The Project Gutenberg EBook of Green Bays. Verses and Parodies by 
Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch 
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Title: Green Bays. Verses and Parodies 
Author: Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch 
Release Date: October 18, 2005 [EBook #16898] 
Language: English 
Character set encoding: ASCII 
0. START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GREEN 
BAYS. VERSES AND PARODIES *** 
Produced by Lionel Sear 
GREEN BAYS. 
VERSES AND PARODIES. 
BY ARTHUR THOMAS QUILLER-COUCH (Q). 
ET, SI NON ALIUM LATE JACTARET ODOREM LAURUS 
ERAT. 
Most of the verses in this volume were written at Oxford, and first 
appeared in the 'Oxford Magazine.' A few are reprinted from 'The 
Speaker' and a few from certain works of fiction published by Messrs. 
Cassell and Co. 
Q. 
CONTENTS.
IN A COLLEGE GARDEN. 
THE SPLENDID SPUR. 
THE WHITE MOTH. 
IRISH MELODIES
I. TIM THE DRAGOON.
II. KENMARE 
RIVER. 
LADY JANE (SAPPHICS). 
A TRIOLET. 
AN OATH. 
UPON GRACIOSA, WALKING AND TALKING. 
WRITTEN UPON LOVE'S FRONTIER-POST. 
TITANIA. 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 
RETROSPECTION. 
WHY THIS VOLUME IS SO THIN. 
NUGAE OXONIENSES. 
TWILIGHT. 
WILLALOO. 
THE SAIR STROKE. 
THE DOOM OF THE ESQUIRE BEDELL. 
'BEHOLD! I AM NOT ONE THAT GOES TO LECTURES.'
CALIBAN UPON RUDIMENTS. 
SOLVITUR ACRIS HIEMPS. 
A LETTER. 
OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS. 
UNITY PUT QUARTERLY. 
FIRE! 
DE TEA FABULA. 
L'ENVOI (AS I LAYE A-DREAMYNGE). 
IN A COLLEGE GARDEN. 
Senex. Saye, cushat, callynge from the brake, 
               What  ayles  thee  soe  to  pyne? 
             Thy carefulle heart shall cease to ake 
                 When  dayes  be  fyne 
                 And  greene  thynges  twyne: 
               Saye, cushat, what thy griefe to myne? 
Turtur. Naye, gossyp, loyterynge soe late, 
               What  ayles  thee  thus  to  chyde? 
             My  love  is  fled  by  garden-gate; 
                 Since  Lammas-tyde 
                 I  wayte  my  bryde. 
               Saye,  gossyp,  whom  dost  thou  abyde? 
Senex. Loe! I am he, the 'Lonelie Manne,' 
               Of  Time  forgotten  quite, 
             That  no  remembered  face  may  scanne-- 
                 Sadde  eremyte, 
                 I  wayte  tonyghte 
               Pale  Death,  nor  any  other  wyghte.
O  cushat,  cushat,  callynge  lowe, 
               Goe  waken  Time  from  sleepe: 
             Goe  whysper  in  his  ear,  that  soe 
                 His  besom  sweepe 
                 Me  to  that  heape 
               Where  all  my  recollections  keepe. 
 
             Hath  he  forgott?  Or  did  I  viewe 
               A  ghostlye  companye 
      
    
		
	
	
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