Classic Poem

Though rudely blows the wintry blast,
And sifting snows fall white and fast,
Mark Haley drives along the street,
Perched high upon his wagon seat;
His sombre face the storm defies,
And thus from morn till eve he cries,
“Charco'! charco'!”
While echo faint and far replies,
“Hark, oh! hark, oh!”
“Charco'!”—“Hark, oh!”—Such cherry sounds
Attend him on his daily rounds.

The dust begrimes his ancient hat;
His coat is darker far than that;
'T is odd to see his sooty form
All speckled with the feathery storm;
Yet in his honest bosom lies
Nor spot nor speck, though still he cries,
“Charco'! charco'!”
While many a roguish lad replies,
“Ark, ho! ark, ho!”
“Charco'!”—“Ark, ho!”—Such various sounds
Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds.

Thus all the cold and wintery day
He labors much for little pay;
Yet feels no less of happiness
Than many a richer man, I guess,
When through the shades of eve he spies
The light of his own home, and cries,
“Charco'! charco'!”
And Martha from the door replies,
“Mark, ho! Mark, ho!”
“Charco'!”—“Mark, ho!”—Such joy abounds
When he has closed his daily rounds!

The hearth is warm, the fire is bright;
And while his hand, washed clean and white,
Holds Martha's tender hand once more,
His glowing face bends fondly o'er
The crib wherein his darling lies,
And in a coaxing tone he cries,
“Charco'! charco'!”
And baby with a laugh replies,
“Ah, go! ah, go!”
“Charco'!”—“Ah, go!”—while at the sounds
The mother's heart with gladness bounds.