XXIII. THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT. BY MY SISTER. THE days are cold, the nights are long, The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, Nay! start not at that sparkling light; And wake when it is day. 1805. XXIV. THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. ONE morning (raw it was and wet— A foggy day in winter time) A Woman on the road I met, Not old, though something past her prime : Majestic in her person, tall and straight; And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait. The ancient spirit is not dead; Old times, thought I, are breathing there; Such strength, a dignity so fair : She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate. When from these lofty thoughts I woke, She answered, soon as she the question heard, “A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird.” And, thus continuing, she said, And I have travelled weary miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. The bird and cage they both were his : This singing-bird had gone with him ; When last he sailed, he left the bird behind; From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind. He to a fellow-lodger's care Had left it, to be watched and fed, And now, God help me for my little wit! I bear it with me, Sir;-he took so much delight in it." 1800. XXV. THE CHILDLESS FATHER. "UP, Timothy, up with your staff and away! Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green, On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen ; With their comely blue aprons, and caps I white as snow, The girls on the hills made a holiday show. Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before, * In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral takes place, a basin full of sprigs of box-wood is placed at the door of the house from which the coffin is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a sprig of this box-wood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased. Now fast Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut Perhaps to himself at that moment he said; 1800. |