 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
Five hundred souls, and they did not care
Though neither a Bank nor a Post was there,
Nor Doctor to physic their mortal ills,
Nor Lawyer to draw their deeds and wills—
Ten miles off was a town where these
Might be had by them when they please;
And farmers, going to market, brought
What letters arrived there, now and then,
Which maybe had lain for a month, unsought,
Spotted with flies in the window pane.
Easily went the world with them,
They made no struggle its tide to stem,
But slumbered as in a quiet bay,
And heard its murmuring far away,
And grew their oats, and ground their bere,
And caught the fish, and fed the steer,
And noted the changes of the year.
Though neither a Bank nor a Post was there,
Nor Doctor to physic their mortal ills,
Nor Lawyer to draw their deeds and wills—
Ten miles off was a town where these
Might be had by them when they please;
And farmers, going to market, brought
What letters arrived there, now and then,
Which maybe had lain for a month, unsought,
Spotted with flies in the window pane.
Easily went the world with them,
They made no struggle its tide to stem,
But slumbered as in a quiet bay,
And heard its murmuring far away,
And grew their oats, and ground their bere,
And caught the fish, and fed the steer,
And noted the changes of the year.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |