A Child To His Sick Grandfather

Joanna Baillie

1762 to 1851

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You love a story, Dad?
And when you wake we'll still be near,
When you are ailing, Dad.
And for your weal each neighbour cares;
You used to smile and stroke my head,
When dinner's set I'll with you bide,
Your heavy eyes begin to wink;--
You do not hear me, Dad.
About a partlet and her brood,
Rouse up and be our Dad again.
I love my own old Dad.
With glittering swords,--you nod,--I think
You will not die and leave us then?
Yet ne'ertheless I am right glad,
The housewives round their potions brew,
And good men kneel and say their prayers,
And tell me how good children did;
Supports your body bending low,
I have a tale both long and good,
Your stiffened legs begin to fail:
And aye be serving by your side;
Your staff, no more my pony now,
Which slyly to the hen-roost led,--
Your brow is crossed with many streaks;
Down on your bosom sinks your head:--
When you are quiet and laid in bed,
I'll lead you kindly by the hand:
And greedy cunning fox that stole
I'm vex'd to see you, Dad.
To sit beside you, Dad.
But yet although his strength be fled,
By dead of midnight through a hole,
Grand-dad , they say you're old and frail,
And then I have a wondrous tale
When through the house you change your stand,
While back to wall you lean so sad,
But now, I wot not how it be,
You take me seldom on your knee,
I'll sit and talk with you.
Of men all clad in coats of mail,
And every body looks so sad,
Scant are the white hairs on your crown:
How wan and hollow are your cheeks,
And when the weary fire burns blue,
And gossips come to ask for you;
To fill old Dad his cheer.
How lank and thin your beard hangs down!
We'll doff our shoes and softly tread;