Opening…

THE STORY OF THIS BOOK

In my rovings and ramblings as a boy I had often skirted the old stone house in the hollow. But my first clear remembrance of it is of a hot summer's day. I had climbed to the crest of a hill till then unknown to me, and stood there, hot and breathless in the bright slippery grass, looking down on its grey walls and chimneys as if out of a dream. And as if out of a dream already familiar to me.

My real intention in setting out from home that morning had been to get to a place called East Dene. My mother had often spoken to me of East Dene--of its trees and waters and green pastures, and the rare birds and flowers to be found there. Ages ago, she had told me, an ancestor of our family had dwelt in this place. But she smiled a little strangely when I asked her to take me there. "All in good time, my dear," she whispered into my ear, "all in very good time! Just follow your small nose." What kind of time, I wondered, was very good time. And follow my nose--how far? Such reflections indeed only made me the more anxious to be gone.

Early that morning, then, I had started out when the dew was still sparkling, and the night mists had but just lifted. But my young legs soon tired of the steep, boulder-strown hills, the chalky ravines, and burning sun, and having, as I say, come into view of the house in the valley, I went no further. Instead, I sat down on the hot turf--the sweet smell of thyme in the air, a few harebells nodding around me--and stared, down and down.

After that first visit, scarcely a week passed but that I found myself on this hill again. The remembrance of the house stayed in my mind; would keep returning to me, like a bird to its nest. Sometimes even in the middle of the night I would wake up and lie unable to sleep again for thinking of it--seeing it in my head; solemn, secret, strange.

There is a little flickering lizard called the Chameleon which, they say, changes its colour according to the place where it happens to be. So with this house. It was never the same for two hours together. I have seen it gathered close up in its hollow in the livid and coppery gloom of storm; crouched like a hare in winter under a mask of snow; dark and silent beneath the changing sparkle of the stars; and like a palace out of an Arabian tale in the milky radiance of the moon. THRAE was the name inscribed on its gateway, but in letters so faint and faded as to be almost illegible.

In a sense I was, I suppose, a trespasser in this Thrae; until at least I became acquainted with Miss Taroone, the lady who lived in it. For I made pretty free with her valley, paddled and fished in its stream, and now and then helped myself to a windfall in her green bird-haunted orchards, where grew a particularly sharp and bright-rinded apple of which I have never heard the name. As custom gave me confidence, I ventured nearer and nearer to the house and would sometimes take a rest squatting on a manger in the big empty barn, looking out into the sunshine. The wings of the flies shone like glass in its shafts of light, and the robins whistled under its timber roof so shrill as almost to deafen one's ears.

Few strangers passed that way. Now and then I saw in the distance what might have been a beggar. To judge from his bundle he must have done pretty well at the house. Once, as I turned out of a little wood of birches, I met a dreadful-faced man in the lane who lifted up his hand at sight of me, and with white glaring eyes, uttered a horrible imprecation. He was chewing some fruit stolen out of the orchard, and at the very sight of him I ran like Wat himself.

Once, too, as my head looked over the hill-crest, there stood an old carriage and a drowsy horse drawn up beside the porch--with its slender wooden pillars and a kind of tray above, on which rambled winter jasmine, tufts of self-sown weeds and Traveller's Joy. I edged near enough to see there was a crown emblazoned on the panel of the carriage door. Nobody sat inside, and the coachman asleep on the box made me feel more solitary and inquisitive than ever.

Yet in its time the old house must have seen plenty of company. Friends of later years have spoken to me of it. Indeed, not far distant from Thrae as the crow flies, there was a crossing of high roads, so that any traveller from elsewhere not in haste could turn aside and examine the place if he cared for its looks and was in need of a night's lodging. Yet I do not think many such travellers--if they were men merely of the Town--can have chosen to lift that knocker or to set ringing that bell. To any one already lost and benighted its looks must have been forbidding.

Well, as I say, again and again, my lessons done, morning or evening would find me either on the grass slopes above Thrae, or actually in its valley. If I was tired, I would watch from a good distance off its small dark windows in their stone embrasures, and up above them the round greenish tower or turret over which a winged weather-vane twirled with the wind. I might watch: but the only person that I ever actually observed at the windows was an old maid with flaps to her cap, who would sometimes shake a duster out into the air as if for a signal to someone up in the hills.

Apart from her, I had occasionally seen Miss Taroone herself in the overgrown garden, with her immense shears, or with her trencher of bread-crumbs and other provender, feeding the birds. And I once stole near enough under a hedge to watch this sight. They hopped and pecked in a multitude beneath her hands, tits and robins, starlings and blackbirds, and other much wilder and rarer birds, as if they had no need here for wings, or were under an enchantment more powerful than that of mere crumbs of bread. The meal done, the platter empty, Miss Taroone would clap her hands, and off they would fly with a skirring of wings, with shrill cries and snatches of song to their haunts.

She seemed to mind no weather; standing bare-headed in heavy rain or scorching sunlight. And I confess the sight of her never failed to alarm me. But I made up my mind always to keep my wits about me and my eyes open; and never to be caught trespassing.

Then one day, as I slid down from the roof of the barn from amid the branches of a chestnut tree, green with its spiky balls of fruit, I found Miss Taroone standing there in the entry, looking out on me as if out of a frame, or like a stone figure in the niche of a church. She made no stir herself, but her eyes did. Clear cold eyes of the colour of pebbly water, in which I seemed to be of no more importance than a boat floating on the sea. I could neither speak nor run away. I could only gawk at her, my pockets bulging with the unripe chestnuts I had pilfered, and a handsome slit in one leg of my breeches.

She asked me what I did there; my name; why I was not at school; where I lived; and did I eat the chestnuts. It appeared she had more often seen me--I suppose from her windows--than I had seen her. She made no movement, never even smiled while I stammered out answers to her questions, but merely kept her eyes steadily fixed on me, while her own lips just opened enough to let the words out of her mouth. She listened to me with a severe face, and said, "Well, if you are happy to be here with the rest, so much the better."

It was a relief when she turned away, bidding me follow her--and a foolish figure I must have cut as I clattered after her across the cobbled yard under the old red-brick arch and so through the porch and into the house.

When I was sat down in one of the shaded rooms within the house, she summoned the tall gaunt old maid with the cap-flaps I had seen at the windows, and bade her bring me some fruit and a dish of cream. Miss Taroone watched me while I ate it. And uncommonly good it was, though I would rather have been enjoying it alone. From the way she looked at me it might have been supposed it was a bird or a small animal that was sitting up at her table. The last spoonful finished, she asked me yet more questions and appeared to be not displeased with my rambling answers, for she invited me to come again and watched me take up my cap and retire.

This was the first time I was ever in Miss Taroone's house--within its solid walls I mean; and what a multitude of rooms, with their coffers and presses and cabinets, containing I knew not what treasures and wonders! But Thrae was not Miss Taroone's only house, for more than once she spoke of another--named SURE VINE, as if of a family mansion and estate, very ancient and magnificent. When, thinking of my mother, I myself ventured a question about East Dene, her green-grey eyes oddly settled on mine a moment, but she made no answer. I noticed this particularly.

Soon I was almost as free and familiar in Miss Taroone's old house as in my own father's. Yet I cannot say that she was ever anything else than curt with me in her manner. It was a long time before I became accustomed to the still, secret way she had of looking at me. I liked best being in her company when she appeared, as was usually so, not to be aware that she was not alone. She had again asked me my name "for a sign" as she said, "to know you by"; though she always afterwards addressed me as Simon. Certainly in those days I was "simple" enough.

My next friend was the woman whom I had seen shaking her duster out of the upper windows. She, I discovered, was called Linnet Sara Queek or Quek or Cuec or Cueque, I don't know how to spell it. She was an exceedingly curious woman and looked as if she had never been any different, though, of course, she must once have been young and have grown up. She was bony, awkward, and angular, and when you spoke to her, she turned on you with a look that was at the same time vacant and piercing. At first she greeted me sourly, but soon became friendlier, and would allow me to sit in her huge kitchen with her parrot, her sleek tabby cat, and perhaps a dainty or two out of her larder.

She was continually muttering--though I could never quite catch what she said; never idle; and though slow and awkward in her movements, she did a vast deal of work. With small short-sighted eyes fixed on her mortar she would stand pounding and pounding; or stewing and seething things in pots--strange-looking roots and fruits and fungi. Her pantry was crammed with pans, jars, bottles, and phials, all labelled in her queer handwriting. An extraordinary place--especially when the sunbeams of evening struck into it from a high window in its white-washed wall.

Linnet she might be called, but her voice was no bird's, unless the crow's; and you would have guessed at once, at sight of her standing in front of the vast open hearth, stooping a little, her long gaunt arms beside her, that her other name was Sara. But she could tell curious and rambling stories (as true as she could make them); and many of them were about the old days in Thrae, older days in Sure Vine, and about Miss Taroone, in whose service she had been since she was a small child.

She told me, too, some specially good tales--as good as Grimm--about some villages she knew of called the Ten Laps; and gave me a custard when I asked for more. I once mentioned East Dene to her, too, and she said there was a short cut to it (though it seemed to me a long way about) through the quarry, by the pits, and that way round. "And then you come to a Wall," she said, staring at me. "And you climb over."

"Did you?" said I, laughing; and at that she was huffed.

Boy though I was, it occurred to me that in this immense house there must be a great deal more work than Sara could manage unaided. Something gave me the fancy that other hands must lend their help; but if any maids actually came in to Thrae from East Dene, or from elsewhere, they must have come and gone very late, or early. It seemed bad manners to be too curious. On the other hand, I rarely saw much of the back parts of the house.

I have sometimes wondered if Thrae had not once in fact lain within the borders of East Dene, and that being so, if Miss Taroone, like myself, was unaware of it. It may have been merely pride that closed her lips, for one day, she showed me, with a curious smile, how Thrae's architect, centuries before, had planned its site. She herself led me from room to room; and she talked as she had never talked before.

Its southernmost window looked on a valley, beyond which on clear still days was visible the sea, and perhaps a brig or a schooner on its surface--placid blue as turquoise. Sheer against its easternmost window the sun mounted to his summer solstice from in between a cleft of the hills--like a large topaz between the forks of a catapult. On one side of this cleft valley was a windmill, its sails lanking up into the sky, and sometimes spinning in the wind with an audible faint clatter. Who owned the mill and what he ground I never heard.

Northwards, through a round bull's-eye window you could see, past a maze of coppices and hills, and in the distance, the cock of a cathedral spire. And to the west stood a wood of yew, its pool partially greened over, grey with willows, and the haunt of rare birds. On the one side of this pool spread exceedingly calm meadows; and on the other, in a hollow, the graveyard lay. The stones and bones in it were all apparently of Miss Taroone's kinsfolk. At least Linnet Sara told me so. Nor was she mournful about it. She seemed to have nobody to care for but her mistress; working for love, whatever her wages might be.

It is an odd thing to say, but though I usually tried to avoid meeting Miss Taroone, and was a little afraid of her, there was a most curious happiness at times in being in her company. She never once asked me about my character, never warned me of anything, never said "You must"; and yet I knew well that if in stupidity or carelessness I did anything in her house which she did not approve of, my punishment would come.

She once told me, "Simon, you have, I see, the beginnings of a bad feverish cold. It is because you were stupid enough yesterday to stand with the sweat on your face talking to me in a draught. It will probably be severe." And so it was.

She never said anything affectionate; she never lost her temper. I never saw her show any pity or meanness or revenge. "Well, Simon," she would say, "Good morning"; or "Good evening" (as the case might be); "you are always welcome. Have a good look about you. Don't waste your time here. Even when all is said, you will not see too much of me and mine. But don't believe everything you may hear in the kitchen. Linnet Sara is a good servant, but still a groper."

Not the least notion of what she meant occurred to me. But I peacocked about for a while as if she had paid me a compliment. An evening or two afterwards, and soon after sunset, I found her sitting in her westward window. Perhaps because rain was coming, the crouching head-stones under the hill looked to be furlongs nearer. "Sleeping, waking; waking, sleeping, Simon;" she said, "sing while you can." Like a little owl I fixed sober eyes on the yew-wood, but again I hadn't any inkling of what she meant.

She would sit patiently listening to me as long as I cared to unbosom myself to her. Her calm, severe, and yet, I think, beautiful face is clear in my memory. It resembles a little the figure in Albrecht Dürer's picture of a woman sitting beneath the wall of a house, with a hound couched beside her, an inclined ladder, the rain-bowed sea in the distance, and a bat--a tablet of magic numbers and a pent-housed bell over her head.

Sometimes I would be questioned at home about my solitary wanderings, but I never mentioned Miss Taroone's name, and spoke of her house a little deceitfully, since I did not confess how much I loved being in it.

One evening--and it was already growing late--Miss Taroone, after steadily gazing into my eyes for a few moments, asked me if I liked pictures. I professed that I did, though I had never spent much time in looking at the queer portraits and charts and mementoes that hung thick and closely on her own walls. "Well," she replied, "if you like pictures I must first tell you about Nahum."

I could not at first make head or tail of Mr. Nahum. Even now I am uncertain whether he was Miss Taroone's brother or her nephew or a cousin many times removed; or whether perhaps she was really and truly Mrs. Taroone and he her only son; or she still Miss Taroone and he an adopted one. I am not sure even whether or not she had much love for him, though she appeared to speak of him with pride. What I do know is that Miss Taroone had nurtured him from his cradle, and had taught him all the knowledge that was not already his by right of birth.

Before he was come even to be my own age, she told me, Nahum Taroone had loved "exploring." As a boy he had ranged over the countryside for miles around. I never dared ask her if he had sat on Linnet Sara's "Wall"! He had scrawled plans and charts and maps, marking on them all his wanderings. And not only the roads, paths, chaces, and tracks, the springs and streams, but the rarer birds' nesting-places and the rarer wild flowers, the eatable or poisonous fruits, trees, animal lairs, withies for whips, clay for modelling, elder shoots for pitch pipes, pebbles for his catapult, flint arrows, and everything of that kind. He was a night-boy too; could guide himself by the stars, was a walking almanac of the moon; and could decoy owls and nightjars, and find any fox's or badger's earth he was after, even in a dense mist.

I came to know Mr. Nahum pretty well--so far at any rate as one can know anybody from hearsay--before Miss Taroone referred to the pictures again. And I became curious about him, and hoped to see this strange traveller, and frequently hung about Thrae in mere chance of that.

Strangely enough, by the looks on her face and the tones of her voice, Miss Taroone was inclined to mock a little at Mr. Nahum because of his restlessness. She didn't seem to approve of his leaving her so much--though she herself had come from Sure Vine. Her keys would jangle at her chatelaine as if they said, "Ours secrets enough." And she would stand listening, and mute, as if in expectation of voices or a footfall. Then as secretly as I could, I would get away.

All old memories resemble a dream. And so too do these of Miss Taroone and Thrae. When I was most busy and happy and engrossed in it, it seemed to be a house which might at any moment vanish before your eyes, showing itself to be but the outer shell or hiding place of an abode still more enchanting.

This sounds nonsensical. But if you have ever sat and watched a Transformation Scene in a pantomime, did you suppose, just before the harlequin slapped with his wand on what looked like a plain brick-and-mortar wall, that it would instantly after dissolve into a radiant coloured scene of trees and fountains and hidden beings--growing lovelier in their own showing as the splendour spread and their haunts were revealed? Well, so at times I used to feel in Thrae.

At last, one late evening in early summer, beckoning me with her finger, Miss Taroone lit a candle in an old brass stick and bade me follow her down a long narrow corridor and up a steep winding stone staircase. "You have heard, Simon, of Mr. Nahum's round room; now you shall see it."

On the wider step at the top, before a squat oak door, she stayed, lifted her candle, and looked at me. "You will remember," she said, "that what I am about to admit you into is Mr. Nahum's room; not mine. You may look at the pictures, you may examine anything that interests you, you may compose yourself to the view. But replace what you look at, have a care in your handling, do nothing out of idle curiosity, and come away when you are tired. Remember that Mr. Nahum may be returning at any hour. He would be pleased to find you here. But hasten away out of his room the very instant you feel you have no right, lot or pleasure to be in it. Hasten away, I mean, so that you may return to it with a better mind and courage."

She laid two fingers on my shoulder, cast another look into my face under her candle, turned the key in the lock, gently thrust me beyond the door, shut it: and left me to my own devices.

What first I noticed, being for awhile a little alarmed at this strange proceeding, was the evening light that poured in on the room from the encircling windows. Below, by walking some little distance from room to room, corridor to corridor, you could get (as I have said) a single narrow view out north, south, east or west. Here, you could stand in the middle, and turning slowly like a top on your heels, could watch float by one after the other, hill and windmill, ocean, distant city, dark yew-wood.

The crooning of doves was audible on the roof, swallows were coursing in the placid and rosy air, the whole world seemed to be turning softly out of the day's sunshine, stretching long dark shadows across hill and valley as if in delight to be on the verge of rest and slumber again, now that the heats of full summer were so near.

But I believe my first thought was--What a boiling hot and glaring place to sit in in the middle of the morning. And then I noticed that heavy curtains hung on either side each rounded window, for shade, concealment and solitude. As soon, however, as my eyes were accustomed to the dazzle, I spent little time upon the great view, but immediately peered about me at what was in this curious chamber.

Never have I seen in any room--and this was none so large--such a hugger-mugger of strange objects--odd-shaped coloured shells, fragments of quartz, thunderbolts and fossils; skins of brilliant birds; outlandish shoes; heads, faces, masks of stone, wood, glass, wax, and metal; pots, images, glass shapes, and what not; lanterns and bells; bits of harness and ornament and weapons. There were, besides, two or three ships of different rigs in glass cases, and one in a green bottle; peculiar tools, little machines; silent clocks, instruments of music, skulls and bones of beasts, frowsy bunches of linen or silk queerly marked, and a mummied cat (I think). And partly concealed, as I twisted my head, there, dangling in an alcove, I caught sight of a full-length skeleton, one hollow eye-hole concealed by a curtain looped to the floor from the ceiling.

I just cast my glance round on all these objects without of course seeing them one by one. The air was clear as water in the evening light, a little dust had fallen; all was in order, though at that first hasty glance there seemed none. Last, but not least, there was row on row of painted pictures. Wherever there was space on the walls free of books, this round tower room was hung with them as close as their frames and nails allowed. There I stood, hearing faintly the birds, conscious of the pouring sunlight, the only live creature amidst this departed traveller's treasures and possessions.

I was so much taken aback by it all, so mystified by Miss Taroone's ways, so cold at sight of the harmless bones above me, and felt so suddenly out of my familiars, that without a moment's hesitation I turned about, flung open the door and went helter skelter clattering down the stairs--out of the glare into the gloom.

There was no sign of Miss Taroone as I crossed through the house and sneaked off hastily through the garden. And not until the barn had shut me out from the lower windows behind me did I look back at the upper ones of Mr. Nahum's tower. Until that moment I did not know how frightened I had been. Yet why, or at what, I cannot even now decide.

But I soon overcame this folly. Miss Taroone made no inquiry how I had fared on this first visit to Mr. Nahum's fortress. As I have said, she seldom asked questions--except with her eyes, expressions, and hands. But some time afterwards, and after two or three spells of exploration, I myself began to talk to her of the strange things up there.

"I have looked at a good many, Miss Taroone. But the pictures! Some of them are of places I believe I know. I wish I could be a traveller and see what the others are of. Did Mr. Nahum paint them all himself?"

Miss Taroone was sitting bolt upright in a high-backed chair, her eyes and face very intent, as always happened when Mr. Nahum's name was mentioned.

"I know very little about them, Simon. When Nahum was younger he used to make pictures of Thrae, and of the woods and valleys hereabouts. There are boxfulls put away. Others are pictures brought back from foreign parts, but many of them, as I believe," she turned her face and looked into a shadowy corner of the room, "are pictures of nothing on earth. He has his two worlds. Take your time. Some day you too, I dare say, will go off on your travels. Remember that, like Nahum, you are as old as the hills which neither spend nor waste time, but dwell in it for ages, as if it were light or sunshine. Some day perhaps Nahum will shake himself free of Thrae altogether. I don't know, myself, Simon. This house is enough for me, and what I remember of Sure Vine, compared with which Thrae is but the smallest of bubbles in a large glass."

I do not profess to have understood one half of what Miss Taroone meant in these remarks. It was in English and yet in a hidden tongue.

But by this time I had grown to be bolder in her company, and pounced on this:--"What, please Miss Taroone, do you mean by the 'two worlds'? Or shall I ask downstairs?" I added the latter question because now and then in the past Miss Taroone had bidden me go down to Linnet Sara for my answers. She now appeared at first not to have heard it.

"Now I must say to you, Simon," she replied at last, folding her hands on her knee, "wherever you may be in that body of yours, you feel you look out of it, do you not?"

I nodded. "Yes, Miss Taroone."

"Now think, then, of Mr. Nahum's round room; where is that?"

"Up there," said I, pointing up a rambling finger.

"Ah!" cried Miss Taroone, "so it may be. But even if to-morrow you are thousands of miles distant from here on the other side of this great Ball, or in its bowels, or flying free--you will still carry a picture of it, will you not? And that will be within you?"

"Yes, in my mind, Miss Taroone?" I answered rather sheepishly.

"In your mind," she echoed me, but not as if she were particularly pleased at the fact. "Well, many of the pictures I take it in Mr. Nahum's round tower are of that world. His MIND. I have never examined them. My duties are elsewhere. Your duty is to keep your senses, heart and courage and to go where you are called. And in black strange places you will at times lose yourself and find yourself, Simon. Now Mr. Nahum is calling. Don't think of me too much. I have great faith in him. Sit up there with him then. Share your eyes with his pictures. And having seen them, compare them if you will. Say, This is this, and that is that. And make of all that he has exactly what use you can."

With this counsel in my head I once more groped my way up the corkscrew stone staircase, and once more passed on from picture to picture; in my engrossment actually knocking my head against the dangling foot-bones of Mr. Nahum's treasured and now unalarming skeleton.

The pictures were of all kinds and sizes--in water colour, in chalks, and in oil. Some I liked for their vivid colours and deep shadows, and some I did not like at all. Nor could I always be sure even what they were intended to represent. Many of them completely perplexed me. A few of them seemed to me to be absurd; some made me stupidly ashamed; and one or two of them terrified me. But I went on examining them when I felt inclined, and a week or so after, as I was lifting out one of them into the sunshine, by chance it twisted on its cord and disclosed its wooden back.

And there, pasted on to it, was a scrap of yellowing paper with the letters BLAKE, followed by a number--CXLVII, in Roman figures. As with this one, so with the others. Each had its name and a number.

And even as I stood pondering what this might mean, my eyes rested on a lower shelf of one of Mr. Nahum's cases of books--book-cases which I have forgotten to say stood all round the lower part of the room. I had already discovered that many of these books were the writings of travellers in every part of the globe. One whole book-case consisted of what Mr. Nahum appeared to call Kitchen Work. But the one on a lower shelf which had now taken my attention was new to me--an enormous, thick, home-made-looking volume covered in a greenish shagreen or shark-skin.

Scrawled in ungainly capitals on the strip of vellum pasted to the back of this book was its title: THEOTHERWORLDE. Would you believe it?--at first I was stupid enough to suppose this title was one word, a word in a strange tongue, which I pronounced to myself as best I could, THEEOTHAWORLDIE--saying the TH as in thimble. And that is what, merely for old sake's sake, I have continued to call the book in my mind to this day!

I glanced out of the window. The upper boughs of the yew-wood and the stones this side of it among the bright green grasses were impurpled by the reflected sunlight. Nothing there but motionless shadows. I stood looking vacantly out for a moment or two; then stooped and lugged out the ponderous fusty old volume on to the floor and raised its clumsy cover.

To my surprise and pleasure, I found, that attached within was the drawing of a boy of about my own age, but dressed like a traveller, whose face faintly resembled a portrait I had noticed on the walls downstairs, though this child had wings painted to his shoulders and there was a half circle of stars around his head. Beneath this portrait in the book, in small letters, was scrawled in a faded handwriting, NAHUM TARUNE. This, then, was Mr. Nahum when he was a boy. It pleased me to find that he was no better a speller than myself. He had not even got his own name right! I liked his face. He looked out from under his stars at me, full in the eyes.

Next--after I had searched his looks and clothes and what he carried pretty closely--I turned over a few of the stiff leaves and found more of his writing with a big VII scrawled on the top. On page one of this book you will find the writing. I should have been a stupider boy even than I was if I had not at once turned over the pictures till I came to that with VII on the label on the back of it. This picture was of a Maze outlined in gaudy colours which faded towards the middle--a sort of oasis in which grew a tree. Fabulous-looking animals and creatures with wings sprawled around its margins. After repeated attempts I found to my disappointment that your only way out of the oasis and the maze was, after long groping, by the way you went in. Underneath it was written "This is the key." And above it in green letters stood this:--Behold upon the mountains the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace!

It was unfortunate that so little more of daylight was now left dying in the sky that evening; for as yet I had not the confidence to kindle the wax candles that stood in their brass sticks in the round tower. It was high time for me to be getting home. In my haste to be off I nearly collided with Miss Taroone, who happened to be standing in the dusklight looking out from under her porch. Too much excited even to beg her pardon, I blurted out: "Miss Taroone, I have found out what the pictures are of. It's a Book. Theeothaworldie. Mr. Nahum's portrait's in it, but they've put wings to him; and it's all in his writing--rhymes."

She looked down at me, though I could not quite see her face.

"Then, good-night to you, Simon; and happy dreams," she said, in her unfriendly voice.

"I like the round room better and better," I replied as heartily as I could. "That picture of Mr. Nahum--and there are lots more, I think--is a little bit like an uncle of mine who died in Russia; my Uncle John."

"John's as good a name, I suppose, as any other, Simon," said Miss Taroone. She stood looking out on the dusky country scene. "There's a heavy dew tonight, and the owls are busy."

They were indeed. Their screechings sounded on all sides of me as I ran off homewards, chanting over to myself the words that had somehow stuck in my memory.

Well, at last I began to read in Mr. Nahum's book--I won't say page by page, but as the fancy took me. It consisted chiefly of rhymes and poems, and some of them had pictured capitals and were decorated in clear bright colours like the pages of the old books illuminated by monks centuries ago. Apart from the poems were here and there pieces of prose. These, I found, always had some bearing on the poems, and, like them, many of them were queerly spelt. Occasionally Mr. Nahum had jotted down his own thoughts in the margin. But the pictures were my first concern.

Sometimes I went off to them from the book in order to find the particular one I wanted. And sometimes the other way round: I would have a good long stare at a picture, then single out the proper rhyme in the book. Often, either in one way or the other, I failed. For there were far fewer pictures than there were pages in the book, and for scores of pages I found no picture at all. It seemed Mr. Nahum had made paintings only of those he liked best.

The book itself, I found, was the first of three, the other two being similar to itself but much thicker and heavier. Into these I dipped occasionally, but found that the rhymes in them interested me less or were less easily understandable. Even some of those in the first book were a little beyond my wits at the time. But experience seems to be like the shining of a bright lantern. It suddenly makes clear in the mind what was already there perhaps, but dim. And often though I immediately liked what I read, long years were to go by before I really understood it, made it my own. There would come a moment, something would happen; and I would say to myself:--"Oh, that, then, is what that meant!"

Before going any further I must confess that I was exceedingly slow over Mr. Nahum's writings. Even over Volume I. When first I opened its pages I had had a poor liking for poetry because of a sort of contempt for it. "Poetry!" I would scoff to myself, and would shut up the covers of any such book with a kind of yawn inside me. Some of it had come my way in lesson books. This I could gabble off like a parrot, and with as much understanding; and I had just begun to grind out a little Latin verse for my father.

But I had never troubled to think about it; to share my Self with it; to examine it in order to see whether or not it was true; or to ask why it was written in this one way and in no other way. But apart from this, there were many old rhymes in Mr. Nahum's book--nursery things--which I had known since I knew anything. And I still have an old childish love for rhymes and jingles like them.

But what about the others? I began to ponder. After being so many hours alone in Mr. Nahum's room, among his secret belongings, I almost felt his presence there. When your mind is sunk in study, it is as if you were in a dream. But you cannot tell where, or in whose company, you may wake out of a dream. I remember one sultry afternoon being startled out of my wits by a sudden clap of thunder. I looked up, to find the whole room black, zigzag, and strange, and for a moment I fancied Mr. Nahum was actually there behind me; and not a friendly Mr. Nahum.

That is mere fancy; though in other ways he became so real to me at last that I would do things as if he had asked me to do them. For this reason, I think, I persevered with his book, swallowing some of the poems as if they were physic, simply because he had written them there. But the more I read, the more I came to enjoy them for their own sakes. Not all of them, of course. But I did see this, that like a carpenter who makes a table, a man who has written a poem has written it like that on purpose.

With this thought in my head I tried one day to alter the words of one or two of the simple and easy poems; or to put the words in a different order. And I found by so doing that you not only altered the sound of the poem, but that even the slightest alteration in the sound a little changed the sense. Either you lost something of the tune and runningness; or the words did not clash right; or you blurred the picture the words gave you; or some half-hidden meaning vanished away. I don't mean that every poem is perfect; but only that when I changed them it was almost always very much for the worse. I was very slow in all this; but, still, I went on. No. III, I remember, was the old nursery jingle, "Old King Cole":--

Old King Cole was a merry old soul, And a merry old soul was he; He called for his pipe, And he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three....

Now, suppose, instead of these four lines of the rhyme you put:--

Old King Cole was a jolly old man, The jolliest old man alive; He called for his cup, and he called for a pipe And he called for his fiddlers five.

By so doing you have actually added two extra fiddlers; and yet somehow you have taken away some of the old three's music. Or you may put:--

'Cole the First was now a monarch advanced in age, and of a convivial temperament. On any festive occasion he would bid his retainers bring him his goblet and smoking materials, and would command his musicians to entertain him on their violins: which they did.'

Well, all the facts are there and many more words, but scarcely a trace of my old King Cole, and not a single tweedle-eedle of the fiddling. Would anyone trouble to learn that by heart?

Now underneath this rhyme Mr. Nahum had written a sort of historical account of King Cole, a good deal of it in German and other languages. All I could make out of it was this: if ever a King Cole inhabited the world, he probably had another name; that he lived too far back in history for anyone to make sure when he had lived or that he had lived at all; and that his "pipe" and "bowl" probably stand for objects much more mysterious and far less common.

Having the rhyme quite free to myself, I didn't mind reading this; but if ever I have to give up either, I shall keep the rhyme.

Having discovered, then, that every poem must have been written as it was written, on purpose, I took a little more pains with those I cared for least. In some even then I could not quite piece out the meaning; in others I could not easily catch the beat and rhythm and tune. But I learned to read them very slowly, so as fully and quietly to fill up the time allowed for each line and to listen to its music, and to see and hear all that the words were saying.

Then, too, what Miss Taroone had said came back to my mind. Even when Mr. Nahum's poems were about real things and places and people, they were still only of places and people the words made for me in my mind. I must, that is, myself imagine all they told. And I found that the mention in a poem even of quite common and familiar things--such as a star, or a buttercup, or a beetle--did not bring into the mind quite the same kind of images of them as the things and creatures themselves do in the naked eye.

Now the day is over, Night is drawing nigh; Shadows of the evening Steal across the sky....

This was one of the earliest poems in Mr. Nahum's book. I had often, of course, seen the shadows of evening--every grass-blade or pebble casts its own; but these words not only called them vividly into my mind, but set shadows there (shadows across the sky) that I had never really seen at all--with my own eyes I mean. I discovered afterwards, also, that shadows are only the absence of light, though light is needed to make them visible. Just the same, again, with the sailors in the same poem:

Guard the sailors tossing On the deep blue sea....

They are plain and common words, but their order here is the poem's only, and the effect they had on me, and still have, is different from the effect of any other words on the same subject. Though, too, like Mr. Nahum, I have now seen something of the world (have been seasick and nearly drowned) I have never forgotten those imaginary sailors, or that imaginary sea; can still hear the waves lapping against that (unmentioned) ship's thin wooden walls, as if I myself were sleeping there, down below.

So what I then read has remained a clear and single remembrance, as if I myself had seen it in a world made different, or in a kind of vision or dream. And I think Mr. Nahum had chosen such poems in Volume I. as carried away the imagination like that; either into the past, or into another mind, or into the all-but-forgotten; at times as if into another world. And this kind has been my choice in this book.

Not that his picture to a particular poem was always the picture I should have made of it. Take for example another nursery jingle in his book:

'How many miles to Babylon?' 'Three score and ten.' 'Can I get there by candle-light?' 'Ay, and back again.'

Mr. Nahum's corresponding picture was not of Babylon or of a candle, or of a traveller at all, but of a stone tomb, On its thick upper slab he had drawn-in an old earthen lamp, with a serpent for handle--its wick alight, and shining up on a small owl perched in the lower branches of the thick tree above.

That is one of the pleasures of reading--you may make any picture out of the words you can and will; and a poem may have as many different meanings as there are different minds.

There I would sit, then, and Mr. Nahum's book made of "one little room an everywhere." And though I was naturally rather stupid and dense, I did in time realise that "rare poems ask rare friends," and that even the simplest ones may have secrets which will need a pretty close searching out.

Of course I could not copy out all of the poems even in THEEOTHAWORLDIE, Volume I., and I took very few from Volumes II. and III. I chose what I liked best--those that, when I read them, never failed to carry me away, as if on a Magic Carpet, or in Seven League Boots, into a region of their own. When the nightingale sings, other birds, it is said, will sit and listen to him: and I remember very well hearing a nightingale so singing on a spray in a dewy hedge, and there were many small birds perched mute and quiet near. The cock crows at midnight; and for miles around his kinsmen answer. The fowler whistles his decoy for the wild duck to come. So certain rhymes and poems affected my mind when I was young, and continue to do so now that I am old.

To these (and the few bits of prose) which I chose from Mr. Nahum, I added others afterwards, and they are in this book too. All of them are in English; a few from over the ocean: but how very few they all are by comparison with the multitudes even of their own kind. And there are the whole world's languages besides! Even of my own favourites not all have found a place. There was not room enough. I have left out others also that may be found easily elsewhere. I am afraid, too, there may be many mistakes in my copying, though I have tried to be careful.

Miss Taroone knew that I was making use of Mr. Nahum's book; though she never questioned me about it. I came and went in her house at last like a rabbit in a warren, a mouse in a mousery. The hours I spent in those far-gone days in Mr. Nahum's round room! At times I wearied of it, and hated his books, and even wished I had never so much as set eyes on Thrae at all.

But after such sour moments, a gossip and an apple with Linnet Sara in her kitchen, or a scamper home, or a bathe under the hazels in the stream whose source, I believe, is in the hills beyond East Dene, would set me to rights again. For sheer joy of return I could scarcely breathe for a while after remounting the stone staircase, re-entering Mr. Nahum's room, and closing the door behind me.

From above his broad scrawled pages I would lift my eyes to his windows and stare as if out of one dream into another. How strange from across the sky was the gentle scented breeze blowing in on my cheek, softly stirring the dried kingfisher skin that hung from its beam; how near understanding then the tongues of the wild birds; how close the painted scene--as though I were but a picture too, and this my frame.

But there came a day that was to remove me out of the neighbourhood of Miss Taroone's Thrae into a different kind of living altogether. I was to be sent to school. After a hot debate with myself, and why I scarcely know, I asked my father's permission to spend the night at Miss Taroone's. He gave me a steady look and said, Yes.

I found Miss Taroone seated on the steps of her porch, and now that I look back at her then, she curiously reminds me--though she was ages older--of a picture you will find in the second stanza of poem No. 233 in this book. Standing before her--it was already getting towards dark--I said I was come to bid her goodbye; and might I spend the night in Mr. Nahum's round room. She raised her eyes on me, luminous and mysterious as the sky itself, even though in the dusk.

"You may say, goodbye, Simon," she replied; "but unless I myself am much mistaken in you, your feet will not carry you out of all thought of me; and some day they will return to me whether you will or not."

Inside I was already in a flutter at thought of the hours to come, and I was accustomed to her strange speeches, though this struck on my mind more coldly than usual. I made a little jerk forwards; "I must thank you, please Miss Taroone, for having been so kind to me," I gulped in an awkward voice. "And I hope," I added, as she made no answer, "I hope I haven't been much of a bother--coming like this, I mean?"

"None, Simon;" was her sole reply. The hand that I had begun to hold out, went back into my pocket, and feeling extremely uncomfortable I half turned away.

"Why, who knows?--" said the solemn voice, "Mr. Nahum may at this very moment be riding home. Have a candle alight."

"Thank you, Miss Taroone. Thank you very much indeed."

With that I turned about and hastened across the darkening garden into the house. My candlestick and matches stood ready on the old oak bench at the foot of the tower. I lit up, and began to climb the cold steps. My heart in my mouth, I hesitated at the hob-nailed door; but managed at last to turn the key in the lock.

With two taller candles kindled, and its curtains drawn over the western window, I at once began to copy out the last few things I wanted for mine in Volume I. But there were two minds in me as midnight drew on, almost two selves, the one busy with pen and ink, the other stealthily listening to every faintest sound in my eyrie, a swift glance now and then up at the darkened glass only setting me more sharply to work. I had never before sat in so enormous a silence; the scratching of my pen its only tongue.

Steadily burned my candles; no sound of hoofs, no owl-cry, no knocking disturbed my peace; the nightingales had long since journeyed South. What I had hoped for, expected, dreaded in this long vigil, I cannot recall; all that I remember of it is that I began to shiver a little at last, partly because my young nerves were on the stretch, and partly because the small hours grew chill. In the very middle of the night there came to my ear what seemed a distant talking or gabbling. It may have been fancy; it may have been Linnet Sara. What certainly was fancy is the notion that, as I started up out of an instant's drowse, a stooping shape had swiftly withdrawn itself from me. But this was merely the shadow of a dream.

I returned at last from the heavy sleep I had fallen into, my forehead resting on the backs of my hands, and they flat on the huge open volume, my whole body stiff with cold, and the first clear grey of daybreak in the East. And suddenly, as my awakened eyes stared dully about them in that thin light--the old windows, the strange outlandish objects, the clustering pictures, the countless books, my own ugly writing on my paper--an indescribable despair and anxiety--almost terror even--seized upon me at the rushing thought of my own ignorance; of how little I knew, of how unimportant I was. And, again and again, my ignorance. Then I thought of Miss Taroone, of Mr. Nahum, of the life before me, and everything yet to do. And a sullen misery swept up in me at these reflections. And once more I wished from the bottom of my heart that I had never come to this house.

But gradually the light broadened. And with it, confidence began to return. The things around me that had seemed strange and hostile became familiar again. I stood up and stretched myself and, I think, muttered a prayer.

To this day I see the marvellous countryside of that morning with its hills and low thick mists and woodlands stretched like a painted scene beneath the windows--and that finger of light from the risen Sun presently piercing across the dark air, and as if by a miracle causing birds and water to awake and sing and shine.

With a kind of grief that was yet rapture in my mind, I stood looking out over the cold lichen-crusted shingled roof of Thrae--towards the East and towards those far horizons. Yet again the apprehension (that was almost a hope) drew over me that at any moment wall and chimney-shaft might thin softly away, and the Transformation Scene begin. I was but just awake: and so too was the world itself, and ever is. And somewhere--Wall or no Wall--was my mother's East Dene....

In a while I crept softly downstairs, let myself out, and ran off into the morning. Having climbed the hill from which I had first stared down upon Thrae, I stopped for a moment to recover my breath, and looked back. I looked back.

The gilding sun-rays beat low upon the house in the valley. All was still, wondrous, calm. For a moment my heart misgave me at this farewell. The next, in sheer excitement--the cold sweet air, the height, the morning, a few keen beckoning stars--I broke into a kind of Indian war-dance in the thin dewy grass, and then, with a last wave of my hand, like Mr. Nahum himself, I set off at a sharp walk on the journey that has not yet come to an end.

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MORNING AND MAY

1 THIS IS THE KEY

This is the Key of the Kingdom: In that Kingdom is a city; In that city is a town; In that town there is a street; In that street there winds a lane; In that lane there is a yard; In that yard there is a house; In that house there waits a room; In that room an empty bed; And on that bed a basket-- A Basket of Sweet Flowers: Of Flowers, of Flowers; A Basket of Sweet Flowers.

Flowers in a Basket; Basket on the bed; Bed in the chamber; Chamber in the house; House in the weedy yard; Yard in the winding lane; Lane in the broad street; Street in the high town; Town in the city; City in the Kingdom-- This is the Key of the Kingdom. Of the Kingdom this is the Key.

2 A NEW YEAR CAROL

Here we bring new water from the well so clear, For to worship God with, this happy New Year. Sing levy dew, sing levy dew, the water and the wine; The seven bright gold wires and the bugles that do shine.

Sing reign of Fair Maid, with gold upon her toe,-- Open you the West Door, and turn the Old Year go.

Sing reign of Fair Maid with gold upon her chin,-- Open you the East Door, and let the New Year in. Sing levy dew, sing levy dew, the water and the wine; The seven bright gold wires and the bugles they do shine.

3 HEY! NOW THE DAY DAWNS

"Hay, nou the day dauis; "Hey! now the day dawns; The jolie Cok crauis; The jolly Cock crows; Nou shroudis the shauis, Thick-leaved the greenshaws, Throu Natur anone. Through Nature anon. The thissell-cok cryis The thistle-cock cries On louers wha lyis, On lovers who lies, Nou skaillis the skyis; All cloudless the skies; The nicht is neir gone. The night is near gone.

"The feildis ouerflouis "The fields overflow With gowans that grouis, With daisies a-blow,

Quhair lilies lyk lou is, And lilies like fire shine, Als rid as the rone. And red is the rowan. The turtill that true is, The wood-dove that true is With nots that reneuis, Her crooling reneweth, Hir pairtie perseuis; And her sweet mate pursueth; The nicht is neir gone. The night is near gone.

"Nou Hairtis with Hyndis, "Now Harts with their Hinds Conforme to thair kyndis, Conform to their kinds, Hie tursis thair tyndis, They vaunt their branched antlers, On grund whair they grone. They bell and they groan. Nou Hurchonis, with Hairis, Now Urchins[1] and Hares Ay passis in pairis; Keep apassing in pairs; Quhilk deuly declaris Which duly declares The nicht is neir gone...." The night is near gone...."

ALEXANDER MONTGOMERIE

4 THE SLUGGARD

'Tis the voice of a sluggard; I heard him complain-- "You have waked me too soon; I must slumber again;" As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed, Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.

"A little more sleep, and a little more slumber"-- Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number; And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands, Or walks about saunt'ring, or trifling he stands.

I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher; The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags; And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit, still hoping to find That he took better care for improving his mind; He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking, But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart: "Here's a lesson for me; That man's but a picture of what I might be; But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, Who taught me betimes to love working and reading."

ISAAC WATTS

5 HARK, HARK, THE LARK

Hearke, hearke, the Larke at Heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His Steeds to water at those Springs On chaliced Flowres that lyes: And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their Golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My Lady sweet, arise: Arise, arise!

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

6 THE LARK NOW LEAVES HIS WATERY NEST

The lark now leaves his watery nest, And climbing shakes his dewy wings; He takes your window for the East, And to implore your light, he sings: Awake, awake! the morn will never rise Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes; But still the lover wonders what they are Who look for day before his mistress wakes: Awake, awake! break through your veils of lawn; Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn!

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT

7 EARLY MORN

When I did wake this morn from sleep, It seemed I heard birds in a dream; Then I arose to take the air-- The lovely air that made birds scream; Just as a green hill launched the ship Of gold, to take its first clear dip.

And it began its journey then, As I came forth to take the air; The timid Stars had vanished quite, The Moon was dying with a stare; Horses, and kine, and sheep were seen As still as pictures, in fields green.

It seemed as though I had surprised And trespassed in a golden world That should have passed while men still slept! The joyful birds, the ship of gold, The horses, kine and sheep did seem As they would vanish for a dream.

WILLIAM H. DAVIES

8 GOOD-MORROW

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day! With night we banish sorrow. Sweet air, blow soft, mount, lark, aloft To give my Love good morrow. Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow: Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, To give my Love good morrow! To give my Love good morrow Notes from them all I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast! Sing, birds, in every furrow, And from each bill let music shrill Give my fair Love good morrow! Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare,[2] linnet, and cock-sparrow, You pretty elves, amongst yourselves Sing my fair Love good morrow! To give my Love good morrow Sing, birds, in every furrow!

THOMAS HEYWOOD

9 THE QUESTION

I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way, Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring, And gentle odours led my steps astray, Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets; Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets-- Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth-- Its mother's face with heaven's collected tears, When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, Green cowbind and the moonlight-coloured May And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine Was the bright dew, yet drained not by the day; And wild roses, and ivy serpentine With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray; And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold, Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.

And nearer to the river's trembling edge There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white, And starry river-buds among the sedge, And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge With moonlight beams of their own watery light; And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

Methought that of these visionary flowers I made a nosegay, bound in such a way That the same hues, which in their natural bowers Were mingled or opposed, the like array Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours Within my hand,--and then, elate and gay, I hastened to the spot whence I had come, That I might there present it--oh! to Whom?

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

10 THE FRESH AIR

The fresh air moves like water round a boat. The white clouds wander. Let us wander too. The whining, wavering plover flap and float. That crow is flying after that cuckoo. Look! Look!... They're gone. What are the great trees calling? Just come a little farther, by that edge Of green, to where the stormy ploughland, falling Wave upon wave, is lapping to the hedge. Oh, what a lovely bank! Give me your hand. Lie down and press your heart against the ground. Let us both listen till we understand, Each through the other, every natural sound... I can't hear anything to-day, can you, But, far and near: "Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"?

HAROLD MONRO

11 WEATHERS

This is the weather the cuckoo likes, And so do I; When showers betumble the chestnut spikes, And nestlings fly: And the little brown nightingale bills his best, And they sit outside at "The Travellers' Rest," And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest, And citizens dream of the south and west, And so do I.

This is the weather the shepherd shuns, And so do I; When beeches drip in browns and duns, And thresh, and ply; And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe, And meadow rivulets overflow, And drops on gate-bars hang in a row, And rooks in families homeward go, And so do I.

THOMAS HARDY

12 GREEN RAIN

Into the scented woods we'll go, And see the blackthorn swim in snow. High above, in the budding leaves, A brooding dove awakes and grieves; The glades with mingled music stir, And wildly laughs the woodpecker. When blackthorn petals pearl the breeze, There are the twisted hawthorn trees Thick-set with buds, as clear and pale As golden water or green hail-- As if a storm of rain had stood Enchanted in the thorny wood, And, hearing fairy voices call, Hung poised, forgetting how to fall.

MARY WEBB

13 SONG ON MAY MORNING

Now the bright morning Star, Dayes harbinger, Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her The Flowry May, who from her green lap throws The yellow Cowslip and the pale Primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth and youth and young desire, Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing, Hill and Dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early Song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

JOHN MILTON

14 SISTER, AWAKE!

Sister, awake! close not your eyes. The day her light discloses, And the bright morning doth arise Out of her bed of roses.

See the clear sun, the world's bright eye, In at our window peeping: Lo, how he blusheth to espy Us idle wenches sleeping!

Therefore awake! make haste, I say, And let us, without staying, All in our gowns of green so gay Into the park a-maying.

15 HERE WE COME A-PIPING

Here we come a-piping, In Springtime and in May; Green fruit a-ripening, And Winter fled away.

The Queen she sits upon the strand, Fair as lily, white as wand; Seven billows on the sea, Horses riding fast and free, And bells beyond the sand.

16 AS WE DANCE ROUND

As we dance round a-ring-a-ring, A maiden goes a-maying; And here a flower, and there a flower, Through mead and meadow straying: O gentle one, why dost thou weep?-- Silver to spend with; gold to keep; Till spin the green round World asleep, And Heaven its dews be staying.

17 OLD MAY SONG

All in this pleasant evening, together come are we, For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay; We tell you of a blossoming and buds on every tree, Drawing near unto the merry month of May.

Rise up, the master of this house, put on your charm of gold, For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay; Be not in pride offended with your name we make so bold, Drawing near unto the merry month of May.

Rise up, the mistress of this house, with gold along your breast; For the summer springs so fresh, green and gay; And if your body be asleep, we hope your soul's at rest, Drawing near unto the merry month of May.

Rise up, the children of this house, all in your rich attire, For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay; And every hair upon your heads shines like the silver wire: Drawing near unto the merry month of May.

God bless this house and arbour, your riches and your store, For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay; We hope the Lord will prosper you, both now and evermore, Drawing near unto the merry month of May.

And now comes we must leave you, in peace and plenty here, For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay; We shall not sing you May again until another year, To draw you these cold winters away.

18 SONG OF THE MAYERS

Remember us poor Mayers all, And thus do we begin, To lead our lives in righteousness, Or else we die in sin.

We have been rambling all the night, And almost all the day, And now returning back again, We have brought you a bunch of May.

A bunch of May we have brought you, And at your door it stands, It is but a sprout, but it's well budded out By the work of our Lord's hands.

The hedges and trees they are so green, As green as any leek, Our Heavenly Father, He watered them With his heavenly dew so sweet.

The heavenly gates are open wide, Our paths are beaten plain, And if a man be not too far gone, He may return again.

The life of man is but a span, It flourishes like a flower; We are here to-day, and gone to-morrow, And are dead in an hour.

The moon shines bright, and the stars give a light, A little before it is day, God bless you all, both great and small, And send you a joyful May.

19 AND AS FOR ME

... And as for me, thogh that I can but lyte,[3] On bokės for to rede I me delyte, And to hem yeve[4] I feyth and ful credènce, And in myn herte have hem in reverence So hertėley, that there is gamė noon That fro my bokės maketh me to goon, But hit be seldom on the holyday, Save, certeynly, whan that the month of May Is comen, and that I here the foulės[5] singe And that the flourės ginnen for to springe,-- Farewel my boke, and my devocioun! Now have I than swich[6] a condicioun, That, of alle the flourės in the mede, Than love I most these flourės whyte and rede, Swiche as men callen daysies in our toun. To hem have I so greet affeccioun, As I seyde erst, whan comen is the May, That in my bed ther daweth me no day, That I nam up, and walking in the mede, To seen this flour agein the sonnė sprede, When hit uprysith erly by the morwe; That blisful sightė softneth all my sorwė[7].... And whan that hit is eve, I rennė blyve,[8] As soon as evere the sonnė ginneth weste, To seen this flour, how it wol go to reste, For fere of nyght, so hateth she derknesse!...

GEOFFREY CHAUCER

20 THE SPRING

What bird so sings, yet so does wail? O, 'tis the ravished nightingale! "Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu," she cries, And still her woes at midnight rise. Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear? None but the lark so shrill and clear; Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings, The morn not waking till she sings. Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat Poor robin-redbreast tunes his note; Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing Cuckoo--to welcome in the spring! Cuckoo--to welcome in the spring!

JOHN LYLY

21 SPRING, THE SWEET SPRING

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing: Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo!

The Palm and May make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay: Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo!

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, In every street these tunes our ears do greet: Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo! Spring, the sweet Spring!

THOMAS NASH

22 A MAY DAY

... And now all nature seemed in love; The lusty sap began to move; New juice did stir the embracing vines, And birds had drawn their valentines. The jealous trout that now did lie, Rose at a well-dissembled fly: There stood my friend with patient skill, Attending of his trembling quill.[9] Already were the eaves possessed With the swift pilgrim's daubèd nest: The groves already did rejoice In Philomel's triumphing voice. The showers were short, the weather mild, The morning fresh, the evening smiled. Joan takes her neat-rubbed pail and now She trips to milk the sand-red cow; Where, for some sturdy football swain, Joan strokes[10] a sillabub or twain. The field and gardens were beset With tulip, crocus, violet; And now, though late, the modest rose Did more than half a blush disclose. Thus all looked gay, all full of cheer, To welcome the new-liveried year.

SIR HENRY WOTTON

23 EASTER

I got me flowers to straw thy way, I got me boughs off many a tree: But thou wast up by break of day, And brought'st thy sweets along with thee.

The Sun arising in the East, Though he give light, and the East perfume,[11] If they should offer to contest With thy arising, they presume.

Can there be any day but this, Though many sunnes to shine endeavour? We count three hundred, but we misse: There is but one, and that one ever.

GEORGE HERBERT

24 PLEASURE IT IS

Pleasure it is To hear, iwis,[12] The birdės sing. The deer in the dale, The sheep in the vale, The corn springing; God's purveyance For sustenance It is for man. Then we always To Him give praise, And thank Him than, And thank Him than.

WILLIAM CORNISH

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MOTHER, HOME AND SWEETHEART

25 I SING OF A MAIDEN

I sing of a maiden That is makeless,[13] King of all Kings To her son she ches.[14]

He came all so still Where his mother was, As dew in April That falleth on the grass.

He came all so still To his mother's bower, As dew in April That falleth on the flower.

He came all so still Where his mother lay, As dew in April That falleth on the spray.

Mother and maiden Was never none but she; Well may such a lady God's mother be.

~26~ LULLABY

Upon my lap my sovereign sits And sucks upon my breast; Meantime his love maintains my life And gives my sense her rest. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

When thou hast taken thy repast, Repose, my babe, on me; So may thy mother and thy nurse Thy cradle also be. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

I grieve that duty doth not work All that my wishing would, Because I would not be to thee But in the best I should. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

Yet as I am, and as I may, I must and will be thine, Though all too little for thy self Vouchsafing to be mine. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

RICHARD ROWLANDS

27 THE LITTLE BLACK BOY

My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but O! my soul is white; White as an angel is the English child, But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree, And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissèd me, And, pointing to the east, began to say:

"Look on the rising sun; there God does live, And gives his light, and gives his heat away; And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

"And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

"For when our souls have learned the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish; we shall hear his voice, Saying: 'Come out from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.'"

Thus did my mother say, and kissèd me; And thus I say to little English boy. When I from black and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me.

WILLIAM BLAKE

28 THE ECHOING GREEN

The Sun does arise, And make happy the skies; The merry bells ring To welcome the Spring; The skylark and thrush, The birds of the bush, Sing louder around To the bells' cheerful sound, While our sports shall be seen On the Echoing Green.

Old John, with white hair, Does laugh away care, Sitting under the oak, Among the old folk, They laugh at our play, And soon they all say: "Such, such were the joys When we all, girls and boys, In our youth time were seen On the Echoing Green."

Till the little ones, weary, No more can be merry; The sun does descend, And our sports have an end. Round the laps of their mothers Many sisters and brothers, Like birds in their nest, Are ready for rest, And sport no more seen On the darkening Green.

WILLIAM BLAKE

29 IF I HAD BUT TWO LITTLE WINGS

If I had but two little wings And were a little feathery bird, To you I'd fly, my dear! But thoughts like these are idle things, And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly: I'm always with you in my sleep! The world is all one's own. But then one wakes, and where am I? All, all alone.

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids: So I love to wake ere break of day: For though my sleep be gone, Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids, And still dreams on.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

30 I REMEMBER

I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups!-- Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birth-day,-- The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy.

THOMAS HOOD

31 MIDNIGHT ON THE GREAT WESTERN

In the third-class seat sat the journeying boy, And the roof-lamp's oily flame Played down on his listless form and face, Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going, Or whence he came.

In the band of his hat the journeying boy Had a ticket stuck; and a string Around his neck bore the key of his box, That twinkled gleams of the lamp's sad beams Like a living thing.

What past can be yours, O journeying boy Towards a world unknown, Who calmly, as if incurious quite On all at stake, can undertake This plunge alone?

Knows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy, Our rude realms far above, Whence with spacious vision you mark and mete This region of sin that you find you in, But are not of?

THOMAS HARDY

32 THE RUNAWAY

Once when the sun of the year was beginning to fall We stopped by a mountain pasture to say, "Whose colt? A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall, The other curled at his heart. He dipped his head And snorted to us; and then he had to bolt. We heard the muffled thunder when he fled And we saw him or thought we saw him dim and grey Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes. We said, "The little fellow's afraid of the snow. He isn't winter broken." "It isn't play With the little fellow at all. He's running away. I doubt if even his mother could tell him, 'Sakes, It's only weather.' He'd think she didn't know. Where is his mother? He can't be out alone." And now he comes again with a clatter of stone And mounts the wall again with whited eyes And all his tail that isn't hair up straight. He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies. Whoever it is that leaves him out so late When everything else has gone to stall and bin Ought to be told to go and bring him in.

ROBERT FROST

33 ON EASTNOR KNOLL

Silent are the woods, and the dim green boughs are Hushed in the twilight: yonder, in the path through The apple orchard, is a tired plough-boy Calling the cows home.

A bright white star blinks, the pale moon rounds, but Still the red, lurid wreckage of the sunset Smoulders in smoky fire, and burns on The misty hill-tops.

Ghostly it grows, and darker, the burning Fades into smoke, and now the gusty oaks are A silent army of phantoms thronging A land of shadows.

JOHN MASEFIELD

34 "HOME NO MORE HOME TO ME"

Home no more home to me, whither must I wander? Hunger my driver, I go where I must. Cold blows the winter wind over hill and heather; Thick drives the rain, and my roof is in the dust. Loved of wise men was the shade of my roof-tree. The true word of welcome was spoken in the door-- Dear days of old, with the faces in the firelight, Kind folks of old, you come again no more.

Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces, Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child, Fire and the windows bright glittered on the moorland; Song, tuneful song, built a palace in the wild. Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland, Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold. Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed, The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old.

Spring shall come, come again, calling up the moor-fowl, Spring shall bring the sun and rain, bring the bees and flowers; Red shall the heather bloom over hill and valley, Soft flow the stream through the even-flowing hours; Fair the day shine as it shone on my childhood-- Fair shine the day on the house with open door; Birds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney-- But I go for ever and come again no more.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

35 DALYAUNCE

Mundus. Welcome, fayre chylde, what is thy name?

Infans. I wote not, syr, withouten blame. But ofte tyme my moder in her game Callèd me dalyaunce.

Mundus. Dalyaunce, my swetė chylde, It is a name that is ryght wylde, For whan thou waxest olde. It is a name of no substaunce But, my fayre chylde, what woldest thou have?

Infans. Syr of some comforte I you crave-- Mete and clothe my lyfe to save: And I your true servaunt shall be.

Mundus. Fayre chylde, I graunte thee thyne askynge. I wyll thee fynde[15] whyle thou art yinge[16] So thou wylte be obedyent to my byddynge. These garments gaye I gyve to thee. And also I gyve to thee a name, And clepe[17] thee Wanton, in every game; Tyll XIII yere be come and gone, And than come agayne to me.

[Infans is now called Wanton.]

Wanton. Gramercy, Worlde, for myne araye, For now I purpose me to playe.

Mundus. Fare well, fayre chylde, and have good daye. All rychelesnesse[18] is kynde[19] for thee.

[Mundus goes out leaving Wanton alone.]

Wanton. Aha, Wanton is my name! I can many a quayntė game. Lo, my toppe I dryve in same, Se, it torneth rounde! I can with my scorgė-stycke My felowe upon the heed hytte, And wyghtly[20] from hym make a skyppe And blere[21] on hym my tonge. If brother or syster do me chyde I wyll scratche and also byte. I can crye, and also kyke, And mocke them all berewe. If fader or mother wyll me smyte, I wyll wryngė[22] with my lyppe; And lyghtly from hym make a skyppe; And call my damė shrewe. Aha, a newe game have I founde: Se this gynne[23] it renneth rounde; And here another have I founde, And yet mo[24] can I fynde. I can mowė[25] on a man; And make a lesynge[26] well I can, And mayntayne it ryght well than. This connynge[27] came me of kynde. Ye, syrs,[28] I can well gelde a snayle; And catche a cowe by the tayle; This is a fayre connynge! I can daunce, and also skyppe; I can playe at the chery pytte; And I can wystell you a fytte,[29] Syres, in a whylowe ryne.[30] Ye, syrs, and every daye Whan I to scole shall take the waye Some good mannes gardyn I wyll assaye, Perys[31] and plommes to plucke. I can spye a sparowes nest. I wyll not go to scole but whan me lest, For there begynneth a sory fest[32] Whan the mayster sholde lyfte my docke.[33] But, syrs, whan I was seven yere of age, I was sent to the Worlde to takė wage. And this seven yere I have ben his page And kept his commaundėment....

36 CHRISTMAS AT SEA

The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand; The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand; The wind was a nor'wester, blowing squally off the sea; And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.

They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day; But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay. We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout, And we gave her the maintops'l, and stood by to go about.

All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North; All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth; All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread, For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared; But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard: So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high, And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam; The good red fires were burning bright in every 'longshore home; The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out; And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.

The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year) This day of our adversity was blessèd Christmas morn, And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born.

O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there, My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair; And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves, Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me, Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea; And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way, To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessèd Christmas Day.

They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall. "All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the captain call, "By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first mate, Jackson, cried. ... "It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," he replied.

She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good. And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood. As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night, We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.

And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me, As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea; But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold, Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

37 TWILIGHT

The twilight is sad and cloudy, The wind blows wild and free, And like the wings of sea-birds Flash the white caps of the sea.

But in the fisherman's cottage There shines a ruddier light, And a little face at the window Peers out into the night.

Close, close it is pressed to the window, As if those childish eyes Were looking into the darkness, To see some form arise.

And a woman's waving shadow Is passing to and fro, Now rising to the ceiling, Now bowing and bending low.

What tale do the roaring ocean, And the night-wind, bleak and wild, As they beat at the crazy casement, Tell to that little child?

And why do the roaring ocean, And the night-wind, wild and bleak, As they beat at the heart of the mother, Drive the colour from her cheek?

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

38 "HOW'S MY BOY?"

"Ho, sailor of the sea! How's my boy--my boy?" "What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good ship sailed he?" "My boy John-- He that went to sea-- What care I for the ship, sailor? My boy's my boy to me.

"You come back from sea And not know my John! I might as well have asked some landsman Yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish But he knows my John.

"How's my boy--my boy? And unless you let me know, I'll swear you are no sailor, Blue jacket or no, Brass button or no, sailor, Anchor and crown or no! Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton."-- "Speak low, woman, speak low!"

"And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John? If I was loud as I am proud I'd sing him o'er the town! Why should I speak low, sailor?" "That good ship went down."

"How's my boy--my boy? What care I for the ship, sailor, I never was aboard her. Be she afloat, or be she aground, Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound, Her owners can afford her! I say, how's my John?" "Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her."

"How's my boy--my boy? What care I for the men, sailor? I'm not their mother-- How's my boy--my boy? Tell me of him and no other! How's my boy--my boy?"

SYDNEY DOBELL

39 CAM' YE BY?

Cam' ye by the salmon fishers? Cam' ye by the roperee? Saw ye a sailor laddie Waiting on the coast for me?

I ken fahr[34] I'm gyain,[35] I ken fahs[36] gyain wi' me; I ha'e a lad o' my ain, Ye daurna tack 'im fae[37] me.

Stockings of blue silk, Shoes of patent leather, Kid to tie them up, And gold rings on his finger.

Oh for six o'clock! Oh for seven I weary! Oh for eight o'clock! And then I'll see my dearie.

40 MY BOY TAMMY

"Whar hae ye been a' day, my boy Tammy? Whar hae ye been a' day, my boy Tammy?" "I've been by burn and flow'ry brae, Meadow green and mountain grey, Courtin' o' this young thing just come frae her Mammy."

"And whar gat ye that young thing, my boy Tammy?" "I gat her down in yonder howe,[38] Smiling on a broomy knowe,[39] Herding ae wee Lamb and Ewe for her poor Mammy."

"What said ye to the bonny bairn, my boy Tammy?" "I hae a house, it cost me dear, I've walth o' plenishen and gear,[40] Yese get it a', war't ten times mair, gin[41] ye will leave your Mammy.

"The smile gaed aff her bonny face--'I mauna leave my Mammy! She's gi'en me meat, she's gi'en me claes,[42] She's been my comfort a' my days, My Father's death brought mony waes--I canna leave my Mammy.'"

"We'll tak her hame and mak her fain, my ain kind-hearted Lammy, We'll gie her meat, we'll gi'e her claes, We'll be her comfort a' her days:" The wee thing gi'es her hand, and says, "There, gang and ask my Mammy."

"Has she been to kirk wi' thee, my boy Tammy?" "She has been to kirk wi' me, And the tear was in her ee, But Oh! she's but a young thing just come frae her Mammy."

HECTOR MACNEILL

41 ROSY APPLE, LEMON, OR PEAR

Rosy apple, lemon, or pear, Bunch of roses she shall wear; Gold and silver by her side, I know who will be the bride. Take her by her lily-white hand, Lead her to the altar; Give her kisses,--one, two, three,-- Mother's runaway daughter.

42 IN PRAISE OF ISABEL PENNELL

By Saint Mary, my lady, Your mammy and your daddy Brought forth a goodly baby!

My maiden Isabell,-- Reflaring[43] rosabell, The flagrant camamell,

The ruddy rosary, The sovereign rosemary, The pretty strawberry,

The columbine, the nepte,[44] The ieloffer[45] well set, The proper violet,

Ennewèd, your colour Is like the daisy flower After the April shower!

Star of the morrow gray, The blossom on the spray, The freshest flower of May;

Maidenly demure, Of womanhood the lure, Wherefore I make you sure:

It were an heavenly health, It were an endless wealth, A life for God himself,

To hear this nightingale, Among the birdės smale, Warbling in the vale:--

Dug, dug, Iug, iug, Good year and good luck, With chuk, chuk, chuk, chuk!

JOHN SKELTON

43 MY SWEET SWEETING

She is so proper and so pure, Full stedfast, stabill and demure, There is none such, ye may be sure, As my swete sweting.

In all thys world, as thynketh me, Is none so plesaunt to my e'e, That I am glad soo ofte to see, As my swete swetyng.

When I behold my swetyng swete, Her face, her hands, her minion fete, They seme to me there is none so mete, As my swete swetyng.

Above all other prayse must I, And love my pretty pygsnye, For none I fynd so womanly As my swete swetyng.

44 SWEET STAY-AT-HOME

Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content, Thou knowest of no strange continent: Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep A gentle motion with the deep; Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas, Where scent comes forth in every breeze. Thou hast not seen the rich grape grow For miles, as far as eyes can go; Thou hast not seen a summer's night When maids could sew by a worm's light; Nor the North Sea in spring send out Bright hues that like birds flit about In solid cages of white ice-- Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Love-one-place. Thou hast not seen black fingers pick White cotton when the bloom is thick, Nor heard black throats in harmony; Nor hast thou sat on stones that lie Flat on the earth, that once did rise To hide proud kings from common eyes. Thou hast not seen plains full of bloom Where green things had such little room They pleased the eye like fairer flowers-- Sweet Stay-at-Home, all these long hours. Sweet Well-content, sweet Love-one-place, Sweet, simple maid, bless thy dear face; For thou hast made more homely stuff Nurture thy gentle self enough; I love thee for a heart that's kind-- Not for the knowledge in thy mind.

WILLIAM H. DAVIES

45 WAITING

Rich in the waning light she sat While the fierce rain on the window spat. The yellow lamp-glow lit her face, Shadows cloaked the narrow place She sat adream in. Then she'd look Idly upon an idle book; Anon would rise and musing peer Out at the misty street and drear; Or with her loosened dark hair play, Hiding her fingers' snow away; And, singing softly, would sing on When the desire of song had gone. "O lingering day!" her bosom sighed, "O laggard Time!" each motion cried. Last she took the lamp and stood Rich in its flood, And looked and looked again at what Her longing fingers' zeal had wrought; And turning then did nothing say, Hiding her thoughts away.

JOHN FREEMAN

46 THE SICK CHILD

Child. O Mother, lay your hand on my brow! O mother, mother, where am I now? Why is the room so gaunt and great? Why am I lying awake so late?

Mother. Fear not at all: the night is still. Nothing is here that means you ill-- Nothing but lamps the whole town through, And never a child awake but you.

Child. Mother, mother, speak low in my ear, Some of the things are so great and near, Some are so small and far away, I have a fear that I cannot say. What have I done, and what do I fear, And why are you crying, mother dear?

Mother. Out in the city, sounds begin. Thank the kind God, the carts come in! An hour or two more, and God is so kind, The day shall be blue in the window blind, Then shall my child go sweetly asleep, And dream of the birds and the hills of sheep.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

47 STILLNESS

When the words rustle no more, And the last work's done, When the bolt lies deep in the door, And Fire, our Sun, Falls on the dark-laned meadows of the floor;

When from the clock's last chime to the next chime Silence beats his drum, And Space with gaunt grey eyes and her brother Time Wheeling and whispering come, She with the mould of form and he with the loom of rhyme:

Then twittering out in the night my thought-birds flee, I am emptied of all my dreams: I only hear Earth turning, only see Ether's long bankless streams, And only know I should drown if you laid not your hand on me.

JAMES ELROY FLECKER

48 LINES ON RECEIVING HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE

O that those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smiles I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child--chase all thy fears away!"... My Mother! when I learnt that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss, Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-- Ah, that maternal smile! it answers--Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such?--It was. Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wished, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived, By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learnt at last submission to my lot. But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capped, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionery plum; The fragrant waters on my cheek bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed; All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall....

WILLIAM COWPER

49 THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER

When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue Could scarcely cry "'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!" So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head, That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved: so I said "Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bare You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair."

And so he was quiet, and that very night, As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight! That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack, Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.

And by came an Angel who had a bright key, And he opened the coffins and set them all free; Then down a green plain leaping, laughing, they run, And wash in a river, and shine in the Sun.

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind, They rise upon clouds and sport in the wind; And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy, He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.

And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark, And got with our bags and our brushes to work. Tho' the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm; So if all do their duty they need not fear harm.

WILLIAM BLAKE

50 BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL

Hie upon Hielands, and laigh upon Tay, Bonnie George Campbell rode out on a day.

Saddled and briddled and booted rade he; Toom[46] hame cam' the saddle, but never cam' he.

Down cam' his auld mither, greetin'[47] fu' sair, And down cam' his bonny wife, wringin' her hair:--

"My meadow lies green, and my corn is unshorn, My barn is to build and my babe is unborn."

Saddled and briddled and booted rade he; Toom hame cam' the saddle but never cam' he.

51 THE ORPHAN'S SONG

I had a little bird, I took it from the nest; I prest it, and blest it, And nurst it in my breast.

I set it on the ground, I danced round and round, And sang about it so cheerly, With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird, And ho but I love thee dearly!"

I make a little feast Of food soft and sweet, I hold it in my breast, And coax it to eat;

I pit, and I pat, I call it this and that, And sing about it so cheerly, With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird, And ho but I love thee dearly!"

I may kiss, I may sing, But I can't make it feed, It taketh no heed Of any pleasant thing.

I scolded and I socked, But it minded not a whit, Its little mouth was locked, And I could not open it.

Tho' with pit, and with pat, And with this, and with that, I sang about it so cheerly, With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird, And ho but I love thee dearly!"

But when the day was done, And the room was at rest, And I sat all alone With my birdie in my breast,

And the light had fled, And not a sound was heard, Then my little bird Lifted up its head,

And the little mouth Loosed its sullen pride, And it opened, it opened, With a yearning strong and wide.

Swifter than I speak I brought it food once more, But the poor little beak Was locked as before.

I sat down again, And not a creature stirred; I laid the little bird Again where it had laid;

And again when nothing stirred, And not a word I said, Then my little bird Lifted up its head,

And the little beak Loosed its stubborn pride, And it opened, it opened, With a yearning strong and wide.

It lay in my breast, It uttered no cry, 'Twas famished,'twas famished, And I couldn't tell why.

I couldn't tell why, But I saw that it would die, For all that I kept dancing round and round, And singing about it so cheerly, With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird, And ho but I love thee dearly!"

I never look sad, I hear what people say, I laugh when they are gay And they think I am glad.

My tears never start, I never say a word, But I think that my heart Is like that little bird.

Every day I read, And I sing, and I play, But thro' the long day It taketh no heed.

It taketh no heed Of any pleasant thing, I know it doth not read, I know it doth not sing.

With my mouth I read, With my hands I play, My shut heart is shut, Coax it how you may.

You may coax it how you may While the day is broad and bright, But in the dead night When the guests are gone away,

And no more the music sweet Up the house doth pass, Nor the dancing feet Shake the nursery glass;

And I've heard my aunt Along the corridor, And my uncle gaunt Lock his chamber door;

And upon the stair All is hushed and still, And the last wheel Is silent in the square;

And the nurses snore, And the dim sheets rise and fall, And the lamplight's on the wall, And the mouse is on the floor;

And the curtains of my bed Are like a heavy cloud, And the clock ticks loud, And sounds are in my head;

And little Lizzie sleeps Softly at my side, It opens, it opens, With a yearning strong and wide!

It yearns in my breast, It utters no cry, 'Tis famished, 'tis famished, And I feel that I shall die, I feel that I shall die, And none will know why.

Tho' the pleasant life is dancing round and round, And singing about me so cheerly, With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird, And ho but I love thee dearly!"

SYDNEY DOBELL

52 THE FIRST GRIEF

"Oh! call my brother back to me, I cannot play alone; The summer comes with flower and bee-- Where is my brother gone?

"The butterfly is glancing bright Across the sunbeam's track; I care not now to chase its flight-- Oh! call my brother back.

"The flowers run wild--the flowers we sowed Around our garden tree; Our vine is drooping with its load-- Oh! call him back to me."

"He would not hear my voice, fair child! He may not come to thee; The face that once like spring-time smiled On earth no more thou'lt see.

"A rose's brief, bright life of joy, Such unto him was given; Go--thou must play alone, my boy-- Thy brother is in heaven!"

"And has he left the birds and flowers, And must I call in vain; And through the long, long summer hours, Will he not come again?

"And by the brook, and in the glade, Are all our wanderings o'er? Oh! while my brother with me played, Would I had loved him more!"

FELICIA HEMANS

53 THE POPLAR FIELD

The poplars are felled; farewell to the shade And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade; The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew; And now in the grass behold they are laid, And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat, And the scene where his melody charmed me before Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away, And I must ere long lie as lowly as they With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head, Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, To muse on the perishing pleasures of man; Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see, Have a being less durable even than he.

WILLIAM COWPER

54 FAREWELL

Not soon shall I forget--a sheet Of golden water, cold and sweet, The young moon with her head in veils Of silver, and the nightingales.

A wain of hay came up the lane-- O fields I shall not walk again, And trees I shall not see, so still Against a sky of daffodil!

Fields where my happy heart had rest, And where my heart was heaviest, I shall remember them at peace Drenched in moon-silver like a fleece.

The golden water sweet and cold, The moon of silver and of gold, The dew upon the gray grass-spears, I shall remember them with tears.

KATHARINE TYNAN

55 "YE BANKS AND BRAES O' BONNIE DOON"

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care?

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause Luve was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon To see the woodbine twine, And ilka[48] bird sang o' its love; And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Frae aff its thorny tree; And my fause luver staw[49] the rose, But left the thorn wi' me.

ROBERT BURNS

56 TO A RIVER IN THE SOUTH

Call me no more, O gentle stream, To wander through thy sunny dream, No more to lean at twilight cool Above thy weir and glimmering pool.

Surely I know thy hoary dawns, The silver crisp on all thy lawns, The softly swirling undersong That rocks thy reeds the winter long.

Surely I know the joys that ring Through the green deeps of leafy spring; I know the elfin cups and domes That are their small and secret homes.

Yet is the light for ever lost That daily once thy meadows crossed, The voice no more by thee is heard That matched the song of stream and bird.

Call me no more!--thy waters roll Here, in the world that is my soul, And here, though Earth be drowned in night, Old love shall dwell with old delight.

HENRY NEWBOLT

57 THE DESERTED HOUSE

There's no smoke in the chimney, And the rain beats on the floor; There's no glass in the window, There's no wood in the door; The heather grows behind the house, And the sand lies before.

No hand hath trained the ivy, The walls are gray and bare; The boats upon the sea sail by, Nor ever tarry there. No beast of the field comes nigh, Nor any bird of the air.

MARY COLERIDGE

58 AN OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADS

O, to have a little house! To own the hearth and stool and all! The heaped-up sods upon the fire, The pile of turf against the wall!

To have a clock with weights and chains And pendulum swinging up and down! A dresser filled with shining delph, Speckled and white and blue and brown!

I could be busy all the day Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor, And fixing on their shelf again My white and blue and speckled store!

I could be quiet there at night Beside the fire and by myself, Sure of a bed, and loth to leave The ticking clock and the shining delph!

Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark, And roads where there's never a house or bush, And tired I am of bog and road And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!

And I am praying to God on high, And I am praying Him night and day, For a little house--a house of my own-- Out of the wind's and the rain's way.

PADRAIC COLUM

~59~ A DESERTED HOME

Here where the fields lie lonely and untended, Once stood the old house grey among the trees, Once to the hills rolled the waves of the cornland-- Long waves and golden, softer than the sea's.

Long, long ago has the ploughshare rusted, Long has the barn stood roofless and forlorn; But oh! far away are some who still remember The songs of the young girls binding up the corn.

Here where the windows shone across the darkness, Here where the stars once watched above the fold, Still watch the stars, but the sheepfold is empty; Falls now the rain where the hearth glowed of old.

Here where the leagues of melancholy lough-sedge Moan in the wind round the grey forsaken shore, Once waved the corn in the mid-month of autumn, Once sped the dance when the corn was on the floor.

SIDNEY ROYSE LYSAGHT

60 UNDER THE WOODS

When these old woods were young The thrushes' ancestors As sweetly sung In the old years.

There was no garden here, Apples nor mistletoe; No children dear Ran to and fro.

New then was this thatched cot, But the keeper was old, And he had not Much lead or gold.

Most silent beech and yew: As he went round about The woods to view Seldom he shot.

But now that he is gone Out of most memories, Still lingers on, A stoat of his,

But one, shrivelled and green, And with no scent at all, And barely seen On this shed wall.

EDWARD THOMAS

61 "BLOWS THE WIND TO-DAY"

Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying, Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now, Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying, My heart remembers how!

Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places, Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor, Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races, And winds, austere and pure:

Be it granted me to behold you again in dying, Hills of home! and to hear again the call; Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying, And hear no more at all.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

62 THE TWA BROTHERS

There were twa brethren in the north, They went[50] to the school thegither; The one unto the other said, "Will you try a warsle[51] afore?"

They warsled up, they warsled down, Till Sir John fell to the ground, And there was a knife in Sir Willie's pouch, Gied him a deadlie wound.

"O brither dear, take me on your back, Carry me to yon burn clear, And wash the blood from off my wound, And it will bleed nae mair."

He took him up upon his back, Carried him to yon burn clear, And washd the blood from off his wound, And aye it bled the mair.

"O brither dear, take me on your back, Carry me to yon kirk-yard, And dig a grave baith wide and deep, And lay my body there."

He's taen him up upon his back, Carried him to yon kirk-yard, And dug a grave baith deep and wide, And laid his body there.

"But what will I say to my father dear, Gin[52] he chance to say, Willie, whar's John?" "Oh say that he's to England gone, To buy him a cask of wine."

"And what will I say to my mother dear, Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar's John?" "Oh say that he's to England gone, To buy her a new silk gown."

"And what will I say to my sister dear, Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar's John?" "Oh say that he's to England gone, To buy her a wedding ring."

"But what will I say to her you lo'e dear, Gin she cry, Why tarries my John?" "Oh tell her I lie in Kirk-land fair, And home shall never come."

63 THE DEAD KNIGHT

The cleanly rush of the mountain air, And the mumbling, grumbling humble-bees, Are the only things that wander there, The pitiful bones are laid at ease, The grass has grown in his tangled hair, And a rambling bramble binds his knees.

To shrieve his soul from the pangs of hell, The only requiem-bells that rang Were the hare-bell and the heather-bell. Hushed he is with the holy spell In the gentle hymn the wind sang, And he lies quiet, and sleeps well.

He is bleached and blanched with the summer sun; The misty rain and the cold dew Have altered him from the kingly one (That his lady loved, and his men knew) And dwindled him to a skeleton.

The vetches have twined about his bones, The straggling ivy twists and creeps In his eye-sockets; the nettle keeps Vigil about him while he sleeps.

Over his body the wind moans With a dreary tune throughout the day, In a chorus wistful, eerie, thin As the gull's cry--as the cry in the bay, The mournful word the seas say When tides are wandering out or in.

JOHN MASEFIELD

64 SHEATH AND KNIFE

One king's daughter said to anither, Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair, "We'll gae ride like sister and brither," And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.

"We'll ride doun into yonder valley, Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair, Whare the greene green trees are budding sae gaily. And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.

"Wi hawke and hounde we will hunt sae rarely, Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair, And we'll come back in the morning early." And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.

They rade on like sister and brither, Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair, And they hunted and hawket in the valley thegether. And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.

"Now, lady, hauld my horse and my hawk, Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair, For I maun na[53] ride, and I daur na[54] walk, And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair."

"But set me doun be the rute o' this tree, Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair, For there ha'e I dreamt that my bed sall be." And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.

The ae king's daughter did lift doun the ither, Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair, She was licht in her armis like ony fether. And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.

Bonnie Lady Ann sat doun be the tree, Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair, And a wide grave was houkit[55] whare nane suld be. And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.

The hawk had nae lure, and the horse had nae master, Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair, And the faithless hounds thro' the woods ran faster. And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.

The one king's daughter has ridden awa', Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair, But bonnie Lady Ann lay in the deed-thraw.[56] And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.

65 I HAVE A YOUNG SISTER

I have a yong suster I have a young sister fer beyondyn the se; Far beyond the sea; Many be the drowryis Many are the keepsakes that che sente me. That she's sent me.

Che sente me the cherye, She sent me a cherry-- withoutyn ony ston, It hadn't any stone; And so che dede (the) dowe, And so she did a wood dove withoutyn ony bon. Withouten any bone.

Sche sente me the brere, She sent me a briar withoutyn ony rynde, Withouten any rind; Sche bad me love my lemman She bade me love my sweetheart withoute longgyng. Without longing in my mind.

How shuld ony cherye How should any cherry be withoute ston? Be without a stone? And how shuld ony dowe And how should any wood dove ben withoute bon? Be without a bone?

How shuld any brere How should any briar, ben withoute rynde? Be without rind? How shuld I love my lemman And how love a sweetheart without longyng? Without longing in my mind?

Quan the cherye was a flour, When the cherry was a flower than hadde it non ston; Then it had no stone; Quan the dowe was an ey, When the wood-dove was an egg than hadde it non bon. Then it had no bone.

Quan the brere was onbred, When the briar was unbred than hadde it non rynd; Then it had no rind; Quan the mayden hayt that che lovit, And when a maid hath that she loves, che is without longing. She longs not in her mind.

66 ANNABEL LEE

It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love-- I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsman came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me-- Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.

EDGAR ALLAN POE

67 THE SHELL

And then I pressed the shell Close to my ear And listened well, And straightway like a bell Came low and clear The slow, sad murmur of far distant seas, Whipped by an icy breeze Upon a shore Wind-swept and desolate. It was a sunless strand that never bore The footprint of a man, Nor felt the weight Since time began Of any human quality or stir Save what the dreary winds and waves incur. And in the hush of waters was the sound Of pebbles rolling round, For ever rolling with a hollow sound. And bubbling sea-weeds as the waters go Swish to and fro Their long, cold tentacles of slimy grey. There was no day, Nor ever came a night Setting the stars alight To wonder at the moon: Was twilight only and the frightened croon, Smitten to whimpers, of the dreary wind And waves that journeyed blind-- And then I loosed my ear--oh, it was sweet To hear a cart go jolting down the street!

JAMES STEPHENS

FEASTS : FAIRS :

BEGGARS : GIPSIES :

68 LONDON BRIDGE

London Bridge is broken down, Dance o'er my Lady Lee, London Bridge is broken down, With a gay lady.

How shall we build it up again? Dance o'er my Lady Lee, How shall we build it up again? With a gay lady.

Silver and gold will be stole away, Dance o'er my Lady Lee, Silver and gold will be stole away, With a gay lady.

Build it up with iron and steel, Dance o'er my Lady Lee, Build it up with iron and steel, With a gay lady.

Iron and steel will bend and bow, Dance o'er my Lady Lee, Iron and steel will bend and bow, With a gay lady.

Build it up with wood and clay, Dance o'er my Lady Lee, Build it up with wood and clay, With a gay lady.

Wood and clay will wash away, Dance o'er my Lady Lee, Wood and clay will wash away, With a gay lady.

Build it up with stone so strong, Dance o'er my Lady Lee, Huzza! 'twill last for ages long, With a gay lady.

69 HOLY THURSDAY

'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, Came children walking two and two, in red and blue and green, Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames' waters flow.

O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town! Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own. The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.

Now, like a mighty wind they raise to Heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of Heaven among. Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor; Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

WILLIAM BLAKE

70 THE MAYORS

This city and this country has brought forth many mayors To sit in state, and give forth laws out of their old oak chairs, With face as brown as any nut with drinking of strong ale-- Good English hospitality, O then it did not fail!

With scarlet gowns and broad gold lace, would make a yeoman sweat; With stockings rolled above their knees and shoes as black as jet; With eating beef and drinking beer, O they were stout and hale-- Good English hospitality, O then it did not fail!

Thus sitting at the table wide the Mayor and Aldermen Were fit to give law to the city; each ate as much as ten: The hungry poor entered the hall to eat good beef and ale-- Good English hospitality, O then it did not fail!

WILLIAM BLAKE

71 THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN

I'll sing you a good old song, Made by a good old pate, Of a fine old English gentleman Who had an old estate, And who kept up his old mansion At a bountiful old rate; With a good old porter to relieve The old poor at his gate, Like a fine old English gentleman All of the olden time.

His hall so old was hung around With pikes and guns and bows, And swords, and good old bucklers, That had stood some tough old blows; 'Twas there his worship held his state In doublet and trunk hose, And quaffed his cup of good old sack, To warm his good old nose, Like a fine old English gentleman All of the olden time.

When winter's cold brought frost and snow, He opened house to all; And though threescore and ten his years, He featly led the ball; Nor was the houseless wanderer E'er driven from his hall; For while he feasted all the great, He ne'er forgot the small; Like a fine old English gentleman All of the olden time.

But time, though old, is strong in flight, And years rolled swiftly by; And Autumn's falling leaves proclaimed This good old man must die! He laid him down right tranquilly, Gave up life's latest sigh; And mournful stillness reigned around, And tears bedewed each eye, For this fine old English gentleman All of the olden time.

Now surely this is better far Than all the new parade Of theatres and fancy balls, "At home" and masquerade: And much more economical, For all his bills were paid. Then leave your new vagaries quite, And take up the old trade Of a fine old English gentleman, All of the olden time.

72 BRING US IN GOOD ALE

Bring us in good ale, and bring us in good ale; For y sour blessed Ladake bring us in good ale!

Bring us in no browne bred, for that is made of brane,[57] Nor bring us in no white bred, for therein is no gane, But bring us in good ale!

Bring us in no befe, for there is many bones, But bring us in good ale, for that goth downe at ones, And bring us in good ale!

Bring us in no bacon, for that is passing fat, But bring us in good ale, and gife us enought of that; And bring us in good ale!

Bring us in no mutton, for that is often lene, Nor bring us in no tripes, for they be seldom clene, But bring us in good ale!

Bring us in no egges, for there are many schelles, But bring us in good ale, and gife us nothing elles; And bring us in good ale!

Bring us in no butter, for therein are many hores,[58] Nor bring us in no pigges flesch, for that will make us bores, But bring us in good ale!

Bring us in no podinges, for therein is all Godes good,[59] Nor bring us in no venesen, for that is not for our blod; But bring us in good ale!

Bring us in no capons flesch, for that is oftė dere, Nor bring us in no dokes[60] flesch, for they slober in the mere, But bring us in good ale!

73 THE VISION OF MAC CONGLINNE

A vision that appeared to me, An apparition wonderful I tell to all: There was a coracle all of lard Within a Port of New-Milk Lake Upon the world's smooth sea.

We went into that man-of-war, 'Twas warrior-like to take the road O'er ocean's heaving waves. Our oar-strokes then we pulled Across the level of the main, Throwing the sea's harvest up Like honey, the sea-soil.

The fort we reached was beautiful, With works of custards thick, Beyond the lake. Fresh butter was the bridge in front, The rubble dyke was fair white wheat, Bacon the palisade.

Stately, pleasantly it sat, A compact house and strong. Then I went in: The door of it was hung beef, The threshold was dry bread, Cheese-curds the walls....

Behind it was a well of wine, Beer and bragget in streams, Each full pool to the taste. Malt in smooth wavy sea Over a lard-spring's brink Flowed through the floor....

A row of fragrant apple-trees, An orchard in its pink-tipped bloom, Between it and the hill. A forest tall of real leeks, Of onions and of carrots, stood Behind the house.

Within, a household generous, A welcome of red, firm-fed men, Around the fire: Seven bead-strings and necklets seven Of cheeses and of bits of tripe Round each man's neck.

The Chief in cloak of beefy fat Beside his noble wife and fair I then beheld. Below the lofty cauldron's spit Then the Dispenser I beheld, His fleshfork on his back.

74 STOOL-BALL

... Now milkmaids' pails are deckt with flowers, And men begin to drink in bowers, The mackarels come up in shoals, To fill the mouths of hungry souls; Sweet sillabubs, and lip-loved tansey, For William is prepared by Nancy. Much time is wasted now away, At pigeon-holes, and nine-pin play, Whilst hob-nail Dick, and simp'ring Frances, Trip it away in country dances; At stool-ball and at barley-break, Wherewith they harmless pastime make....

75 MILKING PAILS

Mary's gone a-milking, A rea, a ria, a roses, Mary's gone a-milking, Gentle sweet mother o' mine.

Take your pails and go after her, A rea, a ria, a roses, Take your pails and go after her, Gentle sweet daughter o' mine.

Buy me a pair of new milking pails, A rea, a ria, a roses, Buy me a pair of new milking pails, Gentle sweet mother o' mine.

Where's the money to come from, A rea, a ria, a roses, Where's the money to come from, Gentle sweet daughter o' mine?

Sell my father's feather bed, A rea, a ria, a roses, Sell my father's feather bed, Gentle sweet mother o' mine.

What's your father to sleep on, A rea, a ria, a roses, What's your father to sleep on, Gentle sweet daughter o' mine?

Put him in the truckle bed, A rea, a ria, a roses, Put him in the truckle bed, Gentle sweet mother o' mine.

What are the children to sleep on, A rea, a ria, a roses, What are the children to sleep on, Gentle sweet daughter o' mine?

Put them in the pig-sty, A rea, a ria, a roses, Put them in the pig-sty, Gentle sweet mother o' mine.

What are the pigs to lie in, A rea, a ria, a roses, What are the pigs to lie in, Gentle sweet daughter o' mine?

Put them in the washing-tubs, A rea, a ria, a roses, Put them in the washing-tubs, Gentle sweet mother o' mine.

What am I to wash in, A rea, a ria, a roses, What am I to wash in, Gentle sweet daughter o' mine?

Wash in the thimble, A rea, a ria, a roses, Wash in the thimble, Gentle sweet mother o' mine.

Thimble won't hold your father's shirt, A rea, a ria, a roses, Thimble won't hold your father's shirt, Gentle sweet daughter o' mine.

Wash in the river, A rea, a ria, a roses, Wash in the river, Gentle sweet mother o' mine.

Suppose the clothes should blow away, A rea, a ria, a roses, Suppose the clothes should blow away, Gentle sweet daughter o' mine?

Set a man to watch them, A rea, a ria, a roses, Set a man to watch them, Gentle sweet mother o' mine.

Suppose the man should go to sleep, A rea, a ria, a roses, Suppose the man should go to sleep, Gentle sweet daughter o' mine?

Take a boat and go after them, A rea, a ria, a roses, Take a boat and go after them, Gentle sweet mother o' mine.

Suppose the boat should be upset, A rea, a ria, a roses, Suppose the boat should be upset, Gentle sweet daughter o' mine?

Then that would be an end of you, A rea, a ria, a roses, Then that would be an end of you, Gentle sweet mother o' mine!

76 THE PEDLAR'S SONG

Lawne as white as driven Snow, Cypresse blacke as ere was Crow, Cloves as sweete as Damaske Roses, Maskes for faces, and for noses, Bugle-bracelet, Necke-lace Amber, Perfume for a Ladies Chamber: Golden Quoifes, and Stomachers For my Lads, to give their deers: Pins, and peaking-stickes of steele: What Maids lacke from head to heele: Come buy of me, come: come buy, come buy, Buy Lads, or else your Lasses cry: Come buy.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

77 FINE KNACKS FOR LADIES

Fine knacks for ladies! cheap, choice, brave, and new, Good pennyworths--but money cannot move: I keep a fair but for the Fair to view-- A beggar may be liberal of love. Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true, The heart is true.

Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again; My trifles come as treasures from my mind: It is a priceless jewel to be plain; Sometimes in shell the orient'st pearls we find:-- Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain! Of me a grain!...

78 OH! DEAR!

Oh! dear! what can the matter be? Dear! dear! what can the matter be? Oh! dear! what can the matter be? Johnny's so long at the fair.

He promised he'd buy me a fairing should please me, And then for a kiss, oh! he vowed he would tease me, He promised he'd bring me a bunch of blue ribbons To tie up my bonny brown hair.

And it's oh! dear! what can the matter be? Dear! dear! what can the matter be? Oh! dear! what can the matter be? Johnny's so long at the fair.

He promised he'd bring me a basket of posies, A garland of lilies, a garland of roses, A little straw hat, to set off the blue ribbons That tie up my bonny brown hair.

And it's oh! dear! what can the matter be? Dear! dear! what can the matter be? Oh! dear! what can the matter be? Johnny's so long at the fair.

79 SLEDBURN FAIR

I'd oft heard tell of this Sledburn fair, And fain I would gan thither, 'Twere in the prime of summer-time, In fine and pleasant weather; My Dad and Mam they did agree That Nell and I should gae See for to view this Sledburn fair, And ride on Dobbin, oh....

So Nell gat on and I gat on, And we both rode off together, And of everybody we did meet Enquired how far 'twas thither? Until we came to t'other field end, 'Twas about steeple high, "See yonder, Nell, see yonder, Nell, There's Sledburn town," cried I.

And when we reached this famous town We enquirèd for an alehouse, We lookèd up and saw a sign As high as any gallows; We called for Harry, the ostler, To give our horse some hay, For we had come to Sledburn Fair And meant to stop all day.

The landlord then himself came out And led us up an entry; He took us in the finest room As if we'd been quite gentry. And puddings and sauce they did so smell, Pies and roast beef so rare, "Oh, Zooks!" says Nell, "we've acted well In coming to Sledburn Fair."

80 WIDDECOMBE FAIR

"Tom Pearse, Tom Pearse, lend me your gray mare," All along, down along, out along, lee. "For I want for to go to Widdecombe Fair, Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all." Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

"And when shall I see again my gray mare?" All along, down along, out along, lee. "By Friday soon, or Saturday noon, Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all." Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

Then Friday came and Saturday noon, All along, down along, out along, lee. But Tom Pearse's old mare hath not trotted home, Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

So Tom Pearse he got up to the top o' the hill, All along, down along, out along, lee. And he seed his old mare down a-making her will, Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

So Tom Pearse's old mare her took sick and her died, All along, down along, out along, lee. And Tom he sat down on a stone, and he cried Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

But this isn't the end o' this shocking affair, All along, down along, out along, lee. Nor, though they be dead, of the horrid career Of Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

When the wind whistles cold on the moor of a night, All along, down along, out along, lee. Tom Pearse's old mare doth appear, gashly white, Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

And all the long night be heard skirling and groans, All along, down along, out along, lee. From Tom Pearse's old mare in her rattling bones, And from Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

81 GIPSIES

The snow falls deep; the forest lies alone; The boy goes hasty for his load of brakes,[61] Then thinks upon the fire and hurries back; The gipsy knocks his hands and tucks them up, And seeks his squalid camp, half hid in snow, Beneath the oak which breaks away the wind, And bushes close in snow-like hovel warm; There tainted mutton wastes upon the coals, And the half-wasted dog squats close and rubs, Then feels the heat too strong, and goes aloof; He watches well, but none a bit can spare, And vainly waits the morsel thrown away. Tis thus they live--a picture to the place, A quiet, pilfering, unprotected race.

JOHN CLARE

82 THE IDLERS

The gipsies lit their fires by the chalk-pit gate anew, And the hoppled horses supped in the further dusk and dew; The gnats flocked round the smoke like idlers as they were And through the goss and bushes the owls began to churr.

An ell above the woods the last of sunset glowed With a dusky gold that filled the pond beside the road; The cricketers had done, the leas all silent lay, And the carrier's clattering wheels went past and died away.

The gipsies lolled and gossiped, and ate their stolen swedes, Made merry with mouth-organs, worked toys with piths of reeds: The old wives puffed their pipes, nigh as black as their hair, And not one of them all seemed to know the name of care.

EDMUND BLUNDEN

83 THE WRAGGLE TAGGLE GIPSIES

There were three gipsies a-come to my door, And down-stairs ran this a-lady, O! One sang high, and another sang low, And the other sang, Bonny, bonny Biscay, O!

Then she pulled off her silk-finished gown And put on hose of leather, O! The ragged, ragged rags about our door-- She's gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!

It was late last night, when my lord came home, Enquiring for his a-lady, O! The servants said, on every hand: "She's gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"

"O saddle to me my milk-white steed. Go and fetch me my pony, O! That I may ride and seek my bride, Who is gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"

O he rode high and he rode low, He rode through woods and copses too, Until he came to an open field, And there he espied his a-lady, O!

"What makes you leave your house and land? What makes you leave your money, O? What makes you leave your new-wedded lord; To go with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O?"

"What care I for my house and my land? What care I for my money, O? What care I for my new-wedded lord? I'm off with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"

"Last night you slept on a goose-feather bed, With the sheet turned down so bravely, O! And to-night you'll sleep in a cold open field, Along with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"

"What care I for a goose-feather bed, With the sheet turned down so bravely, O? For to-night I shall sleep in a cold open field, Along with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"

84 WHERE DO THE GIPSIES COME FROM?

Where do the gipsies come from? The gipsies come from Egypt. The fiery sun begot them, Their dam was the desert dry. She lay there stripped and basking, And gave them suck for the asking, And an Emperor's bone to play with, Whenever she heard them cry.

What did the gipsies do there? They built a tomb for Pharaoh, They built a tomb for Pharaoh, So tall it touched the sky. They buried him deep inside it, Then let what would betide it, They saddled their lean-ribbed ponies And left him there to die.

What do the gipsies do now? They follow the Sun, their father, They follow the Sun, their father, They know not whither nor why. Whatever they find they take it, And if it's a law they break it. So never you talk to a gipsy, Or look in a gipsy's eye.

H. H. BASHFORD

85 BEGGARS

What noise of viols is so sweet As when our merry clappers ring? What mirth doth want when beggars meet? A beggar's life is for a king. Eat, drink, and play, sleep when we list, Go where we will--so stocks be missed. Bright shines the sun; play, beggars, play! Here's scraps enough to serve to-day.

The world is ours, and ours alone; For we alone have world at will. We purchase not--all is our own; Both fields and street we beggars fill. Bright shines the sun; play, beggars, play! Here's scraps enough to serve to-day.

FRANK DAVIDSON

86 "WEEP, WEEP, YE WOODMEN!"

Weep, weep, ye woodmen! wail; Your hands with sorrow wring! Your master Robin Hood lies dead, Therefore sigh as you sing.

Here lie his primer and his beads, His bent bow and his arrows keen, His good sword and his holy cross: Now cast on flowers fresh and green.

And, as they fall, shed tears and say Well, well-a-day! well, well-a-day! Thus cast ye flowers fresh, and sing, And on to Wakefield take your way.

ANTHONY MUNDAY

87 MY HANDSOME GILDEROY

Gilderoy was a bonnie boy, Had roses tull[62] his shoone, His stockings were of silken soy, Wi' garters hanging doune: It was, I weene, a comelie sight, To see sae trim a boy; He was my joy and heart's delight, My handsome Gilderoy.

Oh! sike twe[63] charming een he had, A breath as sweet as rose; He never ware a Highland plaid, But costly silken clothes. He gained the luve of ladies gay, Nane eir tull him was coy, Ah! wae is mee! I mourn the day, For my dear Gilderoy.

My Gilderoy and I were born Baith in one toun together; We scant[64] were seven years beforn We gan to luve each other; Our daddies and our mammies thay Were fill'd wi' mickle joy, To think upon the bridal day 'Twixt me and Gilderoy.

For Gilderoy, that luve of mine, Gude faith! I freely bought A wedding sark of Holland fine Wi' silken flowers wrought: And he gied me a wedding ring, Which I received with joy, Nae lad nor lassie eir could sing Like me and Gilderoy.

Wi' mickle joy we spent our prime, Till we were baith sixteen, And aft we past the langsome time Among the leaves sae green: Aft on the banks we'd sit us thair, And sweetly kiss and toy; Wi' garlands gay wad deck my hair My handsome Gilderoy.

Oh! that he still had been content Wi' me to lead his life; But, ah! his manfu' heart was bent To stir in feats of strife. And he in many a venturous deed His courage bauld wad try; And now this gars[65] mine heart to bleed For my dear Gilderoy.

And when of me his leave he tuik, The tears they wet mine ee; I gave tull him a parting luik, "My benison gang wi' thee! God speed thee weil, mine ain dear heart, For gane is all my joy; My heart is rent, sith we maun part, My handsome Gilderoy!"

My Gilderoy, baith far and near, Was feared in ev'ry toun, And bauldly bare away the gear Of many a lawland loun: Nane eir durst meet him man to man, He was sae brave a boy; At length wi' numbers he was tane, My winsome Gilderoy.

Wae worth the loun that made the laws, To hang a man for gear, To 'reave of life for ox or ass, For sheep, or horse, or mare: Had not their laws been made sae strick, I neir had lost my joy; Wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek For my dear Gilderoy.

Giff[66] Gilderoy had done amisse, He mought hae banisht been, Ah, what fair cruelty is this, To hang sike handsome men! To hang the flower o' Scottish land, Sae sweet and fair a boy; Nae lady had so white a hand As thee, my Gilderoy.

Of Gilderoy sae fraid they were, They bound him mickle strong, Tull Edenburrow they led him thair, And on a gallows hung: They hung him high aboon the rest, He was so trim a boy: Thair dyed the youth whom I lued best, My handsome Gilderoy.

Thus having yielded up his breath, I bare his corpse away; Wi' tears, that trickled for his death, I washt his comely clay; And siker[67] in a grave sae deep I laid the dear-lued boy, And now for evir maun I weep My winsome Gilderoy.

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