POEM. A MALLERSTANG WEDDING FIFTY YEARS AGO. The following lines, descriptive of a Mallerstang wedding in former times, were written by an old lady, still living, some fifty years ago or upwards.... ______________________________________________________________ My muse seems half inclined, unasked, unbidden, To sing a Mallerstang (or Mostyn) wedding; And should I let her give her whim full scope, The folks in Mallerstang would not, I hope, Pronounce me a censorious meddling fool, And treat my simple song with ridicule; For sure I would not willingly offend ‘em; I’d sooner burn those lines when I have pen’ed ‘em. Soon as a couple have agreed to wed, Straightway a friendly messenger is sped To bid their friends and neighbours far and wide To come and see the Gordian-knot fast tied, And taste the cheer which weddingers provide. Then, early on the long-expected morn, The youthful couple do themselves adorn In gay apparel, and the Scripture says They did the same in patriarchal days. Anon, their friends arrive with blithesome faces, Nor have they left at home their smartest dresses, For snowy robes adorn each blooming fair, And curls and feathers flutter in the air: Wide contrast to the nags on which they ride, Which, by the bye, shew very little pride. In their long flowing manes you may behold How many years it is since they were pol’d; Indeed, from heat to tail, they’re clothed in hair, Almost as shaggy as a Greenland bear. But though this is the meagre plight of most, Some others may some share of beauty boast; It would be wrong to rob them of their merit, And say that no one rides a tit of spirit. Some ride their own; some borrow one, of course; No matter how, – each guest must have a horse ! Being all arrived, and everything agreed, To Church, pell-mell, they gallop off full speed. The few on mettled steed outstrip the wind---- Those on a tardy jagger lag behind; Yet these, unwilling to be distanced quite, Apply the whip and spur with all their might. The foremost few look back with scornful leer, While shouts and peals of laughter rend the air. O’er hill and dale, through thick and thin, they drive Until at Kirkbystephen they arrive; Then down the street, with clattering noise and din, They bend their courses to some well-known inn, Where they dismount and cheerfully regale Themselves with wine, or punch, or nut-brown ale. And then to Hymen’s shrine they all repair, While on all sides the people gaze and stare, And every quizzing looker-on expresses Their thoughts about their persons or their dresses. With open book, the priest officious stands, Ready to bind the matrimonial bands, And hear them plight their faith and pledge their vows Of mutual love, till death those bonds shall loose. There Hymen rivets on those sacred fetters Which binds alike the clown and man of letters To nourish, cherish, and support his wife Through all the strange vicissitudes of life; Which binds each married woman to obey And yield, submissive, to her husband’s sway..... A clause methinks too rigid and severe, Unless all husbands men of feeling were. ‘Twould be no hardship to obey a man Who exercised his sway by wisdom’s plan; But to be subjugated by this rule To “honour and obey” a silly fool Is more than mortal woman can endure; Or e’er fulfill with promptitude, I’m sure...... But stay -----‘tis quite impolitic, I grant, For me on this subject to descant; For if these lines by man should e’er be read, It will, no doubt, with irony, be said, “This logic was composed by an Old Maid.” So from such criticism I’ll refrain, And to the happy pair return again. They leave the Church, and, smiling, bend their courses Unto the ale-house, where they left their horses. The blushing bride and bridegroom lead the van; Next follow the brides-maid, and bridegroom’s man, While friends and neighbours follow in the rear, Each lover whispering in his lassie’s ear. Some lead their sweethearts leaning on their arm, And in the modern custom see no harm, While other swains prefer the ancient taste, And throws one arm around his dearie’s waist. Again they push the sparkling goblet round Or briskly foot it to the violin’s sound, Or spend an hour in all that jovial mirth To which a Mostyn-wedding still gives birth. At length, they think of home, and well they may, For while the party here carousing stay, The marriage feast is oft completely spoil’d..... The roast is pine’d.....the pudding’s too much boil’d. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Barb, Ontario, Canada.