 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
GETTING ALONG.
We trudge on together, my good man and I,
Our steps growing slow as the years hasten by;
Our children are healthy, our neighbors are kind,
And with the world round us we 've no fault to find.
Our steps growing slow as the years hasten by;
Our children are healthy, our neighbors are kind,
And with the world round us we 've no fault to find.
'T is true that he sometimes will choose the worst way
For sore feet to walk in, a weary hot day;
But then my wise husband can scarcely go wrong,
And, somehow or other, we 're getting along.
For sore feet to walk in, a weary hot day;
But then my wise husband can scarcely go wrong,
And, somehow or other, we 're getting along.
There are soft summer shadows beneath our home trees:
How handsome he looks, sitting there at his ease!
We watch the flocks coming while sunset grows dim,
His thoughts on the cattle, and mine upon him.
How handsome he looks, sitting there at his ease!
We watch the flocks coming while sunset grows dim,
His thoughts on the cattle, and mine upon him.
The blackbirds and thrushes come chattering near;
I love the thieves' music, but listen with fear:
He shoots the gay rogues I would pay for their song;—
We 're different, sure; still, we 're getting along.
I love the thieves' music, but listen with fear:
He shoots the gay rogues I would pay for their song;—
We 're different, sure; still, we 're getting along.
He seems not to know what I eat, drink, or wear;
He 's trim and he 's hearty, so why should I care?
No harsh word from him my poor heart ever shocks:
I would n't mind scolding,—so seldom he talks.
He 's trim and he 's hearty, so why should I care?
No harsh word from him my poor heart ever shocks:
I would n't mind scolding,—so seldom he talks.
Ah, well! 't is too much that we women expect:
He only has promised to love and protect.
See, I lean on my husband, so silent and strong;
I'm sure there 's no trouble;—we 're getting along.
He only has promised to love and protect.
See, I lean on my husband, so silent and strong;
I'm sure there 's no trouble;—we 're getting along.
Life is n't so bright as it was long ago,
When he visited me amid tempest and snow,
And would bring me a ribbon or jewel to wear,
And sometimes a rosebud to twist in my hair:
When he visited me amid tempest and snow,
And would bring me a ribbon or jewel to wear,
And sometimes a rosebud to twist in my hair:
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But when we are girls, we can all laugh and sing;
Of course, growing old, life 's a different thing!
My good man and I have forgot our May song,
But still we are quietly getting along.
Of course, growing old, life 's a different thing!
My good man and I have forgot our May song,
But still we are quietly getting along.
It is true I was rich; I had treasures and land;
But all that he asked was my heart and my hand:
Though people do say it, 't is what they can't prove,—
“He married for money; she,—poor thing! for love.”
But all that he asked was my heart and my hand:
Though people do say it, 't is what they can't prove,—
“He married for money; she,—poor thing! for love.”
My fortune is his, and he saves me its care;
To make his home cheerful 's enough for my share.
He seems always happy our broad fields among;
And so I'm contented:—we 're getting along.
To make his home cheerful 's enough for my share.
He seems always happy our broad fields among;
And so I'm contented:—we 're getting along.
With stocks to look after, investments to find,
It 's not very strange that I'm seldom in mind:
He can 't stop to see how my time 's dragging on,—
And oh! would he miss me, if I should be gone?
It 's not very strange that I'm seldom in mind:
He can 't stop to see how my time 's dragging on,—
And oh! would he miss me, if I should be gone?
Should he be called first, I must follow him fast,
For all that 's worth living for then will be past.
But I'll not think of losing him; fretting is wrong,
While we are so pleasantly getting along.
For all that 's worth living for then will be past.
But I'll not think of losing him; fretting is wrong,
While we are so pleasantly getting along.
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |