Lob Lie By The Fire

He squats by the fire         On his three-legged stool,      When all in the house         With slumber are full.      And he warms his great hands,         Hanging loose from each knee.      And he whistles as soft         As the night wind at sea.      For his work now is done;         All the water is sweet;      He has turned each brown loaf,         And breathed magic on it.      The milk in the pan,         And the bacon on beam      He has "spelled" with his thumb,         And bewitched has the dream.      Not a mouse, not a moth,         Not a spider but sat,      And quaked as it wondered         What next he'd be at.      But his heart, O, his heart -         It belies his great nose;      And at gleam of his eye         Not a soul would suppose      He had stooped with great thumbs,         And big thatched head,      To tuck his small mistress         More snugly in bed.      Who would think, now, a throat         So lank and so thin      Might make birds seem to warble         In the dream she is in!      Now hunched by the fire,         While the embers burn low,      He nods until daybreak,         And at daybreak he'll go.      Soon the first cock will 'light         From his perch and point high      His beak at the Ploughboy         Grown pale in the sky;      And crow will he shrill;         Then, meek as a mouse,      Lob will rouse up and shuffle         Straight out of the house.      His supper for breakfast;         For wages his work;      And to warm his great hands         Just an hour in the mirk.