IX
The elms and yellow reed-flags in the sun,
Look on quite grave:—the sunlight flecks his side;
And links of bindweed-flowers round him run,
And shine up doubled with him in the tide.
I’m nearly splitting,
But nature seems like seconding his pride,
And thinks that his behaviour’s fitting.
X
That isle o’ mud looks baking dry with gold.
His needle-muzzle still works out and in.
It really is a wonder to behold,
And makes me feel the bristles of my chin.
Judged by appearance,
I fancy of the two I’m nearer Sin,
And might as well commence a clearance.
XI
And that’s what my fine daughter said:—she meant:
Pray, hold your tongue, and wear a Sunday face.
Her husband, the young linendraper, spent
Much argument thereon:—I’m their disgrace.
Bother the couple!
I feel superior to a chap whose place
Commands him to be neat and supple.
XII
But if I go and say to my old hen:
I’ll mend the gentry’s boots, and keep discreet,
Until they grow too violent,—why, then,
A warmer welcome I might chance to meet:
Warmer and better.
And if she fancies her old cock is beat,
And drops upon her knees—so let her!
XIII
She suffered for me:—women, you’ll observe,
Don’t suffer for a Cause, but for a man.
When I was in the dock she show’d her nerve:
I saw beneath her shawl my old tea-can
Trembling . . . she brought it
To screw me for my work: she loath’d my plan,
And therefore doubly kind I thought it.