WHERE, where is the gate that once served to divide The elm-shaded lane from the dusty road-side? I like not this barrier gaily bedight, With its glittering latch and its trellis of white. It is seemly, I own-yet, oh! dearer by far Was the red-rusted hinge and the weather-warp'd bar. Here are fashion and form of a modernized date, But I'd rather have looked on the Old Farm-gate.
'Twas here where the urchins would gather to play In the shadows of twilight, or sunny mid-day; For the stream running nigh, and the hillocks of sand, Were temptations no dirt-loving rogue could withstand. But to swing on the gate-rails, to clamber and ride, Was the utmost of pleasure, of glory, and pride; And the car of the victor, or carriage of state, Never carried such hearts as the Old Farm-gate.
'Twas here where the miller's son paced to and fro, When the moon was above and the glow-worms below; Now pensively leaning, now twirling his stick, While the moments grew long and his heart-throbs grew quick. Why, why did he linger so restlessly there, With church-going vestment and sprucely-comb'd hair? He loved, oh he loved, and had promised to wait For the one he adored at the Old Farm-gate.
'Twas here where the grey-headed gossips would meet; And the falling of markets, or goodness of wheat— This field lying fallow—that heifer just bought— Were favourite themes for discussion and thought. The merits and faults of a neighbour just dead— The hopes of a couple about to be wed— The Parliament doings—the Bill; and Debate— Were all canvass'd and weigh'd at the Old Farm-gate,
'Twas over that gate I taught Pincher to bound With the strength of a steed and the grace of a hound. The beagle might hunt, and the spaniel might swim; But none could leap over that postern like him. When Dobbin was saddled for mirth-making trip, And the quickly-pull'd willow-branch served for a whip, Spite of lugging and tugging, he'd stand for his freight; While I climbed on his back from the Old Farm-gate.
'Tis well to pass portals where pleasure and fame May come winging our moments, and gilding our name; But give me the joy and the freshness of mind, When, away on some sport—the old gate slamm'd behind— I've listen'd to music, but none that could speak In such tones to my heart as that teeth-setting creak That broke on my ear when the night had worn late, And the dear ones came home through the Old Farm-gate.
Oh! fair is the barrier taking its place, But it darkens a picture my soul long'd to trace. I sigh to behold the rough staple and hasp, And the rails that my growing hand scarcely could clasp Oh how strangely the warm spirit grudges to part With the commonest relic once link'd to the heart; And the brightest of fortune—the kindliest fate— Would not banish my love for the Old Farm-gate.
