Sing me a song of the west country

Where 'priest and peasant still abide;

Where giant cliffs come down to the sea

To lave their feet in the long green tide;

Atlantic rollers, huge and free,

Beat high on the coast of Brittany!

II

Sing of the pearly sky hung low,

Of verdant forests girding the land!

Where heather and gorse on the hillsides glow,

The long gray lines of the Menhir stand,

Guarding their secret constantly

Through age-long silence, in Brittany.

III

The high-flung roofs in lichen decked,

Yellow and green and golden-brown,

With tiny flowers and weeds o'er-flecked,

Shelter the cottages of the town;

While up from the chimneys, silently,

Floats the thin, blue smoke of Brittany.

IV

A gleam of brass through the open door,

Of walled-in bed of carven oak,

Of polished flags upon the floor,

Neath heavy rafters black with smoke;

The song of the wheel as, cannily,

The wife spins her flax in Brittany.

V

The sabots clatter down the street,

The church bell sounds across the bay,

The brown sails of the fishing fleet

Grow black against the dying day;

While sun and 'peace sink glowingly

Upon the land of Brittany.

VI

Mystic and weird is the ancient tale

Of Arthur and Merlin, and knights of old,

Of Celtic ardor, and holy Grail,

Of Church, and Priest, and Castlehold!

Of Prince and Peasant ardently

Guarding the faith in Brittany.

VII

Land of the Legends! Country of Dreams—

Of Saints, and Pardons, and Ancient Faith!

Deep-hidden beside your forest streams

Still live the sprites and ghostly wraith!

Land of Crosses, where, fervently,

The peasants still pray in Brittany!

VIII

Brave are your sons as they sail the seas

'Mid storm and tempest and winter gale!

Brave the wife as she waits on the leas

For the distant gleam of homing sail!

Brave and patient and earnestly

The peasants still pray in Brittany!

—Elsie Deming Jarves.