Why, then you have outlasted All his improvements, for you see they're making Great alterations here.
And if my poor old lady could rise up
God rest her soul!-'twould grieve her to behold
The wicked work is here.
They've set about it
All the front is gone:
tell me, and a road
There were some yew-trees, too,
In right good earnest.
Here's to be turf, they
Round to the door.
Stood in the court.
Aye, master! fine old trees!
My grandfather could just remember back
When they were planted there. It was my task
To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me:
All straight and smooth, and like a great green wall!
My poor old lady many a time would come
And tell me where to shear; for she had played
In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride
To keep them in their beauty. Plague, I say,
On their new-fangled whimsies! We shall have
A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs
And your pert poplar trees. I could as soon
Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down!
But 'twill be lighter and more cheerful now—
A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road
Round for the carriage-now it suits my taste.
I like a shrubbery, too, it looks so fresh;
And then there's some variety about it.
In spring the lilac and the Gueldres rose,
And the laburnum with its golden flowers
Waving in the wind. And when the autumn comes,
The bright red berries of the mountain ash,
With firs enough in winter to look green,
And show that something lives. Sure this is better
Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look
All the year round like winter, and for ever
Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs
So dry and bare!
Ah! so the new squire thinks;
And pretty work he makes of it. What 'tis
To have a stranger come to an old house!
It seems you know him not?
They tell me he's expected daily now;
But in my lady's time he never came
But once, for they were very distant kin.
If he had played about here when a child
In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries,
And sate in the porch threading the jessamine flowers,
That fell so thick, he had not had the heart
Come-come! all is not wrong.
They're demolish'd too,—
As if he could not see through casement glass!
The very red-breasts that so regular
Came to my lady for her morning crumbs,
Wont know the window now!
And then so darken'd up with jessamine,
Harbouring the vermin. That was a fine tree,
However. Did it not grow in and line
All over it: it did one good
within ten yards when 'twas in blossom.
There was a sweet-brier, too, that grew beside:
My lady loved at evening to sit there
And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet
And slept in the sun- -'twas an old favourite dog:
She did not love him less that he was old
And feeble, and he always had a place
By the fire-side, and when he died at last
She made me dig a grave in the garden for him.
Ah! she was good to all! a woful day
'Twas for the poor when to her grave she went!
They lost a friend then ?
Or you wouldn't ask that question. Were they sick?
She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs
She could have taught the doctors. Then at winter,
When weekly she distributed the bread
In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear
The blessings on her! And I warrant them
They were a blessing to her when her wealth
Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, sir!
It would have warm'd your heart if you had seen
Her Christmas kitchen; how the blazing fire
Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs
So cheerful red; and as for mistletoe,
The finest bough that grew in the country round
Was mark'd for madam. Then her old ale went
So bountiful about! a Christmas cask,-
And 'twas a noble one!-God help me, sir!
But I shall never see such days again.
Things may be better yet than you suppose,
And you should hope the best.
These alterations, sir! I'm an old man
And love the good old fashions; we don't find
Old bounty in new houses. They've destroyed
All that my lady loved; her favourite walk
Grubb'd up, and they do say that the great row
Of elms behind the house, that meet a-top,
They must fall too. Well! well! I did not think
To live to see all this; and 'tis, perhaps,
A comfort I sha'n't live to see it long.
But sure all changes are not needs for the worse,
My friend.
Mayhap they mayn't, sir;-for all that,
I like what I've been used to. I remember
All this from a child up; and now to lose it,
'Tis losing an old friend. There's nothing left
As 'twas. I go abroad and only meet
With men whose fathers I remember boys;
The brook that used to run before my door,
That's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt
To climb are down; and I see nothing now
That tells me of old times, except the stones
In the churchyard. You are young, sir, and I hope,
Have many years in store; but pray to God
You mayn't be left the last of all your friends.
Well! well! you've one friend more than you're aware of.
If the squire's taste don't suit with yours, I warrant
That's all you'll quarrel with: walk in and taste
His beer, old friend! and see if your old lady
E'er broached a better cask.
But we're acquainted now.
You did not know me, "Twould not be easy
To make you like the outside; but within-
That is not changed, my friend! you'll always find
The same old bounty and old welcome there.
HARRY! I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round
The fire; and grandmamma, perhaps, will tell us
One of her stories.
Ay, dear grandmamma!
A pretty story: something dismal now;
A bloody murder.
Nay, nay, I should but frighten ye.
The other night when I was telling ye
About the light in the churchyard, how
Because the screech-owl hooted at the window,
And would not go to-bed.
You said yourself you did not like to hear him.
Pray now! we wont be frightened.
But you've heard all my stories. Let me see,-
Did I never tell you how the smuggler murdered
The woman down at Pill?
Not how he cut her head off in the stable ?
Oh!-now!-do tell us that!
Your mother, children! often tell of her.
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