And so we worked together: and life was hard, but gay,_The World's Best Poetry, Volume 03: Sorrow and Consolation

With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way;

Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat,

An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat.

So we worked for the child'rn, and raised 'em every one;

Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to 've done;

Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn,

But every couple's child'rn 's heap the best to them.

Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!--

I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons;

And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray,

I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way.

Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown,

And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone;

When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be,

The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him away from me.

Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall--

Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all;

And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown,

Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town.

She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile--

She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style;

But if I ever tried to be friends, I did with her, I know;

But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go.

She had an edication, an' that was good for her;

But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things too fur;

An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick),

That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a rithmetic.

So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done--

They was a family of themselves, and I another one;

And a very little cottage one family will do,

But I never have seen a house that was big enough for two.

An' I could never speak to suit her, never could please her eye,

An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try;

But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow,

When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me I could go.

I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small,

And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all;

And what with her husband's sisters, and what with child'rn three,

'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me.

An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got,

For Thomas's buildings'd cover the half of an acre lot;

But all the child'rn was on me--I couldn't stand their sauce--

And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss.

An' then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out West,

And to Isaac, not far from her--some twenty miles at best;

And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any one so old,

And t' other had an opinion the climate was too cold.

So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about--

So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out;

But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down,

Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town.

Over the hill to the poor-house--my child'rn dear, good by!

Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh;

And God'll judge between us; but I will al'ays pray

That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day.

WILL CARLETON.

OLD.

By the wayside, on a mossy stone,

Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;

Oft I marked him sitting there alone.

All the landscape, like a page perusing;

Poor, unknown,

By the wayside, on a mossy stone.

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat;

Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding;

Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat;

Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding;

There he sat!

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat.

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there,

No one sympathizing, no one heeding,

None to love him for his thin gray hair,

And the furrows all so mutely pleading

Age and care:

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there.

It was summer, and we went to school,

Dapper country lads and little maidens;

Taught the motto of the "Dunce's Stool,"--

Its grave import still my fancy ladens,--

"Here's a fool!"

It was summer, and we went to school.

When the stranger seemed to mark our play,

Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted,

I remember well, too well, that day!

Oftentimes the tears unbidden started,

Would not stay

When the stranger seemed to mark our play.

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell,

O, to me her name was always Heaven!

She besought him all his grief to tell,

(I was then thirteen, and she eleven,)

Isabel!

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell.

"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old;

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow;

Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told."

Then his eyes betrayed a pearl of sorrow,

Down it rolled!

"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old.

"I have tottered here to look once more

On the pleasant scene where I delighted

In the careless, happy days of yore,

Ere the garden of ray heart was blighted

To the core:

I have tottered here to look once more.

"All the picture now to me how dear!

E'en this old gray rock where I am seated,

Is a jewel worth my journey here;

Ah that such a scene must be completed

With a tear!

All the picture now to me how dear!

"Old stone school-house! it is still the same;

There's the very step I so oft mounted;

There's the window creaking in its frame,

And the notches that I cut and counted

For the game.

Old stone school-house, it is still the same.

"In the cottage yonder I was born;

Long my happy home, that humble dwelling;

There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn;

There the spring with limpid nectar swelling;

Ah, forlorn!

In the cottage yonder I was born.

"Those two gateway sycamores you see

Then were planted just so far asunder

That long well-pole from the path to free,

And the wagon to pass safely under;

Ninety-three!

Those two gateway sycamores you see.

"There's the orchard where we used to climb

When my mates and I were boys together,

Thinking nothing of the flight of time,

Fearing naught but work and rainy weather;

Past its prime!

There's the orchard where we used to climb.

"There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails,

Bound the pasture where the flocks were grazing

Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails

In the crops of buckwheat we were raising;

Traps and trails!

There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails.

"There's the mill that ground our yellow grain;

Pond and river still serenely flowing;

Cot there nestling in the shaded lane,

Where the lily of my heart was blowing,--

Mary Jane!

There's the mill that ground our yellow grain.

"There's the gate on which I used to swing,

Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable;

But alas! no more the morn shall bring

That dear group around my father's table;

Taken wing!

There's the gate on which I used to swing.

"I am fleeing,--all I loved have fled.

Yon green meadow was our place for playing

That old tree can tell of sweet things said

When around it Jane and I were straying;

She is dead!

I am fleeing,--all I loved have fled.

"Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky,

Tracing silently life's changeful story,

So familiar to my dim eye,

Points me to seven that are now in glory

There on high!

Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky.

"Oft the aisle of that old church we trod,

Guided hither by an angel mother;

Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod;

Sire and sisters, and my little brother,

Gone to God!

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod.

"There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways;

Bless the holy lesson!--but, ah, never

Shall I hear again those songs of praise,

Those sweet voices silent now forever!

Peaceful days!

There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways.

"There my Mary blessed me with her hand

When our souls drank in the nuptial blessings,

Ere she hastened to the spirit-land,

Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing;

Broken band!

There my Mary blessed me with her hand.

"I have come to see that grave once more,

And the sacred place where we delighted,

Where we worshipped, in the days of yore,

Ere the garden of my heart was blighted

To the care!

I have come to see that grave once more.

"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old;

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow,

Now, why I sit here thou hast been told."

In his eye another pearl of sorrow,

Down it rolled!

"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old."

By the wayside, on a mossy stone,

Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;

Still I marked him sitting there alone,

All the landscape, like a page, perusing;

Poor, unknown!

By the wayside, on a mossy stone.

RALPH HOYT.

THE LAST LEAF.

I saw him once before,

As he passed by the door;

And again

The pavement-stones resound

As he totters o'er the ground

With his cane.

They say that in his prime,

Ere the pruning-knife of time

Cut him down,

Not a better man was found

By the crier on his round

Through the town.

But now he walks the streets,

And he looks at all he meets

So forlorn;

And he shakes his feeble head,

That it seems as if he said,

"They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest

On the lips that he had pressed

In their bloom;

And the names he loved to hear

Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said--

Poor old lady! she is dead

Long ago--

That he had a Roman nose,

And his cheek was like a rose

In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,

And it rests upon his chin

Like a staff;

And a crook is in his back,

And the melancholy crack

In his laugh.

I know it is a sin

For me to sit and grin

At him here,

But the old three-cornered hat,

And the breeches,--and all that,

Are so queer!

And if I should live to be

The last leaf upon the tree

In the spring,

Let them smile, as I do now,

At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE LAST LEAF.

YA PEREZHIL SVOÏ ZHELANYA.

I've overlived aspirings,

My fancies I disdain;

The fruit of hollow-heartedness,

Sufferings alone remain.

'Neath cruel storms of Fate

With my crown of bay,

A sad and lonely life I lead,

Waiting my latest day.

Thus, struck by latter cold

While howls the wintry wind,

Trembles upon the naked bough

The last leaf left behind.

From the Russian of ALEKSANDER SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN.

Translation of JOHN POLLEN.

THE OLD VAGABOND.

Here in the ditch my bones I'll lay;

Weak, wearied, old, the world I leave.

"He's drunk," the passing crowd will say

'T is well, for none will need to grieve.

Some turn their scornful heads away,

Some fling an alms in hurrying by;--

Haste,--'t is the village holyday!

The aged beggar needs no help to die.

Yes! here, alone, of sheer old age

I die; for hunger slays not all.

I hoped my misery's closing page

To fold within some hospital;

But crowded thick is each retreat,

Such numbers now in misery lie.

Alas! my cradle was the street!

As he was born the aged wretch must die.

In youth, of workmen, o'er and o'er,

I've asked, "Instruct me in your trade."

"Begone!--our business is not more

Than keeps ourselves,--go, beg!" they said.

Ye rich, who bade me toil for bread,

Of bones your tables gave me store,

Your straw has often made my bed;--

In death I lay no curses at your door.

Thus poor, I might have turned to theft;--

No!--better still for alms to pray!

At most, I've plucked some apple, left

To ripen near the public way,

Yet weeks and weeks, in dungeons laid

In the king's name, they let me pine;

They stole the only wealth I had,--

Though poor and old, the sun, at least, was mine.

What country has the poor to claim?

What boots to me your corn and wine,

Your busy toil, your vaunted fame,

The senate where your speakers shine?

Once, when your homes, by war o'erswept,

Saw strangers battening on your land,

Like any puling fool, I wept!

The aged wretch was nourished by their hand.

Mankind! why trod you not the worm,

The noxious thing, beneath your heel?

Ah! had you taught me to perform

Due labor for the common weal!

Then, sheltered from the adverse wind,

The worm and ant had learned to grow;

Ay,--then I might have loved my kind;--

The aged beggar dies your bitter foe!

From the French of PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGER.

THE BEGGAR.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,

O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,

These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years;

And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek

Has been the channel to a stream of tears.

Yon house, erected on the rising ground,

With tempting aspect drew me from my road,

For plenty there a residence has found,

And grandeur a magnificent abode.

(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!)

Here craving for a morsel of their bread,

A pampered menial drove me from the door,

To seek a shelter in the humble shed.

O, take me to your hospitable dome,

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!

Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,

For I am poor and miserably old.

Should I reveal the source of every grief,

If soft humanity e'er touched your breast,

Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,

And tears of pity could not be repressed.

Heaven sends misfortunes,--why should we repine?

'T is Heaven has brought me to the state you see:

And your condition may be soon like mine,

The child of sorrow and of misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn;

But ah! oppression forced me from my cot;

My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.

My daughter,--once the comfort of my age!

Lured by a villain from her native home,

Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wild stage,

And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.

My tender wife,--sweet soother of my care!--

Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,

Fell,--lingering fell, a victim to despair,

And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have born him to your door,

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,

O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

THOMAS MOSS.

A ROUGH RHYME ON A ROUGH MATTER.

THE ENGLISH GAME LAWS.

The merry brown hares came leaping

Over, the crest of the hill,

Where the clover and corn lay sleeping,

Under the moonlight still.

Leaping late and early,

Till under their bite and their tread,

The swedes, and the wheat, and the barley

Lay cankered, and trampled, and dead.

A poacher's widow sat sighing

On the side of the white chalk bank,

Where, under the gloom of fire-woods,

One spot in the lea throve rank.

She watched a long tuft of clover,

Where rabbit or hare never ran,

For its black sour haulm covered over

The blood of a murdered man.

She thought of the dark plantation,

And the hares, and her husband's blood,

And the voice of her indignation

Rose up to the throne of God:

"I am long past wailing and whining,

I have wept too much in my life:

I've had twenty years of pining

As an English laborer's wife.

"A laborer in Christian England,

Where they cant of a Saviour's name,

And yet waste men's lives like the vermin's

For a few more brace of game.

"There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire,

There's blood on your pointer's feet;

There's blood on the game you sell, squire,

And there's blood on the game you eat.

"You have sold the laboring man, squire,

Both body and soul to shame,

To pay for your seat in the House, squire,

And to pay for the feed of your game.

"You made him a poacher yourself, squire,

When you'd give neither work nor meat,

And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden

At our starving children's feet;

"When, packed in one reeking chamber,

Man, maid, mother, and little ones lay;

While the rain pattered in on the rotten bride-bed,

And the walls let in the day;

"When we lay in the burning fever,

On the mud of the cold clay floor,

Till you parted us all for three months, squire,

At the cursèd workhouse door.

"We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders?

What self-respect could we keep,

Worse housed than your hacks and your pointers,

Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep?

"Our daughters, with base-born babies,

Have wandered away in their shame;

If your misses had slept, squire, where they did,

Your misses might do the same.

"Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking,

With handfuls of coals and rice,

Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting

A little below cost price?

"You may tire of the jail and the workhouse,

And take to allotments and schools,

But you 've run up a debt that will never

Be repaid us by penny-club rules.

"In the season of shame and sadness,

In the dark and dreary day.

When scrofula, gout, and madness

Are eating your race away;

"When to kennels and liveried varlets

You have cast your daughters' bread,

And, worn out with liquor and harlots,

Your heir at your feet lies dead;

"When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed rector,

Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave,

You will find in your God the protector

Of the freeman you fancied your slave."

She looked at the tuft of clover,

And wept till her heart grew light;

And at last, when her passion was over,

Went wandering into the night.

But the merry brown hares came leaping

Over the uplands still,

Where the clover and corn lay sleeping

On the side of the white chalk hill.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

"THEY ARE DEAR FISH TO ME."

The farmer's wife sat at the door,

A pleasant sight to see;

And blithesome were the wee, wee bairns

That played around her knee.

When, bending 'neath her heavy creel,

A poor fish-wife came by,

And, turning from the toilsome road,

Unto the door drew nigh.

She laid her burden on the green,

And spread its scaly store;

With trembling hands and pleading words,

She told them o'er and o'er.

But lightly laughed the young guidwife,

"We're no sae scarce o' cheer;

Tak' up your creel, and gang your ways,--

I'll buy nae fish sae dear."

Bending beneath her load again,

A weary sight to see;

Right sorely sighed the poor fish-wife,

"They are dear fish to me!

"Our boat was oot ae fearfu' night,

And when the storm blew o'er,

My husband, and my three brave sons,

Lay corpses on the shore.

"I've been a wife for thirty years,

A childless widow three;

I maun buy them now to sell again,--

They are dear fish to me!"

The farmer's wife turned to the door,--

What was't upon her cheek?

What was there rising in her breast,

That then she scarce could speak?

She thought upon her ain guidman,

Her lightsome laddies three;

The woman's words had pierced her heart,--

"They are dear fish to me!"

"Come back," she cried, with quivering voice,

And pity's gathering tear;

"Come in, come in, my poor woman,

Ye 're kindly welcome here.

"I kentna o' your aching heart,

Your weary lot to dree;

I'll ne'er forget your sad, sad words:

'They are dear fish to me!'"

Ay, let the happy-hearted learn

To pause ere they deny

The meed of honest toil, and think

How much their gold may buy,--

How much of manhood's wasted strength,

What woman's misery,--

What breaking hearts might swell the cry:

"They are dear fish to me!"

ANONYMOUS.

GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER.

THE IRISH FAMINE.

Give me three grains of corn, mother,--

Only three grains of corn;

It will keep the little life I have

Till the coming of the morn.

I am dying of hunger and cold, mother,--

Dying of hunger and cold;

And half the agony of such a death

My lips have never told.

It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother,--

A wolf that is fierce for blood;

All the livelong day, and the night beside,

Gnawing for lack of food.

I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother,

And the sight was heaven to see,

I awoke with an eager, famishing lip,

But you had no bread for me.

How could I look to you, mother,--

How could I look to you

For bread to give to your starving boy,

When you were starving too?

For I read the famine in your cheek,

And in your eyes so wild,

And I felt it in your bony hand,

As you laid it on your child.

The Queen has lands and gold, mother,

The Queen has lands and gold,

While you are forced to your empty breast

A skeleton babe to hold,--

A babe that is dying of want, mother,

As I am dying now,

With a ghastly look in its sunken eye,

And famine upon its brow.

What has poor Ireland done, mother,--

What has poor Ireland done,

That the world looks on, and sees us starve,

Perishing one by one?

Do the men of England care not, mother,--

The great men and the high,--

For the suffering sons of Erin's isle,

Whether they live or die?

There is many a brave heart here, mother,

Dying of want and cold,

While only across the Channel, mother,

Are many that roll in gold;

There are rich and proud men there, mother,

With wondrous wealth to view,

And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night

Would give life to _me_ and _you_.

Come nearer to my side, mother.

Come nearer to my side,

And hold me fondly, as you held

My father when _he_ died;

Quick, for I cannot see you, mother,

My breath is almost gone;

Mother! dear mother! ere I die,

Give me three grains of corn.

AMELIA BLANDFORD EDWARDS.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,

Plying her needle and thread,--

Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch

She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"

"Work! work! work

While the cock is crowing aloof!

And work--work--work

Till the stars shine through the roof!

It's, O, to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk,

Where woman has never a soul to save,

If this is Christian work!

"Work--work--work

Till the brain begins to swim!

Work--work--work

Till the eyes are heavy and dim!

Seam, and gusset, and band,

Band, and gusset, and seam,--

Till over the buttons I fall asleep,

And sew them on in a dream!

"O men with sisters dear!

O men with mothers and wives!

It is no linen you're wearing out,

But human creatures' lives!

Stitch! stitch! stitch,

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,--

Sewing at once, with a double thread,

A shroud as well as a shirt!

"But why do I talk of death,--

That phantom of grisly bone?

I hardly fear his terrible shape,

It seems so like my own,--

It seems so like my own

Because of the fasts I keep;

O God! that bread should be so dear,

And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work--work--work

My labor never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

A crust of bread--and rags,

That shattered roof--and this naked floor--

A table--a broken chair--

And a wall so blank my shadow I thank

For sometimes falling there!

"Work--work--work

From weary chime to chime!

Work--work--work

As prisoners work for crime!

Band, and gusset, and seam,

Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed,

As well as the weary hand.

"Work--work--work

In the dull December light!

And work--work--work--

When the weather is warm and bright!

While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,

As if to show me their sunny backs,

And twit me with the Spring.

"O, but to breathe the breath

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,--

With the sky above my head,

And the grass beneath my feet!

For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel,

Before I knew the woes of want

And the walk that costs a meal!

"O but for one short hour,--

A respite, however brief!

No blessèd leisure for love or hope,

But only time for grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart;

But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop

Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,

Plying her needle and thread,--

Stitch! stitch! stitch,

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch--

Would that its tone could reach the rich!--

She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

THOMAS HOOD.

THE PAUPER'S DRIVE.

There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot--

To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot;

The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs;

And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings;