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    The Widow in the Bye Street: "Poetry is a mixture of common sense, which not all have, with an uncommon sense, which very few have."
    The Widow in the Bye Street: "Poetry is a mixture of common sense, which not all have, with an uncommon sense, which very few have."
    The Widow in the Bye Street: "Poetry is a mixture of common sense, which not all have, with an uncommon sense, which very few have."
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    The Widow in the Bye Street: "Poetry is a mixture of common sense, which not all have, with an uncommon sense, which very few have."

    By John Masefield

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    John Edward Masefield was born in 1878 in the sleepy market town of Ledbury in rural Hertfordshire. An idyllic childhood was ruined when he was left an orphan and sent to live with an Aunt who decided his education and life would be better spent at sea. At age 13 he boarded a school ship and there his love of writing and reading blossomed. By 1899 he began to publish and apart from brief service during World War I he now had a life of writing and lecture tours. He published much; novels, poetry and even an account of the disastrous war effort in the Dardanelles at Gallipoli. Upon the death of Robert Bridges in 1930, Masefield was given the prestigious position of Poet Laureate, a role he would fulfill until his death; the only poet to hold the position for a longer period was Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Despite later ill health and the death of his wife in 1960, Masefield continued to write. In 1966, he published his last book of poems, In Glad Thanksgiving, at the age of 88. In the latter part of 1966 gangrene was diagnosed in his ankle. This gradually spread through his leg and claimed his life on May 12, 1967. He was cremated and his ashes placed in the Poet’s Corner of Westminster Abbey. Here we present The Widow in the Bye Street.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCopyright Group
    Release dateJan 26, 2015
    ISBN9781785431135
    The Widow in the Bye Street: "Poetry is a mixture of common sense, which not all have, with an uncommon sense, which very few have."
    Author

    John Masefield

    John Masefield was a well-known English poet and novelist. After boarding school, Masefield took to a life at sea where he picked up many stories, which influenced his decision to become a writer. Upon returning to England after finding work in New York City, Masefield began publishing his poetry in periodicals, and then eventually in collections. In 1915, Masefield joined the Allied forces in France and served in a British army hospital there, despite being old enough to be exempt from military service. After a brief service, Masefield returned to Britain and was sent overseas to the United States to research the American opinion on the war. This trip encouraged him to write his book Gallipoli, which dealt with the failed Allied attacks in the Dardanelles, as a means of negating German propaganda in the Americas. Masefield continued to publish throughout his life and was appointed as Poet Laureate in 1930. Masefield died in 1967 the age of 88.

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      Book preview

      The Widow in the Bye Street - John Masefield

      The Widow in the Bye Street by John Masefield

      John Edward Masefield was born in 1878 in the sleepy market town of Ledbury in rural Hertfordshire.

      An idyllic childhood was ruined when he was left an orphan and sent to live with an Aunt who decided his education and life would be better spent at sea.  At age 13 he boarded a school ship and there his love of writing and reading blossomed. 

      By 1899 he began to publish and apart from brief service during World War I he now had a life of writing and lecture tours.  He published much; novels, poetry and even an account of the disastrous war effort in the Dardanelles at Gallipoli.

      Upon the death of Robert Bridges in 1930, Masefield was given the prestigious position of Poet Laureate, a role he would fulfill until his death; the only poet to hold the position for a longer period was Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

      Despite later ill health and the death of his wife in 1960, Masefield continued to write. In 1966, he published his last book of poems, In Glad Thanksgiving, at the age of 88.

      In the latter part of 1966 gangrene was diagnosed in his ankle. This gradually spread through his leg and claimed his life on May 12, 1967. He was cremated and his ashes placed in the Poet’s Corner of Westminster Abbey.

      Index of Contents

      I

      II

      III

      IV

      V

      VI

      VII

      John Masefield – A Short Biography

      John Masefield – a Concise Bibliography

      I

      Down Bye Street, in a little Shropshire town,

      There lived a widow with her only son:

      She had no wealth nor title to renown,

      Nor any joyous hours, never one.

      She rose from ragged mattress before sun

      And stitched all day until her eyes were red,

      And had to stitch, because her man was dead.

      Sometimes she fell asleep, she stitched so hard,

      Letting the linen fall upon the floor;

      And hungry cats would steal in from the yard,

      And mangy chickens pecked about the door

      Craning their necks so ragged and so sore

      To search the room for bread-crumbs, or for mouse,

      But they got nothing in the widow’s house.

      Mostly she made her bread by hemming shrouds

      For one rich undertaker in the High Street,

      Who used to pray that folks might die in crowds

      And that their friends might pay to let them lie sweet;

      And when one died the widow in the Bye Street

      Stitched night and day to give the worm his dole.

      The dead were better dressed than that poor soul.

      Her little son was all her life’s delight,

      For in his little features she could find

      A glimpse of that dead husband out of sight,

      Where out of sight is never out of mind.

      And so she stitched till she was nearly blind,

      Or till the tallow candle end was done,

      To get a living for her little son.

      Her love for him being such she would not rest,

      It was a want which ate her out and in,

      Another hunger in her withered breast

      Pressing her woman’s bones against the skin.

      To make him plump she starved her body thin.

      And he, he ate the food, and never knew,

      He laughed and played as little children do.

      When there was little sickness in the place

      She took what God would send, and what God sent

      Never brought any colour to her face

      Nor life into her footsteps when she went

      Going, she trembled always withered and bent

      For all went to her son, always the same,

      He was first served whatever blessing came.

      Sometimes she wandered out to gather sticks,

      For it was bitter cold there when it snowed.

      And she stole hay out of the farmer’s ricks

      For bands to wrap her feet in while she sewed,

      And when her feet were warm and the grate glowed

      She hugged her little son, her heart’s desire,

      With ’Jimmy, ain’t it snug beside the fire?’

      So years went on till Jimmy was a lad

      And went to work as poor lads have to do,

      And then the widow’s loving heart was glad

      To know that all the pains she had gone through

      And all the years of putting on the screw,

      Down to the sharpest turn a mortal can,

      Had borne their fruit, and made her child a man.

      He got a job at working on the line

      Tipping the earth down, trolly after truck,

      From daylight till the evening, wet or fine,

      With arms all red from wallowing in the muck,

      And spitting, as the trolly tipped, for luck,

      And singing ’Binger’ as he swung the pick

      Because the red blood ran in him so quick.

      So there was bacon then, at night, for supper

      In Bye Street there, where he and mother stay;

      And boots they had, not leaky in the upper,

      And room rent ready on the settling day;

      And beer for poor old mother, worn and grey,

      And fire in frost; and in the widow’s eyes

      It seemed the Lord had made earth paradise.

      And there they sat of evenings after dark

      Singing their song of ’Binger,’ he and she,

      Her poor old cackle made the mongrels bark

      And ’You sing Binger, mother,’ carols he;

      ’By crimes, but that’s a good song, that her be’:

      And then they slept there in the room they shared,

      And all the time fate had his end prepared.

      One thing alone

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