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!

     "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?"

        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.

     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.

     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.

        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!

     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—

     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.

     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.

     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."

     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.

     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.

     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, 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, 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.

     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.

     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.

     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."

     (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.

     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.

     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.

     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."

     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.

        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?