---

Скачать книгу

---

Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened;

       A fever seized him, and he made confession

       Of all the heretical and lawless talk

       Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seized

       And cast into that cell. My husband’s father

       Sobbed like a child — it almost broke his heart:

       And once as he was working in the cellar,

       He heard a voice distinctly; ‘twas the youth’s

       Who sang a doleful song about green fields,

       How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah,

       To hunt for food, and be a naked man,

       And wander up and down at liberty.

       Leoni doted on the youth, and now

       His love grew desperate; and defying death,

       He made that cunning entrance I described:

       And the young man escaped.

      MARIA.

      ’Tis a sweet tale.

       And what became of him?

      FOSTER-MOTHER.

      He went on shipboard

       With those bold voyagers, who made discovery

       Of golden lands. Leoni’s younger brother

       Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain,

       He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth,

       Soon after they arrived in that new world,

       In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat,

       And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight

       Up a great river, great as any sea,

       And ne’er was heard of more: but ‘tis supposed,

       He lived and died among the savage men.

GOODY BLAKE & HARRY GILL

       Table of Contents

      A TRUE STORY

      Oh! what’s the matter? what’s the matter?

       What is’t that ails young Harry Gill?

       That evermore his teeth they chatter,

       Chatter, chatter, chatter still.

       Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,

       Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;

       He has a blanket on his back,

       And coats enough to smother nine.

      In March, December, and in July,

       ’Tis all the same with Harry Gill;

       The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,

       His teeth they chatter, chatter still.

       At night, at morning, and at noon,

       ’Tis all the same with Harry Gill;

       Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,

       His teeth they chatter, chatter still.

      Young Harry was a lusty drover,

       And who so stout of limb as he?

       His cheeks were red as ruddy clover,

       His voice was like the voice of three.

       Auld Goody Blake was old and poor,

       Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;

       And any man who pass’d her door,

       Might see how poor a hut she had.

      All day she spun in her poor dwelling,

       And then her three hours’ work at night!

       Alas! ‘twas hardly worth the telling,

       It would not pay for candlelight.

       — This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,

       Her hut was on a cold hill-side,

       And in that country coals are dear,

       For they come far by wind and tide.

      By the same fire to boil their pottage,

       Two poor old dames as I have known,

       Will often live in one small cottage,

       But she, poor woman, dwelt alone.

       ’Twas well enough when summer came,

       The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,

       Then at her door the canty dame

       Would sit, as any linnet gay.

      But when the ice our streams did fetter,

       Oh! then how her old bones would shake!

       You would have said, if you had met her,

       ’Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.

       Her evenings then were dull and dead;

       Sad case it was, as you may think,

       For very cold to go to bed,

       And then for cold not sleep a wink.

      Oh joy for her! whene’er in winter

       The winds at night had made a rout,

       And scatter’d many a lusty splinter,

       And many a rotten bough about.

       Yet never had she, well or sick,

       As every man who knew her says,

       A pile before hand, wood or stick,

       Enough to warm her for three days.

      Now when the frost was past enduring,

       And made her poor old bones to ache,

       Could any thing be more alluring,

       Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?

       And now and then, it must be said,

       When her old bones were cold and chill,

       She left her fire, or left her bed,

       To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

      Now Harry he had long suspected

       This trespass of old Goody Blake,

       And vow’d that she should be detected,

       And he on her would vengeance take.

       And oft from his warm fire he’d go,

       And to the fields his road would take,

       And there, at night, in frost and snow,

       He watch’d to seize old Goody Blake.

      And once, behind a rick of barley,

       Thus looking out did Harry stand;

       The moon was full and shining clearly,

       And crisp with frost the stubble land.

       — He hears a noise — he’s all awake —

       Again? — on tip-toe down the hill

       He softly creeps—’Tis Goody Blake,

       She’s at the hedge of Harry Gill.

      Right glad was he when he beheld her;

       Stick after stick did Goody pull,

       He stood behind a bush of elder,

       Till she had filled her apron full.

       When with her load she turned about,

       The bye-road back again to take,

       He started forward with a shout,

       And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

---

Скачать книгу