Twenty One Years' Morning Postal Delivery

Part I

Twenty and one long years have passed away
   Since I commenced the Postman here to be
And now I pause a little-while to-day
   To hear what all those years will say to me.

As backward now I look, from where I stand,
   To see how God has lead me hitherto,
I own how wise has been his guiding Hand
   How faithful He has ever been and true.

My Postal Work all lies in Sowerby: where
   New Road, Back Lane, Wood Lane and Finkle Street,
Shield Hall, Steep Lane, Moor End and Scar Hall there,
   Which Hubberton and Village make complete.

When I commenced, our happy village home
   Was in a cottage there at Sowerby Green
And as I think of it, where'er I roam,
   I love to muse upon that homely scene.

Another house, close by the village street,
   Became to us a dwelling-place most dear:
I still recall how beautiful and neat
   And cosy-like as home it did appear.

What changes to our family have come:
   In age, employment and appearance too;
Some look on it no longer as their home,
   For they have formed their own like many do.

"Our Office" too has greatly changed since then:
   Another Postmaster is there to-day;
The Staff is larger far; but few the men,
   Who, at that time, to it did wend their way.

We postmen, at our several tables sit
   Arranging things the Clerks may sort to us
In such a way, as each himself thinks fit,
   To hasten most his own delivery thus.

And when we have received our morning stock
   Of parcels, letters, cards and all complete,
And seven hear, struck by the Town Hall Clock,
   We soon exchange the office for the street.

The loads we bear consist of many things – 
  Some, large and heavy, others small and light,
Some, registered, as that more safety brings:
  Some, grief convey, while others bring delight.

And so each postman of the nine pursues
   His way alone to North, South, East or West,
That we, in all directions, may diffuse
   The precious contents of our loads, the best.

And as I now commence my morning walk
   Along the road, the pathway and the street;
Some, whom I used to see, who often spoke,
   I think of still; but now no longer meet.

I pass that building, once a studio;
   But he, who used to fix his camera well,
Has gone the way we all, ere long, must go;
   But when and how, the wisest cannot tell.

I visit next that villa residence;
   But he, who lived there when I first began,
Lives there no more: he has departed hence
   And left it to another gentleman.

Those monumental works recall to mind
   The form of one I often used to see
Work out with chisel what he had designed,
   And thus some name inscribe or image free.

Another man, whose memory is still dear,
   Who wrought so long with needle and with thread.
Whose morning greeting was so full of cheer,
   Now lies at rest in yonder lowly bed.

From street to street I quickly walk along,
   My letters guiding me in all my way;
Though, many cottages I move among,
   They show me where to go and where to stay.

I now pass through that Cemetery-gate,
   Approach the Keeper's Lodge and knock the door;
But well I know, while there I stand and wait,
   He will not come who often came before.

And many houses in my walk I see
   Whose former occupants have gone away
For few, at the same door, now welcome me
   As when I called upon a former day.

When I approach some doors and loudly knock
   They quickly open then in highest glee,
Glad to receive a little of the stock
   Of various things which I have brought with me.

But some are there, who open them with fear,
   Because the letters they receive are few;
They seem afraid to have one lest it bear
  Bad news, and sigh, before they know the true.

Part II

I turn and open now that iron gate
   And walk along the drive between the trees:
Among the flowers I, but a moment wait,
   To catch the fragrance borne upon the breeze.

At Beech Wood House what changes have I seen:
   Once full of life and then no occupant:
But now presenting quite a lively scene:
   To, and from which, are many letters sent.

I pass old quarries where, in years gone by
   Stone was obtained and busy men were seen,
But birds, to-day, their joyous songs supply,
   Among the rocks now patched or clothed with green.

I turn and enter next that quiet lane
   And pass along through mead and pasture green,
While here and there my footsteps I detain
   To look around and view the lovely scene.

The sun shines brightly in the Eastern sky,
   And all the country-side with beauty crowns,
The cattle graze, or 'midst their pastures, lie
   Away from noise and bustle of the towns.

I now draw near that house among the trees:
   The good and ancient mansion, Wood Lane Hall,
A better specimen one seldom sees,
   Or one which does so well the past recall.

Its roof of stone and finialled gables fine,
   Its many mullioned windows large and neat,
Its parapet and pinnacles combine
   With lofty porch to form a view complete.

I onward move, from farm to farm I go:
   But all, save two, in my delivery,
Their former occupants no longer know,
   And, as I pass, fresh farmers now I see.

I next proceed around by Finkle Street:
   That row of cottages so bright and clean,
With flower gardens, beautifully neat,
   And green-houses-all form a homely scene.

That reservoir I also like to see.
   It brightens and relieves the land around:
Nor is it of less interest to me
   To watch the trains dash past with rushing sound.

I pass Swamp Mill with that old water-wheel.
   We watched with fear a many years ago,
And, as I think of it, I almost feel
   As when, in youthful days, 'twas really so.

I now ascend that steep and rugged road
   So often greatly damaged in the past:
While storms were raging, floods of water flowed
   And, rushing down, into the stream was cast.

And as I now continue to ascend,
   I hear the stream, below, pursue its course,
As if in haste to reach its journey's end
   The ocean wide, its goal as well as source.

Along that other road I make my way,
   To reach the quaint old-fashioned village there:
Where those, who in it dwell, enjoy to-day
   Freedom from smoke and such a bracing air.

The little queer old inn, with whitewashed walls,
   And its two occupants have passed away:
Nor do I see those once-familiar souls,
   The aged Clerk and his dear wife to-day.

And now the grand old Village Church I see,
   Whose front and tower are so bold and fine:
Of high relief and heavy masonry
   And of a rare Italian design.

Around it rest in peace the last remains
   Of those whose forms I often used to see
Stroll through the streets, or on the country lanes
   And who, when passing, spoke so cheerfully.

There, is the School in which, so long ago,
   I sat with other boys my task to learn,
And, in its play-ground there, ran to and fro,
   As in our boyish sports I took my turn.

In passing now I watch the boys at play,
   Just as we played so many years ago,
I ask myself the question, where are they
   With whom. in bygone days, I acted so?

Some still live near, whose boys are now at play,
   While others are in lands beyond the sea;
But some have early closed their mortal day,
   Though still retained in pleasant memory.

Round to the School House next I make my way,
   And pass along its garden, plain and neat,
Which is aglow with flowers so bright and gay,
   With here and there a curious garden seat.

I still recall how, when a little boy,
   There hung a cage against that School-house wall
In which a squirrel often would enjoy
   The turning of a wheel which pleased us all.

Part III

Up through the village now I make my way
   Calling at shops, at inns and cottages:
Passing from each to each without delay,
   Distributing my silent messages.

I pass beside that granite fountain there
   Which stands where stood the ancient village well,
And, Sowerby Hall, a large old mansion where
   The wealthy village sires used to dwell.

Right opposite to Sowerby Hall I see
   The Alms Houses: a pretty home-like row,
Where aged folks may spend most peacefully,
   Remaining years allotted them below.

I enter now the well-kept village store
   And give to its kind manager his share;
Then 'cross the street, and through that open door,
   To hand a note to the inn-keeper there.

To Sowerby Office next I make my way;
   But only for a little-while that I
A light repast may take, and also they
   May know the time when I am passing by.

Still moving on, what door is that I knock?
   It is the plain old-fashioned clogger's shop:
I've heard him shape the sole upon the stock,
   And fix on it with nails the leathern top.

Across the street in former years there stood
   A quaint old building, where we used to stop
To watch the cartwright making wheels of wood;
   But both are gone-the workman and his shop.

That large old-fashioned porch, which now I see,
   Reminds me of a once-familiar face,
And that shop-window, as it used to be,
   When Pollie's voice resounded through the place.

There stands the village smithy by the street,
   As I approach, I hear the bellows roar:
And now I see the smith, with measured beat,
   Send glowing sparks along the blackened floor.

The anvil sounds aloud with ringing clang,
   The white-hot bar turns red and redder still,
And 'neath the smithy sledge's heavy bang,
   The bar grows thin, as in a rolling-mill.

In boyhood-days it gave us joy to see,
   Upon the ground, a circle made of fire,
And tended by the smith most carefully,
   Until was heated well the iron tyre.

On three large stones a wooden wheel was placed,
   The smith and others then, with tongs in hand,
Raised from the fire the circle it encased,
   And fixed upon the wheel its iron band.

Nor were we less amused to see the men
   Pour pails of water on the wheel and tyre,
And for awhile they all were hidden when
   The smoke and steam rose higher and still higher.

I've seen that glowing forge at eventide,
   Glare on the smith and on the wall behind,
While his great shadow moved from side to side
   With pondrous arms and sledge all well defined.

Part IV

I move along: but what is that I hear
   Resounding from a room across the street?
It is the cobbler's hammer, loud and clear,
   Pounding away with quick and heavy beat.

While there, below, the barber has his place
   To which the old and young alike may come;
Some need the razor's service on the face,
   And, on the head, the scissors' skill by some.

And now I pass the village joiner's shop,
   The Grammar School, with its peculiar spire,
Next calling at the Manse: but cannot stop
   And, from the Village, I must now retire.

Into the country next I make my way,
   Through lanes and pathways, or from field to field,
And, as I mount the hill, a fine display
   Of hill and dale is more and more revealed.

By Ball Green Farm, that ancient looking place,
   And 'round by Hubberton, that hamlet there
Back to New Barton I my steps retrace
   And up to Red Brink Farm a message bear.

By Scar Hall now my journey I pursue
   Along  that almost level country lane,
While such a splendid panoramic view
   Unfolds itself, as one can seldom gain.

l've walked along that road in early spring,
   When nature clothes herself in fairest green:
I've heard the birds when they begin to sing
   And showers interchange with sunny sheen.

In summer bright, I've passed along that way,
   When waving grass spoke of a harvest near;
I've seen the farmers busy in the hay
   And everything around was full of cheer.

I've seen that road in Winter blocked with snow
   And I a track to make as best I could:
I scarce could breathe, or see which way to go
   As sleet was hurled against my face, like mud.

On this Autumnal Morning, clear and bright,
   While fading leaves are falling to the ground
And fields of corn are gathered out of sight,
   I am alone, in meditation found.

Twenty and one long years I've trod that lane,
   In almost all the weathers one can know:
In wind and fog, in thunderstorm and rain,
   In sleet and hail, and almost blinding snow.

I now draw near that rugged piece of land
   Best known to all around as "Long Edge Moor";
How well, on it, some monument would stand
   On which to sit and view the landscape o'er.

If, on its brow, were raised some cross or tower
   'Twould be a landmark for the country 'round;
How many then would spend a pleasant hour
   And feel more interest in that plot of ground.

With glee along its winding ridge I walk
   And o'er the Postman's path my way pursue,
Mid briars, heather, grass and bilberry-stalk:
   Most narrow, rugged and uneven too.

A little further up is Dobbin Hill:
   The highest point in the delivery
From which is seen upon a distant hill
   Bold Stoodley Pike, which stands most gracefully.

Now through those stiles and by that hawthorn tree,
   Along the grassy path and by the side
Of that old fashioned house in front of me,
   On through its yard my letters still the guide.

And now again I reach the old highway
   Just by the farm, where, many years ago
It was my great delight to come and stay
   And climb the trees, or wander to and fro.

Though rough and plain, what matters that to me,
   It, none the less, recalls the distant past:
Those scenes, in grandsire's home I used to see
   Which, like a pleasant dream, in memory last.

We then would play, as only boys can play,
   Or watch the mower's scythe cut down the grass,
Or romp about the fields among the hay.
   And in the hay-loft, merry hours would pass.

Part V

My journey I pursue and pass beside
   That wayside Chapel with its burial ground:
Where'er I go, whatever may betide,
   My love for them will, all through life, abound.

Moving along, still calling here and there:
   Now at the Manse, the shop, the bakery;
Next at the scattered farms and houses where
   My letters disappear entirely.

At Sowerby Town Sub-Office I must stay,
   Until the time arrives for the "despatch,"
Then take the letters down, without delay,
   The morning mail at Sowerby Bridge to catch.

And thus my postal journey I complete,
   And with it, finish one and twenty years,
And yet, in all that I have had to meet,
   God has been better than my doubts and fears.

Twenty and one long years – What would it mean
   To look ahead for such a length of time,
And wait for it? How distant it would seem,
   How many intercepting hills to climb.

Twenty and one long years – How do they seem
   As one looks back o'er such a space of time?
'Tis like the telling of a passing dream,
   Or the recital of this present rhyme.

Twenty and one long years – What do they mean?
   The right and wrong they fearlessly declare
Not that alone: but what they might have been,
   Had I, at all-times, done my rightful share.

One would true lessons gather from the past
   And, in the future, serve life's noblest end:
That I may have, as long as life shall last,
   The Lord to be my constant guide and friend.

I call upon my joyous happy soul
   With all my strength and powers to praise and bless,
To magnify Jehovah's name for all
   His constant mercy, love and faithfulness.