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diff --git a/old/sngms10.txt b/old/sngms10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b2aee1c --- /dev/null +++ b/old/sngms10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2430 @@ +Project Gutenberg Etext of Songs, Merry and Sad, by John McNeill + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. 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To assure a high quality text, +the original was typed in (manually) twice and electronically compared. + + + + + +Songs, Merry and Sad + +by John Charles McNeill + + +[American (North Carolina) poet. 1874-1907.] + + + +To +JOSEPH P. CALDWELL +("The Old Man") + + + + +Contents + + + +The Bride +"Oh, Ask Me Not" +Isabel +To ------ +To Melvin Gardner: Suicide +Away Down Home +For Jane's Birthday +A Secret +The Old Bad Woman +Valentine +A Photograph +Jesse Covington +An Idyl +Home Songs +M. W. Ransom +Protest +Oblivion +Now! +Tommy Smith +Before Bedtime +"If I Could Glimpse Him" +Attraction +Love's Fashion +Alcestis +Reminiscence +Sonnet +Lines +An Easter Hymn +A Christmas Hymn +When I Go Home +Odessa +Trifles +Sunburnt Boys +Gray Days +An Invalid +A Caged Mocking-Bird +Dawn +Harvest +Two Pictures +October +The Old Clock +Tear Stains +A Prayer +She Being Young +Paul Jones +The Drudge +The Wife +Vision +September +Barefooted +Pardon Time +The Rattlesnake +The Prisoner +Sonnet +Folk Song +"97": The Fast Mail +Sundown +At Sea +L'envoi + + + + +Songs, Merry and Sad + + + + +The Bride + + + +The little white bride is left alone +With him, her lord; the guests have gone; + The festal hall is dim. +No jesting now, nor answering mirth. +The hush of sleep falls on the earth + And leaves her here with him. + +Why should there be, O little white bride, +When the world has left you by his side, + A tear to brim your eyes? +Some old love-face that comes again, +Some old love-moment sweet with pain + Of passionate memories? + +Does your heart yearn back with last regret +For the maiden meads of mignonette + And the fairy-haunted wood, +That you had not withheld from love, +A little while, the freedom of + Your happy maidenhood? + +Or is it but a nameless fear, +A wordless joy, that calls the tear + In dumb appeal to rise, +When, looking on him where he stands, +You yield up all into his hands, + Pleading into his eyes? + +For days that laugh or nights that weep +You two strike oars across the deep + With life's tide at the brim; +And all time's beauty, all love's grace +Beams, little bride, upon your face + Here, looking up at him. + + + + +"Oh, Ask Me Not" + + + +Love, should I set my heart upon a crown, + Squander my years, and gain it, +What recompense of pleasure could I own? + For youth's red drops would stain it. + +Much have I thought on what our lives may mean, + And what their best endeavor, +Seeing we may not come again to glean, + But, losing, lose forever. + +Seeing how zealots, making choice of pain, + From home and country parted, +Have thought it life to leave their fellows slain, + Their women broken-hearted; + +How teasing truth a thousand faces claims, + As in a broken mirror, +And what a father died for in the flames + His own son scorns as error; + +How even they whose hearts were sweet with song + Must quaff oblivion's potion, +And, soon or late, their sails be lost along + The all-surrounding ocean: + +Oh, ask me not the haven of our ships, + Nor what flag floats above you! +I hold you close, I kiss your sweet, sweet lips, + And love you, love you, love you! + + + + +Isabel + + + +When first I stood before you, + Isabel, +I stood there to adore you, + In your spell; +For all that grace composes, +And all that beauty knows is +Your face above the roses, + Isabel. + +You knew the charm of flowers, + Isabel, +Which, like incarnate hours, + Rose and fell +At your bosom, glowed and gloried, +White and pale and pink and florid, +And you touched them with your forehead, + Isabel. + +Amid the jest and laughter, + Isabel, +I saw you, and thereafter, + Ill or well, +There was nothing else worth seeing, +Worth following or fleeing, +And no reason else for being, + Isabel. + + + + +To ------ + + + +Some time, far hence, when Autumn sheds + Her frost upon your hair, +And you together sit at dusk, + May I come to you there? +And lightly will our hearts turn back + To this, then distant, day +When, while the world was clad in flowers, + You two were wed in May. + +When we shall sit about your board + Three old friends met again, +Joy will be with us, but not much + Of jest and laughter then; +For Autumn's large content and calm, + Like heaven's own smile, will bless +The harvest of your happy lives + With store of happiness. + +May you, who, flankt about with flowers, + Will plight your faith to-day, +Hold, evermore enthroned, the love + Which you have crowned in May; +And Time will sleep upon his scythe, + The swallow rest his wing, +Seeing that you at autumntide + Still clasp the hands of spring. + + + + +To Melvin Gardner: Suicide + + + +A flight of doves, with wanton wings, + Flash white against the sky. +In the leafy copse an oriole sings, + And a robin sings hard by. +Sun and shadow are out on the hills; +The swallow has followed the daffodils; +In leaf and blade, life throbs and thrills + Through the wild, warm heart of May. + +To have seen the sun come back, to have seen + Children again at play, +To have heard the thrush where the woods are green + Welcome the new-born day, +To have felt the soft grass cool to the feet, +To have smelt earth's incense, heavenly sweet, +To have shared the laughter along the street, + And, then, to have died in May! + +A thousand roses will blossom red, + A thousand hearts be gay, +For the summer lingers just ahead + And June is on her way; +The bee must bestir him to fill his cells, +The moon and the stars will weave new spells +Of love and the music of marriage bells -- + And, oh, to be dead in May! + + + + +Away Down Home + + + +'T will not be long before they hear + The bullbat on the hill, +And in the valley through the dusk + The pastoral whippoorwill. +A few more friendly suns will call + The bluets through the loam +And star the lanes with buttercups + Away down home. + +"Knee-deep!" from reedy places + Will sing the river frogs. +The terrapins will sun themselves + On all the jutting logs. +The angler's cautious oar will leave + A trail of drifting foam +Along the shady currents + Away down home. + +The mocking-bird will feel again + The glory of his wings, +And wanton through the balmy air + And sunshine while he sings, +With a new cadence in his call, + The glint-wing'd crow will roam +From field to newly-furrowed field + Away down home. + +When dogwood blossoms mingle + With the maple's modest red, +And sweet arbutus wakes at last + From out her winter's bed, +'T would not seem strange at all to meet + A dryad or a gnome, +Or Pan or Psyche in the woods + Away down home. + +Then come with me, thou weary heart! + Forget thy brooding ills, +Since God has come to walk among + His valleys and his hills! +The mart will never miss thee, + Nor the scholar's dusty tome, +And the Mother waits to bless thee, + Away down home. + + + + +For Jane's Birthday + + + +If fate had held a careless knife + And clipped one line that drew, +Of all the myriad lines of life, + From Eden up to you; +If, in the wars and wastes of time, + One sire had met the sword, +One mother died before her prime + Or wed some other lord; + +Or had some other age been blest, + Long past or yet to be, +And you had been the world's sweet guest + Before or after me: +I wonder how this rose would seem, + Or yonder hillside cot; +For, dear, I cannot even dream + A world where you are not! + +Thus heaven forfends that I shall drink + The gall that might have been, +If aught had broken a single link + Along the lists of men; +And heaven forgives me, whom it loves, + For feigning such distress: +My heart is happiest when it proves + Its depth of happiness. + +Enough to see you where you are, + Radiant with maiden mirth! +To bless whatever blessed star + Presided o'er your birth, +That, on this immemorial morn, + When heaven was bending low, +The gods were kind and you were born + Twenty sweet years ago! + + + + +A Secret + + + +A little baby went to sleep + One night in his white bed, +And the moon came by to take a peep + At the little baby head. + +A wind, as wandering winds will do, + Brought to the baby there +Sweet smells from some quaint flower that grew + Out on some hill somewhere. + +And wind and flower and pale moonbeam + About the baby's bed +Stirred and woke the funniest dream + In the little sleepy head. + +He thought he was all sorts of things + From a lion to a cat; +Sometimes he thought he flew on wings, + Or fell and fell, so that + +When morning broke he was right glad + But much surprised to see +Himself a soft, pink little lad + Just like he used to be. + +I would not give this story fame + If there were room to doubt it, +But when he learned to talk, he came + And told me all about it. + + + + +The Old Bad Woman + + + +The Old Bad Woman was coming along, +Busily humming a sort of song. + +You could barely see, below her bonnet, +Her chin where her long nose rested on it. + +One tooth thrust out on her lower lip, +And she held one hand upon her hip. + +Then we went to thinking mighty fast, +For we knew our time had come at last. + +For what we had done and didn't do +The Old Bad Woman would put us through. + +If you cried enough to fill your hat, +She wouldn't care; she was used to that. + +Of the jam we had eaten, she would know; +How we ran barefooted in the snow; + +How we cried when they made us take our bath; +How we tied the grass across the path; + +How we bound together the cat and cur -- +We couldn't deny these things to her. + +She pulled her nose up off her chin +And blinked at us with an awful grin. + +And we almost died, becaze and because +Her bony fingers looked like claws. + +When she came on up to where we were, +How could we be polite to her? + +You needn't guess how she put us through. +If you are bad, she'll visit you. + +And when she leaves and hobbles off +You'll think that she has done enough; + +For the Old Bad Woman will and can +Be just as bad as the Old Bad Man! + + + + +Valentine + + + +This is the time for birds to mate; + To-day the dove +Will mark the ancient amorous date + With moans of love; +The crow will change his call to prate + His hopes thereof. + +The starling will display the red + That lights his wings; +The wren will know the sweet things said + By him who swings +And ducks and dips his crested head + And sings and sings. + +They are obedient to their blood, + Nor ask a sign, +Save buoyant air and swelling bud, + At hands divine, +But choose, each in the barren wood, + His valentine. + +In caution's maze they never wait + Until they die; +They flock the season's open gate + Ere time steals by. +Love, shall we see and imitate, + You, love, and I? + + + + +A Photograph + + + +When in this room I turn in pondering pace +And find thine eyes upon me where I stand, +Led on, as by Enemo's silken strand, +I come and gaze and gaze upon thy face. + +Framed round by silence, poised on pearl-white grace +Of curving throat, too sweet for beaded band, +It seems as if some wizard's magic wand +Had wrought thee for the love of all the race. + +Dear face, that will not turn about to see +The tulips, glorying in the casement sun, +Or, other days, the drizzled raindrops run + +Down the damp walls, but follow only me, +Would that Pygmalion's goddess might be won +To change this lifeless image into thee! + + + + +Jesse Covington + + + +If I have had some merry times + In roaming up and down the earth, +Have made some happy-hearted rhymes + And had my brimming share of mirth, +And if this song should live in fame + When my brief day is dead and gone, +Let it recall with mine the name + Of old man Jesse Covington. + +Let it recall his waggish heart -- + Yeke-hey, yeke-hey, hey-diddle-diddle -- +When, while the fire-logs fell apart, + He snatched the bow across his fiddle, +And looked on, with his eyes half shut, + Which meant his soul was wild with fun, +At our mad capers through the hut + Of old man Jesse Covington. + +For all the thrilling tales he told, + For all the tunes the fiddle knew, +For all the glorious nights of old + We boys and he have rollicked through, +For laughter all unknown to wealth + That roared responsive to a pun, +A hale, ripe age and ruddy health + To old man Jesse Covington! + + + + +An Idyl + + + +Upon a gnarly, knotty limb + That fought the current's crest, +Where shocks of reeds peeped o'er the brim, + Wild wasps had glued their nest. + +And in a sprawling cypress' grot, + Sheltered and safe from flood, +Dirt-daubers each had chosen a spot + To shape his house of mud. + +In a warm crevice of the bark + A basking scorpion clung, +With bright blue tail and red-rimmed eyes + And yellow, twinkling tongue. + +A lunging trout flashed in the sun, + To do some petty slaughter, +And set the spiders all a-run + On little stilts of water. + +Toward noon upon the swamp there stole + A deep, cathedral hush, +Save where, from sun-splocht bough and bole, + Sweet thrush replied to thrush. + +An angler came to cast his fly + Beneath a baffling tree. +I smiled, when I had caught his eye, + And he smiled back at me. + +When stretched beside a shady elm + I watched the dozy heat, +Nature was moving in her realm, + For I could hear her feet. + + + + +Home Songs + + + +The little loves and sorrows are my song: + The leafy lanes and birthsteads of my sires, + Where memory broods by winter's evening fires +O'er oft-told joys, and ghosts of ancient wrong; +The little cares and carols that belong + To home-hearts, and old rustic lutes and lyres, + And spreading acres, where calm-eyed desires +Wake with the dawn, unfevered, fair, and strong. + +If words of mine might lull the bairn to sleep, + And tell the meaning in a mother's eyes; +Might counsel love, and teach their eyes to weep + Who, o'er their dead, question unanswering skies, +More worth than legions in the dust of strife, +Time, looking back at last, should count my life. + + + + +M. W. Ransom + + (Died October 8, 1904) + + + +For him, who in a hundred battles stood + Scorning the cannon's mouth, +Grimy with flame and red with foeman's blood, + For thy sweet sake, O South; + +Who, wise as brave, yielded his conquered sword + At a vain war's surcease, +And spoke, thy champion still, the statesman's word + In the calm halls of peace; + +Who pressed the ruddy wine to thy faint lips, + Where thy torn body lay, +And saw afar time's white in-sailing ships + Bringing a happier day: + +Oh, mourn for him, dear land that gave him birth! + Bow low thy sorrowing head! +Let thy seared leaves fall silent on the earth + Whereunder he lies dead! + +In field and hall, in valor and in grace, + In wisdom's livery, +Gentle and brave, he moved with knightly pace, + A worthy son of thee! + + + + +Protest + + + +Oh, I am weary, weary, weary + Of Pan and oaten quills +And little songs that, from the dictionary, + Learn lore of streams and hills, +Of studied laughter, mocking what is merry, + And calculated thrills! + +Are we grown old and past the time of singing? + Is ardor quenched in art +Till art is but a formal figure, bringing + A money-measured heart, +Procrustean cut, and, with old echoes, ringing + Its bells about the mart? + +The race moves on, and leaves no wildernesses + Where rugged voices cry; +It reads its prayer, and with set phrase it blesses + The souls of men who die, +And step by even step its rank progresses, + An army marshalled by. + +If it be better so, that Babel noises, + Losing all course and ken, +And grief that wails and gladness that rejoices + Should never wake again +To shock a world of modulated voices + And mediocre men, + +Then he is blest who wears the painted feather + And may not turn about +To dusks when muses romped the dewy heather + In unrestricted rout +And dawns when, if the stars had sung together, + The sons of God would shout! + + + + +Oblivion + + + +Green moss will creep +Along the shady graves where we shall sleep. + +Each year will bring +Another brood of birds to nest and sing. + +At dawn will go +New ploughmen to the fields we used to know. + +Night will call home +The hunter from the hills we loved to roam. + +She will not ask, +The milkmaid, singing softly at her task, + +Nor will she care +To know if I were brave or you were fair. + +No one will think +What chalice life had offered us to drink, + +When from our clay +The sun comes back to kiss the snow away. + + + + +Now! + + + +Her brown hair knew no royal crest, + No gems nor jeweled charms, +No roses her bright cheek caressed, + No lilies kissed her arms. +In simple, modest womanhood + Clad, as was meet, in white, +The fairest flower of all, she stood + Amid the softest light. + +It had been worth a perilous quest + To see the court she drew, -- +My rose, my gem, my royal crest, + My lily moist with dew; +Worth heaven, when, with farewells from each + The gay throng let us be, +To see her turn at last and reach + Her white hands out to me. + + + + +Tommy Smith + + + +When summer's languor drugs my veins + And fills with sleep the droning times, +Like sluggish dreams among my brains, + There runs the drollest sort of rhymes, +Idle as clouds that stray through heaven + And vague as if they were a myth, +But in these rhymes is always given + A health for old Bluebritches Smith. + +Among my thoughts of what is good + In olden times and distant lands, +Is that do-nothing neighborhood + Where the old cider-hogshead stands +To welcome with its brimming gourd + The canny crowd of kin and kith +Who meet about the bibulous board + Of old Bluebritches Tommy Smith. + +In years to come, when stealthy change + Hath stolen the cider-press away +And the gnarled orchards of the grange + Have fallen before a slow decay, +Were I so cunning, I would carve + From some time-scorning monolith +A sculpture that should well preserve + The fame of old Bluebritches Smith. + + + + +Before Bedtime + + + +The cat sleeps in a chimney jam + With ashes in her fur, +An' Tige, from on the yuther side, + He keeps his eye on her. + +The jar o' curds is on the hearth, + An' I'm the one to turn it. +I'll crawl in bed an' go to sleep + When maw begins to churn it. + +Paw bends to read his almanax + An' study out the weather, +An' bud has got a gourd o' grease + To ile his harness leather. + +Sis looks an' looks into the fire, + Half-squintin' through her lashes, +An' I jis watch my tater where + It shoots smoke through the ashes. + + + + +"If I Could Glimpse Him" + + + +When in the Scorpion circles low + The sun with fainter, dreamier light, +And at a far-off hint of snow + The giddy swallows take to flight, +And droning insects sadly know + That cooler falls the autumn night; + +When airs breathe drowsily and sweet, + Charming the woods to colors gay, +And distant pastures send the bleat + Of hungry lambs at break of day, +Old Hermes' wings grow on my feet, + And, good-by, home! I'm called away! + +There on the hills should I behold, + Sitting upon an old gray stone +That humps its back up through the mold, + And piping in a monotone, +Pan, as he sat in days of old, + My joy would bid surprise begone! + +Dear Pan! 'Tis he that calls me out; + He, lying in some hazel copse, +Where lazily he turns about + And munches each nut as it drops, +Well pleased to see me swamped in doubt + At sound of his much-changing stops. + +If I could glimpse him by the vine + Where purple fox-grapes hang their store, +I'd tell him, in his leafy shrine, + How poets say he lives no more. +He'd laugh, and pluck a muscadine, + And fall to piping, as of yore! + + + + +Attraction + + + +He who wills life wills its condition sweet, +Having made love its mother, joy its quest, +That its perpetual sequence might not rest +On reason's dictum, cold and too discreet; + +For reason moves with cautious, careful feet, +Debating whether life or death were best, +And why pale pain, not ruddy mirth, is guest +In many a heart which life hath set to beat. + +But I will cast my fate with love, and trust +Her honeyed heart that guides the pollened bee +And sets the happy wing-seeds fluttering free; + +And I will bless the law which saith, Thou must! +And, wet with sea or shod with weary dust, +Will follow back and back and back to thee! + + + + +Love's Fashion + + + +Oh, I can jest with Margaret + And laugh a gay good-night, +But when I take my Helen's hand + I dare not clasp it tight. + +I dare not hold her dear white hand + More than a quivering space, +And I should bless a breeze that blew + Her hair into my face. + +'T is Margaret I call sweet names: + Helen is too, too dear +For me to stammer little words + Of love into her ear. + +So now, good-night, fair Margaret, + And kiss me e'er we part! +But one dumb touch of Helen's hand, + And, oh, my heart, my heart! + + + + +Alcestis + + + +Not long the living weep above their dead, +And you will grieve, Admetus, but not long. +The winter's silence in these desolate halls +Will break with April's laughter on your lips; +The bees among the flowers, the birds that mate, +The widowed year, grown gaunt with memory +And yearning toward the summer's fruits, will come +With lotus comfort, feeding all your veins. +The vining brier will crawl across my grave, +And you will woo another in my stead. +Those tender, foolish names you called me by, +Your passionate kiss that clung unsatisfied, +The pressure of your hand, when dark night hushed +Life's busy stir, and left us two alone, +Will you remember? or, when dawn creeps in, +And you bend o'er another's pillowed head, +Seeing sleep's loosened hair about her face, +Until her low love-laughter welcomes you, +Will you, down-gazing at her waking eyes, +Forget? + So have I loved you, my Admetus, +I thank the cruel fates who clip my life +To lengthen yours, they tarry not for age +To dim my eye and blanch my cheek, but now +Take me, while my lips are sweet to you +And youth hides yet amid this hair of mine, +Brown in the shadow, golden in the light. +Bend down and kiss me, dying for your sake, +Not gratefully, but sadly, love's farewell; +And if the flowering year's oblivion +Lend a new passion to thy life, far down +In the dim Stygian shadows wandering, +I will not know, but still will cherish there, +Where no change comes, thy love upon my lips. + + + + +Reminiscence + + + +We sang old love-songs on the way + In sad and merry snatches, +Your fingers o'er the strings astray + Strumming the random catches. + +And ever, as the skiff plied on + Among the trailing willows, +Trekking the darker deeps to shun + The gleaming sandy shallows, + +It seemed that we had, ages gone, + In some far summer weather, +When this same faery moonlight shone, + Sung these same songs together. + +And every grassy cape we passed, + And every reedy island, +Even the bank'd cloud in the west + That loomed a sombre highland; + +And you, with dewmist on your hair, + Crowned with a wreath of lilies, +Laughing like Lalage the fair + And tender-eyed like Phyllis: + +I know not if 't were here at home, + By some old wizard's orders, +Or long ago in Crete or Rome + Or fair Provencal borders, + +But now, as when a faint flame breaks + From out its smouldering embers, +My heart stirs in its sleep, and wakes, + And yet but half-remembers + +That you and I some other time + Moved through this dream of glory, +Like lovers in an ancient rhyme, + A long-forgotten story. + + + + +Sonnet + + + +I would that love were subject unto law! + Upon his person I should lay distraint + And force him thus to answer my complaint, +Which I, in well-considered counts, should draw. +Not free to fly, he needs must seek some flaw + To mar my pleading, though his heart were faint; + Declare his counsel to me, and acquaint +Himself with maxim, precedent, and saw. + +Ah, I could win him with authorities, + If suing thus in such a sober court; + Could read him many an ancient rhym'd report +Of such sad cases, tears would fill his eyes + And he confess a judgment, or resort +To some well-pleasing terms of compromise! + + + + +Lines + + + +To you, dear mother heart, whose hair is gray +Above this page to-day, +Whose face, though lined with many a smile and care, +Grows year by year more fair, + +Be tenderest tribute set in perfect rhyme, +That haply passing time +May cull and keep it for strange lips to pay +When we have gone our way; + +And, to strange men, weary of field and street, +Should this, my song, seem sweet, +Yours be the joy, for all that made it so +You know, dear heart, you know. + + + + +An Easter Hymn + + + +The Sun has come again and fed + The lily's lamp with light, +And raised from dust a rose, rich red, + And a little star-flower, white; +He also guards the Pleiades + And holds his planets true: +But we -- we know not which of these + The easier task to do. + +But, since from heaven he stoops to breathe + A flower to balmy air, +Surely our lives are not beneath + The kindness of his care; +And, as he guides the blade that gropes + Up from the barren sod, +So, from the ashes of our hopes, + Will beauty grow toward God. + +Whate'er thy name, O Soul of Life, -- + We know but that thou art, -- +Thou seest, through all our waste of strife, + One groping human heart, +Weary of words and broken sight, + But moved with deep accord +To worship where thy lilies light + The altar of its Lord. + + + + +A Christmas Hymn + + + +Near where the shepherds watched by night + And heard the angels o'er them, +The wise men saw the starry light + Stand still at last before them. +No armored castle there to ward + His precious life from danger, +But, wrapped in common cloth, our Lord + Lay in a lowly manger. +No booming bells proclaimed his birth, + No armies marshalled by, +No iron thunders shook the earth, + No rockets clomb the sky; +The temples builded in his name + Were shapeless granite then, +And all the choirs that sang his fame + Were later breeds of men. +But, while the world about him slept, + Nor cared that he was born, +One gentle face above him kept + Its mother watch till morn; +And, if his baby eyes could tell + What grace and glory were, +No roar of gun, no boom of bell + Were worth the look of her. +Now praise to God that ere his grace + Was scorned and he reviled +He looked into his mother's face, + A little helpless child; +And praise to God that ere men strove + About his tomb in war +One loved him with a mother's love, + Nor knew a creed therefor. + + + + +When I Go Home + + + +When I go home, green, green will glow the grass, +Whereon the flight of sun and cloud will pass; + Long lines of wood-ducks through the deepening gloam +Will hold above the west, as wrought on brass, + And fragrant furrows will have delved the loam, + When I go home. + +When I go home, the dogwood stars will dash +The solemn woods above the bearded ash, + The yellow-jasmine, whence its vine hath clomb, +Will blaze the valleys with its golden flash, + And every orchard flaunt its polychrome, + When I go home. + +When I go home and stroll about the farm, +The thicket and the barnyard will be warm. + Jess will be there, and Nigger Bill, and Tom -- +On whom time's chisel works no hint of harm -- + And, oh, 'twill be a day to rest and roam, + When I go home! + + + + +Odessa + + + +A horror of great darkness over them, +No cloud of fire to guide and cover them, +Beasts for the shambles, tremulous with dread, +They crouch on alien soil among their dead. + +"Thy shield and thy exceeding great reward," +This was thine ancient covenant, O Lord, +Which, sealed with mirth, these many thousand years +Is black with blood and blotted out with tears. + +Have these not toiled through Egypt's burning sun, +And wept beside the streams of Babylon, +Led from thy wilderness of hill and glen +Into a wider wilderness of men? + +Life bore them ever less of gain than loss, +Before and since Golgotha's piteous Cross, +And surely, now, their sorrow hath sufficed +For all the hate that grew from love of Christ! + +Thou great God-heart, heed thou thy people's cry, +Bare-browed and empty-handed where they die, +Sea-sundered from wall-girt Jerusalem, +There being no sword that wills to succor them, -- + +And Miriam's song, long hushed, will rise to thee, +And all thy people lift their eyes to thee, +When, for the darkness' horror over them, +Thou comest, a cloud of light to cover them. + + + + +Trifles + + + +What shall I bring you, sweet? + A posy prankt with every April hue: + The cloud-white daisy, violet sky-blue, + Shot with the primrose sunshine through and through? + +Or shall I bring you, sweet, + Some ancient rhyme of lovers sore beset, + Whose joy is dead, whose sadness lingers yet, + That you may read, and sigh, and soon forget? + +What shall I bring you, sweet? + Was ever trifle yet so held amiss + As not to fill love's waiting heart with bliss, + And merit dalliance at a long, long kiss? + + + + +Sunburnt Boys + + + +Down on the Lumbee river + Where the eddies ripple cool +Your boat, I know, glides stealthily + About some shady pool. +The summer's heats have lulled asleep + The fish-hawk's chattering noise, +And all the swamp lies hushed about + You sunburnt boys. + +You see the minnow's waves that rock + The cradled lily leaves. +From a far field some farmer's song, + Singing among his sheaves, +Comes mellow to you where you sit, + Each man with boatman's poise, +There, in the shimmering water lights, + You sunburnt boys. + +I know your haunts: each gnarly bole + That guards the waterside, +Each tuft of flags and rushes where + The river reptiles hide, +Each dimpling nook wherein the bass + His eager life employs +Until he dies -- the captive of + You sunburnt boys. + +You will not -- will you? -- soon forget + When I was one of you, +Nor love me less that time has borne + My craft to currents new; +Nor shall I ever cease to share + Your hardships and your joys, +Robust, rough-spoken, gentle-hearted + Sunburnt boys! + + + + +Gray Days + + + +A soaking sedge, +A faded field, a leafless hill and hedge, + +Low clouds and rain, +And loneliness and languor worse than pain. + +Mottled with moss, +Each gravestone holds to heaven a patient Cross. + +Shrill streaks of light +Two sycamores' clean-limbed, funereal white, + +And low between, +The sombre cedar and the ivy green. + +Upon the stone +Of each in turn who called this land his own + +The gray rain beats +And wraps the wet world in its flying sheets, + +And at my eaves +A slow wind, ghostlike, comes and grieves and grieves. + + + + +An Invalid + + + +I care not what his name for God may be, + Nor what his wisdom holds of heaven and hell, + The alphabet whereby he strives to spell +His lines of life, nor where he bends his knee, +Since, with his grave before him, he can see + White Peace above it, while the churchyard bell + Poised in its tower, poised now, to boom his knell, +Seems but the waiting tongue of liberty. + +For names and knowledge, idle breed of breath, + And cant and creed, the progeny of strife, + Thronging the safe, companioned streets of life, +Shrink trembling from the cold, clear eye of death, + And learn too late why dying lips can smile: + That goodness is the only creed worth while. + + + + +A Caged Mocking-Bird + + + +I pass a cobbler's shop along the street + And pause a moment at the door-step, where, +In nature's medley, piping cool and sweet, + The songs that thrill the swamps when spring is near, + Fly o'er the fields at fullness of the year, +And twitter where the autumn hedges run, +Join all the months of music into one. + +I shut my eyes: the shy wood-thrush is there, + And all the leaves hang still to catch his spell; +Wrens cheep among the bushes; from somewhere + A bluebird's tweedle passes o'er the fell; + From rustling corn bob-white his name doth tell; +And when the oriole sets his full heart free +Barefooted boyhood comes again to me. + +The vision-bringer hangs upon a nail + Before a dusty window, looking dim +On marts where trade goes hot with box and bale; + The sad-eyed passers have no time for him. + His captor sits, with beaded face and grim, +Plying a listless awl, as in a dream +Of pastures winding by a shady stream. + +Gray bird, what spirit bides with thee unseen? + For now, when every songster finds his love +And makes his nest where woods are deep and green, + Free as the winds, thy song should mock the dove. + If I were thou, my grief in moans should move +At thinking -- otherwhere, by others' art +Charmed and forgetful -- of mine own sweetheart. + +But I, who weep when fortune seems unkind + To prison me within a space of walls, +When far-off grottoes hold my loves enshrined + And every love is cruel when it calls; + Who sulk for hills and fern-fledged waterfalls, -- +I blush to offer sorrow unto thee, +Master of fate, scorner of destiny! + + + + +Dawn + + + +The hills again reach skyward with a smile. + Again, with waking life along its way, +The landscape marches westward mile on mile + And time throbs white into another day. + +Though eager life must wait on livelihood, + And all our hopes be tethered to the mart, +Lacking the eagle's wild, high freedom, would + That ours might be this day the eagle's heart! + + + + +Harvest + + + +Cows in the stall and sheep in the fold; +Clouds in the west, deep crimson and gold; + A heron's far flight to a roost somewhere; + The twitter of killdees keen in the air; +The noise of a wagon that jolts through the gloam + On the last load home. + +There are lights in the windows; a blue spire of smoke +Climbs from the grange grove of elm and oak. + The smell of the Earth, where the night pours to her + Its dewy libation, is sweeter than myrrh, +And an incense to Toil is the smell of the loam + On the last load home. + + + + +Two Pictures + + + +One sits in soft light, where the hearth is warm, + A halo, like an angel's, on her hair. +She clasps a sleeping infant in her arm. + A holy presence hovers round her there, + And she, for all her mother-pains more fair, +Is happy, seeing that all sweet thoughts that stir +The hearts of men bear worship unto her. + +Another wanders where the cold wind blows, + Wet-haired, with eyes that sting one like a knife. +Homeless forever, at her bosom close + She holds the purchase of her love and life, + Of motherhood, unglorified as wife; +And bitterer than the world's relentless scorn +The knowing her child were happier never born. + +Whence are the halo and the fiery shame + That fashion thus a crown and curse of love? +Have roted words such power to bless and blame? + Ay, men have stained a raven from many a dove, + And all the grace and all the grief hereof +Are the two words which bore one's lips apart +And which the other hoarded in her heart. + +He who stooped down and wrote upon the sand, + The God-heart in him touched to tenderness, +Saw deep, saw what we cannot understand, -- + We, who draw near the shrine of one to bless + The while we scourge another's sore distress, +And judge like gods between the ill and good, +The glory and the guilt of womanhood. + + + + +October + + + +The thought of old, dear things is in thine eyes, +O, month of memories! +Musing on days thine heart hath sorrow of, +Old joy, dead hope, dear love, + +I see thee stand where all thy sisters meet +To cast down at thy feet +The garnered largess of the fruitful year, +And on thy cheek a tear. + +Thy glory flames in every blade and leaf +To blind the eyes of grief; +Thy vineyards and thine orchards bend with fruit +That sorrow may be mute; + +A hectic splendor lights thy days to sleep, +Ere the gray dusk may creep +Sober and sad along thy dusty ways, +Like a lone nun, who prays; + +High and faint-heard thy passing migrant calls; +Thy lazy lizard sprawls +On his gray stone, and many slow winds creep +About thy hedge, asleep; + +The sun swings farther toward his love, the south, +To kiss her glowing mouth; +And Death, who steals among thy purpling bowers, +Is deeply hid in flowers. + +Would that thy streams were Lethe, and might flow +Where lotus blossoms blow, +And all the sweets wherewith thy riches bless +Might hold no bitterness! + +Would, in thy beauty, we might all forget +Dead days and old regret, +And through thy realm might fare us forth to roam, +Having no thought for home! + +And yet I feel, beneath thy queen's attire, +Woven of blood and fire, +Beneath the golden glory of thy charm +Thy mother heart beats warm, + +And if, mayhap, a wandering child of thee, +Weary of land and sea, +Should turn him homeward from his dreamer's quest +To sob upon thy breast, + +Thine arm would fold him tenderly, to prove +How thine eyes brimmed with love, +And thy dear hand, with all a mother's care, +Would rest upon his hair. + + + + +The Old Clock + + + +All day low clouds and slanting rain +Have swept the woods and dimmed the plain. +Wet winds have swayed the birch and oak, +And caught and swirled away the smoke, +But, all day long, the wooden clock + Went on, Nic-noc, nic-noc. + +When deep at night I wake with fear, +And shudder in the dark to hear +The roaring storm's unguided strength, +Peace steals into my heart at length, +When, calm amid the shout and shock, + I hear, Nic-noc, nic-noc. + +And all the winter long 't is I +Who bless its sheer monotony -- +Its scorn of days, which cares no whit +For time, except to measure it: +The prosy, dozy, cosy clock, + Nic-noc, nic-noc, nic-noc! + + + + +Tear Stains + + + +Tear-marks stain from page to page + This book my fathers left to me, -- +So dull that nothing but its age + Were worth its freight across the sea. + +But tear stains! When, by whom, and why? + Thus takes my fancy to its wings; +For grief is old, and one may cry + About so many things! + + + + +A Prayer + + + +If many years should dim my inward sight, + Till, stirred with no emotion, +I might stand gazing at the fall of night + Across the gloaming ocean; + +Till storm, and sun, and night, vast with her stars, + Would seem an oft-told story, +And the old sorrow of heroic wars + Be faded of its glory; + +Till, hearing, while June's roses blew their musk, + The noise of field and city, +The human struggle, sinking tired at dusk, + I felt no thrill of pity; + +Till dawn should come without her old desire, + And day brood o'er her stages, -- +O let me die, too frail for nature's hire, + And rest a million ages. + + + + +She Being Young + + + +The home of love is her blue eyes, +Wherein all joy, all beauty lies, +More sweet than hopes of paradise, + She being young. + +Speak of her with a miser's praise; +She craves no golden speech; her ways +Wind through charmed nights and magic days, + She being young. + +She is so far from pain and death, +So warm her cheek, so sweet her breath +Glad words are all the words she saith, + She being young. + +Seeing her face, it seems not far +To Troy's heroic field of war, +To Troy and all great things that are, + She being young. + + + + +Paul Jones + + + +A century of silent suns + Have set since he was laid on sleep, +And now they bear with booming guns + And streaming banners o'er the deep +A withered skin and clammy hair + Upon a frame of human bones: +Whose corse? We neither know nor care, + Content to name it John Paul Jones. + +His dust were as another's dust; + His bones -- what boots it where they lie? +What matter where his sword is rust, + Or where, now dark, his eagle eye? +No foe need fear his arm again, + Nor love, nor praise can make him whole; +But o'er the farthest sons of men + Will brood the glory of his soul. + +Careless though cenotaph or tomb + Shall tower his country's monument, +Let banners float and cannon boom, + A million-throated shout be spent, +Until his widowed sea shall laugh + With sunlight in her mantling foam, +While, to his tomb or cenotaph, + We bid our hero welcome home. + +Twice exiled, let his ashes rest + At home, afar, or in the wave, +But keep his great heart with us, lest + Our nation's greatness find its grave; +And, while the vast deep listens by, + When armored wrong makes terms to right, +Keep on our lips his proud reply, + "Sir, I have but begun to fight!" + + + + +The Drudge + + + +Repose upon her soulless face, + Dig the grave and leave her; +But breathe a prayer that, in his grace, +He who so loved this toiling race + To endless rest receive her. + +Oh, can it be the gates ajar + Wait not her humble quest, +Whose life was but a patient war +Against the death that stalked from far + With neither haste nor rest; + +To whom were sun and moon and cloud, + The streamlet's pebbly coil, +The transient, May-bound, feathered crowd, +The storm's frank fury, thunder-browed, + But witness of her toil; + +Whose weary feet knew not the bliss + Of dance by jocund reed; +Who never dallied at a kiss! +If heaven refuses her, life is + A tragedy indeed! + + + + +The Wife + + + +They locked him in a prison cell, + Murky and mean. +She kissed him there a wife's farewell + The bars between. +And when she turned to go, the crowd, +Thinking to see her shamed and bowed, +Saw her pass out as calm and proud + As any queen. + +She passed a kinsman on the street, + To whose sad eyes +She made reply with smile as sweet + As April skies. +To one who loved her once and knew +The sorrow of her life, she threw +A gay word, ere his tale was due + Of sympathies. + +She met a playmate, whose red rose + Had never a thorn, +Whom fortune guided when she chose + Her marriage morn, +And, smiling, looked her in the eye; +But, seeing the tears of sympathy, +Her smile died, and she passed on by + In quiet scorn. + +They could not know how, when by night + The city slept, +A sleepless woman, still and white, + The watches kept; +How her wife-loyal heart had borne +The keen pain of a flowerless thorn, +How hot the tears that smiles and scorn + Had held unwept. + + + + +Vision + + + +The wintry sun was pale + On hill and hedge; +The wind smote with its flail + The seeded sedge; +High up above the world, + New taught to fly, +The withered leaves were hurled + About the sky; +And there, through death and dearth, + It went and came, -- +The Glory of the earth + That hath no name. + +I know not what it is; + I only know +It quivers in the bliss + Where roses blow, +That on the winter's breath + It broods in space, +And o'er the face of death + I see its face, +And start and stand between + Delight and dole, +As though mine eyes had seen + A living Soul. + +And I have followed it, + As thou hast done, +Where April shadows flit + Beneath the sun; +In dawn and dusk and star, + In joy and fear, +Have seen its glory far + And felt it near, +And dared recall his name + Who stood unshod +Before a fireless flame, + And called it God. + + + + +September + + + +I have not been among the woods, +Nor seen the milk-weeds burst their hoods, + +The downy thistle-seeds take wing, +Nor the squirrel at his garnering. + +And yet I know that, up to God, +The mute month holds her goldenrod, + +That clump and copse, o'errun with vines, +Twinkle with clustered muscadines, + +And in deserted churchyard places +Dwarf apples smile with sunburnt faces. + +I know how, ere her green is shed, +The dogwood pranks herself with red; + +How the pale dawn, chilled through and through, +Comes drenched and draggled with her dew; + +How all day long the sunlight seems +As if it lit a land of dreams, + +Till evening, with her mist and cloud, +Begins to weave her royal shroud. + +If yet, as in old Homer's land, +Gods walk with mortals, hand in hand, + +Somewhere to-day, in this sweet weather, +Thinkest thou not they walk together? + + + + +Barefooted + + + +The girls all like to see the bluets in the lane + And the saucy johnny-jump-ups in the meadow, +But, we boys, we want to see the dogwood blooms again, + Throwin' a sort of summer-lookin' shadow; +For the very first mild mornin' when the woods are white + (And we needn't even ask a soul about it) +We leave our shoes right where we pulled them off at night, + And, barefooted once again, we run and shout it: + You may take the country over -- + When the bluebird turns a rover, + And the wind is soft and hazy, + And you feel a little lazy, + And the hunters quit the possums -- + It's the time for dogwood blossoms. + +We feel so light we wish there were more fences here; + We'd like to jump and jump them, all together! +No sleds for us, no guns, nor even 'simmon beer, + No nothin' but the blossoms and fair weather! +The meadow is a little sticky right at first, + But a few short days 'll wipe away that trouble. +To feel so good and gay, I wouldn't mind the worst + That could be done by any field o' stubble. + O, all the trees are seemin' sappy! + O, all the folks are smilin' happy! + And there's joy in every little bit of room; + But the happiest of them all + At the Shanghai rooster's call + Are we barefoots when the dogwoods burst abloom! + + + + +Pardon Time + + + +Give over now; forbear. The moonlight steeps +In silver silence towered castle-keeps + And cottage crofts, where apples bend the bough. +Peace guards us round, and many a tired heart sleeps. + Let me brush back the shadow from your brow. + Give over now. + +On such a night, how sweet, how sweet is life, +Even to the insect piper with his fife! + And must your troubled face still bear the blight +Of strength that runs itself to waste in strife? + For love's own heart should throb through all the light + Of such a night. + + + + +The Rattlesnake + + + +Coiled like a clod, his eyes the home of hate, +Where rich the harvest bows, he lies in wait, +Linking earth's death and music, mate with mate. + +Is 't lure, or warning? Those small bells may sing +Like Ariel sirens, poised on viewless wing, +To lead stark life where mailed death is king; + +Else nature's voice, in that cold, earthy thrill, +Bids good avoid the venomed fang of ill, +And life and death fight equal in her will. + + + + +The Prisoner + + + +From pacing, pacing without hope or quest +He leaned against his window-bars to rest +And smelt the breeze that crept up from the west. + +It came with sundown noises from the moors, +Of milking time and loud-voiced rural chores, +Of lumbering wagons and of closing doors. + +He caught a whiff of furrowed upland sweet, +And certain scents stole up across the street +That told him fireflies winked among the wheat. + +Over the dusk hill woke a new moon's light, +Shadowed the woods and made the waters white, +And watched above the quiet tents of night. + +Alas, that the old Mother should not know +How ached his heart to be entreated so, +Who heard her calling and who could not go! + + + + +Sonnet + + + +To-day was but a dead day in my hands. + Hour by hour did nothing more than pass, + Mere idle winds above the faded grass. +And I, as though a captive held in bands, +Who, seeing a pageant, wonders much, but stands + Apart, saw the sun blaze his course with brass + And sink into his fabled sea of glass +With glory of farewell to many lands. + +Thou knowest, thou who talliest life by days, + That I have suffered more than pain of toil, + Ah, more than they whose wounds are soothed with oil, +And they who see new light on beaten ways! +The prisoner I, who grasps his iron bars +And stares out into depth on depth of stars! + + + + +Folk Song + + + +When merry milkmaids to their cattle call + At evenfall + And voices range +Loud through the gloam from grange to quiet grange, + +Wild waif-songs from long distant lands and loves, + Like migrant doves, + Wake and give wing +To passion dust-dumb lips were wont to sing. + +The new still holds the old moon in her arms; + The ancient charms + Of dew and dusk +Still lure her nomad odors from the musk, + +And, at each day's millennial eclipse, + On new men's lips, + Some old song starts, +Made of the music of millennial hearts, + +Whereto one listens as from long ago + And learns to know + That one day's tears +And love and life are as a thousand years', + +And that some simple shepherd, singing of + His pain and love, + May haply find +His heart-song speaks the heart of all his kind. + + + + +"97": The Fast Mail + + + +Where the rails converge to the station yard +She stands one moment, breathing hard, + +And then, with a snort and a clang of steel, +She settles her strength to the stubborn wheel, + +And out, through the tracks that lead astray, +Cautiously, slowly she picks her way, + +And gathers her muscle and guards her nerve, +When she swings her nose to the westward curve, + +And takes the grade, which slopes to the sky, +With a bound of speed and a conquering cry. + +The hazy horizon is all she sees, +Nor cares for the meadows, stirred with bees, + +Nor the long, straight stretches of silent land, +Nor the ploughman, that shades his eye with his hand, + +Nor the cots and hamlets that know no more +Than a shriek and a flash and a flying roar; + +But, bearing her tidings, she trembles and throbs, +And laughs in her throat, and quivers and sobs; + +And the fire in her heart is a red core of heat, +That drives like a passion through forest and street, + +Till she sees the ships in their harbor at rest, +And sniffs at the trail to the end of her quest. + +If I were the driver who handles her reins, +Up hill and down hill and over the plains, + +To watch the slow mountains give back in the west, +To know the new reaches that wait every crest, + +To hold, when she swerves, with a confident clutch, +And feel how she shivers and springs to the touch, + +With the snow on her back and the sun in her face, +And nothing but time as a quarry to chase, + +I should grip hard my teeth, and look where she led, +And brace myself stooping, and give her her head, + +And urge her, and soothe her, and serve all her need, +And exult in the thunder and thrill of her speed. + + + + +Sundown + + + +Hills, wrapped in gray, standing along the west; + Clouds, dimly lighted, gathering slowly; +The star of peace at watch above the crest -- + Oh, holy, holy, holy! + +We know, O Lord, so little what is best; + Wingless, we move so lowly; +But in thy calm all-knowledge let us rest -- + Oh, holy, holy, holy! + + + + +At Sea + + + +When the dim, tall sails of the ships were in motion, + Ghostly, and slow, and silent-shod, +We gazed where the dusk fled over the ocean, + A great gray hush, like the shadow of God. + +The sky dome cut with its compass in sunder + A circle of sea from the darkened land, -- +A circle of tremulous waste and wonder, + O'er which one groped with a childish hand. + +The true stars came to their stations in heaven, + The false stars shivered deep down in the sea, +And the white crests went like monsters, driven + By winds that never would let them be, + +And there, where the elements mingled and muttered, + We stood, each man with a lone dumb heart, +Full of the vastness that never was uttered + By symbol of words or by echo of art. + + + + +L'envoi + + + +God willed, who never needed speech, + "Let all things be:" +And, lo, the starry firmament + And land and sea +And his first thought of life that lives + In you and me. + +His circle of eternity + We see in part; +Our spirits are his breath, our hearts + Beat from his heart; +Hence we have played as little gods + And called it art. + +Lacking his power, we shared his dream + Of perfect things; +Between the tents of hope and sweet + Rememberings +Have sat in ashes, but our souls + Went forth on wings. + +Where life fell short of some desire + In you and me, +Feeling for beauty which our eyes + Could never see, +Behold, from out the void we willed + That it should be, + +And sometimes dreamed our lisping songs + Of humanhood +Might voice his silent harmony + Of waste and wood, +And he, beholding his and ours, + Might find it good. + + + + +[End of original text.] + + + + + +Notes: + + + +John Charles McNeill was born in Scotland County, near Laurinburg, +North Carolina, on 26 July 1874, and died on 17 October 1907 +(when he was 33 years old). He only produced this one volume before he died, +though he planned a second, which was published posthumously. +"Songs, Merry and Sad", first published in Charlotte in 1906, +went through at least five printings over more than 60 years. +(This text is taken from the very first edition.) + +Both of McNeill's grandfathers came from Scotland. + +McNeill attended Wake Forest College, where he received both +his Bachelor's and Master's degrees. In 1899-1900 he taught English +at Mercer University. + +Some of his poems were published nationally as early as 1901. +More of his poems were published by `The Charlotte Observer' starting in 1903, +and in 1904 he joined its staff. + + +This etext was created by entering the text (manually) twice, +once from the first printing (1906) and once from the second printing +(no date), and comparing the two. There were some slight differences +in the two printings. + +A portrait of John Charles McNeill faces the title page (p. 3) +in the second printing, but is absent in the first. + +The first printing gives the publisher as Stone & Barringer Co. +and gives the date as 1906. The second printing gives the publisher +as Stone Publishing Co., and gives no date. Both were printed +in Charlotte, N.C. + +One error was corrected (the second printing also corrected this error): + +(p. 73) +[ A holy presence hovers round here there, ] + changed to: +[ A holy presence hovers round her there, ] + + +The second printing also changed the title of the poem +[ To Melvin Gardner: Suicide ], on p. 19, to [ To Melvin Gardner: ] +-- in the text, but not in the table of Contents. This may have been done +in deference to the family -- attitudes on suicide were once quite different +than now -- but as it has been quite some time, and the original title +gives more meaning to the poem, it has been retained. + +The Title of the poem [ Now! ] did not have the exclamation point +in the table of Contents. It has been added to match the text. +The Title of the poem [ "97": The Fast Mail ] appeared as such +in the text, but as ["97:" The Fast Mail ] in the Contents. +The latter was changed to match the text. + +In the original, the book's title does not separate the Contents +from the first poem. It has been placed there as a sort of divider. + +In two places ASCII fails to provide enough characters for a correct rendering. +They are the words Provencal (the c with a cedilla) and mailed +(the e with an acute accent, to indicate that the word is to be said +with two syllables). These occur in "Reminiscence" and "The Rattlesnake". + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Songs, Merry and Sad, by John Charles McNeill + diff --git a/old/sngms10.zip b/old/sngms10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4301ad9 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/sngms10.zip |