Charlie’s Poems 3


An Appreciation


You may speak of the glories of Scotland

          Of lochs and hidden glens

Of isles and sparkling cascades

Beneath the frowning Bens:

You may speak of the beauties of Yorkshie,

          Or dream of the Derbyshire Dales;

Or ‘Bless the grey mountains of Donegal’

          Or the southern Downland trails.


You may praise all the glories of Lakeland –

          Of fell and waterfall;

But give me a Cambrian valley –

          The sweetest of them all!

Give me a Cambrian river

          Beneath and evening sky,

For there I’d linger for an age

          And let the world roll by.

                                                                      May 1926



The Best Way


At night when all my work is done

          And I am free to roam,

I ride away towards the hills

          (For I cannot stay at home)

The hours I have at leisure

          Are not so very long;

But through the woods and o’er the moors

Or where the river ceaseless roars

          I gladly glide along.


There’s the Sunday too, of freedom

          When early I can rise

For on the road at break of day

          Is found a paradise:

Sometimes my wheel goes northward

          To lands of grouse and heather,

Of chattering streams and upland dells –

I wander o’er the mossy fells

          No matter what the weather.


Or southward I may wander

          (Let me speak about the south)

In Derbyshire or Cheshire

          Where nought e’er seems uncouth,

Amongst those old world hamlets

          By some old village green,

Or wandering down those leafy lanes

And o’er the ridge as daylight wanes,

          A wealth of bounty seen.



There’s violets in the hedges.

          In pretty shades of blue

Primroses deck the forest

          With every golden hue

The wild sweet smelling hyacinth

          Bells that ring to you

And call you to the woodland glade

To linger in the sun-kissed shade –

These scenes are ever new.



And when as evening closes,

          And once again I find

Myself amid the sordid streets –

          Those precious scenes behind;

And when the workshop claims me

          And fetters round me bind

The moor and mountain, wood and mead,

A little lightsome metal steed

          Are called back to mind.

                                                                                       August 1924                                                      

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