Joanna Baillie

Child, with many a childish wile, Timid look, and blushing smile, Downy wings to steal thy way, Gilded bow, and quiver gay, Who in thy simple mien would trace The tyrant of the human race? Who is he whose flinty heart Hath not felt the flying dart? Who is he that from the wound Hath not pain and pleasure found? Who is he that hath not shed Curse and blessing on thy head?

What voice is this, thou evening gale! That mingles with thy rising wail; And, as it passes, sadly seems The faint return of youthful dreams? Though now its strain is wild and drear, Blithe was it once as sky-lark’s cheer — Sweet as the night-bird’s sweetest song, — Dear as the lisp of infant’s tongue. It was the voice, at whose sweet flow The heart did beat, and cheek did glow, And lip did smile, and eye did weep, And motioned love the measure keep. Oft be thy sound, soft gale of even, Thus to my wistful fancy given; And, as I list the swelling strain, The dead shall seem to live again!

Beside a spreading elm, from whose high boughs Like knotted tufts the crow’s light dwelling shows, Where screened from northern blasts, and winter-proof, Snug stands the parson’s barn with thatched roof; At chaff-strewed door where, in the morning ray, The gilded motes in mazy circles play, And sleepy Comrade in the sun is laid, More grateful to the cur than neighbouring shade. In snowy shirt unbraced, brown Robin stood, And leant upon his flail in thoughtful mood: His full round cheek where deeper flushes glow, The dewy drops which glisten on his brow; His dark cropped pate that erst at church or fair, So smooth and silky, showed his morning’s care, Which, all uncouth in matted locks combined, Now, ends erect, defies the ruffling wind; His neck-band loose, and hosen rumpled low, A careful lad, nor slack at labour, show. Nor scraping chickens chirping ’mongst the straw, Nor croaking rook o’erhead, nor chattering daw; Loud-breathing cow amongst the rampy weeds, Nor grunting sow that in the furrows feeds: Nor sudden breeze that shakes the quaking leaves, And lightly rustles through the scattered sheaves; Nor floating straw that skims athwart his nose, The deeply-musing youth may discompose. For Nelly fair, the blithest village maid, Whose tuneful voice beneath the hedgerow-shade, At early milking, o’er the meadows borne, E’er cheered the ploughman’s toil at rising morn: The neatest maid that e’er, in linen gown, Bore cream and butter to the market town: The tightest lass, that with untutored air, E’er footed alehouse floor at wake or fair, Since Easter last had Robin’s heart possessed, And many a time disturbed his nightly rest. Full oft, returning from the loosened plough, He slacked his pace, and knit his thoughtful brow; And oft, ere half his thresher’s talk was o’er, Would muse, with arms across, at cooling door: His mind thus bent, with downcast eyes he stood, And leant upon his flail in thoughtful mood. His soul o’er many a soft rememberance ran, And, muttering to himself, the youth began. ‘Ah! happy is the man whose early lot Hath made him master of a furnished cot; Who trains the vine that round his window grows, And after setting sun his garden hoes; Whose wattled pales his own enclosure shield, Who toils not daily in another’s field. Wheree’er he goes, to church or market-town, With more respect he and his dog are known; A brisker face he wears at wake or fair, Nor views with longing eyes the pedlar’s ware, But buys at will or ribbands, gloves or beads, And willing maidens to the alehouse leads; And, oh! secure from toils which cumber life, He makes the maid he loves an easy wife. Ah, Nelly! canst thou, with contented mind, Become the helpmate of a labouring hind, And share his lot, whate’er the chances be, Who hath no dower but love to fix on thee? Yes, gayest maid may meekest matron prove, And things of little note may ’token love. When from the church thou cam’st at eventide And I and red-haired Susan by thy side, I pulled the blossoms from the bending tree, And some to Susan gave, and some to thee; Thine were the best, and well thy smiling eye The difference marked, and guessed the reason why. When on a holiday we rambling strayed, And passed old Hodge’s cottage in the glade; Neat was the garden dressed, sweet hummed the bee, I wished both cot and Nelly made for me; And well methought thy very eyes revealed The self-same wish within thy breast concealed. When artful, once, I sought my love to tell, And spoke to thee of one who loved thee well, You saw the cheat, and jeering homeward hied, Yet secret pleasure in thy looks I spied. Ay, gayest maid may meekest matron prove, And smaller signs than these have ’tokened love.’ Now, at a distance, on the neighbouring plain, With creaking wheels slow comes the heavy wain: High on its towering load a maid appears, And Nelly’s voice sounds shrill in Robin’s ears. Quick from his hand he throws the cumbrous flail, And leaps with lightsome limbs the enclosing pale. O’er field and fence he scours, and furrows wide, With wakened Comrade barking by his side; Whilst tracks of trodden grain, and sidelong hay, And broken hedge-flowers sweet, mark his impetuous way.

Now in thy dazzling half-oped eye, Thy curled nose and lip awry, Uphoisted arms and noddling head, And little chin with crystal spread, Poor helpless thing! what do I see, That I should sing of thee? From thy poor tongue no accents come, Which can but rub thy toothless gum: Small understanding boasts thy face, Thy shapeless limbs nor step nor grace: A few short words thy feats may tell, And yet I love thee well. When wakes the sudden bitter shriek, And redder swells thy little cheek When rattled keys thy woes beguile, And through thine eyelids gleams the smile, Still for thy weakly self is spent Thy little silly plaint. But when thy friends are in distress. Thou’lt laugh and chuckle n’ertheless, Nor with kind sympathy be smitten, Though all are sad but thee and kitten; Yet puny varlet that thou art, Thou twitchest at the heart. Thy smooth round cheek so soft and warm; Thy pinky hand and dimpled arm; Thy silken locks that scantly peep, With gold tipped ends, where circle deep, Around thy neck in harmless grace, So soft and sleekly hold their place, Might harder hearts with kindness fill, And gain our right goodwill. Each passing clown bestows his blessing, Thy mouth is worn with old wives’ kissing; E’en lighter looks the gloomy eye Of surly sense when thou art by; And yet, I think, whoe’er they be, They love thee not like me. Perhaps when time shall add a few Short years to thee, thou’lt love me too; And after that, through life’s long way, Become my sure and cheering stay; Wilt care for me and be my hold, When I am weak and old. Thou’lt listen to my lengthened tale, And pity me when I am frail — But see, the sweepy spinning fly Upon the window takes thine eye. Go to thy little senseless play; Thou dost not heed my lay.

On village green whose smooth and well-worn sod, Cross pathed, with many a gossip’s foot is trod; By cottage door where playful children run, And cats and curs sit basking in the sun; Where o’er an earthen seat the thorn is bent, Cross-armed and back to wall poor William leant His bonnet all awry, his gathered brow, His hanging lip and lengthened visage show A mind but ill at ease. With motions strange His listless limbs their wayward postures change; While many a crooked line and curious maze With clouted shoon he on the sand portrays. At length the half-chewed straw fell from his mouth, And to himself low spoke the moody youth. ‘How simple is the lad and reft of skill, Who thinks with love to fix a woman’s will: Who every Sunday morn, to please her sight, Knots up his neckcloth gay and hosen white; Who for her pleasure keeps his pockets bare, And half his wages spends on pedlar’s ware; When every niggard clown or dotard old, Who hides in secret nooks his oft-told gold, Whose field or orchard tempts, with all her pride, At little cost may win her for his bride! While all the meed her silly lover gains, Is but the neighbours’ jeering for his pains. On Sunday last, when Susan’s banns were read, And I astonished sat with hanging head, Cold grew my shrinking frame, and loose my knee, While every neighbour’s eye was fixed on me. Ah Sue! when last we worked at Hodge’s hay, And still at me you mocked in wanton play — When last at fair, well pleased by chapman’s stand, You took the new-bought fairing from my hand — When at old Hobb’s you sung that song so gay, ‘Sweet William,’ still the burthen of the lay, — I little thought, alas! the lots were cast, That thou shouldst be another’s bride at last; And had, when last we tripped it on the green, And laughed at stiff-backed Rob, small thought I ween, Ere yet another scanty month was flown To see thee wedded to the hateful clown. Ay, lucky churl! more gold thy pockets line, But did these shapely limbs resemble thine, I’d stay at home and tend the household gear, Nor on the green with other lads appear. Ay, lucky churl! no store thy cottage lacks, And round thy barn thick stand the sheltered stacks. But did such features coarse my visage grace, I’d never budge the bonnet from my face. Yet let it be; it shall not break my ease, He best deserves who doth the maiden please. Such silly cause no more shall give me pain, Nor ever maiden cross my rest again. Such grizzled suitors with their taste agree, And the black fiend may take them all for me!’ Now through the village rose confused sounds, Hoarse lads, and children shrill, and yelping hounds. Straight every housewife at her door is seen, And pausing hedgers on their mattocks lean. At every narrow lane and alley’s mouth Loud-laughing lasses stand, and joking youth. A bridal band tricked out in colours gay, With minstrels blithe before to cheer the way, From clouds of curling dust that onward fly, In rural splendour break upon the eye. As in their way they hold so gaily on, Caps, beads, and buttons, glancing in the sun, Each village wag with eye of roguish cast, Some maiden jogs and vents the ready jest; While village toasts the passing belles deride, And sober matrons marvel at their pride. But William, head erect, with settled brow, In sullen silence viewed the passing show; And oft he scratched his pate with careless grace, And scorned to pull the bonnet o’er his face; But did with steady look unaltered wait, Till hindmost man had passed the churchyard gate, Then turned him to his cot with visage flat, Where honest Lightfoot on the threshold sat. Up leaped the kindly beast his hand to lick, And for his pains received an angry kick. Loud shuts the door with harsh and thundering din; The echoes round their circling course begin, From cot to cot, church tower, and rocky dell, It grows amain with wide progressive swell, And Lightfoot joins the coil with long and piteous yell.