Poems From "A Shropshire Lad" - XXXVII

As through the wild green hills of Wyre     The train ran, changing sky and shire,     And far behind, a fading crest,     Low in the forsaken west     Sank the high-reared head of Clee,     My hand lay empty on my knee.     Aching on my knee it lay:     That morning half a shire away     So many an honest fellow's fist     Had well-nigh wrung it from the wrist.     Hand, said I, since now we part     From fields and men we know by heart,     From strangers' faces, strangers' lands,-     Hand, you have held true fellows' hands.     Be clean then; rot before you do     A thing they'd not believe of you.     You and I must keep from shame     In London streets the Shropshire name;     On banks of Thames they must not say     Severn breeds worse men than they;     And friends abroad must bear in mind     Friends at home they leave behind.     Oh, I shall be stiff and cold     When I forget you, hearts of gold;     The land where I shall mind you not     Is the land where all's forgot.     And if my foot returns no more     To Teme nor Corve nor Severn shore,     Luck, my lads, be with you still     By falling stream and standing hill,     By chiming tower and whispering tree,     Men that made a man of me.     About your work in town and farm     Still you'll keep my head from harm,     Still you'll help me, hands that gave     A grasp to friend me to the grave.