THE CENTURION'S SONG

Legate, I come to you in tears-My cohort ordered home!

I've served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome?

Here is my heart, my soul, my mind-the only life I

know.

I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go!

EE

SEE

PUCK'S SONG

you the ferny ride that steals
Into the oak-woods far?

O that was whence they hewed the keels
That rolled to Trafalgar.

And mark you where the ivy clings
To Bayham's mouldering walls?
O there we cast the stout railings
That stand around St. Paul's.

See you the dimpled track that runs
All hollow through the wheat?
O that was where they hauled the guns
That smote King Philip's fleet.

Out of the Weald, the secret Weald,
Men sent in ancient years,

The horse-shoes red at Flodden Field,
The arrows at Poitiers.

See you our little mill that clacks,

So busy by the brook?

She has ground her corn and paid her tax
Ever since Domesday Book.

PUCK'S SONG

See you our stilly woods of oak?
And the dread ditch beside?

O that was where the Saxons broke
On the day that Harold died.

See you the windy levels spread
About the gates of Rye?

O that was where the Northmen fled,
When Alfred's ships came by.

See you our pastures wide and lone,
Where the red oxen browse?

O there was a City thronged and known,
Ere London boasted a house.

And see you, after rain, the trace
Of mound and ditch and wall?
O that was a Legion's camping-place,
When Cæsar sailed from Gaul.

And see you marks that show and fade, Like shadows on the Downs?

O they are the lines the Flint Men made, To guard their wondrous towns.

Trackway and Camp and City lost,
Salt Marsh where now is corn;

Old Wars, old Peace, old Arts that cease,
And so was England born!

She is not any common Earth,
Water or wood or air,

But Merlin's Isle of Gramarye,
Where you and I will fare.

THE WAY THROUGH THE WOODS

HEY shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.

Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.

It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.

Only the keeper sees

That, where the ring-dove broods,

And the badgers roll at ease,

There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods

Of a summer evening late,

When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools Where the otter whistles his mate

(They fear not men in the woods,

Because they see so few),

You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through

The misty solitudes,

As though they perfectly knew

The old lost road through the woods

But there is no road through the woods.

A THREE-PART SONG

'M just in love with all these three,

I'

The Weald and the Marsh and the Down countrie;

Nor I don't know which I love the most,

The Weald or the Marsh or the white chalk coast!

I've buried my heart in a ferny hill,

Twix' a liddle low shaw an' a great high gill.
Oh hop-bine yaller an' wood-smoke blue,
I reckon you'll keep her middling true!

I've loosed my mind for to out and run
On a Marsh that was old when Kings begun.
Oh Romney Level and Brenzett reeds,

I reckon you know what my mind needs!

I've given my soul to the Southdown grass,
And sheep-bells tinkled where you pass.
Oh Firle an' Ditchling an' sails at sea,
I reckon you keep my soul for me!