The Sailor’s Mother

⁠   One morning (raw it was and wet,
⁠   A foggy day in winter time)
⁠   A Woman on 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 begged an alms, like one in poor estate;
I looked 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 answered, 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
⁠   Sailed on the seas; but he is dead;
⁠   In Denmark he was cast away;
⁠   And I have travelled 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
⁠   His Singing-bird hath gone with him;
⁠   When last he sailed 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 watched 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.”