Four Songs , opus 17

"Ho, sailor of the sea!
How's my Boy, my Boy?"
"What's your boy's name?   Good wife !
And in what good ship sail'd he?"

"My boy, John!
He that went to sea ---
What care I for the ship?   Sailor !
My boy's my boy to me.
 
"You come back from sea,
And not know my John?
I might as well have ask'd some landsman
Yonder down in the town.
There's not an ass in all the parish,
But he knows my John.

"How's my boy, my boy?
And unless you let me know,
I'll swear you are no sailor,
Blue jacket or no, ---
Brass buttons or no, sailor !
Anchor and crown or no.
Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton ! "
--- "Speak low, woman !   Speak low ! "

"And why should I speak low, sailor !
About my own boy John?
If I was loud as I am proud,
I'd sing him over the town:
Why should I speak low?   Sailor ! "

--- "That good ship went down."
 
"How's my boy?   How's my boy?
What care I for the ship?   Sailor !
I was never aboard her:
Be she afloat or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound
Her owners can afford her.
I say, how's my John?"

--- "Every man on board went down, ---
Every man aboard her."

"How's my boy, my boy?
What care I for the men?   Sailor!
I'm not their mother.
How's my boy, my boy?
Tell me of him, and no other !
How's my boy, my boy?"

From the brake the Nightingale
Sings exulting to the Rose;
Though he sees her waxing pale
In her passionate repose
While she triumphs waxing frail,
Fading even while she glows;
Though he knows
How it goes -
Knows of last year's Nightingale,
Dead with last year's Rose.

Wise the enamoured Nightingale,
Wise the well-beloved Rose!
Love and life shall still prevail,
Nor the silence at the close
Break the magic of the tale
In the telling, though it shows -
Who but knows
How it goes!
Life a last year's Nightingale,
Love a last year's Rose.

I hear the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake,
Their hoofs heavy with tumult, their eyes glimmering white;
The North unfolds above them clinging, creeping night,
The East her hidden joy before the morning break,
The West weeps in pale dew and sighs passing away,
The South is pouring down roses of crimson fire:
O vanity of Sleep, Hope, Dream, endless Desire,
The Horses of Disaster plunge in the heavy clay:
Beloved, let your eyes half close, and your heart beat
Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast,
Drowning love's lonely hour in deep twilight of rest,
And hiding their tossing manes and their tumultuous feet.

Who tamed your lawless Tartar blood?
What David bearded in her den
The Russian bear in ages when
You strode your black, unbridled stud,
A skin-clad savage of your steppes?
Why, one who now sits low and weeps,
Why, one who now wails out to you,
The Jew, the Jew, the homeless Jew.

Who girt the thews of your young prime
And bound your fierce divided force?
Why, who but Moses shaped your course
United down the grooves of time?
Your mighty millions all to-day
The hated, homeless Jew obey.
Who taught all poetry to you?
The Jew, the Jew, the hated Jew.

Who taught you tender Bible tales
Of honey-lands, of milk and wine?
Of happy, peaceful Palestine?
Of Jordan's holy harvest vales?
Who gave the patient Christ? I say,
Who gave your Christian creed? Yea, yea,
Who gave your very God to you?
Your Jew! Your Jew! Your hated Jew!