Page:Wessex poems and other verses (IA wessexpoemsother00hard).pdf/121

 She had sighed that she wished (lest the child should pine Of slights) 'twere mine, So I said: "But the father I.

"That you thought it yours is the way of men; But I won her troth long ere your day: You learnt how, in dying, she summoned me? 'Twas in fealty. —Sir, I've nothing more to say,

“Save that, if you'll hand me my little maid, I'll take her, and rear her, and spare you toil. Think it more than a friendly act none can; I'm a lonely man, While you've a large pot to boil.

"If not, and you'll put it to ball or blade— To-night, to-morrow night, anywhen— I'll meet you here. . . . But think of it, And in season fit Let me hear from you again."