'Twas as bonnie an ash-staft as ever was seen In the hands of a pilgrim or paths of a wood; 'Twas as tough as the bow of Ulysses, I ween; Its polish was high, and its fibre was good.
'Twas the grandfather's stick—it was his stick alone— Of its forty years' service how proudly he'd tell! 'Twas all very just—he might call it his own; But every one else seem'd to claim it as well.
'Twas his when the soft, Sabbath chimes floated by, When the sun might be hot, or the mud might be thick; The church was up-hill, and the youngsters would fly To carry his prayer-book, and find him his stick.
'Twas his when they coaxed him for wickets or bat, Now pleading with tears, and now trusting a laugh; 'Twas not half a mile to the village-and that He could manage right well with the help of his staff.
But often he wanted his faithful supporter, When as often 'twas ask'd for and sought for in vain; Perhaps Master Dick had it down by the water, Or the young ones had carried it out in the lane.
'Twas not a wit safer for all the close hiding, For corners were peep'd in and cupboards explored; Till some urchin came shouting, careering, and riding On his grandfather's stick, like a tournament lord.
There were sticks in abundance, from bamboo to oak, But all eyes and all hands singled that from the rest; For business or fun that old staff was the one, For all times and all purposes that was the best.
The herd-boy, perchance, had to cross the bleak waste, When the sky had no star, and the winter blast wail'd; His eye lost its light, and his red lips turn'd white, While 'twas easy to see that his rude spirit quail'd.
He thought of the murder'd ghost haunting that spot; Of the gibbet's loose beams-and the boy's heart turn'd sick; But half of the soul-thrilling fear was forgot If he might but take with him the grandfather's stick.
"Look, Susan, the flowers!" was cried in alarm; "See! see! the old sow's in the garden—quick! quick!" And the very next moment found Susan's strong arm Belabouring Bess with the grandfather's stick.
When the dust-laden carpets were swung on the line, And brave cudgels were chosen—the strong and the thick, It would not take Sibylline art to divine. That among them was always the grandfather's stick.
A branch of the pear-tree hung, drooping and wide, And the youngsters soon join'd in the pilfering trick; "This, this will just reach all the ripest!" they cried, As they scamper'd away with the grandfather's stick.
Rich Autumn came on, and they roved far and near, With the sun on each cheek and red stain on each mouth; They bask'd in the rays of the warm harvest days Till their faces were tinged with the glow of the South.
Luscious berries and nuts form'd the vineyard they sought, And the branches were highest where fruit was most thick; Hooks and crooks of all sizes were theirs, but none caught The tall bramble so well as the grandfather's stick.
Full often they left the long willow behind,— The dandified cane was forgotten and lost; What matter?—who cared? not a soul seem'd to mind The pains in the cutting, the shilling it cost:
But that brave bit of ash, let it fall where it might, In the brier-grown dell, on the nettle-bed's mound; Every eye was intent, every heart in a fright— For they dared not go home if that stick were not found.
Old Winter stepp'd forth, and the waters were still, The bold hearts were bounding along on the slide; And the timid one ventured, all trembling and chill, If he had but the grandfather's stick by his side.
But the grandfather waned from the earth, day by day,— Hoards must be open'd and treasures must fall; No selfish heart watch'd o'er his "passing away," Yet that stick was the coveted relic by all.
Serenely the old man went down to his grave, Looking on to a future with faith, hope, and joy; But, ere the flame died in the socket, he gave His favourite stick to his favourite boy.
That boy was a spendthrift, all reckless and gay, Keeping nought but a warm heart and fair honest name; He was wild in his home—a few years roll'd away, He was out in the world, but the man was the same.
He parted from all—from his land and his gold; But, with wealth or without, it was all one to Dick; The same merry laugh lit his face when he told That he'd nothing more left save his grandfather's stick.
The merry laugh still echoed out, though he found That friends turn'd their backs when his money was spent; He sung, "The world's wide, and I'll travel it round,"— And far from his kindred the wanderer went.
He lives and yet laughs in the prodigal's part; But whatever his fortune—wherever his land, There's a lock of white hair hanging close to his heart, And an ash staff—the Grandfather's Stick—in his hand.
