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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1418 ***
+
+COUNTRY SENTIMENT
+
+by Robert Graves
+
+
+To Nancy Nicholson
+
+Note:
+Some of the poems included in this volume have appeared in
+"The New Statesman", "The Owl", "Reveille", "Land and Water",
+"Poetry", and other papers, English and American.
+
+Robert Graves.
+
+Harlech,
+
+North Wales.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+     A Frosty Night
+     Song for Two Children
+     Dicky
+     The Three Drinkers
+     The Boy out of Church
+     After the Play
+     One Hard Look
+     True Johnny
+     The Voice of Beauty Drowned
+     The God Called Poetry
+     Rocky Acres
+     Advice to Lovers
+     Nebuchadnezzar's Fall
+     Give us Rain
+     Allie
+     Loving Henry
+     Brittle Bones
+     Apples and Water
+     Manticor in Arabia
+     Outlaws
+     Baloo Loo for Jenny
+     Hawk and Buckle
+     The "Alice Jean"
+     The Cupboard
+     The Beacon
+     Pot and Kettle
+     Ghost Raddled
+     Neglectful Edward
+     The Well-dressed Children
+     Thunder at Night
+     To E.M.--A Ballad of Nursery Rhyme
+     Jane
+     Vain and Careless
+     Nine o'Clock
+     The Picture Book
+     The Promised Lullaby
+
+     RETROSPECT
+
+     Haunted
+     Retrospect:  The Jests of the Clock
+     Here They Lie
+     Tom Taylor
+     Country at War
+     Sospan Fach
+     The Leveller
+     Hate not, Fear not
+     A Rhyme of Friends
+     A First Review
+
+
+
+
+A FROSTY NIGHT.
+
+        Mother
+
+     Alice, dear, what ails you,
+       Dazed and white and shaken?
+     Has the chill night numbed you?
+       Is it fright you have taken?
+
+        Alice
+
+
+     Mother, I am very well,
+       I felt never better,
+     Mother, do not hold me so,
+       Let me write my letter.
+
+        Mother
+
+     Sweet, my dear, what ails you?
+
+        Alice
+
+     No, but I am well;
+     The night was cold and frosty,
+     There's no more to tell.
+
+        Mother
+
+     Ay, the night was frosty,
+       Coldly gaped the moon,
+     Yet the birds seemed twittering
+       Through green boughs of June.
+
+     Soft and thick the snow lay,
+       Stars danced in the sky.
+     Not all the lambs of May-day
+       Skip so bold and high.
+
+     Your feet were dancing, Alice,
+       Seemed to dance on air,
+     You looked a ghost or angel
+       In the starlight there.
+
+     Your eyes were frosted starlight,
+     Your heart fire and snow.
+     Who was it said, "I love you"?
+
+        Alice
+
+       Mother, let me go!
+
+
+
+
+A SONG FOR TWO CHILDREN.
+
+     "Make a song, father, a new little song,
+        All for Jenny and Nancy."
+      Balow lalow or Hey derry down,
+        Or else what might you fancy?
+
+      Is there any song sweet enough
+        For Nancy and for Jenny?
+       Said Simple Simon to the pieman,
+        "Indeed I know not any."
+
+     "I've counted the miles to Babylon,
+        I've flown the earth like a bird,
+      I've ridden cock-horse to Banbury Cross,
+        But no such song have I heard."
+
+     "Some speak of Alexander,
+        And some of Hercules,
+      But where are there any like Nancy and Jenny,
+        Where are there any like these?"
+
+
+
+
+DICKY.
+
+        Mother
+
+     Oh, what a heavy sigh!
+       Dicky, are you ailing?
+
+        Dicky
+
+     Even by this fireside, mother,
+       My heart is failing.
+
+     To-night across the down,
+       Whistling and jolly,
+     I sauntered out from town
+       With my stick of holly.
+
+     Bounteous and cool from sea
+       The wind was blowing,
+     Cloud shadows under the moon
+       Coming and going.
+
+     I sang old roaring songs,
+       Ran and leaped quick,
+     And turned home by St. Swithin's
+       Twirling my stick.
+
+     And there as I was passing
+       The churchyard gate
+     An old man stopped me, "Dicky,
+       You're walking late."
+
+     I did not know the man,
+       I grew afeared
+     At his lean lolling jaw,
+       His spreading beard.
+
+     His garments old and musty,
+       Of antique cut,
+     His body very lean and bony,
+       His eyes tight shut.
+
+     Oh, even to tell it now
+       My courage ebbs...
+     His face was clay, mother,
+       His beard, cobwebs.
+
+     In that long horrid pause
+       "Good-night," he said,
+     Entered and clicked the gate,
+       "Each to his bed."
+
+        Mother
+
+     Do not sigh or fear, Dicky,
+       How is it right
+     To grudge the dead their ghostly dark
+       And wan moonlight?
+
+     We have the glorious sun,
+       Lamp and fireside.
+     Grudge not the dead their moonshine
+       When abroad they ride.
+
+
+
+
+THE THREE DRINKERS.
+
+     Blacksmith Green had three strong sons,
+       With bread and beef did fill 'em,
+     Now John and Ned are perished and dead,
+       But plenty remains of William.
+
+     John Green was a whiskey drinker,
+       The Land of Cakes supplied him,
+     Till at last his soul flew out by the hole
+       That the fierce drink burned inside him.
+
+     Ned Green was a water drinker,
+       And, Lord, how Ned would fuddle!
+     He rotted away his mortal clay
+       Like an old boot thrown in a puddle.
+
+     Will Green was a wise young drinker,
+       Shrank from whiskey or water,
+     But he made good cheer with headstrong beer,
+       And married an alderman's daughter.
+
+
+
+
+THE BOY OUT OF CHURCH.
+
+     As Jesus and his followers
+       Upon a Sabbath morn
+     Were walking by a wheat field
+       They plucked the ears of corn.
+
+     They plucked it, they rubbed it,
+       They blew the husks away,
+     Which grieved the pious pharisees
+       Upon the Sabbath day.
+
+     And Jesus said, "A riddle
+       Answer if you can,
+     Was man made for the Sabbath
+       Or Sabbath made for man?"
+
+     I do not love the Sabbath,
+       The soapsuds and the starch,
+     The troops of solemn people
+       Who to Salvation march.
+
+     I take my book, I take my stick
+       On the Sabbath day,
+     In woody nooks and valleys
+       I hide myself away.
+
+     To ponder there in quiet
+       God's Universal Plan,
+     Resolved that church and Sabbath
+       Were never made for man.
+
+
+
+
+AFTER THE PLAY.
+
+        Father
+
+     Have you spent the money I gave you to-day?
+
+        John
+
+       Ay, father I have.
+     A fourpence on cakes, two pennies that away
+       To a beggar I gave.
+
+        Father
+
+     The lake of yellow brimstone boil for you in Hell,
+       Such lies that you spin.
+     Tell the truth now, John, ere the falsehood swell,
+       Say, where have you been?
+
+        John
+
+     I'll lie no more to you, father, what is the need?
+       To the Play I went,
+     With sixpence for a near seat, money's worth indeed,
+       The best ever spent.
+
+     Grief to you, shame or grief, here is the story--
+       My splendid night!
+     It was colour, scents, music, a tragic glory,
+       Fear with delight.
+
+     Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, title of the tale:
+       He of that name,
+     A tall, glum fellow, velvet cloaked, with a shirt of mail,
+       Two eyes like flame.
+
+     All the furies of fate circled round the man,
+       Maddening his heart,
+     There was old murder done before play began,
+       Ay, the ghost took part.
+
+     There were grave-diggers delving, they brought up bones,
+       And with rage and grief
+     All the players shouted in full, kingly tones,
+       Grand, passing belief.
+
+     Oh, there were ladies there radiant like day,
+       And changing scenes:
+     Great sounding words were tossed about like hay
+       By kings and queens.
+
+     How the plot turned about I watched in vain,
+       Though for grief I cried,
+     As one and all they faded, poisoned or slain,
+       In great agony died.
+
+     Father, you'll drive me forth never to return,
+       Doubting me your son--
+
+        Father
+
+     So I shall, John
+
+        John
+
+     --but that glory for which I burn
+       Shall be soon begun.
+
+     I shall wear great boots, shall strut and shout,
+       Keep my locks curled.
+     The fame of my name shall go ringing about
+       Over half the world.
+
+        Father
+
+     Horror that your Prince found, John may you find,
+       Ever and again
+     Dying before the house in such torture of mind
+       As you need not feign.
+
+     While they clap and stamp at your nightly fate,
+       They shall never know
+     The curse that drags at you, until Hell's gate.
+       You have heard me.  Go!
+
+
+
+
+SONG:  ONE HARD LOOK.
+
+     Small gnats that fly
+     In hot July
+     And lodge in sleeping ears,
+     Can rouse therein
+     A trumpet's din
+     With Day-of-Judgement fears.
+
+     Small mice at night
+     Can wake more fright
+     Than lions at midday.
+     An urchin small
+     Torments us all
+     Who tread his prickly way.
+
+     A straw will crack
+     The camel's back,
+     To die we need but sip,
+     So little sand
+     As fills the hand
+     Can stop a steaming ship.
+
+     One smile relieves
+     A heart that grieves
+     Though deadly sad it be,
+     And one hard look
+     Can close the book
+     That lovers love to see--
+
+
+
+
+TRUE JOHNNY.
+
+     Johnny, sweetheart, can you be true
+     To all those famous vows you've made,
+     Will you love me as I love you
+     Until we both in earth are laid?
+     Or shall the old wives nod and say
+     His love was only for a day:
+       The mood goes by,
+       His fancies fly,
+     And Mary's left to sigh.
+
+     Mary, alas, you've hit the truth,
+     And I with grief can but admit
+     Hot-blooded haste controls my youth,
+     My idle fancies veer and flit
+     From flower to flower, from tree to tree,
+     And when the moment catches me,
+       Oh, love goes by
+       Away I fly
+     And leave my girl to sigh.
+
+     Could you but now foretell the day,
+     Johnny, when this sad thing must be,
+     When light and gay you'll turn away
+     And laugh and break the heart in me?
+     For like a nut for true love's sake
+     My empty heart shall crack and break,
+       When fancies fly
+       And love goes by
+     And Mary's left to die.
+
+     When the sun turns against the clock,
+     When Avon waters upward flow,
+     When eggs are laid by barn-door cock,
+     When dusty hens do strut and crow,
+     When up is down, when left is right,
+     Oh, then I'll break the troth I plight,
+       With careless eye
+       Away I'll fly
+     And Mary here shall die.
+
+
+
+
+THE VOICE OF BEAUTY DROWNED.
+
+     Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!
+     The other birds woke all around,
+     Rising with toot and howl they stirred
+     Their plumage, broke the trembling sound,
+     They craned their necks, they fluttered wings,
+     "While we are silent no one sings,
+     And while we sing you hush your throat,
+     Or tune your melody to our note."
+
+     Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!
+     The screams and hootings rose again:
+     They gaped with raucous beaks, they whirred
+     Their noisy plumage; small but plain
+     The lonely hidden singer made
+     A well of grief within the glade.
+     "Whist, silly fool, be off," they shout,
+     "Or we'll come pluck your feathers out."
+
+     Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!
+     Slight and small the lovely cry
+     Came trickling down, but no one heard.
+     Parrot and cuckoo, crow, magpie
+     Jarred horrid notes and the jangling jay
+     Ripped the fine threads of song away,
+     For why should peeping chick aspire
+     To challenge their loud woodland choir?
+
+     Cried it so sweet that unseen bird?
+     Lovelier could no music be,
+     Clearer than water, soft as curd,
+     Fresh as the blossomed cherry tree.
+     How sang the others all around?
+     Piercing and harsh, a maddening sound,
+     With Pretty Poll, tuwit-tu-woo,
+     Peewit, caw caw, cuckoo-cuckoo.
+
+
+
+
+THE GOD CALLED POETRY.
+
+     Now I begin to know at last,
+     These nights when I sit down to rhyme,
+     The form and measure of that vast
+     God we call Poetry, he who stoops
+     And leaps me through his paper hoops
+     A little higher every time.
+
+     Tempts me to think I'll grow a proper
+     Singing cricket or grass-hopper
+     Making prodigious jumps in air
+     While shaken crowds about me stare
+     Aghast, and I sing, growing bolder
+     To fly up on my master's shoulder
+     Rustling the thick strands of his hair.
+
+     He is older than the seas,
+     Older than the plains and hills,
+     And older than the light that spills
+     From the sun's hot wheel on these.
+     He wakes the gale that tears your trees,
+     He sings to you from window sills.
+
+     At you he roars, or he will coo,
+     He shouts and screams when hell is hot,
+     Riding on the shell and shot.
+     He smites you down, he succours you,
+     And where you seek him, he is not.
+
+     To-day I see he has two heads
+     Like Janus--calm, benignant, this;
+     That, grim and scowling:  his beard spreads
+     From chin to chin"  this god has power
+     Immeasurable at every hour:
+     He first taught lovers how to kiss,
+     He brings down sunshine after shower,
+     Thunder and hate are his also,
+     He is YES and he is NO.
+
+     The black beard spoke and said to me,
+     "Human frailty though you be,
+     Yet shout and crack your whip, be harsh!
+     They'll obey you in the end:
+     Hill and field, river and marsh
+     Shall obey you, hop and skip
+     At the terrour of your whip,
+     To your gales of anger bend."
+
+     The pale beard spoke and said in turn
+     "True:  a prize goes to the stern,
+     But sing and laugh and easily run
+     Through the wide airs of my plain,
+     Bathe in my waters, drink my sun,
+     And draw my creatures with soft song;
+     They shall follow you along
+     Graciously with no doubt or pain."
+
+     Then speaking from his double head
+     The glorious fearful monster said
+     "I am YES and I am NO,
+     Black as pitch and white as snow,
+     Love me, hate me, reconcile
+     Hate with love, perfect with vile,
+     So equal justice shall be done
+     And life shared between moon and sun.
+     Nature for you shall curse or smile:
+     A poet you shall be, my son."
+
+
+
+
+ROCKY ACRES.
+
+     This is a wild land, country of my choice,
+       With harsh craggy mountain, moor ample and bare.
+     Seldom in these acres is heard any voice
+       But voice of cold water that runs here and there
+       Through rocks and lank heather growing without care.
+     No mice in the heath run nor no birds cry
+     For fear of the dark speck that floats in the sky.
+
+     He soars and he hovers rocking on his wings,
+       He scans his wide parish with a sharp eye,
+     He catches the trembling of small hidden things,
+       He tears them in pieces, dropping from the sky:
+       Tenderness and pity the land will deny,
+     Where life is but nourished from water and rock
+     A hardy adventure, full of fear and shock.
+
+     Time has never journeyed to this lost land,
+       Crakeberries and heather bloom out of date,
+     The rocks jut, the streams flow singing on either hand,
+       Careless if the season be early or late.
+       The skies wander overhead, now blue, now slate:
+     Winter would be known by his cold cutting snow
+     If June did not borrow his armour also.
+
+     Yet this is my country be loved by me best,
+       The first land that rose from Chaos and the Flood,
+     Nursing no fat valleys for comfort and rest,
+       Trampled by no hard hooves, stained with no blood.
+       Bold immortal country whose hill tops have stood
+     Strongholds for the proud gods when on earth they go,
+     Terror for fat burghers in far plains below.
+
+
+
+
+ADVICE TO LOVERS.
+
+     I knew an old man at a Fair
+     Who made it his twice-yearly task
+     To clamber on a cider cask
+     And cry to all the yokels there:--
+
+     "Lovers to-day and for all time
+      Preserve the meaning of my rhyme:
+      Love is not kindly nor yet grim
+      But does to you as you to him.
+
+     "Whistle, and Love will come to you,
+      Hiss, and he fades without a word,
+      Do wrong, and he great wrong will do,
+      Speak, he retells what he has heard.
+
+     "Then all you lovers have good heed
+      Vex not young Love in word or deed:
+      Love never leaves an unpaid debt,
+      He will not pardon nor forget."
+
+     The old man's voice was sweet yet loud
+     And this shows what a man was he,
+     He'd scatter apples to the crowd
+     And give great draughts of cider, free.
+
+
+
+
+NEBUCHADNEZZAR'S FALL.
+
+     Frowning over the riddle that Daniel told,
+     Down through the mist hung garden, below a feeble sun,
+     The King of Persia walked:  oh, the chilling cold!
+     His mind was webbed with a grey shroud vapour-spun.
+
+     Here for the pride of his soaring eagle heart,
+     Here for his great hand searching the skies for food,
+     Here for his courtship of Heaven's high stars he shall smart,
+     Nebuchadnezzar shall fall, crawl, be subdued.
+
+     Hot sun struck through the vapour, leaf strewn mould
+     Breathed sweet decay:  old Earth called for her child.
+     Mist drew off from his mind, Sun scattered gold,
+     Warmth came and earthy motives fresh and wild.
+
+     Down on his knees he sinks, the stiff-necked King,
+     Stoops and kneels and grovels, chin to the mud.
+     Out from his changed heart flutter on startled wing
+     The fancy birds of his Pride, Honour, Kinglihood.
+
+     He crawls, he grunts, he is beast-like, frogs and snails
+     His diet, and grass, and water with hand for cup.
+     He herds with brutes that have hooves and horns and tails,
+     He roars in his anger, he scratches, he looks not up.
+
+
+
+GIVE US RAIN.
+
+     "Give us Rain, Rain," said the bean and the pea,
+       "Not so much Sun,
+       Not so much Sun."
+     But the Sun smiles bravely and encouragingly,
+     And no rain falls and no waters run.
+
+     "Give us Peace, Peace," said the peoples oppressed,
+       "Not so many Flags,
+       Not so many Flags."
+     But the Flags fly and the Drums beat, denying rest,
+     And the children starve, they shiver in rags.
+
+
+
+
+ALLIE.
+
+     Allie, call the birds in,
+       The birds from the sky.
+     Allie calls, Allie sings,
+       Down they all fly.
+     First there came
+     Two white doves
+       Then a sparrow from his nest,
+     Then a clucking bantam hen,
+       Then a robin red-breast.
+
+     Allie, call the beasts in,
+       The beasts, every one.
+     Allie calls, Allie sings,
+       In they all run.
+     First there came
+     Two black lambs,
+       Then a grunting Berkshire sow,
+     Then a dog without a tail,
+       Then a red and white cow.
+
+     Allie, call the fish up,
+       The fish from the stream.
+     Allie calls, Allie sings,
+       Up they all swim.
+     First there came
+     Two gold fish,
+       A minnow and a miller's thumb,
+     Then a pair of loving trout,
+       Then the twisted eels come.
+
+     Allie, call the children,
+       Children from the green.
+     Allie calls, Allie sings,
+       Soon they run in.
+     First there came
+     Tom and Madge,
+       Kate and I who'll not forget
+     How we played by the water's edge
+       Till the April sun set.
+
+
+
+
+LOVING HENRY.
+
+     Henry, Henry, do you love me?
+     Do I love you, Mary?
+     Oh, can you mean to liken me
+     To the aspen tree.
+     Whose leaves do shake and vary,
+     From white to green
+     And back again,
+     Shifting and contrary?
+
+     Henry, Henry, do you love me,
+     Do you love me truly?
+     Oh, Mary, must I say again
+     My love's a pain,
+     A torment most unruly?
+     It tosses me
+     Like a ship at sea
+     When the storm rages fully.
+
+     Henry, Henry, why do you love me?
+     Mary, dear, have pity!
+     I swear, of all the girls there are
+     Both near and far,
+     In country or in city,
+     There's none like you,
+     So kind, so true,
+     So wise, so brave, so pretty.
+
+
+
+
+BRITTLE BONES.
+
+     Though I am an old man
+       With my bones very brittle,
+     Though I am a poor old man
+       Worth very little,
+     Yet I suck at my long pipe
+       At peace in the sun,
+     I do not fret nor much regret
+       That my work is done.
+
+     If I were a young man
+       With my bones full of marrow,
+     Oh, if I were a bold young man
+       Straight as an arrow,
+     And if I had the same years
+       To live once again,
+     I would not change their simple range
+       Of laughter and pain.
+
+     If I were a young man
+       And young was my Lily,
+     A smart girl, a bold young man,
+       Both of us silly.
+     And though from time before I knew
+       She'd stab me with pain,
+     Though well I knew she'd not be true,
+       I'd love her again.
+
+     If I were a young man
+       With a brisk, healthy body,
+     Oh, if I were a bold young man
+       With love of rum toddy,
+     Though I knew that I was spiting
+       My old age with pain,
+     My happy lip would touch and sip
+       Again and again.
+
+     If I were a young man
+       With my bones full of marrow,
+     Oh, if I were a bold young man
+       Straight as an arrow,
+     I'd store up no virtue
+       For Heaven's distant plain,
+     I'd live at ease as I did please
+       And sin once again.
+
+
+
+
+APPLES AND WATER.
+
+     Dust in a cloud, blinding weather,
+       Drums that rattle and roar!
+     A mother and daughter stood together
+       Beside their cottage door.
+
+     "Mother, the heavens are bright like brass,
+       The dust is shaken high,
+     With labouring breath the soldiers pass,
+       Their lips are cracked and dry."
+
+     "Mother, I'll throw them apples down,
+       I'll bring them pails of water."
+     The mother turned with an angry frown
+       Holding back her daughter.
+
+     "But mother, see, they faint with thirst,
+       They march away to die,"
+     "Ah, sweet, had I but known at first
+       Their throats are always dry."
+
+     "There is no water can supply them
+       In western streams that flow,
+     There is no fruit can satisfy them
+       On orchard trees that grow."
+
+     "Once in my youth I gave, poor fool,
+       A soldier apples and water,
+     So may I die before you cool
+       Your father's drouth, my daughter."
+
+
+
+
+MANTICOR IN ARABIA.
+
+     (The manticors of the montaines
+     Mighte feed them on thy braines.--Skelton.)
+
+     Thick and scented daisies spread
+     Where with surface dull like lead
+     Arabian pools of slime invite
+     Manticors down from neighbouring height
+     To dip heads, to cool fiery blood
+     In oozy depths of sucking mud.
+     Sing then of ringstraked manticor,
+     Man-visaged tiger who of yore
+     Held whole Arabian waste in fee
+     With raging pride from sea to sea,
+     That every lesser tribe would fly
+     Those armed feet, that hooded eye;
+     Till preying on himself at last
+     Manticor dwindled, sank, was passed
+     By gryphon flocks he did disdain.
+     Ay, wyverns and rude dragons reign
+     In ancient keep of manticor
+     Agreed old foe can rise no more.
+     Only here from lakes of slime
+     Drinks manticor and bides due time:
+     Six times Fowl Phoenix in yon tree
+     Must mount his pyre and burn and be
+     Renewed again, till in such hour
+     As seventh Phoenix flames to power
+     And lifts young feathers, overnice
+     From scented pool of steamy spice
+     Shall manticor his sway restore
+     And rule Arabian plains once more.
+
+
+
+
+OUTLAWS.
+
+     Owls:  they whinney down the night,
+       Bats go zigzag by.
+     Ambushed in shadow out of sight
+       The outlaws lie.
+
+     Old gods, shrunk to shadows, there
+       In the wet woods they lurk,
+     Greedy of human stuff to snare
+       In webs of murk.
+
+     Look up, else your eye must drown
+       In a moving sea of black
+     Between the tree-tops, upside down
+       Goes the sky-track.
+
+     Look up, else your feet will stray
+       Towards that dim ambuscade,
+     Where spider-like they catch their prey
+       In nets of shade.
+
+     For though creeds whirl away in dust,
+       Faith fails and men forget,
+     These aged gods of fright and lust
+       Cling to life yet.
+
+     Old gods almost dead, malign,
+       Starved of their ancient dues,
+     Incense and fruit, fire, blood and wine
+       And an unclean muse.
+
+     Banished to woods and a sickly moon,
+       Shrunk to mere bogey things,
+     Who spoke with thunder once at noon
+       To prostrate kings.
+
+     With thunder from an open sky
+       To peasant, tyrant, priest,
+     Bowing in fear with a dazzled eye
+       Towards the East.
+
+     Proud gods, humbled, sunk so low,
+       Living with ghosts and ghouls,
+     And ghosts of ghosts and last year's snow
+       And dead toadstools.
+
+
+
+
+BALOO LOO FOR JENNY.
+
+     Sing baloo loo for Jenny
+       And where is she gone?
+     Away to spy her mother's land,
+       Riding all alone.
+
+     To the rich towns of Scotland,
+       The woods and the streams,
+     High upon a Spanish horse
+       Saddled for her dreams.
+
+     By Oxford and by Chester,
+       To Berwick-on-the-Tweed,
+     Then once across the borderland
+       She shall find no need.
+
+     A loaf for her at Stirling,
+       A scone at Carlisle,
+     Honeyed cakes at Edinbro'--
+       That shall make her smile.
+
+     At Aberdeen clear cider,
+       Mead for her at Nairn,
+     A cup of wine at John o' Groats--
+       That shall please my bairn.
+
+     Sing baloo loo for Jenny,
+       Mother will be fain
+     To see her little truant child
+       Riding home again.
+
+
+
+
+HAWK AND BUCKLE.
+
+     Where is the landlord of old Hawk and Buckle,
+     And what of Master Straddler this hot summer weather?
+     He's along in the tap-room with broad cheeks a-chuckle,
+     And ten bold companions all drinking together.
+
+     Where is the daughter of old Hawk and Buckle,
+     And what of Mistress Jenny this hot summer weather?
+     She sits in the parlour with smell of honeysuckle,
+     Trimming her bonnet with red ostrich feather.
+
+     Where is the ostler of old Hawk and Buckle,
+     And what of Willy Jakeman this hot summer weather?
+     He is rubbing his eyes with a slow and lazy knuckle
+     As he wakes from his nap on a bank of fresh heather.
+
+     Where is the page boy of old Hawk and Buckle,
+     And what of our young Charlie this hot summer weather?
+     He is bobbing for tiddlers in a little trickle-truckle,
+     With his line and his hook and his breeches of leather.
+
+     Where is the grey goat of old Hawk and Buckle,
+     And what of pretty Nanny this hot summer weather?
+     She stays not contented with little or with muckle,
+     Straining for daisies at the end of her tether.
+
+     For this is our motto at old Hawk and Buckle,
+     We cling to it close and we sing all together,
+     "Every man for himself at our old Hawk and Buckle,
+     And devil take the hindmost this hot summer weather."
+
+
+
+
+THE "ALICE JEAN".
+
+     One moonlit night a ship drove in,
+       A ghost ship from the west,
+     Drifting with bare mast and lone tiller,
+       Like a mermaid drest
+     In long green weed and barnacles:
+       She beached and came to rest.
+
+     All the watchers of the coast
+       Flocked to view the sight,
+     Men and women streaming down
+       Through the summer night,
+     Found her standing tall and ragged
+       Beached in the moonlight.
+
+     Then one old woman looked and wept
+       "The 'Alice Jean'?  But no!
+     The ship that took my Dick from me
+       Sixty years ago
+     Drifted back from the utmost west
+       With the ocean's flow?
+
+     "Caught and caged in the weedy pool
+       Beyond the western brink,
+     Where crewless vessels lie and rot
+       in waters black as ink.
+     Torn out again by a sudden storm
+       Is it the 'Jean', you think?"
+
+     A hundred women stared agape,
+       The menfolk nudged and laughed,
+     But none could find a likelier story
+       For the strange craft.
+     With fear and death and desolation
+       Rigged fore and aft.
+
+     The blind ship came forgotten home
+       To all but one of these
+     Of whom none dared to climb aboard her:
+       And by and by the breeze
+     Sprang to a storm and the "Alice Jean"
+       Foundered in frothy seas.
+
+
+
+
+THE CUPBOARD.
+
+        Mother
+
+     What's in that cupboard, Mary?
+
+        Mary
+
+     Which cupboard, mother dear?
+
+        Mother
+
+     The cupboard of red mahogany
+       With handles shining clear.
+
+        Mary
+
+     That cupboard, dearest mother,
+       With shining crystal handles?
+     There's nought inside but rags and jags
+       And yellow tallow candles.
+
+        Mother
+
+     What's in that cupboard, Mary?
+
+        Mary
+
+     Which cupboard, mother mine?
+
+        Mother
+
+     That cupboard stands in your sunny chamber,
+       The silver corners shine.
+
+        Mary
+
+     There's nothing there inside, mother,
+       But wool and thread and flax,
+     And bits of faded silk and velvet,
+       And candles of white wax.
+
+        Mother
+
+     What's in that cupboard, Mary?
+       And this time tell me true.
+
+        Mary
+
+     White clothes for an unborn baby, mother,
+       But what's the truth to you?
+
+
+
+
+THE BEACON.
+
+     The silent shepherdess,
+       She of my vows,
+     Here with me exchanging love
+       Under dim boughs.
+
+     Shines on our mysteries
+       A sudden spark--
+     "Dout the candle, glow-worm,
+       Let all be dark.
+
+     "The birds have sung their last notes,
+       The Sun's to bed,
+     Glow-worm, dout your candle."
+       The glow-worm said:
+
+     "I also am a lover;
+       The lamp I display
+     Is beacon for my true love
+       Wandering astray.
+
+     "Through the thick bushes
+       And the grass comes she
+     With a heartload of longing
+       And love for me.
+
+     "Sir, enjoy your fancy,
+       But spare me harm,
+     A lover is a lover,
+       Though but a worm."
+
+
+
+
+POT AND KETTLE.
+
+     Come close to me, dear Annie, while I bind a lover's knot.
+     A tale of burning love between a kettle and a pot.
+     The pot was stalwart iron and the kettle trusty tin,
+     And though their sides were black with smoke they bubbled love within.
+
+     Forget that kettle, Jamie, and that pot of boiling broth,
+     I know a dismal story of a candle and a moth.
+     For while your pot is boiling and while your kettle sings
+     My moth makes love to candle flame and burns away his wings.
+
+     Your moth, I envy, Annie, that died by candle flame,
+     But here are two more lovers, unto no damage came.
+     There was a cuckoo loved a clock and found her always true.
+     For every hour they told their hearts, "Ring! ting!  Cuckoo!  Cuckoo!"
+
+     As the pot boiled for the kettle, as the kettle for the pot,
+     So boils my love within me till my breast is glowing hot.
+     As the moth died for the candle, so could I die for you.
+     And my fond heart beats time with yours and cries, "Cuckoo!  Cuckoo!"
+
+
+
+
+GHOST RADDLED.
+
+     "Come, surly fellow, come!  A song!"
+       What, madmen?  Sing to you?
+     Choose from the clouded tales of wrong
+       And terror I bring to you.
+
+     Of a night so torn with cries,
+       Honest men sleeping
+     Start awake with glaring eyes,
+       Bone-chilled, flesh creeping.
+
+     Of spirits in the web hung room
+       Up above the stable,
+     Groans, knockings in the gloom,
+       The dancing table.
+
+     Of demons in the dry well
+       That cheep and mutter,
+     Clanging of an unseen bell,
+       Blood choking the gutter.
+
+     Of lust frightful, past belief,
+       Lurking unforgotten,
+     Unrestrainable endless grief
+       From breasts long rotten.
+
+     A song?  What laughter or what song
+       Can this house remember?
+     Do flowers and butterflies belong
+       To a blind December?
+
+
+
+
+NEGLECTFUL EDWARD.
+
+        Nancy
+
+     "Edward back from the Indian Sea,
+     What have you brought for Nancy?"
+
+        Edward
+
+     "A rope of pearls and a gold earring,
+     And a bird of the East that will not sing.
+     A carven tooth, a box with a key--"
+
+        Nancy
+
+     "God be praised you are back," says she,
+     "Have you nothing more for your Nancy?"
+
+        Edward
+
+     "Long as I sailed the Indian Sea
+     I gathered all for your fancy:
+     Toys and silk and jewels I bring,
+     And a bird of the East that will not sing:
+     What more can you want, dear girl, from me?"
+
+        Nancy
+
+     "God be praised you are back," said she,
+     "Have you nothing better for Nancy?"
+
+        Edward
+
+     "Safe and home from the Indian Sea,
+     And nothing to take your fancy?"
+
+
+        Nancy
+
+     "You can keep your pearls and your gold earring,
+     And your bird of the East that will not sing,
+     But, Ned, have you nothing more for me
+     Than heathenish gew-gaw toys?" says she,
+     "Have you nothing better for Nancy?"
+
+
+
+
+THE WELL-DRESSED CHILDREN.
+
+     Here's flowery taffeta for Mary's new gown:
+       Here's black velvet, all the rage, for Dick's birthday coat.
+     Pearly buttons for you, Mary, all the way down,
+       Lace ruffles, Dick, for you; you'll be a man of note.
+
+     Mary, here I've bought you a green gingham shade
+       And a silk purse brocaded with roses gold and blue,
+     You'll learn to hold them proudly like colours on parade.
+       No banker's wife in all the town half so grand as you.
+
+     I've bought for young Diccon a long walking-stick,
+       Yellow gloves, well tanned, at Woodstock village made.
+     I'll teach you to flourish 'em and show your name is DICK,
+       Strutting by your sister's side with the same parade.
+
+     On Sunday to church you go, each with a book of prayer:
+       Then up the street and down the aisles, everywhere you'll see
+     Of all the honours paid around, how small is Virtue's share.
+       How large the share of Vulgar Pride in peacock finery.
+
+
+
+
+THUNDER AT NIGHT.
+
+     Restless and hot two children lay
+       Plagued with uneasy dreams,
+     Each wandered lonely through false day
+       A twilight torn with screams.
+
+     True to the bed-time story, Ben
+       Pursued his wounded bear,
+     Ann dreamed of chattering monkey men,
+       Of snakes twined in her hair...
+
+     Now high aloft above the town
+       The thick clouds gather and break,
+     A flash, a roar, and rain drives down:
+       Aghast the young things wake.
+
+     Trembling for what their terror was,
+       Surprised by instant doom,
+     With lightning in the looking glass,
+       Thunder that rocks the room.
+
+     The monkeys' paws patter again,
+       Snakes hiss and flash their eyes:
+     The bear roars out in hideous pain:
+       Ann prays:  her brother cries.
+
+     They cannot guess, could not be told
+       How soon comes careless day,
+     With birds and dandelion gold,
+       Wet grass, cool scents of May.
+
+
+
+
+TO E.M.--A BALLAD OF NURSERY RHYME.
+
+     Strawberries that in gardens grow
+       Are plump and juicy fine,
+     But sweeter far as wise men know
+       Spring from the woodland vine.
+
+     No need for bowl or silver spoon,
+       Sugar or spice or cream,
+     Has the wild berry plucked in June
+       Beside the trickling stream.
+
+     One such to melt at the tongue's root,
+       Confounding taste with scent,
+     Beats a full peck of garden fruit:
+       Which points my argument.
+
+     May sudden justice overtake
+       And snap the froward pen,
+     That old and palsied poets shake
+       Against the minds of men.
+
+     Blasphemers trusting to hold caught
+       In far-flung webs of ink,
+     The utmost ends of human thought
+       Till nothing's left to think.
+
+     But may the gift of heavenly peace
+       And glory for all time
+     Keep the boy Tom who tending geese
+       First made the nursery rhyme.
+
+     By the brookside one August day,
+       Using the sun for clock,
+     Tom whiled the languid hours away
+       Beside his scattering flock.
+
+     Carving with a sharp pointed stone
+       On a broad slab of slate
+     The famous lives of Jumping Joan,
+       Dan Fox and Greedy Kate.
+
+     Rhyming of wolves and bears and birds,
+       Spain, Scotland, Babylon,
+     That sister Kate might learn the words
+       To tell to toddling John.
+
+     But Kate who could not stay content
+       To learn her lesson pat
+     New beauty to the rough lines lent
+       By changing this or that.
+
+     And she herself set fresh things down
+       In corners of her slate,
+     Of lambs and lanes and London town.
+       God's blessing fall on Kate!
+
+     The baby loved the simple sound,
+       With jolly glee he shook,
+     And soon the lines grew smooth and round
+       Like pebbles in Tom's brook.
+
+     From mouth to mouth told and retold
+       By children sprawled at ease,
+     Before the fire in winter's cold,
+       in June, beneath tall trees.
+
+     Till though long lost are stone and slate,
+       Though the brook no more runs,
+     And dead long time are Tom, John, Kate,
+       Their sons and their sons' sons.
+
+     Yet as when Time with stealthy tread
+       Lays the rich garden waste
+     The woodland berry ripe and red
+       Fails not in scent or taste,
+
+     So these same rhymes shall still be told
+       To children yet unborn,
+     While false philosophy growing old
+       Fades and is killed by scorn.
+
+
+
+
+JANE.
+
+     As Jane walked out below the hill,
+     She saw an old man standing still,
+     His eyes in tranced sorrow bound
+     On the broad stretch of barren ground.
+
+     His limbs were knarled like aged trees,
+     His thin beard wrapt about his knees,
+     His visage broad and parchment white,
+     Aglint with pale reflected light.
+
+     He seemed a creature fall'n afar
+     From some dim planet or faint star.
+     Jane scanned him very close, and soon
+     Cried, "'Tis the old man from the moon."
+
+     He raised his voice, a grating creak,
+     But only to himself would speak.
+     Groaning with tears in piteous pain,
+     "O! O! would I were home again."
+
+     Then Jane ran off, quick as she could,
+     To cheer his heart with drink and food.
+     But ah, too late came ale and bread,
+     She found the poor soul stretched stone-dead.
+     And a new moon rode overhead.
+
+
+
+
+VAIN AND CARELESS.
+
+     Lady, lovely lady,
+       Careless and gay!
+     Once when a beggar called
+       She gave her child away.
+
+     The beggar took the baby,
+       Wrapped it in a shawl,
+     "Bring her back," the lady said,
+       "Next time you call."
+
+     Hard by lived a vain man,
+       So vain and so proud,
+     He walked on stilts
+       To be seen by the crowd.
+
+     Up above the chimney pots,
+       Tall as a mast,
+     And all the people ran about
+       Shouting till he passed.
+
+     "A splendid match surely,"
+       Neighbours saw it plain,
+     "Although she is so careless,
+       Although he is so vain."
+
+     But the lady played bobcherry,
+       Did not see or care,
+     As the vain man went by her
+       Aloft in the air.
+
+     This gentle-born couple
+       Lived and died apart.
+     Water will not mix with oil,
+       Nor vain with careless heart.
+
+
+
+
+NINE O'CLOCK.
+
+        I.
+
+     Nine of the clock, oh!
+       Wake my lazy head!
+     Your shoes of red morocco,
+       Your silk bed-gown:
+     Rouse, rouse, speck-eyed Mary
+       In your high bed!
+     A yawn, a smile, sleepy-starey,
+       Mary climbs down.
+     "Good-morning to my brothers,
+       Good-day to the Sun,
+     Halloo, halloo to the lily-white sheep
+       That up the mountain run."
+
+        II.
+
+     Good-night to the meadow, farewell to the nine o'clock Sun,
+     "He loves me not, loves me, he loves me not" (O jealous one!)
+     "He loves me, he loves me not, loves me"--O soft nights of June,
+     A bird sang for love on the cherry-bough:  up swam the Moon.
+
+
+
+
+THE PICTURE BOOK.
+
+     When I was not quite five years old
+       I first saw the blue picture book,
+     And Fraulein Spitzenburger told
+     Stories that sent me hot and cold;
+       I loathed it, yet I had to look:
+       It was a German book.
+
+     I smiled at first, for she'd begun
+       With a back-garden broad and green,
+     And rabbits nibbling there:  page one
+     Turned; and the gardener fired his gun
+       From the low hedge:  he lay unseen
+       Behind:  oh, it was mean!
+
+     They're hurt, they can't escape, and so
+       He stuffs them head-down in a sack,
+     Not quite dead, wriggling in a row,
+     And Fraulein laughed, "Ho, ho!  Ho, ho!"
+       And gave my middle a hard smack,
+       I wish that I'd hit back.
+
+     Then when I cried she laughed again;
+       On the next page was a dead boy
+     Murdered by robbers in a lane;
+     His clothes were red with a big stain
+       Of blood, he held a broken toy,
+       The poor, poor little boy!
+
+     I had to look:  there was a town
+       Burning where every one got caught,
+     Then a fish pulled a nigger down
+     Into the lake and made him drown,
+       And a man killed his friend; they fought
+       For money, Fraulein thought.
+
+     Old Fraulein laughed, a horrid noise.
+       "Ho, ho!"  Then she explained it all
+     How robbers kill the little boys
+     And torture them and break their toys.
+       Robbers are always big and tall:
+       I cried:  I was so small.
+
+     How a man often kills his wife,
+       How every one dies in the end
+     By fire, or water or a knife.
+     If you're not careful in this life,
+       Even if you can trust your friend,
+       You won't have long to spend.
+
+     I hated it--old Fraulein picked
+       Her teeth, slowly explaining it.
+     I had to listen, Fraulein licked
+     Her fingers several times and flicked
+       The pages over; in a fit
+       Of rage I spat at it...
+
+     And lying in my bed that night
+       Hungry, tired out with sobs, I found
+     A stretch of barren years in sight,
+     Where right is wrong, but strength is right,
+       Where weak things must creep underground,
+       And I could not sleep sound.
+
+
+
+
+THE PROMISED LULLABY.
+
+     Can I find True-Love a gift
+       In this dark hour to restore her,
+     When body's vessel breaks adrift,
+       When hope and beauty fade before her?
+     But in this plight I cannot think
+       Of song or music, that would grieve her,
+     Or toys or meat or snow-cooled drink;
+       Not this way can her sadness leave her.
+       She lies and frets in childish fever,
+     All I can do is but to cry
+     "Sleep, sleep, True-Love and lullaby!"
+
+     Lullaby, and sleep again.
+       Two bright eyes through the window stare,
+     A nose is flattened on the pane
+       And infant fingers fumble there.
+     "Not yet, not yet, you lovely thing,
+       But count and come nine weeks from now,
+     When winter's tail has lost the sting,
+       When buds come striking through the bough,
+       Then here's True-Love will show you how
+     Her name she won, will hush your cry
+     With "Sleep, my baby!  Lullaby!"
+
+
+
+
+RETROSPECT
+
+
+     HAUNTED.
+
+     Gulp down your wine, old friends of mine,
+     Roar through the darkness, stamp and sing
+     And lay ghost hands on everything,
+     But leave the noonday's warm sunshine
+     To living lads for mirth and wine.
+
+     I met you suddenly down the street,
+     Strangers assume your phantom faces,
+     You grin at me from daylight places,
+     Dead, long dead, I'm ashamed to greet
+     Dead men down the morning street.
+
+
+
+
+RETROSPECT:  THE JESTS OF THE CLOCK.
+
+     He had met hours of the clock he never guessed  before--
+     Dumb, dragging, mirthless hours confused with dreams and fear,
+     Bone-chilling, hungry hours when the gods sleep and snore,
+     Bequeathing earth and heaven to ghosts, and will not hear,
+     And will not hear man groan chained to the sodden ground,
+     Rotting alive; in feather beds they slumbered sound.
+
+     When noisome smells of day were sicklied by cold night,
+     When sentries froze and muttered; when beyond the wire
+     Blank shadows crawled and tumbled, shaking, tricking the sight,
+     When impotent hatred of Life stifled desire,
+     Then soared the sudden rocket, broke in blanching showers.
+     O lagging watch!  O dawn!  O hope-forsaken hours!
+
+     How often with numbed heart, stale lips, venting his rage
+     He swore he'd be a dolt, a traitor, a damned fool,
+     If, when the guns stopped, ever again from youth to age
+     He broke the early-rising, early-sleeping rule.
+     No, though more bestial enemies roused a fouler war
+     Never again would he bear this, no never more!
+
+     "Rise with the cheerful sun, go to bed with the same,
+     Work in your field or kailyard all the shining day,
+     But," he said, "never more in quest of wealth, honour, fame,
+     Search the small hours of night before the East goes grey.
+     A healthy mind, a honest heart, a wise man leaves
+     Those ugly impious times to ghosts, devils, soldiers, thieves."
+
+     Poor fool, knowing too well deep in his heart
+     That he'll be ready again if urgent orders come,
+     To quit his rye and cabbages, kiss his wife and part
+     At the first sullen rapping of the awakened drum,
+     Ready once more to sweat with fear and brace for the shock,
+     To greet beneath a falling flare the jests of the clock.
+
+
+
+
+HERE THEY LIE.
+
+     Here they lie who once learned here
+       All that is taught of hurt or fear;
+     Dead, but by free will they died:
+       They were true men, they had pride.
+
+
+
+
+TOM TAYLOR.
+
+     On pay-day nights, neck-full with beer,
+     Old soldiers stumbling homeward here,
+     Homeward (still dazzled by the spark
+     Love kindled in some alley dark)
+     Young soldiers mooning in slow thought,
+     Start suddenly, turn about, are caught
+     By a dancing sound, merry as a grig,
+     Tom Taylor's piccolo playing jig.
+     Never was blown from human cheeks
+     Music like this, that calls and speaks
+     Till sots and lovers from one string
+     Dangle and dance in the same ring.
+     Tom, of your piping I've heard said
+     And seen--that you can rouse the dead,
+     Dead-drunken men awash who lie
+     In stinking gutters hear your cry,
+     I've seen them twitch, draw breath, grope, sigh,
+     Heave up, sway, stand; grotesquely then
+     You set them dancing, these dead men.
+     They stamp and prance with sobbing breath,
+     Victims of wine or love or death,
+     In ragged time they jump, they shake
+     Their heads, sweating to overtake
+     The impetuous tune flying ahead.
+     They flounder after, with legs of lead.
+     Now, suddenly as it started, play
+     Stops, the short echo dies away,
+     The corpses drop, a senseless heap,
+     The drunk men gaze about like sheep.
+     Grinning, the lovers sigh and stare
+     Up at the broad moon hanging there,
+     While Tom, five fingers to his nose,
+     Skips off...And the last bugle blows.
+
+
+
+
+COUNTRY AT WAR.
+
+     And what of home--how goes it, boys,
+     While we die here in stench and noise?
+     "The hill stands up and hedges wind
+     Over the crest and drop behind;
+     Here swallows dip and wild things go
+     On peaceful errands to and fro
+     Across the sloping meadow floor,
+     And make no guess at blasting war.
+     In woods that fledge the round hill-shoulder
+     Leaves shoot and open, fall and moulder,
+     And shoot again.  Meadows yet show
+     Alternate white of drifted snow
+     And daisies.  Children play at shop,
+     Warm days, on the flat boulder-top,
+     With wildflower coinage, and the wares
+     Are bits of glass and unripe pears.
+     Crows perch upon the backs of sheep,
+     The wheat goes yellow:  women reap,
+     Autumn winds ruffle brook and pond,
+     Flutter the hedge and fly beyond.
+     So the first things of nature run,
+     And stand not still for any one,
+     Contemptuous of the distant cry
+     Wherewith you harrow earth and sky.
+     And high French clouds, praying to be
+     Back, back in peace beyond the sea,
+     Where nature with accustomed round
+     Sweeps and garnishes the ground
+     With kindly beauty, warm or cold--
+     Alternate seasons never old:
+     Heathen, how furiously you rage,
+     Cursing this blood and brimstone age,
+     How furiously against your will
+     You kill and kill again, and kill:
+     All thought of peace behind you cast,
+     Till like small boys with fear aghast,
+     Each cries for God to understand,
+     'I could not help it, it was my hand.'"
+
+
+
+
+SOSPAN FACH.
+     (The Little Saucepan)
+
+     Four collier lads from Ebbw Vale
+     Took shelter from a shower of hail,
+     And there beneath a spreading tree
+     Attuned their mouths to harmony.
+
+     With smiling joy on every face
+     Two warbled tenor, two sang bass,
+     And while the leaves above them hissed with
+     Rough hail, they started "Aberystwyth."
+
+     Old Parry's hymn, triumphant, rich,
+     They changed through with even pitch,
+     Till at the end of their grand noise
+     I called:  "Give us the 'Sospan' boys!"
+
+     Who knows a tune so soft, so strong,
+     So pitiful as that "Saucepan" song
+     For exiled hope, despaired desire
+     Of lost souls for their cottage fire?
+
+     Then low at first with gathering sound
+     Rose their four voices, smooth and round,
+     Till back went Time:  once more I stood
+     With Fusiliers in Mametz Wood.
+
+     Fierce burned the sun, yet cheeks were pale,
+     For ice hail they had leaden hail;
+     In that fine forest, green and big,
+     There stayed unbroken not one twig.
+
+     They sang, they swore, they plunged in haste,
+     Stumbling and shouting through the waste;
+     The little "Saucepan" flamed on high,
+     Emblem of hope and ease gone by.
+
+     Rough pit-boys from the coaly South,
+     They sang, even in the cannon's mouth;
+     Like Sunday's chapel, Monday's inn,
+     The death-trap sounded with their din.
+
+     ***
+
+     The storm blows over, Sun comes out,
+     The choir breaks up with jest and shout,
+     With what relief I watch them part--
+     Another note would break my heart!
+
+
+
+
+THE LEVELLER.
+
+     Near Martinpuisch that night of hell
+     Two men were struck by the same shell,
+     Together tumbling in one heap
+     Senseless and limp like slaughtered sheep.
+
+     One was a pale eighteen-year-old,
+     Girlish and thin and not too bold,
+     Pressed for the war ten years too soon,
+     The shame and pity of his platoon.
+
+     The other came from far-off lands
+     With bristling chin and whiskered hands,
+     He had known death and hell before
+     In Mexico and Ecuador.
+
+     Yet in his death this cut-throat wild
+     Groaned "Mother!  Mother!" like a child,
+     While that poor innocent in man's clothes
+     Died cursing God with brutal oaths.
+
+     Old Sergeant Smith, kindest of men,
+     Wrote out two copies there and then
+     Of his accustomed funeral speech
+     To cheer the womenfolk of each.
+
+
+
+
+HATE NOT, FEAR NOT.
+
+     Kill if you must, but never hate:
+       Man is but grass and hate is blight,
+     The sun will scorch you soon or late,
+       Die wholesome then, since you must fight.
+
+     Hate is a fear, and fear is rot
+       That cankers root and fruit alike,
+     Fight cleanly then, hate not, fear not,
+       Strike with no madness when you strike.
+
+     Fever and fear distract the world,
+       But calm be you though madmen shout,
+     Through blazing fires of battle hurled,
+       Hate not, strike, fear not, stare Death out!
+
+
+
+
+A RHYME OF FRIENDS.
+     (In a Style Skeltonical)
+
+     Listen now this time
+     Shortly to my rhyme
+     That herewith starts
+     About certain kind hearts
+     In those stricken parts
+     That lie behind Calais,
+     Old crones and aged men
+     And young children.
+     About the Picardais,
+     Who earned my thousand thanks,
+     Dwellers by the banks
+     Of mournful Somme
+     (God keep me therefrom
+     Until War ends)--
+     These, then, are my friends:
+     Madame Averlant Lune,
+     From the town of Bethune;
+     Good Professeur la Brune
+     From that town also.
+     He played the piccolo,
+     And left his locks to grow.
+     Dear Madame Hojdes,
+     Sempstress of Saint Fe.
+     With Jules and Susette
+     And Antoinette.
+     Her children, my sweethearts,
+     For whom I made darts
+     Of paper to throw
+     In their mimic show,
+     "La guerre aux tranchees."
+     That was a pretty play.
+
+       There was old Jacques Caron,
+     Of the hamlet Mailleton.
+     He let me look
+     At his household book,
+     "Comment vivre cent ans."
+     What cares I took
+     To obey this wise book,
+     I, who feared each hour
+     Lest Death's cruel power
+     On the poppied plain
+     Might make cares vain!
+
+       By Noeus-les-mines
+     Lived old Adelphine,
+     Withered and clean,
+     She nodded and smiled,
+     And used me like a child.
+     How that old trot beguiled
+     My leisure with her chatter,
+     Gave me a china platter
+     Painted with Cherubim
+     And mottoes on the rim.
+     But when instead of thanks
+     I gave her francs
+     How her pride was hurt!
+     She counted francs as dirt,
+     (God knows, she was not rich)
+     She called the Kaiser bitch,
+     She spat on the floor,
+     Cursing this Prussian war,
+     That she had known before
+     Forty years past and more.
+
+       There was also "Tomi,"
+     With looks sweet and free,
+     Who called me cher ami.
+     This orphan's age was nine,
+     His folk were in their graves,
+     Else they were slaves
+     Behind the German line
+     To terror and rapine--
+     O, little friends of mine
+     How kind and brave you were,
+     You smoothed away care
+     When life was hard to bear.
+     And you, old women and men,
+     Who gave me billets then,
+     How patient and great-hearted!
+     Strangers though we started,
+     Yet friends we ever parted.
+     God bless you all:  now ends
+     This homage to my friends.
+
+
+
+
+A FIRST REVIEW.
+
+     Love, Fear and Hate and Childish Toys
+       Are here discreetly blent;
+     Admire, you ladies, read, you boys,
+       My Country Sentiment.
+
+     But Kate says, "Cut that anger and fear,
+       True love's the stuff we need!
+     With laughing children and the running deer
+       That makes a book indeed."
+
+     Then Tom, a hard and bloody chap,
+       Though much beloved by me,
+     "Robert, have done with nursery pap,
+       Write like a man," says he.
+
+     Hate and Fear are not wanted here,
+       Nor Toys nor Country Lovers,
+     Everything they took from my new poem book
+       But the flyleaf and the covers.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Country Sentiment, by Robert Graves
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1418 ***