Classic Poem

An Alderman bold, Henry Smith was enrolled,
Of the Silversmiths' Company;
Highly praised was his name, his skill had high fame,
And a prosperous man was he.

Knights drank to his health, and lauded his wealth;
Sailors came from the Western Main,
Their prizes they sold, of ingots of gold,
Or plate from the galleys of Spain.

Then beakers full fine, to hold the red wine,
Were cast in his furnace's mould,
Or tankards rich chased, in intricate taste,
Gimmal rings of the purest gold.

On each New Year's morn, no man thought it scorn--
Whether statesman, or warrior brave--
The choicest device, of costliest price,
For a royal off'ring to crave.

"Bring here such a toy as the most may joy
The eyes of our gracious Queen,
Rows of orient pearls, gold pins for her curls,
Silver network, all glistening sheen."

Each buyer who came--lord, squire, or dame--
Behaved in most courteous guise,
Showing honour due, as to one they knew
To be at once wealthy and wise.

In London Guild Hall, the citizens all,
Esteemed him their future Lord Mayor;
Not one did he meet, in market or street,
But made him a reverence fair.

"Ho," said Master Smith, "I will try the pith
Of this smooth-faced courtesy;
Do they prize myself, do they prize my pelf,
Do they value what's mine or me?"

His gold chain of pride he hath laid aside,
And furred gown of the scarlet red;
He set on his back a fardel and pack,
And a hood on his grizzled head.

His 'prentices all he hath left in stall,
But running right close by his side,
In spite of his rags, guarding well his bags,
His small Messan dog would abide.

So thus, up and down, through village and town,
In rain or in sunny weather,
Through Surrey's fair land, his staff in his hand,
Went he and the dog together.

"Good folk, hear my prayer, of your bounty spare,
Help a wanderer in his need;
Better days I have seen, a rich man I have been,
Esteemed both in word and deed."

In the first long street, certain forms he did meet,
But scarce might behold their faces;
From matted elf-locks eyes stared like an ox,
And shambling were their paces!

Not one gave him cheer, nor would one come near,
As he turned him away to go,
Then a heavy stone at the dog was thrown,
To deal a right cowardly blow.

In Mitcham's fair vale, the men 'gan to rail,
"Not a vagabond may come near;"
Each mother's son ran, each boy and each man,
To summon the constable here.

The cart's tail behind, the beggar they bind,
They flogged him full long and full sore;
They hunted him out, did that rabble rout,
And bade him come thither no more!

All weary and bruised, and scurvily used,
He went trudging along his track;
The lesson was stern he had come to learn,
And yet he disdained to turn back.

Where Walton-on-Thames gleams fair through the stems
Of its tufted willow palms,
There were loitering folk who most vilely spoke,
Nor would give him one groat in alms.

"Dog Smith," was the cry, "behold him go by,
The fool who hath lost all he had!"
For only to tease can delight and can please
The ill-nurtured village lad.

Behold, in Betchworth was a blazing hearth
With a hospitable door.
"Thou art tired and lame," quoth a kindly dame,
"Come taste of our humble store.

"Though scant be our fare, thou art welcome to share;
We rejoice to give thee our best;
Come sit by our fire, thou weary old sire,
Come in, little doggie, and rest."

And where Mole the slow doth by Cobham go,
He beheld a small village maiden;
Of loose flocks of wool her lap was quite full,
With a bundle her arms were laden.

"What seekest thou, child, 'mid the bushes wild,
Thy face and thine arms that thus tear?"
"The wool the sheep leave, to spin and to weave;
It makes us our clothes to wear."

Then she led him in, where her mother did spin,
And make barley bannocks to eat;
They gave him enough, though the food was rough--
The kindliness made it most sweet.

Many years had past, report ran at last,
The rich Alderman Smith was dead.
Then each knight and dame, and each merchant came,
To hear his last testament read.

I, Harry Smith, found of mind clear and sound,
Thus make and devise my last will:
While England shall stand, I bequeath my land,
My last legacies to fulfil.

"To the muddy spot, where they cleaned them not,
When amongst their fields I did roam;
To every one there with the unkempt hair
I bequeath a small-toothed comb.

"Next, to Mitcham proud, and the gaping crowd,
Who for nobody's sorrows grieve;
With a lash double-thong, plaited firm and strong,
A horsewhip full stout do I leave.

"To Walton-on-Thames, where, 'mid willow stems,
The lads and the lasses idle;
To restrain their tongues, and breath of their lungs,
I bequeath a bit and a bridle.

"To Betchworth so fair, and the households there
Who so well did the stranger cheer,
I leave as my doles to the pious souls,
Full seventy pounds by the year.

"To Cobham the thrifty I leave a good fifty,
To be laid out in cloth dyed dark;
On Sabbath-day to be given away,
And known by Smith's badge and mark.

"To Leatherhead too my gratitude's due,
For a welcome most freely given;
Let my bounty remain, for each village to gain,
Whence the poor man was never driven."

So in each sweet dale, and bright sunny vale,
In the garden of England blest;
Those have found a friend, whose gifts do not end,
Who gave to that stranger a rest!