A Shropshire Lad | Page 2

poems preserved with a freshness and vitality,
which are the qualities
of enduring genius.
WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE

A SHROPSHIRE LAD
I
1887
From Clee to heaven the beacon burns,
The shires 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