He was rubbing down the horses, and he gave them then and there All a special feed of clover, just in honour of the heir: It had been his great ambition, and he told the horses so, That the Fates would send a baby who might bear the name of Joe. Little Joe the child was christened, and, like babies, grew apace; He’d his mother’s eyes of azure and his father’s honest face. Swift the happy years went over, years of blue and cloudless sky; Love was lord of that small cottage, and the tempests passed them by. Passed them by for years, then swiftly burst in fury o’er their home. Down the lane by Annie’s cottage chanced a gentleman to roam; Thrice he came and saw her sitting by the window with her child, And he nodded to the baby, and the baby laughed and smiled. So at last it grew to know him――little Joe was nearly four; He would call the “pretty gemplun” as he passed the open door; And one day he ran and caught him, and in child’s play pulled him in, And the baby Joe had prayed for brought about the mother’s sin. ’Twas the same old wretched story that for ages bards have sung: ’Twas a woman weak and wanton and a villain’s tempting tongue; ’Twas a picture deftly painted for a silly creature’s eyes Of the Babylonian wonders and the joy that in them lies. Annie listened and was tempted; she was tempted and she fell, As the angels fell from heaven to the blackest depths of hell; She was promised wealth and splendour and a life of guilty sloth, Yellow gold for child and husband,――and the woman left them both. Home one eve came Joe the Ostler with a cheery cry of “Wife!” Finding that which blurred for ever all the story of his life She had left a silly letter,――through the cruel scrawl he spelt; Then he sought the lonely bed-room, joined his horny hands and knelt. “Now, O Lord, O God, forgive her, for she ain’t to blame!” he cried; “For I owt t’a seen her trouble, and ’a gone away and died. Why, a wench like her――God bless her!――’twasn’t likely as her’d rest With that bonny head for ever on a ostler’s ragged vest. “It was kind o’ her to bear me all this long and happy time, So for my sake please to bless her, though you count her deed a crime; If so be I don’t pray proper, Lord, forgive me; for you see I can talk all right to ’osses, but I’m nervous like with Thee.” Ne’er a line came to the cottage from the woman who had flown; Joe the baby died that winter, and the man was left alone. Ne’er a bitter word he uttered, but in silence kissed the rod, Saving what he told his horses, saving what he told his God. Far away in mighty London rose the woman into fame, For her beauty won men’s homage, and she prospered in her shame; Quick from lord to lord she flitted, higher still each prize she won, And her rivals paled beside her, as the stars beside the sun.