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- A Reverie
- BY JOANNA BAILLIE
- Beside a spreading elm, from whose high boughs
- Like knotted tufts the crow’s light dwelling shows,
- Where screened from northern blasts, and winter-proof,
- Snug stands the parson’s barn with thatched roof;
- At chaff-strewed door where, in the morning ray,
- The gilded motes in mazy circles play,
- And sleepy Comrade in the sun is laid,
- More grateful to the cur than neighbouring shade.
- In snowy shirt unbraced, brown Robin stood,
- And leant upon his flail in thoughtful mood:
- His full round cheek where deeper flushes glow,
- The dewy drops which glisten on his brow;
- His dark cropped pate that erst at church or fair,
- So smooth and silky, showed his morning’s care,
- Which, all uncouth in matted locks combined,
- Now, ends erect, defies the ruffling wind;
- His neck-band loose, and hosen rumpled low,
- A careful lad, nor slack at labour, show.
- Nor scraping chickens chirping ’mongst the straw,
- Nor croaking rook o’erhead, nor chattering daw;
- Loud-breathing cow amongst the rampy weeds,
- Nor grunting sow that in the furrows feeds:
- Nor sudden breeze that shakes the quaking leaves,
- And lightly rustles through the scattered sheaves;
- Nor floating straw that skims athwart his nose,
- The deeply-musing youth may discompose.
- For Nelly fair, the blithest village maid,
- Whose tuneful voice beneath the hedgerow-shade,
- At early milking, o’er the meadows borne,
- E’er cheered the ploughman’s toil at rising morn:
- The neatest maid that e’er, in linen gown,
- Bore cream and butter to the market town:
- The tightest lass, that with untutored air,
- E’er footed alehouse floor at wake or fair,
- Since Easter last had Robin’s heart possessed,
- And many a time disturbed his nightly rest.
- Full oft, returning from the loosened plough,
- He slacked his pace, and knit his thoughtful brow;
- And oft, ere half his thresher’s talk was o’er,
- Would muse, with arms across, at cooling door:
- His mind thus bent, with downcast eyes he stood,
- And leant upon his flail in thoughtful mood.
- His soul o’er many a soft rememberance ran,
- And, muttering to himself, the youth began.
- ‘Ah! happy is the man whose early lot
- Hath made him master of a furnished cot;
- Who trains the vine that round his window grows,
- And after setting sun his garden hoes;
- Whose wattled pales his own enclosure shield,
- Who toils not daily in another’s field.
- Wheree’er he goes, to church or market-town,
- With more respect he and his dog are known;
- A brisker face he wears at wake or fair,
- Nor views with longing eyes the pedlar’s ware,
- But buys at will or ribbands, gloves or beads,
- And willing maidens to the alehouse leads;
- And, oh! secure from toils which cumber life,
- He makes the maid he loves an easy wife.
- Ah, Nelly! canst thou, with contented mind,
- Become the helpmate of a labouring hind,
- And share his lot, whate’er the chances be,
- Who hath no dower but love to fix on thee?
- Yes, gayest maid may meekest matron prove,
- And things of little note may ’token love.
- When from the church thou cam’st at eventide
- And I and red-haired Susan by thy side,
- I pulled the blossoms from the bending tree,
- And some to Susan gave, and some to thee;
- Thine were the best, and well thy smiling eye
- The difference marked, and guessed the reason why.
- When on a holiday we rambling strayed,
- And passed old Hodge’s cottage in the glade;
- Neat was the garden dressed, sweet hummed the bee,
- I wished both cot and Nelly made for me;
- And well methought thy very eyes revealed
- The self-same wish within thy breast concealed.
- When artful, once, I sought my love to tell,
- And spoke to thee of one who loved thee well,
- You saw the cheat, and jeering homeward hied,
- Yet secret pleasure in thy looks I spied.
- Ay, gayest maid may meekest matron prove,
- And smaller signs than these have ’tokened love.’
- Now, at a distance, on the neighbouring plain,
- With creaking wheels slow comes the heavy wain:
- High on its towering load a maid appears,
- And Nelly’s voice sounds shrill in Robin’s ears.
- Quick from his hand he throws the cumbrous flail,
- And leaps with lightsome limbs the enclosing pale.
- O’er field and fence he scours, and furrows wide,
- With wakened Comrade barking by his side;
- Whilst tracks of trodden grain, and sidelong hay,
- And broken hedge-flowers sweet, mark his impetuous way.
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