His Mattock he behind the door
And Hedging-gloves again replac'd;
And look'd across the yellow Moor,
And urg'd his tott'ring Spouse to haste.
The Walk to the Fair.
The day was up, the air serene,
The Firmament without a cloud;
The Bee humm'd o'er the level green
Where knots of trembling Cowslips bow'd.
And RICHARD thus, with heart elate,
As past things rush'd across his mind,
Over his shoulder, talk'd to KATE,
Who snug tuckt up, walk'd slow behind.
'When once a gigling Mawther you,
'And I a redfac'd chubby Boy,
'Sly tricks, you play'd me not a few;
'For mischief was your greatest joy.
'Once, passing by this very Tree,
'A Gotch [pitcher] of Milk I'd been to fill,
'You shoulder'd me; then laugh'd to see
'Me and my Gotch spin down the Hill'
Discourse on past Days.
'Tis true,' she said; 'but here behold,
'And marvel at the course of Time;
'Though you and I are both grown old,
'This Tree is only in its prime!'
'Well, Goody, don't stand preaching now;
'Folks don't preach Sermons at a FAIR:
'We've rear'd Ten Boys and Girls you know;
'And I'll be bound they'll all be there.'
Now friendly nods and smiles had they,
From many a kind Fair-going face:
And many a pinch KATE gave away;
While RICHARD kept his usual pace.