Then comes a knocking might waken the dead:
Instead of one Harry there must be four,
Only not one has his light springy tread.
My old nurse's son to sea ran away—
At a 'Norwester,' or gale from the South,
I've heard the poor woman tremblingly say
The sound 'brought her heart up into her mouth!'
I, little prattler, crouched down at her feet,
Would stop aghast in my innocent play,
Wondering, will she be able to eat,