III
I
was
never much of a one for other men’s poetry, for it always seemed to me that a man should make his own poetry if he needed such a thing, poetry being such a personal matter like a man’s clasp-knife or the vest he wears. But there was one poem I had often heard our Susan say as we sat under the wall in the garden and which now came back to me without any effort of the mind. It was by some parson, I remember she said, and I often used to wonder how a clergyman came to think of such things:
“Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh the pleasant sight to see
Shires and towns from Airly Beacon
While my love climbed up to me!
“Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh the happy hours we lay
Deep in fern on Airly Beacon,
Courting through the summer’s day!
“Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh the wear
