The Project Gutenberg eBook ofCountry SentimentThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Country SentimentAuthor: Robert GravesRelease date: August 1, 1998 [eBook #1418]Most recently updated: October 29, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Sue Asscher, and David Widger*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COUNTRY SENTIMENT ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Country SentimentAuthor: Robert GravesRelease date: August 1, 1998 [eBook #1418]Most recently updated: October 29, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Sue Asscher, and David Widger
Title: Country Sentiment
Author: Robert Graves
Author: Robert Graves
Release date: August 1, 1998 [eBook #1418]Most recently updated: October 29, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Sue Asscher, and David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COUNTRY SENTIMENT ***
Note: Some of the poems included in this volume have appeared in "The New Statesman", "The Owl", "Reveille", "Land and Water", "Poetry", and other papers, English and American.
CONTENTSA FROSTY NIGHT.A SONG FOR TWO CHILDREN.DICKY.THE THREE DRINKERS.THE BOY OUT OF CHURCH.AFTER THE PLAY.SONG: ONE HARD LOOK.TRUE JOHNNY.THE VOICE OF BEAUTY DROWNED.THE GOD CALLED POETRY.ROCKY ACRES.ADVICE TO LOVERS.NEBUCHADNEZZAR'S FALL.ALLIE.LOVING HENRY.BRITTLE BONES.APPLES AND WATER.MANTICOR IN ARABIA.OUTLAWS.BALOO LOO FOR JENNY.HAWK AND BUCKLE.THE "ALICE JEAN".THE CUPBOARD.THE BEACON.POT AND KETTLE.GHOST RADDLED.NEGLECTFUL EDWARD.THE WELL-DRESSED CHILDREN.THUNDER AT NIGHT.TO E.M.—A BALLAD OF NURSERY RHYME.JANE.VAIN AND CARELESS.NINE O'CLOCK.THE PICTURE BOOK.THE PROMISED LULLABY.RETROSPECTRETROSPECT: THE JESTS OF THE CLOCK.HERE THEY LIE.TOM TAYLOR.COUNTRY AT WAR.THE LEVELLER.HATE NOT, FEAR NOT.A FIRST REVIEW.
CONTENTS
A FROSTY NIGHT.
A SONG FOR TWO CHILDREN.
DICKY.
THE THREE DRINKERS.
THE BOY OUT OF CHURCH.
AFTER THE PLAY.
SONG: ONE HARD LOOK.
TRUE JOHNNY.
THE VOICE OF BEAUTY DROWNED.
THE GOD CALLED POETRY.
ROCKY ACRES.
ADVICE TO LOVERS.
NEBUCHADNEZZAR'S FALL.
ALLIE.
LOVING HENRY.
BRITTLE BONES.
APPLES AND WATER.
MANTICOR IN ARABIA.
OUTLAWS.
BALOO LOO FOR JENNY.
HAWK AND BUCKLE.
THE "ALICE JEAN".
THE CUPBOARD.
THE BEACON.
POT AND KETTLE.
GHOST RADDLED.
NEGLECTFUL EDWARD.
THE WELL-DRESSED CHILDREN.
THUNDER AT NIGHT.
TO E.M.—A BALLAD OF NURSERY RHYME.
JANE.
VAIN AND CARELESS.
NINE O'CLOCK.
THE PICTURE BOOK.
THE PROMISED LULLABY.
RETROSPECT
RETROSPECT: THE JESTS OF THE CLOCK.
HERE THEY LIE.
TOM TAYLOR.
COUNTRY AT WAR.
THE LEVELLER.
HATE NOT, FEAR NOT.
A FIRST REVIEW.
MotherAlice, dear, what ails you,Dazed and white and shaken?Has the chill night numbed you?Is it fright you have taken?Alice
Mother, I am very well,I felt never better,Mother, do not hold me so,Let me write my letter.MotherSweet, my dear, what ails you?AliceNo, but I am well;The night was cold and frosty,There's no more to tell.MotherAy, the night was frosty,Coldly gaped the moon,Yet the birds seemed twitteringThrough green boughs of June.Soft and thick the snow lay,Stars danced in the sky.Not all the lambs of May-daySkip so bold and high.Your feet were dancing, Alice,Seemed to dance on air,You looked a ghost or angelIn the starlight there.Your eyes were frosted starlight,Your heart fire and snow.Who was it said, "I love you"?AliceMother, let me go!
"Make a song, father, a new little song,All for Jenny and Nancy."Balow lalow or Hey derry down,Or else what might you fancy?Is there any song sweet enoughFor Nancy and for Jenny?Said Simple Simon to the pieman,"Indeed I know not any.""I've counted the miles to Babylon,I've flown the earth like a bird,I've ridden cock-horse to Banbury Cross,But no such song have I heard.""Some speak of Alexander,And some of Hercules,But where are there any like Nancy and Jenny,Where are there any like these?"
MotherOh, what a heavy sigh!Dicky, are you ailing?DickyEven by this fireside, mother,My heart is failing.To-night across the down,Whistling and jolly,I sauntered out from townWith my stick of holly.Bounteous and cool from seaThe wind was blowing,Cloud shadows under the moonComing and going.I sang old roaring songs,Ran and leaped quick,And turned home by St. Swithin'sTwirling my stick.And there as I was passingThe churchyard gateAn old man stopped me, "Dicky,You're walking late."I did not know the man,I grew afearedAt his lean lolling jaw,His spreading beard.His garments old and musty,Of antique cut,His body very lean and bony,His eyes tight shut.Oh, even to tell it nowMy courage ebbs...His face was clay, mother,His beard, cobwebs.In that long horrid pause"Good-night," he said,Entered and clicked the gate,"Each to his bed."MotherDo not sigh or fear, Dicky,How is it rightTo grudge the dead their ghostly darkAnd wan moonlight?We have the glorious sun,Lamp and fireside.Grudge not the dead their moonshineWhen abroad they ride.
Blacksmith Green had three strong sons,With bread and beef did fill 'em,Now John and Ned are perished and dead,But plenty remains of William.John Green was a whiskey drinker,The Land of Cakes supplied him,Till at last his soul flew out by the holeThat the fierce drink burned inside him.Ned Green was a water drinker,And, Lord, how Ned would fuddle!He rotted away his mortal clayLike an old boot thrown in a puddle.Will Green was a wise young drinker,Shrank from whiskey or water,But he made good cheer with headstrong beer,And married an alderman's daughter.
As Jesus and his followersUpon a Sabbath mornWere walking by a wheat fieldThey plucked the ears of corn.They plucked it, they rubbed it,They blew the husks away,Which grieved the pious phariseesUpon the Sabbath day.And Jesus said, "A riddleAnswer if you can,Was man made for the SabbathOr Sabbath made for man?"I do not love the Sabbath,The soapsuds and the starch,The troops of solemn peopleWho to Salvation march.I take my book, I take my stickOn the Sabbath day,In woody nooks and valleysI hide myself away.To ponder there in quietGod's Universal Plan,Resolved that church and SabbathWere never made for man.
FatherHave you spent the money I gave you to-day?JohnAy, father I have.A fourpence on cakes, two pennies that awayTo a beggar I gave.FatherThe lake of yellow brimstone boil for you in Hell,Such lies that you spin.Tell the truth now, John, ere the falsehood swell,Say, where have you been?JohnI'll lie no more to you, father, what is the need?To the Play I went,With sixpence for a near seat, money's worth indeed,The best ever spent.Grief to you, shame or grief, here is the story—My splendid night!It was colour, scents, music, a tragic glory,Fear with delight.Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, title of the tale:He of that name,A tall, glum fellow, velvet cloaked, with a shirt of mail,Two eyes like flame.All the furies of fate circled round the man,Maddening his heart,There was old murder done before play began,Ay, the ghost took part.There were grave-diggers delving, they brought up bones,And with rage and griefAll the players shouted in full, kingly tones,Grand, passing belief.Oh, there were ladies there radiant like day,And changing scenes:Great sounding words were tossed about like hayBy kings and queens.How the plot turned about I watched in vain,Though for grief I cried,As one and all they faded, poisoned or slain,In great agony died.Father, you'll drive me forth never to return,Doubting me your son—FatherSo I shall, JohnJohn—but that glory for which I burnShall be soon begun.I shall wear great boots, shall strut and shout,Keep my locks curled.The fame of my name shall go ringing aboutOver half the world.FatherHorror that your Prince found, John may you find,Ever and againDying before the house in such torture of mindAs you need not feign.While they clap and stamp at your nightly fate,They shall never knowThe curse that drags at you, until Hell's gate.You have heard me. Go!
Small gnats that flyIn hot JulyAnd lodge in sleeping ears,Can rouse thereinA trumpet's dinWith Day-of-Judgement fears.Small mice at nightCan wake more frightThan lions at midday.An urchin smallTorments us allWho tread his prickly way.A straw will crackThe camel's back,To die we need but sip,So little sandAs fills the handCan stop a steaming ship.One smile relievesA heart that grievesThough deadly sad it be,And one hard lookCan close the bookThat lovers love to see—
Johnny, sweetheart, can you be trueTo all those famous vows you've made,Will you love me as I love youUntil we both in earth are laid?Or shall the old wives nod and sayHis love was only for a day:The mood goes by,His fancies fly,And Mary's left to sigh.Mary, alas, you've hit the truth,And I with grief can but admitHot-blooded haste controls my youth,My idle fancies veer and flitFrom flower to flower, from tree to tree,And when the moment catches me,Oh, love goes byAway I flyAnd leave my girl to sigh.Could you but now foretell the day,Johnny, when this sad thing must be,When light and gay you'll turn awayAnd laugh and break the heart in me?For like a nut for true love's sakeMy empty heart shall crack and break,When fancies flyAnd love goes byAnd Mary's left to die.When the sun turns against the clock,When Avon waters upward flow,When eggs are laid by barn-door cock,When dusty hens do strut and crow,When up is down, when left is right,Oh, then I'll break the troth I plight,With careless eyeAway I'll flyAnd Mary here shall die.
Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!The other birds woke all around,Rising with toot and howl they stirredTheir plumage, broke the trembling sound,They craned their necks, they fluttered wings,"While we are silent no one sings,And while we sing you hush your throat,Or tune your melody to our note."Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!The screams and hootings rose again:They gaped with raucous beaks, they whirredTheir noisy plumage; small but plainThe lonely hidden singer madeA well of grief within the glade."Whist, silly fool, be off," they shout,"Or we'll come pluck your feathers out."Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!Slight and small the lovely cryCame trickling down, but no one heard.Parrot and cuckoo, crow, magpieJarred horrid notes and the jangling jayRipped the fine threads of song away,For why should peeping chick aspireTo challenge their loud woodland choir?Cried it so sweet that unseen bird?Lovelier could no music be,Clearer than water, soft as curd,Fresh as the blossomed cherry tree.How sang the others all around?Piercing and harsh, a maddening sound,With Pretty Poll, tuwit-tu-woo,Peewit, caw caw, cuckoo-cuckoo.
Now I begin to know at last,These nights when I sit down to rhyme,The form and measure of that vastGod we call Poetry, he who stoopsAnd leaps me through his paper hoopsA little higher every time.Tempts me to think I'll grow a properSinging cricket or grass-hopperMaking prodigious jumps in airWhile shaken crowds about me stareAghast, and I sing, growing bolderTo fly up on my master's shoulderRustling the thick strands of his hair.He is older than the seas,Older than the plains and hills,And older than the light that spillsFrom the sun's hot wheel on these.He wakes the gale that tears your trees,He sings to you from window sills.At you he roars, or he will coo,He shouts and screams when hell is hot,Riding on the shell and shot.He smites you down, he succours you,And where you seek him, he is not.To-day I see he has two headsLike Janus—calm, benignant, this;That, grim and scowling: his beard spreadsFrom chin to chin" this god has powerImmeasurable at every hour:He first taught lovers how to kiss,He brings down sunshine after shower,Thunder and hate are his also,He is YES and he is NO.The black beard spoke and said to me,"Human frailty though you be,Yet shout and crack your whip, be harsh!They'll obey you in the end:Hill and field, river and marshShall obey you, hop and skipAt the terrour of your whip,To your gales of anger bend."The pale beard spoke and said in turn"True: a prize goes to the stern,But sing and laugh and easily runThrough the wide airs of my plain,Bathe in my waters, drink my sun,And draw my creatures with soft song;They shall follow you alongGraciously with no doubt or pain."Then speaking from his double headThe glorious fearful monster said"I am YES and I am NO,Black as pitch and white as snow,Love me, hate me, reconcileHate with love, perfect with vile,So equal justice shall be doneAnd life shared between moon and sun.Nature for you shall curse or smile:A poet you shall be, my son."
This is a wild land, country of my choice,With harsh craggy mountain, moor ample and bare.Seldom in these acres is heard any voiceBut voice of cold water that runs here and thereThrough rocks and lank heather growing without care.No mice in the heath run nor no birds cryFor fear of the dark speck that floats in the sky.He soars and he hovers rocking on his wings,He scans his wide parish with a sharp eye,He catches the trembling of small hidden things,He tears them in pieces, dropping from the sky:Tenderness and pity the land will deny,Where life is but nourished from water and rockA hardy adventure, full of fear and shock.Time has never journeyed to this lost land,Crakeberries and heather bloom out of date,The rocks jut, the streams flow singing on either hand,Careless if the season be early or late.The skies wander overhead, now blue, now slate:Winter would be known by his cold cutting snowIf June did not borrow his armour also.Yet this is my country be loved by me best,The first land that rose from Chaos and the Flood,Nursing no fat valleys for comfort and rest,Trampled by no hard hooves, stained with no blood.Bold immortal country whose hill tops have stoodStrongholds for the proud gods when on earth they go,Terror for fat burghers in far plains below.
I knew an old man at a FairWho made it his twice-yearly taskTo clamber on a cider caskAnd cry to all the yokels there:—"Lovers to-day and for all timePreserve the meaning of my rhyme:Love is not kindly nor yet grimBut does to you as you to him."Whistle, and Love will come to you,Hiss, and he fades without a word,Do wrong, and he great wrong will do,Speak, he retells what he has heard."Then all you lovers have good heedVex not young Love in word or deed:Love never leaves an unpaid debt,He will not pardon nor forget."The old man's voice was sweet yet loudAnd this shows what a man was he,He'd scatter apples to the crowdAnd give great draughts of cider, free.
Frowning over the riddle that Daniel told,Down through the mist hung garden, below a feeble sun,The King of Persia walked: oh, the chilling cold!His mind was webbed with a grey shroud vapour-spun.Here for the pride of his soaring eagle heart,Here for his great hand searching the skies for food,Here for his courtship of Heaven's high stars he shall smart,Nebuchadnezzar shall fall, crawl, be subdued.Hot sun struck through the vapour, leaf strewn mouldBreathed sweet decay: old Earth called for her child.Mist drew off from his mind, Sun scattered gold,Warmth came and earthy motives fresh and wild.Down on his knees he sinks, the stiff-necked King,Stoops and kneels and grovels, chin to the mud.Out from his changed heart flutter on startled wingThe fancy birds of his Pride, Honour, Kinglihood.He crawls, he grunts, he is beast-like, frogs and snailsHis diet, and grass, and water with hand for cup.He herds with brutes that have hooves and horns and tails,He roars in his anger, he scratches, he looks not up.
GIVE US RAIN.
"Give us Rain, Rain," said the bean and the pea,"Not so much Sun,Not so much Sun."But the Sun smiles bravely and encouragingly,And no rain falls and no waters run."Give us Peace, Peace," said the peoples oppressed,"Not so many Flags,Not so many Flags."But the Flags fly and the Drums beat, denying rest,And the children starve, they shiver in rags.
Allie, call the birds in,The birds from the sky.Allie calls, Allie sings,Down they all fly.First there cameTwo white dovesThen a sparrow from his nest,Then a clucking bantam hen,Then a robin red-breast.Allie, call the beasts in,The beasts, every one.Allie calls, Allie sings,In they all run.First there cameTwo black lambs,Then a grunting Berkshire sow,Then a dog without a tail,Then a red and white cow.Allie, call the fish up,The fish from the stream.Allie calls, Allie sings,Up they all swim.First there cameTwo gold fish,A minnow and a miller's thumb,Then a pair of loving trout,Then the twisted eels come.Allie, call the children,Children from the green.Allie calls, Allie sings,Soon they run in.First there cameTom and Madge,Kate and I who'll not forgetHow we played by the water's edgeTill the April sun set.
Henry, Henry, do you love me?Do I love you, Mary?Oh, can you mean to liken meTo the aspen tree.Whose leaves do shake and vary,From white to greenAnd back again,Shifting and contrary?Henry, Henry, do you love me,Do you love me truly?Oh, Mary, must I say againMy love's a pain,A torment most unruly?It tosses meLike a ship at seaWhen the storm rages fully.Henry, Henry, why do you love me?Mary, dear, have pity!I swear, of all the girls there areBoth near and far,In country or in city,There's none like you,So kind, so true,So wise, so brave, so pretty.
Though I am an old manWith my bones very brittle,Though I am a poor old manWorth very little,Yet I suck at my long pipeAt peace in the sun,I do not fret nor much regretThat my work is done.If I were a young manWith my bones full of marrow,Oh, if I were a bold young manStraight as an arrow,And if I had the same yearsTo live once again,I would not change their simple rangeOf laughter and pain.If I were a young manAnd young was my Lily,A smart girl, a bold young man,Both of us silly.And though from time before I knewShe'd stab me with pain,Though well I knew she'd not be true,I'd love her again.If I were a young manWith a brisk, healthy body,Oh, if I were a bold young manWith love of rum toddy,Though I knew that I was spitingMy old age with pain,My happy lip would touch and sipAgain and again.If I were a young manWith my bones full of marrow,Oh, if I were a bold young manStraight as an arrow,I'd store up no virtueFor Heaven's distant plain,I'd live at ease as I did pleaseAnd sin once again.
Dust in a cloud, blinding weather,Drums that rattle and roar!A mother and daughter stood togetherBeside their cottage door."Mother, the heavens are bright like brass,The dust is shaken high,With labouring breath the soldiers pass,Their lips are cracked and dry.""Mother, I'll throw them apples down,I'll bring them pails of water."The mother turned with an angry frownHolding back her daughter."But mother, see, they faint with thirst,They march away to die,""Ah, sweet, had I but known at firstTheir throats are always dry.""There is no water can supply themIn western streams that flow,There is no fruit can satisfy themOn orchard trees that grow.""Once in my youth I gave, poor fool,A soldier apples and water,So may I die before you coolYour father's drouth, my daughter."
(The manticors of the montainesMighte feed them on thy braines.—Skelton.)Thick and scented daisies spreadWhere with surface dull like leadArabian pools of slime inviteManticors down from neighbouring heightTo dip heads, to cool fiery bloodIn oozy depths of sucking mud.Sing then of ringstraked manticor,Man-visaged tiger who of yoreHeld whole Arabian waste in feeWith raging pride from sea to sea,That every lesser tribe would flyThose armed feet, that hooded eye;Till preying on himself at lastManticor dwindled, sank, was passedBy gryphon flocks he did disdain.Ay, wyverns and rude dragons reignIn ancient keep of manticorAgreed old foe can rise no more.Only here from lakes of slimeDrinks manticor and bides due time:Six times Fowl Phoenix in yon treeMust mount his pyre and burn and beRenewed again, till in such hourAs seventh Phoenix flames to powerAnd lifts young feathers, overniceFrom scented pool of steamy spiceShall manticor his sway restoreAnd rule Arabian plains once more.
Owls: they whinney down the night,Bats go zigzag by.Ambushed in shadow out of sightThe outlaws lie.Old gods, shrunk to shadows, thereIn the wet woods they lurk,Greedy of human stuff to snareIn webs of murk.Look up, else your eye must drownIn a moving sea of blackBetween the tree-tops, upside downGoes the sky-track.Look up, else your feet will strayTowards that dim ambuscade,Where spider-like they catch their preyIn nets of shade.For though creeds whirl away in dust,Faith fails and men forget,These aged gods of fright and lustCling to life yet.Old gods almost dead, malign,Starved of their ancient dues,Incense and fruit, fire, blood and wineAnd an unclean muse.Banished to woods and a sickly moon,Shrunk to mere bogey things,Who spoke with thunder once at noonTo prostrate kings.With thunder from an open skyTo peasant, tyrant, priest,Bowing in fear with a dazzled eyeTowards the East.Proud gods, humbled, sunk so low,Living with ghosts and ghouls,And ghosts of ghosts and last year's snowAnd dead toadstools.
Sing baloo loo for JennyAnd where is she gone?Away to spy her mother's land,Riding all alone.To the rich towns of Scotland,The woods and the streams,High upon a Spanish horseSaddled for her dreams.By Oxford and by Chester,To Berwick-on-the-Tweed,Then once across the borderlandShe shall find no need.A loaf for her at Stirling,A scone at Carlisle,Honeyed cakes at Edinbro'—That shall make her smile.At Aberdeen clear cider,Mead for her at Nairn,A cup of wine at John o' Groats—That shall please my bairn.Sing baloo loo for Jenny,Mother will be fainTo see her little truant childRiding home again.
Where is the landlord of old Hawk and Buckle,And what of Master Straddler this hot summer weather?He's along in the tap-room with broad cheeks a-chuckle,And ten bold companions all drinking together.Where is the daughter of old Hawk and Buckle,And what of Mistress Jenny this hot summer weather?She sits in the parlour with smell of honeysuckle,Trimming her bonnet with red ostrich feather.Where is the ostler of old Hawk and Buckle,And what of Willy Jakeman this hot summer weather?He is rubbing his eyes with a slow and lazy knuckleAs he wakes from his nap on a bank of fresh heather.Where is the page boy of old Hawk and Buckle,And what of our young Charlie this hot summer weather?He is bobbing for tiddlers in a little trickle-truckle,With his line and his hook and his breeches of leather.Where is the grey goat of old Hawk and Buckle,And what of pretty Nanny this hot summer weather?She stays not contented with little or with muckle,Straining for daisies at the end of her tether.For this is our motto at old Hawk and Buckle,We cling to it close and we sing all together,"Every man for himself at our old Hawk and Buckle,And devil take the hindmost this hot summer weather."
One moonlit night a ship drove in,A ghost ship from the west,Drifting with bare mast and lone tiller,Like a mermaid drestIn long green weed and barnacles:She beached and came to rest.All the watchers of the coastFlocked to view the sight,Men and women streaming downThrough the summer night,Found her standing tall and raggedBeached in the moonlight.Then one old woman looked and wept"The 'Alice Jean'? But no!The ship that took my Dick from meSixty years agoDrifted back from the utmost westWith the ocean's flow?"Caught and caged in the weedy poolBeyond the western brink,Where crewless vessels lie and rotin waters black as ink.Torn out again by a sudden stormIs it the 'Jean', you think?"A hundred women stared agape,The menfolk nudged and laughed,But none could find a likelier storyFor the strange craft.With fear and death and desolationRigged fore and aft.The blind ship came forgotten homeTo all but one of theseOf whom none dared to climb aboard her:And by and by the breezeSprang to a storm and the "Alice Jean"Foundered in frothy seas.
MotherWhat's in that cupboard, Mary?MaryWhich cupboard, mother dear?MotherThe cupboard of red mahoganyWith handles shining clear.MaryThat cupboard, dearest mother,With shining crystal handles?There's nought inside but rags and jagsAnd yellow tallow candles.MotherWhat's in that cupboard, Mary?MaryWhich cupboard, mother mine?MotherThat cupboard stands in your sunny chamber,The silver corners shine.MaryThere's nothing there inside, mother,But wool and thread and flax,And bits of faded silk and velvet,And candles of white wax.MotherWhat's in that cupboard, Mary?And this time tell me true.MaryWhite clothes for an unborn baby, mother,But what's the truth to you?