Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume I. | Page 9

a week or so.
M. Well, well, she might be wiser, that she might,?For she can sit at ease and pay her way;?A sober husband, too--a cheerful man--?Honest as ever stepped, and fond of her;?Yet she is never easy, never glad,?Because she has not children. Well-a-day!?If she could know how hard her mother worked,?And what ado I had, and what a moil?With my half-dozen! Children, ay, forsooth,?They bring their own love with them when they come,?But if they come not there is peace and rest;?The pretty lambs! and yet she cries for more:?Why the world's full of them, and so is heaven--?They are not rare.
G. No, mother, not at all;?But Hannah must not keep our Fanny long--?She spoils her.
M. Ah! folks spoil their children now;?When I was a young woman 'twas not so;?We made our children fear us, made them work,?Kept them in order.
G. Were not proud of them--?Eh, mother?
M. I set store by mine, 'tis true,?But then I had good cause.
G. My lad, d'ye hear??Your Granny was not proud, by no means proud!?She never spoilt your father--no, not she,?Nor ever made him sing at harvest-home,?Nor at the forge, nor at the baker's shop,?Nor to the doctor while she lay abed?Sick, and he crept upstairs to share her broth.
M. Well, well, you were my youngest, and, what's more?Your father loved to hear you sing--he did,?Although, good man, he could not tell one tune?From the other.
F. No, he got his voice from you:?Do use it, George, and send the child to sleep.
G. What must I sing?
F. The ballad of the man?That is so shy he cannot speak his mind.
G. Ay, of the purple grapes and crimson leaves;?But, mother, put your shawl and bonnet off.?And, Frances, lass, I brought some cresses in:?Just wash them, toast the bacon, break some eggs,?And let's to supper shortly.
[Sings.]
My neighbor White--we met to-day--?He always had a cheerful way,?As if he breathed at ease;?My neighbor White lives down the glade,?And I live higher, in the shade?Of my old walnut-trees.
So many lads and lasses small,?To feed them all, to clothe them all,?Must surely tax his wit;?I see his thatch when I look out,?His branching roses creep about,?And vines half smother it.
There white-haired urchins climb his eaves,?And little watch-fires heap with leaves,?And milky filberts hoard;?And there his oldest daughter stands?With downcast eyes and skilful hands?Before her ironing-board.
She comforts all her mother's days,?And with her sweet obedient ways?She makes her labor light;?So sweet to hear, so fair to see!?O, she is much too good for me,?That lovely Lettice White!
'Tis hard to feel one's self a fool!?With that same lass I went to school--?I then was great and wise;?She read upon an easier book,?And I--I never cared to look?Into her shy blue eyes.
And now I know they must be there?Sweet eyes, behind those lashes fair?That will not raise their rim:?If maids be shy, he cures who can;?But if a man be shy--a man--?Why then the worse for him!
My mother cries, "For such a lad?A wife is easy to be had?And always to be found;?A finer scholar scarce can be,?And for a foot and leg," says she,?"He beats the country round!
"My handsome boy must stoop his head?To clear her door whom he would wed."?Weak praise, but fondly sung!?"O mother! scholars sometimes fail--?And what can foot and leg avail?To him that wants a tongue?"
When by her ironing-board I sit,?Her little sisters round me flit,?And bring me forth their store;?Dark cluster grapes of dusty blue,?And small sweet apples bright of hue?And crimson to the core.
But she abideth silent, fair,?All shaded by her flaxen hair?The blushes come and go;?I look, and I no more can speak?Than the red sun that on her cheek?Smiles as he lieth low.
Sometimes the roses by the latch?Or scarlet vine-leaves from her thatch?Come sailing down like birds;?When from their drifts her board I clear,?She thanks me, but I scarce can hear?The shyly uttered words.
Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White?By daylight and by candlelight?When we two were apart.?Some better day come on apace,?And let me tell her face to face,?"Maiden, thou hast my heart."
How gently rock yon poplars high?Against the reach of primrose sky?With heaven's pale candles stored!?She sees them all, sweet Lettice White;?I'll e'en go sit again to-night?Beside her ironing-board!
Why, you young rascal! who would think it, now??No sooner do I stop than you look up.?What would you have your poor old father do??'Twas a brave song, long-winded, and not loud.
M. He heard the bacon sputter on the fork,?And heard his mother's step across the floor.?Where did you get that song?--'tis new to me.
G. I bought it of a peddler.
M. Did you so??Well, you were always for the love-songs, George.
F. My dear, just lay his head upon your arm.?And if you'll pace and sing two minutes more?He needs must sleep--his eyes are full of sleep.
G. Do you sing, mother.
F. Ay, good mother,