A Winter's Day And Night. Poem by Samuel Bamford

First comes the white bearded frost at morn,
Next comes the red sun, bald and shorn,
Then comes the sleet, and then comes the snow,
And then, o'er the winter-fields howling doth go,
The dark cold wind forlorn.

What do I see at the broad mid-day?
Wild birds a-flocking to fly away;
Brown hare is sitting close under the fern,
Pheasants in cover feed, fowls by the barn;
Calf doth in crib lie, the kine in their bay,
Dickon is thrashing that weary wet day;
Dame is at spinning wheel, Mal butter makes,
Betty brews Kemus ale, Dorothy bakes;
Cross-mark the dough, and the cream, and the malt,
So that if witch should come, back she must halt.
Heigh, then! for jannocks o' barley and rye!
Heigh! for the smoking hot potato pie!
Heigh! for the brewing of humming brown ale!
Where there's good meat and drink, work will not fail.

What do I mark at the waning of day?
Sun, like a truant, goes round-about way,
Down by the south he hangs cloudy and shy,
As heaven's mid arch were too wide and too high.
But 'ere he meet the sea's weltering streams,
Will he not look again with his bright beams?
Purple and molten gold 'neath him are spread;
Ruby and amber-light gleam over head.
Oh! what a deluge of splendour he flings,
Thousands of miles from his burring wide wings!

Now, as I gaze on that glory-lost sky,
Shadows of darkness around me do fly,
And witches are spanning the dolesome black clouds,
To rend into palls and to shape into shrouds.
I'd better home again, lest it should be
That the weird hags begin spanning for me.
Goodly old psalm tune I'll hum by the way,
For strange things do happen at closing of day.

Day hath departed, and here cometh night;
Clouds are fast riding, and stars glitter bright—
Some ope and twinkle, like eyes of fair gold,
Sonic are a ruby red, some pale and cold.
Oh! what a strewing of diamonds' sheen
Spangles the robe of the night-walking queen!
Oh! what a pathway the Maker hath trod!
Stars are but dust in the footsteps of God.

Hark! what a sounding adown the broad sky!
From the blue star-regions cometh a sigh;
Voice of the troubled wind 'gins to bewail;
Wings of the mighty wind hitherward sail.
Now he comes howling, like ocean's sad roar,
On the one verge of some desolate shore—
Now he is calling, both loud and forlorn,
For havock to mount and ride with him till morn!
Now he goes crying , like cradle-reft child;
Now whistles shrill, like a night-prowler wild;
Now doth he scream, like an eagle for prey;
Now, like a myriad of steeds, rush away!

I'll hurry timeously over the moor,
Shut close my casement, and fasten my door.
Warlocks and night-hags may come on the blast,
I've a good horse-shoe they cannot get past.
Safe there, I'll ponder each notable sight
I marked at morning, noon, evening, and night.