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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
So then it was that Tommy tould
All the secrets of his soul—
And Nelly—and how it began at Creer's,
When they were little things, and all the years
He'd loved her since; so she gave a smile,
Did the misthress, you know, and—“Dear me! child,”
She says—“that's not such a terrible case”;
And she took his hand, and she looked in his face.
“But now,” says Tommy, and where he had been
That very night! and what he had seen!
And the way the Captain was spakin' to her,—
“Captain! what Captain?” “Young Captain Moore.”
“Captain! Captain!” Aw, she dropped his hand,
And the two of her own was clasped in the one,
And pressed to her heart, like a man when he's shot,
And her face like paper, and just a blot
Of blood on her cheek, and drawin' her breath
All tight and shivery through her teeth,
Tommy said—like shot, he said—
And, if it hadn' been for Cain that was overhead,
There's no doubt, he said, she'd have sent a cry
Right up through the roof, right up through the sky—
Poor thing! to God Himself in Heaven,
But Cain was betwixt—and past eleven.
All the secrets of his soul—
And Nelly—and how it began at Creer's,
When they were little things, and all the years
He'd loved her since; so she gave a smile,
Did the misthress, you know, and—“Dear me! child,”
She says—“that's not such a terrible case”;
And she took his hand, and she looked in his face.
“But now,” says Tommy, and where he had been
That very night! and what he had seen!
And the way the Captain was spakin' to her,—
“Captain! what Captain?” “Young Captain Moore.”
“Captain! Captain!” Aw, she dropped his hand,
And the two of her own was clasped in the one,
And pressed to her heart, like a man when he's shot,
And her face like paper, and just a blot
Of blood on her cheek, and drawin' her breath
All tight and shivery through her teeth,
Tommy said—like shot, he said—
And, if it hadn' been for Cain that was overhead,
There's no doubt, he said, she'd have sent a cry
Right up through the roof, right up through the sky—
Poor thing! to God Himself in Heaven,
But Cain was betwixt—and past eleven.
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |