A Shropshire Lad | Page 2

have seen it plain,?From north and south the sign returns?And beacons burn again.
Look left, look right, the hills are bright,?The dales are light between,?Because 'tis fifty years to-night?That God has saved the Queen.
Now, when the flame they watch not towers?About the soil they trod,?Lads, we'll remember friends of ours?Who shared the work with God.
To skies that knit their heartstrings right,?To fields that bred them brave,?The saviours come not home to-night:?Themselves they could not save.
It dawns in Asia, tombstones show?And Shropshire names are read;?And the Nile spills his overflow?Beside the Severn's dead.
We pledge in peace by farm and town?The Queen they served in war,?And fire the beacons up and down?The land they perished for.
"God Save the Queen" we living sing,?From height to height 'tis heard;?And with the rest your voices ring,?Lads of the Fifty-third.
Oh, God will save her, fear you not:?Be you the men you've been,?Get you the sons your fathers got,?And God will Save the Queen.
II
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now?Is hung with bloom along the bough,?And stands about the woodland ride?Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,?Twenty will not come again,?And take from seventy springs a score,?It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom?Fifty springs are little room,?About the woodlands I will go?To see the cherry hung with snow.
III
THE RECRUIT
Leave your home behind, lad,?And reach your friends your hand,?And go, and luck go with you?While Ludlow tower shall stand.
Oh, come you home of Sunday?When Ludlow streets are still?And Ludlow bells are calling?To farm and lane and mill,
Or come you home of Monday?When Ludlow market hums?And Ludlow chimes are playing?"The conquering hero comes,"
Come you home a hero,?Or come not home at all,?The lads you leave will mind you?Till Ludlow tower shall fall.
And you will list the bugle?That blows in lands of morn,?And make the foes of England?Be sorry you were born.
And you till trump of doomsday?On lands of morn may lie,?And make the hearts of comrades?Be heavy where you die.
Leave your home behind you,?Your friends by field and town?Oh, town and field will mind you?Till Ludlow tower is down.
IV
REVEILLE
Wake: the silver dusk returning?Up the beach of darkness brims,?And the ship of sunrise burning?Strands upon the eastern rims.
Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,?Trampled to the floor it spanned,?And the tent of night in tatters?Straws the sky-pavilioned land.
Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying:?Hear the drums of morning play;?Hark, the empty highways crying?"Who'll beyond the hills away?"
Towns and countries woo together,?Forelands beacon, belfries call;?Never lad that trod on leather?Lived to feast his heart with all.
Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber?Sunlit pallets never thrive;?Morns abed and daylight slumber?Were not meant for man alive.
Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;?Breath's a ware that will not keep?Up, lad: when the journey's over?There'll be time enough to sleep.
V
Oh see how thick the goldcup flowers?Are lying in field and lane,?With dandelions to tell the hours?That never are told again.?Oh may I squire you round the meads?And pick you posies gay??-'Twill do no harm to take my arm.?"You may, young man, you may."
Ah, spring was sent for lass and lad,?'Tis now the blood runs gold,?And man and maid had best be glad?Before the world is old.?What flowers to-day may flower to-morrow,?But never as good as new.?-Suppose I wound my arm right round-?" 'Tis true, young man, 'tis true."
Some lads there are, 'tis shame to say,?That only court to thieve,?And once they bear the bloom away?'Tis little enough they leave.?Then keep your heart for men like me?And safe from trustless chaps.?My love is true and all for you.?"Perhaps, young man, perhaps."
Oh, look in my eyes, then, can you doubt??-Why, 'tis a mile from town.?How green the grass is all about!?We might as well sit down.?-Ah, life, what is it but a flower??Why must true lovers sigh??Be kind, have pity, my own, my pretty,-?"Good-bye, young man, good-bye."
VI
When the lad for longing sighs,?Mute and dull of cheer and pale,?If at death's own door he lies,?Maiden, you can heal his ail.
Lovers' ills are all to buy:?The wan look, the hollow tone,?The hung head, the sunken eye,?You can have them for your own.
Buy them, buy them: eve and morn?Lovers' ills are all to sell.?Then you can lie down forlorn;?But the lover will be well.
VII
When smoke stood up from Ludlow,?And mist blew off from Teme,?And blithe afield to ploughing?Against the morning beam?I strode beside my team,
The blackbird in the coppice?Looked out to see me stride,?And hearkened as I whistled?The tramping team beside,?And fluted and replied:
"Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;?What use to rise and rise??Rise man a thousand mornings?Yet down at last he lies,?And then the man is wise."
I heard the tune he sang me,?And spied his yellow bill;?I picked a stone and aimed it?And threw it with a will:?Then the bird was still.
Then my soul within me?Took up the blackbird's strain,?And still beside the horses?Along