Under Cross and Crescent :: :: University of Virginia Library

“My name, kind Sir, is Betsy Birch,
I am a poor old body now,
Dependent on my grandson Bill;
But, thank the Lord! I'm hearty still,
And mostly pass my time in church
(Though soon I'll rest outside, I trow!).

“For 'tis my place to clean and air,
Shake all the hassocks, dust the pews,
Wage war on spiders' web and moth,
See to the plate and altar-cloth,
And mark the place of psalm and pray'r
In those great books the parsons use.

“Sabbath and week-day, many a year,
I've hearken'd to God's Holy Word,
And ever since my early youth
Have known so well my Bible-truth
That e'en in dreams I seem to hear
The congregations praise the Lord;

“And this is why I can't make out
Why I should be a sinner still,
Unsettled-like, in soul and mind,
Who should be piously inclined,
Or have the heart to harbour doubt,
Who should bow meekly to God's will!

“But there's so much that's veil'd and mask'd,
To vex the spirit here below,
And though I've read the Holy Word
Since parsons pray'd for George the Third,
And sought for light, the things I ask'd,
Seem somehow still unanswer'd now!

“The Lord's so artful in His ways,
That is the worst! He has you here,
He has you there; you can't tell why! . . .
He sets a clam to trap you by
Just when you'd think to swell His praise
And lay a pound your path was clear!

“‘Do good,’ they say; but certain-sure
As e'er I strove with hand or purse
(I'm telling you a gospel-fact)
To do a kind or friendly act
To old, or young, or rich, or poor,
It brought about a special curse!

“Explain this, Mister, if you please?
And this: Why, if to evil ways
We chance to turn (the ‘old man's’ strong
At times!), we seem to get along,
Prosper and thrive, and live at ease,
And win the world's esteem and praise?

“To say the least, it's passing queer,
But my experience, I say!
Ask others; if they tell you true
You'll get the same old story too.
I often think what happen'd here
Just forty year ago, come May.

“I've seen the parsons come and go
As you may guess, in such a span
Of changing years, a life to some! . . .
I've seen them go, I've seen them come,
The old, the young, the ‘High,’ the ‘Low,’
The bachelor and married man,

“But never one like Parson Wright! . . .
(Yes; even then the artists came,
Like you, kind Sir, and never drew
None of those monuments that's new,
But good Sir Thomas and his dame
That's lying here in noseless plight,

“I'm sure I'd set their noses on,
Poor gentlefolks, if I were you,
And trim them up! . . .) Well, Parson Wright
He was descended from this knight,
The second son of old Sir John,
Who sold the Hall in 'twenty-two.

“I think I'm now the only one
That can remember him! You see
He's well-nigh perished out of mind;
So, if so be as you're inclined
To hear his story, said and done,
You'd better hearken unto me,

“Because I'm bound to tell you true,
Being so old! . . . (Yes, Sir, this rail
Has been restored. Our new Squire, there,
Who put the church in good repair,
Pull'd down the nasty rusty pale
And set up this, all gold and blue!)

“Well, there was once a witless maid
That kept the geese below the hill;—
So witless that she scarcely knew
The gander from the cock that crew,
Yet took she this for task and trade,
And none wish'd simple Janet ill.

“Down by the grassy water-meads
She drove the grey geese day by day,
And watch'd the moths with downy wings,
The frogs, and flies, and creeping things,
That croak and buzz amongst the reeds
By where the river wends its way.

“Gaffer and gammer used her well,
So bite or sop she did not lack,
And although orphan'd, crazed, and poor,
Her neighbours' bounty would ensure
A woollen shawl about her back
Before the early frosts befell.

“But though the worthy farmer said
That she might bide in barn or byre
What time the ev'ning winds blew chill,
She oft would wander to the hill,
And there would make her lonely bed
Amongst the fern beneath the briar.

“For days and nights she often stray'd,
Yet no one gave her thought or care;
Her ways, we knew, were not our ways,
And always, after sev'ral days,
Ere we had time to grow afraid,
We looked, and lo! poor Jane was there.

“Yet once it chanced in early Spring,
When bud and bloom were on the spray,
And all the birds began to pair,
When she had wandered, none knew where,
To morn succeeded evening,
And still she chose to stay away.

“After the welcome April rain
Came Summer, white with dust and glare;
Then Autumn, wild with storm and blast;
And then the Winter came and passed,
When many a good grey goose was slain
And roasted for our Christmas fare.

“But still the goose-girl came no more!
Good Farmer West he shook his head,
And some there were that did incline
To think the brownies of the mine
Had lured her to the mountain-core,
Whilst others feared she must be dead.

“Poor Janet! So the days went by
Till they had gone to make a year;—
A year and more, and now again
Fields are aglow with golden grain,
Unscathed as yet—upstanding high,
And harvest-time is drawing near.

“Then came the reapers, one by one,
And went to Farmer West for hire,
Because all knew his good repute;
For kindly both to man and brute
Was Farmer West, and worthy son
(As I can vouch) of worthy sire.

“A wretched, wan, dishevell'd thing
There was, that came amongst the rest;
Tatter'd and torn, and hungry-eyed;
‘'Tis crazy Jane!’ the farmer cried;
Then added, greatly marvelling,
‘And with a baby at her breast!’

“'Twas true enough; and, what was more,
The child was lusty, hale, and strong,
Whilst something queer about his eyes
Seem'd to bespeak him wondrous wise.
Then all of us were vexèd sore
To find out who had done her wrong.

“But Janet was so strange and dull,
Nothing she seem'd to understand;
Where she had been, by whom beguiled,
Who was the father of her child,
Or why she join'd the reaper-band;
Her mind was all so void and null!

“They fix'd on this one, then on that;
On drunken Dick that drove the wain,
On soldier-Jack, and crazy Dan
(To crazy maid a crazy man!),
Ned Carpenter, with paper hat,
And coupled them with crazy Jane.

“What should be done to all of these? . . .
Tar? feathers? horse-pond? stocks? or what? . . .
The village honour was at stake!
'Twere best to take a rope, and make
(And that as quickly as you please!)
A rare example of the lot!

“For Jane had been a comely lass
Though simple, red and hale with youth,—
And some there were that did incline
To blame the brownies of the mine; . . .
But let such foolish fancies pass!
(Though oft they lead us nigh the truth!)

“Well, all our gossips were astir
To mete out justice for the wrong;
And e'en poor Jane, who scarcely knew
The gander from the cock that crew,
They would have punish'd even her,
Their indignation waxed so strong.

“Then up and rose good Parson Wright,
Who seem'd as wise as wise could be
(A better man did never walk!)—
‘Now what is all this foolish talk,
This goose-cackle from noon to night,
This wagging heads and chins?’ says he.

“‘Poor Jane has hardly strength to crawl;
Give Christian help. What's done is done!
God moves in a mysterious way:
This boy may prove her prop and stay,
And though you'd dub him son of all,
I'd rather deem him son of none,

“‘But some wise miracle of God,
Such as He wrought in ancient days,
What time the widow's son awoke,
And Balaam's ass found voice and spoke,
And blossoms bloom'd from Aaron's rod
So that all men might sound His praise;

“‘And since I have nor kith or kin,
Or wife or child, throughout the land,
And yet (for which I thank the Lord!)
The wherewithal to well afford
To take a needy stranger in,
On this poor lad I'll try my hand;

“‘And as you wot I'm one of those
(Since you yourselves have told me so)
That, on my patch of garden-square,
Can make a broomstick branch and bear—
And turn a cabbage to a rose—
So much of garden-craft I know,—

“‘Who shall deny what wonder now
May not be wrought by skill and care?
And, should he grow a proper man,
Then drunken Dick, and crazy Dan,
And Soldier-Jack, and Ned, I trow,
In his success shall have a share.

“‘Whilst if my human specimen
To flourish and improve shall fail,
Why, then,’ says he, ‘we may incline
To blame the brownies of the mine!’
Whereat all laugh'd outright, and then
He stood them each a pint of ale.

“Ah! he was of the good old sort
Of country clergymen, I ween!—
A gentleman, from hat to boot,
Who always wore a Sunday suit,
And loved his after-dinner port,
And wore his whiskers shaven clean!

“There's few left like him now, methinks! . . .
And many is the time I feel
If, please the Lord, he could but rise,
How he would stand and rub his eyes
To see our parson stride his wheel
And knock the balls about the links!

“Well, years went by, poor Janet died,
(The wisest thing she could have done!);
The parson took the little lad,
And he was better fed and clad,
And had more book-learning, beside,
Than many a downright parson's son.

“They taught him this, and that, and more,—
He almost read before he ran,
And grew so wise with what he read!
You should have then seen Jack and Ned,
And drunken Dick, and crazy Dan,
And how they wink'd their eyes and swore!

“They teach him Latin, Greek, and French,
Each day more learnèd he becomes;
He reads the stars, the sun, the moon—
He'll be a perfect wonder soon!
And still upon the ale-house bench
The gossips wink and spread their thumbs!

“But, now, a change! Who's broken in
And stol'n the good old farmer's pears?
‘All very fine to call it fun!’
And now again he's ‘son of none’—
The foundling, without kith or kin,
No kith or kin, at least, of theirs!

“‘A boyish freak!’ says Parson Wright,
‘A dash of mischief bodes no ill!
Scarce man alive, to speak the truth,
But robbed an orchard in his youth;
You wouldn't have him bookworm quite,
Or “Molly Milksop,” tamer still?

“‘But take these ribstones, Master West,
With two-pound-ten for damage done;
Why, bless my soul!’ (the parson said),
‘When one considers how he's bred,
The boy's a miracle! At best
What could we hope from Janet's son?’

“So years go by; he grows apace;
Well favour'd, too, as all allow;
He takes the prizes in the school
(Whose mother was the village fool!),
He wins the cups at match and race,
His praise, anew, is sounding now!

“‘To do one's duty to a lad—
A lad like this!’ says Parson Wright
(I mark'd his words came sad and slow)—
‘It needs must make the money go!
To stint him now would be too bad,
Just as he's grown a shining light!’

“To college next, with cap and gown,
A braver lad you never saw!
Bright cluster'd curls, a merry eye,
And standing over six foot high,
And now, at length, he goes to town
To see the world and learn the law.

“But Parson Wright to Farmer West
Has sold his orchard for a song,
(That sunny slope of Southern Down
Where Jerry-builders, come from town,
Have planted now that hornet's nest
Of cockney-folk, to do us wrong).

“Wonder on wonder! Chance on chance!
For now the youth is known to fame;
Our worthy parson glows with pride!
And far beyond our country-side,
In England, Scotland, Ireland, France,
The newspapers all print his name!

“'Twas now that quarrel came to pass
'Twixt crazy Dan and Soldier-Jack;—
Seeing he'd grown so wise a man,
The soldier twitted crazy Dan,
Who, having had an extra glass,
Starts up and stabs him in the back.

“They had been comrades many a year,
Through summer sun and winter frost! . . .
‘Well! Life's made up of white and black!’
(Says Parson Wright). ‘Poor Soldier-Jack!
Since I can stand him no more beer,
I'll bear his burial at my cost;

“‘And then’ (says he) ‘I'll do my best
To plead the cause of crazy Dan;
He's scarce responsible’ (says he),
‘And this came all along o' me!’
‘For all his worth’ (says Farmer West),
‘Parson's a very silly man!’

“Now our young gentleman in town
Has some fine lady woo'd and won;—
A lady fair, of name and rank,
With jewels, lands, and gold in bank.
'Twas then the scandal was begun
Which dragg'd our worthy parson down.

“It was my lord, as I've heard tell,
Up at the Hall, a Papist bred,
Who put the story first about;
Says he, ‘There is no room to doubt
This youth's paternity! As well
I might have doubts I wear my head!

“‘This lad’ (says he) ‘a peasant's son! . . .
‘That's too unlikely, Father White!’
(White was his bullet-headed priest).
‘I've never waver'd in the least;
The ‘son of all’! the ‘son of none’! . . .
Why, he's the son of Parson Wright!’

“White spread the tale. It grew apace.
Wright strove his anger to contain,
‘For I'm a man of peace’ (says he).
But, one fine morning, woe is me!
Parson and priest met face to face,
Hard by the turn, in Crab-Tree Lane.

“Then our good parson felt the blood
Go tingling to his fingers'-ends,
And at the Father he lets fly—
‘Take this, and this, Sir, for your lie!’ . . .
Meek as a lamb the Father stood,
And some do say they parted friends,

“But Parson Wright was dish'd and done,
For Father White was black and blue;
The gentry all about the place
Call'd Parson Wright a true disgrace.
‘Well, since they say he is my son’
(Says he), ‘I know what I will do!

“‘I've now grown friendless, old, and poor;
He's coining money by the bin,
He's shared in all I had to give,
And now I haven't long to live
And he's so prosperous, I'm sure
He'll be too pleased to take me in!

“‘I'll sell my little all’ (says he),
‘Cut the whole lot, and start for town!’
The ‘son of all,’ the ‘son of none,’
Does he repay him what he's done? . . .
Not he! He quickly lets him see
He holds him for a country clown,

“So fine a gentleman he's grown
(The goose-girl's base-born brat, mark well!
Who got his brains the Lord knows how!).
Poor parson's heart's nigh broken now,
He goes upon his way alone,
But where he goes there's none can tell.

“He wanders forth with tott'ring feet,
He feels his strength and courage fail,
His spirit's well-nigh broke at last,
And ere three wretched nights have past
The watchmen find him in the street,
And hurry him away to jail.

“When next I saw good Parson Wright,
He lay upon a workhouse bed;
‘I've one friend left—poor Betsy Birch,
That acted clerk at Tipton Church;
And well I know that, if she might,
She'd come and close my eyes’ (he said).

“'Twas just a fortnight ere he died;
I did my best for him, be sure!
And ‘Betsy Birch’ (he used to say),
‘Satan and man have had their way;
Still, let His name be glorified
Whose mercy ever shall endure!

“‘I don't know why I've come to this;
‘You know’ (says he) ‘no more than me;
The Lord's seem'd wondrous hard, and yet
We mustn't go for to forget
He may have some design we miss,
Some purpose that I cannot see,

“‘So deep it's hid, so blind am I,
For all I strove to read it plain! . . .
Yet whilst I thought I had His praise,
I took such pleasure in my days,
That, if I had a second try
I'd be as big a fool again!

“‘For, mark you, that which gives me pride,
Here, lying on my dying-bed,
Is not the thought of moments glad
Such as we most of us have had;
Self-sacrifice, the joy denied,
'Tis that makes pleasant dreams!’ he said.

“‘Besides, all might have been much worse’
(Says he). ‘We're human, ev'ry one;
And once the Tempter tempts his best
There's few enough withstand the test!
This fellow might have been my son,
And that I'd count a crowning curse!’

“And so, with mind that conquer'd Doubt
In spite of all, poor parson dies
(The last of those old Tipton Wrights,
Descendants of this very knight's);
And when I'd helped to lay him out
And put the pennies on his eyes,

“You never saw a calmer face,
Or one that seem'd so well content!
By which, I take it, he's forgiven,
And if it's not the perfect heaven,
It's quite a decent sort of place
And peaceable, where'er he went!

“But all my faith has been at sea
Since I beheld that just man's fall,
And since it was his tender heart
That brought these ills about, in part,
For fear the same should chance to me,
I never do no good at all!

“(Not likely poor old Betsy Birch
Should have great store to lend or give,
Who, but for something, now and then,
From those few kindly gentlemen
As come to view or sketch the church,
Could scarcely gain enough to live!

“Still, gentle words and looks, a crust,
A drink of water—these I spared,—
But now, no fear! My heart's grown steel,
I've learnt it doesn't pay to feel;
In God and man I've lost my trust
Since I beheld how parson fared!)

“My father and my grandsire, too
(They have been took this many a year,
And scarce I know, now, where they lie,
That have no stone to mark them by,
But somewhere there, beneath the yew),
They always served the Lord with fear—

“And though they've lain so long in grave
(My father went in 'thirty-eight),
I mind their words:—‘You can't afford’
(They says) ‘to mortify the Lord!—
He'll give you better than you gave;
He hits out from the shoulder, straight!’

But when I hear them say in church
That from the Lord no secret's hid,
I feel there's nothing underhand
And that He's bound to understand
The reason why old Betsy Birch
Can't praise Him as her fathers did.

“And so, you see, all's just and fair
And feasible; and ev'ry night
I say, whilst calling in His name,
‘Lord, if I can't seem quite the same,
And if we're not the friends we were,
'Tis all along of Parson Wright.’”

“What, half-a-crown! Why, bless your heart,
You downright take my breath away! . . .
Well, well! 'Tis doubly welcome now,
You see, we've took to keep a cow,—
Bill's had a smash-up with the cart,
And this wet summer spoilt our hay.”