They cleek aff thegither,
And then fa’ back, wi’ room atween
For ane to walk; sae aften, I hae seen
The baith cleek aff thegither
Wi’ ane atween!
And when toward the pines
Up yonder lane they loup alang
I see ae laddie brent and strang,
I see ae laddie loup alang
Toward the pines.
I follow them in mind
Ilk time; right weel I ken the way,—
They thrid the wood, an’ speel the staney brae
An’ skir the field; I follow them,
I ken the way.
They daddle at the creek,
Whaur down fra aff the reachin’-logs
I stoup, wi’ my dear laddie, and the dogs,
An’ drink o’ springs that spait the creek
Maist to the logs.
He’s but a bairn, atho’
He hunts the mountain’s lonely bree,
His doggies’ ears abune their brows wi’ glee
He ties; he’s but a bairn, atho’
He hunts the bree.
Fu’ length they a’ stretch
Upon ae bink that green trees hap
In shade. He whusslits saft; the beagles nap
Wi’ een half shut, a stretchin’ out
Whaur green trees hap.
And noo he fades awa’
Frae ’tween the twa—into the blue.
My sight gats blind; gude Lord, it isna true
That he has gane for aye awa
Into the blue!
They are my laddie’s hounds
That mak the hill at fa’ o’ day
Wi’ dowie heads hung laigh; can ony say
Wha is it hunts my laddie’s hounds
Till fa’ o day?
THE OLD HOUSE: KATHERINE TYNAN
The boys who used to come and go
In the grey kindly house are flown.
They have taken the way the young feet know;
Not alone, not alone!
Thronged is the road the young feet go.
Yet in the quiet evening hour
What comes, oh, lighter than a bird?
Touches her cheek, soft as a flower.
What moved, what stirred?
What was the joyous whisper heard?
What flitted in the corridor
Like a boy’s shape so dear and slight?
What was the laughter ran before?
Like harps the wind plays out of sight.
The boys who used to go and come
In the grey house are come again;
Of the grey house and firelit room
They are fain, they are fain:
They have come home from the night and rain.
BALLAD OF THE BURIED SWORD: ERNEST RHYS
In a winter’s dream, on Gamellyn moor,
I found the lost grave of Lord Glyndwr.
I followed three shadows against the moon,
That marched while the thin reed whistled the tune,
Three swordsmen they were out of Harry’s wars,
That made a Welsh song of their Norman scars,
But they sang no longer of Agincourt,
When they came to a grave, for there lay Glyndwr.
Said the one, “My sword, th’art rust,
I but brought thee home to break thee here.”