The Wedding

Traveller.
I pray you, wherefore are the village bells
Ringing so merrily ?

Woman.
A wedding, Sir, —
Two of the village folk. And they are right
To make a merry time on't while they may !
Come twelve-months hence, I warrant them they'd go
To church again more willingly than now, if all might be undone.

Traveller.
An ill-match'd pair,
So I conceive you. Youth perhaps and age ?

Woman.
Ho, — both are young enough.

Traveller.
Perhaps the man, then,
A lazy idler, — one who better likes
The alehouse than his work ?

Woman.
Why, Sir, for that.
He always was a well-condition'd lad.
One who'd work hard and well ; and as for drink.
Save now and then, mayhap, at Christmas time,
Sober as wife could wish.

Traveller.
Then is the girl
A shrew, or else untidy ; — one to welcome
Her husband with a rude, unruly tongue,
Or drive him from a foul and wretched home
To look elsewhere for comfort. Is it so ?

Woman.
She's notable enough ; and as for temper,
The best good-humour'd girl ! You see yon house,
There by the aspen-tree, whose gray leaves shine
In the wind ? she lived a servant at the farm.
And often, as I came to weeding here,
I've heard her singing as she milk'd her cows
So cheerfully. I did not like to hear her.
Because it made me think upon the days
When I had got as little on my mind,
And was as cheerful too. But she would marry.
And folks must reap as they have sown. God help her !

Traveller.
Why, Mistress, if they both are well inclined,
Why should not both be happy ?

Woman.
They've no money.

Traveller.
But both can work ; and sure as cheerfully
She'd labour for herself as at the farm.
And he won't work the worse because he knows
That she will make his fire-side ready for him,
And watch for his return.

Woman.
All very well,
A little while.

Traveller.
And what if they are poor ?
Riches can't always purchase happiness ;
And much we know will be expected there
Where much was given.

Woman.
All this I have heard at church !
And when i walk in the church-yard, or have been
By a death-bed, 'tis mighty comforting.
But when I hear my children cry for hunger,
And see them shiver in their rags, — God help me !
I pity those for whom these bells ring up
So merrily upon their wedding-day,
Because I think of mine.

Traveller.
You have known trouble ;
These haply may be happier.

Woman.
Why, for that,
I've had my share ; some sickness and some sorrow.
Well will it be for them to know no worse.
Yet I had rather hear a daughter's knell
Than her wedding-peal. Sir, if I thought her fate
Promised no better things.

Traveller.
Sure, sure, good woman,
You look upon the world with jaundiced eyes !
All have their cares; those who are poor want wealth;
They who have wealth want more ; so are we all
Dissatisfied ; yet all live on, and each
Has his own comforts.

Woman.
Sir ! d'ye see that horse
Turn'd out to common here by the way -side ?
He's high in bone ; you may tell every rib
Even at this distance. Mind him ! how he turns
His head, to drive away the flies that feed
On his gall'd shoulder ; There's just grass enough
To disappoint his whetted appetite.
You see his comforts, Sir !

Traveller.
A wretched beast !
Hard labour and worse usage he endures
From some bad master. But the lot of the poor
Is not like his.

Woman.
In truth it is not, Sir !
For when the horse lies down at night, no cares
About to-morrow vex him in his dreams :
He knows no quarter-day ; and when he gets
Some musty hay or patch of hedge-row grass,
He has no hungry children to claim part
Of his half meal !

Traveller.
'Tis idleness makes want,
And idle habits, if the man will go
And spend his evenings by the alehouse fire,
Whom can he blame if there be want at home ?

Woman.
Ah ! idleness ! the rich folks never fail
To find some reason why the poor deserve
Their miseries ! — Is it idleness, I pray you,
That brings the fever or the ague fit?
That makes the sick one's sickly appetite
From dry bread and potatoes turn away ?
Is it idleness that makes small wages fail
For growing wants ? — Six years agone, these bells
Rung on my wedding-day, and I was told
What I might look for; but I did not heed
Good counsel. I had lived in service. Sir ;
Knew never what it was to want a meal ;
Lay down without one thought to keep me sleepless,
Or trouble me in sleep ; had for a Sunday
My linen gown, and when the pedlar came.
Could buy me a new ribbon. And my husband, —
A towardly young man, and well to do, —
He had his silver buckles and his watch ;
There was not in the village one who look'd
Sprucer on holidays. We married. Sir,
And we had children ; but while wants increased.
Wages stood still. The silver buckles went;
So went the watch ; and when the holiday coat
Was worn to work, no new one in its place.
For me — you see my rags ! but I deserve them.
For wilfully, like this new-married pair,
I went to my undoing.

Traveller.
But the parish —

Woman.
Ay, it falls heavy there ; and yet their pittance
Just serves to keep life in. A blessed prospect.
To slave while there is strength; in age the workhouse;
A parish shell at last, and the little bell
Toll'd hastily for a pauper's funeral !

Traveller.
Is this your child ?

Woman.
Ay, Sir ; and were he drest
And clean'd, he'd be as fine a boy to look on
As the Squire's young master. These thin rags of his
Let comfortably in the summer wind ;
But when the winter comes, it pinches me
To see the little wretch. I've three besides;
And, — God forgive me ! but I often wish
To see them in their coffins — God reward you!
God bless you for your charity !

Traveller.
You have taught me
To give sad meaning to the village bells !