No.90

SCOTIA'S THISTLE
Henry Scott Riddell 
1798-1870

Scotia’s thistle guards the grave,
Where repose her dauntless brave;
Never yet the foot of slave
Has trod the wilds of Scotia.

Free from tyrant’s dark control -
Free as waves of ocean roll -
Free as thoughts of minstrel’s soul,
Still roam the sons of Scotia.

Scotia’s hills of hoary hue,
Heaven wraps in wreathes of blue,
Watering with its dearest dew
The healthy lochs of Scotia.

Down each green-wood skirted vale,
Guardian spirits, lingering, hail
Many a minstrel’s melting tale
As told of ancient Scotia.

Wake, my hill-harp! Wildly wake!
Sound by lee and lonely lake,
Never shall this heart forsake
The bonnie wilds of Scotia.

Others o’er the ocean’s foam
Far to other lands may roam,
But for ever be my home
Beneath the sky of Scotia!


-o0o-

No.89

DUST IF YOU MUST

Rose Milligan

Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be better

To paint a picture, or write a letter,

Bake a cake, or plant a seed;

Ponder the difference between want and need?

Dust if you must, but there's not much time,

With rivers to swim, and mountains to climb;

Music to hear, and books to read;

Friends to cherish, and life to lead.

Dust if you must, but the world's out there

With the sun in your eyes, and the wind in your hair;

A flutter of snow, a shower of rain,

This day will not come around again.

Dust if you must, but bear in mind,

Old age will come and it's not kind.

And when you go (and go you must)

You, yourself, will make more dust.

-o0o-

No.88

SILVER

Walter de la Mare 

1873-1958

Slowly, silently, now the moon

Walks the night in her silver shoon;

This way, and that, she peers, and sees

Silver fruit upon silver trees;

One by one the casements catch

Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;

Couched in his kennel, like a log,

With paws of silver sleeps the dog;

From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep

Of doves in silver feathered sleep

A harvest mouse goes scampering by,

With silver claws, and silver eye;

And moveless fish in the water gleam,

By silver reeds in a silver stream. 

-o0o-

No.87

SOLILIQUY OF A MAIDEN AUNT

Dollie Radford 

1858-1920

The ladies bow, and partners set,

And turn around and pirouette

And trip the Lancers.

But no one seeks my ample chair,

Or asks me with persuasive air

To join the dancers.

They greet me, as I sit alone

Upon my solitary throne,

And pass politely.

Yet mine could keep the measured beat,

As surely as the youngest feet,

And tread as lightly.

No other maiden had my skill 

In our old homestead on the hill -

That merry Maytime.

When Allan closed the flagging ball,

And danced with me before them all,

Until the daytime.

Again I laugh, and step alone,

And curtsey low as on my own

His strong hand closes.

But Allan now seeks staid delight,

His son there, brought my niece tonight

These early roses.

Time orders well, we have our Spring,

Our songs, our Mayflower gathering,

Our love and laughter.

And children chatter all the while,

And leap the brook and climb the stile

And follow after.

And yet - the step of Allan's son

Is not as light as was the one

That went before it.

And that old lace, I think, falls down

Less softly on Priscilla's gown

Than when I wore it.

-o0o-

No.86

THE ROAD GOES EVER ON

J.R.R. Tolkien 

1892-1973

The Road goes ever on and on

   Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

   And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

   Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

   And whither then? I cannot say.

-o0o-

No.85

HALFWAY DOWN

A.A. Milne 

1882-1956

Halfway down the stairs

Is a stair

Where I sit.

There isn't any

Other stair

Quite like

It.

I'm not at the bottom,

I'm not at the top;

So this is the stair

Where

I always

Stop.

Halfway up the stairs

Isn't up

And it isn't down.

It isn't in the nursery,

It isn't in town.

And all sorts of funny thoughts

Run round my head.

It isn't really

Anywhere!

It's somewhere else

Instead!

-o0o-

No.84

WHAT IF THIS ROAD

Sheenagh Pugh

b.1950

What if this road, that has held no surprises

these many years, decided not to go

home after all; what if it could turn

left or right with no more ado

than a kite-tail? What if its tarry skin

were like a long, supple bolt of cloth,

that is shaken and rolled out, and takes

a new shape from the contours beneath?

And if it chose to lay itself down

in a new way; around a blind corner,

across hills you must climb without knowing

what’s on the other side; who would not hanker

to be going, at all risks? Who wants to know

a story’s end, or where a road will go?

-o0o-