Oh, wherefore, loved one, with light look, didst thou send me away?
I cannot, grieving as I grieve, go through my work to-day.
XIX.
But though my bosom rise and fall, like bucket in a well,
Patient and toiling as I am, ’gainst work I’ll ne’er rebel;
My care shall be to have my tea fired to a tender brown,
And let the flag and awl, well rolled, display their whitish down.[342]
XX.
Ho! for my toil! Ho! for my steps! Aweary though I be,
In our poor house, for working folk, there’s lots of work, I see;