British Georgics: 'And they told me it was Worcestershire, another lie!''

By James Grahame

James Grahame was born on 22nd April 1765 at Whitehill House in Glasgow, the son of a lawyer.

After finishing his education at Glasgow University he moved, in 1784, to Edinburgh. Here he worked as a legal clerk before being called to the Scottish bar in 1795.

The career he really wanted was to join the clergy, a feat he only managed when he took Anglican orders at the age of 44 and became the curate first at Shipton, Gloucestershire, and then at Sedgefield, Durham.

Grahame was also a very fine poet, his best known perhaps being ‘The Sabbath’ which combines sacred and devotional verse with beautiful descriptions of the Scottish scenery.

His other works include the dramatic poem, ‘Mary Queen of Scots’ (1801), ‘British Georgics’ (1804), ‘The Birds of Scotland’ (1806), and ‘Poems on the Abolition of the Slave Trade’ in a volume he wrote with Elizabeth Benger and James Montgomery (1809)

Suffering from oppressive asthma and violent headaches, he travelled, for a change of air, to Glasgow. Two days later on 14th September 1811 the Rev. James Grahame died at Whitehill House, Glasgow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Portable Poetry
• Release date: Jun 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781839675218

Book preview

British Georgics by James Grahame

James Grahame was born on 22nd April 1765 at Whitehill House in Glasgow, the son of a lawyer.

After finishing his education at Glasgow University he moved, in 1784, to Edinburgh. Here he worked as a legal clerk before being called to the Scottish bar in 1795.

The career he really wanted was to join the clergy, a feat he only managed when he took Anglican orders at the age of 44 and became the curate first at Shipton, Gloucestershire, and then at Sedgefield, Durham.

Grahame was also a very fine poet, his best known perhaps being ‘The Sabbath’ which combines sacred and devotional verse with beautiful descriptions of the Scottish scenery.

His other works include the dramatic poem, ‘Mary Queen of Scots’ (1801), ‘British Georgics’ (1804), ‘The Birds of Scotland’ (1806), and ‘Poems on the Abolition of the Slave Trade’ in a volume he wrote with Elizabeth Benger and James Montgomery (1809)

Suffering from oppressive asthma and violent headaches, he travelled, for a change of air, to Glasgow.  Two days later on 14th September 1811 the Rev. James Grahame died at Whitehill House, Glasgow.

Index of Poems

British Georgics - January

British Georgics - February

British Georgics - March

British Georgics - April

British Georgics - May

British Georgics - June

British Georgics - July

British Georgics - August

British Georgics - September

British Georgics - October

British Georgics - November

British Georgics - December

British Georgics. January by James Grahame

The labours of the plough, the various toils

That, still returning with the changeful year,

Demand the husbandman’s and cottar’s care;

The joys and troubles of the peasant’s life;

His days and nights of festive mirth, that serve,

Though few, yet long foreseen, remembered long,

To lighten every task; his rural sports

Afield, at home; the fickle season’s signs;

The varying face of nature, wood, and stream,

And sky, and fruitful field, — these now I sing.

  The wintry sun shoots forth a feeble glimpse,

Then yields his short-lived empire to the night.

Hail, Night! pavilioned ‘neath the rayless cope,

I love thy solemn state, profoundly dark;

Thy sable pall; thy lurid throne of clouds,

Viewless save by the lightning’s flash; thy crown,

That boasts no starry gem; thy various voice,

That to the heart, with eloquence divine,

Now in soft whispers, now in thunder speaks.

Not undelightful is thy reign to him

Who wakeful gilds, with reveries bright, thy gloom,

Or listens to the music of the storm,

And meditates on Him who sways its course:

Thy solemn state I love, yet joyful greet

The long-expected dawn’s ambiguous light,

That faintly pencils out the horizon’s verge.

  Long ere the lingering dawn of that blithe morn

Which ushers in the year, the roosting cock,

Flapping his wings, repeats his larum shrill;

But on that morn no busy flail obeys

His rousing call; no sounds but sounds of joy

Salute the year,– the first-foot’s entering step,

That sudden on the floor is welcome heard,

Ere blushing maids have braided up their hair;

The laugh, the hearty kiss, the good new year

Pronounced with honest warmth. In village, grange,

And burrow town, the steaming flaggon, borne

From house to house, elates the poor man’s heart,

And makes him feel that life has still its joys.

The aged and the young, man, woman, child,

Unite in social glee; even stranger dogs,

Meeting with bristling back, soon lay aside

Their snarling aspect, and in sportive chace,

Excursive scour, or wallow in the snow.

With sober cheerfulness, the grandam eyes

Her offspring round her, all in health and peace;

And, thankful that she’s spared to see this day

Return once more, breathes low a secret prayer,

That God would shed a blessing on their heads.

  Thus morning passes, till far south, the sun

Shines dimly through the drift, and warning gives,

That all the day must not be idly spent.

Some works brook not delay; the stake, the stall,

And fold, at this rough season, most demand

Assiduous care; the sheep-rack must be filled

With liberal arms, and, from the turnip field,

A plenteous load should spread the boulted snow;

While winters, by hedge or bush that cowr,

Expect their wonted sheaf.

       Throughout this month

Much it imports your fences to survey;

For oft the heifers, tempted by the view

Of some green spot, where springs ooze out, and thaw

The falling flakes as fast as they alight,

Bound o’er the hedge; or at neglected gaps

Burst scrambling through, and widen every breach.

A stake put timely in, or whinny bush,

Until the season come when living plants

May fill the vacant space, much harm prevents.

  Some husbandmen deem fences only formed

To guard their fields from trespass of their own

Or neighbours’ herd or flock; and lightly prize

The benefits immense which shelter brings.

Mark how, within the shelter of a hedge,

The daisy, long ere winter quits the plain,

Opens its yellow bosom to the sun.

  A hedge full grown, if with a hedge-row joined,

Or circling, belt, the climate of your field

Improves, transmutes from bleak and shivering cold

To genial warmth: no graduated scale

Is needed to demonstrate this plain truth,

Obvious as true; for there a vivid green

Tinges your early sward, there lingers long

When winter winds have blanched the neighbouring lea.

  Some fences tend but little to abate

The biting cold;– the wall, unless around

A narrow field, or raised of towering height,

But small degree of sheltering warmth affords.

It is by artificial calm that fields

Are warmed; and walls but slightly check

The sweeping blast. The liquid air is ruled

By laws analagous to those which sway

The watery element:– See how a stream

Surmounts obstructing rocks, or crossing dams,

Seeming as if resistance gave new force;

But, if obstructed by a fallen tree,

Or dipping branch, smoothly it glides along

In gentler course, and dimples as it flows;

So through the pervious check of spray and twig,

The blast, impeded in its course, not turned,

Slackens its boisterous speed, and sighs along the vale.

  Whoe’er delights in sheltered winter walks,

Or garden well protected from the blight

Of nipping winds, should cultivate the beech.

Quickly it grows, and through the year retains

Its foliage: withered though it be, yet warm,

Its very rustle warms the wint’ry blast.

  List not to him, who says that sheltered fields

Suffer from lack of air; that corn once lodged

Is lost, if not exposed to every breeze.

True wisdom oft consists but in a choice

Of ills; and, if sometimes luxuriant crops

Are injured by an atmosphere confined,

Far oftener are they in their early stage

Protected thus from pelting rains, which else

Lay bare the roots, and save, I ween, all risque

Of growth luxuriant, or of prostrate stalks.

  Now broadened, blinding flakes, by day, by night,

In thickening showers descend, and oft, ere morn,

The crow of chanticleer, obtusely heard,

Announces that a deeper fall has thatched

His chinky roof; the doors are half blocked up;

From house to barn the path deep buried lies;

And, nigh waist-deep sinking, the threshers