Part 1.
Young Annie Smith was dairy maid
At Brookland on the hill;
The pretty farm that lies above
Old Jacob Slater’s mill.
A sweeter girl than Annie Smith
Ne’er sung beside a cow;
Her cheeks were like the morn itself,
Or damask rose in blow.
Her shining hair, as black as jet,
Was fastened close and tight;
Her dress it fitted prettily,
Her cap was snowy white.
She was a bonny little lass
As e’er you’d look upon;
No wonder, then, she stole the heart
Of Slater’s miller, John.
For best of all, both loved the Lord,
And trusted in His love
To cleanse them from their scarlet sins
And take them home above.
John went past Brookland every day,
It was the thoroughfare;
And always had a pleasant word
To say, if Anne was there.
‘Twas long before she heeded much
The words he had to say:
And if he loitered by the door,
She blushed and went away.
But perseverance will prevail
Where all is right and fair;
And she became his happy bride,
His weal and woe to share.
No doubt sweet Anne had often thought
That she would someday wed;
So put her money in the bank,
And not upon her head.
She never liked a dashing dress,
Her taste was always neat;
And now her savings helped to make
Their little home complete.
Between them both, with management,
With industry and skill,
They bought sufficient furniture
Their happy home to fill.
John was the foreman at the mill,
Their cottage was close by;
It lay so handy for his work,
And stood both warm and dry.
It had a plot of ground behind,
A little piece before;
And just a sort of rustic porch
Around the pleasant door.
John made the porch, both he and Anne
Were very fond of flowers,
And worked together happily.
In many leisure hours.
He left no room for weeds to grow,
They could not lift a head
Amongst the rows of cabbages
Or in the parsnip bed.
You really hardly would believe
How many things there were,
That John contrived to cultivate
In his small garden there.
The little garden in the front
Was Anne’s special care;
And soon was full of scented flowers
That sweetened all the air.
But let us now go in with Anne
To see her table spread,
And then at once we shall perceive
A loaf of home-made bread.
She always found it possible
To get both yeast and flour;
It only wanted management,
The will—it brought the power.
Besides the bread, both she and John
Had porridge thick and hot;
It was a hearty, wholesome food,
And cheaper, Anne thought.
With such a breakfast, John would say,
He never wanted beer;
Yet not a workman at the mill
With him could strength compare.
His mates would often sneer and laugh,
And tempt him to a “pot”;
But he would let them laugh away,
He scorned to be a sot.
When winter came and nights were long
They sat beside their fire;
She knitted stockings thick and strong;
He read, at her desire.
At church, on Sunday, they were seen—
Anne always had been there;
And now, they both together went
Up to the house of prayer.
Anne’s mother always counseled her
To make the Lord her stay;
“’Tis sunshine with you now, my dear,
But you’ll be forced to pray.
“For clouds may gather, one by one,
And you will want a friend;
If you don’t know His face before,
‘Twill then seem far to send.”
Anne always thought her mother was
The pattern of a wife;
And now she tried to copy her
In this sweet married life.
ML 10/07/1917