The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley [i.e. J. B. L. Warren] |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
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HODGE PROLOGIZES AT HIS PUBLIC |
 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
HODGE PROLOGIZES AT HIS PUBLIC
SCENE: A VILLAGE ALEHOUSE, NEAR A CHURCH SURROUNDED BY A CHURCHYARD. A WINDMILL TURNING IN THE DISTANCE
Sun and shine,
And ivy twine,
Thirst is bad on a midsummer day.
Sell thy flail
For a stoup of ale,
Shear thy lamb for a wisp of hay.
And ivy twine,
Thirst is bad on a midsummer day.
Sell thy flail
For a stoup of ale,
Shear thy lamb for a wisp of hay.
417
All over the church
The little birds perch,
And the graveyard is full as it well can be:
Headstone and mound,
And garden-like ground,
And plenty to pay for the vicar's fee.
The little birds perch,
And the graveyard is full as it well can be:
Headstone and mound,
And garden-like ground,
And plenty to pay for the vicar's fee.
A buttermilk wench,
And an alehouse bench,
With plenty to drink and a little to see;
With a song and a pipe,
Till we're reeling ripe,
And let the blue ribbon go hang for me.
And an alehouse bench,
With plenty to drink and a little to see;
With a song and a pipe,
Till we're reeling ripe,
And let the blue ribbon go hang for me.
Sun and shine,
And ivy twine,
Honey is best from a mountam bee.
The old black swift,
He lives in a rift
Under a beam of the Church roof-tree.
And ivy twine,
Honey is best from a mountam bee.
The old black swift,
He lives in a rift
Under a beam of the Church roof-tree.
By the churchyard rail
Is the house of ale,
Settle and mugs and a sanded floor.
A trough, where a sign
(I wish it were mine)
Creaks in the winds like a rusty door.
Is the house of ale,
Settle and mugs and a sanded floor.
A trough, where a sign
(I wish it were mine)
Creaks in the winds like a rusty door.
The sexton is nigh,
And his work is dry;
And the chink of a glass is as good as a bell,
To draw him inside
And be quickly supplied,
For he digs all the better for drinking a spell.
And his work is dry;
And the chink of a glass is as good as a bell,
To draw him inside
And be quickly supplied,
For he digs all the better for drinking a spell.
Sleet and hail
On the windmill sail;
Nobody grudges the rats their flour.
The mills of time
Grind girls in prime:
The wheels go round and the maid grows sour.
On the windmill sail;
Nobody grudges the rats their flour.
The mills of time
Grind girls in prime:
The wheels go round and the maid grows sour.
The red robin comes
To pick up the crumbs.
The wagtail runs nodding all over the lea.
A gun for a bird,
And a blow for a word,
And a measureless score at the Chequers for me.
To pick up the crumbs.
The wagtail runs nodding all over the lea.
A gun for a bird,
And a blow for a word,
And a measureless score at the Chequers for me.
418
So my song it may pass,
If you'll stand us a glass
To the Church and the Queen: and plenty to eat,
Oceans of drink,
And never to think,
And a good stiff tax on the foreigners' wheat.
If you'll stand us a glass
To the Church and the Queen: and plenty to eat,
Oceans of drink,
And never to think,
And a good stiff tax on the foreigners' wheat.
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |