 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
He's in the lane again—and there below
Streams from the open doorway that red glow,
Which warms him but to look at. For his prize
Cautious he feels—all safe and snug it lies.
“Down, Tinker! down, old boy!—not quite so free:
The thing thou sniffest is no game for thee.
But what's the meaning?—no look-out to-night!
No living soul astir! Pray God all's right!
Who's flittering round the peat-stack in such weather?
Mother!” You might have felled him with a feather
When the short answer to his loud “Hillo!”
And hurried question—“Are they come?”—was—“No!”
Streams from the open doorway that red glow,
Which warms him but to look at. For his prize
Cautious he feels—all safe and snug it lies.
“Down, Tinker! down, old boy!—not quite so free:
The thing thou sniffest is no game for thee.
But what's the meaning?—no look-out to-night!
No living soul astir! Pray God all's right!
Who's flittering round the peat-stack in such weather?
Mother!” You might have felled him with a feather
When the short answer to his loud “Hillo!”
And hurried question—“Are they come?”—was—“No!”
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |