The Verse-Book of a Homely Woman Part 8

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 n.o.body 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?

The Thrush

Across the land came a magic word When the earth was bare and lonely, And I sit and sing of the joyous spring, For 'twas I who heard, I only!

Then dreams came by, of the gladsome days, Of many a wayside posy; For a crocus peeps where the wild rose sleeps, And the willow wands are rosy!

Oh! the time to be! When the paths are green, When the primrose-gold is lying 'Neath the hazel spray, where the catkins sway, And the dear south wind comes sigh- ing.

My mate and I, we shall build a nest, So snug and warm and cosy, When the kingcups gleam on the meadow stream, Where the willow wands are rosy!

In Dorset Dear

In Dorset Dear they're making hay In just the old West Country way.

With fork and rake and old-time gear They make the hay in Dorset Dear.

From early morn till twilight grey They toss and turn and shake the hay.

And all the countryside is gay With roses on the fallen may, For 'tis the hay-time of the year In Dorset Dear.

The loaded waggons wend their way Across the pasture-lands, and stay Beside the hedge where foxgloves peer; And ricks that shall be fas.h.i.+oned here Will be the sweetest stuff, they say, In Dorset Dear!

The Flight of the Fairies

There's a rustle in the woodlands, and a sighing in the breeze, For the Little Folk are busy in the bushes and the trees; They are packing up their treasures, every one with nimble hand, Ready for the coming journey back to sunny Fairyland.

They have gathered up the jewels from their beds of mossy green, With all the dewy diamonds that summer morns have seen; The silver from the lichen and the powdered gold dust, too, Where the b.u.t.tercups have flourished and the dandelions grew.

They packed away the birdies' songs, then, lest we should be sad, They left the Robin's carol out, to make the winter glad; They packed the fragrance of the flowers, then, lest we should forget, Out of the pearly scented box they dropped a Violet.

Then o'er a leafy carpet, by the silent woods they came, Where the golden bracken lingered and the maples were aflame.

On the stream the starlight s.h.i.+mmered, o'er their wings the moonbeams shone, Music filtered through the forest--and the Little Folk were gone!

The Street Player

The shopping had been tedious, and the rain Came pelting down as she turned home again.

The motor-bus swirled past with rush and whirr, Nought but its fumes of petrol left for her.

The bloaters in her basket, and the cheese Malodorously mixed themselves with these.

And all seemed wrong. The world was drab and grey As the slow minutes wept themselves away.

And then, athwart the noises of the street, A violin flung out an Irish air.

"I'll take you home again, Kathleen."

Ah, sweet, How tender-sweet those lilting phrases were!