Page:A Book of the West (vol. 2).djvu/200

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150
BUDE


A real poet he was, but desultory, rarely able to remain fixed at work and carry out a project to the end. He was an excellent ballad-writer, but he could do better than write ballads. He began a great poem on the "Quest of the Sangreal," but it remains a fragment. Here is one short specimen of a ballad, the lament of a Cornish mother over her dead child:—

"They say't is a sin to sorrow—
That what God doth is best,
But 't is only a month to-morrow
I buried it from my breast.

"I know it should be a pleasure
Your child to God to send;
But mine was a precious treasure,
To me and my poor friend.

"I thought it would call me mother,
The very first words it said;
Oh! I never can love another
Like the blessed babe that 's dead.

"Well, God is its own dear Father,
It was carried to church and bless'd;
And our Saviour's arms will gather
Such children to their rest.

"I will check this foolish sorrow.
For what God doth is best;
But oh! 't is a month to-morrow
I buried it from my breast."

Note.—For further information see my Vicar of Morwenstow. New and revised edition. Methuen. 1899.