Classic Poem

My Muse has silent been of late,
Unkindly winds have blown;
But once again I court her smile,
To sing my granny Joan.
In boyhood's simple garb attired,
And hands half fill'd with broom,
I loved to view her honest face
Within her cozy room.

And sure a cozy room it was;
Let's paint it, if we can;
The mantel-piece so dazzled me,
Shining with cup and can.
Small Scripture pictures on the wall,
King David's sling and stone,
Our Saviour in His manger-crib,
How loved my granny Joan!

Two items only will I name,
Which, in my boyish eyes,
In careless grandeur on the shelf,
I ever deem'd a prize.
One served to edge his razor-blade,
Grandfather Benny's hone;
The other was the snuff-box bright,
Which cheer'd my granny Joan.

How orderly all things appear'd,
Arranged with cottage grace!
She had a place for everything,
Gave everything its place.
With earnest hands her work was done:
" It saves us many a moan
To do the thing in proper time, "
Oft said my granny Joan.

A fire of furze and smouldering peat
The spacious chimney cheer'd,
Where she potatoes oft would roast
When autumn days appear'd.
And how I crunch'd my piece of cake
Baked on the rude hearth-stone,
With ashes of the moorland turf,
By my old granny Joan!

O cake was cake in those old days
Of simpleness and trust;
Potato-cake, how good it was!
No stoves to spoil the crust.
At dusk, I mind me creeping in
With business of my own,
To get my share, and say my prayer,
And bless my granny Joan.

The whitewash'd walls must also be
Remember'd in my lay,
The hour-glass, with its running sands,
Which told the time of day,
But ceased, as night and rest came on,
To still the sufferer's moan,
When by her Benny's side she lay,
And slept my granny Joan.

The dresser held the pewter plates
Which shone like silver bright,
Used only when the feast came round
To cheer some famous knight;
And here were teapots great and small;
And on the peg alone
A paper bag of dried herbs hung,
Preserved by granny Joan.

One book had she, which, like a lamp,
Shed brightness on her track:
And here she laid her spectacles
Upon its green baize back.
The Bible was her constant friend
When other helps were flown;
She always found a helper here
To cheer my granny Joan.

Upon the first fly-leaf appear'd
Her own and Benny's name;
And underneath, their family
In order as they came.
Their date of birth, their time of death,
If, 'neath the churchyard stone,
She laid them down in peace to rest,
All dear to granny Joan.

On the pine cricket, tabby cat
Would watch the approaching mouse;
When with her broom of heath was swept
And clean'd her healthy house;
And then she took her knitting down,
And in her dwelling lone
Who knows what holy visions fill'd
The mind of granny Joan?

She never boasted of her good,
As if complete apart
From Him whose ever-blessed name
Was precious to her heart.
With quiet step she bent her way
Up to the golden throne,
Till angels bore to Paradise
The soul of granny Joan.

When day was done, and Benny's hat
Was hanging on the nail,
She changed her dress, and hasten'd to
The meeting in the vale.
There psalms were sung, and prayer arose
In earnest solemn tone;
And much the burden then would fall
From off my granny Joan.

Where Nature's robes were never soil'd
With sulphur from the town,
The gates of bliss she often saw,
When praying on the down,
Retired among the shining moss,
Her altar the grey stone;
And no one knew how full her cup,
Save God and granny Joan.

Two goats, throughout the livelong year,
In snowy vests were seen,
Climbing the banks, or cropping bare
The herbage on the green.
And morn and eve they yielded milk,
With richness all its own,
Settling upon the dairy shelf
With cream for granny Joan.

The sparrows, from the thatch, look'd o'er
When summer days were fair,
As she, beside her cottage door,
Sat knitting on her chair;
And robin on the garden tree,
When evening shades were thrown
Athwart the halo of the hill,
Sang loud for granny Joan.

Her strongest beer was water clear
Brought from the meadow well,
With which made she her cup of tea,
As toll'd the curfew bell.
Poor Benny tippled now and then,
Till quiet was o'erthrown.
" 'T is better do without the drink, "
So preach'd my granny Joan.

If trial came, or pinching want,
She utter'd no complaint,
She ate her crust with simple trust,
As thankful as a saint.
With patient hope, her load she bore
In silence and unknown.
" A better day, though far away,
Will come, " said granny Joan.

In person she was somewhat short,
With face as clear as day,
Her eyes were black and bright, her hair
Had fallen into grey;
Her gait was slow, her voice was low
As any brooklet's tone;
And " everything was for the best, "
So said my granny Joan.

Whene'er she walk'd abroad, she wore
A cloak of burning red,
Whose dimpled hood would nearly hide
The bonnet on her head:
And how the little ones would run,
When forth she walk'd alone,
And cluster lovingly around
The path of granny Joan!

She never gadded, never housed,
And never tasted strife;
But patiently would bow and bear
The trial-blast of life.
And I declare, 'mid all the glare
That now-a-day is shown,
I cannot find, among them all,
A match for granny Joan.