Poems and Lancashire Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

161

WILLY'S GRAVE.

I

The wintry wind was wailing wild,
Across the moorland wold;
The cloudless vault of heaven was bright
With studs of gleaming gold;
The weary cotter's heavy lids
Had closed with closing day;
And, on his silent hearth, a tinge
Of dying fire-light lay.

162

II

The ancient village seemed asleep
Beneath the starry sky;
A little river, sheathed in ice,
Came gliding gently by;
The grey church, in the grave-yard,
Where “the rude forefathers lay,”
Stood, like a mother, waiting till
Her children came from play.

III

No footstep trod the tiny town;
The drowsy street was still;
Save where the wandering night-wind sang
Its requiem wild and shrill:
The stainless snow lay thick upon
Those quaint old cottage eaves;
And wreaths of fairy frost-work hung
Where grew last summer's leaves.

163

IV

Each village home was dark and still,
And closed was every door;
For gentle sleep had twined her arms
Around both rich and poor,—
Save in one little cot, where, by
A candle's flickering ray
A childless mother sighing sat,
And combed her locks of grey.

V

Her husband, and her children all,
Were in the silent bed,
Where, one by one, she'd laid them down—
And left them with the dead;
Then, toiling on towards her rest,—
A lonely pilgrim, she,—
For God and poverty were, now,
Her only company.

164

VI

Upon the shady window-sill,
A well-worn bible lay;
Against the wall, a coat had hung,
For many a weary day;
And, on the scanty table-top,
With crumbs of supper strewn,
There stood, beside a porringer,
Two little empty shoon.

VII

The fire was waning in the grate;
The spinning-wheel at rest;
The cricket's song rang loudly in
That lonely woman's nest;
As, with a napkin, thin, and worn,
And wet with many a tear,
She wiped the little pair of shoon
Her darling used to wear.

165

VIII

Her widowed heart had often leaped
To hear his prattle small;
He was the last that she had left—
The dearest of them all;
And, as she rocked her to and fro,
While tears came dreeping down,
She sighed, and cried, “Oh, Willy, love,—
These little empty shoon!”

IX

With gentle hand she laid them by,—
She laid them by with care;
For, Willy, he was in his grave,—
And all her thoughts were there:
She paused before she dropped the sneck,
That closed her lambless fold,—
It grieved her heart to bar the door,
And leave him in the cold.

166

X

A thread-bare cloak she lapped around
Her limbs, so thin and chill;
She left her lonely cot behind,
While all the world was still;
And through the solitary night,
She took her silent way,
With weeping eyes, towards the spot
Where little Willy lay.

XI

The pallid moon had climbed aloft
Into the welkin blue;
A snow-clad tree across the grave
Its leafless shadow threw;
And, as that mournful mother sat
Upon a mound thereby,
The bitter wind of winter sighed
To hear her lonely cry!

167

XII

My little Willy's cowd an' still,—
He's not a cheep for me!
Th' last tremblin' leaf has dropt away
Fro' this poor withered tree!
God help my heart! my comfort's gone!
I 'm lonely under th' sky!
He'll never clip my neck again,
An' tell me not to cry!

XIII

My darlin' lad! He's laid i' th dust!
My little Willy's dead!
An' o' that made me cling to life,
Lies in his frosty bed!
He's gone! He's gone! My poor bare neest!
Oh, what's this world to me!
My little love! I'm lonely neaw!
When mun I come to thee!

168

XIV

He's crept into his last dark nook,
And laft me pinin' here!
An' never-moor his two blue e'en
For me mun twinkle clear!
He'll never say his prayers again
At his poor mammy's knee!
Oh, Willy, love! I'm lonely now;
When mun I come to thee!

XV

The snow-clad yew-tree stirred with pain
To hear that plaintive cry;
The old church listened; and the spire
Kept pointing to the sky;
With kindlier touch, the frosty wind
Played in her locks of grey;
And the queenly moon, upon her head,
Shone with a softened ray.

169

XVI

She rose to leave that lonely bed;
Her heart was grieving sore;
One step she took, and then, her tears
Fell faster than before:
She turned and gave another look,—
One lingering look she gave,—
Then, sighing, left him lying in
His little wintry grave.