* * * * *
At length he was married to Emily Brown—
A tidier girl there was none in the town—
The church bells were ringing, the village was gay,
As Tom met his bride in her bridal array.
For a twelvemonth or more things went on pretty straight;
Tom went early to work, and was never home late;
But after that time a sad change, it would seem,
Came over the spirit of Emily's dream.
The Rector missed Tom from his place in the choir;
In the evening his wife sat alone by the fire;
When her husband came home he was never too early,
And his manner was dull, and at times even surly.
He was late in the autumn in sowing his wheat;
His bullocks and sheep had disease of the feet;
His sows had small litters; his taters went bad;
And he took just a glass when he felt rather sad.
The Rector's "good lady" was passing one day,
And looked in, her usual visit to pay—
"How dy'e do, Mrs. Smith? Is the baby quite well?
Have you got any eggs, or young chickens to sell?"
But Emily Smith couldn't answer a word;
At length her reply indistinctly was heard;
"I'm all of a mullock [1], it's no use denying—"
And with that the poor woman she burst out a crying.
Then after a time with her apron she dried
The tears from her eyes, and more calmly replied,
"I don't mind confessing the truth, ma'am, to you,
For I've found in you always a comforter true.
Things are going to ruin; the land's full o' twitch;
There's no one to clean out a drain or a ditch;
The gates are all broken, the fences all down;
And the state of our farm is the talk of the town.
We've lost a young horse, and another's gone lame;
Our hay's not worth carting; the wheat's much the same;
Our pigs and our cattle are always astray;
Our milk's good-for-nothing; our hens never lay.