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 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
AT THE FINISH.
Just fifteen—fifteen—that November,
When the black winter came
And caught us napping—I remember,
The story and her name;
Yes, she was fifteen, tall and stately,
For such a country child,
And went about her work sedately,
Even in that weather wild;
I see her now, my Jessie, standing
By the cracked iron trough,
As though the very storm commanding—
Confound this dreadful cough!—
And bidding wind and snow, that hurried
Around her shapely head,
Adorn the grace that was not flurried,
Nor quickened once its tread;
So proudly did she move, as hearing
Some loftier secret chime,
Which raised her above common fearing,
Or petty hopes of time;
I see her now, as over billow
A ship goes grandly on—
Good God, there she is—by my pillow—
She beckons—she is gone!
When the black winter came
And caught us napping—I remember,
The story and her name;
Yes, she was fifteen, tall and stately,
For such a country child,
And went about her work sedately,
Even in that weather wild;
I see her now, my Jessie, standing
By the cracked iron trough,
As though the very storm commanding—
Confound this dreadful cough!—
And bidding wind and snow, that hurried
Around her shapely head,
Adorn the grace that was not flurried,
Nor quickened once its tread;
So proudly did she move, as hearing
Some loftier secret chime,
331
Or petty hopes of time;
I see her now, as over billow
A ship goes grandly on—
Good God, there she is—by my pillow—
She beckons—she is gone!
Well, had I pitied her and cared not,
Nor followed to the end,
Another would such charms have spared not,
And proved a falser friend;
She had a woman's bane, her beauty,
Not hid in rustic gown—
It somehow seemed to me my duty,
To let her gently down;
You see, for her was no escaping
The vulgar fate, of all
Who have a finer show and shaping—
They certain are to fall;
And she was nothing more than woman,
With wondrous eyes and lips,
And softly richly weakly human,
To her pink finger tips;
So she was one, no man of feeling
Could ever doubt to woo,
And win—as sure as orange-peeling—
I did it kindly too;
And then I loved her—Jessie—truly,
At least one winter's day,
And though at first a bit unruly,
She went the usual way.
Nor followed to the end,
Another would such charms have spared not,
And proved a falser friend;
She had a woman's bane, her beauty,
Not hid in rustic gown—
It somehow seemed to me my duty,
To let her gently down;
You see, for her was no escaping
The vulgar fate, of all
Who have a finer show and shaping—
They certain are to fall;
And she was nothing more than woman,
With wondrous eyes and lips,
And softly richly weakly human,
To her pink finger tips;
So she was one, no man of feeling
Could ever doubt to woo,
And win—as sure as orange-peeling—
I did it kindly too;
And then I loved her—Jessie—truly,
At least one winter's day,
And though at first a bit unruly,
She went the usual way.
I bought her cheaply—for a shilling—
Sham gold, not precious ore—
But when was ever girl unwilling,
Who had no ring before?
It looked like gold, nor could her pleasure
Have worn a brighter hue,
If it to every test and measure
Had given a proper due;
Nor was she happy without reason,
Not made mere brutal sport,
To hear of higher life, a season—
Though it were somewhat short;
My love was not a rogue's in vention,
A sheathed and shameful knife—
I paid her also such attention,
I never paid my wife;
Yes, it was quite sincere, a passion
Worth shillings, even a crown—
I said she would be all the fashion,
If she did visit Town;
I promised, nor meant to refuse her—
But O this cursèd pain!
And there she stands, the same accuser
And there she points again!
Sham gold, not precious ore—
But when was ever girl unwilling,
Who had no ring before?
It looked like gold, nor could her pleasure
Have worn a brighter hue,
If it to every test and measure
Had given a proper due;
Nor was she happy without reason,
Not made mere brutal sport,
To hear of higher life, a season—
Though it were somewhat short;
My love was not a rogue's in vention,
A sheathed and shameful knife—
I paid her also such attention,
I never paid my wife;
Yes, it was quite sincere, a passion
Worth shillings, even a crown—
I said she would be all the fashion,
332
I promised, nor meant to refuse her—
But O this cursèd pain!
And there she stands, the same accuser
And there she points again!
Of course, it grew a bit of scandal,
The parson too turned sour,
But then the game was worth the candle,
If only for an hour;
And were I tempted by a figure,
Moulded like hers, once more,
I fear my stock of moral rigour,
Would vanish as before;
It was not a cold-blooded playing,
Resolved at length to strike,
Nor could you call the case betraying,
When both were pleased alike;
I fancied her and lent position,
Thongh not for very long—
She took me thus, on that condition,
Nor question made of wrong;
It was a little bit of dealing,
In which each something gave—
Not, as the story ran, of “stealing,”
Or “driving to the grave”;
And as my deeds were always chatter,
And food for prurient doubt,
It's well I furnished' folks with matter,
At last, to talk about.
The parson too turned sour,
But then the game was worth the candle,
If only for an hour;
And were I tempted by a figure,
Moulded like hers, once more,
I fear my stock of moral rigour,
Would vanish as before;
It was not a cold-blooded playing,
Resolved at length to strike,
Nor could you call the case betraying,
When both were pleased alike;
I fancied her and lent position,
Thongh not for very long—
She took me thus, on that condition,
Nor question made of wrong;
It was a little bit of dealing,
In which each something gave—
Not, as the story ran, of “stealing,”
Or “driving to the grave”;
And as my deeds were always chatter,
And food for prurient doubt,
It's well I furnished' folks with matter,
At last, to talk about.
Let's see—the days so soon get darker,
The lines are scarcely read—
Save just the words, “Your Jessie Parker,”
And kisses freely spread;
It is her letter, full of blunders
And blots and little screams,
With hopes and fears, and all those wonders
Which make up women's dreams;
That dreadful perfume, which she vaunted
And wanted me to share—
Which ever since my steps has haunted,
And still declines to spare;
This is a crease, and that a staining
Where haply tears have dropt,
A silly muddle of complaining
And blessings, wildly stopt;
The writing—Oh, this cough is cruel,
Its tortures seem to grow!
As if my body now were fuel,
For bonfires down below!—
This writing really is too shocking—
Ah, there she crouches yet,
With threatening hands and glances mocking,
Which bid me not forget.
The lines are scarcely read—
Save just the words, “Your Jessie Parker,”
And kisses freely spread;
It is her letter, full of blunders
And blots and little screams,
With hopes and fears, and all those wonders
Which make up women's dreams;
That dreadful perfume, which she vaunted
And wanted me to share—
Which ever since my steps has haunted,
And still declines to spare;
This is a crease, and that a staining
Where haply tears have dropt,
A silly muddle of complaining
And blessings, wildly stopt;
The writing—Oh, this cough is cruel,
Its tortures seem to grow!
As if my body now were fuel,
For bonfires down below!—
333
Ah, there she crouches yet,
With threatening hands and glances mocking,
Which bid me not forget.
I did not kill her—lack of money,
Prescribed a change of air—
Swiss mountains, moderation, honey,
With all (but women) fair;
My debts had grown so big and pressing,
I had no other card,
They put an end to our caressing—
I also found it hard;
How could I comfort at a distance,
Or know her wretched fate?
In what a bankrupt give assistance,
With bailiffs at the gate?
And then a baby came, to double
The bother and to pine,
When she was quite enough of trouble—
Perhaps, it was not mine . . . .
O Heaven, have mercy, I am falling
Deeper and deeper down!
That's Jessie's voice, I hear her calling,
And blood is on her gown!
And now I see her, with the baby—
Ours—yes, I know it well—
I murdered faith and love—and, may be,
Them likewise—is this hell?
Prescribed a change of air—
Swiss mountains, moderation, honey,
With all (but women) fair;
My debts had grown so big and pressing,
I had no other card,
They put an end to our caressing—
I also found it hard;
How could I comfort at a distance,
Or know her wretched fate?
In what a bankrupt give assistance,
With bailiffs at the gate?
And then a baby came, to double
The bother and to pine,
When she was quite enough of trouble—
Perhaps, it was not mine . . . .
O Heaven, have mercy, I am falling
Deeper and deeper down!
That's Jessie's voice, I hear her calling,
And blood is on her gown!
And now I see her, with the baby—
Ours—yes, I know it well—
I murdered faith and love—and, may be,
Them likewise—is this hell?
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |