One morning (raw it was and wet, A foggy day in winter time) A Woman in 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 bred Such strength, a dignity so fair: She begg'd an alms, like one in poor estate; I look'd at her again, nor did my pride abate. When from these lofty thoughts I woke, With the first word I had to spare I said to her, "Beneath your Cloak What's that which on your arm you bear?" She answer'd 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 day Sail'd on the seas; but he is dead; In Denmark he was cast away; And I have been as far as Hull, to see What clothes he might have left, or other property. "The Bird and Cage they both were his; 'Twas my Son's Bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages This Singing-bird hath gone with him; When last he sail'd he left the Bird behind; As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind." "He to a Fellow-lodger's care Had left it, to be watch'd and fed, Till he came back again; and there I 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.