THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES FSSEX BALLADS AM) OIHER POEMS. BY MARK DOWNE. COLCHESTER : Benham & Co., "Essex County Standard" Office. LONDON : E. Marlborough & Co., ji, Old Bailev, E.G. 1S95. Printfd at ''The Essex County Standard'' Ohice, Colchester. /V/ '^^/'O CONTENTS. ..:^t-'' -^ Essex Ballads : — pa(;k. I. A Ballad of Astonishment . . . . • 5 ir. A Ballad of Love . . . . . . 9 in. A Ballad of Wrath . . . . ..11 IV. A Ballad of Tolitics . . . . . . 15 V. A Ballad of Warning . . . . . . ' 7 VI. A Ballad of Persecution . . . . 21 VII A Ballad of Jealousy .. .. ••25 VIII. A Ballad of Paternal Pride . . . . 27 IX. A Ballad of Artfulness . . . . • • 3 ' X. A Ballad of Protest . . . . . . 35 XL A Ballad of Mournfulness . . . . V) Thk Lkc; K\n OF St. John's Abbey, Colchesiek 43 Thh: Leg I'.NO OF THE Essex Serpent .. • • 47 Thk Flnxv Max .. .. .. •• 5^ Thk Profession.vl Singer .. .. • • 53 Carlylf. s '-Greatest Fool in London " .. 54 870418 4 COXTEXTS. Anothf.r Psalm of Life .. 5 ' ^^Il'SIC EVERVWHKRE 57 Disappointment .. •• S) A Flight of Fancy .. < I The River and the Ska .. • • "3 The Big Book <<\ The Dragon . . '" The Sphinx's Smile .. ''■1 J 1 1 tings :— • 7^ New and Old 7' Great aiiil Small • 7- Worth an 1 Unworth 73 Points of View . . • • 7f Divided Toil 75 The Unknowable • • ;'' ESSEX BALLADS. I. "MASTER GO'N TO BE 50WD." (A Ballad of Astotiishment.) Master ha" gone to the Court 1 An' the farm an' the stock to be sowd ! Well, I am wholly amaized. I was here at eleven year owd — That'll be forty-two year, come Michaelmas next — an' you siiy Master ha' gone to the Court ! What, an' broke because he cai n pay ? Things mu^^t be wunnerful bad, do master 'ad never ha' broke, Him as had olluz a sight o' good luck, why that seem like a joke. Master gone to the Court ? What an' filed his petition an' that ? Ten year agao I'd as soon ba' believed it as eaten my hat. ESSEX /BALLADS t WHAT IS CO S TO Ci'MK o IHIS COCXTRV IF MAS-IK. '^.'s A go'n To i;i-; SOWl).-" AND OTHER POEMS. An' wha's go'n to come o' the land— three hun'red o" acres an' more ? Wha's go'n to come o' the land ? Tha's a go'n to be sow'd ? But good lor, Who is the fule of a chap tha's a goin' to buy it, I siiy ? Land that 'ont pay, to be sowd ! Yes, but who is a goin' to buy ? An' wha's go'n to come o' we chaps ? Are we all goin' straight to the House ? What, me an' Tom Hodge, an' Jack Wilson, Mike, Harry, an' Sandy, an' Rous, Along o' the master an' rnissus ? Good lor, man alive, if we must I knaow, when we git there, together, I knaow I shall larf till I bust. " The Ian' for the people ! " Old Warty, he talk to 'em wunnerful grand, But wha's go'n to come o' the people, and wha's go'n to come of the land ? Well, that is the master bit I do think I ever was towd. What is go'n to come o' this country if Master's a go'n to be sowd ? ESSEX BALLADS v<-':rS^:@^^^^ '•THKM r.Kir-ii-1' m.KW KVICS— (UJOD i.or', I SICK 'em now! " AND OTHER POEMS. II. "MI55 JULIA: THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER." CA Ballad of Love.) I I.OIKE to watch har in the Parson's pew A Sundays, me a settin' in the choir ; She look jest wholly be'utiful, she do. That fairly sim to set my heart a-fire. Her gowden hair, a-glist'rin' in the sun, Them bright blew eyes — good lor', I see 'em now ! I earn abear it when the sarmon's done, That fare to make me feel I dunner how-. Las Saddy, I was 'long o' Tom and Bill, Down on th' allotment, back o' Thompson's Farm, When she come past us, walkin' tard the hill, A basket of them paigles on her arm. " Nice evenin', John," she say as she goo by, An' smiled — goodstruth, you mighter knock' me^down . " That is indeed ?iliss,'' 1 was go'n to say But, there, I couldn't, give me 'arf-a-crown. 10 ESSEX BALLADS Says Bill, a-larfjn', as she tarned the hme, " She's wiiitin' for yer, roun' the corner, bor," I give 'ee sich a look, he larft again. An' made me feel that mad I could a swore. I carnt abide it when these bits of chaps Talk of Miss Julia, saime as if they might If she was some bloke's gal, but lor, prehaps I think too much o' har, a jolly sight. That sim ridic'Ious nons'nse this, I doubt, A tellin' on yer how she make me feel, But who's to help it when she walk about More like a angel than a gal a deal .'' That made me wild to see that Lunnon chap, What come down to the Hall las' Mon'ay week, A-coaxin' o' the dog there in her lap, She setlin' in the garden — dang his cheek. But there, Miss Julia ! Lawk a mussy me, I didn't oughter think of har n' more. That aint as if she knaow I faivour she. And do I reckon she'd give me what for. AXD OTHER POEMS. n III. " THERE'S OLLUZ SUMMAT." (A Ballad of Wrath.) There's olluz summat. When tha's wet The corn git laid, the hay git sp'iled, And when tha's dry the Ian' git set. That fare to make me wholly riled. Look there, together, goodalive, Them chick'ns send me fairly wild. See them a-scrappin' in the drive ? That fare to make me wholly riled. Why earn Tom shet gaites like he should ? He aint got no more sense 'n a child. A-talkin' aint a mite o' good — That fare to make me wholly riled. Now wha's that kid a-cryin' for ? Look, Emma, carnt you hold that child? Here, drat this pipe, why 'ont it dror ? That fare to make me wholly riled. 12 ESSEX BALLADS "THAT KAKK TO ilAKE MK AVilnI.I.V KII.Fn." AXD OTHER POEMS. 13 That niin agin. How that do riiin ! Here, Mary, aint them taters biled ? You're olkiz half an hour behin', That fare to make me wholly riled. Hark how that blaow, jes what I thought, That barley field '11 all be sp'iled. A Saddy's moon is good for nought — That fare to make me wholly riled. You want it wet, tha'j olluz fine. You want it cowd, tha's olluz mild, You want it dry, there's nought but rain. That fare to make me wholly riled. There's olluz summat ; if 'taint that Its tother— fare to drive yer wild. Don' matter tuppence what yer at, Things olluz make yer wholly riled. 14 ESSEX BALLADS r I)l\ KNAOW. AND OTHER POEMS. 15 IV. "I DIN KNAOW. " (A Ballad of Politics.) Wartv, he talk to 'em to-rights las' night — I never h'ard a chap a talkin' sao. He say the Ian' an' that is ourn by right, But bless yer, /din knaow. He say we're all a poor deown-trodden lot, A set o' slaives, tha's fact he towd us sao. He siiy we oughter hev I dunner wot, But bless yer, / din knaow. Good night ! He give it to our Parson str'ight — I reck'n if tha's right he'll hev to gao. The Charch an' taithe are ourn, he siiy, by right, But bless yer, / din knaow. I olluz sorter liked our Parson ; thought He wornt at all a bad un as the' gao, Yet Mister Warty say I didn't ought. But bless yer, / din knaow. i6 ESSEX BALLADS Las' winter, when my poor owd niissus died, Parson he come to see us through the snaow. Old Warty say tha's on'y cos he's paid, But bless yer, / din knaow. He sirnd right kind to me and my booy Bob ; He sent us meat and things— a reg'lar shaow. Goodstruth, our Parson ! Who'd a thought he'd rob ? Well bless yer, / din knaow. And Mister Warty, 'cordin' as it seems, He bin our fri'nd these years and years agao, A warkin' out for everlastin' schemes, But dang it, / din knacw. The las' elecsh'n, when them yallers found I wear'd a bit o' blew, they siiy, '' Hulloa, You aint a go'n to wote for Mr. Round ?" But I sa)S, /din knaow. Tha's what I olluz tell 'em when they praite. I earn abear these chaps wot cackle sao. That fairly stop their jawin', dont 't maite ? Jes tell em — You din knaow. AXD OTHER rOEMS. V. "THEM HARNTED HOUSEN." (A Ballad of Jl'arning.) Goo' mornin', sir, you minter siiy you bought them housen there, An' you're a-go'n' ter live in one ? Well, that '11 maKe 'em stare. Them housen, sir, is harnted, an' was when I's a lad, An' anyone as sleep there, sir, is sartin to be had. I wouldn't tell yer, but sure//>, I knaow as you'll repent. Tek my adwice. sir, don't you gao, y'll on'y wish yer hent, Tha's no good you a-larfin— don't you sleep 'ithin that plaice Do to-night you'll be a-larfin on the wrong side o' yer faice. There's jes one thing about it, you 'ont want to be there long Afore you siiy my wahrd is right, though now you think tha's wrong. The rets ? Nao, sir, that ent the rets, n'r yet the moice, I guess, But tha's the Owd un, I believe, an' nothin' more n'r less. i8 ESSEX BALLADS " All, vol" CAN I. AKl- AND OTHER POEMS. 19 Las' night I passed them housen by, along o' Tom an' Jack. " There'll be a tempest, booy," I siiy, " the moon liiy on her back." The wind were flanny, an' the clouds come up as black as slaites, An' soon that lightened crest the sky, an' thundered jes to rights. You oughter sin them winders, sir, all lit o' fire — good luck ! And rattled— I sh'd think th' did — my stars, them winders shuk : We didn't stop, I tell yer why, we felt that drefful bad, Afear the Owd un sh'd come out, an' we sh'd a bin had. Ah, you can larf, but don't you lily your head 'ithin that plaice, Do to-morrer you'll be larfin on the wrong side o' yer faice. Them housen, sir, is harnted, an' was since I's a lad — Tek may adwice, sir, don't you gao— \er sarlin to be had. 20 ESSEX BALLADS ^VHV, i:VKKM'.(il)V KN'AOWED HIM, LITTLE JIM.MN KI.Nd'CM-roMK." AXD OTHER POEMS. 21 VI. " LITTLE JIMMY KINQ'OM = COME." (A Ballad of Persecution.) What, remember little Jimm)- ? I should rather thinker do. How we use ter plaigue his life out I Why, I never rightly knew. But there, the booy was darft, yer knaow, an' olbut deaf an' dumb, An' we olluz use ter call him little Jimm)- King'om-come. He rowled off of a hay stack cnst, acrost a iron bin, An' that onsensed him for a week ; he ne'er was right agin. He simd a loikely child afore— a smart, quick-witted brat, But arter that ere fall he got as pudden-brined as that. He'd set a gahpin' on a gaite all by hisself for hours, Or a-wandrin' 'long the hedge-raows, gath'rin' lots o' culch an" flowers. He was olluz up to sumfin, an' 'twas olluz sumfin rum. Why, everybody knaowed him, little Jimmy King'om- come. 22 £SS£X BALLADS Little Jim was tliat soft-hearted that he wouldn't hart a flea, I've h'ard 'em say the sparrers wornt a mite afrilid o' he ; An' anyhow I sin the bards a feedin' from his hand — Tha's fact, though why they wornt afeared I ne'er could unnerstand. I recollec' how me an' Bill, one Sunday, dinner time, Found little Jimmy fas' asleep, his little basket by'm — The little cob his mother olluz use ter let him taike, With some bread and cheese inside it, or a bit of harvust caike. Well, mean' Bill, we et it all, without a-waikin he, An' then Bill give the booy a shaike. That was a master spree To see him lookin' for the caike. I p'inted to a shrub, A maikin' signs to let him think a bard had et the grub. At farst you should a sin him look, and harf begin to cry, Ikit when he saw the black-b'd there his faice was lit o' J'y, He din care then. He thought that bard had taiken every crumb — He was a caution, that ere booy, that jimmy King'om- come. I recollec', one evenin' time, we tied him to a tree, An' maide belief the ghaost ud come at dark an' gobble he ; An' Jack come roun' at midnight wirh a sheet acrost his back, An' olbut skeered him in a fit- a reglar tease was Jack. AND OTHER POEMS. We let him gao, all shaikin', horn', an' olbut dead o' fright, A scamprin' long the laine there, in the middle o' the night Goodstruth, to see young Jimmy runnin' ! Lor, you woulder larft. " Onkoind?" You talk like Parson, sir ; why lor, the booy was darft ! You talk jest ho>v our Parson talked ; yer maike me call to mind The times an' times he use to tell us "teasin' wasn't kind." " Pray let em be," he use to say, but lor, we on'y larft — A funny thing he didn't sim to see the booy was darft. An' Jimmy's mother, too my stars, we use ter maike har riled. She'd nilly cry her eyes out over that ere bloomin' child. Them women I Wha's the good o' talkin' to em ? Not a mite. But there, she shoolly mighter sin as how the booy warnt right. But what was I a tellin' on yer ?— Ah, about the ghaost. He died about a fortn't arter that— a month at niaost. We use ter give he beans, we did. Good night, you woulder larft. That do sim, as you siiy, a shaime, but there, the booy was darft. 2 + ESSEX BALLADS " SEK 'Jlli:.M I'EATHKKS STICKIN' IN HER 'AT? THKv'kK i.nrsv .- i .shoild rather think the' are.' AN'D OTHER POEMS. VII. "JIM'S NEW GAL." (A Ballad of JealoKsy.) Who's he got there ? Good lawk, if that ain't Sal- Har tha's at wark at Rob't Wilson's farm. There's nao mistaike, this time's he's got a gal ; Jes see 'em, Mary, walkin' arm in arm. Here, good alive, jes let me hev a come. Git down my bonnet off o' that ere shelf. Well, on my life, I never did ; by gum, I reckon she's a fancyin' of harself. Mary, here Mar)', jes you come an' look. There come owd Sally — see her dress, the skart A-hanging down— that fare to want a hook — See how tha's draggin' in the dust an' dart. Good graicious, Mary jes to look at that ! Fancy young Jim a-walkin' out with bar ! D'yer see them feathers stickin' in her 'at ? They're limsy 'i I should rather think the' are. 26 ESSEX BALLADS Jealous ? What me ? O' sech as har indeed ! Nao, that I know I ent, so there. Good lor', Upon my life I thinlc I never seed A gal look sech a bag o' rags afore. Me jealous ? Nao, I don't care that fur Jim ; I towd him I was thankful to be rid. You never h'ard me siiy I faivourcd him, Nao, Mary, that I knaow you never did. I shouldn't like, not me. Hulloa, my eye, I dew believe they're comin' threw the gaite. Look, Mary, ent thtiy tarnin' down this wiiy, Do, I'll stand here, an" give it to 'em straight. Mary, look sharp an' git yer bonnet on, An' stand 'longside o' me here while they pass. Come, look alive now, don't they'll soon be gone ; Ah, now they've tarned the tother side the grass. Tha's where they're gooin', are they ? Pas' the mill, Along the fiel' path leadin' tard the woods ; I'll give he what for some diiy, that I will. For walkin' out 'ith that ere bit of goods. J'yer hear him call " Good arternune " to me ? He think he's doin' of it there some tune. Next time I ketch him out along o' she. Blest if I don' give he " good arternune." AXD OTHER POEMS. 27 VIII. "MY BOOY JIM." (A Ballad of Paternal Pride.) I FEEL that wholly daized, I do 'ndeed, That I earn scarce believe it, tha's a fac', Well, there, I knaow I never thought t"a seed My Jim a swell like that when he come back. He bin out forrin nitrh on twentv vear. Yoic bin out forrin, sir, when you's a lad ? You may a corned acrost my booy out theer, But lor, \o\x wou'nt a knaown him if ver had. He come right up to our owd cott'ge door Las' evenin' time. Good night ! he maide us stare. " An how's the dad 't " he say, '• an' Missus.^ '' Lor, You mighter knock nic down, I do declare. He got on one o' them there chimbley hats, A pair o' yaller gloves, a walkin' stick. One o' them wotchercallums — them crawats — I tell yer, he looked reg'lar up to Dick. 28 £SS£X BALLADS NOW Y'LL KNAOW, PREHAl'S, IF Yof HA' SIX HIM, SIK, IN I'ORKIM PARTS." A\D OTHER POEMS. 29 '■ Well, there," I says, " You minter say you're Jim ? " " I do,'^ he say. Says I, •' Well, tha's a bit ! " I couldn't scarce believe as that were him, For when he left he worn't much more'n a chit. You ou£^hter sin th' owd woman I She was struck All of a heap, an' cou' n't tell what to say. He come in an' set down, she olbut shruck Till he jes died 0' larfin, pretty nigh. My, dint he lari ! He fanly shuk the stule As we kep' gahpin at him there s' grand. " Father," he say, " you said I were a fule When twenty year agao I lef the land." Well, he kep' on a torkin' there, an' arst All what had happened since he went awiiy ; F)Ut there, he torkt s' precious queer, at farst You couldn't unnerstand a wahrd he siiy. But he set there as happy as yer please. An' Missus laid the supper while he tork ; A prahper set out, too, fat pork an' peas — " Jim olluz was a mark," she sa,}-, " on pork." He larft, but there, the wiiy he took that pork ! '■ Tha's right enough," I says, '• tha's Jim, I knaow ; " But lor, he heft them peas up on his fork ! Two at a time, ir.y stars, sir, somethin' slaow I ^^.S-^A' BALLADS Well, I earn tell yer all he say las' night, Y'll hev to hear him, sir, yerself, I doubt, Y'll find him jest a master one to praite — Nothin' alive that booy don' knaow about. He bin to plaices where the sun don' set — The tother side the warld I think it were. Tha's very like, sir, you an' him ha' met He sim to knaow 'most everyone out there He gon up to the Rect'ry sir, to-day To see the Parson — 'ont he maike him look ? I reckon, sir, as my owd gal ud say Them two '"II tork together like a book. Wh', there he come, a walkin' 'ith them chaps, There in the four-want-way, atween them carts. Tha's my booy Jim, an' now y'll knaow, prehaps, If you ha' sin him, sir, in forrin parts. AXD OTHER POEMS. 31 IX. "OWD BILL." « (A Ba/7aJ of Artfulness.) OwD Bill! Why everybody knaow owd Bill ; He's olluz schemiii', olkiz at some gaime, Olluz a actin', tha's what he is ; still You carn't help likin' of him all the saime. A rum un ? I sh'd rather think he were ! T'd taike yer all yer time to tackle he. An' langwidge 1 Lor, j'yer ever hear him swear ? A mark on swearin ? Ah, sir, that he be. You might as kef be talkin' to a paost As try to maike owd Bill amen' his wiiys, He knaow his way about as well as maost — I ne'er see sich a chap in my born diiys. You on'y got to say " I bet yer don't," An' Bill '11 do it, don' care what it be. He'll best yer, too, I'm bothered if he 'ont ; There's no man livin' dussent tackle he. 32 ESSEX BALLADS " OO, he's IHE AKTl'LI.LKST VOr l.'.VRR KNAiUVKD. AND OTHER POEMS. 11 Las' Michaelmas us fellers got him on Down at the Anchor, Sunday dinner time. There was a good few on us— me an' John, An' Steve, an' Tom, an' Sandy Wha's-his-naime. I don't ezackly knaow how that began. Several come in — along the rest was Mike. " Owd Bill," he s;iy, " I'll lay a tanner, man, As you carn't eat a pound o' raw bif staike." Owd Bill, o' course he took him, like a shot, Blest if he didn't do it, too, an' so ! Three pound o' raw bif staike! He et the lot, An' taters, an' a dish o' broccolo. He never goo to Charch, a Sunday, Bill, Excep' he keep a larkin' all the time. A reglar bad 'un, tha's what he is ; still You carn't help Ukin' of him all the saime. Why, up at Mis'ley— that there poachin' fray, I'll lay yer tuppence Bill was in the spree, But he can olluz faike the thing some way Afore the Magistrates so he git free. He done it, right enough. You woon believe The times an' times I sin him arter hares. I could a towd 'em thiiy was up his sleeve — Nao, not the rabb'ts, sir, nao, nao, the snares. 34 ESSEX BALLADS Oo, he's the ai tfullest you ever knaowed ; He never taike no hart, not anywhere. There's nao mistaike, Bill, he's as owd as owd, He'd best the very 0\vd-un, I declare. Nowhere there ent a bad un t'ekal he — I knaow there ent a bigger liar livin', Yet when the day o' Judgmen' come you'll see, He'll faike it somehow so he git to Hiven. T^^ AND OTHER POEMS. 35 X. "THESE NEW=FANQLED WAYS." (A Ballad of Protest.) • Me, nao, sir, I doa"tho\vd 'ith these Board Schules. They larn the booys too much, my thinkin, now, An' what I see, there's jest as many fules As when thay put the ycung uns to the plough. I ent owd-fashn'd, nao, I loike to see The young uns comin' on. Bat now-a-days They say an' do sich things git over me. An' I carnt howd'ith these new-fangled ways. I howd 'ith larnin, mind, iDutlet'em hirn Saime wiiy as I did, not that btutTo' theirs, Larn 'eui the proper way to thetch a barn, Larn 'em the way to sao a field o' tares. Geoggerfy ! Now what on arth's the sense A larnin' of em' how the Moon go roun' ? An' all about Ameriky an' Frence, An' plaices tother side o' Lunnon town ? .^.6 ESSEX BALLADS I I'.Nr OWn-FASH'XD, NAO. AND OTHER POEMS. My booy he come to me the tother night, " D'yer knaow," he sJiy, '" the Waild an' you an' me, Are tarnin' on our axles — sich a raite You woon beheve ? But there, tha's right," says he. I tarned he on his axles, you be boun', I cop he one. That maide me reg'Iar riled, That fairly did. The Warld a tarnin' roun' ! To hear sich stuff an' nons'nse from a child ! N' more I don't howd with them thingmibobs. Them Parish Councils wot they started now. There's Tom an' Harry think they're reg'Iar nobs, Cos they goo there a kickin' up a row. Look at that Council meetin' here las' week — Why bless my saoul if Torn din taike the chair. An' Parson settin' 'gin the door as meek As some owd sheep, I tell yer ; that he were. An' what d'yer think they done ? wh' nought, o' course, Cos there aint nothin' here want doin' to. N' wonner Parson he look drefful cross, Comin' away ; I see him, did'nt you ? An' I don't howd 'ith these ere ways at Charch — A singin' o' the Scripters an' that ere, Dressin' theirselves in nightgownds stiff wi' starch. The Boible never tell 'em that, I swear. 38 ESSEX BALLADS They say ^^men instead o' Aim&n now ; Tha's on'y jes to be contrairy like, An' when that come the " Glory be " they bow An' cartsey. Lor, I'd like to gim a shaike. D'yer think the Aingels sing Alimen ? Not thay, An' when these ere are dead an' gone th'U see, Th'll give it to 'em straight up there, th'll say, " You ent a go'n to sing along o' we." I ent owd-fashioned, nao, I loike to see The young uns comin' on. But now-a-diiys They say an' do sich things git over me, An' I carnt howd 'ith these new-fangled ways. XI. THE DEATH OF MIKE. (A Ballad of Mountfitlness. ) HOWD me up a little, Martha, so as I can look around ; Lor, I feel that cowd an' weak, jes' wrap my showders in your gownd. Tm a dyin', ent I, Martha? I don' scarcely recollec' Who I be or where I bin to — I'm a dyin' I expec'. Guess I bin a dreamin', Martha, what I min I thought jes' now I were in the Warkus, wond'rin when I got in there, an' how . Oo, that wor a laonesome feelin', wonncrful good news that seem When I knaow tha's all onreal— that were nahthin but a dream. Howd me up a minute, Martha, open that ere winder there, Op' it wider, ah, tha's better, so I git a breath o' air. So I see the ficrs an' that an' knaow I ent a dreamin' still, So I knaow that 'ent the Warkus, where I be a 1} in' ill. 40 ESSEX BALLADS i^m THE UEATH oK MIKE. AXD OTHER POEMS. 41 I'm a dyin', ent I, Martha ? Howd my han' and don't you gao. Don' keep on a cryin', missus, you've no call for frettin' sao. Carn' think what '11 come o' you, though, poor owd gal, when I be gone. Don' keep on a cryin', Martha ; I carn bear you taikin' on. Martha, if I goo to-night, remember me upon yer knees. PrJiy for me, an' I say Martha, min' you think an' tell the bees. Don't tha's sartin sure to bring some tiouble to yer, I'm afriiid. Whisper to 'em softly, Martha, saime as when poor Emmie died. Lor, I do feel drefful Cjueer, I reckon I shall goo to-night, I can feel m'self a sinkin', I sharn see the mornin' light. Howd me up a little, Martha, so I git a breath o' air. Tha's more easy-like; now Martha, let me try an' sily a prayer. '' God A'might}-, I'm a dyin' ; tek I priiy my saoul to Hiven. Mebbe I ha' bin a bad un, do I hop' to be forgiven. Lord, I k/huno I bin a bad un, an' I knaow I dussent baost. But I ent bin in the public for a twelve-m'nth as Thou knaowst. 42 ESSEX BALLADS '■ God A'mighty, tell my darter Emmie up in heaven with Thee, I'm a comin' up 'longside her, evermore to live with she, Tell her, Lord, I bin as saober these twelve months as any livin' ; Don't she on' believe her father ever could a bin for- " Lord, I prii)' look arter Martha, till from this ere warld she gao. Don't I earn see who's to help her, poor owd gal, when I'm laid laow, 'Less it be the rev'rent Johnson ; Lord, Thou knaowest him I guess — Him what maide me leave the drinkin', an' give INIartha that owd dress. " Lord I dew believe in Him who died upon the cross for we, Which I thank 'm, God A'mighty ; tell him sao, I pray, from me, I earn siiy n' more, I fare to feel as pow'rless as a mouse. But look arter poor owd Martha, don't she'll goo "ithin the House." AND OTHER POEMS. 43 POEMS. THE LEGEND OF ST. JOHN'S ABBEY, COLCHESTER. When William the Second was King of this land The people of Colchester cleverly planned A request that a man who was William's right hand, Named Eudo, a Norman, as I understand, Should at once be sent down to govern the town, Because they knew well that that man of renown. Who was truer than steel, could do a good deal To deliver the town from stern tyranny's heel. For in Colchester, certainly, things had been rather Too hot in the days of King Rufus's father. Their humble petition they made with submission, And the King granted all without any condition. So Eudo came down, and was hailed in the town With hip, hip, hurrahs from papas and mammas, And the little one's shoutings the pohce could not drown. Things went very well, so the chroniclers tell, And the town was quite happy, for Eudo the Dapifer — 44 ESSEX BALLADS Such was his title — reheved the distressed And eased all the oppressed, And removed from folk's hacks full many a tax. He built, too, the Castle, and Moot Hall, and opposite, Found for his own house, as he thought, a proper site, And then he revolved how he best could provide For the wealth of the soul which he carried inside. To the south of the town lived a man in a gown Named Siric, a priest of unwonted renown For near his house stood a Church built of wood, A wonderful place for miraculous grace. And there in dark nights were seen heavenly lights, And though some said "Absurd," others vowed they had heard Strange voices when no one there uttered a word. And here in this Church of St. John, on a day It happened a certain poor man went to pray, A man who was forced, by the King's own command, To wear iron shackles on foot and on hand, And there, on the feast of St. John, widi a clang His fetters went flying and made such a bang That it quite put a stop to the hymn the choir sang, And the whole of the town with the miracle rang. Be all this as it might, Eudo thought that no site In the whole of the town was so suitable quite For a monastery's walls, and no saint could be bettered As patron, than he who this man had unfettered. So he worked with a will, and by next year the whole Of the work was achieved for the good of his soul. Two monks he placed there, the stipend to share, And masses to say by night and by day, And to watch and to pray in the regular way. And a smile of beatified radiance stole O'er his face, and his eyes gave a heavenward roll As he piously sighed, " Well, at least I have tried My best to provide From my bodily wealth for the wealth of my soul " But, alas, those two monks turned out terrible skunks, And grumbled and swore they were scantily fed ; They complained that the cheese was too hard, and the bread Was too stale, and the butter was rancid, they said, And one of them wanted a nice feather bed. But Eudo gave both monks a sacking instead, And appointed two more, who were worse than before, For they worried poor Eudo by night and by day. And struck, as we say, for an increase of pay. Till he wished that he never had made the endeavour To work for the good of his soul in this wav. At last he gave over the whole of his care To Stephen, the Abbat of York, with a prayer That he kindly would manage the wretched affair. And quickly the Abbat made everything square. Twelve monks he installed and another one called, " By permission," a prior, a title much higher, In fact, it's a sort of monastic esquire. In time they elected one monk as their abbat, 46 ESSEX BALLADS Choosing one who was quite the least Hkely to grab at The weahh of the place— not a man of capacity, But — to quote from Morant — " of no worldly sagacity." Yet, alas for poor Eudo, the good of his soul Still appeared to be just as far off as the Pole, For all sorts of disputes with the Abbat arose, And at last he resigned, and then nobody knows What fresh troubles arose, which certainly shows That the soul of poor Eudo could find no repose. The good man at last to the spirit-world paossd, And there let us hope he attained to a goal Where at length he discovered true wealth for his soul. And his dying request was that all he loved best Should be by the monks of the Abbey possessed. He bequeathed them his ring with a topaz enshrined. And a gold covered-cup to be used when they dined, And presents of money and presents of kind, And his mule and his horse to their care he consigned, Then calmly to Heaven his spirit resigned. And he begged they woukl pray both by night and by day, And masses would say, in the regular way, For what he in vain had been seeking the whole Of his life — the repose and the good of his soul. MORAL. Let all who aspire to a noble desire For the good of their souls, recollect they require No mortar and bricks for their sin, Nor by building outside can they ever provide For the soul that is builded within. A\D OTHER POEMS. THE LEGEND OF THE ESSEX SERPENT. %* In the year 1669 there was published in London, by Peter Lillicrap, a strange pamphlet entitled " The Flying Serpent, or Strange News out of Essex, being a true relation of a monstrous serpent, which hath divers times been seen at a parish called Henham-on-the-Mount within four miles of Saffron Walden ; showing the length, proportion, and bigness of the Serpent, the place where it commonly lurks, and what means hath been used to kill it." It is Christmas night, and the yule log bright Sinks on the hearth in its own red light, The candles burn in their sockets low ; The children must now to their slumbers go, To dream of holly and mistletoe. '■ Cut stay, oh stay," the children say, We cannot yet be sent away. Till grandpapa there in his old arm chair Tells us a story, we all declare We'll none of us set a foot on the stair." '• Ah well, ah well, a tale I'll tell. So sit down and listen, Tom, Harry, and Nell, And Sarah, and Bobby, and Johnny as well; You must all come near and you all shall hear The tale that I tell to you every year.'' Then the children gathered and shrieked with glee, And the youngest sat on her grandpa's knee. 48 £SSEX BALLADS " Yes, tell us that story, please, grandpa, dear, The story you tell to u& every year." " Well, well, my children, 'twas long ago, When I was no bigger than Tom, you know. That my grandfather sat in his old arm chair, With me at his feet, as it might be there, And the tale that he told me, I tell to you A tale that is wonderful, strange, and true " '• Hurrah, hurrah, for Grandpapa ! " And then in a trice as still as mice To hear the old story for ever new — "The tale which you^ grandpapa told to you, The tale that is wonderful, strange, and true." " Oh, well my dears, it's a hundred years Since my grandfather came from the Northern shii es To settle in Essex by Henham Hill, In the house where your cousins are living still. Though the village is not what it used to be When I went to stay there in '43. The old ones are dead and the young ones have fled To the towns and cities for want of bread. Now at Henham Hill you must know, my dears. When my grandfather came from the Northern shires, The village was all in a state cf fright Because of a terrible dragon's might. A horrible creature that none could kill, That lurked in Birch Wood by Henham Hill. It was nine feet long and uncommonly strong. It had scales like a snake and teeth like a rake. And great rolling eyes very much wide awake ; AND OTHER POEMS. 49 It had wings like a bird, and the noise it would make Was enough to cause even the boldest to shake. It lived in Birch Wood (where the Lodge Farm then stood), And forth from its lair it would creep through the trees With a rustling and roaring that made your blood freeze. Twas a horrible creature that none could kill, That dragon that terrified Henhani-on-Hill. The women and children ne'er ventured to roam By themselves after dark ; ay, and even at home The youngsters would lie half the night wide awake And scream that they saw the great dragon-shaped snake Fly up on its wings to the window, and glare With its hideous eyes, the poor children to scare. One morning my grandfather out at his work. Caught sight of the serpent which sprung with a jerk From over the hedge but a few feet away. On the grass just before him the strange monster lay, And rolled itself o'er in the sun, with a snore Which, sounded, he said, like an elephant's roar. Then all of a sudden the beast as it lay Caught sight of my grandfather coming that way, It lifted its head and it goggled its eyes, And it opened a mouth of a terrible size ; And its gums, like a sheath, covered sharp rows of teeth. It stood like a cobra erect on the heath. With a body all specKled with spots underneath. To the Lodge ran my grandfather straight for a gun As quickly as ever his two legs could run ; But when he came back and returned to the spot. 50 ESSEX BALLADS With his musket all loaded with powder and shot, The dragon had fled, and was rustling away To the depth of the wood where in ambush it lay. And again and again on many a day That monster green, with its scaly sheen, In the woods was seen With its wings and paws tipped with terrible claws. But in vain the villagers tried to take The life of that villainous dragon-snake. They went with their guns in their two's and their three's ; They beat the bushes, they climbed the trees, They searched the copses, they clubbed the cover. And looked for its tracks in the grass and the clover, The wheat and the barley, the oats and tlie stover, But nothing, when armed, could they ever discover ; And from time to time the report went round That the snake had been seen and its hole been found, But whether it died or was killed at length. Or whether it still lives there in strength, Hiding away from the sight of man, I cannot tell you, and nobody can. So now away, my children gay, For the fire is cut, and the night grows chill, You must off to bed, to dream, if you will, Of the wonderful dragon of Henham Hill, Which nobody ever was able to kill, And for ought I know may be living stih." AND OTHER POEMS. 51 THE FUNNY MAN. (Reprinted from Harper's Magazine by kind pennission of Messrs. Harper & BrothersJ Who is that man who sits and bites His pen with aspect solemn? He is the Funny Man, who writes The weekly Comic Column. By day he scarce can keep awake, At night he cannot rest. His meals he hardly dares to take — He jests, he can't digest. His hair, though not with years, is white ; His cheek is wan and pale, And all with seeking day and night For jokes that are not stale. His joys are few ; the chiefest one Is when by luck a word Suggests to him a novel pun His readers haven't heard. And when a Yankee joke he sees In some old book — well, then Perhaps he gains a moment's ease, And makes it do again. 52 ESSEX BALLADS The thought that chiefly makes him sigh Is that a time must come When jokes extinct Hke mammoths He And jokers must be dumb. When every quip to death is done, And every crank is told, When men have printed every pun. And every joke is old. When nought in heaven or earth or sea Has not been turned to chaff, And not a single oddity Is left to make us laugh. AND OTHER POEMS. 53 THE PROFESSIONAL SINGER. (A Song of Incongruity.) '• I MUSE of my loved one, sighing " ( T/ia^ ivretchcd piano' s flat /) " For love of her soul I am dying " (In an evening dress cravat). " My heart it is wildly beating " (But I }niisMt crush this bud) " As I think of our last fond meetinsr " (And I flash my diamond stud). " I feed on my love's sweet glances " (And between the songs on stout) " Her voice all my thoughts entrances " (That piano's awfully out). " With a passion that's wild and ceaseless I tread the weary world " ( With a shirt front smooth and creaseless And moustaches soaped and curled). " I know not, alas, I know not If we two shall meet once more ; I weep '' — (though my tears they fl,0Tv not, For I hear the cry " Encore "). 54 ESSEX BALLADS CARLYLE'S "GREATEST FOOL IN LONDON." A Problem of the Unknowable. (Reprinted from GoLDEN GATES. ^ " For, observe, though there is a greatest Fool, as a superlative of every kind ; and ihc most Foolish man in the Earth is now undubitably living and breathing, and did this morning or lately eat breakfast, and is even now digesting the same ; and looks out on the world with his dim horn- eyes and inwardly forms some unspeakable theory thereof ; yet where shall the authentically Existing be personally met with ? " Carlyle's Miscellanies Vol. iv. "Biography." Beneath the fog that hangs o'er London town Are many Fools of varying degrees, And one niust be the most consummate Clown, The biggest Blockhead out of all of these. Whatever depth of folly may invest The others' brains, his are more addled still. Whatever nonsense occupies the rest, More vapid fancies yet his cranium fill. His vacant face is more a perfect blank Than any dunce's sent to town to school ; No idiot or statesman but may thank His stars he is not such an utter Fool. AXD OTHER POEMS. 55 We know not his address nor e'en his name, Thoii^rii ill directories both, mayhap, appear, And many a ledger, p'raps may show a claim Against this Dunderhead for meat and beer. Perchance each day some postman more than once Brings him prospectuses to feed his brain. Oh ! those who send to such a blithering Dunce, Can it be true that they are less inane .'* This veriest Jackass, who must somewhere be. Though who and where he is w^e cannot tell ; Is it this Ass that in philosophy The learned call the Great Unknowable .' 56 ESSEX BALLADS ANOTHER PSALM OF LIFE. (IVliat the Editor said to the Psalmist.) Ask me not, in mournful queries, Why the verses that you send Month by month, in constant series, Are declined with thanks, my friend "Want of space-" you don't believe it ? Well, we own that was a he Please in confidence receive it. And we'll tell you really why. Faultless are your lines in rhythm. All your rhymes are quite complete, Nothing is the matter with tliem, Every verse is honey-sweet. In the poet's proud piofession What you lack is — can't you guess ? You're a genius at expression, But— you've nothing to expie^s. AXD OTHER POEMS. MUSIC EVERYWHERE. (Reprinted from the PROFESSIONAL WoRLD.^ There's music everywhere ! Thou canst not tread upon a pointed pin But Nature's music doth at once begin With plaintive notes to tremble through the air. There's music e\ery\vhere I Thou canst not drop a boot-jack on thy toe But one deep note unconsciously will flow Forth from thy lips, and echo up the stair — There's music ex'erywhere I Thou canst not knock a nail into the wall, But lo, the hammer on thy thumb will fall, And Nature's treble rends the ciuivering air — There's music everywhere ! Thou canst not rest at night upon thy bed, But lo, among the chimneys overhead Two cats, or three, sing out in chorus there — There's mew-sic everywhere ! 58 ESSEX BALLADS Thou canst not to the cobbler's go, to choose A good substantial pair of leather shoes, But lo, on tip-toe walking up the stair, There's music everywhere ! Thou canst not take thy babe into thine arms, And try to still its infantile alarms. But music greets thee from thy son and heir. There's music everywhere ! Thou canst not step upon a puppy's tail, Or drop hot wax upon thy finger nail, Or lift the boiling kettle from its stand. Or take a roasting chesnut in thy hand Or let the mouse run scampering trom the trap, Or kill a pig, or burst a shoulder strap, Or rouse a cockroach when a lady's nigh, Or get the soap into a youngster's eye, Or stick a needle upright in a chair. But music— Nature's music — rends the air. There's music everywhere ! AND OTHER POEMS. 59 DISAPPOINTMENT. In a honey flower all night in bliss There slept a bumble-bee. " I can very well do with a drink from this When the morning breaks," said she. But a spider was up before she woke And caught the bumble-bee. And the spider hung her in his net On one of the corner pegs, •' She's mine for supper," said he, " you bet, As certain as eggs are eggs." But a frog walked round in the afternoon And grabbed the spider's legs. The frog walked off to a neighbouring pond And croaked in joyous glee, As he said to his wife and his children fond, " A spider, my dears, for tea ! " But a duck dived down and gripped his neck. '' A nice fat frog," said she. 6o JSSSEX BALLADS " Quack-a-quack, you are caught, Mr. Frog," said the duck, " You will do for my duckling son, I reckon I'm in for a stroke of luck To have caught such a big fat one," When up came I in a velvet coat, And pop went my long gun. So the duck fell dead. I picked her up, To find her plump and fat, " On Sunday my wife and I shall sup," Said I to myself, " on that." But we didn't, after all, for the duck got away Inside my neighbour's cat. AXD OTHER POEMS. Ci A FLIGHT OF FANCY. {Reprinted from the Family Circle.) With the roar of a giant it bounded along, The monster of iron and steam, Fining the air with its thundering song. Till the rocks re-echoed its scream, And a drowsy dust-cloud rose and sank. As startled in a dream. With a sound which only the insect ear Could catch as it floated by, A careless young butterfly hovered near The great embankment high, Quietly singing of honey and flowers, And of the summer sky. But all on a sudden the lazy wings, Are gript by the whirling air. And the poor little creature no longer iings, And is swept to he knows not where ; And snap go his poor little tympanum-strings In the whistle's hideous flare. 62 ESSEX BALLADS With a sad little song he resumes his flight, As the monster hurries away. He sings no more of the flowers and light, Of honey and joys of day ; But he murmurs a ditty of dragons grim, And smoky horrors grey. Little he knows of the power of steam, Of the action of crank and wheel. Never of boilers did he dream, Or the wonderful uses of steel ; For never to science did Nature yet. His compound eyes unseal. Butterflies we in the fields of Time, Little or nothing we know Of the mighty engines whose power sublime, Although it may work our woe. Serves uses vast in a world unseen By mortals here below. -<^€fe *% ^j.-? AND OTHER POEMS. 63 THE RIVER AND THE SEA. Life is a voyage ever, Oarsmen and sailors we. Youth is a flowing river, Manhood an open sea. Happy the days when guided On by the flowing stream, Sure of our course we ghded. As in a golden dream. Sails were unneeded o'er us, Xor the firm hand to steer. Safely the current bore us. Peacefully free from fear. Now on the ocean heaving. Toil we with sail and oars. Now must we labour, leaving Rest with the river shores. Tempests and waves beat o'er us, Rocks are around us now. All the wide sea before us. Where shall we bend the prow ? Oh, for the days when we glided On with the flowing stream. Lost is the Power that guided. Fled is the golden dream ! 64 £SSEX BALLADS THE BIG BOOK. On the World I look as a sort of Book Of which the pages are the ages. On the first of all, alas, did fall A blot from the pen of the first of men. And many a page in an after age Is black with smears and stained with tears. And some contain a mournful strain, A song of care and dark despair. But here and there a page is fair, And glorious shines with golden lines. Are there pages still in the Book to fill ? Alas, not any can lell how many. We know no more, as the leaves turn o'er, Than this — that one is not yet done. The years go by, and the pages dry, But the ink is wet on one page yet. We may have passed all but the last. T/ia^ turned who knows ? The Book may close. A. YD OTHER POEMS. 65 But the page that's wet is waiting yet A word or line of \'Ours and mine. Our part is sHght, yet we may n-rite Some little deed worth while to read. 'Tis good to think that when the ink Has long been dry, as time goes by, Some still might look back through the Book To find the bit which we had writ, And reading thus might speak of us, And bid men note how well we wrote. But those that read pay little heed To writing fair penned out with care. The flourished roll and figured scioll Of days gone by attract the eye. And blots I ween are clearly seen — The whole world sees such things as these ; But all in vain by writing plain We seek the praise of future days. Yet I would choose all fame to lose, All praises rung, all pieans sung. If I could write some trifle slight Which just a few would say was true. Thev ever live whose life can give New life to some in years to come. 66 ESSEX BALLADS THE DRAGON. I HEARD, as a child, of a Dragon dread That dogged man's steps through life, And at last would spring on its prey, they said, To tear him in hopeless strife. Timid, I peered the thickets between. Till beneath the wayside boughs I saw it ! — A creature of fearful mien. With " Death " writ o'er his brows. With a quiver 1 turned away my sight. As he couched in the shadows dim. Determined that nevermore, come what might. Would I look at that Dragon grim. But the years went by, and there came a thought, " From the Dragon you cannot fly ; Some day the battle will have to be fought. Then face him before you die." So I looked again with a firmer gaze ; Boldly I looked, and long. What mattered his glare in the early days When life was young and strong ? AND OTHER POEMS. 67 I looked at the Dragon with cool disdain, No longer a timid child, And, could it be true ? As I looked again I thought the Dragon smiled. My soul was filled with a deep surprise, For the sight was wondrous strange, As there before my very eyes I saw the Dragon change ! Change I From a monster of fearful mien With " Death " upon his brow, To a creature of beauty and dazzling sheen, That stood before me now. No dragon I An Angel of light and love, The perfume of ilowers his breath, And " Life Eternal'' his brows above. Instead of the legend " Death." ^&^ f^4 68 ESSEX BALLADS THE SPHINX'S SMILE. " My riddle rede," the Sphinx who cries, With cold grey eyes that all must heed, O'er-views the crowd of passers-by, And bids each answer her or die. Once in a life, but scarcely more. In searching sore, in eager strife, Man peers the curtain's corner through, And gains cne glimpse of what is true. Then, only then, the Sphinx's smile A little while is seen ot men. But such a smile ! It throws disdain On all the other years of pain. Once, as it seemed, that smiling face, With all its grace, upon me beamed. It came to me upon a day As a strange vision passed away. * # * I saw the souls that left the earth For higher birth, for greater goals. I marked them each in wonder stand Upon the far enchanted strand. A wandering crowd of spirits streamed, And, so it seemed, they cried aloud— Where is the God we knew so well, And where is Heaven, and where is Hell .? " AND Ol HER POEMS. 69 Then saw I one whose creed below I seemed to know — "God there is none." And ^till of God he saw no trace — Stood blind before his Father's face. I watched one next, whose creed had been- " When God is seen my doubts perplexed Shall fade away ; " and in that land The angels took him by tlie hand. They led him on, through fields of light, Till on his siglit a splendour shone, Exceeding far tiie light of day. " Behold the Lord," I heard them say. " Father, forgive," was all he said, " The past is dead, and now I live, I knew Thee not, but now I see." And God forgave him instantly. I marked a third ; when earth he ti'od He saw no God, no God he heard ; Yet held, in sjiite of clouds above, Ihrough life that God is Light and Love. I saw him meet his God, and all He did was fall before His feet. And he alone without surprise Saw God with clear untutored eyes. And he alone, of all that throng, Could join the song around the Throne. He only, in the realms above. Untaught found Perfect Light and Love. Then shone, ah yes, just for a while, The Sphinx's smile of happiness- And stich a smile ! It totiched with light The everlasting Hills of Night. ESSEX BALLADS JOTTIN QS. Who builds a house is free to choose The kinds of stone that he will use ; So here what subjects you may find Depends entirely oa my mind. Some writers make their readers feel Provided with a good square meal, While others — such a task is mine — Supply the walnuts and the wine. A sip of truth— the merest smack, A pinch of salt, a nut to crack. Some writers take you by the hand, And lead you far through Fancy's land, Through cultured gardens, where the soil Is redolent of care and toil. My path less cultured you will find ; My labour is of hunilj'.er kind. A few ^\ild flowers-- by some called weeds- I pluck from Nature's tangled meads. AXD Ori/ER POEMS. 'Tis pleasant at times in the journey of life To turn for an hour from the hi^^hway, For the flowers th\t are fairest, and sweetest, and rarest Can only be found in the b)-\vay. We wonder that tlie swallows roam Unguided to their distant home, But is it not a stranger thins That thought can fly on swifter wing, And in an instant view a scene Where neither birds nor men have been ? NEW AND OLD. The ruined castle, crumbling to decay, We count a relic of the distmt past ; Yet every stone that lies upon the way Is just as old, and just as long will last. The tiny flower, born but to live a day, I'hat seems the freshest, newest thing on earth, Is made of atom elements which lay In the old Chaos, ere the race had birth. " Beneath the sun there's really nothing new.'' This saying certainly is very true ; And yet this paradox if e\en truer : '• Than oldest things there's often nothing newer." ESSEX BALLADS GREAT AND SMALL. The stnrs, although they seem so very small, Are each a solar system after all. The world is so large that its infinite store Seems greater in number thnn sand on the shore ; But the world is so small that when all's said and done Its endless varieties all appear one. With all that we read, and with all that we write, And with all that our teachers can show. There isn't an emmet that sports in the light But could tell us some things we don't know. According to the children's rhyme, '] he world is made of drops and grains, But grown up children learn in time Each grain, each drop, a world contains. Tf space is limitless, then great and small Are without meaning as compared with all ; So he who sets no limits to his theme. Nothing too small nor yet too great will deem. Impartially his stream of fancy runs From mites to empires, atomies to suns. AXD OTHER POEMS. WORTH AND UNWORTH. Often the gem but differs from the flint In being rarer. Often gems of thought But diflfer from the things we see in print In being rarely written, seldom sought. Who can exhaust from out the barren flint The sparks that round the steel untiring play ? There is no theme but still Ins something in 't. Till vou have struck for ever and a dav. The wealth of all the Empires' thrones, That glitter in the light of day. The gold, the pearls, the precious stones That millionaires have stowed away, .■\re only samples. Thousands more Are underneath Earth'^ mantle green. The greatest treasures of its store Are those the world has never seen. There is a land where he who flings Most wealth abroad, most riches saves, A land where those who work are kings ; .\nd all the kings are also slaves. It is the land of black and white, Whose store increases when unrolled, And those who serve by every right The ruling sceptre also hold. 74 ESSEX hALLADS POINTS OF VIEW. " Just look at that goose," said a duck on the sluice, " Whv the length of her neck is absurd " " Just look at that duck — what a neck ! " said the goose, *' She must be a queer sort of bird " In the silent night when the wh'te moth drinks The honey from flower by flower, How quaint are the thoughts the night moth thinks In the still dark midnight hour. The chill damp pall of the dewy air, To her it is health and breath. And all tliat we reckon a;^ b'ight and fair To her is darkness and death. If fri..m the mountains of the mooa We looked upon the rollin;', earth, W'e should not find the Xew Year's birth Was touched with winter more than June. Our eyes would see this mighty globe Caparisoned by dual powers — Half garlanded with summer flowers, Halt shrouded in a snowy robe. Summer and winter, spring and fall, These variegate the whole world o'er. And creeping shift from shore to shore, But none oi ^\\q.Vl\ prevails at all. AXD OTHER POEMS. I D Some say the age of miracles is past, Or but the fable of untutored men ; I hold that long as heaven and earth may last All thinijs are miracles bevond our ken. When Adam delved the untrodden green, And probed the wealth of Nature's store, How often must his words ha\e been — '■ I never noticed that before.'' How oft her distaff laid aside, As fancies tlashed acro-s lier brow, Fell fiom the lips of Adam s bride — '• 1 never thought of that tiil now.'' DI\'1DED TOIL. I gathered iruit from every tree And gave it to the company. Said one, " I, too. will follow suit And go with you to gather Iruit.'" But soon he found the toil and heat As bitter as the fruit was sweet He sat him down l)eneath a tree, " Divided toil is light,'' said he. " The gathering shall be your jiursu-.t, While I will eat the gathered fruit " 76 £SS£.Y BALLADS THE UNKNOWABLE. There are thini^s out of sight which the mind still craves Tc reach, and feel, and know, As the moon's keen glance cannot pierce the waves, Or see what lies below, . Yet shells and shingle in deep-down caves She tosses to and fro, As her soul's invisible hands she laves At tidal ebb and flow. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-50m-7, '54(5990)444 TTNF/ERSITY 1)F'' CALIFOKNL& ^ LOS ANGELES PR i|6l3 Dhhhe UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FAaUTV AA 000 364 648 6