Littell's Living Age/Volume 162/Issue 2091/The Hawthorn
THE HAWTHORN.
Aye, it is well-nigh overed;
An’ I’se none so loth to go,
One can’t make much of fourscore year,
Though one tantle ‘em never so!
I’se pretty nigh tired out, I say,
Of the wakesome night, an’ the weary day;
The tide is ebbing in the bay,
I shall scarcely wait its flow.
Didst hear how the surf wer’ calling,
This morning down on t’ scar?
Just as I strove to lift my head,
To watch ‘em over t’ bar
An’ I’se not bid our Jim good-bye;
An’ he comes too late to see me die,
Bid him keep the coble trim an’ dry,
Nor drive her over far;
She’s stiff in a head wind, tell him,
An’ he’s venturesome, I doubt;
Let’s see, it’s May Day, isn’t it,
An’ hawthorn will be about,
Hanging like snowflakes o’er the grass;
Will’t take a walk in the woods, my lass,
An’ gather a bit on ‘t as thou pass,
Afore they lay me out?
I reckon thou oft hast wondered,
I thowt so much on Jim?
An’ gave him boat, an’ gear, an’ all,
Though I’se naught akin to him?
Thou hast a better right, maybe;
Well, well, he’ll mak’ it up to thee;
Aye, lass, old eyes can ofens see,
For all they’re waxing dim.
An’ it wer’ none my Sally —
She wer’ a good wife an’ all —
Who went wi’ us, seeking hawthorn,
Up by the waterfall;
Lord! it is sixty long year back,
What sets one’s mind on the queer old track?
Shall I know him up in t’ sky — our Jack?
Hark! how the breakers call!
Poor Jack! he went afore me,
For all he won her away,
The lass we plucked the hawthorn for,
That bonnie summer’s day;
She wore his branch an’ flung mine down,
As we crossed the beck an’ neared the town,
An’ I turned away with a sigh an’ a frown;
I feel it, yet, I say.
Poor Jack! he wer’ none so steady,
For all he loved her true;
I’se ofens thowt as our Mary,
Had summat i’ life to rue;
But there — she lies by him still enow,
I put ‘em a headstone, up on t’ brow;
Keep the spot pleasant, Jim an’ thou,
As he’s good right to do.
For I’se loved her grandson dearly,
As thou, my own bairn’s child,
Sin’ ever with eyes just like to hers,
He looked i’ my face an’ smiled,
The day she took my hand, an’ said,
“See thee — my poor fond lass is dead,
Wi’ the raffling lad she wer’ bound to wed;
But thou wert allis mild,
“For aught I asked thee — thou’lt be good,
To the lost little lad?
For I’se ganging after Jack,” she says,
“An’ a heavy time I’se had.”
An’ I took the bairn an’ sate by her side,
An’ hearkened the falling of the tide,
An’ at its parting sob she died,
Her glazing eyes looked glad.
I’d like a bit of hawthorn,
Put ‘neath the coffin lid;
When I’se gone where we’ll be satisfied,
Where never a thought is hid;
Where we ha’ done wi’ the fret an’ care,
That vex us as through t’ world we fare;
An’ if my Sally wer’ standing there,
I reckon she’d none forbid.
For all comes right i’ heaven,
Where love has never a thorn;
An’ I’se done my best for all on you,
Sin’ thy father, my lass, wer born.
How it calls an’ calls through the fading light;
Look out if the coble has hove i’ sight;
I’d fain that Jim should watch me to-night —
I’ll be gone afore the morn.