XLIX
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hink no more, lad; laugh, be jolly:Why should men make haste to die?Empty heads and tongues a-talkingMake the rough road easy walking,And the feather pate of follyBears the falling sky. Oh, 'tis jesting, dancing, drinkingSpins the heavy world around.If young hearts were not so clever,Oh, they would be young for ever:Think no more; 'tis only thinkingLays lads underground. L _ Clunton and Clunbury,Clungunford and Clun,Are the quietest placesUnder the sun. _ In valleys of springs of rivers,By Ony and Teme and Clun,The country for easy livers,The quietest under the sun, We still had sorrows to lighten,One could not be always glad,And lads knew trouble at KnightonWhen I was a Knighton lad. By bridges that Thames runs under,In London, the town built ill,'Tis sure small matter for wonderIf sorrow is with one still. And if as a lad grows olderThe troubles he bears are more,He carries his griefs on a shoulderThat handselled them long before. Where shall one halt to deliverThis luggage I'd lief set down?Not Thames, not Teme is the river,Nor London nor Knighton the town: 'Tis a long way further than Knighton,A quieter place than Clun,Where doomsday may thunder and lightenAnd little 'twill matter to one.
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