And Willie, my eldest born, is gone, you say, little Anne,
Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man;
He was only fourscore years, quite young, when he died;
I ought to have gone before, but must wait for time and tide.
So Harry's wife has written; she was always an awful fool,
And Charlie was always drunk, which made our families cool;
For Willie was walking with Jenny when the moon came up the dale,
And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale.
Jenny I know had tripped, and she knew that I knew of it well.
She began to slander me. I knew, but I wouldn't tell!
And she to be slandering me, the impertinent, base little liar;
But the tongue is a fire, as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire.
And the parson made it his text last week; and he said likewise,
That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies;
That a downright hearty good falsehood doesn't so very much matter,
But a lie which is half a truth is worse than one that is flatter.
Then Willie and Jenny turned in the sweet moonshine,
And he said to me through his tears, "Let your good name be mine,"
"And what do I care for Jane." She was never over-wise,
Never the wife for Willie: thank God that I keep my eyes.
"Marry you, Willie!" said I, and I thought my heart would break,
"But a man cannot marry his grandmother, so there must be some mistake."
But he turned and clasped me in his arms, and answered, "No, love, no!
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago!"
So Willie and I were wedded, though clearly against the law,
And the ringers rang with a will, and Willie's gloves were straw;
But the first that ever I bear was dead before it was born--
For Willie I cannot weep, life is flower and thorn.
Pattering over the boards, my Annie, an Annie like you,
Pattering over the boards, and Charlie and Harry too;
Pattering over the boards of our beautiful little cot,
And I'm not exactly certain whether they died or not.
And yet I know of a truth, there is none of them left alive,
For Willie went at eighty, and Harry at ninety-five;
And Charlie at threescore years, aye! or more than that I'll be sworn,
And that very remarkable infant that died before it was born.
So Willie has gone, my beauty, the eldest that bears the name,
It's a soothing thought--"In a hundred years it'll be all the same."
"Here's a leg for a babe of a week," says doctor, in some surprise,
But fetch me my glasses, Annie, I'm thankful I keep my eyes.
