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DRAKE’S DRUM
 Henry Newbolt 1862-1938

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,   
    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)   
Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,   
    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.   
Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships,            
    Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,   
An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin'   
    He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.   
 
Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,   
    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),     
Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,   
    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe,   
"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,   
    Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;   
If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,     
    An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."     

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,   
    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),   
Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,   
    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.     
Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,   
    Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;   
Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin',   
    They shall find him, ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago.   

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DARK LOCHNAGAR
George Gordon, Lord Byron 1788-1824

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses,
In you let the minions of luxury rove,
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love.
Yet Caledonia, belov'd are thy mountains,
Round their white summits tho' elements war,
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Lochnagar.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd,
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid.
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd
As daily I strode thro' the pine-cover'd glade.
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright Polar star,
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,
Disclos'd by the natives of dark Lochnagar!

Years have roll'd on, Lochnagar, since I left you!
Years must elapse ere I tread you again.
Though nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.
England, thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roamed over mountains afar,
Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,
The steep frowning glories of dark Lochnagar.

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HAVE YOU SEEN BUT A BRIGHT LILY GROW?
Ben Jonson 1572-1637

Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver,
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier,
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!

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SUMMER
John Betjeman 1906-84
[written at the age of 13 for his school magazine]

Whatever will rhyme with “summer”?
There only is “plumber” and “drummer.”
Why the cleverest bard
Would find it quite hard
To connect with the Summer - a plumber!

My Mind's getting glummer and glummer
Hooray! there's a word besides “drummer“;
Oh, I will think of some
Ere the prep's end has come
But the rhymes will get rummer and rummer.

Ah! If the bee hums, it's a hummer;
And the bee showeth signs of the Summer;
Also holiday babels
Make th'porter gum labels,
And whenever he gums, he's a gummer!

The cuckoo's a goer and comer
He goes in the hot days of Summer;
But he cucks ev'ry day
Till you plead and you pray
That his voice will get dumber and dumber!

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More poems here on Monday

ANNOUNCING A NEW BLOG

beginning on Monday - American Art of the 19th Century

http://americanartofthe19thcent.blogspot.com

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ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
Anon 18th century

A friend of mine was married to a scold,
To me he came and all his troubles told.
Said he, “She’s like a woman raving mad.”
“Alas, my friend” said I, “that’s very bad.”
“No, not so bad,” said he, “for with her, true,
I had both house and land, and money too.”

“That was well,” said I;
“No, not so well,” said he;
“For I and her own brother
Went to law with one another;
I was cast, the suit was lost,
And every penny went to pay the cost.”

“That was bad,” said I;
“No, not so bad,” said he;
“For we agreed that I the house should keep,
And give to me four score of Yorkshire sheep,
All fat and fine and fair, they were to be.”
“Well then,” said I, “sure that was well for thee?”

“No, not so well,” said he,
“For though the sheep I got, every one died of the rot.”
“That was bad,” said I;
“No, not so bad,” said he,
“For I had thought to scrape the fat,
And keep it in an oaken vat,
Then into tallow melt for winter store.”
“Well then,” said I, “That’s better than before.”

“Twas not so well,” said he,
“For having got a clumsy fellow
To scrape the fat and melt the tallow,
Into the melting fat the fire catches,
And, like brimstone matches,
Burnt my house to ashes.
“That WAS bad,” said I;
“No, not so bad,” said he, “for what is best,
My scolding wife got burnt up with the rest!”

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BEN LOMOND
Thomas Campbell 1777-1844

Hadst thou a genius on thy peak,
What tales, white-headed Ben,
Could'st thou of ancient ages speak,
That mock th' historian's pen!

Thy long duration makes our lives
Seem but so many hours;
And likens, to the bees' frail hives,
Our most stupendous towers.

Temples and towers thou seest begun,
New creeds, new conquerers sway;
And, like their shadows in the sun,
Hast seen them swept away.

Thy steadfast summit, heaven-allied
(Unlike life's little span),
Looks down a mentor on the pride
Of perishable man.

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THAT LOVELY WEEKEND
Moira Heath and Ted Heath
[Ted Heath 1902-69 the dance band leader]

I haven't said thanks for that lovely weekend,
Those two days of heaven you helped me spend,
The thrill of your kiss as you stepped off the train
The smile in your eyes like the sun after rain.

To mark the occasion we went out to dine,
Remember the laughter, the music, the wine;
That drive in the taxi when midnight had flown,
Then breakfast next morning, just we two alone.

You had to go, the time was too short,
We both had so much to say;
Your kit to be packed, the train to be caught,
Sorry I cried but I just felt that way.

And now you have gone, dear, this letter I pen;
My heart travels with you till we meet again.
Keep smiling, my darling, and someday we'll spend
A lifetime as sweet as that lovely weekend.

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WHEN I WAS FAIR AND YOUNG
att.Queen Elizabeth I 1533-1603

When I was fair and young, then favour graced me.
Of many was I sought their mistress for to be,
But I did scorn them all and answered them therefore:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

How many weeping eyes I made to pine in woe,
How many sighing hearts I have not skill to show,
But I the prouder grew and still this spake therefore:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

Then spake fair Venus' son, that brave victorious boy,
Saying: You dainty dame, for that you be so coy,
I will so pluck your plumes as you shall say no more:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

As soon as he had said, such change grew in my breast
That neither night nor day I could take any rest.
Wherefore I did repent that I had said before:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

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BLOG NEWS
The GALLERY OF COUNTRY GIRLS blog, which came to an end last week, is being replaced by AMERICAN ART OF THE 19TH CENTURY; the first post will be on Monday 1st July.
http://americanartofthe19thcent.blogspot.com

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JUST A’WEARYIN’ FOR YOU
Frank Stanton 1857-1927

Just a’wearyin’ for you
All the time a'feelin' blue,
Wishin’ for you, wonderin’ when
You’ll be comin’ home again,
Restless, don’t know what to do,
Just a’wearyin’ for you.

Mornin' comes, the birds awake,
Seem to sing so for your sake,
But there’s sadness in the notes
That come trillin’ from their throats,
Seem to feel a sadness too,
Just a’wearyin’ for you.

Evenin' comes, I miss you more
When the dark gloom’s round the door,
Seems just like you ought to be
Here to open it for me,
Latch goes tinklin‘, thrills me through,
Sets me wearyin’ for you.

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THE LITTLE VAGABOND
William Blake 1757-1827

Dear mother, dear mother, the church is cold,
But the ale-house is healthy and pleasant and warm;
Besides I can tell where I am used well,
Such usage in Heaven will never do well.

But if at the church they would give us some ale,
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,
We'd sing and we'd pray all the live-long day,
Nor ever once wish from the church to stray.

Then the parson might preach, and drink, and sing,
And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring;
And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church,
Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.

And God, like a father rejoicing to see
His children as pleasant and happy as he,
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,
But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.

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SYMPATHY
Paul Laurence Dunbar 1872-1906

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
    When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;  
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,  
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
    When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,  
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals - 

I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
    Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;  
For he must fly back to his perch and cling  
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars  
And they pulse again with a keener sting -
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
    When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, -
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
    But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,  
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings -
I know why the caged bird sings!

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THE ARROW AND THE SONG
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow  1807-82

I shot an Arrow into the air,
It fell to earth I know not where,
For so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breath'd a Song into the air,
It fell to earth, I know not where.
For who has sight so keen and strong
That it can follow the flight of a song?

Long, long afterward in an oak
I found the Arrow still unbroke;
And the Song from beginning to end
I found again in the heart of a friend.

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More poems next Monday

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WHEN I WAS ONE-AND-TWENTY
A.E. Housman 1859-1936

When I was one-and-twenty
       I heard a wise man say,
“Give crowns and pounds and guineas
       But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
       But keep your fancy free.”
But I was one-and-twenty,
       No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty
       I heard him say again,
“The heart out of the bosom
       Was never given in vain;
’Tis paid with sighs a plenty
       And sold for endless rue.”
And I am two-and-twenty,
       And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.

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THE SKYLARK
James Hogg 1770-1835

Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place,
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud,
Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place,
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

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LOVE’S BEEN GOOD TO ME
Rod McKuen b.1933

I have been a rover,
I have walked alone,
Hiked a hundred highways,
Never found a home,
Still in all I'm happy,
The reason is, you see,
Once in a while along the way
Love's been good to me.

There was a girl in Denver
Before the summer storm,
Oh, her eyes were tender,
Oh, her arms were warm,
And she could smile away the thunder,
Kiss away the rain,
Even though she's gone away,
You won't hear me complain.

There was a girl in Portland
Before the winter chill,
We used to go a-courtin'
Along October hill,
And she could laugh away the dark clouds,
Cry away the snow,
It seems like only yesterday
As down the road I go.

I've been a rover,
I have walked alone,
Hiked a hundred highways,
Never found a home,
Still in all I'm happy,
The reason is, you see,
Once in a while along the way
Love's been good to me.

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THE OLD WOMAN
Joseph Campbell (Seosamh MacCathmhaoil) 1879-1944

As a white candle in a holy place
So is the beauty of an aged face.
As the spent radiance of the winter sun,
So is a woman with her travail done,
Her brood gone from her and her thoughts as still
As the waters under a ruined mill.

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More poems on Thursday

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A RED, RED ROSE
Robert Burns 1759-96

O my luve’s like a red, red rose
That’s newly spring in June;
O my luve’s like a melodie
That’s sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I,
And I will luve thee still, my dear
Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve
And fare thee weel awhile;
And I will come again, my luve
Though it were ten thousand mile!

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THE MOUNTAIN MAID
Dora Sigerson Shorter 1866-1918

Half seated on a mossy crag,
Half crouching in the heather;
I found a little Irish maid,
All in June's golden weather.

Like some fond hand that loved the child,
The wind tossed back her tresses;
The heath-bells touched her unclad feet
With shy and soft caresses.

A mountain linnet flung his song
Into the air around her;
But all in vain the splendid hour,
For deep in woe I found her.

"Ahone! Ahone! Ahone!" she wept,
The tears fell fast and faster;
I sat myself beside her there,
To hear of her disaster.

Like dew on roses down her cheek
The diamond drops were stealing;
She laid her two brown hands in mine,
Her trouble all revealing.

Alas! Alas! the tale she told
In Gaelic low and tender;
A plague upon my Saxon tongue,
I could not comprehend her.

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DAFFODILS
Robert Herrick 1591-1674

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attained his noon.
Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a Spring!
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or any thing.
We die,
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the Summer’s rain;
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,
Ne’er to be found again.

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ON A PAINTED WOMAN
Percy Byshe Shelley 1792-1822

To youths, who hurry thus away,
How silly your desire is
At such an early hour to pay
Your compliments to Iris.

Stop, prithee, stop, ye hasty beaux,
No longer urge this race on;
Though Iris has put on her clothes,
She has not put her face on.

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More poems on Monday

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ALL THE THINGS YOU ARE

Oscar Hammerstein II 1895-1960

Time and again I've longed for adventure,
Something to make my heart beat the faster.
What did I long for? I never really knew.
Finding your love I've found my adventure,
Touching your hand, my heart beats the faster,
All that I want in all of this world is you.

You are the promised kiss of springtime
That makes the lonely winter seem long.
You are the breathless hush of evening
That trembles on the brink of a lovely song.

You are the angel glow that lights a star,
The dearest things I know are what you are.
Some day my happy arms will hold you,
And some day I'll know that moment divine,
When all the things you are, are mine!

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FROM A CARRIAGE WINDOW
Alexander Anderson 1845-1909

Just a peep from a carriage window,
As we stood for a moment still,
Just one look - and no more - till the engine
Gave a whistle sharp and shrill.

But I saw in that moment the heather,
That lay like a purple sheet
On the hills that watch o’er the hamlet
That sleeps like a child at their feet.

O, sweet are those hills when the winter
Flings round them his mantle of snow,
And sweet when the sunshine of summer
Sets their fair green bosoms aglow.

But sweeter and grander in autumn,
When the winds are soft with desire,
When the buds of the heather take blossom,
And run to their summits like fire.

I saw each and all through the heather
That purple lay spread like a sheet
On the hills that watch over the hamlet,
That sleeps like a child at their feet.

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TO A BUTTERFLY
William Wordsworth 1770-1850

I’ve watched you now a full half-hour;
Self-poised upon that yellow flower
And, little Butterfly! Indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless! - not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

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BAD REPORT - GOOD MANNERS
Spike Milligan 1918-2002

My daddy said, “My son, my son,
This school report is bad.”
I said, “I did my best I did,
My dad, my dad, my dad.”

“Explain my son, my son,” he said,
“Why bottom of the class?”
“I stood aside, my dad, my dad,
To let the others pass.”

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More poetry here on Thursday

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