SAGUL.

Hark the sharpenin' scythes that tingle!
What say Rington farmin' ryes1?
"Leave them tents in Gypsy Dingle!
Never a gorgie,2 married or single,
Can toss the kas in Rington Pingle
Like Romany chies."

CHORUS.

Make the kas while the kem says

SAGUL.

Toss it, tumble it, cock it, rake it.

CHORUS.

Scent the meadows!

SAGUL.

"make it!"

Shake it, shake it!

VIDEY LOVell.

Bees a-buzzin' in chaw1 an' clover
Steal the honey from sperrits o' morn,
Shoshus leap in puv6 an' cover,
Doves are a-cooin', like lover to lover,
Larks are awake an' a-warblin' over
Their kairs in the corn.7

CHORUS.

Make the kas while the kem says "make it"!

VIDEY LOVell.

Toss it, tumble it, cock it, rake it.

CHORUS.

Scent the meadows!

VIDEY LOVell.

Shake it, shake it!

The Muffin Man.

...

VAGUE Genius of the square and street!
Who marks his coming or retreat?
Anon some area-tripping maid
Involves him in a moment's trade,
Some housewife drops, with simper bland,
A cautious twopence in his hand
His bell! Again, again, again,
It steals upon an idle brain,
Till life, enchanted, seems to swoon
To one long London afternoon.
Faint pulse of Time in London's ear,
Yet type of all her Now and Here,
Survivor still of every knell,
Oh, wisely drones the Muffin Bell,
And he who eyes each door askance
Is sealed a priest of Circumstance.

Old English Poetry.

THERE was no age when England's voice was dumb Amid the chorus paramount in song;

They do our fathers not a little wrong

Who deem them nought but fierce and quarrelsome. Yea, even as the honey-bees will hum

Round arid saxifrage in ardent throng,

So out of words and grammar harsh and strong Men beat out Beowulf and the Ormulum. Scorn not their writing, seek in them to find Heart-poetry that strove in vain for phrase, And look with kindly eye on Layamon. They sowed their seed beside the stony ways, It is the centuries that reap and bind, Maybe that Caedmon gave us Tennyson.

The School of Love.

COME, Love, and teach me, teach me thy sweet learning, Thy science profitless and perilous;

My eyes meet thine, thine eyes with conquest burning, O come and teach me thus!

Teach me to find amid a world unheeded

All good and gracious things that never were, White temples built of flowers with mortar kneaded By Time from morning air.

Teach me to see beyond these mournful mountains
A wonderland where thou art lord and king,
A land of orange groves and marble fountains
And everlasting spring.

Teach me to strew thy road with rose and aster,
To be thy slave and therefore to be free,
To know what service is with Love for master,
To live and die for thee.

Teach me to think of death as but brief slumber,
To wake encircled by thy magic towers
Wherein the song of vassals without number
Floats through the dreaming hours.