Poetry
The 'Plough and Sail'
A LITTLE Inn upon the River Aide
Gave shelter to us in the summer hail— A shabby, snuff-brown Inn, divinely called The Plough and Sail.
The fire was out, she could not give us tea,
So said the lady of the Plough and Sail ; "Biscuits and gingerbeer, how 'mild that be ? "
—Both warm and stale !
A smell of shag and tar and dregs of beer Hangs in the close-shut taproom like a veil ; One window looks on yellow corn in ear, One on a sail.
The rain has ceased to beat against the pane, The well-known charms of Marie biscuits fail To hold us now the sun shines out again
On Plough and Sail.
How good the air, fresh-steeped in sun and rain, After the taproom's ling'ring stench of ale ; How sweet the honeysuckle in the lane,
Oh, Plough and Sail !
Furrowed the surface of the restless sea, While ripples break among the barley pale ; The sky is quick with larks we cannot see
O'er Plough and Sail:
You little Inn upon the River Aide, Not everything you gave was flat and stale ; You cheerless Inn—yet worthy to be called
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