BALLADE OF RIVER SAILING
The Dorothy was very small: a boat
Scarce any bigger than the sort one rows
With oars! We got her for a five-pound note
At second-hand. Yet when the river flows
Strong to the sea, and the wind lightly blows,
Then see her dancing on the tide, and you’ll
Swear she’s the prettiest little craft that goes
Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool.
Bare-footed, push her from the bank afloat,
(The soft warm mud comes squelching through your toes!)
Scramble aboard: then find an antidote
For every care a jaded spirit knows:
While round the boat the broken water crows
With laughter, casting pretty ridicule
On human life and all its little woes,
Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool.
How shall I tell you what the sunset wrote
Upon the outspread waters—gold and rose:
Or how the white sail of our little boat
Looks on a summer sky? The hills enclose
With blue solemnity: each white scar shows
Clear on the quarried Cotteswolds high and cool.
And high and cool a fevered spirit grows
Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool.
Envoi.
Prince, you have horses: motors, I suppose,
As well! At finding pleasure you’re no fool.
But have you got a little boat that blows
Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool?