Stopt by the storm, that long in sullen black
From the south-west stain'd its encroaching track,
Haymakers, hustling from the rain to hide,
Sought the grey willows by the pasture-side;
And there, while big drops bow the grassy stem,
And bleb the withering hay with pearly gems,
Dimple the brook, and patter in the leaves,
The song or tale an hour's restraint relieves.
And while the old dames gossip at their ease,
And pinch the snuff-box empty by degrees,
The young ones join in love's delightful themes,
Truths told by gipsies, and expounded dreams;
And mutter things kept secrets from the rest,
As sweetheart's names, and whom they love the best;
And dazzling ribbons they delight to show,
The last new favours of some 'veigling beau,
Who with such treachery tries their hearts to move,
And, like the highest, bribes the maidens' love.
The old dames, jealous of their whisper'd praise,
Throw in their hints of man's deluding ways;
And one, to give her counsels more effect,
And by example illustrate the fact
Of innocence o'ercome by flattering man,
Thrice tapp'd her box, and pinch'd, and thus began.
"Now wenches listen, and let lovers lie,
Ye'll hear a story ye may profit by;
I'm your age treble, with some oddments to't,
And right from wrong can tell, if ye'll but do't:
Ye need not giggle underneath your hat,
Mine's no joke-matter, let me tell you that;
So keep ye quiet till my story's told,
And don't despise your betters cause they're old.
That grave ye've heard of, where the four roads meet,
Where walks the spirit in a winding-sheet,
Oft seen at night, by strangers passing late,
And tarrying neighbours that at market wait,
Stalking along as white as driven snow,
And long as one's shadow when the sun is low;
The girl that's buried there I knew her well,
And her whole history, if ye'll hark, can tell.
Her name was Jane, and neighbour's children we,
And old companions once, as ye may be;
And like to you, on Sundays often stroll'd
To gipsies' camps to have our fortunes told;
And oft, God rest her, in the fortune-book
Which we at hay-time in our pockets took,
Our pins at blindfold on the wheel we stuck,
When hers would always prick the worst of luck;
For try, poor thing, as often as she might,
Her point would always on the blank alight;
Which plainly shows the fortune one's to have,
As such like go unwedded to the grave,--
And so it prov'd.--The next succeeding May,
We both to service went from sports and play,
Though in the village still; as friends and kin
Thought neighbour's service better to begin.
So out we went:--Jane's place was reckon'd good,
Though she 'bout life but little understood,
And had a master wild as wild can be,
And far unfit for such a child as she;
And soon the whisper went about the town,
That Jane's good looks procur'd her many a gown
From him, whose promise was to every one,
But whose intention was to wive with none.
'Twas nought to wonder, though begun by guess;
For Jane was lovely in her Sunday dress,
And all expected such a rosy face
Would be her ruin--as was just the case.
The while the change was easily perceiv'd,
Some months went by, ere I the tales believ'd;
For there are people now-a-days, Lord knows,
Will sooner hatch up lies than mend their clothes;
And when with such-like tattle they begin,
Don't mind whose character they spoil, a pin:
But passing neighbours often mark'd them smile
And watch'd him take her milkpail o'er a stile;
And many a time, as wandering closer by,
From Jenny's bosom met a heavy sigh;
And often mark'd her, as discoursing deep,
When doubts might rise to give just cause to weep,
Smothering their notice, by a wish'd disguise
To slive her apron corner to her eyes.
Such signs were mournful and alarming things,
And far more weighty than conjecture brings;
Though foes made double what they heard of all,
Swore lies as proofs, and prophesied her fall.
Poor thoughtless wench! it seems but Sunday past
Since we went out together for the last,
And plain enough indeed it was to find
She'd something more than common on her mind;
For she was always fond and full of chat,
In passing harmless jokes 'bout beaus and that,
But nothing then was scarcely talk'd about,
And what there was, I even forc'd it out.
A gloomy wanness spoil'd her rosy cheek,
And doubts hung there it was not mine to seek;
She ne'er so much as mention'd things to come,
But sigh'd o'er pleasures ere she left her home;
And now-and-then a mournful smile would raise
At freaks repeated of our younger days,
Which I brought up, while passing spots of ground
Where we, when children, "hurly-burly'd" round,
Or "blindman-buff'd" some morts of hours away--
Two games, poor thing, Jane dearly lov'd to play.
She smil'd at these, but shook her head and sigh'd
Whene'er she thought my look was turn'd aside;
Nor turn'd she round, as was her former way,
To praise the thorn, white over then with May;
Nor stooped once, tho' thousands round her grew,
To pull a cowslip as she us'd to do:
For Jane in flowers delighted from a child--
I like the garden, but she lov'd the wild,
And oft on Sundays young men's gifts declin'd,
Posies from gardens of the sweetest kind,
And eager scrambled the dog-rose to get,
And woodbine-flowers at every bush she met.
The cowslip blossom, with its ruddy streak,
Would tempt her furlongs from the path to seek;
And gay long purple, with its tufty spike,
She'd wade o'er shoes to reach it in the dyke;
And oft, while scratching through the briary woods
For tempting cuckoo-flowers and violet buds,
Poor Jane, I've known her crying sneak to town,
Fearing her mother when she'd torn her gown.
Ah, these were days her conscience view'd with pain,
Which all are loth to lose, a well as Jane.
And, what I took more odd than all the rest,
Was, that same night she ne'er a wish exprest
To see the gipsies, so belov'd before,
That lay a stone's-throw from us on the moor:
I hinted it; she just reply'd again--
She once believ'd them, but had doubts since then.
And when we sought our cows, I call'd, 'Come mull!'
But she stood silent, for her heart was full.
She lov'd dumb things; and ere she had begun
To milk, caress'd them more than e'er she'd done;
But though her tears stood watering in her eye,
I little took it as her last good-bye;
For she was tender, and I've often known
Her mourn when beetles have been trampled on:
So I ne'er dream'd from this, what soon befel,
Till the next morning rang her passing-bell.
My story's long, but time's in plenty yet,
Since the black clouds betoken nought but wet;
And I'll e'en snatch a minute's breath or two,
And take another pinch, to help me through.
So, as I said, next morn I heard the bell,
And passing neighbours cross'd the street, to tell
That my poor partner Jenny had been found
In the old flag-pool, on the pasture, drown'd.
God knows my heart! I twitter'd like a leaf,
And found too late the cause of Sunday's grief;
For every tongue was loos'd to gabble o'er
The slanderous things that secret pass'd before:
With truth or lies they need not then be strict,
The one they rail'd at could not contradict.
'Twas now no secret of her being beguil'd,
For every mouth knew Jenny died with child;
And though more cautious with a living name,
Each more than guess'd her master bore the blame.
That very morning, it affects me still,
Ye know the foot-path sidles down the hill,
Ign'rant as babe unborn I pass'd the pond
To milk as usual in our close beyond,
And cows were drinking at the water's edge,
And horses brows'd among the flags and sedge,
And gnats and midges danc'd the water o'er,
Just as l've mark'd them scores of times before,
And birds sat singing as in mornings gone,--
While I as unconcern'd went soodling on,
But little dreaming, as the wakening wind
Flapp'd the broad ash-leaves o'er the pond reclin'd,
And o'er the water crink'd the curdled wave,
That Jane was sleeping in her watery grave.
The neatherd boy that us'd to tend the cows,
While getting whip-sticks from the dangling boughs
Of osiers drooping by the water-side,
Her bonnet floating on the top espied;
He knew it well, and hasten'd fearful down
To take the terror of his fears to town,--
A melancholy story, far too true;
And soon the village to the pasture flew,
Where, from the deepest hole the pond about,
They dragg'd poor Jenny's lifeless body out,
And took her home, where scarce an hour gone by
She had been living like to you and I.
I went with more, and kiss'd her for the last,
And thought with tears on pleasures that were past;
And, the last kindness left me then to do,
I went, at milking, where the blossoms grew,
And handfuls got of rose and lambtoe sweet,
And put them with her in her winding-sheet.
A wilful murder, jury made the crime;
Nor parson 'low'd to pray, nor bell to chime;
On the cross roads, far from her friends and kin,
The usual law for their ungodly sin
Who violent hands upon themselves have laid,
Poor Jane's last bed unchristian-like was made;
And there, like all whose last thoughts turn to heaven,
She sleeps, and doubtless hop'd to be forgiven.
But, though I say't, for maids thus 'veigl'd in
I think the wicked men deserve the sin;
And sure enough we all at last shall see
The treachery punish'd as it ought to be.
For ere his wickedness pretended love,
Jane, I'll be bound, was spotless as the dove,
And's good a servant, still old folks allow,
As ever scour'd a pail or milk'd a cow;
And ere he led her into ruin's way,
As gay and buxom as a summer's day:
The birds that ranted in the hedge-row boughs,
As night and morning we have sought our cows,
With yokes and buckets as she bounc'd along,
Were often deaf'd to silence with her song.
But now she's gone:--girls, shun deceitful men,
The worst of stumbles ye can fall again';
Be deaf to them, and then, as 'twere, ye'll see
Your pleasures safe as under lock and key.
Throw not my words away, as many do;
They're gold in value, though they're cheap to you.
And husseys hearken, and be warn'd from this,
If ye love mothers, never do amiss:
Jane might love hers, but she forsook the plan
To make her happy, when she thought of man.
Poor tottering dame, it was too plainly known
Her daughter's dying hasten'd on her own,
For from the day the tidings reach'd her door
She took to bed and looked up no more,
And, ere again another year came round,
She, well as Jane, was laid within the ground;
And all were griev'd poor Goody's end to see:
No better neighbour enter'd house than she,
A harmless soul, with no abusive tongue,
Trig as new pins, and tight's the day was long;
And go the week about, nine times in ten
Ye'd find her house as cleanly as her sen.
But, Lord protect us ! time such change does bring,
We cannot dream what o'er our heads may hing;
The very house she liv'd in, stick and stone,
Since Goody died, has tumbled down and gone:
And where the marjoram once, and sage, and rue,
And balm, and mint, with curl d-leaf parsley grew,
And double marygolds, and silver thyme,
And pumpkins 'neath the window us'd to climb;
And where I often when a child for hours
Tried through the pales to get the tempting flowers,
As lady's laces, everlasting peas,
True-love-lies-bleeding, with the hearts-at-ease,
And golden rods, and tansy running high
That o'er the pale-tops smil'd on passers-by,
Flowers in my time that every one would praise,
Tho' thrown like weeds from gardens now-a-days;
Where these all grew, now henbane stinks and spreads,
And docks and thistles shake their seedy heads,
And yearly keep with nettles smothering o'er;--
The house, the dame, the garden known no more:
While, neighbouring nigh, one lonely elder-tree
Is all that's left of what had us'd to be,
Marking the place, and bringing up with tears
The recollections of one's younger years.
And now I've done, ye're each at once as free
To take your trundle as ye us'd to be;
To take right ways, as Jenny should have ta'en,
Or headlong run, and be a second Jane;
For by one thoughtless girl that's acted ill
A thousand may be guided if they will:
As oft 'mong folks to labour bustling on,
We mark the foremost kick against a stone,
O stumble o'er a stile he meant to climb,
While hind ones see and shun the fall in time.
But ye, I will be bound, like far the best
Love's tickling nick-nacks and the laughing jest,
And ten times sooner than be warn'd by me,
Would each be sitting on some fellow's knee,
Sooner believe the lies wild chaps will tell
Than old dames' cautions who would wish ye well:
So have your wills."--She pinch'd her box again,
And ceas'd her tale, and listen'd to the rain,
Which still as usual patter'd fast around,
And bow'd the bent-head loaded to the ground;
While larks, their naked nest by force forsook,
Prun'd their wet wings in bushes by the brook.
The maids, impatient now old Goody ceas'd,
As restless children from the school releas'd,
Right gladly proving, what she'd just foretold,
That young one's stories were preferr'd to old,
Turn to the whisperings of their former joy,
That oft deceive, but very rarely cloy.