1. GOODY BLAKE, AND HARRY GILL, A TRUE STORY.
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Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?
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What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
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That evermore his teeth they chatter,
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Chatter, chatter, chatter still.
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Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
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Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;
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He has a blanket on his back,
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And coats enough to smother nine.
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In March, December, and in July,
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"Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
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The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
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His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
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At night, at morning, and at noon,
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'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
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Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
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His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
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Young Harry was a lusty drover,
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And who so stout of limb as he?
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His cheeks were red as ruddy clover,
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His voice was like the voice of three.
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Auld Goody Blake was old and poor,
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Ill fedd she was, and thinly clad;
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And any man who pass'd her door,
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Might see how poor a hut she had.
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All day she spun in her poor dwelling,
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And then her three hours' work at night!
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Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
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It would not pay for candle-light.
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—This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,
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Her hut was on a cold hill-side,
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And in that country coals are dear,
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For they come far by wind and tide.
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By the same fire to boil their pottage,
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Two poor old dames, as I have known,
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Will often live in one small cottage,
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But she, poor woman, dwelt alone.
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'Twas well enough when summer came,
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The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
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Then at her door the canty dame
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Would sit, as any linnet gay.
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But when the ice our streams did fetter,
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Oh! then how her old bones would shake!
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You would have said, if you had met her,
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'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.
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Her evenings then were dull and dead;
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Sad case it was, as you may think,
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For very cold to go to bed,
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And then for cold not sleep a wink.
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Oh joy for her! when e'er in winter
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The winds at night had made a rout,
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And scatter'd many a lusty splinter,
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And many a rotten bough about.
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Yet never had she, well or sick,
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As every man who knew her says,
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A pile before-hand, wood or stick,
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Enough to warm her for three days.
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Now, when the frost was past enduring,
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And made her poor old bones to ache,
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Could any thing be more alluring,
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Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?
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And now and then, it must be said,
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When her old bones were cold and chill,
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She left her fire, or left her bed,
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To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.
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Now Harry he had long suspected
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This trespass of old Goody Blake,
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And vow'd that she should be detected,
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And he on her would vengeance take.
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And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
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And to the fields his road would take,
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And there, at night, in frost and snow,
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He watch'd to seize old Goody Blake.
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And once, behind a rick of barley,
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Thus looking out did Harry stand;
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The moon was full and shining clearly,
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And crisp with frost the stubble-land.
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—He hears a noise—he's all awake—
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Again?—on tip-toe down the hill
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He softly creeps—'Tis Goody Blake,
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She's at the hedge of Harry Gill.
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Right glad was he when he beheld her:
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Stick after stick did Goody pull,
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He stood behind a bush of elder,
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Till she had filled her apron full.
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When with her load she turned about,
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The bye-road back again to take,
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He started forward with a shout,
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And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.
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And fiercely by the arm he took her,
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And by the arm he held her fast,
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And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
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And cried, "I've caught you then at last!"
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Then Goody, who had nothing said,
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Her bundle from her lap let fall;
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And kneeling on the sticks, she pray'd
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To God that is the judge of all.
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She pray'd, her wither'd hand uprearing,
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While Harry held her by the arm—
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"God! who art never out of hearing,
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"O may he never more be warm!"
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The cold, cold moon above her head,
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Thus on her knees did Goody pray,
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Young Harry heard what she had said,
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And icy-cold he turned away.
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He went complaining all the morrow
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That he was cold and very chill:
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His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
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Alas! that day for Harry Gill!
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That day he wore a riding-coat,
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But not a whit the warmer he:
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Another was on Thursday brought,
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And ere the Sabbath he had three.
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'Twas all in vain, a useless matter,
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And blankets were about him pinn'd;
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Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter,
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Like a loose casement in the wind.
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And Harry's flesh it fell away;
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And all who see him say 'tis plain,
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That, live as long as live he may,
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He never will be warm again.
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No word to any man he utters,
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A-bed or up, to young or old;
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But ever to himself he mutters,
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"Poor Harry Gill is very cold."
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A-bed or up, by night or day;
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His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
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Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,
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