Poems, 1799 Part 15

CURATE.

Good day Farmer!

Nathaniel what art nailing to the threshold?

NATHANIEL.

A horse-shoe Sir, 'tis good to keep off witchcraft, And we're afraid of Margery.

CURATE.

Poor old woman!

What can you fear from her?

FATHER.

What can we fear?

Who lamed the Miller's boy? who rais'd the wind That blew my old barn's roof down? who d'ye think Rides my poor horse a'nights? who mocks the hounds?

But let me catch her at that trick again, And I've a silver bullet ready for her, One that shall lame her, double how she will.

NATHANIEL.

What makes her sit there moping by herself, With no soul near her but that great black cat?

And do but look at her!

CURATE.

Poor wretch! half blind And crooked with her years, without a child Or friend in her old age, 'tis hard indeed To have her very miseries made her crimes!

I met her but last week in that hard frost That made my young limbs ache, and when I ask'd What brought her out in the snow, the poor old woman Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad And pick the hedges, just to keep herself From perishing with cold, because no neighbour Had pity on her age; and then she cried, And said the children pelted her with snow-b.a.l.l.s, And wish'd that she were dead.

FATHER.

I wish she was!

She has plagued the parish long enough!

CURATE.

Shame farmer!

Is that the charity your bible teaches?

FATHER.

My bible does not teach me to love witches.

I know what's charity; who pays his t.i.thes And poor-rates readier?

CURATE.

Who can better do it?

You've been a prudent and industrious man, And G.o.d has blest your labour.

FATHER.

Why, thank G.o.d Sir, I've had no reason to complain of fortune.

CURATE.

Complain! why you are wealthy. All the parish Look up to you.

FATHER.

Perhaps Sir, I could tell Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them.

CURATE.

You can afford a little to the poor, And then what's better still, you have the heart To give from your abundance.

FATHER.

G.o.d forbid I should want charity!

CURATE.

Oh! 'tis a comfort To think at last of riches well employ'd!

I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth Of a good deed at that most awful hour When riches profit not.

Farmer, I'm going To visit Margery. She is sick I hear-- Old, poor, and sick! a miserable lot, And death will be a blessing. You might send her Some little matter, something comfortable, That she may go down easier to the grave And bless you when she dies.

FATHER.

What! is she going!

Well G.o.d forgive her then! if she has dealt In the black art. I'll tell my dame of it, And she shall send her something.

CURATE.

So I'll say; And take my thanks for her's. ['goes']

FATHER.

That's a good man That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit The poor in sickness; but he don't believe In witchcraft, and that is not like a christian.

NATHANIEL.

And so old Margery's dying!

FATHER.

But you know She may recover; so drive t'other nail in!