Collected Poems 1901-1918 in Two Volumes - Volume II. | Page 8

lanthorns for feasting?The gay Fa?rie;?'Tis sand for the dancing,?A music all sweet?In the water-green gloaming?For thistledown feet";?Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry,?Sweet Annie Maroon?Looked large on the fairy?Curled wan as the moon;?And all the grey ripples?To the Mill racing by,?With harps and with timbrels?Did ringing reply;?Singing down-adown-derry.
"Down-adown-derry,"?Sang the Fairy of Doone,?Piercing the heart?Of sweet Annie Maroon;?And lo! when like roses?The clouds of the sun?Faded at dusk, gone?Was Annie Maroon;?Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry,?The daisies are few;?Frost twinkles powdery?In haunts of the dew;?And only the robin?Perched on a thorn,?Can comfort the heart?Of a father forlorn;?Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry,?There's snow in the air;?Ice where the lily?Bloomed waxen and fair;?He may call o'er the water,?Cry--cry through the Mill,?But Annie Maroon, alas!?Answer ne'er will;?Singing down-adown-derry.
THE SUPPER
A wolf he pricks with eyes of fire?Across the night's o'ercrusted snows.
Seeking his prey,?He pads his way?Where Jane benighted goes,?Where Jane benighted goes.
He curdles the bleak air with ire,?Ruffling his hoary raiment through,
And lo! he sees?Beneath the trees?Where Jane's light footsteps go,?Where Jane's light footsteps go.
No hound peals thus in wicked joy,?He snaps his muzzle in the snows,
His five-clawed feet?Do scamper fleet?Where Jane's bright lanthorn shows,?Where Jane's bright lanthorn shows.
Now his greed's green doth gaze unseen?On a pure face of wilding rose,
Her amber eyes?In fear's surprise?Watch largely as she goes,?Watch largely as she goes.
Salt wells his hunger in his jaws,?His lust it revels to and fro,
Yet small beneath?A soft voice saith,?"Jane shall in safety go,?Jane shall in safety go."
He lurched as if a fiery lash?Had scourged his hide, and through and through
His furious eyes?O'erscanned the skies,?But nearer dared not go,?But nearer dared not go.
He reared like wild Bucephalus,?His fangs like spears in him uprose,
Even to the town?Jane's flitting gown?He grins on as she goes,?He grins on as she goes.
In fierce lament he howls amain,?He scampers, marvelling in his throes
What brought him there?To sup on air,?While Jane unharm��d goes,?While Jane unharm��d goes.
THE ISLE OF LONE
Three dwarfs there were which lived in an isle,?And the name of that Isle was Lone,?And the names of the dwarfs were Alliolyle,?Lallerie, Muziomone.
Alliolye was green of een,?Lallerie light of locks,?Muziomone was mild of mien,?As ewes in April flocks.
Their house was small and sweet of the sea,?And pale as the Malmsey wine;?Their bowls were three, and their beds were three,?And their nightcaps white were nine.
Their beds they were made of the holly-wood,?Their combs of the tortoise's shell,?Three basins of silver in corners there stood,?And three little ewers as well.
Green rushes, green rushes lay thick on the floor,?For light beamed a gobbet of wax;?There were three wooden stools for whatever they wore?On their humpity-dumpity backs.
So each would lie on a drowsy pillow?And watch the moon in the sky--?And hear the parrot scream to the billow,?The billow roar reply:
Parrots of sapphire and sulphur and amber,?Scarlet, and flame, and green,?While five-foot apes did scramble and clamber,?In the feathery-tufted treen.
All night long with bubbles a-glisten?The ocean cried under the moon,?Till ape and parrot, too sleepy to listen,?To sleep and slumber were gone.
Then from three small beds the dark hours' while?In a house in the Island of Lone?Rose the snoring of Lallerie, Alliolyle,?The snoring of Muziomone.
But soon as ever came peep of sun?On coral and feathery tree,?Three night-capped dwarfs to the surf would run?And soon were a-bob in the sea.
At six they went fishing, at nine they snared?Young foxes in the dells,?At noon on sweet berries and honey they fared,?And blew in their twisted shells.
Dark was the sea they gambolled in,?And thick with silver fish,?Dark as green glass blown clear and thin?To be a monarch's dish.
They sate to sup in a jasmine bower,?Lit pale with flies of fire,?Their bowls the hue of the iris-flower,?And lemon their attire.
Sweet wine in little cups they sipped,?And golden honeycomb?Into their bowls of cream they dipped,?Whipt light and white as foam.
Now Alliolyle, where the sand-flower blows,?Taught three old apes to sing--?Taught three old apes to dance on their toes?And caper around in a ring.
They yelled them hoarse and they croaked them sweet,?They twirled them about and around,?To the noise of their voices they danced with their feet,?They stamped with their feet on the ground.
But down to the shore skipped Lallerie,?His parrot on his thumb,?And the twain they scotched in mockery,?While the dancers go and come.
And, alas! in the evening, rosy and still,?Light-haired Lallerie?Bitterly quarrelled with Alliolyle?By the yellow-sanded sea.
The rising moon swam sweet and large?Before their furious eyes,?And they rolled and rolled to the coral marge?Where the surf for ever cries.
Too late, too late, comes Muziomone:?Clear in the clear green sea?Alliolyle lies not alone,?But clasped with Lallerie.
He blows on his shell plaintiff notes;?Ape, parraquito, bee?Flock where a shoe on the salt wave floats,--?The shoe of Lallerie.
He fetches nightcaps, one and nine,?Grey apes he dowers three,?His house as fair as the Malmsey wine?Seems sad as cypress-tree.
Three bowls he brims with sweet honeycomb?To feast the bumble bees,?Saying, "O bees, be this your home,?For grief is on the