Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs By Walter Thornbury. Illustrated by J. Whistler, F. Walker, John Tenniel, J. D. Watson, W. Small, F. Sandys, G. J. Pinwell, T. Morten, M. J. Lawless, and many others |
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“Left his Home.”
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 | Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs |  |
“Left his Home.”
He left us all one bright June dawn,
Taking his watch down from the nail,
Just as he always used to do;
Leaning his hoe against the rail
As he turned round to kiss our George
(Who ran to push the gate), and bent
A curious kind of look at me
And little Bessy, as he went.
Taking his watch down from the nail,
Just as he always used to do;
Leaning his hoe against the rail
As he turned round to kiss our George
(Who ran to push the gate), and bent
A curious kind of look at me
And little Bessy, as he went.
He picked a tuft of hollyhock,
Then gave a sigh, and one more look,
As 'yont the elm-tree in the lane
The shuddering willows three times shook.
I heeded not the warning then.
'T was ten years since, this very day,
That Robert left us all alone,
And took yon path, the Hindon way.
Then gave a sigh, and one more look,
As 'yont the elm-tree in the lane
The shuddering willows three times shook.
I heeded not the warning then.
'T was ten years since, this very day,
That Robert left us all alone,
And took yon path, the Hindon way.
Sometimes, when 'mid the brooding mists
That shroud the valley and the lake,
Looms through the golden harvest moon,
And glows o'er down, and hill, and brake,
I think I see him in the dusk,
When George is playing at the door,
And spring to meet his welcoming arms,
As I have done so oft before.
That shroud the valley and the lake,
Looms through the golden harvest moon,
And glows o'er down, and hill, and brake,
I think I see him in the dusk,
When George is playing at the door,
And spring to meet his welcoming arms,
As I have done so oft before.
Or some morn in the harvest-time,
As when he left me, he will come,
Meeting me down a row of sheaves;
And we shall hurry laughing home,
And wake our boy with kisses, then
He'll take his favourite seat and tell
Of his mysterious wanderings,
And what the day he left befell.
As when he left me, he will come,
Meeting me down a row of sheaves;
And we shall hurry laughing home,
And wake our boy with kisses, then
He'll take his favourite seat and tell
Of his mysterious wanderings,
And what the day he left befell.
167
Sometimes I dream I see a man,
His back towards me, by a brook
Full of swift-darting trout, whose fins
Flash past the weed-drifts as I look.
A dying fish flaps on the grass—
Then, led by something that I see,
I steal still closer to his side:
He turns. O gracious God, 't is he!
His back towards me, by a brook
Full of swift-darting trout, whose fins
Flash past the weed-drifts as I look.
A dying fish flaps on the grass—
Then, led by something that I see,
I steal still closer to his side:
He turns. O gracious God, 't is he!
Or—think not of it, my worn heart!
Some Winter's night, when I am old,
There'll come a beggar lame and bent,
And pale and shivering with the cold.
And when I bring him to the fire,
He'll call me by the fondling name
He used to twenty years ago,—
Oh, should I know him if he came?
Some Winter's night, when I am old,
There'll come a beggar lame and bent,
And pale and shivering with the cold.
And when I bring him to the fire,
He'll call me by the fondling name
He used to twenty years ago,—
Oh, should I know him if he came?
168
Dear George, if father should return
When I am under churchyard grass,
Tell him how oft I spoke of him,
And take him there, that he may pass
Near where I lie asleep, and see
If the tears fall for her he left.
Oh, agony of lingering grief!—
Yet, George, I am not quite bereft.
When I am under churchyard grass,
Tell him how oft I spoke of him,
And take him there, that he may pass
Near where I lie asleep, and see
If the tears fall for her he left.
Oh, agony of lingering grief!—
Yet, George, I am not quite bereft.
| Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs | |