Classic Poem

Slicing the swedes for the steers
At the blink of the light,
Young Richard remembers with tears
The luck of last night—

Last night when he put to the test
His dream of a home,
And poured out the love of his breast
At the fall of the gloam—

To the spurting of milk in the pail
In the dusk of the byre,
Poured into Meg's ears the whole tale
With bosom afire;

Then waited, with blood running cold,
For a token of grace;
When the lass looked up brazen and bold
And laughed in his face;

And he flinched from the flick of her mirth
As a colt from the lash—
His golden dream crumbled to earth,
A heap of cold ash:

And he wandered the whole night forlorn
By braeside and slack
Till the first chilly glint of the morn
Brought day's labour back.

And now as he slices the swedes
It seems that the knife
Cuts clean through his heart, and it bleeds
A torrent of life—

A torrent of hot life unstayed;
Yet the quivering flesh
Re-knits, that each fall of the blade
May cleave it afresh.