Wishes cannot make a horse, Only beggars would ride; We must meet the fairy force In each sombre wood-side. We must bravely tread the way, Gaily sing together, Till we reach the endless day, Heaven’s golden weather. PIPER’S WOOD In Minsterworth when March is in, And Spring begins to gild the days, Oh! then starts up a joyous din, For Piper’s Wood is full of praise, Because the birds deem winter gone And welcome the returning sun. Blackbird and thrush and robin dear Within that wood try over all The songs they mean to shout so clear Before green leaves grow red and fall; And harkening in its shadows you Must needs sing out of Summer too. BALLADE OF RIVER SAILING _The Dorothy_ was very small: a boat Scarce any bigger than the sort one rows With oars! We got her for a five-pound note At second-hand. Yet when the river flows Strong to the sea, and the wind lightly blows, Then see her dancing on the tide, and you’ll Swear she’s the prettiest little craft that goes Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool. Bare-footed, push her from the bank afloat, (The soft warm mud comes squelching through your toes!) Scramble aboard: then find an antidote For every care a jaded spirit knows: While round the boat the broken water crows With laughter, casting pretty ridicule On human life and all its little woes, Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool. How shall I tell you what the sunset wrote Upon the outspread waters--gold and rose: Or how the white sail of our little boat Looks on a summer sky? The hills enclose With blue solemnity: each white scar shows Clear on the quarried Cotteswolds high and cool. And high and cool a fevered spirit grows Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool. _Envoi._ Prince, you have horses: motors, I suppose, As well! At finding pleasure you’re no fool. But have you got a little boat that blows Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool? SONG OF MINSTERWORTH _Air_: “_The Vicar of Bray_” In olden, olden centuries On Gloucester’s holy ground, sir, The monks did pray and chant all day, And grow exceeding round, sir; And here’s the reason that they throve To praise their pleasant fortune, “We keep our beasts”--thus quoth the priests, “In Minsterworth--that’s Mortune!”[1] _So this is the chorus we will sing, And this is the spot we’ll drink to, While blossom blows and Severn flows, And Earth has mugs to clink to._ Oh! there in sleepy Summer sounds The drowsy drone of bees, sir, And there in Winter paints the sun His patterns ’neath the trees, sir; And there with merry song doth run A river full of fish, sir, That Thursday sees upon the flood And Friday on the dish, sir.