Farewell to Poesy 
 
 A^ and other Poems 
 oU' William H. Davies 
 
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 Farewell to Poesy 
 And Other Pieces
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 NATURE POEMS, AND OTHERS. 
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 Farewell to Poesy 
 
 And Other Pieces 
 
 By A 
 
 William H^ Davies 
 
 L(jndoii 
 A. C. Fifield, 13 Clifrord's Inn, K.C. 
 
 1910
 
 lAU righti reierved 
 
 PRINTED BV 
 
 WILLIAM BKENDON AND SON, LTD 
 
 PLYMOUTH
 
 Some of these poems have appcarcl in The Nation, and the 
 author thanks the editor for permission to reprint them.
 
 Contents 
 
 FAREWELL TO POESY 
 
 9 
 
 THE DARK HOUR 
 
 9 
 
 JENNY WREN . . . . 
 
 lo 
 
 THE milkmaid's SONG 
 
 II 
 
 THE IDIOT AND THE CHILD 
 
 12 
 
 A MONTH AGO . . . . 
 
 13 
 
 THE TRUSTING YOUNG 
 
 13 
 
 NOW ... . . 
 
 14 
 
 ROSE ... . . 
 
 15 
 
 THE GREEN TENT 
 
 16 
 
 SELFISH HEARTS . 
 
 17 
 
 TO THE WIND AT MORN . 
 
 18 
 
 NO MASTER 
 
 19 
 
 THE DUMB WORLD 
 
 19 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A LITTLE CHILD . 
 
 20 
 
 THE POPPY 
 
 21 
 
 KNITTING 
 
 22 
 
 CLOUDS 
 
 23 
 
 IN THE COUNTRY 
 
 24 
 
 THE KINGFISHER 
 
 • 25 
 
 AN OLD HOUSE IN LONDON 
 
 • 25 
 
 SCOTTV'S LUCK . 
 
 27 
 
 HAPPY WIND 
 
 . 27 
 
 IHE SLUGGARD . 
 
 . 28 
 
 IHE HOUSE BUILDER 
 
 . 28 
 
 OLD RAGAN 
 
 • 29 
 
 TO A FLIRT 
 
 • 30 
 
 ON EXPECTING SOME BOOKS 
 
 • 31
 
 8 Contents 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE SAILOR TO HIS PARROT 
 
 33 
 
 time's justice . 
 
 • 34 
 
 ANGRY 
 
 35 
 
 THE CALL OF THE SEA 
 
 36 
 
 COME, HONEST BOYS 
 
 37 
 
 death's game . 
 
 3« 
 
 TO THE NEW YEAR 
 
 • 39 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHICAL BEGGAR 
 
 40 
 
 FANCY 
 
 47
 
 Farewell to Poesy 
 
 C WEET Poesy, why art thou dumb ! 
 
 I loved thee as my captive bird, 
 That sang me songs when spring was gone, 
 
 And birds of freedom were not heard ; 
 Nor dreamt thou wouldst turn false and cold 
 
 When needed most, by men grown old. 
 
 Sweet Poesy, why art thou dumb ! 
 
 I fear thy singing days arc done ; 
 The poet in my soul is dying, 
 
 And every charm in life is gone ; 
 In vain birds scold and flowers do plead — 
 
 The poet dies, his heart doth bleed. 
 
 The Dark Hour 
 
 A ND now, when merry winds do blow. 
 
 And rain makes trees look fresh, 
 An overpowering staleness holds 
 This mortal flesh. 
 
 Though I do love to feel the rain, 
 And be by winds well blown — 
 The mystery of mortal life 
 Doth press me down.
 
 lo J^^^y Wren 
 
 And, in this mood, come now what will, 
 Shine Rainbow, Cuckoo call ; 
 
 There is no thing in Heaven or Earth 
 Can lift my soul. 
 
 I know not where this state comes from — 
 
 No cause for grief I know ; 
 The Earth around is fresh and green, 
 
 Flowers near me grow. 
 
 I sit between two fair Rose trees ; 
 
 Red roses on my right, 
 And on my left side roses are 
 
 A lovely white. 
 
 The little birds arc full of joy. 
 
 Lambs bleating all the day ; 
 The colt runs after the old mare, 
 
 And children play. 
 
 And still there comes this dark, dark hour- 
 
 Which is not born of Care ; 
 Into my heart it creeps before 
 
 I am aware. 
 
 Jenny Wren 
 
 H 
 
 ER sight is short, she comes quite near ; 
 A foot to me's a mile to her ; 
 And she is known as Jenny Wren, 
 The smallest bird in England. When 
 I heard that little bird at first, 
 Methought her frame would surely burst
 
 The Milkmaid's Song 1 1 
 
 With earnest song. Oft had I seen 
 
 Her running under leaves so green, 
 
 Or in the grass when fresh and wet, 
 
 As though her wings she would forget. 
 
 And, seeing this, I said to her — 
 
 " My pretty runner, you prefer 
 
 To be a thing to run unheard 
 
 Through leaves and grass, and not a bird ! " 
 
 'Twas then she burst, to prove me wrong, 
 
 Into a sudden storm of song ; 
 
 So very loud and earnest, I 
 
 Feared she would break her heart and die. 
 
 " Nay, nay," I laughed, " be you no thing 
 
 To run unheard, sweet scold, but sing ! 
 
 O I could hear your voice near me, 
 
 Above the din in that oak tree, 
 
 When almost all the twigs on top 
 
 Had starlings singing without stop." 
 
 The Milkmaid's Song 
 
 A MILKMAID, on a Summer's day, 
 ^^ Was singing, as she milked away. 
 
 The heavy, sullen cows had come 
 Racing when her voice called thcin home. 
 
 A thrcc-lcggcd stool, a pail that glows, 
 To sit and sing, and milk her cows. 
 
 Her checks were red, her eyes were bright, 
 And, like that milk, her neck was white.
 
 12 The Idiot and the Child 
 
 The birds around her tuned their throats — 
 In vain — to take her perfect notes. 
 
 The cow gave up the last milk-drop, 
 And tarried till her song should stop. 
 
 *' Wilt marry me, sweet Maid ? " I said. 
 She laughed in scorn, and tossed her head. 
 
 And she had milked the crimson flood 
 E'en to my heart's last drop of blood. 
 
 The Idiot and the Child 
 
 ""pHERE was a house where an old dame 
 
 Lived with a son, his child and wife ; 
 And with a son of fifty years, 
 An idiot all his life. 
 
 When others wept this idiot laughed, 
 
 When others laughed he then would weep ; 
 
 The married pair took oath his eyes 
 Did never close in sleep. 
 
 Death came that way, and which think you 
 Fell under that old tyrant's spell ? 
 
 He breathed upon that little child. 
 Who loved her life so well. 
 
 This made the idiot chuckle hard : 
 
 The old dame looked at that child dead 
 
 And him she loved — " Ah, well ; thank God 
 It is no worse ! " she said.
 
 The Trusting Young 13 
 
 A Month Ago 
 
 A MONTH ago, ah happy me ! 
 '^*- I found a pool with no man by ; 
 Which clouds had made so deep to see, 
 As was the height from earth to sky ; 
 It was a lovely day in spring, 
 And flowers did bloom, and birds did sing. 
 
 I hummed with bees, I stared with sheep, 
 I whistled with the birds for joy ; 
 
 I shook the butterflies from sleep, 
 Their time the better to employ ; 
 
 And when night came I laughed with glee. 
 
 When I the Moon's sad face did see. 
 
 A month ago, ah happy me ! 
 
 O woeful, woeful days since then! 
 For I a banished man must be, 
 
 Out of the land of happy men ; 
 On me a woman trained her charms. 
 To win another to her arms. 
 
 The Trusting Young 
 
 A II, little bird, thou art not old ; 
 
 Thou knowest no danger in this world, 
 So full of trust, like all young things. 
 A child kncjw.s not the adder stings ; 
 Adtlers are lovely W(;rms t<j it ; 
 Tigers would be big cats to pet,
 
 14 Now 
 
 And bears be bigger dogs to love. 
 But future days too soon will prove 
 To every child and bird, life's state 
 Divides itself with love and hate. 
 So, when I see thee come so near 
 And, though I threaten, take no fear, 
 I think of days when thou wilt find 
 As many cruel things as kind. 
 All trusting young things come to this ; 
 Look how a loving child would kiss 
 The civil landlord that did come 
 To turn it out of house and home ; 
 Nor guessed her mother's look of grief 
 Was through that law-supported thief. 
 
 Now 
 
 'Vl/'HEN I was in yon town, and had 
 
 Stones all round me, hard and cold, 
 My flesh was firm, my sight was keen, 
 And still I felt my heart grow old. 
 
 But now, with this green world around, 
 By my great love for it ! I swear, 
 
 Though my flesh shrink, and my sight fail. 
 My heart will not grow old with care. 
 
 "When I do hear these joyful birds, 
 I cannot sit with my heart dumb ; 
 
 I cannot walk among these flowers, 
 But I must help the bees to hum.
 
 Rose 1 5 
 
 My heart has echoes for all things, 
 
 The wind, the rain, the bird and bee j 
 
 'Tis I that — now — can carry Time, 
 Who in that town must carry me. 
 
 I see not now the great coke fire 
 With ten men seated there, or more. 
 
 Like frogs on logs ; and one man fall 
 Dying across the boarded floor. 
 
 I see instead the flowers and clouds, 
 I hear the rills, the birds and bees : 
 
 The Squirrel flies before the storm 
 He makes himself in leafy trees. 
 
 Rose 
 
 C WEET Margaret's laugh can make 
 Her whole plump body shake. 
 
 Jane's cherry lips can show 
 Their white stones in a row. 
 
 A soft June smile steals out 
 Of Mary's April pout. 
 
 Sweet creatures swim and play 
 In Maud's blue pools all day.
 
 1 6 The Green Tent 
 
 But when Rose walks abroad, 
 Jane, Margaret, Mary, Maud, 
 
 Do stand as little chance 
 To throw a lovely glance, 
 
 As the Moon that's in the sky 
 While still the Sun is high. 
 
 The Green Tent 
 
 CUMMER has spread a cool, green tent 
 
 Upon the bare poles of this tree ; 
 Where 'tis a joy to sit all day. 
 
 And hear the small birds' melody ; 
 To see the sheep stand bolt upright. 
 
 Nibbling at grass almost their height. 
 
 And much I marvel now how men 
 
 Can waste their fleeting days in greed ; 
 
 That one man should desire more gold 
 Than twenty men should truly need ; 
 
 For is not this green tent more sweet 
 Than any chamber of the great ? 
 
 This tent, at which I spend my day. 
 Was made at Nature's cost, not mine ; 
 
 And when night comes, and I must sleep. 
 No matter if my room be fine 
 
 Or common, for Content and Health 
 
 Can sleep without the power of Wealth,
 
 Selfish Hearts 17 
 
 Selfish Hearts 
 
 ^ITHOUT a thought 
 
 If death brings in 
 Joy for our virtue, 
 Pain for our sin — 
 
 Know this hard truth : 
 They live on earth 
 
 The sweetest life, 
 
 Who, rich from birth. 
 
 Do then maintain 
 
 A selfish mind ; 
 To moans are deaf. 
 
 To tears are blind. 
 
 Weep for the poor 
 You find in books : 
 
 From living poor 
 Avert your looks. 
 
 Then dance and sing. 
 Dress, sail or ride ; 
 
 Go in your coach 
 To halls of Pride. 
 
 A selfish heart, 
 
 And rich from l)irth. 
 No sweeter life 
 
 Can [)v tju earth.
 
 1 8 To the Wind at Morn 
 
 To match thy joy, 
 There lives but one : 
 
 The beggar who 
 Lives all alone. 
 
 With selfish heart, 
 And shameless, he 
 
 Begs bread at huts, 
 And almshouse tea, 
 
 O selfish pair ! 
 
 I know not which 
 Is happiest — 
 
 So poor, or rich. 
 
 The decent poor, 
 The working mass, 
 
 In misery 
 
 Their lives must pass. 
 
 To the Wind at Morn 
 
 TS it for you 
 
 The Larks sing loud. 
 The Leaves clap hands. 
 
 The Lilies nod .'' 
 Do they forget 
 
 The screams so wild. 
 Heard all the night — 
 
 Where is that child .''
 
 The Dumb World 19 
 
 No Master 
 
 I 
 
 NDEED this is sweet life ! my hand 
 Is under no proud man's command ; 
 There is no voice to break my rest 
 Before a bird has left its nest ; 
 There is no man to change my mood, 
 Would I go nutting in the wood ; 
 No man to pluck my sleeve and say — 
 I want thy labour for this day ; 
 N(j man to keep me out of sight. 
 When that dear Sun is shining bright. 
 None but my friends shall have command 
 Upon my time, my heart and hand; 
 I'll rise from sleep to help a friend, 
 IJut let no stranger orders send. 
 Or hear my curses fast and thick. 
 Which in his purse-proud throat will stick 
 Like burs. If I cannot be free 
 To do such work as pleases me, 
 Near woodland pools and under trees. 
 You'll get no work at all; for I 
 Would rather live this life and die 
 A beggar or a thief, than be 
 A working slave with nc; days free. 
 
 The Dumb Wurld 
 
 f CANNOT see the short, white curls 
 
 lfp(jri the forehead of an Ox, 
 Hut what I see them dripping with 
 
 That poor thing's blood, and hear the axe ;
 
 20 Death of a little Child 
 
 When I see calves and lambs, I see 
 Them led to death ; I see no bird 
 
 Or rabbit cross the open field 
 
 But what a sudden shot is heard ; 
 
 A shout that tells me men aim true. 
 
 For death or wound, doth chill me through. 
 
 The shot that kills a hare or bird 
 
 Doth pass through me ; I feel the wound 
 "When those poor things find peace in death. 
 
 And when I hear no more that sound. 
 These cat-like men do hate to see 
 
 Small lives in happy motion ; I 
 Would almost rather hide my face 
 
 From Nature than pass these men by : 
 And rather see a battle than 
 A dumb thing near a drunken man. 
 
 On the Death of a little Child 
 
 LJ ER pretty dances were her own. 
 
 Her songs were by no other sung ; 
 And all the laughter in her house 
 
 Was started by her own sweet tongue. 
 
 This little dance and song composer, 
 This laughter maker, sweet and small. 
 
 Will never more be seen or heard — 
 For her the Sexton's bell does toll. 
 
 The shining eyes are closed for aye, 
 
 And that small, crimson mouth of mirth ; 
 
 The little feet, the little hands — 
 All stiff and cold inside the earth.
 
 The Poppy 21 
 
 The Poppy 
 
 C WEET Poppy, when thy beauty's gone, 
 Thy leaves will fall, thy life be done. 
 
 No sooner do thy leaves decay. 
 Than thou dost throw thy life away. 
 
 Thou dost not keep them like the Rose, 
 When she her crimson charms doth lose. 
 
 Whose smudged face for days is seen, 
 Which neither dew nor rain can clean. 
 
 Thou dost not shrink and dry at last. 
 To mock that beauty of thy past. 
 
 The first soft breeze that comes along 
 Shall strip thee — when thy leaves go wrong. 
 
 And when to-morrow we look there, 
 The place is clean where thy leaves were. 
 
 Thou d(;st not linger on, like man. 
 Till thou art bent, and dry, and wan. 
 
 "80 let me die when my charms fade. 
 
 Like that sweet flower" — said Beauty's maid. 
 
 " So, like that Poppy, let me die," 
 
 Said Genius — " when my springs go dry."
 
 2 2 Knitting 
 
 Knitting 
 
 U^'EN though her tongue may by Its force 
 
 Leave me as helpless as a horse, 
 When saucy pup doth bark at him — 
 I'll love her better for that whim. 
 No steady, summer's love for me, 
 But let her still uncertain be ; 
 Like spring, whose gusts, and frowns, and showers, 
 Do grow us fresher, lovelier flowers. 
 No substances on earth can make 
 The joy I from her shadow take ; 
 When first I saw her face, I could 
 Not help draw near her where she stood ; 
 I felt more joy than when a Bee 
 Sees in a garden a Plum tree 
 All blossoms and no leaves, and he 
 Leaps o'er the fence immediately. 
 I like to see her when she sits — 
 •Not dreaming I look on — and knits ; 
 To see her hands, with grace so light. 
 Stabbing the wool that's red or white ; 
 With shining needles, sharp and long. 
 That never seem to go far wrong. 
 And that sight better pleases me ^ 
 
 Than green hills in the sun ; to see 
 The beach, what time the tide goes out. 
 And leaves his gold spread all about.
 
 clouds 23 
 
 Clouds 
 
 ]V/TY Fancy loves to play with Clouds 
 
 That hour by hour can change Heaven's face ; 
 For I am sure of my delight, 
 In green or stony place. 
 
 Sometimes they on tall mountains pile 
 
 Mountains of silver, twice as high ; 
 And then they break and lie like rocks 
 
 All over the wide sky. 
 
 And then I see flocks very fair ; 
 
 And sometimes, near their fleeces white, 
 Arc small, black lambs that soon will grow 
 
 And hide their mothers quite. ' 
 
 Sometimes, like little fishes, they 
 
 Arc all one size, and one great shoal ; 
 
 Sometimes they like big sailing ships 
 Across the blue sky roll. 
 
 Sometimes I see small Cloudlets tow 
 liig, heavy Clouds acrijss those skies — 
 
 Like little Ants that carry off 
 Dead Moths ten times their size. 
 
 Sometimes I see at m(jrn bright Clouds 
 That stand so still, they make me stare ; 
 
 It seems as they had trained all night 
 To make no motion there.
 
 24 In the Country 
 
 In the Country 
 
 T 
 
 'HIS life is sweetest ; in this wood 
 I hear no children cry for food ; 
 I see no woman, white with care ; 
 No man, with muscles wasting here. 
 
 No doubt it is a selfish thing 
 
 To fly from human suffering ; 
 
 No doubt he is a selfish man, 
 
 Who shuns poor creatures sad and wan. 
 
 But 'tis a wretched life to face 
 Hunger in almost every place ; 
 Cursed with a hand that's empty, when 
 The heart is full to help all men. 
 
 Can I admire the statue great. 
 When living men starve at its feet ! 
 Can I admire the park's green tree, 
 A roof for homeless misery ! 
 
 When I can see few men in need, 
 I then have power to help by deed. 
 Nor lose my cheerfulness in pity — 
 Which I must do in every city. 
 
 For when I am in those great places, 
 I see ten thousand suffering faces ; 
 Before me stares a wolfish eye. 
 Behind me creeps a groan or sigh.
 
 An Old House in London 25 
 
 The Kingfisher 
 
 TT was the Rainbow gave thee birth, 
 And left thee all her lovely hues ; 
 
 And, as her mother's name was Tears, 
 So runs it in thy blood to choose 
 
 For haunts the lonely pools, and keep 
 
 In company with trees that weep. 
 
 Go you and, with such glorious hues, 
 
 Live with proud Peacocks in green parks ; 
 
 On lawns as smooth as shining glass. 
 Let every feather show its marks ; 
 
 Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings 
 
 Before the windows of proud kings. 
 
 Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain ; 
 
 Thou hast no proud, ambitious mind ; 
 I als(j love a quiet place 
 
 That's green, away from all mankind ; 
 A lonely pool, and let a tree 
 Sigh with her bosom over me. 
 
 An Old House in London 
 
 TN fancy I can see thee stand 
 
 Again in the green meadow-land ; 
 As in thine infancy, Itjiig past, 
 When Southwark was a lovely waste ; 
 And Larks and Blackbirds sang around. 
 As common as their children found
 
 26 An Old House in London 
 
 So far away in these late days. 
 
 And thou didst Hkc a lighthouse raise 
 
 Thy windows, that their light could show 
 
 Across the broad, green calm below ; 
 
 And there were trees, beneath whose boughs 
 
 Stood happy horses, sheep and cows. 
 
 And wilful brooks, that would not yield 
 
 To hedges, to mark out each field. 
 
 But every field that they passed through 
 
 Was by them cut and counted two. 
 
 From thy back windows thou couldst see, 
 
 Half-way between St. Paul's and thee, 
 
 Swans with their shadows, and the barge 
 
 Of state old Thames took in his charge. 
 
 Ah, wert thou now what thou wert then, 
 
 There were no need to fly from men. 
 
 Instead of those green meadows, now 
 
 Three hundred hungry children show 
 
 Rags and white faces at thy door 
 
 For charity. We see no more 
 
 Green lanes, but alleys dark instead ; 
 
 Where none can walk but fear to tread 
 
 On babes that crawl in dirt and slime. 
 
 And from thy windows, at this time. 
 
 Thou canst not see ten yards beyond. 
 
 For the high blocks that stand around ; 
 
 Buildings that ofttimes only give 
 
 One room in which five souls must live. 
 
 With but one window for their air. 
 
 Foul art thou now with lives of care, 
 
 For hungry children and men poor 
 
 Seek food and lodging at thy door ; 
 
 Thou that didst hear, in thy first hours, 
 
 Birds sing, and saw the sweet wild flowers.
 
 Happy Wind 37 
 
 Scotty's Luck 
 
 " pATTY," one day, called " Red-nosed Scot " 
 
 A viper ! and then punched his nose ; 
 Poor " Scotty " swore to have revenge 
 Before the week could close. 
 
 Now " Scotty " was a gambling man, 
 
 And, when his eyes were glassed and framed, 
 
 He saw in print, to his amaze, 
 A horse called " Viper " named. 
 
 At once that superstitious man 
 
 Backed " Viper" for the highest place; 
 
 And heard ere long, to his great joy, 
 That horse had won the race. 
 
 "Fatty," said "Scot," with grateful tears, 
 " You called me ' Viper,' to my shame — 
 
 But it was heavenly Providence 
 To call me by that name." 
 
 Happy Wind 
 
 /^II, happy wind, how sweet 
 
 Thy life must be ! 
 The great, proud fields of g(jld 
 
 Run after thee : 
 And here are flowers, with heads 
 
 To nod and shake ; 
 And dreaming butterflies 
 
 To tease and wake. 
 Oh, happy wind, I say, 
 To be alive this day.
 
 2 8 The House Builder 
 
 The Sluggard 
 
 A JAR of cider and my pipe. 
 
 In summer, under shady tree; 
 A book of one that made his mind 
 
 Live by its sweet simplicity : 
 Then must I laugh at kings who sit 
 
 In richest chambers, signing scrolls; 
 And princes cheered in public ways, 
 And stared at by a thousand fools. 
 
 Let me be free to wear my dreams. 
 
 Like weeds in some mad maiden's hair, 
 When she doth think the earth has not 
 
 Another maid so rich and fair ; 
 And proudly smiles on rich and poor, 
 
 The queen of all fair women then : 
 So I, dressed in my idle dreams, 
 
 Will think myself the king of men. 
 
 The House Builder 
 
 'T'HE Rain has lost more music keys. 
 
 One harp the less for Summer's Breeze ; 
 The Sheep have lost one of their shades. 
 The Cows one place to rub their sides ; 
 The crash has come, the Oak lies now, 
 With all its ruined branches, low. 
 And I am filled with angry pain ; 
 But if I speak, it were as vain
 
 old Ragan 29 
 
 As though a butterfly, poor fool, 
 
 Should try to move a stuggy bull ! 
 
 Where this Oak stood a house must be. 
 
 Not half so fair as a green tree ; 
 
 The crash that made my last hope fall, 
 
 Was music to that builder's soul. 
 
 No beauty in the bark he sees, 
 
 Nor leaves ; the boughs and trunks of trees 
 
 Shape into planks before his eyes. 
 
 To build a house that he will prize. 
 
 He'd rather sit inside walls four, 
 
 With plaster roof and wooden floor, 
 
 Than under a green tree and hear, 
 
 As I have done, the birds' notes clear 
 
 Among the leaves in Summer. Yet, 
 
 What is this life, if we forget 
 
 To fill our ears when Nature sings, 
 
 Our eyes search for her lovely things.'' 
 
 Of which she keeps a wondrous store, 
 
 And charges us our love, no more. 
 
 Old Ragan 
 
 "\l/'nO lives in this black wooden hut? 
 
 Old Ragan lives there, all alone; 
 He cursed a lovely lady once, 
 
 Who let her shadow cross his own. 
 
 His tongue is a perpetual spring 
 Of oaths that never cease to drop; 
 
 WcjukLst hear him swear? Speak kiiuily thus, 
 •' Good morning, Ragan " — and tlu-ii stop.
 
 30 To a Flirt 
 
 Sometimes a woman thoughtlessly 
 Has greeted Ragan in this way ; 
 
 And she will not forget his look 
 And language till her dying day. 
 
 He throws his fowls their own eggshells. 
 Feeds them on thrice-boiled leaves of tea ; 
 
 And dead flies on his window-sill, 
 He killed when they danced merrily. 
 
 A wicked, mean, suspicious man. 
 He growls to hear an infant's noise ; 
 
 He hides behind the walls and trees. 
 To frighten little girls and boys. 
 
 What made old Ragan come to this ? 
 
 Young men did jeer at him and shout ; 
 So women, children and houseflies 
 
 Must bear the old man's vengeance out. 
 
 To a Flirt 
 
 Y'OU'LL get no help from me ; 
 
 Make me no pool 
 To train thy looks to take 
 Some other fool. 
 
 No effigy of straw 
 
 To set in flame ; 
 That gives another joy 
 
 And me the shame.
 
 On Expecting some Books 31 
 
 No tree on which to cut 
 
 His name and yours ; 
 To be passed laughing by 
 
 In future hours. 
 
 I'll not prepare your nest — 
 
 You sly house-sparrow ; 
 Prepare your heart for him — 
 
 Like a poor Swallow 
 
 Driven away, when I 
 
 Have helped his passion ; 
 
 Condemned and banished at 
 Love's quarter session. 
 
 You'll get no help from me, 
 
 To make him prove, 
 With jealous looks and words. 
 
 His backward love. 
 
 On Expecting some Books 
 
 nrO-MORROW they will come. I know 
 
 How rich their sweet contents arc, so 
 Upon their dress let Fancy play — 
 Will it be blue, red, green or grey ? 
 Sweet Bcxjks that I have oft heart! named. 
 And seen stand up like blossoms framed, 
 Through many a common window shown — 
 When I was moneyless in town \ 
 But never touched their leaves, nor bent 
 Close to them and inhaled their scent. 
 They'll come like sn<jwdr(;ps to a Bee 
 That, tired of empty dreams, can see
 
 32 On Expecting some Books 
 
 Real flowers at last. Until this time, 
 
 Now on the threshold of my prime, 
 
 I did not guess my poverty ; 
 
 That none of these rich Books, that lie 
 
 Untouched on many a shelf — save when 
 
 A housemaid, dreaming of young men 
 
 And music, sport, and dance, and dress, 
 
 Will bang them for their dustiness — 
 
 That none of these were in my care ; 
 
 To-morrow I will have them here. 
 
 Well do I know their value ; they 
 
 Will not be purses found, which may 
 
 Be full of coppers, nails or keys — 
 
 They will not disappoint, like these. 
 
 Books I can always trust ; for they 
 
 Will not tell neighbours what I say, 
 
 What time I go to bed and rise, 
 
 What eat and drink. They'll make no cries 
 
 For cloth to suit the season ; no 
 
 Oft going out, to make me grow 
 
 Jealous of their long absence. When 
 
 I'm visited by living men. 
 
 They will not sulk and cast black looks 
 
 When left unflattered. These sweet Books 
 
 Will not be heard to grumble that 
 
 I keep the room too cold or hot ; 
 
 The one in leather will not chide 
 
 To feel a cloth one touch his side. 
 
 O may their coming never cease ! 
 
 May my book-family increase ; 
 
 Clothes, pictures, ornaments of show, 
 
 Trinklets and mirrors — these can go 
 
 Outside, that all my Books may be 
 
 Together in one room with me.
 
 The Sailor to his Parrot 33 
 
 The Sailor to his Parrot 
 
 T~'HOU foul-mouthed wretch ! Why dost 
 thou choose 
 
 To learn bad language, and no good ; 
 Canst thou not say "The Lord be praised"" 
 
 As easy as " Hell's fire and blood" ? 
 
 Why didst thou call the gentle priest 
 A thief and a damned rogue; and tell 
 
 The deacon's wife, who came to pray, 
 To hold her jaw and go to hell ? 
 
 Thou art a foe, no friend of mine. 
 
 For all my thoughts thou givest away ; 
 
 Whate'er I say in confidence, 
 Thou dost in evil hours betray. 
 
 Thy mind's for ever set on bad ; 
 
 I cannot mutter one small curse, 
 But thou dost make it endless song, 
 
 And shout it to a neighbour's house. 
 
 Aye, swear to thy delight and ours, 
 
 When here I welcome shipmates home. 
 
 And thou canst see abundant grog — 
 
 But hold thy tongue when landsmen come. 
 
 Be dumb when widow J(jhnson's near. 
 
 Be dumb until our wedding day ; 
 And after tha —but not before — 
 
 She will enjoy the worst you say, 
 c
 
 34 Time's Justice 
 
 There is a time to speak and not ; 
 
 When we're together, all is well ; 
 But damn thy soul — What ! you damn tnine! 
 
 And you tell tne to go to hell ! 
 
 Time's Justice 
 
 A LAS ! we live in days of shame, 
 
 That men, inventing some new game 
 For Pleasure's fools to idle time, 
 Are welcomed more than men of rhyme, 
 And men that master sound or paint ; 
 And Genius must be still content 
 That, though not heeded now at all — 
 Great men are seen when their stars fall. 
 
 What fools we are ! Here one man tramps 
 Collecting fossils, eggs or stamps ; 
 Others in that dull, useless state 
 Of toads that kernel rocks ; men great. 
 Though efforts they do make untold — 
 As misers make to reach their gold. 
 When sick and dying — could not wake 
 One thought in these for Beauty's sake. 
 
 The great man's work, when his life's past. 
 Will ripen like plucked fruit at last ; 
 So let not Genius fear but what 
 Time will do justice to his lot, 
 And give no more or less ; in sooth, 
 The world could not feel half the truth 
 If Genius had no power to see 
 One step beyond reality.
 
 Angry 
 
 35 
 
 Take you no fear but Time is just ; 
 He'll not give Genius to the dust, 
 With soul and common body joined ; 
 You great man, now deemed mad of mind, 
 Scorned and abused like some white crow 
 That comes to make white feathers show 
 Inside a black crows' rookery — 
 Courage ! Time proves thy sanity. 
 
 Angry 
 
 jV/f Y Love sits angry ; see ! 
 
 Her foot shakes in the light ; 
 Her timid, little foot. 
 
 That else would hide from sight. 
 
 Her left hand props her check ; 
 
 its little finger plays 
 ITpon her under-lip. 
 
 And makes a harp-like noise. 
 
 Her lip's red manuscript 
 
 She has unrf)lled and spread ; 
 
 So I may read ill news. 
 And hang my guilty head. 
 
 My I>ovc sits angry ; see ! 
 
 She's red up to her eyes ; 
 And was her face flogged by 
 
 The wings of Butterflies ? 
 
 Her right hand's in her lap, 
 
 So small, so soft, so white; 
 She in her anger makes 
 
 Five lingers hide from sight.
 
 36 The Call of the Sea 
 
 Two golden curls have now 
 Dropped out of their silk net ; 
 
 There they must stop, for she 
 Will not restore them yet. 
 
 My I.ove, she is so fair 
 When in this angry way, 
 
 That did she guess my thoughts, 
 She'd quarrel every day. 
 
 The Call of the Sea 
 
 (~^ ONE are the days of canvas sails ! j 
 
 No more great sailors tell their tales " 
 
 In country taverns, barter pearls 
 For kisses from strange little girls ; 
 And when the landlord's merry daughter 
 Heard their rough jokes and shrieked with laughter, 
 They threw a muffler of rare fur, 
 That hid her neck from ear to ear. 
 Ho, ho ! my merry men ; they know 
 Where gold is plentiful — Sail ho ! 
 How they did love the rude wild Sea ! ! 
 
 The rude, unflattering Sea ; for he 
 Will not lie down for monarch's yacht, ;; 
 
 No more than merchant's barge ; he'll not 
 Keep graves with marks of wood or stone 
 For fish or fowl, or human bone. „; 
 
 The Sea is loth to lose a friend ; 
 Men of one voyage, who did spend 
 Six months with him, hear his vexed cry 
 Haunting their houses till they die. 
 
 I
 
 Come, Honest Boys 37 
 
 And for the sake of him they let 
 
 The winds blow them, and raindrops wet 
 
 Their foreheads with fresh water sprays — 
 
 Thinking of his wild, salty days. 
 
 And well they love to saunter near 
 
 A river, and its motion hear ; 
 
 And see ships lying in calm beds, 
 
 That danced upon seas' living heads ; 
 
 And in their dreams they hear again 
 
 Men's voices in a hurricane — 
 
 Like ghosts complaining that their graves 
 
 Are moved by sacrilegious waves. 
 
 And they do love to stand and hear 
 
 The old seafiiring men that fear 
 
 Land more than water j carts and trains 
 
 More than wild waves and hurricanes. 
 
 And they do walk with love and pride 
 
 The tattooed mariner beside — 
 
 Chains, anchors on his arm, and ships — 
 
 And listen to his bearded lips. 
 
 Aye, they will hear the Sea's vexed cry 
 
 Haunting their houses till they die. 
 
 Come, Honest Boys 
 
 Y 
 
 I- who have nothing to conceal, 
 Come, honest boys, and drink with mc ; 
 Come, drink with me the sparkling ale, 
 
 And we'll not whisper calumny, 
 I'nit laugh with all the power we can ; 
 
 But ail pule schemers who incline 
 To rise above your fellow m.ui, 
 
 Touch not the sparkling ale or wine
 
 38 
 
 Death's Game 
 
 Give mc strong ale to fire my blood, 
 
 Content mc with a lot that's bad *, 
 That is to me both drink and food, 
 
 And warms mc though I am ill-clad ; 
 A pot of ale, man owns the world : 
 
 The poet hears his songs all sung, 
 Inventor sees his patents sold. 
 
 The painter sees his pictures hung. 
 
 The creeds remind us oft of Death; 
 
 But man's best creed is to forget 
 Death all the hours that he takes breath, 
 
 And quaff the sparkling ale, and let 
 Creeds shout until they burst their lungs ; 
 
 For what is better than to be 
 A-drinking ale and singing songs, 
 
 In summer, under some green tree ? 
 
 Death's Game 
 
 T^EATH can but play one game with mc- 
 
 If I do live alone ; 
 He cannot strike me a foul blow 
 Through a beloved one. 
 
 To-day he takes my neighbour's wife, 
 
 And leaves a little child 
 To lie upon his breast and cry 
 
 Like the Night-wind, so wild. 
 
 And every hour its voice is heard — 
 
 Tell mc where is she gone ! 
 Death cannot play that game with me — 
 
 If I do live alone.
 
 To the New Year 39 
 
 To the New Year 
 
 V\/'ELCOME, New Year, but be mure kind 
 
 Than thy dead father left behind; 
 If I may kiss no mouth that's red, 
 Give me the open mouth instead 
 Of a black bottle of old wine 
 To gurgle in its neck and mine. 
 J>et not my belly once complain 
 For want of meat, or fruit, or grain ; 
 But keep it always tight and quiet — 
 No matter if with drink or diet. 
 And, New Year, may I never need 
 In vain a pipeful of strong weed, 
 That sends my baby clouds on high 
 To join big brothers in the sky. 
 No gold I ask, but that I may 
 Have some small silver every day. 
 Not for one night let sleep forsake 
 My side, and show the Morning break ; 
 Let me not hear 'I'ime's strcjkes in bed, 
 And feci the pain of one th(jught dead, 
 Who hears the earth cast in his grave. 
 I care not what poor cicjthcs I have; 
 I'll (jnly think it shame and sin 
 'Fo sh(;w my naked thigh or shin 
 When the wind blows. Give mc, New Year, 
 'l'(jbacco, bread and meat, and beer. 
 Also a few old books, so I 
 Can reaii about an age gone by ; 
 lint as for how the present g(jes — 
 I'll thank the l.nvd the Devil knows.
 
 40 The Philosophical Beggar 
 
 The Philosophical Beggar. 
 
 "\VrHEN I went in the woods this morn to sleep, 
 
 I saw an old man looking on the ground. 
 Said he : " Here, where a beggar ate his crust, 
 We see ten thousand little ants at work, 
 And they are earning now their winter's ease. 
 As for myself, I cannot rest from work ; 
 I have no patience with those idle fools 
 That waste their days in mourning wasted time — 
 My brain must ever be at work. They say 
 Much work, and just a little pleasure mixed, 
 Is best for life ; as flowers that live in shade 
 For twenty hours and sunlight four keep fresh 
 The longest and enjoy the longest life ; 
 They do say this — but all my pleasure's work. 
 I work on small, when great themes fail my mind — 
 As cats, when they can catch no mice, content 
 Themselves with flies. If once I take a rest, 
 Then sudden famine takes my mind for days. 
 Which seeks but cannot find the barest feast. 
 How it doth fret my active Heart to see 
 The sloven Mind recovering from a day 
 Of idleness — letting Thoughts peep and none come 
 
 out. 
 Ah, wretched hours that follow rest ! when men 
 Have no desire for pleasure, and would work, 
 But still their Minds do sulk from past neglect. 
 This world, this mystery of Time, of Life 
 And Death, where every riddle men explain 
 Does make another one, or many more — 
 Can always keep the human mind employed ;
 
 The Philosophical Beggar 41 
 
 Old men that do persuade themselves life's work 
 
 Is but half done, must all die happy men. 
 
 E'en though we think the world and all things vain, 
 
 There lives a noble impulse in our minds 
 
 To strive and help to reach the perfect state. 
 
 Work, work, and thou hast joy j it matters not 
 
 If thou dost start upon a quest as vain 
 
 As children, when they seek a cuckoo's nest — 
 
 The joy is on the way, not at the end. 
 
 When I am in this world's society, 
 
 Then do I feel like some poor bird that would 
 
 Attend its young when people loiter near ; 
 
 I see my thoughts like blossoms fade, and know 
 
 That they will die and never turn to fruit. 
 
 What juicy joints I threw away when young ! 
 
 To think of those rich joints makes this meat sweet, 
 
 Near to the bone, which Time doth offer now. 
 
 Work, work, I say ; sleep is sufficient rest ; 
 
 It is the wage that Nature pays to all, 
 
 And when we spend our days in idleness, 
 
 •She gives short time ; and they that earn the least 
 
 Do grumble most, when she keeps back full pay. 
 
 "Now, woodman, do thy work, and I'll do mine — 
 
 An active man can almost break Death's heart." 
 
 Then with a pencil and a book he went 
 
 Mumbling and writing, into the deep woods. 
 
 Now, what an old, mad fool is that, methought ; 
 lie tries to make one hour do work for two, 
 To keep away the ghosts of murdered ones 
 He foully did to death when a small boy. 
 He'll wijrk his brains, and then the world will rob 
 His hive of its pure honey ; in its place 
 Put for his food cheap syrup of weak praise. 
 His mind's a garden, all the flowers are his;
 
 42 The Philosophical Beggar 
 
 But when he markets his sweet honey goods, 
 Then scoundrel bees, that have their hives else- 
 where, 
 Will make themselves rich on his flowers' sweets. 
 I count the tramp as noble as that man 
 Who lives in idleness on wealth bequeathed. 
 And far more wise than yon old thinking fool. 
 Show me one happier than the tramp who has 
 His belly full, and good boots not too tight. 
 His careless heart has buried kin that live, 
 Those that have died he resurrects no more. 
 He docs not know the farmer's spiteful joy, 
 Who, envying his near neighbour, laughs to see 
 The wild birds knock that man's fruit blossoms 
 
 down ; 
 He does not laugh to spite a bachelor, 
 As mothers do, that hear their babies scream. 
 We scorn the men that toil, as deep-sea men 
 8corn those that sail on shallow lakes and streams — 
 Yet by our civil tongues we live and thrive. 
 Our tongues may be as venomous as those 
 Small flies that make the lazy oxen leap j 
 Like a ship's parrot I maybe could swear ; 
 Like a ship's monkey for my cunning tricks — 
 But I have found a gently uttered lie 
 And civil tongue sufficient for my ends ; 
 For we can find excuse for our escape — 
 As rats and mice pursued can find dark holes. 
 Is there a sound more cheerful than the tramp's 
 " Good morning, sir"? For in that sound he puts 
 His whole heart's gratitude that you do work 
 And sweat, and then make sacrifice for him. 
 His lips do whine, but how his heart does laugh ! 
 To think that he is free to roam at will,
 
 The Philosophical Beggar 43 
 
 While others toil to keep that thing " Respect," 
 Which makes them starve — if they become like 
 
 him. 
 If I hear not my belly's voice, nor feel 
 The cold ; if I toil not for other men — 
 I ask no more ; contented with my bread 
 Ten times outweighing meat, and water fresh. 
 When I this morn did beg a rich man's house, 
 " Go to the bees, thou sluggard" — he replied. 
 " And to the devil, you" — 1 answered him. 
 Then stood and cursed him, worse than farmer when 
 He sees the Crows turn his green meadow black. 
 Go to the bees, thou sluggard ! Me ! From him ! 
 And must I be a slave, like thousands more, 
 To rise before the Sun, and go — in spite 
 Of fog, rain, wind or hail — to serve his like ? 
 And if perchance I'm hungry at my work, 
 I still must fast until a certain hour; 
 If I am sleepy still, when I should rise, 
 I must not sleep, but up and work for him ! 
 Nature gave me no extra bone for this ; 
 The rich man cannot know a poor man's life — 
 No more than hands, that are unwipcd and wet. 
 Can feci if clothes are dry. Go, sluggard, w(;rk ! 
 It makes me laugh ; Care has them soon her slaves 
 Wh(j dream lA duty to their fellow-men, 
 And set a value on each passing hour. 
 If rich men are the winter's kings, the kings 
 Of summer arc true beggars — that be sure. 
 Then, happy beggars can recline on stones 
 With more content than Unds sit cushioned chairs ; 
 Their pleasant houses are the leafy trees, 
 Whose floors are carpeted with grass or moss ; 
 They sleep upon the new-mown hay at night,
 
 44 The Philosophical Beggar 
 
 And in the daytime to their liking mix 
 
 The sun and shade. Oft in forsaken house — 
 
 Where spirits drove the living out — they sleep ; 
 
 Ghosts cannot deal with beggars bold, who have 
 
 Less reverence than the spiders that weave webs 
 
 Inside the sacred nostrils of a joss. 
 
 And see our health ; we live on sun and air, 
 
 Plain food and water, and outlive rich men. 
 
 With all their physic, wines and cleanliness. 
 
 Ah, cleanliness ! That strikes a woeful note 
 
 To those poor tramps that seek the workhouse 
 
 oft. 
 That fear to beg, and should be working men ; 
 For, after they have ta'en a workhouse bath. 
 And their clothes cleaned, how lonely they must 
 
 feel 
 When all the fleas that tickled them are dead. 
 Of Death — who still surprises foolish men. 
 As though he came but yesterday — the tramp 
 Thinks not ; or takes a little laugh at Death 
 Ere Death grins everlastingly at him. 
 The happy tramp cares not if he doth lie 
 At last between white sheets or on cows' dung. 
 He has no squeamish taste : he could almost 
 Eat things alive, in little bits, like birds — 
 Or lick the streets like Turkey's sacred dogs. 
 Ah, dogs ! that strikes another woeful note. 
 Many a village have I left through them. 
 When one had cause — or thought he had — to bark. 
 And in a while a score of others joined. 
 Barking because he barked, and nothing more, 
 And hungry I have had to leave that place. 
 Some dogs will bite; those small dogs with big 
 
 heads —
 
 The Philosophical Beggar 45 
 
 It is the size of these dogs' heads we fear, 
 And not so much how big their bodies are. 
 If one thing spoils our life it is the dog. 
 
 Now, wherefore should I work my flesh or 
 mind ? 
 I knew Will Davies well ; a beggar once, 
 Till he went mad and started writing books. 
 Nature, I swear, did ne'er commit worse crime 
 Than when she gives out genius to the poor; 
 He is a leper every man would shun ; 
 A lighthouse fast upon the rocks of Want, 
 To warn men, with his light, to keep away ; 
 And so they do — as far as body goes — 
 So that they may not witness his distress, 
 But still they pester him from distant parts. 
 A beggar's body has far better friends 
 In nibbling fleas that will not let him sleep, 
 Than any people's poet whose soul has 
 More friends than wanted, but scarce one 
 Real friend to question how his body fares, 
 l-'ame's like a nightingale, so sweet at first, 
 Whose voice soon like a common frog doth croak. 
 Until we wonder if we hear the same sweet bird. 
 I cannot see at all why I should work 
 My mind or body for this cruel world — 
 I'm no mad poet, like the one I name. 
 'Tis work, work, work — in every place ; it haunts 
 Me like a painted lady whose sad eyes 
 Can watch us still, whichever way we look. 
 Now, let me eat ; here's cake, and bread and jam — 
 I wonder if there's butter in between. 
 And here's a Christian journal a kind dame 
 Wrapped round the food to help my happy soul. 
 What I here's a poem by the poet-tramp.
 
 46 The Philosophical Beggar 
 
 Out, life of care ! 
 
 Man lives to fret 
 For some vain thing 
 
 He cannot get. 
 
 The Cities crave 
 
 Green solitude; 
 The Country craves 
 
 A multitude. 
 
 Man lives to want ; 
 
 The rich man's lot 
 Is to want things 
 
 The poor know not. 
 
 And no man dies 
 
 But must look back 
 With sorrow on 
 
 His own past track. 
 
 If beggar has 
 
 No child or wife, 
 He, of all men, 
 
 Enjoys most life. 
 
 When rich men loathe 
 Their meat and wine, 
 
 He thinks dry bread 
 And water fine. 
 
 When Fame's as sick 
 
 As Failure is, 
 He snores on straw, 
 
 In quiet bliss.
 
 Fancy 
 
 47 
 
 A truthful song, but 'twill not pay his rent. 
 An English poet ! Where's the milk ? Me-aw ! 
 If he would thrive, let him be false as hell. 
 And bow-wow fierce at France or Germany. 
 
 What makes us tramps the happiest of all men ? 
 Our hearts are free of envy, care and greed. 
 The miser thinks the Sun has not one flower 
 As fair as his gold heap the dark has grown ; 
 He trembles if the Moon at night comes through 
 Plis lattice, with her silver of no worth ; 
 True beggars laugh at him, and do not shake 
 With greed, like rats that hear a glutton eat, 
 When they behold a man more richly clad. 
 Nay, let plain food but keep their bellies tight, 
 And they will envy none their cloth or land. 
 
 Fancy 
 
 I-J OW sad my life had been were't not for her, 
 
 I know not ; everywhere I looked were heaps 
 Of moving Hesh, silk dresses mixed with rags. 
 And solid bltjcks of stone, with squares of glass — 
 Hard to my sight. That dreadful din! My 
 
 nerve 
 Fell all apart, e'en as a wave, impaled 
 Upon a rock, breaks into quivering drops. 
 There, men were sat with neither home nor hope, 
 Ungreetcd — save by some lost dog or cat. 
 There saw I cold and ragged, hungry men 
 Sit at the feet <jf statues which tiic rich 
 Admired, n(jr heeded those poor nu-ii of flesh. 
 And as that thief, the Wind, will drink the dew
 
 48 Fancy 
 
 While Ph(Tebus fights the Clouds, so did the rich 
 Cheat honest workers of their just reward. 
 Where'er I looked I saw no beauty there ; 
 Plenty of shops and markets with dead meat, 
 And other stuff to satisfy man's flesh, 
 But little for man's soul. A dreadful life, 
 To live in that stone town without a change ; 
 As though men's souls did not need Nature's 
 
 charms, 
 And putting out to grass, like common beasts. 
 To keep life healthy, fresh and of good cheer. 
 I blessed sweet Fancy for her favour then ; 
 That oft she robbed my outward eyes of power 
 To fill the mind with common objects, and 
 My ears of power to take in common sounds. 
 And when I saw that here — where thousands 
 
 lived 
 In houses without gardens, and the air 
 Was no true friend to any thing that lived, 
 And little beauty was — when I saw she, 
 In spite of that dull town, could bring delight — 
 Fancy, I cried, thou shalt be my life's Love. 
 If I do so exalt thee in my life. 
 There'll be no fear that Death will take thee first, 
 For we must die together, as we lived. 
 Much am I pleased with thee ; for thou hast more 
 Sweet antics than a Squirrel on the boughs. 
 Who, after he has made the green leaves fight. 
 Slides to the ground for safety. I am sick 
 Of this loud noise and sights of poverty ; 
 Here, where the poor do either pass away. 
 Quiet as winds at sundown, starved and lost — 
 Or drink, and fight like cats that arch their backs 
 And stretch their legs to twice their common length.
 
 Fancy 
 
 49 
 
 To which she said : He who can sit alone 
 In sohtude, content with his own thoughts, 
 Can have life's best and cheapest joy ; which 
 
 needs 
 No purse of gold, no pride of outward show, 
 Like joy that's purchased from society ; 
 And only by my power canst thou do this. 
 Thou dost not know true joy of living yet : 
 Thy mind is as a port that takes ships in, 
 But when alone with me in solitude, 
 A greater joy will be to send ships out. 
 Sweet Thoughts shall tease and romp with thee 
 
 all day, 
 Till Sleep will pity thy joy-weary Mind, 
 And sink thee in her depths — but thou shalt still 
 Be followed by those Torments sweet and wild. 
 Aye, I will make thy life of purest joy ; 
 A fire that has no smoke, a thornless rose ; 
 A love without one breath of jealousy — 
 A heaven that has no knowledge of mankind. 
 I'or I will then with my sweet visions clear 
 Thy memory of these scenes depraved and sad. 
 Of hungry children and their parents drunk. 
 Thou night and day shalt sing ; I'll give two 
 
 souls 
 In one — the Lark's and Nightingale's; to sing 
 By Sun and Mcjon ; and songs as sweet as birds 
 Make at the birth of April, when Spring crowns 
 His first day with a rainbow — thou shah sing. 
 And I will give thy Mind such dreams that when 
 Thy Body, her blackmailer, threatens her. 
 To satisfy his greed for worldly things — 
 Thou wilt have courage to say nay. And thou 
 Shalt see again tlie Ocean l)ear the Sun 
 I)
 
 50 Fancy 
 
 Into the arms of Heaven, his smiling nurse ; 
 And see again the Sun that sank long since 
 At Severn's Mouth, with that great sail of gold, 
 That covered all the West ; and many more 
 Scenes, dear to Memory, I will show thy Mind. 
 For thou shalt see that Meadow burned in two 
 By fiery Mai pas Brook; and hear again 
 The voice of Ebbw in his lovely park, 
 Counting its ferns, its rabbits, sheep and deer ; 
 And sweeter music he shall make for thee 
 Than seamaid ever wasted, when she tried. 
 With every trick known to her throat, to stop 
 The Phantom Ship. Come, let us settle then 
 In some small village which the Cuckoo loves 
 To haunt and startle. I will give each day 
 Far sweeter dreams than Love gives her first 
 
 night. 
 Much fairer Clouds are there, and brighter Suns, 
 And Skies more clear and blue ; and Night's small 
 
 Star 
 Can shine as bright as Mars and Venus here. 
 There, many a happy wood can hear a Brook 
 Enjoy his everlasting holiday, 
 When Birds are silent and no Children come. 
 Come then, and I will be as true to thee 
 As snow to the high Mountain, or the Wind 
 That never leaves the Ocean for a day. 
 
 Yes, Sweet, I answered, we will live alone 
 In some green Village that awake is far 
 More happy than a City in its sleep. 
 
 So we departed, hand in hand for joy ; 
 And, when arrived in that green world, I found 
 Such peace and ease as only sailors know. 
 When they return to the wild elements
 
 Fancy 5 i 
 
 After a Port has robbed and beaten them. 
 
 O I was like a Wasp for joy, when he's 
 
 Inside a juicy plum, and near the stone, 
 
 Where it is sweetest. I could never know 
 
 That cunning Time was plucking me alive 
 
 Of youth and strength and beauty — when I looked 
 
 Into the eyes of horses, sheep and cows, 
 
 Sure that their hearts were innocent of sin. 
 
 And she had power to change all common forms 
 
 Into things lovely or of interest ; 
 
 Could give a man's face to the rock or tree, 
 
 And bodies of fair women to the Clouds. 
 
 She was a sweet wild flower, that much preferred 
 
 Wild brooks to fountains and hedge banks to 
 
 lawns. 
 It was a joy to hear the horses crop 
 The sweet, short grass ; and see the dappled 
 
 cows 
 Knee deep in grass or water ; and to watch 
 The green leaves smoking, when their purfs made 
 
 me 
 Expect to hear them smack their lips like men, 
 Or show some fire ; and hear the summer's Wind 
 Whispering in the ears of corn — and Birds 
 That whistled while the leaves were drinking rain. 
 And by her sweet translation I could read 
 The language of all flowers, and birds and 
 
 clouds. 
 And was a master of their tongues. I saw 
 Among the leaves the cobweb starred with dew, 
 Saw Rainbows that had tunnelled half the sky ; 
 And as the Lark, that hails the rising Sun, 
 Will not f(jrget t(; praise him when he sets — 
 So did I bless at night each happy day.
 
 5 2 Fancy 
 
 And in their turn all things gave up their 
 
 charms ; 
 One day it was a Cloud, the next a Flower ; 
 Then 'twas a Bird, the Rain or Wind ; and then 
 A full survey of Nature. Sweet to hear 
 Red Robin sing, and seek among the leaves 
 The body of that piercing sweetness ; or 
 The Nightingales, paced by a thunderstorm. 
 Sing at their highest pitch ; or to walk forth 
 At early morn in Spring, when all was still. 
 And hear the small Birds screaming in the trees, 
 Before the human world doth wake from sleep. 
 For it was Springtime then — when I was led 
 By Fancy into that green solitude, 
 And all the Birds were happy day and night ; 
 When Day's sweet Birds had done, I could not 
 
 sleep 
 For Nightingales, whose notes were links to make 
 One chain of song to run through all the Spring. 
 The cunning Cuckoo changed his place each time, 
 Now North, now South, now East, now West 
 
 was heard — 
 Knowing that trick would make his voice keep 
 
 fresh. 
 Then, saw the Primrose on a distant bank. 
 And, guided by his golden light, drew close 
 And found a Violet at his side — sweet thing ! 
 A joy to walk abroad with Fancy then ; 
 When 1 beheld a Rainbow or fair Cloud, 
 She gave my Mind free copies, which would last 
 When their originals were perished tjuite ; 
 And for my copies I pay no man rent, 
 Nor need insure them — which are proof 
 'Gainst loss by water, thieves and fire. When I
 
 Fancy 
 
 53 
 
 Awoke, would hasten forth to see the Sun 
 
 Dance with another happy Day ; for soon 
 
 He in his summer's strength could laugh at 
 
 Clouds. 
 And we would walk, green lanes, so still and lone 
 That Reynard walked them without hurry, and 
 Felt safer than in woods ; down some green lane 
 That's only ten feet wide, and only one 
 Foot in the centre white ; which is the time 
 When June, with her abundant leaves and grass, 
 Makes narrow paths of lanes, and lanes of roads ; 
 When she in all her leafy glory comes, 
 And clothes the naked trees in every limb. 
 Not much I missed with Fancy at my side, 
 Of living things or dead : the Moon, alone, 
 That set her sheet to sail the heavenly Sea, 
 To test if safe for piloting the Stars ; 
 Or wc would watch the Squirrel hide his nuts, 
 And stand the blades of grass upright again, 
 And still eye it suspiciously ; or Crows, 
 Tossing their bright black bodies in the Sun, 
 And looking like white Pigeons. Wonderful 
 That Paradise which Fancy gave my Mind, 
 In which the body had no luxury 
 Of either fijod or drink or furniture. 
 Where'er I was, let her be near and then 
 My Body trembled like a sucking liee's ; 
 Life was a joy, no matter if the hour 
 Was wet and windy, cold, or dry and calm. 
 Sometimes there was not wind enough to shake 
 The lifeless leaf caught by a spider's thread. 
 And held suspended ; and no sound of life — 
 Save distant bark of dog, the m(;(; of cow 
 Or calf, the baa of sheep ; or the church bell,
 
 54 Fancy 
 
 That made forgetful birds renew their songs. 
 
 And when, in that still hour, from Traffic's stir, 
 
 I looked upon the Sun in Heaven, his eye 
 
 Seemed burning with a great intelligence. 
 
 She sometimes sang at morn a song so sweet 
 
 That I must banish her until my soul 
 
 Repeated it a hundred times and more. 
 
 She kept me safe from that strong company 
 
 Of Gambling, Gluttony, and Drink, and Lust, 
 
 That ruin many. She could wake me in 
 
 The night to sing, as May wakes sleeping birds ; 
 
 With visions of the hills and valleys, woods 
 
 And streams, and clouds ; and all the flowers that 
 
 came 
 Between the Snowdrop and Chrysanthemum. 
 
 And well she entertained my Winter nights ; 
 For by her power I heard a kettle sing 
 As sweet a song as any bird made, when 
 In May the Sun was drying his wet wings. 
 That voice was small, but O what passion ! like 
 A Skylark's voice, were he a Wasp in size. 
 All troubles did escape my Mind, when I, 
 With Fancy near, looked into my red fire ; 
 To hear the battle of its blaze, or see 
 It in a red spell deep. To see two flames 
 Crouch low to box, and then stand tall ; and 
 
 then 
 To hear the blows distinct, and hard and fast — 
 Like carpet hung and beaten by a stick. 
 Aye, with that Maid it was a joy to live, 
 No matter had I Nature's Sun outdoors. 
 Or my own sun made out of wood and coal. 
 Then travelled we to many a pleasant land, 
 Where lovely fruit did grow so plentiful
 
 Fancy 
 
 55 
 
 That men that stole it were not counted thieves. 
 And we did cross high mountains white and 
 
 bleak, 
 Which nothing with two feet or four had crossed, 
 Save birds on wings ; and other mountains that 
 Could take the name of forests with their own. 
 We heard the water wash the island beach 
 Where giant turtles lay ; and heard the roar 
 Of captains in a hurricane. Saw ships 
 Rolled by the waves, and the Pacilic make 
 Mis waterspouts, that rolled ships far away — 
 And whirlpools strongest ships could not pass 
 
 through. 
 And by her power I saw Thames' face as clear 
 As Heaven's above, when he had grass to kiss 
 Twice in twelve hours. I saw the town of Troy 
 With Helen there, that time when she made 
 
 Jove 
 And his Queen almost empty Heaven, to fight 
 For her cause or against. Black walls saw I, 
 Of castles old, part leafy and part bare ; 
 And lonely abbeys tumbling down, that once 
 Were rich enough to ruin a king's soul. 
 With her I saw the rtjcks that Orpheus moved, 
 And trees that to his music danced like men ; 
 And we did visit Mab's bright court, when it 
 Was all alight for foreign fairies ; I 
 Saw by her power the golden barge that made 
 The black Nile clear in every place it went. 
 She to my Mind made it a common sight 
 To sec the secret pails and bowls of pearls 
 Owned by a shah or sultan ; she did make 
 My room more rich than theirs, with stuff that fire 
 liurncd not, nor water spoiled, nor the winds tore.
 
 56 Fancy 
 
 My mind could watch the shepherd move his sheep 
 That, like drilled soldiers, one pace kept ; and 
 
 when 
 One ran, all ran ; and when he stopped, all 
 
 stopped. 
 We walked the woods and fields ; sometimes in 
 
 shade, 
 And sometimes out ; and crouched behind green 
 
 banks, 
 To spy on Ariel in the wind. 
 
 Alas! 
 Soon she began to make her absence known. 
 Then to my heart came dark Despondency, 
 And perched on it, e'en as a Hell's black rook 
 "Will stand upon the head of a white Ewe. 
 Fool that I was to give her my whole heart ! 
 I should have kept sweet Wine, or Dance, or Dress, 
 To take her place with pleasure — as a bird 
 Sings for the rain when Phoebus hides his light. 
 Ah, misery ! that I should think this Maid 
 Would answer to my call whene'er I wished ; 
 That when my Heart desired her she would come 
 And set my Mind in motion — foolish thought ! 
 As though the Mind had not its milking hours. 
 And never failed. So, every night, alone. 
 When Fancy had been absent all the day. 
 Late would I sit, in hope she'd charm me yet 
 With one sweet little verse ere sleep could come. 
 And oft I sat and yearned for her in vain. 
 Come to me now. Love, while this Blackbird sings j 
 Now, while the Butterfly's on that warm stone ; 
 Come, while the bosom of yon cloud is white 
 And full to bursting — nay, she would not come. 
 It was a dreadful life, when she was gone,
 
 Fancy 
 
 57 
 
 To own a restless sea no vessel sailed. 
 
 My bread went stale and sour ; I felt no joy, 
 
 Though Skylarks sang in Heaven and Rainbows 
 
 shone. 
 O it was Hell ! That I had sacrificed 
 All entertainment of Society, 
 Music, and Wine, and Woman for her sake. 
 And she to leave me, taking every charm 
 Away with her, of water, earth and sky. 
 Since I came here to live for her alone. 
 Then what is life, if she forsakes me now ! 
 A little child that has no speech at all, 
 Is happy with a sound none understand ; 
 But when I heard the tell-tale Lark at morn. 
 Counting Earth's dewdrops to the eager Sun ; 
 And when I saw the Evening gay with clouds 
 Of various hues, like Hags upon a ship 
 That entertains its captain's new-made bride, 
 And, left by Fancy, had no power to speak — 
 Then O that I had no more speech than babes. 
 So happy with a simple cry ! When she 
 Was gone, the birds seemed idle chatterers ; 
 The flowers were common smirks that forced their 
 
 charms, 
 No better than the leaves seen everywhere, 
 Made common by their number and (Mie hue. 
 When she was near, my house was like that one 
 That has a living heir just born ^ when absent — 
 ''[\vas like a house that has an heir born dead. 
 When she was near, I c(juld not hear the cl(;ck 
 Cry out the hour; but, in her absence, heard 
 Its smallest whisper, every tick it made. 
 And no I grieved, but she no sooner came 
 Than I with joy forgave her with a kiss ;
 
 5 8 Fancy 
 
 V,| 
 
 And in that ,suddcn blaze of pleasure, all 
 
 My smoky wrath went soon ; my anger dropped — 
 
 Though for a week my curses had not ceased ; 
 
 Dropped like a timid Star that cannot stand 
 
 Its bright society. 
 
 When for a month 
 She had not visited my waiting Mind, 
 'Twas then I spake out loud and bitterly. 
 
 Thou, false as that bright Sun, when he doth coax 
 Bees out ere Spring is ready with her (lowers — 
 Why didst thou lead me here and then forsake 
 
 me ! 
 Thy voice as sweet and false as hers of old, 
 The last thing Merlin heard. Didst thou not say 
 That with thy company I should not wish 
 For ale or wine, or voice of man or woman ; 
 That one thought like a lovely star should come, 
 And others follow, till my Heaven was full ; 
 That one bright ray of Inspiration's light 
 Would warm my Soul, till it arose and cheered 
 As lusty as Dawn's streak makes Chanticleer ; 
 And that no ink should dry upon my pen 
 Till every little black drop did produce 
 Fancies with thoughts that sparkled a pure white. 
 Didst thou not promise I should see bright gems 
 To startle me, though I put down secure 
 The hatches on my mortal eyes ; promise 
 To give me these, that maybe would outshine 
 Some of these solid pearls that took long years 
 Ere they grew rich. Where art thou .'' Thou hast 
 
 left 
 My spirit like a sea without a ship 
 In sight ; no half-built ships are on my stocks, 
 And in my harbour float no finished ones
 
 Fancy 
 
 59 
 
 Ready to sail. iSincc thou hast gone, my life 
 Has courted sleep so oft that she grows sick 
 Of one that claims her service for so long ; 
 And thou didst promise I would even mock 
 Sweet sleep, with thoughts of some sweet task 
 
 undone — 
 So wouldst thou occupy my Mind. 
 
 And now, when I desire thee must — since Time 
 Has sent forth one white hair to draw the black 
 Into that treason which dethrones my youth — 
 Thou hast forsaken me. Since that is so, 
 There is no help I know of; I must plunge 
 Into a sea of flesh again — a sea 
 That's full of things to drag strong swimmers 
 
 down. 
 Go then, false Fancy, show thy face no more ; 
 For I will live with Pleasure in the crowd, 
 AVith her attendants. Fashion, Dance and Wine. 
 If thou dost come again, I'll strike thee dead — 
 As honest seamen, on a raft at sea, 
 Must strike a madman down for their life's sake. 
 
 E'en as I spake these words I felt my Mind 
 Possessed by Fancy, and forgot my wrath, 
 And all my heart inclined to hear her speak. 
 
 Thcni art my life-long I.ovc, I said ; I'll not 
 Return to Pleasure in a city's crcjwd. 
 Pleasure can give no true and lasting joy ; 
 1 Icr voice is like a torrent's, in whose sound 
 The little birds of joy must sing unheard. 
 Aye, Pleasure is a planet dark, that shines 
 Hy the reflecti(;n of admiring eyes. 
 But Joy has her own light — and thou art Joy. 
 All Pleasure's thoughts are centred in her flesh, 
 To eat and drink, to dress, to dance, and ride,
 
 6o Fancy 
 
 And be where there are many eyes and cars ; 
 And vain she is, and proud — she cannot sec 
 One inch beyond her own two feet of hair. 
 I courted that false goddess once, alas ! 
 Blind and deceived with Jacob's joy, when he 
 Knew not his best loved son — e'en so was I ; 
 Until my sight returned, and I could sec 
 Through Pleasure's silk, and saw her many faults. 
 Come then, sweet Fancy — surnamed Joy by me. 
 
 The End
 
 Nature Poems 
 
 and others 
 By William H. Davies 
 
 Author of 
 "The Soul's Destroyer," <'The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp," etc. 
 
 Grey Boards, Foolscap, 8w, I J", nett. Post-free, Is. lid. 
 
 " He has found himself, and has been divinely gifted with a 
 power of expression equal to that of any other man of our day." 
 
 Edward Thomas in Daily Chror.ide. 
 
 "He sings an ecstacy that is rare indeed in these days. It 
 would be hard to find in all our literature a more exquisite 
 intimacy with the earth than tiiat which he reveals iu his latest 
 book, 'Nature Poems.'" — The Nnt'ion. 
 
 "It has the limpidity of Wordsworth. There is a truth and 
 freshness in the writing that is a pledge of the author's absolute 
 sincerity. . . . They would be most fitly described as poems 
 which Herrick, Wordsworth, and Blake left unwritten." 
 
 Mcriii!:r Post. 
 
 "This 'lim volume is quite indubitably wondrous . . . there 
 are things in it as good as have been produced by anybody at all 
 in the present century." — Jacob Tonson in AVw A^t. 
 
 "Contains hardly anything which is not as frc^ll as a linnet's 
 note." — Morning Leader. 
 
 "Here at least is something definite, something genuine, 
 something which has a place in life." — Daily News. 
 
 London: A. C. iMlicld, ij Clin'oiil's Inn, K.C.
 
 JUST PUBLISHED 
 Crown %vo. Canvas, ^lo pages, 6s, 
 
 The Autobiography of 
 A Super-Tramp 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM H. DAVIES 
 
 Author of "The Soul's Destroyer," "New Poems," etc. 
 With Eight-page Preface by 
 
 G. BERNARD SHAW 
 
 " Perhaps the most interesting light ever shed on the life of 
 a tramp." — Sfar, 
 
 "One of the most remarkable human documents ever 
 published." — Morning Leader. 
 
 " Mr. Davies has written a remarkable book, for which it 
 would be hard to find a parallel in tlic vast vagrant literature 
 of Europe." — Daily News. 
 
 "Open-air literature has few if any books so delightful to 
 read as this." — Scotsman. 
 
 " The autobiography of a poet like Mr. Davies was bound 
 to be good." — Daily Chronicle. 
 
 " Certain to be widely read." — T)aily Mail. 
 
 "A book of extraordinary interest to the reader and of 
 extraordinary importance to the community." — O //server. 
 
 "We think Mr. Shaw is not far wrong when he calls this 
 'a most remarkable autobiography.' " — Evening Standard. 
 
 "Is too good not to be believed. It is an astonishing 
 narrative, introduced by Mr. Shaw in an astonishing preface. 
 . . . His book ought to be read by every adult too old 
 and respectable to turn beggar. It is absorbingly real, and 
 written with a self-knowledge and self-revelation that are 
 irresistible." — Globe. 
 
 London : A. C. Fifield, 13 Clifford's Inn, E.C.
 
 12 Clifford's Inn, London, E.C. (new address). February 21, 1910 
 
 ^^R. FIFIELD'S 
 SPRING LIST 19 10 
 
 Mr. Fificld will publish the following books during the spring of 
 1910 from his new office at 13 Clifford's Inn, Fleet Street, E.C. 
 
 Eton under Hornby. Byo. e. with 
 
 a frontispiece. Crown 8vo, 128 pages, cloth gilt, gilt top, 
 y. 6d. nett. Postage 3^. 
 
 This volume of reminiscences and reflections by an old Etonian will contain 
 a number of racy anecdotes current in the school during the late Dr. Hornby's 
 headmastership ; a chapter about William Cory (the author of lonica) ; and 
 lome remarks on the system of education, discipline, and religious instruction 
 peculiar to Eton. Rtad)' March 4. 
 
 My Country, Right or Wrong. 
 
 By Giistave Hervc, translated by Guy Bowman, with a 
 Preface by E. Belfort Bax. Crown 8vo, 270 pages, with 
 1 portraits. Cloth gilt, 3/. 6d. nett. Postage ^il. 
 
 "The well-known work of Gustave Herv^ appears now for the first time in 
 in English dress. In no country more than in Great Britain is the noble 
 T'.trst of Mcrve against that fraudulent counterfeit of a moral principle, which 
 < lied in the present day patriotism, necessary. . . . Herve's book is first 
 mil loremojt a polemic against P'rcnch jingoism or nationalism, as it is called ; 
 mt the application of its reasoning to Britisli Imperialism will be obvious to 
 y intelligent reader." Fntr. the Preface. Ready March 4. 
 
 The Life of an Enclosed Nun. 
 
 a Mother Superior, b'oolscap Hvo, 1 28 pages, with a 
 .'litispiece. Cloth gilt, 2s. 6il. nett. Postage 3</. 
 
 This is the autobiography of a Catholic nun of twenty years' standing, 
 
 •iiting simply and in good faith the modern Catholic point of view of 
 
 iigluh convent life to non-Catholic readers. It is a complete picture of tlie 
 
 Illy life iti a nun happy in her vocation, and the book contains a finely 
 
 'iritual exposition of the meaning of some ot the more important religious 
 
 f^ices. Matih 4. 
 
 •ondon : A. C. Fificld, 13 Clifford's Inn, E.C.
 
 MR. F IF I ELD'S SPRING LIST i9io_c.«, 
 
 Farewell to Poesy, and other Poem; 
 
 By William H. Davies, Author of "Nature Poems," "Th 
 Super-Tramp," etc. Grey boards, foolscap 8vo, 64 page 
 IX. nett. Postage l\d. 
 
 Notwithstanding the title of this new volume, the admirers of Mr. lOavit 
 fresh and delightful gift will be relieved to hear that he is not deserting ti 
 muse. March 4. 
 
 Songs of the Army of the N ight 
 
 By Francis Adams. With a new biographical note by Henr 
 S. Salt. Entirely new re-set edition, containing also Tt 
 Mass of Christ. Crown 8vo, 128 pages, is. net; postage l\i 
 Cloth gilt, 2J-. nett ; postage id. 
 
 This book has been out of print and unobtainable for some time. In issuii 
 the new edition, the editor has followed two marked copies of the autho 
 cutting out some poems no longer applicable and inserting in their place tl 
 little known Man ofChrht. March 4. 
 
 Socialism and Superior Brains 
 
 A Reply to Mr. Mallock. By George Bernard Shaw. Wit 
 a new portrait. Crown 8vo, 64 pages, wrappers 6J. nett 
 postage \d. \ cloth, gilt top, is. nett ; postage \\d. 
 
 Mr. Shaw's revised and extended characteristic essay forms volume 8 
 The Fabian Socialist Series. March 4. 
 
 The Prison Experiences of "Jam 
 
 WartOn. By Lady Constance Lytton, with 
 
 portrait. Crown 8vo, 6d. nett ; postage id. \ cloth, gi 
 top, JJ-. nett ; postage i^^d. 
 
 Lady Constance Lytton tells here the story of her experiences as a prison 
 condemned to hard labour in Walton Gaol for a technical offence in co 
 ncction with the suHrage movement when disguised as a working woman, ai 
 she enters fully into the horrors of forcible fee<ling and the bearing of prisi 
 officials towards those having no rank, contrasted with the treatment > 
 icccived while in HoUoway under her own name. In I'reparation. 
 
 London : A. C. Fifield, 13 Clifford's Inn, E.(
 
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 CAYLORD 
 
 
 
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 UMivtr 
 
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 13 Clifford's Inn, EC. 
 
 Tl/r. FifieWs Spring List 1910 
 
 Mr. Fifield will putlish the following books during the spring of 1910 from hi« 
 new office at 13 Clifford's Inn, Fleet Street, E.G. 
 
 Eton under Hornby. By o. e. Crown svo, cioth 
 
 gilt, 3;. Sd. nett. Postage 3</. 
 
 A volume of racy reminiscences and anecdotes by an old Etonian, with a chapter on 
 William Cory the Author of " lonica," and others on the education, religion, and 
 discipline peculiar to Eton. March 4. 
 
 My Country, Right or Wrong. By Gustave 
 
 Hervc, translated by Guy Bowman, with a Preface by E. Belfort Bax, 
 and three illustrations. Crown Svo, cloth gilt, 3/. 6</.nett. Postage 3^. 
 
 The first English translation of Hervi's famous ami-militarist work, already trans- 
 lated into almost every other European language. March 4. 
 
 The Life of an Enclosed Nun. By a Mother 
 
 Superior. Foolscap Svo, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. nett. Postage 3^'. 
 
 The autobiography of a Catholic nun of twenty years' standing and happy in her 
 vocation, presenting simply and in good faith the modern Catholic point of view of 
 English convent life. Manh 4. 
 
 Farewell to Poesy, and other Poems, ByWllliamH. 
 Davies, Author of "Nature Poems," "The Super-Tramp," etc. 
 Foolscap Svo, grey boards, U. nett. Postage i\d. 
 
 Notwithstanding the title of his new book, Mr. Davies is not deserthvg-the mu«e. 
 
 March 4. 
 
 Songs of the Army of the Night. By the late 
 
 Francis Adams. Edited, with a new biographical note, by H. S. 
 Salt, and including "The Mass of Christ." Crown Svo, I/, nett; 
 postage i\d. Cloth gilt, 2;. nett ; postage ^d. 
 
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 some time. March 4. 
 
 Socialism and Superior Brains. By g. Bernard 
 
 Shaw. Volume 8 of "The Fabian Socialist Series." Wrappers, 
 6d nett ; postage id. \ cfoth, i/. nett ; postage 2d. March ^. 
 
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 London : A. C. Fifield, 13 ClifFord's Inn, E.G.