On Hearing The Translation Of Part Of The Farmer's Boy Into Latin

    By the Rev. Mr. C - ;

Hey, Giles! in what new garb art dresst?
For Lads like you methinks a bold one;
I'm glad to see thee so caresst;
But, hark ye! - don't despise your old one.
Thou'rt not the first by many, a Boy
Who've found abroad good friends to own 'em;
Then, in such Coats have shown their joy,
E'en their own Fathers have not known 'em.

Robert Bloomfield

Robert Bloomfield was an English poet noted for his rural and pastoral themes. Born on December 3, 1766, in Essex, he worked initially as a shoemaker before his verse brought him to public attention. His most famous work, "The Farmer's Boy," published in 1800, depicts the countryside and agricultural life with great sensitivity. Bloomfield faced financial difficulties despite his success and died on August 19, 1823. His works are considered significant contributions to English pastoral poetry.

Robert Bloomfield

Song For A Highland Drover Returning From England.

Robert Bloomfield, Simple Poetry

Letter III. From A Young Garden-Spider To Her Mother. (The Bird And Insects' Post-Office.)

Robert Bloomfield, Simple Poetry

Letter XIV. The Owl In Reply To The Wood-Pigeon. (The Bird And Insects' Post-Office.)

Robert Bloomfield, Simple Poetry

Hunting Song

Robert Bloomfield, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Farmer's Boy

He waits all day beside his little flock
And asks the passing stranger what's o'clock,
But those who often pass his daily tasks
Look at their watch and tell before he asks.
He mutters stories to himself and lies
Where the thick hedge the warmest house supplies,
And when he hears the hunters far and wide
He climbs the highest tree to see them ride--
He climbs till all the fields are blea and bare
And makes the old crow's nest an easy chair.
And soon his sheep are got in other grounds--
He hastens down and fears his master come,
He stops the gap and keeps them all in bounds
And tends them closely till it's time for home.

John Clare

The Calf. - To The Rev. Mr. James Steven.

On his text, MALACHI, iv. 2 - "And ye shall go forth, and grow up as CALVES of the stall."


    Right, Sir! your text I'll prove it true,
        Though Heretics may laugh;
    For instance; there's yoursel' just now,
        God knows, an unco Calf!

    And should some patron be so kind,
        As bless you wi' a kirk,
    I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find,
        Ye're still as great a Stirk.

    But, if the lover's raptur'd hour
        Shall ever be your lot,
    Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly power,
        You e'er should be a stot!

    Tho', when some kind, connubial dear,
        Your but-and-ben adorns,
    The like has been that you may wear
        A noble head of horns.

    And in your lug, most reverend Jame...

Robert Burns

Translation{D} Of A Latin Poem - By The Rev. Newton Ogle, Dean Of Manchester.

Oh thou, that prattling on thy pebbled way
Through my paternal vale dost stray,
Working thy shallow passage to the sea!
Oh, stream, thou speedest on
The same as many seasons gone;
But not, alas, to me
Remain the feelings that beguiled
My early road, when, careless and content,
(Losing the hours in pastimes innocent)
Upon thy banks I strayed a playful child;
Whether the pebbles that thy margin strew,
Collecting, heedlessly I threw;
Or loved in thy translucent wave
My tender shrinking feet to lave;
Or else ensnared your little fry,
And thought how wondrous skilled was I!
So passed my boyish days, unknown to pain,
Days that will ne'er return again.
It seems but yesterday
I was a child, to-morrow to be gray!
So years succeeding years steal sile...

William Lisle Bowles

The Ploughman.

Tune - "Up wi' the ploughman."


I.

    The ploughman he's a bonnie lad,
        His mind is ever true, jo,
    His garters knit below his knee,
        His bonnet it is blue, jo.
                Then up wi' him my ploughman lad,
                    And hey my merry ploughman!
                Of a' the trades that I do ken,
                    Commend me to the ploughman.

II.

    My ploughman he comes hame at e'en,
        He's aften wat and weary;
    Cast off the wat, put on the dry,
        And gae to bed, my dearie!

III.

    I will wash my ploughman's hose,
        And I will dress his o'erlay;
    I will mak my ploughman's bed,
        And cheer him late and early.

IV.

   ...

Robert Burns

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline. (Recommending A Boy.)

Mossgiel, May 3, 1786.


I.

    I hold it, Sir, my bounden duty,
    To warn you how that Master Tootie,
        Alias, Laird M'Gaun,
    Was here to hire yon lad away
    'Bout whom ye spak the tither day,
        An' wad ha'e done't aff han':
    But lest he learn the callan tricks,
        As, faith, I muckle doubt him,
    Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks,
        An' tellin' lies about them;
            As lieve then, I'd have then,
                Your clerkship he should sair,
            If sae be, ye may be
                Not fitted otherwhere.

II.

    Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough,
    An' bout a house that's rude an' rough
        The boy might learn to swear;
    But then, wi' you, he...

Robert Burns

Epigram On Hearing Mr. **** Boast That He Could Translate Virgil

Thou able, boaster! Virgil to translate!
Can'st thou, then, be so vain, so shallow-pated?
To a far higher intellectual state,
Coxcomb! thou must, thyself, be first translated.

*    *    *    *    *

A lady had a sickly son;
A skeleton but for his skin:
Her pretty maid he woo'd, and won;
The mother chid him for his sin.
'Her charms were not to be withstood,
Too tempting for frail flesh and blood!
As you, dear Ma'am, must fairly own.'
"That's no excuse for skin and bone."

Thomas Oldham