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

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 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