IV.

Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his

tongue!

I ought to have gone before him: I wonder he went sc

young.

I cannot cry for him, Annie: I have not long to stay; Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away.

V.

Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and

cold;

But all my children have gone before me, I am so old:
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest;
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.

VI.

For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear,
All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear.
I mean your grandfather, Annie: it cost me a world of woe,
Seventy years ago, my darling. seventy years ago.

VII.

For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well

That Jenny had tript in her time: I knew, but I would not

tell.

And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little

liar!

But the tongue is a fire, as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire.

VIII.

And the parson made it his text that week, and he said

likewise,

That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies, That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with

outright,

But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.

IX.

And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and

And all things look'd half dead, tho' it was the middle of

May.

Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been! But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself clean.

X.

And I cried myself wellnigh blind, and all of an evening late

I clim❜d to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate.

The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale,

And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the

nightingale.

XI.

All of a sudden he stopt: there past by the gate of the

farm,

Willy, he did n't see me,

and Jenny hung on his arm. Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how; Ah, there's no fool like the old oneit makes me angry

now.

XII.

Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he

meant;

Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtsey and went. And I said, "Let us part: in a hundred years it 'll all be

the same,

You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name."

XIII.

And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine:

"Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is

mine.

And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill; But marry me out of hand: we two shall be happy still."

XIV.

"Marry you, Willy!" said I, "but I needs must speak my

mind,

And I fear you'll listen to tales, be jealous and hard and

unkind."

But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, "No, love, no;"

Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.

XV.

So Willy and I were wedded: I wore a lilac gown;

And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers

a crown.

But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born, Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn.

XVI.

That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death. There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a

breath.

I had not wept, little Annie, not since I had been a wife; But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought for his life.

XVII.

His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain:
I look'd at the still little body - his trouble had all been in

vain.

For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn : But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born.

XVIII.

But he cheer'd me, my good man, for he seldom said me

nay:

Kind, like a man, was he; like a man, too, would have his way:

Never jealous

not he: we had many a happy year; And he died, and I could not weep-my own time seem'd

so near.

XIX.

But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then could

have died:

I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side. And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget: But as to the children, Annie, they're all about me yet.

XX.

Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two, Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you: Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will, While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill.

XXI.

And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too

their team:

- they sing to

Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream. They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed I am not always certain if they be alive or dead.

XXII.

And yet I know for a truth, there's none of them left alive; For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five :

And Willy, my eldest-born, at nigh threescore and ten;
I knew them all as babies, and now they 're elderly men.

XXIII.

For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve;

I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve: And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I; I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by.

XXIV.

To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad: But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had; And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall

cease;

And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace.

XXV.

And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain,

And happy has been my life; but I would not live it again. I seem to be tired a little, that 's all, and long for rest; Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.

XXVI.

So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower;
But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour, —
Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next;
I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext?

XXVII.

And Willy's wife has written, she never was overwise.
Get me my glasses, Annie: thank God that I keep my eyes.
There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away.
But stay with the old woman now: you cannot have long
to stay.

NORTHERN FARMER.

OLD STYLE.

I.

WHEER 'asta beän saw long and meä liggin' 'ere aloän? Noorse ? thoort nowt o' a noorse: whoy, Doctor's abeän an'

agoan:

Says that I moant 'a naw moor yaäle: but I beänt a fool : Git ma my yaäle, for I beänt a-gooin' to break my rule.

II.

Doctors, they knaws nowt, for a says what 's nawways true:
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saäy the things that a do.
I've 'ed my point o' yaäle ivry noight sin' I beän 'ere,
An' I've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty year.

III.

Parson's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin 'ere o' my bed. "The amoighty's a taäkin o' you to 'issén, my friend," a

said,

An' a towd ma my sins, an 's toithe were due, an' I gied it

in hond;

I done my duty by un, as I 'a done by the lond.

IV.

Larn'd a ma' beä. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to larn.

But a cost oop, thot a did, 'boot Bessy Marris's barn.
Thof a knaws I hallus voäted wi' Squoire an' choorch an'

staäte,

An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin the raäte.

V.

An' I hallus comed to 's choorch afoor moy Sally wur dead, An' 'eerd un a bummin' awaäy loike a buzzard-clock * ower

my yead,

An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I thowt a 'ad sum

mut to saäy,

An I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said an' I comed awaäy.

*Cockchafer.