A Shropshire Lad/As through the wild green hills of Wyre
XXXVII
As through the wild green hills of WyreThe train ran, changing sky and shire,And far behind, a fading crest,Low in the forsaken westSank the high-reared head of Clee,My hand lay empty on my knee.Aching on my knee it lay:That morning half a shire awaySo many an honest fellow's fistHad wellnigh wrung it from the wrist.Hand, said I, since now we partFrom fields and men we know by heart,For strangers' faces, strangers' lands,—Hand, you have held true fellows' hands.Be clean then; rot before you doA thing they'd not believe of you.You and I must keep from shameIn London streets the Shropshire name; On banks of Thames they must not saySevern breeds worse men than they;And friends abroad must bear in mindFriends at home they leave behind.Oh, I shall be stiff and coldWhen I forget you, hearts of gold;The land where I shall mind you notIs the land where all 's forgot.And if my foot returns no moreTo Teme nor Corve nor Severn shore,Luck, my lads, be with you stillBy falling stream and standing hill,By chiming tower and whispering tree,Men that made a man of me.About your work in town and farmStill you'll keep my head from harm,Still you'll help me, hands that gavegrasp to friend me to the grave.
❦