Tis Winter and within that Keeper’s home
As clean as woman’s hands can make the place
Anxiously a Mother’s waiting for her son
She’s waited long, and still he does not come.
“Where can he be, I wonder. I will clear
The breakfast things when surely he’ll be here.”
She clears the table, washes up, then lays the cloth again
“I’ll set his breakfast ready, he’ll surely be here then”
Then going to the window, again she strained her eyes
And while she looks, a little bird into the cottage flies.
And lighted on the waiting cup and dropped in dead
And sad forebodings soon begin to fill the Mother’s head,
And as the father enters in the cottage door
She says “I think I never shall see William any more
For this little robin in his cup just tumbled o’er and died
Put on your hat and go and look for him” the mother cried.
The Search
The father seized his hat, and goes out to meet
Ah! little does he think how many miles his feet
Shall walk before his search shall sadly end.
He goes to where his son works with his friend
“I say, have you seen anything of my son?”
“Yes he was here this morn, but he is to his breakfast gone.”
“Ah, but he’s never reached. Where is his mate?”
“I’ll go for him for it is getting late.”
“Gone home." "Then I will hasten off to see if he is there.”
“But no,” said they, “he never has been here
And more than that, our boy is missing too
Wherever are they gone?”
He now resumes the anxious winter search
Out set the fathers now of both the lads
Of everyone they meet they both enquire
“Oh, have you seen anything of my son?”
Each of them treads his separate weary way
And all their freinds are on the sad look out
For tidings of the lost.
The father searches all the country round
Both far and near, and strains his eager eyes
And ever and anon bursts forth the cry
“William, my son, my son, where art thou gone
“Has hungry death made thee his prey
Or art tho ’neath the icy surface of the pond.
I see no mark of broken ice, I’ve looked all round
Or art thou tired of thy humble home
And gone away without a farewell word?
Answer my son, and I will pardon all”
But oh! no answer comes.
“The night is coming on again, and I
Must go back home and meet thy mother’s face
And then her piercing look of dread despair
Her bitter wail of woe, alas, my son
My sorrow is too hard for me to bear
This dread suspense, this mingled hope and fear
These longing eyes, this breathless listening
These parched lips, this burning throbbing brow
Can bear the winter’s blast upon it now
And feel no cold, nor can I swallow food
And they poor mother’s face is more than I can bear.”
“William, my son, my son, oh speak to me.
Eight days have passed since I saw thy face
Beaming with manhood’s pride, yet boyhood’s grace.
Thy sunny looks, thy tender bright blue eyes
Thy stalwart form, thou wert the joy, my son
Of all the younger children, and the pride
Of all the older ones.”
“Dearer thou seemst to me than all the rest
Because that thou art gone, I know not where
I dare not hope to see thy face again
Nor dare I utter what I now most fear
That thou art drowned.
I would to God, my son, that thou were found.”
They meet again, the parents of the boy
But neither dare to speak one word of hope
But as they look into each other’s face
They read the sad, sad tale
No tidings of the lost. No, not one word.
And so they sit them down beside the fire
To rest and try to take a little food
But they are full already, full of grief, but they must try
Just for the sake of those who are left
For working men must work, though sorrows press
And weary limbs must rest, but as for sleep
The poor gamekeeper cannot think of that
But dozes now and then, and in his dreams
He sees his missing son and tries to speak
And take him to his breast. But no
He wakes up, and lo, ’tis but a dream.
The mother sits besides the lowering fire
With head bowed and buried in her hands
Breathlessly listening, for oh the faintest sound
Of footsteps would drive the dark despair
From off that mother’s face.
But still no sound save that the cruel wind
Drives in through all the crevices around
And makes her shiver with the piercing cold.
Then up she starts, and reaching for a light
Upon the cottage mantel-piece she sees
Some rude carved toys in shape of man and horse
Or birds, or anything that took his fancy
Which he has made to try and please the little ones.
She takes one down and presses to her lips
Because her boy had touched, yea and formed
Not for the world would she exchange those toys
Not for the grandest carving ever done, oh no.
She puts it back and sadly climbs the stairs
And takes her light to look at all the little ones
But they have lost their charm since he is gone.
She turns away and fain would burst in tears
But they are all dried up. “Oh where’s my boy?
My darling could I speak to thee again
T’would ease this choking pain that fills my throat
William, my darling boy” she groans, “My boy.”
Then lays her down beside her sorrowing husband
But neither speak, t’would only add sorrow
Their hope is gone for him, he must be dead.
For he was not a thoughtless youth.
And would not keep them eight days in suspense
And now ’twas nearly nine.
The morning comes, the piercing bitter wind
Blows bleak, but in that father’s heart
Affection deep is burning for his son
He takes his gun, and treads his way to work
And meets his master who the day before
Had said “No matter what it costs
Tomorrow I will have the fishponds dragged
The men shall break the ice and boat it off
I can no longer bear to see thy haggard face
For it is better far to know the worst
Than to live on a life of dread suspense.”
Found
So in the morning as they meet, the master knows
He had not found his son, for were it thus
He now would raise his head and meet him with a smile
So without opening afresh the wound
By asking needless questions
He commands the men to break the ice
On that pond first into which the drainage
Down from the Abbey runs.
The men work hard for they all loved the youth
And pitied the poor father whose sad look
Called forth their utmost sympathy
The father stands beside the pond in dread
With clenched hands and downcast head, but now
He raised his eyes and looked upon the men
As if in some strange dream
The master looking on in eager dread
Fearing for the poor father
And now the pond, at length, is clear of ice
They fetch the drags, the master nears the father’s side
Trembling with fear, and yet a gleam of hope
Would linger in his eye, the boy might not be there.
So now they put the drag in where the drainage runs
For there the ice would be the shallowest
If they had gone to slide.
They gently draw it out, and lo, what is it comes?
A hat.
A wild despairing cry bursts from the father
“William, my own dear son, is drowned, is drowned.”
His master gently drew him from the spot
“Come home with me, John, ’tis no sight for thee
It is enough to know that he is dead
Without the pain of seeing his body dragged
That is too much for thee.
Get in the carriage, come along with me
And we will take the tidings to his mother
Remember, John, thou sufferest not alone
His friend has parents too, as dear as he.”
So off they go to tell the waiting mother
Who, though bowed down with sorrow, not surprised
But said “I knew, ah yes, I knew it all
For when I saw that little robin fall
Into his cup, I knew I ne’er should see
My boy alive again.”
And when they bear the precious burden home
The mother wipes his dripping, sodden face
And brushes back the sunny locks, and scarce
Believes that he will never wake again
The bright blue eyes are open wide
The colour in his cheeks is fresh, but oh, the life is gone
He must be buried soon, he has been dead nine days.
And now the funeral sadly moves along
They take them to the sheltered quiet corner
Any bury them side by side, and write
Upon their tombstone their sad tale,
Lest they should ever be forgot
But ah, that mother never will forget
I’ve heard her tell the tale so many times
And seen the tears run down her aged cheeks
Though when it happened she was young compared
To what her age is now.
And oh, shall e’er that father’s heart forget
That dreadful search for his beloved son?
Forget! The anguish that then filled his breast
Or how he loved the one he could not find
Or his despair when he had found him dead.
No Never.
Hannah Hudson, 1st February 1879
In manus Tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum