_Traveller_. He yet may live. But if the worst should chance, why you must bear The will of heaven with patience. Were it not Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen Fighting his country’s cause? and for yourself You will not in unpitied poverty Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country Amid the triumph of her victory Remember those who paid its price of blood, And with a noble charity relieves The widow and the orphan. _Woman_. God reward them! God bless them, it will help me in my age But Sir! it will not pay me for my child! _Traveller_. Was he your only child? _Woman_. My only one, The stay and comfort of my widowhood, A dear good boy!—when first he went to sea I felt what it would come to,—something told me I should be childless soon. But tell me Sir If it be true that for a hurt like his There is no cure? please God to spare his life Tho’ he be blind, yet I should be so thankful! I can remember there was a blind man Lived in our village, one from his youth up Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man, And he had none to tend on him so well As I would tend my boy! _Traveller_. Of this be sure His hurts are look’d to well, and the best help The place affords, as rightly is his due, Ever at hand. How happened it he left you? Was a seafaring life his early choice? _Woman_. No Sir! poor fellow—he was wise enough To be content at home, and ’twas a home As comfortable Sir I even tho’ I say it, As any in the country. He was left A little boy when his poor father died, Just old enough to totter by himself And call his mother’s name. We two were all, And as we were not left quite destitute We bore up well. In the summer time I worked Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting, And in long winter nights my spinning wheel Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours too And never felt distress. So he grew up A comely lad and wonderous well disposed; I taught him well; there was not in the parish A child who said his prayers more regular, Or answered readier thro’ his catechism. If I had foreseen this! but ’tis a blessing We do’nt know what we’re born to! _Traveller_. But how came it He chose to be a Sailor? _Woman_. You shall hear Sir; As he grew up he used to watch the birds In the corn, child’s work you know, and easily done. ’Tis an idle sort of task, so he built up A little hut of wicker-work and clay Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain. And then he took for very idleness To making traps to catch the plunderers, All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make— Propping a stone to fall and shut them in, Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly— And I, poor foolish woman! I was pleased To see the boy so handy. You may guess What followed Sir from this unlucky skill. He did what he should not when he was older: I warn’d him oft enough; but he was caught In wiring hares at last, and had his choice The prison or the ship.