 | Australian Lyrics &c |  |
WILTSHIRE.
I have been out in the forest to-day
Plucking wild strawberry fruits,
I have watched the merry dormice at play
By their holes in oaktree roots;
I have chased the squirrel at dawn and dusk,
And mark'd were the primrose grew,
While I trampled the empty acorn-husk
And gather'd germanders blue.
Plucking wild strawberry fruits,
I have watched the merry dormice at play
By their holes in oaktree roots;
I have chased the squirrel at dawn and dusk,
And mark'd were the primrose grew,
While I trampled the empty acorn-husk
And gather'd germanders blue.
I have wander'd over the downs to-day
In the fragrant morning hours,
I was tracking the bee from spray to spray,
As it rifled honey flow'rs;
I heard all the song of the early lark
From a cloud above me shed,
And I saw the daisy shut from the dark,
The halo around her head.
In the fragrant morning hours,
I was tracking the bee from spray to spray,
As it rifled honey flow'rs;
I heard all the song of the early lark
From a cloud above me shed,
And I saw the daisy shut from the dark,
The halo around her head.
I have been out in the city to-day,
And have seen the merry sun,
I watch'd the city children at play
When morning school was done;
They could not go into the budding wood,
Or paths by the corn-fields take,
To see the Bugle unfolding his hood
And the Pimpernel awake.
And have seen the merry sun,
I watch'd the city children at play
When morning school was done;
41
Or paths by the corn-fields take,
To see the Bugle unfolding his hood
And the Pimpernel awake.
They'd little wan faces and weary feet.
And their very games were sad,
Outside the school-door in the dusty street—
The only playground they had.
A public-house next to the corner stood—
Perhaps their mothers were there—
And a funeral pass'd; could they be good,
Such sights and sounds in the air?
And their very games were sad,
Outside the school-door in the dusty street—
The only playground they had.
A public-house next to the corner stood—
Perhaps their mothers were there—
And a funeral pass'd; could they be good,
Such sights and sounds in the air?
“Pretty ones, why aren't you out in the lanes?”
I ask'd of two little girls
With faces like those on church widow-panes
And heads all cover'd with curls.
“There are roses climbing over the hedge,
And tansies trailing below,
And blue forget-me-nots twined in the sedge;
You can watch the water flow.”
I ask'd of two little girls
With faces like those on church widow-panes
And heads all cover'd with curls.
“There are roses climbing over the hedge,
And tansies trailing below,
And blue forget-me-nots twined in the sedge;
You can watch the water flow.”
But when they summon'd up courage to speak
“We hate the country,” they said,
“Father used to get ten shillings a week,
And now gets thirty instead;
He used to come back in the ev'ning late
And go off so very soon,
And now his work doesn't begin till eight,
And stops in the afternoon.
“We hate the country,” they said,
“Father used to get ten shillings a week,
And now gets thirty instead;
He used to come back in the ev'ning late
And go off so very soon,
And now his work doesn't begin till eight,
And stops in the afternoon.
“We hate the country,” the little ones said,
“The circus never comes round,
And you can't buy jumbles or gingerbread,
And sugar's so dear a pound:
We couldn't have half the ribbons and ties,
And we had no parasol,
And we went to the church on Sunday twice
As well as the Sunday-school.”
“The circus never comes round,
And you can't buy jumbles or gingerbread,
And sugar's so dear a pound:
We couldn't have half the ribbons and ties,
And we had no parasol,
And we went to the church on Sunday twice
As well as the Sunday-school.”
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I gave them some pennies to spend on buns,
And walk'd up the street quite fast,
Wrapp'd up in my own meditations
And heeding nothing I pass'd:
I thought to myself there was something wrong
When children could talk like this,
And hate the green fields they were born among
And think a factory bliss.
And walk'd up the street quite fast,
Wrapp'd up in my own meditations
And heeding nothing I pass'd:
I thought to myself there was something wrong
When children could talk like this,
And hate the green fields they were born among
And think a factory bliss.
There's nothing to weary the eye in trees,
And turf doesn't tire the feet,
One doesn't feel choked by the country breeze,
And hedges, are they not sweet?
I liked the new milk when I was a boy,
And loved blackberrying days,
And mightn't the children take some small joy
In making wild-flow'r bouquets?
And turf doesn't tire the feet,
One doesn't feel choked by the country breeze,
And hedges, are they not sweet?
I liked the new milk when I was a boy,
And loved blackberrying days,
And mightn't the children take some small joy
In making wild-flow'r bouquets?
The hedges are surely the place for buds,
The meadows for open flow'rs,
Little birds should sing away in the woods
In the merry morning hours:
Little children should grow, as the young trees grow,
Under the sun and the sky,
And their songs should go up as birds' songs go
That hover and sing on high.
The meadows for open flow'rs,
Little birds should sing away in the woods
In the merry morning hours:
Little children should grow, as the young trees grow,
Under the sun and the sky,
And their songs should go up as birds' songs go
That hover and sing on high.
But you cannot expect a man to speak
In the true poetic way
Of spots where he gets ten shillings a week
And works twelve hours a day.
The master has something to answer for
Who makes the country a curse,
And teaches the labourer to abhor
The beautiful universe.
In the true poetic way
Of spots where he gets ten shillings a week
And works twelve hours a day.
The master has something to answer for
Who makes the country a curse,
And teaches the labourer to abhor
The beautiful universe.
I suppose it came of the primal sin,
That profit should go with pain,
That wealth should be made in the smoke and din,
And death dog the steps of gain;
For to have the loaf without the leaven,
And the rose without the thorn,
Was never, I think, vouchsafed by heaven
To a man of woman born.
That profit should go with pain,
That wealth should be made in the smoke and din,
And death dog the steps of gain;
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And the rose without the thorn,
Was never, I think, vouchsafed by heaven
To a man of woman born.
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