THE LAND O' THE LEAL I'm wearing awa', Jean, Like snaw when it's thaw, Jean, To the land o' the leal. In the land o' the leal. Ye were aye leal and true, Jean, To the land o' the leal. Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean, Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean, To the land o' the leal. Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, In the land o' the leal. - Carolina Nairne A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT What was he doing, the great god Pan, Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, The limpid water turbidly ran, Ere he brought it out of the river. High on the shore sate the great god Pan, And hacked and hewed as a great god can, He cut it short, did the great god Pan, Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, And notched the poor dry empty thing "This is the way," laughed the great god Pan, (Laughed while he sate by the river,) "The only way, since gods began To make sweet music, they could succeed." Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, He blew in power by the river. Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! Piercing sweet by the river! The sun on the hill forgot to die, Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, Making a poet out of a man: The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, -Elizabeth Barrett Browning EVENING IN ENGLAND From its blue vase the rose of evening drops; A little wind said "Hush!" and shook a spray Night tells her rosary of stars full soon; Leans on one horn as if beseeching ease From all her changes which have stirred the seas Across the ears of Toil, Rest throws her veil. I and a marsh bird only make a wail. - Francis Ledwidge A LITTLE BOY IN THE MORNING He will not come, and still I wait. The moon leans on one silver horn And from their nest sills, finches whistle The world is calling, I must go. - Francis Ledwidge BEHIND THE CLOSED EYE I walk the old frequented ways That wind around the tangled braes, I live again the sunny days Ere I the city knew. And scenes of old again are born, The woodbine lassoing the thorn, And drooping Ruth-like in the corn Above me in their hundred schools The magpies bend their young to rules, And like an apron full of jewels The dewy cobweb swings. And frisking in the stream below The troutlets make the circles flow, And the hungry crane doth watch them grow Above me smokes the little town, With its whitewashed walls and roofs of brown And wondrous impudently sweet, Half of him passion, half conceit, The blackbird calls adown the street Like the piper of Hamelin. I hear him, and I feel the lure Drawing me back to the homely moor, I'll go and close the mountains' door On the city's strife and din. - Francis Ledwidge "FROST TO-NIGHT" Apple-green west and an orange bar, And the crystal eye of a lone, one star . . . |