The Lady Down the Lane

The lass is lonely her life weary Her stormy days restless and not easy, She seeks of giving yet the weather dreary Perceiving her world through bountiful eyes. For sure therein her highest of mind Yet for not of the common woes, Gifts she loathes of many tributes To handout the most regal of rose. Yet a copper coin here a penny there A wholesome batch of homemade bread, To those the scruffy village urchins She pursued the ragged poor instead. Her father M’lord at his table rife Silver sheen catches the sunlight, Tis’ head waiter swings the liberal knife Sweet daughter of protocol pretends. For I was of urchin the village claimed But she was educated and filled my head, For now I am M’lord of the manor Did grieve not when M'lord pronounced dead. © Harry J Horsman 2020