Farm Ballads | Page 8

couldn't make it go.
She had an edication, an' that was good for her;?But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things too far; An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick), That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 'rithmetic.
So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done--?They was a family of themselves, and I another one;?And a very little cottage one family will do,?But I never have seen a house that was big enough for two.
An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye, An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try;?But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow,?When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me I could go.
I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small,?And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all;?And what with her husband's sisters, and what with child'rn three, 'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me.
An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got,?For Thomas's buildings 'd cover the half of an acre lot;?But all the child'rn was on me--I couldn't stand their sauce-- And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss.
An' then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out West,?And to Isaac, not far from her--some twenty miles at best;?And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any one so old, And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold.
So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about-- So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out; But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down, Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town.
Over the hill to the poor-house--my child'rn dear, good-by! Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh;
"MANY A NIGHT I'VE WATCHED YOU WHEN ONLY GOD WAS NIGH."
And God 'll judge between us; but I will al'ays pray?That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day.
OVER THE HILL FROM THE POOR-HOUSE.
I, who was always counted, they say,?Rather a bad stick any way,?Splintered all over with dodges and tricks,?Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six;"?I, the truant, saucy and bold,?The one black sheep in my father's fold,?"Once on a time," as the stories say,?Went over the hill on a winter's day--?Over the hill to the poor-house.
Tom could save what twenty could earn;?But givin' was somethin' he ne'er would learn;?Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak--?Committed a hundred verses a week;?Never forgot, an' never slipped;?But "Honor thy father and mother" he skipped;?So over the hill to the poor-house.
As for Susan, her heart was kind?An' good--what there was of it, mind;?Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice,?Nothin' she wouldn't sacrifice?For one she loved; an' that 'ere one?Was herself, when all was said an' done.?An' Charley an' 'Becca meant well, no doubt,?But any one could pull 'em about;
An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see,?Save one poor fellow, and that was me;?An' when, one dark an' rainy night,?A neighbor's horse went out o' sight,?They hitched on me, as the guilty chap?That carried one end o' the halter-strap.?An' I think, myself, that view of the case?Wasn't altogether out o' place;?My mother denied it, as mothers do,?But I am inclined to believe 'twas true.?Though for me one thing might be said--?That I, as well as the horse, was led;?And the worst of whisky spurred me on,?Or else the deed would have never been done.?But the keenest grief I ever felt?Was when my mother beside me knelt,?An' cried an' prayed, till I melted down,?As I wouldn't for half the horses in town.?I kissed her fondly, then an' there,?An' swore henceforth to be honest and square.
I served my sentence--a bitter pill?Some fellows should take who never will;?And then I decided to go "out West,"?Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best;?Where, how I prospered, I never could tell,?But Fortune seemed to like we [me] well,?An' somehow every vein I struck?Was always bubblin' over with luck.?An', better than that, I was steady an' true,?An' put my good resolutions through.?But I wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said,?"You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead,?An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more,?Than if I had lived the same as before."
But when this neighbor he wrote to me,?"Your mother's in the poor-house," says he,?I had a resurrection straightway,?An' started for her that very day.?And when I arrived where I was grown,?I took good care that I shouldn't be known;?But I bought the old cottage, through and through,?Of some one Charley had sold it to;?And held back neither work nor gold,?To fix it up as it was of old.?The same big fire-place wide an' high,?Flung up