The night my father got me His mind was not on me; He did not plague his fancy To muse if I should be The son you see. The day my mother bore me She was a fool and glad, For all the pain I cost her, That she had borne the lad That borne she had. My mother and my father Out of the light they lie; The warrant would not find them, And here 'tis only I Shall hang so high. Oh let not man remember The soul that God forgot, But fetch the county kerchief And noose me in the knot, And I will rot. For so the game is ended That should not have begun. My father and my mother They had a likely son, And I have none.

XV. EIGHT O'CLOCK

He stood, and heard the steeple Sprinkle the quarters on the morning town. One, two, three, four, to market-place and people It tossed them down. Strapped, noosed, nighing his hour, He stood and counted them and cursed his luck; And then the clock collected in the tower Its strength, and struck.

XVI. SPRING MORNING

Star and coronal and bell April underfoot renews, And the hope of man as well Flowers among the morning dews. Now the old come out to look, Winter past and winter's pains. How the sky in pool and brook Glitters on the grassy plains. Easily the gentle air Wafts the turning season on; Things to comfort them are there, Though 'tis true the best are gone. Now the scorned unlucky lad Rousing from his pillow gnawn Mans his heart and deep and glad Drinks the valiant air of dawn. Half the night he longed to die, Now are sown on hill and plain Pleasures worth his while to try Ere he longs to die again. Blue the sky from east to west Arches, and the world is wide, Though the girl he loves the best Rouses from another's side.

XVII. ASTRONOMY

The Wain upon the northern steep Descends and lifts away. Oh I will sit me down and weep For bones in Africa. For pay and medals, name and rank, Things that he has not found, He hove the Cross to heaven and sank The pole-star underground. And now he does not even see Signs of the nadir roll At night over the ground where he Is buried with the pole.

XVIII

The rain, it streams on stone and hillock, The boot clings to the clay. Since all is done that's due and right Let's home; and now, my lad, good-night, For I must turn away. Good-night, my lad, for nought's eternal; No league of ours, for sure. Tomorrow I shall miss you less, And ache of heart and heaviness Are things that time should cure. Over the hill the highway marches And what's beyond is wide: Oh soon enough will pine to nought Remembrance and the faithful thought That sits the grave beside. The skies, they are not always raining Nor grey the twelvemonth through; And I shall meet good days and mirth, And range the lovely lands of earth With friends no worse than you. But oh, my man, the house is fallen That none can build again; My man, how full of joy and woe Your mother bore you years ago To-night to lie in the rain.

XIX

In midnights of November, When Dead Man's Fair is nigh, And danger in the valley, And anger in the sky, Around the huddling homesteads The leafless timber roars, And the dead call the dying And finger at the doors. Oh, yonder faltering fingers Are hands I used to hold; Their false companion drowses And leaves them in the cold. Oh, to the bed of ocean, To Africk and to Ind, I will arise and follow Along the rainy wind. The night goes out and under With all its train forlorn; Hues in the east assemble And cocks crow up the morn. The living are the living And dead the dead will stay, And I will sort with comrades That face the beam of day.

XX

The night is freezing fast, To-morrow comes December; And winterfalls of old Are with me from the past; And chiefly I remember How Dick would hate the cold. Fall, winter, fall; for he, Prompt hand and headpiece clever, Has woven a winter robe, And made of earth and sea His overcoat for ever, And wears the turning globe.

XXI

The fairies break their dances And leave the printed lawn, And up from India glances The silver sail of dawn. The candles burn their sockets, The blinds let through the day, The young man feels his pockets And wonders what's to pay.

XXII

The sloe was lost in flower, The April elm was dim; That was the lover's hour, The hour for lies and him. If thorns are all the bower, If north winds freeze the fir, Why, 'tis another's hour, The hour for truth and her.

XXIII

In the morning, in the morning, In the happy field of hay, Oh they looked at one another By the light of day. In the blue and silver morning On the haycock as they lay, Oh they looked at one another And they looked away.

XXIV. EPITHALAMIUM

He is here, Urania's son, Hymen come from Helicon; God that glads the lover's heart, He is here to join and part. So the groomsman quits your side And the bridegroom seeks the bride: Friend and comrade yield you o'er To her that hardly loves you more. Now the sun his skyward beam Has tilted from the Ocean stream. Light the Indies, laggard sun: Happy bridegroom, day is done, And the star from OEta's steep Calls to bed but not to sleep. Happy bridegroom, Hesper brings All desired and timely things. All whom morning sends to roam, Hesper loves to lead them home. Home return who him behold, Child to mother, sheep to fold, Bird to nest from wandering wide: Happy bridegroom, seek your bride. Pour it out, the golden cup Given and guarded, brimming up, Safe through jostling markets borne And the thicket of the thorn; Folly spurned and danger past, Pour it to the god at last. Now, to smother noise and light, Is stolen abroad the wildering night, And the blotting shades confuse Path and meadow full of dews; And the high heavens, that all control, Turn in silence round the pole. Catch the starry beams they shed Prospering the marriage bed, And breed the land that reared your prime Sons to stay the rot of time. All is quiet, no alarms; Nothing fear of nightly harms. Safe you sleep on guarded ground, And in silent circle round The thoughts of friends keep watch and ward, Harnessed angels, hand on sword.

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