THE MERCHANT'S SON

When Hugh was up his mare went drifting

Sidelong and feeling with her heels

For horses’ legs and poshay wheels,

While lather creamed her neat clipt skin.

Hugh guessed her foibles with a grin.

He was a rich town-merchant's son,

A wise and kind man fond of fun,

Who loved to have a troop of friends

At Coln St. Eves for all week-ends,

And troops of children in for tea,

He gloried in a Christmas Tree.

And Polly was his heart's best treasure,

And Polly was a golden pleasure

To everyone, to see or hear.

Poor Polly's dying struck him queer,

He was a darkened man thereafter,

Cowed silent, he would wince at laughter

And be so gentle it was strange

Even to see. Life loves to change.

Now Coln St. Evelyn's hearths are cold

The shutters up, the hunters sold,

And green mould damps the locked front door.

But this was still a month before,

And Polly, golden in the chaise,

Still smiled, and there were golden days,

Still thirty days, for those dear lovers.