The Cripple, I–XXIV

A brook beneath the hill-side flows Amid the downs, whose chalky sweep A scant though tender herbage grows, Cropped close by scattered flocks of sheep. And there a group of huts is seen Dotted along a village green.

Yet, buildings of a statelier look That poor sequestered valley grace: An inn beside the village brook; A church beside the burial-place. Save at the park, the trees are few; Still the old graveyard has its yew.

Beyond the park, the ring-dove’s haunt, Red bricks insult the smokeless sky: There stands the workhouse, bare and gaunt, Like the drear soul of poverty, And frowns upon a mossy fen, Where willows crouch like agéd men.

All life surrounds the roadside inn, The home of welcome and good cheer, Where barmaid scores the gill of gin And oft-repeated pot of beer: Unlike the fashion of the town— To drink and fling the money down.

The wife, with eggs and milk for sale, Wrapt in the coat of her good man, Stops there and takes her drop of ale While waiting for her empty can, And, nodding at the landlord’s sport, Keeps for the last her smart retort.

The goodman, always on his mare, Stops with familiar nod and wink, And bids the landlord with him share His amber draught of foamy drink; With chuckling joke concludes his say, And laughs when out of hearing’s way.

There with his team the carter stays, The water-trough his horses find; Worn out himself, he little says— No fun has he to leave behind. Dull to the merry toper’s call, His team he follows to their stall.

The squire, addicted not to chat, But seldom draws the rein or speaks; Seeing the landlord touch his hat, Into a quiet trot he breaks; Though at election, oft he stops To praise the children and the crops.

Between the horse-trough and the door A widow’s son was wont to stand. He was a cripple, crutched and poor, Yet always ready with a hand, Pleased when on trifling errands sent, With little recompense content.

So oft a copper coin the boy Would earn, that helped to buy him bread, Too glad to get a light employ: The parish all his mother’s dread. Hard had she worked to earn him food Through all her weary widowhood.

More did that mother love her son Than had he been the fairest born; He was her pride to look upon, Though shrunk of limb and feature worn: May be she loved him all the more For that his legs were crookt and sore.

As a wrecked vessel on the sand, The cripple to his mother clung: Close to the tub he took his stand While she the linen washed and wrung; And when she hung it out to dry The cripple still was standing by.

When she went out to char, he took His fife, to play some simple snatch Before the inn hard by the brook, While for the traveller keeping watch, Against the horse’s head to stand, Or hold its bridle in his hand.

Sometimes the squire his penny dropped Upon the road for him to clutch, Which, as it rolled, the cripple stopped, Striking it nimbly with his crutch. The groom, with leathern belt and pad, E’en found a copper for the lad.

The farmer’s wife her hand would dip Down her deep pocket with a sigh; Some halfpence in his hand would slip, When there was no observer nigh; Or give him apples for his lunch, That he loved leisurely to munch.

But for the farmer, what he made, At market table he would spend, And boys who used not plough or spade Had got the parish for their friend; He paid his poor rates to the day, So let the boy ask parish-pay.

Yet would the teamster feel his fob, The little cripple’s heart to cheer, Himself of penny pieces rob, That he begrudged to spend in beer; His boy, too, might be sick or sore, So gave he of his thrifty store.

A sheep-worn walk along the brook The cripple loved, for there the gush Of water thralled him as it shook The ragged roots of the green rush, Which with its triple flowers of pink Stood ripe for gathering at the brink.

The heather bristles round the knoll, Where inlaid moss and leaflets blend: ’Tis there he sits and ends his stroll, His crutch beside him as his friend, And looks upon the other bank, Where blue forget-me-not grows rank;

Where purple loosestrife paints the sedge;— Where bryony and yellow bine, Locked in blush-bramble, climb the hedge, And white convolvulus enshrine. Nestled in leaves, they all appear Each other’s flowers to nurse and rear.

There mused he like a child of yore— By Nature’s simple teachings led; The cog and wheel of human lore Not yet were stirring in his head; The Shaper of his destiny He felt was smiling from the sky.

There with soft notes his fife he fills, A mere tin plaything from the mart, But his thin fingers as it thrills, To that poor toy a grace impart, While it obeys his lips’ control, And is a crutch unto his soul.

At church he longed his fife to try, Where oboe gave its doleful note, Where fiddle scraped harsh melody, Where bass the rustic vitals smote. Such old-day music was in vogue, And psalms were sung in village brogue.

His cheerful ways gave many cause For wonder; such ill-founded joy To others’ mirth would give a pause: His soul seemed lent him for a toy, Though on his infant face was age To mark him for life’s latter stage.