And ever between the sea-banks green Is e'en their country's clay; But the land we tread that are not dead Is strange as night by day. Strange as night in a strange man's sight, Though fair as dawn it be: For what is here that a stranger's cheer The hills stand steep, the dells lie deep, As ours at home of old. But hills and flowers are nane of ours, And the kind strange land whereon we stand, It wotsna what were we Or ever we came, wi' scathe and shame, Scathe, and shame, and a waefu' name, Shame and scorn may we thole that mourn, Though sair be they to dree: Ill may we thole the night's watches, And the dreams that keep the gates of sleep, A waefu' gift gie they; For the sangs they sing us, the sights they bring us, The morn blaws all away. On Aikenshaw the sun blinks braw, The burn rins blithe and fain: There's nought wi' me I wadna gie To look thereon again. On Keilder-side the wind blaws wide; Round banks where Tyne is born. The Wansbeck sings with all her springs, The bents and braes give ear; But the wood that rings wi' the sang she sings I may not see nor hear; For far and far thae blithe burns are, The light there lightens, the day there brightens, The loud wind there lives free: Nae light comes nigh me or wind blaws by me That I wad hear or see. But O gin I were there again, Afar ayont the faem, Cauld and dead in the sweet saft bed That haps my sires at hame! We'll see nae mair the sea-banks fair, And the goodly towers thereby: And none shall know but the winds that blow The graves wherein we lie. AUSTIN DOBSON (1840-1921) A Gentleman of the Old School He lived in that past Georgian day, When men were less inclined to say That "Time is Gold," and overlay With toil their pleasure; He held some land, and dwelt thereon,Where, I forget, the house is gone; His Christian name, I think, was John,— His surname, Leisure. Reynolds has painted him,-a face The eyes are blue, the hair is drest With buds brocaded. He wears a brown old Brunswick coat, With silver buttons,-round his throat, A soft cravat;-in all you note An elder fashion, A strangeness, which, to us who shine He lived so long ago, you see! With careless parting; He found it quite enough for him He liked the well-wheel's creaking tongue, He liked the thrush that fed her young,He liked the drone of flies among His netted peaches; He liked to watch the sunlight fall His were the times of Paint and Patch, Not that, in truth, when life began, He shunned the flutter of the fan; He too had maybe "pinked his man" In Beauty's quarrel; But now his "fervent youth" had flown Yet still he loved the chase, and held His rustic diet. Not that his "meditating" rose With fruitless prying; Without replying. We read-alas, how much we read! The jumbled strifes of creed and creed With endless controversies feed Our groaning tables; His books-and they sufficed him—were Cotton's "Montaigne," "The Grave" of Blair, A "Walton"-much the worse for wear- One more,-"The Bible." Not that he It may be that he could not count Once he had loved, but failed to wed, To quite forget her; And still when time had turned him gray The earliest hawthorn buds in May Would find his lingering feet astray, Where first he met her. "In Colo Quies" heads the stone The "Benefactions" still declare A Christmas Posset." Lie softly, Leisure! Doubtless you But we, to whom our age allows Look down upon your narrow house, The Curé's Progress MONSIEUR the Curé down the street Comes with his kind old face,With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case. You may see him pass by the little "Grande Place," And the tiny "Hôtel-de-Ville"; He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose, And the pompier Théophile. He turns, as a rule, through the "Marché" cool, Where the noisy fish-wives call; And his compliment pays to the "Belle Thérèse," As she knits in her dusky stall. There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop, And Toto, the locksmith's niece, Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes In his tails for a pain d'épice. There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit, Who is said to be heterodox, That will ended be with a "Ma foi, oui!” And a pinch from the Curé's box. There is also a word that no one heard To the furrier's daughter Lou; And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red, And a "Bon Dieu garde M'sieu!” But a grander way for the Sous-Préfet, For ever through life the Curé goes With a smile on his kind old faceWith his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case. A Ballad of Heroes BECAUSE you passed, and now are not,- Was blown of ancient airs away,— Because you perished,-must men say Your deeds were naught, and so profane Your lives with that cold burden? Nay The deeds you wrought are not in vain! Though, it may be, above the plot That hid your once imperial clay, No greener than o'er men forgot The unregarding grasses sway;— No. For while yet in tower or cot The sordid care, of cities gray;— That Life may go, so Honour stay,The deeds you wrought are not in vain! ENVOY Heroes of old! I humbly lay The laurel on your graves again; Whatever men have done, men may,— The deeds you wrought are not in vain. The Ballad of Imitation "C'est imiter quelqu'un que de planter des choux."-Alfred de Musset. IF they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played Is naught but a copy of Chopin or Spohr; That the ballad you sing is but merely "conveyed" From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore; That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score That is not as out-worn as the "Wandering Jew," Make answer-Beethoven could scarce ly do more That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade Are simply "adapted" from other men's lore; That-plainly to speak of a "spade" as a "spade" You've "stolen" your grouping from three or from four; That (however the writer the truth may deplore), 'Twas Gainsborough painted your "Little Boy Blue"; Smile only serenely-though cut to the core For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed If they whisper your Epic-"Sir Eperon d'Or" Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store; ONE evening of late summer, before the present century had reached its thirtieth year, a young man and woman, the latter carrying a child, were approaching the large village of Weydon-Priors, in Upper Wessex, on foot. They were plainly but not ill clad, though the thick hoar of dust which had accumulated on their shoes and garments from an obviously long journey lent a disadvantageous shabbiness to their appearance just now. The man was of fine figure, swarthy, and stern in aspect; and he showed in profile a facial angle so slightly inclined as to be almost perpendicular. He wore a short jacket of brown corduroy, newer than the remainder of his suit, which was a fustian waistcoat with white horn buttons, breeches of the same, tanned leggings, and a straw hat overlaid with black glazed canvas. At his back he carried by a looped strap a rush basket, from which protruded at one end the crutch of a hayknife, a wimble for hay-bonds being also visible in the aperture. His measured, springless walk was the walk of the skilled countryman as distinct from the desultory shamble of the general labourer; while in the turn and plant of each foot there was, further, a dogged and cynical indifference, personal to himself, showing its presence even in the regularly interchanging fustian folds, now in the left leg, now in the right, as he paced along. What was really peculiar, however, in this couple's progress, and would have attracted the attention of any casual observer otherwise disposed to overlook them, was the perfect silence they preserved. They walked side by side in such a way as to suggest afar off the low, easy, confidential chat of people full of reciprocity; but on closer view it could be discerned that the man was reading, or pretending to read, a ballad |