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THE LAST RHYME OF TRUE THOMAS
'My hounds they bay unto the death,
The buck has couched beyond the burn, My love she waits at her window
To wash my hands when I return.
'For that I live am I content
(Oh! I have seen my true love's eyes) To stand wi' Adam in Eden-glade,
And run in the woods o' Paradise!'
'Twas naked sky and nodding grass,
True Thomas laid his harp away,
And louted low at the saddle-side;
'Sleep ye or wake,' True Thomas said,
'I ha' harpit a shadow out o' the sun
'I ha' harpit ye up to the throne o' God,
I ha' harpit your midmost soul in three;
IN THE NEOLITHIC AGE
N the Neolithic Age savage warfare did I wage
I was singer to my clan in that dim, red Dawn of
And I sang of all we fought and feared and felt.
Yea, I sang as now I sing, when the Prehistoric spring Made the piled Biscayan ice-pack split and shove; And the troll and gnome and dwerg, and the Gods of Cliff and Berg
Were about me and beneath me and above.
But a rival, of Solutre, told the tribe my style was outre'Neath a tomahawk, of diorite, he fell.
And I left my views on Art, barbed and tanged, below the heart
Of a mammothistic etcher at Grenelle.
Then I stripped them, scalp from skull, and my hunting dogs fed full,
And their teeth I threaded neatly on a thong;
And I wiped my mouth and said, 'It is well that they are dead,
For I know my work is right and theirs was wrong.'
IN THE NEOLITHIC AGE
But my Totem saw the shame; from his ridgepole shrine
And he told me in a vision of the night:
"There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,
And every single one of them is right!'
Then the silence closed upon me till They put new clothing on me
Of whiter, weaker flesh and bone more frail;
And I stepped beneath Time's finger, once again a tribal singer
[And a minor poet certified by Tr―ll].
Still they skirmish to and fro, men my messmates on
When we headed off the aurochs turn for turn; When the rich Allobrogenses never kept amanuenses, And our only plots were piled in lakes at Berne.
Still a cultured Christian age sees us scuffle, squeak, and rage,
Still we pinch and slap and jabber, scratch and dirk; Still we let our business slide-as we dropped the halfdressed hide
To show a fellow-savage how to work.
Still the world is wondrous large,-seven seas from marge to marge,—
And it holds a vast of various kinds of man;
And the wildest dreams of Kew are the facts of Khat
And the crimes of Clapham chaste in Martaban.
Here's my wisdom for your use, as I learned it when the
And the red deer roared where Paris roars to-night:There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal
THE STORY OF UNG
NCE, on a glittering ice-field, ages and ages ago,
Fashioned the form of a tribesman-gaily he whistled and sung,
Working the snow with his fingers. Read ye the Story of Ung!
Pleased was his tribe with that image-came in their hundreds to scan
Handled it, smelt it, and grunted: 'Verily, this is a man! Thus do we carry our lances-thus is a war-belt slung. Lo! it is even as we are. Glory and honour to Ung!'
Later he pictured an aurochs-later he pictured a bear— Pictured the sabre-tooth tiger dragging a man to his lairPictured the mountainous mammoth, hairy, abhorrent, alone
Out of the love that he bore them, scribing them clearly on bone.
Swift came the tribe to behold them, peering and pushing and still
Men of the berg-battered beaches, men of the boulderhatched hill—