| |
| YOU may give over plough, boys, | |
| You may take the gear to the stead, | |
| All the sweat o’ your brow, boys, | |
| Will never get beer and bread. | |
| The seed’s waste, I know, boys, | 5 |
| There ’s not a blade will grow, boys, | |
| ’T is cropp’d out, I trow, boys, | |
| And Tommy ’s dead. | |
| |
| Send the colt to fair, boys, | |
| He ’s going blind, as I said, | 10 |
| My old eyes can’t bear, boys, | |
| To see him in the shed; | |
| The cow ’s dry and spare, boys, | |
| She ’s neither here nor there, boys, | |
| I doubt she ’s badly bred; | 15 |
| |
| Stop the mill to-morn, boys, | |
| There ’ll be no more corn, boys, | |
| Neither white nor red; | |
| There ’s no sign of grass, boys, | |
| You may sell the goat and the ass, boys, | 20 |
| The land ’s not what it was, boys, | |
| And the beasts must be fed: | |
| You may turn Peg away, boys, | |
| You may pay off old Ned, | |
| We ’ve had a dull day, boys, | 25 |
| And Tommy ’s dead. | |
| |
| Move my chair on the floor, boys, | |
| Let me turn my head: | |
| She ’s standing there in the door, boys, | |
| Your sister Winifred! | 30 |
| Take her away from me, boys, | |
| Your sister Winifred! | |
| Move me round in my place, boys, | |
| Let me turn my head, | |
| Take her away from me, boys, | 35 |
| AS she lay on her death-bed, | |
| The bones of her thin face, boys, | |
| As she lay on her death-bed! | |
| I don’t know how it be, boys, | |
| When all ’s done and said, | 40 |
| But I see her looking at me, boys, | |
| Wherever I turn my head; | |
| Out of the big oak-tree, boys, | |
| Out of the garden-bed, | |
| And the lily as pale as she, boys, | 45 |
| And the rose that used to be red. | |
| |
| There ’s something not right, boys, | |
| But I think it ’s not in my head, | |
| I ’ve kept my precious sight, boys— | |
| The lord be hallowed! | 50 |
| Outside and in | |
| The ground is cold to my tread, | |
| The hills are wizen and thin, | |
| The sky is shrivell’d and shred, | |
| The hedges down by the loan | 55 |
| I can count them bone by bone, | |
| The leaves are open and spread, | |
| But I see the teeth of the land, | |
| And hands like a dead man’s head. | |
| And the eyes of a dead man’s head. | 60 |
| There ’s nothing but cinders and sand, | |
| The rat and the mouse have fed, | |
| And the summer ’s empty and cold; | |
| Over valley and wold | |
| Wherever I turn my head | 65 |
| There ’s a mildew and a mould, | |
| The sun ’s going out overhead, | |
| And I ’m very old, | |
| And Tommy ’s dead. | |
| |
| What am I staying for, boys? | 70 |
| You ’re all born and bred, | |
| ’T is fifty years and more, boys, | |
| Since wife and I were wed, | |
| And she ’s gone before, boys, | |
| And Tommy ’s dead. | 75 |
| |
| She was always sweet, boys, | |
| Upon his curly head, | |
| She knew she ’d never see ’t, boys, | |
| And she stole off to bed; | |
| I ’ve been sitting up alone, boys, | 80 |
| For he ’d come home, he said, | |
| But it ’s time I was gone, boys, | |
| For Tommy ’s dead. | |
| |
| Put the shutters up, boys, | |
| Bring out the beer and bread, | 85 |
| Make haste and sup, boys, | |
| For my eyes are heavy as lead; | |
| There ’s something wrong i’ the cup, boys, | |
| There ’s something ill wi’ the bread, | |
| I don’t care to sup, boys, | 90 |
| And Tommy ’s dead. | |
| |
| I ’m not right, I doubt, boys, | |
| I ’ve such a sleepy head, | |
| I shall never more be stout, boys, | |
| You may carry me to bed. | 95 |
| What are you about, boys? | |
| The prayers are all said, | |
| The fire ’s rak’d out, boys, | |
| And Tommy ’s dead. | |
| |
| The stairs are too steep, boys, | 100 |
| You may carry me to the head, | |
| The night ’s dark and deep, boys, | |
| Your mother’s long in bed, | |
| ’T is time to go sleep, boys, | |
| And Tommy ’s dead. | 105 |
| |
| I ’m not us’d to kiss, boys, | |
| You may shake my hand instead. | |
| All things go amiss, boys, | |
| You may lay me where she is, boys, | |
| And I ’ll rest my old head: | 110 |
| ’T is a poor world, this, boys, | |
| And Tommy ’s dead. | |
| |
