Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Pilgrim

The Pilgrim.

The night was dark, and drear the heath,
And sudden howled the wind,
When o'er the wold a pilgrim strayed,
Some friendly inn to find.

He hastened to a feeble light,
That glimmered from afar,
By which he viewed a sign project,
And found it was the Star.

Good fare was there for man and horse,
And rest for weary bones;
A famed and long established house,
And kept by Mary Jones.

Three gentle taps the pilgrim gave,
When Mary ope'd the door,
And ushered in her weary guest,
Not knowing he was poor.

But Mary's eyes were rather dim,
Or else she might have kenned
He was not much of wealthy wight
The widow to befriend.

No cockle-shell or cowl had he,
Nor pilgrim's staff so tall;
Nor sandal shoone had he, I ween,
If any shoes at all.

He ate, he drank, he praised the ale—
Most sumptuously he fed;
And when he heard the clock strike twelve,
He marched upstairs to bed.

Next morning breakfast was prepared,
Of which he ate his fill;
When Mary Jones, in neat array,
Brought in the pilgrim's bill.

He heeded not the items there,
But unto Jones did say,
"I bear a pilgrim's ancient name,
And ne'er bring cash to pay.

"To touch the vile polluted ore,
My conscience would offend;
I neither borrow cash nor plate,
Nor either do I lend.

"Daughter, I liked thy supper much,
And much I liked the dressing;
Therefore, for all I have received,
I leave thee, child, my blessing."

Poor Mary Jones astonished stood,
To see the good man pray;
At length the hostess silence broke,
And thus to him did say:

"I ne'er a pilgrim housed before,
Nor such like holy folk;
But, as you say the custom's old,
I bend beneath the yoke.

"No doubt you have a conscience good,
Nor do I mean to shock it;
But pilgrim, when you call again,
Bring money in your pocket."