red-breasts that so regular Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs, Won’t know the window now! Stranger. Nay they were high And then so darken’d up with jessamine, Harbouring the vermine;—that was a fine tree However. Did it not grow in and line The porch? Old Man. All over it: it did one good To pass within ten yards when ’twas in blossom. There was a sweet-briar too that grew beside. My Lady loved at evening to sit there And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet And slept in the sun; ’twas an old favourite dog She did not love him less that he was old And feeble, and he always had a place By the fire-side, and when he died at last She made me dig a grave in the garden for him. Ah I she was good to all! a woful day ’Twas for the poor when to her grave she went! Stranger. They lost a friend then? Old Man. You’re a stranger here Or would not ask that question. Were they sick? She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter When weekly she distributed the bread In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear The blessings on her! and I warrant them They were a blessing to her when her wealth Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir! It would have warm’d your heart if you had seen Her Christmas kitchen,—how the blazing fire Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs So chearful red,—and as for misseltoe, The finest bough that grew in the country round Was mark’d for Madam. Then her old ale went So bountiful about! a Christmas cask, And ’twas a noble one! God help me Sir! But I shall never see such days again. Stranger. Things may be better yet than you suppose And you should hope the best. Old Man. It don’t look well These alterations Sir! I’m an old man And love the good old fashions; we don’t find Old bounty in new houses. They’ve destroyed All that my Lady loved; her favourite walk Grubb’d up, and they do say that the great row Of elms behind the house, that meet a-top They must fall too. Well! well! I did not think To live to see all this, and ’tis perhaps A comfort I shan’t live to see it long. Stranger. But sure all changes are not needs for the worse My friend. Old Man. May-hap they mayn’t Sir;—for all that I like what I’ve been us’d to. I remember All this from a child up, and now to lose it, ’Tis losing an old friend. There’s nothing left As ’twas;—I go abroad and only meet With men whose fathers I remember boys; The brook that used to run before my door That’s gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt To climb are down; and I see nothing now That tells me of old times, except the stones In the church-yard. You are young Sir and I hope Have many years in store,—but pray to God You mayn’t be left the last of all your friends. Stranger. Well! well! you’ve one friend more than you’re 

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