Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE OLD COUPLE (THE WORKHOUSE - OLD STYLE), by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE OLD COUPLE (THE WORKHOUSE - OLD STYLE), by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: An old wife speaks:
Last Line: The lord shouldn't grant a long life to the poor.
Alternate Author Name(s): Duclaux, Madame Emile; Darmesteter, Mary; Robinson, A. Mary F.
Subject(s): Marriage; Old Age; Poverty; Weddings; Husbands; Wives


An old wife speaks:

THE bracken withers day by day,
The furze is out of bloom.
Over the common the heather is grey,
And there's no gold left on the broom;
And the least wind flutters a golden fleck
From three tall aspens that grow in the beck.

Yet, oh, I shall miss it to-morrow night,
The wild, rough sea of furze;
And the cows coming down, looking large and white,
And the tink of each bell as it stirs,
The aspens brushing the tender sky,
And the whirr of the geese as they homeward fly.

'Tis the first grief ever I owned to mind
Until to-night, good neighbour;
For I could work when John went blind,
And I never dreaded labour;
And Willie grew so good a son,
We never fretted, I and John.

Ah, me! We've waited here at the gate
Many and many an even,
When Willie lingered a little late;
And I've thought it seemed like Heaven,
To stand, the work all done, and look
At the yellow and pink o' the sky in the brook.

And John, I know, though he's blind as a stone,
And bent with a life of pain,
He'll miss it sore when he sits alone,
And wish he could see it again --
As though it were Heaven itself. Ah, me!
There's only clouds that the blind can see.

But he'll be apart in one long room,
And I as strange in another;
At the end of the day I'll sit down in the gloom,
And be no man's wife or mother;
And I'll miss his voice and the tap of his stick
Till my throat grows choked and my sight grows thick.

I'll not be dull? There are people enough
In the House? Is that what you say?
Yes, every one there that I do not love,
And only my man away:
Voices and steps coming in and out,
But never the one that I care about.

I'd rather starve in the snow with John!
But that 'ud be wicked, I know;
Indeed, we might live with our only son,
And never stir out in the snow.
But burden his back with our useless lives,
And palsy the arm that struggles and strives.

Nay, Will has another to think of -- my Will.
'Tis time the lad was wed;
He's waited long, he would wait still,
Till John and I were dead:
But better the Poorhouse, better far,
Than only to live as a fret and a bar.

Ah, we remember, I and John,
The waiting till youth is spoiled;
I'd never owe my bread to a son,
And sit while he toiled and moiled,
And see the lass he hoped to wive
Grow old unmarried, since I was alive.

That was the way in our time, though,
But I never liked the way!
It kept us single till forty, I know,
And married us old and grey;
And set me only one child on my knee;
Who shall not suffer as much from me.

And so to-morrow we leave the place
To go to the House up yon.
Yes, as you say, 'tis a sad disgrace;
We've worked hard, I and John:
We've worked until we can work no more....
The Lord shouldn't grant a long life to the poor.





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