For though creeds whirl away in dust,
Faith fails and men forget,
These aged gods of fright and lust
Cling to life yet.
Old gods almost dead, malign,
Starved of their ancient dues,
Incense and fruit, fire, blood and wine
And an unclean muse.
Banished to woods and a sickly moon,
Shrunk to mere bogey things,
Who spoke with thunder once at noon
To prostrate kings.
With thunder from an open sky
To peasant, tyrant, priest,
Bowing in fear with a dazzled eye
Towards the East.
Proud gods, humbled, sunk so low,
Living with ghosts and ghouls,
And ghosts of ghosts and last year's snow
And dead toadstools.
BALOO LOO FOR JENNY.
Sing baloo loo for Jenny
And where is she gone?
Away to spy her mother's land,
Riding all alone.
To the rich towns of Scotland,
The woods and the streams,
High upon a Spanish horse
Saddled for her dreams.
By Oxford and by Chester,
To Berwick-on-the-Tweed,
Then once across the borderland
She shall find no need.
A loaf for her at Stirling,
A scone at Carlisle,
Honeyed cakes at Edinbro'--
That shall make her smile.
At Aberdeen clear cider,
Mead for her at Nairn,
A cup of wine at John o' Groats--
That shall please my bairn.
Sing baloo loo for Jenny,
Mother will be fain
To see her little truant child
Riding home again.
HAWK AND BUCKLE.
Where is the landlord of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of Master Straddler this hot summer weather?
He's along in the tap-room with broad cheeks a-chuckle,
And ten bold companions all drinking together.
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