Joe Tinker was the tailor's son:
Joe Tinker was a troublous elf
Who broke the heart of everyone —
I don't include myself!
A ne'er-do-well, 'twere hard to find
Another knave so bold, it's true,
But handsome, if you like that kind —
I know there's some as do,
Though I'm not one. The devil's wit
Had Joe — no farthing for the rest!
All day the old men used to sit
And ripen for his jest . . .
The tailor sewed a crooked seam
Because his fears were for the lad,
At loss to guess the sort of dream
Joe Tinker had; —
The sort that made him shun the shop,
That mellow room with just a door,
And window where the day would drop
And litter sunlight on the floor,
The sort that egged him to defy
The pious parent of his youth,
That made the rascal love a lie,
And tell it for a truth,
And haunt the tavern ceaselessly,
Half drunk with ale, the sturdy fool,
And with a girl upon his knee,
Some chit just out of school,
And laughing with his brown throat bare,
And clothes in rags, but like a king,
Wearing his crazy crown of hair
And singing as such hoodlums sing!
He never kissed me; had he tried
He'd soon have met his match, I trow.
I'd not have stood it, and beside
The others suited Joe.
We played as children, but we fought
Like cat and dog when we grew big, —
Because I told him what I thought
He took me for a prig,
And was the readier to tell
Of his wild pranks, with teasing quips,
Declared he meant his soul for hell,
And spat with ruddy lips.
He sometimes poached and brought me game
With solemn mockery and fun,
And when I scolded him for shame
Left, whistling, with his gun,
And made sport of my innocence,
So sinful was he to the core;
He only gave his confidence
To make me hate him more.
Well, once too often for his good
He bragged out of a brazen throat
About some meeting in the wood
With some new petticoat,
And her a wedded wife, what's more;
He told me but to rouse my ire,
For he had played with sparks before,
But Rose MacKail was fire!
He vowed he'd meet her after dark,
He went off laughing, flushed with drink,
And he was wayward for a lark,
But she was worse, I think.
To swing the hammer all day long
Was Tim's, the blacksmith's, hardy life:
You would have thought a man so strong
Could break the metal of his wife!
Joe Tinker was her latest then —
Oh, would the cub be never wise
And learn to walk the world of men
With sober-seeing eyes?
The sun had passed the mountain's rim,
The sounds of day had ceased to stir
When I resolved to punish him
By telling tales of her.
And ran to Tim's, the blacksmith's cot,
Threw wide the door and blundered in
Where he was supping, red and hot,
With gravy on his chin.
" Good even', Tim! Your Rose away?
She's brave to roam at night, I'm told;
Joe Tinker too's a moon-mad jay —
They'll both be young when you are old — "
I shook with palsy as I spoke,
And yet Tim never looked at me —
I saw his fury when it woke . . .
. . . He found them easily . . .
And when I followed him, the trees
Had arms to guide me and the ground,
All silvery with silences,
Seemed waiting for a sound,
And there the moonlight showed a face,
And there Joe Tinker lay at last,
Abandoned in the milky space
With all his future — past!
And there the scapegrace Joe lay dead,
With tiny dew-drops on his brow:
Oh, fiercely, fiercely then I said,
" Will you cease loving now? "
The primroses against his cheek
Seemed not more purely pale and soft,
And then I knew he would not speak
As I had heard him oft . . .
And anger died before his look
That was so lovely without taint,
Like Absalom in the Holy Book,
Or some young martyred saint.
...
The tailor worked with steady hand,
And sewed his son a fitting shroud.
But who, save one, could understand
How grief had made him proud?
Ay, 'tis Joe Tinker's grave I keep,
And I have tended, year by year, —
Such fools we women are who weep
For men not worth a tear!
Joe Tinker was a troublous elf
Who broke the heart of everyone —
I don't include myself!
A ne'er-do-well, 'twere hard to find
Another knave so bold, it's true,
But handsome, if you like that kind —
I know there's some as do,
Though I'm not one. The devil's wit
Had Joe — no farthing for the rest!
All day the old men used to sit
And ripen for his jest . . .
The tailor sewed a crooked seam
Because his fears were for the lad,
At loss to guess the sort of dream
Joe Tinker had; —
The sort that made him shun the shop,
That mellow room with just a door,
And window where the day would drop
And litter sunlight on the floor,
The sort that egged him to defy
The pious parent of his youth,
That made the rascal love a lie,
And tell it for a truth,
And haunt the tavern ceaselessly,
Half drunk with ale, the sturdy fool,
And with a girl upon his knee,
Some chit just out of school,
And laughing with his brown throat bare,
And clothes in rags, but like a king,
Wearing his crazy crown of hair
And singing as such hoodlums sing!
He never kissed me; had he tried
He'd soon have met his match, I trow.
I'd not have stood it, and beside
The others suited Joe.
We played as children, but we fought
Like cat and dog when we grew big, —
Because I told him what I thought
He took me for a prig,
And was the readier to tell
Of his wild pranks, with teasing quips,
Declared he meant his soul for hell,
And spat with ruddy lips.
He sometimes poached and brought me game
With solemn mockery and fun,
And when I scolded him for shame
Left, whistling, with his gun,
And made sport of my innocence,
So sinful was he to the core;
He only gave his confidence
To make me hate him more.
Well, once too often for his good
He bragged out of a brazen throat
About some meeting in the wood
With some new petticoat,
And her a wedded wife, what's more;
He told me but to rouse my ire,
For he had played with sparks before,
But Rose MacKail was fire!
He vowed he'd meet her after dark,
He went off laughing, flushed with drink,
And he was wayward for a lark,
But she was worse, I think.
To swing the hammer all day long
Was Tim's, the blacksmith's, hardy life:
You would have thought a man so strong
Could break the metal of his wife!
Joe Tinker was her latest then —
Oh, would the cub be never wise
And learn to walk the world of men
With sober-seeing eyes?
The sun had passed the mountain's rim,
The sounds of day had ceased to stir
When I resolved to punish him
By telling tales of her.
And ran to Tim's, the blacksmith's cot,
Threw wide the door and blundered in
Where he was supping, red and hot,
With gravy on his chin.
" Good even', Tim! Your Rose away?
She's brave to roam at night, I'm told;
Joe Tinker too's a moon-mad jay —
They'll both be young when you are old — "
I shook with palsy as I spoke,
And yet Tim never looked at me —
I saw his fury when it woke . . .
. . . He found them easily . . .
And when I followed him, the trees
Had arms to guide me and the ground,
All silvery with silences,
Seemed waiting for a sound,
And there the moonlight showed a face,
And there Joe Tinker lay at last,
Abandoned in the milky space
With all his future — past!
And there the scapegrace Joe lay dead,
With tiny dew-drops on his brow:
Oh, fiercely, fiercely then I said,
" Will you cease loving now? "
The primroses against his cheek
Seemed not more purely pale and soft,
And then I knew he would not speak
As I had heard him oft . . .
And anger died before his look
That was so lovely without taint,
Like Absalom in the Holy Book,
Or some young martyred saint.
...
The tailor worked with steady hand,
And sewed his son a fitting shroud.
But who, save one, could understand
How grief had made him proud?
Ay, 'tis Joe Tinker's grave I keep,
And I have tended, year by year, —
Such fools we women are who weep
For men not worth a tear!