Epistle The Twelfth Poem by Robert Anderson

Rejoice with me, ye vocal train,
And raise the cheerful rustic strain;
Our Cumbrian Bard, with glee again,
The song renews:
Nor grief, nor absence, can restrain
His generous Muse.

The sight of native fields and skies,
Revives the thoughts of youthful joys;
Thoughts absence blunts, but ne'er destroys,
And hark! his reed,
With double sweetness he employs
In dale and mead.

And thou, our Bard, though 'tis not thine
In battle's gory scenes to shine;
Scenes which too oft, in strains divine,
The Muses sing;--
And oh! with glory deeds combine,
That ruin bring.

Nor mercenary talents thee
Have taught to bend the servile knee;
Though modest, humble, thou art free,
And know'st thy soul
To aid oppression, bribe, or fee,
Need'st no controul.

But thou hast been our fields among,
And thou hast mark'd the rural throng;
Our griefs and joys to thee belong,
And thine's the art
To soothe the mind with tender song,
And cheer the heart.

Sing on, sweet Bard, thy country's friend;--
Amuse, delight, instruct, amend;
And whilst our weal you ardent 'tend,
When faults you see,
Spare not the kindly lash; we'll bend,
And thankful be.

So may'st thou live to see the day,
To wear an honour'd pow of grey;
When wife, and maid, united say,
And sire and son,--
``We aw for thee will gratefu' pray, R. Anderson.''