 | Birds, Bees and Blossoms |  |
135
THE OLD HOSTLER.
Gray-haired hostler stand and smile,
The country red's still on thy cheek;
Thou see'st thy cot behind the stile;
The little alder-shaded creek
That by thy father's garden ran;
The field where with him thou went'st mowing,
Before thou hadst grown up a man,
The flowers thou left'st there “All-a-blowing.”
The country red's still on thy cheek;
Thou see'st thy cot behind the stile;
The little alder-shaded creek
That by thy father's garden ran;
The field where with him thou went'st mowing,
Before thou hadst grown up a man,
The flowers thou left'st there “All-a-blowing.”
That cottage years since was another's;
Those walks by wood, and field, and lane,
With father, mother, sisters, brothers,
Thou never more wilt see again;
All but thyself are dead and gone,
Laid where the churchyard trees are growing;
Friend or relation thou hast none,
To see the flowers “All-a-blowing.”
Those walks by wood, and field, and lane,
With father, mother, sisters, brothers,
Thou never more wilt see again;
All but thyself are dead and gone,
Laid where the churchyard trees are growing;
Friend or relation thou hast none,
To see the flowers “All-a-blowing.”
The sunshine on the stable floor
Often recalls the yellow broom;
The smell from out the hay-loft door
That opens on thy sleeping room,
Brings dreams to thee of new-mown hay,
Of grasses 'neath the breezes bowing;
Of those with whom thou oft didst play,
Who sleep where flowers are “All-a-blowing.”
Often recalls the yellow broom;
The smell from out the hay-loft door
That opens on thy sleeping room,
Brings dreams to thee of new-mown hay,
Of grasses 'neath the breezes bowing;
Of those with whom thou oft didst play,
Who sleep where flowers are “All-a-blowing.”
136
In thy old age 'tis very hard
To change the daisy-covered hill
For a rank-smelling stable-yard;
The clacking of the water-mill,
And hum of insects round the pool,
For sound of horses ever gnawing;
To leave the pleasant white-washed school,
And the sweet flowers “All-a-blowing:”
To change the daisy-covered hill
For a rank-smelling stable-yard;
The clacking of the water-mill,
And hum of insects round the pool,
For sound of horses ever gnawing;
To leave the pleasant white-washed school,
And the sweet flowers “All-a-blowing:”
In Winter's snow and Summer's rain,
To hear no more the stirring trees;
No more about the window-pane
The humming from the hives of bees:
Stables and horses ever cleaning,
Hay and corn away still stowing;
To hear no sound of reaping, gleaning,
No smell of flowers “All-a-blowing.”
To hear no more the stirring trees;
No more about the window-pane
The humming from the hives of bees:
Stables and horses ever cleaning,
Hay and corn away still stowing;
To hear no sound of reaping, gleaning,
No smell of flowers “All-a-blowing.”
But he halts not who seeks employment,
Who to and fro is ever going;
For to him life brings no enjoyment—
They tell him that “there's nothing doing.”
He looks up at the sky o'erhead,
Where the clouds are darker growing,
And wishes it would rain down bread,
Nor heeds the flowers “All-a-blowing.”
Who to and fro is ever going;
For to him life brings no enjoyment—
They tell him that “there's nothing doing.”
He looks up at the sky o'erhead,
Where the clouds are darker growing,
And wishes it would rain down bread,
Nor heeds the flowers “All-a-blowing.”
That laundress by the stopped-up drain,
Where scent of flowers never found her,
Doth dread the sweet refreshing rain;
It poisons all the air around her,
Stirring old sickly stagnant smells.
She buys primroses “All-a-growing;”
But placed a few days where she dwells,
The buds will soon cease “All-a-blowing.”
Where scent of flowers never found her,
Doth dread the sweet refreshing rain;
It poisons all the air around her,
Stirring old sickly stagnant smells.
She buys primroses “All-a-growing;”
137
The buds will soon cease “All-a-blowing.”
No spots round her which hawthorns light,
Whose bloom, when in the distance seen,
Seems like soft clouds of silver bright,
Resting upon a sky of green.
For all she of the seasons knows,
Is sunshine, raining, hailing, snowing;
From year to year she never goes
Where the sweet flowers are “All-a-blowing.”
Whose bloom, when in the distance seen,
Seems like soft clouds of silver bright,
Resting upon a sky of green.
For all she of the seasons knows,
Is sunshine, raining, hailing, snowing;
From year to year she never goes
Where the sweet flowers are “All-a-blowing.”
Even that sharp policeman's eye
From off the thief a moment strays,
While listening to that summer cry;
And he thinks of those early days
When a mere boy he “tented corn,”
With his bird-clapper loudly crowing,
And saw the flowers at dawn of morn,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
From off the thief a moment strays,
While listening to that summer cry;
And he thinks of those early days
When a mere boy he “tented corn,”
With his bird-clapper loudly crowing,
And saw the flowers at dawn of morn,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
And that sound brings hope, also,
To the poor half-broken hearted:
Winter's cold, and frost, and snow
Have till another year departed.
So will all troubles have an end,
Beneath which they've too long been bowing;
A flower to them comes like a friend,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
To the poor half-broken hearted:
Winter's cold, and frost, and snow
Have till another year departed.
So will all troubles have an end,
Beneath which they've too long been bowing;
A flower to them comes like a friend,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
Dim visions of a little grave
To some that flower-cry doth bring;
Where all a mother's heart did crave
Lies cold beneath the buds of Spring.
And though tears fall like April rain,
Though there affection's bells are growing,
Tears never can bring back again
That dead white blossom “All-a-blowing.”
To some that flower-cry doth bring;
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Lies cold beneath the buds of Spring.
And though tears fall like April rain,
Though there affection's bells are growing,
Tears never can bring back again
That dead white blossom “All-a-blowing.”
Nor Summer shine, nor Summer rain,
Nor murmur of the Summer bee,
Can ever soothe the aching pain,
Nor fill the void that's left by thee.
But in God's garden high above,
Where heavenly flowers are ever blowing,
Thou oft wilt feel that mother's love,
While to a heavenly angel growing.
Nor murmur of the Summer bee,
Can ever soothe the aching pain,
Nor fill the void that's left by thee.
But in God's garden high above,
Where heavenly flowers are ever blowing,
Thou oft wilt feel that mother's love,
While to a heavenly angel growing.
THE END
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