Beyond the bridge, a sharp turn to the right Leads to ’The Bull and Boar,’ the carters’ rest; An inn so hidden it is out of sight To anyone not coming from the west. The high embankment hides it with its crest. Far up above the Chester trains go by, The drinkers see them sweep against the sky. Canal men used it when the barges came, The navvies used it when the line was making; The pigeons strut and sidle, ruffling, tame, The chuckling brook in front sets shadows shaking. Cider and beer for thirsty workers’ slaking, A quiet house; like all that God controls, It is Fate’s instrument on human souls. Thither Jim turned. ’And now I’ll drink,’ he said. ’I’ll drink and drink--I never did before-- I’ll drink and drink until I’m mad or dead, For that’s what comes of meddling with a whore.’ He called for liquor at ’The Bull and Boar’; Moody he drank; the woman asked him why: ’Have you had trouble?’ ’No,’ he said, ’I’m dry. Dry and burnt up, so give’s another drink; That’s better, that’s much better, that’s the sort.’ And then he sang, so that he should not think, His Binger-Bopper song, but cut it short. His wits were working like a brewer’s wort Until among them came the vision gleaming Of Ern with bloody nose and Anna screaming. ’That’s what I’ll do,’ he muttered; ’knock him out, And kick his face in with a running jump. I’ll not have dazzled eyes this second bout, And she can wash the fragments under pump.’ It was his ace; but Death had played a trump. Death the blind beggar chuckled, nodding dumb, ’My game; the shroud is ready, Jimmy--come.’ Meanwhile, the mother, waiting for her child, Had tottered out a dozen times to search. ’Jimmy,’ she said, ’you’ll drive your mother wild; Your father’s name’s too good a name to smirch, Come home, my dear, she’ll leave you in the lurch; He was so good, my little Jim, so clever; He never stop a night away, not ever. He never slept a night away till now, Never, not once, in all the time he’s been. It’s the Lord’s will, they say, and we must bow, But O it’s like a knife, it cuts so keen! He’ll work in’s Sunday clothes, it’ll be seen, And then they’ll laugh, and say "It isn’t strange; He slept with her, and so he couldn’t change." Perhaps,’ she thought, ’I’m wrong; perhaps he’s dead; Killed himself like; folk do in love, they say. He never tells what passes in his head, And he’s been looking late so old and grey. A railway train has cut his head away, Like the poor hare we found at Maylow’s shack. O God have pity, bring my darling back!’ All the high stars went sweeping through the sky, The sun made all the orient clean, clear gold, ’O blessed God,’ she prayed, ’do let me die, Or bring my wand’ring lamb back into fold. The whistle’s gone, and all the bacon’s cold; I must know somehow if he’s on the line, He could have bacon sandwich when he dine.’