The Premier Poetry Books - Book III

4

PREMIER POETRY

BOOKS.

Behold it aforetime No eye ever did ; So soon it for ever From all eyes is hid. Here hath been dawning Another blue day :

Think, wilt thou let it

Slip useless away?

THOMAS CARLYLE.

A FAREWELL. My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day. Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: !\,nd so make life, death, and that vast forever 9ne grand, sweet song. CHARLES

KINGSLEY.

4

PREMIER POETRY

BOOKS.

Behold it aforetime No eye ever did ; So soon it for ever From all eyes is hid. Here hath been dawning Another blue day :

Think, wilt thou let it

Slip useless away?

THOMAS CARLYLE.

A FAREWELL. My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day. Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: !\,nd so make life, death, and that vast forever 9ne grand, sweet song. CHARLES

KINGSLEY.

6

PREMIER POEtRY BOOKS.

THE

FAIRIES.

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of litt~e men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather! Down along the rocky shore

Some make their home;

They live on crispy pancakes

Of yellow tide-foam; Some in the reeds Of the black mountain lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake. High on the hill-top The old King sits ; He is now so old and gray He's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses

6

PREMIER POEtRY BOOKS.

THE

FAIRIES.

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of litt~e men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather! Down along the rocky shore

Some make their home;

They live on crispy pancakes

Of yellow tide-foam; Some in the reeds Of the black mountain lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake. High on the hill-top The old King sits ; He is now so old and gray He's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses

8

PREMIER POE TRY BOOKS.

Is any man so daring As dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night. Up the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen,

We daren't go a-hunting

For fear of little men ;

Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together ;

Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl's feather.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

BUGLE

SONG.

(Composed at Killaruey.,

The splendour faUs on castle walls And snowy summits old in story ; The long light shakes across the Jakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow set the wild echoes flying:

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying,

dying.

8

PREMIER POE TRY BOOKS.

Is any man so daring As dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night. Up the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen,

We daren't go a-hunting

For fear of little men ;

Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together ;

Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl's feather.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

BUGLE

SONG.

(Composed at Killaruey.,

The splendour faUs on castle walls And snowy summits old in story ; The long light shakes across the Jakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow set the wild echoes flying:

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying,

dying.

I

PREMIER POETRY

ooo~~.

I've laid for her for seven seasons seven eggs a week; And every morning, to my nest, eggs she came to seek ; And even on a Sunday, too, she never let me rest, But put her bony fingers in to feel beneath my breast! Crying: "Hen, my dear! what a length of time you're staying ! " With her: " Dear, oh dear! what a tiny egg you're laying! " With her: "Soon, I fear, that no more they will be saying, That no bird can lay like Little Speckled Hen! " 'Twas in March gone by, as young Matty Moore was thatching, That I gave a sigh, when I saw some chickens scratching ! " Now, 'tis time," said I, "that a family was hatching For my lonesome heart in the cabin of the Glen! " I laid my eggs at break of day beneath an ivy bush,

I

PREMIER POETRY

ooo~~.

I've laid for her for seven seasons seven eggs a week; And every morning, to my nest, eggs she came to seek ; And even on a Sunday, too, she never let me rest, But put her bony fingers in to feel beneath my breast! Crying: "Hen, my dear! what a length of time you're staying ! " With her: " Dear, oh dear! what a tiny egg you're laying! " With her: "Soon, I fear, that no more they will be saying, That no bird can lay like Little Speckled Hen! " 'Twas in March gone by, as young Matty Moore was thatching, That I gave a sigh, when I saw some chickens scratching ! " Now, 'tis time," said I, "that a family was hatching For my lonesome heart in the cabin of the Glen! " I laid my eggs at break of day beneath an ivy bush,

I2

PRE1vIIER POETRY BOOKS.

Crying, "Hen, my dear! sure, you wouldn't be so cruel As to leave me here with my bowl of water gruel! Won't you still be near, 0 my little speckled Jewel, Just to lay one egg for a widow in the Glen? "

P. J. McCALL.

DREAMS. Beyond, beyond the mountain Une, The grey-stone and the boulder, Beyond the growth of dark green pine That crowns its western shoulder, There lies that fairy land of mine, Unseen of a beholder. Its fruits are all like rubies rare ;

Its streams are clear as glasses ;

There golden castles hang in air,

And purple grapes in masses,

And noble knights and ladies fair

Come riding down the passes,

I2

PRE1vIIER POETRY BOOKS.

Crying, "Hen, my dear! sure, you wouldn't be so cruel As to leave me here with my bowl of water gruel! Won't you still be near, 0 my little speckled Jewel, Just to lay one egg for a widow in the Glen? "

P. J. McCALL.

DREAMS. Beyond, beyond the mountain Une, The grey-stone and the boulder, Beyond the growth of dark green pine That crowns its western shoulder, There lies that fairy land of mine, Unseen of a beholder. Its fruits are all like rubies rare ;

Its streams are clear as glasses ;

There golden castles hang in air,

And purple grapes in masses,

And noble knights and ladies fair

Come riding down the passes,

14

PREMIER POETRY BOOKS.

Strong and free, strong and free,

The floodgates are open, away to the sea;

Free and strong, free and strong,

Cleansing my streams as I hurry along

To the golden sands, and the leaping bar,

And the taintless tide that awaits me afar.

As I lose myself in the infinite main,

Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned

again, Undeflled, for the undefiled ; Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. CHARLES KINGSLEY,

From " The \Vater -Babies ."

THE

BELLS

OF

SHANDON.

With deep affection and recollection I often think of the Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhood, Fling round my cradle their magic spells. On this I ponder, where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;

With the bells of Shandon,

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the ;iver Lee.

14

PREMIER POETRY BOOKS.

Strong and free, strong and free,

The floodgates are open, away to the sea;

Free and strong, free and strong,

Cleansing my streams as I hurry along

To the golden sands, and the leaping bar,

And the taintless tide that awaits me afar.

As I lose myself in the infinite main,

Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned

again, Undeflled, for the undefiled ; Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. CHARLES KINGSLEY,

From " The \Vater -Babies ."

THE

BELLS

OF

SHANDON.

With deep affection and recollection I often think of the Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhood, Fling round my cradle their magic spells. On this I ponder, where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;

With the bells of Shandon,

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the ;iver Lee.

16

PREMIER POETRY BOOKS.

There's a bell in Moscow, while on tower and kiosk 0 ! In St. Sophia the Turkman gets, And loud in the air calls men to prayer From the tapering summit of tall mina­ rets. Such empty phantom I freely grant 'em, But there's an anthem more dear to me : 'Tis the bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the River Lee. THE REV. FRANK MAHONY. (Father Prout.)

BLESSINGS. It's what I thank God for each night­

A little cabin that's mine by right, .

The strength of a man for work or fight,

And food and light. It's what I thank God for each day­ A wife with never too much to say, A wife, a dog, and a child for play, For those I'd pray.

16

PREMIER POETRY BOOKS.

There's a bell in Moscow, while on tower and kiosk 0 ! In St. Sophia the Turkman gets, And loud in the air calls men to prayer From the tapering summit of tall mina­ rets. Such empty phantom I freely grant 'em, But there's an anthem more dear to me : 'Tis the bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the River Lee. THE REV. FRANK MAHONY. (Father Prout.)

BLESSINGS. It's what I thank God for each night­

A little cabin that's mine by right, .

The strength of a man for work or fight,

And food and light. It's what I thank God for each day­ A wife with never too much to say, A wife, a dog, and a child for play, For those I'd pray.

1:8

PREMIER POETRY :BOOKS.

A SONG OF

LOVE.

Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping, That lures the bird home to her nest? -Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping, To cuddle and croon it to rest? What the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms, Till it cooes with the voice of the dove ? ~Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low­ And the name of the secret is Love ! For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I'm sure it is nothing but Love ! Say, whence is the voice that when anger is burning Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease? That stirs the vexed soul with an aching­ a yearning For the brotherly hand-grip of peace? Whence the music that fills all our being - that thrills Around us, beneath and above?

1:8

PREMIER POETRY :BOOKS.

A SONG OF

LOVE.

Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping, That lures the bird home to her nest? -Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping, To cuddle and croon it to rest? What the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms, Till it cooes with the voice of the dove ? ~Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low­ And the name of the secret is Love ! For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I'm sure it is nothing but Love ! Say, whence is the voice that when anger is burning Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease? That stirs the vexed soul with an aching­ a yearning For the brotherly hand-grip of peace? Whence the music that fills all our being - that thrills Around us, beneath and above?

20

PREMIER P OETRY

ON

THE

BOOKS.

WING.

SING ON, BLITHE BIRD!

I've plucked the berry from the bush, the brown nut from the tree, But heart of happy little bird ne'er broken was by me. I saw them in their curious nests, close couching, slyly peer With their wild eyes, like glittering heads, to note if harm were near ; I passed them by, and blessed them all ; I felt that it was good To leave unmoved the creatures small whose home wa.s in the wood. And here, even now, above my head, a lusty rogue doth sing ; He pecks--his swelling breast and neck, and trims his little wing. He will not fly; he knows full well, while chirping on that spray, I would not harm him for a world, or interrupt his lay.

20

PREMIER P OETRY

ON

THE

BOOKS.

WING.

SING ON, BLITHE BIRD!

I've plucked the berry from the bush, the brown nut from the tree, But heart of happy little bird ne'er broken was by me. I saw them in their curious nests, close couching, slyly peer With their wild eyes, like glittering heads, to note if harm were near ; I passed them by, and blessed them all ; I felt that it was good To leave unmoved the creatures small whose home wa.s in the wood. And here, even now, above my head, a lusty rogue doth sing ; He pecks--his swelling breast and neck, and trims his little wing. He will not fly; he knows full well, while chirping on that spray, I would not harm him for a world, or interrupt his lay.

22

PREMIER POETRY BOOKS.

THE

MONKEY.

Monkey, little merry fellow,

Thou art Nature's Punchinello ;

Full of fun as Puck could be­

Harlequin might learn of thee !

In the very ark, no doubt,

You went frolicking about;

Never keeping in your mind

Drowned monkeys left behind !

Have you no traditions-none,

Of the court of Solomon ?

No memorial how you went

With Prince Hiram's armament?

Look now at him! slyly peep ;

He pretends he is asleep !

Fast asleep upon his bed,

With his arms beneath his head.

Now that posture is not right,

And he is not settled quite ;

There! that's better than before­

And the knave pretends to snore!

22

PREMIER POETRY BOOKS.

THE

MONKEY.

Monkey, little merry fellow,

Thou art Nature's Punchinello ;

Full of fun as Puck could be­

Harlequin might learn of thee !

In the very ark, no doubt,

You went frolicking about;

Never keeping in your mind

Drowned monkeys left behind !

Have you no traditions-none,

Of the court of Solomon ?

No memorial how you went

With Prince Hiram's armament?

Look now at him! slyly peep ;

He pretends he is asleep !

Fast asleep upon his bed,

With his arms beneath his head.

Now that posture is not right,

And he is not settled quite ;

There! that's better than before­

And the knave pretends to snore!

24

PREMIER POETRY BOOKS.

And never yet have fairy hands Such happy service done, Nor fairy feet on errands fleet More joyously have run. The household elves, for whom 0' nights Fond maids the feast prepare, Most surely meet their secrets sweet By Mary's bed to share. One eve as in our happy wont, We sought, my wife and I, The nursery nest where laid to rest Our rosy darlings lie. We gently knocked, no answer came, We entered soft and found So sweet a sight of home delight, It made our bosoms bound. For there our little Mary sat, Two white-robed boys beside; With smiling care she combed their hair, She had no need to chide ; And then, for still they heard us not, Obedient to the maid, In snowy gown the babes knelt down And innocently prayed.

24

PREMIER POETRY BOOKS.

And never yet have fairy hands Such happy service done, Nor fairy feet on errands fleet More joyously have run. The household elves, for whom 0' nights Fond maids the feast prepare, Most surely meet their secrets sweet By Mary's bed to share. One eve as in our happy wont, We sought, my wife and I, The nursery nest where laid to rest Our rosy darlings lie. We gently knocked, no answer came, We entered soft and found So sweet a sight of home delight, It made our bosoms bound. For there our little Mary sat, Two white-robed boys beside; With smiling care she combed their hair, She had no need to chide ; And then, for still they heard us not, Obedient to the maid, In snowy gown the babes knelt down And innocently prayed.

26

PREMIER POETRY BOOKS.

Life there, welling, flowing,

Waving round;

Pictures coming, gOing,

Without sound.

Quick now, be this airy

Globe repelled !

Never can the fairy

Star be held.

Touch'd-it in a twinkle

Disappears !

Leaving but a sprinkle,

As of tears.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

WINDLASS

SONG.

Heave at the windlass !-Heave 0, cheerily, men! Heave all at once with a will ! The tide quickly making, Our cordage a-creaking, The water has put em a frill, Heave 0 :

26

PREMIER POETRY BOOKS.

Life there, welling, flowing,

Waving round;

Pictures coming, gOing,

Without sound.

Quick now, be this airy

Globe repelled !

Never can the fairy

Star be held.

Touch'd-it in a twinkle

Disappears !

Leaving but a sprinkle,

As of tears.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

WINDLASS

SONG.

Heave at the windlass !-Heave 0, cheerily, men! Heave all at once with a will ! The tide quickly making, Our cordage a-creaking, The water has put em a frill, Heave 0 :

28

PREMIER POETRY BOOKS.

A WEXFORD

FISHING

SONG.

The red sun rolls down over Ballyteig's waters, And the Saltees grow misty and grey ; At home on the mainland our wives and our daughters Are wishing good luck on the day ! With a west wind long blowing, nets filled to 0 'erflowing From a shoal that broke under our lee ; Then raise high a chorus, the way lies before us, With a boat full of spoil from the sea ! The wind from the Northlands is cruel and smiting, And the young lambs we scarcely can save; While the wind from the Eastlands is callous and blighting, And it adds a full foot to the wave! o sweet west wind singing! a seagull low winging Is our hooker that skims light and free-­ 10 raise high a chorus, the way lies before us, With a boat full of spoil from the sea !

28

PREMIER POETRY BOOKS.

A WEXFORD

FISHING

SONG.

The red sun rolls down over Ballyteig's waters, And the Saltees grow misty and grey ; At home on the mainland our wives and our daughters Are wishing good luck on the day ! With a west wind long blowing, nets filled to 0 'erflowing From a shoal that broke under our lee ; Then raise high a chorus, the way lies before us, With a boat full of spoil from the sea ! The wind from the Northlands is cruel and smiting, And the young lambs we scarcely can save; While the wind from the Eastlands is callous and blighting, And it adds a full foot to the wave! o sweet west wind singing! a seagull low winging Is our hooker that skims light and free-­ 10 raise high a chorus, the way lies before us, With a boat full of spoil from the sea !

30

PREMIER POE TRY

B OOK ~ .

When the battIe has roll 'd "by Wanders to and fro, So totter'd she, bishevelled in the wind. Then came the daisies,

On the first of May,

l..ike a banner'd show 's advance;

While the crowd runs by the way,

With ten thousand flowe rs about them,

They came trooping through the fields,

As a happy people come,

So came they, As a happy people come, When the war has roll'd away, With dance and tabor, pipe and drum, And an make holiday. Then came the cowslip,

Like a dancer in the fair,

She spread her little mat of green,

And on it danced she.

With a fillet bound about her brow,

A fillet round her bappy brow,

A golden fillet round her brow,

And rubies in her . hair.

SYDNEY DOBELL.

30

PREMIER POE TRY

B OOK ~ .

When the battIe has roll 'd "by Wanders to and fro, So totter'd she, bishevelled in the wind. Then came the daisies,

On the first of May,

l..ike a banner'd show 's advance;

While the crowd runs by the way,

With ten thousand flowe rs about them,

They came trooping through the fields,

As a happy people come,

So came they, As a happy people come, When the war has roll'd away, With dance and tabor, pipe and drum, And an make holiday. Then came the cowslip,

Like a dancer in the fair,

She spread her little mat of green,

And on it danced she.

With a fillet bound about her brow,

A fillet round her bappy brow,

A golden fillet round her brow,

And rubies in her . hair.

SYDNEY DOBELL.

32

PRE:;.\HER POETRY BOOKS.

THE

LITTLE

DISASTER.

Once there lived a little man

Where a little river ran,

And he had a little farm and a dairy 0 ! And he had a Jittle plough And a little dappled cow Which he often called his pretty little fairy 0 ! And his dog he called Fidelle,

For he loved his master well,

And he had a little pony for his pleasure 0 ! In a sty not very big He'd a fri~ky little pig Which he often called his little piggy treasure 0 ! Once his little maiden, Ann, With her pretty little can, Went a-milking when the morning .sun was beaming 0 ! When she fell- I don't know how­ But she tumbled o'er the plough, And the cow was quite astonished at her screaming 0 !

32

PRE:;.\HER POETRY BOOKS.

THE

LITTLE

DISASTER.

Once there lived a little man

Where a little river ran,

And he had a little farm and a dairy 0 ! And he had a Jittle plough And a little dappled cow Which he often called his pretty little fairy 0 ! And his dog he called Fidelle,

For he loved his master well,

And he had a little pony for his pleasure 0 ! In a sty not very big He'd a fri~ky little pig Which he often called his little piggy treasure 0 ! Once his little maiden, Ann, With her pretty little can, Went a-milking when the morning .sun was beaming 0 ! When she fell- I don't know how­ But she tumbled o'er the plough, And the cow was quite astonished at her screaming 0 !

P REMI E R

34

ODE

TO

THE

P OET RY

BOOKS.

NORTH-EAST

Welcome, wild North-easter ! Shame it is to see Odes to every zephyr ; Ne'er a verse to thee. Welcome, black North-easter ! O'er the German foam,

O'er the Danish moorlands, ·

From thy frozen home.

Tired we are of summer, Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and streaming, Hot and breathless air.

Tired of listless dreaming

Through the lazy day :

Jovial wind of winter Turns us out to play ! Sweep the golden reed-beds: Crisp the [azy dyke; Hunger into madness Every plunging pike. Fill the lake with wild fowl ; Fill the marsh with snipe ; While on dreary moorlands Lonely curlew pipe~

WIND.

P REMI E R

34

ODE

TO

THE

P OET RY

BOOKS.

NORTH-EAST

Welcome, wild North-easter ! Shame it is to see Odes to every zephyr ; Ne'er a verse to thee. Welcome, black North-easter ! O'er the German foam,

O'er the Danish moorlands, ·

From thy frozen home.

Tired we are of summer, Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and streaming, Hot and breathless air.

Tired of listless dreaming

Through the lazy day :

Jovial wind of winter Turns us out to play ! Sweep the golden reed-beds: Crisp the [azy dyke; Hunger into madness Every plunging pike. Fill the lake with wild fowl ; Fill the marsh with snipe ; While on dreary moorlands Lonely curlew pipe~

WIND.

36

PRBlVIIE R

POBTRY

BOOKS.

'Tis the hard grey weather

Breeds hard Englishmen.

What's the soft South-wester?

'Tis the ladies' breeze)

Bringing home their true loves

Out of all the seas.

But the black North-easter,

Through the snowstorm hurled,

Drives our English hearts of oak

Seaward round the world.

Come as came our fathers,

Heralded by thee,

Conquering from the eastward,

Lords by land and sea.

Come; and strong within us

Stir the viking's blood;

Bracing brain and sinew.

Blow, thou wind of God!

CHARLES KINGSLEY.