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IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE. _Title:_ I Heard a Sailor _Date of first publication:_ 1925 _Author:_ Wilfrid Wilson Gibson (1878-1962) _Date first posted:_ Apr. 24, 2015 _Date last updated:_ Apr. 24, 2015 Faded Page eBook #20150446 This ebook was produced by: Marcia Brooks, Al Haines, Alex White & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net _BY THE SAME WRITER_ SHORT POEMS THOROUGHFARES WHIN NEIGHBOURS BATTLE FRIENDS VERSE TALES FIRES LIVELIHOOD DRAMATIC POEMS KESTREL EDGE KRINDLESYKE BORDERLANDS DAILY BREAD STONEFOLDS I HEARD A SAILOR MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA · MADRAS MELBOURNE THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO DALLAS · SAN FRANCISCO THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. TORONTO I HEARD A SAILOR BY WILFRID GIBSON MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON 1925 COPYRIGHT PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN TO JOCELYN CONTENTS LUCK THE ANNIVERSARY THE WHITE WHIPPET THE NEW OILSKINS THE SACRIFICE THE WRECK THE COLT THE BLIND-WORM ADRIFT NED NIXON AND HIS MAGGIE DEAD MAN’S BROW THE ROSE NEW MOON—I NEW MOON—II NEW MOON—III THE CHESTNUT-BLOSSOM THE MAID AND HER MOTHER AT THE PIT-HEAD HE AND SHE BLACK-COUNTRY NIGHT THE RAGGED BIRK SALLY BLACK AND GEORDIE GREEN THREE THE WISHING-WELL THE PARROT THE BAT ANNABEL ROSE AND JEREMIAH FAIRLEY A.B. THE CONCERTINA THE HAND CLIP-CLOPCLOP GIRL’S SONG DROWNED AT SEA THE PROMISE THE WEAZEL TARRAGONA KATHERINE VEITCH WATTY LEE AND YOUNG DICK THE MASTER WHY WON’T YOU STAY? MOTHER AND MAID DOWN THE DALE THE RAVEN’S CROAK YOUNG RICHARD MOTHERS BAG-OF-BONES BARRACOMB THE CHANCE-BAIRN THE ESCAPE HAUNTED RACHEL REED STILLCHESTERS I HEARD A SAILOR GALLOWS’ BANK THE FOWLER “. . . AS SCARLET . . .” THE BURIED CAMP THE ROCKET STARS THE RIDER OF THE WHITE HORSE WHERE NEITHER MOTH NOR RUST THE VOICE AUDREY THE WIND-BELLS MICHAEL’S SONG TO MICHAEL A GARLAND FOR JOCELYN A CHILD’S DELIGHT THE POOL THE BOAT THE ADDER IN THE BURROW UNITY SABBATH FABLE PROVERB THE GUILLOTINE EPITAPH THE PIT IN COURSE OF TIME PIG-IRON LABOUR-IN-VAIN THE PURPLE ORCHIS THE SAIL ALL BEING WELL IN THE WOOD BURIED LOVE THE DARK GLEN NO BARREN FLAME SURVIVAL HEWER OF WOOD BEAUTY FOR ASHES THE PARTING THE DISASTER THE MOSS YOUNG MAN CATCHIESIDE AND OLD MAN JOBLING THE LITTLE RED CALF THE BED AT THE INN THE STONES THE QUARRY THE PEARL THE TOLL NORTHERN SPRING THE UNDYING FIRE OUTWARD BOUND OTHERS LUCK _What bring you, sailor, home from the sea_— _Coffers of gold and of ivory?_ When first I went to sea as a lad A new jack-knife was all I had: And I’ve sailed for fifty years and three To the coasts of gold and of ivory: And now at the end of a lucky life, Well, still I’ve got my old jack-knife. THE ANNIVERSARY The clicking of the latch, Then the scratch Of a match In the darkness and a sudden spurt of flame— And I saw you standing there All astare In the flare, And I stepped to meet you, crying on your name. But the match went out, alack, And the black Night came back To my heart, as I recalled with sudden fear How upon your dying bed You had said That the dead Return to haunt the faithless once a year. THE WHITE WHIPPET Squatted on their hunkers at the corner of the street Outside the Pouter Pigeon a knot of pitmen sat Waiting for the doors to open, cursing the raw sleet, Or muttering with husky throats dully of this and that: When suddenly within the ring of the street-lamp’s gusty flame, Out of the stormy shadows of the black November night, Like a little slip of moonshine a snow-white whippet came And stayed one breathless moment before their startled sight. Speechless they gazed upon her as she stood with lifted paw, Clean-limbed, with quivering muzzle and jetty eyes agleam, Nor heard the doors swing open wide as each lad looked with awe One moment on the vision of his own heart’s secret dream. THE NEW OILSKINS _And him, in his new oilskins, too!_ Was all she said When up the brae and to her door We bore her dead. We laid the corpse the sea had stripped Upon the bed, And left the widow to her watch Beside the dead. _And him, in his new oilskins, too!_ Was all she said: Yet when we sailed again at dawn The wife was dead. THE SACRIFICE He slipped aside The white-hot slide And gazed upon the bubbling steel: And stood astare Until the glare Had blinded him, and like a wheel With white-hot felloe sparking red His brain was turning in his head. Night after night He’d watched that white And bubbling hell-broth seethe and boil: His wits had fed The furnace red Till now, at last released from toil, He shrivelled up without a whine Before the fire-god’s glowing shrine. THE WRECK She broke amidships: as the hull Parted, the boxes from the hold Poured crashing out, and she went down Into a sea of ruddy gold: And in a twinkling I was dropped Into the swallow and the strife Of surf, to battle in a swirl Of floating oranges for life. THE COLT The colt kicked his heels in the air And rolled in the dew, As dandy and devil-may-care I went out to woo. Hock-deep in the mire and the muck He stood in the rain, As dowly and down on my luck I crept home again. My heart when I set out to woo Was a colt in the sun, But a drookit and draggle-tailed screw When the wooing was done. THE BLIND-WORM When I stroked his cold dry skin, His black tongue flickered out and in. _Flicker your black tongue three times three_ _If my true love is safe at sea._ I stroked him thrice and thrice, and then I stroked his cold skin twice again: And each time out the quick tongue came, And flickered like a wee black flame. At three times three, my fingers shook: I shut my eyes, afraid to look; And when I opened them the snake Had vanished in the withered brake. ADRIFT We heaved the body overboard— The tenth man who had died: Then gasping side by side Askance each other eyed. The sea was glass, the sky was brass— The boat a white-hot grid Beneath that brazen lid As to the thwarts we slid Each eyeing still the other, each Knowing the other knew The one thought of the two— Who should heave over who? Which of the twain left out of twelve On that dead sea accurst Should first give in and first Fall to the fiend of thirst? Which of the twain be left to heave A corpse of skin and bone O’erboard to sink like stone; And then drop back alone Yet living to the thwarts, alone On blistering boards to lie Unburied ’neath that sky Of brass, eternally Thirsting for bottomless long draughts Of home-brewed bitter beer, Icy and amber-clear . . . The barmaid holds so near, So near the lips, then snatches back Just as you stoop to drink, And lets fall with a clink And splash into the sink . . . When suddenly his eyes burned red: He rose and with a cry Plunged overboard, and I, Who somehow could not die, Was left—to come once more to port . . . And in my bed again Heave over ten dead men Night after night, and then Watch jealously again while he Dives headlong—mad to leap With him into death’s deep And everlasting sleep! NED NIXON AND HIS MAGGIE _Will you come with me, Maggie, to Stagshaw Bank Fair?_ Come with you where—come with you where? Do you fancy a lass has naught better to do Than to go gallivanting, Ned Nixon, with you? _If you come with me, Maggie, I’ll buy you a ring._ You’ll do no such thing—you’ll do no such thing. Do you fancy I’d let my lad squander his pence On tokens and trinkets and such-like nonsense? _Come, Maggie, come, Maggie, we’re only once young!_ Now hold your fool’s tongue—now hold your fool’s tongue! If we’re only young once it behoves us to be A common-sense couple and act cannily. _Time enough, Maggie, for sense when were old._ Does copper turn gold—does copper turn gold, Or a guff turn wiseacre at three-score-and-ten? Anyhow, I’m for taking no chances with men. _Then must I go lonesome to Stagshaw Bank Fair?_ What do I care—what do I care? But if you go lonesome I’d have you to know It’s lonesome the rest of your life you will go. DEAD MAN’S BROW As for the first time over Dead Man’s Brow That snell November day I drove the share The coulter struck a stone that checked the plough, Tilting it upright with the hafts in air. With arms well-nigh out of their sockets jerked I tried to drag the handles down in vain; Then, stooping, long with breaking back I worked To free the coulter, till with thews astrain At length I lifted a huge slab that lay Lid-fashion on a kist of up-edged stones, Uncovering to the light and air of day A huddled skeleton of ash-grey bones. With knee-joints drawn up to its jowl, it clasped Its bony arms about its ribs, and seemed To shudder from the icy east that rasped My living cheek; and as the chill light gleamed Upon its flawless teeth of fleckless white The girning skull gaped at me with a groan— _Why have you broken in upon the night?_ _Why can’t you let a buried man alone?_ _This thousand-year I’ve lain in dreamless rest,_ _Forgetful of the wind that flicked my blood_ _And roused the hunting hunger in my breast_ _To course the fells and ford the brawling flood_ _Of burns that thundered in a winter spate,_ _Questing a quarry that for ever fled_ _Beyond the further fell-top, until fate_ _Tripped me and tumbled me among the dead;_ _And I at last knew peace and slept secure_ _Within my quiet little house of stones._ _Must I another doom of life endure?_ _Why have you waked the hunger in my bones?_ I dropped the slab; and took the hafts and turned My team, and made back homewards with my plough, Leaving the hunter to the rest he’d earned Beneath the windy bent of Dead Man’s Brow. THE ROSE Standing on the hot white quay With her hands upon her hips, Gaily she glanced down at me, A red rose between her lips. As I looked up from the stern Suddenly that rose’s red In my blood began to burn Till a fire was in my head, And that hair as black as night Up against the blazing blue, And those jet eyes sparking bright And that red rose slowly drew All my very heart’s blood out: And I followed in a spell When she smiled and turned about— But I caught the rose’s smell As my lips to hers drew near: And I paused . . . and stood again With my arms round my own dear By a rosebush in the rain. Vanished was that hot white quay In a garden’s rainy gloam As my heart came back to me On the rose’s breath of home. NEW MOON I New moon, _he said_—the first I’ve ever seen through glass: Well, let us hope the worst Won’t come to pass. A wheen new moons I’ve seen, For I am ninety-three, And never aught between The moon and me. She’s bonnie still, _said he_, Though something sharp and cold. We’ll see what we shall see When she is old. NEW MOON II A skirling squeaky piping— Tweedledee, tweedledee, And the drubbing of a drum, Tum . . . tum . . . And the niggers on the quay Stole my young heart from the sea; And I leapt ashore and shuffled with them, Ruffled with them, scuffled with them, Prancing to that piping— Tweedledee, tweedledee, To the piping sharp and thin That gets underneath the skin, And the drubbing of the drum, Tum . . . tum . . . That rumbles through the midriff like the roll of kingdom-come— Tum . . . tum . . . tum . . . And I couldn’t face my messmates When they’d seen me foot it there To the drubbing of the drum— Tum . . . tum . . . Galumphing like a bear Mother-naked to the air With a lot of fantee stumping niggers, Clumping belly-thumping niggers— Lost to England, Home, and Beauty By the piping sharp and thin That gets underneath the skin, And the drubbing of the drum— Tum . . . tum . . . That rumbles through the midriff like the roll of kingdom-come— Tum . . . tum . . . tum . . . NEW MOON III Night without a break Brooded overhead As we lay awake On our bracken-bed. So I shut my eyes, Burdened by the weight Of those starless skies And our luckless fate. But as I lay still She sat up in bed: _Turn your coppers, Bill—_ _The new moon!_ she said. THE CHESTNUT-BLOSSOM The chestnut-blossom fell In the dark waters of the well As, crouching on the coping-stone, he hearkened To catch the first note of the passing-bell. _The blossom, white and red,_ _Floats lightly where it falls_, he said— _But there are drowning deeps in those dark waters_ _For him who plunges boldly without dread._ _One passing-bell_, said he— _One bell shall serve for her and me,_ _To speed our souls upon their way together_ _Through the dark portals of eternity._ But, even as he dreamed, Thicklier the falling blossom streamed Down the well-shaft and, settling on the water, Like the white body of his love it seemed: And, shot with sudden dread As the first note boomed overhead, He shrank from plunging through that drift of blossom, And home, with fingers in his ears, he fled. THE MAID AND HER MOTHER _Hark to the curlew_ _Whistling down the syke!_ Curlew—curlew? Who ever heard the like! _What bird may it be, then?_ Never any bird Whistled will you walk with me That ever I heard. _Who can it be, then,_ _Whistling down the syke?_ Some lonely laddie Behind the stell-dyke. _What shall I answer?_ Bless you, my bird, No lassie ever questioned That ever I heard. AT THE PIT-HEAD Black was his face With the dust of the pit, But bright as hot coals His eyes burned in it The first time I felt His gaze fixed on me, And wondering turned Half-frightened to see The fire of his heart That paled the sunshine Blazing out of the eyes That looked into mine Till an answering flame In my bosom was lit By those eyes burning out From the mirk of the pit. HE AND SHE Come, give me your answer: You know that I love you true. _Pluck me a speedwell,_ _And happen I’ll answer you._ A speedwell! How should I Know one from another bloom? _You must wait for your answer,_ _Then, till the day of doom._ _You can’t pick a speedwell,_ _And yet you’ve a fancy you_ _Can choose out a maiden?_ And wed her and all, I do! Though happen I mayn’t know One bloom from another bloom— It’s now for your answer, And this be the day of doom. BLACK-COUNTRY NIGHT Suddenly the hiss of steam In the quiet of the night— And I wake to watch the gleam Of the leaping furnace-light. I have barely dropped asleep, Barely for a breath forgot The hot blasts of hate that keep Anger in my heart still hot, When that hissing in the dark, Like the night deriding me, Blows to blaze the smouldering spark— To a glare that instantly Fills the cauldron of my brain; And I rise to pace the room Till the labouring day again Calls me with the buzzer’s boom. THE RAGGED BIRK You have come back?—he said. _I have come back._ Tell me, is someone dead, That you wear black? Where have you been, my son— Come, tell me where? Life’s now but little fun, Tied to a chair Brooding the whole day long On days gone by When I was young and strong— I, even I! Speak, lad, and tell me now Where you have been? _Over the Dead Man’s Brow_ _To Birkshaw Green._ Did John go with you, too? _Ay, he was there._ Walking, the two of you, Taking the air? Well to be young, my lad, Tramping the heather— Can’t I just see you, gad, Chattering together, Careless and free and gay, You and your brother! _Little we found to say,_ _One to the other._ What, you’ve not quarrelled, Ben? _Quarrelled? Nay, dad!_ Where have you left him, then— Quick, tell me, lad? Where is my younger son? _Under the birk._ The birk? _Ay, the ragged one_ _Hard by the kirk._ Left him, my little Jack, There in the night? And he—does he, too, wear black? _Nay, he wears white._ SALLY BLACK AND GEORDIE GREEN Oh, where may you be going with your black mare sleeked so shinily, With her four hoofs newly-varnished and her feathers combed so clean, With her mane and tail straw-plaited, pranked so gay and smart and nattily With red and yellow ribbons tied in lovelocks, Geordie Green? _I be going to the Fair_ _With my mare._ Then won’t you take me with you, for I’ve never been to Stagshaw Bank, Nor a hiring nor a hopping, though I’m nearly seventeen, And I’ve never had a fairing, faldalal nor whigmaleerie nor A red and yellow ribbon for my lovelocks, Geordie Green? _I can’t manage but one mare_ _At the Fair._ Now what can you be fearing, and I but a young lassie, too, And you, a lad of twenty? But if so it be you’re mean, I’ve saved up thirteen pennies, so no need to fear I’ll beggar you Or be beholden to you for one farthing, Geordie Green. _I’ll be getting to the Fair_ _With my mare._ Then gan your gait and luck to you at Stagshaw Bank, your mare and you; But maybe you’ll be rueing when you see me like a queen In Farmer Dodd’s new dogcart with the shafts and spokes picked out with red Overtake you on the road there and flash by you, Geordie Green. _Yet I’ll happen reach the Fair_ _With my mare._ THREE Three whaups rose from the moss As I came by, And, whistling, wheeled across The darkening sky. Three hoolets from the fern Flew silently, And vanished down the burn In front of me. And, stumbling through the gloam, My heart’s adread For three I left at home Hapt safe in bed. THE WISHING-WELL Lass, I’ve heard tell That in this well The Roman folk would chuck, When things were going ill with them, A coin or so for luck. _And their great Wall’s a ruin on the fell,_ _And naught of their camp living but this well!_ Ay, lass, that’s so; And yet although Their rampart could not stand, Who knows but luck meant getting back Again to their own land? _So, you’ve chucked our last copper in the well?_ _Well, what luck is or isn’t, who can tell!_ THE PARROT Long since I’d ceased to care Though he should curse and swear The little while he spent at home with me: And yet I couldn’t bear To hear his parrot swear The day I learned my man was drowned at sea. He’d taught the silly bird To jabber word for word Outlandish oaths that he’d picked up at sea; And now it seemed I heard In every wicked word The dead man from the deep still cursing me. A flood of easing tears, Though I’d not wept for years, Brought back old long-forgotten dreams to me, The foolish hopes and fears Of the first half-happy years Before his soul was stolen by the sea. THE BAT She dreamed she lay in frozen fear, Yet living, in the icy tomb . . . And wakened in the dark to hear A bat flit-flitter round her room. Unseen in the cold pitchy night It circled swiftly overhead Unceasingly in frightened flight, Till, as she quaked upon her bed, Too overcome with fear to stir, One icicle from head to feet, The flit-flit-flitter seemed to her The flurry of her own heart’s beat— Her young heart flying round and round Imprisoned in its own despair— The stone-cold chamber underground With no escape to light and air, No window to the sun, no door To winds that call the wanderer, Where she must dwell for evermore Since life had broken faith with her. ANNABEL ROSE AND JEREMIAH FAIRLEY Why did you call me, Jeremiah Fairley— Why did you call me as I went by? Never had the blackbird sung more rarely, Never had the sun shone brighter in the sky Than when I heard you calling, crying on my name, And into my young heart the strange trouble came. _Why did you answer me, Annabel Rose?_ Goodness gracious only knows! _Annabel Rose, you’re speaking true,_ _And that is just my answer too._ Why did you marry me, Jeremiah Fairley? Why did you carry me home to your farm? Bleak blows the wind and the sun shines rarely, And little care you now if I should come to harm. Why did you marry me and give me your name To bring me to trouble and sorrow and shame? _Why did you come with me, Annabel Rose?_ Goodness gracious only knows! _Annabel Rose, you’re speaking true,_ _And that is just my answer too._ Why must a young lass be such a featherhead To trip to the beck and nod of any man? _Life’s never been all lying on a featherbed_ _For any farm-wife since the world began._ Why should a lass, then, unless she is mad, Give up her freedom to drudge for any lad? _What’s the use of asking, Annabel Rose?_ Goodness gracious only knows! _Annabel Rose, you’re speaking true,_ _And that is just my answer too._ A.B. _I’ve done with the sea_, he said Each time he came ashore; But ever before the month was out With empty pocket Melchisedek Prout Signed on for one trip more. And nothing at all he said When it came to sink or swim: It warn’t for the likes of an old A.B. To say that he was done with the sea Till the sea was done with him. THE CONCERTINA The twangling of a zither And the thin Tinkle of a mandolin With the plunking of guitars Underneath the Naples stars Is a pretty sort of music to while away a night With delight: But a concertina playing in a pub at Hartlepool For a devil-rousing racket can put the lot to school. If I’d only stayed at Naples Evermore In that café by the shore, Listening to the pretty tunes Of Italian pantaloons, I’d still have hopes of glory and a mansion in the sky By-and-by: But the devil in his tangles took and tripped me like a fool When he played a concertina in a pub at Hartlepool. THE HAND This hand, _Tod said_—you see this hand, Four fingers and a thumb . . . It’s difficult to understand . . . And Dan, in kingdom-come! A hand like any other hand— The very same that he Gripped when he came, the first to land After ten months at sea. It’s difficult to understand, Now that Dan’s lying dead, That it’s still plump and brown, my hand That should be shrunk and red! CLIP-CLOPCLOP Clip-clopclop, clip-clopclop— The overstepping mare, And Farmer Hogg comes here again: But I—what do I care? While Dicky sports a spanking cob That canters light as air, I’ll never wed a man that drives An overstepping mare. GIRL’S SONG I was so happy that I hardly knew it, Nor ever guessed that life was not all play, And little dreamt I’d live to see the dawning Of such a day— Oh why, why should it be That suddenly Life should seem strange and terrible to me? I’d never cared for lads like other lasses Nor heeded overmuch what they might say, And little dreamt I’d live to see the dawning Of such a day— Oh why, why should it be That suddenly A lad’s word should mean life and death to me? DROWNED AT SEA His fathers sleep in steadfast graves Under the unadventurous mould; But him, who for the salt sea sold His birthright, still the vagrant waves In endless vagabondage hold. Not his the kindly sleep of earth Who ever scorned the soil in life: Tied to no spot by bairns and wife, Sea-called and chosen from his birth, He keeps the way of salty strife: Far from the quiet fields of home Where all his folk clod-cumbered lie, On tossing crests when winds are high His spirit rides through crashing foam And whistles to the whistling sky. THE PROMISE Faint as a watch’s tick, As Kate stood by the sea, She seemed to hear his pick Tapping unceasingly In the dark workings of the pit To earn the price of brat and bit. She watched the light wind whisk The curd from creaming waves And glancing waters glisk And glint in hanging caves, While in her heart she heard the sound Of Robert hewing underground. And as she stood adream, Her young heart keeping beat With his in that dark seam Fathoms beneath her feet, Haze-gazing on the unseen tide, She felt a new pulse in her side— The pulse of waking life That promised he and she Not merely man and wife Ever again should be, Since now into their coil of cares Came a small heart to beat with theirs. THE WEAZEL A streak of red, the weazel shot Into the Gallows Wood: I heard a dying rabbit squeal, And for a moment stood Uncertain—then, as by some spell, Drawn in through briar and thorn, I followed in the weazel’s track, By clutching brambles torn. Blindly I followed till I came To a clearing in the fir; Then startled suddenly I stopped As my glance lit on her— The strapping red-haired tinker-wench Who stood with hands on hips, And watched me with defiant eyes And parted panting lips. At first I only saw her eyes, Her lips, her hair’s fierce red: And then I saw the huddled man Who at her feet lay dead. She saw I saw, yet never blenched, But still looked straight at me With parted lips and steady eyes, And muttered quietly— _I’ll go: no need to make a fuss,_ _Though you’ve come gey and quick:_ _You must have smelt the blood—and so_ _The hangman takes the trick!_ _But what care I, since I am free_ _Of him and all his lies,_ _Since I have stopped his dirty tongue_ _And shut his sneaky eyes._ _What matter though I kick my heels_ _In air for settling Jim?_ _The vermin’s dead: at least I’ll make_ _A cleaner end than him._ TARRAGONA Before the _Tarragona_ came I’d never even heard her name, Nor dreamt what it would mean to me When she again put out to sea. Before the _Tarragona_ came No one might breathe a word of blame Of me, or look askance at me, Since I was born beside the sea. Now day and night the bitter name Sounds in my ear the word of shame, And _Tarragona_ means to me The false heart of the fickle sea. KATHERINE VEITCH He fell at Loos: and when she heard The tidings, though she did not stir, Some light within her at the word Was darkened, and it seemed to her Death sought to snatch her bairn from her— To snatch her sucking babe from her: And she forgot that he had grown A hefty lad to be her pride, A shepherd for skilled piping known Throughout the hilly Borderside Until death took him from her side, No more to seek his minney’s side. By day or night she cannot rest— Stravaging over Auchopecairn She clutches to her naked breast An old clout-dolly like a bairn, And moans—_My bairn, my hinney bairn!_ _Death shall not have my wee bit bairn!_ WATTY LEE AND YOUNG DICK Now where may you be gadding to with such a dandy buttonhole— If my eyes do not deceive me it’s a sweetheart-picotee, And in your Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and bowler hat and all? _I’m going to Saint Andrew’s Church, as surely you might see,_ _Watty Lee._ Ay, maybe! Though it’s well enough on Sundays for the folk who’ve got naught else to do, The church on weekday mornings is no place for you or me Who’ve got our bread and cheese to earn; so what can you be after, Dick? _I’m going to be married there, as surely you might see,_ _Watty Lee._ Ay, maybe! Then you don’t know where you’re going, Dick, for all your dandy buttonhole, No more than any other lad who sports a picotee And dons his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and bowler hat and all. _You’re surely hard of hearing or your wits are all at sea,_ _Watty Lee._ Ay, maybe! THE MASTER Nigh to the window-sill the snow Had drifted when ’twas time to go, And, lifted shoulder-high, we bore The master from Starkacre door. His wellbeloved fields in snow Were shrouded when ’twas time to go, And in the shieling snug and warm His flock was sheltered from the storm. Stormbound and blinded by the snow Nor sheep nor pasture saw him go, Although his whole heart’s hopes and fears Had been bound up in them for years. Indifferent to the driving snow He went when it was time to go, And yet it’s hard to think that he Left flock and field indifferently. WHY WON’T YOU STAY? _Why won’t you stay at home with me?_ How the devil should I know, mother? I’ve never wanted to go to sea, And yet, and yet, somehow or other . . . _Why won’t you stay at home with me?_ How the devil should I know, lass? I’ve never wanted to go to sea, Yet, somehow, when I’ve had a glass . . . _Why won’t you stay at home with me?_ How the devil should I know, wife? I’ve never wanted to go to sea, Yet, somehow, I’ve signed on for life. MOTHER AND MAID And where be you stravaging to at such an hour of night? _To look on Allen Water in the full moonlight._ Go your wilful ways then; but you will learn too soon That no good comes to any lass from looking on the moon. And where be you stravaging to at this unearthly hour? _To hearken to the hoolet that hoots by Staward Tower._ Round the Peel at midnight the brags and horneys prowl, And no good comes to any lass from listening to the owl. So don’t say I’ve not warned you whatever may betide. _And what should I be fearing with Robert at my side?_ What should you be fearing? Since the world began No good has come to any lass from walking with a man. DOWN THE DALE _Nannie’s going down the dale_— Peter fleered as I went by. Meaning soon I’d come to lie In the graveyard by the Swale. Hearing him I just stopped dead, Turned and eyed him up and down From the toecap to the crown, But no single word I said. Peter’s years were just three score Short of mine—a likely lad: Yet, while I’ve the health I had, Peter Perkins is no more. To a scrag of skin and bone Dwining like a body curst, Peter reached the dalefoot first, Overtaking the old crone. THE RAVEN’S CROAK _The raven, he croaks on the cairn_— A wife had a bairn; And the bairn was her heart’s delight From morning till night: But when he grew up, with a knife He let out her life; And they took him and strung him on high To dance in the sky, Then cut down the corpse, and a cairn Built over her bairn— Ay, buried his mother’s delight In the dead of the night: And naught but a rackle of bones Lies under the stones. _So the old raven croaks on the cairn_ _As I dandle my bairn._ YOUNG RICHARD Slicing the swedes for the steers At the blink of the light, Young Richard remembers with tears The luck of last night— Last night when he put to the test His dream of a home, And poured out the love of his breast At the fall of the gloam— To the spurting of milk in the pail In the dusk of the byre, Poured into Meg’s ears the whole tale With bosom afire; Then waited, with blood running cold, For a token of grace; When the lass looked up brazen and bold And laughed in his face; And he flinched from the flick of her mirth As a colt from the lash— His golden dream crumbled to earth, A heap of cold ash: And he wandered the whole night forlorn By braeside and slack Till the first chilly glint of the morn Brought day’s labour back. And now as he slices the swedes It seems that the knife Cuts clean through his heart, and it bleeds A torrent of life— A torrent of hot life unstayed; Yet the quivering flesh Re-knits, that each fall of the blade May cleave it afresh. MOTHERS Of her calf bereft, All night long she lows: Of her firstling joy Born of anguished throes Naught to her is left. Six sweet days of bliss Swelled her heart with pride While her baby boy Nuzzled her warm side, All to end in this— Hollow echoing night, One long empty ache Moaning sleeplessly: And I lie awake Praying that the light Of the morrow’s morn Bring to her the rest Still denied to me, Since from out my breast My first love was torn. BAG-OF-BONES A bag-of-bones with nodding head I met at Tavernspite. _You’re old for travelling_, I said, _Although you travel light_. _I travel light enough, my son,_ _Though roads be stiff and steep,_ _Since my twelve children one by one_ _Have cried themselves to sleep,_ _And my old woman took to bed_ _A year come Christmas night._ _With neither kith nor kin_, he said, _An old man travels light_. BARRACOMB In the dead man’s bed I lay Longing for the break of day— Light enough for me to rise And feast the first time eager eyes On the pastures broad and fair That had fallen to my share As my uncle’s only heir. Last night in the wintry gloam I had come to Barracomb: Never in my life before Had I opened the front door, Never crossed the threshold-stone— I who hadn’t even known The old man who’d lived alone Reckless of his kin till death Laid him low and choked his breath, Forcing him to let his lands Pass into a stranger’s hands— Forcing him to leave his home High on windy Barracomb For a lodging in the loam. In the wide and creaky bed All night long I’d tossed, my head Filled with plans of all I’d do Now good fortune had come true, And the wealth he’d held so fast In his miser-grip at last Into better hands had passed: When, as I lay there wide-eyed, Someone seemed to quit my side, Though all night alone I’d lain; And against the window-pane Stood a ghostly form and grey Peering out across the brae For the first chill glint of day. Stark with dread I lay astare Watching that strange shadow there, Dark against the kindling sky; And my blood ran cold as I Wondered if that shape might be The ghost of old John Heatherly Or my own fetch awaiting me. THE CHANCE-BAIRN The corbie and the kestrel Are robbers to all the rest, But the corbie gives chase to the kestrel That hovers too near his nest When fatherhood’s fierce tenderness Kindles the corbie’s breast. The corbie and the kestrel Are robbers to all the rest— But better for you, my sorrow, Sucking my bitter breast, Better for you had you been born In the fierce corbie’s nest. THE ESCAPE Toothless, lanthorn-jawed and bald, Bent and hobbling on two sticks, Helpless by his burning ricks Old Jake Jackson raged and called— Bawled and called in vain for help: All his hands were at the fair Junketing, and none was there To hear or heed his frantic yelp As he watched the thirsty flame Lapping up his golden wheat, Till at last the glare and heat His old senses overcame, And he flung away his sticks— Nimble as a two-year-old Leapt into the roaring gold And perished with his burning ricks. When they came back from the fair All in vain for him they called, Round the steading searched and bawled— Could not find him anywhere— Bawled and called for him in vain: Ricks and man were smouldering ash Sizzling in the sudden splash Of a burst of thunder-rain. Though they raked the ashes through, Of their master they found naught: So the coffin he had bought Second-hand, as good as new, And beneath his bed had kept, Was no bargain after all; And the grave-plot by the wall Nigh where his forefathers slept, He’d long rented, wasted too! Not for him in clammy gloom To await the crack of doom, Seeped and sodden through and through In the sour and wormy mould Where his outstripped kinsmen lie— He the first to reach the sky Charioted in fiery gold! HAUNTED The forepeak raked the stars As we drove upon the Scars, Then dipped into a boiling broth of hell: With his arms about my neck, I was sinking with the wreck, When I drew my little knife and used it well— In his thrapple to the haft Sheathed my gully, and I laughed As I felt his death-grip loosen round my own; And I struck out for the land, And was slung upon the strand By a wave that took and tossed me like a stone. Stunned and senseless there I lay Till I roused at blink of day To feel a leaden burden on my chest; And as I strove to rise I looked down into the eyes Of the dead man’s head that lolled upon my breast. Stark and staring he lay there, And the waves had stripped him bare Ere they’d flung his broken body over me: And I rose as if in sleep, Howked a hole, and dark and deep I buried him beside the Northern sea— Rolled a rock above his grave Lest a sudden scouring wave Should scoop his naked carcase from the sand: Then I left him—so I thought— Dead and done with, and I sought Food and shelter from the people of the land— Left him buried. . . . But for me There’s no sleep by land or sea, For always when I’m dropping off to rest I am startled wide awake, And all night I lie and quake With the deadweight of a corpse upon my chest. Yet never in this life Have I used the butcher’s knife, Never sailed the seas nor left my native shore; And I know not from what deep Stirs the doom that breaks my sleep To keep lykewake with the dead for evermore. RACHEL REED _Dance for your daddy,_ _My canny laddie,_ _Dance for your mammy,_ _My wee lamb. . . ._ Daylong beside the smouldering slack She dodders, crooning with a grin— Who, one wanchancy seven-night back, Was hale to work day out day in— Who’d rise at the first glisk of light, And take no ease until the sun Behind Black Belling dipped from sight, Her long and lonesome day’s darg done. And as she singled swedes she had Just one thought ever in her mind— How one fine night her headstrong lad That she could neither hold nor bind Would come again to Callerlea When he had had his coltish fling To rest beneath his own rooftree Dog-weary with calleevering. Bone-tired she crept to bed that night And slumbered sound till twelve o’clock, Then started, listening, bolt-upright, Awaked by some unearthly shock. She heard his footstep on the stair: She heard the clicking of the sneck: The door swung wide, and he stood there— A ghostly halter round his neck. _Dance for your daddy,_ _My canny laddie,_ _Dance for your mammy,_ _My wee lamb. . . ._ STILLCHESTERS Three hundred years the Forsters’ flocks had grazed Stillchesters, by the ploughshare never broken, Till the wanchancy day the word was spoken That gave the strangers leave to dig, and raised The dead to trouble us and drive us crazed. They told us that Stillchesters once had been A Roman camp, and that the walls yet lay Beneath the smooth turf buried from the day. Would God those broken walls still lay unseen Beneath the kindly turfs unbroken green! They took us with their talk of fighting men, Of Spanish cohorts, altars, and rich treasure, And so I gave them leave to have their pleasure With my best pasture, little dreaming then Stillchesters never should know peace again. It’s true my poor old mother tried to warn Her foolish son, and looked at me sore-frightened, But when I saw how my young wife’s eyes brightened At their fine words I granted leave. The morn They cut the turf our only son was born. Although till then the Forsters had been fair, And though his mother’s hair was yellow too, And her bright eyes like mine a Northern blue, The bairn was sallow-skinned and had dark hair, And looked at us with big black eyes astare. His mother loved her headstrong gipsy sore, But he was aye a changeling from that day, Until he broke her heart and went away To be a soldier, ’listing for a war In foreign lands, and never came back more. Three hundred years the Forsters’ flocks had grazed Stillchesters, till a light word rashly said Unearthed old quarrels of the ancient dead, And some black Spaniard’s restless spirit raised To drive the last of all the Forsters crazed— To drive the last of all the Forsters fey, Rousing the fighting fever in his blood Whose sires had all been shepherds since the Flood: So when my time comes, as it must one day, Whose flocks shall graze Stillchesters, who can say? I HEARD A SAILOR . . . _I heard a sailor talking,_ _As he tossed upon his bed_ _In hot uneasy slumber,_ _And this is what he said:_ Why does she shake her head at me Until her ear-rings tinkle, Though all the while her merry smile Keeps her blue eyes atwinkle? Why does she slyly glance at me As she pours out the wine, Then pucker up her pretty lips And hold them up to mine? Why does she suddenly draw back And o’er my shoulder stare? Why does that silly parrot screech? Why does the gas-jet flare? And who’s the lad that’s running round Upon the heaving floor With a knife betwixt his shoulder-blades— And cannot find the door? Why does the scarlet parrot screech? Why does the gas flare red? Why do her tinkling ear-rings dance A horn-pipe in my head? GALLOWS’ BANK Last night, as I was stepping ben Just as the Abbey clock struck ten, My heart thrilled to the tramp of men That climbed the Gallows’ Bank: And turning to the open door I watched them trudging, four and four, Breasting the brae with moonlight hoar, Rank after ragged rank. Their arms against their sides were bound: Their mouths were gagged; and not a sound Their feet made on the frozen ground Nor cast a shadow there, As up the unreturning road They shuffled, hobbled, limped and strode With eyes set on the tree that showed Stark in the snell night air— The gallows’ tree of stout ash-wood That handy on the fell-top stood For folk who come to little good Against the star-pricked sky. Horse-copers, tinkers, thieving herds, And doxies flaunting fakish flerds, An endless gang of gallows’ birds, I watched them wamble by— I watched them hirple up the hill, Drawn up and up against their will, Those grey ghosts shadowless and still— For only in my heart Had echoed that tramp-tramp of feet, And nothing but my own heart’s beat Had drawn me to the haunted street— When with a sudden start I saw the whole rapscallion rout Each man of blood and sleiching lout Stop all at once and wheel about And fix their eyes on me: And as I watched, the starry skies And moonlit road and heathy rise Vanished, and naught was there but eyes That glowered murderously— Hundreds of eyes that stared in mine, Of lads and lasses clarty-fine Who’d perished by the banks of Tyne When first it topped the fell, That tree new-tarred with hempen noose, Straw-coloured, dangling long and loose For any chance-come traveller’s use To sling him slick to hell. And then the eyes of everyone— The eyes of the whole gairishon, Each daddy’s daughter, mother’s son, Who’d danced with heels in air Since reivers rode the Borderside, And men had thieved and fought and died, And wenched and murdered, sneaked and lied— Shrank to a single stare: And as from out the heart of night Those dead eyes searched me wildfire-bright I looked into their murder-light And startled, knew, alas, That I was staring in my own Scared eyes where, frozen to the bone, New-risen from sleep I stood alone Before my looking-glass. BEAUTY FOR ASHES THE FOWLER A wild bird filled the morning air With dewy-hearted song: I took it in a golden snare With meshes close and strong. But where is now the song I heard? For all my cunning art, I who would house a singing-bird Have caged a broken heart. “. . . AS SCARLET . . .” Scarlet the toadstools burn In black mould by the linn, Yet not more fiery red Than my soul’s sin. Sodden as last year’s leaves, My life seemed cold and dead, When suddenly the black Burst into red. Fall quickly winter snow To bury all from sight In drift on drift of death’s Cold dazzling white. THE BURIED CAMP Fear not: the dead are dead, And fallen pomp and power Leave no pale ghosts to prowl Above their earthly bed: ’Twas no dead Roman but a living owl That startled us beside the ruined tower. _And yet, that beak, those eyes_ _That blazed out from the night!_ _Surely ’twas Cæsar’s soul_ _That with sharp stabbing cries_ _Swept by, as through the buried camp we stole,_ _Spurring dead cohorts on to one last fight._ THE ROCKET Into the night The rocket soars: Ah, could but I In flashing flight O’er the dull lamps Of earth swing high— One moment poise And perish there In the full blaze Of kindled air: What matter though A charred stick fall Into the night That swallows all. STARS Who travelling through a midnight wood Tilts up his chin to watch the stars Will like enough trip over roots Or bark his shins against the knars: But who, benighted in blind ways, Struggles to thrust close boughs apart Will never win from out the wood Unless the stars are in his heart. THE RIDER OF THE WHITE HORSE Climbing the bridge’s slope, a little lad, I looked up and beheld in bright sunlight, Against a billowing April cloud, blue-black, Heavy with threat of hail, a monster white High-stepping steed with the rider scarlet-clad Like a flame-robed archangel on its back. The spark-red nostril and the flashing eye, The scarlet rider in the sun afire Against the storm-cloud—shot with thrilling dread My little heart a-hunger with desire Of angel visions: then, as they went by, I knew ’twas old Jake Dodd in hunting-red— Jake Dodd, the whipper-in, on his white Jill. The sun was blotted out; the hail threshed down, Scattering the glory. Jake and his old mare Have long been dust—yet, on the bridge’s crown, In the child’s heart within my heart, Jake still Rides, an archangel burning through the air. WHERE NEITHER MOTH NOR RUST . . . Treasures three Life’s given me— Opal-Heart of dawning dreams Shot with restless fiery gleams: Crystal-Heart by day and night Glowing with the living light: Amber-heart that wells with mirth Of the sun-enchanted earth. Every dawn’s a golden key To unlock my treasury— Heaven here and now for me! THE VOICE At sunrise, swimming out to sea, I heard a clear voice calling me From the little wood whose branches lean Over the restless water— I heard, half-dreaming that I heard The voice of some enchanted bird; And glancing back, among the green I saw my little daughter. When I must breast the stiller sea That stretches everlastingly Beneath the starless unknown night, The darkness round me falling, May it be given me to hear Life calling me as crystal-clear— To glance back once through failing light And answer that sweet calling. AUDREY On the sea’s edge she dances— Her glistening body bare Amid the light foam glances, Foam-light with tossing hair, Eager for all that chances By land or sea or air. She dances yet undreaming Of life’s oncoming tide: Yet when wild water streaming Surge round her deep and wide Her soul foam-light and gleaming Shall every danger ride. THE WIND-BELLS Listening to the glassy tinkle Of the painted Japanese Wind-bells swaying in the breeze, Michael sees Butterflies of light that twinkle Round the walls with golden glancing, Glancing, dancing to the ringing Of the crystal wind-bells swinging. As he stands there listening, dreaming, Fairer even than the flight Of the butterflies of light Flit the bright Fancies in his blue eyes gleaming— In his happy heart a rarer, Rarer fairer music singing Than the wind-bells’ crystal ringing. MICHAEL’S SONG Because I set no snare But leave them flying free, All the birds of the air Belong to me. From the bluetit on the sloe To the eagle on the height Uncaged they come and go For my delight. And so the sunward way I soar on the eagle’s wings, And in my heart all day The bluetit sings. TO MICHAEL Dear Crystal-Heart, I pray that you May do what I set out to do, Easily and happily attain What I have striven for in vain, All that, for some infirmity Of soul, life has denied to me. May you breathe out as some blithe bird All that my heart awaking heard And laboured daylong to express Through cloudy passion and sharp stress Till gushing from its crystal spring Your song in all men’s hearts shall sing: And in that music clear and true Even I at last attain through you. A GARLAND FOR JOCELYN I Little flame that barely kindled Flickered low, Little flame that paled and dwindled As we watched you, grieving so, That the life our love had wakened To the dark again should go. How we strove and strove to win you From the night, Till the baby-spirit in you Slowly conquered, burning bright, And the jealous shades were scattered, And our hearts were filled with light! II When I think of you I see A flame-winged fritillary Glancing over daffodils. When I think of you I hear Leaping laughing amber-clear Sun-enchanted rills. III Lively as a trout, Flashing in and out The golden mesh of sunlight That nets the crystal river— Darting here and there Through the dewy air My little lassie frolics With laughing life a-quiver. IV When you dance Amber-bright the sunbeams glance In your tossing hair; So your name Calls to mind a little flame Dancing in the air— Little flame for ever dancing In the rain-washed air of April, Amber flame through crystal glancing. V A charm of goldfinches That flutter and flicker Over daffodils flashing Through sunshiny showers— The light of your laughter Flashes out of the silence Though you have been sleeping In dreamland for hours. A CHILD’S DELIGHT Traps for mice and snares for birds— But who can take in a net of words Fancies in their aery flight To the crystal height Of a child’s delight? Now a golden fount of light Spraying to a rainbow bright, Then again Tinkling drops of sunny rain That turn to flaming butterflies Ere they reach the earth and rise In a cloud of changing dyes, In a cloud that spans the skies With a fiery flickering bow Melting into flakes of snow That falling change to starry flowers— Flowers that from the earth take flight Again on wings of singing light— On and on through endless hours . . . Traps for mice and snares for birds— But empty is my net of words. THE POOL Her mind’s a shallow bowl Round which in naked light The homeless goldfish glance Like flame in all men’s sight. Dazzled I watch, then turn Home-coming to the cool Star-haunted secrecies Of the dream-shadowed pool. THE BOAT Two were at the oars and two, Trailing hands, lolled in the bow When the boat stole into sight Round Emmanuel Head just now. The sky was one fierce flame of sun, The sea, a burnished glassy lake: No creak or plash of oars was there: The cleaving keel left no white wake. I blinked a moment, my hot eyes Bedazzled by the blinding light: And when I looked about again The silent boat had sunk from sight. Then fearfully my heart recalled How those most dear of all to me— The four in that phantasmal boat— Yet sojourned by another sea. THE ADDER Coiled on a hot white stone The adder basks And nothing asks Save to be let alone. Yet somewhere in the ling An enemy Crawls stealthily To rouse him up to sting: So he must lift his head Once more to fight, Till in the light He or his foe lie dead. O heart, that you might rest, And naught again Rouse from their den The angers of my breast! IN THE BURROW On every hand beset It seems we’re trapped, and yet Even now it’s not too late To try and outwit fate. Who cowers in skulking dread Of death’s already dead? While there’s a breath or glisk Of light let’s take the risk. Better to bolt and run And chance the random gun Than wait in huddled fear The red-eyed ferret here. UNITY When the cooling tyre contracts Round the felloe of the wheel, Do not spokes that once were boughs In close-knitting fibres feel A glow in being ironbound In unity secure and round For conquest of untravelled ground? SABBATH Lowing of cattle as the twilight falls Over green pastures and still waters deep; Then not a sound save where a late thrush calls Good-night to all, and turns to sleep. Till, as I dreaming watch the moon’s first beam Silver the river’s smooth and silent flood, The cheerful Christians in their chapel scream— _There is a fountain filled with blood . . ._ FABLE Said the raven to the wren: _Why are you afraid of men?_ _You are nothing but a craven_, Said the raven. While the raven still was talking, Came a boy behind him stalking, Caught him up and clipped his wings. Still uncaptured Jenny sings. PROVERB _The pitcher that goes often to the well . . ._ And where’s the tragedy in what you tell? Better go every day for half a year To fetch your fill of water cool and clear And, brimmed with living crystal, happen fall In shards and perish thus once and for all, Than stand, a dust and fly-trap, on the shelf For centuries with other useless delf. THE GUILLOTINE Obedient to the will of men The giant blade descends again, Slicing the molten steel like cheese Just as the grimy pigmies please: And something makes me laugh to see One mass of metal quietly Slicing another at the will Of bow-legged Mike and one-eyed Bill. EPITAPH Deeply he drank of life, and scorned The timid soul who sips, And stumbled out into the night With laughter on his lips. Oh, grudge me not the like, O life, When I too must depart— A gallant stirrup-cup to warm The cockles of my heart! THE PIT _With twinkling watery eyes and wheezily_ _Old Peter Walker laughed_ _And gave his chest a thump—_ Well, if you’re sick of living, you may easily Drop down the empty shaft, And lie in the black sump In peace till the last trump. Yet, I’ve a notion, like the rest of us, You’ll take the cage, my friend, For going down the pit; And be as eager as the best of us For the night-shift to end— To see the last of it When you’ve been down a bit. IN COURSE OF TIME The sarsen-stone, Door-post of temple, altar-throne Of some old god, or monument Erected by a warrior-host To mark the fallen chieftain’s tomb, In course of time has come To serve the old black sow for scratching-post. A lad’s light word, Breathed low and scarcely heard Or heeded in the babblement And blare of other tongues, has time Remembered, and the souls of men Again and yet again Take fire at that dead lad’s undying rhyme. PIG-IRON The crowbars loosed the plug of clay, And bursting from the furnace’ side The spouting molten metal gushed In a tumultuous seething tide That surged into the winter night With an exultant white-hot flare And blinded heaven and all its stars And the cold moon in one fierce glare, Till in the mould of channelled sand It cooled to red: then dull and slow It crawled in grey congealing streams That gradually ceased to flow: When clinking crowbars snapped the chilled And brittle metal short, and soon In stark cold pigs the iron lay Rigid beneath the icy moon. And so the passionate seething tide Of youth, the fury and the fire That burned up heaven and earth in one Exultant outburst of desire, Grows dull and sluggish; and too soon Shall my heart’s metal, dead and cold, Await the crowbar’s snapping stroke Indifferent in its channelled mould. LABOUR-IN-VAIN Snell moans the East-wind, Chill drizzles the rain Round the lone steading Of Labour-in-vain. Blind are the windows With never a pane, And reekless the chimneys Of Labour-in-vain. Byres empty of cattle, Barns empty of grain, And naked the rooftree Of Labour-in-vain. Yet, gaunt, peaked and sallow As moons on the wane, The ghosts of old tenants Haunt Labour-in-vain. And shriller than peesweeps Their voices complain And greet for the ruin Of Labour-in-vain— _Though life was one heartbreak_ _Of trouble and pain,_ _Would we were still living_ _At Labour-in-vain._ _Though life was a struggle,_ _The stress and the strain_ _Knitted our heart-strings_ _To Labour-in-vain._ _We tilled the sour acres_ _And sowed the scant grain,_ _And hoped for a harvest_ _At Labour-in-vain._ _And beaten and broken_ _In body and brain_ _We breathed our last sadly_ _At Labour-in-vain._ _In death there is nothing_ _To lose or to gain,_ _While at least hope was left us_ _At Labour-in-vain._ Snell moans the East-wind, Chill drizzles the rain Round the lone steading Of Labour-in-vain. And shriller than peesweeps Their voices complain And greet for the ruin Of Labour-in-vain. THE PURPLE ORCHIS You pluck the bloom to pieces with a smile, Chattering heedlessly the while, And I watch you strip the stalk Of its purple pride of petals as you talk; And the flower that when you came Burst to flame In the sunlight of your eyes Petal after petal dies, As you pluck my heart to pieces with a smile, Chattering heedlessly the while. THE SAIL A boat in the bay, You say, And watch with delight The sail flash white. A sail in the blue For you, A sail—but for me My heart at sea. ALL BEING WELL _All being well, I’ll come to you,_ _Sweetheart, before the year is through;_ _And we shall find so much to do,_ _So much to tell._ I read your letter through and through, And dreamt of all we’d say and do, Till in my heart the thought of you Rang like a bell. Now the bell tolls, my love, for you; For long before the year is through You’ve gone where there is naught to do And naught to tell. Yet mayn’t I find when life is through The best is still to say and do, When I at last may come to you, All being well? IN THE WOOD The day you came upon us in the wood You said no word but only glanced at me, And then went on to talk of something else. How could I tell you you’d misunderstood When you—you said no word of it to me, But talked so steadily of something else? If you had only spoken out I could Have told you all and you forgiven me, But you thought best to talk of something else. Because your heart was troubled you thought good To say no word about it and spare me: So we must always talk of something else. BURIED LOVE I hear your spade Delving the soft wet garden-mould, And listen half-afraid Lest you should chance dig up again the old Long-buried golden dream that died The day you came upon us side by side— Lest unaware And only half-remembering You suddenly lay bare Your love of me that perished in the Spring, And only see among the stones A huddle of unknown time-whitened bones: And so forget the heart of golden flame That died the night misunderstanding came. THE DARK GLEN As we drop downward we shall lose the moon That in high heaven kept pace with us all night. _What matter? I am wearied, of her light._ Between the crags we shall not see the sun Kindle the fell-top with his earliest ray. _What matter though we slumber through the day?_ What, lose the golden days, the silver nights, For which so eagerly we climbed the steep? _Love, I am weary, and I long for sleep._ Yet, rapt in slumber, we’ll not even know, Lost in blind dreams, that we together rest. _I only know sleep comes, and sleep is best._ NO BARREN FLAME The poppy’s flame has died, But sprinkled far and wide Its seeds abide Another harvest-tide. Though passion’s flame sink low, The seeds of fire we sow For weal or woe Through time shall burn and blow. SURVIVAL _If the worst comes to the worst_ _We can die but once_, you said; Then you ventured all and first Took your place among the dead. Sound you sleep, while I who dare Venture naught but quailing stay On the quag-edge of despair Die a hundred deaths a day— Die and live to die again: Yet it’s much to know that you Did not venture all in vain, That the worst you never knew. HEWER OF WOOD The timber I have hewn, stacked high, Would overtop Saint Mary’s spire That soars into the windy sky, Yet it has only served for fuel To feed one little cottage-fire— Has only served to keep aglow One inglenook when winter’s storm Raked heaven and earth with blinding snow— A forest felled and life-long labour To keep a little household warm. And that small fire that still devours Fresh timber burns my life away: The tale of gold and glooming hours Of tree and man’s the selfsame story— Green flame, red flame and ashes grey. BEAUTY FOR ASHES You may burn the golden glory of the gorse, But the roots into the rocky earth run deep, And the living bush will only glow to rarer fire of beauty When at last beneath the mould you lie asleep. Beauty dies not though you blast and lay it waste, Though you turn the whole earth to a cinder heap, From the ashes of your factories once again the everliving Shall awake one April morning out of sleep. THE PARTING There was no reason why he should not smile, Bidding good-bye to me, And go his way light-heartedly— And yet! There was no reason why I should not smile Happily for his sake, No reason why my heart should break— And yet! THE DISASTER Against the sunset’s rose Purple the pit-heap glows— The mound of slate and slack That all day long gloomed black: And the gaunt shaft-wheel seems Hub to a wheel of dreams, With flaming spokes that whirl In a celestial swirl Of hues beneath whose fire, With patience naught can tire, Quiet, with close-shawled head, Each woman ’waits her dead. THE MOSS _The cold bog-water clucks_ _At every step across_ _The black and quaking hags_ _Of Dead Man’s Moss—_ And what’s the hurry, squire, To reach the house you hate? Where there’s no welcome none Can come too late. Why should you labour now To lift another foot When peace lies all about The rushes’ root? Your empty house but holds The dead dream of a fool: But the end of all things waits In any pool— In any still black pool Oblivion dark and deep Awaits the heart that would Forget in sleep. YOUNG MAN CATCHIESIDE AND OLD MAN JOBLING _Old man, old man, whither are you hobbling?_ _Old man Jobling, whither are you going—_ _Battered hat and tattered coat and clogs in need of cobbling—_ _And the snell wind lowing and the mirk lift snowing?_ Young man Catchieside, and if I go afairing Who’s declaring I’m too old for going— Dressed in Sunday-best and all? And why should I be caring For the snell wind lowing and the mirk lift snowing? _Ay, but what will ’come of you as drifts get deep and deeper,_ _Steep roads steeper and your shanks too numb for going?_ Happen I shall nap—I was ever a good sleeper With the snell wind lowing and the mirk lift snowing. _Deep will be your sleep_ . . . It’s truth you are declaring— After fairing, whichever way we’re going, Deep will be the sleep of all; so why should I be caring For the snell wind lowing and the mirk lift snowing? THE LITTLE RED CALF The little red calf For a day and a half Has blinked in the light— His blue eyes adaze In the buttercup-blaze, He fancies the world is one bright Fresh field, green and yellow, A world where a fellow Whatever betide May snuggle in safety his mother’s warm side. Little brother, I too Once fancied as you The world was one fair Fresh meadow of flowers Until the black hours Burst on me and stripped the mead bare. O little red brother, Keep close to your mother Whatever betide, And snuggle as long as you may to her side! THE BED AT THE INN _Never_, I said, _Shall anything sever_ _Hearts that are wed_ _For ever and ever._ And the swinging inn-sign Took up the refrain, Creaking and squeaking Again and again: _For ever and ever—_ _Ay, so they said,_ _All the young lovers_ _Who’ve lain on that bed._ _They swore the same vow,_ _The true or false-hearted,_ _Yet all of them now_ _Has life or death parted,_ _All of them parted_ _For ever and ever—_ _And ever new lovers_ _Brag boldly of ‘Never!’_ THE STONES The plank was covered, so last night I had to leap the flooded burn; And as I landed in the fern I scared an owl to startled flight. Sharp in my ear it screeched; its cry Sang through my very marrow-bones, Curdling my heart’s blood, as the Stones Loomed gaunt against the starless sky. As through my being’s black unknown Caverns that skirl went echoing, My feet were drawn into the ring Of huddled shapes of druid-stone: Victim of some ancestral dread, My gullet bared to meet the knife, Hanging upon the edge of life Over the unseen clutching dead Crouched in the core of night, the sheer Primeval horror of the dark, I cowered—when at my feet a lark Rose with a twitter sweet and clear: And as he sang the song he sings An hour before the break of day, The spell snapped, and above the brae My heart too soared on dewy wings. THE QUARRY As the windhover Drops on the shrew, Love, O young lover, Swoops down on you, Bears your heart heavenward, Tears it in two; Swift with his capture Soars through the light— Yours the fierce rapture Of agonized flight, Talon-torn, terror-winged, Into blind night. THE PEARL And is this all You bring up from the bottom of the sea? I watched you strip and poise and recklessly Dive headlong down, as though to wrest the key From the profundity Of time’s unfathomable mystery— Only a pearl, A little fragile globe of fleckless white, You bring up, breathless, in your palm clutched tight, Trinket to make a girl’s eyes kindle bright— Naught else you bring to light From the dark chambers of old ocean’s night? _Only a pearl—_ _All colour fused in one white glow, all sound_ _In breathless silence blended, all form bound_ _In the clean compass of the perfect round—_ _Beauty, in chaos drowned,_ _Borne to the living light from deeps profound!_ THE TOLL _Ho, ferry, ho!_ The river is in spate: You cannot cross to-night. _Yet I must go_ _To-night: I cannot wait_ _Till morning light._ Come, you too then Must grasp the guiding-rope And haul the boat with me— Grasp as doomed men Clutching at their last hope. _Ay, willingly!_ Before we land Come, pay your passage, if you’d live To draw another breath— Unloose one hand . . . _See, with both hands I give_ _The full toll—death!_ NORTHERN SPRING O skein of wild-geese, flying Through April’s starry blue, Your harsh and eager crying Searches through and through My heart till it takes flight Arrow-like with you To pierce the Northern night, Shedding flakes of light From wings of flashing white Through tingling airs a-quiver On tossing waves that shiver Crystal berg and floe— On crashing ghylls and forces of winter’s melting snow. When down the water-courses The spate of April dins, Like hoofs of countless horses Thunder the threshing linns As leaping ’twixt the scars Bright froth spurts and spins And sprays the leafing spars Of woods that rake the stars; And shattering bonds and bars My spirit pours in thunder Of torrents, trampling under Dead winter’s slothful dreams, Till life’s a singing tumult of April-wakened streams. THE UNDYING FIRE What will become of you, flesh and bone, When I at last must leave you alone? _When you have left us, bird of the breast,_ _Thankfully, endlessly we shall rest._ _Long have you fluttered us, urging us ever_ _To ventures beyond our utmost endeavour,_ _Fretting us, driving us on and on_ _Until, breath failing and strength nigh gone,_ _We have longed for the day when buried deep_ _In the passionless earth we shall sink to sleep,_ _When you shall be free to wander the air_ _And we shall neither know nor care._ Think you, poor dreamers, you shall find rest Even in earth’s most secret breast? Know you not then that life’s desire Has burned in the earth with a heart of fire Ever since out of chaos she came Borne on pinions of singing flame, And not an atom, but in hot strife Perishing, flares to a fuller life, And death that seems a dreamless sleep Is but life burning more fierce and deep? OUTWARD BOUND The harbour-lights have dwindled To sparks on a grey shore Which fades into the sunset That we shall see no more Above our own land kindled. As one by one extinguished The lights of home go out, It’s time to face the onset Of night, to turn about— All thoughts of ease relinquished— To face the whirling welter, And drive before the storm That knows not dawn nor sunset— Our wits to keep us warm, And courage our sole shelter. NOTE Certain of these poems were first printed in _The Criterion_, _Form_, _The South-West Review_, _The Adelpbi_, _The Atlantic Monthly_, _The Bookman_, _The Beacon_, _The Spectator_, _The New Statesman_, _The Nation_, _The Sphere_, _The Weekly Westminster_, and _The Observer_. The author desires to make the usual acknowledgments. PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY BILLING AND SONS, LTD., GUILDFORD AND ESHER WORKS BY WILFRID GIBSON _Crown 8vo. 4s. 6d. net_ _KESTREL EDGE_ _AND OTHER PLAYS_ _The Poetry Review._—“Mr. Gibson’s method is spontaneous and sincere. We know that his characters are speaking their natural language; a language that is homely, racy and picturesque. . . . This volume has the quality of the Brontës’ work, and Mr. Gibson seems to us to be to poetic drama very much what Emily Brontë was to prose narrative.” _The Observer._—“Mr. Gibson is more than usually successful in this series of dramatic dialogues in blank verse.” _Crown 8vo. 4s. 6d. net_ _KRINDLESYKE_ _Mr. Laurence Binyon in “The Observer.”_—“‘Krindlesyke’ is at once the most ambitious and the strongest work that Mr. Wilfrid Gibson has given us. It is a dramatic poem, firmly designed, and carried out with abundant energy and power.” _Prof. C. H. 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