EILD. A FRAGMENT. __ THE rough hail rattles through the trees, The sullen lift low’rs gloomy grey, The trav’ler sees the swelling storm, And seeks the ale-house by the way. But, waes me! for Yon widow’d wretch, Borne down wi’ years, an’ heavy care, Her sapless fingers scarce can
nip The wither’d twigs to beet her
fire. Thus youth and vigour fends
itsel’; Its help, reciprocal, is sure, While dowless Eild in poortith cauld Is lanely left to stan’ the stoure. |