Thistle and darnell and dock grew there,
And a bush, in the corner, of may,
On the orchard wall I used to sprawl In the blazing heat of the day;
Half asleep and half awake,
While the birds went twittering by,
And nobody there my lone to share But Nicholas Nye.
Nicholas Nye was lean and gray,
Lame of leg and old,
More than a score of donkey's years He had been since he was foaled;
He munched the thistles, purple and spiked,
Would sometimes stoop and sigh,
And turn to his head, as if he said, "Poor Nicholas Nye!" Alone with his shadow he'd drowse in the meadow,
Lazily swinging his tail,
At break of day he used to bray,— Not much too hearty and hale;
But a wonderful gumption was under his skin,
And a clean calm light in his eye,
And once in a while; he'd smile:— Would Nicholas Nye.
Seem to be smiling at me, he would,
From his bush in the corner, of may,— Bony and ownerless, widowed and worn,
Knobble-kneed, lonely and gray;
And over the grass would seem to pass 'Neath the deep dark blue of the sky,
Something much better than words between me And Nicholas Nye.
But dusk would come in the apple boughs,
The green of the glow-worm shine,
The birds in nest would crouch to rest,
And home I'd trudge to mine;
And there, in the moonlight, dark with dew,
Asking not wherefore nor why,
Would brood like a ghost, and as still as a post,
Old Nicholas Nye.
