Sir Self and Womankind.

Sir Self-Sufficient on his mule Went ambling stiffly o’er the ground. Quoth he: “This womankind doth rule Where’er a fool or slave is found; For she is full of craft and wiles, And dresses all her looks for show, But not her cunning nor her smiles Shall win a heart from me, I trow.” His way was through the stubble-field, Where mellow fragrance filled the air; And from the earth’s o’erflowing yield The scattered fruits lay ripe and fair. There women laboured in the sun, Uncouthly clad, and sun-embrowned, The old, the weak, the little one, Upon the stony furrowed ground. Sir Self laughed softly as he went. Quoth he: “Here nature hath her way, And shows no other ornament Than in the air and sunshine play. Ah! what a sorry, sordid sight Doth Beauty thus unfashioned make!— You, city dames, to such a plight Would bring the binding weed and rake.” There came one tripping to his knee, “Wild flowers: oh! buy wild flowers,” she said, And looked into his face to see What answer there was to be read. Sir Self passed on the other side, While from his hand a pittance came. Quoth he: “This nature hath no pride, Nor knoweth how to blush for shame.” Then onward through the village lane Of hovels dark, and cribbed, and low, Where narrow door and knotted pane Scant light and less of air bestow: Scared men and women rested there, And children swarmed and gambolled by. Quoth he: “Among so many, where May modesty find room to lie?” Sir Self went saddened on his road Toward the dimly spangled town; A girl upon a heavy load Beside the path had sat her down: “Will no one help you on your way?” “I want no help,” the girl replied, “I bear this burden day by day.” Quoth he: “This is true labour’s pride.” Then other women sorely bent, Beneath their burdens passed along; Yet spoke they gaily as they went, Or softly hummed a quiet song: And some bore children, some their load A failing sister’s pack increased. Then thought Sir Self: “With whip and goad, These women were like laden beast!” The shambling, reeking suburb through, There rose a mansion broad and high, Whence light from countless windows flew, And flamed a meteor in the sky; And from its gates, at clang of bell, Came women forth, with saucy word And cry. Quoth he: “Can this be well When women like the cattle herd?” He marked the motley troop; some gay With wilful burst of mirth long pent; Some downcast went their silent way; Some, stolid-featured, mocked content. But there was labour’s stain on all, The travailed look, the ashy skin. Quoth he: “What may this folk befall, With crime without and want within?” The gleaming town shone more and more, As fell the night’s mist-laden gloom, Till heaven’s face seemed dotted o’er With feeble sparks, where wheel and loom Went on their ceaseless whirl and swing, As busy hand and eager eye, Mid shuttle’s flight and iron’s ring, Their still-renewing taskwork ply. Dismounting from his bridled mule, Afoot Sir Self pursued his way, Where cries of mingled mirth and dule Marked sottish rout or maddened fray; Where on each lintel sat and croned Old beldams, and the sluttish brood Of girl-folk gossiped, laughed, and droned, As drone the idle, laugh the lewd. The city hath no solemn night Like that which shades the dewy lawn, But with a lurid, ghastly light, Beshames the gloom, and mocks the dawn. Still as the restless watches wore Sir Self the stony footway paced, Till morning waved the city o’er Her filmy wings gold-interlaced. But still through all the midnight blind, And through the blinking of the morn, On every side rose womankind To move his pity—raise his scorn: One mocked her shame, one pressed along On some untimely taskwork bound; One charmed the night with siren song; One woke the day with plaintive sound. Here fragile forms Sir Self passed by At toils which lordly man disdains; There rose some patient, piteous cry, Where petty trade sought petty gains. And in the morning’s mist there sate With love that would not wince nor fail, Poor womankind beside the gate Of hospital and grated jail. Sir Self forsook his stubborn mule, And, sadly, homeward paced the ground; Quoth he: “If womankind doth rule, May be nor slave nor fool is bound. ’Tis not her beauty nor her wiles, Nor all her looks dressed up for show, But something more than craft or smiles Has won a heart from me, I trow.” William Duthie.