DITTY
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ENEATH a knap where flownNestlings play,Within walls of weathered stone,Far awayFrom the files of formal houses,By the bough the firstling browses,Lives a Sweet: no merchants meet,No man barters, no man sellsWhere she dwells. Upon that fabric fair“Here is she!”Seems written everywhereUnto me.But to friends and nodding neighbours,Fellow-wights in lot and labours,Who descry the times as I,No such lucid legend tellsWhere she dwells. Should I lapse to what I wasEre we met;(Such can not be, but becauseSome forgetLet me feign it)—none would noticeThat where she I know by rote isSpread a strange and withering change,Like a drying of the wellsWhere she dwells. To feel I might have kissed—Loved as true—Otherwhere, nor Mine have missedMy life through.Had I never wandered near her,Is a smart severe—severerIn the thought that she is nought,Even as I, beyond the dellsWhere she dwells. And Devotion droops her glanceTo recallWhat bond-servants of ChanceWe are all.I but found her in that, goingOn my errant path unknowing,I did not out-skirt the spotThat no spot on earth excels,—Where she dwells! 1870. [Picture: Sketch of man in military dress] THE SERGEANT’S SONG(1803) WHEN Lawyers strive to heal a breach,And Parsons practise what they preach;Then Little Boney he’ll pounce down,And march his men on London town!Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lorum,Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lay! When Justices hold equal scales,And Rogues are only found in jails;Then Little Boney he’ll pounce down,And march his men on London town!Rollicum-rorum, &c. When Rich Men find their wealth a curse,And fill therewith the Poor Man’s purse;Then Little Boney he’ll pounce down,And march his men on London town!Rollicum-rorum, &c. When Husbands with their Wives agree,And Maids won’t wed from modesty;Then Little Boney he’ll pounce down,And march his men on London town!Rollicum-rorum, tol-tol-lorum,Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lay! 1878. _Published in_ “_The Trumpet-Major_,” 1880. [Picture: Sketch of cannons overlooking a town]
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