The Daily Dispatch

Neighbor, lend me your arm, for I am not well
Now a to tell,
All for a merry morning I had to tell, I
The world would own it is scarcely a spring thing.
I've travelled many a mile in wet and cold;
You in the old gray chimney above the creek,
Stately forest and river so brown and broad.
He asked me my errand with remark quite brief and gay:
I have been there; and, neighbor, I am not well
He showed me the tresses as he dying lay.
Knocked at the gate and said I had news to tell,
I here bring sword and some of his curling hair
Tall and straight, with the snows of age on her
Entered a chamber and saw his mother there.
Up in her eyes a dark look of the dead.
Grave and stern as a soldier's mother might be;
Head
I thought I'd better be dead than meet her eye;
She grasped her snuff and quietly gazed at me.
Taking the sword in her arms she heaved a sigh,
She guessed it all, I'd never afford to tell.
Clasping the lock in her hand she smiled and
Sell
I raised her up, she sat in a stately chair,
We heard a step and tender voice on the stair
Her face like death, but not a tear in her eye:
Murmuring soft to an infant's cooing cry.
My lady she sat erect, and sterner grew,
A girl came in, the wife of the dead, I knew;
Finger on mouth she motioned me not to stay;
She held his babe, and neighbor, I fled away!
I tried to run, but I heard the widow's cry,
Neighbor, I have been hurt and I am not well.
I pray to God that never until I die
May I again have such sorry news to tell.