Part 2

A many ships come into port along the flowin' tide, A many lads come home again an' safe in harbour ride, But all in vain we watch for one, an' all in vain we pray.

* * * * *

A year agone, a year agone, our Dicky sailed away!

THE OLD FISHERMAN'S LAMENT

'Tis well an' fine for the steam-trawler to sweep the floor of the say, But 'tis turble hard for the fisherman as awnly sails the Bay, For the fish gets scaircer an' scaircer an' hardly ait at all, An' what's to be catched with the seinin' be barely wuth the haul.

Us used to count on the herrin's to buy us Chris'mus cheer, But the catch runs lighter an' lighter, an' pervisions be allays dear, An' what us gets in the crab-pots that don't take long to sell, Especial when most of the pots be gone on a long ground swell.

'Tis a whisht poor life for a lad to lead, an' mos'ly they wont abide, But sterry away to the furrin' ports athurt a keenly tide, An' us be left, all lone an' long, to moil as best us may, While the clankin' trawler steams along, an' sweeps the floor of the say.

A LOOE LAY

Ole Sammy took fish from Downderry to Looe; Jest the darnedest thing that Ole Sammy could do; An' nobody knawed what Ole Sammy was thinkin' For when he got there the fish was a stinkin'.

He cried them in stores an' he cried them in housen, But no one would have them at tuppence a thousan'; He cried them in Fore Street an' then on the Pier, But folks said as "Nothin' was tuppence too dear."

Sure awnly a saftie would ever be carin' To pay for the fish when they'd had such a airin'! An' any regreater deserve to be stranded For carryin' fish to the port where they'm landed!

So Sammy went homeways from Looe to Downderry, An' on to Torpoint an' acrost by the ferry, An' up along Plymouth, remarkable flish, He selled out to wance all his basket of fish.

'Tis sartin that 'tis, an' can't be no 'tisser, Us knaws fish an' fish from the Rame to the Lizzer; What's hansun for Devon for us doesn' do, So don't 'ee be carryin' fish into Looe.

ON THE KAY (QUAY).

As I was bendin' a hook one day A furriner* strawled along the kay.

His cheeks was white as gannet's wing, An' he looked a whisht an' wakely thing.

His clo'es was nate an' spickety span, But I sez to meself "Now there's a man!"

An' I sez to meself "Now look at his legs, They'm like a couple o' crabpot pegs."

An' I sez to meself "A bit of a squall Would blow his bones to the end of all."

An' I sez--but I didn' had time to say For a scraitch went up from the end o' the kay,

Where a cheeld was aswingin' jest afore, An' now there wasn' no cheeld no more,

Then a'most afore I could see him go, That furriner sprang in the say below.

He couldn' swim much, but he keeped afloat Jest while I tumbled into the boat,

An' I hooked him up an' lugged him aboard, An' he had that cheeld clipped tight as cord.

He trembled an' shook, he was wake an' white, But he awnly sez "Is the kid alright?"

Sure 'nuff, an' he simmed to understand When I gived him a hearty shake o' the hand.

I started abendin' the hook agen, An' I sez "There's different looks to men,

Braave hearts in whisht poor bodies bide, An' looks don't count to what's inside."

[Footnote *: To Cornishmen, non-Cornish are "furriners."]

RICHES

Miss Tregear be a whisht poor woman, With her big fine house an' her carriage an' pair; Her keeps four maids, not countin' the tweeny, An' another especial to do her hair.

Ruth Penwarne be a braave rich woman; Her lives in a cottage with a warpley door; Her've got four childer, not countin' the baby, An' there baint no tellin' but her might have more.

Miss Tregear have a room for dinin', An' a room for drawin', where her doesn' draw, An' a room where books be shut in cupboards, An' others us don't knaw what they'm for.

Ruth Penwarne have a little linhay, An' there her washes when the rain be nigh, But when 'tis sunny her goes in the garden, An' spreads her clo'es on the fuzzen to dry.

Miss Tregear have a pile o' carpets; Her be frit of a moth or a speck o' dust; Her be feared that the sun will spile her curtains, An' the damp will make her fire-irons rust.

Ruth Penwarne have a fine stone kitchen; An' two rooms aloft as be crammed with beds; Her don't have carpets, so they can't get dirty, An' her soon clanes up where the childer treads.

Miss Tregear have a face that's lonely; Her be often sad, tho' her can't tell why; Her be allays asayin there's nothin' doin', An' thinks how slow all the days go by.

Ruth Penwarne haven't time for thinkin', With makin' an' mendin' an' scrubbin' too, An' sartin sure, she'm a braave rich woman, With childer an' home an' her work to do.

A FIRESIDE SPELL

"I've spanked young Tom an' sent him to bed, an' I reckon it sarves him right; For 'tisn no use asayin' things when the rope's end baint in sight, An' he shouldn' go steerin' out along when the tide is runnin' away, I've telled him afore; I cussn't keep on atellin' him every day."

"Now when I was a boy--" "Iss, when you was a boy, you was jest such a scalliant too, All'ays athinkin' o' darin' things as you didn' belong to do. Climbin' they clifts for saygulls' eggs or clambering ower the crags An' heavin' tuffs at the cormorants, an' shyin' stones at the shags."

"But when I was a boy--" "Iss, when you was a boy you worried you'm mother a mort, I mind how'ee tried to swim out to the Point, an' how in the race'ee was caught; I know they had dared'ee at doin' their dags, but dags didn' keep'ee afloat, An' the say 'ud have catched'ee that mornin', sure 'nuff, if they hadn' raced out with the boat."

"Well, mebbe I was jest sich a limb, as'ee says, an' all'ays full sail for a game, An' I reckon as boys will be boys when they'm boys, but grows into men what are tame, An' when Tom is a feyther alarnin' _his_ son to feel the weight of _his_ hand, Mebbe he'll fergive me for spankin' him now, an' remember, an' understand."

CORNISH COMFORT

"Don't 'ee cry, lil' maid, 'tis awnly a broken bussa; The jowds won't mend, best lave the attle abide. There's tummals o' bussas left, an' it might be wusser." But the lil' maid cried.

"Don't 'ee cry, li'l maid. If fellows gets changy and chancy, Tomorrow a braaver will come than the totle who stepped. Floshed milk baint no use, an' it isn' wuth scrowlin', I fancy." Still the lil' maid wept.

"Don't 'ee cry, li'l maid--Iss, the Say be a terrible net, An' 'tis wearisome waitin' a meetin' beyont the Big Tide; Jest try to catch sleep on you'm pellaw, mebbe you'll forget." Still the lil' maid cried.

"Don't 'ee cry did un say? Well, youm feyther jest wanted to cheer'ee, But men doesn' knaw where the best cup o' comfort is kept. Cuddle down; cry it out on you'm own mother's bosom, me dearie." Then the lil' maid slept.

"I MIND ME"

I mind me of the cottage where I used to bide Just above the harbour on the steep hill-side; Cobbled was the cause'y to the jasmined door That looked into the kitchen with the grey stone floor.

I mind me of the dresser with the chainy white, An' the gurt big Bible as was read aSunday night; An' the old cloam tay-pot with the broken spout As wanted suant dealin' at the pourin' out.

I mind the quiet mornin's an' the tickin' o' the clock, An' the brath upon the brandiss in the steamin' crock; An' the goin' of the shadows an' the comin' of the day, An' the startin' in the dimsey for the fishin' in the bay.

I mind me of the night-times an' wind whisslin' drear, An' the scraitchin' o' the shingle when I couldn' slape for fear; An' the groanin' gropin' darkness with norra gleam nor star, An' the boom of the billows on the harbour bar.

But the cosy chimley corner, I mind it best of all, With the smell of tatie pasties from the oven in the wall, An' the crackle of the fuzzen with the billies on the blow, An' the ring o' ruddy faces in the hearth-fire glow.

The cottage still is lookin' from the hill across the bay; Above the cobbled cause'y swings the jasmine spray; But the gleam o' ruddy faces an' the hearth-fire glow Went out in the darkness long long ago.

"SURE 'NUFF"

Sure 'nuff, 'twas good when I was a lad To be in a boat in the bay; To whiffle the mack'rel, hook the chad, And haul at the nets away; 'Twas good to feel the wind in my face, An' scud through a tumble o' foam, An' see far off the twinklin' lights Of the lil' grey port, an' home. An' 'twas good to climb in the craggy clifts Where the guillemot raired her brood, An' go with a laugh in the heart all day; Sure 'nuff, 'twas good!

Sure 'nuff, 'twas good when I wandered away, An' saw that the world was wide, In the wunnerful lands beyont the say, An' the ports where the big ships ride. 'Twas good to meet men who could strive an' seek, An' didn' knaw nort o' fear, An' hail 'em a word in passin' by, An' answer 'em back with a cheer. 'Twas good to be sailin' the way o' the world, An' standin' where strong men stood, An' counted awhile as a man among men; Sure 'nuff, 'twas good!

Sure 'nuff, 'tis good, with voyagin' done, To be anchored in port at last, An' watch the boys go, one by one, As I did in days long past; 'Tis good to set in the cottage door, An' gaze at the sky an' say, An' knaw that I fared on the flood tide once, Now 'tis fallin' away; An' 'tis good to have time to make ready to sail On the voyage that leads to rest; An' I trust a Pilot Who will not fail. Sure 'nuff, 'tis best!

II.

THE GARMENT OF TIME

The giant Image of Eternal Time Sits throned amidst the Infinite of Space; And through the aeons, passing chime by chime, Heeds not our Race.

Meanwhile we weave upon his robes' array Embroideries of doubts and hopes and fears, The golden threads of laughter by the way, Grey threads of tears.

Careless sits Time of garment grey or gold, Although our passionate labours never cease Till weaving hands are weary and we grow old. And pass to peace.

And who that gazes on that garb of Time Shall in the far light of a distant day Catch aught of colour of song or rune of rhyme? Shall all be grey?

Yet till the end fall--and the day close, Let me weave in the web of pain and the woof of tears The colour of sun-bright seas and the red of the rose, In my Loom of Years.

IN A GARDEN

A twilight peace droops tenderly, The discords of the day depart, And through the hush there comes to be A harmony within the heart; And waking to the quivering strings Spirits are touched to finer things.

Sweet hand-fast silences of eve, When love's supremest note is heard In symphonies the spirits weave Beyond the need of mortal word, O! may we keep your music when We pace the noisy haunts of men.

Give us the strength for daily stress Of toil about the busy world; Give us a balm to bitterness From wounds when cruel shafts are hurled; And give us courage in a sense Of Love's divine omnipotence.

For Life can never lonely be Since Love has broken all the bars That stayed the soul from unity With Heaven and its ten thousand stars, Whose music falls sublimely grand Through silences of hand in hand.

SORROW'S COURAGE

I have loved Beauty. I have seen the sun Flash snowy mountain tops to shimmer of gold; I have heard songs where little waters run Chiming with music that the stars have rolled.

I have loved Beauty. I have seen the sea Fringe with its silver all the golden shore; Have heard it crooning music ceaselessly To ancient tunes frayed from the tempest's roar.

I have loved Beauty. I have seen a smile Shine from sweet eyes, fair as the sea's own blue, Whose magic lashes seemed to lift awhile To send a kindly comrade spirit through.

I have loved Beauty. But nor sun nor sea Nor stars have charactered God's chiefest grace; Beyond all other things there beacons me The star-led pilgrim courage of your face.

A CHOOSING

Under the turf the blind mole creeps, And moulds the mounds of molehill kind. Above, the skylark soars and sweeps, The song is swept upon the wind.

To-morrow's eyes the mounds may see; To-morrow they will mark the plain. But none shall hear the ecstasy Of song, that cannot be again.

Well built, old mole! A little heap To linger to a later day! Something to show you once did creep In darkness through your earthy way.

Yet with the lark's glad song of Love May mine on wandering winds be hurled, In happy regions far above The dull mad molehills of the world.

Still let my song be all in all, Though Earth-born discords soon destroy, And on no mortal ear may fall The music of immortal joy.

Break, Spirit, break to boundless things Beyond the molehill and the clod, And catch the glory of the strings That tune the harmonies of God.

STAR SIGNS

Primal swirl of the Chaos, out of your nebulous Night Eddied the primal tides, as the Mind of God decreed, And the Word of the ultimate Source spake forth "Let there be Light," And all the Firmament blazed with the dust of the star-sown seed.

Strong and stately and splendid, thronging the limitless spaces. Ye are the silver signs to a House not made with hands; Ye are the Mystic Scroll, where the Mighty Maker traces Thoughts that the passionate poet dimly understands.

Day, with its drouth and drosses, shrivels our fragile souls, And, witched with its transient gauds, to the perilous earth we cling, But ever the tender night its infinite page unrolls, And the star-led mind aspires to the Throne of the star-robed King.

THE OLD KNIGHT'S SONG

My lady lives afar in the fair white tower Hid, like a nest, high among branches swaying. "Peaceful thoughts be her portion, dreams her dower," Here am I on my knees, praying.

To the Winds of the World from the hills and the sea far blowing, That they carry their strength to her heart for sorrow's staying, That they bring clear hopes and the gladness of freedom flowing, Here am I on my knees, praying.

To the Lamp of Day, that the aureate beauty breaking Find answering smiles in her eyes for the fair displaying Of colour of gold on the way my Lady is taking, Here am I on my knees, praying.

To the sentinel Stars through the infinite spaces sweeping, Guarding the night, and terrors of darkness slaying, That they bring sweet Peace to the dreams of my Lady sleeping, Here am I, on my knees praying.

But my casque is rusted with Time, and my breastplate battered, My hauberk worn with ancient fighting and fraying; Dull is my shield, my banner faded and tattered. Here am I on my knees, praying.

Here at an outpost, here is my patrol duty: My Lady's train is for Knights of a fair arraying; Only from far may I guard her, loving her beauty: Here am I on my knees, praying.

Wandering lights have I followed, the one Light questing, I have wearied through difficult paths and long delaying; Perilous peaks have I scaled with feet unresting; Here I am on my knees, praying.

Star-like my Lady shines in her fair white tower. "Let nothing come nigh her to lead to her joy's betraying, No cloud dull aught of the golden dreams, her dower." Here am I on my knees, praying.

FEALTY

When my Lady hath Pleasure and friends to spare, And riot of roses strewed in her path of days, And laughter ringing carillons into the air, She needs not me; I travel the lonely ways.

When my Lady hath Youth uplifting a song Like the twitter of birds in a springtime hawthorn bough, And round her the notes of a merry-mad music throng, She needs not me; my music is sad and low.

But when my Lady hath Sorrow to stress her heart, And Pain brings up to her eyes the ghosts of fear, And the music of Youth, and Laughter and Joy depart, Then she will need me: and lo! am I not here?

Here I stand at the gateway and vigil keep, Waiting the summoning sob or the calling sigh; Swift to assuage her tears should my Lady weep; Happy if sorrow for ever may pass her by.

TREASURE TROVE

You did not know that, gazing on your face, I took its Beauty to my heart for ever, Where it illumines every day with grace, Though Time and tides may sever.

You did not know that, looking in your eyes, I found their Truth, beyond all need for speaking, And knew their gentleness a paradise Worth all a wide world's seeking.

You did not know that every word you spoke Told me the Courage in your heart abiding, And bade me watch, where through the cloud-rifts broke One steady star for guiding.

You did not know. But in my heart I know, The Beauty, Truth, and Courage that enfold you: And when we part I do not let you go: Thus in my heart I hold you.

ROSES AND RUE

You gave me roses, you have given me Rue. Yet to the Roses memoried fragrance clings, And in their faded petals I renew The first fresh grace of unforgotten things.

God give you Roses all along the way. So will I wear contentedly the Rue; And when I greet you with a smile, I pray Shade of my sorrow never fall on you.

DOGMA

Reason's unreasoned castle of defence With turrets towering into far-off skies, Whose superstructure, solid and immense, Is built on shadows and on mysteries.

CREED

Not with light straws, swift swept upon the stream, Not with light foam, blown up along the shore, In calm unmeasured deeps my jewels gleam, Hid in my heart of hearts for evermore.

RELIGION

The one cool joy of all life's broiling day; The one sweet star that gleams where saints have trod; The one clear stream beside the dusty way That leads to God.

PIETY

A quiet garment for eternal wear, Designed above frail fashion's mortal dress, Worked with a web of faith, a woof of prayer, Coloured with love and fair with gentleness.

BLUE SKY

(From the French of Marcel Doran).

O! weary waste of shoreless blue Where weary wing may never rest! O! awful brightness burning through The barrier of the gate of rest! My spirit longs to reach the strand Of sorrow-soothing shadowland.

But what can this poor spirit wear To hide the naked wounds, pain-kissed Beneath the searching, ceaseless glare Of cloudless burning amethyst? Where can the sad grey spirit fly The unrelenting agony?

O! for some shadow-haunted stream Where tired eyes might fall asleep, And in the peace of darkling dream See Sorrow's pageant homeward creep, Feel angel hands with white caress Soothe eyelids dark with heaviness!

O! for some minster where the balm Of cooling touch my wounds might heal; Where always dwells a Sabbath calm, Made sweeter by the solemn peal Of bells, that trembling fill the air With noble notes of perfect prayer!

SHADOWS

Shadows, the pale grey wings of night, Sweep over the sky, And low in the west the lingering light Wanes--like a sigh From the fervent heart of the day Passing away: Then afar Shineth a star.

Shadows, the pale grey wings of Death, Sweep over my heart; And far in the dark a voice calleth, "Come ye, depart." There lingers no light from the day Passing away, But afar Shineth a Star!

WHEN I WAS A LAD

When I was a lad in Petherick I often lay me down And built a beautiful city And called it London Town. I filled its streets with heroes Beautiful strong and wise, Men who were kings and princes, Women with kindly eyes. I spent the gold of the charlock For paving the city street; I saw bright flags awaving Over the billowing wheat; And loud in the brown bee's buzzing I heard the far-off hum Of the mart and the busy merchants, And the wharves where the big ships come. When I was a lad in Petherick I often lay me down, And built this wonderful city, And called it London Town.

* * * * *

Now I'm a man in London-- Golden dreams I had Of a golden city of London Long since when I was a lad. Here on the long grey pavement I seek that city still But there isn't much gold in Fleet Street, Or glamour on Ludgate Hill. For the hurrying men look haggard, And the women have weary eyes, And the voices of pale-faced children Mingle in fretful cries.

There's gold in the field of charlock, There's gold on the billowing wheat, And the bee sucks golden honey In lanes where the flowers are sweet. And small ships sail in the distance To a golden bourne in the west, And the gentle peace of twilight Is the purest gold of rest.

* * * * *

Dreams of the man in London! Useless dreams and sad, Of the far-off village of Petherick And the far-off Cornish lad.

A CALL

Let us go out to the Garden of Pan, and hear what the Pipes are playing; Let us go out where the ancient hills mother the rivers that run to the sea; Let us go out where the wind wanders, tuning amid the trees swaying, Let us go out to the wider world where the thoughts of men are free.

There on the hills the eye may see the changeless Beauty changing On sun-splashed grass and wavering corn, verdant valley and rolling down, Clouds steal up from a far-off tryst, like Titans into battalions ranging, And the splendid Sun-god marching on to crown the world with a golden crown.

Here in the City the voices are hoarse. Here is calling and crying, Lust and longing for pride of place, vanity, pomp, and the strain of strife; Here in the City sobs arise from the battered hosts of the falling and dying, Who know not Peace, nor the End of Peace; who know not Life, nor the End of Life.

Let us away from the webbed town-tangle, where monstrous Mammon is reigning Over the small cheap souls of slaves, sudden to cringe and swift to serve; Let us go out from the clanging Gates, the squalour of strife and the sordid straining, Let us go out by the open road with feet that falter not nor swerve.

Come! and away to the Garden of Pan, and hear what the Pipes are playing! Hark to the Voice of a splendid Peace calling from hill and river and sea! Come! and away to the old Earth Mother, giver of gifts without the praying, There, in the hills Her throne is set, and the thoughts of men are free.

THE RETURN