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The Poet and The Paupers
XIV.090

Come, Polly, cheer up, ‘tis our Jubilee day;
Let us banish our cares – with our sorrows away;
Let us call in our friends; ah, alas they have gone;
Then call in our foes – but of these we have none!
Well, since we possess not a friend or a foe,
There’s One who rules all things above and below,
Who gave us our being – the Guide of our youth –
The Source of all blessing – the Fountain of Truth!
In Him we will glory – on Him we rely,
To chase every gloom from our evening sky;
So that when our day closes, as shortly it must,
We may rest from our labours in Him whom we trust.

Martha Lower and grandaughter 'Bella c.1854

Twenty months later Mary was dead. She died from influenza on March 5th, 1854, and was buried next day in the churchyard that already held five of her children and two of her grandchildren. Four years later a third, Louise Margaret, was to join her.

To have lost Mary, the woman with whom he had shared over half a century of their lives, must have been as shocking as losing a limb; but both Richard and Mary were resigned to Death. To live or to die – it was God’s will; and Richard did not, therefore, mope.

He was now alone in the School House, for it was many years since the Lowers had had a pauper girl “put out” to them as a servant; but Mary Ann must have found time frequently to come down the lane from The White House, not just because she was Simon Peter’s wife but also because she was Joshua Quaife’s sister. The Lowers and the Quaifes were very close. Louise Margaret must have also called in to help her grandfather keep house and, after her death, Mary Feists’s eldest daughter – also Mary and aged 20 in 1861 – moved from Maresfield to Muddles Green. She was there on Census Day 1861. So were two of Matthew Henry’s daughters: Isabella, now aged 14 and little Katharine, aged 4.

A year earlier Richard had signed a 12-month contract with the Vestry to rent a parish-owned cottage at Whitesmith, which suggests that he had contemplated moving into a smaller house; but as he was still at Muddles Green in 1861, it seems he was reluctant to leave familiar surroundings, especially as he was engaged in completing his third, and last, book.

Over the years he kept a strong, hard-covered notebook in which to record all those poems he judged worthy of preservation. Significantly, this included nothing written in dialect. Now he was making a retrospective selection to leave to posterity as evidence of what, in his own opinion, was his best work.


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