* A Boy ScoutsPatrol Song, 1913 : ; by Rudyard Kipling
These are our regulations–
There’s just one law for the Scout
And the first and the last, and the present and the past,
And the future and the perfect is “Look out!”
I, thou and he, look out!
We, ye and they, look out!
Though you didn’t or you wouldn’t
Or you hadn’t or you couldn’t;
You jolly well must look out!
Look out, when you start for the day
That your kit is packed to your mind;
There is no use going away
With half of it left behind.
Look out that your laces are tight,
And your boots are easy and stout,
Or you’ll end with a blister at night.
(Chorus) All Patrols look out!
Look out for the birds of the air,
Look out for the beasts of the field–
They’ll tell you how and where
The other side’s concealed.
When the blackbird bolts from the copse,
Or the cattle are staring about,
The wise commander stops
And (chorus) All Patrols look out!
Look out when your front is clear,
And you feel you are bound to win.
Look out for your flank and your rear–
That’s where surprises begin.
For the rustle that isn’t a rat,
For the splash that isn’t a trout,
For the boulder that may be a hat
(Chorus) All Patrols look out!
For the innocent knee-high grass,
For the ditch that never tells,
Look out! Look out ere you pass–
And look out for everything else
A sign mis-read as you run
May turn retreat to a rout–
For all things under the sun
(Chorus) All Patrols look out!
Look out where your temper goes
At the end of a losing game;
When your boots too tight for your toes;
And you answer and argue and blame.
It’s the hardest part of the Low,
But it has to be learned by the Scout–
For whining and shrinking and “jaw”
(Chorus) All Patrols look out!
** CHARMIDES : : by Wilde, Oscar
…>
The trooping fawns at evening came and laid
Their cool black noses on my lowest boughs,
And on my topmost branch the blackbird made
A little nest of grasses for his spouse,
And now and then a twittering wren would light
On a thin twig which hardly bare the weight of such delight.
I was the Attic shepherd’s trysting place,
Beneath my shadow Amaryllis lay,
And round my trunk would laughing Daphnis chase
The timorous girl, till tired out with play
She felt his hot breath.. . .. . 12 lines From A Long Poem By Oscar Wilde : : : : ……… | ~
* * * Craving for Spring : ; by Lawrence, D. H.
…d heave it off among the stars, into the invisible;
the same sets the throstle at sunset on a bough
singing against the blackbird;
comes out in the hesitating tremor of the primrose,
and betrays its candour in the round white strawberry flower,
is dignified in the foxglove, like a Red-Indian brave.
Ah come, come quickly, spring!
come and lift us towards our culmination, we myriads;
we who have never flowered, like patient cactuses.
Come and lift us to our end, to blo.. : : 9 lines From A Long Poem , ” Craving for Spring ” |~
* V : : Little Sleeps-Head Sprouting Hair in the Moonlight
by Kinnell, Galway
…ok:
and the angel
of all mortal things lets go the string.
7
Back you go, into your crib.
The last blackbird lights up his gold wings: farewell.
Your eyes close inside your head,
in sleep. Already
in your dreams the hours begin to sing.
Little sleep’s-head sprouting hair in the moonlight,
when I come back
we will go out together,
we will walk out together among
the ten thousand things,
each scratched too late with such knowledge, th .. . .. . 9 lines out of poem .. . .. . In Moonlight” ; : |~
V : : Our Singing Strength
by Robert Frost
It snowed in spring on earth so dry and warm
The flakes could find no landing place to form.
Hordes spent themselves to make it wet and cold,
And still they failed of any lasting hold.
They made no white impression on the black.
They disappeared as if earth sent them back.
Not till from separate flakes they changed at night
To almost strips and tapes of ragged white
Did grass and garden ground confess it snowed,
And all go back to winter but the road.
Next day the scene was piled and puffed and dead.
The grass lay flattened under one great tread.
Borne down until the end almost took root,
The rangey bough anticipated fruit
With snowball cupped in every opening bud.
The road alone maintained itself in mud,
Whatever its secret was of greater heat
From inward fires or brush of passing feet.
In spring more mortal singers than belong
To any one place cover us with song.
Thrush, bluebird, blackbird, sparrow, and robin throng;
Some to go further north to Hudson’s Bay,
Some that have come too far north back away,
Really a very few to build and stay.
Now was seen how these liked belated snow.
the field had nowhere left for them to go;
They’d soon exhausted all there was in flying;
The trees they’d had enough of with once trying
And setting off their heavy powder load.
They could find nothing open but the road.
Sot there they let their lives be narrowed in
By thousands the bad weather made akin.
The road became a channel running flocks
Of glossy birds like ripples over rocks.
I drove them under foot in bits of flight
That kept the ground.
almost disputing right
Of way with me from apathy of wing,
A talking twitter all they had to sing.
A few I must have driven to despair
Made quick asides, but having done in air
A whir among white branches great and small
As in some too much carven marble hall
Where one false wing beat would have brought down all,
Came tamely back in front of me, the Drover,
To suffer the same driven nightmare over.
One such storm in a lifetime couldn’t teach them
That back behind pursuit it couldn’t reach them;
None flew behind me to be left alone.
Well, something for a snowstorm to have shown
The country’s singing strength thus brought together,
the thought repressed and moody with the weather
Was none the less there ready to be freed
And sing the wildflowers up from root and seed.
— Robert Frost
V * : : The Blackbird : : by Frederick Tennyson
How sweet the harmonies of afternoon:
The Blackbird sings along the sunny breeze
His ancient song of leaves, and summer boon;
Rich breath of hayfields streams through whispering trees;
And birds of morning trim their bustling wings,
And listen fondly—while the Blackbird sings.
How soft the lovelight of the West reposes
On this green valley’s cheery solitude,
On the trim cottage with its screen of roses,
On the gray belfry with its ivy hood,
And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel that flings
Its bubbling freshness—while the Blackbird sings.
The very dial on the village church
Seems as ’twere dreaming in a dozy rest;
The scribbled benche underneath the porch
Bask in the kindly welcome of the West;
But the broad casements of the old Three Kings
Blaze like a furnace—while the Blackbird sings.
And there beneath the immemorial elm
Three rosy revellers round a table sit,
And through gray clouds give laws unto the realm,
Curse good and great, but worship their own wit.
And roar of fights, and fairs, and junketings,
Corn, colts, and curs—the while the Blackbird sings.
Before her home, in her accustomed seat,
The tidy Grandam spins beneath the shade
Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet
The dreaming pug, and purring tabby laid;
To her low chair a little maiden clings,
And spells in silence —while the Blackbird sings.
Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud
Breathes o’er the hamlet with its gardens green.
While the far fields with sunlight overflowed
Like golden shores of Fairyland are seen;
Again, the sunshine on the shadow springs,
And fires the thicket where the Blackbird sings.
The woods, the lawn, the peaked Manorhouse,
With its peach-covered walls, and rookery loud,
The trim, quaint garden alleys, screened with boughs.
The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud,
The mossy fountain with its murmurings,
Lie in warm sunshine—while the Blackbird sings.
The ring of silver voices, and the sheen
Of festal garments—and my Lady streams
With her gay court across the garden green;
Some laugh, and dance, some whisper their love-dreams;
And one calls for a little page; he strings
Her lute beside her—while the Blackbird sings.
A little while—and lo! the charm is heard,
A youth, whose life has been all Summer, steals
Forth from the noisy guests around the board,
Creeps by her softly; at her footstool kneels;
And, when she pauses, murmurs tender things
Into her fond ear—while the Blackbird sings.
The smoke-wreaths from the chimneys curl up higher,
And dizzy things of eve begin to float
Upon the light; the breeze begins to tire;
Half way to sunset with a drowsy note
The ancient clock from out the valley swings;
The Grandam nods—and still the Blackbird sings.
Far shouts and laughter from the farmstead peal,
Where the great stack is piling in the sun;
Through narrow gates o’erladen wagons reel,
And barking curs into the tumult run;
While the inconstant wind bears off, and brings
The merry tempest—and the Blackbird sings.
On the high wold the last look of the sun
Burns, like a beacon, over dale and stream;
The shouts have ceased, the laughter and the fun;
The Grandam sleeps, and peaceful be her dream;
Only a hammer on an anvil rings;
The day is dying—still the Blackbird sings.
Now the good Vicar passes from his gate
Serene, with long white hair; and in his eye
Burns the clear spirit that hath conquered Fate,
And felt the wings of immortality;
His heart is thronged with great imaginings,
And tender mercies—while the Blackbird sings.
Down by the brook he bends his steps, and through
A lowly wicket; and at last he stands
Awful beside the bed of one who grew
From boyhood with him—who, with lifted hands
And eyes, seems listening to far welcomings,
And sweeter music than the Blackbird sings.
Two golden stars, like tokens from the Blest,
Strike on his dim orbs from the setting sun;
His sinking hands seem pointing to the West;
He smiles as though he said—”Thy will be done”:
His eyes, they see not those illuminings;
His ears, they hear not what the Blackbird sings.
V * * : : The Blackbird : : by Alfred Edward Housman
▼
When smoke stood up from Ludlow
And mist blew off from Teme,
And blithe afield to ploughing
Against the morning beam
I strode beside my team,
The blackbird in the coppice
Looked out to see me stride,
And hearkened as I whistled
The trampling team beside,
And fluted and replied:
“Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
What use to rise and rise?
Rise man a thousand mornings
Yet down at last he lies,
And then the man is wise.”
I heard the tune he sang me,
And spied his yellow bill;
I picked a stone and aimed it
And threw it with a will:
Then the bird was still.
Then my soul within me
Took up the blackbird’s strain,
And still beside the horses
Along the dewy lane
It sang the song again:
“Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
The sun moves always west;
The road one treads to labor
Will lead one home to rest,
And that will be the best.”
V * * * : : The Blackbird : : by William Barnes
▼
Ov all the birds upon the wing
Between the zunny showers o’ spring,-
Vor all the lark, a-swingen high,
Mid zing below a cloudless sky,
An’ sparrows, clust’ren roun’ the bough,
Mid chatter to the men at plough,—
The blackbird, whisslen in among
The boughs, do zing the gayest zong.
Vor we do hear the blackbird zing
His sweetest ditties in the spring,
When nippen win’s noo mwore do blow
Vrom northern skies, wi’ sleet or snow,
But dreve light doust along between
The leane-zide hedges, thick an’ green;
An’ zoo the blackbird in among
The boughs do zing the gayest zong.
‘Tis blithe, wi’ newly-opened eyes,
To zee the mornen’s ruddy skies;
Or, out a-haulen frith or lops
Vrom new-pleshed hedge or new-velled copse,
To rest at noon in primrwose beds
Below the white-barked woak-trees’ heads;
But there’s noo time, the whole day long,
Lik’ evenen wi’ the blackbird’s zong.
Vor when my work is all a-done
Avore the zetten o’ the zun,
Then blushen Jeane do walk along
The hedge to meet me in the drong,
An’ stay till all is dim an’ dark
Bezides the ashen tree’s white bark;
An’ all bezides the blackbird’s shrill
An’ runnen evenen-whissle’s still.
An’ there in bwoyhood I did rove
Wi’ pryen eyes along the drove
To vind the nest the blackbird meade
O’ grass-stalks in the high bough’s sheade;
Or climb aloft, wi’ clingen knees,
Vor crows’ aggs up in swayen trees,
While frightened blackbirds down below
Did chatter o’ their little foe.
An’ zoo there’s noo pleace lik’ the drong,
Where I do hear the blackbird’s zong.
* X : : The Red-Winged Blackbird : : by Ethelwyn Wetherald
▼
Black beneath as the night,
With wings of a morning glow,
From his sooty throat three syllables float,
Ravishing, liquid, low;
And ’tis oh, for the joy of June,
And the bliss that ne’er can flee
From that exquisite call, with its sweet, sweet fall—
O-ke-lee, o-ke-lee, o-ke-lee!
Long ago as a child,
From the bough of a blossoming quince,
That melody came to thrill my frame,
And whenever I’ve caught it since,
The spring-soft blue of the sky
And the spring-bright bloom of the tree
Are a part of the strain—ah, hear it again!—
O-ke-lee, o-ke-lee, o-ke-lee!
And the night is tenderly black,
The morning eagerly bright,
For that old, old spring is blossoming
In the soul and in the sight.
The red-winged blackbird brings
My lost youth back to me,
When I hear in the swale, from a gray fence rail,
O-ke-lee, o-ke-lee, o-ke-lee!
X : : Blackbirds ; : by Ellen P. Allerton
▼
Day after day the blackbirds came
And perched in flocks on my hickory tree,
While the leaves, at flrst just touched with flame,
Grew golden, then brown as brown could be,
And still they came in a sable shower—
A flittering, chattering, noisy crowd—
And I wondered, watching them hour by hour,
What they said when they talked so loud.
Sadly the leaves fell, one by one,
Floating, fluttering slowly down—
Leaves so green in the summer sun,
Now so withered, and sere, and brown.
The tree grew bare: I watched one day
In vain—the blackbirds came no more;
And then I knew they had fled away,
And my sorrowful thought this burden bore:
The winds shall blow through my hickory-tree,
The sifting snow, and the sleety rain:
But, little I know what awaiteth me
Ere the leaves and the blackbirds come again!
X * : : The Red-Winged Blackbird : : by Maude Gue Goodrich
▼
Over where the bog is greening
And the willow waves her bloom,
There in bridal black quite proper
Does he love to preen and plume;
Breath of new green things is drifting,
O’er the sedges with the breeze,
Mingled with his love-song ringing,
Voicing liquid notes like these:
Conk-err-lee-e! Conk-err-lee-e!
Sweetheart see, sweetheart see!
The world was made
For you and me!
Dignified beside the water
Walks he as a landed squire;
Spreads his wings and ruffs his feathers,
Smooths his shoulder caps of fire;
Then the blue sky bending over,
Or the hint of green on hill,
Fills his lover-heart with rapture
And again we hear him thrill:
Conk-err-lee-e! Conk-err-lee-e!
Sweetheart see, sweetheart see!
The world was made
For you and me!
X * * : : Robert of Lincoln : : by William Cullen Bryant
▼
Merrily swinging on brier and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain side or mead,
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:
“Bobolink, bobolink,
Spink, spank, spink.
Snug and safe is that nest of ours.
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee.”
Robert of Lincoln is gaily dressed,
Wearing a bright black wedding coat:
White are his shoulders, and white his crest,
Hear him call in his merry note:
“Bobolink, bobolink,
Spink, spank, spink,
Look what a nice new coat is mine;
Sure, there was never a bird so fine.
Chee, chee, chee.”
Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife,
Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,
Passing at home a patient life,
Broods in the grass while her husband sings:
“Bobolink, bobolink,
Spink, spank, spink,
Brood, kind creature; you need not fear
Thieves and robbers while I am here.
Chee, chee, chee.”
Modest and shy as a nun is she,
One weak chirp is her only note;
Braggart and prince of braggarts is he,
Pouring boasts from his little throat:
“Bobolink, Bobolink,
Spink, spank, spink,
Never was I afraid of man,
Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can.
Chee, chee, chee.”
Six white eggs on a bed of hay,
Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!
There as the mother sits all day,
Robert is singing with all his might:
“Bobolink, bobolink,
Spink, spank, spink,
Nice good wife that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.
Chee, chee, chee.”
Soon as the little ones chip the shell,
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
Gathering seeds for the hungry brood.
“Bobolink, bobolink,
Spink, spank, spink,
This new life is likely to be
Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.”
Robert of Lincoln at length is made
Sober with work, and silent with care;
Off is his holiday garment laid,
Half forgotten that merry air:
“Bobolink, bobolink,
Spink, spank, spink,
Nobody knows but my mate and I
Where our nest and our nestlings lie.
Chee, chee, chee.”
Summer wanes; the children are grown;
Fun and frolic no more he knows;
Robert of Lincoln’s a humdrum crone;
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:
“Bobolink, bobolink,
Spink, spank, spink,
When you can pipe that merry old strain,
Robert of Lincoln, come back again.
Chee, chee, chee.”
A bobolink is a small New World blackbird.
X * * * : : .. . .. . Pending |~
MADHU MALTI 