Old Timbrook was a black horse
black as any crow
Old Timbrook was a black horse
black as any crow
Had a white ring 'round his fore-paw
white as any snow

Yes old Timbrook he come darting
like a bullet from a gun
Old Timbrook he come darting
like a bullet from a gun
And old Molly she come creeping
like a criminal to be hung

Johnny Walker, Johnny Walker,
Johnny Walker my dear son
Johnny Walker, Johnny Walker,
Johnny Walker my dear son
Hold tight rein on Timbrook
so that horse could run

AN OLD SWEETHEART of mine! — Is this her presence here with me,
Or but a vain creation of a lover's memory?
A fair, illusive vision that would vanish into air,
Dared I even touch the silence with the whisper of a prayer?

Nay, let me then believe in all the blended false and true —
The semblance of the old love and the substance of the new , —
The then of changeless sunny days — the now of shower and shine —
But Love forever smiling — as that old sweetheart of mine.

This ever restful sense of home though shouts ring in the hall, —

 Old stories of a Tyler sing
That did attempt to be a king.
Our age is with a tiler graced,
By more preposterous planets raised.
His cap with Jocky's matched together,
Turned to a beaver and a feather;
His clay transformed to yellow gilt,
And trowel to a silver hilt.

 His lady from the tiles and bricks
Kidnapped to court in coach and six;
Her arms a sucking prince embrace,
Whate'er you think, of royal race;
A prince come in the nick of time
(Blessed d'Adda!), 'tis a venial crime
That shall repair our breach of state;

The old squaw
is one
with the old stone behind her.
Both have squatted there —
ask mesa
or mountain, how long?
The bowl she holds —
clay ritual of her faith —
is one
with the thought of the past,
and one with the now,
though dim, a little old, strange.
The earth holds her
as she holds the bowl —
ask kiva
or shrine, how much longer?
No titan
or destroyer
or future thought
can part
earth and this woman,
woman and bowl:
the same shawl
wraps them around.

An old silver church in a forest
Is my love for you
The trees around it
Are words that I have stolen from your heart.
An old silver bell, the last smile you gave,
Hangs at the top of my church.
It rings only when you come through the forest
And stand beside it.
And then, it has no need for ringing,
For your smile takes its place.

The old saltman, hair turned white,
in his hovel of thatch:
the sixth month come, he boils down the salt
beside the blistering fire.
He steps outside and stands a while
in the raging sun:
for him, this moment out of doors
counts as cooling off.

On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross,
The emblem of suff'ring and shame;
And I love that old cross, where the dearest and best
For a world of lost sinners was slain.

Chorus

So I'll cherish the old rugged cross,
Till my trophies at last I lay down;
I will cling to the old rugged cross,
And exchange it some day for a crown.

Oh, that old rugged cross, so despised by the world,
Has a wondrous attraction for me;
For the dear Lamb of God left His glory above,
To bear it to dark Calvary.

I

The old rude church, with bare, bald tower, is here;
—Beneath its shadow high-born Rotha flows;
Rotha, remembering well who slumbers near,
—And with cool murmur lulling his repose.

Rotha, remembering well who slumbers near.
—His hills, his lakes, his streams are with him yet.
Surely the heart that reads her own heart clear
—Nature forgets not soon: 'tis we forget.

We that with vagrant soul his fixity
—Have slighted; faithless, done his deep faith wrong;
Left him for poorer loves, and bowed the knee

The old priest Peter Gilligan
Was weary night and day;
For half his flock were in their beds,
Or under green sods lay.

Once, while he nodded on a chair,
At the moth-hour of eve
Another poor man sent for him,
And he began to grieve.

'I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,
For people die and die';
And after cried he, 'God forgive!
My body spake, not I!'

He knelt, and leaning on the chair
He prayed and fell asleep;
And the moth-hour went from the fields,
And stars began to peep.

The slowly into millions grew,

Old pine trees, their shaggy manes
twirled in a dance by the wind;
row on row of tombs, one wisp of smoke
rising from nowhere.
The lords and princes who once lived
along Bronze Camel Avenue
have become the dust that settles on the traveler's face.
The white poplar on top of the mountain
has turned into an old woman
who spends each night in the fields,
chasing away tigers of stone.
Officials come to this place, face north
toward the Mausoleum of Longevity,
and give thanks that the crows who perch here
speak Chinese.