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Barwick-in-Elmet, where my earliest days, In healthy toil were spent, I sing of thee. Let thy surroundings, rich in rural charms, In gentle murmuring streams and sylvan shade, In quiet footpaths, verged with sloping banks, Vhere the sweet violet, and the primrose pale, Herald the vernal sky, the summer sun, Inspire my musings and direct my theme. A child no longer, I may ramble not, As I was wont along the winding lanes, Or 'mongst thy still sequestered, bushy nooks, Startle the blackbird on her mud-built nest, And, with rapacious fingers, seize a prize. I may not now, on some warm grassy slope, Stretched at my ease, list while the skylark sings, Far overhead his song of happy love, Or mark the fleecy clouds with curious gaze, While in fantastic shapes they softly glide Along their path aerial, which me-seemed A mid-way station twixt myself and Heaven. But dear old Barwick, memories sweet of thee I still can cherish, still can ramble o'er Thy once familiar landscapes, and recount Events which fifty years agone belonged to me. Of village churches many have I known, And in a few an humble worshipper Have been; but none like thine can I revere. Oft have I listened to the Sabbath chimes Of other bells; but chimes so sweet as thine, So full of mellow music, where are they? Many a green churchyard in pensive mood Have I surveyed, and marked the spoils of death, In monumental urns and marbles rare, And oft have dropped a tear while I have viewed Affection-nurtured flowers bloom o'er the dead. But, lacking these, one sacred spot remains To me more honoured, dearer than them all. The dark green Yew-tree finds not there a home, Nor with sepulchral honours is it graced. The turf is green amongst its tomb-stones gray, Which in quaint language simple records keep Of friends in early days familiar mine. Times are not what they were: this sacred spot A common playground was when I was young. And while the moon of autumn largely showered Her beams benignant, friendly to the Muse, Loud burst of school-boys' mirth were uttered here, Ah! little recked we then who slept below. Or understood the contrast which our sports Formed with the slumbers of the group interred. We played: they slept as undisturbed as now. The village school hard by, like Carthage old.¹ Save what to memory clings with tendril power, Is now a blank — no havock more complete — Since not a stone remains to tell me where Old 'Benjamin's' dread son was lord supreme², Or Irvine ruled and taught with kindly care.³ Oh! I have gazed upon this honoured site Till tears, warm tears, have trickled down my cheeks The first best tribute gratitude can pay. |
| EDWARD BURLEND |
| Notes
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| (1) The village school attended by Burlend was close to the north side of the Church and the churchyard provided a playground for the boys. In 1821, the schoolmaster's house attached to the east end of the school was taken down and the space used for an extended schoolroom. The school was replaced in 1861 by the present building on Aberford Road and was later demolished. The site was then incorporated into the churchyard. |
| (2) Edmund Rawlinson (1783-1821) was the son of Frances and Benjamin Rawlinson, a labourer of Barwick. Edmund was the schoolmaster in Barwick from some time prior to 1814 until his death on 22 May 1821. He left a widow and two daughters. |
| (3) John Irvine was born in 1776 in Saughtree, near Castleton in Roxburgh, Scotland. After two years at Aberdeen University in the period 1812-14, he became Master of the Free Grammar School in Allendale, Northumberland, from 1814 to 1817. He then became the curate of first High Hoyland near Barnsley and then Barwick. In 1821, he was made headmaster of the Barwick school and he introduced the National System of education favoured by the Church of England. He resigned from the school in 1824, but remained as curate until 1827. We have no certain knowledge about the rest of his life. |