Poems: New and Old Part 24

He's gone by Kittuck and Lucott Moor, He's gone by Woodc.o.c.k's Ley; By the little white town he's turned him down, And he's soiling in open sea.

So hurry along, we'll both be in, The crowd are a parish away!

We're a field of two, and we've followed it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

'So hurry along, we'll both be in, The crowd are a parish away!

We're a field of two, and we've followed it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay!'

{196}.

'Master and Man'

Do ye ken hoo to fush for the salmon?

If ye'll listen I'll tell ye.

Dinna trust to the books and their gammon, They're but trying to sell ye.

Leave professors to read their ain cackle And fush their ain style; Come awa', sir, we'll oot wi' oor tackle And be busy the while.

'Tis a wee bit ower bright, ye were thinkin'?

Aw, ye'll no be the loser; 'Tis better ten baskin' and blinkin'

Than ane that's a cruiser.

If ye're bent, as I tak it, on slatter, Ye should pray for the droot, For the salmon's her ain when there's watter, But she's oors when it's oot.

Ye may just put your flee-book behind ye, Ane hook wull be plenty; If they'll no come for this, my man, mind ye, They'll no come for twenty.

{197}.

Ay, a rod; but the shorter the stranger And the nearer to strike; For myself I prefare it nae langer Than a yard or the like.

Noo, ye'll stand awa' back while I'm creepin'

Wi' my snoot i' the gowans; There's a bonny twalve-poonder a-sleepin'

I' the shade o' yon rowans.

Man, man! I was fearin' I'd stirred her, But I've got her the noo!

Hoot! fus.h.i.+n's as easy as murrder When ye ken what to do.

Na, na, sir, I doot na ye're willin'

But I canna permit ye, For I'm thinkin' that yon kind o' killin'

Wad hardly befit ye.

And some work is deefficult hus.h.i.+n', There'd be havers and chaff: 'Twull be best, sir, for you to be fus.h.i.+n'

And me wi' the gaff.

{198}.

'Gavotte'

(OLD FRENCH).

Memories long in music sleeping, No more sleeping, No more dumb: Delicate phantoms softly creeping Softly back from the old-world come.

Faintest odours around them straying, Suddenly straying In chambers dim; Whispering silks in order swaying, Glimmering gems on shoulders slim:

Courage advancing strong and tender, Grace untender Fanning desire; Suppliant conquest, proud surrender, Courtesy cold of hearts on fire--

Willowy billowy now they're bending, Low they're bending Down-dropt eyes; Stately measure and stately ending, Music sobbing, and a dream that dies.

{199}.

'Imogien'

(A LADY OF TENDER AGE).

Ladies, where were your bright eyes glancing, Where were they glancing yesternight?

Saw ye Imogen dancing, dancing, Imogen dancing all in white?

Laughed she not with a pure delight, Laughed she not with a joy serene, Stepped she not with a grace entrancing, Slenderly girt in silken sheen?

All through the night from dusk to daytime Under her feet the hours were swift, Under her feet the hours of playtime Rose and fell with a rhythmic lift: Music set her adrift, adrift, Music eddying towards the day Swept her along as brooks in Maytime Carry the freshly falling May.

Ladies, life is a changing measure, Youth is a lilt that endeth soon;

{200}.

Pluck ye never so fast at pleasure, Twilight follows the longest noon.

Nay, but here is a lasting boon, Life for hearts that are old and chill, Youth undying for hearts that treasure Imogen dancing, dancing still.

{201}.

'Nel Mezzo Del Cammin'

Whisper it not that late in years Sorrow shall fade and the world be brighter, Life be freed of tremor and tears, Heads be wiser and hearts be lighter.

Ah! but the dream that all endears, The dream we sell for your pottage of truth-- Give us again the pa.s.sion of youth, Sorrow shall fade and the world be brighter.

{202}.

'The Invasion'

Spring, they say, with his greenery Northward marches at last, Mustering thorn and elm; Breezes rumour him conquering, Tell how Victory sits High on his glancing helm.

Smit with sting of his archery, Hardest ashes and oaks Burn at the root below: Primrose, violet, daffodil, Start like blood where the shafts Light from his golden bow.

Here where winter oppresses us Still we listen and doubt, Dreading a hope betrayed: Sore we long to be greeting him, Still we linger and doubt "What if his march be stayed?"

{203}.

Folk in thrall to the enemy, Vanquished, tilling a soil Hateful and hostile grown; Always wearily, warily, Feeding deep in the heart Pa.s.sion they dare not own--

So we wait the deliverer; Surely soon shall he come, Soon shall his hour be due: Spring shall come with his greenery, Life be lovely again, Earth be the home we knew.