The Chimney-Sweeps of Cheltenham by Alfred Noyes

    When hawthorn buds are creaming white,
        And the red foolscap all stuck with may,
    Then lasses walk with eyes alight,
        And it's chimney-sweepers' dancing day.

    For the chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham town,
        Sooty of face as a swallow of wing,
    Come whistling, singing, dancing down
        With white teeth flashing as they sing.

    And Jack-in-the green, by a clown in blue,
        Walks like a two-legged bush of may,
    With the little wee lads that wriggled up the flue
        Ere Cheltenham town cried "dancing day."

    For brooms were short and the chimneys tall,
        And the gipsies caught 'em these blackbirds cheap,
    So Cheltenham bought them, spry and small,
        And shoved them up in the dark to sweep.

    For Cheltenham town was cruel of old,
        But she has been gathering garlands gay,
    And the little wee lads are in green and gold,
        For it's chimney-sweepers' dancing day.

    And red as a rose, and blue as the sky,
        With teeth as white as their faces are black,
    The master-sweeps go dancing by,
        With a gridiron painted on every back.

    But when they are ranged in the market-place,
        The clown's wife comes with an iron spoon,
    And cozens a penny for her sweet face
        To keep their golden throats in tune.

    Then, hushing the riot of that mad throng,
        And sweet as the voice of a long-dead May,
    A wandering pedlar lifts 'em a song,
        Of chimney-sweepers' dancing day;

    And the sooty faces, they try to recall....
        As they gather around in their spell-struck rings....
    But nobody knows that singer at all
        Or the curious old-time air he sings:--

    Why are you dancing, O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,
        And where did you win you these may-coats so fine;
    For some are red as roses, and some are gold as daffodils,
        But who, ah, who remembers, now, a little lad of mine?

    Lady, we are dancing, as we danced in old England
        When the may was more than may, very long ago:
    As for our may-coats, it was your white hands, lady,
        Filled our sooty hearts and minds with blossom, white as snow.

    It was a beautiful face we saw, wandering through Cheltenham.
        It was a beautiful song we heard, very far away,
    Weeping for a little lad stolen by the gipsies,
        Broke our hearts and filled 'em with the glory of the may.

    Many a little lad had we, chirruping in the chimney-tops,
        Twirling out a sooty broom, a blot against the blue.
    Ah, but when we called to him, and when he saw and ran to her,
        All our winter ended, and our world was made anew.

    Then she gave us may-coats of gold and green and crimson,
        Then, with a long garland, she led our hearts away,
    Whispering, "Remember, though the boughs forget the hawthorn,
        Yet shall I return to you, that was your lady May."--

    But why are you dancing now, O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,
        And why are you singing of a May that is fled?--
    O, there's music to be born, though we pluck the old fiddle-strings,
        And a world's May awaking where the fields lay dead.

    And we dance, dance, dreaming of a lady most beautiful
        That shall walk the green valleys of this dark earth one day,
    And call to us gently, "O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,
        I am looking for my children. Awake, and come away."

The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes

                                                 I
   The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
   The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
   The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
   And the highwayman came riding—
                     Riding—riding—
   The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

                                                 II
    He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
    A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
    They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
    And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
                      His pistol butts a-twinkle,
    His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

                                                 III
    Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
    And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
    He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
    But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
                      Bess, the landlord's daughter,
    Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

                                                 IV
    And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
    Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
    His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
    But he loved the landlord's daughter,
                      The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
    Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

                                                 V
    "One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
    But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
    Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
    Then look for me by moonlight,
                      Watch for me by moonlight,
    I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

                                                 VI
    He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
    But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
    As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
    And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
                      (Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
    Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
 
                                        PART TWO

                                                 I
    He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
    And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
    When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
    A red-coat troop came marching—
                      Marching—marching—
    King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

                                                 II
    They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
    But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
    Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
    There was death at every window;
                      And hell at one dark window;
    For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

                                                 III
    They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
    They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
    "Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
                      She heard the dead man say—
    Look for me by moonlight;
                      Watch for me by moonlight;
    I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
 
                                                 IV
    She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
    She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
    They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
    Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
                      Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
    The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

                                                 V
    The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
    Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
    She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
    For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
                      Blank and bare in the moonlight;
    And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .

                                                 VI
        Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
    Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
    Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
    The highwayman came riding,
                      Riding, riding!
    The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

                                                 VII
    Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
    Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
    Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
    Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
                      Her musket shattered the moonlight,
    Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

                                                 VIII
    He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
    Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
    Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
    How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
                      The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
    Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

                                                 IX
    Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
    With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
    Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
    When they shot him down on the highway,
                      Down like a dog on the highway,
    And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

                  *           *           *           *           *           *

                                                 X
    And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
    When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
    When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
    A highwayman comes riding—
                      Riding—riding—
    A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
 
                                                 XI
    Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
    He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
    He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
    But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
                      Bess, the landlord's daughter,
    Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.