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"

In the "Advertisement" to the first edition of "Lyrical Ballads,"
Wordsworth says, "The tale of 'Goody Blake and Harry Gill' is founded on
a well-authenticated fact which happened in Warwickshire. "

The following curious letter appeared in the 'Ipswich Magazine' of April
1799:

"IPSWICH, April 2, 1799.

"To the Editors of the 'Ipswich Magazine'.

"GENTLEMEN--The scarcity of Coal at this time, and the piercing cold
of the weather, cannot fail to be some apology for the depredations
daily committed on the hedges in the neighbourhood. If ever it be
permitted, it ought in the present season. Should there be any Farmer
more rigorous than the rest, let him attend to the poetical story
inserted in page 118 of this Magazine, and tremble at the fate of
Farmer Gill, who was about to prosecute a poor old woman for a similar
offence. The thing is a fact, and told by one of the first physicians
of the present day, as having happened in the south of England, 'and
which has, a short time since', been turned by a _lyric poet_ into
that excellent ballad. "

From 1815 to 1843, this poem was classed among those of "the
Imagination. " In 1845 it was transferred to the list of "Miscellaneous
Poems. "--Ed.


* * * * *

THE POEM


Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 5
Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 10
The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 15
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three. 20
Old [1] Goody Blake was old and poor;
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling: 25
And then her three hours' work at night,
Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle-light.
Remote from sheltered village-green,
On a hill's northern side she dwelt, 30
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt. [2]

By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old Dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one small cottage; 35
But she, poor Woman! housed [3] alone.
'Twas well enough when summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
Then at her door the _canty_ Dame
Would sit, as any linnet, gay. 40

But when the ice our streams did fetter,
Oh then how her old bones would shake;
You would have said, if you had met her,
'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.
Her evenings then were dull and dead: 45
Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed;
And then for cold not sleep a wink.

O joy for her! whene'er in winter
The winds at night had made a rout; 50
And scattered many a lusty splinter
And many a rotten bough about.