XII — ETCHING

Two and thirty is the ploughman.

He's a man of gallant inches,

And his hair is close and curly,

And his beard;

But his face is wan and sunken,

And his eyes are large and brilliant,

And his shoulder-blades are sharp,

And his knees.

He is weak of wits, religious,

Full of sentiment and yearning,

Gentle, faded — with a cough

And a snore.

When his wife ( who was a widow,

And is many years his elder )

Fails to write, and that is always,

He desponds.

Let his melancholy wander,

And he'll tell you pretty stories

Of the women that have wooed him

Long ago;

Or he'll sing of bonnie lasses

Keeping sheep among the heather,

With a crackling, hackling click

In his voice.