SIGNS OF INNS.
The Herald lives in cloister grey;
He lives by clerkly rules;
He dreams in coats and colours gay,
In argent, or and gules;
He blazons knightly shield and banner
In dim monastic hall,
And in a grave and reverend manner
He earns his bread withal.
Were I a herald fair and fit
So featly for to limn
As though I'd learnt the lore of it
Among the seraphim,
I'd leave the schools to clerkly people
And walk, as dawn begins,
From steeple unto distant steeple,
And paint the signs of inns.
The Dragon, as I'd see him, is
A loving beast and long,
And oh, the Goat and Compasses,
'Twould fill my soul with song;
The Bell, The Bull, The Rose and Rummer,
Such themes should like me still
At Yule, or when the heart of Summer
Lies blue on vale and hill.
Let others' blazonry find place
Supported, scrolled with gold,
A glowing dignity and grace
On honoured walls and old;
And let it likewise be attended
In stately circumstance
With mottos writ o' Latin splendid
Or courtly words of France;
But I would paint The Golden Tun
And others to my mind,
And mellow them in rain and sun,
And hang them on the wind;
And I would say, "My handcraft creaking
On this autumnal gale
Unto all wayfarers is speaking
In praise of rest and ale."
Then bless the man who puts a sign
Above his wide door's beam,
And bless the hop-root, fruit and vine,
For still I dream my dream,
Where, as the flushing East turns pinker
And tardy day begins,
I take the road like any tinker
And paint the signs of inns.