Songs Of The Road Part 8

Father, father, who is that a-whispering?

Who is it who whispers in the wood?

You say it is the breeze As it sighs among the trees, But there's some one who whispers in the wood.

Father, father, who is that a-murmuring?

Who is it who murmurs in the night?

You say it is the roar Of the wave upon the sh.o.r.e, But there's some one who murmurs in the night.

[116] Father, father, who is that who laughs at us?

Who is it who chuckles in the glen?

Oh, father, let us go, For the light is burning low, And there's somebody laughing in the glen.

Father, father, tell me what you're waiting for, Tell me why your eyes are on the door.

It is dark and it is late, But you sit so still and straight, Ever staring, ever smiling, at the door.

THE MESSAGE [117]

(From Heine)

Up, dear laddie, saddle quick, And spring upon the leather!

Away post haste o'er fell and waste With whip and spur together!

And when you win to Duncan's kin Draw one of them aside And shortly say, "Which daughter may We welcome as the bride?"

And if he says, "It is the dark,"

Then quickly bring the mare, But if he says, "It is the blonde,"

Then you have time to spare;

[118] But buy from off the saddler man The stoutest cord you see, Ride at your ease and say no word, But bring it back to me.

THE ECHO [119]

(After Heine)

Through the lonely mountain land There rode a cavalier.

"Oh ride I to my darling's arms, Or to the grave so drear?"

The Echo answered clear, "The grave so drear."

So onward rode the cavalier And clouded was his brow.

"If now my hour be truly come, Ah well, it must be now!"

The Echo answered low, "It must be now."

ADVICE TO A YOUNG AUTHOR [120]

First begin Taking in.

Cargo stored, All aboard, Think about Giving out.

Empty ship, Useless trip!

Never strain Weary brain, Hardly fit, Wait a bit!

After rest Comes the best.

[121] Sitting still, Let it fill; Never press; Nerve stress Always shows.

Nature knows.

Critics kind, Never mind!

Critics flatter, No matter!

Critics curse, None the worse.

Critics blame, All the same!

Do your best.

Hang the rest!

A LILT OF THE ROAD [122]

Being the doggerel Itinerary of a Holiday in September, 1908

To St. Albans' town we came; Roman Alba.n.u.s hence the name.

Whose shrine commemorates the faith Which led him to a martyr's death.

A high cathedral marks his grave, With n.o.ble screen and sculptured nave.

From thence to Hatfield lay our way, Where the proud Cecils held their sway, And ruled the country, more or less, Since the days of Good Queen Bess.

Next through Hitchin's Quaker hold To Bedford, where in days of old [123] John Bunyan, the unorthodox, Did a deal in local stocks.

Then from Bedford's peaceful nook Our pilgrim's progress still we took Until we slackened up our pace In Saint Neots' market-place.

Next day, the motor flying fast, Through Newark, Tuxford, Retford pa.s.sed, Until at Doncaster we found That we had crossed broad Yorkshire's bound.

Northward and ever North we pressed, The Bronte Country to our West.

Still on we flew without a wait, Skirting the edge of Harrowgate, [124] And through a wild and dark ravine, As bleak a pa.s.s as we have seen, Until we slowly circled down And settled into Settle town.

On Sunday, in the pouring rain, We started on our way again.

Through Kirkby Lonsdale on we drove, The weary rain-clouds still above, Until at last at Windermere We felt our final port was near, Thence the lake with wooded beach Stretches far as eye can reach.

There above its shining breast We enjoyed our welcome rest.

Tuesday saw us still in rain — Buzzing on our road again.

[125] Rydal first, the smallest lake, Famous for great Wordsworth's sake; Grasmere next appeared in sight, Grim Helvellyn on the right, Till we made our downward way To the streets of Keswick gray.

Then amid a weary waste On to Penrith Town we raced, And for many a flying mile, Past the ramparts of Carlisle, Till we crossed the border line Of the land of Auld lang syne.

Here we paused at Gretna Green, Where many curious things were seen At the grimy blacksmith's shop, Where flying couples used to stop And forge within the smithy door The chain which lasts for evermore.

[126] They'd soon be back again, I think, If blacksmith's skill could break the link.

Ecclefechan held us next, Where old Tom Carlyle was vexed By the clamour and the strife Of this strange and varied life.