Lob Lie By The Fire

Lob Lie By The Fire written by Walter de la Mare

A Child's Day (1912)

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     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.

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