Classic Poem

If ever I am kept from home,
The while the moon may wane or fill,
Some changes, small or great, befall
The neighbourhood for good or ill;
As Widow Wintle lately show'd
By her few words upon my road—
‘Oh! that is you, and how d'ye do?’
I cried, and she replied,
‘Why sad; my son is gone for more
Long years than I have now in store.’

The lately dead-burnt grass, at last
Besprent with rain, was green and quick,
And wheat was sheav'd in stitch, or heav'd
To high-borne builders of the rick;
And on beside a corn-field stile
A neighbour met me with a smile.
‘There's no bad yield in this fine field,’
I cried, and he replied,
‘No; I can scarce believe my eyes
To see my rick of such a size.’

As broken clouds outshow'd awhile
A little patch of pallid sky,
And high tree-sprigs and low bush-twigs
All shook as evening wind came by,
John Hine was leaning, all alone,
Against his gate as still's a stone.
‘Oh! John, that's you. What is there new?’
I cried, and he replied,
‘Well, mine is not a cheery tale;
Poor cousin's goods are all for sale.’

As step by step my trotting mare
Drew slowly near my old abode,
The children all, both tall and small,
Ran out to meet me up the road;
And, skipping up and spinning round,
So quick's a top, they edged my ground.
‘Heigh, ho! What now? Why what's the row?’
I cried, and they replied,
‘We've all been good, we all can say,
For mother told us so to-day.’

At last I pass'd my durns to hear
Another voice within the door—
‘I'm glad to see you home to tea,
And have you with us all once more.
Sit down and rest and taste of this,
'Tis good, and naught has gone amiss.’
‘But what's the tale of Harry Hale?’
I cried, and she replied,
‘Oh! tale. Hah! hah! His banns are in
With that young giglet, Lizzie Lin.’