Listening
His step? Ah, no; ’tis but the rain
That hurtles on the window pane.
Let’s draw the curtains close and sit
Beside the fire awhile and knit.
Two purl—two plain. A well-shaped sock,
And warm. (I thought I heard a knock,
But ’twas the slam of Jones’s door.)
Yes, good Scotch yarn is far before
The fleecy wools—a different thing,
And best for wear. (Was that his ring?)
No. ’Tis the muffin man I see;
We’ll have threepennyworth for tea.
Two plain—two purl; that heel is neat.
(I hear his step far down the street.)
Two purl—two plain. The sock can wait;
I’ll make the tea. (He’s at the gate!)
The Dear Folks in
Devon
Back in the dear old country ’tis Christmas, and to-night
I’m thinking of the mistletoe and holly berries bright.
The smoke above our chimbley pots I’d dearly love to see,
And those dear folks down in Devon, how they’ll talk and think of me.
Owd Ben’ll bring the letters, Christmas morn, and if there’s one
As comes across from Canada straight from their absent son,
My Mother’s hands’ll tremble, and my
Dad’ll likely say:
“Don’t seem like Christmas time no more, with our dear lad away.”
I can see ’em carve the Christmas beef, and Brother Jimmy’s wife
Will say her never tasted such, no, not in all her life.
And Sister Martha’s Christmas pies melt in your mouth, ’tis true,
But ’twas Mother made the puddin’, as mothers always do!
Ah me! If I could just have wings, and in the dimsey light
Go stealing up the cobbled path this lonesome Christmas night,
Lift up the latch with gentle hand—My!
What a shout there’d be!
From those dear folks down in Devon!
What a welcomin’ for me!