Volume Ii Part 132 (2/2)

”Well: without lament or cry, Mother, let me pa.s.s.”

”What things on mould were best of all?

(Soft be thy sleeping, la.s.s.)”

”The apples reddening till they fall In the sun beside the convent wall.

Let me pa.s.s.”

”Whom on earth hast thou loved best?

(Sound be thy sleeping, la.s.s.)”

”Him that shared with me thy breast; Thee and a knight last year our guest.

He hath an heron to his crest.

Let me pa.s.s.”

”What leavest thou of fame or h.o.a.rd?

(Soft be thy sleeping, la.s.s.)”

”My far-blown shame for thy reward; To my brother, gold to get him a sword.

Let me pa.s.s.”

”But what wilt leave thy lover, Grim?

(Sound be thy sleeping, la.s.s.)”

”The hair he kissed to strangle him.

Mother, let me pa.s.s.”

William Laird [1888-

”SHE WAS YOUNG AND BLITHE AND FAIR”

She was young and blithe and fair, Firm of purpose, sweet and strong; Perfect was her crown of hair, Perfect most of all her song.

Yesterday beneath an oak, She was chanting in the wood: Wandering harmonies awoke; Sleeping echoes understood.

To-day without a song, without a word, She seems to drag one piteous fallen wing Along the ground, and, like a wounded bird, Move silent, having lost the heart to sing.

She was young and blithe and fair, Firm of purpose, sweet and strong; Perfect was her crown of hair, Perfect most of all her song.

Harold Monro [1879-1932]

<script>