No More Learning

There's no one knows, as I have said, 1798. ]


[Variant 21:

1827.

. . . I've described . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 22:

1845.

. . . in faith, . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 23:

1798.

In truth, it was . . . 1800.

The edition of 1815 returns to the text of 1798. ]


[Variant 24:

1827.

. . . and what's the pond?
And what's the hill of moss to her?
And what's the . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 25:

1800.

I've heard the scarlet moss is red 1798. ]


[Variant 26:

1845.

But then the beauteous hill of moss 1798.

It might not be--the Hill of moss 1827.

But then the beauteous Hill of moss 1832.
(Returning to the text of 1798. )

But then the speckled hill of moss 1836. ]


[Variant 27:

1827.

But . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 28:

1845.

. . . is buried . . . 1798. ]


* * * * *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A:

"March 19, 1798. William and Basil and I walked to the hill tops. A
very cold bleak day. William wrote some lines describing a stunted
Thorn" (Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal). --Ed.

"April 20. Walked in the evening up the hill dividing the coombes.
Came home the Crookham way, by the Thorn, and the little muddy pond"
(Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal). --Ed. ]


* * * * *


SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE VARIANT

[Sub-Footnote i: Compare in Burger's 'Pfarrer's Tochter', "drei Spannen
lang," and see Appendix V. --Ed. ]





* * * * *





GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL

A TRUE STORY


Composed 1798. --Published 1798.


[Written at Alfoxden. The incident from Dr. Darwin's 'Zoonomia'. --I.
F. ]

See Erasmus Darwin's 'Zoonomia', vol. iv. pp. 68-69, ed. 1801. It is the
story of a man named Tullis, narrated by an Italian, Signer L. Storgosi,
in a work called 'Il Narratore Italiano'.

"I received good information of the truth of the following case, which
was published a few years ago in the newspapers. A young farmer in
Warwickshire, finding his hedges broke, and the sticks carried away
during a frosty season, determined to watch for the thief. He lay many
cold hours under a haystack, and at length an old woman, like a witch
in a play, approached, and began to pull up the hedge; he waited till
she had tied up her bundle of sticks, and was carrying them off, that
he might convict her of the theft, and then springing from his
concealment, he seized his prey with violent threats. After some
altercation, in which her load was left upon the ground, she kneeled
upon her bundle of sticks, and raising her arms to Heaven, beneath the
bright moon then at the full, spoke to the farmer, already shivering
with cold, 'Heaven grant that thou mayest never know again the
blessing to be warm. ' He complained of cold all the next day, and wore
an upper coat, and in a few days another, and in a fortnight took to
his bed, always saying nothing made him warm; he covered himself with
many blankets, and had a sieve over his face as he lay; and from this
one insane idea he kept his bed above twenty years for fear of the
cold air, till at length he died. "

In the "Advertisement" to the first edition of "Lyrical Ballads,"
Wordsworth says, "The tale of 'Goody Blake and Harry Gill' is founded on
a well-authenticated fact which happened in Warwickshire. "

The following curious letter appeared in the 'Ipswich Magazine' of April
1799:

"IPSWICH, April 2, 1799.

"To the Editors of the 'Ipswich Magazine'.

"GENTLEMEN--The scarcity of Coal at this time, and the piercing cold
of the weather, cannot fail to be some apology for the depredations
daily committed on the hedges in the neighbourhood. If ever it be
permitted, it ought in the present season. Should there be any Farmer
more rigorous than the rest, let him attend to the poetical story
inserted in page 118 of this Magazine, and tremble at the fate of
Farmer Gill, who was about to prosecute a poor old woman for a similar
offence. The thing is a fact, and told by one of the first physicians
of the present day, as having happened in the south of England, 'and
which has, a short time since', been turned by a _lyric poet_ into
that excellent ballad. "

From 1815 to 1843, this poem was classed among those of "the
Imagination. " In 1845 it was transferred to the list of "Miscellaneous
Poems. "--Ed.


* * * * *

THE POEM


Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 5
Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 10
The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 15
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three. 20
Old [1] Goody Blake was old and poor;
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling: 25
And then her three hours' work at night,
Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle-light.
Remote from sheltered village-green,
On a hill's northern side she dwelt, 30
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt. [2]

By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old Dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one small cottage; 35
But she, poor Woman! housed [3] alone.
'Twas well enough when summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
Then at her door the _canty_ Dame
Would sit, as any linnet, gay. 40

But when the ice our streams did fetter,
Oh then how her old bones would shake;
You would have said, if you had met her,
'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.
Her evenings then were dull and dead: 45
Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed;
And then for cold not sleep a wink.

O joy for her! whene'er in winter
The winds at night had made a rout; 50
And scattered many a lusty splinter
And many a rotten bough about.
Yet never had she, well or sick,
As every man who knew her says,
A pile beforehand, turf [4] or stick, 55
Enough to warm her for three days.

Now, when the frost was past enduring,
And made her poor old bones to ache,
Could anything be more alluring
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? 60
And, now and then, it must be said,
When her old bones were cold and chill,
She left her fire, or left her bed,
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

Now Harry he had long suspected 65
This trespass of old Goody Blake;
And vowed that she should be detected--
That [5] he on her would vengeance take.
And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
And to the fields his road would take; 70
And there, at night, in frost and snow,
He watched to seize old Goody Blake.

And once, behind a rick of barley,
Thus looking out did Harry stand:
The moon was full and shining clearly, 75
And crisp with frost the stubble land.
--He hears a noise--he's all awake--
Again? --on tip-toe down the hill
He softly creeps--'tis Goody Blake;
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill! 80

Right glad was he when he beheld her:
Stick after stick did Goody pull:
He stood behind a bush of elder,
Till she had filled her apron full.
When with her load she turned about, 85
The by-way [6] back again to take;
He started forward, with a shout,
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

And fiercely by the arm he took her,
And by the arm he held her fast, 90
And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
And cried, "I've caught you then at last! "
Then Goody, who had nothing said,
Her bundle from her lap let fall;
And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 95
To God that is the judge of all.

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
While Harry held her by the arm--
"God! who art never out of hearing,
O may he never more be warm! " 100
The cold, cold moon above her head,
Thus on her knees did Goody pray;
Young Harry heard what she had said:
And icy cold he turned away.

He went complaining all the morrow 105
That he was cold and very chill:
His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
Alas! that day for Harry Gill!
That day he wore a riding-coat,
But not a whit the warmer he: 110
Another was on Thursday brought,
And ere the Sabbath he had three.

'Twas all in vain, a useless matter,
And blankets were about him pinned;
Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 115
Like a loose casement in the wind.
And Harry's flesh it fell away;
And all who see him say, 'tis plain
That, live as long as live he may,
He never will be warm again. 120

No word to any man he utters,
A-bed or up, to young or old;
But ever to himself he mutters,
"Poor Harry Gill is very cold. "
A-bed or up, by night or day; 125
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill! [A]


* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1802.

Auld 1798. ]


[Variant 2:

1836

--This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,
Her hut was on a cold hill-side,
And in that country coals are dear,
For they come far by wind and tide. 1798.

Remote from sheltering village green,
Upon a bleak hill-side, she dwelt,
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt. 1820.

On a hill's northern side she dwelt. 1827. ]


[Variant 3.

1820.

. . . dwelt . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 4.

1827.

. . . wood . . . 1798]


[Variant 5.

1836.

And . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 6.

1827.

The bye-road . . . 1798. ]


* * * * *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare the many entries about "gathering sticks" in the
Alfoxden woods, in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal. --Ed. ]





* * * * *





HER EYES ARE WILD


Composed 1798. --Published 1798.


[Written at Alfoxden. The subject was reported to me by a lady of
Bristol, who had seen the poor creature. --I. F. ]

From 1798 to 1805 this poem was published under the title of 'The Mad
Mother'.

In the editions of 1815 and 1820 it was ranked as one of the "Poems
founded on the Affections. " In the editions of 1827 and 1832, it was
classed as one of the "Poems of the Imagination. " In 1836 and
afterwards, it was replaced among the "Poems founded on the
Affections. "--Ed.


I Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from over the main.
She has a baby on her arm, 5
Or else she were alone:
And underneath the hay-stack warm,
And on the greenwood stone,
She talked and sung the woods among,
And it was in the English tongue. 10


II "Sweet babe! they say that I am mad
But nay, my heart is far too glad;
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing:
Then, lovely baby, do not fear! 15
I pray thee have no fear of me;
But safe as in a cradle, here
My lovely baby! thou shalt be:
To thee I know too much I owe;
I cannot work thee any woe. 20


III "A fire was once within my brain;
And in my head a dull, dull pain;
And fiendish faces, one, two, three,
Hung at my breast, [1] and pulled at me;
But then there came a sight of joy; 25
It came at once to do me good;
I waked, and saw my little boy,
My little boy of flesh and blood;
Oh joy for me that sight to see!
For he was here, and only he. 30


IV "Suck, little babe, oh suck again!
It cools my blood; it cools my brain;
Thy lips I feel them, baby! they
Draw from my heart the pain away.
Oh!
press me with thy little hand; 35
It loosens something at my chest;
About that tight and deadly band
I feel thy little fingers prest.
The breeze I see is in the tree:
It comes to cool my babe and me. 40


V "Oh! love me, love me, little boy!
Thou art thy mother's only joy;
And do not dread the waves below,
When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go;
The high crag cannot work me harm, 45
Nor leaping torrents when they howl;
The babe I carry on my arm,
He saves for me my precious soul;
Then happy lie; for blest am I;
Without me my sweet babe would die. 50


VI "Then do not fear, my boy! for thee
Bold as a lion will I be; [2]
And I will always be thy guide,
Through hollow snows and rivers wide.
I'll build an Indian bower; I know 55
The leaves that make the softest bed:
And, if from me thou wilt not go,
But still be true till I am dead,
My pretty thing! then thou shall sing
As merry as the birds in spring. 60


VII "Thy father cares not for my breast,
'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest;
'Tis all thine own! --and, if its hue
Be changed, that was so fair to view,
'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! 65
My beauty, little child, is flown,
But thou wilt live with me in love;
And what if my poor cheek be brown?
'Tis well for me, thou canst not see
How pale and wan it else would be. 70


VIII "Dread not their taunts, my little Life;
I am thy father's wedded wife;
And underneath the spreading tree
We two will live in honesty.
If his sweet boy he could forsake, 75
With me he never would have stayed:
From him no harm my babe can take;
But he, poor man! is wretched made;
And every day we two will pray
For him that's gone and far away. 80


IX "I'll teach my boy the sweetest things:
I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
My little babe! thy lips are still,
And thou hast almost sucked thy fill.
--Where art thou gone, my own dear child? 85
What wicked looks are those I see?
Alas! alas! that look so wild,
It never, never came from me:
If thou art mad, my pretty lad,
Then I must be for ever sad. 90


X "Oh! smile on me, my little lamb!
For I thy own dear mother am:
My love for thee has well been tried:
I've sought thy father far and wide.
I know the poisons of the shade; 95
I know the earth-nuts fit for food:
Then, pretty dear, be not afraid:
We'll find thy father in the wood.
Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away!
And there, my babe, we'll live for aye. " [A] 100


* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1.

1820.

. . . breasts . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 2.

1832.

. . . I will be; 1798. ]


* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A:

"For myself, I would rather have written 'The Mad Mother' than all the
works of all the Bolingbrokes and Sheridans, those brilliant meteors,
that have been exhaled from the morasses of human depravity since the
loss of Paradise. "

(S. T. C. to W. Godwin, 9th December 1800. ) See 'William Godwin: his
Friends and Contemporaries', vol. ii. p. 14. --Ed. ]





* * * * *





SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN;

WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED


Composed 1798. --Published 1798.


[This old man had been huntsman to the Squires of Alfoxden, which, at
the time we occupied it, belonged to a minor. The old man's cottage
stood upon the Common, a little way from the entrance to Alfoxden
Park. But it had disappeared. Many other changes had taken place in
the adjoining village, which I could not but notice with a regret more
natural than well-considered. Improvements but rarely appear such to
those who, after long intervals of time, revisit places they have had
much pleasure in. It is unnecessary to add, the fact was as mentioned
in the poem; and I have, after an interval of forty-five years, the
image of the old man as fresh before my eyes as if I had seen him
yesterday. The expression when the hounds were out, 'I dearly love
their voice,' was word for word from his own lips. --I. F. ]

This poem was classed among those of "Sentiment and Reflection. "--Ed.


* * * * *

THE POEM


In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An old Man dwells, a little man,--
'Tis said [1] he once was tall.
[2] Full five-and-thirty [3] years he lived 5
A running huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry. [4]

No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee: 10
When Echo bandied, round and round,
The halloo of Simon Lee.
In those proud days, he little cared
For husbandry or tillage;
To blither tasks did Simon rouse 15
The sleepers of the village. [5]

He all the country could outrun,
Could leave both man and horse behind;
And often, ere the chase [6] was done,
He reeled, and was stone blind. 20
And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices;
For when the chiming hounds are out,
He dearly loves their voices!

But, oh the heavy change! [A]--bereft 25
Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see! [7]
Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
His Master's dead,--and no one now
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; 30
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor. [8]

And [9] he is lean and he is sick;
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; 35
His legs are thin and dry.
One prop he has, and only one,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common. [10] 40

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Not twenty paces from the door,
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.
This scrap of land he from the heath 45
Enclosed when he was stronger;
But what to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer? [11]

Oft, working by her Husband's side,
Ruth does what Simon cannot do; 50
For she, with scanty cause for pride, [12]
Is stouter of the two.
And, though you with your utmost skill
From labour could not wean them,
'Tis little, very little--all 55
That they can do between them. [13]

Few months of life has he in store
As he to you will tell,
For still, the more he works, the more
Do his weak ankles swell. [14] 60
My gentle Reader, I perceive
How patiently you've waited,
And now I fear [15] that you expect
Some tale will be related.

O Reader! had you in your mind 65
Such stores as silent thought can bring,[B]
O gentle Reader! you would find
A tale in every thing.
What more I have to say is short,
And you must [16] kindly take it: 70
It is no tale; but, should you think, [17]
Perhaps a tale you'll make it.

One summer-day I chanced to see
This old Man doing all he could
To unearth the root [18] of an old tree, 75
A stump of rotten wood.
The mattock tottered in his hand;
So vain was his endeavour,
That at the root of the old tree
He might have worked for ever. 80

"You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
Give me your tool," to him I said;
And at the word right gladly he
Received my proffered aid.
I struck, and with a single blow 85
The tangled root I severed,
At which the poor old Man so long
And vainly had endeavoured.

The tears into his eyes were brought,
And thanks and praises seemed to run 90
So fast out of his heart, I thought
They never would have done.
--I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
With coldness still returning;
Alas! the gratitude of men 95
Hath oftener [19] left me mourning. [C]


* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

I've heard . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 2: In editions 1798 to 1815 the following is inserted:

Of years he has upon his back,
No doubt, a burthen weighty;
He says he is three score and ten,
But others say he's eighty.

A long blue livery-coat has he,
That's fair behind, and fair before;
Yet, meet him where you will, you see
At once that he is poor. ]


[Variant 3:

1827.

. . . five and twenty . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 4:

1845.

And, though he has but one eye left,
His cheek is like a cherry. 1798.

And still the centre of his cheek
Is blooming as a cherry. 1820. ]


[Variant 5:

1827.

No man like him the horn could sound,
And no man was so full of glee;
To say the least, four counties round
Had heard of Simon Lee;
His master's dead, and no one now
Dwells in the hall of Ivor;
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor. 1798.

Worn out by hunting feats--bereft
By time of friends and kindred, see!
Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
His Master's dead, . . . 1827.

The fourth stanza of the final edition being second in 1827, and the
second stanza being third in 1827. ]


[Variant 6:

1827.

. . . race . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 7:

Of strength, of friends, and kindred, see.

In MS. letter to Allan Cunningham, Nov. 1828. ]


[Variant 8:

1832.

His hunting feats have him bereft
Of his right eye, as you may see:
And then, what limbs those feats have left
To poor old Simon Lee!
He has no son, he has no child,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village common. 1798.

His hunting feats have him bereft
Of his right eye, as you may see,
And Simon to the world is left,
In liveried poverty.
When he was young he little knew
Of husbandry or tillage;
And now is forced to work, though weak,
--The weakest in the village. 1820. ]


[Variant 9:

1798.

But . . . 1820.

The text of 1832 reverts to that of 1798. ]


[Variant 10:

1827.

His little body's half awry,
His ancles they are swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
When he was young he little knew
Of husbandry or tillage;
And now he's forced to work, though weak,
--The weakest in the village. 1798.

His dwindled body's half awry, 1800.

His ancles, too, are swoln and thick; 1815.

And now is forced to work, 1815.

His dwindled body half awry,
Rests upon ancles swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
He has no son, he has no child,
His Wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common. 1820. ]


[Variant 11:

1845.

But what avails the land to them,
Which they can till no longer? 1798.

"But what," saith he, "avails the land,
Which I can till no longer? " 1827.

But what avails it now, the land
Which he can till no longer? 1832.

'Tis his, but what avails the land
Which he can till no longer? 1837.

The time, alas! is come when he
Can till the land no longer. 1840.

The time is also come when he
Can till the land no longer. C. ]


[Variant 12:

1827.

Old Ruth works out of doors with him,
And does what Simon cannot do;
For she, not over stout of limb, 1798. ]


[Variant 13:

1840.

Alas! 'tis very little, all
Which they can . . . 1798.

That they can . . . 1837. ]


[Variant 14:

1815.

His poor old ancles swell. 1798. ]


[Variant 15:

1820.

And I'm afraid . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 16:

1820.

I hope you'll . . .