When their ditties they go grinding
Up and down with nobody minding 410
And then, as of old, at the end of the humming
Her usual presents were forthcoming
—­A dog-whistle blowing the fiercest of trebles,
(Just a sea-shore stone holding a dozen fine pebbles)
Or a porcelain mouth-piece to screw on a pipe-end—­
And so she awaited her annual stipend. 
But this time, the Duke would scarcely vouchsafe
        A word in reply; and in vain she felt
        With twitching fingers at her belt
        For the purse of sleek pine-martin pelt, 420
Ready to put what he gave in her pouch safe—­
Till, either to quicken his apprehension,
Or possibly with an after-intention,
She was come, she said, to pay her duty
To the new Duchess, the youthful beauty. 
No sooner had she named his lady,
Than a shine lit up the face so shady,
And its smirk returned with a novel meaning—­
For it struck him, the babe just wanted weaning;
If one gave her a taste of what life was and sorrow, 430
She, foolish today, would be wiser tomorrow;
And who so fit a teacher of trouble
As this sordid crone bent well-nigh double? 
So, glancing at her wolf-skin vesture,
        (If such it was, for they grow so hirsute
        That their own fleece serves for natural fur-suit)
He was contrasting, ’twas plain from his gesture,
The life of the lady so flower-like and delicate
With the loathsome squalor of this helicat. 
I, in brief, was the man the Duke beckoned 440
        From out of the throng, and while I drew near
He told the crone-as I since have reckoned
        By the way he bent and spoke into her ear
With circumspection and mystery—­
The main of the lady’s history,
Her frowardness and ingratitude: 
And for all the crone’s submissive attitude
I could see round her mouth the loose plaits tightening,
And her brow with assenting intelligence brightening
        As though she engaged with hearty goodwill 450
        Whatever he now might enjoin to fulfil,
And promised the lady a thorough frightening.

And so, just giving her a glimpse
Of a purse, with the air of a man who imps
The wing of the hawk that shall fetch the hernshaw,
        He bade me take the Gipsy mother
        And set her telling some story or other
Of hill or dale, oak-wood or fernshaw,
To wile away a weary hour
For the lady left alone in her bower, 460
Whose mind and body craved exertion
And yet shrank from all better diversion.

XIV