Hear now the Song of the Dead!


I

We were dreamers, dreaming greatly, in the man-stifled town;
We yearned beyond the sky-line where the strange roads go down.
Came the Whisper, came the Vision, came the Power with the Need,
Till the Soul that is not man’s soul was lent us to lead.

As the deer breaks—as the steer breaks—from the herd where they graze,
In the faith of little children we went on our ways.

Then the wood failed—then the food failed—then the last water dried—
In the faith of little children we lay down and died.

On the sand-drift—on the veldt-side—in the fern-scrub we lay,
That our sons might follow after by the bones on the way.
Follow after—follow after! We have watered the root,
And the bud has come to blossom that ripens for fruit!

Follow after—we are waiting, by the trails that we lost,
For the sounds of many footsteps, for the tread of a host.
Follow after—follow after—for the harvest is sown:
By the bones about the wayside ye shall come to your own!

When Drake went down to the Horn
And England was crowned thereby,
’Twixt seas unsailed and shores unhailed
Our Lodge—our Lodge was born
(And England was crowned thereby!)

Which never shall close again
By day nor yet by night,
While man shall take his life to stake
At risk of shoal or main
(By day nor yet by night).

But standeth even so
As now we witness here,
While men depart, of joyful heart,
Adventure for to know
(As now bear witness here!)


II

We have fed our sea for a thousand years
And she calls us, still unfed,
Though there’s never a wave of all her waves
But marks our English dead:
To the shark and the sheering gull.
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha’ paid in full!

There’s never a flood goes shoreward now
But lifts a keel we manned;
There’s never an ebb goes seaward now
But drops our dead on the sand—
But slinks our dead on the sands forlore,
From the Ducies to the Swin.

If blood be the price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha’ paid it in!

We must feed our sea for a thousand years,
For that is our doom and pride,
As it was when they sailed with the Golden Hind,
Or the wreck that struck last tide—
Or the wreck that lies on the spouting reef
Where the ghastly blue-lights flare.

If blood be the price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha’ bought it fair!


R Kippling

The Song of the Oak

    THE Druids waved their golden knives
    And danced around the Oak
    When they had sacrificed a man;
    But though the learned search and scan
    No single modern person can
    Entirely see the joke.
    But though they cut the throats of men
    They cut not down the tree,
    And from the blood the saplings spring
    Of oak-woods yet to be.
        But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,
        He rots the tree as ivy would,
        He clings and crawls as ivy would
        About the sacred tree.

    King Charles he fled from Worcester fight
    And hid him in the Oak;
    In convent schools no man of tact
    Would trace and praise his every act,
    Or argue that he was in fact
    A strict and sainted bloke.
    But not by him the sacred woods
    Have lost their fancies free,
    And though he was extremely big
    He did not break the tree.
        But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,
        He breaks the tree as ivy would,
        And eats the woods as ivy would
        Between us and the sea.

    Great Collingwood walked down the glade
    And flung the acorns free,
    That oaks might still be in the grove
    As oaken as the beams above,
    When the great Lover sailors love
    Was kissed by Death at aea.
    But though for him the oak-trees fell
    To build the oaken ships,
    The woodman worshipped what he smote
    And honoured even the chips.
        But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,
        He hates the tree as ivy would,
        As the dragon of the ivy would
        That has us in his grips.

        G. K. Chesterton

 Elegy in a Country Churchyard

    THE men that worked for England
    They have their graves at home:
    And birds and bees of England
    About the cross can roam.

    But they that fought for England,
    Following a falling star,
    Alas, alas for England
    They have their graves afar.

    And they that rule in England,
    In stately conclave met,
    Alas, alas for England
    They have no graves as yet.

     G. K. Chesterton

 The Secret People

    SMILE at us, pay us, pass us; but do not quite forget.
    For we are the people of England, that never have spoken yet.
    There is many a fat farmer that drinks less cheerfully,
    There is many a free French peasant who is richer and sadder than we.
    There are no folk in the whole world so helpless or so wise.
    There is hunger in our bellies, there is laughter in our eyes;
    You laugh at us and love us, both mugs and eyes are wet:
    Only you do not know us. For we have not spoken yet.

    The fine French kings came over in a flutter of flags and dames.
    We liked their smiles and battles, but we never could say their names.
    The blood ran red to Bosworth and the high French lords went down;
    There was naught but a naked people under a naked crown.
    And the eyes of the King's Servants turned terribly every way,
    And the gold of the King's Servants rose higher every day.
    They burnt the homes of the shaven men, that had been quaint and kind.
    Till there was not bed in a monk's house, nor food that man could find.
    The inns of God where no main paid, that were the wall of the weak,
    The King's Servants ate them all. And still we did not speak.

    And the face of the King's Servants grew greater than the King:
    He tricked them, and they trapped him, and stood round him in a ring.
    The new grave lords closed round him, that had eaten the abbey's fruits,
    And the men of the new religion, with their bibles in their boots,
    We saw their shoulders moving, to menace or discuss,
    And some were pure and some were vile, but none took heed of us.
    We saw the King as they killed him, and his face was proud and pale;
    And a few men talked of freedom, while England talked of ale.

    A war that we understood not came over the world and woke
    Americans, Frenchmen, Irish; but we knew not the things they spoke.
    They talked about rights and nature and peace and the people's reign:
    And the squires, our masters, bade us fight; and never scorned us again.
    Weak if we be for ever, could none condemn us then;
    Men called us serfs and drudges; men knew that were were men.
    In foam and flame at Trafalgar, on Albeura plains,
    We did and died like lions, to keep ouselves in chains.
    We lay in living ruins; firing and fearing not
    The strange face of the Frenchman who know for what they fought,
    And the man who seemed to be more than man we strained against and broke;
    And we broke our own right with him. And still we never spoke.

    Our patch of glory ended; we never heard guns again.
    But the squire seemed struck in the saddle; he was foolish, as if in pain.
    He leaned on a staggering lawyer, he clutched a cringing Jew,
    He was stricken; it may be, after all, he was stricken at Waterloo.
    Or perhaps the shades of the shaven men, whose spoil is in his house,
    Come back in shining shapes at last to spil his last carouse:
    We only know the last sad squires ride slowly towards the sea,
    And a new people takes the land: and still it is not we.

    They have given us into the hand of new unhappy lords,
    Lords without anger and honour, who dare not carry their swords.
    They fight by shuffling papers; they have bright dead alien eyes;
    They look at our labour and laughter as a tired man looks at flies.
    And the load of their loveless pity is worse than the ancient wrongs,
    Their doors are shut in the evening; and they know no songs.

    We hear men speaking for us of new laws strong and sweet,
    Yet is there no man speaketh as we speak in the street.
    It may be we shall rise the last as Frenchmen rose the first,
    Our wrath come after Russia's wrath and our wrath be the worst.
    It may be we are meant to mark with our riot and our rest
    God's scorn for all men governing. It may be beer is best.
    But we are the people of England; and we have not spoken yet.
    Smile at us, pay us, pass us. But do not quite forget.

        G. K. Chesterton

 A Song of Defeat

    THE line breaks and the guns go under,
        The lords and the lackeys ride the plain;
    I draw deep breaths of the dawn and thunder,
        And the whole of my heart grows young again.
    For our chiefs said 'Done,' and I did not deem it;
        Our seers said 'Peace,' and it was not peace;
    Earth will grow worse till men redeem it,
        And wars more evil, ere all wars cease.
    But the old flags reel and the old drums rattle,
        As once in my life they throbbed and reeled;
    I have found my youth in the lost battle,
        I have found my heart on the battlefield.
            For we that fight till the world is free,
            We are not easy in victory:
            We have known each other too long, my brother,
            And fought each other, the world and we.

    And I dream of the days when work was scrappy,
        And rare in our pockets the mark of the mint,
    When we were angry and poor and happy,
        And proud of seeing our names in print.
    For so they conquered and so we scattered,
        When the Devil road and his dogs smelt gold,
    And the peace of a harmless folk was shattered;
        When I was twenty and odd years old.
    When the mongrel men that the market classes
        Had slimy hands upon England's rod,
    And sword in hand upon Afric's passes
        Her last Republic cried to God.
            For the men no lords can buy or sell,
            They sit not easy when all goes well,
            They have said to each other what naught can smother,
            They have seen each other, our souls and hell.

    It is all as of old, the empty clangour,
        The Nothing scrawled on a five-foot page,
    The huckster who, mocking holy anger,
        Painfully paints his face with rage.
    And the faith of the poor is faint and partial,
        And the pride of the rich is all for sale,
    And the chosen heralds of England's Marshal
        Are the sandwich-men of the Daily Mail,
    And the niggards that dare not give are glutted,
        And the feeble that dare not fail are strong,
    So while the City of Toil is gutted,
        I sit in the saddle and sing my song.
            For we that fight till the world is free,
            We have no comfort in victory;
            We have read each other as Cain his brother,
            We know each other, these slaves and we.

        G. K. Chesterton

John Brown

        HAD he been made of such poor clay as we,
            Who, when we feel a little fire aglow
            'Gainst wrong within us, dare not let it grow,
        But crouch and hide it, lest the scorner see
        And sneer, yet bask our self-complacency
            In that faint warmth -- had he been fashioned so,
            The nation n'er had come to that birth-throe
        That gave the world a new humanity.

        He was no vain professor of the word --
            His life a mockery of the creed; -- he made
        No discount on the Golden Rule, but heard
            Above the Senate's brawls and din of trade
        Ever the clank of chains, until he stirred
            The nation's heart on that immortal raid.

            William Herbert Carruth

Reunion in War

    THE windmill in his smock of white
        Stared from his little crest,
    Like a slow smoke was the moonlight
        As I went like one possessed

    Where the glebe path makes shortest way;
        The stammering wicket swung.
    I passed amid the crosses grey
        Where opiate yew-boughs hung.

    The bleached grass shuddered into sighs,
        The dogs that knew this moon
    Far up were harrying sheep, the cries
        Of hunting owls went on.

    And I among the dead made haste
        And over flat vault stones
    Set in the path unheeding paced
        Nor thought of those chill bones.

    Thus to my sweetheart's cottage I,
        Who long had been away,
    Turned as the traveler turns away
        To brooks to moist his clay.

    Her cottage stood like a dream, so clear
        And yet so dark; and now
    I thought to find my more than dear
        And if she'd kept her vow.

    Old house dog from his barrel came
        Without a voice, and knew
    And licked my hand; all seemed the same
        To the moonlight and the dew.

    By the white damson then I took
        The tallest osier wand
    And thrice upon her casement strook,
        And she, so fair, so fond,

    Looked out, and saw in wild delight
        And tiptoed down to me,
    And cried in silent joy that night
        Beside the bullace tree.

    O cruel time to take away,
        And worse to bring again;
    Why slept not I in Flanders clay
        With all the murdered men?

    For I had changed, or she had changed,
        Though true loves both had been,
    Even while we kissed we stood estranged
        With the ghosts of war between.

    We had not met but a moment ere
        War baffled Joy, and cried,
    " Love's but a madness, a burnt flare;
        The shell's a madman's bride."

    The cottage stood, poor stone and wood,
        Poorer than stone stood I;
    Then from her kind arms moved in a mood
        As grey as the care clothed sky.

    The roosts were stirred, each little bird
        Called fearfully out for day;
    The church clock with his dead voice whirred
        As if he bade me stay.

    To trace with madman's fingers all
        The letters on the stones
    Where thick beneath the twitch roots crawl
        In dead men's envied bones.

        Edmund Blunden

 The Wood's Entry

    SO old is the wood, so old,
    Old as Fear.
    Wrinkled roots; great stems; hushed leaves;
    No sound near.

    Shadows retreat into shadow,
    Deepening, crossed.
    Burning light singles a low leaf, a bough,
    Far within, lost.

    Laurence Binyon

Alexander VI Dines with the Cardinal of Capua

    Next, then, the peacock, gilt
    With all its feathers. Look, what gorgeous dyes
    Flow in the eyes!
    And how deep, lustrous greens are splashed and spilt
    Along the back, that like a sea-wave's crest
    Scatters soft beauty o'er th' emblazoned breast!

    A strange fowl! But most fit
    For feasts like this, whereby I honor one
    Pure as the sun!
    Yet glowing with the fiery zeal of it!
    Some wine? Your goblet's empty? Let it foam!
    It is not often that you come to Rome!

    You like the Venice glass?
    Rippled with lines that float like women's curls,
    Neck like a girl's,
    Fierce-glowing as a chalice in the Mass?
    You start -- 'twas artist then, not Pope who spoke!
    Ave Maria stella! -- ah, it broke!

    'Tis said they break alone
    When poison writhes within. A foolish tale!
    What, you look pale?
    Caraffa, fetch a silver cup! . . . You own
    A Birth of Venus, now -- or so I've heard,
    Lovely as the breast-plumage of a bird.

    Also a Dancing Faun,
    Hewn with the lithe grace of Praxiteles;
    Globed pearls to please
    A sultan; golden veils that drop like lawn --
    How happy I could be with but a tithe
    Of your possessions, fortunate one! Don't writhe

    But take these cushions here!
    Now for the fruit! Great peaches, satin-skinned,
    Rough tamarind,
    Pomegranates red as lips -- oh they come dear!
    But men like you we feast at any price --
    A plum perhaps? They're looking rather nice!

    I'll cut the thing in half.
    There's yours! Now, with a one-side-poisoned knife
    One might snuff life
    And leave one's friend with -- "fool" for epitaph!
    An old trick? Truth! But when one has the itch
    For pretty things and isn't very rich. . . .

    There, eat it all or I'll
    Be angry! You feel giddy? Well, it's hot!
    This bergamot
    Take home and smell -- it purges blood of bile!
    And when you kiss Bianca's dimpled knee,
    Think of the poor Pope in his misery!

    Now you may kiss my ring!
    Ho there, the Cardinal's litter! -- You must dine
    When the new wine
    Is in, again with me -- hear Bice sing,
    Even admire my frescoes -- though they're nought
    Beside the calm Greek glories you have bought!

    Godspeed, Sir Cardinal!
    And take a weak man's blessing! Help him there
    To the cool air! . . .
    Lucrezia here? You're ready for the ball?
    -- He'll die within ten hours, I suppose --
    Mhm! Kiss your poor old father, little rose! 

Stephen Vincent Benet

 Return -- 1917

    "The College will reopen Sept. --."
        `Catalogue'.

    I was just aiming at the jagged hole
    Torn in the yellow sandbags of their trench,
    When something threw me sideways with a wrench,
    And the skies seemed to shrivel like a scroll
    And disappear . . . and propped against the bole
    Of a big elm I lay, and watched the clouds
    Float through the blue, deep sky in speckless crowds,
    And I was clean again, and young, and whole.

    Lord, what a dream that was! And what a doze
    Waiting for Bill to come along to class!
    I've cut it now -- and he -- Oh, hello, Fred!
    Why, what's the matter? -- here -- don't be an ass,
    Sit down and tell me! -- What do you suppose?
    I dreamed I . . . am I . . . wounded? "You are dead." 


Stephan Vincent Benet

Charles Augustus Fortescue

The nicest child I ever knew
Was Charles Augustus Fortescue.
He never lost his cap, or tore
His stockings or his pinafore:
    In eating Bread he made no Crumbs,
    He was extremely fond of sums,

To which, however, he preferred
The Parsing of a Latin Word--
He sought, when it was within his power,
For information twice an hour,

And as for finding Mutton-Fat
Unappatising, far from that!
He often, at his Father's Board,
Would beg them, of his own accord,

To give him, if they did not mind,
The Greasiest Morsels they could find--
His Later Years did not belie
The Promise of his Infancy.
    In Public Life he always tried
    To take a judgement Broad and Wide;

In Private, none was more than he
Renowned for quiet courtesy.
He rose at once in his Career,
And long before his Fortieth Year

Had wedded Fifi, Only Child
Of Bunyan, First Lord Aberfylde.
He thus became immensely Rich,
And built the Splendid Mansion which

Is called The Cedars, Muswell Hill,
Where he resides in affluence still,
To show what everybody might
Become by SIMPLY DOING RIGHT. 

Hillaire Belloc

 Bruce and the Spider

    FOR Scotland's and for freedom's right
        The Bruce his part had played,
    In five successive fields of fight
        Been conquered and dismayed;
    Once more against the English host
    His band he led, and once more lost
        The meed for which he fought;
    And now from battle, faint and worn,
    The homeless fugitive forlorn
        A hut's lone shelter sought.

    And cheerless was that resting-place
        For him who claimed a throne:
    His canopy devoid of grace,
        The rude, rough beams alone;
    The heather couch his only bed, --
    Yet well I ween had slumber fled
        From couch of eider-down!
    Through darksome night till dawn of day,
    Absorbed in wakeful thought he lay
        Of Scotland and her crown.

    The sun rose brightly, and its gleam
        Fell on that hapless bed,
    And tinged with light each shapeless beam
        Which roofed the lowly shed;
    When, looking up with wistful eye,
    The Bruce beheld a spider try
        His filmy thread to fling
    From beam to beam of that rude cot;
    And well the insect's toilsome lot
        Taught Scotland's future king.

    Six times his gossamery thread
        The wary spider threw;
    In vain the filmy line was sped,
        For powerless or untrue
    Each aim appeared, and back recoiled
    The patient insect, six times foiled,
        And yet unconquered still;
    And soon the Bruce, with eager eye,
    Saw him prepare once more to try
        His courage, strength, and skill.

    One effort more, his seventh and last!
        The hero hailed the sign!
    And on the wished-for beam hung fast
        That slender, silken line;
    Slight as it was, his spirit caught
    The more than omen, for his thought
        The lesson well could trace,
    Which even "he who runs may read,"
    That Perseverance gains its meed,
        And Patience wins the race.

        Bernard Barton

 The Fairies

    UP the airy mountain
        Down the rushy glen,
    We daren't go a-hunting,
        For fear of little men;
    Wee folk, good folk,
        Trooping all together;
    Green jacket, red cap,
        And white owl's feather.
    Down along the rocky shore
        Some make their home,
    They live on crispy pancakes
        Of yellow tide-foam;
    Some in the reeds
        Of the black mountain-lake,
    With frogs for their watch-dogs,
        All night awake.

    High on the hill-top
        The old King sits;
    He is now so old and gray
        He's nigh lost his wits.
    With a bridge of white mist
        Columbkill he crosses,
    On his stately journeys
        From Slieveleague to Rosses;
    Or going up with music,
        On cold starry nights,
    To sup with the Queen,
        Of the gay Northern Lights.

    They stole little Bridget
        For seven years long;
    When she came down again
        Her friends were all gone.
    They took her lightly back
        Between the night and morrow;
    They thought she was fast asleep,
        But she was dead with sorrow.
    They have kept her ever since
        Deep within the lake,
    On a bed of flag leaves,
        Watching till she wake.

    By the craggy hill-side,
        Through the mosses bare,
    They have planted thorn trees
        For pleasure here and there.
    Is any man so daring
        As dig them up in spite?
    He shall find the thornies set
        In his bed at night.

    Up the airy mountain
        Down the rushy glen,
    We daren't go a-hunting,
        For fear of little men;
    Wee folk, good folk,
        Trooping all together;
    Green jacket, red cap,
        And white owl's feather.

        William Allingham

 Inscription for a Column at Runnymede

    THOU who the verdant plain dost traverse here,
    While Thames among his willows from thy view Retires;
    O stranger, stay thee, and the scene
    Around contemplate well. This is the place
    Where England's ancient barons, clad in arms
    And stern with conquest, from their tyrant king
    (Then render'd tame) did challenge and secure
    The charter of thy freedom. Pass not on
    Till thou hast bless'd their memory, and paid
    Those thanks which God appointed the reward
    Of public virtue. And if chance thy home
    Salute thee with a father's honour'd name,
    Go, call thy sons; instruct them what a debt
    They owe their ancestors; and make them swear
    To pay it, by transmitting down entire
    Those sacred rights to which themselves were born.

Mark Akenside

The Blessings of Liberty

    from Letter from Italy
    OH LIBERTY, thou goddess heavenly bright,
    Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight!
    Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign,
    And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train;
    Eas'd of her load subjection grows more light,
    And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight;
    Thou mak'st the gloomy face of Nature gay,
    Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day.

    Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's Isle adores;
    How has she oft exhausted all her stores,
    How oft in fields of death thy presence sought,
    Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought!
    On foreign mountains may the sun refine
    The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine,
    With citron groves adorn a distant soil,
    And the fat olive swell with floods of oil:
    We envy not the warmer clime, that lies
    In ten degrees of more indulgent skies,
    Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine,
    Tho' o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine:
    'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's Isle,
    And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile.

    Others with towering piles may please the sight,
    And in their proud aspiring domes delight;
    A nicer touch to the stretch'd canvas give,
    Or teach their animated rocks to live:
    'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate,
    And hold in balance each contending state,
    To threaten bold presumptuous kings with war,
    And answer her afflicted neighbours' pray'r.
    The Dane and Swede, rous'd up by fierce alarms,
    Bless the wise conduct of her pious arms:
    Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors cease,
    And all the northern world lies hush'd in peace.

Joseph Addison

 Nearer My God to Thee

    NEARER, my God, to Thee,
    Nearer to Thee!
    E'en though it be a cross
    That raiseth me;
    Still all my song shall be,
    Nearer, my God, to Thee,
    Nearer to Thee!

    Though like the wanderer,
    The sun gone down,
    Darkness be over me,
    My rest a stone;
    Yet in my dreams I'd be
    Nearer, my God, to Thee,
    Nearer to Thee!

    There let the way appear
    Steps unto Heaven,
    All that Thou send'st me
    In mercy given;
    Angels to beckon me
    Nearer, my God, to Thee,
    Nearer to Thee!

    Than, with my waking thoughts
    Bright with Thy praise,
    Out of my stony griefs,
    Bethel I'll raise;
    So by my woes to be
    Nearer, my God, to Thee,
    Nearer to Thee!


Sarah Flower Adams

    A Ballad of Baseball Burdens

        THE burden of hard hitting. Slug away
            Like Honus Wagner or like Tyrus Cobb.
        Else fandom shouteth: "Who said you could play?
            Back to the jasper league, you minor slob!"
            Swat, hit, connect, line out, goet on the job.
        Else you shall feel the brunt of fandom's ire
            Biff, bang it, clout it, hit it on the knob -
        This is the end of every fan's desire.

        The burden of good pitching. Curved or straight.
            Or in or out, or haply up or down,
        To puzzle him that standeth by the plate,
            To lessen, so to speak, his bat-renown:
            Like Christy Mathewson or Miner Brown,
        So pitch that every man can but admire
            And offer you the freedom of the town -
        This is the end of every fan's desire.

        The burden of loud cheering. O the sounds!
            The tumult and the shouting from the throats
        Of forty thousand at the Polo Grounds
            Sitting, ay, standing sans their hats and coats.
            A mighty cheer that possibly denotes
        That Cub or Pirate fat is in the fire;
            Or, as H. James would say, We've got their goats -
        This is the end of every fan's desire.

        The burden of a pennant. O the hope,
            The tenuous hope, the hope that's half a fear,
        The lengthy season and the boundless dope,
            And the bromidic, "Wait until next year."
            O dread disgrace of trailing in the rear,
        O Piece of Bunting, flying high and higher
            That next October it shall flutter here:
        This is the end of every fan's desire.

            ENVOY

        Ah, Fans, let not the Quarry but the Chase
            Be that to which most fondly we aspire!
        For us not Stake, but Game; not Goal, but Race -

        THIS is the end of every fan's desire.

            Franklin P. Adams

 The Listeners

    "IS anybody there?" said the Traveler,
        Knocking on the moonlit door;
    And his horse in the silence chomped the grasses
        Of the forest's ferny floor. 

    And a bird flew up out of the turret,
        Above the traveler's head:
    And he smote upon the door a second time;
        "Is there anybody there?" he said. 

    But no one descended to the Traveler;
        No head from the leaf-fringed sill
    Leaned over and looked into his gray eyes,
        Where he stood perplexed and still. 

    But only a host of phantom listeners
        That dwelt in the lone house then
    Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
        To that voice from the world of men:
    Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair
        That goes down to the empty hall,
    Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
        By the lonely Traveler's call. 

    And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
        Their stillness answering his cry,
    While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
        'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
    For he suddenly smote the door, even
        Louder, and lifted his head:--
    "Tell them I came, and no one answered,
        That I kept my word," he said. 

    Never the least stir made the listeners,
        Though every word he spake
    Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
        From the one man left awake:
    Aye, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
        And the sound of iron on stone,
    And how the silence surged softly backward,
        When the plunging hoofs were gone.

  Walter De La Mare

 All that's Past

    VERY old are the woods;
        And the buds that break
    Out of the brier's boughs,
        When March winds wake,
    So old with their beauty are--
        Oh, no man knows
    Through what wild centuries
        Roves back the rose.
    Very old are the brooks;
        And the rills that rise
    Where snow sleeps cold beneath
        The azure skies
    Sing such a history
        Of come and gone,
    Their every drop is as wise
        As Solomon.

    Very old are we men;
        Our dreams are tales
    Told in dim Eden
        By Eve's nightingales;
    We wake and whisper awhile,
        But, the day gone by,
    Silence and sleep like fields
        Of amaranth lie.

Walter De La Mare

 The Song of Finis

    AT the edge of All the Ages
        A Knight sate on his steed,
    His armor red and thin with rust
        His soul from sorrow freed;
    And he lifted up his visor
        From a face of skin and bone,
    And his horse turned head and whinnied
        As the twain stood there alone.

    No bird above that steep of time
        Sang of a livelong quest;
    No wind breathed,
        Rest:
    "Lone for an end!" cried Knight to steed,
        Loosed an eager rein--
    Charged with his challenge into space:
        And quiet did quiet remain.

Walter De La Mare

 Napoleon

    'WHAT is the world, O soldiers?
               It is I:
    I, this incessant snow,
        This northern sky;
    Soldiers, this solitude
        Through which we go
               Is I.'

 Walter De La Mare

Tangled Up in Blue


Early one mornin’ the sun was shinin’
I was layin’ in bed
Wond’rin’ if she’d changed at all
If her hair was still red
Her folks they said our lives together
Sure was gonna be rough
They never did like Mama’s homemade dress
Papa’s bankbook wasn’t big enough
And I was standin’ on the side of the road
Rain fallin’ on my shoes
Heading out for the East Coast
Lord knows I’ve paid some dues gettin’ through
Tangled up in blue

She was married when we first met
Soon to be divorced
I helped her out of a jam, I guess
But I used a little too much force
We drove that car as far as we could
Abandoned it out West
Split up on a dark sad night
Both agreeing it was best
She turned around to look at me
As I was walkin’ away
I heard her say over my shoulder
“We’ll meet again someday on the avenue”
Tangled up in blue

I had a job in the great north woods
Working as a cook for a spell
But I never did like it all that much
And one day the ax just fell
So I drifted down to New Orleans
Where I happened to be employed
Workin’ for a while on a fishin’ boat
Right outside of Delacroix
But all the while I was alone
The past was close behind
I seen a lot of women
But she never escaped my mind, and I just grew
Tangled up in blue

She was workin’ in a topless place
And I stopped in for a beer
I just kept lookin’ at the side of her face
In the spotlight so clear
And later on as the crowd thinned out
I’s just about to do the same
She was standing there in back of my chair
Said to me, “Don’t I know your name?”
I muttered somethin’ underneath my breath
She studied the lines on my face
I must admit I felt a little uneasy
When she bent down to tie the laces of my shoe
Tangled up in blue

She lit a burner on the stove
And offered me a pipe
“I thought you’d never say hello,” she said
“You look like the silent type”
Then she opened up a book of poems
And handed it to me
Written by an Italian poet
From the thirteenth century
And every one of them words rang true
And glowed like burnin’ coal
Pourin’ off of every page
Like it was written in my soul from me to you
Tangled up in blue

I lived with them on Montague Street
In a basement down the stairs
There was music in the cafés at night
And revolution in the air
Then he started into dealing with slaves
And something inside of him died
She had to sell everything she owned
And froze up inside
And when finally the bottom fell out
I became withdrawn
The only thing I knew how to do
Was to keep on keepin’ on like a bird that flew
Tangled up in blue

So now I’m goin’ back again
I got to get to her somehow
All the people we used to know
They’re an illusion to me now
Some are mathematicians
Some are carpenters’ wives
Don’t know how it all got started
I don’t know what they’re doin’ with their lives
But me, I’m still on the road
Headin’ for another joint
We always did feel the same
We just saw it from a different point of view
Tangled up in blue
 
Bob Dylan

"Lily, Rosemary And The Jack Of Hearts"

The festival was over and the boys were all planning for a fall
The cabaret was quiet except for the drilling in the wall
The curfew had been lifted and the gambling wheel shut down
Anyone with any sense had already left town
He was standing in the doorway looking like the Jack of Hearts.

He moved across the mirrored room "Set it up for everyone" he said
Then everyone commenced to do what they were doin' before he turned their heads
Then he walked up to a stranger and he asked him with a grin
"Could you kindly tell me friend what time the show begins ?"
Then he moved into the corner face down like the Jack of Hearts.

Backstage the girls were playing five card stud by the stairs
Lily had two queens she was hoping for a third to match her pair
Outside the streets were filling up, the window was open wide
A gentle breeze was blowing, you could feel it from inside
Lily called another bet and drew up the Jack of Hearts.

Big Jim was no one's fool, he owned the town's only diamond mine
He made his usual entrance looking so dandy and so fine
With his bodyguards and silver cane and every hair in place
He took whatever he wanted to and he laid it all to waste
But his bodyguards and silver cane were no match for the Jack of Hearts.

Rosemary combed her hair and took a carriage into town
She slipped in through the side door looking like a queen without a crown
She fluttered her false eyelashes and whispered in his ear
"Sorry darling, that I'm late", but he didn't seem to hear
He was staring into space over at the Jack of Hearts.

"I know I've seen that face somewhere" Big Jim was thinking to himself
"Maybe down in Mexico or a picture up on somebody's shelf"
But then the crowd began to stamp their feet and the house lights did dim
And in the darkness of the room there was only Jim and him
Staring at the butterfly who just drew the Jack of Hearts.

Lily was a princess she was fair-skinned and precious as a child
She did whatever she had to do she had that certain flash every time she smiled
She'd come away from a broken home had lots of strange affairs
With men in every walk of life which took her everywhere
But she'd never met anyone quite like the Jack of Hearts.

The hanging judge came in unnoticed and was being wined and dined
The drilling in the wall kept up but no one seemed to pay it any mind
It was known all around that Lily had Jim's ring
And nothing would ever come between Lily and the king
No nothing ever would except maybe the Jack of Hearts.

Rosemary started drinking hard and seeing her reflection in the knife
She was tired of the attention tired of playing the role of Big Jim's wife
She had done a lot of bad things even once tried suicide
Was looking to do just one good deed before she died
She was gazing to the future riding on the Jack of Hearts.

Lily took her dress off and buried it away
"Has your luck run out?" she laughed at him.
"Well I guess you must have known it would someday
Be careful not to touch the wall there's a brand new coat of paint
I'm glad to see you're still alive you're looking like a saint"
Down the hallway footsteps were coming for the Jack of Hearts.

The backstage manager was pacing all around by his chair
"There's something funny going on" he said " I can just feel it in the air"
He went to get the hanging judge but the hanging judge was drunk
As the leading actor hurried by in the costume of a monk
There was no actor anywhere better than the Jack of Hearts.

No one knew the circumstance, but they say it happened pretty quick
The door to the dressing room burst open a Colt revolver clicked
And big Jim was standing there you couldn't say surprised
Rosemary right beside him studying her eyes
She was with big Jim but she was leaning to the Jack of Hearts.

Two doors down the boys finally made it through the wall
And cleaned out the bank safe it's said that they got off with quite a haul
In the darkness by the riverbed they waited on the ground
For one more member who had business back in town
But they couldn't go no further without the Jack of Hearts.

The next day was hanging day the sky was overcast and black
Big Jim lay covered up killed by a penknife in the back
And Rosemary on the gallows she didn't even blink
The hanging judge was sober he hadn't had a drink
The only person on the scene missing was the Jack of Hearts.
The cabaret was empty now a sign said. "Closed for repair"
Lily had already taken all of the dye out of her hair
She was thinking about her father who she very rarely saw
Thinking about Rosemary and thinking about the law
But most of all she was thinking about the Jack of Hearts.

Bob Dylan

John Wesley Harding

John Wesley Harding
Was a friend to the poor
He trav’led with a gun in ev’ry hand
All along this countryside
He opened many a door
But he was never known
To hurt an honest man

’Twas down in Chaynee County
A time they talk about
With his lady by his side
He took a stand
And soon the situation there
Was all but straightened out
For he was always known
To lend a helping hand

All across the telegraph
His name it did resound
But no charge held against him
Could they prove
And there was no man around
Who could track or chain him down
He was never known
To make a foolish move

Bob Dylan

No Charge For Love

A farmer had some puppies he needed to sell.
He painted a sign advertising the 4 pups.
And set about nailing it to a post on the edge of his yard.
As he was driving the last nail into the post, he felt a tug on his overalls.
He looked down into the eyes of a little boy. 

"Mister," he said, "I want to buy one of your puppies."
"Well," said the farmer, as he rubbed the sweat of the back of his neck,
"These puppies come from fine parents and cost a good deal of money."
The boy dropped his head for a moment.

Then reaching deep into his pocket, he pulled out a handful of change 
And held it up to the farmer. 

"I've got thirty-nine Cents. Is that enough to take a look?"
"Sure," said the farmer, and with that he let out a whistle. 
 Here, Dolly!" he called.

Out from the doghouse and down the ramp ran
Dolly followed by four little balls of fur.
The little boy pressed his face against the Chain link fence.
His eyes danced with delight as the dogs made their way to the fence,
The little boy noticed something else stirring inside the doghouse.
Slowly another little ball appeared this one noticeably smaller.
Down the ramp it slid. Then in a somewhat awkward manner,
The little pup Began hobbling toward the others,
Doing its best to catch up.... 

"I want that one," The little boy said, pointing to the runt.
The farmer knelt down at the boy's side and
Said, "Son, you don't want that puppy.

He will never be able to run and play with you like these other dogs would.
“With that the little boy stepped back from the fence,
Reached down, and began rolling up one leg of his trousers.
In doing so he revealed a steel brace running down both sides of his leg
Attaching itself to a specially made shoe. 

Looking back up at the farmer,
He said, "You see sir, I don't run too well myself, 
And he will need someone who understands. 

“With tears in his eyes, the farmer reached down and picked
Up the little pup. Holding it carefully He handed it to the little boy.
"How much?" asked the little boy. 

"No charge," answered the farmer, 

"There's no charge for love." 







Author Unknown

Four Feet

I have done mostly what men do,
And pushed it out of my mind;
But I can't forget, if I wanted to,
Four-Feet trotting behind.

Day after day, the whole day through--
Wherever my road inclined--
Four-Feet said, 'I am coming with you!'
And trotted along behind.

Now I must go by some other round--
Which I shall never find--
Somewhere that does not carry the sound
Of Four-Feet trotting behind.


Rudyard Kipling

The Best Place To Bury A Dog


"There is one best place to bury a dog.
"If you bury him in this spot, he will
Come to you when you call - come to you
Over the grim, dim frontier of death,
And down the well-remembered path,
And to your side again.

"And though you call a dozen living
Dogs to heel, they shall not growl at
Him, nor resent his coming,
For he belongs there.

"People may scoff at you, who see
No lightest blade of grass bent by his
Footfall, who hear no whimper, people
Who may never really have had a dog.

Smile at them, for you shall know
Something that is hidden from them,
And which is well worth the knowing.

"The one best place to bury a good
Dog is in the heart of his master."
 

Ben Hur Lampman

The White Man's Burden


TAKE up the White Man's burden -
Send forth the best ye breed -
Go bind your son's to exile
To serve your captives' need;
To wait in heavy harness
On fluttered folk and wild -
Your new-caught sullen peoples,
Half devil and half child.

Take up the White Man's burden -
In patience to abide
To veil the threat of terror
And check the show of pride;
By open speech and simple,
An hundred times made plain,
To seek another's profit,
And work another's gain.

Take up the White Man's burden -
The savage wars of peace -
Fill full the mouth of famine
And bid the sickness cease;
And when your goal is nearest
The end for others sought,
Watch Sloth and heathen Folly
Bring all your hopes to nought.

Take up the White Man's burden -
No tawdry rule of kings,
But toil of serf and sweeper -
The tale of common things.
The ports ye shall not enter,
The roads ye shall not tread,
Go make them with your living,
And mark them with your dead !

Take up the White Man's burden -
And reap his old reward,
The blame of those ye better,
The hate of those ye guard -
The cry of hosts ye humour
(Ah slowly !) towards the light:-
"Why brought ye us from bondage,
"Our loved Egyptian night ?"

Take up the White Man's burden -
Ye dare not stoop to less -
Nor call too loud on Freedom
To cloak your weariness;
By all ye cry or whisper,
By all ye leave or do,
The silent sullen peoples
Shall weigh your Gods and you.

Take up the White Man's burden -
Have done with childish days -
The lightly proffered laurel,
The easy, ungrudged praise.
Comes now, to search your manhood
Through all the thankless years,
Cold-edged with dear-bought wisdom,
The judgement of your peers.

R. Kippling

Bold Fenian Men

'Twas down by the glenside, I met an old woman
She was picking young nettles and she scarce saw me coming
I listened a while to the song she was humming
Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men

'Tis fifty long years since I saw the moon beaming
On strong manly forms and their eyes with hope gleaming
I see them again, sure, in all my daydreaming
Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men.

When I was a young girl, their marching and drilling
Awoke in the glenside sounds awesome and thrilling
They loved poor old Ireland and to die they were willing
Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men.

Some died on the glenside, some died near a stranger
And wise men have told us that their cause was a failure
They fought for old Ireland and they never feared danger
Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men

I passed on my way, God be praised that I met her
Be life long or short, sure I'll never forget her
We may have brave men, but we'll never have better
Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men

 The Boys of The Old Brigade

Where are the lads that stood with me
when history was made
oh gran mo cree I long to see
The boys of the old brigade

Oh father why are you so sad
on this bright Easter morn
when Irishmen are proud and glad
of the land where they were born
Oh son I see sad memories
of far off distant days
when being just a boy like you
I joined the old brigade

chorus:
In the hills and farms the call to arms
was heard by one and all
and from the glens came brave young men
to answer Ireland's call
twas long ago we faced the foe
the old brigade and me
by my side they fought and died
that Ireland might be free


and now my boy I've told you why
on Easter morn I sigh
for I recall my comrades all
from the dark old days gone by
I think of men who fought in glens
with rifles and grenade
may heaven keep the men who sleep
from the ranks of the old brigade.

Broad Black Brimmer 

There's a uniform still hanging in what's known as father's room
A uniform so simple in its style
It has no fancy braid of gold, no hat with feathered plume
Yet me mother has preserved it all the while
One day she made me try it on, a wish of mine for years
In memory of your father Sean she said
And when I put the Sam Brown on, she was smiling through hear tears
As she placed the broad black brimmer on me head

Chorus:

It's just a broad black brimmer with ribbons frayed and torn
from the careless whisk of many a mountain breeze
An old trench coat that's so battle-stained and worn
And breeches almost threadbare at the knees
A sam brown belt with a buckle big and strong
And a holster that's been empty many's a day
But when men claim Ireland's freedom 

 
It was the uniform worn by me father year's ago
When he reached me mother's homestead on the run
It was the uniform he wore in that little church below
When old Father Mac, he blessed the pair as one
And after truce and treaty and the parting of the ways
He wore it when he marched out with the rest
And when they bore his body down on that rugged heather braes
They placed the broad black brimmer on his chest

   Boolavogue

   At Boolavogue as the sun was setting,
   O`er the bright may meadows of Shelmalier,
   A rebel hand set the heather blazing,
   and brought the neighbours from far and near;

   Then Father Murphy from old Kilcormack
   Spurred up the rock with a warning cry:
   "Arm! Arm!" he cried, "For I`ve come to lead you,
   for Ireland`s freedom we`ll fight or die!"

   He lead us on against the coming soldiers,
   And the cowardly Yeomen we put to flight,
   `Twas at the Harrow the boys of Wexford
   Showed Bookey`s regiment how men could fight;

   Look out for hirelings, King George of England,
   Search every kingdom where breathes a slave,
   For Father Murphy of County Wexford,
   Sweeps o`er the land like a mighty wave.


   We took Camolin and Enniscorthy,
   And Wexford storming drove out our foes,
   `Twas at Slieve Coilte our pikes were reeking
   With the crimson blood of the beaten Yeos.

   At Tubberneering and Ballyellis,
   Full many a Hessian lay in his gore,
   Ah! Father Murphy had aid come over,
   The Green Flag floated from shore to shore!

   At Vinegar Hill, O`er the pleasant Slaney,

   Our heroes vainly stood back to back,
   and the Yeos at Tullow took Father Murphy,
   and burnt his body upon a rack.

   God grant you glory, brave Father Murphy,
   And open Heaven to all your men,
   the cause that called you may call tomorrow,
   in another fight for the Green again.

Horse Soldier, Horse Soldier…


I'm a hussar, I'm a Hun, I'm a wretched Englishman
Routing Bonaparte at Waterloo
I'm a dragoon on a dun, I'm a Cossack on the run
I'm a horse soldier, timeless, through and through
I'm a horse soldier, eternal, through and through

I's with Custer and the 7th in ‘76 or ‘77
Scalped at Little Big Horn by the Sioux
And the pain and desperation of a once proud warrior nation
This I know ‘cause I was riding with them too

I drank mare's blood on the run when I rode with the Great Khan
On the frozen Mongol steppe when at his height
I's a White Guard, I's a White Guard, I's the Tsar's own palace horse guard
When Nicholas was martyred in the night

I knew Salah al-Din and rode his swift Arabians
Harassing doomed crusaders on their heavy drafts
And yet I rode the Percheron against the circling Musselman
And once again against myself was cast

Well I've worn the Mounties crimson, if you're silent and you listen
You'll know that it was with them that I stood
When Mayerthorpe, she cried, as her four horsemen died
Gunned down in scarlet, coldest blood

I's the firstest with the mostest when I fought for Bedford Forrest
Suffered General Wilson's Union raid
Mine was not to reason why, mine was but to do and die
At Crimea with the charging light brigade

On hire from Swiss or Sweden, be me Christian, be me heathen
The devil to the sabre I shall put
With a crack flanking maneuver, I'm an uhlan alles uber
Striking terror into regiment of foot

I knew my days were numbered when o'er the trenches lumbered
More modern machinations de la guerre
No match for rapid fire or the steel birds of the sky
With a final rear guard action I retreat
No match for tangled wire or the armoured engines whine
Reluctant I retire and take my leave

Today I ride with special forces on those wily Afghan horses
Dostum's Northern Alliance give their thanks
No matter defeat or victory, in battle it occurs to me
That we may see a swelling in our ranks

I's with the Aussies at Beersheba took the wells so badly needed
And with the Polish lancers charging German tanks
Saw Ross' mount shot down at Washingtown the night we burned the White House down
And cursed the sack of York and sons of Yanks


Corb Lund

Always Keep An Edge On Your Knife

never put your hat on the bed, son, never put your hat on the bed
cuz if your hat's on the bed you might wake up dead
so don't ya never put ya hat on the bed
and if you do be sure it’s upside down, son, if you do be sure it’s upside down
cuz if there’s any doubt, it keeps the luck from runnin’ out
so if you do be sure it’s upside down
never throw a match when it's dry, son, never throw a match when it's dry
don't you never throw a match cuz the grass might catch
and burn three counties when it's dry

always keep an edge on yr knife, son, always keep an edge on yr knife
cuz a good sharp edge is a man's best hedge against the vague uncertainties of life
yes, a good sharp edge is a man’s best hedge against the uncertain vagaries of life
but i never could sharpen no knife, like the one who gave the advice
and I never could sharpen no blade, quite the way he sayed

never sell the old .22, son, never sell the old .22
cause the old .22’s shot a gopher or two
so don'tcha never sell the old .22
aim it to the left, a little low, son, aim it to the left, a little low
cuz the old iron sight fires high and to the right
so aim it to the left, a little low
always tip the glass when you pour son, always tip the glass when you pour
cuz if you don't tip the glass, well the foam, it comes fast
and runs from the table to the floor

always put your horse away dry, son, always put your horse away dry
cuz a hot, wet horse ain’t healthy of course
so always put your horse away dry
and be sure to thaw the bit when it’s cold, son, be sure to thaw the bit when it’s cold
cuz if you don’t thaw the bit then your pony’s tongue sticks
to the frozen, metal bridle when it’s cold
never judge a man by his clothes, son, never judge a man by his clothes
you gotta look through the dirt and, lord, judge him by his work
don'tcha never judge a man by his clothes


Corb Lund

I Wanna Be In The Cavalry


I wanna be in the cavalry if they send me off to war
I wanna good steed under me like my forefathers before
I wanna good mount when the bugle sounds and I hear the cannons' roar
I wanna be in the cavalry if they send me off to war

I wanna horse in the volunteer force that's riding forth at dawn
Please save for me some gallantry that will echo when I'm gone
I beg of you sarge let me lead the charge when the battle lines are drawn
Lemme at least leave a good hoof beat they'll remember loud and long

I'd not a good foot soldier make, I'd be sour and slow at march
And I'd be sick on a navy ship, and the sea would leave me parched
But I'll be first in line if they'll let me ride, by god, you'll see my starch
Lope back o'er the heath with the laurel wreath underneath that vict'ry arch

Let me earn my spurs in the battle's blur where the day is lost or won
I'll wield my lance as the ponies dance and the blackguards fire their guns
A sabre keen, and a saddle carbine and an army Remington
Where the hot lead screams with the cold, cold steel let me be a cav'lryman

Let 'em play their flutes and stirrup my boots and place them back to front
For I won't be back on the rider-less black and I'm finished in my hunt
I wanna be in the cavalry if I must go off to war
I wanna be in the cavalry, but I won't ride home no more


Corb Lund

‘How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix’



I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;   
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;   
‘Good speed!’ cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;   
‘Speed!’ echoed the wall to us galloping through;   
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,           
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.   

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace   
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;   
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,   
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,           
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,   
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.   

’Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near   
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;   
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;           
At Düffeld, ’twas morning as plain as could be;   
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,   
So Joris broke silence with ‘Yet there is time!’   

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,   
And against him the cattle stood black every one,           
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,   
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,   
With resolute shoulders, each butting away   
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.   

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back           
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;   
And one eye’s black intelligence,—ever that glance   
O’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!   
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon   
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.           

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, ‘Stay spur!   
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault’s not in her,   
We’ll remember at Aix’—for one heard the quick wheeze   
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,   
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,           
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.   

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,   
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;   
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,   
’Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;           
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,   
And ‘Gallop,’ gasped Joris, ‘for Aix is in sight!’   

‘How they’ll greet us!’—and all in a moment his roan   
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;   
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight           
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,   
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,   
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets’ rim.   

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,   
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,           
Stood up in the stirrup, learned, patted his ear,   
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;   
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,   
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.   

And all I remember is, friends flocking round           
As I sat with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground;   
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,   
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,   
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)   
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.           

Robert Browning

American Tune


Many's the time I've been mistaken, and many times confused
And I've often felt forsaken, and certainly misused.
But it's all right, it's all right, I'm just weary to my bones
Still, you don't expect to be bright and Bon Vivant
So far away from home, so far away from home.

I don't know a soul who's not been battered
Don't have a friend who feels at ease
Don't know a dream that's not been shattered
Or driven to its knees.

But it's all right, all right, We've lived so well so long
Still, when I think of the road we're traveling on,
I wonder what went wrong, I can't help it
I wonder what went wrong.


      And I dreamed I was flying. I dreamed my soul rose
      unexpectedly, and looking back down on me, smiled
      reassuringly, and I dreamed I was dying.
      And far above, my eyes could clearly see
      The Statue of Liberty, drifting away to sea
      And I dreamed I was flying.

We come on a ship we call the Mayflower,
We come on a ship that sailed the moon
We come at the age's most uncertain hour
And sing the American tune.

But it's all right, its all right
You can't be forever blessed
Still, tomorrow's gonna be another working day
And I'm trying to get some rest,
That's all, I'm trying to get some rest.


Paul Simon

The Soldier’s Return: A Ballad


WHEN wild war’s deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,
Wi’ mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning;
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I’d been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a’ my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.


A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain’d wi’ plunder;
And for fair Scotia hame again,
I cheery on did wander:
I thought upon the banks o’ Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.


At length I reach’d the bonie glen,
Where early life I sported;
I pass’d the mill and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother’s dwelling!
And turn’d me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.


Wi’ alter’d voice, quoth I, “Sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn’s blossom,
O! happy, happy may he be,
That’s dearest to thy bosom:
My purse is light, I’ve far to gang,
And fain would be thy lodger;
I’ve serv’d my king and country lang—
Take pity on a sodger.”


Sae wistfully she gaz’d on me,
And lovelier was than ever;
Quo’ she, “A sodger ance I lo’ed,
Forget him shall I never:
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake it;
That gallant badge-the dear cockade,
Ye’re welcome for the sake o’t.”


She gaz’d—she redden’d like a rose—
Syne pale like only lily;
She sank within my arms, and cried,
“Art thou my ain dear Willie?”
“By him who made yon sun and sky!
By whom true love’s regarded,
I am the man; and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded.


“The wars are o’er, and I’m come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted;
Tho’ poor in gear, we’re rich in love,
And mair we’se ne’er be parted.”
Quo’ she, “My grandsire left me gowd,
A mailen plenish’d fairly;
And come, my faithfu’ sodger lad,
Thou’rt welcome to it dearly!”


For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger’s prize,
The sodger’s wealth is honor:
The brave poor sodger ne’er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember he’s his country’s stay,
In day and hour of danger.

 
Robert Burns

Adam Cameron
 

 Adam Cameron is my name, I'm second son to Boyndlie
 My brother John, he heirs the land, and a soldier now you'll find me

 Parting with my bonnie love, her hand in mine was locke'd
 And for to drive dull care away I spoke as if I joke'd

 It's farewell, Cameron, step abroad, though you say I'm your charmer
 I've kept the best part to myself and I'll wed some brisk young farmer

 Since you have kept the part from me for which I've long been searching
 The fifes do play a merry tune and the drums beat loud for marching

 So boldly I did step away to go on to Dumbarton
 And I had on my Highland dress as lieutenant to the captain

 A lad I had alang wi' me, 'twas her young brother Tammy
 And ay, when he did smile on me reminded me o' Annie

 Soon after this a letter came from Annie, as a token
 It was to show and let me know that the bonds of love were broken

 A letter from my brother came, with post haste it was carried
 That gin I were a living man to come and see him married

 While reading it, her brother came to ask me for a furlow
 To go and see his sister wed he wished to leave tomorrow

 And when I heard young Tammy's words within but I was weary
 Who was to be my brother's wife but just my only dearie

 I said, You may not go alone for it would sair offend me
 But you must stay and drive the coach for me and Captain Finlay

 So we drove on and further on, it's homeward bound you'll find me
 And there I met my bonnie love beneath the braes o' Boyndlie

 Could you love a sodger noo, could you lay doon ayont me
 Could you forsake your new sweetheart, my dear love, and gang wi' me

 I could love a sodger noo, and I'll lay doon ayont ye
 There was ne'er than for a mother's son my love, and I'll do for ye

 The darkest hour o' any night, if you wed me, I'll tend you
 Here's Captain Finlay will make us one and I will aye defend you

 I laid my broadsword across our knees, we crossed our right hands over
 And Captain Finlay has made us one, I'm husband now and lover

Air Falalalo

There's lilt in the song I sing, there's laughter and love
There's tang of the sea, and blue from Heaven above!
Of reason there's none; and why should there be, for why?
As long as there's fire in the blood, and light in the eye!

The heather's ablaze wi' bloom, the myrtle is sweet
There's song in the air; the road's a song at our feet!
So step it along as light as the bird on the wing!
And, stepping along, let's join our voices and sing:

And whether the blood be Highland, Lowland or no,
And whether the hue be black or white as the snow;
Of kith and of kin, we are One, be it right, be it wrong,
If only our hearts beat true to the lilt of the song!

Deirdre's Lamentation

The lions of the hills are gone,
And I am left alone--alone.
Dig the grave both wide and deep,
For I am sick, and fain would sleep.

The falcons of the wood are flown,
And I am left alone--alone.
Dig the grave both deep and wide,
And let us slumber side by side.

The dragons of the rock are sleeping,
Sleep that wakes not for our weeping.
Dig the grave, and make it ready,
Lay me on my true love's body.

Lay their spears and bucklers bright
By the warriors' sides aright.
Many a day the three before me
On their linked bucklers bore me.

Lay the collars, as is meet,
Of their greyhounds at their feet.
Many a time for me have they
Brought the tall red deer to bay.

In the falcon's jesses throw,
Hook and arrow, line and bow.
Never again by stream or plain
Shall the gentle woodsmen go.

Sweet companions, were ye ever
Harsh to me your sister, never.
Woods and wilds, an misty valleys
Were with you as good's a palace.

Oh! To hear my true love singing,
Sweet as sounds of trumpets' ringing.
Like the sway of ocean swelling
Rolled his deep voice round our dwelling.

Oh! To hear the echoes pealing,
Round our green and fairy sheeling,
When the three with soaring chorus
Made the skylark silent o'er us!

Echo, now, sleep morn and even.
Lark, alone, enchant the heaven.
Ardan's lips are scant of breath,
Naisi's tongue is cold in death.

Stag, exult on glen and mountain.
Salmon, leap from loch to fountain.
Heron, in the free air warm ye,
Usnach's sons no more will harm ye.

Erin's stay, no more ye are
Rulers of the ridge of war.
Never more 'twill be your fate
To keep the beam of battle straight.

Woe is me! By fraud and wrong,
Traitors false, and tyrants strong,
Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold
For Barach's feast and Conor's gold.

Woe to Eman, roof and wall!
Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!
Tenfold woe and black dishonour
To the foul and false Clan Conor.

Dig the grave both wide and deep,
Sick I am, and fain would sleep!
Dig the grave, and make it ready,
Lay me on my true love's body.