But now father’s gone, and I feel growing old, And I’m lonely and poor in this house on the wold, And my sweetheart that was found a partner elsewhere, And nobody flings me a thought or a care. THE SPRING CALL DOWN Wessex way, when spring’s a-shine, The blackbird’s “pret-ty de-urr!” In Wessex accents marked as mine Is heard afar and near. He flutes it strong, as if in song No R’s of feebler tone Than his appear in “pretty dear,” Have blackbirds ever known. Yet they pipe “prattie deerh!” I glean, Beneath a Scottish sky, And “pehty de-aw!” amid the treen Of Middlesex or nigh. While some folk say—perhaps in play— Who know the Irish isle, ’Tis “purrity dare!” in treeland there When songsters would beguile. Well: I’ll say what the listening birds Say, hearing “pret-ty de-urr!”— However strangers sound such words, That’s how we sound them here. Yes, in this clime at pairing time, As soon as eyes can see her At dawn of day, the proper way To call is “pret-ty de-urr!” JULIE-JANE SING; how ’a would sing! How ’a would raise the tune When we rode in the waggon from harvesting By the light o’ the moon! Dance; how ’a would dance! If a fiddlestring did but sound She would hold out her coats, give a slanting glance, And go round and round. Laugh; how ’a would laugh! Her peony lips would part As if none such a place for a lover to quaff At the deeps of a heart. Julie, O girl of joy, Soon, soon that lover he came. Ah, yes; and gave thee a baby-boy, But never his name . . . —Tolling for her, as you guess; And the baby too . . . ’Tis well. You knew her in maidhood likewise?—Yes, That’s her burial bell. “I suppose,” with a laugh, she said, “I should blush that I’m not a wife; But how can it matter, so soon to be dead, What one does in life!” When we sat making the mourning By her death-bed side, said she, “Dears, how can you keep from your lovers, adorning In honour of me!” Bubbling and brightsome eyed! But now—O never again. She chose her bearers before she died From her fancy-men. NOTE.—It is, or was, a common custom in Wessex, and probably other country places, to prepare the mourning beside the death-bed, the dying person sometimes assisting, who also selects his or her bearers on such occasions. “Coats” (line 7).—Old name for petticoats. NEWS FOR HER MOTHER I ONE mile more is Where your door is Mother mine!— Harvest’s coming, Mills are strumming, Apples fine, And the cider made to-year will be as wine. II