Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine Will end our pilgrimage most pleasantly. If not, if I should never get beyond This Vanity town, there is another world Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret, I gaze at night into the boundless sky, And think that I shall there be born again, The exalted native of some better star; And like the rude American I hope To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth. Ballads The Cross Roads The circumstance related in the following Ballad happened about forty years ago in a village adjacent to Bristol. A person who was present at the funeral, told me the story and the particulars of the interment, as I have versified them. There was an old man breaking stones To mend the turnpike way, He sat him down beside a brook And out his bread and cheese he took, For now it was mid-day. He lent his back against a post, His feet the brook ran by; And there were water-cresses growing, And pleasant was the water’s flowing For he was hot and dry. A soldier with his knapsack on Came travelling o’er the down, The sun was strong and he was tired, And of the old man he enquired How far to Bristol town. Half an hour’s walk for a young man By lanes and fields and stiles. But you the foot-path do not know, And if along the road you go Why then ’tis three good miles. The soldier took his knapsack off For he was hot and dry; And out his bread and cheese he took And he sat down beside the brook To dine in company. Old friend! in faith, the soldier says I envy you almost; My shoulders have been sorely prest And I should like to sit and rest, My back against that post. In such a sweltering day as this A knapsack is the devil! And if on t’other side I sat It would not only spoil our chat But make me seem uncivil. The old man laugh’d and moved. I wish It were a great-arm’d chair! But this may help a man at need; And yet it was a cursed deed That ever brought it there. There’s a poor girl lies buried here Beneath this very place. The earth upon her corpse is prest This stake is driven into her breast And a stone is on her face. The soldier had but just lent back And now he half rose up. There’s sure no harm in dining here, My friend? and yet to be sincere I should not like to sup. God rest her! she is still enough Who sleeps beneath our feet! The old man cried. No harm I trow She ever did herself, tho’ now She lies where four roads meet. I have past by about that hour When men are not most brave, It did not make my heart to fail, And I have heard the nightingale Sing sweetly on her grave. I have past by about that hour When Ghosts their freedom have, But there was nothing here to fright, And I have seen the glow-worm’s light Shine on the poor girl’s grave. There’s one who like a Christian lies Beneath the church-tree’s shade; I’d rather go a long mile round Than pass at evening thro’ the ground Wherein that man is laid.