The Ballad of John Silver
We were schooner-rigged and rakish, with a long and lissom hull,
And we flew the pretty colours of the crossbones and the skull;
We'd a big black Jolly Roger flapping grimly at the fore,
And we sailed the Spanish Water in the happy days of yore.
We'd a long brass gun amidships, like a well-conducted ship,
We had each a brace of pistols and a cutlass at the hip ;
It's a point which tells against us, and a fact to be deplored,
But we chased the goodly merchant-men and laid their ships aboard.
Then the dead men fouled the scuppers and the wounded filled the chains,
And the paint-work all was spatterdashed with other people's brains.
She was boarded, she was looted, she was scuttled till she sank,
And the pale survivors left us by the medium the plank.
O! then it was (while standing by the taffrail on  the poop)
We could hear the drowning folk lament the absent chicken-coop;
Then, having washed the blood away, we'd little else to do,
Than to dance a quiet hornpipe as the old salts taught us to.
O! the fiddle on the fo'c's'le, and the slapping naked soles,
And the genial " Down the middle, Jake, and curtsy when she rolls."
With the silver seas around us and the pale moon overhead,
And the lookout not a-looking and his pipe bowl glowing red.
Ah! the pigtailed, quidding pirates and the pretty pranks we played,
All have since been put a stop to by the Naughty Board of Trade;
The schooners and the merry crews are laid away to rest,
A little south the sunset in the Islands of the Blest.
-From the Collected Poems of John Masefield.
(William Heinemann, Ltd.)

O SUMMER SUN.
O summer sun, O moving trees! O cheerful human noise, O busy glittering 
street! What hour shall Fate in all the future
find, Or what delights, ever to equal these: Only to taste the warmth, the 
light, the wind, Only to be alive, and feel that life
is sweet?
--LAURENCE BINYON, in Poems. (Elkin Mathews.)

THE STORY OF FROZEN JAMES.
What a charming boy was James! Good at lessons, good at games, Courteous to aunts and others, Patient with 
his
younger brothers. Yet this almost perfect lad One unholy passion had: He would think and talk and dream All day 
long about ice-cream.
In the middle of the morning First would come the tinkled warning; Out he'd rush and gobble up "Block" and "Cornet," "Brick" 
and "Cup."
Then between his lunch and tea He'd dispose of two or three, And before the 
day was done Cram in yet another one.
Foolish child! this chilly diet Caused his parents much disquiet. " James," 
they said with baited breath, "Mark our
words - you'll freeze to death."
Parents' warnings (some have found) Aren't so silly as they sound. James 
ignoring their advice, One fine day was
turned to ice. What a lamentable plight! Half was pink and half was white, 
While, where fingers should have been,
Icicles were plainly seen. " Will the wretched boy expire? Quickly-we must 
light a fire. Henry fetch some sticks and
straw!" Just in time his parents saw James at last begin to thaw. Now once 
more he's safe and warm, Quite restored
to human form: But somehow he doesn't seem Half so partial to ice-cream.
JAN STRUTHER, in "Punch."

ROMANCE.
When I was but thirteen or so I went into a golden land, Chimborazo, 
Cotopaxi Took me by the hand.
My father died, my brother too, They passed like fleeting dreams, I stood 
where Popocatapetl In the sunlight gleams.
I dimly heard the master's voice And boys far off at play, Chimborazo, 
Cotopaxi Had stolen me away.
I walked in a great golden dream To and fro from school - Shining
Popocatapetl The dusty streets did rule. 
I walked home with a gold dark boy And never a word I'd say, Chimborazo, 
Cotopaxi Had taken my speech away:
I gazed entranced upon his face Fairer than any flower - O shining 
Popocatapetl It was thy magic hour:
The houses, people, traffic seemed Thin fading dreams by day, Chimborazo, 
Cotopaxi They had stolen my soul away!
---WALTER JAMES TURNER, in "The Hunter and Other Poems." (Sidgwick and 
Jackson.)

MASTER RABBIT.
As I was walking, Thyme sweet to my nose, Green grasshoppers talking, 
Rose rivalling rose:
And wings, like amber, Outspread in light, As from bush to bush The 
linnets look flight:
Master Rabbit I saw In the shadow-rimmed mouth Of his sandy cavern 
Looking out to the South.
'Twas dew-tide coming, The turf was sweet To nostril, curved tooth, And 
wool-soft feet.
Sun was in West: Like crystal in beam Of its golden shower Did his round 
eye gleam.
Lank horror was I, And a foe, poor soul! - Snowy flit of a scut, He was 
into his hole:
And - Stamp, stamp, stamp! Through dim labyrinths clear; The whole world 
darkened, A Human near!
-WALTER DE LA MARE, in "Stories, Essays, and Poems." Dent's Everyman's Library.)

THE VIPER.
Barefoot I went and made no sound; The earth was hot beneath: The air was quivering around, The circling kestrel
eyed the ground And hung above the heath.
There in the pathway stretched along The lovely serpent lay: She reared not up the heath among, She bowed her
head, she sheathed her tongue, And shining stole away.
Fair was the brave embroidered dress, Fairer the gold eyes shone: Loving her not yet did I bless The fallen angel's
comeliness; And gazed where she had gone.
-RUTH PITTER, in " A Trophy of Arms." (Cresset Press.)

TO A PANTHER.
"Behold, the felon Pard bath slain a goat
Whereof he hath but tasted; which thereby
He must revisit." So they spoke, and I,
Hopeful, allowed alluring dreams to float,
Before mine eager eye
A mounted head for me, a panther coat For someone else, an honest 
evening's fun, Hazard, an outlaw slain, a good
deed truly done.
And so for love of you I left my camp
And staggered weary miles into the blue
And sat in a machan the long night through,
Eaten by ants and crucified by cramp.
And did you come? Not you.
Phoebus went down and Dian raised her lamp;
In solemn march the constellations passed; 
And now the dawn's afoot . . . Home, John,
ay, home at last!
 Confound you, Pard, you spotted insolent!
 The feast was ready and the table spread;
 Why were you not by common cravings led,
 By appetites and ravening hungers rent,
 That clamoured to be fed?
 Why not have dined-or come with that intent
 And trysted with the poor benighted bard,
 Instead of backing out like this? Oh, curse you,
 Pard!
 And yet - and yet - so sweet, so passing fair,
 So magical was this sequestered spot
 (Of your selection) that the bard forgot,
 So soon as evening wandered down the air,
 He had been tired and hot;
 And sat bewitched and drank the nectar rare
 Of dew and sunset and the scented flowers,
 Till lastly rose the moon; and then came fairy hours.
 Came last the moon with solace in her train,
 And thoughts that shun rude day's bedevillings,
 And night-time fantasies on timid wings,
 And but for you in slumber I had lain
 Missing these lovely things;
 And though you should, to crown it, have been
 slain,
 I grudge you not your night of happiness,
 For I - well, after all, I too have had no less.
 And so let's say all's happened for the best.
I'll to the homeward byways ghostly lit
 With waning moonshine; You the while may flit
 Down scented glades on your eternal quest-
 Lord give you joy of it!
And though you would not come at my behest,
 Let's hope you bag some fat upstanding buck.
 Good hunting, friend, to you; good night, dear Pard,
 good luck!
 -HILTON BROWN. (Noel Douglas's copyright.)

A SUNDIAL.
I number none but hours serene; The days are mine, but not the nights; Over my dark-lined visage lean 
Children,
amid their summer rites, Chasing the shadow every way, Till butterflies distract their play.
A pillar lifts me up to meet The moving message of the sun; My gnomon tires not; I regret The dewless 
motes that
slide and run. I share no Phaethon's fatal zeal; Heaven strikes, but sunders not, my wheel.
I shall remain when both are dead Who placed me in this walk of box, Long after their last bloom is 
shed By the
sweet-william and the phlox. Eternity I may not boast, Yet I wear out more time than most.
-E. H. W. MEYERSTEIN. (Oxford  University Press's copyright.)

KING GOODHEART.
There lived a King, as I've been told,  In the wonder -working days of old,
When hearts were twice as good as gold,
And twenty times as mellow.
Good-temper triumphed in his face,
And in his heart he found a place
For all the erring human race
And every wretched fellow.
When he had Rhenish wine to drink
It made him very sad to think
That some, at junket or at jink,
Must be content with toddy.
He wished all men as rich as he
(And he was rich as rich could be),
So to the top of every tree
Promoted everybody!
Lord Chancellors were cheap as sprats, And Bishops in their shovel hats 
Were plentiful as tabby cats In point of fact,
too many. Ambassadors cropped up like hay, Prime Ministers and such as 
they, Grew like asparagus in May, And
Dukes were three a penny. On every side Field Marshals gleamed, Small beer 
were Lords Lieutenant deemed, With
Admirals the ocean teemed All round his wide dominions. And Party leaders 
you might meet In twos and threes in
every street, Maintaining, with no little heat,
Their various opinions.
That King, although no one denies, His heart was of abnormal size, Yet he'd 
have acted otherwise If he had been
acuter. The end is easily foretold. When every blessed thing you hold Is 
made of silver, or of gold, You long for simple pewter.
When you have nothing else to wear, But cloth of gold and satins rare, 
For cloth of gold you cease to care
Up goes the price of shoddy.
In short, whoever you may be, To this conclusion you'll agree, When 
everyone is somebodee,
Then no one's anybody!
-W. S. GILBERT, in" The Gondoliers." (Miss
Nancy McIntosh's copyright.)

A WINDY DAY.
This wind brings all dead things to life, Branches that lash the air like 
whips And dead leaves rolling in a hurry Or
peering in a rabbit's bury Or trying to push down a tree; Gates that fly 
open to the wind And close again behind, And
fields that are a flowing sea And make cattle look like ships; Straws 
glistening and stiff Lying on air as on a shelf And
pond that leaps to leave itself; And feathers too that rise and float, Each 
feather changed into a bird, And line-hung
sheets that crack and strain; Even the sun-greened coat, That through so 
many winds has served, The scarecrow
struggles to put on again.
-ANDREW YOUNG, in " Collected Poems." (Jonathan Cape.)

CHORUS OF HOME-COMING SHIPS.
From the uttermost bound of the wind and the foam, From creek and from 
sound, we are hastening home.
We are laden with treasure from ransacked seas, To charm your leisure, to 
grace your ease.
We have trodden the billows, and tracked the ford, To soften your pillows, 
to heap your board.
The hills have been shattered, the forests scattered, Our white sails 
tattered, to swell your hoard.
Is it blossom, or fruit, or seed, you crave? The land is your suitor, the 
sea your slave.
We have raced with the swallows, and threaded the floes,
Where the walrus wallows 'mid melting snows;
Sought regions torrid, and realms of sleet, To gem your forehead, to swathe 
your feet,
And behold, now we tender, with pennons unfurled, For your comfort and 
splendour, the wealth of the world.
-ALFRED AUSTIN.


MARY.
When Mary wore the English crown, Old England still held Calais Town. But 
ere she died, to Mary's pain, Old France
got Calais back again.
Now for some cause obscure and queer, Mary held Calais far more dear Than 
all the charming English towns
Between the Cheviots and the downs.
" Alas! " quoth she to those who tried To soothe her grief and heal her 
pride, " You'll find when I this life depart
'Calais' engraved upon my heart! "
A truly touching thought, but who Could say for sure if it were true? For 
no one in those Tudor days Had yet
discovered the X-rays.
-ELEANOR FARJEON.

AUTUMN.
Frost on the stubble,
Rime on the rose; Hoary with trouble
King Summer grows.
His splendour pales,
His pennons fall, Insurgent gales
Howl through his hall.
Crooked spiders spin
His bowers about; His days draw in,
His hours run out.
-R L. LUCAS.

HOPE.
In hope a king doth go to war;
In hope a lover lives full long; In hope a merchant sails full far;
In hope just men do suffer wrong. In hope the ploughman sows his seed: Thus 
hope helps thousands at their need.
Then faint not, heart, among the rest; Whatever chance, hope thou the best.
-ANONYMOUS.

IF
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise.
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things, you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools.
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: " Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son.
-RUDYARD KIPLING in " Rewards and Fairies." (Macmillan.)

WAYFARING.
Apples along the highway strewn, And Morning opening all her doors, The 
cawing rook, the distant train, The valley
with its misty floors;
The hillside hung with woods and dreams, Soft gleams of gossamer and dew, 
From cock-crow to the rising moon The
rainbowed road for me and you.
A singing heart, a laughing road, With salutations all the way - The gossip 
dog, the hidden bird, The pig that grunts a
gruff "good-day";
The apple-ladder in the trees, A friendly voice amid the boughs, The farmer 
 driving home his team, The ducks, the
geese, the uddered cows.
The silver babble of the creek, The willow-whisper - the day's end, With 
murmur of the village street, A called good-night, an unseen friend.
-RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.

WAR MEMORIAL.
Set into stone, their names carved crudely,
No one passing could help but see
Thomas Eden, William Bewdley,
James Llewelyn, and young Ted Lea.
Nothing has changed; the hens go scratting
Round the humps of the village green;
There in the sun sits an old man plaiting
Hurdles of alder with grass between.
Teazles are drying, and cocks are crowing,
People are calling, " M'dear, M'dear!"
Freely and fine the gossip's flowing
But Thomas Eden's not there to hear.
Nothing is altered; rooks still quarrel
High in the elms over Bewdley's loft;
Still the meadows are plagued with sorrel,
Still the clover springs green and soft.
Evening passes with gentle fingers,
Starshine falls on the sycamore tree,
And under the leaves the moth-light lingers
But William Bewdley's not there to see.
So little alters; girls are kindly,
And boys are feverish, bold, and mad;
Eyes still worship, and hearts leap blindly,
And none but the old are stern or sad;
Feet stir blithely above the grasses;
Laughter, out of the heart's rich store,
Lightly quivers and lightly passes
But James Llewelyn will laugh no more.
Nothing has changed; the hens go scratting
Round the stumps on the tawny green;
Farmer Ingleby's Matthew's batting,
Landlord's Ernie has made fifteen;
The lads are laughing, the girls are prinking,
All's the same as it used to be
Yet I couldn't play there and not be thinking
" No more cricket for young Ted Lea."
Here where life runs lustily, crudely,
This were heartbreak, to stand and see,
Snatched forever to silence - Bewdley,
Eden, Llewelyn, and young Ted Lea.
-KATHERIN McINTOSH, in John O'London's Weekly.
EDWARD I.
Edward the First was strong and tall,
He had the longest legs of all,
But when from one who wished him harm
A poisoned dagger pierced his arm, 
Edward was weak as other men,
His long legs could not help him then.
So Eleanor his gentle wife
Sucked out the wound and saved his life,
And when in time this lady died,
All through England far and wide
He built stone crosses to be seen
In memory of Longshanks' Queen.
-	AITCHEFF.

JOAN OF ARC.
Several Voices: Maid, what make you among your sheep?
Girl's Voice: Over the meadows, as in sleep, I hear the voices, brighter than wine,
Of Margaret, Michael, and Catherine.
Several Voices: Maid, what make you of their tale?
Girl's Voice: "Doff your kirtle, don your mail, And save fair France," say the divine Margaret, Michael, Catherine.
Several Voices: Maid, what make you at Orleans siege?
Girl's Voice: I force the English, I free my liege, I crown my king, and 
obey the sign Of Margaret, Michael, Catherine.
Several Voices: Maid, what make you in Rouen town?
Girl's Voice: I feel a flame! I wear a crown!
Father in Heaven, I see them shine, Margaret, Michael, Catherine.
-ELEANOR and HERBERT FARJEON.

MEG MERRILIES.
Old Meg she was a gipsy,
And lived upon the moor,:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out-of-doors.
Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants pods o' broom;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
Her book a churchyard tomb.
Her brothers were the craggy hills,
Her sisters larchen-trees
Alone with her great family
She lived as she did please.
No breakfast had she many a morn,
No dinner many a noon,
And 'stead of supper she would stare
Full hard against the moon.
But every morn of woodbine fresh
She made her garlanding,
And every night the dark glen yew
She wove, and she would sing.
 And with her fingers old and brown  She plaited mats o' rushes,
And gave them to the cottagers She met among the bushes.
Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen And tall as Amazon:
An old red blanket cloak she wore: A chip hat had she on.
God rest her aged bones somewhere - She died full long agone!
- KEATS.

NIGHTFALL.
Now came still Evening on, and Twilight, grey Had in her sober livery all things clad. Silence 
accompanied; for beast and bird, They to their grassy couch, these to
their nest, Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale; She all night long her amorous descant sung. 
Silence was pleased: now glowed the firmament With living
sapphires; Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brightest, till the Moon, Rising in clouded 
majesty, at length Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, And o'er
the dark her silver mantle threw.
-JOHN MILTON.

THE WHITE CANE.
I saw a white cane glisten as he slowly walked along,
And, it seemed to catch my fancy as I mingled with the throng. I thought it rather curious, for all the 
canes in town,
That I had ever noticed, were either black or brown.
And then as he came closer flashed the thought into my mind,
I know the white cane's meaning, 'tis the symbol of the blind.
It's just a mild suggestion to the hurrying passerby,
To be a little thoughtful of the brother drawing nigh.
When he sees the white cane gleaming in the glory of the day,
There is one who walks in darkness who needs help to cross the way.
T'is the blind man's modest symbol that where'er his pathway  wends
He is certain, great and lowly, rich and poor are all his  friends.
I've forgotten who began it, or to whom the notion came;
But the white cane for the sightless is a thought deserving  fame.
In life's feverish helter-skelter we go rushing right along,
Little heeding, little noting who may need us of the throng.
But the white cane tapping, tapping, as a symbol of the blind
Should remind us to be watchful, to be thoughtful, to be kind.
-EDGAR G. GUEST. (Inserted by the wish of the  Honourable the Minister of Education.)

TARANTELLA.
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn? And the tedding 
and the spreading Of the straw for a bedding, And the fleas
that tease in the High Pyrenees, And the wine that tasted of the tar? And 
the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers (Under the vine
of the dark verandah) ? Do you remember an Inn, Miranda, Do you remember 
an Inn? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn't got a penny, And who weren't paying any, And the hammer at the 
doors and the Din? And the Hip! Hop! Hap! Of the clap Of
the hands to the twirl and the swirl Of the girl gone chancing, Glancing, 
Dancing,
Backing and advancing, Snapping of the clapper to the spin Out and in – And the Ting! Tong! Tang! of the 
Guitar! Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn?
Never more, Miranda, never more. Only the high peaks hoar: And Aragon a torrent at the door. No sound In the 
walls of the Halls where falls The tread Of the feet of the dead to the ground. No sound: But the boom Of the far
Waterfall like Doom.
-HILAIRE BELLOC, in "Sonnets and Verse." (Duckworth.)

MOONLIT APPLES.
At the top of the house the apples are laid in rows, And the skylight lets 
the moonlight in, and those Apples are deep-sea apples of green. There goes A cloud on the moon in the autumn night.
A mouse in the wainscot scratches, and scratches, and then There is no 
sound at the top of the house of men Or
mice; and the cloud is blown, and the moon again Dapples the apples with 
deep-sea light.
They are lying in rows there, under the gloomy
 beams;
On the sagging floor; they gather the silver streams
Out of the moon, those moonlit apples of dreams,
 And quiet is the steep stair under.
In the corridors under there is nothing but sleep, And stiller than ever 
on orchard boughs they keep Tryst with the
moon, and deep is the silence, deep On moon-washed apples of wonder.
-JOHN DRINKWATER in " Collected Poems." (Sidgwick and Jackson.)

WHEN YOU'RE LYING AWAKE.
When you're lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is taboo'd 
by anxiety, I conceive you may use
any language you choose to indulge in, without impropriety;
For your brain is on fire  -the bedclothes conspire of your usual slumber to 
plunder you:
First your counterpane goes, and uncovers your toes, and your sheet slips 
demurely from under you;
Then the blanketing tickles - you feel like mixed pickles - so terribly sharp 
is the pricking,
And you're hot, and you're cross, and you tumble and toss till there's 
nothing 'twixt you and the ticking.
Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap, and you pick 'em all 
up in a tangle;
Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to remain at its usual angle!
You're a regular wreck, with a crick in your neck, and no wonder you snore, 
for your head's on the floor, and you've
needles and pins from your soles to your shins,
and your flesh is a-creep, for your left leg's asleep, and you've cramp in 
your toes, and a fly on your nose, and some
fluff in your lung, and a feverish tongue, and a thirst that's intense, and 
a general sense that you haven't been sleeping
in clover:
But the darkness has passed, and it's daylight at last, and the night has 
been long - ditto ditto my song - and  thank
goodness they're both of them over!
-From "Iolanthe," GILBERT and SULLIVAN.  (Miss Nancy McIntosh's copyright.)

THE BLUE-PETER.
The day has come for sailing; and at last The brisk Blue-Peter flutters 
at the mast. Too long beneath the mountains
we have lain While winds and waters called to us in vain: Too long the 
inn has held us, and too long Our ears have
hearkened to the tavern song. The time has come to quit the company Of 
those who dread the isolating sea, Who,
slumbering through night-watches, spend their  days Carousing in the 
ingle's drowsy blaze: For what are they to us
who are the sons Of tempest, in whose veins the salt tide runs, Whose 
pulses answer to the ebb and flow Of all the
seas that travel to and fro, Whose feet have trod the tilting deck from 
birth And stumble only on the stable earth,
Whose eyes can pierce the spindrift of the night And blunder blindfold in 
the tavern light, Whose hearts must ever in
the throng and press Ache with intolerable loneliness Shut in by walls as 
in an airless grave, Whose home is the
unwalled unraftered wave, Who each within himself can only find In 
solitude the comrade to his mind, And only in the
lone sea watch can be At ease at length in his own company.
The brisk Blue-Peter beckons; and at last Our souls shall ride 
full-sailed before the blast Into the perilous security Of
strife with the uncompromising sea.
-WILFRID W. GIBSON.


BALLAD.

There lived a king, I know not where, Perhaps in Mirascower, Whose 
daughters grew so deadly fair He shut them in a
tower. The first princess was Flower of Flame, The second, Silver-pool, 
The third one had not got a name, She was
too beautiful.
There lived three white and laughing boys Not far from that country, The 
first one's name was Forest Noise, The
second's Sound-of-Sea, The third one had no name like this, For girls to 
dream upon, His was a face you had to kiss,
And yet they called him John.
One day these three delightful boys Hunting in Mirascower, With bugle 
blast came thundering past That square and
savage tower. And Flower of Flame was singing there A low heart-broken 
tune, And Silver-pool combed out her hair
That glistened like the moon.
The third princess, who had no name, Peeped from the rusty grille, And 
her sweet face shone on the eyes of John,
And he and his horse stood still.
Forest Noise made a rope of his curls, Sound-of-the-Sea he threw it, And 
John went up to fetch the girls, And nobody
ever knew it.
And Flower of Flame, who knows where she And Forest Noise have gone? Or 
Silver-pool and Sound-of-Sea? But the
nameless girl's with John.
-J. ELROY FLECKER in " Collected Poems." (Martin Secker and Warburg.)

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.
It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he, before his cottage door,
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green.
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round.
That he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found;
She ran to ask what he had found
That was so large and smooth and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,
"'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said be,
" Who fell in the great victory.
I find them in my garden, for
There's many hereabout;
And often when I go to plough
The ploughshare turns them out;
For many thousand men," said he,
"Were slain in that great victory."
"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin, he cries,
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they killed each other for?"
"It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout:
But what they killed each other for,
I could not well make out.
But everybody said," quoth he,
" That 'twas a famous victory!
" My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burned his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide;
And many a tender mother then
And new-born baby died;
But things like that you know must be
At every famous victory.
They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won,
For many thousand bodies there
Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that you know must be
After a famous victory.
" Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won, And our good Prince Eugene." - 
" Why, 'twas a very wicked thing! "
Said little Wilhelmine. - 
"Nay, nay, my little girl! " quoth he, "It was a famous victory.
And everybody praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win." -  "But what good came of it at last?"
Quoth little Peterkin. – "why, that I cannot tell," said he,
 "But 'twas a famous victory."
-ROBERT SOUTHEY.

TO A SKYLARK
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
Pourest they full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are brightning,  Thou dost float and run;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight.
Like a star of Heaven
In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves:
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as
I am listening now.
- SHELLEY

TO THE AUSTRALIAN EUCALYPTUS.
Sociable, tremendous tree, how exquisitely pattern'd! With what grace 
your tall form sways, as to a tune, leaves
dance, twigs interlace with a sweet trouble, so companionable to me!
Very beautiful, long tree, though every side your lovely cousins crowd in 
tapering prime, they must not fret
that I should be allowed
to court you with a sonnet, individually;
For you must share it, tree,
just as you do the varied earth and air, since all alike, with sister 
grace and family pride, you wear smooth lady-limbs of bark, rust-red and silvery.
And I have never seen a sight of such contentment; though your leaves are dumb, It is not hard 
to tell no earthly
  influence grieves
the spirit of that rich unwinterable green. 
Now springs that envious pain of old remorse, continual regret - How many 
of you cluster here in company, and yet so
different from men, in harmony remain!
O how can I transform the wealth of your material finery to treasure of 
the soul? What Spring has fed you, giant tree,
that you so lord the earth, regardless of the storm?
 O load me to the mine where such rare stone abounds, for I would share 
it,  just as you share my song. I'll risk the
world, only to wear it, not on my outer boughs, but in my heart's deep  
shrine.
-CHRISTOPHER HASSAL, in "Poems." (MacMillan.)

A QUEEN OF THE NORTH.
The Queen lay dying through the day,
The King brought flowers from far and near:
Ah, drifting, drifting, far away
"Will they not reach you, O most dear ?
You ever loved them more than life."
He held them to her pale, young mouth,
"Will they not call you back, sweet wife,
Our wondrous flowers of the South? "
The Queen lay dying through the night,
A thousand flowers around her bed,
The silver taper's languid light
Touched with faint gleam her golden head.
Her weary ladies, ere they dozed,
Too spent to watch, too sad to weep,
Still murmured, as their eyelids closed:
" The Queen will die unless she sleep."
The Queen lay dying when the door
Moved softly to a hand afraid,
And silently across the floor
There crept a little kitchen-maid.
She reached the gilded bed unseen
And faltered: " Far across the sea
I, too, came from the North, my Queen,
And this is all I brought with me."
The Queen lay sleeping in the dawn,
Her ladies opened startled eyes,
And drew aside the foam-white lawn
To touch her heart with fingers wise.
Against her softly breathing breast,
And cradled in her slender hand, They found the charm that brought her rest - 
Three fir-cones from a distant land.
---ISABEL BUTCHART, in " Country Life."

POPLAR.
The blinding day's unkind,
The day has dust and glare,
The poplar keeps the wind
In her cage of light and air,
Makes of her leaves a snare
To keep the wind confined;
And in a breathless glare
The poplar holds the wind.
O cool and beautiful
Her leaves of silver-grey
Hang in the wind so cool
In the blind and breathless day!
Turn in the wind at play,
Fresh as a little pool
That in the forest grey
Holds silver fins and cool.
All other trees are still,
The oak, the elm, and the beech.
But the poplar hath her fill
Of soft and gracious speech.
The winds are out of reach
Beyond the sea and the hill
For the oak, the elm, and the beech,
But the poplar hath her fill.
-K. TYNAN HINKSON.

MISS THOMPSON BUYS FISH.
 A little farther down the way Stands Miles's fish shop, whence is shed So 
strong a smell of fishes dead That people
of a subtler sense Hold their breath and hurry hence. Miss Thompson hovers 
there and gazes: Her housewife's
knowing eye appraises. Salt and fresh, severely cons Kippers bright as 
tarnished bronze; Great cods disposed upon
the sill Chilly and wet, with gaping gill, Flat head, glazed eye, and mute, 
uncouth, Shapeless, wan, old-woman's
mouth. Next, a row of soles and plaice With querulous and twisted face, And 
red-eyed bloaters, golden-grey;
Smoked haddocks ranked in neat array; A group of smelts that take the light 
Like slips of rainbow, pearly bright;
Silver trout, with rosy spots, And coral shrimps with keen black dots For 
eyes, and hard and jointed sheath And crisp
tails curving underneath. But there upon the sanded floor, More wonderful 
in all that store Than anything on slab or
shelf, Stood Miles, the fishmonger himself. Foursquare he stood and filled 
the place. His huge hands and big jolly
face Were red, He had a mouth to quaff Pint after pint; a sounding laugh, 
But wheezy at the end, and oft His eyes
bulged outwards and he coughed. Outside, Miss Thompson, small and staid, 
Felt as she always felt, afraid Of this
huge man who laughed so loud And drew the notice of the crowd. Awhile she 
paused in timid thought, Then promptly
hurried in and bought "Two kippers, please. Yes, lovely weather " "Two 
kippers? Sixpence altogether." And in her
basket laid the pair Wrapped face to face in newspaper
-MARTIN ARMSTRONG, in "Collected Poems. (Martin Secker and Warburg.)

SING WE THE TWO LIEUTENANTS.
Sing we the two lieutenants, Parer and McIntosh
After the War wishing to hie them home to Australia,  
Planned they would take a high way, a hazardous crazy air-way:
Death their foregone conclusion, a flight headlong to failure,
We said. For no silver posh
Plane was their pigeon, no dandy dancer stepping through heaven,
But a craft of obsolete design, a condemned D. H. nine;
Sold for a song it was, patched up though to write an heroic
Line across the world as it reeled on its obstinate stoic 
Course to that southern haven.
On January 8, 1920, their curveting wheels kissed
England good-bye. Over Hounslow huddled in morning mist
They rose and circled like buzzards while we rubbed our sleepy eyes:
Like a bird scarce fledged they flew, whose flying-hours are few - 
Still dear is the nest but deeper its desire unto the skies - 
And they left us to our sleeping.
They felt earth's warning tug on their wings: vain to advance
Asking a thoroughfare through the angers of the air
On so flimsy a frame: but they pulled up her nose and the earth went sloping
Away, and they aimed for France.
Fog first, a wet blanket, a kill-joy, the primrose-of-morning's blight,
Blotting out the dimpled sea, the ample welcome of land,
The gay glance from the bright
Cliff-face behind, snaring the sky with treachery, sneering
At hope's loss of height. But they charged it, flying blind;
They took a compass-bearing against that dealer of doubt,
As a saint when the field of vision is fogged gloriously steels
His spirit against the tainter of air, the elusive taunter:
They climbed to win a way out,
Then downward dared till the moody waves snarled at their wheels.
Landing at last near Conteville, who had skimmed the crest of oblivion,
They could not rest, but rose and flew on to Paris, and there
Trivially were delayed - a defective petrol feed - 
Three days: a time hung heavy on
Hand and heart, till they leapt again to the upper air,
Their element, their lover, their angel antagonist.
Would have taken a fall without fame, but the sinewy framework the wrist
Of steel the panting engine wrestled well: and they went
South while the going was good, as, a swallow that guide nor goad
Needs on his sunny scent.
At Lyons the petrol pump failed again, and forty- eight hours
They chafed to be off, the haughty champions whose breathing-space
Was an horizon span and the four winds their fan.
Over Italy's shores
A reverse, the oil ran out and cursing they turned about
Losing a hundred miles to find a landing place.
Not a coast for a castaway this, no even chance alighting
On sward or wind-smooth sand:
A hundred miles without pressure they flew, the engine fighting
For breath, and its heart nearly burst before they dropped to land.
And now the earth they had spurned rose up against them in anger,
Tier upon tier it towered, the terrible Apennines:
No sanctuary there for wings, not flares nor landing-lines,
No hope of floor and hangar.
Yet those ice-tipped spears that disputed the passage set spurs
To their two hundred and forty horse-power; they gained
Altitude, though the hand of heaven was heavy upon them,
The downdraught from the mountains: though desperate eddies spun them
Like a coin, yet unkindly tossed their luck came uppermost
And mastery remained.
Air was all ambushes round them, was avalanche, earthquake,
Quicksand, a funnel deep as doom, till climbing steep
They crawled like a fly up the face of perpendicular night
And levelled, finding a break
At fourteen thousand feet. Here earth is shorn from sight:
Deadweight a darkness hangs on their eyelids, and they bruise
Their eyes against a void: vindictive the cold airs close
Down like a trap of steel and numb them from head to heel;
Yet they kept an even keel,
For their spirit reached forward and took the controls
while their fingers froze.
They had not heard the last of death. When the mountains were passed,
He raised another crest, the long crescendo of pain
Kindled to climax, the plane
Took fire. Alone in the sky with the breath of their enemy
Hot in their face they fought: from three thousand feet they tilted
Over, side-slipped away-a trick for an ace, a race And running duel with death: flame streamed out 
behind,
A crimson scarf of, as life-blood out of a wound, but the wind
Of their downfall staunched it; death wilted,
Lagged and died out in smoke-he could not stay their pace.
A lull for a while. The powers of hell rallied their legions.
On Parer now fell the stress of the flight; for the plane had been bumped,
Buffeted, thrashed by the air almost beyond repair:
But he tinkered and coaxed, and they limped
Over the Adriatic on into warmer regions.
Erratic their course to Athens, to Crete: coolly they rode her
Like a tired horse at the water-jumps, they jockeyed her over seas,
Till they came at last to a land whose dynasties of sand
Had seen Alexander, Napoleon, many a straddling invader,
But never none like these.
-C. DAY LEWIS, in "A Time to Dance and  Other Poems." (Hogarth Press.)


WINTER THE HUNTSMAN.
Through his iron glades
Rides Winter the Huntsman. All colour fades
As his horn is heard sighing.
Far through the forest
His wild hooves crash and thunder Till many a mighty branch
Is torn asunder.
And the red reynard creeps
To his hole near the river, The copper leaves fall
And the bare trees shiver.
As night creeps from the ground,
Hides each tree from its brother, And each dying sound
Reveals yet another.
Is it Winter the Huntsman  Who gallops through his iron glades, Cracking his cruel whip
To the gathering shades?
-From "Sonnets and Verses of OSBERT SITWELL." (Duckworth.)

THE GNU.
A man who was new to the Zoo Was told to take care of the gnu.
The gnu knew he was new,
And he knew the gnu knew,
And he knew the gnu knew that he knew.

EVENING PICTURE.
The leaves move darkly against the sky As a little whisper of wind runs by From the high serenity of 
blue One star pierces palely through The deepening haze, while shadows pass In solemn
silence on the grass . . . A wakeful bird sings very sweet - And the perfect evening is complete.
-SHEILA D. STAVELEY.

FROST.
What swords and spears, what daggers bright He arms the morning with! How light His powder is, that's 
fit to lie On the wings of a butterfly! What milk-white clothing he has made For every little
twig and blade! What curious silver work is shown On wood and iron, glass and stone! " If you, my 
slim Jack Frost, can trace This work so fine, so full of grace, Tell me," I said, "before I go - Where
is your plump young sister, Snow?
-W. H. DAVIES, in "Poems." (Jonathan Cape.)

SHIP MODELS.
COASTING BRIGANTINE-UNNAMED.
BRIGANTINE.
I rather think they built her in some good old-fashioned yard
That smelt of pitch and sawdust and of hemp-rope newly tarred,
Where they changed their ways but little as the centuries rolled along,
And they built a trifle slowly, but they built uncommon strong.
I think her little model used to grace some homely shelf
Where a brace of pop-eyed poodles flanked the gaily, painted delf,
And the harbour's pleasant bustle through the open window came
With the mewing of the seagulls and the scent of  gorse in flame.
I think her name was Good Intent, or Peggy New Revived,
Or John and Sarah's Venture --- well, I trust their venture thrived
Or Gipsy Bride or Farmer's Lass, or something sweet and dainty
To match her little figure-head that looks so prim  and painty.
I think she never loaded things like gold mohurs and spice
And China tea and narwhals' tusks and monkey-nuts and rice,
And ivory, apes and peacocks out of Africa that come,
And Eastern frails and cotton bales and right Jamaica rum.
But she got her honest living out of homelier kinds of freights,
Such as salt and malt and china clay and blue Bethesda slates,
With perhaps a voyage foreign once in every good long while
For a fragrant load or oranges from far St. Michael's Isle.
I think she knew no foreign ports, all sun and glare and smells,
And illy-ollying coolie gangs and chiming temple bells;
No lumber, grain or nitrate ports, from Yukon to  Peru;
No lone palm-girdled atolls in the false Pacific blue.
But the saltings and the maltings round from Lymington to Lynn
And a hundred creeks and harbours from the Solent to the Swin,
From Eddystone  to Lizard Head and round the Land to Wales
Knew her dipping in from seaward with the sunlight on her sails.
And the sand has choked the slipways where they built stout ships of old,
And the painted delf is broken and the pop-eyed dogs are sold;
And the little model - who knows how she found at last her way
To the dingy Thames-side junk-shop where I bought her yesterday?
---CICELY FOX SMITH, in "Punch."

I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
-W. WORDSWORTH.

THE GRASS GROWS BRIGHT.
The grass grows bright, the boughs are sworn  with blooms, Like chrysalids 
impatient for the air, The shining dors are busy, beetles
run Along the furrow, ants make their ado; Above, birds fly in merry 
flocks, the lark Soars up and up, shivering for very joy; Afar the
ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls Flit where the strand is purple with its 
tribe Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek Their loves in
wood and. plain  -and God renews His ancient rapture.
-ROBERT BROWNING.

THE THRUSH'S SONG.
Come and kiss me! Come and kiss me! Do it! Do it! See to it! See to it!
Nor rue it - rue it!
Such a pretty Dick! Pretty Dick! Pretty Dick! Pretty! Pretty! Pretty!
Be quick! Be quick!
Churl! Churl! Churl! Churl! Tschurl!! - not to do it! Poor-y Dick! Poor-y Dick!
Do-oo-oo it!
Kiss me! Kiss me! Kiss me!. Kiss me! Do it ! Do it! Sweet! Sweet! Sweet! Sweet!
You're through it - through it!
Pretty! Pretty! Pretty! Be quick! Be quick! Such a pretty Dick!
Pretty Dick! Pretty Dick!
Luck! Luck ! Luck! Luck! Luck that you do it! Sweet! Sweet! Sweet of you! 
Sweet it is to do it!
Tell me that you'll marry me! Do it! Do it! Sweet! Sweet! Sweet! Sweet! I 
knew it - knew it!
Such a pretty Dick! Pretty Dick! Pretty Dick! Pretty! Pretty! Pretty! Be 
quick! Be quick!
Chuck! Chuck! Chuck! Chuck! Chuck! Let us do it! Marry me! Marry me! 
Pretty girl! Do it!
-MARJORIE CHRISTMAS, in " The Youngest Omnibus." (Nelson.)

SPRING.
The air is like a butterfly  With frail blue wings,
The happy earth looks at the sky And sings.
-JOYCE KILMER

YOUNG LOCHINVAR.
Oh young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best, And 
save his good
broadsword he weapons had none,
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Eske River where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate
The bride had consented, the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love and a dastard in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all.
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),
"Oh come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"
" I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied:
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide; And now am I come, 
with this lost love of mine, To lead but one
measure, drink one cup of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far That would gladly be bride 
to the young Lochinvar."
The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to 
blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a
smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar, " Now tread we a measure! " 
said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom 
stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bridesmaidens whispered, " 'Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near,
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung.
"She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and scaur,
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan,
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of 
Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love
and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
 -SIR WALTER SCOTT.

A MODERN POEM.
Let us read this poem by a modern poet, named W. H. Auden, and see what we can make of it. It is called, "Ballad" and we think, 
"Well, that means a plain straightforward story, like 'Lord Ullin's Daughter' or 'Young Lochinvar "' And we start full of 
confidence.
BALLAD.
O what is that sound which so thrills the ear Down in the valley 
drumming, drumming? Only the scarlet soldiers, dear, The soldiers coming.
O what is the light I see flashing so clear Over the distance brightly, 
brightly? Only the sun on their weapons, dear, As they step lightly. O
what are they doing with all that gear; What are they doing this morning, 
this morning? Only the usual manoeuvres, dear, Or perhaps a
warning. O why have they left the road down there; Why are they suddenly 
wheeling, wheeling? Perhaps a change in the orders, dear; Why
are you kneeling? O haven't they stopped for the doctor's care; Haven't 
they reined their horses, their horses? Why, they are none of them
wounded, dear, None of these forces. O is it the parson they want, with 
white hair; Is it the parson, is it, is it? No, they are passing his
gateway, dear, Without a visit. O it must be the farmer who lives so 
near; It must be the farmer so cunning, cunning? They have passed the
farm already, dear, And now they are running.
O where are you going? Stay with me here!
Were the vows you swore me deceiving, deceiving ? No, I promised to love 
you, dear,
But I must be leaving.
O it's broken the lock and splintered the door, O it's the gate where 
they're turning, turning; Their feet are heavy on the
floor  And their eyes are burning.
-W. H. AUDEN in "Poems." (Laurence and Wishart.)

THE YEAR HAS PUT HIS CLOAK AWAY.
The year has put his cloak away His cloak of cold, and wind, and rain, To 
wear the embroidery again Of radiant
sunlight, clear and gay.
No bird or beast but joins to-day His song or jargon in this strain: The 
year has put his cloak away, His cloak of cold,
and wind, and rain.
No rivulet or stream to-day But wears his shining livery Of silver, gold, 
and jewellery, None but goes clad in new array;
The year has put his cloak away.

PETS.
Once we had a little retriever, But it bit our beaver, Which had already 
bitten Our Siamese kitten, Which had not been
pleasant To our golden pheasant. The pheasant took a dislike to Laura, 
Our Angora, Who left her hairs On the Louis
Quinze chairs And her paws On one of our jackdaws, Who were not being 
nice To our white mice, Who were openly
rude To our bantam brood, Whose beaks were too sharp For our golden carp, 
Who were on very bad terms With our
silk-worms, Who were swallowed up By our retriever pup, Who consequently 
died With all that silk inside. Then we
knew we'd have to buy Something so high And stout and strong it Would let 
nobody wrong it; So we bought a hyena,
Which, though it ate my sister Lena And some embroidery off the shelf, 
Remained intact itself And has not yet died,
So that our choice was justified.
-From "Punch."

THE BALLAD OF DICK TURPIN.
The daylight moon looked quietly down Through the gathering dusk on 
London town. A smock-frockt yokel hurried along By Newgate,
humming a country song.
Chewing a straw, he stood to stare At a proclamation posted there: Three 
hundred guineas on Turpin's head, Trap him alive or shoot him
dead; And a hundred more for his mate, Tom King.
He crouched like a tiger about to spring. Then he looked up, and he 
looked down; And, chuckling low, like a country clown, Dick Turpin
painfully hobbled away In quest of his inn-The Load of Hay.
Alone in her stall, his mare, Black Bess, Lifted her head in mute 
distress; For five strange men had entered the yard And looked at her
long and looked at her hard.
They went out muttering under their breath., And then - the dusk grew still 
as death. But the velvet ears of the listening mare Lifted and
twitched. They were there - still there:
Hidden and waiting for whom? And why? The clock struck four. A step drew 
nigh. It was King! Tom King! Dick Turpin's mate. The black
mare whinnied. Too late! Too late!
They rose like shadows out of the ground And grappled him there, without 
a sound. " Throttle him quietly - choke him dead! Or we lose a
hawk for a jay," they said.
They wrestled and heaved, five men to one; And a yokel entered the yard 
alone; A smock-frockt yokel hobbling slow; But a fight is physic
as all men know.
His age dropped off. He stood upright. And leapt like a tiger into the fight. Hand to hand they fought in the dark; For
none could fire at a twisting mark,
Where he that shot at a foe might send His pistol-ball through the skull of a friend. But, "Shoot, Dick, shoot!" gasped
out Tom King. " Shoot! Shoot! or we both shall swing!
"Shoot and chance it!" Dick leapt back. He drew. He fired. At the pistol's crack, The wrestlers whirled. They scattered
apart, And the bullet drilled through Tom King's heart.
Dick Turpin dropped his smoking gun. They had trapped him now, five men to one. A gun in each hand of the
crouching five, They could take Dick Turpin now, alive;
Take him and bind him and tell their tale As a pot-house boast, when they drank their ale. He whistled soft as a bird
might call; And a head-rope snapped in the bird's dark stall.
He whistled soft as a nightingale. He heard the swish of her swinging tail. There was no way out that the five could
see, To heaven or hell, but the Tyburn tree;
No door but death; and yet, once more, He whistled as though at a sweetheart's door. The five men laughed at him
trapped alive; And - the door crashed open behind the five!
Out of the stable, a wave of thunder, Swept Black Bess, and the five went under. He leapt to the saddle. A hoof-spurned stone 
Flashed blue fire, and their prize was gone.
-ALFRED NOYES in " Poems Old and New." (John Murray.)

THE NIGHT OF TRAFALGAR.
In the wild October night-time, when the wind raved round the land,
And the Back-sea met the Front-sea, and our doors were blocked with sand,
And we heard the drub of Dead-man's Bay, where bones of thousands are,
We knew not what the day had done for us at Trafalgar.
Had done, Had done,
For us at Trafalgar.
Pull hard and make the Nothe, or down we go! One says, says he.
We pulled; and bedtime brought the storm; but snug at home slept we.
Yet all the while our gallants, after fighting through the day,
Were beating up and down the dark, sou'west of Cadiz Bay.
The dark, The dark,
Sou'west of Cadiz Bay!
The victors and the vanquished then the storm it tossed and tore,
As hard they strove, those worn-out men, upon that surly shore;
Dead Nelson and his half-dead crew, his foes from near and far,
Were rolled together on the deep that night at
Trafalgar.  The deep, The deep,
That night at Trafalgar!
-THOMAS HARDY, in "The Dynasts." (Macmillan.)

THOUGHTS OF A COAL-CART HORSE.
[The poet was watching the snail's progress in a crowded London street of 
a coal-cart. There was a long line of impatient motor traffic in its
wake unable to pass. The poet thought he saw a glint of mischief in the 
old horse's eye, and he imagined what he was thinking to himself.]
"Flop! clop! clop! flop! These are the sounds that my great feet utter
As I move along through the crowded streets as far as I dare from the 
left-side gutter,
As near as I dare to the crest of the road, Dragging serenely my 
ponderous load.
Flop! clop! what do I mind
Though there are thousands of cars behind? Clop! flop! what do I care
Though chauffeurs are chafing and owners swear? Setting the pace is my 
job, you see,
For London must take its pace from me.
Flop! clop! clop! flop! that is the dignified way to advance, With a 
stolid driver who looks ahead and never succumbs
to a side-long glance, Neither admitting we're nuisances - though How we know 
it, oh, how we know! Flop! clop! At a mile an hour What's the use of 40-horse-power? Clop! flop! following coal Rolls can't 
royce and Royce can't roll.
Setting the pace is our joke, you see, For everyone's got to be late 
through me.
Flop! clop! clop! flop! 'Precious old darling! the ladies cry;
Look at his kind old innocent face; look at his mild benevolent eye!' Ah! 
think I, could they only know The pleasure
I'm getting in being so slow, Flop! clop! and in making them wait For the 
poor old steeds that are out of date, Clop!
flop! and in being once more A king of the road as we were of yore! Ah! 
could they know how I glow with glee That
London must take its pace from me! "
-Extract from "Punch."

THE CAPTIVE.
I captured Beauty in a cage
A golden cage as was most meet To house so sweet a singing-bird
Of azure wings and scarlet feet.
I hung the bauble at my waist
When I set out a-journeying
Through filmy dawns and silver nights,
Yet never would the captive sing.
Within the golden cage she drooped
Until the door I opened wide. And now in all my wanderings
Beauty flies singing by my side.
-RUTH ANDERSON.

THE MAIL.
This is the night mail crossing the border Bringing the cheque and the postal order, Letters for the 
rich, letters for the poor, The shop at the corner and the girl next door.
Letters of thanks, letters from banks, Letters of joy from the girl and boy, Receipted bills and 
invitations To inspect new stock or visit relations, And applications for situations,
And timid lovers' declarations, And gossip gossip from all the nations, News circumstantial, news 
financial, Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in Letters with faces
scrawled on the margin. Written on paper of every hue The pink, the violet, the white and the blue, 
The chatty, the catty, the boring, adoring, The cold and official and the
heart's outpouring, Clever, stupid, short and long, The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.
-W. H. AUDEN. (Extract.)

AT THE WATER ZOO.
To-day I have seen all I wish, For I have seen four thousand fish, Inscrutable and rum, Observing me 
with solemn eyes That hold no anger or surprise, Like people, only dumb.
For there are pike and trout and carp, And fish with faces long and sharp, And wrasse with their 
mosaic scales, And oblong fish that have no tails; Fresh-water and soft-water fellows, And fish
with valves that work like bellows; And fish that leap and fish that crawl, And great octopodes 
a-sprawl, And golden fish with filmy skirt That move about as maidens flirt, And rainbow-coloured fish
that seem Like sunsets dipped into a stream, And silver fish with dusky bars, That float beneath the 
nenuphars,* And tiny fish of Paradise, And fish with furry backs like mice, And fish that lay
their eggs on land By leaping, as I understand, And placing them on grass, but yet Must splash about 
to keep them wet; The sea-hare which is like a slug,

* Water-lilies.

The wolf-fish with an awful mug, And sharks with faces mild and prim, Like school-girls, elegantly 
slim - One would not think that underneath That tiny mouth lay all those teeth - And humorous turtles
that advance As though in some strange Eastern dance, And hermit-crabs that have the sense To use a 
whelk-shell residence To walk about with in the sea, Whereon there sprouts, most luckily,
A poisonous anemone. And there are fish that kiss and climb, And fish that croak, though not in 
rhyme, And sucking-fish that hang on rocks,
And eels that give electric shocks, And fish that turn a rosy pink
From sheer false modesty, I think - And fish that floating on the tide Transparent show their whole 
inside; And flat fish with their eyes askew,
All buried save those eyes from view Beneath the clean white sand, until
The sand moves that before was still, And with slow movements they ascend To eat some portion of a 
friend
Thrown in by keepers from the top; And fish that always seem to stop Lying in one place, dull as 
lead, Although you tap quite near their head; And there the crayfish or langouste
On craggy rocks is seen to roost . . .
To-day I have seen all I wish,
For I have seen four thousand fish, Inscrutable and rum,
Observing me with solemn eyes That hold no anger or surprise, Like people only dumb. Because they 
float about my brain,
To-morrow I should like to come And see four thousand fish again.
-E. V. KNOX in "Punch"

I WILL MAKE YOU BROOCHES.
I will make you brooches and toys for your delight
Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.
I will make a palace fit for you and me,
Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.
I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,
Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,
And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white
In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.
And this shall be for music when no one else is near,
The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!
That only I remember, that only you admire,
Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.
-ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. (Mr. Lloyd Osbourne's copyright.)

A SAXON SONG.
Tools with the comely names, Mattock and scythe and spade, Couth and bitter as flames, Clean, and 
bowed in the blade - A man and his tools make a man and his trade.
Breadth of the English shires, Hummock and kame and mead, Tang of the reeking byres, Land of the 
English breed, A man and his land make a
man and his creed.
Leisurely flocks and herds, Cool-eyed cattle that come Mildly to wonted words, Swine that in orchards 
roam, A man and his beasts make a man and his home.
Children sturdy and flaxen, Shouting in brotherly strife, Like the land they are Saxon, Sons of a man 
and his wife, For a man and his loves make a man and his life.
-VICTORIA SACKVILLE-WEST in "Collected Poems." (Hogarth Press.)

THE NAMES COME RINGING DOWN THE WAY.
Around the good world's wide expanse Are places great and small Whose names fair tingle with romance, 
And I would see them all; There's Cairo, Fez, and Ispahan, Bangkok
and Singapore, And Trebizonde and Cagayan And Rio and Lahore.
There's Sarawak and Callao, Algiers and Kandahar, Khartoum, Rangoon, and Tokio, Bombay and Zanzibar; 
About the name of each there clings Enchantment's golden veil,
The wonder of strange folk and things, The glamour of the trail !
For some are north and some are south, And some are east and west, And some are cursed with heat and 
drought, And some with balm are blessed; But Capetown, Rhodes,
or Frisco Bay, Shanghai, Seville, or Rome, Their names come singing down the way To tempt me forth 
from home; Their magic's ringing down the way To lure me forth from
home!
-BERTON BRALEY. (Messrs. D. Appleton & Co.'s copyright.)

ONE LIGHT PUT OUT.
One light put out, one little candle's rays,
And what a darkness like a great cloud falls!
Though all the lamps and all the torches blaze
On all the city walls.
One footstep lost, one lightness on the ground,
And what a stillness holds the whole world fast!
Though all the bugles, all the trumpets sound,
And all the hosts go past.
- AGNES GROZIER HERBERTSON.




