 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
THE BROWNS.
Margery Brown in her arm-chair sits,
Stitching and darning and patching for life;
The good woman seems at the end of her wits—
No end to the toil of a mother and wife.
She'd like to be far from her home on the farm;
She sighs for the pleasure and rush of the town;
She counts every stitch, and she longs to be rich—
Pity the troubles of Margery Brown.
Stitching and darning and patching for life;
The good woman seems at the end of her wits—
No end to the toil of a mother and wife.
She'd like to be far from her home on the farm;
She sighs for the pleasure and rush of the town;
She counts every stitch, and she longs to be rich—
Pity the troubles of Margery Brown.
Here is a coat with a rent in the sleeve;
Here is a sock with a hole in the toe;
This wants a patch on the arm, you perceive;
That must be darned at once, whether or no.
It is patching and darning and sewing of rents,
From dawn till the moment the sun goes down;
And all from those boys full of mischief and noise—
Pity the troubles of Margery Brown.
Here is a sock with a hole in the toe;
This wants a patch on the arm, you perceive;
That must be darned at once, whether or no.
It is patching and darning and sewing of rents,
From dawn till the moment the sun goes down;
And all from those boys full of mischief and noise—
Pity the troubles of Margery Brown.
240
Timothy Brown starts a-field in the morn,
To follow the plough-tail for many an hour;
The drought has been curling the leaves of the corn,
And stirring the ground meets the lack of a shower.
From the dawn of the day to the set of the sun,
Through the terrible rays that pour fierily down,
He treads in his toil o'er the parched, dusty soil—
Pity the troubles of Timothy Brown.
To follow the plough-tail for many an hour;
The drought has been curling the leaves of the corn,
And stirring the ground meets the lack of a shower.
From the dawn of the day to the set of the sun,
Through the terrible rays that pour fierily down,
He treads in his toil o'er the parched, dusty soil—
Pity the troubles of Timothy Brown.
He reaches his home at the close of the day—
The oven wood has to be chopped for next morn;
The horse must be given his oats and his hay,
The cows have their mess, and the pigs get their corn.
He would like for a moment to glance at the news
In the journal that yesterday came from the town;
But when he has fed he must hurry to bed—
Pity the troubles of Timothy Brown.
The oven wood has to be chopped for next morn;
The horse must be given his oats and his hay,
The cows have their mess, and the pigs get their corn.
He would like for a moment to glance at the news
In the journal that yesterday came from the town;
But when he has fed he must hurry to bed—
Pity the troubles of Timothy Brown.
Riding along is the rich Hector Graeme,
With his wife by his side; both are sickly and wan;
They have not a child left them to carry their name—
The one that they owned to the churchyard has gone.
He looks at the boys perched aloft on the fence;
She sees the stout wife in the skimpiest of gowns—
“These have children and health!” and the people of wealth
Envy the lot of those fortunate Browns.
With his wife by his side; both are sickly and wan;
They have not a child left them to carry their name—
The one that they owned to the churchyard has gone.
He looks at the boys perched aloft on the fence;
She sees the stout wife in the skimpiest of gowns—
“These have children and health!” and the people of wealth
Envy the lot of those fortunate Browns.
I think that the world is made up just like this—
Discontent gnaws the higher as well as the low;
The Browns think the Graemes reach the summit of bliss;
The Graemes think the Browns are exempt from all woe.
We are all Browns or Graemes as our stations may be;
We look to our crosses much more than our crowns;
And while Brown and his wife, they repine at their life,
Graemes pass in their coaches and envy the Browns.
Discontent gnaws the higher as well as the low;
The Browns think the Graemes reach the summit of bliss;
The Graemes think the Browns are exempt from all woe.
We are all Browns or Graemes as our stations may be;
We look to our crosses much more than our crowns;
And while Brown and his wife, they repine at their life,
Graemes pass in their coaches and envy the Browns.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |