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VIII
Naworth Unvisited

The men that held these ivied walls
Were rough & ready in their day,
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In mail they made their morning calls
And met acquaintance at a fray.
In search of booty or of blows
Their horn was heard beyond the Esk
Where their damp grandsons blow the nose
And teaze the hedgebarred picturesque.
No man had then invented Doubt,
Their duty, plainer than a pin,
Was just to keep their neighbors out
And drive their neighbors' cattle in.
They were not bored with Adam Smith,
There were no Questions of the Day,
Out of their lives they got the pith
Floating with ale the rest away.
We are their opposites; we fence
Our fields against the next man's Kine
And take him in with weak pretence
Of tedious friendship o'er our wine.
Time does his work; the border peel
Is metamorphosed to a house
Whose lord, in tweeds instead of steel,
Makes war upon the Scottish grouse.
Nor do we mount at shut of eve
And ride like ghosts in silent file
Hoping Security may leave
Some unbarred postern in the pile,
But, after invitation due
And answer sent in proper form,
We roll along, discuss the view,
And take the Keep with silken storm.
The Old Time has us on the hip
And yet one gift of theirs we share,—
Bring forth the lunch & we will strip
Like them our neighbor's larder bare.
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