Lord, no, man’s lot is not for bliss;
     To call it woe is blindness: 
     It’ll here a kick, and it’s there a kiss,
     And here and there a kindness. 
     He starts a hare and calls her joy;
     He runs her down to sorrow: 
     The dogs within him bother the boy,
     But ’tis a new day to-morrow. 
     So, I at helm, cries Roving Tim,
     And you at bow, old raven! 
     The wind according to its whim
     Is in and out of haven.

     Jump-to-glory Jane

     I

     A revelation came on Jane,
     The widow of a labouring swain: 
     And first her body trembled sharp,
     Then all the woman was a harp
     With winds along the strings; she heard,
     Though there was neither tone nor word.

     II

     For past our hearing was the air,
     Beyond our speaking what it bare,
     And she within herself had sight
     Of heaven at work to cleanse outright,
     To make of her a mansion fit
     For angel hosts inside to sit.

     III

     They entered, and forthwith entranced,
     Her body braced, her members danced;
     Surprisingly the woman leapt;
     And countenance composed she kept: 
     As gossip neighbours in the lane
     Declared, who saw and pitied Jane.

     IV

     These knew she had been reading books,
     The which was witnessed by her looks
     Of late:  she had a mania
     For mad folk in America,
     And said for sure they led the way,
     But meat and beer were meant to stay.

     V

     That she had visited a fair,
     Had seen a gauzy lady there,
     Alive with tricks on legs alone,
     As good as wings, was also known: 
     And longwhiles in a sullen mood,
     Before her jumping, Jane would brood.

     VI

     A good knee’s height, they say, she sprang;
     Her arms and feet like those who hang: 
     As if afire the body sped,
     And neither pair contributed. 
     She jumped in silence:  she was thought
     A corpse to resurrection caught.

     VII

     The villagers were mostly dazed;
     They jeered, they wondered, and they praised. 
     ’Twas guessed by some she was inspired,
     And some would have it she had hired
     An engine in her petticoats,
     To turn their wits and win their votes.

     VIII

     Her first was Winny Earnes, a kind
     Of woman not to dance inclined;
     But she went up, entirely won,
     Ere Jump-to-glory Jane had done;
     And once a vixen wild for speech,
     She found the better way to preach.

     IX

     No long time after, Jane was seen
     Directing jumps at Daddy Green;
     And that old man, to watch her fly,
     Had eyebrows made of arches high;
     Till homeward he likewise did hop,
     Oft calling on himself to stop!