Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch(21 November 1863 - 12 May 1944 / England)
- by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch27
O Mary Leslie, blithe and shrill The bugles blew for Spain: And you below the Castle Hill Stood in the crowd your lane. Then hearts were wild to watch us pass, Yet laith to let us go! While mine said, 'Fare-ye-well, my lass!' And yours, 'God keep my Jo!'
Here by the bivouac fire, above These fields of savage play, I'll lift my love to meet thy love Twa thousand miles away,
Where yonder, yonder by the stars, Nightlong there rins a burn, And maids with lovers at the wars May list their wraiths' return.
More careless yet my spirit grows Of fame, more sick of blood: But I can think of Badajoz, And yet that God is good. Beyond the siege, beyond the stour, Beyond the sack of towns, I reach to pluck ae lily-floo'r Where leaders press for crowns.
O Mary! lily! bow'd and wet With mair than mornin's rain! The bugles up the Lawnmarket Shall sound us home again.
Then fare-ye-well, these foreign lands, And be damn'd their bitter drouth. With your dear face between my hands And the cup held to my mouth, My love, It's clean cup to my mouth!
- by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch26
To commemorate the virtue of Homoeopathy in restoring one apparently drowned.
Love, that in a tear was drown'd, Lives revived by a tear. Stella heard them mourn around Love that in a tear was drown'd, Came and coax'd his dripping swound, Wept 'The fault was mine, my dear!' Love, that in a tear was drown'd, Lives, revived by a tear.
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