Down the green hill-side fro’ the castle window
Lady Jane spied Bill Amaranth a-workin’;
Day by day watched him go about his ample
Cabbages thriv’d there, wi’ a mort o’ green-stuff–
Kidney beans, broad beans, onions, tomatoes,
Artichokes, seakale, vegetable marrows,
Lady Jane cared not very much for all these:
What she cared much for was a glimpse o’ Willum
Strippin’ his brown arms wi’ a view to horti-
Little guessed Willum, never extra-vain, that
Up the green hill-side, i’ the gloomy castle,
Feminine eyes could so delight to view his
Only one day while, in an innocent mood,
Moppin’ his brow (‘cos ’twas a trifle sweaty)
With a blue kerchief–lo, he spies a white ‘un
Oh, delightsome Love! Not a jot do you care
For the restrictions set on human inter-
-course by cold-blooded social refiners;
Nor do I, neither.
Day by day, peepin’ fro’ behind the bean-sticks,
Willum observed that scrap o’ white a-wavin’,
Till his hot sighs out-growin’ all repression
Busted his weskit.
Lady Jane’s guardian was a haughty Peer, who
Clung to old creeds and had a nasty temper;
Can we blame Willum that he hardly cared to
Risk a refusal?
Year by year found him busy ‘mid the bean-sticks,
Wholly uncertain how on earth to take steps.
Thus for eighteen years he beheld the maiden
Wave fro’ her window.
But the nineteenth spring, i’ the Castle post-bag,
Came by book-post Bill’s catalogue o’ seedlings
Mark’d wi’ blue ink at ‘Paragraphs relatin’
Mainly to Pumpkins.’
‘W. A. can,’ so the Lady Jane read,
‘Strongly commend that very noble Gourd, the
Lady Jane, first-class medal, ornamental;
Grows to a great height.’
Scarce a year arter, by the scented hedgerows–
Down the mown hill-side, fro’ the castle gateway–
Came a long train and, i’ the midst, a black bier,
‘Whose is yon corse that, thus adorned wi’ gourd-leaves,
Forth ye bear with slow step?’ A mourner answer’d,
”Tis the poor clay-cold body Lady Jane grew
Tired to abide in.’
‘Delve my grave quick, then, for I die to-morrow.
Delve it one furlong fro’ the kidney bean-sticks,
Where I may dream she’s goin’ on precisely
As she was used to.’
Hardly died Bill when, fro’ the Lady Jane’s grave,
Crept to his white death-bed a lovely pumpkin:
Climb’d the house wall and over-arched his head wi’
Simple this tale!–but delicately perfumed
As the sweet roadside honeysuckle. That’s why,
Difficult though its metre was to tackle,
I’m glad I wrote it.