A Shropshire Lad | Page 5

never be old.
There's chaps from the town and the field and the till and the cart, And
many to count are the stalwart, and many the brave,
And many the
handsome of face and the handsome of heart,
And few that will carry
their looks or their truth to the grave.
I wish one could know them, I wish there were tokens to tell The
fortunate fellows that now you can never discern;
And then one could
talk with them friendly and wish them farewell And watch them depart
on the way that they will not return.
But now you may stare as you like and there's nothing to scan; And
brushing your elbow unguessed-at and not to be told
They carry back
bright to the coiner the mintage of man,
The lads that will die in their
glory and never be old.
XXIV
Say, lad, have you things to do?
Quick then, while your day's at
prime.
Quick, and if 'tis work for two,
Here am I, man: now's your
time.
Send me now, and I shall go;
Call me, I shall hear you call;
Use me
ere they lay me low
Where a man's no use at all;
Ere the wholesome flesh decay,
And the willing nerve be numb,

And the lips lack breath to say,
"No, my lad, I cannot come."
XXV

This time of year a twelvemonth past,
When Fred and I would meet,

We needs must jangle, till at last
We fought and I was beat.
So then the summer fields about,
Till rainy days began,
Rose
Harland on her Sundays out
Walked with the better man.
The better man she walks with still,
Though now 'tis not with Fred:

A lad that lives and has his will
Is worth a dozen dead.
Fred keeps the house all kinds of weather,
And clay's the house he
keeps;
When Rose and I walk out together
Stock-still lies Fred and
sleeps.
XXVI
Along the fields as we came by
A year ago, my love and I,
The
aspen over stile and stone
Was talking to itself alone.
"Oh who are
these that kiss and pass?
A country lover and his lass;
Two lovers
looking to be wed;
And time shall put them both to bed,
But she
shall lie with earth above,
And he beside another love."
And sure enough beneath the tree
There walks another love with me,

And overhead the aspen heaves
Its rainy-sounding silver leaves;

And I spell nothing in their stir,
But now perhaps they speak to her,

And plain for her to understand
They talk about a time at hand

When I shall sleep with clover clad,
And she beside another lad.
XXVII
"Is my team ploughing,
That I was used to drive
And hear the
harness jingle
When I was man alive?"
Ay, the horses trample,
The harness jingles now;
No change though
you lie under
The land you used to plough.

"Is football playing
Along the river shore,
With lads to chase the
leather,
Now I stand up no more?"
Ay, the ball is flying,
The lads play heart and soul;
The goal stands
up, the keeper
Stands up to keep the goal.
"Is my girl happy,
That I thought hard to leave,
And has she tired of
weeping
As she lies down at eve?"
Ay, she lies down lightly,
She lies not down to weep:
Your girl is
well contented.
Be still, my lad, and sleep.
"Is my friend hearty,
Now I am thin and pine,
And has he found to
sleep in
A better bed than mine?"
Yes, lad, I lie easy,
I lie as lads would choose;
I cheer a dead man's
sweetheart,
Never ask me whose.
XXVIII
THE WELSH MARCHES
High the vanes of Shrewsbury gleam
Islanded in Severn stream;

The bridges from the steepled crest
Cross the water east and west.
The flag of morn in conqueror's state
Enters at the English gate:

The vanquished eve, as night prevails,
Bleeds upon the road to
Wales.
Ages since the vanquished bled
Round my mother's marriage-bed;

There the ravens feasted far
About the open house of war:
When Severn down to Buildwas ran
Coloured with the death of man,

Couched upon her brother's grave
The Saxon got me on the slave.
The sound of fight is silent long
That began the ancient wrong;


Long the voice of tears is still
That wept of old the endless ill.
In my heart it has not died,
The war that sleeps on Severn side;

They cease not fighting, east and west,
On the marches of my breast.
Here the truceless armies yet
Trample, rolled in blood and sweat;

They kill and kill and never die;
And I think that each is I.
None will part us, none undo
The knot that makes one flesh of two,

Sick with hatred, sick with pain,
Strangling-When shall we be slain?
When shall I be dead and rid
Of the wrong my father did?
How
long, how long, till spade and hearse
Put to sleep my mother's curse?
XXIX
THE LENT LILY
'Tis spring; come out to ramble
The hilly brakes around,
For under
thorn and bramble
About the hollow ground
The primroses are
found.
And there's the windflower chilly
With all the winds at play,
And
there's the Lenten lily
That has not long to stay
And dies on Easter
day.
And since till girls go maying
You