Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 1, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/84

32 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.

Oh joy for her! whene'er in winter

The winds at night had made a rout,

And scatter'd 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 before hand, wood or stick,

Enough to warm her for three days.