Now hollow fires burn out to black, And lights are guttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your pack And leave your friends and go.

The thoughts of others Were light and fleeting, Of lovers' meeting Or luck or fame. Mine were of trouble, And mine were steady; So I was ready When trouble came.

And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears.

And malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man.

Give me a land of boughs in leaf A land of trees that stand; Where trees are fallen there is grief; I love no leafless land.

Stone, steel, dominions pass, Faith too, no wonder; So leave alone the grass That I am under.

Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.