Home  »  A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895  »  Tommy ’s Dead

Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.

Sydney Dobell 1824–74

Tommy ’s Dead


YOU may give over plough, boys,

You may take the gear to the stead,

All the sweat o’ your brow, boys,

Will never get beer and bread.

The seed’s waste, I know, boys,

There ’s not a blade will grow, boys,

’T is cropp’d out, I trow, boys,

And Tommy ’s dead.

Send the colt to fair, boys,

He ’s going blind, as I said,

My old eyes can’t bear, boys,

To see him in the shed;

The cow ’s dry and spare, boys,

She ’s neither here nor there, boys,

I doubt she ’s badly bred;

Stop the mill to-morn, boys,

There ’ll be no more corn, boys,

Neither white nor red;

There ’s no sign of grass, boys,

You may sell the goat and the ass, boys,

The land ’s not what it was, boys,

And the beasts must be fed:

You may turn Peg away, boys,

You may pay off old Ned,

We ’ve had a dull day, boys,

And Tommy ’s dead.

Move my chair on the floor, boys,

Let me turn my head:

She ’s standing there in the door, boys,

Your sister Winifred!

Take her away from me, boys,

Your sister Winifred!

Move me round in my place, boys,

Let me turn my head,

Take her away from me, boys,

AS she lay on her death-bed,

The bones of her thin face, boys,

As she lay on her death-bed!

I don’t know how it be, boys,

When all ’s done and said,

But I see her looking at me, boys,

Wherever I turn my head;

Out of the big oak-tree, boys,

Out of the garden-bed,

And the lily as pale as she, boys,

And the rose that used to be red.

There ’s something not right, boys,

But I think it ’s not in my head,

I ’ve kept my precious sight, boys—

The lord be hallowed!

Outside and in

The ground is cold to my tread,

The hills are wizen and thin,

The sky is shrivell’d and shred,

The hedges down by the loan

I can count them bone by bone,

The leaves are open and spread,

But I see the teeth of the land,

And hands like a dead man’s head.

And the eyes of a dead man’s head.

There ’s nothing but cinders and sand,

The rat and the mouse have fed,

And the summer ’s empty and cold;

Over valley and wold

Wherever I turn my head

There ’s a mildew and a mould,

The sun ’s going out overhead,

And I ’m very old,

And Tommy ’s dead.

What am I staying for, boys?

You ’re all born and bred,

’T is fifty years and more, boys,

Since wife and I were wed,

And she ’s gone before, boys,

And Tommy ’s dead.

She was always sweet, boys,

Upon his curly head,

She knew she ’d never see ’t, boys,

And she stole off to bed;

I ’ve been sitting up alone, boys,

For he ’d come home, he said,

But it ’s time I was gone, boys,

For Tommy ’s dead.

Put the shutters up, boys,

Bring out the beer and bread,

Make haste and sup, boys,

For my eyes are heavy as lead;

There ’s something wrong i’ the cup, boys,

There ’s something ill wi’ the bread,

I don’t care to sup, boys,

And Tommy ’s dead.

I ’m not right, I doubt, boys,

I ’ve such a sleepy head,

I shall never more be stout, boys,

You may carry me to bed.

What are you about, boys?

The prayers are all said,

The fire ’s rak’d out, boys,

And Tommy ’s dead.

The stairs are too steep, boys,

You may carry me to the head,

The night ’s dark and deep, boys,

Your mother’s long in bed,

’T is time to go sleep, boys,

And Tommy ’s dead.

I ’m not us’d to kiss, boys,

You may shake my hand instead.

All things go amiss, boys,

You may lay me where she is, boys,

And I ’ll rest my old head:

’T is a poor world, this, boys,

And Tommy ’s dead.