Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.
The CourtinJames Russell Lowell (18191891)
G
Fur ’z you can look or listen,
Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill,
All silence an’ all glisten.
An’ peeked in thru’ the winder,
An’ there sot Huldy all alone,
’ith no one nigh to hender.
With half a cord o’ wood in—
There warn’t no stoves (till comfort died)
To bake ye to a puddin’.
Towards the pootiest, bless her!
An’ leetle flames danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.
An’ in amongst ’em rusted
The ole queen’s-arm thet gran’ther Young
Fetched back from Concord busted.
Seemed warm from floor to ceilin’,
An’ she look’d full ez rosy agin
Ez the apples she was peelin’.
On sech a blessèd cretur,
A dogrose blushin’ to a brook
Ain’t modester nor sweeter.
Clear grit an’ human natur’;
None could n’t quicker pitch a ton
Nor dror a furrer straighter.
Hed squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em,
Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells—
All is, he could n’t love ’em.
All crinkly like curl’d maple,
The side she bresh’d felt full o’ sun
Ez a south slope in Ap’il.
Ez hisn in the choir;
My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring,
She knowed the Lord was nigher!
When her new meetin’-bunnet
Felt somehow thru’ its crown a pair
O’ blue eyes sot upun it.
She seemed to ’ve gut a new soul,
For she felt sartin-sure he’d come,
Down to her very shoe-sole.
A-raspin’ on the scraper,—
All ways to once her feelins flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.
Some doubtfle o’ the sekle,
His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.
Ez though she wish’d him furder,
An’ on her apples kep’ to work,
Parin’ away like murder.
‘Wal … no … I come dasignin’’—
‘To see my Ma? She ’s sprinklin’ clo’es
Agin to-morrer’s i’nin’.’
Or don’t, ’ould be presumin’;
Mebby to mean yes an’ say no
Comes nateral to women.
Then stood a spell on t’ other,
An’ on which one he felt the wust
He could n’t ha’ told ye nuther.
Says she, ‘Think likely, Mister’;
Thet last word prick’d him like a pin.
An’ … Wal, he up an’ kist her.
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lips
An’ teary roun’ the lashes.
Whose naturs never vary,
Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snow-hid in Jenooary.
Too tight for all expressin’,
Tell mother see how metters stood,
An’ gin ’em both her blessin’.
Down to the Bay o’ Fundy,—
An’ all I know is, they was cried
In meetin’ come nex’ Sunday.