Woman.

Sir for the love of God some small relief

To a poor woman!

Traveller.

Whither are you bound?

’Tis a late hour to travel o’er these downs,

No house for miles around us, and the way

Dreary and wild. The evening wind already

Makes one’s teeth chatter, and the very Sun,

Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds,

Looks cold. ’Twill be a bitter night!

Woman.

Aye Sir

’Tis cutting keen! I smart at every breath,

Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey’s end,

For the way is long before me, and my feet,

God help me! sore with travelling. I would gladly,

If it pleased God, lie down at once and die.

Traveller.

Nay nay cheer up! a little food and rest

Will comfort you; and then your journey’s end

Will make amends for all. You shake your head,

And weep. Is it some evil business then

That leads you from your home?

Woman.

Sir I am going

To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt

In the late action, and in the hospital

Dying, I fear me, now.

Traveller.

Perhaps your fears

Make evil worse. Even if a limb be lost

There may be still enough for comfort left

An arm or leg shot off, there’s yet the heart

To keep life warm, and he may live to talk

With pleasure of the glorious fight that maim’d him,

Proud of his loss. Old England’s gratitude

Makes the maim’d sailor happy.

Woman.

’Tis not that—

An arm or leg—I could have borne with that.

’Twas not a ball, it was some cursed thing

Which bursts [15] and burns that hurt him. Something Sir

They do not use on board our English ships

It is so wicked!

Traveller.

Rascals! a mean art

Of cruel cowardice, yet all in vain!

Woman.

Yes Sir! and they should show no mercy to them

For making use of such unchristian arms.

I had a letter from the hospital,

He got some friend to write it, and he tells me

That my poor boy has lost his precious eyes,

Burnt out. Alas! that I should ever live

To see this wretched day!—they tell me Sir

There is no cure for wounds like his. Indeed

’Tis a hard journey that I go upon

To such a dismal end!

Traveller.

He yet may live.

But if the worst should chance, why you must bear

The will of heaven with patience. Were it not

Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen

Fighting his country’s cause? and for yourself

You will not in unpitied poverty

Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country

Amid the triumph of her victory

Remember those who paid its price of blood,

And with a noble charity relieves

The widow and the orphan.

Woman.

God reward them!

God bless them, it will help me in my age

But Sir! it will not pay me for my child!

Traveller.

Was he your only child?

Woman.

My only one,

The stay and comfort of my widowhood,

A dear good boy!—when first he went to sea

I felt what it would come to,—something told me

I should be childless soon. But tell me Sir

If it be true that for a hurt like his

There is no cure? please God to spare his life

Tho’ he be blind, yet I should be so thankful!

I can remember there was a blind man

Lived in our village, one from his youth up

Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man,

And he had none to tend on him so well

As I would tend my boy!

Traveller.

Of this be sure

His hurts are look’d to well, and the best help

The place affords, as rightly is his due,

Ever at hand. How happened it he left you?

Was a seafaring life his early choice?

Woman.

No Sir! poor fellow—he was wise enough

To be content at home, and ’twas a home

As comfortable Sir I even tho’ I say it,

As any in the country. He was left

A little boy when his poor father died,

Just old enough to totter by himself

And call his mother’s name. We two were all,

And as we were not left quite destitute

We bore up well. In the summer time I worked

Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting,

And in long winter nights my spinning wheel

Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours too

And never felt distress. So he grew up

A comely lad and wonderous well disposed;

I taught him well; there was not in the parish

A child who said his prayers more regular,

Or answered readier thro’ his catechism.

If I had foreseen this! but ’tis a blessing

We do’nt know what we’re born to!

Traveller.

But how came it

He chose to be a Sailor?

Woman.

You shall hear Sir;

As he grew up he used to watch the birds

In the corn, child’s work you know, and easily done.

’Tis an idle sort of task, so he built up

A little hut of wicker-work and clay

Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain.

And then he took for very idleness

To making traps to catch the plunderers,

All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make—

Propping a stone to fall and shut them in,

Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe

Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly—

And I, poor foolish woman! I was pleased

To see the boy so handy. You may guess

What followed Sir from this unlucky skill.

He did what he should not when he was older:

I warn’d him oft enough; but he was caught

In wiring hares at last, and had his choice

The prison or the ship.

Traveller.

The choice at least

Was kindly left him, and for broken laws

This was methinks no heavy punishment.

Woman.

So I was told Sir. And I tried to think so,

But ’twas a sad blow to me! I was used

To sleep at nights soundly and undisturb’d—

Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start

And think of my poor boy tossing about

Upon the roaring seas. And then I seem’d

To feel that it was hard to take him from me

For such a little fault. But he was wrong

Oh very wrong—a murrain on his traps!

See what they’ve brought him too!

Traveller.

Well! well! take comfort

He will be taken care of if he lives;

And should you lose your child, this is a country

Where the brave sailor never leaves a parent

To weep for him in want.

Woman.

Sir I shall want

No succour long. In the common course of years

I soon must be at rest, and ’tis a comfort

When grief is hard upon me to reflect

It only leads me to that rest the sooner.

[15] The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In the engagement between the Mars and L’Hercule, some of our sailors were shockingly mangled by them: One in particular, as described in the Eclogue, lost both his eyes. It would be policy and humanity to employ means of destruction, could they be discovered, powerful enough to destroy fleets and armies, but to use any thing that only inflicts additional torture upon the victims of our war systems, is cruel and wicked.