Delicate, light, Like harps the wind plays out of sight.

The boys who used to go and come In the grey house are come again; Of the grey house and firelit room They are fain, they are fain: They have come home from the night and rain.

SHADOWY HEROES

BALLAD OF THE BURIED SWORD: ERNEST RHYS

In a winter's dream, on Gamellyn moor, I found the lost grave of Lord Glyndwr.

I followed three shadows against the moon, That marched while the thin reed whistled the tune,

Three swordsmen they were out of Harry's wars, That made a Welsh song of their Norman scars,

But they sang no longer of Agincourt, When they came to a grave, for there lay Glyndwr.

Said the one, "My sword, th'art rust, my dear, I but brought thee home to break thee here."

And the second, "Ay, here is the narrow home, To which our tired hearts are come!"

And the third, "We are all that are left, Glyndwr, To guard thee now on Gamellyn moor."

Straightway I saw the dead forth-stand, His good sword bright in his right hand,

And the marsh-reeds with a whistling sound, To a thousand gray swordsmen were turned around.

The moon did shake in the south to see, The dead man stand with his soldiery.

But the brighter his sword, the grave before, Turn'd its gate of death to a radiant door.

Therein the thousand, before their Lord, Marched at the summons of his bright sword.

Then the night grew strange, the blood left my brain, And I stood alone by the grave again.

But brightly his sword still before me shone, Across the dark moor as I pa.s.sed alone.

And still it shines, a silver flame, Across the dark night of the Cymraec shame.

THE LOOKING-GLa.s.s: RUDYARD KIPLING

The Queen was in her chamber, and she was middling old, Her petticoat was of satin, and her stomacher was gold.

Backwards and forwards and sideways did she pa.s.s, Making up her mind to face the cruel looking-gla.s.s.

The cruel looking-gla.s.s that will never show a la.s.s As comely or as kindly or as young as what she was!

The Queen was in her chamber, a-combing of her hair.

There came Queen Mary's spirit and It stood behind her chair, Singing, "Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pa.s.s, But I will stand beside you till you face the looking-gla.s.s.

The cruel looking-gla.s.s that will never show a la.s.s As lovely or unlucky or as lonely as I was."

The Queen was in her chamber, a-weeping very sore, There came Lord Leicester's spirit and It scratched upon the door, Singing, "Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pa.s.s, But I will walk beside you till you face the looking-gla.s.s.

The cruel looking-gla.s.s that will never show a la.s.s, As hard and unforgiving and as wicked as you was!"

The Queen was in her chamber, her sins were on her head.

She looked the spirits up and down and statelily she said:-- "Backwards and forwards and sideways though I've been, Yet I am Harry's daughter and I am England's Queen!"

And she faced the looking-gla.s.s (and whatever else there was) And she saw her day was over and she saw her beauty pa.s.s In the cruel looking-gla.s.s, that can always hurt a la.s.s More hard than any ghost there is or any man there was!

DRAKE'S DRUM: HENRY NEWBOLT

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.

Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships, Wi' sailor lads a dancin' heel-an'-toe, An' the sh.o.r.e light flashin' an' the night-tide dashin'

He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went with wi' heart of ease An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.

"Take my drum to England, hang et by the sh.o.r.e, Strike et when your powder's runnin' low; If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven, An' drum them up the channel as we drummed them long ago."

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, An' dreamin' all the time of Plymouth Hoe.

Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, Call him when ye sail to meet the foe Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin'

They shall find him ware and wakin', as they found him long ago!

THE GREY GHOST: FRANCIS CARLIN

From year to year there walks a Ghost in grey, Through misty Connemara in the West; And those who seek the cause of his unrest, Need go but to the Death-dumb in the clay, To those that fell defiant in the fray, Among the boggy wilds of Ireland, blest By Cromwell, when his Puritanic jest Left h.e.l.l and Connaught open on their way.

As I have heard so may the stranger hear!

That he who drove the natives from the lawn, Must wander o'er the marsh and foggy fen Until the Irish gather with a cheer In Dublin of the Parliaments at dawn.

G.o.d rest the ghost of Cromwell's dust, Amen!

BALLAD OF DOUGLAS BRIDGE: FRANCIS CARLIN

On Douglas Bridge I met a man Who lived adjacent to Straban, Before the English hung him high For riding with O'Hanlon.

The eyes of him were just as fresh As when they burned within the flesh; And his boot-legs widely walked apart From riding with O'Hanlon.

"G.o.d save you, Sir!" I said with fear, "You seem to be a stranger here."

"Not I," said he, "nor any man Who rides with Count O'Hanlon."

"I know each glenn from North Tyrone To Monaghan, and I've been known By every clan and parish, since I rode with Count O'Hanlon."

"Before that time," said he with pride, "My fathers rode where now they ride As Rapperees, before the time Of Trouble and O'Hanlon."

"Good night to you, and G.o.d be with The Tellers of the tale and myth, For they are of the spirit-stuff That rides with Count O'Hanlon."

"Good night to you," said I, "and G.o.d Be with the chargers, fairy-shod, That bear the Ulster's heroes forth To ride with Count O'Hanlon."