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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Cornish Catches, by Bernard Moore
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Cornish Catches
+       and Other Verses
+
+Author: Bernard Moore
+
+Release Date: January 13, 2012 [EBook #38565]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CORNISH CATCHES ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Chris Curnow, Stephanie McKee and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
+file was produced from images generously made available
+by The Internet Archive)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+    CORNISH CATCHES
+
+
+
+
+AUTHOR'S NOTE.
+
+
+The Author begs to thank the Editors of the following papers for their
+courtesy in allowing him to reprint some of the poems in this book:--The
+_Academy_, _Country Life_, _Fry's Magazine_, the _Grand Magazine_, the
+_Sphere_, _T.P's Magazine_, the _Vineyard_, the _Windsor Magazine_, the
+_Western Morning News_, and the _Westminster Gazette_.
+
+
+_Hutton, Advertiser Press, Ormskirk._
+
+
+
+
+    CORNISH CATCHES
+
+    AND OTHER VERSES
+
+    BY
+
+    BERNARD MOORE
+
+    [Illustration]
+
+    LONDON
+
+    ERSKINE MACDONALD
+
+    1914
+
+
+
+
+TO MY MOTHER.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+    PAGE
+
+    Well, there 'tis                    9
+
+    Gardens                            10
+
+    Grocery                            12
+
+    Eddication                         14
+
+    Jenny                              16
+
+    In the Kittereen                   17
+
+    Maids                              18
+
+    Cap'n John                         19
+
+    Dolly Pentreath                    20
+
+    Sunday                             22
+
+    Granfer's Proverbs                 24
+
+    Seining Song                       25
+
+    How be'ee, me deear?               26
+
+    What have'ee catched?              27
+
+    A Mevagissey Haul                  28
+
+    Dicky                              30
+
+    The Old Fisherman's Lament         31
+
+    A Looe Lay                         32
+
+    On the Kay                         33
+
+    Riches                             34
+
+    A Fireside Spell                   35
+
+    Cornish Comfort                    36
+
+    I mind me                          37
+
+    Sure 'nuff                         38
+
+    The Garment of Time                40
+
+    In a Garden                        41
+
+    Sorrow's Courage                   42
+
+    A Choosing                         43
+
+    Star Signs                         44
+
+    The Old Knight's Song              45
+
+    Fealty                             47
+
+    Treasure Trove                     48
+
+    Roses and Rue                      49
+
+    Definitions                        50
+
+    Blue Sky                           51
+
+    Shadows                            52
+
+    When I was a Lad                   53
+
+    A Call                             55
+
+    The Return                         56
+
+    In the Bay                         58
+
+    Sea Foam                           59
+
+    Echoes                             60
+
+    A Ballade of Cornwall              61
+
+    The Fisherman's Prayer             63
+
+
+
+
+WELL, THERE 'TIS
+
+
+    Well, there 'tis. You wakes up cryin' an' callin',
+      You'm cold an' hungered, an' skeered o' the turble dark;
+    It feels most like a gert black cloud's a fallin'
+      To crunch you to nothin', an' leave you smuttered an' stark.
+    But a kind hand comes when the gert black clouds would drownd you,
+      An' a warm breast holds you tight to cuddle an' kiss,
+    An' you know that the world o' Love be all around you.
+                Well! there 'tis.
+
+    Then you grows a bit, and you finds a mort o' pleasure
+      In the rush o' the waves an' the roarin' wind in the sky;
+    An' you plays your games at Pirates seekin' treasure,
+      Or Penny-come-quick when the Breton Boys go by.
+    An' you don't much trouble at difrent kinds o' weather,
+      If 'tis sunny 'tis sunny, but rain won't make you miss
+    The chance to trample away thro' the moorland heather;
+                Well! there 'tis.
+
+    But you keeps on growin', an' then you begin in a fashion
+      To want some things you'd never a thought on before;
+    An' you sees some eyes be blue, an' you gets a passion
+      For jest a very perticlar cottage door.
+    An' you don't feel tired at the end o' the day o' toilin'
+      So long as it ends with the sound an' song of a kiss,
+    So long as it ends with arms round you coilin';
+                Well! there 'tis.
+
+    Then you grows old, an' at last you falls on sleepin'.
+      Do you count you'll be all alone in the turble dark?
+    Do you think you'll be left to the sound o' wailin' an' weepin'
+      Lonely an' cold in the cloam, unmothered an' stark?
+    When you was a baby, helpless an' cryin' an' callin'
+      Didn' the kind arms take, an' the warm lips kiss?
+    An' won't there be Arms at last, to save you from fallin'?
+                Well! there 'tis.
+
+
+
+
+GARDENS
+
+
+    Passun he've a garden, 'tis trim an' nate an' vitty,
+      He'm mortal proud o' growin' things that's turble hard to grow;
+    He'm mighty fond of orchises an' mazed for pellygomiuns,
+      An' calls 'em all furrin' names us don't belong to know.
+
+    Squire, he have a garden, a gert an' gorjus garden,
+      With hollyhocks a standin' like soljers in the sun;
+    He likes tremenjus peonies, an' roses crowdin' arches,
+      An' thinks as what the passun grows the whishtest sort o' fun.
+
+    Feyther have a garden, but don't run much to flowers,
+      For he've to think o' tatties, an' useful sort o' things;
+    His cabbages be famous, an' his collyflowers a wonder,
+      An' you should see the runners when they'm scarlet on the strings!
+
+    But I've a finer garden than the squire or the passun;
+      'Tis all along the hedgerows, an' all about the lanes;
+    It stretches up the hillside an' spreads acrost the moorland,
+      'Tis sweet with Cornish sunshine an' green with Cornish rains.
+
+    There's scent of honeysuckle shakin' sweet along the sunshine,
+      An' ragged robins sprinklin' scarlet stars among the grass,
+    An' foxgloves, with a peal o' bells a swingin' in the steeple,
+      A ringin' fairy music to the breezes as they pass.
+
+    An' where the lanes climb up along, an' break upon the moorland,
+      The heather weaves a carpet all acrost the purple hills;
+    An' gorse gleams in the sunshine like a thousand burnin' bushes,
+      An' birds shout happy answers to the ripplin' o' the rills.
+
+    So squire may keep his garden, an' his gardeners a diggin',
+      An' passun's clanely welcome to the flowers he counts so fine,
+    (I won't say nort o' feyther's, for his tatties be so mealy),
+      But the bestest of all gardens is the garden that is mine.
+
+
+
+
+GROCERY
+
+
+    John Pengelly be a clever man,
+      An' he keeps a grocery store;
+    He've got a seat on the Burryin' Board,
+      An' a sow as turns three score;
+    On Sunday night he holds the plate
+      An' on Thursday shuts at four.
+
+    He talks to Passon on clover crops,
+      An' Farmer Hain on Sin;
+    An' keeps the Parish Register,
+      An' a dog that isn' thin;
+    An' wears a watch-chain on his chest,
+      An' a Moses beard on his chin.
+
+    He allays takes the rhubarb prize
+      At the Flower Show every year;
+    An' if 'ee mind to order it
+      He'll get 'ee Bottled Beer;
+    (Though some as don't agree with that)
+      Besides it's rather dear.
+
+    Two different kinds of lard he sells,
+      But awnly one of tay;
+    An' he've a yaller oilskin coat
+      He hopes to sell some day,
+    But the awnly man it might have fit
+      Was drownded out to say.
+
+    His matches hang in a cabbage net,
+      An' his onions hang in strings;
+    An' allays at the Church Bazaar
+      He sells the Hooplar rings;
+    An' if us get a concert up
+      An' there's no one else, _he_ sings.
+
+    So be you'm seekin' clever men,
+      Come down along o' we;
+    We'll show 'ee John Pengelly then
+      Behind his grocery;
+    An' when you taste his peppermints,
+      Sure 'nuff, tis mazed you'll be.
+
+
+
+
+EDDICATION
+
+
+    Feyther sez as "Larnin' be the proper trade for boys,"
+    An' so us have to go to school, an' dursn't make a noise,
+    But jest sits on a form an' hears what schoolmaister do say,
+    An' all the time we'm thinkin' how the boats go in the bay.
+
+    There's different kinds o' larnin', an' there's some I can't abide,
+    They'm worse than swimmin' round the Main at ebbin' o' the tide.
+    I likes the tales o' travels an' at readin' do be praised,
+    An' I'm dacent doin' Adders, but Goseinters send me mazed.
+
+    The Bible stories baint so bad excep' the fat head calf,
+    An' when schoolmaister tells of 'ee I allays wants to laugh;
+    Our Kitty likes the donkeys as was found by Sunno Kish,
+    But I likes best the tale about Ole Peter an' the fish.
+
+    Schoolmaister knaws a mort o' things as baint a bit o' use;
+    I've heered un tell the biggest boys about high potty mews;
+    But if he had to earn his bread, the same as feyther do,
+    I count he'd soon belong to know it wasn' much he knew.
+
+    One day he gave a sum about a herrin' an' a half,
+    An' sez as how the boys was rude when they began to laugh;
+    He must a been a bufflehead to think as people bought
+    _Half_ herrins, when we'm bringin' 'em by thousans into port.
+
+    I'm allays sittin' thinkin' when he'm talkin' to the board,
+    About the many things there be a boy can larn aboard;
+    There's sheets to haul an' gear to staw an' reefs to take an' tie,
+    An' wind to watch acomin' in the corner of your eye.
+
+    Now if they larned us some o' these, or how to bend a hook,
+    'Twould be a darned sight usefuller than rubbige in a book;
+    But what's the good o' larnin' how to hold a scriggley pen,
+    An' spell a lot of orkard words, an' say to ten times ten?
+
+    'Tis little use to grumble when 'ee have to keep the rules,
+    An' jest so long as there be boys, I count there must be schools;
+    An' tho' they'm good for larnin' if 'ee awnly knaws the way,
+    I'd sooner be a whifflin' arter mack'rel in the bay.
+
+
+
+
+JENNY
+
+
+    When Jenny goes a milkin' in the dewy time o' morn
+    I allays be contrivin' to be callin' at the farm,
+    For her cheeks be red as roses an' her hair like rippled corn,
+    An' I be fairly mazed to kiss the dimple on her arm.
+
+      Jenny, Jenny, won't 'ee let me love 'ee? You'm brighter far
+      than any star That's shinin' up above 'ee. Sartin sure, you
+      make me mazed, Iss, me deear, a whist an' crazed; Jenny, Jenny,
+      won't 'ee let me love 'ee?
+
+    When Jenny goes to Fairin' with blue ribbons in her hair,
+    I count the Queen of England never looks a half as sweet,
+    An' when she'm in the Country dance no other maids be there,
+    For I never stops a glazin' at the twinkle of her feet.
+
+      Jenny, Jenny, won't 'ee let me love 'ee?
+
+        Aw----But!!!
+
+    When Jenny goes to Mittin' House dressed in her Sunday clo'es
+    She looks so like a hangell in her little pew apart,
+    That when I try to sing the hymns my throttle seems to close,
+    An' I cussn't hear the sermon for the beatin' of my heart.
+
+     Jenny, Jenny, won't 'ee let me love 'ee? You'm brighter far
+     than any star That's shinin' up above 'ee; Sartin sure, you
+     make me mazed, Iss, me deear, a whisht an' crazed; Jenny,
+     Jenny, won't 'ee let me love 'ee?
+
+
+
+
+IN THE KITTEREEN (Kittereen: Cornish for a covered cart).
+
+
+    Jenny an' me in the Kittereen
+      Drove to Callington Fair;
+    There wasn' much more than a foot between
+    Jenny an' me in the Kittereen
+    For both of us was just thirteen,
+      An' of course us didn' care.
+
+    Jenny an' me in the Kittereen
+      Drove from Callington Fair;
+    There wasn' much more than an inch between
+    Jenny an' me in the Kittereen
+    For both of us was just fifteen
+      With a packet of pops to share.
+
+    Jenny an' me in the Kittereen
+      Drove to Callington Fair;
+    There wasn' much less than a yard between
+    Jenny an' me in the Kittereen
+    For both of us was just seventeen
+      An' both knew the other was there.
+
+    Jenny an' me in the Kittereen
+      Drove from Callington Fair;
+    There was very much less than an inch between
+    Jenny an' me in the Kittereen
+    For wasn' we both of us turned nineteen?
+      An' wasn' there Love to share?
+
+
+
+
+MAIDS
+
+
+    I've knawed a many o' Devon maids with cheeks merry an' red,
+    They'm pleasant an' 'ansum single, an' homely an' cosy wed;
+    But I shan't marry a Devon maid; I reckon I'd rather be dead.
+
+    I've seed a many o' London maids abroad in London Town;
+    They'm larky an' flittery single, but marryin' calms 'em down;
+    But I shan't marry a London maid; I reckon I'd rather drown.
+
+    For I have knawed the Cornish maids, an' like 'em best of any.
+    So take the London an' Devon maids, they'm goin' at two a penny;
+    An' I shan't marry nobody else, for I be tokened to Jenny.
+
+
+
+
+CAP'N JOHN
+
+
+    Cap'n John has been to Frisky,
+      Injy an' Australy too;
+    Now he runs a lug-an'-mizzen
+      Arter Pilchers out o' Looe,
+          Iss, he do.
+
+    Cap'n John was braave an' slippey
+      Till the say catched hold of he;
+    Now he'm tanned an' tough an' wrinkled,
+      Simming like mohogany.
+          Iss, he be.
+
+    Cap'n John baint smurt an' 'ansum,
+      Like a claned up Sarvice Coor;
+    Stiff hair all aroun' his niddick
+      Makes him like a hedgaboor.
+          Iss, be Gor!
+
+    Cap'n John don't boast o' beauty,
+      Beauty don't set down with tar;
+    But he've got a pair o' patches
+      Shows how dacent patches are.
+          Iss, with tar.
+
+    Cap'n John thinks books is rubbige;
+      Sez that printin' spoils his eyes;
+    But he reads the book o' weather
+      Written in the say an' skies;
+          Iss, he's wise.
+
+    Cap'n John, us looks towards 'ee,
+      Wish 'ee luck when shuttin' seine,
+    Wish 'ee tummals at the jowstin',
+      Wish 'ee out an' home again.
+    Clink you'm cider at the call,
+          "Cap'n John, an' One an' All."
+
+
+
+
+DOLLY PENTREATH
+
+
+    Dolly Pentreath is dead an' gone, her stone stands up to Paul;
+    But Dolly Pentreath her still lives on in the hearts of One and All.
+    Her smoked an' snuffed, an' the cusses her knowed was mortal hard to
+        bate,
+    But her carried her creel like a Mousehole maid, an' allays selled
+        out her cate.
+
+    Her wern't afeerd at livin' alone, an' many a tale is told,
+    As shows as how her face was brass, but her heart was true as gold.
+    One day a sailor had tooked his leave afore his leave was given,
+    An' knowed if they catched him the yard arm rope would show him the
+        way to Heaven,
+
+    So he scatted to Dolly, an' jest in time her thought of the chimley
+         wide,
+    An' her collared him hold by the slack of his breeks an' shoved him
+        up inside.
+    Cussin' an' fussin' they searchers came, but awnly Dolly they sees,
+    Washin' her feet in her old oak keeve, with her petticoat up to her
+        knees.
+
+    An' didn' her give them a tang o' tongue, an' didn' her cuss them
+        sweet,
+    For thinkin' her'd let a man bide there an' see her washin' her feet?
+    But her called the loudest cusses of all, an' scraiched like a rat
+        at a stoat,
+    When the sailor gave a chokely cough for the fuzzen smoke in his
+        throat.
+
+    The storm her raised drove the buffleheads out a grumpling into the
+        street,
+    An' the sailor washed hisself in the keeve where Dolly had washed
+        her feet.
+
+           *       *       *       *       *
+
+    Dolly Pentreath is dead an' gone, her stone stands up to Paul;
+    But Dolly Pentreath her still lives on in the hearts of One and All.
+
+
+
+
+SUNDAY IN THE CORNISH PORT
+
+
+    There b'aint no fishin' in the bay,
+    The boats be moored 'longside the kay,
+    With sails reefed in an' stawed away,
+      An' all so calm an' still--
+    Excep' the ripple o' the tide,
+    An' gulls awheelin' up 'longside
+    The clifts, to where the Church do bide
+      Atop the Flag-staff Hill.
+
+    Above the Slip where boats be moored
+    The cottage doors be set abroad,
+    An' singin' voices praise the Lord
+      For mercies which endure;
+    An' happy childer in the street,
+    Dressed all so vitty, clane, an' neat,
+    Puts somethin' in the music sweet
+      It didn' had before.
+
+    Now every fisherman be dressed
+    In shiny suit o' black for best,
+    As fittin' to the Day o' Rest,
+      An' sign o' Death to Sin;
+    The jerseys in the lockers bide,
+    For Sunday knaws its proper pride,
+    An' likes to show a clane outside
+      To match the heart within.
+
+    Mid mornin', Church bell clangs a call.
+    An' some don't take no heed at all,
+    But some goes up the hill to Paul,
+      An' some to Chapel goes;
+    Whilst some strolls down upon the kay,
+    An' sits an' spits into the say;
+    But all the same, they knaws the Day,
+      An' doesn' dirt their clo'es.
+
+    But whether Church be right or b'aint,
+    Or Mittin' Houses make'ee faint,
+    Or whether you'm a solemn saint
+      Or jest a cheerful sinner,
+    For sartin, not so long by noon,
+    You'll all be playin' the same tune
+    Wi' knife an' fork an' mebbe spoon,
+      Asettin' down to dinner.
+
+    Then mos'ly us do strawl away
+    Along the clifts that line the bay,
+    Though some prefers a dish o' tay
+      An' snooze along the settle;
+    But whether we'm been far or near,
+    We'm never losted, don't 'ee fear.
+    We'm allays home in time to hear
+      The singin' o' the kettle.
+
+    An' when the Sun, a lantern red
+    Asinkin' at the World's mast-head,
+    Goes down, then us goes home to bed:
+      An' so us ends the Sunday.
+    For Sunday 'tis the Day o' days,
+    When all the fish do as 'em plaise,
+    While in the little port we prays
+      A banger catch for Monday.
+
+
+
+
+GRANFER'S PROVERBS
+
+
+    Granfer sits in the winder an' looks acrost the bay;
+    Sure 'nuff he thinks a mort o' things tho' 'tis little he has to say.
+    'Tis time he came to his moorin's an' heaved his gear ashore,
+    For the sea is a bit too chancy for a man gone eighty-four.
+
+    He've catched a plenty of wisdom in the net inside his head,
+    An' often us be tellin' of the clever things he've said.
+    They'm cleverer nor things you read in books an' papers too,
+    Because he dosn' make 'em up, but awnly knaws they'm true.
+
+    He've good advice for sailor lads who musn't come to grief:
+    "Don't try to shine you'm centrebit by cuts acrost the reef.
+    Don't make you'm mainsail fast an' look for mermaids on the lew,
+    An' don't take cider kegs aboard because they spile the view."
+
+    He've good advice for all the maids whom lookin' arter lads:
+    "If you baint catchin' mackerel then be content with skads;
+    An' if you've tried the seinin' an' the fishes won't be took,
+    Just get a dacent bit o' bait, an' drop a line an' hook."
+
+    He've good advice for husbands, which he tells them all alone:
+    "Go suant comin' into port an' watch the weather cone;
+    Jest keep your hellum stiddy if there's tokens of a squall--
+    Cross words is nigh as useless as a porpus in the trawl."
+
+    He've good advice for housewives but he keeps it to hisself:
+    For he knows they awnly puts it with the jowds upon the shelf;
+    His wisest words to women be the words he doesn' say,
+    For he jest sits in the winder an' looks acrost the bay.
+
+
+
+
+A CORNISH SEINING SONG
+
+
+    The Huer is up on the cliff, me deears,
+      Glazing out to say;
+    Slip youm moorin's and ship youm gears,
+      There's Pilchers in the Bay;
+    Lift youm faistins on muggoty pie.
+      Down along an' away.
+
+    'Tisn the time for maids, me deears,
+      Don't 'ee be duffed by they;
+    There's lashins o' time to taise their ears
+      An' maze 'em wi' fal-de-lay.
+    They'll wait till arter the Pilcher's catched,
+      Down along an' away.
+
+    Us'll be shuttin' soon, me deears,
+      There's purple on the say,
+    An' jowstin' this arternoon, me deears,
+      When us comes back to kay.
+    Who's for a banger, a bender haul
+      Down along an' away?
+
+    Pilchers is budiful fried, me deears,
+      Or baked in a bussa o' clay,
+    So sterry away wi' the tide, me deears,
+      For Pilchers in the Bay.
+    Slip youm moorin's an' ship youm gears,
+      Down along an' away!
+
+
+
+
+"HOW BE'EE, ME DEEAR?"
+
+(The Cornish Greeting).
+
+
+    "How be'ee, me deear?" I heard her say,
+    But I was foached to be far away,
+    For the breeze was braave an' the boat in the bay,
+      An' Granny was old an' grey.
+
+    I didn' turn back to say "Good-bye,"
+    For slottery weather was in the sky,
+    The anchor was up an' the punt stood by,
+      Yet Granny was old an' grey!
+
+    Far I sailed, an' didn' I cast
+    Many a look at the old times past?
+    The lil' grey port as I saw it last?
+      An' Granny old an' grey?
+
+    At last I came from the yowlin' main,
+    Guessin' to see the place again
+    Jest as it was, as nate an' plain,
+      An' Granny old an' grey.
+
+    Why didn' I seed the end was nigh?
+    Why didn' I bide to say "Good-bye?"
+    It's too late now to make reply,
+      Granny is gone away.
+
+    But someday beyond the farthest tide,
+    At last I shall safely at anchor ride,
+    An' I shall be hailed as I come 'longside,
+      "How be'ee, me deear?"
+
+
+
+
+"WHAT HAVE'EE CATCHED?"
+
+
+    "What have'ee catched, lil' lad on the shore?"
+    "Shrimps an' a crayfish out o' the pool,
+    An' a tinful o' lugworms, a tidy score,
+    To scrig on the night lines after school."
+
+    "What have'ee catched, lil' maid in the lane?"
+    "The scent o' the thyme an' the cheep of a bird,
+    An' the sound of a song that is joy an' pain,
+    But the sweetest song as ever I heard."
+
+    "What have'ee catched, strong man from the say?"
+    "A seineful o' pilchers, a sailful o' foam,
+    An' a twenty-knot breeze from the nor'rard away,
+    That drove me a-scuddin' an' rollickin' home."
+
+    "What have'ee catched, good dame by the door?"
+    "A lil' brown sail comin' with the tide,
+    That's bringin' back peace to my heart once more,
+    An' my man again to the chimley side."
+
+
+
+
+A MEVAGISSEY HAUL
+
+(A million pilchards, August 6th, 1912).
+
+
+    A Sou' Sou' West was blowin' up to more than half a gale,
+      An' a prutty bit o' billow talked ashore,
+    But there baint no use for seiners as be afeared to sail,
+      When the catches have been runnin' light an' poor,
+              So we plugged out oar to oar.
+        Out along from old Mevagissey,--
+        Beatin' out from old Mevagissey,--
+        With a sky full o' scud blowin' over us,
+        An' a stiddy brazzle plonkin' at the bow.
+
+    We shut the seine, an' watched the lights a dancin' green an' red,
+      An' wallowed first to starboard, then to port,
+    Until the dimsey touched the West, an' we was slowin' dead,
+      An' then we knawed 'twas tummals we had caught,
+              For the corks was bobbin' short.
+        Out along from old Mevagissey,--
+        Low lay old Mevagissey,--
+        When the grey dawn showed the shadows over us,
+        An' the brazzle came alippin' at the bow.
+
+    We lugged the silver net aboard until the bilge was hid,
+      For crates was little use for such a haul,
+    An' then we let the main-sheet go, an' home along we slid,
+      With the hellum nearly buried in a squall,
+              But we didn' care at all.
+        For it was home along to old Mevagissey,
+        Back along to old Mevagissey,
+        With the dangers of the night blown over us,
+        An' A MILLION PILCHERS slitherin' below.
+
+    We tacked into the harbour with the ground-say grindin' hard,
+      An' we bumped to berth at last 'longside the quay,
+    Which was chockered up with barrels so you couldn' step a yard,
+      When we brought our shinin' harvest from the say:--
+            Now 'tis salt an' stawed away.
+        An' we'm home along in old Mevagissey,
+          Home again in old Mevagissey,
+        With the cloud o' winter care blown over us,
+          Whatever winter winds may blow.
+
+
+
+
+DICKY
+
+
+    A year agone, a year agone, our Dicky sailed away;
+    A blue light danced about his eyes like sunshine on the bay,
+    He whissled passin' down along, his heart was glad an' gay,
+    A year agone, a year agone, when Dicky sailed away.
+
+    A year agone! a year agone! The time do speed so fast,
+    It scairce do seem a year agone we saw our Dicky last;
+    It seems as if his steps must come aclatterin' to the door,
+    An' he be claimin' payment with his breakfast for the score.
+
+    He loved the lanes in springtime an' he loved them at the fall,
+    But when the honeysuckle bloomed he loved them best of all;
+    I mind me how he had a sprig stuck in his cap that day,
+    A year agone, a year agone, when Dicky sailed away.
+
+    There wasn' lad was handier at stawin' of a sail,
+    There wasn' lad was cheerfuller at stemmin' through a gale,
+    There wasn' lad was heartier at fishin' or at play,
+    A year agone, a year agone, when Dicky sailed away.
+
+    A many ships come into port along the flowin' tide,
+    A many lads come home again an' safe in harbour ride,
+    But all in vain we watch for one, an' all in vain we pray.
+
+           *       *       *       *       *
+
+    A year agone, a year agone, our Dicky sailed away!
+
+
+
+
+THE OLD FISHERMAN'S LAMENT
+
+
+    'Tis well an' fine for the steam-trawler to sweep the floor of the say,
+    But 'tis turble hard for the fisherman as awnly sails the Bay,
+    For the fish gets scaircer an' scaircer an' hardly ait at all,
+    An' what's to be catched with the seinin' be barely wuth the haul.
+
+    Us used to count on the herrin's to buy us Chris'mus cheer,
+    But the catch runs lighter an' lighter, an' pervisions be allays dear,
+    An' what us gets in the crab-pots that don't take long to sell,
+    Especial when most of the pots be gone on a long ground swell.
+
+    'Tis a whisht poor life for a lad to lead, an' mos'ly they wont abide,
+    But sterry away to the furrin' ports athurt a keenly tide,
+    An' us be left, all lone an' long, to moil as best us may,
+    While the clankin' trawler steams along, an' sweeps the floor of
+        the say.
+
+
+
+
+A LOOE LAY
+
+
+    Ole Sammy took fish from Downderry to Looe;
+    Jest the darnedest thing that Ole Sammy could do;
+    An' nobody knawed what Ole Sammy was thinkin'
+    For when he got there the fish was a stinkin'.
+
+    He cried them in stores an' he cried them in housen,
+    But no one would have them at tuppence a thousan';
+    He cried them in Fore Street an' then on the Pier,
+    But folks said as "Nothin' was tuppence too dear."
+
+    Sure awnly a saftie would ever be carin'
+    To pay for the fish when they'd had such a airin'!
+    An' any regreater deserve to be stranded
+    For carryin' fish to the port where they'm landed!
+
+    So Sammy went homeways from Looe to Downderry,
+    An' on to Torpoint an' acrost by the ferry,
+    An' up along Plymouth, remarkable flish,
+    He selled out to wance all his basket of fish.
+
+    'Tis sartin that 'tis, an' can't be no 'tisser,
+    Us knaws fish an' fish from the Rame to the Lizzer;
+    What's hansun for Devon for us doesn' do,
+    So don't 'ee be carryin' fish into Looe.
+
+
+
+
+ON THE KAY (QUAY).
+
+
+    As I was bendin' a hook one day
+    A furriner* strawled along the kay.
+
+    His cheeks was white as gannet's wing,
+    An' he looked a whisht an' wakely thing.
+
+    His clo'es was nate an' spickety span,
+    But I sez to meself "Now there's a man!"
+
+    An' I sez to meself "Now look at his legs,
+    They'm like a couple o' crabpot pegs."
+
+    An' I sez to meself "A bit of a squall
+    Would blow his bones to the end of all."
+
+    An' I sez--but I didn' had time to say
+    For a scraitch went up from the end o' the kay,
+
+    Where a cheeld was aswingin' jest afore,
+    An' now there wasn' no cheeld no more,
+
+    Then a'most afore I could see him go,
+    That furriner sprang in the say below.
+
+    He couldn' swim much, but he keeped afloat
+    Jest while I tumbled into the boat,
+
+    An' I hooked him up an' lugged him aboard,
+    An' he had that cheeld clipped tight as cord.
+
+    He trembled an' shook, he was wake an' white,
+    But he awnly sez "Is the kid alright?"
+
+    Sure 'nuff, an' he simmed to understand
+    When I gived him a hearty shake o' the hand.
+
+    I started abendin' the hook agen,
+    An' I sez "There's different looks to men,
+
+    Braave hearts in whisht poor bodies bide,
+    An' looks don't count to what's inside."
+
+        [Footnote *: To Cornishmen, non-Cornish are "furriners."]
+
+
+
+
+RICHES
+
+
+    Miss Tregear be a whisht poor woman,
+      With her big fine house an' her carriage an' pair;
+    Her keeps four maids, not countin' the tweeny,
+      An' another especial to do her hair.
+
+    Ruth Penwarne be a braave rich woman;
+      Her lives in a cottage with a warpley door;
+    Her've got four childer, not countin' the baby,
+      An' there baint no tellin' but her might have more.
+
+    Miss Tregear have a room for dinin',
+      An' a room for drawin', where her doesn' draw,
+    An' a room where books be shut in cupboards,
+      An' others us don't knaw what they'm for.
+
+    Ruth Penwarne have a little linhay,
+      An' there her washes when the rain be nigh,
+    But when 'tis sunny her goes in the garden,
+      An' spreads her clo'es on the fuzzen to dry.
+
+    Miss Tregear have a pile o' carpets;
+      Her be frit of a moth or a speck o' dust;
+    Her be feared that the sun will spile her curtains,
+      An' the damp will make her fire-irons rust.
+
+    Ruth Penwarne have a fine stone kitchen;
+      An' two rooms aloft as be crammed with beds;
+    Her don't have carpets, so they can't get dirty,
+      An' her soon clanes up where the childer treads.
+
+    Miss Tregear have a face that's lonely;
+      Her be often sad, tho' her can't tell why;
+    Her be allays asayin there's nothin' doin',
+      An' thinks how slow all the days go by.
+
+    Ruth Penwarne haven't time for thinkin',
+      With makin' an' mendin' an' scrubbin' too,
+    An' sartin sure, she'm a braave rich woman,
+      With childer an' home an' her work to do.
+
+
+
+
+A FIRESIDE SPELL
+
+
+    "I've spanked young Tom an' sent him to bed, an' I reckon it sarves
+        him right;
+    For 'tisn no use asayin' things when the rope's end baint in sight,
+    An' he shouldn' go steerin' out along when the tide is runnin' away,
+    I've telled him afore; I cussn't keep on atellin' him every day."
+
+    "Now when I was a boy--" "Iss, when you was a boy, you was jest
+        such a scalliant too,
+    All'ays athinkin' o' darin' things as you didn' belong to do.
+    Climbin' they clifts for saygulls' eggs or clambering ower the crags
+    An' heavin' tuffs at the cormorants, an' shyin' stones at the shags."
+
+    "But when I was a boy--" "Iss, when you was a boy you worried you'm
+        mother a mort,
+    I mind how'ee tried to swim out to the Point, an' how in the race'ee
+        was caught;
+    I know they had dared'ee at doin' their dags, but dags didn' keep'ee
+        afloat,
+    An' the say 'ud have catched'ee that mornin', sure 'nuff, if they
+        hadn' raced out with the boat."
+
+    "Well, mebbe I was jest sich a limb, as'ee says, an' all'ays full
+        sail for a game,
+    An' I reckon as boys will be boys when they'm boys, but grows into
+        men what are tame,
+    An' when Tom is a feyther alarnin' _his_ son to feel the weight of
+        _his_ hand,
+    Mebbe he'll fergive me for spankin' him now, an' remember, an'
+        understand."
+
+
+
+
+CORNISH COMFORT
+
+
+    "Don't 'ee cry, lil' maid, 'tis awnly a broken bussa;
+    The jowds won't mend, best lave the attle abide.
+    There's tummals o' bussas left, an' it might be wusser."
+                But the lil' maid cried.
+
+    "Don't 'ee cry, li'l maid. If fellows gets changy and chancy,
+    Tomorrow a braaver will come than the totle who stepped.
+    Floshed milk baint no use, an' it isn' wuth scrowlin', I fancy."
+                Still the lil' maid wept.
+
+    "Don't 'ee cry, li'l maid--Iss, the Say be a terrible net,
+    An' 'tis wearisome waitin' a meetin' beyont the Big Tide;
+    Jest try to catch sleep on you'm pellaw, mebbe you'll forget."
+                Still the lil' maid cried.
+
+    "Don't 'ee cry did un say? Well, youm feyther jest wanted to cheer'ee,
+    But men doesn' knaw where the best cup o' comfort is kept.
+    Cuddle down; cry it out on you'm own mother's bosom, me dearie."
+                Then the lil' maid slept.
+
+
+
+
+"I MIND ME"
+
+
+    I mind me of the cottage where I used to bide
+    Just above the harbour on the steep hill-side;
+    Cobbled was the cause'y to the jasmined door
+    That looked into the kitchen with the grey stone floor.
+
+    I mind me of the dresser with the chainy white,
+    An' the gurt big Bible as was read aSunday night;
+    An' the old cloam tay-pot with the broken spout
+    As wanted suant dealin' at the pourin' out.
+
+    I mind the quiet mornin's an' the tickin' o' the clock,
+    An' the brath upon the brandiss in the steamin' crock;
+    An' the goin' of the shadows an' the comin' of the day,
+    An' the startin' in the dimsey for the fishin' in the bay.
+
+    I mind me of the night-times an' wind whisslin' drear,
+    An' the scraitchin' o' the shingle when I couldn' slape for fear;
+    An' the groanin' gropin' darkness with norra gleam nor star,
+    An' the boom of the billows on the harbour bar.
+
+    But the cosy chimley corner, I mind it best of all,
+    With the smell of tatie pasties from the oven in the wall,
+    An' the crackle of the fuzzen with the billies on the blow,
+    An' the ring o' ruddy faces in the hearth-fire glow.
+
+    The cottage still is lookin' from the hill across the bay;
+    Above the cobbled cause'y swings the jasmine spray;
+    But the gleam o' ruddy faces an' the hearth-fire glow
+    Went out in the darkness long long ago.
+
+
+
+
+"SURE 'NUFF"
+
+
+    Sure 'nuff, 'twas good when I was a lad
+      To be in a boat in the bay;
+    To whiffle the mack'rel, hook the chad,
+      And haul at the nets away;
+    'Twas good to feel the wind in my face,
+      An' scud through a tumble o' foam,
+    An' see far off the twinklin' lights
+      Of the lil' grey port, an' home.
+    An' 'twas good to climb in the craggy clifts
+      Where the guillemot raired her brood,
+    An' go with a laugh in the heart all day;
+      Sure 'nuff, 'twas good!
+
+    Sure 'nuff, 'twas good when I wandered away,
+      An' saw that the world was wide,
+    In the wunnerful lands beyont the say,
+      An' the ports where the big ships ride.
+    'Twas good to meet men who could strive an' seek,
+      An' didn' knaw nort o' fear,
+    An' hail 'em a word in passin' by,
+      An' answer 'em back with a cheer.
+    'Twas good to be sailin' the way o' the world,
+      An' standin' where strong men stood,
+    An' counted awhile as a man among men;
+      Sure 'nuff, 'twas good!
+
+    Sure 'nuff, 'tis good, with voyagin' done,
+      To be anchored in port at last,
+    An' watch the boys go, one by one,
+      As I did in days long past;
+    'Tis good to set in the cottage door,
+      An' gaze at the sky an' say,
+    An' knaw that I fared on the flood tide once,
+      Now 'tis fallin' away;
+    An' 'tis good to have time to make ready to sail
+      On the voyage that leads to rest;
+    An' I trust a Pilot Who will not fail.
+      Sure 'nuff, 'tis best!
+
+
+
+
+II.
+
+
+
+
+THE GARMENT OF TIME
+
+
+    The giant Image of Eternal Time
+      Sits throned amidst the Infinite of Space;
+    And through the aeons, passing chime by chime,
+              Heeds not our Race.
+
+    Meanwhile we weave upon his robes' array
+      Embroideries of doubts and hopes and fears,
+    The golden threads of laughter by the way,
+              Grey threads of tears.
+
+    Careless sits Time of garment grey or gold,
+      Although our passionate labours never cease
+    Till weaving hands are weary and we grow old.
+              And pass to peace.
+
+    And who that gazes on that garb of Time
+      Shall in the far light of a distant day
+    Catch aught of colour of song or rune of rhyme?
+              Shall all be grey?
+
+    Yet till the end fall--and the day close,
+      Let me weave in the web of pain and the woof of tears
+    The colour of sun-bright seas and the red of the rose,
+              In my Loom of Years.
+
+
+
+
+IN A GARDEN
+
+
+    A twilight peace droops tenderly,
+    The discords of the day depart,
+    And through the hush there comes to be
+    A harmony within the heart;
+      And waking to the quivering strings
+      Spirits are touched to finer things.
+
+    Sweet hand-fast silences of eve,
+    When love's supremest note is heard
+    In symphonies the spirits weave
+    Beyond the need of mortal word,
+      O! may we keep your music when
+      We pace the noisy haunts of men.
+
+    Give us the strength for daily stress
+    Of toil about the busy world;
+    Give us a balm to bitterness
+    From wounds when cruel shafts are hurled;
+      And give us courage in a sense
+      Of Love's divine omnipotence.
+
+    For Life can never lonely be
+    Since Love has broken all the bars
+    That stayed the soul from unity
+    With Heaven and its ten thousand stars,
+      Whose music falls sublimely grand
+      Through silences of hand in hand.
+
+
+
+
+SORROW'S COURAGE
+
+
+    I have loved Beauty. I have seen the sun
+      Flash snowy mountain tops to shimmer of gold;
+    I have heard songs where little waters run
+      Chiming with music that the stars have rolled.
+
+    I have loved Beauty. I have seen the sea
+      Fringe with its silver all the golden shore;
+    Have heard it crooning music ceaselessly
+      To ancient tunes frayed from the tempest's roar.
+
+    I have loved Beauty. I have seen a smile
+      Shine from sweet eyes, fair as the sea's own blue,
+    Whose magic lashes seemed to lift awhile
+      To send a kindly comrade spirit through.
+
+    I have loved Beauty. But nor sun nor sea
+      Nor stars have charactered God's chiefest grace;
+    Beyond all other things there beacons me
+      The star-led pilgrim courage of your face.
+
+
+
+
+A CHOOSING
+
+
+    Under the turf the blind mole creeps,
+      And moulds the mounds of molehill kind.
+    Above, the skylark soars and sweeps,
+      The song is swept upon the wind.
+
+    To-morrow's eyes the mounds may see;
+      To-morrow they will mark the plain.
+    But none shall hear the ecstasy
+      Of song, that cannot be again.
+
+    Well built, old mole! A little heap
+      To linger to a later day!
+    Something to show you once did creep
+      In darkness through your earthy way.
+
+    Yet with the lark's glad song of Love
+      May mine on wandering winds be hurled,
+    In happy regions far above
+      The dull mad molehills of the world.
+
+    Still let my song be all in all,
+      Though Earth-born discords soon destroy,
+    And on no mortal ear may fall
+      The music of immortal joy.
+
+    Break, Spirit, break to boundless things
+      Beyond the molehill and the clod,
+    And catch the glory of the strings
+      That tune the harmonies of God.
+
+
+
+
+STAR SIGNS
+
+
+    Primal swirl of the Chaos, out of your nebulous Night
+      Eddied the primal tides, as the Mind of God decreed,
+    And the Word of the ultimate Source spake forth "Let there be Light,"
+      And all the Firmament blazed with the dust of the star-sown seed.
+
+    Strong and stately and splendid, thronging the limitless spaces.
+      Ye are the silver signs to a House not made with hands;
+    Ye are the Mystic Scroll, where the Mighty Maker traces
+      Thoughts that the passionate poet dimly understands.
+
+    Day, with its drouth and drosses, shrivels our fragile souls,
+      And, witched with its transient gauds, to the perilous earth we
+          cling,
+    But ever the tender night its infinite page unrolls,
+      And the star-led mind aspires to the Throne of the star-robed King.
+
+
+
+
+THE OLD KNIGHT'S SONG
+
+
+    My lady lives afar in the fair white tower
+      Hid, like a nest, high among branches swaying.
+    "Peaceful thoughts be her portion, dreams her dower,"
+          Here am I on my knees, praying.
+
+    To the Winds of the World from the hills and the sea far blowing,
+      That they carry their strength to her heart for sorrow's staying,
+    That they bring clear hopes and the gladness of freedom flowing,
+          Here am I on my knees, praying.
+
+    To the Lamp of Day, that the aureate beauty breaking
+      Find answering smiles in her eyes for the fair displaying
+    Of colour of gold on the way my Lady is taking,
+          Here am I on my knees, praying.
+
+    To the sentinel Stars through the infinite spaces sweeping,
+      Guarding the night, and terrors of darkness slaying,
+    That they bring sweet Peace to the dreams of my Lady sleeping,
+          Here am I, on my knees praying.
+
+    But my casque is rusted with Time, and my breastplate battered,
+      My hauberk worn with ancient fighting and fraying;
+    Dull is my shield, my banner faded and tattered.
+          Here am I on my knees, praying.
+
+    Here at an outpost, here is my patrol duty:
+      My Lady's train is for Knights of a fair arraying;
+    Only from far may I guard her, loving her beauty:
+          Here am I on my knees, praying.
+
+    Wandering lights have I followed, the one Light questing,
+      I have wearied through difficult paths and long delaying;
+    Perilous peaks have I scaled with feet unresting;
+          Here I am on my knees, praying.
+
+    Star-like my Lady shines in her fair white tower.
+      "Let nothing come nigh her to lead to her joy's betraying,
+    No cloud dull aught of the golden dreams, her dower."
+          Here am I on my knees, praying.
+
+
+
+
+FEALTY
+
+
+    When my Lady hath Pleasure and friends to spare,
+      And riot of roses strewed in her path of days,
+    And laughter ringing carillons into the air,
+      She needs not me; I travel the lonely ways.
+
+    When my Lady hath Youth uplifting a song
+      Like the twitter of birds in a springtime hawthorn bough,
+    And round her the notes of a merry-mad music throng,
+      She needs not me; my music is sad and low.
+
+    But when my Lady hath Sorrow to stress her heart,
+      And Pain brings up to her eyes the ghosts of fear,
+    And the music of Youth, and Laughter and Joy depart,
+      Then she will need me: and lo! am I not here?
+
+    Here I stand at the gateway and vigil keep,
+      Waiting the summoning sob or the calling sigh;
+    Swift to assuage her tears should my Lady weep;
+      Happy if sorrow for ever may pass her by.
+
+
+
+
+TREASURE TROVE
+
+
+    You did not know that, gazing on your face,
+      I took its Beauty to my heart for ever,
+    Where it illumines every day with grace,
+        Though Time and tides may sever.
+
+    You did not know that, looking in your eyes,
+      I found their Truth, beyond all need for speaking,
+    And knew their gentleness a paradise
+        Worth all a wide world's seeking.
+
+    You did not know that every word you spoke
+      Told me the Courage in your heart abiding,
+    And bade me watch, where through the cloud-rifts broke
+        One steady star for guiding.
+
+    You did not know. But in my heart I know,
+      The Beauty, Truth, and Courage that enfold you:
+    And when we part I do not let you go:
+        Thus in my heart I hold you.
+
+
+
+
+ROSES AND RUE
+
+
+    You gave me roses, you have given me Rue.
+      Yet to the Roses memoried fragrance clings,
+    And in their faded petals I renew
+      The first fresh grace of unforgotten things.
+
+    God give you Roses all along the way.
+      So will I wear contentedly the Rue;
+    And when I greet you with a smile, I pray
+      Shade of my sorrow never fall on you.
+
+
+
+
+DOGMA
+
+
+    Reason's unreasoned castle of defence
+      With turrets towering into far-off skies,
+    Whose superstructure, solid and immense,
+      Is built on shadows and on mysteries.
+
+
+
+
+CREED
+
+
+    Not with light straws, swift swept upon the stream,
+      Not with light foam, blown up along the shore,
+    In calm unmeasured deeps my jewels gleam,
+      Hid in my heart of hearts for evermore.
+
+
+
+
+RELIGION
+
+
+    The one cool joy of all life's broiling day;
+      The one sweet star that gleams where saints have trod;
+    The one clear stream beside the dusty way
+                      That leads to God.
+
+
+
+
+PIETY
+
+
+    A quiet garment for eternal wear,
+      Designed above frail fashion's mortal dress,
+    Worked with a web of faith, a woof of prayer,
+      Coloured with love and fair with gentleness.
+
+
+
+
+BLUE SKY
+
+(From the French of Marcel Doran).
+
+
+    O! weary waste of shoreless blue
+      Where weary wing may never rest!
+    O! awful brightness burning through
+      The barrier of the gate of rest!
+        My spirit longs to reach the strand
+        Of sorrow-soothing shadowland.
+
+    But what can this poor spirit wear
+      To hide the naked wounds, pain-kissed
+    Beneath the searching, ceaseless glare
+      Of cloudless burning amethyst?
+        Where can the sad grey spirit fly
+        The unrelenting agony?
+
+    O! for some shadow-haunted stream
+      Where tired eyes might fall asleep,
+    And in the peace of darkling dream
+      See Sorrow's pageant homeward creep,
+        Feel angel hands with white caress
+        Soothe eyelids dark with heaviness!
+
+    O! for some minster where the balm
+      Of cooling touch my wounds might heal;
+    Where always dwells a Sabbath calm,
+      Made sweeter by the solemn peal
+        Of bells, that trembling fill the air
+        With noble notes of perfect prayer!
+
+
+
+
+SHADOWS
+
+
+    Shadows, the pale grey wings of night,
+          Sweep over the sky,
+      And low in the west the lingering light
+          Wanes--like a sigh
+      From the fervent heart of the day
+          Passing away:
+              Then afar
+              Shineth a star.
+
+    Shadows, the pale grey wings of Death,
+          Sweep over my heart;
+      And far in the dark a voice calleth,
+          "Come ye, depart."
+      There lingers no light from the day
+          Passing away,
+              But afar
+              Shineth a Star!
+
+
+
+
+WHEN I WAS A LAD
+
+
+    When I was a lad in Petherick
+      I often lay me down
+    And built a beautiful city
+      And called it London Town.
+    I filled its streets with heroes
+      Beautiful strong and wise,
+    Men who were kings and princes,
+      Women with kindly eyes.
+    I spent the gold of the charlock
+      For paving the city street;
+    I saw bright flags awaving
+      Over the billowing wheat;
+    And loud in the brown bee's buzzing
+      I heard the far-off hum
+    Of the mart and the busy merchants,
+      And the wharves where the big ships come.
+    When I was a lad in Petherick
+      I often lay me down,
+    And built this wonderful city,
+      And called it London Town.
+
+           *       *       *       *       *
+
+    Now I'm a man in London--
+      Golden dreams I had
+    Of a golden city of London
+      Long since when I was a lad.
+    Here on the long grey pavement
+      I seek that city still
+    But there isn't much gold in Fleet Street,
+      Or glamour on Ludgate Hill.
+    For the hurrying men look haggard,
+      And the women have weary eyes,
+    And the voices of pale-faced children
+      Mingle in fretful cries.
+
+    There's gold in the field of charlock,
+      There's gold on the billowing wheat,
+    And the bee sucks golden honey
+      In lanes where the flowers are sweet.
+    And small ships sail in the distance
+      To a golden bourne in the west,
+    And the gentle peace of twilight
+      Is the purest gold of rest.
+
+           *       *       *       *       *
+
+    Dreams of the man in London!
+      Useless dreams and sad,
+    Of the far-off village of Petherick
+      And the far-off Cornish lad.
+
+
+
+
+A CALL
+
+
+    Let us go out to the Garden of Pan, and hear what the Pipes are
+        playing;
+    Let us go out where the ancient hills mother the rivers that run to
+        the sea;
+    Let us go out where the wind wanders, tuning amid the trees
+        swaying,
+    Let us go out to the wider world where the thoughts of men are free.
+
+    There on the hills the eye may see the changeless Beauty changing
+    On sun-splashed grass and wavering corn, verdant valley and rolling
+        down,
+    Clouds steal up from a far-off tryst, like Titans into battalions
+        ranging,
+    And the splendid Sun-god marching on to crown the world with a
+        golden crown.
+
+    Here in the City the voices are hoarse. Here is calling and crying,
+    Lust and longing for pride of place, vanity, pomp, and the strain of
+         strife;
+    Here in the City sobs arise from the battered hosts of the falling
+        and dying,
+    Who know not Peace, nor the End of Peace; who know not Life, nor the
+         End of Life.
+
+    Let us away from the webbed town-tangle, where monstrous Mammon is
+        reigning
+    Over the small cheap souls of slaves, sudden to cringe and swift to
+        serve;
+    Let us go out from the clanging Gates, the squalour of strife and the
+        sordid straining,
+    Let us go out by the open road with feet that falter not nor swerve.
+
+    Come! and away to the Garden of Pan, and hear what the Pipes are
+        playing!
+    Hark to the Voice of a splendid Peace calling from hill and river
+        and sea!
+    Come! and away to the old Earth Mother, giver of gifts without the
+        praying,
+    There, in the hills Her throne is set, and the thoughts of men are
+        free.
+
+
+
+
+THE RETURN
+
+
+    I must go down to the little grey port that watches the western sea,
+    And wander again in the winding street that climbs the windy hill,
+    There I shall find in a jasmined porch a door set wide for me,
+            There I shall have my will.
+
+    For a little window looks out by day on a blue unsleeping tide,
+    Where brown-sailed boats sweep up and down for the harvest of the deep;
+    And nightly beacons a twinkling light to wanderers scattered wide,
+            And guides them home to sleep.
+
+    And the flowing tide comes flooding in and chants around the quay
+    A roaring song from the Ocean's heart of the lands that are fair and
+        far;
+    And the ebbing tide goes sobbing out, murmuring wistfully
+            Over the harbour bar.
+
+    There I shall stand among men who are strong with the strength of
+        the wind and the wave,
+    And hold simple talk with men who are wise with the wisdom of sky
+        and sea;
+    There I shall find in a patient endurance the sure-set faith of the
+        brave,
+            There shall my heart be free.
+
+
+
+
+IN THE BAY
+
+
+    The schooner swells its sails for the far-off seas,
+      The steamer pounds proudly far away,
+    But I'd sooner be ascudding in a ten-knot breeze
+      In my little lug and mizzen in the bay.
+
+    The schooner sings the wind's song from Bristol to Brazil,
+      The steamer knows the whole World's way,
+    But I can see a cottage on a windy hill
+      From my little lug and mizzen in the bay.
+
+    The schooner's up to hatches with her pig-iron, coal, and mud,
+      The steamer, plugged with cargo, heaves away,
+    But I can whiffle mackerel as through the waves I scud
+      In my little lug and mizzen in the bay.
+
+    O! living in a schooner is like living in a tree,
+      And a steamer's like a big hotel to-day,
+    If I had my choice of sailing, I know I'd soonest be
+      In my little lug and mizzen in the bay.
+
+
+
+
+SEA-FOAM
+
+
+    The once-flashed beauty borne on a breaking wave
+      Dies to a requiem sung on the sounding shore;
+    Beyond all reach of mortal power to save
+      In spray-crowned glory it passes for evermore.
+
+    Would that the heart could capture and hold and keep
+      The glory of beauty, sped in a moment's space!
+    Could fix for ever the splendour and strength and sweep
+      Of the wind-wild wave, in its riotous rapturous race!
+
+    Brave brief hopes, are you not sped as the wave--
+      Sped to a requiem sighed on a wreck-strewn shore?
+    While memory murmurs in dreams that you once were brave,
+      And sadness softly sighs that you are no more.
+
+
+
+
+ECHOES
+
+
+    By the way of blowing roses, in the laughter-laden years,
+      Happy lads and lightsome lasses tripped the song-sweet lanes with me;
+    Gladness woke the hillside echoes in the sound of ringing cheers,
+      Rapture rippled on the breezes sweeping from the rippled sea.
+
+    Happy lads have left the hillside for a bourne beyond the bay,
+      Lightsome lasses know not laughter hid beneath enduring stone;
+    Echoes of a strangled sorrow in the sea mist far away,
+      Haunt the lanes where song is silent and the roses all are blown.
+
+
+
+
+A BALLADE OF CORNWALL
+
+
+    Westward where the latest sunbeam lingers on the brow of night,
+      Lies a land of old romance enshrined in amethystine sea,
+    Where from cairn and cromlech come, to eyes illumed by subtle sight,
+      Fays and pixies, sprites and gnomes, in pomp of faery pageantry.
+      Shining forms of ghostly knights, and dream-like dames of chivalry
+    Gleam among the gorse and furze, and pace the reedy valleys low,
+    Moving through a magic mist amid the days of long ago--
+      Knights and ladies living still in trusted legendary lore
+    Lilt their lovelorn lays or speed their clamorous challenge to the foe
+      In the land where ceaseless surges smite the crag-crowned
+         rock-strewn shore.
+
+    Gauntly glooms Tintagel Castle from its frowning, dizzy height,
+      Where the fair Iseult is crooning happy songs in thoughtless glee;
+    Softly falls the creeping footstep, sudden flash the sparks of spite,
+      Lifeless lies the love-led Tristram lowly at his lady's knee,
+      Past the stress of wandering sorrow, past the philtred esctasy.
+    Then there breaks the sound of slaughter, clanging blow on clanging
+        blow,
+    Clash of brand and crash of axe, while shrieks shrill up from deeps
+        below,
+      Where the sea's majestic music mixes with the mortal roar.
+    Still the ghostly field engages, still the tides of battle flow
+      In the land where ceaseless surges smite the crag-crowned
+        rock-strewn shore.
+
+    Down the rugged slopes of Rough Tor ancient heroes armour dight,
+      Charge across the bridge of slaughter where the mist hangs heavily.
+    There the brand Excalibur goes flashing through the last dim fight
+      Wielded by the stainless king who fighting falls his wierd to dree.
+      Then across the mere there come a silent, shadowy, queenly, three,
+    Golden crowned, who bear him off with bitter tears of quenchless woe
+    Unto valleyed Avilon, where falls not rain, nor hail, nor snow,
+      Nor the faith unfaithful brings a dolorous doom for ever-more.
+    Still across the dream lit waters moves the stately shadow show
+      In the land where ceaseless surges smite the crag-crowned
+        rock-strewn shore.
+
+
+_ENVOI_
+
+
+    Friend, these smiling buds of fancy you may gather as you go.
+    Still the fairy bells are ringing in the evening's afterglow;
+    Still the questing knights adventure over mountain, stream, and moor;
+    All the ancient splendid beauty understanding hearts may know
+    In the land where ceaseless surges smite the crag-crowned
+        rock-strewn shore.
+
+
+
+
+THE FISHERMAN'S PRAYER
+
+
+    Pray God, hear our prayer;
+    Keep us in Thy calm of care;
+    Lead us where the haul be good,
+    So our fishing find us food;
+    Give us strength our nets to haul
+    And safe to harbour bring us all.
+
+    Pray God, Whose Son did know
+    Fishermen and sea below,
+    And Who calmed the tempest when
+    Terror came to fishermen,
+    Hear us when for help we call,
+    And safe to harbour bring us all.
+
+    Pray God, Who made the sea,
+    Hear the fishers' prayer to Thee.
+    Steer us clear of shoal and reef,
+    So our boat may bear no grief;
+    Bear us up through storm and squall,
+    And safe to harbour bring us all.
+
+    Pray God, Who shines afar
+    Like a friendly pilot star,
+    Help us set our course aright
+    By Thy Holy Beacon Light,
+    For the Port where live the blest,
+    And in Thy Harbour give us rest.
+
+
+
+
+DISTINCTIVE NEW POETRY
+
+The notable nature of the Erskine Macdonald books may be gauged from the
+following current list:
+
+
+Cor Cordium
+
+     A Book of Love Poems. By Alfred Williams. Large 8vo, cloth, 3s.
+     6d. net.
+
+
+Nature and other Poems
+
+     By Alfred Williams (Author of "Songs in Wiltshire.") Large 8vo,
+     cloth, 5s. net.
+
+_The price of "Songs in Wiltshire," (published at 5s.) has been advanced
+to 7s. 6d. net. "Poems in Wiltshire" has gone out of print._
+
+_The Times._--"Wonder and astonishment are great words with great
+associations. But there are few men living in England today of whom they
+can be more fairly used, in their most exact and literal sense, than of
+Mr. Alfred Williams...."
+
+_The Observer._--"Those who love poetry look out for the work of Alfred
+Williams. His poems have the fragrance and simplicity that come from a
+strong, sincere mind that is in close touch with nature."
+
+
+Enchantments
+
+     By John Gurdon (Author of "Erinna," "Dramatic Lyrics," etc.)
+     Large crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net.
+
+_The Times._--"Finely-coloured nature pictures or eloquent expressions
+of passionate emotion, with a recurrent note of melancholy."
+
+_Manchester Guardian._--"Mr. Gurdon's verses are always accomplished,
+their rhythm is extremely sensitive and well sustained, their imagery
+vivid and harmonious."
+
+_The Outlook._--"There is no mistaking who are Mr. Gurdon's masters. He
+has spent his days and nights with Swinburne and Keats, and learnt from
+them the intoxication of fine rhythms and passionate phrases.... Through
+all the verses in this little volume there is that thing which only the
+real poets have--a sense of freedom in verse and a great joy in writing
+it."
+
+
+ERSKINE MACDONALD, London, W.C.
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber's Note:
+
+Punctuation has been normalized. Italics have been denoted using
+underscores, and small capitals have been replaced by capitals in this
+text version.
+
+This book contains dialect.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Cornish Catches, by Bernard Moore
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