Volume 2 — The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale
Reading edition
Composed 1800.—Published 1815A
The Poem
[The character of this man was described to me, and the incident upon which the verses turn was told me, by Mr. Poole of Nether Stowey, with whom I became acquainted through our common friend, S.T. Coleridge. During my residence at Alfoxden, I used to see much of him, and had frequent occasions to admire the course of his daily life, especially his conduct to his labourers and poor neighbours; their virtues he carefully encouraged, and weighed their faults in the scales of charity. If I seem in these verses to have treated the weaknesses of the farmer and his transgressions too tenderly, it may in part be ascribed to my having received the story from one so averse to all harsh judgment. After his death was found in his escritoir, a lock of grey hair carefully preserved, with a notice that it had been cut from the head of his faithful shepherd, who had served him for a length of years. I need scarcely add that he felt for all men as his brothers. He was much beloved by distinguished persons—Mr. Coleridge, Mr. Southey, Sir H. Davy, and many others; and in his own neighbourhood was highly valued as a magistrate, a man of business, and in every other social relation. The latter part of the poem perhaps requires some apology, as being too much of an echo to The Reverie of Poor Susan.—I. F.]
Included in the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age."—Ed.
The Poem
text variant footnote line number
'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined, The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind, And the small critic wielding his delicate pen, That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men. He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town; His staff is a sceptre—his grey hairs a crown; And his bright eyes look brighter, set off by the streak Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek. 'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn,—'mid the joy Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy; That countenance there fashioned, which, spite of a stain That his life hath received, to the last will remain. A Farmer he was; and his house far and near Was the boast of the country for excellent cheer: How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his mild ale! Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin, His fields seemed to know what their Master was doing; And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea, All caught the infection—as generous as he. Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl,— The fields better suited the ease of his soul: He strayed through the fields like an indolent wight, The quiet of nature was Adam's delight. For Adam was simple in thought; and the poor, Familiar with him, made an inn of his door: He gave them the best that he had; or, to say What less may mislead you, they took it away. Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm: The Genius of plenty preserved him from harm: At length, what to most is a season of sorrow, His means are run out,—he must beg, or must borrow. To the neighbours he went,—all were free with their money; For his hive had so long been replenished with honey, That they dreamt not of dearth;—He continued his rounds, Knocked here-and knocked there, pounds still adding to pounds. He paid what he could with his ill-gotten pelf, And something, it might be, reserved for himself: Then (what is too true) without hinting a word, Turned his back on the country—and off like a bird. You lift up your eyes!—but I guess that you frame A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame; In him it was scarcely a business of art, For this he did all in the ease of his heart. To London—a sad emigration I ween— With his grey hairs he went from the brook and the green; And there, with small wealth but his legs and his hands, As lonely he stood as a crow on the sands. All trades, as need was, did old Adam assume,— Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, and groom; But nature is gracious, necessity kind, And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his mind, He seems ten birthdays younger, is green and is stout; Twice as fast as before does his blood run about; You would say that each hair of his beard was alive, And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive. For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely goes About work that he knows, in a track that he knows; But often his mind is compelled to demur, And you guess that the more then his body must stir. In the throng of the town like a stranger is he, Like one whose own country's far over the sea; And Nature, while through the great city he hies, Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise. This gives him the fancy of one that is young, More of soul in his face than of words on his tongue; Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and sighs, And tears of fifteen will come into his eyes. What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats? Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets; With a look of such earnestness often will stand, You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in the Strand. Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and her flowers, Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made Poor winter look fine in such strange masquerade. 'Mid coaches and chariots, a waggon of straw, Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can draw; With a thousand soft pictures his memory will teem, And his hearing is touched with the sounds of a dream. Up the Haymarket hill he oft whistles his way, Thrusts his hands in a waggon, and smells at the hay; He thinks of the fields he so often hath mown, And is happy as if the rich freight were his own. But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to repair,— If you pass by at morning, you'll meet with him there. The breath of the cows you may see him inhale, And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury Vale. Now farewell, old Adam! when low thou art laid, May one blade of grass spring over thy head; And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever it be, Will hear the wind sigh through the leaves of a tree. Note Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90
Variant 1:
1837
Erect as a sunflower he stands, and the streak Of the unfaded rose is expressed on his cheek. 1815
... still enlivens his cheek. 1827
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Variant 2:
1840
There fashion'd that countenance, which, in spite of a stain 1815
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Variant 3:
date
There's an old man in London, the prime of old men, You may hunt for his match through ten thousand and ten, Of prop or of staff, does he walk, does he run, No more need has he than a flow'r of the sun. 1800
This stanza appeared only in 1800, occupying the place of the three first stanzas in the final text.
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Variant 4:
1815
... name ... 1800
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Variant 5:
1815
Was the Top of the Country, ... 1800
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Variant 6:
1827
Not less than the skill of an Exchequer Teller Could count the shoes worn on the steps of his cellar. 1800
How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his good ale. 1815
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Variant 7:
1815
... plough'd land, ... 1800
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Variant 8:
1815
... the noise of the bowl, 1800
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Variant 9:
On the works of the world, on the bustle and sound, Seated still in his boat, he look'd leisurely round; And if now and then he his hands did employ, 'Twas with vanity, wonder, and infantine joy. Only in the text of 1800.
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Variant 10:
1815
... were ... 1800
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Variant 11:
1815
For they all still imagin'd his hive full of honey; Like a Church-warden, Adam continu'd his rounds, 1800
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Variant 12:
1837
... this ... 1800
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Variant 13:
1815
... he kept to himself; 1800
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Variant 14:
1820
You lift up your eyes, "O the merciless Jew!" But in truth he was never more cruel than you; 1800
... —and I guess that you frame A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame; 1815
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Variant 15:
1815
... scarce e'en ... 1800
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Variant 16:
Italics first used in 1815.
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Variant 17:
1815
... lawn ... 1800
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Variant 18:
1815
He stood all alone like ... 1800
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Variant 19:
1800
... needs ... 1815
The edition of 1827 returns to the text of 1800.
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Variant 20:
1815
Both stable-boy, errand-boy, porter and groom; You'd think it the life of a Devil in H—l, But nature was kind, and with Adam 'twas well. 1800
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Variant 21:
He's ten birth-days younger, he's green, and he's stout, Twice as fast as before does his blood run about, You'd think it the life of a Devil in H—l, But Nature is kind, and with Adam 'twas well.
This stanza appeared only in 1800. It was followed by that which now forms lines 53-56 of the final text.
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Variant 22:
1815
He's ten birth-days younger, he's green, and he's stout, 1800
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Variant 23:
1815
You'd ... 1800
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Variant 24:
1815
... does ... 1800
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Variant 25:
1815
... in ... 1800
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Variant 26:
1800
... have come ... 1815
The text of 1820 returns to that of 1800.
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Variant 27:
1815
...he'll stand 1800
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Variant 28:
1837
Where proud Covent-Garden, in frost and in snow, Spreads her fruits and her flow'rs, built up row after row; Old Adam will point with his finger and say, To them that stand by, "I've seen better than they." 1800
... her fruit ... 1815
(The text of 1815 is otherwise identical with that of 1837.)
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Variant 29:
Where the apples are heap'd on the barrows in piles, You see him stop short, he looks long, and he smiles; He looks, and he smiles, and a Poet might spy The image of fifty green fields in his eye. Only in the text of 1800.
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Variant 30:
1837
... in the waggons, and smells to the hay; 1800
... in the Waggon, and smells at ... 1815
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Variant 31:
1815
... has mown, And sometimes he dreams that the hay is his own. 1800
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Variant 32:
1815
... where'er ... 1800
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Variant 33:
1850
... spring up o'er ... 1800
... over ... 1815
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Footnote A:
i. e. first published in the 1815 edition of the Poems: but, although dated by Wordsworth 1803, it had appeared in The Morning Post of July 21, 1800, under the title, The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale. A Character. It was then unsigned.—Ed.
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Note:
With this picture, which was taken from real life, compare the imaginative one of
The Reverie of Poor Susan
[vol. i. p. 226]; and see (to make up the deficiencies of this class)
The Excursion, passim
.—W. W. 1837.
Contents 1800 Main Contents
1799 ← end of Volume II: 1800 → Poems on the Naming of Places
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