The Sound of the Trees

I WONDER about the trees.   
Why do we wish to bear   
Forever the noise of these   
More than another noise   
So close to our dwelling place?            
We suffer them by the day   
Till we lose all measure of pace,   
And fixity in our joys,   
And acquire a listening air.
   
They are that that talks of going            
But never gets away;   
And that talks no less for knowing,   
As it grows wiser and older,   
That now it means to stay. 
  
My feet tug at the floor           
And my head sways to my shoulder   
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,   
From the window or the door.  
 
I shall set forth for somewhere,   
I shall make the reckless choice            
Some day when they are in voice   
And tossing so as to scare   
The white clouds over them on.   
I shall have less to say,   
But I shall be gone. 

Robert Frost           

Ode

    GOD save the Rights of Man!
    Give us a heart to scan
    Blessings so dear:
    Let them be spread around
    Wherever man is found,
    And with the welcome sound
    Ravish his ear.

    Let us with France agree,
    And bid the world be free,
    While tyrants fall!
    Let the rude savage host
    Of their vast numbers boast--
    Freedom's almight trust
    Laughs at them all!

    Though hosts of slaves conspire
    To quench fair Gallia's fire,
    Still shall they fail:
    Though traitors round her rise,
    Leagu'd with her enemies,
    To war each patriot flies,
    And will prevail.

    No more is valor's flame
    Devoted to a name,
    Taught to adore--
    Soldiers of Liberty
    Disdain to bow the knee,
    But ateach Equality
    To every shore.

    The world at last will join
    To aid thy grand design,
    Dear Liberty!
    To Russia's frozen lands
    The generous flame expands:
    On Afric's burning sands
    Shall man be free!

    In this our western world
    Be Freedom's flag unfurl'd
    Through all its shores!
    May no destructive blast
    Our heaven of joy o'ercast,
    May Freedom's fabric last
    While time endures.

    If e'er her cause require!--
    Should tyrants e'er aspire
    To aim their stroke,
    May no proud despot daunt--
    Should he his standard plant,
    Freedom will never want
    Her hearts of oak!

        Philip Freneau

Old Dog Tray

    THE morn of life is past,
    And ev'ning comes at last;
       It brings me a dream of a once happy day,
    Of merry forms I've seen
    Upon the village green,
       Sporting with my old dog Tray.

        Chorus:
        Old dog Tray's ever faithful;
           Grief cannot drive him away;
        He's gentle, he is kind,
        I'll never, never find
           A better friend than old dog Tray.

    The forms I called my own
    Have vanish'd one by one,
       The lov'd ones, the dear ones have all pass'd away;
    Their happy smiles have flown,
    Their gentle voices gone,
       I've nothing left but old dog Tray.

        Chorus.

    When thoughts recall the past,
    His eyes are on me cast,
       I know that he feels what my breaking heart would say;
    Although he cannot speak,
    I'll vainly, vainly seek
       A better friend than old dog Tray.

        Chorus.

        Stephen Foster

 The Dying Patriot

    DAY breaks on England down the Kentish hills,
    Singing in the silence of the meadow-footing rills,
    Day of my dreams, O day!
        I saw them march from Dover, long ago,
        With a silver cross before them, singing low,
    Monks of Rome from their home where the blue seas break in foam,
        Augustine with his feet of snow.

    Noon strikes on England, noon on Oxford town,
    --Beauty she was statue cold--there's blood upon her gown:
    Noon of my dreams, O noon!
        Proud and godly kings had built her, long ago,
        With her towers and tombs and statues all arow,
    With her fair and floral air and the love that lingers there,
        And the streets where the great men go.

    Evening on the olden, the golden sea of Wales,
    When the first star shivers and the last wave pales:
    O evening dreams!
        There's a house that Britons walked in, long ago,
        Where now the springs of ocean fall and flow,
    And the dead robed in red and sea-lilies overhead
        Sway when the long winds blow.

    Sleep not, my country: though night is here, afar
    Your children of the morning are clamorous for war:
    Fire in the night, O dreams!
        Though she send you as she sent you, long ago,
        South to the desert, east to ocean, north to snow,
    West of these out to seas colder than the Hebrides I must go
        Where the fleet of stars is anchored, and the young star-captains glow.

 James Elroy Flecker

The Owl Critic

    "WHO stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop:
    The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop;
    The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading
    The "Daily," the "Herald," the "Post," little heeding
    The young man who blurted out such a blunt question;
    Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion;
                        And the barber kept on shaving.

    "Don't you see, Mister Brown,"
    Cried the youth, with a frown,
    "How wrong the whole thing is,
    How preposterous each wing is,
    How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is--
    In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 't is!
    I make no apology;
    I've learned owl-eology.
    I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections,
    And cannot be blinded to any deflections
    Arising from unskilful fingers that fail
    To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.
    Mister Brown! Mister Brown!
    Do take that bird down,
    Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!"
                        And the barber kept on shaving.

    "I've studied owls,
    And other night fowls,
    And I tell you
    What I know to be true:
    An owl cannot roost
    With his limbs so unloosed;
    No owl in this world
    Ever had his claws curled,
    Ever had his legs slanted,
    Ever had his bill canted,
    Ever had his neck screwed
    Into that attitude.
    He can't do it, because
    'T is against all bird-laws.
    Anatomy teaches,
    Ornithology preaches
    An owl has a toe
    That can't turn out so!
    I've made the white owl my study for years,
    And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!
    Mister Brown, I'm amazed
    You should be so gone crazed
    As to put up a bird
    In that posture absurd!
    To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness;
    The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!"
                        And the barber kept on shaving.

    "Examine those eyes.
    I'm filled with surprise
    Taxidermists should pass
    Off on you such poor glass;
    So unnatural they seem
    They'd make Audubon scream,
    And John Burroughs laugh
    To encounter such chaff.
    Do take that bird down;
    Have him stuffed again, Brown!"
                        And the barber kept on shaving.

    "With some sawdust and bark
    I could stuff in the dark
    An owl better than that.
    I could make an old hat
    Look more like an owl
    Than that horrid fowl,
    Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather.
    In fact, about him there's not one natural feather."

    Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch,
    The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch,
    Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic
    (Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic,
    And then fairly hooted, as if he should say:
    "Your learning's at fault this time, any way;
    Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.
    I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good-day!"
                        And the barber kept on shaving.

        James T. Fields

Quote:

“Some people talk to animals. Not many listen though. That's the problem.”


A.A. Milne

Canadian Railroad Trilogy


There was a time in this fair land when the railroad did not run
When the wild majestic mountains stood alone against the sun
Long before the white man and long before the wheel
When the green dark forest was too silent to be real
But time has no beginnings and hist'ry has no bounds
As to this verdant country they came from all around
They sailed upon her waterways and they walked the forests tall
And they built the mines the mills and the factories for the good of us all

And when the young man's fancy was turnin' to the spring
The railroad men grew restless for to hear the hammers ring
Their minds were overflowing with the visions of their day
And many a fortune lost and won and many a debt to pay

For they looked in the future and what did they see
They saw an iron road runnin' from sea to the sea
Bringin' the goods to a young growin' land
All up through the seaports and into their hands

Look away said they across this mighty land
From the eastern shore to the western strand
Bring in the workers and bring up the rails
We gotta lay down the tracks and tear up the trails
Open 'er heart let the life blood flow
Gotta get on our way 'cause we're movin' too slow

Bring in the workers and bring up the rails
We're gonna lay down the tracks and tear up the trails
Open 'er heart let the life blood flow
Gotta get on our way 'cause we're movin' too slow
Get on our way 'cause we're movin' too slow

Behind the blue Rockies the sun is declinin'
The stars, they come stealin' at the close of the day
Across the wide prairie our loved ones lie sleeping
Beyond the dark oceans in a place far away

We are the navvies who work upon the railway
Swingin' our hammers in the bright blazin' sun
Livin' on stew and drinkin' bad whisky
Bendin' our old backs 'til the long days are done

We are the navvies who work upon the railway
Swingin' our hammers in the bright blazin' sun
Layin' down track and buildin' the bridges
Bendin' our old backs 'til the railroad is done

So over the mountains and over the plains
Into the muskeg and into the rain
Up the St. Lawrence all the way to Gaspe
Swingin' our hammers and drawin' our pay
Drivin' 'em in and tyin' 'em down
Away to the bunkhouse and into the town
A dollar a day and a place for my head
A drink to the livin' and a toast to the dead

Oh the song of the future has been sung
All the battles have been won
O'er the mountain tops we stand
All the world at our command
We have opened up the soil
With our teardrops and our toil

For there was a time in this fair land when the railroad did not run
When the wild majestic mountains stood alone against the sun
Long before the white man and long before the wheel
When the green dark forest was too silent to be real
When the green dark forest was too silent to be real
And many are the dead men too silent to be real.

Gordon Lightfoot

 Buachaill ón Éirne

Buachaill ón Éirne mé 's bhréagfainn cailín deas óg
Ní iarrfainn bó spré léi tá mé fhéin saibhir go leor
'S liom Corcaigh da mhéid é, dhá thaobh
a' ghleanna 's Tír Eoghain
'S mura n-athraí mé béasaí 's mé n' t-oidhr'
ar Chontae Mhaigh Eo

Rachaidh mé 'márach ag dhéanamh leanna fán choill
Gan choite gan bád gan gráinnín brach' ar bith liom
Ach duilliúr na gcraobh mar éadaigh leapa os mo chionn
'S óró sheacht m'anam déag thú 's tú 'féachaint orm anall

Buachailleacht bó, mo leo, nár chleacht mise ariamh
Ach ag imirt 's ag ól le h'ógmhná deasa an tsliabh
Má chaill mé mo stór ní moide gur chaill mé mo chiall
A's ní mó liom do phóg ná'n bhróg atáim ag caitheamh le bliain

Ballad of the Alamo


In the southern part of Texas, in the town of San Antone,
There's a fortress all in ruin that the weeds have overgrown.
You may look in vain for crosses and you'll never see a one,
But sometime between the setting and the rising of the sun,
You can hear a ghostly bugle as the men go marching by;
You can hear them as they answer to that roll call in the sky:
Colonel Travis, Davy Crockett and a hundred eighty more;
Captain Dickenson, Jim Bowie, present and accounted for.

Back in 1836, Houston said to Travis:
"Get some volunteers and go fortify the Alamo."
Well, the men came from Texas and from old Tennessee,
And they joined up with Travis just to fight for the right to be free.

Indian scouts with squirrel guns, men with muzzle loaders,
Stood together heel and toe to defend the Alamo.
"You may never see your loved ones," Travis told them that day.
"Those that want to can leave now, those who'll fight to the death, let 'em stay."

In the sand he drew a line with his army sabre,
Out of a hundred eighty five, not a soldier crossed the line.
With his banners a-dancin' in the dawn's golden light,
Santa Anna came prancin' on a horse that was black as the night.

He sent an officer to tell Travis to surrender.
Travis answered with a shell and a rousin' rebel yell.
Santa Anna turned scarlet: "Play Degüello," he roared.
"I will show them no quarter, everyone will be put to the sword."

One hundred and eighty five holdin' back five thousand.
Five days, six days, eight days, ten; Travis held and held again.
Then he sent for replacements for his wounded and lame,
But the troops that were comin' never came, never came, never came.

Twice he charged, then blew recall. On the fatal third time,
Santa Anna breached the wall and he killed them one and all.
Now the bugles are silent and there's rust on each sword,
And the small band of soldiers lie asleep in the arms of The Lord.

In the southern part of Texas, near the town of San Antone,
Like a statue on his Pinto rides a cowboy all alone.
And he sees the cattle grazin' where a century before,
Santa Anna's guns were blazin' and the cannons used to roar.
And his eyes turn sort of misty, and his heart begins to glow,
And he takes his hat off slowly to the men of Alamo.
To the thirteen days of glory at the siege of Alamo.


Dimitri Tiomkin / Paul Francis Webster

Harry Morant

Harry Morant was a friend I had
In the years long passed away,
A chivalrous, wild and reckless lad,
A knight born out of his day.

Full of romance and void of fears,
With a love of the world’s applause,
He should have been one of the cavaliers
Who fought in King Charles’s cause.

He loved a girl, and he loved a horse,
And he never let down a friend,
And reckless he was, but he rode his course
With courage up to the end.

“Breaker Morant” was the name he earned,
For no bucking horse could throw
This Englishman who had lived and learned
As much as the bushmen know.

Many a mile have we crossed together,
Out where the great plains lie,
To the clink of bit and the creak of leather –
Harry Morant and I.

Time and again we would challenge Fate
With some wild and reckless “dare”,
Shoving some green colt over a gate
As though with a neck to spare.

At times in a wilder mood than most
We would face them at naked wire,
Trusting the sight of a gidyea post
Would lift them a half-foot higher.

And once we galloped a steeplechase
For a bet – ’twas a short half-mile
While one jump only, the stiffest place
In a fence of the old bush style.

A barrier built of blue-gum rails
As thick as a big man’s thigh,
And mortised into the posts – no nails –
Unbreakable, four foot high.

Since both our horses were young and green
And had never jumped or raced,
Were we men who had tired of this earthly scene
We could scarce have been better placed.

“Off” cried “The Breaker”, and off we went
And he stole a length of lead,
Over the neck of the grey I bent
And we charged the fence full speed.

The brown horse slowed and tried to swerve,
But his rider with master hand
And flaming courage and iron nerve
Made him lift and leap and land.

He rapped it hard with every foot
And was nearly down on his nose;
Then I spurred the grey and followed suit
And, praise to the gods – he rose!

He carried a splinter with both his knees
And a hind-leg left some skin,
But we caught them up at the wilga trees
Sitting down for the short run-in.

They grey was game and he carried on
But the brown had a bit to spare;
The post was passed, my pound was gone,
And a laugh was all my share.

“The Breaker” is sleeping in some far place
Where the Boer War heroes lie,
And we’ll meet no more in a steeplechase –
Harry Morant and I.

 
William Henry Ogilvie