The Oxen

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.

   "Now they are all on their knees,"

An elder said as we sat in a flock

   By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where

   They dwelt in their strawy pen,

Nor did it occur to one of us there

   To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave

   In these years!  Yet, I feel,

If someone said on Christmas Eve,

   "Come; see the oxen kneel

"In the lonely barton by yonder coomb

   Our childhood used to know,"

I should go with him in the gloom,

   Hoping it might be so.

I knew a Lady (Club Song)

I knew a lady when the days

   Grew long, and evenings goldened;

   But I was not emboldened

By her prompt eyes and winning ways.

And when old Winter nipt the haws,

   "Another's wife I'll be,

   And then you'll care for me,"

She said, "and think how sweet I was!"

And soon she shone as another's wife:

   As such I often met her,

   And sighed, "How I regret her!

My folly cuts me like a knife!"

And then, to-day, her husband came,

   And moaned, "Why did you flout her?

   Well could I do without her!

For both our burdens you are to blame!"

The Sergeant's Song (1803)

When Lawyers strive to heal a breach,

And Parsons practise what they preach;

Then Little Boney he'll pounce down,

And march his men on London town!

   Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lorum,

   Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lay!

When Justices hold equal scales,

And Rogues are only found in jails;

Then Little Boney he'll pounce down,

And march his men on London town!

   Rollicum-rorum, &c.

When Rich Men find their wealth a curse,

And fill therewith the Poor Man's purse;

Then Little Boney he'll pounce down,

And march his men on London town!

   Rollicum-rorum, &c.

When Husbands with their Wives agree,

And Maids won't wed from modesty;

Then Little Boney he'll pounce down,

And march his men on London town!

   Rollicum-rorum, tol-tol-lorum,

   Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lay!

1878.

Published in "The Trumpet-Major," 1880.

A Two-Years' Idyll

     [Image: Picnicking on Plymouth Breakwater in the early 1900s]

Yes; such it was;

   Just those two seasons unsought,

Sweeping like summertide wind on our ways;

      Moving, as straws,

   Hearts quick as ours in those days;

Going like wind, too, and rated as nought

   Save as the prelude to plays

   Soon to come--larger, life-fraught:

      Yes; such it was.

      "Nought" it was called,

   Even by ourselves--that which springs

Out of the years for all flesh, first or last,

      Commonplace, scrawled

   Dully on days that go past.

Yet, all the while, it upbore us like wings

   Even in hours overcast:

   Aye, though this best thing of things,

      "Nought" it was called!

      What seems it now?

   Lost:  such beginning was all;

Nothing came after:  romance straight forsook

      Quickly somehow

   Life when we sped from our nook,

Primed for new scenes with designs smart and tall . . .

  --A preface without any book,

   A trumpet uplipped, but no call;

      That seems it now.