The Sailor's Mother

William Wordsworth


    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."

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