Collected Poems Volume I Part 7

Friar Tuck and Little John are riding down together With quarter-staff and drinking-can and grey goose-feather.

The dead are coming back again, the years are rolled away In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

Softly over Sherwood the south wind blows.

All the heart of England hid in every rose Hears across the greenwood the sunny whisper leap, Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?

Hark, the voice of England wakes him as of old And, shattering the silence with a cry of brighter gold Bugles in the greenwood echo from the steep, _Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?_

Where the deer are gliding down the shadowy glen All across the glades of fern he calls his merry men-- Doublets of the Lincoln green glancing through the May In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day--

Calls them and they answer: from aisles of oak and ash Rings the _Follow! Follow!_ and the boughs begin to crash, The ferns begin to flutter and the flowers begin to fly, And through the crimson dawning the robber band goes by.

_Robin! Robin! Robin!_ All his merry thieves Answer as the bugle-note s.h.i.+vers through the leaves, Calling as he used to call, faint and far away, In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

THE WORLD'S MAY-QUEEN

I

Whither away is the Spring to-day?

To England, to England!

In France they heard the South wind say, "She's off on a quest for a Queen o' the May, So she's over the hills far away, To England!"

And why did she fly with her golden feet To England, to England?

In Italy, too, they heard the sweet Roses whisper and flutter and beat-- "She's an old and a true, true love to greet In England!"

A moon ago there came a cry From England, from England, Faintly, fondly it faltered nigh The throne of the Spring in the Southern sky, And it whispered "Come," and the world went by, And with one long loving blissful sigh The Spring was away to England!

II

When Spring comes back to England And crowns her brows with May, Round the merry moonlit world She goes the greenwood way: She throws a rose to Italy, A fleur-de-lys to France; But round her regal morris-ring The seas of England dance.

When Spring comes back to England And dons her robe of green, There's many a nation garlanded But England is the Queen; She's Queen, she's Queen of all the world Beneath the laughing sky, For the nations go a-Maying When they hear the New Year cry--

"Come over the water to England, My old love, my new love, Come over the water to England, In showers of flowery rain; Come over the water to England, April, my true love; And tell the heart of England The Spring is here again!"

III

So it's here, she is here with her eyes of blue In England, In England!

She has brought us the rainbows with her, too, And a glory of s.h.i.+mmering glimmering dew And a heaven of quivering scent and hue And a lily for me and a rose for you In England.

There's many a wanderer far away From England, from England, Will toss upon his couch and say-- Though Spain is proud and France is gay, And there's many a foot on the primrose way, The world has never a Queen o' the May But England.

IV

When Drake went out to seek for gold Across the uncharted sea, And saw the Western skies unfold Their veils of mystery; To lure him through the fevered hours As nigh to death he lay, There floated o'er the foreign flowers A breath of English May:

And back to Devon sh.o.r.es again His dreaming spirit flew Over the splendid Spanish Main To haunts his childhood knew, Whispering "G.o.d forgive the blind Desire that bade me roam, I've sailed around the world to find The sweetest way to home."

V

And it's whither away is the Spring to-day?

To England, to England!

In France you'll hear the South wind say, "She off on a quest for a Queen o' the May, So she's over the hills and far away, To England!"

She's flown with the swallows across the sea To England, to England!

For there's many a land of the brave and free But never a home o' the hawthorn-tree, And never a Queen o' the May for me But England!

And round the fairy revels whirl In England, in England!

And the buds outbreak and the leaves unfurl, And where the crisp white cloudlets curl The Dawn comes up like a primrose girl With a crowd of flowers in a basket of pearl For England!

PIRATES

Come to me, you with the laughing face, in the night as I lie Dreaming of days that are dead and of joys gone by; Come to me, comrade, come through the slow-dropping rain, Come from your grave in the darkness and let us be pirates again.

Let us be boys together to-night, and pretend as of old We are pirates at rest in a cave among huge heaps of gold, Red Spanish doubloons and great pieces of eight, and muskets and swords, And a smoky red camp-fire to glint, you know how, on our ill-gotten h.o.a.rds.

The old cave in the fir-wood that slopes down the hills to the sea Still is haunted, perhaps, by young pirates as wicked as we: Though the fir with the magpie's big mud-plastered nest used to hide it so well, And the boys in the gang had to swear that they never would tell.

Ah, that tree; I have sat in its boughs and looked seaward for hours.

I remember the creak of its branches, the scent of the flowers That climbed round the mouth of the cave. It is odd I recall Those little things best, that I scarcely took heed of at all.

I remember how brightly the bra.s.s on the b.u.t.t of my spy-gla.s.s gleamed As I climbed through the purple heather and thyme to our eyrie and dreamed; I remember the smooth glossy sun-burn that darkened our faces and hands As we gazed at the merchantmen sailing away to those wonderful lands.

I remember the long, slow sigh of the sea as we raced in the sun, To dry ourselves after our swimming; and how we would run With a cry and a crash through the foam as it creamed on the sh.o.r.e, Then back to bask in the warm dry gold of the sand once more.

Come to me, you with the laughing face, in the gloom as I lie Dreaming of days that are dead and of joys gone by; Let us be boys together to-night and pretend as of old We are pirates at rest in a cave among great heaps of gold.

Come; you shall be chief. We'll not quarrel, the time flies so fast.

There are s.h.i.+ps to be grappled, there's blood to be shed, ere our playtime be past.

No; perhaps we _will_ quarrel, just once, or it scarcely will seem So like the old days that have flown from us both like a dream.

Still; you shall be chief in the end; and then we'll go home To the hearth and the tea and the books that we loved: ah, but come, Come to me, come through the night and the slow-dropping rain; Come, old friend, come thro' the darkness and let us be playmates again.

A SONG OF ENGLAND