Robert Buchanan (1841–1901)

Pilgrim:
LITTLE Herdboy, sitting there,

With the sunshine on thy hair,

And thy flocks so white and still

Spilt around thee on the hill,

Tell me true, in thy sweet speech,

Of the City I would reach.

’Tis a City of God’s Light

Most imperishably bright,

And its gates are golden all,—

And at dawn and evenfall

They grow ruby-bright and blest

To the east and to the west.

Here, among the hills it lies,

Like a lamb with lustrous eyes

Lying at the Shepherd’s feet;

And the breath of it is sweet,

As it rises from the sward

To the nostrils of the Lord!

Little Herdboy, tell me right,

Hast thou seen it from thy height?

For it lieth up this way,

And at dawn or death of day

Thou hast surely seen it shine

With the light that is divine?

The little Herdboy:
Where the buttercups so sweet

Dust with gold my naked feet,

Where the grass grows green and long,

Sit I here and sing my song,

And the brown bird cries ‘Cuckoo’

Under skies for ever blue!

Now and then, while I sing loud,

Flits a little fleecy cloud,

And uplooking I behold

How it turns to rain of gold,

Falling lightly, while around

Comes the stir of its soft sound!

Bright above and dim below

Is the many-colour’d Bow;

’Tis the only light I mark,

Till the mountain-tops grow dark,

And uplooking I espy

Shining glowworms in the sky;

Then I hear the runlet’s call,

And the voice o’ the waterfall

Growing louder, and ’tis cold

As I guide my flocks to fold;

But no City, great or small,

Have I ever seen at all!

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