OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.
By Will M. Carleton
Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary
way—
I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray—
I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've
told,
As many another woman that's only half as old. Over the hill to the poor-house—I can't quite make it
clear!
Over the hill to the poor-house—it seems so horrid
queer!
Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro,
But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go. What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame?
Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame?
True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout,
But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without. I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day
To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way;
For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound,
If anybody only is willin' to have me round. Once I was young and han'some—I was, upon my
soul—
Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal;
And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people
say,
For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way. 'Tain't no use of boastin', or talkin' over free,
But many a house an' home was open then to me;
Many a han'some offer I had from likely men,
And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then. And when to John I was married, sure he was good and
smart,
But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part;
For life was all before me, an' I was young and strong,
And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get
along. And so we worked together; and life was hard, but gay,
With now and then a baby to cheer us on our way,
Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat,
An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat. So we worked for the child'rn, and raised 'em every
one;
Worked for 'em summer and winter just as we ought
to've done;
Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks
condemn,
But every couple's child'rn's a heap the best to them. Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!
I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my
sons;
And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old
and gray,
I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the
other way. Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls were
grown,
And when, exceptin' Charlie, they'd left us there alone;
When John he nearer an' nearer come, and dearer
seemed to be,
The Lord of hosts he came one day an' took him away
from me. Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or
fall—
Still I worked for Charlie, for Charlie was now my all;
And Charlie was pretty good to me, with scarce a word
or frown,
Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from
town. She was somewhat dressy, an' I hadn't a pleasant smile—
She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style;
But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know;
But she was hard and proud, and I couldn't make it go.
She had an education, an' that was good for her;
But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things
too fur;
An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made
her sick),
That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 'rithmetic. So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done—
They was a family of themselves, and I another one;
And a very little cottage one family will do,
But I never have seen a house that was big enough for
two. An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please
her eye,
An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try;
But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow,
When Charlie turned ag'in me, and told me I could go. I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small,
And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all;
And what with her husband's sisters, and what with
child'rn three,
'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me. An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got,
For Thomas' buildings'd cover the half of an acre lot;
But all the child'rn was on me—I couldn't stand their
sauce—
And Thomas said I needn't think I was coming there to
boss. An' then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out west,
And to Isaac, not far from her—some twenty miles at
best;
And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any one so
old,
And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold. So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me
about—
So they have well-nigh soured me, an' worn my old
heart out;
But still I've borne up pretty well, an' 'wasn't much put
down,
Till Charlie went to the poor-master, an' put me on the
town. Over the hill to the poor-house—my child'rn, dear,
good-by!
Many a night I've watched you when only God was
nigh;
And God'll judge between us; but I will al'ays pray
That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day.