by G.A.B.
Originally published in The Quiver (John Cassell) vol.1 #2 (30 Sep 1865).
Under the beeches,
By the old mound,
Where the branch reaches
Near to the ground.
Past rustling holly,
Day waning fast,
Where little Polly
Finds seat at last.
Ruddy dry leaves
Thick on the ground,
Wheat in gold sheaves
Shining around.
Here, in her rambles,
Through ferns she raced,
But on the brambles
Trod not in haste.
Slow through the bracken,
Out from the farm;
Pace they don't slacken,
Soft, arm in arm,
Father and mother—
Past the old mound
Where British warrior
Lies underground—
Came to their darling,
Sitting in state;
Overhead starling
Skying home late.
O'er the fern, pheasant
Scattered away;
Homeward went peasant,
Late in the day.
"See little Mary,"
Wifey then said,
"Fern-covered fairy,
Good little maid.
"Here, love, we stray'd,
Five summers syne;
Then, dear, I said,
I would be thine.
"Summers have been,
Summers have gone;
Nor have we seen
One day forlorn.
"Here 'twas you said
You would be true,
Ask'd me not wed
Other but you."
Goodman stroll'd, calm,
No word nor joke;
Wife on his arm,
Long ere he spoke.
"Low is the sun, love,
Rosy clouds see;
Come, wife, and Polly dove,
Home to our tea."