XLVIII

Think no more, lad; laugh, be jolly:
 Why should men make haste to die?
Empty heads and tongues a-talking
Make the rough road easy walking,
And the feather pate of folly
 Bears the falling sky.

Oh, 'tis jesting, dancing, drinking
 Spins the heavy world around.
If young hearts were not so clever,
Oh, they would be young for ever:
Think no more; 'tis only thinking
 Lays lads underground.

 Clunton and Clunbury,
 Clungunford and Clun,
Are the quietest places
 Under the sun.

In valleys of springs of rivers,
 By Ony and Teme and Clun,
The country for easy livers,
 The quietest under the sun,

We still had sorrows to lighten,
 One could not be always glad,
And lads knew trouble at Knighton
 When I was a Knighton lad.

By bridges that Thames runs under,
 In London, the town built ill,
'Tis sure small matter for wonder
 If sorrow is with one still.

And if as a lad grows older
 The troubles he bears are more,
He carries his griefs on a shoulder
 That handselled them long before.

Where shall one halt to deliver
 This luggage I'd lief set down?
Not Thames, not Teme is the river,
 Nor London nor Knighton the town:

'Tis a long way further than Knighton,
 A quieter place than Clun,
Where doomsday may thunder and lighten
 And little 'twill matter to one.

 Loitering with a vacant eye
Along the Grecian gallery,
And brooding on my heavy ill,
I met a statue standing still.
Still in marble stone stood he,
And stedfastly he looked at me.
"Well met," I thought the look would say,
"We both were fashioned far away;
We neither knew, when we were young,
These Londoners we live among."

 Still he stood and eyed me hard,
An earnest and a grave regard:
"What, lad, drooping with your lot?
I too would be where I am not.
I too survey that endless line
Of men whose thoughts are not as mine.
Years, ere you stood up from rest,
On my neck the collar prest;
Years, when you lay down your ill,
I shall stand and bear it still.
Courage, lad, 'tis not for long:
Stand, quit you like stone, be strong."
So I thought his look would say;
And light on me my trouble lay,
And I slept out in flesh and bone
Manful like the man of stone.

Far in a western brookland
 That bred me long ago
The poplars stand and tremble
 By pools I used to know.

There, in the windless night-time,
 The wanderer, marvelling why,
Halts on the bridge to hearken
 How soft the poplars sigh.

He hears: long since forgotten
 In fields where I was known,
Here I lie down in London
 And turn to rest alone.

There, by the starlit fences,
 The wanderer halts and hears
My soul that lingers sighing
 About the glimmering weirs.

The lad came to the door at night,
 When lovers crown their vows,
And whistled soft and out of sight
 In shadow of the boughs.

"I shall not vex you with my face
 Henceforth, my love, for aye;
So take me in your arms a space
 Before the east is grey."

"When I from hence away am past
 I shall not find a bride,
And you shall be the first and last
 I ever lay beside."

She heard and went and knew not why;
 Her heart to his she laid;
Light was the air beneath the sky
 But dark under the shade.

"Oh do you breathe, lad, that your breast
 Seems not to rise and fall,
And here upon my bosom prest
 There beats no heart at all?"

"Oh loud, my girl, it once would knock,
 You should have felt it then;
But since for you I stopped the clock
 It never goes again."

"Oh lad, what is it, lad, that drips
 Wet from your neck on mine?
What is it falling on my lips,
 My lad, that tastes of brine?"

"Oh like enough 'tis blood, my dear,
 For when the knife has slit
The throat across from ear to ear
 'Twill bleed because of it."

Under the stars the air was light
 But dark below the boughs,
The still air of the speechless night,
 When lovers crown their vows.

With rue my heart is laden
 For golden friends I had,
For many a rose-lipt maiden
 And many a lightfoot lad.

By brooks too broad for leaping
 The lightfoot boys are laid;
The rose-lipt girls are sleeping
 In fields where roses fade.

Westward on the high-hilled plains
 Where for me the world began,
Still, I think, in newer veins
 Frets the changeless blood of man.

Now that other lads than I
 Strip to bathe on Severn shore,
They, no help, for all they try,
 Tread the mill I trod before.

There, when hueless is the west
 And the darkness hushes wide,
Where the lad lies down to rest
 Stands the troubled dream beside.

There, on thoughts that once were mine,
 Day looks down the eastern steep,
And the youth at morning shine
 Makes the vow he will not keep.

"Far I hear the bugle blow
To call me where I would not go,
And the guns begin the song,
'Soldier, fly or stay for long.'"

"Comrade, if to turn and fly
Made a soldier never die,
Fly I would, for who would not?
'Tis sure no pleasure to be shot."

"But since the man that runs away
Lives to die another day,
And cowards' funerals, when they come
Are not wept so well at home."

"Therefore, though the best is bad,
Stand and do the best my lad;
Stand and fight and see your slain,
And take the bullet in your brain."

You smile upon your friend to-day,
 To-day his ills are over;
You hearken to the lover's say,
 And happy is the lover.

'Tis late to hearken, late to smile,
 But better late than never:
I shall have lived a little while
 Before I die for ever.

When I came last to Ludlow
 Amidst the moonlight pale,
Two friends kept step beside me,
 Two honest lads and hale.

Now Dick lies long in the churchyard,
 And Ned lies long in jail,
And I come home to Ludlow
 Amidst the moonlight pale.

The star-filled seas are smooth to-night
 From France to England strown;
Black towers above the Portland light
 The felon-quarried stone.

On yonder island, not to rise,
 Never to stir forth free,
Far from his folk a dead lad lies
 That once was friends with me.

Lie you easy, dream you light,
 And sleep you fast for aye;
And luckier may you find the night
 Than ever you found the day.

Now hollow fires burn out to black,
 And lights are guttering low:
Square your shoulders, lift your pack,
 And leave your friends and go.

Oh never fear, man, nought's to dread,
 Look not left nor right:
In all the endless road you tread
 There's nothing but the night.

The vane on Hughley steeple
 Veers bright, a far-known sign,
And there lie Hughley people,
 And there lie friends of mine.
Tall in their midst the tower
 Divides the shade and sun,
And the clock strikes the hour
 And tells the time to none.

To south the headstones cluster,
 The sunny mounds lie thick;
The dead are more in muster
 At Hughley than the quick.
North, for a soon-told number,
 Chill graves the sexton delves,
And steeple-shadowed slumber
 The slayers of themselves.

To north, to south, lie parted,
 With Hughley tower above,
The kind, the single-hearted,
 The lads I used to love.
And, south or north, 'tis only
 A choice of friends one knows,
And I shall ne'er be lonely
 Asleep with these or those.

 "Terence, this is stupid stuff:
You eat your victuals fast enough;
There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,
It gives a chap the belly-ache.
The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head:
We poor lads, 'tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow.
Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad:
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad."

 Why, if 'tis dancing you would be,
There's brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God's ways to man.
Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world's not.
And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past:
The mischief is that 'twill not last.
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,
And carried half-way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I've lain,
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.

 Therefore, since the world has still
Much good, but much less good than ill,
And while the sun and moon endure
Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure,
I'd face it as a wise man would,
And train for ill and not for good.
'Tis true the stuff I bring for sale
Is not so brisk a brew as ale:
Out of a stem that scored the hand
I wrung it in a weary land.
But take it: if the smack is sour,
The better for the embittered hour;
It should do good to heart and head
When your soul is in my soul's stead;
And I will friend you, if I may,
In the dark and cloudy day.

 There was a king reigned in the East:
There, when kings will sit to feast,
They get their fill before they think
With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.
He gathered all that springs to birth
From the many-venomed earth;
First a little, thence to more,
He sampled all her killing store;
And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,
Sate the king when healths went round.
They put arsenic in his meat
And stared aghast to watch him eat;
They poured strychnine in his cup
And shook to see him drink it up:
They shook, they stared as white's their shirt:
Them it was their poison hurt.
-I tell the tale that I heard told.
Mithridates, he died old.