Woods and cornfields a little brown, The picture must not be overbright,Yet all in the golden and gracious light Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down. Alway and alway, night and morn, Woods upon woods, with fields of corn Lying between them, not quite sere, And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom, When the wind can hardly find breathing room Under their tassels, cattle near, Biting shorter the short green grass, These, and the house where I was born, And fair young faces all ablush: Perhaps you may have seen, some day, Out of a wilding, wayside bush. Listen closer. When you have done With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, A lady, the loveliest ever the sun Looked down upon, you must paint for me: The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, I need not speak these foolish words; Yet one word tells you all I would say, She is my mother: you will agree, That all the rest may be thrown away. Two little urchins, at her knee, The other with a clearer brow, At ten years old he went to sea, To bring us news, and she never came back. With my great-hearted brother on her deck: I watched him till he shrank to a speck, And his face was toward me all the way. Bright his hair was, a golden brown, The time we stood at our mother's knee; That beauteous head, if it did go down, Carried sunshine into the sea! Out in the fields one summer night, We were together, half afraid Of the corn leaves' rustling, and of the shade Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,Loitering till after the low, little light Of the candle shone through the open door, Dead at the top-just one branch full Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool From which it tenderly shook the dew Over our heads, when we came to play In its handbreadth of shadow, day after day. Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs; The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, Not so big as a straw of wheat; The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat, At last we stood at our mother's knee. If you can, pray, have the grace To put it solely in the face Of the urchin that is likest me: I think 'twas solely mine, indeed; But that's no matter - paint it so: Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs, I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though That you on the canvas are to repeat You, sir, know Things that are fairest, things most sweet, Woods, and cornfields, and mulberry tree, The mother her lads, with their bird, at her knee; High as the heavens your name I'll shout, THE FAIRIES. (SONG FOR CHILDREN.) BY WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. [Irish songwright; born Ballyshannon, County Donegal, in 1828; son of a local banker, clerk in the bank some years, then in the customs; assistant editor Fraser's Magazine, 1870-1874, then chief editor succeeding Froude; died 1889. He published "Poems" (1850); "Day and Night Songs" (1854); "Lawrence Bloomfield; or, Richard Poor in Ireland" (1864); two anthologies (1862 and 1865); "The Rambles of Patricius Walker" (1872), in Fraser's Magazine; "Ashby Manor," a play (1882); etc.] UP THE airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, And white owl's feather. |