Drake, who the world hast conquered like a scroll,
Who saw'st the Arctic and Antarctic Pole,
If men were silent, stars would make thee known:
Phoebus forgets not his companion.

The dragon-fly and I together
Sail up the stream in the summer weather;
He at the stern all green and gold,
And I at the oars, our course to hold.

Above the floor of the level river
The bent blades dip and spring and quiver;
And the dragon-fly is here and there,
Along the water and in the air.

And thus we go as the sunshine mellows;
A pair of Nature's merriest fellows;
For the Spanish cedar is light and true,
And instead of one, it has carried two.

And thus we sail without care or sorrow,

A dozen sandaled saints I see
Walk the sad soil of Galilee.

Right loud I laud the humble land,
And the holy crop she grew.
Yet how I love my leech-fed Rome—
Her tubs and temples, too.
I'd die the death before I'd be
A sandaled saint of Galilee.

So runs our song. And you and I
The Shining One still crucify,
Spit in his face, and pass him by.

A dozen sandaled saints I see
Walk the sad soil of Galilee.

Right loud I laud the humble land,
—And the holy crop she grew.
Yet how I love my leech-fed Rome—

Down, wanton, down! Have you no shame
That at the whisper of Love's name,
Or Beauty's, presto! up you raise
Your angry head and stand at gaze?

Poor bombard-captain, sworn to reach
The ravelin and effect a breach —
Indifferent what you storm or why,
So be that in the breach you die!

Love may be blind, but Love at least
Knows what is man and what mere beast;
Or Beauty wayward, but requires
More delicacy from her squires.

Tell me, my witless, whose one boast
Could be your staunchness at the post,

Down through the snow-drifts in the street
With blustering joy he steers;
His rubber boots are full of feet
And his tippet full of ears.

Down Newport Street, last Sunday night,
Bill stabbed his sweetheart in the breast:
She screamed and fell, a dreadful sight,
And Bill strode on like one possessed.

O Love's a curse to them that's young;
'Twas all because of love and drink;
Why couldn't the silly hold her tongue,
Or stop, before she spoke, to think?

She played with fire, did pretty Nell,
So Bill must hang ere summer's here:
Christ, what a crowd are sent to Hell
Through love, and poverty and beer!

Downe lay the Shepherd Swaine
so sober and demure
Wishing for his wench againe
so bonny and so pure
With his head on hillock lowe
and his arms akimboe,
And all was for the losse of his
hye nonny nonny noe.

His Teares fell as thinne
as water from the still,
His haire upon his chinne
grew like Thyme upon a hill,
His cherry cheekes pale as snowe
did testifye his mickle woe
And all was for the losse of his
hye nonny nonny noe.

Sweet she was, as kind a love
as ever fetter'd Swayne;
Never such a daynty one

Down in the South, by the waste without sail on it,
Far from the zone of the blossom and tree,
Lieth, with winter and whirlwind and wail on it,
Ghost of a land by the ghost of a sea.
Weird is the mist from the summit to base of it;
Sun of its heaven is wizened and grey;
Phantom of life is the light on the face of it —
Never is night on it, never is day!
Here is the shore without flower or bird on it;

1. Down in the jungles lived a maid, Of royal blood though
dusky shade, A marked impression once she made
Upon a Zulu from Matabooloo; And ev'ry morning
he would be Down underneath a bam boo tree,
Awaiting there his love to see And then to her he'd sing:
2. And in this simple jungle way, He wooed the maiden
ev'ry day, By singing what he had to say;
One day he seized her and gently squeezed her; And then beneath the
bamboo green, He begged her to become his queen;
The dusky maiden blushed unseen And joined him in his song.

Down in our cellar on a Monday and a Tuesday,
You should hear the slapping and the rubbing and the muttering,
You should see the bubbles and the steaming and the splashing.
The dark clothes dripping and the white clothes fluttering,
Where old Ellen Sullivan,
Cross Ellen Sullivan,
Kind Ellen Sullivan,
Is washing and ironing, and ironing and washing.

Like a gnarled old root, like a bulb, brown and busy,
With earth and air and water angrily tussling,
Hissing at the flatirons, getting hot and huffy,