At Wednesbury there was a cocking,
A match between Newton and Scroggins;
The colliers and nailers left work,
And all to old Spittle's went jogging.
To see this noble sport,
Many noblemen resorted;
And though they'd but little money,
Yet that little they freely sported.

There was Jeffret and Colborn from Hampton,
And Dusty from Bilston was there;
Plummery he came from Darlaston,
And he was as rude as a bear.
There was old Will from Walsall,
And Smacker from Westbromwich come;
Blind Robin he came from Rowley,

At twilight time, when the lamps are lit,
Father coyote comes to sit
At the chaparral's edge, on the mountain-side —
Comes to listen and to deride
The rancher's hound and the rancher's son,
The passer-by and everyone.
And we pause at milking-time to hear
His reckless carolling, shrill and clear, —
His terse and swift and valorous troll,
Ribald, rollicking, scornful, droll,
As one might sing in coyotedom:
" Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum! "

Yet well I wot there is little ease
Where the turkeys roost in the almond trees,

At this remote village, I have no neighbors.
In my thatched house, late at night: rain.
A dog barks somewhere out in the fields.
The cook whispers softly in the kitchen.

Ye years unknown, what sorrow and delight
For mortals yet unborn have ye in store!
Behold! I think upon the past no more,
But give my thoughts to you by day and night.
For you I toil, forgetful of the flight
Of fleeting years that I am wafted o'er,
Expecting happiness, unknown before,
In future days of glory calm and bright.

But who can tell how far I have to go
On life's untiring path? or knows the things
Ye yet may bring to pain my heaving breast?

O come propitiously: for in my woe
How often do I wish that I had wings

At the top of this ridge I could whistle happily.
Down at the bottom — I'm feeling depressed!
Looking back now at the thousand peaks:
there — the one lost in the clouds is Mount Lo-fu.

At the top of the house the apples are laid in rows,
And the skylight lets the moonlight in, and those
Apples are deep-sea apples of green. There goes
A cloud on the moon in the autumn night

A mouse in the wainscot scratches, and scratches, and then
There is no sound at the top of the house of men
Or mice; and the cloud is blown, and the moon again
Dapples the apples with deep-sea light.

They are lying in rows there, under the gloomy beams;
On the sagging floor; they gather the silver streams

At the time of the White Dawn;
At the time of the White Dawn,
I arose and went away.
At Blue Nightfall I went away.

I ate the thornapple leaves
And the leaves made me dizzy.
I drank the thornapple flowers
And the drink made me stagger.

The hunter, Bow-Remaining,
He overtook and killed me,
Cut and threw my horns away.
The hunter, Reed-Remaining,
He overtook and killed me,
Cut and threw my feet away.

Now the flies become crazy
And they drop with flapping wings.
The drunken butterflies sit

At the siege of Belle Isle,
I was there all the while--
All the while,
All the while,
At the siege of Belle Isle.

AT THE M UEZZIN'S CALL for prayer,
The kneeling faithful thronged the square,
And on Pushkara's lofty height
The dark priest chanted Brahma's might.
Amid a monastery's weeds
An old Franciscan told his beads,

While to the synagogue there came
A Jew, to praise Jehovah's name.
The one great God looked down and smiled
And counted each his loving child;
For Turk and Brahmin, monk and Jew
Had reached Him through the gods they knew.

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone vale we loved when life was warm in thine eye,
And I think that if spirits can steal from the regions of air
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,
And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky!

Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear!
When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear,
And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,
I think, oh, my love! 'tis thy voice from the kingdom of souls,