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
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