563

O

For in a trunk up stairs I've laid Two socks of white and blue; If called to put those boots away, Oh God, what should I do?

I mourn that there are not to-night Three pairs instead of two.

I mourn because I thought how nice
My neighbor 'cross the way,
Could keep her carpets all the year
From getting worn or gray;
Yet well I know she'd smile to own
Some little boots to-day.

We mothers weary get, and worn,
Over our load of care;

But how we speak to these little ones
Let each of us beware;

For what would our fireside be to-night,

If no little boots were there?

"

564

565

566

ཀཀལ་བ་པ་

VER the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way

I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray—
I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've
told,

As many another woman, that's only half as old.

Over the hill to the poor-house-I can't make it quite clear!

Over the hill to the poor-house-it seems so horrid queer!

Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro,

But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.

What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame?
Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame?
True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout,
But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without.

I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day,
To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way
For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be boulċ,
If anybody only is willin' to have me round.

Once I was young and han'some-I was, upon my soul-
Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal;
And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say,
For any kind of reason, that I was in their way.

'Taint no use of boastin', or talkin' over free,

But many a house an' home was open then to me;
Many a han'some offer I had from likely men,
And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then.

And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart,
But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part;
For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong,
And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along.

And so we worked together; and life was hard but gay, With now and then a baby, for to cheer us on our way; Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat, An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat.

So we worked for the childr'n, and raised 'em every one;
Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to 've done;
Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn,
But every couple's childr'n's a heap the best to them.

Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!-
I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons;
And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray,
I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way.

Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown,
And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone;
When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be,
The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him away from me.

Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall-
Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all;
And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown,
Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town.

She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile-
She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style;
But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know;
But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go.

She had an edication, an' that was good for her;

But when she twitted me on mine 'twas carryin' things too fur; An' I told her once 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick), That I never swallowed a grammar, or et a 'rithmetic.

So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done

They was a family of themselves, and I another one;
And a very little cottage for one family will do,

But I have never seen a house that was big enough for two.

An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye,
An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try;
But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow,
When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me I could go.

I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small,
And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all;
And what with her husband's sisters, and what with childr'n three,
'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me.

An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got,
For Thomas' buildings 'd cover the half of an acre lot.
But all the childr'n was on me-I couldn't stand their sauce-
And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss.

An then I wrote to Rebecca,-my girl who lives out West,
And to Isaac, not far from her-some twenty miles at best;
And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there, for any one so old,
And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold.

So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about-
So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out;
But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down,
Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town.
Over the hill to the poor-house-my childr'n dear, good-bye!
Many a night I've watched you when only God was 'nigh;
And God 'll judge between us; but I will al'ays pray
That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day.

From Farm Ballads,"

Published by Harper & Brothers.

who was always counted, they say,
Rather a bad stick any way,

Splintered all over with dodges and tricks,
Known as the "worst of the deacon's six;"
I, the truant, saucy and bold,

The one black sheep in my father's fold,

"Once on a time," as the stories say,
Went over the hill on a winter's day-
Over the hill to the poor-house.

Tom could save what twenty could earn;

But givin' was somethin' he ne'er could learn;
Isaac could half o' the Scriptures speak,
Committed a hundred verses a week;

Never forgot, an' never slipped;

But Honor thy father and mother" he skipped. So over the hill to the poor-house.

As for Susan, her heart was kind

An' good-what there was of it, mind;
Nothin' too big an' nothin' too nice,

Nothin' she wouldn't sacrifice

For one she loved; an' that 'ere one
Was herself, when all was said an' done.

An' Charley an' 'Becca meant well, no doubt,
But anyone could pull 'em about.

An' all our folks ranked well, you see,
Save one poor fellow, and that was me;
An' when, one dark an' rainy night,
A neighbor's horse went out of sight,
They hitched on me as the guilty chap
That carried one end of the halter-strap.
An' I think, myself, that view of the case
Wasn't altogether out o' place;

My mother denied it, as mothers do,
But I'm inclined to believe 'twas true.

Though for me one thing might be said—
That I, as well as the horse, was led;
And the worst of whisky spurred me on,
Or else the deed would have never been done.
But the keenest grief I ever felt,
Was when my mother beside me knelt,
An' cried an' prayed till I melted down,
As I wouldn't for half the horses in town.

I kissed her fondly, then and there,

An' swore henceforth to be honest and square.

I served my sentence-a bitter pill
Some fellows should take, who never will;
And then I decided to "go out West,"
Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best;
Where, how I prospered, I never could tell,
But Fortune seemed to like me well.
An' somehow, every vein I struck
Was always bubblin' over with luck;
An' better than that, I was steady an' true,
An' put my good resolutions through.
But I wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said,
You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead,
An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more
Than if I had lived the same as before."

But when this neighbor he wrote to me,

"Your mother is in the poor-house," says he;

I had a resurrection straightway,

An' started for her that very day;

And when I arrived where I was grown,

I took good care that I shouldn't be known;

But I bought the old cottage, through and through,

Of some one Charley had sold it to;
And held back neither work nor gold,
To fix it up as it was of old;

The same big fire-place, wide and high,
Flung up its cinders toward the sky;
The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf-

I wound it an' set it a-goin' myself;
An', if everything wasn't quite the same,
Neither I nor Manly was to blame;

Then-over the hill to the poor-hc ise!

One bloomin', blusterin' winter's day,
With a team an' cutter I started away;
My fiery nags was as black as coal;
(They some at resembled the horse I stole ;)
I hitched an' entered the poor-house door-
A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor;
She rose to her feet in great surprise
And looked, quite startled, into my eyes;

I saw the whole of her trouble's trace

In the lines that marred her dear old face;
"Mother!" I shouted, "your sorrows are done!
You're adopted along o' your horse-thief son.

Come over the hill from the poor-house!"

She didn't faint; she knelt by my side,
An' thanked the Lord till I fairly cried.
An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant and gay,
An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day;

An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm and bright;

An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight,

To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea,

An' frequently stoppin' and kissin' me;
An' maybe we didn't live happy for years,

In spite of my brothers' and sisters' sneers,
Who often said, as I have heard,

That they wouldn't own a prison bird
(Though they're gettin' over that, I guess,
For all of them owe me more or less.)

But I've learned one thing, and it cheers a man

In always a-doin' the best he can;
That whether, on the big book, a blot
Gets over a fellow's name or not,
Whenever he does a deed that's white
It's credited to him fair and right.
An' when you hear the great bugle's notes,
An' the Lord divides his sheep and goats;
However they may settle my case,

Wherever they may fix my place,
My good old Christian mother, you'll see,
Will be sure to stand right up for me.

So over the hill from the poor-house!