Volume Iii Part 82 (2/2)

BALLAD OF LOW-LIE-DOWN

John-a-Dreams and Harum-Scarum Came a-riding into town: At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum There they met with Low-lie-down.

Brave in shoes of Romany leather, Bodice blue and gypsy gown, And a cap of fur and feather, In the inn sat Low-lie-down.

Harum-Scarum kissed her lightly; Smiled into her eyes of brown: Clasped her waist and held her tightly, Laughing, ”Love me, Low-lie-down!”

Then with many an oath and swagger, As a man of great renown, On the board he clapped his dagger, Called for sack and sat him down.

So a while they laughed together; Then he rose and with a frown Sighed, ”While still 'tis pheasant weather, I must leave thee, Low-lie-down.”

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.

Then this John-a-dreams, in tatters, In his pocket ne'er a crown, Touched her, saying, ”Wench, what matters!

Dry your eyes and, come, sit down.

”Here's my hand: we'll roam together, Far away from thorp and town.

Here's my heart,--for any weather,-- And my dreams, too, Low-lie-down.

”Some men call me dreamer, poet: Some men call me fool and clown-- What I am but you shall know it, Only you, sweet Low-lie-down.”

For a little while she pondered: Smiled: then said, ”Let care go drown!”

Up and kissed him.... Forth they wandered, John-a-dreams and Low-lie-down.

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.

You laboring lout, 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 Viele [1856-1908]

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