Tag: Charles Kingsley

  • The Old, Old Song

    From the Newark Evening Star, February 24, 1915. By Charles Kingsley.

    When all the world is young, lad,
        And all the trees are green;
    And every goose a swan, lad,
        And every lass a queen;
    Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
        And round the world away;
    Young blood must have its course, lad,
        And every dog his day.

    When all the world is old, lad,
        And all the trees are brown;
    And all the sport is stale, lad,
        And all the wheels run down;
    Creep home, and take your place there,
        The spent and maimed among;
    God grant you find one face there
        You loved when all was young.

  • Three Fishers

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 25, 1914. By Charles Kingsley.

    Three fishers went sailing out into the west,
        Out into the west, as the sun went down,
    Each thought of the woman who loved him best,
        And the children stood watching them out of the town;
    For men must work, and women must weep,
    And there’s little to earn, and many to keep,
        Though the harbor-bar be moaning.

    Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
        And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
    They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
        And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown;
    But men must work, and women must weep,
    Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
        And the harbor-bar be moaning.

    Three corpses lie out in the shining sands
        In the morning gleam, as the tide goes down,
    And the women are weeping and wringing their hands,
        For those who will never come home to the town.
    For men must work, and women must weep,
    And the sooner it’s over, the sooner to sleep,
        And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

  • Longings

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, October 24, 1913. By Charles Kingsley.

    Oh! That we two were Maying
        Down the stream of the soft spring breeze;
    Like children with violets playing
        In the shade of the whispering trees.

    Oh! That we two sat dreaming
        On the sward of some sheep trimmed down,
    Watching the white mists streaming
        Over river and mead and town.

    Oh! That we two lay sleeping
        In our rest in the churchyard sod;
    With our limbs at rest on the quiet earth’s breast
        And our souls at home with God.