 | Dorothy |  |
Dorothy goes with her pails to the ancient well in the courtyard
Daily at grey of morn, daily ere twilight at eve;
Often and often again she winds at the mighty old windlass,
Still with her strong red arms landing the bucket aright:
Then, her beechen yoke press'd down on her broad square shoulders,
Stately, erect, like a queen, she with her burden returns:
She with her burden returns to the fields that she loves, to the cattle
Lowing beside the troughs, welcoming her and her pails.
Dorothy—who is she? She is only a servant-of-all-work;
Servant at White Rose Farm, under the cliff in the vale:
Under the sandstone cliff, where martins build in the springtime,
Hard by the green level meads, hard by the streams of the Yore.
Oh, what a notable lass is our Dolly, the pride of the dairy!
Stalwart and tall as a man, strong as a heifer to work:
Built for beauty, indeed, but certainly built for labour—
Witness her muscular arm, witness the grip of her hand!
It was her hands, do you know, that lost her and won her a sweetheart,
Here, in the harvest time, only a twelvemonth ago.
Dorothy came to the farm, where her mother was servant before her,
Long, long since—let me see; yes, it is here she was born:
Twenty-one years have pass'd, since Betsy, the stout ruddy milkmaid,
Lay in a garret here, dead, leaving her baby behind.
Great was the scandal it caused; for many suspected the father:
Oft had he lodged in the house—made it a bachelor's home;
Sketching and fishing in spring, and hunting at times in the winter;
Visiting, too, when he pleased, all the great neighbours around.
Why should he care for her, for Betsy the rude ruddy milkmaid,
He, who could have, if he would, ladies in plenty to woo?
Well—but they said it was he: and the motherly wife of the farmer
Took poor Betsy's child, rear'd it almost like her own.
Two little daughters she had; and Dorothy grew up beside them,
Learning her ABC out of the very same book:
Learning moreover to write, though her clumsy laborious fingers
Never took kindly to that, hardly could manage a pen.
True, she had marks of her sire—his height, his regular features;
Also her golden hair seem'd a reflexion of his:
But with her mother's frame—the strong coarse frame of a farm-wench;
Only, refined here and there, shaped by a quality blood:
And, as the years drew on, and she grew from a child to a servant,
Earning wages at last, heartily working and well,
More of her mother appear'd; and the delicate traits of the father,
Save in her handsome face, speedily faded away.
Daily at grey of morn, daily ere twilight at eve;
Often and often again she winds at the mighty old windlass,
Still with her strong red arms landing the bucket aright:
Then, her beechen yoke press'd down on her broad square shoulders,
Stately, erect, like a queen, she with her burden returns:
She with her burden returns to the fields that she loves, to the cattle
Lowing beside the troughs, welcoming her and her pails.
Dorothy—who is she? She is only a servant-of-all-work;
Servant at White Rose Farm, under the cliff in the vale:
Under the sandstone cliff, where martins build in the springtime,
Hard by the green level meads, hard by the streams of the Yore.
Oh, what a notable lass is our Dolly, the pride of the dairy!
Stalwart and tall as a man, strong as a heifer to work:
Built for beauty, indeed, but certainly built for labour—
Witness her muscular arm, witness the grip of her hand!
It was her hands, do you know, that lost her and won her a sweetheart,
Here, in the harvest time, only a twelvemonth ago.
Dorothy came to the farm, where her mother was servant before her,
Long, long since—let me see; yes, it is here she was born:
2
Lay in a garret here, dead, leaving her baby behind.
Great was the scandal it caused; for many suspected the father:
Oft had he lodged in the house—made it a bachelor's home;
Sketching and fishing in spring, and hunting at times in the winter;
Visiting, too, when he pleased, all the great neighbours around.
Why should he care for her, for Betsy the rude ruddy milkmaid,
He, who could have, if he would, ladies in plenty to woo?
Well—but they said it was he: and the motherly wife of the farmer
Took poor Betsy's child, rear'd it almost like her own.
Two little daughters she had; and Dorothy grew up beside them,
Learning her ABC out of the very same book:
Learning moreover to write, though her clumsy laborious fingers
Never took kindly to that, hardly could manage a pen.
True, she had marks of her sire—his height, his regular features;
Also her golden hair seem'd a reflexion of his:
But with her mother's frame—the strong coarse frame of a farm-wench;
Only, refined here and there, shaped by a quality blood:
And, as the years drew on, and she grew from a child to a servant,
Earning wages at last, heartily working and well,
More of her mother appear'd; and the delicate traits of the father,
Save in her handsome face, speedily faded away.
| Dorothy | |