Part 3 (1/2)

Oh, to be Home

Oh! to be home, now that the Autumn's coming, Where the clover's nodding and the bees are humming, Where the sun is scorching over fields of hay, And the country's ready for the harvest day; Where the bullocks stand knee-deep in meadows, browsing, Or underneath the shady trees are drowsing, Where the corn is turning colour, fit to reap, And in the sun, the horses lie asleep.

Oh! to be home, now that the harvest's ready, Now the hay is gathered and the weather's steady, Now the reaper-sails across the fields are flying, And the barley--white as driven snow--is dying; When overhead, the harvest moon rides full, And daybreak brings a touch of frosty wool; While stackyards clear, are ready for their turn, And farmers smile across the level Hurn.

Oh! to be home, now that the winter's nigh, And swifts by millions, flit about the sky, When thatchers all get busy with their pegs, And horses, out at gra.s.s, can stretch their legs; When inns at night, are full of tired men, Who've had a b.u.mping harvest in the Fen; Tis then, tis then, none but a fool would roam; Tis then, tis then, I wish I were at home.

Give Soldiers a Vote?

Give soldiers a vote?

Don't talk so blame silly!

They've gone to the War To beat Kyzer Billy; And till that be done There's plenty of fun.

The war may be pressing But--Politics first!

Let's keep up the Game, Though the Heavens should burst; Then we're sure of our pay, Till the very Last Day.

Great Scott! Don't you see How we stand on the brink?

Give soldiers a vote?

They would say what they think; And from power and pay We should rapidly sink.

So don't talk about it, Don't mention it now; Let the men go to war And the women to plough; We Statesmen will govern....

The Lord, He knows how!

Alone

How now my heart! At this most fell cross-road The night far darker than a pit surrounds, And only by the lightning's fitful stroke Can'st see the perils that beset thy course; Too clear they loom on searing eyeb.a.l.l.s flashed; Certain thy fate whatever twist or turn; Deep tolls a bell beneath the tempest's roar, And soon thy long-drawn struggle will be done.

Thou art too steeped in artifice, old heart!

So cunning that thou hardly art discerned: In caverns never touched by light of day Thou stirrest unbeknown; At first as l.u.s.ty As any pliant sapling in the spring, Soon as the lonely bull's dark hide Art hard and bitter; weathered by the storms; Cross-grained, bewildered, thy courage slowly failing; Thou standest here: forlorn, dismayed, alone.

Thy years have pa.s.sed away in that Great Search, The quest that bruises hearts on hardest stone; Seeking a refuge from dread loneliness, Some haven where the soul is not bereaved; Too often--my heart--hast thou been sorely bruised; And now at last the truth confronts thy gaze, Declared by flash against the pitiless night: 'The soul must die as it hath lived--alone.'

Alone! The shuddering echo dies away; No subterfuge, no shelter is there ever, There is no anodyne for weary hearts; For him who stands alone at this cross-road The only hope is death.

From nothingness to nothingness thou pa.s.sest!