Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume I. | Page 8

Cromer town.?What can wringing of the hands do that which is ordained to alter? He had climbed, had climbed the mountain, he would ne'er come down.
But, O my first, O my best, I could not choose but love thee: O, to be a wild white bird, and seek thy rocky bed!?From my breast I'd give thee burial, pluck the down and spread above thee; I would sit and sing thy requiem on the mountain head.
Fare thee well, my love of loves! would I had died before thee! O, to be at least a cloud, that near thee I might flow,?Solemnly approach the mountain, weep away my being o'er thee, And veil thy breast with icicles, and thy brow with snow!
SUPPER AT THE MILL.
Mother.?Well, Frances.
Frances.?Well, good mother, how are you?
M. I'm hearty, lass, but warm; the weather's warm:?I think 'tis mostly warm on market days.?I met with George behind the mill: said he,?"Mother, go in and rest awhile."
F. Ay, do,?And stay to supper; put your basket down.
M. Why, now, it is not heavy?
F. Willie, man,?Get up and kiss your Granny. Heavy, no!?Some call good churning luck; but, luck or skill,?Your butter mostly comes as firm and sweet?As if 'twas Christmas. So you sold it all?
M. All but this pat that I put by for George;?He always loved my butter.
F. That he did.
M. And has your speckled hen brought off her brood?
F. Not yet; but that old duck I told you of,?She hatched eleven out of twelve to-day.
Child. And, Granny, they're so yellow.
M. Ay, my lad,?Yellow as gold--yellow as Willie's hair.
C. They're all mine, Granny, father says they're mine.
M. To think of that!
F. Yes, Granny, only think!?Why, father means to sell them when they're fat.?And put the money in the savings-bank,?And all against our Willie goes to school:?But Willie would not touch them--no, not he;?He knows that father would be angry else.
C. But I want one to play with--O, I want?A little yellow duck to take to bed!
M. What! would ye rob the poor old mother, then?
F. Now, Granny, if you'll hold the babe awhile;?'Tis time I took up Willie to his crib.
_[Exit FRANCES._
[Mother sings to the infant.]
Playing on the virginals,?Who but I? Sae glad, sae free,?Smelling for all cordials,?The green mint and marjorie;?Set among the budding broom,?Kingcup and daffodilly;?By my side I made him room:?O love my Willie!
"Like me, love me, girl o' gowd,"?Sang he to my nimble strain;?Sweet his ruddy lips o'erflowed?Till my heartstrings rang again:?By the broom, the bonny broom,?Kingcup and daffodilly,?In my heart I made him room:?O love my Willie!
"Pipe and play, dear heart," sang he,?"I must go, yet pipe and play;?Soon I'll come and ask of thee?For an answer yea or nay;"?And I waited till the flocks?Panted in yon waters stilly,?And the corn stood in the shocks:?O love my Willie!
I thought first when thou didst come?I would wear the ring for thee,?But the year told out its sum,?Ere again thou sat'st by me;?Thou hadst nought to ask that day?By kingcup and daffodilly;?I said neither yea nor nay:?O love my Willie!
Enter GEORGE.
George. Well, mother, 'tis a fortnight now, or more,?Since I set eyes on you.
M. Ay, George, my dear,?I reckon you've been busy: so have we.
G. And how does father?
M. He gets through his work.?But he grows stiff, a little stiff, my dear;?He's not so young, you know, by twenty years?As I am--not so young by twenty years,?And I'm past sixty.
G. Yet he's hale and stout,?And seems to take a pleasure in his pipe;?And seems to take a pleasure in his cows,?And a pride, too.
M. And well he may, my dear.
G. Give me the little one, he tires your arm,?He's such a kicking, crowing, wakeful rogue,?He almost wears our lives out with his noise?Just at day-dawning, when we wish to sleep.?What! you young villain, would you clench your fist?In father's curls? a dusty father, sure,?And you're as clean as wax.
Ay, you may laugh;?But if you live a seven years more or so,?These hands of yours will all be brown and scratched?With climbing after nest-eggs. They'll go down?As many rat-holes as are round the mere;?And you'll love mud, all manner of mud and dirt,?As your father did afore you, and you'll wade?After young water-birds; and you'll get bogged?Setting of eel-traps, and you'll spoil your clothes,?And come home torn and dripping: then, you know,?You'll feel the stick--you'll feel the stick, my lad!
Enter FRANCES.
F. You should not talk so to the blessed babe--?How can you, George? why, he may be in heaven?Before the time you tell of.
M. Look at him:?So earnest, such an eager pair of eyes!?He thrives, my dear.
F. Yes, that he does, thank God?My children are all strong.
M. 'Tis much to say;?Sick children fret their mother's hearts to shreds,?And do no credit to their keep nor care.?Where is your little lass?
F. Your daughter came?And begged her of us for