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 | [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
BURIED GOLD.
In a little bird's-nest of a house,
About the color of a mouse,
And low, and quaint, and square—
Twenty feet, perhaps, in all—
With never a chamber nor a hall,
There lived a queer old pair
Once on a time. They are dead and gone;
But in their day their names were John
And Emeline Adair.
About the color of a mouse,
And low, and quaint, and square—
Twenty feet, perhaps, in all—
With never a chamber nor a hall,
There lived a queer old pair
Once on a time. They are dead and gone;
But in their day their names were John
And Emeline Adair.
John used to sit and take his ease,
With two great patches at his knees,
And spectacles on his nose,
With a bit of twine or other thread,
That met behind his heavy head
And tied the big brass bows.
With two great patches at his knees,
And spectacles on his nose,
With a bit of twine or other thread,
That met behind his heavy head
And tied the big brass bows.
His jacket was a snuffy brown,
His coat was just a farmer's gown,
That once had been bright blue;
But the oldest man could hardly say
When it was not less blue than gray,
It was frayed and faded such a way,
And both the elbows through!
His coat was just a farmer's gown,
That once had been bright blue;
But the oldest man could hardly say
When it was not less blue than gray,
It was frayed and faded such a way,
And both the elbows through!
But, somehow or other, Emeline
Went dressed in silks and laces fine;
She was proud and high of head,
And she used to go, and go, and go,
Through mud and mire, and rain and snow,
Visiting high and visiting low,
As idle gossips will you know;
And many a thing that was n't so
She told, the neighbors said.
Went dressed in silks and laces fine;
She was proud and high of head,
And she used to go, and go, and go,
Through mud and mire, and rain and snow,
Visiting high and visiting low,
As idle gossips will you know;
And many a thing that was n't so
She told, the neighbors said.
Amongst the rest that her husband John,
Though his gown was poor to look upon,
And his trowsers patched and old,
Had money to spend, and money to spare,
As sure as her name was Mrs. Adair;
And though she said it, who say it should not,
Somewhere back or front of their lot,
He had buried her iron dinner-pot,
A pewter pan, and she did n't know what
Beside, chock-full of gold!
Though his gown was poor to look upon,
And his trowsers patched and old,
Had money to spend, and money to spare,
As sure as her name was Mrs. Adair;
And though she said it, who say it should not,
Somewhere back or front of their lot,
He had buried her iron dinner-pot,
A pewter pan, and she did n't know what
Beside, chock-full of gold!
Well, by and by her tongue got still,
That had clattered and clattered like a mill,
Little for good, and a good deal for ill,
Having all her life-time had her will—
The poor old woman died:
And John, when he missed the whirl and whir
Of her goosey-gabble, refused to stir,
But moped till he broke his heart for her:
And they laid him by her side.
That had clattered and clattered like a mill,
Little for good, and a good deal for ill,
Having all her life-time had her will—
The poor old woman died:
And John, when he missed the whirl and whir
Of her goosey-gabble, refused to stir,
But moped till he broke his heart for her:
And they laid him by her side.
And lo! his neighbors, young and old,
Who had heard about the pot of gold
Of which old Mrs. Adair had told,
Got spades, and picks, and bars.
You would have thought, had you seen them dig,
Sage and simple, little and big,
Up and down and across the lot,
They expected not only to find the pot
And the pan, but the moon and stars!
Who had heard about the pot of gold
Of which old Mrs. Adair had told,
Got spades, and picks, and bars.
You would have thought, had you seen them dig,
Sage and simple, little and big,
269
They expected not only to find the pot
And the pan, but the moon and stars!
Just one, and only one man stayed
At home and plied an honest trade,
Contented to be told
How they digged down under the shed,
And up and out through the turnip-bed,
Turning every inch of the lot,
And never finding sign of the pot
That was buried full of gold!
At home and plied an honest trade,
Contented to be told
How they digged down under the shed,
And up and out through the turnip-bed,
Turning every inch of the lot,
And never finding sign of the pot
That was buried full of gold!
And when ten years were come and gone.
And poor old Emeline and John
Had nearly been forgot,
This careful, quiet man that stayed
At home and plied an honest trade,
Was the owner of the lot—
Such luck to industry doth fall.
And he built a house with a stately hall,
Full fifty feet from wall to wall:
And poor old Emeline and John
Had nearly been forgot,
This careful, quiet man that stayed
At home and plied an honest trade,
Was the owner of the lot—
Such luck to industry doth fall.
And he built a house with a stately hall,
Full fifty feet from wall to wall:
And the foolish ones were envious
That he should be rewarded thus
Upon the very spot
Where they had digged their strength away,
Day and night, till their heads were gray,
In search of the pan and pot
Which Mrs. Emeline Adair
Had made believe were buried there,
As buried they were not.
That he should be rewarded thus
Upon the very spot
Where they had digged their strength away,
Day and night, till their heads were gray,
In search of the pan and pot
Which Mrs. Emeline Adair
Had made believe were buried there,
As buried they were not.
| [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |