrance round,
And violets blue bedeck the ground;
Aslant the pointed hedgerow clip;
The weeds from every border strip;
The orchard stock—excell'd by none,
The Keswick and the apple John;
If well your soil the damson suit,
In autumn hung with purple fruit,
Each bushel will repay you well,
When they at half-a-guinea sell;
But plant them not too near the edge,
Nor let their boughs o'ershade the hedge;
Potatoes, such their various kind,
Be not to one your choice confined.

More precious seed, your toil to bless,
Heartsease, Content, and Happiness,
Will in that little plot take root,
Bear brighter bloom and richer fruit
Than that, with lavish gold-dust sown,
By hands which half a county own.

The model farm has stripp'd you bare;
Where all is straight and all is square,
No inch will the improver spare.
Fain would I, could I gain the chance,
Reclaim your lost inheritance;
What eye hath not with pleasure seen
The margin of the wayside green?
The hedge where honeysuckles trail,
The mossy bank, the primrose pale?
Who hath not heard, on that blest ground,
Of childhood's laugh the merry sound?
Or seen those tiny hands pick up
The acorn, tumbled from its cup?
Poor things! what other toys have they,
What other playground for their play!

It is the poor man's park, in spite
Of farm encroachment, his by right:
Ye lords, who own the neighbouring land,
Restrain the agent's grasping hand;
Grudge not the crumbs, a pittance small,
That from the rich man's table fall;
And, spite of tyrant laws, allow
That pasture to the tented cow.

Here would I in few words explain
Your children how to teach and train,
Ere yet I end my Sermon, show
The way they should and should not go.
Teach first at home that golden rule,
Worth all that they will learn at school;
Teach, whether it be yea or nay,
Teach them when bidden to obey.

E'en Nan to this assent will nod:
They spoil the child who spare the rod;
Or with it, or without it, still
Subdued must be the stubborn will.
Beware of over-education,
If it unfit them for their station;
The boy, if he both can and will
His Bible read—if steadfast still
He keep the Ten Commandments read,
Both in his heart and in his head—
The Saviour's prayer—the Church's creeds—
His soul no further learning needs.

Let kindness make a cheerful home,
Lest he with evil comrades roam;
As from a viper bid him shrink
From every snare that lures to drink;
That demon, if it once entice,
Will lead him on from vice to vice.
Oh! bid him dread it as the brink
Of hell—hell-fire is fed with drink.
Woe! if he honest spade-work shun,
And learn to load the poacher's gun;
Or, if for gin no shilling left,
The dram should be supplied by theft;
'Twill bare his back in prison cell
To meet the whip he merits well;
Or, if he 'scape the gallows-tree,
Reduce to rags and beggary.

Drink is man's curse—a curse no less
To woman is the love of dress;
God never meant the village maid
To flaunt in satin and brocade.
I'd rather meet, at early morn,
While yet the dew-drop gems the thorn,
The milkmaid in her cotton vest
And petticoat of lindsey drest,
The milk-pail poised upon her head,
With rosy health her cheek o'erspread,
Than see, in gold and diamond sheen,
Robed, crown'd, and jewell'd Sheba's Queen.
The bill for finery unpaid
Has brought to sorrow many a maid;
Some villain feigns her love to claim,
Then leaves her friendless in her shame:
Betray'd, dishonour'd past recall,
How speedy then her downward fall!
Despair pursues her wand'ring feet,
Starvation, or the midnight street;
Who can o'er such a fate forbear
To shed a tear, and breathe a prayer!

There's nothing new in what I've said,
'Tis wholesome still as daily bread;
Cling to the cottage and the cow;
The garden till, and speed the plough;
With no unwilling ear attend
To one who claims to be your friend,
Among you who delights to dwell,
Who knows you and who loves you well.
But poor the love by creature given,
To that rich love rain'd down from Heaven!
The love of mighty kings of earth
Compared to HIS how little worth,
Who shed upon the Cross of pain
HIS precious Blood, for sinners slain,
A GOD who careth for the poor:
Who works for HIM his wage is sure!





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