SELECT POETRY.

Tuapeka Times, Volume VI, Issue 271, 10 April 1873, Page 7

SELECT POETRY.

A KOGrtJE AND A VAGABOND. An Interesting Story in Verbs. (From the " Belgravia Annual.') What house do you say? — the Ship at Stock ? Why, there, I must ha' bin blind Not to know it again ; but 'tis years ago Since I left these parts behind. Here, master, bring us a pint out here, If these good gents don't mind. Look warmish, dv I ? And so would you, If you'd only a come my track, A-tramping it here from Grays to-day, With this organ on my back ; And I'm not so young as T used to be . When these gray hairs was black. How long 'aye I bin on the road ? Let's see : 'Tis a twelvemonth werry near Since I fust took up with the organ line Along with the younker here ; But afore that I'd bin tramping about Close upon forty years. My beer, is it ? Thankee. Well, here's luck. Yes, master, as you say, 'Tis rather a longish time, no doubt, Though it seems but the other day That 1 was a little boy at home, Out yonder by Royleigh way. Heigho ; if I'd minded mother's words, That was meant for my good alone, I'd been a decent, well-to-do chap, With boys and gala of my own, Instead of a poor old homeless man, A tramp and a vagabune ! Here, drink, lad ! — Well, it wasn't to be ; T shouldn't ha' done for homely wear, Treading your quiet mill-hoss round To good gray hairs in easy chair ; I've a touch of gipsy blood i' my veins That pants for the sun and air. Tramping it merrily east or west, Town or country, or down or dale, Beggar and gipsy, pedlar and thief ; Out of the workus into the gaol ; That was the life I lived and liked When life was cheary and hale. And yet there were moments, too, When my heart was toiich'd with ruth At the thought of the poor old mother at home, And my wasted, shameful youth. Ah, masters ! there's nothing pays so well As honest labor and truth. I'd share my crust with a pal, And my heart would often sigh O'er a batter'd drab in a lodging ken That had laid her down to die, Babbling of mother, and youth, and home' — " 0 mother J" was allus their cry. Is the boy my own ? Well, yes and no : He is, and he isn't mine ; Here, Will lad, go you and play a bit On the the green there in front o' the sign; A tine little fellow for five year old And as good and true as he's fine. Poor laddie ! I mind his mother well, With her patient, wistful face ; A meek, blue-eyed, white slip of a girl — A lady by birth and grace — That was sought, and ruined, and throwM aside By a villain doubly base. Let's see — 'tis three years ago, or more, Down there by Hertford beat, That I used to meet her fust on the road, So shrinking, and pale, and Bweet, With her baby-boy that she loved so fond. 'Twould touch yer heart to see it. Dear Heart ! I could read the story well That had steep'd her life in gall : The bonny girlhood, dainty and sweet— The love and the bitter fall— A. blighted name aud a passionate flight, And a tramp the more, that's all. She'd a little box of ribbons and sich, That was daintly ranged pil'd ; And the country folks they took to like her, She seem'd so gentle and mild ; "^ And the the women would buy a trifle or so For the sake o' the pretty child. But the boy looked drooping, as well he might With their scanty food and pay, As I'd notice when T stopp'd on the road To give 'em the time o' day : And the young 'un would know me, and prattle and smile In his pretty baby way. Yet she seem'd to be shy of the lodging kens, And afraid of the likes of we, And would creep o' nights to a shed to sleep, Though we shouldn't have hurt her yer see - Not even the women, and some of them Was as bad as bad could be. I'd lost her a bit - about that time, T'd been on the lush, I know — When I met with an ancient pal o' mine, We call'd him Limping loe ; And he told me as 'ow sh'd bin in quod, Which it staggcr'd me like a blow. She'd took some fruit for her poor sick kid, In a sort o' fit of despair ; So they had her up, and g'iv' her a month Of prison work and fare ; And they called it' " shocking depravity," Or something like that 'air. There 'twould make me laugh, if it wasn't so sad To see how they deals wi' we, Hard'ning the better and struggling few, While the cunning old hands go free, And grins and thinks with Puck i' the play, " What fools these mortals be ! " I see her again in a little while, Looking whiter and wuss than afore ; But the weaker she grow'd, poor soul, she seem'd To cling to her boy the more ; I could she that she was drawing near To Heaven's merciful shore. Now there come the Pedlar's Hact just then, That has caused such a deal o' fuss ; If T'd only ha' had the naming o't, I'd 'aye halter'd the title thus : (( A Hact for turning Men into Thieves, And Women into wuss J"

" Once a thief, allus a thief, Brand 'em and stop their bread, A starve 'em all into being good "—" — That's how the hact's to be read ; Why, I really think that your Miater Bruce Must be going off his 'ed ! Lord bless yer ! them there Parleyment chaps, Wot legislates for the poor, Why, they know no more about us, man, Then the lock on that 'ere door ; 'Tis a muddle all through, and they seem to try 1 To muddle it more and more. Only to think, in a Christian land, Where people preach and kneel, It should be a crime for a fallen man ' To earn an honest meal ! — How the angels must wonder and weep to see, And the devil caper and real ! When I heard as they'd stopp'd her rounds, And writ " convicted " agin her name, I felt a choking like i' the throat, And my heart was all aflame. Ah me, there was only the workus now, Or a woman's crowning shame ! Well, I'd come one bitter night dead-beat To a lodging-crib I knew And gathered about the kitchen fire I found a motley crew ; They was singing and swearing, and going on, As only trampers do. I'd sat me down in a weary mood, Sick o' their oaths and lies, When the missus — she was a rough 'un was Moll — Come in with the tears in her eyes, And pray'd 'em, if they was women and men, To try and stop the noise. For there was a poor young stranger gal In the room just overhead That wasn't likely to last the night, Least so the doctor had said ; And they wanted to keep her quiet, poor soul, And to coax' her boy to bed. They was still at once, and I foller'd her ■ out With a sudden tremble and thrill ; "For God's sake, missus, I whisper'd hoarse, *" Show me this womr,n that's ill ; For T think I know her of old, yer see — She and her little Will." " Come and see her, and welcome," she said ; " For perhaps before she goes, It might be a comfort to her like To see a face that she knows." Poor drunken MoJl, she'd a nook in her heart For a stricken sister's woes, — Yes, it was $he — the poor wrong'd gal, Once pure, bonny, and bless'd — With a far-off look in the great blue eyes, Soon to close in their long last rest ; And drank and dishevell'd the golden head Should have lain on a mother's breast. There was woman about her — slatternly drabs, The lowest of tlie low — One tenderly bathing her poor hot head, One walking to and fro, Hushing the boj, who knew me agen, And begun to laugh and crow. She look'd up then, and saw me, and smiled — Such a weariful smile and drear — Then turn'd her face to the wall with a sigh That it wrung my heart to hear ; And her white tips mutter' d the old, old cry, " O mother ! O mother dear !" " Poor soul !" — 'twas Moll that whisper'd the words— " That's how she's bin all through ; She thinks o' nought but her mother and boy, But I dunno what we can do ! For she'll tell us nothing about herself, Nor where are her friends nor who ! When the parson ask'd her name, she sobbed ; ' I've no name now to own ; You see what I am, sir — a sinful girl, That looks to Christ alone. And prays Him to shield her dear, dear boy, When his mother's dead and gone.' That's all we know about her, yer see, Except that she came to the door, Dead-beat and sinking a week ago ; But perhaps you can tell us more." But I'd nothing I could tell 'em, yon know, Save what I've told afore. Yet my heart went forth to the poor sick gal— The weariful golden head — And 1 fell on my knees afore them all, Beside her dying bed ; And it seem'd as if words were given me, And this was what I said : — " My lass, I can read .your story, I think, And I pity you from my heart ; There, I ain't going to ask who you are, poor child, So yon needn't tremble aud start. 'Tis enough for me that you're lying here, And that you and your boy mnst part. But God'll take care 'o the boy, He will, Though the road look dark and grim ; And He'll take you, too, to his pitying arms, Where no tear those eyes shall dim ; And death will be but the gate 'o life, If you can ouly trust in Him. For His mercies are above all His works — Tis true, for he tells us so — And he gives to the heavy-laden rest From their load of care and woe ; And though our sins as scarlet be, He can make them white as snow. Will you trust your pretty boy to me ? Ah ? you shudder, and well you may. I know I'm an old, stain'd shameful man, That has throwed his life away ; But I, too, had a mother once, Who taught her child to pray. I'll shield him, as a mother would do, *» From sorrow, and sin, and strife ;

And the Master, I know, will help us both With his guiding mercies rife ; And the honest bread I earu for the boy Shall sweeten and bless my life. It must rest with you, and only you - The choice shall be wholly thine ; But if you can trust the boy to me, Only make me a sign." She smiled, and tried to give me her hand, And I knew that the boy was mine. She died next day, with a perfect trust In him who alone can save ; And I carried her orphan boy in my arms To his mother's parish grave. They that shed the only tears that day Was a drab and tramping knave. The parson offered to take the boy ; He said as my heart was kind, But mine was hardly the sort 'o life For a child to be consign'd. He was right, maybe, but I kept to my trust, And up and spoke my mind. " Look here, sir," I said, " I'm bad right out — Low, lazy, and drunken and wild — But I mean, please God, to begin afresh, For the sake of this little child ; For I fell he was sent to help to reclaim The life that I've wasted and soil'd." So I took the boy and went my way And tried to keep my word ; I was helpless like 'o myself, in course, But the Master saw and heard, And in teaching them baby lids to pray, My own poor heart was stirr'd. I got a place as a hostler fust, At Grantham in Linkunsheer, But the vagabond mood come, back, and I liked The boy to be allus near ; So I just work'd on till I'd saved enough To buy this organ here. We're shy 'o the regular lodging kens, And in decent houses lie ; And I'm saving a trifle, don't yer see, To 'prentice him by and by. I shall feel it lonely at fust, no doubt, But the Master'll still be nigh. And so we jogs on, Willie and I ; I carries the organ and plays, And the browns fall fast in his little hat, While the women fondle and praise ; God has been very good to send the boy To comfort the old man's days. There, I must have tired you out, I'm afraid, With my wearisome yawn and drawl ; But 'tis good to open yer heart sometimes, And I'm glad I happened to call. Come, Will, we must make for Chumpsford lad ; So good night, gentlemen all !