The Song of the Forest Ranger 1697 Where the silver streamlet rushes I would follow-follow on Till I heard the happy thrushes Piping lyrics to the dawn. I would hear the wild rejoicing Forest aisles would I be winding, When the mystic night comes stealing Never king had richer ceiling Bended bough and yellow star! Ah, to list the sacred preaching With his strong arms upward reaching— Come and learn the joy of living! Come and you will understand How the sun his gold is giving How the patient pine is climbing, I am nearer the great Giver, Not for me the city's riot! Not for me the towers of Trade! I would seek the house of Quiet, That the Master Workman made! Herbert Bashford [1871 A DROVER To Meath of the pastures, I hear in the darkness Their slipping and breathing- Then the wet, winding roads, O! farmer, strong farmer! And soldiers-red soldiers! O! the smell of the beasts, And the crowds at the fair, The herds loosened and blind, Loud words and dark faces And the wild blood behind. Ballad of Low-Lie-Down (O! strong men, with your best I will bring you, my kine, Padriac Colum [1881 1699 BALLAD OF LOW-LIE-DOWN JOHN-A-DREAMS and Harum-Scarum At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum Brave in shoes of Romany leather, Harum-Scarum kissed her lightly; Then with many an oath and swagger, So a while they laughed together; So away rode Harum-Scarum; With a song rode out of town; At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum Weeping tarried Low-lie-down. 1700 Then this John-a-dreams, in tatters, In his pocket ne'er a crown, Touched her, saying, "Wench, what matters! Some men call me fool and clown- For a little while she pondered: Smiled: then said, "Let care go drown!" Up and kissed him. . . . Forth they wandered, Madison Cawein [1865–1914] THE GOOD INN From "The Inn of the Silver Moon." WHAT care if the day Be turned to gray, What care if the night come soon! We may choose the pace Who bow for grace At the Inn of the Silver Moon. Ah, hurrying Sirs, Drive deep your spurs, For it's far to the steepled town Where the wallet's weight Shall fix your state And buy for ye smile or frown. Through our tiles of green Do the stars between Laugh down from the skies of June, And there's naught to pay For a couch of hay At the Inn of the Silver Moon. Night for Adventures You laboring lout, 1701 Pull out, pull out, With a hand to the creaking tire, For it's many a mile By path and stile To the old wife crouched by the fire. But the door is wide In the hedgerow side, And we ask not bowl nor spoon Whose draught of must Makes soft the crust At the Inn of the Silver Moon. Then, here's to the Inn Of the empty bin, To the Host of the trackless dune! And here's to the friend Of the journey's end At the Inn of the Silver Moon. Herman Knickerbocker Viclé [1856-1908] NIGHT FOR ADVENTURES SOMETIMES When fragrant summer dusk comes in with scent of rose and musk And scatters from their sable husk the stars like yellow grain, Oh, then the ancient longing comes that lures me like a roll of drums To follow where the cricket strums his banjo in the lane. And when the August moon comes up and like a shallow, silver cup Pours out upon the fields and roads her amber-colored beams, A leafy whisper mounts and calls from out the forest's moss grown halls To leave the city's somber walls and take the road of dreams. A call that bids me rise and strip, and, naked all from toe to lip, |