i' een half shut, a stretchin' out
Whaur green trees hap.

And noo he fades awa'
Frae 'tween the twa--into the blue.
My sight gats blind; gude Lord, it isna true
That he has gane for aye awa
Into the blue!

They are my laddie's hounds
That mak the hill at fa' o' day
Wi' dowie heads hung laigh; can ony say
_Wha is it hunts my laddie's hounds_
_Till fa' o day?_

THE OLD HOUSE: KATHERINE TYNAN

The boys who used to come and go
In the grey kindly house are flown.
They have taken the way the young feet know;
Not alone, not alone!
Thronged is the road the young feet go.

Yet in the quiet evening hour
What comes, oh, lighter than a bird?
Touches her cheek, soft as a flower.
What moved, what stirred?
What was the joyous whisper heard?

What flitted in the corridor
Like a boy's shape so dear and slight?
What was the laughter ran before?
Delicate, light,
Like harps the wind plays out of sight.

The boys who used to go and come
In the grey house are come again;
Of the grey house and firelit room
They are fain, they are fain:
They have come home from the night and rain.

SHADOWY HEROES

BALLAD OF THE BURIED SWORD: ERNEST RHYS

In a winter's dream, on Gamellyn moor,
I found the lost grave of Lord Glyndwr.

I followed three shadows against the moon,
That marched while the thin reed whistled the tune,

Three swordsmen they were out of Harry's wars,
That made a Welsh song of their Norman scars,

But they sang no longer of Agincourt,
When they came to a grave, for there lay Glyndwr.

Said the one, "My sword, th'art rust, my dear,
I but brought thee home to break thee here."

And the second, "Ay, here is the narrow home,
To which our tired hearts are come!"

And the third, "We are all that are left, Glyndwr,
To guard thee now on Gamellyn moor."

Straightway I saw the dead forth-stand,
His good sword bright in his right hand,

And the marsh-reeds with a whistling sound,
To a thousand gray swordsmen were turned around.

The moon did shake in the south to see,
The dead man stand with his soldiery.

But the brighter his sword, the grave before,
Turn'd its gate of death to a radiant door.

Therein the thousand, before their Lord,
Marched at the summons of his bright sword.

Then the night grew strange, the blood left my brain,
And I stood alone by the grave again.

But brightly his sword still before me shone,
Across the dark moor a