 | Farm legends |  |
III.
Rob, the Pauper, is lying in state.
In a box of rough-planed boards, unpainted,
He waits at the poor-house grave-yard gate,
For a home by human lust untainted.
They are crowding round and closely peering
At the face of the foe who is past their fearing;
The men lift children up to see
The arms of the man who was good for three;
The women gaze and hold their breath,
For the man looks kingly even in death.
In a box of rough-planed boards, unpainted,
He waits at the poor-house grave-yard gate,
For a home by human lust untainted.
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At the face of the foe who is past their fearing;
The men lift children up to see
The arms of the man who was good for three;
The women gaze and hold their breath,
For the man looks kingly even in death.
They have gone to their homes anear and far—
Their joys and griefs, their loves and hating;
Some to sunder the ties that are,
And some to cooing and wooing and mating.
They will pet and strike, they will strive and blunder,
And leer at their woes with innocent wonder;
They will swiftly sail love's delicate bark,
With never a helm, in the dangerous dark;
They will ne'er quite get it understood
That the Pauper's woes were for their good.
Their joys and griefs, their loves and hating;
Some to sunder the ties that are,
And some to cooing and wooing and mating.
They will pet and strike, they will strive and blunder,
And leer at their woes with innocent wonder;
They will swiftly sail love's delicate bark,
With never a helm, in the dangerous dark;
They will ne'er quite get it understood
That the Pauper's woes were for their good.
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