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! 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. 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! 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. 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. 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! 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. 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. 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! X
BY THE AVON In the meadows by the Avon, Underneath the slope of Bredon, There we often used to wander, My girl and I. All around the thrushes singing, And on Sunday, church bells ringing, Overhead the soft clouds floating, White in the sky. Still the waters of the Avon Flow so gently under Bredon, And on Sunday bells be ringing, Clouds floating high. But I’m sick at heart and lonely, Nothing here has changed, save only Just we two, who once were courting, My girl and I. XI
JEALOUSY I see’d yer turn the other day To watch a chap go by, Because he wore a uniform, And held his shoulders high. And then yer wouldn’t even smile, Or say a word to I! A kid he was, all pink and white, And strutting like a chick, A tassel at his silly side, And carrying a stick. And yet yer thought the world o’ him, And started breathin’ quick— The same as when I kissed yer first, Oh! maybe you forget! But you was desperate sweet on I, I mind yer blushes yet. But now yer says me hands are rough, Me coat will never set. Me hands they bean’t lily white, Me coat may not be trim, But you may know, if fightin’ comes, I’ll fight as well as him, Although they pad his shoulders out To make his waist look slim. I haven’t got no buttons on A showy coat of red; I haven’t got no soldier’s cap To wear upon me head. But I can love yer just the same, When all be done and said! XII
IN THE CITY Oh! City girls are pale-like, And proud-like, and cold-like, And nineteen out of twenty Have never been our way. I tells them of the tall hills, The green hills, the old hills, Where hawthorns are a-blossoming, And thrushes call all day. Oh! London is a fine place, A big place, a rich place, Where nineteen out of twenty Of all the girls are fair. But well I knows a white road, A long road, a straight road, That leads me into Bosbury; I’m wishing I was there! XIII
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 I rode through Eastnor woods to-day, And all the air did promise May, Did promise May till every tree Found voice to make much melody. And oh, the primrose flowers! they glowed In thousands all along the road, Spreading their magic through the grove, Like countless hoards of treasure-trove. I said, “Perchance ’tis God who threw These golden coins from out the blue, That with such bounty He might buy The thoughts of one so poor as I!” XXIII
TRAMPING Oh! it’s good to be alive, man, Good to take the road and tramp, When the morning smells of meadows, And the lanes are cool and damp. And the little furry creatures Think the world is theirs for play, Sitting still to watch you coming, Half afraid to run away. There’s just light enough to see by, Growing stronger as you go; And the air is sort o’ hushed-like, Breathing very long and slow. And the mountains near by Monmouth Seem to melt into the sky; And the banks along of Ross way Seem to melt into the Wye. And there’s not a human stirring, To disturb the field or fen. Oh! you’ll never find your God, man, If you do not find Him then! XXIV
THE BLIND PLOUGHMAN Set my hands upon the plough, My feet upon the sod; Turn my face towards the east, And praise be to God! Every year the rains do fall, The seeds they stir and spring; Every year the spreading trees Shelter birds that sing. From the shelter of your heart, Brother—drive out sin, Let the little birds of faith Come and nest therein. God has made His sun to shine On both you and me; God, who took away my eyes, That my soul might see!
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