The peasants from the shore would bring him food, Nor ever visited the haunts of men, Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed Grew pale to see the peril. Thus he lived Rose he at midnight from his bed of leaves, One night upon the shore his chapel bell THE CROSS ROADS. THERE was an old man breaking stones He sate him down beside a brook He leant his back against a post, And there were water-cresses growing, A soldier with his knapsack on, Half an hour's walk for a young man, Why then 'tis three good miles. The soldier took his knapsack off, And out his bread and cheese he took, Old friend! in faith, the soldier says, My shoulders have been sorely prest, In such a sweltering day as this, The old man laugh'd and moved—I wish But this may help a man at need! That ever brought it there. The soldier had but just leant back, God rest her! she is still enough I have past by about that hour I have past by about that hour There's one who like a Christian lies There's one who in the churchyard lies Didst see a house below the hill, Which the winds and the rains destroy? "Twas then a farm where he did dwell, And I remember it full well When I was a growing boy. And she was a poor parish girl The man he was a wicked man, Rage made his cheek grow deadly white, The man was bad, the mother worse, 'Twould make your hair to stand on end The things that were told of them! Didst see an out-house, standing by? It was a stable then, but now The poor girl she had served with them It is a wild and lonesome place, Should one meet a murderer there alone |