For space reasons, these discoveries have been kept apart from those listed in New Poems 1.

Although this poem is listed as a new poem by the Rabble's Poet, it actually is a re-working of an earlier poem, namely On Seeing A Wild Honeysuckle In Flower Near The Source Of The River Don which Elliott composed in 1817. The 1817 version appeared in Peter Faultless To His Brother which was published in 1820. Lots of lines in the two versions are the same, though the 1836 version has 10 more lines. Verse 1 of the 1836 version appears as verse 2 of the 1817 version. After a gap of 19 years, the Corn Law Rhymer has re-visited the earlier poem, found it wanting and made some modifications before offering it to the New Monthly Magazine under a changed title. As noted elsewhere, Elliott was digging up juvenalia once he became an established poet. He hoped that his new found fame would encourage the magazine to publish earlier titles.

Where the poet mentions "grey Snealsden's summit," this refers to Snailsden Moor, not far from Dunford Bridge in the Peak District.

This poem appeared in the New Monthly Magazine in March 1835. The last nine lines of the poem were published in Elliott's Poetical Works under the title "Spenserian," so at some stage the first two verses have been dismissed.

Unfortunately verses 2 and 3 have words which were obscured by a Sheffield City Libraries rubber stamp. Hooligans!

Once again, the poem was discovered by the researcher, Diane Gascoyne, who found the poem in the Sheffield Iris newspaper for November 15th 1836.

Elliott quite often added notes to the end of his poem. He did so with this one and the notes appear below:-

Under the title of the poem "Elegy On Eliza", Elliott has an interesting dedication: "Wife of Benjamin Flower, Of Cambridge, The Father Of The Liberal Newspaper Press."

Benjamin Flower (1755 - 1829) was a printer, a writer and a journalist. Like Elliott, Flower was an Unitarian but the latter had some unconventional views. He edited the liberal Cambridge Intelligencer newspaper which denounced the war with France. From 1807 to 1811, he was the owner of the Political Register newspaper. When in gaol for libel, he was visited by Eliza Gould, who was noted for her philanthropic work, and soon after Flower was released, the couple married. Eliza died in 1810, so the poem should have been written about this date; yet the poem only appeared in the New Monthly Magazine in 1836. There is a problem here. Further the publication of the poem in the New Monthly Magazine in 1836 was seven years after the death of Benjamin Flower. Elliott's dedication is not to the late Father of the Liberal Newspaper Press, so that is evidence that the poem was composed much earlier. The date 1810 seems appropriate. At this date, Elliott was 29 years old, was writing poetry and was in correspondence with Robert Southey, the famous poet and literary figure, who was making encouraging remarks about the Corn Law Rhymer. The poet did not achieve fame until the literary world discovered The Ranter in 1830. When Elliott was widely recognised as an important new voice, then the editor of the New Monthly Magazine would have begged the poet to submit more of his work for publication in the magazine. This is a good argument for explaining the long gap between the poem being written and the publication date of 1836* (*see next paragraph). In fact the magazine published 14 poems by Elliott in this year: which means that caution should be applied to any poems apparently published in 1836. For example, Elliott wrote a letter to the editor of the magazine on 11th August 1836 enclosing "a worthless cargo" of 13 new sonnets which he hoped might get published.

When Eliza Gould became Mrs Flower she gave birth to two daughters, Sarah and Eliza. This gives us two people called Eliza Flower, namely mother and daughter. This can cause confusion, and it may need emphasising that "Elegy On Eliza" was for the mother and not for the daughter! Eliza the daughter was born in 1803 and was to become a celebrated musician who composed the famous hymn "Nearer, My God, To Thee." She sent contributions to the Monthly Repository as did her father.

The owner of the Monthly Repository was Rev Fox. For some interesting information on the relationship between Eliza Flower and Rev Fox and Elliott's contact with both, please see the article on this site about Fox & Flower. Elliott was in contact with Rev Fox and had about 30 poems published by the Monthly Repository. A letter from Elliott to Rev Fox (dated 11 Sept 1836) is in Rotherham Archives.

For Elliott to have written the "Elegy On Eliza" poem, it is obvious that the poet had very good connections with Benjamin Flower and his wife. The latest research shows that Flower was the publisher of Elliott's first poem, "The Vernal Walk" and also his second poem "The Soldier" published in 1810. More information on the publishing relationship is available.

New research has revealed that "Elegy On Eliza" appeared in Elliott's "Peter Faultless To His Brother Simon" published in 1820. In this volume, the poem was entitled "Elegy" and did not bear the dedication mentioned earlier. The two versions are almost identical, with just the odd word being changed and with 4 lines being omitted in the 1836 version. Elliott was being underhand in submitting his poem to the New Monthly Magazine as a new work when it had already been published. The same is true of another poem called "Ilderim." This also appeared in the Peter Faultless volume and then was included in the New Monthly Magazine in 1836. Again, in the later version a few alterations were made by the Corn Law Rhymer and the original verse 1 was dropped

This is a very long poem which takes the form of a letter to Francis Fisher, a very close friend of the Corn Law Rymer. More information on Francis Fisher can be found here.

Dear Francis, - 'Twas on All-Fools' day,
(Our farmers' hecks were scant of hay),

Their horses, on the common bare,

Neighing, "Come, come," to my black mare;

While she, in plenty to the knee,

Still answered, "Nay, come you to me,"

When, by my parlour fire, I read,

In Hunter's book, (his best, 'tis said,)

Not precepts wise about new tillage,

But stories old about "our village,"

And that huge hall, whence Strafford bore

His third good wife, in days of yore.

Discord, a saint to churchmen dear,

Dropp'd, in those days, an apple here:

Sir Edward Rodis took up the apple,

And built, to vex the church, a chapel:

Ah, little dream'd he or his mate,

That priests would preach at Houghton Great,

In house of his, for church and state!

And much I fear, mankind will never

Be, as they should be, good and clever,

Till two curs'd plagues are hounded out,

Call'd He-Knows-many, and He-Knows-nought;

For He-Knows-wrong is sly and strong;

While He-Knows-might is dull, though stout:

Sad deeds are done by He-Knows-wrong!

But when came good from He-Knows-nought?

No. We must wait till He-Knows-right

Shall slay them both, in Christian fight,

Ere humble truth can be forgiv'n,

And earth rejoice - a humble heav'n.

Meantime, let's peel Saint Discord's apple,

And talk of preachers, and our chapel.

One of our pastors - we have two -

(Of course not sprung from Discord's apple,)

Is evangelically true,

Elect of God to serve our chapel.

Who preach'd above Sir Edward's nose;

Bidding us fly to good from evil,

Chiefly because we fear the devil.

At Darfield* stands his Church in-Co,

Near which a river windeth slow

Beneath the tower, time-tinged and strong,

Whose famous clock, which ne'er goes wrong,

Hath too respectable a chime

To follow vulgar railway time.

That chime of chimes no chime excels;

Who hath not heard of Darfield bells!

Of Darfield's prophet-preacher too

The evangelically true!

He is of "saintship old" a sample!

Good Francis, follow his example;

And don't get lick'd by worse than Turks

For preaching moral worth and works.

No, let the dread of hell defend

Your flock from sin, ray erring friend!

Placed, as they are, above the pit,

On a mere crust, which covers it!

If that crust break - why, down they'll go,

Down to the flaming lake below:

This you from sacred writ can show.

Yet you may hint, (perhaps 'twere fit,)

That if, unmarried, they have heirs,

Or fail, when scared, to say their prayers,

They'll each be burnt into a brick!

To build an oven for Old Nick,

In which he'll bake his brimstone pies!

Garnish'd with fried Socinians' eyes!

But I forget - I'm bearing hard on
Socinian patience, and beg pardon.

The singers in our little chapel -

Were they, too, rais'd from Discord's apple

This a Yankee might boldly say,

Nor could my conscience answer, Nay.

They sing too long, and yet too fast,

Each driving to be heard the last.

But discords sometimes harmonize;

And one fam'd fiddle well supplies,

By sundry sorts of strange crack'd noises,

The want of modulated voices:

Singers and preacher well agree,

They to mend tunes, and sinners he

When will you visit our old chapel,

To see what springs from Discord's apple!

And hear them sing, and him exhort,

Hoping they've got a patent for't.

Note. Don't you tell all this, or hoot it,
To any monster who might print it,
And get me blamed for raising scandals,
About our Fenelons and Handels ;
And hated by our blara-blelias ;
For some of them are Saint Cecilias.
Besides, they're bonny - one, a matron,
Might find in coldest saint a patron:
Another - come and see! - a Dido;
When will you look and long, as I do!
And then, a maiden beauty-laden;
Oh, such a figure! such a head!
(Just now, she stopp'd two girls, to kiss them,)
What need of saints to raise the dead!
If she would do it, who could miss them!

Now, Francis, pull a prudish face,
Long, long - all length - a fiddle-case,
With not a string of frailty on't;
And cry, if age would frolic, Don't.
Yet why grudge man his winter flowers!
The few brief beams of wintry hours!
If dewdrops gem the wither'd thorn,
Why may not he, whom Time hath borne
Close to the margin of the tomb,
Rejoice, if there a daisy bloom!
Laugh, if a glad thought visit him
And play his freak! and do his whim!
Look on the dome, that roof'd the sun
Ere cant, or prudery, had begun;
How bright (with God's own
In gladness over every head)
It shines - Blue, blue! or golden-white
In lucid beams - a hymn of light!
A song of boundless festival,
To Him whose glory gladdens all!
Yonder, amid the gath'ring storm,
The shadow of His hand I trace,
And catch wild glimpses of His form;
Oh, might I meet Him face to face!

I know He loves and pities vie:
Therefore, in woman's smile, I seek
Him ; in true hearts His goodness sec,
In every deed that helps the weak,
In every look that lessens pain,
And bids the old feel young again;
And still, when kindness speaks, I hear
The footsteps of the Blessed near.
But falsehood in the heart and eye,
Like manacles on mind or limb,
Degrades the Lord of Liberty -
Backs the hymn'd of seraphim;
And oh, when lours from man's proud brow

Darkness, which makes God's image tremble,

Wine, (a glass,) if home-made wine,
Turn the soul of cowslipp'd doses
Into love's or friendship's roses:
Then, let Mary, (if you're wed)
Light you with a kiss to bed.

Thanks to the air of Argott-Hill**,
And breeze, and bee, and flower, and rill!
No alderman, at city feast,
On turtle feeds with heartier zest
Than I on root or crust can dine,
Perchance, with Adam's ale for wine.
I seldom slept till morning woke,
When lodg'd ten doors from Sheffield's smoke:
Sweet, after toil, are slumbers deep.
Here (after labour) I can sleep.
But oh, in sleep what dreams will come!
And mine are dreams of pain and gloom!
But one, my dream of yesternight,
A fleeting dream of blissful tears,
Be paid, in scarce a minute's flight,
The pangs of many weeping years;
For on a friend estranged I smil'd!
Two sever'd hearts met, reconcil'd.
Long parted, and no more to part,
We met, with mutual earnest look,
And wept, methought, heart clasp'd to heart,
And sweetest kisses gave and took.
We met - Oh, not as spirits meet!
But lock'd and strained in fleshly fold;
And yet her kiss was cold as sweet!
Cold - heavenly sweet! but deathly cold.
What may it mean, this vision! - Oh!
That kiss of ice ! those lips of snow!
Why comes the friend of long ago,
A mournful flower of coldest bloom!
White roses best befit the tomb!

I wak'd - the beauteous vision fled;
I wept - as men weep for the dead;
Weeping I heard the transient rain
Patter against my southern pane,
The cuckoo in the vale beneath,
And oxen lowing o'er the heath.
Then sang the mated thrush his best,
And bade the crimson'd sun arise;
Free soar'd the cloud-left skylark west
As man will be, when men are wise;
But I was sad, as pity's sighs.
Fain would I jest, but know not how!
Throned sorrow darkens on my brow,
For millions "in their misery dead,"
And nations still discomforted.
And let it darken! while I look
Back on my heart, as on a book,
And ask the memoried scribe within
To name my unrepented sin.
The loan of life how have I spent!
What did I with the talent lent?
Tell me, thou mute Accuser, when
I doubted God, or loved not men?

Much have I sinn'd in deed and word,

But He to crush His child forbore;

He tells us not that we have err'd,

But bids us learn to err no more.

I care not who, in coat or gown,

Wears crop or wig at church or chapel,

Converts a village, or the town.

And throws, or gathers, Discord's apple;

But can I sage or Christian find

In men whose zeal misleads the blind?

Assists bad strength! and shuts the door,

The heart - against the victim - poor!

No. Who reviled Him crucified?

The servants of our meanest pride.

Who fed the hungry? He, who cried,

"Feed ye my little ones!" and died.

You, Francis, well-resolved, prepare

His cross profaned to lift and bear!

You on God's altar pure will lay

No hands impure; and good men say,

Just pleaders are themselves a plea;

He hears such preachers when they pray.

Pray, then, Beginner! - not for me;

Nor for God's doom'd, who sow, for gain,

Woes steep'd in crime, (such prayers were vain)

But for Man's doom'd! And who are they?

The famish'd slaves, whom laws betray;

Who mutely pine in sternest need;

Whom none salute, and many meet;

Who ask (unheard!) the fiends we feed -

"For leave to toil," that they may eat,

And rise up men - from Satan's feet.

He is the Christian, he alone,

Whose love is wisdom, (sad, when groan

Millions, but angel-glad to trace

Heaven's peace on earth's afflicted face)

Teaching the sons of toil and care

To earn sufficient, and to spare?

Have we no Christian teachers then!
What preacher pleads for helpless men!
Good Francis! lest we meet no more
On this side the uncharted shore,
(Where all whose hearts as children's are,
Will find a region good and fair,
Exchange a bad world for a better,
And earth's best hopes for joys sublimer,)
Answer, and in an early letter.
Your friend sincere,

The Corn-law Rhymer.

* Darfield was the nearest village of any size to Elliott's home out in the wilds.
** Elliott's retirement home was on Hargate Hill, a short distance from the hamlet of Great Houghton.

Although this short verse appeared in the New Monthly Magazine in 1836, it could well have been written much earlier. The line "Too oft they met on Rother's side" refers to the River Rotherham. Elliott left Rotherham to live in Sheffield in 1819, which would suggest the poem was an early one written while the poet was still living in Rotherham.

The above poem probably dates from 1836 when it appeared in the New Monthly Magazine, though it may have been written earlier and submitted to the magazine on a wave of popularity which happened to the poet after the reviews of the Corn Law Rhymes.

This poem is an interesting one, as several of the lines appear in another Elliott poem called Lines (On Seeing Unexpectedly A New Church, While Walking, On The Sabbath, In Old-Park Wood, Near Sheffield). Very likely, A New Churchyard is an earlier working of the Lines poem. In line 2 of A New Churchyard, we see the name Charles without an explanation about who he represents. In the Lines poem, we get a solution to the mystery person in line 4; namely Pemberton. A footnote later identifies Pemberton as "The unequalled lecturer of the drama." Charles Pemberton (1790-1840) was a colourful friend of Elliott who walked with the poet around Loxley, Shirecliffe, Wadsley & Rivilin - areas of Sheffield not too far from the bard's Upperthorpe home. For more information on Pemberton, see the article on this site on Friends and Contacts of the Corn Law Rhymer

ENGLAND IN 1844

Rascoldom! Parsondom!

Lazy big Beggardom,

Playing the fool!

Helping with less and less

Fast-growing wretchedness!

Catch’d Cayley creakingly,

Young England sneakingly

Shearing calves’ wool!

Capital profitless, -

Doing what? Can’t you guess

Eating his teeth!

Married life, dog and cat:

Palac’d thieves, scar’d and fat;

Sorrow and verity

Sobbing, “Prosperity

Dead, lies beneath.”

*****************

Young Wodehouse crustily,

Crying dear wares;

Want, with his tongue of fire,

Seen o’er the famine spire!

Richmond to hawk his fish,

Knatchbull to beg a dish,

Damn’d – And who cares?

Bread-taxers stealing rates;

John, thinking Church and State’s

Hell is broke loose!

Brassface and Timberface

Half-fac’d by Doubleface!

Foul things, with mouth and “legs,”

Scolding o’er broken eggs!

Killing the goose!

Rushbrooke and Sotheron,

Kept loonies, duller none,

Not telling lies!

Benett’s slaves full of cheer,

“Except when bread is dear!”

Benett, to keep it dear,

Talking of cheaper beer –

Juice, and no pies!

Famine their battle-blade,

Man against man array’d,

Struggling for doom!

Starv’d Erin’s Catholic

Mining in Bishoprick!

Brimless hat lacking crown,

Slaving the Saxon down,

Till the end come!

Cobden, “our Man of men,”

Doing the work of ten,

Each worth a score;

Bright, in the lion’s den,

Champion of honest men,

Lion and dove of peace,

Hampden of love and peace,

Worth fifty more.

Gunpowder quenching flame;

Jesus a hated name,

Stanley sublime as Thom;

Government Peeping Tom;

Hunger, the only power!

Scowling round town and tower,

Darker than Death!

Peel, hardest task'd of all!

Gagg’d, kick’d, and mask’d for all,

Cooking his hash!

Slander’d man, wily man,

Bare back, and empty pan,

Gloomily waiting all

For the great general –

General Crash!

Trade on her dying bed:

Lifting her languid head,

Smiles, with sad brow:

Land-leeches, damning us,

Cry, “She was bamming us!”

Farmers, in luck again,

Trying to duck again,

Milk a dead cow!

This poem was found in the biograpy of Elliott written by John Watkins, chartist, playwrite and son-in-law to Elliott. The poem has not appeared anywhere else, as far as I know. The rhythm of the poem reminds of "The Black Hole of Calcutta" and may date from this time (1830/1). Elliott liked to use this question and answer format which helps the rhythm trip along. The poem seems to demand people to be self confident and challenge what is wrong with the present social order. The phrase "palaced knaves" often occurs in the bard's poems but what were the "Spaniel" references about? And who was Mary?