He taught me the holy-talk of Vesper and of Matin, He heard me my Greek and he heard me my Latin, He blessed me and crossed me to keep my soul from evil, And we watched him out of sight, and we conjured up the devil! Oh, the things I haven’t seen and the things I haven’t known, What with hedges and ditches till after I was grown, And yanked both ways by my mother and my father, With a “Which would you better?” and a “Which would you rather?” With him for a sire and her for a dam, What should I be but just what I am? _Humoresque_ “Heaven bless the babe!” they said; “What queer books she must have read!” (Love, by whom I was beguiled, Grant I may not bear a child.) “Little does she guess to-day What the world may be,” they say. (Snow, drift deep and cover Till the spring my murdered lover.) _She is Overheard Singing_ Oh, Prue she has a patient man, And Joan a gentle lover, And Agatha’s Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth,-- But my true love’s a rover! Mig, her man’s as good as cheese And honest as a briar, Sue tells her love what he’s thinking of,-- But my dear lad’s a liar! Oh, Sue and Prue and Agatha Are thick with Mig and Joan! They bite their threads and shake their heads And gnaw my name like a bone; And Prue says, “Mine’s a patient man, As never snaps me up,” And Agatha, “Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth, Could live content in a cup;” Sue’s man’s mind is like good jell-- All one colour, and clear-- And Mig’s no call to think at all What’s to come next year, While Joan makes boast of a gentle lad, That’s troubled with that and this;-- But they all would give the life they live For a look from the man I kiss! Cold he slants his eyes about, And few enough’s his choice,-- Though he’d slip me clean for a nun, or a queen, Or a beggar with knots in her voice,-- And Agatha will turn awake When her good man sleeps sound, And Mig and Sue and Joan and Prue Will hear the clock strike round; For Prue she has a patient man, As asks not when or why, And Mig and Sue have naught to do But peep who’s passing by, Joan is paired with a putterer That bastes and tastes and salts, And Agatha’s Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth,-- But my true love is false! _The Unexplorer_ There was a road ran past our house Too lovely to explore. I asked my mother once--she said That if you followed where it led It brought you to the milk-man’s door. (That’s why I have not travelled more.) _Grown-Up_ Was it for this I uttered prayers, And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight? _The Penitent_