The Haymakers’ Song
RE’S to him that grows it, Drink, lads, drink! That lays it in and mows it, Clink, jugs, clink! To him that mows and makes it, That scatters it and shakes it, That turns, and teds, and rakes it, Clink, jugs, clink! Now here ’s to him that stacks it, Drink, lads, drink!
That thrashes and that tacks it, Clink, jugs, clink! That cuts it out for eating, When March-dropp’d lambs are bleating, And the slate-blue clouds are sleeting, Drink, lads, drink! And here ’s to thane and yeoman, Drink, lads, drink! To horseman and to bowman, Clink, jugs, clink!
To lofty and to low man, Who bears a grudge to no man, But flinches from no foeman, Drink, lads, drink!
Alfred Austin
Other author posts
To Ireland
``What ails you, Sister Erin, that your face Is, like your mountains, still bedewed with tears As though some ancient sorrow or disgrace, Some unforgettable wrong from far—off years,
Songs From “Prince Lucifer” II - Mother-Song
TE little hands Pink little feet Dimpled all over, Sweet, sweet, sweet What dost thou wail for
Impromptu
Tell me your race, your name, O Lady limned as dead, yet as when living fair That within this faded frame An unfading beauty wear Were you ever known to fame,
In Praise Of England
From tangled brake and trellised bower Bring every bud that blows, But never will you find the flower To match an English rose It blooms with more than city grace, Though rustic and apart;