The Village Wifes Lament | Page 3

or done,?But she must know it,?Nor any errand to be run?But she made us go it.
She with her anxious, watchful glance,?Blue under her glasses,?Was meat and drink and providence?To us five lasses.?Out she fetcht from hidden stores?White frocks for Sundays,?And always nice clean pinafores?Against school, Mondays.
She and Dad were little people,?But most of us were tall,?And I shot up like Chichester steeple;?Fan, she was small.?You never saw a kinder face?Or met with bluer eyes:?If ever there was a kissing-case?On her mouth it lies.
vii
When I was old enough for skipping?My school days began;?By Mary's side you'd see me tripping--?I was baby then.?A B C and One-two-three?Were just so much Greek;?But I could read, it seems to me,?As soon as I could speak.
Before I knew how fast I grew?I was the tallest there;?Before my time was two-thirds thro'?I must plait my hair;?Before our Alice took a place?And walkt beside her fancy,?I had on my first pair of stays?And saw myself Miss Nancy.
And then goodbye to form and desk?And sudden floods of noise?When fifteen minutes' fun and frisk?Make happy girls and boys.?As shrill as swifts in upper air?Was our young shrillness:?'Twas joy of life, 'twas strength to fare?Broke the morning stillness.
I see us flit, as here I sit?With wet-fring'd eyes,?And never rime or reason to it--?Like a maze of flies!?The boys would jump and catch your shoulder?Just for the fun of it--?They tease you worse as you grow older?Because you want none of it.
I hear them call their saucy names--?Mine was Maypole Nance;?I see our windy bickering games,?Half like a dance;?The opening and closing ring?Of pinafored girls,?And the wind that makes the cheek to sting?Blowing back their curls!
There in the midst is Sally Waters,?As it might be I,?With the idle song of Sons and Daughters?Drifting out and by?Sons and daughters! Break, break,
Heart, if you can--?How have they taught us treat sons and daughters?Since I began?
viii
There is a bank that always gets?The noon sun full;?There we'd hunt for violets?After morning school.?White and blue we hunted them?In the moss, and gave them,?Dropping-tir'd and short in stem,?To Mother. She must have them.
Primrose-mornings in the copse,?Autumn berrying?Where the dew for ever stops,?And the serrying,?Clinging shrouds of gossamers?Glue your eyes together;?Gleaning after harvesters?In the mild blue weather--
Life so full of bud and blossom,?Fallen like a tree!?Who gave me a woman's bosom--?And who has robb'd me?
III
i
When from the folds the shepherd comes?At the shut of day,?The fires are lit in valley homes,?The smoke blue and grey--?So still, so still!--hangs o'er the thatch;?So still the night falls,?My love might know me at the latch?By my heart-calls.
And hear you me, my love, this night?Where Grief and I are set??And look you for the beacon light,?And can you see it yet??Or is the sod too deep, my love,?Which they piled over you??Or are you bound in sleep, my love,?Lying in the dew?
ii
When I was done with schooling days,?Turn'd sixteen,?My mother found me in a place?My own bread to win.?I had not been a month in place,?A month from the start,?When there show'd grace upon my face?That smote a man's heart.
Tho' I was young and full of play,?As full as a kitten,?I knew to reckon to a day?When his heart was smitten.?You'll pick my logic all to holes,?But here's my wonder:?It is that God should knit two souls,?And men tear them asunder.
For we were knit, no doubt of it,?I as well as he;?I peered in glass, my eyes were lit?After he'd lookt at me.?I knew not why my heart was glad,?Or why it leapt, but so 'tis,?The sharpest, sweetest pang I've had?Was when he took notice.
And 'tis not favour makes a lad?To a girl's mind,?But 'tis himself makes good of bad,?Or her stone-blind.?And men may cheer at tales of wars,?But every girl knows?What makes her eyes to shine like stars?And her face a rose.
iii
No word he said, but turned his head?After he'd lookt at me;?I coloured up a burning red,?Setting the cloth for tea.?The board was spread with cakes and bread?For farmer in his sleeves,?For mistress and the shepherd Ted;?They talkt of hogs and theaves--
But nothing ate I where I sat,?So bashful as I was,?But kept my eyes upon my plate?And pray'd the minutes pass.?Tic-toc, tic-toc from great old clock,?The long hand did creep;?And every stroke in my heart woke?Nature out of her sleep.
So once, they tell, did Gabriel?Name a young Maid?For honour and a miracle,?And few words she said;?But things have changed a wondrous deal?Since she was nam'd,?If to her room she did not steal?As if she were asham'd;
And there upon her bed to sit?Astare, as I guess,?Watching her fingers weave and knit,?Bedded in her dress,?A-thinking thoughts in her young mind?Too wild for tears to gain,?As when the roaring North-West wind?Gives no time to the rain.
iv
Give thanks, you maids, that there's your work?To keep your heart and head?From thoughts that lurk in