Country Sentiment | Page 6

from the green.?Allie calls, Allie sings,?Soon they run in.?First there came?Tom and Madge,?Kate and I who'll not forget?How we played by the water's edge?Till the April sun set.
LOVING HENRY.
Henry, Henry, do you love me??Do I love you, Mary??Oh, can you mean to liken me?To the aspen tree.?Whose leaves do shake and vary,?From white to green?And back again,?Shifting and contrary?
Henry, Henry, do you love me,?Do you love me truly??Oh, Mary, must I say again?My love's a pain,?A torment most unruly??It tosses me?Like a ship at sea?When the storm rages fully.
Henry, Henry, why do you love me??Mary, dear, have pity!?I swear, of all the girls there are?Both near and far,?In country or in city,?There's none like you,?So kind, so true,?So wise, so brave, so pretty.
BRITTLE BONES.
Though I am an old man?With my bones very brittle,?Though I am a poor old man?Worth very little,?Yet I suck at my long pipe?At peace in the sun,?I do not fret nor much regret?That my work is done.
If I were a young man?With my bones full of marrow,?Oh, if I were a bold young man?Straight as an arrow,?And if I had the same years?To live once again,?I would not change their simple range?Of laughter and pain.
If I were a young man?And young was my Lily,?A smart girl, a bold young man,?Both of us silly.?And though from time before I knew?She'd stab me with pain,?Though well I knew she'd not be true,?I'd love her again.
If I were a young man?With a brisk, healthy body,?Oh, if I were a bold young man?With love of rum toddy,?Though I knew that I was spiting?My old age with pain,?My happy lip would touch and sip?Again and again.
If I were a young man?With my bones full of marrow,?Oh, if I were a bold young man?Straight as an arrow,?I'd store up no virtue?For Heaven's distant plain,?I'd live at ease as I did please?And sin once again.
APPLES AND WATER.
Dust in a cloud, blinding weather,?Drums that rattle and roar!?A mother and daughter stood together?Beside their cottage door.
"Mother, the heavens are bright like brass,?The dust is shaken high,?With labouring breath the soldiers pass,?Their lips are cracked and dry."
"Mother, I'll throw them apples down,?I'll bring them pails of water."?The mother turned with an angry frown?Holding back her daughter.
"But mother, see, they faint with thirst,?They march away to die,"?"Ah, sweet, had I but known at first?Their throats are always dry."
"There is no water can supply them?In western streams that flow,?There is no fruit can satisfy them?On orchard trees that grow."
"Once in my youth I gave, poor fool,?A soldier apples and water,?So may I die before you cool?Your father's drouth, my daughter."
MANTICOR IN ARABIA.
(The manticors of the montaines?Mighte feed them on thy braines.--Skelton.)
Thick and scented daisies spread?Where with surface dull like lead?Arabian pools of slime invite?Manticors down from neighbouring height?To dip heads, to cool fiery blood?In oozy depths of sucking mud.?Sing then of ringstraked manticor,?Man-visaged tiger who of yore?Held whole Arabian waste in fee?With raging pride from sea to sea,?That every lesser tribe would fly?Those armed feet, that hooded eye;?Till preying on himself at last?Manticor dwindled, sank, was passed?By gryphon flocks he did disdain.?Ay, wyverns and rude dragons reign?In ancient keep of manticor?Agreed old foe can rise no more.?Only here from lakes of slime?Drinks manticor and bides due time:?Six times Fowl Phoenix in yon tree?Must mount his pyre and burn and be?Renewed again, till in such hour?As seventh Phoenix flames to power?And lifts young feathers, overnice?From scented pool of steamy spice?Shall manticor his sway restore?And rule Arabian plains once more.
OUTLAWS.
Owls: they whinney down the night,?Bats go zigzag by.?Ambushed in shadow out of sight?The outlaws lie.
Old gods, shrunk to shadows, there?In the wet woods they lurk,?Greedy of human stuff to snare?In webs of murk.
Look up, else your eye must drown?In a moving sea of black?Between the tree-tops, upside down?Goes the sky-track.
Look up, else your feet will stray?Towards that dim ambuscade,?Where spider-like they catch their prey?In nets of shade.
For though creeds whirl away in dust,?Faith fails and men forget,?These aged gods of fright and lust?Cling to life yet.
Old gods almost dead, malign,?Starved of their ancient dues,?Incense and fruit, fire, blood and wine?And an unclean muse.
Banished to woods and a sickly moon,?Shrunk to mere bogey things,?Who spoke with thunder once at noon?To prostrate kings.
With thunder from an open sky?To peasant, tyrant, priest,?Bowing in fear with a dazzled eye?Towards the East.
Proud gods, humbled, sunk so low,?Living with ghosts and ghouls,?And ghosts of ghosts and last year's snow?And dead toadstools.
BALOO LOO FOR JENNY.
Sing baloo loo for Jenny?And where is she gone??Away to spy her mother's land,?Riding all alone.
To the rich towns of Scotland,?The woods and the streams,?High upon a Spanish horse?Saddled for her dreams.
By Oxford and by Chester,?To Berwick-on-the-Tweed,?Then once across the borderland?She shall find no need.
A loaf for her at Stirling,?A scone at Carlisle,?Honeyed cakes at Edinbro'--?That shall make her smile.
At Aberdeen clear cider,?Mead