Part 2

ARTHUR SYMONS.

FOLK SONGS

PALANQUIN BEARERS

Lightly, O lightly we bear her along, She sways like a flower in the wind of our song; She skims like a bird on the foam of a stream, She floats like a laugh from the lips of a dream. Gaily, O gaily we glide and we sing, We bear her along like a pearl on a string.

Softly, O softly we bear her along, She hangs like a star in the dew of our song; She springs like a beam on the brow of the tide, She falls like a tear from the eyes of a bride. Lightly, O lightly we glide and we sing, We bear her along like a pearl on a string.

WANDERING SINGERS

(Written to one of their Tunes)

Where the voice of the wind calls our wandering feet, Through echoing forest and echoing street, With lutes in our hands ever-singing we roam, All men are our kindred, the world is our home.

Our lays are of cities whose lustre is shed, The laughter and beauty of women long dead; The sword of old battles, the crown of old kings, And happy and simple and sorrowful things.

What hope shall we gather, what dreams shall we sow? Where the wind calls our wandering footsteps we go. No love bids us tarry, no joy bids us wait: The voice of the wind is the voice of our fate.

INDIAN WEAVERS

Weavers, weaving at break of day, Why do you weave a garment so gay? . . . Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild, We weave the robes of a new-born child.

Weavers, weaving at fall of night, Why do you weave a garment so bright? . . . Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green, We weave the marriage-veils of a queen.

Weavers, weaving solemn and still, What do you weave in the moonlight chill? . . . White as a feather and white as a cloud, We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.

COROMANDEL FISHERS

Rise, brothers, rise, the wakening skies pray to the morning light, The wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn like a child that has cried all night. Come, let us gather our nets from the shore, and set our catamarans free, To capture the leaping wealth of the tide, for we are the sons of the sea.

No longer delay, let us hasten away in the track of the sea-gull's call, The sea is our mother, the cloud is our brother, the waves are our comrades all. What though we toss at the fall of the sun where the hand of the sea-god drives? He who holds the storm by the hair, will hide in his breast our lives.

Sweet is the shade of the cocoanut glade, and the scent of the mango grove, And sweet are the sands at the full o' the moon with the sound of the voices we love. But sweeter, O brothers, the kiss of the spray and the dance of the wild foam's glee: Row, brothers, row to the blue of the verge, where the low sky mates with the sea.

THE SNAKE-CHARMER

Whither dost thou hide from the magic of my flute-call? In what moonlight-tangled meshes of perfume, Where the clustering keovas guard the squirrel's slumber, Where the deep woods glimmer with the jasmine's bloom?

I'll feed thee, O beloved, on milk and wild red honey, I'll bear thee in a basket of rushes, green and white, To a palace-bower where golden-vested maidens Thread with mellow laughter the petals of delight.

Whither dost thou loiter, by what murmuring hollows, Where oleanders scatter their ambrosial fire? Come, thou subtle bride of my mellifluous wooing, Come, thou silver-breasted moonbeam of desire!

CORN-GRINDERS

O LITTLE MOUSE, WHY DOST THOU CRY WHILE MERRY STARS LAUGH IN THE SKY?

Alas! alas! my lord is dead! Ah, who will ease my bitter pain? He went to seek a millet-grain In the rich farmer's granary shed; They caught him in a baited snare, And slew my lover unaware: Alas! alas! my lord is dead.

O LITTLE DEER, WHY DOST THOU MOAN, HID IN THY FOREST-BOWER ALONE?

Alas! alas! my lord is dead! Ah! who will quiet my lament?

At fall of eventide he went To drink beside the river-head; A waiting hunter threw his dart, And struck my lover through the heart. Alas! alas! my lord is dead.