Poems (Cook)/The Old Barn

by Eliza Cook

For works with similar titles, see The Old Barn.

THE OLD BARN.

The Barn, the Old Barn, oh! its dark walls were rife
With the records most fair in my tablet of life;
And a rare barn it was, for, search twenty miles round,
Such another brave building was not to be found.

'Twas large as an ark, 'twas as strong as a church,
'Twas the chicken's resort, 'twas the young raven's perch;
There the bat flapp'd his wing, and the owlet might screech,
Secure in the gable-ends, far out of reach.

For many a year had the harvest-home wain
Creak'd up to its door with the last load of grain;
And 'twas evident Time had been playing his pranks
With the moss-garnish'd roof, and the storm-beaten planks.

A wee thing, they tumbled me into its mow;
And left me to scramble out, Heaven knows how;
A wild, merry girl, the old barn was the spot
Which afforded delight that is still unforgot.

'Twas a birthday, one scion was walking life's stage,
In Youth's proudest of characters-just come of age;
Many joys were devised-but the chosen of all
Was to clear out the old barn, and "get up a ball."

We had pray'd, we had hoped that the lanes might be dry,
That no cloud would come over the moon-lighted sky;
But, alas! 'twas November, and fog, sleet, and gloom
Made the night of our jubilee dark as the tomb.

The rain fell in torrents—the wind roar'd along—
The watch-dog howl'd back to the rude, tempest song;
And we trembled, and fear'd lest the merriest set
Should be scared by that true English sunshine—the wet.

But, hark—what loud voices—what rumbling of wheels—
What stepping in puddles—what tragical "squeals!"
While close-tilted waggons and mud-spatter'd carts
Set down a rare cargo of happy young hearts.

What a dance was the first—with what pleasure we went
Down the middle and up, till our breathing was spent!
Though Musard might have shrugg'd at a bit of a strife
'Twixt the notes of the fiddle and key of the fife.

Our flooring was rugged, our sconces had rust;
There was falling of grease—there was raising of dust;
But Terpsichore publish'd a Morning Post "yarn"
Of the Almacks we held in the noble, old barn.

Then the rat-hunt—oh, mercy! we hear poets speak
Of the tug of fierce battle when "Greek joins with Greek;"
But war held as wild and as deadly a reign
When the terriers met the destroyers of grain.

The smith left his bellows—the miller his sack—
'Twas lucky that business grew suddenly slack:
The thatcher was there, and the thatcher's boy too,
And somehow, the butcher had nothing to do.

The Squire lent his stick and his voice to the fray;
He, of course, only "chanced to be riding that way;"
And the master—the ploughman—the rich and the poor,
Stood Equality's jostling about the barn door.

There was bustling old Pincher, all fierceness and bark;
And even fat Dido, as gay as a lark;
Snap, Vixen, and Bob, and another full score,
For though rats might be many—the dogs were oft more.

It was sport, I dare say, but such works were torn down,
That the sapient "master" look'd on with a frown;
And saw without aid of astrologer's star,
That the hunters were worse than the hunted, by far.

Full well I remember our taking the ale
To the good-natured fellow who toil'd at the flail;
When the boy—who now sleeps with a stone at his feet—
Would fain try his hand as a thrasher of wheat.

'Twas agreed to—and boldly he swung the bright staff,
With an awkwardness raising a tittering laugh,
Which strengthen'd to bursting Vulgarity's tone,
When, instead of on wheat-ears it fell on his own.

Ever luckless in daring, 'twas he who slipp'd down,
With a broken-out tooth and a broken-in crown—
When he clamber'd up high on the crossbeams, to feed
The unhappy stray cat and her tortoiseshell breed.

'Twas he who, in petulance, sulk'd with his home,
And pack'd up his bundle the wide world to roam;
But, with penitent heart, and a shelterless head,
He came back to the sheaves in the barn for a bed.

'Twas a bitter, cold night when I heard with a pout,
That the stables were full, and old Dobbin turn'd out;
Old Dob who had seen a score miles since the morn;
'Twas a shame and a cruelty not to be borne.

A brother was ready—the pony was caught—
Brought in he must be—yet where could he be brought?
But short was the parley; and munching away,
He was warm in the barn with his oats and his hay.

The barn was the place where the beams and the rope
Gave our mischievous faculties plenty of scope;
And when rick-lines were found, knotted, sever'd, and fray'd,
Not a word did we breathe of the swings we had made.

"Hide and Seek" was the game that delighted us most,
When we stealthily crept behind pillar and post;
When the law was enforced that "Home" should not be won
Till we'd encircled the barn in our scampering run.

I'd a merry heart then,—but I scarcely know why
I should look into Memory's page with a sigh;
'Tis ungrateful to turn to the past with regret,
When we hold a fair portion of happiness yet.

My laugh in that day was a spirited shout,
But still it is heard to ring joyously out;
My friends were the warmest that childhood could find,
But those round me still are endearingly kind.

"Long ago" has too often awaken'd my soul,
Till my brow gather'd shade, and the tear-drop would roll;
Down, down, busy thought, for the future may be
As bright as the time of the Old Barn for me.