Young Harry was a lusty drover, And who so stout of limb as he? His cheeks were red as ruddy clover; His voice was like the voice of three. Old Goody Blake was old and poor; Ill fed she was, and thinly clad; And any man who passed her door Might see how poor a hut she had. All day she spun in her poor dwelling: And then her three hours' work at night, Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling, It would not pay for candle-light. Remote from sheltered village-green, On a hill's northern side she dwelt, Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, And hoary dews are slow to melt. By the same fire to boil their pottage, Two poor old Dames, as I have known, Will often live in one small cottage; But she, poor Woman! housed alone. Twas well enough when summer came, The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, Then at her door the canty Dame Would sit, as any linnet, gay. But when the ice our streams did fetter, Oh then how her old bones would shake! You would have said, if you had met her, 'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. Her evenings then were dull and dead: Sad case it was, as you may think, For very cold to go to bed; And then for cold not sleep a wink. О joy for her! whene'er in winter The winds at night had made a rout; And scattered many a lusty splinter And many a rotten bough about. Yet never had she, well or sick, As every man who knew her says, A pile beforehand, turf or stick, Enough to warm her for three days. Now, when the frost was past enduring, And made her poor old bones to ache, Could any thing be more alluring Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? And, now and then, it must be said, When her old bones were cold and chill, She left her fire, or left her bed, To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. Now Harry he had long suspected This trespass of old Goody Blake; And vowed that she should be detected — That he on her would vengeance take. And oft from his warm fire he'd go, And to the fields his road would take; And there, at night, in frost and snow, He watched to seize old Goody Blake. And once, behind a rick of barley, Thus looking out did Harry stand: The moon was full and shining clearly, And crisp with frost the stubble land. — He hears a noise-he's all awake — Again? — on tip-toe down the hill He softly creeps — 'tis Goody Blake; She's at the hedge of Harry Gill! Right glad was he when he beheld her: Stick after stick did Goody pull: He stood behind a bush of elder, Till she had filled her apron full. When with her load she turned about, The by-way back again to take; He started forward, with a shout, And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. And fiercely by the arm he took her, And by the arm he held her fast, And fiercely by the arm he shook her, And cried, 'I've caught you then at last!' — Then Goody, who had nothing said, Her bundle from her lap let fall; And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed To God that is the judge of all.
