Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, CHURCH-GOING TIM, by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

CHURCH-GOING TIM, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Tim black is bedridden, you say?
Last Line: It's not for tim, sir; it's for me.
Alternate Author Name(s): Duclaux, Madame Emile; Darmesteter, Mary; Robinson, A. Mary F.
Subject(s): Sickness; Illness


TIM BLACK is bedridden, you say?
Well now, I'm sorry. Poor old Tim!
There's not in all the place to-day
A soul as will not pity him.

These twenty years, come hail, come snow,
Come winter cold, or summer heat,
Week after week to church he'll go
On them two hobbling sticks for feet.

These years he's gone on crutches. Yet
One never heard the least complaint.
And see how other men will fret
At nothing! Tim was quite a saint.

And now there's service every day,
I say they kep' it up for him;
We busier ones, we keep away --
There's mostly no one there but Tim.

Yes, quite a saint he was. Although
He never was a likely man
At his own trade; indeed, I know
Many's the day I've pitied Nan.

She had a time of it, his wife,
With all those children and no wage,
As like as not, from Tim. The life
She led! She looked three times her age.

The half he had he'ld give to tramps
If they were hungry, or it was cold --
Pampering up them idle scamps,
While Nan grew lean and pinched and old.

He'ld let her grumble. Not a word
Or blow from him she ever had --
And yet I've heard her sigh, and heard
Her say she wished as he wur bad.

Atop of all the fever came;
And Tim went hobbling past on sticks.
Still one felt happier, all the same,
When he'ld gone by to church at six.

Not that I wished to go. Not I!
With Joe so wild, and all those boys --
It takes my day to clean, and try
To settle down the dust and noise.

But still -- out of it all, to glance
And see Tim hobbling by, so calm,
As though he heard the angels' chants
And saw their branching crowns of palm.

And when he smiled, he had a look:
One's burden seemed to lose and roll
Like Christian's in the picture-book!
It was a comfort, on the whole.

It made one easier-like, somehow --
It made one, somehow, feel so sure,
That far above the dust and row
The glory of God does still endure.

You say he's well, though he can't stir:
I'm sure you mean it kind -- But, see,
It's not for him I'm crying, sir,
It's not for Tim, sir; it's for me.





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