THE

VILLAGE MINSTREL

AND OTHER POEMS [Cont.]

[PART 9]

THE CROSS ROADS:
OR, THE HAYMAKER'S STORY.

STOPT by the storm, that long in sullen black
From the south-west stain'd its encroaching track,
Haymakers, hustling from the rain to hide,
Sought the grey willows by the pasture-side;
And there, while big drops bow the grassy stem,
And bleb the withering hay with pearly gems,
Dimple the brook, and patter in the leaves,
The song or tale an hour's restraint relieves.
And while the old dames gossip at their ease,
And pinch the snuff-box empty by degrees,
The young ones join in love's delightful themes,
Truths told by gipsies, and expounded dreams;
And mutter things kept secrets from the rest,
As sweetheart's names, and whom they love the best;
And dazzling ribbons they delight to show,
The last new favours of some 'veigling beau,
Who with such treachery tries their hearts to move,
And, like the highest, bribes the maidens' love.
The old dames, jealous of their whisper'd praise,
Throw in their hints of man's deluding ways;
And one, to give her counsels more effect,
And by example illustrate the fact
Of innocence o'ercome by flattering man,
Thrice tapp'd her box, and pinch'd, and thus began.

"Now wenches listen, and let lovers lie,
Ye'll hear a story ye may profit by;
I'm your age treble, with some oddments to't,
And right from wrong can tell, if ye'll but do't:
Ye need not giggle underneath your hat,
Mine's no joke-matter, let me tell you that;
So keep ye quiet till my story's told,
And don't despise your betters cause they're old.

That grave ye've heard of, where the four roads meet,
Where walks the spirit in a winding-sheet,
Oft seen at night, by strangers passing late,
And tarrying neighbours that at market wait,
Stalking along as white as driven snow,
And long as one's shadow when the sun is low;
The girl that's buried there I knew her well,
And her whole history, if ye'll hark, can tell.
Her name was Jane, and neighbour's children we,
And old companions once, as ye may be;
And like to you, on Sundays often stroll'd
To gipsies' camps to have our fortunes told;
And oft, God rest her, in the fortune-book
Which we at hay-time in our pockets took,
Our pins at blindfold on the wheel we stuck,
When hers would always prick the worst of luck;
For try, poor thing, as often as she might,
Her point would always on the blank alight;
Which plainly shows the fortune one's to have,
As such like go unwedded to the grave, -
And so it prov'd. - The next succeeding May,
We both to service went from sports and play,
Though in the village still; as friends and kin
Thought neighbour's service better to begin.
So out we went: - Jane's place was reckon'd good,
Though she 'bout life but little understood,
And had a master wild as wild can be,
And far unfit for such a child as she;
And soon the whisper went about the town,
That Jane's good looks procur'd her many a gown
From him, whose promise was to every one,
But whose intention was to wive with none.
'Twas nought to wonder, though begun by guess;
For Jane was lovely in her Sunday dress,
And all expected such a rosy face
Would be her ruin - as was just the case.
The while the change was easily perceiv'd,
Some months went by, ere I the tales believ'd;
For there are people now-a-days, Lord knows,
Will sooner hatch up lies than mend their clothes;
And when with such-like tattle they begin,
Don't mind whose character they spoil, a pin:
But passing neighbours often mark'd them smile
And watch'd him take her milkpail o'er a stile;
And many a time, as wandering closer by,
From Jenny's bosom met a heavy sigh;
And often mark'd her, as discoursing deep,
When doubts might rise to give just cause to weep,
Smothering their notice, by a wish'd disguise
To slive her apron corner to her eyes.
Such signs were mournful and alarming things,
And far more weighty than conjecture brings;
Though foes made double what they heard of all,
Swore lies as proofs, and prophesied her fall.
Poor thoughtless wench! it seems but Sunday past
Since we went out together for the last,
And plain enough indeed it was to find
She'd something more than common on her mind;
For she was always fond and full of chat,
In passing harmless jokes 'bout beaus and that,
But nothing then was scarcely talk'd about,
And what there was, I even forc'd it out.
A gloomy wanness spoil'd her rosy cheek,
And doubts hung there it was not mine to seek;
She ne'er so much as mention'd things to come,
But sigh'd o'er pleasures ere she left her home;
And now-and-then a mournful smile would raise
At freaks repeated of our younger days,
Which I brought up, while passing spots of ground
Where we, when children, "hurly-burly'd" round,
Or "blindman-buff'd" some morts of hours away--
Two games, poor thing, Jane dearly lov'd to play.
She smil'd at these, but shook her head and sigh'd
Whene'er she thought my look was turn'd aside;
Nor turn'd she round, as was her former way,
To praise the thorn, white over then with May;
Nor stooped once, tho' thousands round her grew,
To pull a cowslip as she us'd to do:
For Jane in flowers delighted from a child -
I like the garden, but she lov'd the wild,
And oft on Sundays young men's gifts declin'd,
Posies from gardens of the sweetest kind,
And eager scrambled the dog-rose to get,
And woodbine-flowers at every bush she met.
The cowslip blossom, with its ruddy streak,
Would tempt her furlongs from the path to seek;
And gay long purple, with its tufty spike,
She'd wade o'er shoes to reach it in the dyke;
And oft, while scratching through the briary woods
For tempting cuckoo-flowers and violet buds,
Poor Jane, I've known her crying sneak to town,
Fearing her mother when she'd torn her gown.
Ah, these were days her conscience view'd with pain,
Which all are loth to lose, a well as Jane.
And, what I took more odd than all the rest,
Was, that same night she ne'er a wish exprest
To see the gipsies, so belov'd before,
That lay a stone's-throw from us on the moor:
I hinted it; she just reply'd again -
She once believ'd them, but had doubts since then.
And when we sought our cows, I call'd, 'Come mull!'
But she stood silent, for her heart was full.
She lov'd dumb things; and ere she had begun
To milk, caress'd them more than e'er she'd done;
But though her tears stood watering in her eye,
I little took it as her last good-bye;
For she was tender, and I've often known
Her mourn when beetles have been trampled on:
So I ne'er dream'd from this, what soon befel,
Till the next morning rang her passing-bell.
My story's long, but time's in plenty yet,
Since the black clouds betoken nought but wet;
And I'll e'en snatch a minute's breath or two,
And take another pinch, to help me through.

So, as I said, next morn I heard the bell,
And passing neighbours cross'd the street, to tell
That my poor partner Jenny had been found
In the old flag-pool, on the pasture, drown'd.
God knows my heart! I twitter'd like a leaf,
And found too late the cause of Sunday's grief;
For every tongue was loos'd to gabble o'er
The slanderous things that secret pass'd before:
With truth or lies they need not then be strict,
The one they rail'd at could not contradict.
'Twas now no secret of her being beguil'd,
For every mouth knew Jenny died with child;
And though more cautious with a living name,
Each more than guess'd her master bore the blame.
That very morning, it affects me still,
Ye know the foot-path sidles down the hill,
Ign'rant as babe unborn I pass'd the pond
To milk as usual in our close beyond,
And cows were drinking at the water's edge,
And horses brows'd among the flags and sedge,
And gnats and midges danc'd the water o'er,
Just as l've mark'd them scores of times before,
And birds sat singing as in mornings gone, -
While I as unconcern'd went soodling on,
But little dreaming, as the wakening wind
Flapp'd the broad ash-leaves o'er the pond reclin'd,
And o'er the water crink'd the curdled wave,
That Jane was sleeping in her watery grave.
The neatherd boy that us'd to tend the cows,
While getting whip-sticks from the dangling boughs
Of osiers drooping by the water-side,
Her bonnet floating on the top espied;
He knew it well, and hasten'd fearful down
To take the terror of his fears to town, -
A melancholy story, far too true;
And soon the village to the pasture flew,
Where, from the deepest hole the pond about,
They dragg'd poor Jenny's lifeless body out,
And took her home, where scarce an hour gone by
She had been living like to you and I.
I went with more, and kiss'd her for the last,
And thought with tears on pleasures that were past;
And, the last kindness left me then to do,
I went, at milking, where the blossoms grew,
And handfuls got of rose and lambtoe sweet,
And put them with her in her winding-sheet.
A wilful murder, jury made the crime;
Nor parson 'low'd to pray, nor bell to chime;
On the cross roads, far from her friends and kin,
The usual law for their ungodly sin
Who violent hands upon themselves have laid,
Poor Jane's last bed unchristian-like was made;
And there, like all whose last thoughts turn to heaven,
She sleeps, and doubtless hop'd to be forgiven.
But, though I say't, for maids thus 'veigl'd in
I think the wicked men deserve the sin;
And sure enough we all at last shall see
The treachery punish'd as it ought to be.
For ere his wickedness pretended love,
Jane, I'll be bound, was spotless as the dove,
And's good a servant, still old folks allow,
As ever scour'd a pail or milk'd a cow;
And ere he led her into ruin's way,
As gay and buxom as a summer's day:
The birds that ranted in the hedge-row boughs,
As night and morning we have sought our cows,
With yokes and buckets as she bounc'd along,
Were often deaf'd to silence with her song.
But now she's gone: - girls, shun deceitful men,
The worst of stumbles ye can fall again';
Be deaf to them, and then, as 'twere, ye'll see
Your pleasures safe as under lock and key.
Throw not my words away, as many do;
They're gold in value, though they're cheap to you.
And husseys hearken, and be warn'd from this,
If ye love mothers, never do amiss:
Jane might love hers, but she forsook the plan
To make her happy, when she thought of man.
Poor tottering dame, it was too plainly known
Her daughter's dying hasten'd on her own,
For from the day the tidings reach'd her door
She took to bed and looked up no more,
And, ere again another year came round,
She, well as Jane, was laid within the ground;
And all were griev'd poor Goody's end to see:
No better neighbour enter'd house than she,
A harmless soul, with no abusive tongue,
Trig as new pins, and tight's the day was long;
And go the week about, nine times in ten
Ye'd find her house as cleanly as her sen.
But, Lord protect us ! time such change does bring,
We cannot dream what o'er our heads may hing;
The very house she liv'd in, stick and stone,
Since Goody died, has tumbled down and gone:
And where the marjoram once, and sage, and rue,
And balm, and mint, with curl d-leaf parsley grew,
And double marygolds, and silver thyme,
And pumpkins 'neath the window us'd to climb;
And where I often when a child for hours
Tried through the pales to get the tempting flowers,
As lady's laces, everlasting peas,
True-love-lies-bleeding, with the hearts-at-ease,
And golden rods, and tansy running high
That o'er the pale-tops smil'd on passers-by,
Flowers in my time that every one would praise,
Tho' thrown like weeds from gardens now-a-days;
Where these all grew, now henbane stinks and spreads,
And docks and thistles shake their seedy heads,
And yearly keep with nettles smothering o'er; -
The house, the dame, the garden known no more:
While, neighbouring nigh, one lonely elder-tree
Is all that's left of what had us'd to be,
Marking the place, and bringing up with tears
The recollections of one's younger years.
And now I've done, ye're each at once as free
To take your trundle as ye us'd to be;
To take right ways, as Jenny should have ta'en,
Or headlong run, and be a second Jane;
For by one thoughtless girl that's acted ill
A thousand may be guided if they will:
As oft 'mong folks to labour bustling on,
We mark the foremost kick against a stone,
O stumble o'er a stile he meant to climb,
While hind ones see and shun the fall in time.
But ye, I will be bound, like far the best
Love's tickling nick-nacks and the laughing jest,
And ten times sooner than be warn'd by me,
Would each be sitting on some fellow's knee,
Sooner believe the lies wild chaps will tell
Than old dames' cautions who would wish ye well:
So have your wills." - She pinch'd her box again,
And ceas'd her tale, and listen'd to the rain,
Which still as usual patter'd fast around,
And bow'd the bent-head loaded to the ground;
While larks, their naked nest by force forsook,
Prun'd their wet wings in bushes by the brook.
The maids, impatient now old Goody ceas'd,
As restless children from the school releas'd,
Right gladly proving, what she'd just foretold,
That young one's stories were preferr'd to old,
Turn to the whisperings of their former joy,
That oft deceive, but very rarely cloy.


RUSTIC FISHING.

ON Sunday mornings, freed from hard employ,
How oft I mark the mischievous young boy
With anxious haste his pole and lines provide,
For make-shifts oft crook'd pins to thread were tied;
And delve his knife with wishes ever warm
In rotten dunghills for the grub and worm,
The harmless treachery of his hooks to bait;
Tracking the dewy grass with many a mate,
To seek the brook that down the meadows glides,
Where the grey willow shadows by its sides,
Where flag and reed in wild disorder spread,
And bending bulrush bows its taper head;
And, just above the surface of the floods,
Where water-lilies mount their snowy buds,
On whose broad swimming leaves of glossy green
The shining dragon-fly is often seen;
Where hanging thorns, with roots wash'd bare, appear,
That shield the moor-hen's nest from year to year;
While crowding osiers mingling wild among
Prove snug asylums to her brood when young,
Who, when surpris'd by foes approaching near,
Plunge 'neath the weeping bough and disappear.
There far from terrors that the parson brings,
Or church bell hearing when its summons rings,
Half hid in meadow-sweet and keck's high flowers,
In lonely sport they spend the Sunday hours.
Though ill supplied for fishing seems the brook,
That breaks the mead in many a stinted crook,
Oft choak'd in weeds, and foil'd to find a road,
The choice retirement of the snake and toad,
Then lost in shallows dimpling restlessly,
In fluttering struggles murmuring to be free, -
O'er gravel stones its depth can scarcely hide
It runs the remnant of its broken tide,
Till, seemly weary of each choak'd control,
It rests collected in some gulled hole
Scoop'd by the sudden floods when winter's snow
Melts in confusion by a hasty thaw;
There bent in hopeful musings on the brink
They watch their floating corks that seldom sink,
Save when a wary roach or silver bream
Nibbles the worm as passing up the stream,
Just urging expectation's hopes to stay
To view the dodging cork, then slink away;
Still hopes keep burning with untir'd delight,
Still wobbling curves keep wavering like a bite:
If but the breezy wind their floats should spring,
And move the water with a troubling ring,
A captive fish still fills the anxious eyes
And willow-wicks lie ready for the prize;
Till evening gales awaken damp and chill,
And nip the hopes that morning suns instil;
And resting flies have tired their gauzy wing,
Nor longer tempt the watching fish to spring,
Who at the worm no nibbles more repeat,
But lunge from night in sheltering flag-retreat.
Then disappointed in their day's employ,
They seek amusement in a feebler joy.
Short is the sigh for fancies prov'd untrue:
With humbler hopes still pleasure they pursue
Where the rude oak-bridge scales the narrow pass,
Half hid in rustling reeds and scrambling grass,
Or stepping stones stride o'er the narrow sloughs
Which maidens daily cross to milk their cows;
There they in artless glee for minnows run,
And wade and dabble past the setting sun;
Chasing the struttle o'er the shallow tide,
And flat stones turning up where gudgeons hide.
All former hopes their ill success delay'd,
In this new change they fancy well repaid.
And thus they wade, and chatter o'er their joys
Till night, unlook'd-for, young success destroys,
Drives home the sons of solitude and streams,
And stops uncloy'd hope's ever-fresh'ning dreams.
They then, like school-boys that at truant play,
In sloomy fear lounge on their homeward way,
And inly tremble, as they gain the town,
Where chastisement awaits with many a frown,
And hazel twigs, in readiness prepar'd,
For their long absence bring a meet reward.


SUNDAY WALKS.

How fond the rustic's ear at leisure dwells
On the soft soundings of his village bells,
As on a Sunday morning at his ease
He takes his rambles, just as fancies please,
Down narrow balks that intersect the fields,
Hid in profusion that its produce yields:
Long twining peas, in faintly misted greens;
And wing'd-leaf multitudes of crowding beans;
And flighty oatlands of a lighter hue;
And speary barley bowing down with dew;
And browning wheat-ear, on its taper stalk,
With gentle breezes bending o'er the balk,
Greeting the parting hand that brushes near
With patting welcomes of a plenteous year.
Or narrow lanes, where cool and gloomy-sweet
Hedges above-head in an arbour meet,
Meandering down, and resting for awhile
Upon a moss-clad molehill or a stile;
While every scene that on his leisure crowds,
Wind-waving valleys and light passing clouds,
In brighter colours seems to meet the eye,
Than in the bustle of the days gone by.
A peaceful solitude around him creeps,
And nature seemly o'er her quiet sleeps;
No noise is heard, save sutherings through the trees
Of brisk wind gushes, or a trembling breeze;
And song of linnets in the hedge-row thorn,
Twittering their welcomes to the day's return;
And hum of bees, where labour's doom'd to stray
In ceaseless bustle on his weary way:
And low of distant cattle here and there,
Seeking the stream, or dropping down to lair;
And bleat of sheep, and horses' playful neigh,
From rustic's whips, and plough, and waggon, free,
Baiting in careless freedom o'er the leas,
Or turn'd to knap each other at their ease.
While 'neath the bank on which he rests his head
The brook mourns drippling o'er its pebbly bed,
And whimpers soothingly a calm serene
O'er the lull'd comforts of a Sunday scene,
He ponders round, and muses with a smile
On thriving produce of his earlier toil;
What once were kernels from his hopper sown,
Now browning wheat-ears and oat-bunches grown,
And pea-pods swell'd, by blossoms long forsook,
And nearly ready for the scythe and hook:
He pores with wonder on the mighty change
Which suns and showers perform, and think it strange;
And though no philosophic reasoning draws
His musing marvels home to nature's cause,
A simple feeling in him turns his eye
To where the thin clouds smoke along the sky;
And there his soul consents the Power must reign
Who rules the year, and shoots the spindling grain,
Lights up the sun, and sprinkles rain below -
The fount of nature whence all causes flow.
Thus much the feeling of his bosom warms,
Nor seeks he further than his soul informs.

A six-days' prisoner, life's support to earn
From dusty cobwebs and the murky barn,
The weary thresher meets the rest that's given,
And thankful soothes him in the boon of heaven;
But happier still in Sabbath-walks he feels,
With love's sweet pledges poddling at his heels,
That oft divert him with their childish glee
In fruitless chases after bird and bee;
And, eager gathering every flower they pass
Of yellow lambtoe and the totter-grass,
Oft whimper round him disappointment's sigh
At sight of blossom that's in bloom too high,
And twitch his sleeve with all their coaxing powers
To urge his hand to reach the tempting flowers:
Then as he climbs, their eager hopes to crown,
On gate or stile to pull the blossoms down
Of pale hedge-roses straggling wild and tall,
And scrambling woodbines that outgrow them all,
He turns to days when he himself would teaze
His tender father for such toys as these,
And smiles with rapture, as he plucks the flowers,
To meet the feelings of those lovely hours,
And blesses Sunday's rest, whose peace at will
Retains a portion of those pleasures still.

But when the duty of the day's expir'd,
And priest and parish offer what's requir'd,
When godly farmer shuts his book again
To talk of profits from advancing grain,
Short memory keeping what the parson read,
Prayers 'neath his arm, and business in his head;
And, dread of boys, the clerk is left to close
The creaking church-door on its week's repose;
Then leave me Sunday's remnant to employ
In seeking sweets of solitary joy,
And lessons learning from a simple tongue,
Where nature preaches in a cricket's song;
Where every tiny thing that flies and creeps
Some feeble language owns, its prayer to raise;
Where all that lives, by noise or silence, keeps
A homely sabbath in its Maker's praise.

There, free from labour, let my musings stray
Where footpaths ramble from the public way
In quiet loneliness o'er many a scene,
Through grassy close, or grounds of blossom'd bean;
Oft winding balks where groves of willows spread
Their welcome waving shadows over-head,
And thorns beneath in woodbines often drest
Inviting strongly in their peace to rest;
Or wildly left to follow choice at will
O'er many a trackless vale and pathless hill,
Or, nature's wilderness, o'er heaths of goss,
Each footstep sinking ankle-deep in moss,
By pleasing interruptions often tied
A hedge to clamber or a brook to stride;
Where no approaching feet or noises rude
Molest the quiet of one's solitude,
Save birds, their song broke by a false alarm,
Through branches fluttering from their fancy'd harm;
And cows and sheep with startled low and bleat
Disturb'd from lair by one's unwelcome feet, -
The all that's met in Sunday's slumbering ease,
That adds to, more than checks the power to please.
And sweet it is to creep one's blinded way
Where woodland boughs shut out the smiles of day,
Where, hemm'd in glooms that scarce give leave to spy
A passing cloud or patch of purple sky,
We track, half hidden from the world besides,
Sweet hermit-nature that in woodlands hides;
Where nameless flowers that never meet the sun,
Like bashful modesty, the sight to shun,
Bud in their snug retreat, and bloom, and die,
Without one notice of a passing eye;
There, while I drop me in the woody waste
'Neath arbours Nature fashions to her taste,
Entwining oak-trees with the ivy's gloom
And woodbines propping over boughs to bloom,
And scallop'd briony mingling round her bowers
Whose fine bright leaves make up the want of flowers, -
With nature's minstrels of the woods let me,
Thou Lord of sabbaths, add a song to thee,
An humble offering for the holy day
Which thou most wise and graciously hast given,
As leisure dropt in labour's rugged way
To claim a passport with the rest to heaven.


THE CRESS-GATHERER.

SOON as the spring its earliest visit pays,
And buds with March and April's lengthen'd days
Of mingled suns and shades, and snow, and rain,
Forcing the crackling frost to melt again;
Oft sprinkling from their bosoms, as they come,
A dwindling daisy here and there to bloom;
I mark the widow, and her orphan boy,
In preparation for their old employ.
The cloak and hat that had for seasons past
Repell'd the rain and buffeted the blast,
Though worn to shreddings, still are occupied
In make-shift way their nakedness to hide;
For since her husband died her hopes are few,
When time's worn out the old, to purchase new.
Upon the green they're seen by rising sun,
To sharp winds croodling they would vainly shun,
With baskets on their arm and hazel crooks
Dragging the sprouting cresses from the brooks;
A savoury sallad sought for Luxury's whim,
Though small reward her labours meet from him,
When, parcel'd out, she humbly takes for sale
The simple produce of the water'd vale
In yearly visits to some market town,
Meeting by turns a penny and a frown.
Of all the masks deception ever weaves,
Life, thine's the visage that the most deceives;
One hour of thine an emperor's gory greets,
Another turns him begging in the streets:
E'en this poor wretch, thy meanest link, who lives
On scantiest sustenance that labour gives,
Has known her better days, whom thou, times gone,
E'en condescended to look kindly on.
Things went not thus, when abler hands supplied
Life's vain existence ere her husband died,
Who various ways a living did pursue,
Clerk of the parish, and schoolmaster too.
He punctual always rang the evening bell,
And sang " Amen" on Sundays loud and well;
And though not nice in this and that respect,
Was rarely found his duty to neglect.
His worldly ways religions ne'er perplext,
He never fail'd to recollect the text,
Or quote the sermon's passages by heart
In warm devotion o'er an honest quart;
And, as a brother of those subtle tools
That make such figuring in our country schools,
He lov'd his skill to flourish, and to show
As well as godly he was learned too;
Though, with the boast most common to his kin,
The use of figures he knew little in, -
By far too puzzling for his head were they,
He sought fame's purchase by an easier way;
And, like his scholars, with his A, B, C,
Was found more ready, than with "rule of three."
He'd many things to crack on with his ale,
For clowns less learn'd to wonder at the tale;
And o'er his pot he'd take the news and preach,
And observations make from speech to speech,
Till those around him swore each wise remark
Show'd him more fit for parson than for clerk.
To minutes he would tell when moons were new,
And of eclipses talk the seasons through,
Run o'er as ready as he'd read his prayers
All the saint-days the calendar declares;
Mystic conclusions draw from many a sign
Which made him judge of weather foul or fine;
And dripping moons, or suns in crimson set,
To him sure tokens were of fair or wet.
Of wonders he knew all the yearly store
That fill the learned almanacks of Moore;
Earthquakes, and plagues, and floods, when they befel,
From second father Noah's day, could tell;
Till most gave out, had he divulg'd his trade,
The best of almanacks he would have made;
And much they wonder'd, when he died, to find
He left no fragment of his art behind.
And as he always, for the sake of fame,
Conceal'd the sources whence his learning came,
His artless list'ners, who of books none knew
'Sides the large Bible in the parson's pew,
Thought he more things than lawful understood,
And knowledge got from helpers not too good.

When he was living she had food on shelf,
And knew no trials to support herself,
Though industry would oft from leisure steal
Odd hours to knit, or turn the spinning-wheel:
Choice is not misery; she had neighbour's fare,
Got hand to mouth, and decent clothes to wear.
Though joys fall sparing in this checqer'd life,
Wide difference parts the widow from the wife:
Encroaching want show'd not such frightful form,
Nor drove her dithering in the 'numbing storm,
Picking half naked round the brooks for bread,
To earn her penny ere she can be fed;
In grief pursuing every chance to live,
That timely toils in seasons please to give;
Through hot and cold, come weather as it will,
Striving with pain, and disappointed still;
Just keeping from expiring life's last fire,
That pining lingers ready to expire:
The winter through, near barefoot, left to pull
From bramble twigs her little mites of wool;
A hard-earn'd sixpence when her mops are spun,
By many a walk and aching finger won;
And seeking, hirpling round from time to time,
Her harmless sticks from hedges hung with rime,
The daily needings want's worst shifts require,
To hunt her fuel ere she makes her fire;
Where she, while grinning to the hissing blast,
With buds or berries often breaks her fast.
All summer, too, the little rest of care
Is every morning cheated of its share,
And ere one sunbeam glistens in the dew
The long wet pasture grass she dabbles through,
Where sprout the mushrooms in the fairy-ring,
Which night's black mystery to perfection brings;
And these she seeks, ere 'gin her early toils,
As extra gains to labour's scanty spoils:
By every means thus ling'ring life along,
Continual struggling 'gainst a stream too strong.

THE VILLAGE MINSTREL AND OTHER POEMS: PART 10