The Sailor's Mother

One morning (raw it was and wet,A foggy day in winter time)A Woman on the road I met,Not old, though something past her prime:Majestic in her person, tall and straight;And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient Spirit is not dead;Old times, thought I, are breathing there;Proud was I that my country bredSuch strength, a dignity so fair:She begged an alms, like one in poor estate;I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke,With the first word I had to spareI said to her, "Beneath your CloakWhat's that which on your arm you bear?"She answered, soon as she the question heard,"A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird."

And, thus continuing, she said,"I had a Son, who many a daySailed on the seas; but he is dead;In Denmark he was cast away;And I have travelled far as Hull, to seeWhat clothes he might have left, or other property.

"The Bird and Cage they both were his;'Twas my Son's Bird; and neat and trimHe kept it: many voyagesHis Singing-bird hath gone with him;When last he sailed he left the Bird behind;As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind.

"He to a Fellow-lodger's careHad left it, to be watched and fed,Till he came back again; and thereI found it when my Son was dead;And now, God help me for my little wit!I trail it with me, Sir! he took so much delight in it."