Up the canal now draining for the rail;
A poor old woman pitted against death,
Bringing her pennyworth of love for bail.
Wisdom, beauty, and love may not avail.
She was too late. 'Yes, he was here; oh, yes.
He chucked his job and went.' 'Where?' 'Home, I guess.'
'Home, but he hasn't been home.' 'Well, he went.
Perhaps you missed him, mother.' 'Or perhaps
He took the field path yonder through the bent.
He very likely done that, don't he, chaps?'