1
My Dearest Father.
As I was walking round by Peckham rye
Canvassing many dreamings in rotation,
What varied theme, or subject I should try

5

Novel indeed, yet fit for this occasion,
I unto mine adviser says, _ says I
Would — Pooh, it does not matter what I said.
But counsel sage I did receive , whereby
I was induced a beaten path to tread,

10

And, following where whole multitudes have led,
To glean the gems wherewith that path is scattered.

2
To much for simile, but tʼwould be rude
To leave you any longer, Sir, in doubt.

15

What sort of rhyme requires such strange prelude
Or what my lyric is to be about.
How to commence, what sing of, where conclude
Or in what mad and mingled numbers run,
Know, that Iʼll try, with. Thalian fire imbued

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Thalia, yes, anʼt that the funny one.
To sing of years long past, and years to come
A moralizing theme, much babbled of by some.

3
You know, Sir, that I always aimed to be

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At least a something more than common rhymer:
And therefore, that I never deigned to be
A grovelling, annual, rapid flight of time_er.
But always seized on what remained to me
Of every theme, by other voice unsung.

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Nor brooked my rhyming spirit chained to be
To song on which the changes have been rung.
By mightier minds, or paths long raved among
Or lyre, to one dull air by thousand fingers strung

4

35

Now, after such preamble, how youʼll stare
To hear the subject I am going to write on
Really, tʼwould make a minor poetʼs hair
His puzzled pericranium stand upright on,
To dream of such a thing, that I should dare.

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To write on New yearʼs day. Choice theme, indeed
There is a dry bone subject, one most bare
Of all good matter; Hard, in very deed
To put the life inʼt. Would, I may succeed.
All ye who wish me well, I pray you, wish me speed

45

5
But donʼt imagine that I mean to say
My subject, in itself, is despicable.
But has been handled in so rude a way
Theres many a one would think himself unable

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To make a new thing onʼt, and take away,
That musty, barrowed air so often found
In many a moral ode on New‐yearʼs day
Each like the other and the constant sound
Of “Lapse of years,” and “ages rolling round”

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Is heard through every line with doubling din to sound

6
Yet it is worthy of a poetʼs mood
To moralize on pleasant years gone by,
And as he sitteth in the solitude

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Of the veiled night, to converse with the sky.
And think, (and in the thought find teaching good)
How many, in the lapse of years, like him
Beneath the red lights of the heaven have stood
To meditate, and moralize within

65

Upon whose grave the harebell now drinks in
The dew‐drops that slide down along the star‐rayʼs dim.

7
Methinkes I hear the voice of Morning cry
“Kick out Melpowminny, sheʼs most unpleasant.”

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Why, so I will, good Morning, by and by.
“Nay, Iʼm peremptory,” Well then, at present
I bid good morrow to the company.
And bid them smile, and be of excellent cheer
I wont be babbling of the midnight sky

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Nor talk of graves, nor such like things of fear
Nor bother them about the bygone year
So let me sing, for Iʼm a stanza in arrear.

8
Now, gentle Master Twelve‐month, good Monsieur

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Remember how we have rejoiced this day
And held a feast uponʼt, and all for you
How glad to see the old year pass away
How wondrous glad, to welcome in the new
We hold ourselves, and therefore smile, and shine

85

Gladden thy monthʼs and stretch thy spring‐time through
A cheery, jocund, sunny space of time.
And cause to lighten us with lustre fine
And kindly blaze, the stars of each solstitial sign.

9

90

And leave us not, good year, so rapidly
Nor, when thou hast tricked out the topmost twig
Of every tree with green leaves gaudily,
Breathing new life through every withered sprig
And lifting every forestʼs crest on high

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I pray thee, do not paint them brown and sere
Nor pluck them from their boughs, nor make them fly
At will of winds that whistle far and near
Over the earth, when winters glance severe
Freezes the waters cold, at dying of the year

100

10
Thou canst not check thy goings, nor delay
The swing of earth in her eternal course
Go then and bring us back this warning day,
This knot upon the line, that must, perforce

105

Teach us, how for the vessel on its way.
Slides down the stream of time. Nay, I could be
Exceeding serious, but I wonʼt betray
My promise, for I alwayʼs love to see
Most merry faces listening to me

110

Round this our table. Father, drink your cup of tea.

11
I hope the waters boiling. Stir the fire
Till the white gas leaps blazing from the coals
Till high on dusky wing the flames aspire

115

Let not the winters cold freeze up our souls.
Iʼm in the humour. Iʼll myself inspire
Myself with fury most poetical
Iʼll blaze abroad, and strike a lofty lyre
With an Apollinean tone withal

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I sing the year. Ye months come listen all
That is, if ye have any ears atall.

12
From your high dwellings, in the realms of snow,
And cloud, where many an avalanches fall

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Is heard resounding from the mountains brow
Come, ye cold winds, at Januaryʼs call,
On whistling wings, and with white flakes bestrow
The earth, till Februaryʼs reign restore
The race of torrents to their wanted flow,

130

Whose waves shall stand in silent ice no more
But, lashed by Marches maddened winds, shall roar,
With voice of ire, and beat the rocks on every shore

13
Bow down your heads ye flowers in gentle guise

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Before the dewy rain that April sheds
Whose sun shines through her clouds with quick surprise
Shedding soft influences on your heads,
And wreath ye round the rosy warmth that flies
To scatter perfumes in the path of June

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Till Julys sun upon the mountains rise
Triumphant, and the wan and weary moon,
Mingle her cold beams (large space) with the burning lume(this cant be right)
That Sirius sheds throughout the dreary midnight gloom.

14

145

Rejoice, ye fields, rejoice, and wave with gold
When August round her precious gifts is flinging,
Lo, the crushed wain(?) is slowly homewards rolled
Through all the air the reapers songs are singing
Septembers steps her juicy stares unfold

150

If the spring blossoms have not blushed in vain
Octobers foliage yellows with his cold
In rattling showʼrs Novemberʼs misty rain
From every stormy cloud decends amain(???)
Till dark Decembers snows chase up the year again

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15
Again, again, and still again, for ever
Hour after hour, successive changes show it:
Why should we care, or why should we endeavour
To stop your motion. Go it, gemmen, go it.

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But all I ask is, that youʼll (???) together,
In due proportion (large space) clear and cloudy sky
Nor stop our pleasure by your dirty weather
Then when your dance of twelve hath tripped it by
Iʼll take my measures up again, and I

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Will sing you out and in most merrily.

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I know not where Iʼve gained the information
That all the Ladieʼs letters always are
Most influential in ther termination.

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But these my final lines youʼll find by far
The most appropriate for this occaision.
For I have wrought this long and lazy poem
That, almost in the way of conversation
Yet, in a style and metre that looked knowing

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With copious idea, rhymes serenely flowing
I might slip in some thoughts about the year thatʼs going

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And wishes, that the coming one may be
Fraught with all the pleasantness, and go before

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Scores upon scores, all dowried plenteously
With Gods best blessings, an abundant store
Oh, Mine own dearest Father, may you see
The (letter A blurred) forties, fifties, sixties, seventies, go
And though it is not given us to be free

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From every pain in this dark earth below,
The final end of every ill we know
And hail the Fathers smile that through his frown will show.

"as I was walking round by Peckham rye"