"Is that the Three-and-Twentieth, Strabo mine, Marching below, and we still gulping wine?" From the sad magic of his fragrant cup The red-faced old centurion started up,...
To the woods, to the woods is the wizard gone; In his grotto the maiden sits alone. She gazes up with a weary smile At the rafter-hanging crocodile, The slowly swinging crocodile....
The cruel Moon hangs out of reach Up above the shadowy beech. Her face is stupid, but her eye Is small and sharp and very sly. Nurse says the Moon can drive you mad? No, that's a silly story, lad!...
When I'm killed, don't think of me Buried there in Cambrin Wood, Nor as in Zion think of me With the Intolerable Good. And there's one thing that I know well, I'm damned if I'll be damned to Hell! ...