  When Hugh was up his mare went drifting Sidelong and feeling with her heels For horses' legs and poshay wheels, While lather creamed her neat clipt skin. Hugh guessed her foibles with a grin. He was a rich town-merchant's son, A wise and kind man fond of fun, Who loved to have a troop of friends At Coln St. Eves for all week-ends, And troops of children in for tea, He gloried in a Christmas Tree. And Polly was his heart's best treasure, And Polly was a golden pleasure To everyone, to see or hear. He was a darkened man thereafter, Cowed silent, he would wince at laughter And be so gentle it was strange Even to see. Life loves to change. Now Coln St. Evelyn's hearths are cold The shutters up, the hunters sold, And green mould damps the locked front door. But this was still a month before, And Polly, golden in the chaise, Still smiled, and there were golden days, Still thirty days, for those dear lovers. |
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