POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2186, 26 February 1881, Page 3

POETRY.

i "THE MISSIS." , An Idxxl in an Attio. i (From " London Pnnch.") ' Twelve! He'll be blundering home by now, and I've let the fire burn low, Along of visions I seem to see in the embers' ruddy glow. Me dream ? Well, I used to dream of Mm once, long ago, so long ago! ' Ten years! "lis a little eternity, and I look so fur away, A girl, with a red ribbon knot in her hair, and a laugh as the laverock gay. And I've hardly laughed since he struck me first, and the roots of my hair aro grey. At thirty! Tisn't the thing I thought when he left me there at the gate, With the bit of gold and forget-me-not on my finger. Though it was late, II watched the stars till they faded in dawn—the stars that to-night I hate! Look at them glimmerin' coldly there, as lovely as ladies' eyes When they shine on me out of a smooth, calm face, in their beautiful hard surprise That all is not right in a world they light. Ah! beauty's the biggest of lies ! I was pretty once, but you can't keep looks in a London alley long ; And he was the smartest lad in the shop—so straight, and square, and strong. If a man had offered to strike me then, had his life been worth a song ? But you see when a hand that has fondled onoe is lifted to bruise and maim, There's a something snaps in a woman's heart that the clever ones may name. I know it seems bitterer fur than death, and I think it is worse than shame. Bah! Me whimper ?—the "Missis," old—for my heart is old—and grey, As though I was nought but that gay soft girl I see so fur away ? Me—who have fought it with red-faced Moll, and can toil at the tub all day ? As that rag of ourtain shakes in the draught, so I shook when he struck me first. It wasn't the pain, though he smote the breast that his bantlings fonr had nurst; But now I am hard as the hand that strikes and I know not which is worst. It's the smell o' that spray o' laylock there that softens me so to-night; A bush of it stood by our oottage gate, I will fling it away. That's right 1 Tho gin-whiff is better, after all, for in that one can live—and fight. But love and flowers are folly, toys for the great ones, fur as I see. Why I'm hardly sure that I love my brats when they're clamoring at my knee. Cry, cry, ory I They're in bed_at last; but when is there rest for me ? Now, in the silent chill night hours in this squalid stuffy room ? Waiting my Man, as the "Missis" must, though be linger till crack o' doom ? And ho wag the lad who kissed me, kissed me uuder the laylock bloom. Best? When the black thoughts tear my heart, and I think could I strike one blow Through his heart and mine as we lay at night it were better fur to go But leave him, leave him to red-faced Moll, and her broad-mouth'd laughter ? No.

Sweetheart—Missis ! Two wide extremes to touch in one little year ; The petted darling, the beaten drudge ; and the law, that stands so near To the starved broad stonier or straying girl, seems so terrible fur from here.

It made this ring; can it do no more in the way o' binding lives ? Can't it tie a man to the bit o' work, can't it break the drunkard's gyves ? You are pulled if you starve or beat a beast. Are horses better than,wives P

I must stir his supper. Poor stuff, poor stuff! Will he taste it ? Why should I care ? Beaten flesh hardens, and why should souls keep soft ? Cold hearts oan bear. Big Ben's a-booming—and there's his step a-stumbling loud on the stair P