It's past parsons to console us:

No, nor no doctor fetch for me:

I can die without my bolus;

Two of a trade, lass, never agree!

Parson and Doctor! - don't they love rarely,

Fighting the devil in other men's fields!

Stand up yourself and match him fairly:

Then see how the rascal yields!

I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting

Finery while his poor helpmate grubs:

Coin I've stored, and you won't be wanting:

You shan't beg from the troughs and tubs.

Nobly you've stuck to me, though in his kitchen

Many a Marquis would hail you Cook!

Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich in,

But your old Jerry you never forsook.

 

Hand up the chirper! ripe ale winks in it;

Let's have comfort and be at peace.

Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet,

Cheer up! the Lord must have his lease.

May be - for none see in that black hollow ­

It's just a place where we're held in pawn,

And, when the Great Juggler makes as to swallow.­

It's just the sword-trick - I ain't quite gone!

Yonder came smells of the gorse, so nutty,

Gold-like and warm: it's the prime of May.

Better than mortar, brick and putty,

Is God's house on a blowing day.

Lean me more up the mound; now I feel it:

All the old heath-smells! Ain't it strange?

There's the world laughing, as if to conceal it,

But He's by us, juggling the change.

I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying,

Once - it's long gone - when two gulls we beheld.

Which, as the moon got up, were flying

Down a big wave that sparked and swelled.

Crack, went a gun: one fell; the second

Wheeled round him twice, and was off for new luck:

There in the dark her white wing beckoned:

Drop me a kiss - I'm the bird dead-struck!

 

George Meredith (1828-1909)