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Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold

By "F. Harald Williams"[i.e. F. W. O. Ward]. First Edition

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BLACK BILL.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

BLACK BILL.

He is rough, I allow—is Black Bill,
And as tough
As he's rough;
But he drudges away with a will,
Though he never gets victuals enough
For himself but is satisfied still,
For the wife
Who's his life;
Ah, he knows what are toiling and trouble
And seems carried down stream like a bubble,
While he suffers and works for her double,
With the need at his breast like a knife.
He is brave, you admit—is Black Bill,
And as grave
As he's brave,
With more patience and powder than skill,
And no tyrant could make him a slave;
But, silk pet, it is worries that kill;
Late and lone
On the stone

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Of the street, with no food perhaps tasted,
Stabbed by cold and by summer's heat basted,
He is left day and night and seems wasted
To a shadow, and worn to the bone.
He is near, we confess—is Black Bill,
And as dear
As he's near;
He's a diamond fashioned by ill,
Somewhat rugged, with trial and tear,
Ground to shape in sharp poverty's mill;
By the thorn
Of our scorn
And our floutings so splendidly taken,
To a hero of rock he is shaken,
And the ordeals only awaken
His true wealth, and his troubles adorn.
He is shy, all perceive—is Black Bill,
But as spry
As he's shy,
And determined at least his poor Jill,
If he hungers and aches and goes dry,
In his scrapings shall yet have her fill;
For her sake
He may break
A few laws, for she is his one treasure,
And of all his pursuits the one measure,
While with sadness he meets toil and pleasure—
Whether shovel or cockles and cake.