Where Walton-on-Thames gleams fair through the stems
Of its tufted willow palms,
There were loitering folk who most vilely spoke,
Nor would give him one groat in alms.
“Dog Smith,” was the cry, “behold him go by,
The fool who hath lost all he had!”
For only to tease can delight and can please
The ill-nurtured village lad.
Behold, in Betchworth was a blazing hearth
With a hospitable door.
“Thou art tired and lame,” quoth a kindly dame,
“Come taste of our humble store.
“Though scant be our fare, thou art welcome to share;
We rejoice to give thee our best;
Come sit by our fire, thou weary old sire,
Come in, little doggie, and rest.”
And where Mole the slow doth by Cobham go,
He beheld a small village maiden;
Of loose flocks of wool her lap was quite full,
With a bundle her arms were laden.
“What seekest thou, child, ’mid the bushes wild,
Thy face and thine arms that thus tear?”
“The wool the sheep leave, to spin and to weave;
It makes us our clothes to wear.”
Then she led him in, where her mother did spin,
And make barley bannocks to eat;
They gave him enough, though the food was rough—
The kindliness made it most sweet.
Many years had past, report ran at last,
The rich Alderman Smith was dead.
Then each knight and dame, and each merchant came,
To hear his last testament read.
I, Harry Smith, found of mind clear and sound,
Thus make and devise my last will:
While England shall stand, I bequeath my land,
My last legacies to fulfil.
“To the muddy spot, where they cleaned them not,
When amongst their fields I did roam;
To every one there with the unkempt hair
I bequeath a small-toothed comb.