The Verse-Book of a Homely Woman

The Carrier

     "Owd John's got past his work," said
          they,
     Last week as ever was—"don't pay
     To send by him. He's stoopid, too,
     And brings things what won't never do.
     We'll send by post, he is that slow.
     And that owd hoss of his can't go."

     But 'smornin', well, 'twas fun to see
     The gentlefolks run after we.
     Squire's lady stopped I in the lane,
     "Oh," says she, "goin' to town again?
     You'll not mind calling into Bings
     To fetch my cakes and buns and things?
     I've got a party comin' on,
     And nought to eat . . . so, DO 'ee, John."

     Then, up the street, who should I see,
     But old Mam Bessant hail'n' me.
     And Doctor's wife, and Mrs. Higgs
     Was wantin' vittles for their pigs,
     And would I bring some? (Well, what
          nex'?)
     And Granny Dunn has broke her specs,
     And wants 'em mended up in town,
     So would John call and bring 'em down
     To-night . . . ? and so the tale goes on,
     'Tis, "Sure you will, now DO 'ee, John."

     Well, 'tis a hevil wind that blows
     Nobody any good; it shows
     As owd John haves his uses yet,
     Though now and then he do forget.
     Gee up, owd gal. When strikes is on,
     They're glad of pore owd stoopid John.

The Lad's Love by the
     Gate

     Down in the dear West Country,
          there's a garden where I know
       The Spring is rioting this hour, though
          I am far away—
     Where all the glad flower-faces are old
          loves of long ago,
       And each in its accustomed place is
          blossoming to-day.

     The lilac drops her amethysts upon the
          mossy wall,
       While in her boughs a cheerful thrush
          is calling to his mate.
     Dear breath of mignonette and stocks!
          I love you, know you all.
       And, oh, the fragrant spices from the
          lad's love by the gate!

     Kind wind from the West Country, wet
          wind, but scented so,
       That straight from my dear garden
          you seem but lately come,
     Just tell me of the yellow broom, the
          guelder rose's snow,
       And of the tangled clematis where
          myriad insects hum.

     Oh, is there any heartsease left, or any
          rosemary?
       And in their own green solitudes, say,
          do the lilies wait?
     I knew it! Gentle wind, but once—
          speak low and tenderly—
       How fares it—tell me truly—with the
          lad's love by the gate?