After Wordsworth
Poor Lucy Lake was overgrown,
But somewhat underbrained.
She did not know enough, I own,
To go in when it rained.
Yet Lucy was constrained to go;
Green bedding,—you infer.
Few people knew she died, but oh,
The difference to her!
Newton Mackintosh [1858-
JANE SMITH
After Wordsworth
I journeyed, on a winter's day,
Across the lonely wold;
No bird did sing upon the spray,
And it was very cold.
I had a coach with horses four,
Three white (though one was black),
And on they went the common o'er,
Nor swiftness did they lack.
A little girl ran by my side,
And she was pinched and thin.
"Oh, please, sir, do give me a ride!
I'm fetching mother's gin."