HE sees the world as a boisterous place Where all things bear a laughing face, And humorous scenes go hourly on, Does John. II They find the world a pleasant place Where all is ecstasy and grace, Where a light has risen that cannot wane, Do John and Jane. III They see as a palace their cottage-place, Containing a pearl of the human race, A hero, maybe, hereafter styled, Do John and Jane with a baby-child. IV They rate the world as a gruesome place, Where fair looks fade to a skull’s grimace,— As a pilgrimage they would fain get done— Do John and Jane with their worthless son. THE CURATE’S KINDNESS A WORKHOUSE IRONY I I THOUGHT they’d be strangers aroun’ me, But she’s to be there! Let me jump out o’ waggon and go back and drown me At Pummery or Ten-Hatches Weir. II I thought: “Well, I’ve come to the Union— The workhouse at last— After honest hard work all the week, and Communion O’ Zundays, these fifty years past. III “’Tis hard; but,” I thought, “never mind it: There’s gain in the end: And when I get used to the place I shall find it A home, and may find there a friend. IV “Life there will be better than t’other. For peace is assured. _The men in one wing and their wives in another_ Is strictly the rule of the Board.” V Just then one young Pa’son arriving Steps up out of breath To the side o’ the waggon wherein we were driving To Union; and calls out and saith: VI “Old folks, that harsh order is altered, Be not sick of heart! The Guardians they poohed and they pished and they paltered When urged not to keep you apart. VII “‘It is wrong,’ I maintained, ‘to divide them, Near forty years wed.’ ‘Very well, sir. We promise, then, they shall abide them In one wing together,’ they said.” VIII Then I sank—knew ’twas quite a foredone thing That misery should be To the end! . . . To get freed of her there was the one thing Had made the change welcome to me. IX To go there was ending but badly; ’Twas shame and ’twas pain; “But anyhow,” thought I, “thereby I shall gladly Get free of this forty years’ chain.” X I thought they’d be strangers aroun’ me, But she’s to be there! Let me jump out o’ waggon and go back and drown me At Pummery or Ten-Hatches Weir. THE FLIRT’S TRAGEDY (17–)