Flint and Feather: Collected Verse Part 11

And now you've come for nothing, for the lad has left us two, And six long weeks ago, sir, he went up beyond the blue.

Who's Rove? Oh, he's the collie, and the only thing on earth That I will ever love again. Why, Squire, that dog is worth More than you ever handled, and that's quite a piece, I know.

Ah, there the beggar is!--come here, you scalawag! and show Your broken leg all bandaged up. Yes, sir, it's pretty sore; I did it,--curse me,--and I think I feel the pain far more Than him, for somehow I just feel as if I'd been untrue To what my brother said before he went beyond the blue.

You see, the day before he died he says to me, "Say, Ned, Be sure you take good care of poor old Rover when I'm dead, And maybe he will cheer your lonesome hours up a bit, And when he takes to you just see that you're deserving it."

Well, Squire, it wasn't any use. I tried, but couldn't get The friendship of that collie, for I needed it, you bet.

I might as well have tried to get the moon to help me through, For Rover's heart had gone with Ben, 'way up beyond the blue.

He never seemed to take to me nor follow me about, For all I coaxed and petted, for my heart was starving out For want of some companionship,--I thought, if only he Would lick my hand or come and put his head aside my knee, Perhaps his touch would scatter something of the gloom away.

But all alone I had to live until there came a day When, tired of the battle, as you'd have tired too, I wished to heaven I'd gone with Ben, 'way up beyond the blue.

One morning I took out Ben's gun, and thought I'd hunt all day, And started through the clearing for the bush that forward lay, When something made me look around--I scarce believed my mind-- But, sure enough, the dog was following right close behind.

A feeling first of joy, and than a sharper, greater one Of anger came, at knowing 'twas not me, but Ben's old gun, That Rove was after,--well, sir, I just don't mind telling you, But I forgot that moment Ben was up beyond the blue.

Perhaps it was but jealousy--perhaps it was despair, But I just struck him with the gun and broke the bone right there; And then--my very throat seemed choked, for he began to whine With pain--G.o.d knows how tenderly I took that dog of mine Up in my arms, and tore my old red necktie into bands To bind the broken leg, while there he lay and licked my hands; And though I cursed my soul, it was the brightest day I knew, Or even cared to live, since Ben went up beyond the blue.

I tell you, Squire, I nursed him just as gently as could be, And now I'm all the world to him, and he's the world to me.

Look, sir, at that big, n.o.ble soul, right in his faithful eyes, The square, forgiving honesty that deep down in them lies.

Eh, Squire? What's that you say? _He's got no soul?_ I tell you, then, He's grander and he's better than the ma.s.s of what's called men; And I guess he stands a better chance than many of us do Of seeing Ben some day again, 'way up beyond the blue.

THE MARINER

"Wreck and stray and castaway."--SWINBURNE.

Once more adrift.

O'er dappling sea and broad lagoon, O'er frowning cliff and yellow dune, The long, warm lights of afternoon Like jewel dustings sift.

Once more awake.

I dreamed an hour of port and quay, Of anchorage not meant for me; The sea, the sea, the hungry sea Came rolling up the break.

Once more afloat.

The billows on my moorings press't, They drove me from my moment's rest, And now a portless sea I breast, And shelterless my boat.

Once more away.

The harbour lights are growing dim, The sh.o.r.e is but a purple rim, The sea outstretches grey and grim.

Away, away, away!

Once more at sea, The old, old sea I used to sail, The battling tide, the blowing gale, The waves with ceaseless under-wail The life that used to be.

LULLABY OF THE IROQUOIS

Little brown baby-bird, lapped in your nest, Wrapped in your nest, Strapped in your nest, Your straight little cradle-board rocks you to rest; Its hands are your nest; Its bands are your nest; It swings from the down-bending branch of the oak; You watch the camp flame, and the curling grey smoke; But, oh, for your pretty black eyes sleep is best,-- Little brown baby of mine, go to rest.

Little brown baby-bird swinging to sleep, Winging to sleep, Singing to sleep, Your wonder-black eyes that so wide open keep, Shielding their sleep, Unyielding to sleep, The heron is homing, the plover is still, The night-owl calls from his haunt on the hill, Afar the fox barks, afar the stars peep,-- Little brown baby of mine, go to sleep.

THE CORN HUSKER

Hard by the Indian lodges, where the bush Breaks in a clearing, through ill-fashioned fields, She comes to labour, when the first still hush Of autumn follows large and recent yields.

Age in her fingers, hunger in her face, Her shoulders stooped with weight of work and years, But rich in tawny colouring of her race, She comes a-field to strip the purple ears.

And all her thoughts are with the days gone by, Ere might's injustice banished from their lands Her people, that to-day unheeded lie, Like the dead husks that rustle through her hands.

PRAIRIE GREYHOUNDS

C.P.R. "NO. 1," WESTBOUND

I swing to the sunset land-- The world of prairie, the world of plain, The world of promise and hope and gain, The world of gold, and the world of grain, And the world of the willing hand.

I carry the brave and bold-- The one who works for the nation's bread, The one whose past is a thing that's dead, The one who battles and beats ahead, And the one who goes for gold.

I swing to the "Land to Be,"

I am the power that laid its floors, I am the guide to its western stores, I am the key to its golden doors, That open alone to me.

C.P.R. "NO. 2," EASTBOUND

I swing to the land of morn; The grey old east with its grey old seas, The land of leisure, the land of ease, The land of flowers and fruits and trees, And the place where we were born.

Freighted with wealth I come; For he who many a moon has spent Far out west on adventure bent, With well-worn pick and a folded tent, Is bringing his bullion home.

I never will be renowned, As my twin that swings to the western marts, For I am she of the humbler parts, But I am the joy of the waiting hearts; For I am the Homeward-bound.

GOLDEN--OF THE SELKIRKS

A trail upwinds from Golden; It leads to a land G.o.d only knows, To the land of eternal frozen snows, That trail unknown and olden.

And they tell a tale that is strange and wild-- Of a lovely and lonely mountain child That went up the trail from Golden.

A child in the sweet of her womanhood, Beautiful, tender, grave and good As the saints in time long olden.

And the days count not, nor the weeks avail; For the child that went up the mountain trail Came never again to Golden.