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THE POEM

  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, 5
  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; 10
  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, 15
  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. 20
  Old [1] Goody Blake was old and poor;
  Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
  And any man who passed her door
  Might see how poor a hut she had.

  All day she spun in her poor dwelling:  25
  And then her three hours’ work at night,
  Alas! ’twas hardly worth the telling,
  It would not pay for candle-light. 
  Remote from sheltered village-green,
  On a hill’s northern side she dwelt, 30
  Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
  And hoary dews are slow to melt. [2]

  By the same fire to boil their pottage,
  Two poor old Dames, as I have known,
  Will often live in one small cottage; 35
  But she, poor Woman! housed [3] alone. 
  ’Twas well enough when summer came,
  The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
  Then at her door the canty Dame
  Would sit, as any linnet, gay. 40

  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:  45
  Sad case it was, as you may think,
  For very cold to go to bed;
  And then for cold not sleep a wink.

  O joy for her! whene’er in winter
  The winds at night had made a rout; 50
  And scattered 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 beforehand, turf [4] or stick, 55
  Enough to warm her for three days.

  Now, when the frost was past enduring,
  And made her poor old bones to ache,
  Could anything be more alluring
  Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? 60
  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.