 A Shropshire Lad by A.E. Houseman, Part 1 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Shropshire Lad by A.E. Houseman, Part 1 1. 1887 From Clee to Heaven the Beacon burns, the Shires have seen it plain. From North and South the Sime returns and Beacons burn again. Look left, look right, the hills are bright, the dales are light between, because tis fifty years to night that God has saved the Queen. Now when the flame they watch not towers, about the soil they trod, lads will remember friends of ours who shared the work with God. To skies that knit their heartstrings ripe to fields that bred them grave, the Saviors come not home to night, themselves they could not save. It dawns in Asia tombstones show and Shropshire names are read, and the Nile spills his overflow beside the seburns dead. We pledge in peace by farm and town the Queen they served in war, and fire the Beacons up and down the land they perished for. God save the Queen we living sing, from height to height is heard, and with the rest your voices ring lads of the fifty-third. O God will save her, fear you not, for you the men you've been, get you the sons your fathers got, and God will save the Queen. 2. Loveliest of trees the cherry now is hung with a bloom along the bow, and stands about the woodland ride wearing white for Easter time. Now of my three-score years and ten twenty will not come again, and take from seventy springs a score it only leaves me fifty more, and since to look at things in bloom fifty springs are little room, about the woodlands I will go to see the cherry hung with snow. 3. The Recruit Leave your home behind lad, and reach your friend your hand, and go and lock go with you while Lodlow Tower shall stand. O come you home of Sunday when Lodlow Streets are still, and Lodlow Bells are calling to farm and lane and mill, or come you home of Monday when Lodlow Markets hum, and Lodlow Chimes are playing the conquering hero comes. Come you home a hero, or come not home at all, the lads you leave will mind you till Lodlow Tower shall fall, and you will list the bugle that blows in lands of mourn, and make the foes of England be sorry you were born, and you will trump of doomsday on lands of mourn may lie, and make the hearts of comrades the heavy where you die. Leave your home behind you, your friends by field and town, O town and field will mind you till Lodlow Tower is down. 4. Reveley Wake, the silver dusk returning up the beach of darkness brims, and the ship of sunrise burning strands upon the eastern rims. Wake, the vaulted shadow-shadows tremble to the floor it spanned, and the tent of night in tatters straws the sky pavilioned land. Uplad up, it is late for lying, hear the drums of mourning play. Hark the empty highway crying, who will be on the hills away? Towns and countries woo together, fall and speak in belfry's call. Never lad that trod on leather lived to feast his heart with all. Uplad, few that lie and cumber, sunlit pallets never thrive. Because a bed and daylight slumber were not meant for man lying. Play lies still, but bloods are over, breaths aware that will not keep. Uplad, when the journey's over, there'll be time enough to sleep. 5. Oh, see how thick the gold-cup flowers are lying in field and lane, with dandelions to tell the hours that never are told again. Oh, may I squire you round the meads and pick you cosies gay, for do no harm to take my arm. You may, young man, you may. 6. Ah, spring was set for last and lad, it is now the blood runs gold, and man and maid had best be glad before the world is old. What flowers to-day may flower to-morrow, but never as good as new. Suppose I wound my arm right round, it is true, young man, it is true. Some lads there are, it is shame to say, that only court to thee, and once they bear the bloom away, it is little enough they leave. Then keep your heart for men like me, and save from trustless chaps. My love is true and all for you, perhaps, young man, perhaps. 7. Oh, look in my eyes, then, can you doubt, white is a mile from town, how green the grass is all about. We might as well sit down. Ah, life, what is it about a flower, why must true lovers sigh? Be kind, have pity, my own, my pretty, good-bye, young man, good-bye. 6. When the lad for longing sighs, mute and dull of cheer and pale, if at death's own door he lies, maiden, you can heal his ale. Lovers' ills are all to buy, the one look the hollow tone, the hung head, the sunken eye, you can have them for your own. Buy them, buy them, even more, lovers' ills are all to sell, then you can lie down for lawn, but the lover will be well. 7. When smoke stood up from Ludlow and mist blew off from team, and blight the field to plowing against the morning beam, I strode beside my team. The blackbird in the compass looked out to see me stride, and hearkened as I whistled, the trembling team beside, and fluted and replied, Lie down, lie down, young yeoman, what used to rise and rise. Rise man a thousand mornings, yet down at last he lies, and then the man is wise. I heard the tune he sang me, and spied his yellow bill. I picked a stone and aimed it, and threw it with a will. Then the bird was still. Then my soul within me took up the blackbird's strain, and still beside the horses, along the dewy lane, it sang the song again. Lie down, lie down, young yeoman, the sun moves all his west. The road one treads to labour will lead one home to rest, and that will be the best. Eight. Farewell to barn and stack and shrie, Farewell to seven shore, Terrence look your last at me, for I come home no more. The sun burns on a half-moon hill, by now the blood is dry, and Morris amongst the hay lies still, and my knife is in his side. My mother thinks us long away, at his time the few were moaned. She had two sons at rising day, to-night she'll be alone. And here's a bloody hen to shake, and oh, man, here's good-bye. We'll switch no more on skype and rake, my bloody hens and I. I wish you strength to bring you pride, and a love to keep you clean, and I wish you luck come lamestide at racing on the green. Soon for me the rick will wait, and long will wait the fold, and long will stand the empty plate, and dinner will be cold. Nine. On moonlit heathen lonesome bank, the sheep beside me graze, and yon the gallows used to clank fast by the four crossways. A careless shepherd once would keep the flocks by moonlight there, and high amongst the glimmering sheep the dead man stood on air. They hang us now in Shrewsbury jail, the whistles blow for lawn, and trains all night grown on the rail to men that die at morn. Their sleeps in Shrewsbury jail tonight, or wakes as may be tied, a better lad at things went right than most that sleep outside. And naked to the hangman's noose the moaning clocks will ring, a neck god made for other use, and strangling in a string. And sharp the link of life will snap, and dead on air will stand, heels that held up as straight a chap as treads upon the land. So here I'll watch the night and wait to see the morning shine, when he will hear the stroke of eight, and not the stroke of nine. And wish my friend as sound as sleep as lads I did not know, that shepherd did the moonlight sheep a hundred years ago. Ten. March. The sun at noon to hire air, and harnessing the silver pair, that late before its chariot swam, rides in the gold wool of the ram. So braver notes the storm-cock sings to start the rusted wheel of things, and brutes in field, and brutes in pen, leap that the world goes round again. The boys are up the woods with day to fetch the daffodils away, and home at noonday from the hills they bring no dearth of daffodils. A field for palms the girls repair, and sure enough the palms are there, and each will find by hedge or pond her waving silver tufted wand. In farm and field through all the shy the eye beholds the heart's desire, I'll let not only mine be vain, for lovers should be loved again. Eleven. On your midnight padded line listen, and undo the door, lads that waste the light and sighing, and the dark should sigh no more. Night should ease a lover's sorrow, therefore, since I go to-morrow, pity me before. In the land to which I travel, the far dwelling let me say, once if here the couches gravel in a kinder bed I lay, and the breast the dawn of smothers rested once upon another's when it was not clay. Twelve. When I watched the living meet and the moving pageant file warm and breathing through the street where I lodged a little while, if the heats of hate and lust in the house of flesh are strong, let me mine the house of dust where my sojourn shall be long. In the nation that is not nothing stands that stood before, there revenges are forgot, and the hater hates no more. Lovers lying two and two ask not whom they sleep beside, and the bridegroom all night through never turns him to the bride. Thirteen. When I was one and twenty I heard a wise man say, Give crowns and pounds and guineas, but not your heart away, Give pearls away and rubies, but keep your fancy free, But I was one and twenty, no use to talk to me. When I was one and twenty I heard and say again, The heart out of the bosom was never given in vain, It is paid with size aplenty and sold for endless rule, and I am two and twenty, and oh, it is true, it is true. Fourteen. There past the careless people that call their souls their own, here by the road I loiter, how idle and alone, Ah, past the plunge of plummet and seas I cannot sound, My heart and soul and senses, world without end are drowned, His folly has not fellow beneath the blue of day, It gives to man or woman his heart and soul away, Their flowers no balm to sane him from east of earth to west, Had lost forever lasting the heart out of his breast, Here by the laboring highway with empty hands I stroll, See deep till doomsday morning I lost my heart and soul. Fifteen. Look not on my eyes, for fear they near to the sight I see, And there you find your face too clear and love it and be lost like me. One the long nights through must lie, Spent in stard of heated sighs, But why should you as well as I perish, Gaze not on my eyes. Aggression lad, as I here tell, One that many loved in vain, Looked into a forest well and never looked away again. There when the turban springtime flowers With downward eye and gaze as sad Stands amid the glancing showers, A junk wool, not aggression lad. Sixteen. It nods and curtsies and recovers When the wind blows above, The nettle on the grave of lovers That hang themselves for love. The nettle nods the wind blows over, The man he does not move, The lover of the grave, The lover that hanged himself for love. Seventeen. Twice a week the winter threw, Here stood I to keep the gold. Football then was fighting sorrow For the young man's soul. Now in Maytime to the wicked tout I marked With bat and pad, See the son of grief at cricket Trying to be glad. Try I will, no harm in trying, Wonder tears how little mirth Keeps the bones of man from lying On the bed of earth. Eighteen. Oh, when I was in love with you, Then I was clean and gray, And miles around the wonder grew How well did I behave? And now the fancy passes by And nothing will remain, And miles around they'll say that I Am quite myself again. Nineteen. To an athlete dying young, The time you won your town the race We chaired you through the marketplace. Man and boy stood cheering by And home we brought you shoulder high. Today the road all runners come Shoulder high we bring you home And set you at your threshold down Townsmen of the stiller town. Smart lad, to slip the times away From fields where glory does not stay, And early though the law grows It withers quicker than the rose. Eyes the shady night has shut Cannot see the record cut, And silent sounds no worse Than cheers after earth has stopped the news. Now you ought to swell the rout Of lads that wore their honours out, Runners whom were now not ran And the name died before the man. So set before its echoes Fade the fleet foot on the sill of shade, And hold to the low lintelot The still defended challenge cup, And round that early lord head Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead, And find unwithered on its curls The garland greeper than a girl's. Twenty. Oh fair enough are sky and plain, But I know fair afar, Those are as beautiful again That in the water are. The pools and rivers wash so clean The trees and clouds and air, The like on earth was never seen And, oh, that I were there. There in the thoughts I often think As I stand gazing down And act upon the crissy brink To strip and dive and drown. But in the golden sanded rocks And azure mirrors I spy, A silly lad that longs and looks And wishes he were I. Twenty one. Breedon Hill. In summer time on Breedon The bells they sound so clear, Grand both the shires they ring them In steeples far and near, A happy noise to hear. Here of a Sunday morning My love and I would lie And see the coloured counties And hear the locks so high About us in the sky. The bells would ring to call her In valleys miles away, Come all to church, good people, Good people, come and pray, But here my love would stay And I would turn an answer Among the springing time, O peel upon our wedding And we will hear the chime And come to church in time. But when the snows at Christmas On Breedon Top were strone, My love rose up so early And stole out unbeknown And went to church alone. They told the one bell only, Room there was none to see, The mourners followed after And soon to church went she And would not wait for me. The bells they sound on Breedon And still the steeples hum, Come all to church, good people, O noisy bells be dumb. I hear you. I will come. 22. The street sounds to the soldier's tread And out we troop to see, A single red coat turns his head, He turns and looks at me. My man from sky to sky so far We never crossed before, Such leagues apart the world's ends Are were liked to meet no more. What thoughts at heart have you and I We cannot stop to tell, But dead are living drunk or dry, Soldier, I wish you well. 23. The lads and their hundreds To Ludlow coming for the fair, His men from the barn And the forge in the middle and the fold, The lads for the girls And the lads for the liquor are there, And there were the rest of the lads That never will be old. There's chaps from the town And the field and the till and the cart, And many to counter the stalwart And many the break, And many the handsome of face And the handsome of art, And few that will carry their looks Or their truth to the gray. I wish one could know them, I wish there were tokens to tell, The fortunate fellows that now you can never discern, And then one could talk with them Friendly and wish them farewell, And watch them depart On the way that they will not return. But now you may stare as you like And there's nothing to scan, And brushing your elbow on guest At and not to be told, They carry back right to the coiner The mintage of man, The lads that will die in their glory And never be old. 24. Say, lad, have you things to do, Quit them while your day is at prime, Quick and itch his work for two Here, my man, now is your time. Send me now, and I shall go, Call me, I shall hear your calls, Use me ere they lay me low, Where a man's no use at all, Ere the wholesome flesh decay And the willing nerve be dumb, And the lips lack breath to say, No, my lad, I cannot come. 25. This time of year, a twelve-month past, When Fred and I would meet, We needs must jangle till at last We fought and I was beat. So then the summer fields About till rainy days began, Rose Harland on her Sundays out Walked with the better man. The better man she walks with still, Though now it is not with Fred, A lad that lives and has his will Is worth a dozen dead. Fred keeps the house all kinds of weather, And plays the house he keeps, When Rose and I walk out together, Stuck still, I spread, and sleep. 26. Along the fields as we came by A year ago, my love and I, The aspen over style and stone Was talking to itself alone. Oh, who are these that kiss and pass A country lover and his lass? Two lovers looking to be wed, In time shall put them both to bed, But she shall lie with earth above, And he decide another love. 27. I'm sure enough beneath the tree There walks another love with me, And overhead the aspen heaves Its rainy sounding silver leaves, And I spell nothing in their stir, But now perhaps they speak to her, And plain for her to understand They talk about a time at hand, When I shall sleep with clover clad, And she decide another love. 27. Is my teen plowing that I used to drive, And hear the harness jingle when I was man alive? I, the horse's trample, the harness jingle's now, No change though you lie under the land you used to plow, Is football playing along the river shore, With lads to chase the leather now I stand up no more? I, the ball is flying, the lads play heart and soul, The goal stands up to keep earth, stands up to keep the goal. 28. Is my girl happy that I thought hard to leave, And has she tired of weeping as she lies down to tea? I, she lies down lightly, she lies not down to weep, Your girl is well contented, be still, my lad, and sleep. 29. Is my friend hearty, now I am thin pine, And has he found to sleep in a better bed than mine? Yes, lad, I lie easy, I lie as lads would choose, I cheer a dead man's sweet heart, Never ask me whose. 28. The Welsh marches, high the veins of Shrewsbury gleam, Island in seven stream, the bridges from the steepled crest Cross the water east and west, The flag of morn and conqueror's state Enters at the English gate, the vanquished eve As night prevails, bleeds Upon the road to Wales, ages since the vanquished blood Around about my mother's bed, There the ravens feasted far About the open house of war, When seven down to Beldwass ran, Coloured with the death of man, Couched upon her brother's draid, The Saxon got me on the slave. The sound of fight is silence long, That began ancient wrong. Long the voice of tears is still, That wept of old the endless ill. In my heart it has not died, The war that sleeps on Severing side, They cease not fighting east and west, On the marches of my breast. Hear the truseless armies yet, Trample rolled and blood and sweat, They kill and kill and never die, And I think that each is I. One will part us none undo, The knot that makes one flesh of two, Sick with hatred, sick with pain, Strangling, when shall we be slain? When shall I be dead and rid Of the wrong my father did? How long, how long, till spade and hearse, Put to sleep my mother's curse? 29. The Lent Lily His spring come out to ramble, The hilly breaks around, For underthorn and bramble About the hollow ground, The prim roses are found. And there is the windflower chilly With all the winds at play, And there is the Lenten Lily That has not long to stay, And dies on Easter day. And since till girls go main You find the prim roses still, And find the windflower playing With every wind at will, But not the daffodil. Bring baskets now and sally Upon the spring's array, And bear from hill and valley The daffodil away, That dies on Easter day. 30. Others, I am not the first, Have wealed more mischief than they durst, If in the breathless night I too shiver now, It is nothing new. More than I, if truth were told, Have stood in sweated hot and cold, And through their rains and ice and fire, Fear contented with desire, Ogged once like me were they, But I like them shall win my way, Lastly to the bed of mold, Where there's neither heat nor cold. But from my grave across my brow Plays no wind of healing now, And fire and ice within me fight Beneath the supplicating night. 31. On wendlic edge the woods in trouble, His forest flees the rank in heaves, The gale applies the saplings double, And thick on seven snows the leaves. To a blow like this through halt and anger, Where you're a con city stood, It is the old wind in the old anger, But then it threshed another wood. 32. Then, to us before my time, The Roman at yonder heeding hill would stare, The blood that warms an English yeoman, The thoughts that hurt him they were there. 33. There, like the wind through woods in riot, Through him the gale of life blew high, The tree of man was never quiet, Then it was the Roman, now it is I. 34. And it plies the saplings double, It blows so hard to soon be gone. Today the Roman and his trouble Are ashes on New Yorkon. 32. From far from even morning In young twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me blue hither, Here am I! Now for a breath I tarry, Nor yet disperse apart, Take my hand quick and tell me What have you in your heart? Speak now, and I will answer, How shall I help you say, Hail to the winds twelve-quarters, I take my endless way. 33. If truth in hearts that perish Could move the powers on high, I think the love I bear you Should make you not to die. Sure, sure, if steadfast meaning If single thought could save, The world might end tomorrow, You should not see the gray. This long inshore-set liking This boundless will to please, For you should live forever If there were help in these. But now, since all is idle To this lost heart be kind, Hear to a town you journey Where friends are ill to find. 34. The New Mistress Oh, sick I am to see you, Will you never let me be. You may be good for something, But you are not good for me. Oh, go where you are wanted, For you are not wanted here. And that was all the farewell When I parted from my dear. I will go where I am wanted, The lady born in red Will dress me free for nothing In a uniform of red. She will not be sick to see me If I only keep it clean. I will go where I am wanted For a soldier of the queen. I will go where I am wanted, For the sergeant does not mind. He may be sick to see me, But he treats me very kind. He gives me beer and breakfast And a ribbon for my cap, And I never knew a sweet heart To spend money on its chap. I will go where I am wanted, Where there is room for one or two, And the men are none too many For the work there is to do, With a standing line, Where as thinner and the dropping dead lie thick, And the enemies of England They shall see me and be sick. A Shropshire Lad by A. Houseman, Part I On the idle hill of summer, Sleepy with a flower of streams, Far I hear the steady drummer, Drumming like a noise in dreams, Far and near and low and louder, On the roads of earth go by, Dear to friends and food for powder, Soldiers marching all to die, East and west on fields forgotten, Bleach and bones of comrade slain, Lovely lads and dead and rotten, None that go return again. Far the calling bugles hollow, High the screaming fife replies, Gay the files of scarlet follow, Woman bore me, I will rise. 36. White in the moon the long road lies, The moon stands blank above, White in the moon the long road lies That leads me from my love. Still hangs the heads without a gust, Still, still the shadows stay, My feet upon the moonlit dust Pursues the ceaseless way. The world is round, so travellers tell, And straight through reach the track, Trojan, Trojan, will all be well, The way will guide one back. But ere the circle homeward highs, Far, far must it remove, White in the moon the long road lies That leads me from my love. 37. As through the wild green hills of wire, The train ran, Changing sky and shire, And far behind a fading crest, Low in the forsaken west, Sank the high-reared hand of Klee, My hand lay empty on my knee. Aking on my knee it lay, That morning half a shire away, So many an honest fellow's fist Had welled my rugged from the wrist. Hands, had I, since now we part, From fields and men we know by heart, From strangers' faces, strangers' lands, Hand, you have held true fellow's hands. Be clean then, rot before you do, A thing they'd not believe of you. You and I must keep from shame In London streets the Shropshire name. On banks of tames they must not say Seven breeds worse men than they, And friends abroad must bear in mind Friends at home they leave behind. Oh, I shall be stiff and cold When I forget you, hearts of gold. The land where I shall mind you not Is the land where all's forgot. And if my foot returns no more To tim, nor corv, nor seven shore, Luck my lads, be with you still, By falling streams and standing hill, By chiming towers and whispering tree, Men that made a man of me, About your work in town and farm, Still you'll keep my head from harm, Still you'll help me, hands that gave, A grasp to friend me to the grave. 38. The winds out of the west land blow, My friends have breathed in there, Warm with the blood of lads I know, Comes east the sighing air. It fan their temples fill their lungs, Scatter their forelocks free, My friends made words of it with tongues That talk no more to me. Their voices dying as they fall, Thick on the wind are sown, The names of men blow soundless by, My fellows and my own. Oh, lads at home I heard you plain, But hear your speeches still, And down the sighing wind in vain You hollow from the hill. The wind and I we both were there, But neither long abode, Now through the friendless world we fare, And sigh upon the road. 39. It is time, I think, by Wenlik town, The golden broom should blow, The hawthorn sprinkled up and down, Should charge the land with snow. Spring will not wait the loiterer's time Who keeps so long away, So others wear the broom and climb, The hedgerows heaped with may. Oh, tarnish late on Wenlik edge, Gold that I never see, Lie long high snow drifts in the hedge, That will not shower on me. 40. Into my heart an air that kills From yarn far country blows, What are those blue-remembered hills, What spires, what farms are those? That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, The happy highways where I went, And cannot come again. 41. In my own shire, if I was sad, Homely comforts I had, The earth because my heart was sore, Soared for the sun she bore, And standing hills long to remain, Shared their short-lived comrades' pain, And bound for the same born as I, On every road I wandered by, Trot beside me close and dear, The beautiful and death-struck year. Whether in the woodland brown I heard The beech-nut rustle down, And saw the purple crocus pale, Flower about the autumn dale, Or littering far in fields of may, Lady smocks a bleaching lay, And like a sunlit water stood The blue bells in the azure wood. Yonder, lightening other loads, The seasons range the country roads, But here in London streets I can No such help-mates only men, And these are not in plight to bear If they would and others care, They have enough as tiths. I see in many an eye that measures me The mortal sickness of a mind Too unhappy to be kind, Undone with misery all they can Is to hate their fellow-man, Until they drop they needs must still Look at you, and wish you ill. 42. The Merry Guide Once in the wind of morning I ranged the time-walled, The worldwide air was azure, And all the brooks ran gold, There through the dews beside me Behold a euthetrad, With feathered cap on forehead, And poised a golden rod, With mane to match the morning And gay delightful guise, And friendly brows and laughter He looked me in the eyes. A wence I asked in wither, He smiled and would not say, And looked at me in beckoned, And laughed and led the way. And with kind looks and laughter And not to say beside, We two went on together, I and my happy guide, Across the glittering pastures And empty uplands still, And solitude of shepherds high in the folded hill, By hanging woods and hamlets That gazed through orchards down, On many a windmill turning, And far-discovered town, With gay regards of promise And sure and slackened stride, And smiles and nothing spoken Let on, my merry guide. By blowing realms of woodland With sun-struck veins afield, And cloud-led shadows sailing About the windy-wield, By valley-guarded granges And silver waters wide, Content at heart I followed With my delightful guide. And like the cloudy shadows Across the country blown, We two face on for ever, But not we two alone. With the great gale we journey That breathes from gardens thinned, Born in the drift of blossoms Whose petals throng the wind, Bweed on the heaven-herd whisper Of dancing leaflets' world, From all the woods that autumn Berieves in all the world, And midst the fluttering legion Of all that ever died I follow, And before us goes the delightful guide, With lips that brim with laughter, But never once respond, And feet that fly on feathers, And serpent-circled wand. 43. The Immortal Part When I meet the morning beam, Or lay me down at night to dream, I hear my bones within me say, Another night, another day. When shall this slough sense be cast, This dust of thoughts be laid at last, The man of flesh and soul be slain, And the man of bone remain, This tongue that talks, these lungs that shout, These views that hustle us about, This brain that fills the skull with schemes, And its humming hive of dreams. These today are proud in power, And lord it in their little hour, The immortal bones obey control Of dying flesh and dying soul. Tis long to leave and mourn are gone, Slow the endless night comes on, And late to fullness grows the birth That shall last as long as earth. Wanderers eastward, wanderers west, Know you why you cannot rest, Tis that every mother's son travels with a skeleton. Lie down in the bed of dust, Bear the fruit that bear you must, Bring the eternal seed to light, And mourn is all the same as night. Rest you so from trouble soar, Fear the heat of the sun no more, Nor the snowing winter wild, Now you labor not with child. Empty vessel garment cast, We that wore you long shall last, Another night another day, So my bones within may say. Therefore they shall do my will, Today while I am master still, And flesh and soul now both are strong Shall hail the sullen slaves along. Before this fire of sense decay, This smoke of thought blow clean away, And leave with ancient night alone The steadfast and enduring bone. 44. Shot so quick, so clean an ending, Oh that was right, la, that was brave, Yours was not an ill fermenting, It was best to take it to the grave. Oh, you had forethought you could reason, And saw your road and where it led, And early wise and brave in season Put the pistol to your head. Oh, soon, and better so than later, After long disgrace and scorn, You shot dead the household traitor, The soul that should not have been born. Right you guessed the rising morrow, And scorned to tread the mire you must, Dust your wages, son of sorrow, But men may come to worse than dust. Souls undone undoing others, Long time since the tale began. You would not live to wrong your brothers, Oh, lad, you died as fit some man. Now to your grave shall friend and stranger, With a roof and some will then become Undishonored, clear of danger, Clean of guilt, past tense and home. Turn safe to rest, no dreams, no waking, And hear, man, hear as the wreath I have made. It is not a gift that's worth the taking, But wear it, and it will not fade. 45. If it chants your eye, offend you, Pluck it out, lad, and be sound. It will hurt, but hear ourselves to friend you, And many a balsam grows on ground. And if your hand or foot offend you, Cut it off, lad, and behold. But play the man, stand up and end you, When your sickness is your soul. 46. Bring, in this timeless grave to throw, No cypress sombre on the snow, Snap not from the bitter you, His leaves that live December through, Break no rosemary bright with rye, And sparkling to the cruel climb, Nor plod the winter land to look For willows in the icy brook, To cast them leafless round him, Bring no spray that ever bruds in spring. But if the Christmas field is kept, On the last gleener overslept, Or shriveled flax whose flowers blue A single season never too, Or if one home whose year is o'er Shivers on the upland frore, O bring from hill and stream and plain Whatever will not flower again, To give him comfort he and those Shall buy eternal bedfellows, Where low upon the couch he lies, Whence he never shall arise. 47. The carpenter's son Here the hangman stops his cart, Now the best of friends must part, Fare you well for ill-fair eye, Live lads, and I will die. Oh, at home had I but stayed, Prentice to my father's trade, Had I stuck to plain and ads, I had not been lost, my lads. Then I might have built perhaps Scallow trees for other chaps, Never dangled on my own, Had I but left ill alone. Now you see they hang me high, And the people passing by Stopped to shake their fists in curse, So to come from ill to worse. Here hang I, and right and left, Two poor fellows hang for theft. All the saints and luck we prove, Though the midmost hangs for love. Comrades all that stand in gaze, Walk henceforth in other ways, See my neck and save your own, Comrades all, leave ill alone. Make some day a decent end, Shrewder fellows than your friend, Fare you well for ill-fair eye, Live lads, and I will die. 48. Be still, my soul, be still, The arms you bear are brittle, Earth and high heaven are fixed of old And founded strong, Think rather call to thought, If now you grieve a little, The days when we had rest, oh soul, For they were long. Men loved unkindness then, But lightless in the query I slept and saw not, Tears fell down I did not mourn, Sweat ran and blood sprang out, And I was never sorry, Then it was well with me, In days ere I was born. Now and I'm used for why and never find the reason, I pace the earth and drink the air and feel the sun, Be still, be still, my soul, It is but for a season, Let us endure an hour and see injustice done. I look, high heaven and earth, Ale from the prime foundation, All thoughts to ride the hearts are here and all are vain, Whore and scorn and hate and fear and indignation, Oh, why did I awake? When shall I sleep again? 49. Think no more, lad, Laugh, be jolly, Why should men make haste to die? Empty heads and tongues are talking, Make the road rough easy walking, And the feather-pater folly Bears the falling sky. Oh, to his jesting dancing drinking Spins the heavy world around, If young hearts were not so clever, Oh, they would be young forever, Think no more, to his only thinking Lays lads underground. 50. Clunton and Clunbury, Clun and Forth and Clun, Are the quietest places under the sun, In valleys of springs of rivers, By Onion team and Clun, The county for easy livers, The quietest under the sun. We still had sorrows to lighten, One could not always be glad, And lads knew trouble at nighten, When I was a nighten lad. By bridges that Thames runs under, In London the town built ill, To sure small matter for wonder, If sorrow is all one still, And if, as a lad grows older, The troubles he bears are more, He carries his griefs on a shoulder That hand-sailed them long before. Where shall one halt to deliver This luggage I'd leaf set down, Not Thames, nor teams the river, Nor London, nor nighten the town? To his long way further than nighten, A quieter place than Clun, Where dooms they may thunder and lighten, And little to a matter to one. 51. Loitering with a vacant eye Along the Gresham Gallery, And brooding on the heavy ill, I met a statue standing still. Still in marble stone stood he, And steadfastly he looked at me. Well met, I thought the youth would say, We both were fashion far away, We neither knew when we were young These Londoners we live among. Still he looked and eyed me hard, And earnest and aggrieved for God. 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 pressed. Years when you lay down your ill I shall stand and bear it still. Courage, lad, is not for long. Stand, quit you like stone, be strong. So I thought his looks would say, And light on me my troubled lay. And I slept out in flesh and bone, Manful, like the man of stone. 52. Far in a western Brooklyn that bred me long ago, The poplars stand and tremble by pools I used to know. There in the windless night-time The wanderer marveling why, Haltz in the bridge to harken 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 starlet fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering wears. 53. The true lover 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 And sporth my love for I, So take me in your arms As space before the east is gray. When I from hence away and past I shall not find a bride, And you shall be the first and last I ever lay beside. She heard and knew not why Her heart to this she laid, Light was the air beneath the sky But dark under the shade. Oh, do you breathe, lad, That your breath seems not to rise and fall, And here upon my bosom press 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 trips wet from your neck on mine? What is it falling on my lips, My lad, that tastes of brine? Oh, like enough to his blood, my dear, For when the knife has slit The throat across from ear to ear To a 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. Fifty-four. With rue my heart is laden For golden friends I had, And many a rose-lipped maiden And many a light-foot lad, By brooks too broad for leaping The light-foot boys are laid, The rose-lipped girls are sleeping In field where roses fade. Fifty-five. Westward on the high-hilled plains Where, for me, the world began, Still, I think in newer veins, Fret's the changeless blood of man. Now that other lads and I Strip to bathe on seven shore, They know help for all they try, Tread the mill I trod before. There, when Heulus 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. Fifty-six. The day-battle. 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? Which is sure no pleasure to be shot. But since the man that runs away Lives to die another day, And coward's 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. Fifty-seven. You smile upon your friend today, Today his ills are over, You hearken to the lover's say, And happy is the lover. It is late to hearken, late to smile, But better late than never, I shall have lived a little while Before I die forever. Fifty-eight. When I came last to Bloodlow, Amidst the moonlight pale, Two friends kept stepped beside me To honest lads and hail. Now Dick lies long in the churchyard, And Ned lies long in jail, And I come home to Bloodlow, Amidst the moonlight pale. Forty-nine. The Isle of Portland. The star-filled seas are smooth tonight, From France to England's Strone, Black towers above the Portland light, The felon queried stone, On Yonder Island not to rise, Never to stir forth free, Far from his foe-dead lad lies, At once was friends with me. Lie you easy, dream you light, And sleep you fast for eye, And luckier may you find the night Than ever you found the day. Sixty. 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, nots to dread, Look not left nor right, In all the endless road you tread, There's nothing but the night. Sixty-one. Hughley-Steeple. The vein on Hughley-Steeple Vears bright to 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 headstone's 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, there's only a choice Of friends one knows, And I shall ne'er be lonely, Asleep with these or those. Sixty-two. Terrence, this is stupid stuff. You eat your viddles fast enough. There can't be much a mist is 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, Mopping melancholy mad, Come, piper-tune to dance to, lad. Why, if tis dancing ye would be, There's brisker pipes than poetry. Say, for what were hopyards meant, To why was Burton built on Trent? Oh, many a peer of England brews Lively a liquor than the muse, And malt as 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 halfway home or near, Pints and quartz 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, High-ho the tale was all a lie, The world that 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 is still much good, But much less ill than good, And while the sun and moon endure, Locks a chance but troubles 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 brewer's 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 berth From the many venom'd earth, First a little lense to moor, He sampled all her killing-store, And easy-smiling season sounds Sate the king when health's went round. They put arsenic in his meat, And stared aghast to watch him eat. They poured saccharine in his cup, And shook to see him drink it up. They shook, they stared, As whites their shirt, Them it was their poison hurt. I tell the tale that I heard told, Mithridates. He died old. 63. I hurled and trenched and weeded, And took the flowers to fare, I brought them home unheeded, The hue was not the wear. So up and down I sow them, For lads like me to find, When I shall lie below them A dead man out of mind. Some seed the birds devour, And some the season mars, But here and there will flower the solitary stars, And fields will yearly bear them, As light-leaved spring comes on, And luck-less lads will wear them, When I am dead and gone. End of A Shropshire Lad by A.E. Houseman This has been a LibriVox Recording.