With such sentiments, and with a lively sense of the high honour, and a hope of the bright recompence, of applause from the good, when heightened by the self-approving voice of my own conscience, I commit the book to its fate. ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. DEDICATION. TO MY ONLY SON. MY DEAR BOY, In thus addressing myself to you, and in expressing my regard for your person, my anxiety for your health, and my devotion to your welfare, I enjoy an advantage over those dedicators who indulge in adulation;--I shall at least be believed. Should you arrive at that period when reason shall be mature, and affection or curiosity induce you to look back on your father's poetical progress through life, you may conclude that he had many to boast as friends, whose names, in a dedication, would have honoured both him and his children; but you must also reflect, that to particularize such friends was a point of peculiar delicacy. The earliest patron of my unprotected strains has the warm thanks which are his due, for the introduction of blessings which have been diffused through our whole family, and nothing will ever change this sentiment. But amidst a general feeling of gratitude, which those who know me will never dispute, I feel for you, Charles, what none but parents can conceive; and on your account, my dear boy, there can be no harm in telling the world that I hope these "Wild Flowers" will be productive of sweets of the worldly kind; for your unfortunate lameness (should it never be removed) may preclude you from the means of procuring comforts and advantages which might otherwise have fallen to your share. What a lasting, what an unspeakable satisfaction would it be to know that the Ballads, the Plowman Stories, and the "Broken Crutch" of your father would eventually contribute to lighten your steps to manhood, and make your own crutch, through life, rather a memorial of affection than an object of sorrow. With a parent's feelings, and a parent's cares and hopes, I am, Charles, yours, R. B. CONTENTS Abner and the Widow Jones, a Familiar Ballad To My Old Oak Table The Horkey, a Provincial Ballad The Broken Crutch, a Tale Shooter's Hill A Visit to Ranelagh Love of the Country The Woodland Halló Barnham Water Mary's Evening Sigh Good Tidings; or, News from the Farm ABNER AND THE WIDOW JONES, A Familiar Ballad. Well! I'm determin'd; that's enough:-- Gee, Bayard! move your poor old bones, I'll take to-morrow, smooth or rough, To go and court the Widow Jones. Our master talks of stable-room, And younger horses on his grounds; 'Tis easy to foresee thy doom, Bayard, thou'lt go to feed the hounds. The first Determination. But could I win the widow's hand, I'd make a truce 'twixt death and thee; For thou upon the best of land Should'st feed, and live, and die with me. And must the pole-axe lay thee low? And will they pick thy poor old bones? No--hang me if it shall be so,-- If I can win the Widow Jones.