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.
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