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, 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 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 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 XXIII Old Song A WREN'S NEST Among the dwellings framed by birds In field or forest with nice care, 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, 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 The primrose for a veil had spread 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 Think how ye prospered, thou and thine, Housed near the growing primrose tuft W. Wordsworth |