Everything Is Different In Africa
Everything is different in Africa.
Strange stars by night look down,
And threepence is called a tickey
And a florin’s like half-a-crown.
Everything is different in Africa;
Hardly a thing’s the same,
And any that are are mostly
Called by a different name.
“Everything is different in Africa,”
I thought - till my gaze did roam
By chance to some words familiar
That seemed like a voice from Home.
And still as the train rolled onward
They sang through my brain all night,
While the dust of the Kalahari
Sat on me, fine and white.
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poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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A Cavalry Soldier
With loud talking and laughter,
And a long, careless stride,
He paces the crowded pathway,
With head high in pride.
And mean men passing beside him
Shrink, as from one unclean,
From the strong son of England,
The servant of the Queen.
In the forefront of battle
I think I see him ride,
With the drawn sabre gleaming
That swings at his side;
With a bearing erect and stalwart,
And a look calm and keen,
The strong son of England,
The servant of the Queen.
When the drums beat to battle,
With a quick-leaping breath,
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poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Otter Hunting In Ribblesdale
Through yon little planting, by yonder streamside,
Where Ribble's sweet waters flow softly and wide,
While the dew's on the meadows it's up and away,
A-hunting the otter at break o' the day.
0 hear the glad music of horn and of hound;
0 hear how they welcome in day with the sound:
0 hear how the valley is loud with the strain
And the woodlands give answer with echo again.
Come rise up full soon, come rise up and go,
The mist's on the hill and the river runs low:
While the dew's on the meadows it's up and away
A-hunting the otter at break o' the day.
Now Ribble, sun-chequered, slides joyfully down
Which late thro' the bridges roared foaming and brown:
Now hot lies the scent, and the morning is still, &mdash
Hark for'ard, good hounds, to a view and a kill!
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poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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The Green Thicket
All in a green thicket I heard a bird sing,
And blithe though his song was it made the tears spring,
To hear a bird sing as he swung on his spray,
All in a green thicket at break of the day.
All in a green thicket his song it did pour
That told of the Springs that shall come nevermore,
That sang of sweet blossoms, now faded and dry,
All in a green thicket in Aprils gone by.
All in a green thicket that morning in Spring,
I smelt the sharp scent of each young growing thing,
I smelt the sweet herbage all drowned with the dew,
And the time that's gone from me was with me anew.
All in a green thicket at break of the day
It was like the dear voice of a friend far away,
It was like the kind touch of a hand that I know,
And the smile and the tears of dead Aprils ago,
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poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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The Lost Rivers
Far down from the thunder
And rush of the street,
Flow Westbourne and Tyebourne
And Effra and Fleet,
'Neath blue skies and grey skies
Once freely that ran -
Lost rivers of London,
Forgotten of man.
Do they ever remember
Where night is like day,
Red leaves of October
And green leaves of May;
The sunshine and starshine,
The rain and the dew,
The gold of the kingcup,
The kingfisher's blue?
Do they think of the flurry
And rush of the weirs,
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poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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The Coast Of Barbary
My lad is on the water and far away from me,
And I pray God be good to him wherever he may be,
Up the sea and down the sea,
And along the coast of Barbary.
Oh, night and day ships come in, the ships both great and small,
But never one among them brings a word of him at all,
From Port o' Spain and Trinidad, from Rio or Funchal,
And along the coast of Barbary.
If I must think he comes no more across yon seas forlorn,
If I must think there is no tide may bring him night or morn,
I'd curse the light that I look on, and the day that I was born,
And the cruel coast of Barbary.
But well I know that soon or late he'll come back blithe and brown,
When the fire's a good thing to see, and the dark drawing down,
From many a wild and stormy sea, and many a foreign town,
And along the coast of Barbary.
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poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Shipmate Sorrow
I was shipmates with Sorrow in a day gone by;
We shared the wheel and look-out, old Sorrow and I:
Good times and bad times, foul weather and fair,
The old grey face of him was always there.
There was never shanty raised there, never song I heard,
But his voice would be in it like a crying bird;
I was dull in the dog watches when the laugh went free
Because of old Sorrow sitting down by me.
I thought I could lose him in the stir and change
Of bright wicked cities all sunlit and strange;
There came a hand at my elbow and a voice in my ear -
It was patient Sorrow saying: 'Lad, I'm here!'
And by the bustling harbour, up the busy street,
Many a time I see him, many a time I meet
The old grey face there of one I used to know . . .
And it's old shipmate Sorrow out of long ago.
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poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Guido Sebaldi
Guido Sebaldi the mason
Worked at a house of stone:
Guido Sebaldi the mason
Sand at his work alone.
Till a stranger, he said unto him
As he hammer'd the stone one day'
'Guido Sebaldi the mason,
Hark to the words I say!'
'Leave thou this work, fit only
For oxen that draw the plough:
No longer Sebaldi the mason,
Guido the sculptor thou!'
Then Guido Sebaldi the mason
Look'd on his work in shame.
And 'Lo,' he said, 'I am lusty,
I will build me a noble name.'
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poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Animal House
In Animal House (by which title I call
A dwelling whose true name is not that at all)
There are dogs on the sofas and cats on the chairs;
Wherever you sit you get covered with hairs;
While your progress is marked by the yelps and miaous*
Of beasts you have walked on in Animal House.
There’s an Old English bantam that welcomes the dawn,
There’s a cat that sings love-songs all night on the lawn,
There’s a bachelor turtle-dove making sweet moan
And a puppy lamenting because it’s alone;
The rowdiest tavern where topers carouse
Is a meeting of Quakers to Animal House.
There’s a tortoise asleep in the strawberry bed
(They say it’s asleep but it smells a bit dead);
There are rabbits — they tell me they pluck them alive —
And ferrets in hutches and bees in a hive,
And goats, male and female, that merrily browse
On the stockings they hang out at Animal House.
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poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Follow The Sea
'What is it makes a man follow the sea?
Ask me another!' says Billy Magee:
'Maybe it's liquor and maybe it's love -
Maybe it's likin' to be on the move -
Maybe the salt drop that runs in his blood
Won't let his killick lie snug in the mud:
What is it makes such poor idjits as me
Follow the sea -follow the sea? . . .
Jiggered if I know!' says Billy Magee.
'What is it keeps a chap rollin' around
All his life long from the Skaw to the Sound?
Samplin' the weathers from Hull to Rangoon -
Doldrums an' westerlies, Trade an' typhoon -
Hurricane, cyclone an' southerly buster -
In any old drogher as flies the Red Duster?
What is it makes a chap follow the sea -
Follow the sea - follow the sea -
Bust me if I know!' says Billy Magee.
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poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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