And gave them to the cottagers
She met among the bushes.

Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen,
And tall as Amazon;

An old red blanket cloak she wore,

A ship-hat had she on:

God rest her aged bones somewhere!

She died full long agone!

A SONG OF THE ROAD

John Keats

THE gauger walked with willing foot,
And aye the gauger played the flute;
And what should Master Gauger play
But Over the hills and far away?

Whene'er I buckle on my pack
And foot it gaily in the track,
O pleasant gauger, long since dead,
I hear you fluting on ahead.

You go with me the self-same way -
The self-same air for me you play;
For I do think and so do you
It is the tune to travel to.

For who would gravely set his face
To go to this or t'other place?
There's nothing under heav'n so blue
That's fairly worth the travelling to.

On every hand the roads begin,
And people walk with zeal therein;

A VAGABOND SONG

But wheresoe'er the highways tend,
Be sure there's nothing at the end.

Then follow you, wherever hie
The travelling mountains of the sky.
Or let the streams in civil mode
Direct your choice upon a road;

For one and all, or high or low,
Will lead you where you wish to go;
And one and all go night and day
Over the hills and far away!

251

Robert Louis Stevenson

A VAGABOND SONG

THERE is something in the autumn that is native to my blood

Touch of manner, hint of mood;

And my heart is like a rhyme,

With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.

The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry
Of bugles going by.

And my lonely spirit thrills

To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills.

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood

astir;

We must rise and follow her,

When from every hill of flame

She calls and calls each vagabond by name.

Bliss Carman

ENTHRALLED

LIKE huge waves, petrified, against the sky,
The solemn hills are heaved; by shadow kissed,
Or softly touched by delicate light they lie
Melting in sapphire and in amethyst.

The thronging mountains, crowding all the scene,
Are like the long swell of an angry sea,
Tremendous surging tumult that has been
Smitten to awful silence suddenly.

The nearer slopes with autumn glory blaze,
Garnet and ruby, topaz, amber, gold;

Up through the quiet air the thin smoke strays
From many a lonely homestead, brown and old.

The scattered cattle graze in pastures bare,
The brooks sing unconcerned beside the way,
Belated crickets chirp, while still and fair
Dies into sunset peace the golden day.

And toward the valley, where the little town
Beckons with twinkling lights, that gleam below
Like bright and friendly eyes, we loiter down
And find our shelter and our fireside glow.

But while the gay hours pass with laugh and jest, And all is radiant warmth and joy once more, My captured thought must wander out in quest Of that vast mountain picture, o'er and o'er;

Where underneath the black and star-sown arch Earth's ancient trouble speaks eternally;

THE LONG TRAIL

And I must watch those mighty outlines march
In silence, motionless, with none to see.

253

While from the north the night-wind sighing sweeps, And sharp against the crystal sky relieved,

The tumult of forgotten ages sleeps

Where like huge waves the solemn hills are heaved.

Celia Thaxter

THE LONG TRAIL

THERE'S a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,

And the ricks stand grey to the sun,

Singing: "Over then, come over, for the bee has quit

the clover,

And your English summer's done."

You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind,
And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;

You have heard the song

how long! how long?

Pull out on the trail again!

Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,

We've seen the seasons through,

And it's time to turn on the old trail, our own

trail, the out trail,

Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail

that is always new.

It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun
Or South to the blind Horn's hate;

Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,
Or West to the Golden Gate;

Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,
And the wildest tales are true,

And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own
trail, the out trail,

And life runs large on the Long Trail— the trail that is always new.

The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old,

And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;

And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll Of a black Bilbao tramp;

With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,
And a drunken Dago crew,

And her nose held down on the old trail, our own
trail, the out trail

From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake, Or the way of a man with a maid;

But the sweetest way to me is a ship's upon the sea In the heel of the North-East Trade.

Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass,
And the drum of the racing screw,

As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail,
the out trail,

As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new?

See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, And the fenders grind and heave,