Reel, reel, The Gipsy Trail On your trembling keel, But never a fear my craft will feel. We've raced the rapids; we're far ahead: The river slips through its silent bed. Sway, sway, As the bubbles spray And fall in tinkling tunes away. And up on the hills against the sky, A fir tree rocking its lullaby Swings, swings, Its emerald wings, Swelling the song that my paddie sings. 1677 E. Pauline Johnson [1862-1913] THE GIPSY TRAIL THE white moth to the closing vine, And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood Ever the wide world over, lass, Ever the trail held true, Over the world and under the world, Out of the dark of the gorgio camp, The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp, The red crane to her reed, And the Romany lass to the Romany lad By the tie of a roving breed. Morning waits at the end of the world Where winds unhaltered play, Nipping the flanks of their plunging ranks, The pied snake to the rifted rock, And the Romany lass to the Romany lad, Both to the road again, again! Follow the Romany patteran North where the blue bergs sail, Follow the Romany patteran Sheer to the Austral Light, Where the besom of God is the wild west wind, Sweeping the sea-floors white. Follow the Romany patteran Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift, And the east and the west are one, Follow the Romany patteran East where the silence broods By a purple wave on an opal beach The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky, And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid, The Footpath Way The heart of a man to the heart of a maid Light of my tents, be fleet! Morning waits at the end of the world, And the world is all at our feet! Rudyard Kipling [1865 1679 WANDERLUST BEYOND the East the sunrise, beyond the West the sea, I know not where the white road runs, nor what the blue hills are, But man can have the sun for friend, and for his guide a star; And there's no end of voyaging when once the voice is heard, For the river calls and the road calls, and oh, the call of a bird! Yonder the long horizon lics, and there by night and day Gerald Gould (1885-1916) THE FOOTPATH WAY THE winding road lies white and bare, Beyond, the fields are full in view, This stile, where country lovers tryst, Leave men and lumbering wains behind, Those dryads of the wood, that some The fountains of the meadows play, This is the wild bee's holiday; When summer-snows have sweetly dressed The pasture like a wedding-guest, By fields of beans that shall eclipse With woodruff and the new hay's breath, Skirting the rich man's lawn and hall, By orchards yet in rosy veils, Through lonesome valleys where all day The footpath sets her tender lure. A Maine Trail 1681 A MAINE TRAIL COME follow, heart upon your sleeve, Past tasseled corn and fresh-mown hay, Strike in by the gnarled way through the swamp Where late the laurel shone, An intimate close where you meet yourself And come unto your own, By bouldered brook to the hidden spring And swift birds break the silence as Stout-hearted thrust through gold-green copse To weave a garment of warm delight, Of sunspun ecstasy; 'Twill shield you all winter from frosty eyes, "Twill shield your heart from cold; Such greens!-how the Lord Himself loves green! Then on till flaming fireweed Is quenched in forest deep; Tread soft! The sumptuous paven moss And list ten thousand thousand spruce Born of the self-same sod. Oh come, the welcoming trees lead on, |