LOB LIE BY THE FIRE

He squats by the fire

On his three-legged stool,

When all in the house

With slumber are full.

And he warms his great hands,

Hanging loose from each knee.

And he whistles as soft

As the night wind at sea.

For his work now is done;

All the water is sweet;

He has turned each brown loaf,

And breathed magic on it.

The milk in the pan,

And the bacon on beam

He has “spelled” with his thumb,

And bewitched has the dream.

Not a mouse, not a moth,

Not a spider but sat,

And quaked as it wondered

What next he'd be at.

But his heart, O, his heart —

It belies his great nose;

And at gleam of his eye

Not a soul would suppose

He had stooped with great thumbs,

And big thatched head,

To tuck his small mistress

More snugly in bed.

Who would think, now, a throat

So lank and so thin

Might make birds seem to warble

In the dream she is in!

Now hunched by the fire,

While the embers burn low,

He nods until daybreak,

And at daybreak he'll go.

Soon the first cock will‘ light

From his perch and point high

His beak at the Ploughboy

Grown pale in the sky;

And crow will he shrill;

Then, meek as a mouse,

Lob will rouse up and shuffle

Straight out of the house.

His supper for breakfast;

For wages his work;

And to warm his great hands

Just an hour in the mirk.