A Child To His Sick Grandfather

Joanna Baillie

1762 to 1851

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