In Convalescence
Not long ago, I prayed for dying
grace,
For then I thought to see Thee face to
face.
And now I ask (Lord, 'tis a weakling's
cry)
That Thou wilt give me grace to live, not
die.
Such foolish prayers! I know. Yet
pray I must.
Lord help me—help me not to see the
dust!
And not to nag, nor fret because the blind
Hangs crooked, and the curtain sags be-
hind.
But, oh! The kitchen cupboards! What a
sight!
'T'will take at least a month to get them
right.
And that last cocoa had a smoky taste,
And all the milk has boiled away to waste!
And—no, I resolutely will not think
About the saucepans, nor about the sink.
These light afflictions are but temporal
things—
To rise above them, wilt Thou lend me
wings?
Then I shall smile when Jane, with towzled
hair
(And lumpy gruel!), clatters up the stair.
Homesick
I shut my eyes to rest 'em, just a bit
ago it seems,
An' back among the Cotswolds I were
wanderin' in me dreams.
I saw the old grey homestead, with the
rickyard set around,
An' catched the lowin' of the herd, a
pleasant, homelike sound.
Then on I went a-singin', through the
pastures where the sheep
Was lyin' underneath the elms, a-tryin' for
to sleep.
An' where the stream was tricklin' by, half
stifled by the grass,
Heaped over thick with buttercups, I saw
the corncrake pass.
For 'twas Summer, Summer, SUMMER!
An' the blue forget-me-nots
Wiped out this dusty city and the smoky
chimbley pots.
I clean forgot My Lady's gown, the
dazzlin' sights I've seen;
I was back among the Cotswolds, where
me heart has always been.
Then through the sixteen-acre on I went,
a stiffish climb,
Right to the bridge, where all our sheep
comes up at shearin' time.
There was the wild briar roses hangin'
down so pink an' sweet,
A-droppin' o' their fragrance on the clover
at my feet
An' here me heart stopped beatin', for
down by Gatcombe's Wood
My lad was workin' with his team, as only
my lad could!
"COME BACK!" was what the tricklin' brook
an' breezes seemed to say.
"'TIS LONESOME ON THE COTSWOLDS NOW THAT
MARY DREW'S AWAY."
An' back again I'm goin' (for me wages
has been paid,
An' they're lookin' through the papers for
another kitchen maid).
Back to the old grey homestead, an' the
uplands cool an' green,
To my lad among the Cotswolds, where
me heart has always been!
On Washing Day
"I'm going to gran'ma's for a bit
My mother's got the copper lit;
An' piles of clothes are on the floor,
An' steam comes out the wash-house door;
An' Mrs. Griggs has come, an' she
Is just as cross as she can be.
She's had her lunch, and ate a lot;
I saw her squeeze the coffee-pot.
An' when I helped her make the starch,
She said: 'Now, Miss, you just quick
march!
What? Touch them soap-suds if you
durst;
I'll see you in the blue-bag first!'
An' mother dried my frock, an' said:
'Come back in time to go to bed.'
I'm off to gran'ma's, for, you see,
At home, they can't put up with me.
"But down at gran'ma's 'tis so nice.
If gran'ma's making currant-cake,
She'll let me put the ginger spice,
An' grease the tin, an' watch it bake;
An' then she says she thinks it fun
To taste the edges when it's done.
"That's gran'ma's house. Why, hip,
hooray!
My gran'ma's got a washing day;
For gran'pa's shirts are on the line,
An' stockings, too—six, seven, eight, nine!
She'll let me help her. Yes, she'll tie
Her apron round to keep me dry;
An' on her little stool I'll stand
Up to the wash-tub. 'Twill be grand!
There's no cross Mrs. Griggs to say,
'Young Miss is always in the way.'
An' me and gran'ma will have tea
At dinner-time—just her an' me—
An' eggs, I 'spect, an' treacle rice.
My goodness! Won't it all be nice?
"Gran'ma, I'm come to spend the day,
'Cause mother finds me in the way.
Gran'ma, I'll peg the hankies out;
Gran'ma, I'll stir the starch about;
Gran'ma, I'm come, because, you see,
At home, they can't put up with me."