THE MEMORIES OF THE PEOPLE.
In the hut men shall talk of his glory,
With pride, not unmingled with tears;
And the roof shall not ring with a story
But that grand one, for fifty long years.
There villagers in evenings cold,
Shall haply beg some gossip old,
By stories of a former day,
To while the livelong hours away.
'Some say that he has done us wrong,
But the people love him yet;
Mother, sing of him a song,
We love him, though his sun be set.'
'My children, he passed through this village,
With kings not a few in his train;
I was young, and the house and the tillage
Was learning to manage with pain.
I clambered up a little hill
To see him pass, and stood quite still.
The well-known little hat he wore,
His grey coat marks of travel bore.
I felt an awe as he drew near,
He smiled the fear to view;
"Good day, good day," he cried, "my dear."'
'Mother, he spoke to you!'
C2
