The seed's waste, I know, boys,
There's not a blade will grow, boys,

'Tis cropp'd out, I trow, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

Send the colt to fair, boys,

He's going blind, as I said,
My old eyes can't bear, boys,
To see him in the shed;
The cow's dry and spare, boys,
She's neither here nor there, boys,
I doubt she's badly bred;

Stop the mill to-morn, boys,
There'll be no more corn, boys,

Neither white nor red;

There's no sign of grass, boys,

You may sell the goat and the ass, boys, The land's not what it was, boys,

And the beasts must be fed; You may turn Peg away, boys,

You may pay off old Ned, We've had a dull day, boys,

And Tommy's dead.

Move my chair on the floor, boys,

Let me turn my head;

She's standing there in the door, boys,

Your sister Winifred!

Take her away from me, boys,

Your sister Winifred!

Move me round in my place, boys,
Let me turn my head,

Take her away from me, boys,

As she lay on her death-bed,
The bones of her thin face, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed!
I don't know how it be, boys,
When all's done and said,

But I see her looking at me, boys,
head;

Wherever I turn my

Out of the big oak tree, boys,
Out of the garden bed,

And the lily as pale as she, boys,
And the rose that used to be red.

There's something not right, boys, But I think it's not in my head, I've kept my precious sight, boys,The Lord be hallowéd!

Outside and in

The ground is cold to my tread,

The hills are wizen and thin,

The sky is shrivell'd and shred, The hedges down by the loan I can count them bone by bone, The leaves are open and spread, But I see the teeth of the land, And hands like a dead man's hand, And the eyes of a dead man's head. There's nothing but cinders and sand, The rat and the mouse have fed, And the summer's empty and cold; Over valley and wold

Wherever I turn my head

There's a mildew and a mould,

The sun's going out overhead, And I'm very old,

And Tommy's dead.

What am I staying for, boys?
You're all born and bred,
'Tis fifty years and more, boys,
Since wife and I were wed,
And she's gone before, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

She was always sweet, boys,
Upon his curly head,

She knew she'd never see't, boys,
And she stole off to bed;
I've been sitting up alone, boys,
For he'd come home, he said,
But it's time I was gone, boys,
For Tommy's dead.

Put the shutters up, boys,

Bring out the beer and bread,

Make haste and sup, boys,

For my eyes are heavy as lead; There's something wrong i' the cup, boys,

There's something ill wi' the bread,

I don't care to sup, boys,

And Tommy's dead.

I'm not right, I doubt, boys,
I've such a sleepy head,

I shall nevermore be stout, boys,

You may carry me to bed.
What are you about, boys?

The prayers are all said,
The fire's raked out, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

The stairs are too steep, boys,
You may carry me to the head,
The night's dark and deep, boys,
Your mother's long in bed,
'Tis time to go to sleep, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

I'm not used to kiss, boys,

You may shake my hand instead.

All things go amiss, boys,

You may lay me where she is, boys,

And I'll rest my old head :

'Tis a poor world, this, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

SIDNEY DObell

MY CHILD.

I CANNOT make him dead:

His fair sunshiny head

Is ever bounding round my study-chair:

Yet, when my eyes, now dim

With tears, I turn to him,

The vision vanishes-he is not there!

I walk my parlor floor,

And through the open door

I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;
I'm stepping toward the hall

To give the boy a call;

And then bethink me that-he is not there!

I thread the crowded street;

A satchell'd lad I meet,

With the same beaming eyes and color'd hair:
And, as he's running by,

Follow him with my eye,
Scarcely believing that—he is not there!

I know his face is hid

Under the coffin-lid;

Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;
My hand that marble felt;

O'er it in prayer I knelt;

Yet my heart whispers that he is not there!

I cannot make him dead!

When passing by the bed,

So long watch'd over with parental care,
My spirit and my eye

Seek it inquiringly,

Before the thought comes that he is not there!

When, at the cool, gray break

Of day, from sleep I wake,