Yorkshire Lyrics Part 55

Her father now is lying sick, She soon may be alone; He cannot use his spade and pick, As once he could have done.

The workhouse door stands open wide, But should he enter there, They'd tear his darling from his side And place her anywhere.

They'd call it charitable help, Though breaking both their hearts; But then, when in adversity Folks have to bear the smarts.

Some carriages go rolling by, Gay laughter greets her ears; She envies not their better lot, She only sheds more tears, And now and then a pa.s.sing step, Will cause the tears to cease; As fainter, fainter, comes the plaint, "Do buy my matches, please."

Darker the sky, colder the wind,-- The bells are silent now;-- She creeps still closer to the wall, And sinks upon the snow.

The sound of revelry no more Disturbs her weary ear, Sleep conquers cold and pain and grief;-- Oblivion shuts out fear.

The snow drifts to the churchyard wall, The graves with white are spread; But those gray walls do not enclose All of the near-by dead.

The wind has ta'en the snowflakes, And gently as it might, Has spread a shroud o'er one more lost And hid it from the sight.

I would not wake her if I could, 'Twas well for her she died; Her spirit floated out upon The bells of Christmastide, She breathed no prayer, nor thought of Heaven,-- Her last faint words were these;-- As time merged in eternity, "Do buy my matches, please."

But surely angels would be there, To shield her from all harm; And in Christ's loving bosom, She could nestle and get warm.

The wifeless, childless, stricken man, Lies moaning in his pain-- "Come, let me bless thee e'er I die!"

But she never came again.

De Profundis.

Down in the deeps of dark despair and woe;-- Of Death expectant;--Hope I put aside; Counting the heartbeats, slowly, yet more slow,-- Marking the lazy ebb of life's last tide.

Sweet Resignation, with her opiate breath, Spread a light veil, oblivious, o'er the past, And all unwilling handmaid to remorseless Death, Shut out the pain of life's great scene,--the last.

When, lo! from out the mist a slender form Took shape and forward pressed and two bright eyes Shone as two stars that gleam athwart the storm, Grandly serene, amid the cloud-fleck'd skies.

"Not yet," she said, "there are some sands to run, Ere he has reached life's limit, and no grain Shall lie unused. Then, when his fight is done, p.r.o.nounce the verdict,--be it loss or gain."

I felt her right hand lightly smooth my brow, Her left hand on my heart; and a sweet thrill Swept all the strings of being, and the flow Of a full harmony aroused the dormant will.

Death slunk away, sweet Resignation paled, And Hope's bright star made all the future bright; The clouds were rent;--a woman's love prevailed, And dragged a sinking soul once more to love and light.

Angels there are who walk this troublous world, Whose wings are hid beneath poor mortal clay, Lest their effulgence to man's eyes unfurled, Might scare the timid-hearted ones away.

The whispered word, the smile, the gentle tone, Love-prompted from a woman's heaving breast, Enforce her claim to make the world her throne, Beyond compare,--of all G.o.d's gifts the best.

Nettie.

Nettie, Nettie! oh, she's pretty!

With her wreath of golden curls; None compare with charming Nettie, She's the prettiest of girls.

Not her face alone is sweetest,-- Nor her eyes the bluest blue, But her figure is the neatest Of all forms I ever knew.

But she has a fault,--the greatest That a pretty girl could have; When she's looking the sedatist, And pretending to be grave,-- You discover, 'spite of hiding, What I feel constrained to tell; That she knows she is a beauty,-- Knows it,--knows it,--aye, too well.

May be when the bloom has vanished; Which we know in time it will; And her foolish fancies banished, May be, she'll be lovely still.

For though Time may put his finger, On her dainty-fashioned face; There will still some beauty linger, Round her form so full of grace.

And her heart,--the priceless treasure, Which so many long to win, Still shall prove a fount of pleasure, To the love that enters in.

Pity 'tis that fairest blossoms Must in time fall from the tree; Pity 'tis that snow-white bosoms Must yield up their symmetry.

Brightest eyes will lose their love-light, Fairest cheeks grow pale and gray;-- Golden locks will lose their sunlight, And the loveliest limbs decay.

But whilst life is left we hunger For a taste of earthly bliss; But the man need seek no longer, Who can call sweet Nettie his.

The Dean's Brother.

A little lad, but thinly clad, All day had roamed the street; With st.i.tled groans and aching bones, He beg'd for bread to eat.

The wind blew shrill from o'er the hili, And shook his scanty rags; Whilst cold and sleet benumbed his feet, As plodding o'er the flags.

The night drew on with thick'ning gloom,-- He hailed each pa.s.ser by, For help to save, but nought they gave,-- Then he sat down to cry.

It was a n.o.ble portico, 'Neath which the beggar stept, And none would guess, one in distress There shiv'ring sat and wept.

But soon the door was open thrown,-- The Dean, a goodly man; Who lived within, had heard a moan, And came the cause to scan.

"Ah, little boy, what want you here, On such a bitter night?

Run home at once, you little dunce, Or you'll be frozen quite."

The boy looked at his cheery face, Yet hid his own in dread; "I meant no harm, the place was warm, And I am begging bread;

"And if you can a morsel spare, I'll thank you, oh! so much, For all day long I've begged and sung, And never had a touch."

"Step in," then said the kindly man, "And stand here in the hall, You shall have bread, poor starving child, I promise you you shall."

And off he went, and soon returned With a thin, tempting slice, And little Jemmy dapt his hands And cried, "Oh, Sir, that's nice!"

"And what's your name, come tell me that?"

"My name is Jimmy Pool."

"And do you always beg all day Instead of going to school?

"And can you read, and can you write?"

Poor Jimmy shook his head, "No, sir, I have to beg all day, At night I go to bed.

"My mother lays me on the floor, Upon a little rug; And I ne'er think of nothing more, When I'm so warm and snug.

"Sometimes I wake, and when I do, Unless it's almost day, She's always there, upon her chair, Working the night away.

"It isn't much that she can make,-- Sometimes I think she'd die, But for her little Jimmy's sake,-- There's only her and I."

"And do you ever pray, my boy?"

"No, sir, I never tried, I never heard a praying word Since my poor Daddy died."

"Then let me teach you, little boy, Just come now, let me see,-- I know you'll manage if you try,-- Now say it after me.

"Our Father,"--"Our Father,"--"right,"

"That art in heaven," "go on!"

Jimmy repeated every word, Until the prayer was done.