lirik lagu david moore - a shropshire lad
i
1887
from clee to heaven the beacon burns
the shires have seen it plain
from north and south the sign returns
and beacons burn again
look left, look right, the hills are bright
the dales are light between
because ’tis fifty years to~night
that god has saved the queen
now, when the flame they watch not towers
about the soil they trod
lads, we’ll remember friends of ours
who shared the work with god
to skies that knit their heartstrings right
to fields that bred them brave
the saviours come not home to~night:
themselves they could not save
it dawns in asia, tombstones show
and shropshire names are read;
and the nile spills his overflow
beside the severn’s dead
we pledge in peace by farm and town
the queen they served in war
and fire the beacons up and down
the land they perished for
“god save the queen” we living sing
from height to height ’tis heard;
and with the rest your voices ring
lads of the fifty~third
oh, god will save her, fear you not:
be you the men you’ve been
get you the sons your fathers got
and god will save the queen
ii
loveliest of trees, the cherry now
is hung with bloom along the bough
and stands about the woodland ride
wearing white for eastertide
now, of my threescore years and ten
twenty will not come again
and take from seventy springs a score
it only leaves me fifty more
and since to look at things in bloom
fifty springs are little room
about the woodlands i will go
to see the cherry hung with snow
iii
the recruit
leave your home behind, lad
and reach your friends your hand
and go, and luck go with you
while ludlow tower shall stand
oh, come you home of sunday
when ludlow streets are still
and ludlow bells are calling
to farm and lane and mill
or come you home of monday
when ludlow market hums
and ludlow chimes are playing
“the conquering hero comes,”
come you home a hero
or come not home at all
the lads you leave will mind you
till ludlow tower shall fall
and you will list the bugle
that blows in lands of morn
and make the foes of england
be sorry you were born
and you till trump of doomsday
on lands of morn may lie
and make the hearts of comrades
be heavy where you die
leave your home behind you
your friends by field and town
oh, town and field will mind you
till ludlow tower is down
iv
reveille
wake: the silver dusk returning
up the beach of darkness brims
and the ship of sunrise burning
strands upon the eastern rims
wake: the vaulted shadow shatters
trampled to the floor it spanned
and the tent of night in tatters
straws the sky~pavilioned land
up, lad, up, ’tis late for lying:
hear the drums of morning play;
hark, the empty highways crying
“who’ll beyond the hills away?”
towns and countries woo together
forelands beacon, belfries call;
never lad that trod on leather
lived to feast his heart with all
up, lad: thews that lie and cumber
sunlit pallets never thrive;
morns abed and daylight slumber
were not meant for man alive
clay lies still, but blood’s a rover;
breath’s a ware that will not keep
up, lad: when the journey’s over
there’ll be time enough to sleep
v
oh see how thick the goldcup flowers
are lying in field and lane
with dandelions to tell the hours
that never are told again
oh may i squire you round the meads
and pick you posies gay?
~’twill do no harm to take my arm
“you may, young man, you may.”
ah, spring was sent for lass and lad
’tis now the blood runs gold
and man and maid had best be glad
before the world is old
what flowers to~day may flower to~morrow
but never as good as new
~suppose i wound my arm right round~
” ’tis true, young man, ’tis true.”
some lads there are, ’tis shame to say
that only court to thieve
and once they bear the bloom away
’tis little enough they leave
then keep your heart for men like me
and safe from trustless chaps
my love is true and all for you
“perhaps, young man, perhaps.”
oh, look in my eyes, then, can you doubt?
~why, ’tis a mile from town
how green the grass is all about!
we might as well sit down
~ah, life, what is it but a flower?
why must true lovers sigh?
be kind, have pity, my own, my pretty,~
“good~bye, young man, good~bye.”
vi
when the lad for longing sighs
mute and dull of cheer and pale
if at death’s own door he lies
maiden, you can heal his ail
lovers’ ills are all to buy:
the wan look, the hollow tone
the hung head, the sunken eye
you can have them for your own
buy them, buy them: eve and morn
lovers’ ills are all to sell
then you can lie down forlorn;
but the lover will be well
vii
when smoke stood up from ludlow
and mist blew off from teme
and blithe afield to ploughing
against the morning beam
i strode beside my team
the blackbird in the coppice
looked out to see me stride
and hearkened as i whistled
the tramping team beside
and fluted and replied:
“lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
what use to rise and rise?
rise man a thousand mornings
yet down at last he lies
and then the man is wise.”
i heard the tune he sang me
and spied his yellow bill;
i picked a stone and aimed it
and threw it with a will:
then the bird was still
then my soul within me
took up the blackbird’s strain
and still beside the horses
along the dewy lane
it sang the song again:
“lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
the sun moves always west;
the road one treads to labour
will lead one home to rest
and that will be the best.”
viii
“farewell to barn and stack and tree
farewell to severn shore
terence, look your last at me
for i come home no more
“the sun burns on the half~mown hill
by now the blood is dried;
and maurice amongst the hay lies still
and my knife is in his side.”
“my mother thinks us long away;
’tis time the field were mown
she had two sons at rising day
to~night she’ll be alone.”
“and here’s a bl~~dy hand to shake
and oh, man, here’s good~bye;
we’ll sweat no more on scythe and rake
my bl~~dy hands and i.”
“i wish you strength to bring you pride
and a love to keep you clean
and i wish you luck, come lammastide
at racing on the green.”
“long for me the rick will wait
and long will wait the fold
and long will stand the empty plate
and dinner will be cold.”
ix
on moonlit heath and lonesome bank
the sheep beside me graze;
and yon the gallows used to clank
fast by the four cross ways
a careless shepherd once would keep
the flocks by moonlight there, (1)
and high amongst the glimmering sheep
the dead man stood on air
they hang us now in shrewsbury jail:
the whistles blow forlorn
and trains all night groan on the rail
to men that die at morn
there sleeps in shrewsbury jail to~night
or wakes, as may betide
a better lad, if things went right
than most that sleep outside
and naked to the hangman’s noose
the morning clocks will ring
a neck god made for other use
than strangling in a string
and sharp the link of life will snap
and dead on air will stand
heels that held up as straight a chap
as treads upon the land
so here i’ll watch the night and wait
to see the morning shine
when he will hear the stroke of eight
and not the stroke of nine;
and wish my friend as sound a sleep
as lads’ i did not know
that shepherded the moonlit sheep
a hundred years ago
(1) hanging in chains was called keeping sheep by moonlight
x
march
the sun at noon to higher air
unharnessing the silver pair
that late before his chariot swam
rides on the gold wool of the ram
so braver notes the storm~c~ck sings
to start the rusted wheel of things
and brutes in field and brutes in pen
leap that the world goes round again
the boys are up the woods with day
to fetch the daffodils away
and home at noonday from the hills
they bring no dearth of daffodils
afield for palms the girls repair
and sure enough the palms are there
and each will find by hedge or pond
her waving silver~tufted wand
in farm and field through all the shire
the eye beholds the heart’s desire;
ah, let not only mine be vain
for lovers should be loved again
xi
on your midnight pallet lying
listen, and undo the door:
lads that waste the light in sighing
in the dark should sigh no more;
night should ease a lover’s sorrow;
therefore, since i go to~morrow;
pity me before
in the land to which i travel
the far dwelling, let me say~
once, if here the couch is gravel
in a kinder bed i lay
and the breast the darnel smothers
rested once upon another’s
when it was not clay
xii
when i watch the living meet
and the moving pageant file
warm and breathing through the street
where i lodge a little while
if the heats of hate and l~st
in the house of flesh are strong
let me mind the house of dust
where my sojourn shall be long
in the nation that is not
nothing stands that stood before;
there revenges are forgot
and the hater hates no more;
lovers lying two and two
ask not whom they sleep beside
and the bridegroom all night through
never turns him to the bride
xiii
when i was one~and~twenty
i heard a wise man say
“give crowns and pounds and guineas
but not your heart away;
give pearls away and rubies
but keep your fancy free.”
but i was one~and~twenty
no use to talk to me
when i was one~and~twenty
i heard him say again
“the heart out of the bosom
was never given in vain;
’tis paid with sighs a plenty
and sold for endless rue.”
and i am two~and~twenty
and oh, ’tis true, ’tis true
xiv
there pass the careless people
that call their souls their own:
here by the road i loiter
how idle and alone
ah, past the plunge of plummet
in seas i cannot sound
my heart and soul and senses
world without end, are drowned
his folly has not fellow
beneath the blue of day
that gives to man or woman
his heart and soul away
there flowers no balm to sain him
from east of earth to west
that’s lost for everlasting
the heart out of his breast
here by the labouring highway
with empty hands i stroll:
sea~deep, till doomsday morning
lie lost my heart and soul
xv
look not in my eyes, for fear
they mirror true the sight i see
and there you find your face too clear
and love it and be lost like me
one the long nights through must lie
spent in star~defeated sighs
but why should you as well as i
perish? gaze not in my eyes
a grecian lad, as i hear tell
one that many loved in vain
looked into a forest well
and never looked away again
there, when the turf in springtime flowers
with downward eye and gazes sad
stands amid the glancing showers
a jonquil, not a grecian lad
xvi
it nods and curtseys and recovers
when the wind blows above
the nettle on the graves of lovers
that hanged themselves for love
the nettle nods, the wind blows over
the man, he does not move
the lover of the grave, the lover
that hanged himself for love
xvii
twice a week the winter thorough
here stood i to keep the goal:
football then was fighting sorrow
for the young man’s soul
now in may time to the wicket
out i march with bat and pad:
see the son of grief at cricket
trying to be glad
try i will; no harm in trying:
wonder ’tis how little mirth
keeps the bones of man from lying
on the bed of earth
xviii
oh, when i was in love with you
then i was clean and brave
and miles around the wonder grew
how well did i behave
and now the fancy passes by
and nothing will remain
and miles around they’ll say that i
am quite myself again
xix
to an athlete dying young
the time you won your town the race
we chaired you through the market~place;
man and boy stood cheering by
and home we brought you shoulder~high
to~day, the road all runners come
shoulder~high we bring you home
and set you at your threshold down
townsman of a stiller town
smart lad, to slip betimes away
from fields where glory does not stay
and early though the laurel grows
it withers quicker than the rose
eyes the shady night has shut
cannot see the record cut
and silence sounds no worse than cheers
after earth has stopped the ears:
now you will not swell the rout
of lads that wore their honours out
runners whom renown outran
and the name died before the man
so set, before its echoes fade
the fleet foot on the sill of shade
and hold to the low lintel up
the still~defended challenge~cup
and round that early~laurelled head
will flock to gaze the strengthless dead
and find unwithered on its curls
the garland briefer than a girl’s
xx
oh fair enough are sky and plain
but i know fairer far:
those are as beautiful again
that in the water are;
the pools and rivers wash so clean
the trees and clouds and air
the like on earth was never seen
and oh that i were there
these are the thoughts i often think
as i stand gazing down
in act upon the cressy brink
to strip and dive and drown;
but in the golden~sanded brooks
and azure meres i spy
a silly lad that longs and looks
and wishes he were i
xxi
bredon hill (1)
in summertime on bredon
the bells they sound so clear;
round both the shires they ring them
in steeples far and near
a happy noise to hear
here of a sunday morning
my love and i would lie
and see the coloured counties
and hear the larks so high
about us in the sky
the bells would ring to call her
in valleys miles away:
“come all to church, good people;
good people, come and pray.”
but here my love would stay
and i would turn and answer
among the springing thyme
“oh, peal upon our wedding
and we will hear the chime
and come to church in time.”
but when the snows at christmas
on bredon top were strown
my love rose up so early
and stole out unbeknown
and went to church alone
they tolled the one bell only
groom there was none to see
the mourners followed after
and so to church went she
and would not wait for me
the bells they sound on bredon
and still the steeples hum
“come all to church, good people,”~
oh, noisy bells, be dumb;
i hear you, i will come
(1) pr~nounced breedon
xxii
the street sounds to the soldiers’ tread
and out we troop to see:
a single redcoat turns his head
he turns and looks at me
my man, from sky to sky’s so far
we never crossed before;
such leagues apart the world’s ends are
we’re like to meet no more;
what thoughts at heart have you and i
we cannot stop to tell;
but dead or living, drunk or dry
soldier, i wish you well
xxiii
the lads in their hundreds to ludlow come in for the fair
there’s men from the barn and the forge and the mill and the fold
the lads for the girls and the lads for the liquor are there
and there with the rest are the lads that will never be old
there’s chaps from the town and the field and the till and the cart
and many to count are the stalwart, and many the brave
and many the handsome of face and the handsome of heart
and few that will carry their looks or their truth to the grave
i wish one could know them, i wish there were tokens to tell
the fortunate fellows that now you can never discern;
and then one could talk with them friendly and wish them farewell
and watch them depart on the way that they will not return
but now you may stare as you like and there’s nothing to scan;
and brushing your elbow unguessed~at and not to be told
they carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man
the lads that will die in their glory and never be old
xxiv
say, lad, have you things to do?
quick then, while your day’s at prime
quick, and if ’tis work for two
here am i, man: now’s your time
send me now, and i shall go;
call me, i shall hear you call;
use me ere they lay me low
where a man’s no use at all;
ere the wholesome flesh decay
and the willing nerve be numb
and the lips lack breath to say
“no, my lad, i cannot come.”
xxv
this time of year a twelvemonth past
when fred and i would meet
we needs must jangle, till at last
we fought and i was beat
so then the summer fields about
till rainy days began
rose harland on her sundays out
walked with the better man
the better man she walks with still
though now ’tis not with fred:
a lad that lives and has his will
is worth a dozen dead
fred keeps the house all kinds of weather
and clay’s the house he keeps;
when rose and i walk out together
stock~still lies fred and sleeps
xxvi
along the fields as we came by
a year ago, my love and i
the aspen over stile and stone
was talking to itself alone
“oh who are these that kiss and pass?
a country lover and his lass;
two lovers looking to be wed;
and time shall put them both to bed
but she shall lie with earth above
and he beside another love.”
and sure enough beneath the tree
there walks another love with me
and overhead the aspen heaves
its rainy~sounding silver leaves;
and i spell nothing in their stir
but now perhaps they speak to her
and plain for her to understand
they talk about a time at hand
when i shall sleep with clover clad
and she beside another lad
xxvii
“is my team ploughing
that i was used to drive
and hear the harness jingle
when i was man alive?”
ay, the horses trample
the harness jingles now;
no change though you lie under
the land you used to plough
“is football playing
along the river shore
with lads to chase the leather
now i stand up no more?”
ay, the ball is flying
the lads play heart and soul;
the goal stands up, the keeper
stands up to keep the goal
“is my girl happy
that i thought hard to leave
and has she tired of weeping
as she lies down at eve?”
ay, she lies down lightly
she lies not down to weep:
your girl is well contented
be still, my lad, and sleep
“is my friend hearty
now i am thin and pine
and has he found to sleep in
a better bed than mine?”
yes, lad, i lie easy
i lie as lads would choose;
i cheer a dead man’s sweetheart
never ask me whose
xxviii
the welsh marches
high the vanes of shrewsbury gleam
islanded in severn stream;
the bridges from the steepled crest
cross the water east and west
the flag of morn in conqueror’s state
enters at the english gate:
the vanquished eve, as night prevails
bleeds upon the road to wales
ages since the vanquished bled
round my mother’s marriage~bed;
there the ravens feasted far
about the open house of war:
when severn down to buildwas ran
coloured with the death of man
couched upon her brother’s grave
the saxon got me on the slave
the sound of fight is silent long
that began the ancient wrong;
long the voice of tears is still
that wept of old the endless ill
in my heart it has not died
the war that sleeps on severn side;
they cease not fighting, east and west
on the marches of my breast
here the truceless armies yet
trample, rolled in blood and sweat;
they k!ll and k!ll and never die;
and i think that each is i
none will part us, none undo
the knot that makes one flesh of two
sick with hatred, sick with pain
strangling~when shall we be slain?
when shall i be dead and rid
of the wrong my father did?
how long, how long, till spade and he~rs~
put to sleep my mother’s curse?
xxix
the lent lily
’tis spring; come out to ramble
the hilly brakes around
for under th~rn and bramble
about the hollow ground
the primroses are found
and there’s the windflower chilly
with all the winds at play
and there’s the lenten lily
that has not long to stay
and dies on easter day
and since till girls go maying
you find the primrose still
and find the windflower playing
with every wind at will
but not the daffodil
bring baskets now, and sally
upon the spring’s array
and bear from hill and valley
the daffodil away
that dies on easter day
xxx
others, i am not the first
have willed more mischief than they durst:
if in the breathless night i too
shiver now, ’tis nothing new
more than i, if truth were told
have stood and sweated hot and cold
and through their reins in ice and fire
fear contended with desire
agued once like me were they
but i like them shall win my way
lastly to the bed of mould
where there’s neither heat nor cold
but from my grave across my brow
plays no wind of healing now
and fire and ice within me fight
beneath the suffocating night
xxxi
on wenlock edge the wood’s in trouble;
his forest fleece the wrekin heaves;
the gale, it plies the saplings double
and thick on severn snow the leaves
‘twould blow like this through holt and hanger
when uricon the city stood:
’tis the old wind in the old anger
but then it threshed another wood
then, ’twas before my time, the roman
at yonder heaving hill would stare:
the blood that warms an english yeoman
the thoughts that hurt him, they were there
there, like the wind through woods in riot
through him the gale of life blew high;
the tree of man was never quiet:
then ’twas the roman, now ’tis i
the gale, it plies the saplings double
it blows so hard, ’twill soon be gone:
to~day the roman and his trouble
are ashes under uricon
xxxii
from far, from eve and morning
and yon twelve~winded sky
the stuff of life to knit me
blew hither: here am i
now~ for a breath i tarry
nor yet disperse apart~
take my hand quick and tell me
what have you in your heart
speak now, and i will answer;
how shall i help you, say;
ere to the wind’s twelve quarters
i take my endless way
xxxiii
if truth in hearts that perish
could move the powers on high
i think the love i bear you
should make you not to die
sure, sure, if stedfast meaning
if single thought could save
the world might end to~morrow
you should not see the grave
this long and sure~set liking
this boundless will to please
~oh, you should live for ever
if there were help in these
but now, since all is idle
to this lost heart be kind
ere to a town you journey
where friends are ill to find
xxxiv
the new mistress
“oh, sick i am to see you, will you never let me be?
you may be good for something, but you are not good for me
oh, go where you are wanted, for you are not wanted here.”
and that was all the farewell when i parted from my dear
“i will go where i am wanted, to a lady born and bred
who will dress me free for nothing in a uniform of red;
she will not be sick to see me if i only keep it clean:
i will go where i am wanted for a soldier of the queen.”
“i will go where i am wanted, for the sergeant does not mind;
he may be sick to see me but he treats me very kind:
he gives me beer and breakfast and a ribbon for my cap
and i never knew a sweetheart spend her money on a chap.”
“i will go where i am wanted, where there’s room for one or two
and the men are none too many for the work there is to do;
where the standing line wears thinner and the dropping dead lie thick;
and the enemies of england they shall see me and be sick.”
xxxv
on the idle hill of summer
sleepy with the flow of streams
far i hear the steady drummer
drumming like a noise in dreams
far and near and low and louder
on the roads of earth go by
dear to friends and food for powder
soldiers marching, all to die
east and west on fields forgotten
bleach the bones of comrades slain
lovely lads and dead and rotten;
none that go return again
far the calling bugles hollo
high the screaming fife replies
gay the files of scarlet follow:
woman bore me, i will rise
xxxvi
white in the moon the long road lies
the moon stands blank above;
white in the moon the long road lies
that leads me from my love
still hangs the hedge without a gust
still, still the shadows stay:
my feet upon the moonlit dust
pursue the ceaseless way
the world is round, so travellers tell
and straight though reach the track
trudge on, trudge on, ’twill all be well
the way will guide one back
but ere the circle homeward hies
far, far must it remove:
white in the moon the long road lies
that leads me from my love
xxxvii
as through the wild green hills of wyre
the train ran, changing sky and shire
and far behind, a fading crest
low in the forsaken west
sank the high~reared head of clee
my hand lay empty on my knee
aching on my knee it lay:
that morning half a shire away
so many an honest fellow’s fist
had well~nigh wrung it from the wrist
hand, said i, since now we part
from fields and men we know by heart
from strangers’ faces, strangers’ lands,~
hand, you have held true fellows’ hands
be clean then; rot before you do
a thing they’d not believe of you
you and i must keep from shame
in london streets the shropshire name;
on banks of thames they must not say
severn breeds worse men than they;
and friends abroad must bear in mind
friends at home they leave behind
oh, i shall be stiff and cold
when i forget you, hearts of gold;
the land where i shall mind you not
is the land where all’s forgot
and if my foot returns no more
to teme nor corve nor severn shore
luck, my lads, be with you still
by falling stream and standing hill
by chiming tower and whispering tree
men that made a man of me
about your work in town and farm
still you’ll keep my head from harm
still you’ll help me, hands that gave
a grasp to friend me to the grave
xxxviii
the winds out of the west land blow
my friends have breathed them there;
warm with the blood of lads i know
comes east the sighing air
it fanned their temples, filled their lungs
scattered their forelocks free;
my friends made words of it with tongues
that talk no more to me
their voices, dying as they fly
thick on the wind are sown;
the names of men blow soundless by
my fellows’ and my own
oh lads, at home i heard you plain
but here your speech is still
and down the sighing wind in vain
you hollo from the hill
the wind and i, we both were there
but neither long abode;
now through the friendless world we fare
and sigh upon the road
xxxix
’tis time, i think by wenlock town
the golden broom should blow;
the hawth~rn sprinkled up and down
should charge the land with snow
spring will not wait the loiterer’s time
who keeps so long away;
so others wear the broom and climb
the hedgerows heaped with may
oh tarnish late on wenlock edge
gold that i never see;
lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedge
that will not shower on me
xl
into my heart an air that k!lls
from yon far country blows:
what are those blue remembered hills
what spires, what farms are those?
that is the land of lost content
i see it shining plain
the happy highways where i went
and cannot come again
xli
in my own shire, if i was sad
homely comforters i had:
the earth, because my heart was sore
sorrowed for the son she bore;
and standing hills, long to remain
shared their short~lived comrade’s pain
and bound for the same bourn as i
on every road i wandered by
trod beside me, close and dear
the beautiful and death~struck year:
whether in the woodland brown
i heard the beechnut rustle down
and saw the purple crocus pale
flower about the autumn dale;
or littering far the fields of may
lady~smocks a~bleaching lay
and like a skylit water stood
the bluebells in the azured wood
yonder, lightening other loads
the seasons range the country roads
but here in london streets i ken
no such helpmates, only men;
and these are not in plight to bear
if they would, another’s care
they have enough as ’tis: i see
in many an eye that measures me
the mortal sickness of a mind
too unhappy to be kind
undone with misery, all they can
is to hate their fellow man;
and till they drop they needs must still
look at you and wish you ill
xlii
the merry guide
once in the wind of morning
i ranged the thymy wold;
the world~wide air was azure
and all the brooks ran gold
there through the dews beside me
behold a youth that trod
with feathered cap on forehead
and poised a golden rod
with mien to match the morning
and gay delightful guise
and friendly brows and laughter
he looked me in the eyes
oh whence, i asked, and whither?
he smiled and would not say
and looked at me and beckoned
and laughed and led the way
and with kind looks and laughter
and nought to say beside
we two went on together
i and my happy guide
across the glittering pastures
and empty upland still
and solitude of shepherds
high in the folded hill
by hanging woods and hamlets
that gaze through orchards down
on many a windmill turning
and far~discovered town
with gay regards of promise
and sure unslackened stride
and smiles and nothing spoken
led on my merry guide
by blowing realms of woodland
with sunstruck vanes afield
and cloud~led shadows sailing
about the windy weald
by valley~guarded granges
and silver waters wide
content at heart i followed
with my delightful guide
and like the cloudy shadows
across the country blown
we two face on for ever
but not we two alone
with the great gale we journey
that breathes from gardens thinned
borne in the drift of blossoms
whose petals throng the wind;
buoyed on the heaven~heard whisper
of dancing leaflets whirled
from all the woods that autumn
bereaves in all the world
and midst the fluttering legion
of all that ever died
i follow, and before us
goes the delightful guide
with lips that brim with laughter
but never once respond
and feet that fly on feathers
and serpent~circled wand
xliii
the immortal part
when i meet the morning beam
or lay me down at night to dream
i hear my bones within me say
“another night, another day.”
“when shall this slough of sense be cast
this dust of thoughts be laid at last
the man of flesh and soul be slain
and the man of bone remain?”
“this tongue that talks, these lungs that shout
these thews that hustle us about
this brain that fills the skull with schemes
and its humming hive of dreams,~”
“these to~day are proud in power
and lord it in their little hour:
the immortal bones obey control
of dying flesh and dying soul.”
” ’tis long till eve and morn are gone:
slow the endless night comes on
and late to fulness grows the birth
that shall last as long as earth.”
“wanderers eastward, wanderers west
know you why you cannot rest?
’tis that every mother’s son
travails with a skeleton.”
“lie down in the bed of dust;
bear the fruit that bear you must;
bring the eternal seed to light
and morn is all the same as night.”
“rest you so from trouble sore
fear the heat o’ the sun no more
nor the snowing winter wild
now you labour not with child.”
“empty vessel, garment cast
we that wore you long shall last
~another night, another day.”
so my bones within me say
therefore they shall do my will
to~day while i am master still
and flesh and soul, now both are strong
shall hale the sullen slaves along
before this fire of sense decay
this smoke of thought blow clean away
and leave with ancient night alone
the stedfast and enduring bone
xliv
shot? so quick, so clean an ending?
oh that was right, lad, that was brave:
yours was not an ill for mending
’twas best to take it to the grave
oh you had forethought, you could reason
and saw your road and where it led
and early wise and brave in season
put the pistol to your head
oh soon, and better so than later
after long disgrace and scorn
you shot dead the household traitor
the soul that should not have been born
right you guessed the rising morrow
and scorned to tread the mire you must:
dust’s your wages, son of sorrow
but men may come to worse than dust
souls undone, undoing others,~
long time since the tale began
you would not live to wrong your brothers:
oh lad, you died as fits a man
now to your grave shall friend and stranger
with ruth and some with envy come:
undishonoured, clear of danger
clean of guilt, pass hence and home
turn safe to rest, no dreams, no waking;
and here, man, here’s the wreath i’ve made:
’tis not a gift that’s worth the taking
but wear it and it will not fade
xlv
if it chance your eye offend you
pluck it out, lad, and be sound:
’twill hurt, but here are salves to friend you
and many a balsam grows on ground
and if your hand or foot offend you
cut it off, lad, and be whole;
but play the man, stand up and end you
when your sickness is your soul
xlvi
bring, in this timeless grave to throw
no cypress, sombre on the snow;
snap not from the bitter yew
his leaves that live december through;
break no rosemary, bright with rime
and sparkling to the cruel clime;
nor plod the winter land to look
for willows in the icy brook
to cast them leafless round him: bring
no spray that ever buds in spring
but if the christmas field has kept
awns the last gleaner overstept
or shrivelled flax, whose flower is blue
a single season, never two;
or if one haulm whose year is o’er
shivers on the upland frore
~oh, bring from hill and stream and plain
whatever will not flower again
to give him comfort: he and those
shall bide eternal bedfellows
where low upon the couch he lies
whence he never shall arise
xlvii
the carpenter’s son
“here the hangman stops his cart:
now the best of friends must part
fare you well, for ill fare i:
live, lads, and i will die.”
“oh, at home had i but stayed
‘prenticed to my father’s trade
had i stuck to plane and adze
i had not been lost, my lads.”
“then i might have built perhaps
gallows~trees for other chaps
never dangled on my own
had i but left ill alone.”
“now, you see, they hang me high
and the people passing by
stop to shake their fists and curse;
so ’tis come from ill to worse.”
“here hang i, and right and left
two poor fellows hang for theft:
all the same’s the luck we prove
though the midmost hangs for love.”
“comrades all, that stand and gaze
walk henceforth in other ways;
see my neck and save your own:
comrades all, leave ill alone.”
“make some day a decent end
shrewder fellows than your friend
fare you well, for ill fare i:
live, lads, and i will die.”
xlviii
be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle
earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong
think rather,~call to thought, if now you grieve a little
the days when we had rest, o soul, for they were long
men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry
i slept and saw not; tears fell down, i did not mourn;
sweat ran and blood sprang out and i was never sorry:
then it was well with me, in days ere i was born
now, and i muse for why and never find the reason
i pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun
be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season:
let us endure an hour and see injustice done
ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation;
all thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain:
horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation~
oh why did i awake? when shall i sleep again?
xlix
think no more, lad; laugh, be jolly:
why should men make haste to die?
empty heads and tongues a~talking
make the rough road easy walking
and the feather pate of folly
bears the falling sky
oh, ’tis jesting, dancing, drinking
spins the heavy world around
if young hearts were not so clever
oh, they would be young for ever:
think no more; ’tis only thinking
lays lads underground
l
clunton and clunbury
clungunford and clun
are the quietest places
under the sun
in valleys of springs of rivers
by ony and teme and clun
the country for easy livers
the quietest under the sun
we still had sorrows to lighten
one could not be always glad
and lads knew trouble at knighton
when i was a knighton lad
by bridges that thames runs under
in london, the town built ill
’tis sure small matter for wonder
if sorrow is with one still
and if as a lad grows older
the troubles he bears are more
he carries his griefs on a shoulder
that handselled them long before
where shall one halt to deliver
this luggage i’d lief set down?
not thames, not teme is the river
nor london nor knighton the town:
’tis a long way further than knighton
a quieter place than clun
where doomsday may thunder and lighten
and little ’twill matter to one
li
loitering with a vacant eye
along the grecian gallery
and brooding on my heavy ill
i met a statue standing still
still in marble stone stood he
and stedfastly he looked at me
“well met,” i thought the look would say
“we both were fashioned far away;
we neither knew, when we were young
these londoners we live among.”
still he stood and eyed me hard
an earnest and a grave regard:
“what, lad, drooping with your lot?
i too would be where i am not
i too survey that endless line
of men whose thoughts are not as mine
years, ere you stood up from rest
on my neck the collar prest;
years, when you lay down your ill
i shall stand and bear it still
courage, lad, ’tis not for long:
stand, quit you like stone, be strong.”
so i thought his look would say;
and light on me my trouble lay
and i slept out in flesh and bone
manful like the man of stone
lii
far in a western brookland
that bred me long ago
the poplars stand and tremble
by pools i used to know
there, in the windless night~time
the wanderer, marvelling why
halts on the bridge to hearken
how soft the poplars sigh
he hears: long since forgotten
in fields where i was known
here i lie down in london
and turn to rest alone
there, by the starlit fences
the wanderer halts and hears
my soul that lingers sighing
about the glimmering weirs
liii
the true lover
the lad came to the door at night
when lovers crown their vows
and whistled soft and out of sight
in shadow of the boughs
“i shall not vex you with my face
henceforth, my love, for aye;
so take me in your arms a sp~ce
before the east is grey.”
“when i from hence away am past
i shall not find a bride
and you shall be the first and last
i ever lay beside.”
she heard and went and knew not why;
her heart to his she laid;
light was the air beneath the sky
but dark under the shade
“oh do you breathe, lad, that your breast
seems not to rise and fall
and here upon my bosom prest
there beats no heart at all?”
“oh loud, my girl, it once would knock
you should have felt it then;
but since for you i stopped the clock
it never goes again.”
“oh lad, what is it, lad, that drips
wet from your neck on mine?
what is it falling on my lips
my lad, that tastes of brine?”
“oh like enough ’tis blood, my dear
for when the knife has slit
the throat across from ear to ear
’twill bleed because of it.”
under the stars the air was light
but dark below the boughs
the still air of the speechless night
when lovers crown their vows
liv
with rue my heart is laden
for golden friends i had
for many a rose~lipt maiden
and many a lightfoot lad
by brooks too broad for leaping
the lightfoot boys are laid;
the rose~lipt girls are sleeping
in fields where roses fade
lv
westward on the high~hilled plains
where for me the world began
still, i think, in newer veins
frets the changeless blood of man
now that other lads than i
strip to bathe on severn shore
they, no help, for all they try
tread the mill i trod before
there, when hueless is the west
and the darkness hushes wide
where the lad lies down to rest
stands the troubled dream beside
there, on thoughts that once were mine
day looks down the eastern steep
and the youth at morning shine
makes the vow he will not keep
lvi
the day of battle
“far i hear the bugle blow
to call me where i would not go
and the guns begin the song
‘soldier, fly or stay for long.'”
“comrade, if to turn and fly
made a soldier never die
fly i would, for who would not?
’tis sure no pleasure to be shot.”
“but since the man that runs away
lives to die another day
and cowards’ funerals, when they come
are not wept so well at home.”
“therefore, though the best is bad
stand and do the best my lad;
stand and fight and see your slain
and take the bullet in your brain.”
lvii
you smile upon your friend to~day
to~day his ills are over;
you hearken to the lover’s say
and happy is the lover
’tis late to hearken, late to smile
but better late than never:
i shall have lived a little while
before i die for ever
lviii
when i came last to ludlow
amidst the moonlight pale
two friends kept step beside me
two honest lads and hale
now d~ck lies long in the churchyard
and ned lies long in jail
and i come home to ludlow
amidst the moonlight pale
lix
the isle of portland
the star~filled seas are smooth to~night
from france to england strown;
black towers above the portland light
the felon~quarried stone
on yonder island, not to rise
never to stir forth free
far from his folk a dead lad lies
that once was friends with me
lie you easy, dream you light
and sleep you fast for aye;
and luckier may you find the night
than ever you found the day
lx
now hollow fires burn out to black
and lights are guttering low:
square your shoulders, lift your pack
and leave your friends and go
oh never fear, man, nought’s to dread
look not left nor right:
in all the endless road you tread
there’s nothing but the night
lxi
hughley steeple
the vane on hughley steeple
veers bright, a far~known sign
and there lie hughley people
and there lie friends of mine
tall in their midst the tower
divides the shade and sun
and the clock strikes the hour
and tells the time to none
to south the headstones cl~ster
the sunny mounds lie thick;
the dead are more in muster
at hughley than the quick
north, for a soon~told number
chill graves the s~xton delves
and steeple~shadowed slumber
the slayers of themselves
to north, to south, lie parted
with hughley tower above
the kind, the single~hearted
the lads i used to love
and, south or north, ’tis only
a choice of friends one knows
and i shall ne’er be lonely
asleep with these or those
lxii
“terence, this is stupid stuff:
you eat your victuals fast enough;
there can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear
to see the rate you drink your beer
but oh, good lord, the verse you make
it gives a chap the belly~ache
the cow, the old cow, she is dead;
it sleeps well, the h~rned head:
we poor lads, ’tis our turn now
to hear such tunes as k!lled the cow
pretty friendship ’tis to rhyme
your friends to death before their time
moping melancholy mad:
come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.”
why, if ’tis dancing you would be
there’s brisker pipes than poetry
say, for what were hop~yards meant
or why was burton built on trent?
oh many a peer of england brews
livelier liquor than the muse
and malt does more than milton can
to justify god’s ways to man
ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink
for fellows whom it hurts to think:
look into the pewter pot
to see the world as the world’s not
and faith, ’tis pleasant till ’tis past:
the mischief is that ’twill not last
oh i have been to ludlow fair
and left my necktie god knows where
and carried half~way home, or near
pints and quarts of ludlow beer:
then the world seemed none so bad
and i myself a sterling lad;
and down in lovely muck i’ve lain
happy till i woke again
then i saw the morning sky:
heigho, the tale was all a lie;
the world, it was the old world yet
i was i, my things were wet
and nothing now remained to do
but begin the game anew
therefore, since the world has still
much good, but much less good than ill
and while the sun and moon endure
luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure
i’d face it as a wise man would
and train for ill and not for good
’tis true the stuff i bring for sale
is not so brisk a brew as ale:
out of a stem that scored the hand
i wrung it in a weary land
but take it: if the smack is sour
the better for the embittered hour;
it should do good to heart and head
when your soul is in my soul’s stead;
and i will friend you, if i may
in the dark and cloudy day
there was a king reigned in the east:
there, when kings will sit to feast
they get their fill before they think
with poisoned meat and poisoned drink
he gathered all that springs to birth
from the many~venomed earth;
first a little, thence to more
he sampled all her k!lling store;
and easy, smiling, seasoned sound
sate the king when healths went round
they put ~rs~nic in his meat
and stared aghast to watch him eat;
they poured strychnine in his cup
and shook to see him drink it up:
they shook, they stared as white’s their shirt:
them it was their poison hurt
~i tell the tale that i heard told
mithridates, he died old
lxiii
i hoed and trenched and weeded
and took the flowers to fair:
i brought them home unheeded;
the hue was not the wear
so up and down i sow them
for lads like me to find
when i shall lie below them
a dead man out of mind
some seed the birds devour
and some the season mars
but here and there will flower
the solitary stars
and fields will yearly bear them
as light~leaved spring comes on
and luckless lads will wear them
when i am dead and gone
Lirik lagu lainnya:
- lirik lagu velveteen shakes - what it is to fall apart
- lirik lagu link do zap, pluglip & ugovhb - pedaço*
- lirik lagu yuno - blitz!
- lirik lagu kindlynxsh - kaptein
- lirik lagu marz0 - между мной и тобой (between me and you)
- lirik lagu shluzov - на колени (on your knees) (new version)
- lirik lagu rowma & lil geniuz - cuando vuelvo a verte
- lirik lagu snapdragon (band) - loserville
- lirik lagu mass of man - bad thoughts
- lirik lagu siloe - noria y alud