A DUSTMAN'S SILENT TEAR.
I know not how that Dustman stirred my ire:
He may have failed to call when due: but he—
My breast being charged with economic fire,—
Was mulcted of his customary fee.
I was informed, at first he did not seem
To grasp the cruel sense of what he heard,
But asked, "Wot's this 'ere game?" as if some dream
Of evil portents all his pulses stirred;
Then, muttering, he turned, and went his way
Dejected, broken! I had stopped his beer!
Ah! from that Dustman who, alas! can say
I did not wring a sad and silent tear!
I thought the matter o'er. I vowed no more,
That I with grief would moisten any eye;
Henceforth, whene'er that Dustman passed my door,
Upon his beer he knew he could rely!
Nay more! For never heeding if my bin
Were full or empty, I that Dustman hailed;
His grateful smile my one desire to win;
I felt I could not help it if I failed.
Twice every week he came,—his twopence drew:
That Dustman seemed to brighten with his beer.
And, if he wept, thank Heaven, at least I knew
With joy, not grief, he shed his silent tear!