Running To Paradise

by


A Shropshire Lad - XIX - To An Athlete Dying Young
Robert MacDonald, World champion 25 mile runner, 1898
    As I came over Windy Gap
    They threw a halfpenny into my cap,
    For I am running to Paradise;
    And all that I need do is to wish
    And somebody puts his hand in the dish
    To throw me a bit of salted fish:
    And there the king is but as the beggar.

    My brother Mourteen is worn out
    With skelping his big brawling lout,
    And I am running to Paradise;
    A poor life do what he can,
    And though he keep a dog and a gun,
    A serving maid and a serving man:
    And there the king is but as the beggar.

    Poor men have grown to be rich men,
    And rich men grown to be poor again,
    And I am running to Paradise;
    And many a darling wit¬ís grown dull
    That tossed a bare heel when at school,
    Now it has filled an old sock full:
    And there the king is but as the beggar.

    The wind is old and still at play
    While I must hurry upon my way,
    For I am running to Paradise;
    Yet never have I lit on a friend
    To take my fancy like the wind
    That nobody can buy or bind:
    And there the king is but as the beggar.

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