Sa we boath on us kep' out o' sight o' the winders o' Gigglesby Hinn Naäy, but the claws o' tha! quiet! they pricks clean thruf to the skin An' wa boäth slinkt 'oäm by the brokken shed i' the laäne at the back, Wheer the poodle runn'd at tha once, an' thou runn'd oop o' the thack; An' tha squeedg'd my 'and i' the shed, fur theere we was forced to 'ide, Fur I seed that Steevie wur coomin', and one o' the Tommies beside.

VII

40

Theere now, what art 'a mewin' at, Steevie? for owt I can tell

Robby wur fust, to be sewer, or I mowt 'a liked tha as well.

VIII

But, Robby, I thowt o' tha all the while I wur chaängin' my gown,

An' I thowt, shall I change my staäte? but, O Lord, upo' coomin' down My bran-new carpet es fresh es a midder o' flowers i' Maäy

Why 'ed n't tha wiped thy shoes? it wur clatted all ower wi' claay.

An' I could 'a cried ammost, fur I seed that it could n't be,

An', Robby, I gied tha a raätin' that sattled thy coortin' o' me.

An' Molly an' me was agreed, as we was a-cleanin' the floor,

That a man be a durty thing an' a trouble an' plague wi' indoor.

50

But I rued it arter a bit, fur I stuck to tha moor na the rest,

But I couldn't 'a lived wi' a man, an' I knaws it be all fur the best.

IX

Naäy-let ma stroäk tha down till I maäkes tha es smooth es silk,

But if I'ed married tha, Robby, thou'd not 'a been worth thy milk, Thou'd niver 'a cotch'd ony mice but 'a left me the work to do,

And 'a taäen to the bottle beside, so es all that I 'ears be true;

But I loovs tha to maäke thysen 'appy, an' soä purr awaäy, my dear, Thou 'ed wellnigh purr'd ma awaäy fro' my oän two 'oonderd a-year.

An' I beänt not vaäin, but I knaws I 'ed led tha a quieter life

Nor

her wi' the hepitaph yonder! 'A faäithful an' loovin' wife !' An' 'cos o' thy farm by the beck, an' thy windmill oop o' the croft,

Tha thowt tha would marry ma, did tha? but that wur a bit ower soft, Thaw thou was es soäber es daäy, wi' a niced red faäce, an' es cleän

Es a shillin' fresh fro' the mint wi' a brannew 'eäd o' the Queeän,

An' thy farmin' es cleän es thysen, fur,
Steevie, tha kep' it sa neät
That I niver not spied sa much es a poppy
along wi' the wheät,

An' the wool of a thistle a-flyin' an' seeädin' tha haäted to see;

'T wur es bad es a battle-twig1'ere i' my oän blue chaumber to me.

80

Ay, roob thy whiskers ageän ma, fur I could 'a taäen to tha well, But fur thy bairns, poor Steevie, a bouncin' boy an' a gell.

1 Earwig.

XIII

An' thou was es fond o' thy bairns es I be mysen o' my cats,

But I niver not wish'd fur childer, I hev n't naw likin' fur brats;

Pretty anew when ya dresses 'em oop, an' they goäs fur a walk,

Or sits wi' their 'ands afoor 'em, an' does n't not 'inder the talk!

But their bottles o' pap, an' their mucky

bibs, an' the clats an' the clouts, An' their mashin' their toys to pieäces an' maäkin' ma deäf wi' their shouts, An' hallus a-joompin' about ma as if they was set upo' springs,

An' a haxin' ma hawkard questions, an' saäyin' ondecent things,

90

An' a-callin' ma hugly' mayhap to my
faäce, or a-teärin' my gown
Dear! dear! dear! I mun part them
Tommies Steevie, git down.

XIV

Ye be wuss nor the men-tommies, you. I tell'd ya, na moor o' that!

Tom, lig theere o' the cushion, an' tother Tom 'ere o' the mat.

XV

Theere! I ha' master'd them! Hed I married the Tommies - O Lord, To loove an' obaäy the Tommies! I could n't 'a stuck by my word.

To be horder'd about, an' waäked, when Molly 'd put out the light,

By a man coomin' in wi' a hiccup at ony hour o' the night!

An' the taäble staäin'd wi' 'is aäle, an' the mud o' 'is boots o' the stairs, An' the stink o' 'is pipe i' the 'ouse, an' the mark o' 'is 'eäd o' the chairs ! An' noän o' my four sweet-arts 'ud 'a let me 'a hed my oän waäy,

100

Sa I likes 'em best wi' taäils when they 'ev n't a word to saäy.

XVI

An' I sits i' my oän little parlor, an' sarved by my oän little lass,

Wi' my oän little garden outside, an' my oän bed o' sparrow-grass, An' my oän door-poorch wi' the woodbine an' jessmine a-dressin' it greeän, An' my oän fine Jackman i' purple a roäbin' the 'ouse like a queeän.

The poem introduced by this Prologue was printed in Macmillan's Magazine' for March, 1882. The Prologue and Epilogue were added when it appeared in the Tiresias' volume, 1885.

Sir Edward Bruce Hamley was born at Bodwin in Cornwall, April 27, 1824. He entered the army in 1843; served in the Crimean War; was successively professor of military history and commandant at the Staff College, Sandhurst (1858-77); was chief of the commission for the delimitation of the Balkan and Armenian frontiers (1879-80); and commanded a division in the Egyptian war of 1882. He was also the author of several works on military subjects. He died August 12, 1893.

OUR birches yellowing and from each The light leaf falling fast,

While squirrels from our fiery beech

Were bearing off the mast,

You came, and look'd and loved the view
Long-known and loved by me,
Green Sussex fading into blue
With one gray glimpse of sea;
And, gazing from this height alone,
We spoke of what had been

Most marvellous in the wars your own
Crimean eyes had seen;

And now like old-world inns that take
Some warrior for a sign
That therewithin a guest may make
True cheer with honest wine
Because you heard the lines I read

Nor utter'd word of blame,

I dare without your leave to head
These rhymings with your name,
Who know you but as one of those
I fain would meet again,

Yet know you, as your England knows
That you and all your men

Were soldiers to her heart's desire,
When, in the vanish'd year,
You saw the league-long rampart-fire
Flare from Tel-el-Kebir

Thro' darkness, and the foe was driven,
And Wolseley overthrew

Arabi, and the stars in heaven

Paled, and the glory grew.

To the gallant three hundred whose glory will never die

Follow,' and up the hill, up the hill, up the hill,

Follow'd the Heavy Brigade.

II

The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, and the might of the fight!

Thousands of horsemen had gather'd there on the height,

With a wing push'd out to the left and a wing to the right,

And who shall escape if they close? but he dash'd up alone

Thro' the great gray slope of men,
Sway'd his sabre, and held his own
Like an Englishman there and then.
All in a moment follow'd with force
Three that were next in their fiery course,
Wedged themselves in between horse and
horse,

Fought for their lives in the narrow gap they had made

Four amid thousands! and up the hill, up the hill,

Gallopt the gallant three hundred, the Heavy Brigade.

III

Fell like a cannon-shot,
Burst like a thunderbolt,
Crash'd like a hurricane,

Broke thro' the mass from below,
Drove thro' the midst of the foe,
Plunged up and down, to and fro,
Rode flashing blow upon blow,
Brave Inniskillens and Greys

Whirling their sabres in circles of light!
And some of us, all in amaze,

Who were held for a while from the fight,
And were only standing at gaze,

When the dark-muffled Russian crowd Folded its wings from the left and the

right,

IV

'Lost one and all' were the words Mutter'd in our dismay;

But they rode like victors and lords
Thro' the forest of lances and swords
In the heart of the Russian hordes,
They rode, or they stood at bay
Struck with the sword-hand and slew,
Down with the bridle-hand drew
The foe from the saddle and threw
Underfoot there in the fray

Ranged like a storm or stood like a rock
In the wave of a stormy day;
Till suddenly shock upon shock
Stagger'd the mass from without,
Drove it in wild disarray,

For our men gallopt up with a cheer and a shout,

And the foeman surged, and waver'd, and reel'd

Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of the field,

And over the brow and away.

POET.

Yet tho' this cheek be gray,
And that bright hair the modern sun,
Those eyes the blue to-day,
You wrong me, passionate little friend.
I would that wars should cease,

I would the globe from end to end
Might sow and reap in peace,
And some new Spirit o'erbear the old,
Or Trade re-frain the Powers
From war with kindly links of gold,

Or Love with wreaths of flowers.
Slav, Teuton, Kelt, I count them all
My friends and brother souls,
With all the peoples, great and small,
That wheel between the poles.
But since our mortal shadow, Ill,
To waste this earth began -
Perchance from some abuse of Will
In worlds before the man

Involving ours he needs must fight
To make true peace his own,

He needs must combat might with might,
Or Might would rule alone;
And who loves war for war's own sake
Is fool, or crazed, or worse;
But let the patriot-soldier take

His meed of fame in verse;
Nay tho' that realm were in the wrong
For which her warriors bleed,

It still were right to crown with song
The warrior's noble deed

A crown the Singer hopes may last,
For so the deed endures;
But Song will vanish in the Vast;

And that large phrase of yours
'A star among the stars,' my dear,
Is girlish talk at best;

For dare we dally with the sphere
As he did half in jest,

Old Horace? I will strike,' said he,
'The stars with head sublime,'
But scarce could see, as now we see,
The man in space and time,

So drew perchance a happier lot
Than ours, who rhyme to-day.
The fires that arch this dusky dot
Yon myriad-worlded way -

The vast sun-clusters' gather'd blaze,
World-isles in lonely skies,

Whole heavens within themselves, amaze
Our brief humanities.

And so does Earth; for Homer's fame,
Tho' carved in harder stone

Let it live then- ay, till when? Earth passes, all is lost

In what they prophesy, our wise men,
Sun-flame or sunless frost,

And deed and song alike are swept
Away, and all in vain

As far as man can see, except

The man himself remain;

And tho', in this lean age forlorn,

Too many a voice may cry
That man can have no after-morn,
Not yet of those am I.
The man remains, and whatsoe'er

He wrought of good or brave Will mould him thro' the cycle-year That dawns behind the grave.

Now the Rome of slaves hath perish'd, and the Rome of freemen holds her place,

I, from out the Northern Island

sunder'd once from all the human race,

X

I salute thee, Mantovano,

I that loved thee since my day began,

phrase;

ever moulded by the lips of man.