Chapter I: Be Thinkin’

THE hillside green with bracken, And the red plough land, The brownish hurrying rivers, Where the willows stand. The thickets and the meadows, And the strong oak trees; O, tell me traveller, have yer Seen the like o’ these?

The mists along the common, At the close of day, They’re lovely when the twilight Makes the vale look grey. The lanes be long and lonely, But they all lead home; I be thinkin’ lads are foolish When they wants to roam!

XIV

SUNDAY EVENING

THE noontide showers have drifted past, The sunset’s on the hill, The lights be gleaming through the dusk, Adown by Clincher’s Mill.

It’s such a pretty evening, maid, All quiet-like, and blue; With here and there a darksome cloud That lets the silver through.

The folk be all in Sunday best, I see’d ’em passing by; Then come along the quiet lane, And walk a bit with I.

XV

THE LEDBURY TRAIN

FROM Wind’s Point hill at eventide, I see the train go by; The train that goes to Ledbury, Along the vale of Wye.

It wanders through the clustered hops, And through the green hedgerows, It minds me of a fairy thing, So gliding-like it goes.

And standing there on Wind’s Point hill, Within the sunset glow, The purple shadows over Wales, The little train below.

With all the pine trees whispering, And turning softly blue; I feel as though I were a child, With fairy tales come true!

XVI

JILTED

OH! golden is the gorse-bush, Beneath an April sky, The lark is full of singing, The clouds are white and high; But my love, my love is faithless, And she cares no more for I!

Then what’s the good of living, With the bright sun overhead, When the earth is always ready And will give a kinder bed, Where no vows be made or broken, And no bitter words are said!

XVII

CASEND HILL

O CASEND HILL, I be so heavy-hearted, So lonesome-like since from my love I parted, That when the bracken on your sides is springing, And all the mating thrushes start a-singing, A kind of fear across my mind comes creeping, I feel as though I’d surely fall a-weeping!

O Casend Hill, the Spring does not forsake you, At winter’s close the sun comes back to wake you; And year by year the same sweet wind it passes, To stir the lark that’s nesting in your grasses; But no one comes to ask me how I’m faring, In all the world there’s not a soul that’s caring!

XVIII

THE LEDBURY ROAD

THE road that leads to Ledbury Oh! it be such a pretty way, As far as Wales you’ll likely see, Suppose the month be May.

The little birds they sing and sing, The blackbirds and the thrushes do, And after rain in early Spring The grass looks green and new.

I wish that I were walking there, Along that road so still and wide, A lad without a thought or care, My true-love at my side!

XIX

THE CALL TO LONDON

OH! come to London, young lad, Lots is to be seen! But he said: “I cannot come, maid, Till the cuckoos all be dumb, maid, On the hills of green.”

Oh! come to London, brave lad, Come and leave the plough. But he said: “The blackthorn’s springing, And a mottled thrush is singing In the cherry bough.”

Oh! come to London, fine lad, Here’s where money flows. But he said: “There’s gold in plenty, Gold enough and more for twenty, Where the kingcup grows.”

Oh! come to London, strong lad, I am wanting you. But he said: “It be a grand sight, When the stars at midnight Stretch along the blue.”

Oh! come to London, dear lad, I am fair to see! But he said: “Along of our way Trees are thick with white may, Wonderful they be!”

XX

BREDON

BREDON is a lonesome hill, It hasn’t any brothers; It stands within the Severn vale, Apart from all the others.

The Cotswold Hills go hand in hand, The Malverns touching shoulder; But Bredon all alone does stand, More proud than they, and bolder.

Then it’s on Bredon I will roam The livelong summer through; For I’ve no brothers, I’ve no mate, And I be lonesome too!

XXI

OUR DEAD

THE day our dead are laid to rest We heap the earth upon their breast; Upon the earth we set a stone, And then we leave them all alone.

Some folks they weep, and some they pray, But from the grave they’ll turn away. There’s wood to chop, and fires to make, And food to cook, and bread to bake.

Another takes the empty seat, For men who live must drink and eat; And work is waiting to be done, The work of two, that’s now for one.

We sometimes speak of folks that’s dead, Of what they did, and what they said; We sometimes think of them at night, But sometimes we forget them quite.

XXII

PRIMROSE FLOWERS