The very last thing that he could see
Was the sailor-men a-dancing in the moonlight
By the capstan that stood upon the quay.

_He is perched upon a high stool in London.
The Golden Gate is very far away.
They caught him, and they caged him, like a squirrel.
He is totting up accounts, and going grey._

_He will never, never, never sail to 'Frisco.
But the very last thing that he will see
Will be sailor-men a-dancing in the sunrise
By the capstan that stands upon the quay...._

_To the tune of an old concertina,
By the capstan that stands upon the quay._

THE GREAT NORTH ROAD

Just as the moon was rising, I met a ghostly pedlar
Singing for company beneath his ghostly load,--
Once, there were velvet lads with vizards on their faces,
Riding up to rob me on the great North Road.

Now, my pack is heavy, and my pocket full of guineas
Chimes like a wedding-peal, but little I enjoy
Roads that never echo to the chirrup of their canter,--
The gay Golden Farmer and the Hereford Boy.

Rogues were they all, but their raid was from Elf-land!
Shod with elfin silver were the steeds they bestrode.
Merlin buckled on the spurs that wheeled thro' the wet fern
Bright as Jack-o'-Lanthorns off the great North Road.

Tales were told in country inns when Turpin rode to Rippleside!
Puck tuned the fiddle-strings, and country maids grew coy,
Tavern doors grew magical when Colonel Jack might tap at them,
The gay Golden Farmer and the Hereford Boy.

What are you seeking then? I asked this honest pedlar.
--O, Mulled Sack or Natty Hawes might ease me of my load!--
Where are they flown then?--Flown where I follow;
They are all gone for ever up the great North Road.

Rogues were they all; but the white dust assoils 'em!
Paradise without a spice of deviltry would cloy.
Heavy is my pack till I meet with Jerry Abershaw,
The gay Golden Farmer and the Hereford Boy.

THE RIVER OF STARS

(_A tale of Niagara_)

_The lights of a hundred cities are fed by its midnight power.
Their wheels are moved by its thunder. But they, too, have their hour.
The tale of the Indian lovers, a cry from the years that are flown,
While the river of stars is rolling,
Rolling away to the darkness,
Abides with the power in the midnight, where love may find its own._

She watched from the Huron tents, till the f