sing men
For we are for all men under the sun
And they are against us every one
And misers haggle, and mad men clutch
And there is peril in praising much
And we have the terrible tongues un-curled
That praise the world to the sons of the world.

The idle humble hill and wood
Are bowed about the sacred Birth
And for one little while the earth
Is lazy with the love of good
But ready are you and ready am I
If the battle blow and the guns go by
For we are for all men under the sun
And they are against us every one
For the men that hate herd altogether
To pride and gold and the great white feather
And the thing is graven in star and stone
That the men that love are all alone.

Hunger is hard and time is tough
But bless the beggars and kiss the kings
For hope has broken the heart of things
And nothing was ever praised enough
But hold the shield for a sudden swing
And point the sword in praising a thing
For we are for all men under the sun
And they are against us every one
And mime and merchant, thane and thrall,
Hate us because we love them all
Only till Christmas time goes by
Passionate peace is in the sky.

FRANCES CORNFORD

THE PRINCESS AND THE GIPSIES

As I looked out one May morning,
I saw the tree-tops green;
I said: "My crown I will lay down
And live no more a queen."

Then I tripped down my golden steps
All in my silken gown,
And when I stood in the open wood,
I met some gipsies brown.

"O gentle, gentle gipsies,
That roam the wide world through,
Because I hate my crown and state
O let me come with you.

"My councillors are old and grey,
And sit in narrow chairs;
But you can hear the birds sing clear,
And your hearts are as light as theirs."

"If you would come along with us,
Then you must count the cost;
For though in Spring the sweet birds sing,
In Winter comes the frost.

"Your ladies serve you all the day
With courtesy and care;
Your fine-shod feet they tread so neat,
But a gipsy's feet go bare.

"You wash in water running warm
Through basins all of gold;
The streams where we roam have silvery foam,
But the streams, the streams are cold.

"And barley-bread is bitter to taste,
While sugary cakes they please--
Which will you choose, O which will you choose,
Which will you choose of these?

"For if you choose the mountain streams
And barley-bread to eat,
Your heart will be free as the bir