Charles Kingsley

It chanced upon the merry merry Christmas eve, I went sighing past the church across the moorland dreary - 'Oh! never sin and want and woe this earth will leave,

My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray; Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I'll leave you,

Twin stars, aloft in ether clear, Around each other roll alway, Within one common atmosphere

The merry merry lark was up and singing, And the hare was out and feeding on the lea; And the merry merry bells below were ringing,

Dreary East winds howling o'er us; Clay-lands knee-deep spread before us; Mire and ice and snow and sleet;

Oh she tripped over Ocknell plain, And down by Bradley Water; And the fairest maid on the forest side

The church bells were ringing, the devil sat singing On the stump of a rotting old tree; 'Oh faith it grows cold, and the creeds they grow old,

I heard an Eagle crying all alone Above the vineyards through the summer night, Among the skeletons of robber towers:

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; Oh the pleasant sight to see Shires and towns from Airly Beacon,

Weep, weep, weep and weep, For pauper, dolt, and slave! Hark! from wasted moor and fen,

Over the sea, past Crete, on the Syrian shore to the southward, Dwells in the well-tilled lowland a dark-haired AEthiop people, Skilful with needle and loom, and the arts of the dyer and carver,

It was Earl Haldan's daughter, She looked across the sea; She looked across the water;

1 'Are you ready for your steeple-chase, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree? Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree,

Jesus, He loves one and all, Jesus, He loves children small, Their souls are waiting round His feet

How will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day? A northern Christmas, such as painters love, And kinsfolk, shaking hands but once a year,

I cannot tell what you say, green leaves, I cannot tell what you say: But I know that there is a spirit in you,

The world goes up and the world goes down, And the sunshine follows the rain; And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown

Linger no more, my beloved, by abbey and cell and cathedral; Mourn not for holy ones mourning of old them who knew not the Father, Weeping with fast and scourge, when the bridegroom was taken from them.

They drift away. Ah, God! they drift for ever. I watch the stream sweep onward to the sea, Like some old battered buoy upon a roaring river,

(Written for music to be sung at a parish industrial exhibition) See the land, her Easter keeping, Rises as her Maker rose.

Wearily stretches the sand to the surge, and the surge to the cloudland; Wearily onward I ride, watching the water alone. Not as of old, like Homeric Achilles, ??de? ya???,

Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and good, To point us out this way to glory - They're no great shakes, those Snowdon Lakes,

Ah tyrant Love, Megaera's serpents bearing, Why thus requite my sighs with venom'd smart? Ah ruthless dove, the vulture's talons wearing,

Accept this building, gracious Lord, No temple though it be; We raised it for our suffering kin,

And should she die, her grave should be Upon the bare top of a sunny hill, Among the moorlands of her own fair land,

I would have loved:    there are no mates in heaven; I would be great:    there is no pride in heaven; I would have sung, as doth the nightingale

List a tale a fairy sent us Fresh from dear Mundi Juventus. When Love and all the world was young,

Ask if I love thee?    Oh, smiles cannot tell Plainer what tears are now showing too well. Had I not loved thee, my sky had been clear:

Come hearken, hearken, gentles all, Come hearken unto me, And I'll sing you a song of a Wood-Lyon

Forward!    Hark forward's the cry! One more fence and we're out on the open, So to us at once, if you want to live near us!

I once had a sweet little doll, dears, The prettiest doll in the world; Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears,

Hence a while, severer Muses; Spare your slaves till drear October. Hence; for Alma Mater chooses

Welcome, wild North-easter. Shame it is to see Odes to every zephyr;

See how the autumn leaves float by decaying, Down the wild swirls of the rain-swollen stream. So fleet the works of men, back to their earth again;

So die, thou child of stormy dawn, Thou winter flower, forlorn of nurse; Chilled early by the bigot's curse,

A King is dead!    Another master mind Is summoned from the world-wide council hall. Ah, for some seer, to say what links behind -

Ye mountains, on whose torrent-furrowed slopes, And bare and silent brows uplift to heaven, I envied oft the soul which fills your wastes

There is no inn in Snowdon which is not awful dear, Excepting Pen-y-gwrydd (you can't pronounce it, dear), Which standeth in the meeting of noble valleys three -

Espion aile de la jeune amante De l'ombre des palmiers pourquoi ce cri? Laisse en paix le beau garcon plaider et vaincre -

Thank God!    Those gazers' eyes are gone at last! The guards are crouching underneath the rock; The lights are fading in the town below,

She lay among the myrtles on the cliff; Above her glared the noon; beneath, the sea. Upon the white horizon Atho's peak

Oh, forth she went like a braw, braw bride To meet her winsome groom, When she was aware of twa bonny birds

Speak low, speak little; who may sing While yonder cannon-thunders boom? Watch, shuddering, what each day may bring:

There sits a bird on every tree; Sing heigh-ho! There sits a bird on every tree,

The baby sings not on its mother's breast; Nor nightingales who nestle side by side; Nor I by thine:    but let us only part,

Oh, thou hadst been a wife for Shakspeare's self! No head, save some world-genius, ought to rest Above the treasures of that perfect breast,

The merry brown hares came leaping Over the crest of the hill, Where the clover and corn lay sleeping

The Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand: Its storms roll up the sky: The nations sleep starving on heaps of gold;

Wild wild wind, wilt thou never cease thy sighing? Dark dark night, wilt thou never wear away? Cold cold church, in thy death sleep lying,

The boy on the famous gray pony, Just bidding good-bye at the door, Plucking up maiden heart for the fences

Yon sound's neither sheep-bell nor bark, They're running - they're running, Go hark! The sport may be lost by a moment's delay;

Come away with me, Tom, Term and talk are done; My poor lads are reaping,

'So the foemen have fired the gate, men of mine; And the water is spent and gone? Then bring me a cup of the red Ahr-wine:

Hark! hark! hark! The lark sings high in the dark. The were wolves mutter, the night hawks moan,

Oh England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high, But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I; And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again

Down beside the loathly Pitch Lake, In the stately Morichal, [2] Sat an ancient Spanish Indian,

Over the camp-fires Drank I with heroes, Under the Donau bank,

He wiled me through the furzy croft; He wiled me down the sandy lane. He told his boy's love, soft and oft,

A floating, a floating Across the sleeping sea, All night I heard a singing bird

It was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang, A feckless hairy oubit, and merrily he sang - 'My Minnie bad me bide at hame until I won my wings;

Oh, I wadna be a yeoman, mither, to follow my father's trade, To bow my back in miry banks, at pleugh and hoe and spade. Stinting wife, and bairns, and kye, to fat some courtier lord, -

Underneath their eider-robe Russet swede and golden globe, Feathered carrot, burrowing deep,

It was Sir John, the fair young Priest, He strode up off the strand; But seven fisher maidens he left behind

The King was drinking in Malwood Hall, There came in a monk before them all: He thrust by squire, he thrust by knight,

'O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home

A harper came over the Danube so wide, And he came into Alaric's hall, And he sang the song of the little Baltung

O blessed drums of Aldershot! O blessed South-west train! O blessed, blessed Speaker's clock,

Early in spring time, on raw and windy mornings, Beneath the freezing house-eaves I heard the starlings sing - 'Ah dreary March month, is this then a time for building wearily?

Soft soft wind, from out the sweet south sliding, Waft thy silver cloud webs athwart the summer sea; Thin thin threads of mist on dewy fingers twining

Evil sped the battle play On the Pope Calixtus' day; Mighty war-smiths, thanes and lords,

Three fishers went sailing away to the West, Away to the West as the sun went down; Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,

Clear and cool, clear and cool, By laughing shallow, and dreaming pool; Cool and clear, cool and clear,

How sleeps yon rock, whose half-day's bath is done. With broad blight side beneath the broad bright sun, Like sea-nymph tired, on cushioned mosses sleeping.

My parents bow, and lead them forth, For all the crowd to see - Ah well! the people might not care

'Watchman, what of the night?' 'The stars are out in the sky; And the merry round moon will be rising soon,

The swevens came up round Harold the Earl, Like motes in the sunnes beam; And over him stood the Weird Lady,

Who will say the world is dying? Who will say our prime is past? Sparks from Heaven, within us lying,

A gay young knight in Burley stood, Beside him pawed his steed so good, His hands he wrung as he were wood

A hasty jest I once let fall - As jests are wont to be, untrue - As if the sum of joy to you

The single eye, the daughter of the light; Well pleased to recognise in lowliest shade Some glimmer of its parent beam, and made

There stood a low and ivied roof, As gazing rustics tell, In times of chivalry and song

Oh!    I wish I were a tiny browny bird from out the south, Settled among the alder-holts, and twittering by the stream; I would put my tiny tail down, and put up my tiny mouth,

When all the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green; And every goose a swan, lad,