A brown sad-coloured hillside, where the soil,
Fresh from the frequent harrow, deep and fine,
Lies bare; no break in the remote sky-line,
Save where a flock of pigeons streams aloft, ...
It is so long ago; and men well-nigh
Forget what gladness was, and how the earth
Gave corn in plenty, and the rivers fish,
And the woods meat, before he went away. ...
(With apologies to the singer of the “Song of the Banjo”.)
I'm a homely little bit of tin and bone;
I'm beloved by the Legion of the Lost;
I haven't got a “vox humana” tone,
And a dime or two will satisfy my cost.
I don't attempt your high-falutin' flights;
I am more or less uncertain on the key;
... Read complete poem