Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World By G. W. Thornbury |
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THE WOODMAN'S SONG. |
 | Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World |  |
THE WOODMAN'S SONG.
In the bright May time, in the young spring's prime,
The axe he layeth by;
When the birds sing gay the livelong day,
To hail the summer nigh;
But the woods ring out to his merry shout
When the leaf is off the tree,
When the tempest clouds the forests shroud,
A merry man is he.
The axe he layeth by;
When the birds sing gay the livelong day,
To hail the summer nigh;
But the woods ring out to his merry shout
When the leaf is off the tree,
When the tempest clouds the forests shroud,
A merry man is he.
And he loves to sing when the forests ring
To the axe's echoing sound,—
When, as thunder loud, the oak has bowed
And crashed to the ground.
Like an armed knight, in the press of fight,
He hews with his axe away,
Through the wood's dark rank, on the marsh reed dank,
Flows in the flood of day.
To the axe's echoing sound,—
When, as thunder loud, the oak has bowed
And crashed to the ground.
Like an armed knight, in the press of fight,
He hews with his axe away,
Through the wood's dark rank, on the marsh reed dank,
Flows in the flood of day.
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No forest tree, whatever it be,
Spareth this sturdy wight;
The oak's rough stem his blows o'erwhelm,
And the beech with its red leaf bright;
For a hoary bole, this rugged soul
Cares not though it be of oak;
What the lightning's spear could never sear,
Is felled with his mighty stroke.
Spareth this sturdy wight;
The oak's rough stem his blows o'erwhelm,
And the beech with its red leaf bright;
For a hoary bole, this rugged soul
Cares not though it be of oak;
What the lightning's spear could never sear,
Is felled with his mighty stroke.
And the silver trunk of the birch has sunk
Beneath his crushing blow;
Thro' the beech' smooth side and the cedar's pride,
His broad keen blade will go.
Were each wood and glade in its pride arrayed,
With bud, and flower, and leaf,
To his blunted soul some pang had stole,
Some gentle thought of grief.
Beneath his crushing blow;
Thro' the beech' smooth side and the cedar's pride,
His broad keen blade will go.
Were each wood and glade in its pride arrayed,
With bud, and flower, and leaf,
To his blunted soul some pang had stole,
Some gentle thought of grief.
But the winter's hour is his time of power,
When the wild winds whistle loud;
If the woodman spare, that tree they'll tear,
And dash it to the ground;
And they sigh and moan, with a thunder groan,
As mourning for their fate,
As a spirit had past on the winged blast,
But mercy were too late.
When the wild winds whistle loud;
If the woodman spare, that tree they'll tear,
And dash it to the ground;
And they sigh and moan, with a thunder groan,
As mourning for their fate,
As a spirit had past on the winged blast,
But mercy were too late.
When o'er your head, 'mid the pine boughs red,
You hear the night winds surge,
As the wood sprites there, for their forest care,
Were muttering a dirge.
He's a crowned king in the mild sweet spring,
For he marks his victims then;
Of his broad axe blade he a sceptre made,
Forged in a forest den.
You hear the night winds surge,
As the wood sprites there, for their forest care,
Were muttering a dirge.
He's a crowned king in the mild sweet spring,
For he marks his victims then;
Of his broad axe blade he a sceptre made,
Forged in a forest den.
O the woodmen good, in the lonely wood,
Heap up the crackling fire;
With a cruel smile they watch the while
The blazing of the fire.
And they hear the howl, and the savage growl
Of the wolf that waits without;
But what care they then, those merry men,
As they push the stoup about.
Heap up the crackling fire;
With a cruel smile they watch the while
The blazing of the fire.
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Of the wolf that waits without;
But what care they then, those merry men,
As they push the stoup about.
| Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World | |