Corey. Well?
Your wife--your wife--
What's happened to my wife?
She's sent to prison!
The dream! the dream! O God, be merciful!
She sent me here to tell you.
COREY (putting on his jacket).Where's my horse?Don't stand there staring, fellows.Where's my horse?
Under the trees there. Run, old man, run, run!You've got some one to wrestle with you nowWho'll trip your heels up, with your Cornish hug.If there's a Devil, he has got you now.Ah, there he goes! His horse is snorting fire!
John Gloyd, don't talk so! It's a shame to talk so!He's a good master, though you quarrel with him.
If hard work and low wages make good masters,Then he is one. But I think otherwise.Come, let us have our dinner and be merry,And talk about the old man and the Witches.I know some stories that will make you laugh.
Now there are Goody Cloyse and Goody Good,Who have not got a decent tooth between them,And yet these children--the Afflicted Children--Say that they bite them, and show marks of teethUpon their arms!
That makes the wonder greater.That's Witchcraft. Why, if they had teeth like yours,'T would be no wonder if the girls were bitten!
And then those ghosts that come out of their gravesAnd cry, "You murdered us! you murdered us!"
And all those Apparitions that stick pinsInto the flesh of the Afflicted Children!
Oh those Afflicted Children! They know wellWhere the pins come from. I can tell you that.And there's old Corey, he has got a horseshoeNailed on his doorstep to keep off the Witches,And all the same his wife has gone to prison.
Oh, she's no Witch. I'll swear that Goodwife CoreyNever did harm to any living creature.She's a good woman, if there ever was one.
Well, we shall see. As for that Bridget Bishop,She has been tried before; some years agoA negro testified he saw her shapeSitting upon the rafters in a barn,And holding in its hand an egg; and whileHe went to fetch his pitchfork, she had vanished.And now be quiet, will you? I am tired,And want to sleep here on the grass a little.
There may be Witches riding through the airOver our heads on broomsticks at this moment,Bound for some Satan's Sabbath in the woodsTo be baptized.
I wish they'd take you with them,And hold you under water, head and ears,Till you were drowned; and that would stop your talking,If nothing else will. Let me sleep, I say.
Words in this poem
- wrestle v. i.
- To contend, by grappling with, and striving to trip or throw down, an opponent; as, they wrestled skillfully. [OE. wrestlen, wrastlen, AS. wr, freq. of wr to wrest; akin to OD. wrastelen to wrestle. See Wrest, v. t.]
- goody n.
- A bonbon, cake, or the like; -- usually in the pl.
- doorstep n.
- The stone or plank forming a step before an outer door.
- goodwife n.
- The mistress of a house. Robynson (More's Utopia).
- shall v. i.
- To owe; to be under obligation for. [OE. shal, schal, imp. sholde, scholde, AS. scal, sceal, I am obliged, imp. scolde, sceolde, inf. sculan; akin to OS. skulan, pres. skal, imp. skolda, D. zullen,]
- went n.
- Course; way; path; journey; direction.
- pitchfork n.
- A fork, or farming utensil, used in pitching hay, sheaves of grain, or the like.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Corey. Well? is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Project Gutenberg ebook #1365; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Corey. Well?, in The Complete Poetical Works (1839–1882), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #1365, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/longfellow-poems/corey-well.html, id L17978.
Form and metre
Corey. Well? is 57 lines in 18 stanzas. The metre is iambic pentameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 88%). 98% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 9.4 syllables. 22 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 21% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic pentameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 6 -A-A jacket · horseA · fellows · horseA
- 7 -A-A- run · nowA · hug · nowA · fire
- 9 AA-A- mastersA · otherwiseA · merry · witchesA · laugh
- 16 A-A-B--B bishopA · ago · shapeA · barn · whileB · vanished · tired · littleB
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic pentameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| Your wife--your wife-- | 4 | ···· |
| What's happened to my wife? | 6 | ·/˘··· |
| She's sent to prison! | 5 | ···/˘ |
| The dream! the dream! O God, be merciful! | 10 | ·······/˘˘ |
| She sent me here to tell you. | 7 | ······· |
| COREY (putting on his jacket). | 8 | /˘/˘··/˘ |
| Where's my horse? | 3 | ··· |
| Don't stand there staring, fellows. | 7 | ···/˘/˘ |
| Where's my horse? | 3 | ··· |
| Under the trees there. Run, old man, run, run! | 10 | ·········· |
| You've got some one to wrestle with you now | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Who'll trip your heels up, with your Cornish hug. | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| If there's a Devil, he has got you now. | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Ah, there he goes! His horse is snorting fire! | 11 | ·······/˘/˘ |
| John Gloyd, don't talk so! It's a shame to talk so! | 11 | ··········· |
| He's a good master, though you quarrel with him. | 11 | ···/˘··/˘·· |
| If hard work and low wages make good masters, | 11 | ·····/˘··/˘ |
| Then he is one. But I think otherwise. | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Come, let us have our dinner and be merry, | 11 | ····//˘··/˘ |
| And talk about the old man and the Witches. | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| I know some stories that will make you laugh. | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Now there are Goody Cloyse and Goody Good, | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| Who have not got a decent tooth between them, | 11 | ·····/˘···· |
| And yet these children--the Afflicted Children-- | 11 | ···/˘·˘/˘/˘ |
| Say that they bite them, and show marks of teeth | 10 | ·········· |
| Upon their arms! | 4 | ···· |
| That makes the wonder greater. | 7 | ···/˘/˘ |
| That's Witchcraft. Why, if they had teeth like yours, | 10 | ·/········ |
| 'T would be no wonder if the girls were bitten! | 12 | ····/˘····/˘ |
| And then those ghosts that come out of their graves | 10 | ·········· |
| And cry, "You murdered us! you murdered us!" | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| And all those Apparitions that stick pins | 10 | ····˘/˘··· |
| Into the flesh of the Afflicted Children! | 11 | ······˘/˘/˘ |
| Oh those Afflicted Children! They know well | 10 | ··˘/˘/˘··· |
| Where the pins come from. I can tell you that. | 10 | ·········· |
| And there's old Corey, he has got a horseshoe | 11 | ···/˘····/· |
| Nailed on his doorstep to keep off the Witches, | 11 | ···/·····/˘ |
| And all the same his wife has gone to prison. | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| Oh, she's no Witch. I'll swear that Goodwife Corey | 11 | ·······/˘/˘ |
| Never did harm to any living creature. | 11 | /˘···/˘/˘/˘ |
| She's a good woman, if there ever was one. | 10 | ···/˘··/·· |
| Well, we shall see. As for that Bridget Bishop, | 11 | ·······/˘/˘ |
| She has been tried before; some years ago | 10 | ········˘/ |
| A negro testified he saw her shape | 10 | ·/˘/˘····· |
| Sitting upon the rafters in a barn, | 10 | /˘···/˘··· |
| And holding in its hand an egg; and while | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| He went to fetch his pitchfork, she had vanished. | 11 | ·····/···/˘ |
| And now be quiet, will you? I am tired, | 11 | ···/˘····/˘ |
| And want to sleep here on the grass a little. | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| There may be Witches riding through the air | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| Over our heads on broomsticks at this moment, | 11 | ·/˘··/···/˘ |
| Bound for some Satan's Sabbath in the woods | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| To be baptized. | 4 | ··˘/ |
| I wish they'd take you with them, | 7 | ······· |
| And hold you under water, head and ears, | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Till you were drowned; and that would stop your talking, | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| If nothing else will. Let me sleep, I say. | 10 | ·/˘······· |
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