While looking for something else I stumbled across this poem about an elopement. It was published in the Belfast News-Letter, on Friday, July 6, 1838. It seems it originally appeared in Sunbeam Magazine, and was in a few other newspapers around that time. All that Google finds is that it was also in the “New Popular forget-me-not Songster“, around mid 19th Century.
http://books.google.com.au/books?id=Zq9 ... CDAQ6AEwAA
THE ELOPEMENT—A TALE.
There are many rum fellows in village and town,
With rum noses dyed red, and rum faces dyed brown;
Who wear the peruke, and the full bottomed wig,
And that elegant thing like the tail of a pig;
Who are busy, and idle, and little, and big—
Who are dwarfish and tall,
Who squeak and who bawl,
But Habakkuk Lynn was the rummest of all!
In a neat little house, with neat windows and door,
And a garden behind, and a garden before,
He lived on a time—but the time is now o'er,
And will never, oh! never, return any more.
Midst this busy world's din,
There's a smile that can win
The heart of a man from temptation and sin,
And that smile it belonged to Miss Lydia Lynn;
It beamed on her father—it beamed on her maid—
It beamed on her books—on the music she played—
It beamed on the gardener—it beamed on his spade—
And at length the sweet smile most unwillingly strayed
To a youth who walked past,
Rather slower than fast;
And, strangely enough, there it rested and stayed.
Mr. Mandeville Jones had dark eyes and dark hair,
Dark whiskers, and also a delicate pair
Of dark young mustachios—an aquiline nose—
A brow like the lily—a cheek like the rose—
And teeth which were quite
As beauteously white
As the paper unsoiled upon which we now write.
He was five feet ten inches, sans stockings and shoes,
And might have enlisted, but he didn't choose,
In fact, he was handsome; and, stranger than funny,
Mr Mandeville Jones had not very much money!
Ill-natured folks say
That he squandered away
A very large fortune, and say it they may.
We only know this—when he first cast his eye
On Miss Lydia Lynn, as he strolled slowly by,
His pockets were light and his spirits were low,
And he knew not, and cared not, which way he should go.
Mr Mandeville Jones made inquiries about,
And, with very small trouble, he chanced to find out,
That old Mr Lynn,
Though himself very thin,
Had strong chests which were lined pretty thickly within;
And then he discovered, with praiseworthy care,
That Miss Lydia Lynn was her father's sole heir.
Very well dressed,
And looking his best,
One day Mr Jones became Mr Lynn's guest;
He staid until twelve, and often again
Did he dine there, and until the midnight remain;
And smoked many a pipe, and played many a rub
With Lynn, except once, when Lynn went to his club.
And then! why young Mandeville sat by the side
Of Miss Lynn—and he talked, and oft mournfully sighed,
Till at last; in a transport, he rose from his seat,
And threw himself headlong at Lydia's feet!
Already too many love stories have been
Written by far, so we'll just close the scene;
Suffice it to say,
That all went the right way,
And the lover agreed that he would, the next day,
Ask for the consent of Miss Lydia's sire,
To the marriage which seemed to be all their desire;
And further, if he should destroy their fond hope,
They determined, without more ado, TO ELOPE!
Mr Lynn, in peremptory accents denied
That his daughter should e'er be young Mandeville's bride;
The handsome young pair, in the garden that night,
Walked slowly along in the moon's lovely light;
And they smiled pretty often, and whispered away,
And some one behind heard young Mandeville say,
"The carriage and horses all ready will be,
To-morrow night, love, near the sycamore tree,
And at ten I expect you, my dearest, to see;
And I've found a post-boy who is up to the "spree,"
And who swears, if he's caught, that he’ll eat you and me!
And the lady replied, "Just the thing to a T!"
Ten o'clock! Now the carriage rolls over the stones,
With Jack Smith, the post-boy, and Mandeville Jones;
And they stop at the tree, and Miss Lynn soon appears,
And a mantle and hood o'er her figure she wears;
And the too happy lover stands quick by the side
Of the beautiful girl, his intended young bride.
And they quickly get in, and the door is shut—smack!
And Jack Smith mounts, and his whip is heard—crack!
And away do they go—horses, carriage, and all,
As swift as an arrow, or black cannon ball!
"Cheer up, my dear creature," the lover exclaims;
“Such an action as ours, the man sins who blames;
Your father's a rum un, (your pardon!) and when
We return, he will be the most happy of men!"
So saying, his right arm he tenderly placed,
With a gently-heaved sigh, round the young lady's waist;
And quickly he would
Have uncovered her hood,
But she threw it herself from her head in great haste;
Oh! horror, ‘twas old Mr Lynn he embraced!
"Stop! Stop! you curst post-boy!" cried Jones in despair,
But his words died away, unheard on the air;
"You miserly scoundrel! you precious old rogue!"
And this to a speech of abuse was prologue,
But Habakkuk Lynn laughed loud with his joy,
And nothing he said, but “I've caught you, my boy!”
Oh! never again was poor Mandeville seen,
In the places where once he so often had been;
Mr. Lynn ne’er beheld him since that scene of strife;
And Miss Lydia became a rich wine-merchant's wife,
And happily lived “all the days of her life!"—Sunbeam.
Alan
THE ELOPEMENT—A TALE.
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Currie
- Posts: 3924
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Re: THE ELOPEMENT—A TALE.
Here’s another elopement story, this time with a difference. Originally published in the North British Daily Mail, it was also to appear in the Glasgow Herald, August 27, 1852, and soon after in newspapers in New Zealand, Australia, Newfoundland and New York, but has since been forgotten.
ELOPEMENT EXTRAORDINARY.
(From the Mail.)
A correspondent writing from Southend, Kintyre, communicates to us the following romantic incidents:—In the district of Southend lived a widower upwards of fifty years of age, and a weaver by his trade. About a mile distant from his residence there resided the widow of a farmer, ten years older than himself, who had a family of grown-up sons. They were both bereft of their partners within a few weeks of each other, and it appears that ever since a tender attachment had taken possession of both their widowed hearts. Frequent sly opportunities for courtship were afforded the love-sick swain by his aged inamorata, who, in fear of filial vengeance, took the precaution to admit her lover to her bedchamber by the window, after all had gone to rest. Here they talked over their little plans of future happiness, and enjoyed each other's sweet society till the crowing of the cock and prudence induced a cruel parting.
Like all other delicate subjects of romance, their true love did not run smooth—"Heigh ho, the wind and rain!" The widow's two grown-up sons were the mortal enemies of their mother's sweetheart, and watched his movements so closely that the utmost stealth and caution had to be adopted in managing their tetes-a-tete. For some time back this cruel annoyance became so oppressive to these love smitten ones, that they resolved to put an end to all their sufferings by an elopement, for the purpose of getting spliced. Accordingly, on the night of the 8th instant, this second Romeo and his Juliet disappeared. Next morning the cruel and undutiful sons gave pursuit, and apprehended the fugitives at Campbeltown, when about to take the steamer for Glasgow. The widow was borne back in triumph by her hardhearted children to Southend, where they locked her up in her room, and kept a strict watch over her.
The knight of the shuttle, however, was not to be baffled so easily of his fair prize, and watched his opportunity. The vigilance of the stern sons of the widow having somewhat relaxed, the mature lovers found means of communicating with each other and laying a plot to defeat their enemies. On the night of Thursday last, the 18th inst., the weaver hired two daring boatmen to be in readiness to row him and his true love across the channel to Ireland in an open boat—a distance of 20 miles. Having completed his arrangements at this point, the "gallant weaver," as soon as he conjectured that the household of his fair treasure was fast under the influence of the drowsy god, proceeded, accompanied by a trusty friend, up Glenbrackrie, and stealthily took out the widow's pony from the stable and yoked it to her gig. At a signal, the fair one's bed-room window opened, and, a friendly ladder having been placed for her accommodation, she was soon in the arms of her faithful knight and safely placed in the vehicle, and away onward they drove with railway speed to Carskey Bay—a distance of two miles—and here the boatmen were waiting steadily at their post. With all haste the now happy pair embarked in their light skiff; the boatmen plyed their brawny arms; and the vessel's prow cut through the blue water. But what sights and what sounds are these! The two sons, attired in their trousers and shirts only, are on the beach.
"Come back, come back, they cried in grief,
You may have stormy weather,
And I'll forgive yon weaver thief,
My mither! oh, my mither!”
But no—on dashed the boat; and the gallant Lothario sent back a shout of defiance, while
"One brawny arm was round the helm,
And one was round their mother!"
The pursuers, however, were not thus to lose their sexagenarian love-smit parent. Foaming with rage, they sprung into a fishing boat, and an exciting chase commenced. Strong arms bend the oars, and the boats near each other before they are more than a quarter of mile from shore. The boats are about to grapple, but the knight of the loom had his "courage screwed to the sticking place," and was not to be conquered without a struggle. His boat was ballasted with some large stones—one of these he lifted, and with the force of a Titan, hurled it at the frail bark of his pursuers. This artillery had a decisive effect, for it crashed in the side of the pursuing skiff as if it had been a twenty-four pound shot. As the boat was in danger of sinking, the bold young men, like many others in naval combat when their craft is rendered unseaworthy by the enemy's guns, now concluded that "the better part of valour was discretion," and put their vessel's prow shorewards. From the disabled state of the boat, it was with difficulty they made the land.
But though beat back they were not defeated; raging, like a she bear's cubs deprived of their dam, they seized and manned another boat and renewed the chased. The fugitives by this time, however, were beyond sight. Still the gallant hearts were resolved to die in the attempt or save their mother, and wreak their vengeance on their would-be stepfather, whom they swore they would immolate to their resentment. After a gallant chase, the boats again came in sight of one another about mid-channel. It now became a matter of life and death with the weaver, and he was for again launching the ballast at his pursuers; but maternal affection was awakened in the breast of his companion, who would not permit the risk of sinking the boat, and thereby endangering the lives of her valiant sons; nevertheless they closed in battle, and a terrible scene arose, in which both parties fought like heroes, dealing fearful blows at each other with their oars. Again victory crowned the "old Lochinvar," who succeeded in wresting an oar from his foes, and, amid three hearty cheers, his boat shot a head, leaving them "far midst the solitary main," with only a single oar to guide their fragile bark.
As it was useless to attempt further pursuit in their disabled condition, the vanquished wights were compelled to scull their boat with a single oar back towards Kintyre, a distance of ten weary miles, while the victor, with soul elate, sang in triumph, "Oh, steer my bark to Erin's Isle!" The sun was high in the heavens next morning ere the young men, weak and faint from the hot pursuit and hard-fought engagement, reached their native shore, where a number of anxious friends were waiting to receive them. The amorous couple have not since been heard of, but it is to be hoped that after all their difficulties and "hair-breadth ‘scapes by flood and field," they have now attained the object of their wishes, despite of their reluctant and naughty children, and that they are now spending a happy honeymoon in some corner of the Emerald Isle, undisturbed by fears of molestation or surprise.
The principal actor in the above ludicrous affair is a native, we believe, of the parish of West Kilbride, where he formerly plied the shuttle, but has for a number of years rented a small farm in Kintyre.
If someone is missing a marriage in Kintyre around that time maybe this is why. Apart from the lack of names there are many more clues in the above lot than your average OPR.
Hope that’s interesting,
Alan
ELOPEMENT EXTRAORDINARY.
(From the Mail.)
A correspondent writing from Southend, Kintyre, communicates to us the following romantic incidents:—In the district of Southend lived a widower upwards of fifty years of age, and a weaver by his trade. About a mile distant from his residence there resided the widow of a farmer, ten years older than himself, who had a family of grown-up sons. They were both bereft of their partners within a few weeks of each other, and it appears that ever since a tender attachment had taken possession of both their widowed hearts. Frequent sly opportunities for courtship were afforded the love-sick swain by his aged inamorata, who, in fear of filial vengeance, took the precaution to admit her lover to her bedchamber by the window, after all had gone to rest. Here they talked over their little plans of future happiness, and enjoyed each other's sweet society till the crowing of the cock and prudence induced a cruel parting.
Like all other delicate subjects of romance, their true love did not run smooth—"Heigh ho, the wind and rain!" The widow's two grown-up sons were the mortal enemies of their mother's sweetheart, and watched his movements so closely that the utmost stealth and caution had to be adopted in managing their tetes-a-tete. For some time back this cruel annoyance became so oppressive to these love smitten ones, that they resolved to put an end to all their sufferings by an elopement, for the purpose of getting spliced. Accordingly, on the night of the 8th instant, this second Romeo and his Juliet disappeared. Next morning the cruel and undutiful sons gave pursuit, and apprehended the fugitives at Campbeltown, when about to take the steamer for Glasgow. The widow was borne back in triumph by her hardhearted children to Southend, where they locked her up in her room, and kept a strict watch over her.
The knight of the shuttle, however, was not to be baffled so easily of his fair prize, and watched his opportunity. The vigilance of the stern sons of the widow having somewhat relaxed, the mature lovers found means of communicating with each other and laying a plot to defeat their enemies. On the night of Thursday last, the 18th inst., the weaver hired two daring boatmen to be in readiness to row him and his true love across the channel to Ireland in an open boat—a distance of 20 miles. Having completed his arrangements at this point, the "gallant weaver," as soon as he conjectured that the household of his fair treasure was fast under the influence of the drowsy god, proceeded, accompanied by a trusty friend, up Glenbrackrie, and stealthily took out the widow's pony from the stable and yoked it to her gig. At a signal, the fair one's bed-room window opened, and, a friendly ladder having been placed for her accommodation, she was soon in the arms of her faithful knight and safely placed in the vehicle, and away onward they drove with railway speed to Carskey Bay—a distance of two miles—and here the boatmen were waiting steadily at their post. With all haste the now happy pair embarked in their light skiff; the boatmen plyed their brawny arms; and the vessel's prow cut through the blue water. But what sights and what sounds are these! The two sons, attired in their trousers and shirts only, are on the beach.
"Come back, come back, they cried in grief,
You may have stormy weather,
And I'll forgive yon weaver thief,
My mither! oh, my mither!”
But no—on dashed the boat; and the gallant Lothario sent back a shout of defiance, while
"One brawny arm was round the helm,
And one was round their mother!"
The pursuers, however, were not thus to lose their sexagenarian love-smit parent. Foaming with rage, they sprung into a fishing boat, and an exciting chase commenced. Strong arms bend the oars, and the boats near each other before they are more than a quarter of mile from shore. The boats are about to grapple, but the knight of the loom had his "courage screwed to the sticking place," and was not to be conquered without a struggle. His boat was ballasted with some large stones—one of these he lifted, and with the force of a Titan, hurled it at the frail bark of his pursuers. This artillery had a decisive effect, for it crashed in the side of the pursuing skiff as if it had been a twenty-four pound shot. As the boat was in danger of sinking, the bold young men, like many others in naval combat when their craft is rendered unseaworthy by the enemy's guns, now concluded that "the better part of valour was discretion," and put their vessel's prow shorewards. From the disabled state of the boat, it was with difficulty they made the land.
But though beat back they were not defeated; raging, like a she bear's cubs deprived of their dam, they seized and manned another boat and renewed the chased. The fugitives by this time, however, were beyond sight. Still the gallant hearts were resolved to die in the attempt or save their mother, and wreak their vengeance on their would-be stepfather, whom they swore they would immolate to their resentment. After a gallant chase, the boats again came in sight of one another about mid-channel. It now became a matter of life and death with the weaver, and he was for again launching the ballast at his pursuers; but maternal affection was awakened in the breast of his companion, who would not permit the risk of sinking the boat, and thereby endangering the lives of her valiant sons; nevertheless they closed in battle, and a terrible scene arose, in which both parties fought like heroes, dealing fearful blows at each other with their oars. Again victory crowned the "old Lochinvar," who succeeded in wresting an oar from his foes, and, amid three hearty cheers, his boat shot a head, leaving them "far midst the solitary main," with only a single oar to guide their fragile bark.
As it was useless to attempt further pursuit in their disabled condition, the vanquished wights were compelled to scull their boat with a single oar back towards Kintyre, a distance of ten weary miles, while the victor, with soul elate, sang in triumph, "Oh, steer my bark to Erin's Isle!" The sun was high in the heavens next morning ere the young men, weak and faint from the hot pursuit and hard-fought engagement, reached their native shore, where a number of anxious friends were waiting to receive them. The amorous couple have not since been heard of, but it is to be hoped that after all their difficulties and "hair-breadth ‘scapes by flood and field," they have now attained the object of their wishes, despite of their reluctant and naughty children, and that they are now spending a happy honeymoon in some corner of the Emerald Isle, undisturbed by fears of molestation or surprise.
The principal actor in the above ludicrous affair is a native, we believe, of the parish of West Kilbride, where he formerly plied the shuttle, but has for a number of years rented a small farm in Kintyre.
If someone is missing a marriage in Kintyre around that time maybe this is why. Apart from the lack of names there are many more clues in the above lot than your average OPR.
Hope that’s interesting,
Alan
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garibaldired
- Posts: 647
- Joined: Wed Nov 02, 2005 2:42 pm
- Location: Dorset, UK
Re: THE ELOPEMENT—A TALE.
Oh, Alan, where do you find them?
A great story.....I wish I could claim them!
Keep up the good work.
Best wishes,
Meg