Country Sentiment | Page 7

for her at Nairn,?A cup of wine at John o' Groats--?That shall please my bairn.
Sing baloo loo for Jenny,?Mother will be fain?To see her little truant child?Riding home again.
HAWK AND BUCKLE.
Where is the landlord of old Hawk and Buckle,?And what of Master Straddler this hot summer weather??He's along in the tap-room with broad cheeks a-chuckle,?And ten bold companions all drinking together.
Where is the daughter of old Hawk and Buckle,?And what of Mistress Jenny this hot summer weather??She sits in the parlour with smell of honeysuckle,?Trimming her bonnet with red ostrich feather.
Where is the ostler of old Hawk and Buckle,?And what of Willy Jakeman this hot summer weather??He is rubbing his eyes with a slow and lazy knuckle?As he wakes from his nap on a bank of fresh heather.
Where is the page boy of old Hawk and Buckle,?And what of our young Charlie this hot summer weather??He is bobbing for tiddlers in a little trickle-truckle,?With his line and his hook and his breeches of leather.
Where is the grey goat of old Hawk and Buckle,?And what of pretty Nanny this hot summer weather??She stays not contented with little or with muckle,?Straining for daisies at the end of her tether.
For this is our motto at old Hawk and Buckle,?We cling to it close and we sing all together,?"Every man for himself at our old Hawk and Buckle,?And devil take the hindmost this hot summer weather."
THE "ALICE JEAN".
One moonlit night a ship drove in,?A ghost ship from the west,?Drifting with bare mast and lone tiller,?Like a mermaid drest?In long green weed and barnacles:?She beached and came to rest.
All the watchers of the coast?Flocked to view the sight,?Men and women streaming down?Through the summer night,?Found her standing tall and ragged?Beached in the moonlight.
Then one old woman looked and wept?"The 'Alice Jean'? But no!?The ship that took my Dick from me?Sixty years ago?Drifted back from the utmost west?With the ocean's flow?
"Caught and caged in the weedy pool?Beyond the western brink,?Where crewless vessels lie and rot?in waters black as ink.?Torn out again by a sudden storm?Is it the 'Jean', you think?"
A hundred women stared agape,?The menfolk nudged and laughed,?But none could find a likelier story?For the strange craft.?With fear and death and desolation?Rigged fore and aft.
The blind ship came forgotten home?To all but one of these?Of whom none dared to climb aboard her:?And by and by the breeze?Sprang to a storm and the "Alice Jean"?Foundered in frothy seas.
THE CUPBOARD.
Mother
What's in that cupboard, Mary?
Mary
Which cupboard, mother dear?
Mother
The cupboard of red mahogany?With handles shining clear.
Mary
That cupboard, dearest mother,?With shining crystal handles??There's nought inside but rags and jags?And yellow tallow candles.
Mother
What's in that cupboard, Mary?
Mary
Which cupboard, mother mine?
Mother
That cupboard stands in your sunny chamber,?The silver corners shine.
Mary
There's nothing there inside, mother,?But wool and thread and flax,?And bits of faded silk and velvet,?And candles of white wax.
Mother
What's in that cupboard, Mary??And this time tell me true.
Mary
White clothes for an unborn baby, mother,?But what's the truth to you?
THE BEACON.
The silent shepherdess,?She of my vows,?Here with me exchanging love?Under dim boughs.
Shines on our mysteries?A sudden spark--?"Dout the candle, glow-worm,?Let all be dark.
"The birds have sung their last notes,?The Sun's to bed,?Glow-worm, dout your candle."?The glow-worm said:
"I also am a lover;?The lamp I display?Is beacon for my true love?Wandering astray.
"Through the thick bushes?And the grass comes she?With a heartload of longing?And love for me.
"Sir, enjoy your fancy,?But spare me harm,?A lover is a lover,?Though but a worm."
POT AND KETTLE.
Come close to me, dear Annie, while I bind a lover's knot.?A tale of burning love between a kettle and a pot.?The pot was stalwart iron and the kettle trusty tin,?And though their sides were black with smoke they bubbled love within.
Forget that kettle, Jamie, and that pot of boiling broth,?I know a dismal story of a candle and a moth.?For while your pot is boiling and while your kettle sings?My moth makes love to candle flame and burns away his wings.
Your moth, I envy, Annie, that died by candle flame,?But here are two more lovers, unto no damage came.?There was a cuckoo loved a clock and found her always true. For every hour they told their hearts, "Ring! ting! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"
As the pot boiled for the kettle, as the kettle for the pot, So boils my love within me till my breast is glowing hot.?As the moth died for the candle, so could I die for you.?And my fond heart beats time with yours and cries, "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"
GHOST RADDLED.
"Come, surly fellow, come! A song!"?What, madmen? Sing to you??Choose from the clouded tales of wrong?And terror I bring to you.
Of a night so torn with cries,?Honest men sleeping?Start awake with glaring eyes,?Bone-chilled, flesh creeping.
Of spirits in the web hung room?Up above the stable,?Groans, knockings in the gloom,?The dancing table.
Of demons in the dry well?That cheep and mutter,?Clanging of an unseen bell,?Blood choking the gutter.
Of lust frightful,