Wild Flowers Or, Pastoral and Local Poetry

Excerpt

ABNER AND THE WIDOW JONES,

A Familiar Ballad.

Well! I'm determin'd; that's enough:—
  Gee, Bayard! move your poor old bones,
I'll take to-morrow, smooth or rough,
  To go and court the Widow Jones.

Our master talks of stable-room,
  And younger horses on his grounds;
'Tis easy to foresee thy doom,
  Bayard, thou'lt go to feed the hounds.

The first Determination.

But could I win the widow's hand,
  I'd make a truce 'twixt death and thee;
For thou upon the best of land
  Should'st feed, and live, and die with me.

And must the pole-axe lay thee low?
  And will they pick thy poor old bones?
No—hang me if it shall be so,—
  If I can win the Widow Jones.

Twirl went his stick; his curly pate
  A bran-new hat uplifted bore;
And Abner, as he leapt the gate,
  Had never look'd so gay before.

Old Love revived.

And every spark of love reviv'd
  That had perplex'd him long ago,
When busy folks and fools contriv'd
  To make his Mary answer—no.

But whether, freed from recent vows,
  Her heart had back to Abner flown,
And mark'd him for a second spouse,
  In truth is not exactly known.

Howbeit, as he came in sight,
  She turn'd her from the garden stile,
And downward look'd with pure delight,
  With half a sigh and half a smile.

Rustic Salutation.

She heard his sounding step behind,
  The blush of joy crept up her cheek,
As cheerly floated on the wind,
  "Hoi! Mary Jones—what wont you speak?"

Then, with a look that ne'er deceives,
  She turn'd, but found her courage fled;
And scolding sparrows from the eaves
  Peep'd forth upon the stranger's head.

Down Abner sat, with glowing heart,
  Resolv'd, whatever might betide,
To speak his mind, no other art
  He ever knew, or ever tried.

[Illustration: a couple.]

A clear Question.

And gently twitching Mary's hand,
  The bench had ample room for two,
His first word made her understand
  The plowman's errand was to woo.

"My Mary—may I call thee so?
  For many a happy day we've seen,
And if not mine, aye, years ago,
  Whose was the fault? you might have been!

"All that's gone by: but I've been musing,
  And vow'd, and hope to keep it true,
That she shall be my own heart's choosing
  Whom I call wife.—Hey, what say you?

Past Thoughts stated.

"And as I drove my plough along,
  And felt the strength that's in my arm,
Ten years, thought I, amidst my song,
  I've been head-man at Harewood farm.

"And now, my own dear Mary's free,
  Whom I have lov'd this many a day,
Who knows but she may think on me?
  I'll go hear what she has to say.

"Perhaps that little stock of land
  She holds, but knows not how to till,
Will suffer in the widow's hand,
  And make poor Mary poorer still

The Avowal.

"That scrap of land, with one like her,
  How we might live! and be so blest!
And who should Mary Jones prefer?
  Why, surely, him who loves her best!

"Therefore I'm come to-night, sweet wench,
  I would not idly thus intrude,"—
Mary look'd downward on the bench,
  O'erpower'd by love and gratitude....