(_Sapphics_)
DOWN the green hill-side fro’ the castle window
Lady Jane spied Bill Amaranth a-workin’;
Day by day watched him go about his ample
Nursery garden.
Cabbages thriv’d there, wi’ a mort o’ green-stuff—
Kidney beans, broad beans, onions, tomatoes,
Artichokes, seakale, vegetable marrows,
Early potatoes.
Lady Jane cared not very much for all these:
What she cared much for was a glimpse o’ Willum
Strippin’ his brown arms wi’ a view to horti-
Cultural effort.
Little guessed Willum, never extra-vain, that
Up the green hill-side, i’ the gloomy castle,
Feminine eyes could so delight to view his
Noble proportions.
Only one day while, in an innocent mood,
Moppin’ his brow (cos ’twas a trifle sweaty)
With a blue kerchief—lo, he spies a white un
Coyly responding.
Oh, delightsome Love! Not a jot do _you_ care
For the restrictions set on human inter-
Course by cold-blooded social refiners;
Nor do I, neither.
Day by day, peepin’ fro’ behind the bean-sticks,
Willum observed that scrap o’ white a-wavin’,
Till his hot sighs out-growin’ all repression
Busted his weskit.
Lady Jane’s guardian was a haughty Peer, who
Clung to old creeds and had a nasty temper;
Can we blame Willum that he hardly cared to
Risk a refusal?
Year by year found him busy ’mid the bean-sticks,
Wholly uncertain how on earth to take steps.
Thus for eighteen years he beheld the maiden
Wave fro’ her window.
But the nineteenth spring, i’ the castle post-bag,
Came by book-post Bill’s catalogue o’ seedlings
Mark’d wi’ blue ink at “Paragraphs relatin’
Mainly to Pumpkins.”
“W. A. can,” so the Lady Jane read,
“Strongly commend that very noble Gourd, the
_Lady Jane_, first-class medal, ornamental;
Grows to a great height.”
Scarce a year arter, by the scented hedgerows—
Down the mown hill-side, fro’ the castle gateway—
Came a long train and, i’ the midst, a black bier,
Easily shouldered.
“Whose is yon corse that, thus adorned wi’ gourd leaves
Forth ye bear with slow step?” A mourner answer’d,
“’Tis the poor clay-cold body Lady Jane grew
Tired to abide in.”
“Delve my grave quick, then, for I die to-morrow.
Delve it one furlong fro’ the kidney bean-sticks,
Where I may dream she’s goin’ on precisely
As she was used to.”
Hardly died Bill when, fro’ the Lady Jane’s grave,
Crept to his white death-bed a lovely pumpkin:
Climb’d the house wall and over-arched his head wi’
Billowy verdure.
Simple this tale!—but delicately perfumed
As the sweet roadside honeysuckle. That’s why,
Difficult though its metre was to tackle,
I’m glad I wrote it.
_A. T. Quiller-Couch._