Poetry
The Trespasser
WHEN winter springs were flowing,
And the lane was full of water, I climbed the bank by Rixon's farm And there met Rixon's girl : "Now who be you and what's your style Come traipsing o'er our meadow ? " Says she to me, and her sweet eyes Gloomed like the moon in shadow.
Though half the world is full of care The other half is lively ; She held a dead goose by its neck, For Christmas sport was nigh " I'm no," says I, " a trespasser, And I was ne'er a rover ; It was those puddles by your hedge That set me gadding over I " Her hair was like the hueless wave The blackest night uncovers, And like a filly full of pride She bridled at my talk ; So huffed she was, so proud she was, I had a mind to scoffing, But soon came frolic in her eyes And then I fell a-chaffing.
" Go back your ways, nor come again, This path is no for public !"
" I'll not," says I, " depart from you, For private is my wish."
" The like o' you," said Rixon's girl, " Are best to keep at distance."
But I walked with her, I talked with her, And light was her resistance.
A. E. COPPARD.
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