Up on the downs the red-eyed kestrels hover,
Eyeing the grass.
The field-mouse flits like a shadow into cover
As their shadows pass.
Men are burning the gorse on the down's shoulder;
A drift of smoke
Glitters with fire and hangs, and the skies smoulder,
And the lungs choke.
Once the tribe did thus on the downs, on these downs, burning
Men in the frame,
Crying to the gods of the downs till their brains were turning
And the gods came.
And to-day on the downs, in the wind, the hawks, the grasses,
In blood and air,
Something passes me and cries as it passes,
On the chalk downland bare.
XXII.
No man takes the farm,
Nothing grows there;
The ivy's arm
Strangles the rose there.
Old Farmer Kyrle
Farmed there the last;
He beat his girl
(It's seven years past).
After market it was
He beat his girl;
He liked his glass,
Old Farmer Kyrle.
Old Kyrle's son
Said to his father:
"Now, dad, you ha' done,
I'll kill you rather!
"Stop beating sister,
Or by God I'll kill you!"
Kyrle was full of liquor—
Old Kyrle said: "Will you?"