 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
162
The Witling
I
An old poor rogue went down to the Ferry,
Merry as merry.
Merry as merry.
“Tho' some do die on the gallows tree,
God send they dye a good colour!” quoth he.
God send they dye a good colour!” quoth he.
“For just as many years they'll be dead
As who died snug i' the 'spital bed!
As who died snug i' the 'spital bed!
“And Moll and Doll and the Pope of Rome
La, la—each goeth the same way home!
La, la—each goeth the same way home!
“And as for doleful dumps, why—drat 'em!—
As Misery sang—‘Cheer up for Chatham!’”
As Misery sang—‘Cheer up for Chatham!’”
163
II
“Boatman, thou tarriest,” he saith,
“'Tes piercin' here by thy black staith;
“'Tes piercin' here by thy black staith;
“And I ha' found nor crust nor apple
Since yon loon got me by the thrapple.
Since yon loon got me by the thrapple.
“Nor brandy-wine is brought to cheer me—
A dead man hath small luck, I fear me.
A dead man hath small luck, I fear me.
“Boatman, what meaneth thy ill look?
Why burns the ripple thou hast strook?
Why burns the ripple thou hast strook?
“Why is the hand thou touchest me with
Unkinder than was that of Death?”
Unkinder than was that of Death?”
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |