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.
This book contains dialect.
