A Shropshire Lad and Other Poems Read online

  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 space

  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 Dick 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 cluster,

  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 sexton 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 horned head:

  We poor lads, ’tis our turn now

  To hear such tunes as killed 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,
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  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 killing store;

  And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,

  Sate the king when healths went round.

  They put arsenic 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.

  THE END

  LAST POEMS

  We’ll to the woods no more,

  The laurels all are cut,

  The bowers are bare of bay

  That once the Muses wore;

  The year draws in the day

  And soon will evening shut:

  The laurels all are cut,

  We’ll to the woods no more.

  Oh we’ll no more, no more

  To the leafy woods away,

  To the high wild woods of laurel

  And the bowers of bay no more.

  I

  The West

  Beyond the moor and mountain crest

  – Comrade, look not on the west –

  The sun is down and drinks away

  From air and land the lees of day.

  The long cloud and the single pine

  Sentinel the ending line,

  And out beyond it, clear and wan,

  Reach the gulfs of evening on.

  The son of woman turns his brow

  West from forty counties now,

  And, as the edge of heaven he eyes,

  Thinks eternal thoughts, and sighs.

  Oh wide’s the world, to rest or roam,

  With change abroad and cheer at home,

  Fights and furloughs, talk and tale,

  Company and beef and ale.

  But if I front the evening sky

  Silent on the west look I,

  And my comrade, stride for stride,

  Paces silent at my side.

  Comrade, look not on the west:

  ’Twill have the heart out of your breast;

  ’Twill take your thoughts and sink them far,

  Leagues beyond the sunset bar.

  Oh lad, I fear that yon’s the sea

  Where they fished for you and me,

  And there, from whence we both were ta’en,

  You and I shall drown again.

  Send not on your soul before

  To dive from that beguiling shore,

  And let not yet the swimmer leave

  His clothes upon the sands of eve.

  Too fast to yonder strand forlorn

  We journey, to the sunken bourn,

  To flush the fading tinges eyed

  By other lads at eventide.

  Wide is the world, to rest or roam,

  And early ’tis for turning home:

  Plant your heel on earth and stand,

  And let’s forget our native land.

  When you and I are spilt on air

  Long we shall be strangers there;

  Friends of flesh and bone are best:

  Comrade, look not on the west.

  II

  As I gird on for fighting

  My sword upon my thigh,

  I think on old ill fortunes

  Of better men than I.

  Think I, the round world over,

  What golden lads are low

  With hurts not mine to mourn for

  And shames I shall not know.

  What evil luck soever

  For me remains in store,

  ’Tis sure much finer fellows

  Have fared much worse before.

  So here are things to think on

  That ought to make me brave,

  As I strap on for fighting

  My sword that will not save.

  III

  Her strong enchantments failing,

  Her towers of fear in wreck,

  Her limbecks dried of poisons

  And the knife at her neck,

  The Queen of air and darkness

  Begins to shrill and cry,

  ‘O young man, O my slayer,

  To-morrow you shall die.’

  O Queen of air and darkness,

  I think ’tis truth you say,

  And I shall die to-morrow;

  But you will die to-day.

  IV

  Illic Jacet

  Oh hard is the bed they have made him,

  And common the blanket and cheap;

  But there he will lie as they laid him:

  Where else could you trust him to sleep?

  To sleep when the bugle is crying

  And cravens have heard and are brave,

  When mothers and sweethearts are sighing

  And lads are in love with the grave.

  Oh dark is the chamber and lonely,

  And lights and companions depart;

  But lief will he lose them and only

  Behold the desire of his heart.

  And low is the roof, but it covers

  A sleeper content to repose;

  And far from his friends and his lovers

  He lies with the sweetheart he chose.

  V

  Grenadier

  The Queen she sent to look for me,

  The sergeant he did say,

  ‘Young man, a soldier will you be

  For thirteen pence a day?’

  For thirteen pence a day did I

  Take off the things I wore,

  And I have marched to where I lie,

  And I shall march no more.

  My m
outh is dry, my shirt is wet,

  My blood runs all away,

  So now I shall not die in debt

  For thirteen pence a day.

  To-morrow after new young men

  The sergeant he must see,

  For things will all be over then

  Between the Queen and me.

  And I shall have to bate my price,

  For in the grave, they say,

  Is neither knowledge nor device

  Nor thirteen pence a day.

  VI

  Lancer

  I ’listed at home for a lancer,

  Oh who would not sleep with the brave?

  I ’listed at home for a lancer

  To ride on a horse to my grave.

  And over the seas we were bidden

  A country to take and to keep;

  And far with the brave I have ridden,

  And now with the brave I shall sleep.

  For round me the men will be lying

  That learned me the way to behave,

  And showed me my business of dying:

  Oh who would not sleep with the brave?

  They ask and there is not an answer;

  Says I, I will ’list for a lancer,

  Oh who would not sleep with the brave?

  And I with the brave shall be sleeping

  At ease on my mattress of loam,

  When back from their taking and keeping

  The squadron is riding at home.

  The wind with the plumes will be playing,

  The girls will stand watching them wave,

  And eyeing my comrades and saying

  Oh who would not sleep with the brave?

  They ask and there is not an answer;

  Says you, I will ’list for a lancer,

  Oh who would not sleep with the brave?

  VII

  In valleys green and still

  Where lovers wander maying

  They hear from over hill

  A music playing.

  Behind the drum and fife,

  Past hawthornwood and hollow,

  Through earth and out of life

  The soldiers follow.

  The soldier’s is the trade:

  In any wind or weather

  He steals the heart of maid

  And man together.

  The lover and his lass

  Beneath the hawthorn lying

  Have heard the soldiers pass,

  And both are sighing.

  And down the distance they

  With dying note and swelling

  Walk the resounding way

  To the still dwelling.