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The Fountain

Traveller! on thy journey toiling
By the swift Powow,
With the summer sunshine falling
On thy heated brow,
Listen, while all else is still,
To the brooklet from the hill.

Wild and sweet the flowers are blowing
By that streamlet's side,
And a greener verdure showing
Where its waters glide,
Down the hill-slope murmuring on,
Over root and mossy stone.

Where yon oak his broad arms flingeth
O'er the sloping hill,
Beautiful and freshly springeth
That soft-flowing rill,
Through its dark roots wreathed and bare,
Gushing up to sun and air.

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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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State Of 20th Century Man

He walks alone, come life, come death.
Who really sees him, who really cares?
Here stands a young man, see his clothes,
just tattered rags, long greasy hair,
jeans and T-shirt people stare.

A disdaining glance, then look away,
another juvenile delinquent,
the arrogant seem to say.
With scorn-filled eyes they silently stare,
as if a cockroach dared crawl,
beneath their chair.
They have already given
to a charity appeal this year.
Unspoken questions hang in the air.

His head is bent before the cold,
all spirit’s left him, his eyes are old.
Celebrations abound, a warm Christmas day,
but for the poverty-striken poor, another hungry day.

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Remember The Revelation!

There are times when my soul feels weak
As if a heartache permeates it,
Engulfs it and takes it over
And darkness that was not there,
Comes to visit me as if I were its new home...

The sadness that accompanies it feels heavy,
Wearisome and tedious, for that is its nature,
But I do not welcome such darknesses or sadnesses,
I am like Saint Paul, shaking off their effects,
Cutting them down to size with the sword of the Spirit.

I was not born to be consumed by the negatives of this world,
To have them fastened to my flesh like leeches,
I was not meant to sail this world with barnacles,
I make the sailing boat clean so it glides through the seas.

And when the darknesses and the sadnesses visit me,
I test them to see if they speak truths or lies,
What mixture of each applies, for such deceptions are shared,

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poem by Denis Martindale
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The Gaberlunzie's Walk

The Laird is dead, the laird is dead,
An' dead is cousin John,
His henchmen ten, an' his sax merrie men,
Forbye the steward's son.

An' his ain guid gray that he strode sae gay
When hunt was up an' on,
An' the win' blew fair, an' the grews pu'd sair,
An' dawn was on Maol-don,
An' the skeigh steeds neigh'd, an' the slot-hounds bay'd,
An' up gaed the mornin' sun,
An' awa' gaed the deer wi' the merrie men's cheer,
Awa' owre the auld Maol-don,
An' awa' wi' a shout ran the rabble an' the rout,
An' awa' rode cousin John,
Wi' his horn, his horn, thro' the merry merry morn,
His hunter's horn sae shrill!
An' 't was 'Ho, heigho, hereawa',
Hereawa', hereawa'!

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poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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The Winding Banks Of Erne

Adieu to Belashanny!
where I was bred and born;
Go where I may, I'll think of you,
as sure as night and morn.
The kindly spot, the friendly town,
where every one is known,
And not a face in all the place
but partly seems my own;
There's not a house or window,
there's not a field or hill,
But, east or west, in foreign lands,
I'll recollect them still.
I leave my warm heart with you,
tho' my back I'm forced to turn-
Adieu to Belashanny,
and the winding banks of Erne!

No more on pleasant evenings
we'll saunter down the Mall,
When the trout is rising to the fly,

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poem by William Allingham
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Adieu to Belshanny

Adieu to Belashanny! where I was bred and born;
Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn.
The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known,
And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own;
There's not a house or window, there's not a field or hill,
But, east or west, in foreign lands, I recollect them still.
I leave my warm heart with you, tho' my back I'm forced to turn
Adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne!

No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the Mall,
When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the fall.
The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she creeps,
Cast off, cast off - she feels the oars, and to her berth she sweeps;
Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gathering up the clew.
Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew.
Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit, and many a joke and 'yarn'
Adieu to Belashanny; and the winding banks of Erne!

The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide,
When all the green-hill'd harbour is full from side to side,

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poem by William Allingham
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A Song of Honour

I climbed a hill as light fell short,
And rooks came home in scramble sort,
And filled the trees and flapped and fought
And sang themselves to sleep;
An owl from nowhere with no sound
Swung by and soon was nowhere found,
I heard him calling half-way round,
Holloing loud and deep;
A pair of stars, faint pins of light,
Then many a star, sailed into sight,
And all the stars, the flower of night,
Were round me at a leap;
To tell how still the valleys lay
I heard a watchdog miles away,
And bells of distant sheep.
I heard no sound of bird or bell,
The mastiff in a slumber fell,
I stared into the sky,
As wondering men have always done
Since beauty and the stars were one

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poem by Ralph Hodgson
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The Song Of Honour

I climbed a hill as light fell short,
And rooks came home in scramble sort,
And filled the trees and flapped and fought
And sang themselves to sleep;
An owl from nowhere with no sound
Swung by and soon was nowhere found,
I heard him calling half-way round,
Holloing loud and deep;
A pair of stars, faint pins of light,
Then many a star, sailed into sight,
And all the stars, the flower of night,
Were round me at a leap;
To tell how still the valleys lay
I heard a watchdog miles away. . . .
And bells of distant sheep.

I heard no more of bird or bell,
The mastiff in a slumber fell,
I stared into the sky,
As wondering men have always done

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poem by Ralph Hodgson
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The Christ upon the Hill

Part I.

A couple old sat o'er the fire,
And they were bent and gray;
They burned the charcoal for their Lord,
Who lived long leagues away.

Deep in the wood the old pair dwelt,
Far from the paths of men,
And saw no face but their poor son's,
And a wanderer's now and then.

The son, alas! Had grown apace,
And left his wits behind;
He was as helpless as the air,
As empty as the wind.

With puffing lips and shambling feet,
And eyes a-staring wide,
He whistled ever as he went,

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poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
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Blueberry Hill

I found my thrill on blueberry hill
On blueberry hill where I found you
The moon stood still on blueberry hill
And lingered till my dreams came true
The wind in the willow played
Loves sweet melody
But all of those vows we made
Were never to be
Tho were apart youre part of me still
For you were my thrill on blueberry hill
The wind in the willow played
Loves sweet melody
But all of those vows we made
Were never to be
Tho were apart youre part of me still
For you were my thrill on blueberry hill

song performed by Cliff Richard
Added by Lucian Velea
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