Enoch Arden, &c.






THE GRANDMOTHER.

                           I.
  And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little
        Anne?
  Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks
        like a man.
  And Willy's wife has written: she never was
        over-wise,
  Never the wife for Willy: he would n't take my advice.

                        II.
  For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to
       save,
  Had n't a head to manage, and drank himself into his
       grave.
  Pretty enough, very pretty! but I was against it for
       one.
  Eh!—but he would n't hear me—and Willy, you say,
       is gone.

                        III.
  Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the
         flock;
  Never a man could fling him: for Willy stood like a
         rock.
  'Here's a leg for a babe of a week!' says doctor; and
         he would be bound,
  There was not his like that year in twenty parishes
         round.

                         IV.
  Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of
         his tongue!
  I ought to have gone before him: I wonder he went
         so young.
  I cannot cry for him, Annie: I have not long to
         stay;
  Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far
         away.

                            V.
  Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard
         and cold;
  But all my children have gone before me, I am so
         old:
  I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the
         rest;
  Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the
         best.

                         VI.
  For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my
         dear,
  All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a
         tear.
  I mean your grandfather, Annie: it cost me a world
         of woe,
  Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years
         ago.

                        VII.
  For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I
         knew right well
  That Jenny had tript in her time: I knew, but I
         would not tell.
  And she to be coming and slandering me, the base
         little liar!
  But the tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, the
         tongue is a fire.

                        VIII.
  And the parson made it his text that week, and he
         said likewise,
  That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of
         lies,
  That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought
         with outright,
  But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to
         fight.

                         IX.
  And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week
         and a day;
  And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle
         of May.
  Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had
         been!
  But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself
         clean.

                            X.
  And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an
         evening late
  I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the
         road at the gate.
  The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the
         dale,
  And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt
         the nightingale.

                         XI.
  All of a sudden he stopt: there past by the gate of
         the farm,
  Willy,—he did n't see me,—and Jenny hung on his
         arm.
  Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew
         how;
  Ah, there's no fool like the old one—it makes me
         angry now.

                        XII.
  Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that
         he meant;
  Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtesy and
         went.
  And I said, 'Let us part: in a hundred years it'll all
         be the same,
  You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good
         name.'

                        XIII.
  And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet
         moonshine:
  Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name
         is mine.
  And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well
         of ill;
  But marry me out of hand: we two shall be happy
         still.'

                         XIV.
  'Marry you, Willy!' said I, 'but I needs must speak
         my mind,
  And I fear you'll listen to tales, be jealous and hard
         and unkind.'
  But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd,
         'No, love, no;'
  Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years
         ago.

                          XV.
  So Willy and I were wedded: I wore a lilac
         gown;
  And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the
         ringers a crown.
  But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was
         born,
  Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and
         thorn.

                         XVI.
  That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of
         death.
  There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn
         a breath.
  I had not wept, little Anne, not since I had been a
         wife;
  But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had
         fought for his life.

                         XVII.
  His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or
         pain:
  I look'd at the still little body—his trouble had all
         been in vain.
  For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another
         morn:
  But I wept like a child for the child that was dead
         before he was born.

                        XVIII.
  But he cheer'd me, my good man, for he seldom said me
         nay:
  Kind, like a man, was he; like a man, too, would have
         his way:
  Never jealous—not he: we had many a happy
         year;
  And he died, and I could not weep—my own time
         seem'd so near.

                         XIX.
  But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then
         could have died:
  I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his
         side.
  And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't
         forget:
  But as to the children, Annie, they're all about me
         yet.

                         XX.
  Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at
         two,
  Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like
         you:
  Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her
         will,
  While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing
         the hill.

                        XXI.
  And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too—they sing
         to their team:
  Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a
         dream.
  They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my
         bed—
  I am not always certain if they be alive or
         dead.

                       XXII.
  And yet I know for a truth, there's none of them
         left alive;
  For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five:
  And Willy, my eldest born, at nigh threescore and
         ten;
  I knew them all as babies, and now they're elderly
         men.

                      XXIII.
  For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I
         grieve;
  I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm
         at eve:
  And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and
         so do I;
  I find myself often laughing at things that have long
         gone by.

                       XXIV.
  To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make
         us sad:
  But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to
         be had;
  And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life
         shall cease;
  And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of
         Peace.

                       XXV.
  And age is a time of peace, so it be free from
         pain,
  And happy has been my life; but I would not live
         it again.
  I seem to be tired a little, that's all, and long for
         rest;
  Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the
         best.

                      XXVI.
  So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my
         flower;
  But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for
         an hour,—
  Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the
         next;
  I, too, shall go in a minute.  What time have I to
         be vext?

                     XXVII.
  And Willy's wife has written, she never was over-wise.
  Get me my glasses, Annie: thank God that I keep
         my eyes.
  There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past
         away.

         long to stay.




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