There's a fir-wood here, and a dog-rose there, And a note of the mating dove; And a glimpse, maybe, of the warm blue sea, And the warm white clouds above; And warm to your breast in a tenderer nest Your sweetheart's little glove. There's not much better to win, my lad, There's not much better to win! You have lived, you have loved, you have fought, you have proved The worth of folly and sin; So now come out of the City's rout, Come out of the dust and the din. Come out,--a bundle and stick is all You'll need to carry along, If your heart can carry a kindly word, And your lips can carry a song; You may leave the lave to the keep o' the grave, If your lips can carry a song! _Come, choose your road and away, my lad, Come, choose your road and away! We'll out of the town by the road's bright crown, As it dips to the sapphire day! All roads may meet at the world's end, But, hey for the heart of the May! Come, choose your road and away, dear lad, Come choose your road and away._ A DEVONSHIRE DITTY I In a leafy lane of Devon There's a cottage that I know, Then a garden--then, a grey old crumbling wall, And the wall's the wall of heaven (Where I hardly care to go) And there isn't any fiery sword at all. II But I never went to heaven. There was right good reason why, For they sent a shining angel to me there, An angel, down in Devon, (Clad in muslin by the bye) With the halo of the sunshine on her hair. III Ah, whate'er the darkness covers, And whate'er we sing or say, Would you climb the wall of heaven an hour too soon If you knew a place for lovers Where the apple-blossoms stray Out of heaven to sway and whisper to the moon? IV When we die--we'll think of Devon Where the garden's all aglow With the flowers that stray across the grey old wall: Then we'll climb it, out of heaven, From the other side, you know, Straggle over it from heaven With the apple-blossom snow, Tumble back again to Devon Laugh and love as long ago, Where there isn't any fiery sword at all. BACCHUS AND THE PIRATES Half a hundred terrible pig-tails, pirates famous in song and story, Hoisting the old black flag once more, in a palmy harbour of Caribbee, "Farewell" we waved to our brown-skinned lasses, and chorussing out to the billows of glory, Billows a-glitter with rum and gold, we followed the sunset over the sea. _While earth goes round, let rum go round, Our capstan song we sung: Half a hundred broad-sheet pirates When the world was young!_