Goody Blake, and Harry Gill, a True Story

Oh! what’s the matter? what’s the matter?What is’t that ails young Harry Gill?That evermore his teeth they chatter,Chatter, chatter, chatter still.Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;He has a blanket on his back,And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,“Tis all the same with Harry Gill;The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,His teeth they chatter, chatter still.At night, at morning, and at noon,’Tis all the same with Harry Gill;Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,His teeth they chatter, chatter still.

Young Harry was a lusty drover,And who so stout of limb as he?His cheeks were red as ruddy clover,His voice was like the voice of three.Auld Goody Blake was old and poor,Ill fedd she was, and thinly clad;And any man who pass’d her door,Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling,And then her three hours’ work at night!Alas! ’twas hardly worth the telling,It would not pay for candle-light.--This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,Her hut was on a cold hill-side,And in that country coals are dear,For they come far by wind and tide.

By the same fire to boil their pottage,Two poor old dames, as I have known,Will often live in one small cottage,But she, poor woman, dwelt alone.’Twas well enough when summer came,The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,Then at her door the canty dameWould sit, as any linnet gay.

But when the ice our streams did fetter,Oh! then how her old bones would shake!You would have said, if you had met her,’Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.Her evenings then were dull and dead;Sad case it was, as you may think,For very cold to go to bed,And then for cold not sleep a wink.

Oh joy for her! when e’er in winterThe winds at night had made a rout,And scatter’d many a lusty splinter,And many a rotten bough about.Yet never had she, well or sick,As every man who knew her says,A pile before-hand, wood or stick,Enough to warm her for three days.

Now, when the frost was past enduring,And made her poor old bones to ache,Could any thing be more alluring,Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?And now and then, it must be said,When her old bones were cold and chill,She left her fire, or left her bed,To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

Now Harry he had long suspectedThis trespass of old Goody Blake,And vow’d that she should be detected,And he on her would vengeance take.And oft from his warm fire he’d go,And to the fields his road would take,And there, at night, in frost and snow,He watch’d to seize old Goody Blake.

And once, behind a rick of barley,Thus looking out did Harry stand;The moon was full and shining clearly,And crisp with frost the stubble-land.--He hears a noise--he’s all awake--Again?--on tip-toe down the hillHe softly creeps--’Tis Goody Blake,She’s at the hedge of Harry Gill.

Right glad was he when he beheld her:Stick after stick did Goody pull,He stood behind a bush of elder,Till she had filled her apron full.When with her load she turned about,The bye-road back again to take,He started forward with a shout,And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

And fiercely by the arm he took her,And by the arm he held her fast,And fiercely by the arm he shook her,And cried, “I’ve caught you then at last!”Then Goody, who had nothing said,Her bundle from her lap let fall;And kneeling on the sticks, she pray’dTo God that is the judge of all.

She pray’d, her wither’d hand uprearing,While Harry held her by the arm--“God! who art never out of hearing,“O may he never more be warm!”The cold, cold moon above her head,Thus on her knees did Goody pray,Young Harry heard what she had said,And icy-cold he turned away.

He went complaining all the morrowThat he was cold and very chill:His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,Alas! that day for Harry Gill!That day he wore a riding-coat,But not a whit the warmer he:Another was on Thursday brought,And ere the Sabbath he had three.

’Twas all in vain, a useless matter,And blankets were about him pinn’d;Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter,Like a loose casement in the wind.And Harry’s flesh it fell away;And all who see him say ’tis plain,That, live as long as live he may,He never will be warm again.

No word to any man he utters,A-bed or up, to young or old;But ever to himself he mutters,“Poor Harry Gill is very cold.”A-bed or up, by night or day;His teeth they chatter, chatter still.Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.

It is the first mild day of March:Each minute sweeter than before,The red-breast sings from the tall larchThat stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air,Which seems a sense of joy to yieldTo the bare trees, and mountains bare,And grass in the green field.

My Sister! (’tis a wish of mine)Now that our morning meal is done,Make haste, your morning task resign;Come forth and feel the sun.

Edward will come with you, and pray,Put on with speed your woodland dress,And bring no book, for this one dayWe’ll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulateOur living Calendar:We from to-day, my friend, will dateThe opening of the year.

Love, now an universal birth.From heart to heart is stealing,From earth to man, from man to earth,--It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us moreThan fifty years of reason;Our minds shall drink at every poreThe spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts may make,Which they shall long obey;We for the year to come may takeOur temper from to-day.

And from the blessed power that rollsAbout, below, above;We’ll frame the measure of our souls,They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my sister! come, I pray,With speed put on your woodland dress,And bring no book; for this one dayWe’ll give to idleness.

In the sweet shire of Cardigan,Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,An old man dwells, a little man,I’ve heard he once was tall.Of years he has upon his back,No doubt, a burthen weighty;He says he is three score and ten,But others say he’s eighty.

A long blue livery-coat has he,That’s fair behind, and fair before;Yet, meet him where you will, you seeAt once that he is poor.Full five and twenty years he livedA running huntsman merry;And, though he has but one eye left,His cheek is like a cherry.

No man like him the horn could sound.And no man was so full of glee;To say the least, four counties roundHad heard of Simon Lee;His master’s dead, and no one nowDwells in the hall of Ivor;Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;He is the sole survivor.

His hunting feats have him bereftOf his right eye, as you may see:And then, what limbs those feats have leftTo poor old Simon Lee!He has no son, he has no child,His wife, an aged woman,Lives with him, near the waterfall,Upon the village common.

And he is lean and he is sick,His little body’s half awryHis ancles they are swoln and thickHis legs are thin and dry.When he was young he little knewOf husbandry or tillage;And now he’s forced to work, though weak,--The weakest in the village.

He all the country could outrun,Could leave both man and horse behind;And often, ere the race was done,He reeled and was stone-blind.And still there’s something in the worldAt which his heart rejoices;For when the chiming hounds are out,He dearly loves their voices!

Old Ruth works out of doors with him,And does what Simon cannot do;For she, not over stout of limb,Is stouter of the two.And though you with your utmost skillFrom labour could not wean them,Alas! ’tis very little, allWhich they can do between them.

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,Not twenty paces from the door,A scrap of land they have, but theyAre poorest of the poor.This scrap of land he from the heathEnclosed when he was stronger;But what avails the land to them,Which they can till no longer?

Few months of life has he in store,As he to you will tell,For still, the more he works, the moreHis poor old ancles swell.My gentle reader, I perceiveHow patiently you’ve waited,And I’m afraid that you expectSome tale will be related.

O reader! had you in your mindSuch stores as silent thought can bring,O gentle reader! you would findA tale in every thing.What more I have to say is short,I hope you’ll kindly take it;It is no tale; but should you think,Perhaps a tale you’ll make it.

One summer-day I chanced to seeThis old man doing all he couldAbout the root of an old tree,A stump of rotten wood.The mattock totter’d in his hand;So vain was his endeavourThat at the root of the old treeHe might have worked for ever.

“You’re overtasked, good Simon Lee,Give me your tool” to him I said;And at the word right gladly heReceived my proffer’d aid.I struck, and with a single blowThe tangled root I sever’d,At which the poor old man so longAnd vainly had endeavour’d.

The tears into his eyes were brought,And thanks and praises seemed to runSo fast out of his heart, I thoughtThey never would have done.--I’ve heard of hearts unkind, kind deedsWith coldness still returning.Alas! the gratitude of menHas oftner left me mourning.