LXI

HUGHLEY STEEPLE

The vane on Hughley steeple
 Veers bright, a far-known sign,
And there lie Hughley people,
 And there lie friends of mine. 
Tall in their midst the tower
 Divides the shade and sun,
And the clock strikes the hour
 And tells the time to none.

To south the headstones cluster,
 The sunny mounds lie thick;
The dead are more in muster
 At Hughley than the quick. 
North, for a soon-told number,
 Chill graves the sexton delves,
And steeple-shadowed slumber
 The slayers of themselves.

To north, to south, lie parted,
 With Hughley tower above,
The kind, the single-hearted,
 The lads I used to love. 
And, south or north, ’tis only
 A choice of friends one knows,
And I shall ne’er be lonely
 Asleep with these or those.

LXII

“Terence, this is stupid stuff: 
You eat your victuals fast enough;
There can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer. 
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,
It gives a chap the belly-ache. 
The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head: 
We poor lads, ’tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow. 
Pretty friendship ’tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad: 
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.”

Why, if ’tis dancing you would be,
There’s brisker pipes than poetry. 
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent? 
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God’s ways to man. 
Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think: 
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world’s not. 
And faith, ’tis pleasant till ’tis past: 
The mischief is that ’twill not last. 
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,
And carried half-way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer: 
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I’ve lain,
Happy till I woke again. 
Then I saw the morning sky: 
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.

Therefore, since the world has still
Much good, but much less good than ill,
And while the sun and moon endure
Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure,
I’d face it as a wise man would,
And train for ill and not for good. 
’Tis true the stuff I bring for sale
Is not so brisk a brew as ale: 
Out of a stem that scored the hand
I wrung it in a weary land. 
But take it:  if the smack is sour,
The better for the embittered hour;
It should do good to heart and head
When your soul is in my soul’s stead;
And I will friend you, if I may,
In the dark and cloudy day.