A TOWN WINDOW

John Drinkwater 1882-1937

Beyond my window in the night  

  Is but a drab inglorious street,  

Yet there the frost and clean starlight  

  As over Warwick woods are sweet.  

  

Under the grey drift of the town          

  The crocus works among the mould  

As eagerly as those that crown  

  The Warwick spring in flame and gold.  

  

And when the tramway down the hill  

  Across the cobbles moans and rings,   

There is about my window-sill  

  The tumult of a thousand wings.  

-o=0=o-

MY BONNIE MARY

Robert Burns 1759-96

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,  

  An' fill it in a silver tassie,  

That I may drink, before I go,  

  A service to my bonnie lassie.  

The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,          

  Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry,  

The ship rides by the Berwick-law,  

  And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.  

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,  

  The glittering spears are rankèd ready;   

The shouts o' war are heard afar,  

  The battle closes thick and bloody;  

But it's no the roar o' sea or shore  

  Wad mak me langer wish to tarry;  

Nor shout o' war that's heard afar -  

  It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary!

 -o=0=o-

CHANGED
Charles Stuart Calverley 1831-84

 I know not why my soul is rack'd:

 Why I ne'er smile as was my wont:
I only know that, as a fact,
 I don't.
 I used to roam o'er glen and glade
Buoyant and blithe as other folk:
 And not infrequently I made
 A joke.

 A minstrel's fire within me burn'd.
 I'd sing, as one whose heart must break,
 Lay upon lay: I nearly learn'd
 To shake.
 All day I sang; of love, of fame,
 Of fights our fathers fought of yore,
 Until the thing almost became
 A bore.

 I cannot sing the old songs now!
 It is not that I deem then low;
 'Tis that I can't remember how
 They go.
 I could not range the hills till high
 Above me stood the summer moon:
 And as to dancing, I could fly
 As soon.

 The sports, to which with boyish glee
 I sprang erewhile, attract no more;
 Although I am but sixty-three
 Or four.
 Nay, worse than that, I've seem'd of late
 To shrink from happy boyhood - boys
 Have grown so noisy, and I hate
 A noise.

 They fright me, when the beech is green,
 By swarming up its stem for eggs:
 They drive their horrid hoops between
 My legs: -
 It's idle to repine, I know;
 I'll tell you what I'll do instead:
 I'll drink my arrowroot, and go
 To bed.

-o=0=o-

POEM BY A PERFECTLY FURIOUS ACADEMICIAN
Shirley Brooks 1816-74

I takes and paints,
Hears no complaints,
And sells before I'm dry;
Till savage Ruskin
He sticks his tusk in,
Then nobody will buy.

-o=0=o-