Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. Various

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THE VANITIES OF LIFE.

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      [The following verses were copied by John Clare, the Northamptonshire peasant, from a MS. on the fly-leaves of an old book in the possession of a poor man, entitled The World’s best Wealth; a Collection of choice Councils in Verse and Prose. Printed for A. Bettesworth, at the Red Lion in Paternoster-row, 1720. They were written in a ‘crabbed, quaint hand, and difficult to decipher.’ Clare remitted the poem (along with the original MS.) to Montgomery, the author of The World before the Flood, &c. &c., by whom it was published in the Sheffield Iris. Montgomery’s criticism is as follows:—‘Long as the poem appears to the eye, it will abundantly repay the trouble of perusal, being full of condensed and admirable thought, as well as diversified with exuberant imagery, and embellished with peculiar felicity of language: the moral points in the closing couplets of the stanzas are often powerfully enforced.’ Most readers will agree in the justice of these remarks. The poem was, probably, as Clare supposes, written about the commencement of the 18th century; and the unknown author appears to have been deeply imbued with the spirit of the popular devotional writers of the preceding century, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems to have modelled his smoother and more elegant versification after that of the poetic school of his own times.]

      ‘Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.’—Solomon.

      What are life’s joys and gains?

       What pleasures crowd its ways,

       That man should take such pains

       To seek them all his days?

       Sift this untoward strife

       On which thy mind is bent,

       See if this chaff of life

       Is worth the trouble spent.

      Is pride thy heart’s desire?

       Is power thy climbing aim?

       Is love thy folly’s fire?

       Is wealth thy restless game?

       Pride, power, love, wealth and all,

       Time’s touchstone shall destroy,

       And, like base coin, prove all

       Vain substitutes for joy.

      Dost think that pride exalts

       Thyself in other’s eyes,

       And hides thy folly’s faults,

       Which reason will despise?

       Dost strut, and turn, and stride,

       Like walking weathercocks?

       The shadow by thy side

       Becomes thy ape, and mocks.

      Dost think that power’s disguise

       Can make thee mighty seem?

       It may in folly’s eyes,

       But not in worth’s esteem:

       When all that thou canst ask,

       And all that she can give,

       Is but a paltry mask

       Which tyants wear and live.

      Go, let thy fancies range

       And ramble where they may;

       View power in every change,

       And what is the display?

      —The country magistrate,

       The lowest shade in power,

       To rulers of the state,

       The meteors of an hour:—

      View all, and mark the end

       Of every proud extreme,

       Where flattery turns a friend,

       And counterfeits esteem;

       Where worth is aped in show,

       That doth her name purloin,

       Like toys of golden glow

       That’s sold for copper coin.

      Ambition’s haughty nod,

       With fancies may deceive,

       Nay, tell thee thou’rt a god—

       And wilt thou such believe?

       Go, bid the seas be dry,

       Go, hold earth like a ball,

       Or throw her fancies by,

       For God can do it all.

      Dost thou possess the dower

       Of laws to spare or kill?

       Call it not heav’nly power

       When but a tyrant’s will;

       Know what a God will do,

       And know thyself a fool,

       Nor tyrant-like pursue

       Where He alone should rule.

      Dost think, when wealth is won,

       Thy heart has its desire?

       Hold ice up to the sun,

       And wax before the fire;

       Nor triumph o’er the reign

       Which they so soon resign;

       In this world weigh the gain,

       Insurance safe is thine.

      Dost think life’s peace secure

       In houses and in land?

       Go, read the fairy lure

       To twist a cord of sand;

       Lodge stones upon the sky,

       Hold water in a sieve,

       Nor give such tales the lie,

       And still thine own believe.

      Whoso with riches deals,

       And thinks peace bought and sold,

       Will find them slippery eels,

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