 | Poems, Ballads and Bucolics |  |
99
A SAD LETTER.
“Dear gell, thy Joe is gone to glory,
Took sudden upo' Sunday night.”
So of the drear pathetic story
Wrote one who could not write.
Took sudden upo' Sunday night.”
So of the drear pathetic story
Wrote one who could not write.
“He will not keeäp, his corp's that bad,
We bury 'im at threeä to-morrow.”
Words fit to send a lover mad,
Sad words not meant for sorrow.
We bury 'im at threeä to-morrow.”
Words fit to send a lover mad,
Sad words not meant for sorrow.
“We shall not send to meeät thee, gell,
But cloäthes they needn't be no bother,
Fur Emma's ‘black’ 'ull sarve thee well
That job, thy luvvin' mother.”
But cloäthes they needn't be no bother,
Fur Emma's ‘black’ 'ull sarve thee well
That job, thy luvvin' mother.”
So in such wise a mother told
Of Joe the village lover's death,
And of a world made blank and cold
For her Elizabeth.
Of Joe the village lover's death,
100
For her Elizabeth.
Though happy they whose souls have words,
Whose thoughts flame out in golden speech,
Our human hearts have tender chords,
Such silence best can reach.
Whose thoughts flame out in golden speech,
Our human hearts have tender chords,
Such silence best can reach.
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