The Carrier
“Owd John’s got past his work,” said they,
Last week as ever was—“don’t pay
To send by him. He’s stoopid, too,
And brings things what won’t never do.
We’ll send by post, he is that slow.
And that owd hoss of his can’t go.”
But ‘smornin’, well, ’twas fun to see
The gentlefolks run after we.
Squire’s lady stopped I in the lane,
“Oh,” says she, “goin’ to town again?
You’ll not mind calling into Bings
To fetch my cakes and buns and things?
I’ve got a party comin’ on,
And nought to eat... so, DO ’ee, John.”
Then, up the street, who should I see,
But old Mam Bessant hail’n’ me.
And Doctor’s wife, and Mrs. Higgs
Was wantin’ vittles for their pigs,
And would I bring some? (Well, what nex’?)
And Granny Dunn has broke her specs,
And wants ’em mended up in town,
So would John call and bring ’em down
To-night...? and so the tale goes on,
’Tis, “Sure you will, now DO ’ee, John.”
Well, ’tis a hevil wind that blows
Nobody any good; it shows
As owd John haves his uses yet,
Though now and then he do forget.
Gee up, owd gal. When strikes is on,
They’re glad of pore owd stoopid John.
The Lad’s Love by the
Gate
Down in the dear West Country, there’s a garden where I know
The Spring is rioting this hour, though
I am far away—
Where all the glad flower-faces are old loves of long ago,
And each in its accustomed place is blossoming to-day.
The lilac drops her amethysts upon the mossy wall,
While in her boughs a cheerful thrush is calling to his mate.
Dear breath of mignonette and stocks!
I love you, know you all.
And, oh, the fragrant spices from the lad’s love by the gate!
Kind wind from the West Country, wet wind, but scented so,
That straight from my dear garden you seem but lately come,
Just tell me of the yellow broom, the guelder rose’s snow,
And of the tangled clematis where myriad insects hum.
Oh, is there any heartsease left, or any rosemary?
And in their own green solitudes, say, do the lilies wait?
I knew it! Gentle wind, but once—speak low and tenderly—
How fares it—tell me truly—with the lad’s love by the gate?