My Lost Youth

And the bugle wild and shrill.

And the music of that old song

Throbs in my memory still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,

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And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the sea-fight far away,

How it thundered o'er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they lay

In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay
Where they in battle died.

And the sound of that mournful song

Goes through me with a thrill:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I can see the breezy dome of groves,

The shadows of Deering's Woods;

And the friendships old and the early loves

Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves

In quiet neighborhoods.

And the verse of that sweet old song,

It flutters and murmurs still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart

Across the school-boy's brain;

The song and the silence in the heart,

That in part are prophecies, and in part

Are longings wild and vain.

And the voice of that fitful song

Sings on, and is never still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts "

Strange to me are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,

And with joy that is almost pain

My heart goes back to wander there,

And among the dreams of the days that were

I find my lost youth again.

And the strange and beautiful song,

The groves are repeating it still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

"VOICE OF THE WESTERN WIND"

VOICE of the western wind!

Thou singest from afar,

Rich with the music of a land

Where all my memories are;

But in thy song I only hear

The echo of a tone
That fell divinely on my ear
In days forever flown.

Star of the western sky!

Thou beamest from afar,

With lustre caught from eyes I knew

Whose orbs were each a star;

The Shoogy-Shoo

But, oh, those orbs-too wildly bright

No more eclipse thine own,

And never shall I find the light

Of days forever flown!

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Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]

"LANGSYNE, WHEN LIFE WAS BONNIE"

LANGSYNE, when life was bonnie,

An' a' the skies were blue,
When ilka thocht took blossom,
An' hung its heid wi' dew,
When winter wasna winter,

Though snaws cam' happin' doon,
Langsyne, when life was bonnie,
Spring gaed a twalmonth roun'.

Langsyne, when life was bonnie,
An' a' the days were lang;
When through them ran the music
That comes to us in sang,
We never wearied liltin'

The auld love-laden tune;
Langsyne, when life was bonnie,
Love gaed a twalmonth roun’.

Langsyne, when life was bonnie,
An' a' the warld was fair,

The leaves were green wi' simmer,

For autumn wasna there.

But listen hoo they rustle,

Wi' an eerie, weary soun',

For noo, alas, 'tis winter

That gangs a twalmonth roun'.

Alexander Anderson [1845-1909]

THE SHOOGY-SHOO

I Do be thinking, lassie, of the old days now;

For oh! your hair is tangled gold above your Irish brow; And oh! your eyes are fairy flax! no other eyes so blue; Come nestle in my arms, and swing upon the shoogy-shoo.

Sweet and slow, swinging low, eyes of Irish blue,
All my heart is swinging, dear, swinging here with you;
Irish eyes are like the flax, and mine are wet with dew,
Thinking of the old days upon the shoogy-shoo.

When meadow-larks would singing be in old Glentair,
Was one sweet lass had eyes of blue and tangled golden hair;
She was a wee bit girleen then, dear heart, the like of you,
When we two swung the braes among, upon the shoogy-

shoo.

Ah well, the world goes up and down, and some sweet day Its shoogy-shoo will swing us two where sighs will pass away; So nestle close your bonnie head, and close your eyes so true,

And swing with me, and memory, upon the shoogy-shoo.

Sweet and slow, swinging low, eyes of Irish blue,
All my heart is swinging, dear, swinging here with you;
Irish eyes are like the flax, and mine are wet with dew,
Thinking of the old days upon the shoogy-shoo.
Winthrop Packard [1852-

BABYLON

"We shall meet again in Babylon."

I'm going softly all my years in wisdom if in pain-
For, oh, the music stirs my blood as once it did before,
And still I hear in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon,

The dancing feet in Babylon, of those who took my floor. I'm going silent all my years, but garnered in my brain

Is that swift wit which used to flash and cut them like a sword

And now I hear in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon,

The foolish tongues in Babylon, of those who took my word.

I'm going lonely all my days, who was the first to crave The second, fierce, unsteady voice, that struggled to speak free

And now I watch in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon,

The pallid loves in Babylon of men who once loved me.

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I'm sleeping early by a flame as one content and gray,
But, oh, I dream a dream of dreams beneath a winter

moon,

I breathe the breath of Babylon, of Babylon, of Babylon, The scent of silks in Babylon that floated to a tune.

A band of years has flogged me out-an exile's fate is mine, To sit with mumbling crones and still a heart that cries

with youth.

But, oh, to walk in Babylon, in Babylon, in Babylon, The happy streets in Babylon, when once the dream was truth.

THE ROAD OF REMEMBRANCE

THE old wind stirs the hawthorn tree;
The tree is blossoming;

Northward the road runs to the sea,

And past the House of Spring.

The folk go down it unafraid;
The still roofs rise before;
When you were lad and I was maid,
Wide open stood the door.

Now, other children crowd the stair,
And hunt from room to room;
Outside, under the hawthorn fair,
We pluck the thorny bloom.

Out in the quiet road we stand,
Shut in from wharf and mart,
The old wind blowing up the land,
The old thoughts at our heart.

Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856

THE TRIUMPH OF FORGOTTEN THINGS
THERE is a pity in forgotten things,

Banished the heart they can no longer fill,
Since restless Fancy, spreading swallow wings,
Must seek new pleasures still!