 | The poetical works of John Townsend Trowbridge |  |
118
SHERIFF THORNE
That I should be sheriff, and keep the jail,
And that yonder stately old fellow, you see
Marching across the yard, should be
My prisoner,—well, 't is a curious tale,
As you'll agree.
And that yonder stately old fellow, you see
Marching across the yard, should be
My prisoner,—well, 't is a curious tale,
As you'll agree.
For it happens, we 've been here once before
Together, and served our time,—although
Not just as you see us now, you know;
When we were younger both by a score
Of years or so.
Together, and served our time,—although
Not just as you see us now, you know;
When we were younger both by a score
Of years or so.
When I was a wild colt, two thirds grown,
Too wild for ever a curb or rein,
Playing my tricks till—I need n't explain;—
I got three months at breaking stone,
With a ball and chain.
Too wild for ever a curb or rein,
Playing my tricks till—I need n't explain;—
I got three months at breaking stone,
With a ball and chain.
The fodder was mean, and the work was hard,
And work and I could never agree;
And the discipline,—well, in short, you see,
'T was rather a roughish kind of card
That curried me!
And work and I could never agree;
And the discipline,—well, in short, you see,
'T was rather a roughish kind of card
That curried me!
A stout steel bracelet about my leg,
A cannon-shot and chain at my feet,
I pounded the stones in the public street,
With a heart crammed full of hate as an egg
Is full of meat.
A cannon-shot and chain at my feet,
I pounded the stones in the public street,
With a heart crammed full of hate as an egg
Is full of meat.
The schoolboys jeered at my prison rig;
And me, if I moved, they used to call
(For I went with a jerk, if I went at all)
A gentleman dancing the Jail-bird Jig,—
At a public ball.
And me, if I moved, they used to call
(For I went with a jerk, if I went at all)
A gentleman dancing the Jail-bird Jig,—
At a public ball.
But once, as I sat in the usual place,
On a heap of stones, and hammered away
At the rocks, with a heart as hard as they,
And cursed Macadam and all his race,
There chanced that way,
On a heap of stones, and hammered away
119
And cursed Macadam and all his race,
There chanced that way,
Sir, the loveliest girl! I don't mean pretty;
But there was that in her troubled eye,
In her sweet, sad glance, as she passed me by,
That seemed like an angel's gentle pity
For such as I.
But there was that in her troubled eye,
In her sweet, sad glance, as she passed me by,
That seemed like an angel's gentle pity
For such as I.
And, sir, to my soul that pure look gave
Such a thrill as a summer morning brings,
With its twitter and flutter of songs and wings,
To one crouched all night long in a cave
Of venomous things.
Such a thrill as a summer morning brings,
With its twitter and flutter of songs and wings,
To one crouched all night long in a cave
Of venomous things.
Down the broad green street she passed from sight;
But all that day I was under a spell;
And all that night—I remember well—
A pair of eyes made a kind of light
That filled my cell.
But all that day I was under a spell;
And all that night—I remember well—
A pair of eyes made a kind of light
That filled my cell.
Women can do with us what they will:
'T was only a village girl, but she,
With the flash of a glance, had shown to me
The wretch I was, and the self I still
Might strive to be.
'T was only a village girl, but she,
With the flash of a glance, had shown to me
The wretch I was, and the self I still
Might strive to be.
And if in my misery I began
To feel fresh hope and courage stir,—
To turn my back upon things that were,
And my face to the future of a man,—
'T was all for her.
To feel fresh hope and courage stir,—
To turn my back upon things that were,
And my face to the future of a man,—
'T was all for her.
And that 's my story. And as for the lady?
I saw her,—O yes, when I was free,
And thanked her, and—Well, just come with me;
As likely as not, when supper is ready,
She'll pour your tea.
I saw her,—O yes, when I was free,
And thanked her, and—Well, just come with me;
As likely as not, when supper is ready,
She'll pour your tea.
120
She keeps my house, and I keep the jail;
And the stately old fellow who passed just now
And tipped me that very peculiar bow—
But that is the wonderful part of the tale,
As you'll allow.
And the stately old fellow who passed just now
And tipped me that very peculiar bow—
But that is the wonderful part of the tale,
As you'll allow.
For he, you must know, was sheriff then,
And he guarded me, as I guard him;
(The fetter I wore now fits his limb!)—
Just one of your high-flown, strait-laced men,
Pompous and grim,—
And he guarded me, as I guard him;
(The fetter I wore now fits his limb!)—
Just one of your high-flown, strait-laced men,
Pompous and grim,—
The Great Mogul of our little town.
But while I was struggling to redeem
My youth, he sank in the world's esteem;
My stock went up, while his went down,
Like the ends of a beam.
But while I was struggling to redeem
My youth, he sank in the world's esteem;
My stock went up, while his went down,
Like the ends of a beam.
What fault? 'T was not one fault alone
That brought him low, but a treacherous train
Of vices, sapping the heart and brain.
Then came his turn at breaking stone,
With a ball and chain.
That brought him low, but a treacherous train
Of vices, sapping the heart and brain.
Then came his turn at breaking stone,
With a ball and chain.
It seemed, I admit, a sort of treason,
To clip him, and give him the cap and ball,
And that I was his keeper seemed worst of all.
And now, in a word, if you ask the reason
Of this man's fall,—
To clip him, and give him the cap and ball,
And that I was his keeper seemed worst of all.
And now, in a word, if you ask the reason
Of this man's fall,—
'T was a woman again,—is my reply.
And so I said, and I say it still,
That women can do with us what they will:
Strong men they turn with the twirl of an eye,
For good or ill.
And so I said, and I say it still,
That women can do with us what they will:
Strong men they turn with the twirl of an eye,
For good or ill.
| The poetical works of John Townsend Trowbridge | |