The Song of the Forest Ranger 1697

Where the silver streamlet rushes

I would follow-follow on Till I heard the happy thrushes Piping lyrics to the dawn.

I would hear the wild rejoicing
Of the wind-blown cedar tree,
Hear the sturdy hemlock voicing
Ancient epics of the sea.

Forest aisles would I be winding,
Out beyond the gates of Care;
And, in dim cathedrals, finding
Silence at the shrine of Prayer.

When the mystic night comes stealing
Through my vast, green room afar,

Never king had richer ceiling

Bended bough and yellow star!

Ah, to list the sacred preaching
Of the forest's faithful fir,

With his strong arms upward reaching—
Mighty, trustful worshipper!

Come and learn the joy of living!

Come and you will understand

How the sun his gold is giving
With a great, impartial hand!

How the patient pine is climbing,
Year by year to gain the sky;
How the rill makes sweetest rhyming,
Where the deepest shadows lie.

I am nearer the great Giver,
Where His handiwork is crude;
Friend am I of peak and river,
Comrade of old Solitude.

Not for me the city's riot!

Not for me the towers of Trade! I would seek the house of Quiet, That the Master Workman made! Herbert Bashford [1871

A DROVER

To Meath of the pastures,
From wet hills by the sea,
Through Leitrim and Longford,
Go my cattle and me.

I hear in the darkness

Their slipping and breathing-
I name them the bye-ways
They're to pass without heeding;

Then the wet, winding roads,
Brown bogs with black water;
And my thoughts on white ships
And the King o' Spain's daughter.

O! farmer, strong farmer!
You can spend at the fair;
But your face you must turn
To your crops and your care.

And soldiers-red soldiers!
You've seen many lands;
But you walk two by two,
And by captain's commands.

O! the smell of the beasts,
The wet wind in the morn;
And the proud and hard earth
Never broken for corn;

And the crowds at the fair,

The herds loosened and blind,

Loud words and dark faces

And the wild blood behind.

Ballad of Low-Lie-Down

(O! strong men, with your best
I would strive breast to breast,
I could quiet your herds
With my words, with my words.)

I will bring you, my kine,
Where there's grass to the knee;
But you'll think of scant croppings
Harsh with salt of the sea.

Padriac Colum [1881

1699

BALLAD OF LOW-LIE-DOWN

JOHN-A-DREAMS and Harum-Scarum
Came a-riding into town:

At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum
There they met with Low-lie-down.

Brave in shoes of Romany leather,
Bodice blue and gypsy gown,
And a cap of fur and feather,
In the inn sat Low-lie-down.

Harum-Scarum kissed her lightly;
Smiled into her eyes of brown:
Clasped her waist and held her tightly,
Laughing, "Love me, Low-lie-down!"

Then with many an oath and swagger,
As a man of great renown,
On the board he clapped his dagger,
Called for sack and sat him down.

So a while they laughed together;
Then he rose and with a frown
Sighed, "While still 'tis pleasant weather,
I must leave thee, Low-lie-down."

So away rode Harum-Scarum;

With a song rode out of town; At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum Weeping tarried Low-lie-down.

1700

Then this John-a-dreams, in tatters,

In his pocket ne'er a crown,

Touched her, saying, "Wench, what matters!
Dry your eyes and, come, sit down.
"Here's my hand: we'll roam together,
Far away from thorp and town.
Here's my heart,-for any weather,-
And my dreams, too, Low-lie-down.
"Some men call me dreamer, poet:

Some men call me fool and clown-
What I am but you shall know it,
Only you, sweet Low-lie-down."

For a little while she pondered:

Smiled: then said, "Let care go drown!"

Up and kissed him. . . . Forth they wandered,
John-a-dreams and Low-lie-down.

Madison Cawein [1865–1914]

THE GOOD INN

From "The Inn of the Silver Moon."

WHAT care if the day

Be turned to gray,

What care if the night come soon!

We may choose the pace

Who bow for grace

At the Inn of the Silver Moon.

Ah, hurrying Sirs,

Drive deep your spurs,

For it's far to the steepled town

Where the wallet's weight

Shall fix your state

And buy for ye smile or frown.

Through our tiles of green

Do the stars between

Laugh down from the skies of June,

And there's naught to pay

For a couch of hay

At the Inn of the Silver Moon.

Night for Adventures

You laboring lout,

1701

Pull out, pull out,

With a hand to the creaking tire,

For it's many a mile

By path and stile

To the old wife crouched by the fire.

But the door is wide

In the hedgerow side,

And we ask not bowl nor spoon

Whose draught of must

Makes soft the crust

At the Inn of the Silver Moon.

Then, here's to the Inn

Of the empty bin,

To the Host of the trackless dune!

And here's to the friend

Of the journey's end

At the Inn of the Silver Moon.

Herman Knickerbocker Viclé [1856-1908]

NIGHT FOR ADVENTURES

SOMETIMES When fragrant summer dusk comes in with

scent of rose and musk

And scatters from their sable husk the stars like yellow grain,

Oh, then the ancient longing comes that lures me like a roll of drums

To follow where the cricket strums his banjo in the lane.

And when the August moon comes up and like a shallow, silver cup

Pours out upon the fields and roads her amber-colored beams,

A leafy whisper mounts and calls from out the forest's moss

grown halls

To leave the city's somber walls and take the road of dreams.

A call that bids me rise and strip, and, naked all from toe

to lip,