Yestereven he hung up his sickle,
    Ne’er again to trudge his grey fields o’er,
  Ne’er again to plough the stony ridges,
    To sow the home of thorns, alas! no more.

THE QUEEN’S DREAM

(To a Welsh Air of the name)

  From the starving City
    She turned her couch to seek,
  With pearls of tender pity
    On her queenly cheek;
  There in restless slumber
    She dreamt that she was one
  Of that most piteous number
    By distress undone. 
  In among that sullen brood,
    In homeless want she glided,
  While in mock solicitude
    Her fate they thus derided: 
  “Queen, now bear thee queenly,
    In destiny’s despite! 
  If thou wilt starve serenely,
    We poor wretches might.”

  But, amid their mocking,
    “The King, the King!” they cry,
  And forward they run flocking
    While He passes by;
  With the crowd she mixes
    Her cruel shame to hide;
  When, O, what wonder fixes
    The surging human tide? 
  There One stood, with thorn-crown’d head,
    Hands of supplication,
  Multiplying mystic bread
    For her famished nation. 
  “Children thus remember
    My poor and Me!” He spoke,
  And in her palace chamber
    Weeping she awoke.

THE WELSH FISHERMEN

(To the air of “The Song of the Bottle”)

  Up, up with the anchor,
    Round, round for the harbour mouth! 
  Wind, boys, and a spanker
    Racing due south! 
  Where ’ood you be going? 
    How, now can ye hoist your sails? 
  When blossoms be blowing
    Over Welsh Wales! 
  Dear hearts for the herring,
  Sure, after the herring,
  Hot after the herring,
    Each ship of us sails. 
  Up, up with the anchor,
    Round, round for the harbour mouth! 
  Wind boys and a spanker,
    Racing due south.

  “Men, when you go rocking,
    Out under the angry gale,
  Wives’ hearts begin knocking,
    Lasses turn pale. 
  Oh, why start a-fishing
    Far, far and across the foam? 
  Give way to our wishing;
    Stay, stay at home!”
  “Now, but for King Herring,
    What ’ood you be wearing,
  How ’ood you be faring
    How keep ye warm? 
  Lest loaves should be failing,
    Lest children for want take harm,
  Men still will go sailing
    Out into the storm.”

  Then men, since it must be,
    Then men, since it must be so,
  Christ, Christ shall our trust be,
    When the winds blow. 
  Once when He was sleeping,
    “Save Lord!” the disciples cried,
  “Wild waters are leaping
    Over the side!”
  See He has awoken! 
    Hark, hark, He has spoken,
  “Peace, peace,” and in token
    Down the storm died. 
  Lord God of the billows,
    Still succour the fishing smack! 
  Give peace to our pillows,
    Bring our men back!