Down on the sunlit ebb with the wind in her sails and free
Of cable and anchor she swept rejoicing to seek the sea.

And my eyes and my heart swept out with her,
When at my elbow I felt a stir

And, glancing down, I saw a lad—
A shambling lad with shifty air,
Weak-chested, stunted, and ill-clad—
Who watched her with unseeing stare.

Dull watery grey eyes he had,
Blinking beneath the slouching cap
That hid the low-browed, close-cropped head;
And as I turned to him he said,
With hopeless hang-dog air—
Just out of gaol three days ago,

There were those at the close of a hunting day,
When the fields were dim and the woods were wet,
Who would search the road for a brown or bay
And the flash of a star or a coronet;
Who would hear the tap of a distant shoe
And see the pools in the pale light gleam
As the moon swung up in the misty blue
And changed the world to a world of dream.

The old oak leans to the lioned gate
With a leafless bough as it leant of yore,
But to-night there are watchers there who wait
For the sound of a hoof that comes no more;

On his little grave and wild,
Faustinus, the martyr child,
Candytuft and mustards grow.
Ah, how many a June has smiled
On the turf he lies below.

Ages gone they laid him there.
Quit of sun and wholesome air,
Broken flesh and tortured limb;
Leaving all his faith the heir
Of his gentle hope and him.

Yonder, under pagan skies,
Bleached by rains, the circus lies,
Where they brought him from his play.
Comeliest his of sacrifice,
Youth and tender April day.

“Art thou not the shepherd's son?—
There the hills thy lambkins run?—

J ERICHO , Jericho,
Round and round the walls I go
Where they watch with scornful eyes,
Where the captained bastions rise;
Heel and toe, heel and toe,
Blithely round the walls I go.

Jericho, Jericho,
Round and round the walls I go . . .
All the golden ones of earth
Regal in their lordly mirth . . .
Heel and toe, heel and toe,
Round and round the walls I go.

Jericho, Jericho,
Blithely round the walls I go,
With a broken sword in hand
Where the mighty bastions stand;
Heel and toe, heel and toe,
Hear my silly bugle blow.

Oi am in anguish this tide,
I cannot drink drams with éclat,
A maggot, blown in my inside,
Has published my secret to a'.
I cannot see going around
The lass o' the blithsomest e'e,
And that sunk my heart to the ground,
Like leaves from the top of a tree.

O my most beringletted belle,
'Tis I feel the want o' thee sore,
Gin a good home thou'st chosen thysel',
My blessing wi' thee evermore.
I'm sighing because thou art gone,
Like a wounded soldier in pain
On the battle-field lying undone,
And he'll ne'er go to battle again.

I'd a house by a rock, out aside from the way,
With windowy walls to the sunside of day,
Beside a fair hill, with a well wooded ridge,
And under its side a clear stream and a bridge.
There whistles the blackbird when spring blossoms white,
And white flits the owl in the dusk of the night.
And there in the day-heat the wind, freshly cool,
Floats up from the stream with its wide waving pool,
And choosing and using the hours for the best,
We cheery, though weary, at night sat at rest.

But if it were fear'd that the house's high roof

Oh ! I be shepherd o' the farm,
Wi' tinklèn bells an' sheep-dog's bark,
An' wi' my crook a-thirt my eärm,
Here I do rove below the lark.

An' I do bide all day among
The bleäten sheep, an' pitch their vwold;
An' when the evenèn sheädes be long,
Do zee em all a-penn'd an' twold.

An' I do zee the friskèn lam's,
Wi' swingèn taïls an' woolly lags,
A-playèn roun' their veedèn dams,
An' pullèn o' their milky bags.

An' I bezide a hawthorn tree,
Do' zit upon the zunny down,
While sheädes o' zummer clouds do vlee

O V all the cows, among the rest
Wer woone that Nanny lik'd the best;
An' after milkèn us'd to stan'
A-veedèn o' her, vrom her han',
Wi' grass or haÿ; an' she know'd Ann,
An' in the evenèn she did come
The vu'st, a-beätèn up roun' hwome
Vor Ann to come an' milk her.

Her back wer hollor as a bow,
Her lags wer short, her body low;
Her head wer small, her horns turn'd in
Avore her feäce so sharp's a pin:
Her eyes wer vull, her ears wer thin,
An' she wer red vrom head to tail,
An' didden start nor kick the pail,

The woaken tree, so hollow now,
To souls ov other times wer sound,
An' reach'd on ev'ry zide a bough
Above their heads, a-gather'd round,
But zome light veet
That here did meet
In friendship sweet, vor rest or jaÿ,
Shall be a-miss'd another Maÿ.

My childern here, in plaÿvul pride
Did zit 'ithin his wooden walls,
A-mentèn steätely vo'k inside
O' castle towers an' lofty halls.
But now the vloor
An' mossy door
That woonce they wore would be too small
To teäke em in, so big an' tall.

Theäse year do show, wi' snow-white cloud,

The only Man that eer I knew
Who did not make me almost spew
Was Fuseli he was both Turk & Jew
And so [sweet] dear Christian Friends how do you do

For this is being a Friend just in the nick
Not when hes well but waiting till hes sick
He calls you to his help be you not movd
Untill by being Sick his wants are provd

You see him spend his Soul in Prophecy
Do you believe it a confounded lie
Till some Bookseller & the Public Fame
Proves there is truth in his extravagant claim

For tis [most wicked] atrocious in a Friend you love