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But there within John Nicholson
Turned him on Mehtab Singh,
"So long as the soul is in my body
You shall not do this thing.

"Have ye served us for a hundred years
And yet ye know not why?

We brook no doubt of our mastery ;
We rule until we die.

"Were I the one last Englishman
Drawing the breath of life,

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"Were I," he said, "but a corporal,

And you a Rajput king,

So long as the soul was in my body
You should not do this thing.

"Take off, take off, those shoes of pride,
Carry them whence they came;
Your captains saw your insolence,
And they shall see your shame."

When Mehtab Singh came to the door

His shoes they burned his hand,

For there in long and silent lines
He saw the captains stand.

When Mehtab Singh rode from the gate

His chin was on his breast:

The captains said, "When the strong command Obedience is best."

Sherwood.

SHERWOOD in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake? Grey and ghostly shadows are gliding through the brake;

Shadows of the dappled deer, dreaming of the morn, Dreaming of a shadowy man that winds a shadowy

horn.

Robin Hood is here again: all his merry thieves Hear a ghostly bugle note shivering through the leaves,

Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,

In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

Merry, merry England has kissed the lips of June:
All the wings of fairyland were here beneath the

moon;

Like a flight of rose-leaves fluttering in a mist
Of opal and ruby and pearl and amethyst.

Merry, merry England is waking as of old,

With eyes of blither hazel and hair of brighter gold; For Robin Hood is here again beneath the bursting

spray

In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

Love is in the greenwood, building him a house
Of wild rose and hawthorn and honeysuckle boughs;
Love is in the greenwood, dawn is in the skies;
And Marian is waiting with a glory in her eyes.

Hark! The dazzled laverock climbs the golden steep; Marian is waiting, is Robin Hood asleep?

Round the fairy grass-rings frolic elf and fay,

In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

Oberon, Oberon, rake away the gold,

Rake away the red leaves, roll away the mould,
Rake away the gold leaves, roll away the red,
And wake Will Scarlett from his leafy forest bed.

Friar Tuck and Little John are riding down together With quarter-staff and drinking can and grey goose feather;

The dead are coming back again; the years are rolled away

In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

Softly over Sherwood the south wind blows;
All the heart of England hid in every rose

Hears across the greenwood the sunny whisper leap,
Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?

Hark! the voice of England wakes him as of old
And, shattering the silence with a cry of brighter

gold,

Bugles in the greenwood echo from the steep,
Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?

Where the deer are gliding down the shadowy glen,
All across the glades of fern he calls his merry men ;
Doublets of the Lincoln green glancing through the
May

In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day;

Calls them and they answer: from aisles of oak and ash

Rings the Follow! Follow! and the boughs begin to crash;

The ferns begin to flutter and the flowers begin to

fly;

And through the crimson dawning the robber band goes by.

Robin! Robin! Robin! All his merry thieves

Answer as the bugle-note shivers through the leaves; Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,

In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

The Old Sceptic.

I AM weary of disbelieving: why should I wound my love

To pleasure a sophist's pride in a graven image of truth?

I will go back to my home, with the clouds and the stars above,

And the heaven I used to know, and the God of my buried youth.

I will go back to the home, where of old in my boyish pride

I pierced my father's heart with a murmur of unbelief;

He only looked in my face as I spoke, but his mute eyes cried

Night after night in my dreams; and he died in grief, in grief.

Oh, yes; I have read the books, the books that we write ourselves,

Extolling our love of an abstract truth and our pride of debate;

I will go back to the love of the cotter who sings as he delves,

To that childish infinite love and the God above

fact and date.

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