’What are the stars before our eyes
  That strike us well-nigh blind?’
’Oh, that is just how things arise
  According as you find.’

’And why’s our bed so hard to the bones
  Excepting where it’s cold?’
’Oh, that’s because it is precious stones
  Excepting where ’tis gold.

’Think it over as you stand. 
  For I tell you without fail,
If you haven’t got into Fairyland
  You’re not in Lewes Gaol.’

All night long they thought of it,
  And, come the dawn, they saw
They’d tumbled into a great old pit,
  At the bottom of Minepit Shaw.

And the keepers’ hound had followed ’em close,
  And broke her neck in the fall;
So they picked up their knives and their crossbows
  And buried the dog.  That’s all.

But whether the man was a poacher too
  Or a Pharisee[A] so bold—­
I reckon there’s more things told than are true,
  And more things true than are told!

[Footnote A:  A fairy.]

HERIOT’S FORD

‘What’s that that hirples at my side?’ The foe that you must fight, my lord. ‘That rides as fast as I can ride?’ The shadow of your might, my lord.

‘Then wheel my horse against the foe!’ He’s down and overpast, my lord. You war against the sunset glow, The judgment follows fast, my lord.

‘Oh who will stay the sun’s descent?’
King Joshua he is dead, my lord.
‘I need an hour to repent!’
’Tis what our sister said, my lord.

‘Oh do not slay me in my sins!’
You’re safe awhile with us, my lord.
‘Nay, kill me ere my fear begins.’
We would not serve you thus, my lord.

‘Where is the doom that I must face?’ Three little leagues away, my lord. ‘Then mend the horses’ laggard pace!’ We need them for next day, my lord.

‘Next day—­next day!  Unloose my cords!’
Our sister needed none, my lord. 
You had no mind to face our swords,
And—­where can cowards run, my lord?

‘You would not kill the soul alive?’ ’Twas thus our sister cried, my lord. ‘I dare not die with none to shrive.’ But so our sister died, my lord.

’Then wipe the sweat from brow and cheek. It runnels forth afresh, my lord. ‘Uphold me—­for the flesh is weak.’ You’ve finished with the Flesh, my lord.

FRANKIE’S TRADE

Old Horn to All Atlantic said: 
  (A-hay O!  To me O!’)
’Now where did Frankie learn his trade? 
For he ran me down with a three-reef mains’le.’
  (All round the Horn!)

Atlantic answered:—­’Not from me! 
You’d better ask the cold North Sea,
For he ran me down under all plain canvas.’
  (All round the Horn!)

The North Sea answered:—­’He’s my man,
For he came to me when he began—­
Frankie Drake in an open coaster.
  (All round the Sands!)