 | Poems |  |
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Gentleman John.
A TALE TOLD AT A VILLAGE INN TO A NATURALISTS' FIELD-CLUB ON A WET DAY.
It's a tale you want, sirs? Well, to be sure, it's a right down nasty day,
And the quarry's uncommon dirty where them fossils mostly lay.
But when they told me to meet you, and show you the way to go,
I thought I'd best look out a few of the shells and things, you know:
You can have them up at my cottage; there's a tidy lot, I think;
You can give the men at the quarry just a shilling or two for drink.
P'raps you'll be coming again, sirs; I should like to take you round,
And we'd have a look at the shale stuff where them butterflies are found;
Of course I know that's not what they are; it's the name they call them by;
They were telling me they're the ancientest things that ever lived, well night;
You'll know all about 'em, sirs, no doubt. I ask your pardon, though,
You're wanting to hear some sort of a tale to while the time, I know.
Well, I'm taken rather aback, sirs, like a parson the other day,
A stranger that came to our church; he's a friend of the squire's, they say:
Well, our parson was took right poorly in the middle of a prayer,
So he sends and asks the stranger to preach to us, then and there:
So he ups and gets in the pulpit, and gives out a decent text;
Then he hums and haws and stammers till you wonder what he'll do next.
Thinks I to myself, Well, I don't know but what I could do as well,
It's a curious sort of a parson that's got no tale to tell.
And now you ask for a story, I'm taken aback, you see,
And maybe the stranger parson could do it better than me.
And the quarry's uncommon dirty where them fossils mostly lay.
But when they told me to meet you, and show you the way to go,
I thought I'd best look out a few of the shells and things, you know:
You can have them up at my cottage; there's a tidy lot, I think;
You can give the men at the quarry just a shilling or two for drink.
P'raps you'll be coming again, sirs; I should like to take you round,
And we'd have a look at the shale stuff where them butterflies are found;
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They were telling me they're the ancientest things that ever lived, well night;
You'll know all about 'em, sirs, no doubt. I ask your pardon, though,
You're wanting to hear some sort of a tale to while the time, I know.
Well, I'm taken rather aback, sirs, like a parson the other day,
A stranger that came to our church; he's a friend of the squire's, they say:
Well, our parson was took right poorly in the middle of a prayer,
So he sends and asks the stranger to preach to us, then and there:
So he ups and gets in the pulpit, and gives out a decent text;
Then he hums and haws and stammers till you wonder what he'll do next.
Thinks I to myself, Well, I don't know but what I could do as well,
It's a curious sort of a parson that's got no tale to tell.
And now you ask for a story, I'm taken aback, you see,
And maybe the stranger parson could do it better than me.
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I haven't been foreman here, sirs, not much above a year;
It was my wife that brought me, she was born and bred up here;
So I don't know much of the old world things the folk about might know;
And somehow one doesn't hear such now, as one used to long ago.
We're getting desperate new, sirs, now there's such a lot of schools;
And the young ones, with their learning, they count us old ones fools.
Why, there's lots of words where I was bred one used to hear men speak,
That now-a-days they don't understand any more than if 'twere Greek.
I was down there just at Christmas-time, but I scarcely knew the place,
They've got a railway station now, and the church clock's got a new face,
And the old pews in the church all gone, and the old stocks on the green;
It's all right, I dare say, but dear! what changes I have seen!
Them Christmas carols too—no doubt they were something old and queer,—
‘There ships came sailing on the sea,’ and ‘The running of the deer,’—
Why, I used to sing them once myself; well, they're gone with all the rest:
The parson's taught them new ones, but I liked the old ones best.
It was my wife that brought me, she was born and bred up here;
So I don't know much of the old world things the folk about might know;
And somehow one doesn't hear such now, as one used to long ago.
We're getting desperate new, sirs, now there's such a lot of schools;
And the young ones, with their learning, they count us old ones fools.
Why, there's lots of words where I was bred one used to hear men speak,
That now-a-days they don't understand any more than if 'twere Greek.
I was down there just at Christmas-time, but I scarcely knew the place,
They've got a railway station now, and the church clock's got a new face,
And the old pews in the church all gone, and the old stocks on the green;
It's all right, I dare say, but dear! what changes I have seen!
Them Christmas carols too—no doubt they were something old and queer,—
‘There ships came sailing on the sea,’ and ‘The running of the deer,’—
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The parson's taught them new ones, but I liked the old ones best.
I'm ‘something slow at starting,’ you say? Well, I won't deny it's true;
But I'm thinking and thinking all the time what tale I can find for you.
Well, p'raps it's as good as another:—so, gentlemen, if you please,
I'll tell you a bit of a story that happened over the seas.
It's nothing to do with hereabouts, nor with days of long ago,
If there arn't much in it, you'll please excuse, but I'll tell you what I know.
I've had a roving life, you see, and some few years gone by
We thought we'd go to America our fortune there to try.
We'd got a cousin there doing well, and so it came to pass,
We sold what bits we had, and away we sailed with our little lass.
Well, we didn't make our fortune, but that's neither here nor there;
We went to some mining works far West, and a roughish lot we were.
I might have done better in time no doubt, but I wasn't content to stay;
It was no fit place for the missis, nor yet for our little May.
They were godless rowdy chaps, and they'd drink, and fight, and curse;—
I arn't so very particular, but I knew they made me worse.
But I'm thinking and thinking all the time what tale I can find for you.
Well, p'raps it's as good as another:—so, gentlemen, if you please,
I'll tell you a bit of a story that happened over the seas.
It's nothing to do with hereabouts, nor with days of long ago,
If there arn't much in it, you'll please excuse, but I'll tell you what I know.
I've had a roving life, you see, and some few years gone by
We thought we'd go to America our fortune there to try.
We'd got a cousin there doing well, and so it came to pass,
We sold what bits we had, and away we sailed with our little lass.
Well, we didn't make our fortune, but that's neither here nor there;
We went to some mining works far West, and a roughish lot we were.
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It was no fit place for the missis, nor yet for our little May.
They were godless rowdy chaps, and they'd drink, and fight, and curse;—
I arn't so very particular, but I knew they made me worse.
One day there came to our quarries a fellow seeking a job;
Not like the rest of our chaps a bit—he looked a sort of a nob;
Tall, good-looking enough, with his clothes well-made but worn;
But his hands they were soft and white as a girl's,—he wasn't to labour born.
He was very quiet and silent, we chaps all called him high;
Well, p'rhaps he was, and p'rhaps he wasn't; you'll know more bye-and-bye.
They gave him work, and at it he went, and blistered his hands with the pick;
He worked as if he was paid by the piece,—there was none of us worked so quick.
Of course we didn't best like it, but he wasn't one to ask
Leave of another man, you see, when he'd set his mind to a task.
He got some rough words, you may be sure, from the chaps he worked among,
But they never could get his blood up, tho' they didn't oil the tongue:
Till one day one of them says to his mate, ‘When a fellow never speaks,
‘It's my belief as he's robbed a bank, and run away from the beaks.’
Then you should have seen the flash in his eye, and his cheeks in a burning glow,
And down with the pick, and up with his fist, and he floors him with just one blow;
Then back to his work as if nothing had passed, and the chaps all looking on;—
But somehow after that day it was he got nicknamed ‘Gentleman John.’
They got to like him middling at last, for they soon began to learn,
Give him a chance, and he'd always do a fellow a kindly turn.
He lived out a bit beyond us, and passed by every day,
But he never passed without a smile and a word for our little May.
Sometimes, when he'd see her out of doors, he'd give a turn to his hand,
Ever so slight, but the little lass (bless her!) she'd understand;
And she'd slip her little hand in his, and trot along by his side,—
He never said much to her, I think, but the child was satisfied.
And when he got to his door he'd stoop, and just say, ‘Goodbye, May,’
And give her a kiss on her forehead, and send her skipping away.
Not like the rest of our chaps a bit—he looked a sort of a nob;
Tall, good-looking enough, with his clothes well-made but worn;
But his hands they were soft and white as a girl's,—he wasn't to labour born.
He was very quiet and silent, we chaps all called him high;
Well, p'rhaps he was, and p'rhaps he wasn't; you'll know more bye-and-bye.
They gave him work, and at it he went, and blistered his hands with the pick;
He worked as if he was paid by the piece,—there was none of us worked so quick.
Of course we didn't best like it, but he wasn't one to ask
Leave of another man, you see, when he'd set his mind to a task.
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But they never could get his blood up, tho' they didn't oil the tongue:
Till one day one of them says to his mate, ‘When a fellow never speaks,
‘It's my belief as he's robbed a bank, and run away from the beaks.’
Then you should have seen the flash in his eye, and his cheeks in a burning glow,
And down with the pick, and up with his fist, and he floors him with just one blow;
Then back to his work as if nothing had passed, and the chaps all looking on;—
But somehow after that day it was he got nicknamed ‘Gentleman John.’
They got to like him middling at last, for they soon began to learn,
Give him a chance, and he'd always do a fellow a kindly turn.
He lived out a bit beyond us, and passed by every day,
But he never passed without a smile and a word for our little May.
Sometimes, when he'd see her out of doors, he'd give a turn to his hand,
Ever so slight, but the little lass (bless her!) she'd understand;
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He never said much to her, I think, but the child was satisfied.
And when he got to his door he'd stoop, and just say, ‘Goodbye, May,’
And give her a kiss on her forehead, and send her skipping away.
A sweet little thing our May is, with soft brown hair, and blue-eyed,
Tho' I that shouldn't say it;—you'll pardon a father's pride:
I am a bit foolish about her, I know; well, gentlemen, let that pass;
But somehow I think I never saw a bonnier little lass.
She's a way of smiling all over like, with eyes and mouth and chin,—
But, bless me, sirs, I can never stop if on this tack I begin.
Tho' I that shouldn't say it;—you'll pardon a father's pride:
I am a bit foolish about her, I know; well, gentlemen, let that pass;
But somehow I think I never saw a bonnier little lass.
She's a way of smiling all over like, with eyes and mouth and chin,—
But, bless me, sirs, I can never stop if on this tack I begin.
Well, months went on, and then for two days no Gentleman John came by;
The missus wondered, and as for the child, she looked like going to cry;
So the second evening I just stepped on to see what I could learn,—
‘Down with the fever,’ was what they said, ‘and a terrible nasty turn.’
When I came back, my wife got up, and looked at me as she stood,—
I know that look; it means to say as arguing's no good,—
‘I must go and nurse him,’ was all she said, and I didn't say her nay,
And she went that night, and we were left—that's me and little May.
The missus wondered, and as for the child, she looked like going to cry;
So the second evening I just stepped on to see what I could learn,—
‘Down with the fever,’ was what they said, ‘and a terrible nasty turn.’
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I know that look; it means to say as arguing's no good,—
‘I must go and nurse him,’ was all she said, and I didn't say her nay,
And she went that night, and we were left—that's me and little May.
My wife (God bless her!) I often said as she was born a nurse,
(If ever you gentlemen's taken bad, may you never have a worse!)
The way she'd go about the room, so gentle and smiling and bright,
Noticing every little thing, and putting all tidy and right!
And she'd sit with her work beside the bed, waiting till you would stir,—
Why there's children there as would only take their physic-stuff from her.
That woman where John was lodging, she never could keep awake
To give you your physic, nor notice when the pillows wanted a shake;
One time she'd seem to forget you, and another she'd give you no peace,
And she'd smoke the milk in the pudding, and bring up the broth all grease.
Well-meaning, no doubt; but what of that? There's well-meaning folks I've known
That had better learn to do something well, and let well-meaning alone.
No, sirs, my wife was right, I say; she knew what her conscience bid:
She said as she'd go and nurse him,—and go and nurse him she did.
(If ever you gentlemen's taken bad, may you never have a worse!)
The way she'd go about the room, so gentle and smiling and bright,
Noticing every little thing, and putting all tidy and right!
And she'd sit with her work beside the bed, waiting till you would stir,—
Why there's children there as would only take their physic-stuff from her.
That woman where John was lodging, she never could keep awake
To give you your physic, nor notice when the pillows wanted a shake;
One time she'd seem to forget you, and another she'd give you no peace,
And she'd smoke the milk in the pudding, and bring up the broth all grease.
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That had better learn to do something well, and let well-meaning alone.
No, sirs, my wife was right, I say; she knew what her conscience bid:
She said as she'd go and nurse him,—and go and nurse him she did.
The child she fretted a bit at first, and seemed like quite subdued,
Her singing and laughing was stopped, and she scarce could take to her food:
And the sort of scare that was in her eye (she'd no need to use her tongue)
When I came home with the latest news—it was curious in one so young.
I always went of an evening, after my work was done,
And my wife she'd come to a window, and tell me how things went on;
And when she couldn't leave him, or was resting tired out quite,
A Bible put up in the window would tell me that all was right.
He moidered and rambled off and on for six weeks night and day;
But one thing we couldn't understand—he was always calling May:
And now he'd call her his sweetheart, and now his darling wife,—
We couldn't help laughing a bit, you know, tho' he hung betwixt death and life.
We said not a word to May, for indeed we were something vexed,
It seemed so silly, and what to think of it all we were right perplexed.
Well, at last one day he fell asleep, and slept like a little child;
And when he woke he'd come to himself, and he looked at my wife and smiled;
And he asked her what was the matter, and what had made him so weak,
And she told him about his illness, but she wouldn't let him speak;
Not then at least; but after a while, when he seemed to mend a bit,
She fancied he'd something on his mind, tho' he never hinted it.
But one fine day he'd been lying still, when he asked her sudden and quick,
‘Did I talk any nonsense, missus, when I was lying sick?’
So she laughed, and told him of course he'd talked some little foolish and wild,
As they mostly do in the fever, and how he'd been calling the child.
So he lay a little silent, and then says, ‘Missus, some day
I'll tell you all about it, but it wasn't your little May.’
Her singing and laughing was stopped, and she scarce could take to her food:
And the sort of scare that was in her eye (she'd no need to use her tongue)
When I came home with the latest news—it was curious in one so young.
I always went of an evening, after my work was done,
And my wife she'd come to a window, and tell me how things went on;
And when she couldn't leave him, or was resting tired out quite,
A Bible put up in the window would tell me that all was right.
He moidered and rambled off and on for six weeks night and day;
But one thing we couldn't understand—he was always calling May:
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We couldn't help laughing a bit, you know, tho' he hung betwixt death and life.
We said not a word to May, for indeed we were something vexed,
It seemed so silly, and what to think of it all we were right perplexed.
Well, at last one day he fell asleep, and slept like a little child;
And when he woke he'd come to himself, and he looked at my wife and smiled;
And he asked her what was the matter, and what had made him so weak,
And she told him about his illness, but she wouldn't let him speak;
Not then at least; but after a while, when he seemed to mend a bit,
She fancied he'd something on his mind, tho' he never hinted it.
But one fine day he'd been lying still, when he asked her sudden and quick,
‘Did I talk any nonsense, missus, when I was lying sick?’
So she laughed, and told him of course he'd talked some little foolish and wild,
As they mostly do in the fever, and how he'd been calling the child.
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I'll tell you all about it, but it wasn't your little May.’
She learnt it by little and little; for he told her as he could;
He liked to talk about all the past, and he said it did him good.
And my wife, I know how she'd sit there, speaking scarcely a word,
But looking as if it were all her own—the trouble, I mean, she heard.
Somehow men liked to tell her their bits of troubles and scares;
She'd mostly find them some comfort to drive away their cares.
Well, the story was sad enough, sirs, as you'll hear before it's done;
May, you see, was the parson's daughter, and he was the squire's son.
I thought he'd a bit of breeding, and I said so all along,
Tho' I blame the fellow, and so did my wife, and she told him he'd done wrong.
‘Why, what had he done?’ Beg pardon, sirs, I was letting my thoughts run on;
I suppose he was a bit headstrong and proud;—but all that's past and gone.
You see, sirs, telling a story's like driving out here from the town,
Sometimes you'll be going up hill, and sometimes you'll be going down.
Well, they'd played together as boy and girl, and he showed my missus one day
A picture he'd got of her as a child—it was desperate like our May.
But it wasn't till John was growing up, leastwise no more a boy,
And May was as bright as a summer morning, but getting a little coy,
When her brother brought a young college chap to spend a week or two,
A nice young fellow enough, John said, but till then he never knew
He cared so much for the girl; but now he found that he couldn't 'bide
That another fellow was all day long a dangling at her side;
While he that met them just now and then could see, tho' she was but a child,
He was over head and ears in love, and it almost drove him wild.
The parson, he was a busy man, and had other things in hand,
And the parson's wife wasn't over strong, so the young ones took command;
They planned all sorts of frolics, and John was asked to come,
But he couldn't stand it, and made excuse that he'd things to do at home.
At last the young fellow went away, and John and May they met,
It was on the pathway thro' the fields,—he was out of sorts like yet,
And was brooding and thinking and wondering, as he leant his arms on the stile,
When May came up on a sudden:—she always used to smile,
But now she looked grave, as she asked him, speaking hurried and low,
What had been the matter that he should have treated them so?
‘Why, May, you didn't care?’ he said, but she only answered ‘John!’
And ran down the path like a wild thing, and left him brooding on.
But somehow she gave him just one look, as she said the word and went,
It might have been nothing, he said to himself, but it made him more content.
He liked to talk about all the past, and he said it did him good.
And my wife, I know how she'd sit there, speaking scarcely a word,
But looking as if it were all her own—the trouble, I mean, she heard.
Somehow men liked to tell her their bits of troubles and scares;
She'd mostly find them some comfort to drive away their cares.
Well, the story was sad enough, sirs, as you'll hear before it's done;
May, you see, was the parson's daughter, and he was the squire's son.
I thought he'd a bit of breeding, and I said so all along,
Tho' I blame the fellow, and so did my wife, and she told him he'd done wrong.
‘Why, what had he done?’ Beg pardon, sirs, I was letting my thoughts run on;
I suppose he was a bit headstrong and proud;—but all that's past and gone.
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Sometimes you'll be going up hill, and sometimes you'll be going down.
Well, they'd played together as boy and girl, and he showed my missus one day
A picture he'd got of her as a child—it was desperate like our May.
But it wasn't till John was growing up, leastwise no more a boy,
And May was as bright as a summer morning, but getting a little coy,
When her brother brought a young college chap to spend a week or two,
A nice young fellow enough, John said, but till then he never knew
He cared so much for the girl; but now he found that he couldn't 'bide
That another fellow was all day long a dangling at her side;
While he that met them just now and then could see, tho' she was but a child,
He was over head and ears in love, and it almost drove him wild.
The parson, he was a busy man, and had other things in hand,
And the parson's wife wasn't over strong, so the young ones took command;
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But he couldn't stand it, and made excuse that he'd things to do at home.
At last the young fellow went away, and John and May they met,
It was on the pathway thro' the fields,—he was out of sorts like yet,
And was brooding and thinking and wondering, as he leant his arms on the stile,
When May came up on a sudden:—she always used to smile,
But now she looked grave, as she asked him, speaking hurried and low,
What had been the matter that he should have treated them so?
‘Why, May, you didn't care?’ he said, but she only answered ‘John!’
And ran down the path like a wild thing, and left him brooding on.
But somehow she gave him just one look, as she said the word and went,
It might have been nothing, he said to himself, but it made him more content.
Well, they didn't see much of each other for two or three years from then;
He was sent to travel in foreign parts with a couple of other men.
But when they met, tho' he didn't speak, in his secret heart he knew
He loved her better and better, and he fancied she knew it too.
He was the second son, was John; the brother was seldom there,
He was a good bit older, and of course was the son and heir;
Something wild, I fancy, from what the other let fall:
But anyhow it seems he didn't get on with his father at all.
He was sent to travel in foreign parts with a couple of other men.
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He loved her better and better, and he fancied she knew it too.
He was the second son, was John; the brother was seldom there,
He was a good bit older, and of course was the son and heir;
Something wild, I fancy, from what the other let fall:
But anyhow it seems he didn't get on with his father at all.
Now the squire had got a scheme in his head, which he thought of early and late,
That John should marry a girl they knew that would come to a big estate:
There was nothing amiss in the girl, John said; she could sing, and dance, and ride:
She was all very well to be friends with,—but May was his joy and pride.
At last one evening his father the squire—a silentish sort of man—
He took him aside, and then in a nervous hasty way began:—
It was time, he said, he should settle, high time; and why should he wait and wait,
When a girl was ready to have him who would come to a fine estate?
A girl he liked too, sensible, it wasn't a chance to lose;
If he ever should have a daughter, she was just the sort he'd choose;
He'd make him a good allowance:—but John, dumbfoundered you see
At first, broke in, and told him plain out that it couldn't be;
He was vexed to go against him, but what could he do or say?
For, if ever he married, he'd marry no other girl but May.
Then his father's brow grew black, and the storm broke fierce and fast,
And bitter words were spoken, that left their sting as they passed;
And John, he made up his mind he would go and fight his way,
For, come what would, he would marry no other girl but May.
That John should marry a girl they knew that would come to a big estate:
There was nothing amiss in the girl, John said; she could sing, and dance, and ride:
She was all very well to be friends with,—but May was his joy and pride.
At last one evening his father the squire—a silentish sort of man—
He took him aside, and then in a nervous hasty way began:—
It was time, he said, he should settle, high time; and why should he wait and wait,
When a girl was ready to have him who would come to a fine estate?
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If he ever should have a daughter, she was just the sort he'd choose;
He'd make him a good allowance:—but John, dumbfoundered you see
At first, broke in, and told him plain out that it couldn't be;
He was vexed to go against him, but what could he do or say?
For, if ever he married, he'd marry no other girl but May.
Then his father's brow grew black, and the storm broke fierce and fast,
And bitter words were spoken, that left their sting as they passed;
And John, he made up his mind he would go and fight his way,
For, come what would, he would marry no other girl but May.
Well, just as he left his father, all hot and trembling still,
Who should he meet but May, on the pathway up the hill.
How could he help it? He told her all; and there in the evening light,
They promised to wait for each other, happen what happen might.
And now, sirs, comes the wrong of it all, for it happened May was sent
To stay with some friends near Liverpool, and there it was John went
To settle his plans for crossing the sea, and somehow it came about
That he got her to marry him secretly the day before he went out.
They met at the church, and they parted there, and as he went away,
He gave her one kiss on the forehead, and just said, ‘Good-bye, May.’
It was selfish of him to do such a thing. Dear me! and we little guess
What a heap of trouble and sorrow may come from a little selfishness!
He showed my wife the wedding-ring, and the marriage-lines as well:
She didn't take notice, she said, and so the name she never could tell.
It seems they'd come to some sort of terms, for he'd promised his father that he
Would send neither message nor line to the girl for two years from over the sea.
It's curious how we can take ourselves in:—he was mainly honest and true,—
But to promise he wouldn't write to the girl, and then such a thing to do!
He wasn't at ease in his mind, no doubt, and that made him silent and glum:
And it's my belief, when a fellow's done wrong, the punishment's sure to come.
He vexed himself too at getting no news, waiting from fall to fall;
And as he durstn't tell the truth, he wouldn't write home at all.
My wife, she pleaded again and again, when she found he was getting strong,
He should just go back, and confess to all, and try and undo the wrong.
She spoke to him straight and open, and told him his sin was pride;
He should humble himself to his father;—but anyhow there was his bride:
She didn't pretend to be learned, but somehow it seemed to her plain
His duty was just to take ship, and go back to England again.
Well, John, poor fellow, he listened, and it came to him more and more
That she was advising him right, tho' it made him sad and sore;
For he'd hoped to get on and make money, and his luck was bad from the first,
And now, with his months of illness, why, matters had come to the worst.
He wasn't over-strong yet, you see; and he'd money enough to go;
And the two years were all but over; and at last it was settled so.
The child was half broken-hearted, and the mother about the same,—
You see we'd been fond of the fellow ever since he came.
He was gentler after his illness too, and, when all alone with my wife,
He'd talk quite grave, and be making schemes for a better sort of a life.
And she'd often say, when we talked of him, in her quiet sort of a way,
That's a man that, if I mistake not, will do right good work some day.
Who should he meet but May, on the pathway up the hill.
How could he help it? He told her all; and there in the evening light,
They promised to wait for each other, happen what happen might.
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To stay with some friends near Liverpool, and there it was John went
To settle his plans for crossing the sea, and somehow it came about
That he got her to marry him secretly the day before he went out.
They met at the church, and they parted there, and as he went away,
He gave her one kiss on the forehead, and just said, ‘Good-bye, May.’
It was selfish of him to do such a thing. Dear me! and we little guess
What a heap of trouble and sorrow may come from a little selfishness!
He showed my wife the wedding-ring, and the marriage-lines as well:
She didn't take notice, she said, and so the name she never could tell.
It seems they'd come to some sort of terms, for he'd promised his father that he
Would send neither message nor line to the girl for two years from over the sea.
It's curious how we can take ourselves in:—he was mainly honest and true,—
But to promise he wouldn't write to the girl, and then such a thing to do!
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And it's my belief, when a fellow's done wrong, the punishment's sure to come.
He vexed himself too at getting no news, waiting from fall to fall;
And as he durstn't tell the truth, he wouldn't write home at all.
My wife, she pleaded again and again, when she found he was getting strong,
He should just go back, and confess to all, and try and undo the wrong.
She spoke to him straight and open, and told him his sin was pride;
He should humble himself to his father;—but anyhow there was his bride:
She didn't pretend to be learned, but somehow it seemed to her plain
His duty was just to take ship, and go back to England again.
Well, John, poor fellow, he listened, and it came to him more and more
That she was advising him right, tho' it made him sad and sore;
For he'd hoped to get on and make money, and his luck was bad from the first,
And now, with his months of illness, why, matters had come to the worst.
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And the two years were all but over; and at last it was settled so.
The child was half broken-hearted, and the mother about the same,—
You see we'd been fond of the fellow ever since he came.
He was gentler after his illness too, and, when all alone with my wife,
He'd talk quite grave, and be making schemes for a better sort of a life.
And she'd often say, when we talked of him, in her quiet sort of a way,
That's a man that, if I mistake not, will do right good work some day.
Well, gentlemen, I must close my tale, for it's brighter overhead,
And the rain has stopped, and I think there'll be time to look at the fossil-bed.
There isn't much more to tell:—Poor John! he took his passage across
In the Ocean King; you can't have forgot the story of her loss?
She was never heard of more, you know, nor any soul on board;
Bits of wreckage and floating spars was all the sea restored.
There was many a tear for others; but it's only us that knew
That John had sailed in that vessel with all its luckless crew.
I haven't got much to spare, sirs, but I'd give five pounds to-day
If I could only get tidings of that poor young widowed May.
And the rain has stopped, and I think there'll be time to look at the fossil-bed.
There isn't much more to tell:—Poor John! he took his passage across
In the Ocean King; you can't have forgot the story of her loss?
She was never heard of more, you know, nor any soul on board;
Bits of wreckage and floating spars was all the sea restored.
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That John had sailed in that vessel with all its luckless crew.
I haven't got much to spare, sirs, but I'd give five pounds to-day
If I could only get tidings of that poor young widowed May.
(1884.)
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