XXI

MARY-ANN'S CHILD

Mary-Ann was alone with her baby in arms,

In her house with the trees overhead,

For her husband was out in the night and the storms,
In his business a-toiling for bread;
Ånd she, as the wind in the elm-heads did roar,
Did grieve to think he was all night out of door.

And her kinsfolk and neighbours did say of her child (Under the lofty elm-tree),

That a prettier never did babble and smile

Up a-top of a proud mother's knee ;

And his mother did toss him, and kiss him, and call
Him her darling, and life, and her hope and her all.

But she found in the evening the child was not well (Under the gloomy elm-tree),

And she felt she could give all the world for to tell

Of a truth what his ailing could be;

And she thought on him last in her prayers at night,
And she look'd at him last as she put out the light.

And she found him grow worse in the dead of the night

(Under the gloomy elm-tree),

And she press'd him against her warm bosom so tight,

And she rock'd him so sorrowfully ;

And there, in his anguish, a-nestling he lay,

Till his struggles grew weak, and his cries died

away.

as a-shining down into the place omy elm-tree),

could see that his lips and his

as clean ashes could be; was a-tied, and her still heart did

came back with the first tear that

n she feel his warm face in her

afy elm-tree),

re a-shut, and his hands are at

from his pain a-set free;

do know is to heaven a-fled,

is a-known, and no tears are a-shed.

W. Barnes

XXII

E USEFUL PLOUGH

e is sweet!

cold and heat,

n the air, how pleasant and fair, of wheat,

t of flowers adorning the bowers, neadow's brow;

say, no courtier may

with them who clothe in grey, he useful plough.

They rise with the morning lark,

And labour till almost dark;

Then folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep;

While every pleasant park

Next morning is ringing with birds that are

singing,

On each green, tender bough.

With what content and merriment,

Their days are spent, whose minds are bent
To follow the useful plough!

XXIII

Old Song

A WREN'S NEST

Among the dwellings framed by birds

In field or forest with nice care,
Is none that with the little wren's
In snugness may compare.

No door the tenement requires,

And seldom needs a laboured roof;

Yet is it to the fiercest sun

Impervious, and storm-proof.

So warm, so beautiful withal,

In perfect fitness for its aim,
That to the Kind, by special grace,
Their instinct surely came.

And when for their abodes they seek

An opportune recess,

The hermit has no finer eye

For shadowy quietness.

The treasure proudly did I show

To some whose minds without disdain

Can turn to little things; but once

Looked up for it in vain :

'Tis gone-a ruthless spoiler's prey,

Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, 'Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved, Indignant at the wrong.

Just three days after, passing by

In clearer light, the moss-built cell
I saw, espied its shaded mouth;
And felt that all was well.

The primrose for a veil had spread
The largest of her upright leaves;

And thus, for purposes benign,

A simple flower deceives.

Concealed from friends who might disturb

Thy quiet with no ill intent, Secure from evil eyes and hands

On barbarous plunder bent,

Rest, mother-bird! and when thy young
Take flight, and thou art free to roam,
When withered is the guardian flower,
And empty thy late home,

Think how ye prospered, thou and thine,
Amid the unviolated grove,

Housed near the growing primrose tuft
In foresight, or in love.

W. Wordsworth