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,
    'What is it,' said I, 'that you bear,
    Beneath the covert of your Cloak,
    Protected from this cold damp air? '
    She anwered, 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 weary miles to see
If aught which he had owned might still remain for me.

    The bird and cage they both were his:
    'Twas my Son's bird; and neat and trim
    He kept it: many voyages
    The singing-bird had gone with him;
    When last he sailed, he left the bird behind;
From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.

    He to a fellow-lodger's care
    Had left it, to be watched and fed,
    And pipe its song in safety;---there
    I found it when my Son was dead;
    And now, God help me for my little wit!
I bear it with me, Sir;---he took so much delight in it.'