English

A wilding little stubble flower
The sickle scorned which cut for wheat,
Such was our hope in that dark hour
When nought save uses held the street,
And daily pleasures, daily needs,
With barren vision, looked ahead.
And still the same result of seeds
Gave likeness twixt the live and dead.

The day is going, now 'tis noon,
Greenwood 'gins baying the Gladstone moon,
While temperate Morley with assuaging voice
Bids England in her bigger G. rejoice.

Fresh Spring has come with flower and leaf to warn
All men that they with leaf and flower enfold
Their hearts' desires, and in her fruitless gold
And fruitful rains stand wistful of the corn
That by and by shall greet a golden morn
In waves of wealth. Take courage, hearts a-cold,
For living with the Seasons, you grow old
No more than they, nor ever are forlorn.

Since Tuck is faithless found, no more
I'll trust to man or maid;
I'll sit me down, a hermit hoar,
Alone in Copsham shade.
The sight of all I shun
Far-spying from the mound:
I'll be at home to none
Since Tuck
Since Tu-a tua tua
taiaaia tuuuoa Tuck
is faithless found.

As I sit in twilight late alone by the flickering oak-flame,
Musing on long-pass'd war-scenes—of the countless buried unknown soldiers,
Of the vacant names, as unindented air's and sea's—the unreturn'd,
The brief truce after battle, with grim burial-squads, and the deep-fill'd trenches
Of gather'd dead from all America, North, South, East, West, whence they came up,
From wooded Maine, New-England's farms, from fertile Pennsylvania, Illinois, Ohio,
From the measureless West, Virginia, the South, the Carolinas, Texas,

I'm now arrived—thanks to the gods!—
Thro' pathways rough and muddy,
A certain sign that makin roads
Is no this people's study:
Altho' I'm not wi' Scripture cram'd,
I'm sure the Bible says
That heedless sinners shall be damn'd,
Unless they mend their ways.

Ask why God made the Gem so small,
And why so huge the granite?
Because God meant, mankind should set
That higher value on it.—

When wild War's deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle Peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning:
I left the lines, and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.

A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia, hame again
I cheery on did wander.
I thought upon the banks of Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
And ay I mind't the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er,
A time that surely shall come;
In Heaven itself, I'll ask no more,
Than just a Highland welcome.

Hail, Poesie! thou nymph reserv'd!
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd
Frae Common Sense, or sunk ennerv'd
'Mang heaps o' clavers;
And Och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd
'Mid a' thy favors!

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang,
While loud the trumps heroic clang,
And Sock and buskin skelp alang
To death or marriage;
Scarce ane has tried the Shepherd-sang
But wi' miscarriage?

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;
Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives;
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives