Project Gutenberg's Songs of Three Counties, by Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Songs of Three Counties And Other Poems Author: Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall Release Date: December 2, 2015 [EBook #50591] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF THREE COUNTIES *** Produced by MWS, Carolyn Jablonski and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) SONGS OF THREE COUNTIES AND OTHER POEMS With an Introduction by R. B. CUNNINGHAME-GRAHAM By MARGUERITE RADCLYFFE-HALL LONDON CHAPMAN & HALL, Ltd. 1913. Dedicated to The Marchioness of Anglesey CONTENTS Introduction by R. B. Cunninghame Graham ix Rustic Courting: Walking Out 1 The Shadow of Raggedstone 3 The Long Green Lanes of England 5 The Hills 7 Eastnor Churchyard 8 The Malvern Hills 9 The First Cuckoo 11 Dusk in the Lane 12 The Meeting-Place 13 By the Avon 15 Jealousy 16 In the City 18 I be Thinkin’ 19 Sunday Evening 20 The Ledbury Train 21 Jilted 22 Casend Hill 23 The Ledbury Road 24 The Call to London 25 Bredon 27 Our Dead 28 Primrose Flowers 29 Tramping 30 The Blind Ploughman 32 Miscellaneous Poems: When the Wind comes up the Hill 35 Peace 36 Lime-Trees 37 A Little Song 38 The Song of the Watcher 39 By the River 41 The Road to Colla 42 Prayer 43 Dawn 45 To the Earth 46 Dawn Among the Olive Groves 48 Silent Places 49 One Evening near Nice 50 Thoughts at Ajaccio 51 Three Child-Songs: The Thrush’s Song 52 Willow Wand 53 A Winter Song 55 Autumn in Sussex 56 Si Parva Licet Componere Magnis 57 To Italy 59 Sunday in Liguria 60 Georgetown, U.S.A. 61 On the Potomac River, U.S.A. 63 The Lost Word 65 Comparisons 66 A Fragment 67 Appreciations 69 Press Notices 73 W INTRODUCTION ITH as much grace as if a monoplanist should attempt to write a preface to a book on flying for an albatross, so may a writer of mere prose attempt to pen an introduction to a book of poetry. The bird and man both use the air, but with a difference. So do the poet and the man of prose use pen and ink. Familiarity with tools, used in two branches of one art (or trade), is apt to prove a snare. Music and poetry, the most ethereal of the arts upon the face of them, are in a way more mathematical than prose, for both have formulæ. Hence, their appeal goes quicker to men’s minds, and oversteps countries and languages to some degree, and makes it difficult to write about them. Of late, young poets, those who have bulked the largest in the public eye, those that the world has hailed as modern, have often been obscure. What is modernity? To be modern is to touch the senses of the age you write for. To me, a fool who owns a motor-car is just as great a fool as was a fool of the stone age. The only true modernity is talent, and Lucian of Samosata was as modern to the full as Guy de Maupassant. The poet for whose verses I am writing this my introduction, preface, foreword, call it what you will, is one of those whose meaning he who runs may read. Does she do well in making herself clear? I think so, for though there are those who prefer a mist of words, holding apparently that poetry should be written in Chinook, or Malagasy, this opinion must of necessity be of the nature of what Ben Jonson called a “humour.” Few men to-day read Eupheus and fewer Gongora. Yet in their time their concepts were considered to be fine flowers of poetry. Those who wrote so that all men could understand, as Sapho, Campion, Jorge Maurique, Petrarca, Villon, and their fellow-singers in the celestial spheres where poets sing, crowned with the bays of the approval of countless generations, all wrote clearly. Their verses all were clear as is the water running over chalk in a south country trout-stream, such as the Itchin or the Test. I take two specimens of Miss Radclyffe-Hall’s poetry to illustrate what I have said. She writes of a blind ploughman, whose prayer is to his friend to set him in the sun. “Turn my face towards the East And praise be to God.” One sees him sitting, wrinkled and bent, and ploughworn in the sun, and thanking God according to his faith, for light interior, for that interior vision which all the mystics claim. “God who made His sun to shine On both you and me, God who took away my eyes, That my soul might see.” This shows the poet in an unusual light, for most poets write on far different subjects; but here is one which is eternal, and has been eternal since the time of Œdipus. Again in the verses, “Thoughts at Ajaccio,” she shows a love of the earth and of its fulness, a feeling which has been the birthright of all English writers of good verse from the remotest times. “Fill me with scent of upturned ground, Soft perfume from thy bosom drawn.” This is the feeling that has inspired so many poets, and shows the writer not striving to be modern or filled with strange conceits; but with a love and trust of the brown earth, from which all poets take their birth, and into which they all return. R. B. Cunninghame Graham. RUSTIC COURTING 1 I WALKING OUT Upon a Sunday afternoon, When no one else was by, The little girl from Hanley way, She came and walked with I. We climbed nigh to the Beacon top, And never word spoke we, But oh! we heard the thrushes sing Within the cherry tree. The cherry tree was all a-bloom, And Malvern lay below, And far away the Severn wound— ’Twas like a silver bow. She took my arm, I took her hand, And never word we said, But oh! I knew her eyes were brown, Her lips were sweet and red. And when I brought her home again, The stars were up above, And ’twas the nightingale that swelled His little throat with love! 2 3 II THE SHADOW OF RAGGEDSTONE O Raggedstone, you darksome hill, Your shadow fell for sure Upon my own dear love and I, Across the purple moor. For we were such a happy pair, The day we climbed your crest; And now my love she lays her head Upon another’s breast. She sits beside another man, And walks abroad with he, And never sheds a single tear, Or thinks a thought o’ me! My mind it seems a-fire like, My heart’s as cold as lead, My prayers they dry upon my lips And somehow won’t get said. I wish that I could lay me down, Upon the dreary plain That stretches out to Raggedstone,* And never rise again! * A legend is attached to Raggedstone Hill in Worcestershire. The Hill was cursed by a Benedictine Monk. From time to time a great shadow rises up from it, spreading across the surrounding country. Woe betide those on whom the shadow falls, as it brings with it terrible misfortune! Many of the people living near Raggedstone still firmly believe in this legend. 4 5 III THE LONG GREEN LANES OF ENGLAND Oh! the long green lanes of England! They be very far away, And it’s there that I’d be walking, ’Mid the hawthorn and the may. Where the trees are all in blossom, And the mating birds they sing Fit to bust their little bodies, Out of joy because it’s Spring. I’d be courting of my true love, She’d be in her Sunday best, With my arm around her shoulder And her head upon my breast. For the new land it’s a fine land, Where a man can get a start; But there’s that about the old land That will grip his very heart: For he’ll mind him o’ the cowslips, Coming up all fresh and new In the fields of early mornings, Where the grass is white with dew. Oh! it’s money, money, money, “Go and try to earn a bit;” And “America’s the country For the lad as doesn’t quit.” Seems that folks go mad on money, Well, I’ll have enough some day, But the long green lanes of England They be Oh! so far away! 6 7 IV THE HILLS When I the hills of Malvern see, There comes a sadness over me. The reason why, I cannot tell, Perhaps I love those hills too well. But this I know, when I behold Their springtime green, and autumn gold, And see that year by year they bear Such witness that God’s earth is fair, I’m happy for their beauty’s sake, And yet my heart begins to ache. 8 V EASTNOR CHURCHYARD I be hopin’ you remember, Now the Spring has come again, How we used to gather violets By the little church at Eastnor, For we were so happy then! O my love, do you remember Kisses that you took and gave? There be violets now in plenty By the little church at Eastnor, But they’re growing on your grave. 9 VI THE MALVERN HILLS The Malvern Hills be green some days, And some days purple-blue, There never was the like of them The whole of England through. From Hanley straight into the Wells The road runs long and white, And there the hills they meet your gaze Against the evening light. Against the evening light they stand, So proud, and dark, and old, The Raggedstone and Hollybush, And Worcester Beacon bold. No matter where you chance to be, However far away, You’ll see the hills awaiting you At close of every day. Oh! it’s a lovely sight to see The twilight stealing down Their steepish banks and little paths, Along to Malvern town. And maybe on the Severn side, Hung low on Bredon’s mound, The big red harvest moon will rise, So lazy-like and round. They talks a lot o’ foreign parts, Them as has seen them do, But give me Malvern Hills at dusk All green or purple-blue! 10 11 VII THE FIRST CUCKOO To-day I heard the cuckoo call, Atop of Bredon Hill, I heard him near the blackthorn bush, And Oh! my heart stood still! For it was just a year ago, That to my love I said, “When next we hear the cuckoo call, Then you and I will wed.” My love and I we still be two, And will be, many Springs; I think the saddest sound on earth Is when the cuckoo sings. 12 VIII DUSK IN THE LANE Come, put yer little hand in mine, And let it be at rest, It minds me of a tired bird Within a warm brown nest; And bend that pretty head o’ your’n, And lay it on my breast. The lambs they all be wearied out, I penned them in the fold; The lights along the Malvern Hills They shine like stars o’ gold; And yonder rises up the moon, All round, and big, and bold. There’s not a single passer-by, Nor sound along the lane, And Oh! the earth be smelling sweet, Like meadows after rain. Then come a little closer, maid, And kiss me once again. 13 IX THE MEETING-PLACE I mind me of the hawthorn trees, With cuckoos flying near; The hawthorn blossoms smelt so sweet, The cuckoo called so clear! The hill was steep enough to climb, It seemed to touch the sky! You saw two valleys from the top, The Severn and the Wye. The Severn and the Wye you saw, And they were always green; I think it was the prettiest sight That I have ever seen. And there, so far above the town, With not a soul to see, Whenever she could slip away My love would come to me! I never smell the hawthorn bloom, Or hear the cuckoo sing, But I am minded of my love, And Malvern Hills in Spring! 14 15