English

Draw near to the tables, ye that wear the cloaks;
Here ye have flesh, but it is not roast flesh,
Nor boiled in pots, nor cooked for feasting,
But my dear Bourke—och, och. after been slain.

You, young women, who are drinking wine there,
Let my sharp screeches pierce your heart.
If I am wise I may get whatever is my lot,
But you will never—och, och. och—get another brother!

O young woman, don't you pity my sorrow?
My mourning over the bier of my spouse?
A lock of his hair is within my purse,

Drake, he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,
Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,
An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin',
He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,

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.

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;

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;