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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/36803-0.txt b/36803-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..559e4c9 --- /dev/null +++ b/36803-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2227 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rebel Verses, by Bernard Gilbert + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Rebel Verses + +Author: Bernard Gilbert + +Release Date: July 20, 2011 [EBook #36803] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REBEL VERSES *** + + + + +Produced by David E. Brown, Bryan Ness, Matthew Wheaton +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images +generously made available by The Internet Archive/American +Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + + REBEL VERSES + + + NEW YORK AGENTS + LONGMANS, GREEN & CO. + FOURTH AVENUE AND 30TH STREET + + + REBEL VERSES + BY + BERNARD GILBERT + + + OXFORD + B. H. BLACKWELL, BROAD STREET + MCMXVIII + + +BY THE SAME AUTHOR + + + VERSE: LINCOLNSHIRE LAYS; + FARMING LAYS; + GONE TO THE WAR; + WAR WORKERS. + + DRAMA: ELDORADO; + THEIR FATHER'S WILL; + THE RUSKINGTON POACHER. + + FICTION: WHAT SHALL IT PROFIT? + TATTERSHALL CASTLE; + THE YELLOW FLAG. + + POLITICAL: FARMERS AND TARIFF REFORM: WHAT EVERY FARMER + WANTS: THE FARM LABOURER'S FIX. + + MISCELLANEOUS: LIVING LINCOLN; FORTUNES FOR FARMERS. + + +FROM _The New Witness_ + + MR. BERNARD GILBERT is one of the discoveries of the War. For + years, it seems, he has been writing poetry, but it is only + recently that an inapprehensive country has awakened to the + fact. Now he is taking his rightful place among our foremost + singers. What William Barnes was to Dorset, what T. E. Brown was + to the Manx people--this is Mr. Gilbert to the folk of his + native county of Lincoln. He has interpreted their lives, their + sorrows, their aspirations, with a surprising fidelity. Mr. + Gilbert never loses his grip upon realities. One feels that he + knows the men of whom he writes in their most intimate moods; + knows, too, their defects, which he does not shrink from + recording. There is little of the dreamy idealism of the South + in the peasant people of Lincolnshire. The outwardly respectable + chapel-goer who asks himself, in a moment of introspection + + But why not have a good time here? + Why should the Devil have all the beer? + + is true to type. But he has, too, his softer moods. Fidelity in + friendship, courage, resource and perseverance--these are + typical of the men of the Fens. + + TO + MORLEY ROBERTS + + + _Acknowledgments to the Editors of the:_ + _English Review_ + _New Age_ + _Colour_ + _Westminster Gazette_ + _New Witness_ + _To-Day_ + _Clarion_ + _Australian Triad_ + _Bystander_ + _Musical Student_ + _and Nash's Magazine_ + _in whose columns these verses have appeared during 1917._ + + + + +Contents + + + THE REBEL + SONG OF REVOLT + THERE AINT NO GOD + THE NIGHT IS DARK + RETURN + NIETZSCHE + SACRAMENT + FIGHTIN' TOMLINSON + THE LABOURER'S HYMN + OLIVER CROMWELL + ANYWHERE BUT HERE + A. G. WEBSTER + EAST WIND + PETER WRAY + OH FOOLS + ELFIN DANCER + OH TO BE HOME + GIVE SOLDIERS A VOTE + ALONE + FLESH OF OUR FLESH + THIS TOWN IS HELL + TIMBERLAND BELLS + DAME PEACH + FRIENDS + CHARING CROSS + LOVE NOT TOO MUCH + MACHIAVELLI + REMORSE + THE MANDRAKE'S HORRID SCREAM + ONE DAY + NO WIFE + TO AN OLD FRIEND + IS IT FINISHED + OH LINCOLN, CITY OF MY DREAMS + THE FOOL + + + + +The Rebel + + + I live in music, in poetry, and in the life reflective. + I seek intellectual boldness in man, I worship mental swiftness in + women. + I have no love for lawyers, priests, schoolmasters, or any dogmatic + men. + I am with poor against rich, labour against employer, women against + men; I fight beside all strikers, mutineers, and rebels. + I welcome foes; I desire criticism. + I loathe prejudice, either social or national; I repudiate all + claims. + I demand freedom of action and leisure for reflection. + Facing Death, I would say: 'I have tasted all, tried all, dared + all, suffered all, and I repent nothing.' + + + + +Song of Revolt + + + Crowns are ashake, + The princes and the Kings are bending low, + And, round the world, + Before the blast of Freedom, thrones are hurled: + The People are awake! + + Over the Ark of Tyranny + The red flag flaunts abroad for all to see! + Whilst to the roll of drums + Swelling triumphantly, the glad cry comes: + The People shall be free! + + In dungeons, men, long-bound for freedom's sake, + Forgotten of God, deep-frozen by despair, + Hear with surprise that clangorous fanfare: + The People are awake! + + Our fathers heard the call, + When Liberty from her bonds like the angry sea, + Pouring mightily forth, slew tyranny, + And singing the Marseillaise, bade crowns to fall, + That all men should be free! + + Men shall be slaves no more! + From sea to sea + That Word of hope unspeakable succour brings; + The day dawneth when there are no more Kings: + And the People, the People shall be free! + + + + +There Aint no God + + + There aint no God! + Coz if there were-- + My boy what's under foreign sod + Would be alive, and here: + Instead of which young William Porter + What never listed when he orter-- + Has his farm; + And braunges yonder safe away from harm. + + Poor lad!--he went-- + I can't forgit that night-- + While Porter laughed him outer sight; + Now--he is spent: + Porter's all right. + + What does he care? + He's thinking of another farm, + Instead of laying in some ditch + He's rich! + And folk'll gallop at his nod. + + I say it! + Dost hear me ... Thou? + There aint no God! + + + + +'The Night is Dark' + + + Safe-guarded dwellers in your sea-girt eyrie + How fares the fight? + Terror has crept beneath your ocean wall, + Horror is over-reaching, to appal; + Your sons are menaced by a furnace fiery: + What of the night? + + A hundred years have passed at ease + Since last you fought on bended knees; + And joints, unused, grow stiff and old, + And hearts unroused are faint and cold; + Whilst they who own but wealth, their creed, + Stand helpless in the hour of need. + + Oh peace-bound nation! + Lapped in rich sloth; untroubled generation! + Know you that races change? + Some dwindle slowly downward in decay, + Unconscious, till the dawning of the day: + At touch of fire we learn how they are faring; + Thrice welcome is the test to nations daring; + To some--how strange! + + Our ancient enemy--now brother-- + From one Napoleon to another + Has seen his country ebb and flow + And now he holds the sternest foe, + Learning the lesson of strenuous fight + To brace defensive armour tight: + But what of you--old Islanders + So roughly woke? + Has gilded sloth 'mid dreamless calm + Stifled your soul, close wrapped from harm, + In Neptune's cloak? + Or is it but an idle dress, + Thrown off at breath of fearful stress? + Or has it slowly strangled that old oak? + + None may foretell; + But this we know: + As fire testeth iron through and through, + So shall it be with you! + Not yet have you passed furnace-wise, + But soon, with newly opened eyes, + Upon your knees, + You shall discern Heaven's judgment on an age-long ease. + + Poets and prophets darkly sang; + Unheeded then the tocsin rang; + But now the sky is grey and dim, + Your enemy is stern and grim, + Your leaders slow; + And, though you realise it not ... + You may lie low: + For, though to fight one son is bold, + Another hides, amassing gold; + The strain falls not in equal measure: + Whilst some lie cold-- + Others distil their blood for treasure, + And that--Old England--if unchecked, + Shall see your ancient Empire wrecked. + + You battle not to vanquish a great nation, + Nor for safety, nor the sceptre of the seas, + Nor for the Empire of a world at ease, + Nor fame's fair scroll: + For your salvation, + You wrestle with Apollyon for your soul. + + And if you fail-- + Your epitaph: 'too late'-- + The Angel with the Pen shall grave your fate: + Your glorious history of no avail; + Whilst all the Earth shall know you were not great. + + Not arms, nor weapons forged, nor serried forces, + Nor stout Allies nor multiplied resources + The victory giveth; + Not ships afar, nor numbers gradual tale, + Nor all your might, oh Britain! shall avail: + Only the Spirit liveth! + Yet this our hope (a hope unsaid), + And still our faith (though faith be dead), + That, as of old, you may awake, + Cast off your senile mood, and shake + Irresolution to the wall; + Bid equal sacrifice from all; + That each surrender to the state + A measured offering to fate, + Till Unity of Will, controlled + Shines through the nation, manifold: + + Then should your Spirit conquer as before, + And Phœnix-like you should renew your youth and strength once more. + + + + +Return + + + From exile and disaster, + From banishment set free, + We shall return in sorrow, + Our homes once more to see. + + The storm will surely finish, + The day must dawn at last, + The floods at length diminish, + The bitterness be past. + + From Fatherland long-banished + (Oh, church in ruins low! + Oh, roofs and chimneys vanished!) + 'Tis to our homes we go! + + The land is torn asunder, + The orchard trees are bare; + A muttering of thunder + Still shakes the heavy air. + + Yet life goes on undaunted: + With aching hearts, and sore, + To raise our hearths and altars + We shall return once more. + + + + +Nietzsche + + + In the silence of the night-time + Startled, we can hear a murmur + As of someone tapping, tapping, + Tapping at the breasts of idols + With an auscultating hammer, + Sounding all their hollow vitals + As they helplessly endeavour + To evade with vain pretences + Or atone: + Yes, we hear the distant thunder + Of an earthquake that convulses; + Poor old Mother Earth is shaken, + Sorely tried and whirled asunder, + Shaken by a fierce invader; + Where grim and slow you creep below, + Digging, digging, digging deep, + Troglodyte, untiring miner + All alone! + As you climb upon the mountains, + Glaciers, icy precipices, + Toward the lonely lightning-blasted + Peak that towers above in silence, + Plunging into deep crevasses + Where the frozen water falls: + Monotone: + And at last we wake from nightmare-- + Wake, to find ourselves denuded + Naked, lonesome, 'mid our fellows + Lacking father, wife, or mother, + Lacking neighbour, child or brother: + All disown. + Still our eyes are fixed steadfastly + Where you soar above the heavens, + Spurning with your mighty pinions + Countless deities and angels, + Shattering our fondest visions + With your own: + Ever on your knees you creep, + Where the way is wild and steep. + Digging, digging, digging deep, + Whilst the priests and idols weep. + + + + +Sacrament + + + Beloved mine! we cannot falter now; + No threats avail, no claims affect this hour; + That kiss, far more than sacerdotal vow + Or golden circlet, making truly one + --More solemn than any oath-- + Hath passed our lips: + Whilst Love, the great compeller, the mighty power + In his bewildering hand, hath seized us both. + + No pardon comes for those who wrongly read + The books on stone engraved-- + Our Primal Laws-- + Or fail to satisfy the unchanging Cause; + Who reach this height, and fail, are dead indeed: + Their being void, their souls are cast without; + And from the Book their names are blotted out. + + There is no holding back, no base endeavour, + The cup of true communion is filled, + The sacrament prepared as we have willed; + Hand joined to hand in clasp that none can sever; + Our quittance sure, our resolution taken, + With vows fulfilled we face the world unshaken; + And each to each we pledge ourselves for ever. + + + + +Fightin' Tomlinson + + + I sit by the chimbley corner, + My blood is runnin' slow, + My hands is white as a printed paage, + Wot once wor red wi' the fighter's waage; + They're withered an' wrinkled now wi' old aage; + An' the fire's burnin' low. + + Once I could lether anyone + An' strike a knock-down blow: + My legs were limmack as a young bough, + They could race or dance or foller the plough; + But they're crookled and wemblin' all waays now, + An' the fire's burnin' low. + + I 'member me of owden daays: + At Metheringham Show: + I fought young Jolland for a scarf, + I nearly brok his back in half; + He galloped hooam to Blankney Barff + As hard as he could go. + + I fought an' danced an' carried on, + Razzlin 'igh an low; + I drank as long as I could see, + It made noa difference to me, + I wor a match for any three: + 'Tis sixty year ago. + + They called me 'Fightin' Tomlinson,' + (My name is Thomas Tow) + I wor the champion o' the sheer; + If any furriner come near, + I never shirked nor felt noa fear, + I allers 'ed a go. + + On ivery night o' Saturday, + Noa matter raain nor snow, + We gethered in the market plaaces, + An' stripped stark naked to our waas'es, + Gev' one another bloody faaces-- + A Sunday mornin' show! + + I fought at all the County Fairs, + From Partney down to Stow; + They called me nobbut a 'Billinghay Rough,' + I niver knawed when I'd 'ed enough, + For I wor made o' the proper stuff, + I'd like to 'ev you know. + + Aye--them wor roughish times--my word! + 'Tis sixty year ago; + Our heads wor hard, our hearts as well, + I wonder as we niver fell, + Into the burnin' pit of hell, + Wheer dreadful fires glow. + + I used to hit like this--but now + I cannot strike a blow: + My battle's nearly lost--or won, + My poor owd limbs is omost done, + The tears is droppin' one by one, + An' the fire's burnin' low. + + + + +The Labourers' Hymn + + + We have slaved for you long days and nights of bent and weary lives; + Giving the strength of our muscles, our sweat, and our sons and wives; + With less food than your horses, and homes less warm than your hives. + + We have ploughed and dug and sowed and reaped the seasons through and + through, + We have gathered in your grain and raised the 'Harvest Home' for you, + Who gave starvation pay to us and kept from us our due. + + We asked for land and freedom, the right to till our own; + To harvest and to garner for ourselves, what we had sown; + We sought the fruit of our labour; you granted us a stone. + + Who gave our lives to your children? Who pledged our souls to thine? + Who made you Lord and Master and placed us with the kine? + Who gave you leave to drink our sweat and mix our blood with wine? + + To save the land for your children, who denied their country's wage, + Our sons have left their homes to fight, to guard your heritage; + When they return--Ah! woe to you before their righteous rage. + + You held the land in sufferance to answer for your right, + To cherish those beneath you and lead them into fight; + You have refused all payment, and trampled in your might. + + Our sons shall trample you and yours in their bloody and righteous + rage, + Who hid at home in shelter whilst they paid for the land its wage: + They fought and died for the Land; and they shall enter their + heritage. + + + + +Oliver Cromwell + + + A group of men stood watching round the bed, + Gazing in sadness at the lion's head, + Ugly and massive, coarse, yet noble, too, + Transfigured by the power shining through, + The steadfast purpose, the unflinching will, + Decisive, swift to save alive, or kill, + As was required. Aye, and more was there; + The tenderness, the pity, all the care + Of one who watches o'er his fatherland, + And bears upon his countenance the brand + Of deep unutterable sorrow burned + Into his soul, whilst he, the lesson learned + That they who wield responsibility, + Alas, must always compromising be; + And to help on the cause they deem divine + Must waver from their ever rigid line. + The singleness of heart for which they pray, + Doth bow before expediency each day; + No longer fate allows the choice between + A good or evil course--with answer clean-- + But rather shews two evils to be done, + And they must boldly choose the lesser one. + + 'Tis this that makes him groan with agony, + The searching question 'Is it well with me?' + The question that at last must come to all + When at their end, they wonderingly recall + This point--or that one--'_Was I justified? + For there--I stepped out of my way for pride + And there--I stooped, perhaps, to save a friend, + Or--Pity swayed me over much to bend + From justice there. Yes, I have always sinned. + Weak! Weak!_' + Have pity on him now, + The valley of the shadow dews his brow! + + Then in a half delirium he saw + A vivid pageant passing through the door, + Of all the deeds that he had ever done, + Good or bad judgments, battles lost or won; + There, in procession wide, all who had died + Under his rule, either by civil law, + Or by the swifter penalty of war, + Passed mournfully, their faces ghastly pale, + Their gaping wounds accusingly did rail; + And last of all, stately, refined, and meek, + The 'Martyr King,' the obstinate and weak, + The strangest mixture England ever saw + Upon her throne (And yet, poor man, he wore + His crown with piteous regal dignity, + Whilst from his hands there slowly dripped the blood + Of countless thousands who in loyalty + Perished beneath his vacillating mood). + Then from those twitching lips there fell again + 'Have I done well?' The agonizing pain + Was clear to those around his bed, and one + Answered, astonished, with beseeching tone: + 'But surely, General, you have done well, + You over all of us have done most well.' + + But Cromwell with a twisted smile replied + 'No!'--as he fought for breath--'I--only--tried!' + Then closed his eyes, smiled quietly, and died. + + + + +Anywhere but Here + + + Anywhere but here, Ned, + Any bloomin hole, + Golly! if it aint like tearin + Body from yer soul! + War's a bloomin sight too wearin: + Home for William Towl! + + Once I uster think our village + Took the prize for dead, + Now I know it wor a Para- + -dise around me head; + Don't I wish as I could see it-- + Just a minute--Ned! + + Did I iver cuss my luck + Fer comin' fore the Bench; + Doin what I did fer poachin, + Arter this ole trench + Would be like a holiday + At seaside wi' a wench. + + This is Hell, boy, don't ferget it, + Hell wi'out the fun, + Let me see a plough agen + An you can ev my gun; + You'll hear me shout across the sea + When this damn war is done. + + + + +The East Wind + + + The Spring was mild, the air was warm, + All green the things upon the farm, + The corn put forth its tender sprout, + The daffodils came bursting out; + Above the hedge, in skimming flight, + The blackbird hardly touched the light, + Whilst in the meadows lush and green + The lambs and foals at play were seen; + When suddenly the wind turned round + And blew across from 'Deadman's Ground' + (Where Farmer Rogers caught his wife + And killed her with a carving knife) + The oldest labourers about, + Who read the weather inside out, + Say, when it comes from out that quarter, + You know it's nothing else but slaughter; + For when it blows from there by night + It fills the animals with fright, + And when it blows from there by day + It drives your happiness away; + It nips the fruit, it starves the corn, + And everything that's newly born; + It sweeps the land with icy breath, + And strikes all growing things with death. + The farmer feels his liver growl, + And soon his children start to howl, + Until they wonder why the weather + Can fill a man wi' crazy blether; + He kicks his dog, then rushes out + To sack his foreman with a shout, + Growls at his wife, and scolds his daughter + Because the ducks have left the water; + He sees the wrack upon the wing, + And feels his life a wasted thing. + The labourers, with wrinkled faces, + Are keeping in the shady places, + Afraid of wind and master, too, + And very careful what they do. + Down in the fields, with backs all hunched, + The horses and the cattle, bunched, + Stand by the hedge to miss the blast + That wails and whines and whistles past; + Their coats are ruffled wrong way round, + Because it blows off 'Deadman's Ground'; + Their tails are down, their eyes are dull, + And quiet is the angry bull. + But yet the sky is bright and blue + With everything of clearest hue, + The Wolds are close enough to feel: + Their trees and houses cut in steel: + The sun is tempting with a smile, + The wind is slaying with a knife, + (It aggravated Rogers' bile-- + He killed himself upon his wife) + It kills the young, it kills the old, + It fells the timid with the bold; + Swift as a flash, hard as a stone, + Sharp as a flint, dry as a bone, + It pierces you without a sound, + The blast that comes from 'Deadman's Ground': + For when the wind is in the East + It's neither fit for man nor beast. + + + + +Peter Wray + + + No more I hear the waters roar, + Roused at the comin' of the bore, + No more the river turns agen, + To sweep across the level fen; + No more the winds in fury ride + Along the marshes wild and wide + Afore the risin' of the tide: + The waters roam no more. + + No more I wade along the fen + For heron or for water hen, + Nor hug the bottom of my boat + As to the feeding ducks I'd float; + Nor ambushed laay wi' rovin' eye + To watch like specks agen the sky + The wild geese circlin' on high: + The waters roam no more. + + No more I creep, nor crouchin', run, + Nor trail my owd long-barrelled gun + Nor listen 'ow the water laps + About my sunken fishin' traps; + 'Tis eighty year sin, as a boy, + I first 'elped at the duck decoy, + An' now--I know but little joy: + The waters roam no more. + + My feyther knew the hidden ways, + Across the waste and marshy maze, + He knew each haunt of bird an' fish, + An' how to find 'em at his wish; + While sometimes in his punt he'd sing + Until the reedy dykes'd ring, + But now's the end of everything: + The waters roam no more. + + When, on a stormy winter's night + There stirs a noise, or sudden light, + I lay an' pant, to hear 'em shout + In panic 'coz the water's out; + For long I look, an' anxious strain; + Alas! my hope is allers vain, + An' sad I go to sleep again: + The waters roam no more. + + No more the waters roam the land, + But hid away on every hand + Are led in channels to the sea, + Instead of flowin' fancy free, + Instead of roarin' fierce an' wild + The same as when I wor a child, + They creep imprisoned an' defiled: + The waters roam no more. + + + + +Oh Fools + + + Oh Fools! who plough, with hunger faint; + Who reap the harvest, lacking grain; + Oh Sheep! who offer no complaint; + Oh Worms! who dare not turn again. + + The farmer leads the best of lives, + His food pours in: abundant feast; + Full fed upon your sweat he thrives; + And you--and you--are but a beast! + + Each day you tend the growing corn, + 'The ox shall not be muzzled'--True! + All animals must have their turn; + But less than any beast are you! + + The horse is stabled, dry and warm, + His food is measured, manger-full; + The sheep is valued on the farm, + A price is found for meat and wool. + + You--you are but a working man! + Your wages run from day to day, + Your wife and brood live as they can; + They count for no return of pay. + + Old age creeps o'er your wrinkled face, + Your shoulders droop toward the soil; + When, faltering, you leave the race, + The workhouse well repays your toil. + + Oh piteous soul! with none to care, + At length they recognize your worth; + And England yields, herself, your share: + A pauper grave in Mother Earth. + + + + +Elfin Dancer + + + Beneath unfathomable seas, + Deeper than dreams, + Sounder than sleep, + Beyond the magic of the trees + Where never light nor gladness gleams, + Where neither life nor love can glow; + There, you lie low: + Frozen, encased in crystal shape, + Enwrapped, enmeshed by claws that gape; + And not until you start from sleep + May you be drawn from cavern deep, + And never till the earth has quaked + Can you from fairy trance be waked. + + You dance! + You dance on tiptoe! + Up from the grave of withered fears, + The earth wind, rushing in your ears, + Spirit of joy and youth, most fair, + Crowned by your wonder-loosened hair; + You dance! + You dance on tiptoe! + The grass just bending at your feet, + The earth untouched, as fairy-fleet + Onward you go, + Upward you flow, + Up through the leaves, a spiral flame, + A tongue of fire, with arrow-aim, + Whose mystic essence inter-blending + Flows in a torrent never ending; + Through that strange tree whose blossoms pale + Wreathe, lily-like, a bridal veil! + (Mysterious tree, whose knotted base + Scarce bears the ardour of your chase!) + Emerging thence by rapture swayed + You rise from leafy ambuscade + Poised in the ether, to and fro, + One moment, hesitating--so-- + Flashing from elfin eyes one glance + Still on tiptoe + You dance! + You dance! + + Oh! earth-born spirit! + Swift wonder child of flame; + The essence of your being, + Dull human eyes, unseeing, + Can never hope to tame; + You may be worshipped from afar! + By faith, by hope, we see the star + From whence, you came: + Fleet as the wind amongst the hills + Your spirit listeth as it wills; + Oh Pagan huntress, chaste and wild, + You dwell amongst us, undefiled! + But if we falter at your door + At one false step your shrine, before + One discord note, one word awry + You vanish straight from human eye: + The earth unfolds herself to seize, + Your laughter echoes in the trees; + And you are known no more. + + + + +A. G. Webster + +(_Painter_, _Rebel_, _and Lover of Music_) + + + Like old Sebastian Bach, who went alone, + Working, unnoticed, with a single aim, + He lived and moved amongst you all unknown; + You gave him neither honour nor civic fame; + No Freedom of your city crowned his head; + No recognition of his genius came: + But--- + Citizens of Lincoln--- + I tell you that your greatest citizen is dead! + + + + +Oh, to be Home + + + Oh! to be home, now that the Autumn's coming, + Where the clover's nodding and the bees are humming, + Where the sun is scorching over fields of hay, + And the country's ready for the harvest day; + Where the bullocks stand knee-deep in meadows, browsing, + Or underneath the shady trees are drowsing, + Where the corn is turning colour, fit to reap, + And in the sun, the horses lie asleep. + + Oh! to be home, now that the harvest's ready, + Now the hay is gathered and the weather's steady, + Now the reaper-sails across the fields are flying, + And the barley--white as driven snow--is dying; + When overhead, the harvest moon rides full, + And daybreak brings a touch of frosty wool; + While stackyards clear, are ready for their turn, + And farmers smile across the level Hurn. + + Oh! to be home, now that the winter's nigh, + And swifts by millions, flit about the sky, + When thatchers all get busy with their pegs, + And horses, out at grass, can stretch their legs; + When inns at night, are full of tired men, + Who've had a bumping harvest in the Fen; + Tis then, tis then, none but a fool would roam; + Tis then, tis then, I wish I were at home. + + + + +Give Soldiers a Vote? + + + Give soldiers a vote? + Don't talk so blame silly! + They've gone to the War + To beat Kyzer Billy; + And till that be done + There's plenty of fun. + + The war may be pressing + But--Politics first! + Let's keep up the Game, + Though the Heavens should burst; + Then we're sure of our pay, + Till the very Last Day. + + Great Scott! Don't you see + How we stand on the brink? + Give soldiers a vote? + They would say what they think; + And from power and pay + We should rapidly sink. + + So don't talk about it, + Don't mention it now; + Let the men go to war + And the women to plough; + We Statesmen will govern.... + The Lord, He knows how! + + + + +Alone + + + How now my heart! At this most fell cross-road + The night far darker than a pit surrounds, + And only by the lightning's fitful stroke + Can'st see the perils that beset thy course; + Too clear they loom on searing eyeballs flashed; + Certain thy fate whatever twist or turn; + Deep tolls a bell beneath the tempest's roar, + And soon thy long-drawn struggle will be done. + + Thou art too steeped in artifice, old heart! + So cunning that thou hardly art discerned: + In caverns never touched by light of day + Thou stirrest unbeknown; + At first as lusty + As any pliant sapling in the spring, + Soon as the lonely bull's dark hide + Art hard and bitter; weathered by the storms; + Cross-grained, bewildered, thy courage slowly failing; + Thou standest here: forlorn, dismayed, alone. + + Thy years have passed away in that Great Search, + The quest that bruises hearts on hardest stone; + Seeking a refuge from dread loneliness, + Some haven where the soul is not bereaved; + Too often--my heart--hast thou been sorely bruised; + And now at last the truth confronts thy gaze, + Declared by flash against the pitiless night: + 'The soul must die as it hath lived--alone.' + Alone! The shuddering echo dies away; + No subterfuge, no shelter is there ever, + There is no anodyne for weary hearts; + For him who stands alone at this cross-road + The only hope is death. + + From nothingness to nothingness thou passest! + As thou wert born-- + As thou hast lived, so shalt thou die! + Death is the only refuge: at his visage + All other spectres flee. Remorse that teareth + Like the undying worm, and Failure, + That sheeted gibberer, his brother, + Who like two hounds have haunted thy abode, + Must vanish at his touch: + And soon, thy journey done, thy trouble over, + Wrapped in the mantle of forgetfulness + Thou shalt sleep well. + + + + +Flesh of our Flesh + + + There is but one irrevocable bond, + Heart of my heart! None other counteth here, + All claims beside must fail, however fond, + But this is surety never to be broken + By us Beloved! the eternal token + Of love made manifest beyond our fear: + Of sweetest deepest draught the living bowl! + Although remorse should tear our hearts in twain, + The world, to part us, rageth now in vain + And life new-born through life doth bind us ever: + Strange incarnation! out of each made whole! + No prayer avails, no penances can sever: + The Holy Ghost--the Spirit--releaseth never + When flesh and blood and spirit beget a soul. + + + + +This Town is Hell + + + This town is Hell, and all the people in it + Are devils, roasting for their sins like cinders; + They've train and tram instead of lark and linnet, + For sun are lamps, for sky are only windows, + They have no air to breathe, no room to rove, + And crowd so closely that you cannot move; + Robbing each other whilst nobody hinders: + In towns, there is no Providence above. + + If Providence there is above this city, + The fog and smoke must cover it from pity, + For folk are crazed, and run instead of walking, + To catch--they know not what--all nonsense talking. + Old farm! Old farm! I wish I hadn't left you! + And if my time came back, I wouldn't part: + You gave me pleasant thoughts to dwell upon, + And peaceful days and quietness of heart. + + For here, no happiness can come at all, + The nights are cursed by idle folk at play; + Here is no sleepy smell of new mown hay, + Or soothing noise of cattle in their stall; + No scent of may in bloom, or beans in flower, + No drowsy sound of bees among the clover; + But only hooters, droning every hour; + With smoke and dirt and misery all over. + + Sometimes, when dazed by this un-human place + I have remembered me the days so dear, + And seen again the horses out at plough, + Their shoulders pressing forward in the gear: + The smell, the sound, come back with strange surprise, + To think that I am down Long Martin Fen; + It brings the tears into my aching eyes, + To dream that I am farming once again. + + + + +Timberland Bells + + + I used to hear them faintly + Those evening bells for prayer, + Across the fields of Tilney, + Beyond the sunset's glare. + + I heard them in my childhood, + Those bells of Timberland, + When I was always happy, + Holding my father's hand. + + Enchanted in the distance, + They rode upon the air, + Seeming to float from Heaven; + I knew not how nor where. + + All through life's dusty pathway, + I heard those bells ring out, + A chiming in the distance, + That sung, my path about. + + My father--how I miss him-- + Lies in the churchyard there, + He takes my hand no longer + He knows not how I fare. + + But I would give up everything + To hold again his hand, + And hear across the meadows + The bells of Timberland. + + + + +'Dame Peach' + + + Old Dame Peach stuck like a leech to any good bargin what fell in + her reach, + She never let slip what come in her grip: however they turned she + was ready for each; + She'd strip herself bare or sell you her hair, or put up a price + for her best china ware, + Her very own bed in which she was wed would be yours in a second, + if only you dare; + Of childer she'd lots and would lend you their cots, and although + you'd have backed her to lose in a race, + Yet at business she shone when the others wor done; and nobody ever + could stand in her place. + + Among all the men she took care of her-sen and was never alarmed at + the roughest of tricks, + She'd sit in a bar suppin' ale from a jar, till a bargain was + driven, her profit to fix. + Folk knew her all round and none ever was found but at one time or + other had met her somehow, + A good stand-up fight it was all her delight: she would get up at + midnight to sell you a cow; + She bested the men what came out of the Fen, and the folk from the + Wold they found theirsens sold, + While them from the Heath they was allers beneath; for however they + tried they was out in the cold. + + The top of the tree was our Mrs. P. at swapping a horse or a cargo + of tea, + She'd purchase old wicks or a truckload of bricks or a house full of + furniture, just for a spree, + Though she's mounted on high somewhere up in the sky, wherever she + is there is business ahead, + But I wish she was back when we'd have a real crack on the friends + that are gone and the days that are fled; + When her shop was a store and a thousand things more; with her busy + in-gathering all she could reach: + A jewel, a treasure, a caution, a pleasure: Oh! sadly we miss her, + our Old Mrs. Peach. + + + + +Friends + + + Years ago, + Simply ages; + I don't know + How the deuce they go: + Like turning pages! + + We're still friends at any rate; + Nothing can invalidate + The fun we had, + Good or bad, + Always together, + Not caring whether + Earthquake or thunder, + Over or under; + Joy in each heart; + Singing like thrushes + Young in bushes: + Now--we're apart. + + I've never been so happy since then: + They talk of the love of women and men, + It's not half so true as that of friends; + Not passionate, not selfish, + Never ends ... + Not our fault to be forced away, + Destiny came: + A wedge: + We could not turn its edge; + And so it fell upon that bitter day. + + We might have had such times! + But--No! No! + It wouldn't go; + And after that 'twas never the same; + I can't encompass it by rhymes, + Halting and tame; + There it lies-- + Not to be altered by tears or sighs: + We meet, stealing; + Eyes on the door; + With banished feeling-- + But--No more! + + + + +Charing Cross--1916 + + + Round Charing Cross in carrion row + The crowd press in; a sight to see; + Their mouths agape, their eyes aglow, + With morbid curiosity. + + Those twisted limbs, those bandaged faces! + Humanity all broken down! + The ghostly grim procession races: + Hell's handicraft in London Town. + + The bestial throng with pampered eyes-- + Faces of goat or sheep or bull-- + All greedy with a glad surprise + Of ghoulish horror drinking full. + + Heroic citizens, well nourished, + Who feast your eyes:--What sight to see? + By you the Coliseum flourished; + You thronged, as now, round Calvary. + + + + +Love not too much + + + Have you too greatly loved? + Sister take warning! + Once let your soul be moved, + Sable your mourning; + If he be satiate, + Then an ingratiate, + Waiteth the dawning. + + Shew not the passion + That stirs in your veins, + Far more alluring + To handle the reins, + His love ensuring.... + In masculine fashion + If certain--he wanes. + + He the pursuer + Must ever press on, + Passionate wooer + Whilst you are a stone; + Shew but a touch, + Yet never too much + And the battle is won. + + Man is a monster + Made to be stroked, + Close then your arms + Cover your charms; + Great the enticement + Of beauties when hidden, + Of passion well cloaked. + + Crazed, he shall plead, + For what you yield gladly, + Fiercer his greed, + For what you give madly; + You may have measure + Of love's burning pleasure + And still hold your treasure.... + Sister take heed! + + + + +Niccolo Machiavelli + + + From thy serene abode thou lookest down + With pitying eye upon a rabble rout + Who strive and plot and fight and turn about, + Endeavouring to seize some phantom crown,-- + Whether of kingdom or of some small town, + Or village--or one single home--their own: + They stumble, and with hurried steps awry + Blindly they miss their opportunity; + Whilst, all the time, thy Golden Book is there, + Ripe with earth's wisdom; but they only stare + Or pass along with stupid scoff and curse, + Using thy name for 'scoundrelly' or worse. + + Of all those who have striven to endow + The world with garnered knowledge, only thou + Hast for so long endured of thorns the crown; + Beneath the feet of swine thy name is thrown; + And in the streets thy priceless wit doth lie; + So that, alone, the stooping passer-by + Undaunted by an epithet, may find; + And treasuring like gold seven times refined, + Open the casket with exultant air + To see the Pearl of Wisdom lying there. + + + + +Remorse + + + Pierce you another, pleasure bent, + Or wound the helpless innocent; + The Holy Ghost shall not relent. + + Beyond the tortured body's cry + Dread is the mind's dull misery; + Remorse, the worm, can never die. + + 'Oh to repay it,' Judas saith: + Who robs the innocent of breath, + Certain shall live to welcome death. + + + + +The Mandrake's Horrid Scream + + + Why ain't the Mester back? + Down these owd Fens there ain't noa neighbours, + An' when he's finished wi' his labours, + He gallops off full crack! + I sits aloan an' shaakes wi' fear + While he be rousin' at the 'Deer.' + Them what's in towns has niver tried + To live aloan, all terrified; + They talk about churchyards at night, + Or things wi' chains dressed up in white: + Why! Bless my soul! I'd gladly sleep + In any place what made them creep! + Coz allers they've a friend about + To hear if they should give a shout! + They dunno what it is to fear + But--here-- + _What's that?_ + Only the cat! + An' she's as black as Death's own self, + She squats all loathly on yon shelf, + Wi' one unwinkin' eye on me + I wish the Devil-- + No! + Not _He_! + I didn't mean to mention names, + Nor interfere wi' others gaames: + They saay as cats is really witches, + Like Betty Williamson, now dead, + What uster wear her husband's breeches + An' ate the queerest food, foak said; + She set beside her open door + Wi' one foot allers off the floor, + Quietly knitting; one eye cast + To overlook you as you passed; + An' just the same, yon nasty critter + Stares at me now that soft an' bitter! + Oh Dear! I wish my man would came! + May ague twist, an' strike him dumb! + May fairies nip his liver out + An' leave him nare a tongue to shout. + Forsaking me, all loansome here + With iverything what's wrong and queer. + + From out my winder, where I sit + I see the willows round yon pit: + Dark Pit where Moller Holmes was found + As some said,--accidental drowned!-- + But I heard screechin', terrified, + About the time he must a died! + Having noa bottom, soa they say; + It's dreadful secrets there must stay + Until the Resurrection Day! + Oh where the Devil is that Tom? + I'll give him 'pub' when he gits hoam: + The wind is moanin' round that Pit + As if somebody wished to flit: + There's Things in there what stirs by night + An' if you see, yer hair turns white; + Around, they say, the Mandrake grows + What's pulled at dead of night by _those_ + Who little care although it screams + To wake poor mortals from their dreams. + Our parson tells of Powers Evil: + (An' Providence can't beat the Devil) + Where should they laay, but in yon Pit? + What makes me squirl to think on it: + All gashly arms a-reachin' out + To clamber up yer water spout + An' reach you through-- + Oh Lor! + _Who's that?_ + 'Tis something comin' + I hear _it_ hummin'.... + + My dear good Tom! Thank God it's him! + I was afraid of something grim-- + I've bin a-wantin' you soa long-- + You lousy mawkin', stinkin' strong + Of beer an' bacca! Off to bed! + I'll larn yer, Thomas, who you've wed: + 'Fore morn, you'll wish as you was dead. + + + + +One Day + + + I read you poems all the day, + And all the night I dreamed of you, + Wild nightmares riding sweet sleep through, + Whilst all the time I longed to say + More tenderly, my roundelay, + And ardently with verse to woo. + + I read you poems all the day; + You gave them up again to me, + For all the night I seemed to see + Your face a vision on my way, + As with the murmuring of streams + Your voice commingled in my dreams. + + I read you poems all the day; + Ah! would that you could hear me now! + Accepting the unuttered vow + My spirit yearned but dare not say: + Yet still though you are far away + I read you poems all the day. + + + + +No Wife + + + Tom! Tom! What yer think? + I've 'ed the Parson's wife + The first time in 'er life, acrost our door! + + What for? + + What for? Why Tom, you'd niver niver guess! + Not if you lived as old as Grammer Bess + What's lately swore + She's a hunder an' four-- + _She wants us two, to go off an' git spliced!_ + + Oh Christ! + What's got 'er now: + The cow! + + You well may swear; + Coz 'ow she dare--an' why-- + Will make you swear agen, or laugh--surelie! + Just light yer pipe + Now you look comfortable--so + You're rough--old Tom--I know-- + Black as a crow! + But I'm fond on yer lad + As any fool could see! + An' whether we're good or bad + You've bin maain good ter me. + + But--blast 'er silly eyes! + What yer say to 'er, then? + I said a lot! + I telled 'er what! + A-comin' ere wi' 'er fancy airs, + 'Er what's never known no cares, + Lookin' that wise-- + Just coz she catched a Parson! + [An' noa great shaakes ayther-- + She'd nowt of a feyther + While 'er half-brother run away to sea + An' took to blue water + Wi' their ole cook's daughter] + 'You talk of "sin" an' "shame,"' I sez, 'to me? + You talks just like a fool + Or a silly bairn at school + Coz nobody about could doubt, + But what we're happy together him an' me; + Just look,' I sez, 'at any in this street + What couple can you find about to beat + My Tom an' me what's bin together years, + Happy an' comfortable; + Never noa serious trouble-- + Nuthin' I mean to set us by the ears-- + Good reason why!' + I sez--sez I-- + 'Coz we're a free an' equal pair; + We got to treat each other fair + Or else we part.' + + Well said now Missus! That were smart! + + 'To part!' sez she, 'lookin' all down her noaz, + 'Ow could you leave your hoam wi' childer three?' + I sez--sez I--'that dudn't bother me + Coz I can earn enough for food an' cloaz. + I can maintain 'em by mysen,' sez I, + 'An' would at any time o' day. + I'm not a slave--an' anyway + I'd manage if I 'ed to do, + I'm not a slave,' I sez, 'like you!' + + You didn't--Come!-- + + I did--I did! + I meant it too. + 'If your man turns up stunt,' sez I, + 'You can't goa off, or let him fly; + You can't maintain yoursen--not you!-- + Lettin' aloan the bairns, you 'aint!' + (That made her squirm all down her back!) + ''Ow could you wok up on a stack? + Or yok a hoss or bake or wesh; + If your man drinks or starts to thresh + You couldn't leave him coz he holds yer: + You're tied by laws and friends what scolds yer; + Yer ain't like me, as free as air. + I'm not afraid whoever stare, + Nayther is Tom! + We minds oursens + An' thinks noa more of foaks than hens, + Coz if I doant behave mysen-- + Or him-- + We parts!-- + Why doant we? + Why? + Becoz we're free an' happy here, + Becoz we treats each other fair!' + + You giv 'er the rough o' yer tongue, old gel, + But--what a sell! + + Comin' 'ere to ride rough shod + Coz she's a 'wife.' + Why--bless my life + She doesn't know she's born; + She couldn't find her own corn! + I sent 'er off wi' a flea in 'er ear! + An' will again if she dost come near! + But she weant! + The white faced critter-- + Wi' a noaz like a knife + An' a smile that bitter + As if she would kill. + A wife! + What does she know of life?-- + Nowt! + Nor ever will!-- + But tomorrer's Sunday + An' we'll go to Church! + + What? + + Yes! Just for once; an' sit together, + Like birds of a feather! + We aint ashamed to show our faces + To them what thinks we be disgraces. + We'll goa together Tom--for sure + We'll goa this once an' then noa more-- + If you be willin'? + + Aye lass--I'm willin'-- + I'll back you up as I've allers done, + Agen Parson's wife or anyone. + Aye; agen all the country round, + Coz you're as good as could be found-- + An' now--old gel--it's omost eight, + Come on--yer know we moant be late, + Off to the Ship for our glass of aale; + This yarn of yourn'll make a taale! + What's that--yer bunnet? + All rate ... be quick-- + I'll wait for yer agen the gate. + + + + +To an old Friend + + + A tongue of lambent living flame + Stirs lightly when I hear your name, + Your features delicate and rare, + Quiver with every thought you bear; + It ever was a strange delight + To see your charming face alight, + To sit with you awhile apart + And hear the beating of your heart, + Or watch the message from your brain + Into your eyes then back again. + + And still it is my fairest dream-- + That delicate ethereal gleam, + The fire that played behind your face, + Lighting it with such fairy grace; + Such intuition sweet and wild; + Why should you always be a child? + + You cannot ever hope to grow + Into a woman; oh dear no! + The fairies never would allow + Such desecration; so that, now, + You must be reconciled to stay + For ever as you are to-day. + What an enchanting fate is this! + Eternally a child to be, + Laughing with that untroubled bliss + That only haunts the fancy free: + Yes, yours is happiness indeed; + Barefoot to roam the woodland vale, + All careless, though your feet should bleed + Because you hear the nightingale; + All heedless, though the thorns should tear, + And though the pain be fierce and wild, + For Nature gives to you her kiss; + And you will always be her child. + + + + +Is it finished? + + + Well--Is it finished, + Is the long day-dream done? + The battle lost, and won? + Has love at length diminished + And night begun? + + Do you pass to another? + Yet still I hold + Devotion all untold; + Although you mate a brother + And leave me cold. + + My heart beats but for thee + And every thought is thine, + As flowers to the sun incline; + For once thou lovedst me + And all was mine. + + Though destiny may banish, + My heart is still the same; + And thine is all my fame; + Although thy love may vanish, + True burns my flame. + + And, thou mayst know + That shouldst thou call to me, + Where-ever I may be, + Like arrow from its bow + Straight I will fly to thee. + + + + +Oh, Lincoln, City of my dreams + + + As far away as childhood seems + Thou standest on thy Roman hill, + And memory holds thee frozen, still, + Engraved on steel where moonlight streams. + + For leagues along the landscape mild + Thy towers twin the scene command, + Embattlements of fairyland; + Romance incarnate to a child. + + Though other cities cast a spell, + Ever thou holdst my heart in chains; + And still I hear across the plains + At midnight's stroke that ancient bell + + Whose giant throbbing scarcely seems + A mortal sound at Heaven's gate: + It echoes round the exile's fate-- + Oh Lincoln! City of my dreams! + + + + +The Fool + + + What say? + Tharp? + Yis: Aaron Tharp lived theer! + Not quite sharp? + Not quite--I fear! + T'wer very sad! + Though theer wor summat--'tis hard to say-- + But he come to his end and went away; + He'd a nice little place as his feyther made, + All gone to pot, I be much afraid. + Old Aaron built it in his day, + A worthy feller true an' sound, + Respected by the country round; + To think as his name should be forgotten! + If he'd known what a fool he had begotten! + He toiled an' moiled into his grave + To leave a lad what couldn't save! + Noa note of grace, noa sense of cash! + He lost his all be bein' rash! + + An' for what!-- + For what!-- + To play the fiddle! + 'Hey diddle diddle!' + To make up tunes in his empty head + An' ruin his eyes wi' the books he read! + He raumed an' babbled all day long + About the way to sing a song! + Follered the lads at plough about + To hear 'em sing would make him shout! + He'd sit on the bar of the Ship at night: + To catch the tunes was his delight, + Or to play the fiddle about the town:-- + An' all the while his trade went down! + That trade what poor old Aaron tended + It's fell to nowt an' can't be mended + Coz businesses is all the same + You've simply got to play the game + With all your soul an' all your heart + Or else you'll soon be in the cart. + + He was encouraged by our parson! + T'wer wrong of parson! + It's very well for them to talk + To sing an' play and idle, walk, + But aren't they paid for doin' that? + They mind their bread is buttered fat. + Parsons is sensible you see, + O'most as cute as lawyers be, + Not quite--a course coz noa one could-- + But very nigh--just as they should. + Parsons is sound at heart, I say, + They never quarrels wi' their pay, + Soa it wor wrong of Parson theer, + Coz Aaron nobbut lacked a cheer. + + He made his tunes, he played about + An' none but Parson had a doubt + What he was bound for--poor young lad! + A course I'll own,--though he wor mad,-- + Them tunes he played, them songs he sung, + They minded you of bein' young; + They took me back, a boy, agen + At work wi' Feyther down the Fen, + When all the birds they uster sing + At sunrise till the air would ring, + And sheep and cows would stir about + Wi' everything to make yer shout, + Yes it wor strange what he could do, + His fiddle seemed to mazzle you, + The labourers would catch a song-- + An' they _was_ catchy--all along; + They sing 'em yet; an' Georgy Bell + He plays 'em by the village well. + + But all the while, trade didn't mend + Until at last ther' come the end. + + They selled him up, lock stock an' stoan, + An' off he went away, aloan; + Because he sung but couldn't save. + I think his feyther in the grave + Must sure a-stirred, 'owever deep: + That smash would waken any sleep! + Young Aaron went-- + I dunno where-- + They say he's gone to Manchester, + An' there, mayhap, mid soot an' smoke, + Makes music for the city folk; + Plays on his fiddle, time, agen + Them tunes he larned down Martin Fen + From shepherds or from waggon-boys + Or men at plough,--or any noise: + He made his tunes out of the air, + From birds or beasts--he didn't care! + An' Parson, says he'll make a name + (Our Parson, what's the one to blame!) + As if he ever could agen + Find such a hoam as Martin Fen; + As if he could, by fiddle fad, + Get half the name his feyther had. + + Lost in some smoky town he plays + An' thinks, I lay, on sunny days, + Of all the things what makes life dear + Like beans and bacon, cheese and beer; + A dreamy good-for-nothing lad, + Sure bound to lose all what he had. + He might a-riz, an' come to be + As high as _you_, or even _me_! + An' bin well known the country round + As comfortable, warm, an' sound. + + His name _is_ known for many a mile, + It raises far-an'-wide, a smile: + While folk they whisper 'Not right sharp'! + A fool! a fool! wor Aaron Tharp. + + + PRINTED AT + THE HOLYWELL PRESS + OXFORD + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Rebel Verses, by Bernard Gilbert + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REBEL VERSES *** + +***** This file should be named 36803-0.txt or 36803-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/8/0/36803/ + +Produced by David E. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/36803-0.zip b/36803-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..960df5d --- /dev/null +++ b/36803-0.zip diff --git a/36803-8.txt b/36803-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4561a27 --- /dev/null +++ b/36803-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2227 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rebel Verses, by Bernard Gilbert + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Rebel Verses + +Author: Bernard Gilbert + +Release Date: July 20, 2011 [EBook #36803] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REBEL VERSES *** + + + + +Produced by David E. Brown, Bryan Ness, Matthew Wheaton +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images +generously made available by The Internet Archive/American +Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + + REBEL VERSES + + + NEW YORK AGENTS + LONGMANS, GREEN & CO. + FOURTH AVENUE AND 30TH STREET + + + REBEL VERSES + BY + BERNARD GILBERT + + + OXFORD + B. H. BLACKWELL, BROAD STREET + MCMXVIII + + +BY THE SAME AUTHOR + + + VERSE: LINCOLNSHIRE LAYS; + FARMING LAYS; + GONE TO THE WAR; + WAR WORKERS. + + DRAMA: ELDORADO; + THEIR FATHER'S WILL; + THE RUSKINGTON POACHER. + + FICTION: WHAT SHALL IT PROFIT? + TATTERSHALL CASTLE; + THE YELLOW FLAG. + + POLITICAL: FARMERS AND TARIFF REFORM: WHAT EVERY FARMER + WANTS: THE FARM LABOURER'S FIX. + + MISCELLANEOUS: LIVING LINCOLN; FORTUNES FOR FARMERS. + + +FROM _The New Witness_ + + MR. BERNARD GILBERT is one of the discoveries of the War. For + years, it seems, he has been writing poetry, but it is only + recently that an inapprehensive country has awakened to the + fact. Now he is taking his rightful place among our foremost + singers. What William Barnes was to Dorset, what T. E. Brown was + to the Manx people--this is Mr. Gilbert to the folk of his + native county of Lincoln. He has interpreted their lives, their + sorrows, their aspirations, with a surprising fidelity. Mr. + Gilbert never loses his grip upon realities. One feels that he + knows the men of whom he writes in their most intimate moods; + knows, too, their defects, which he does not shrink from + recording. There is little of the dreamy idealism of the South + in the peasant people of Lincolnshire. The outwardly respectable + chapel-goer who asks himself, in a moment of introspection + + But why not have a good time here? + Why should the Devil have all the beer? + + is true to type. But he has, too, his softer moods. Fidelity in + friendship, courage, resource and perseverance--these are + typical of the men of the Fens. + + TO + MORLEY ROBERTS + + + _Acknowledgments to the Editors of the:_ + _English Review_ + _New Age_ + _Colour_ + _Westminster Gazette_ + _New Witness_ + _To-Day_ + _Clarion_ + _Australian Triad_ + _Bystander_ + _Musical Student_ + _and Nash's Magazine_ + _in whose columns these verses have appeared during 1917._ + + + + +Contents + + + THE REBEL + SONG OF REVOLT + THERE AINT NO GOD + THE NIGHT IS DARK + RETURN + NIETZSCHE + SACRAMENT + FIGHTIN' TOMLINSON + THE LABOURER'S HYMN + OLIVER CROMWELL + ANYWHERE BUT HERE + A. G. WEBSTER + EAST WIND + PETER WRAY + OH FOOLS + ELFIN DANCER + OH TO BE HOME + GIVE SOLDIERS A VOTE + ALONE + FLESH OF OUR FLESH + THIS TOWN IS HELL + TIMBERLAND BELLS + DAME PEACH + FRIENDS + CHARING CROSS + LOVE NOT TOO MUCH + MACHIAVELLI + REMORSE + THE MANDRAKE'S HORRID SCREAM + ONE DAY + NO WIFE + TO AN OLD FRIEND + IS IT FINISHED + OH LINCOLN, CITY OF MY DREAMS + THE FOOL + + + + +The Rebel + + + I live in music, in poetry, and in the life reflective. + I seek intellectual boldness in man, I worship mental swiftness in + women. + I have no love for lawyers, priests, schoolmasters, or any dogmatic + men. + I am with poor against rich, labour against employer, women against + men; I fight beside all strikers, mutineers, and rebels. + I welcome foes; I desire criticism. + I loathe prejudice, either social or national; I repudiate all + claims. + I demand freedom of action and leisure for reflection. + Facing Death, I would say: 'I have tasted all, tried all, dared + all, suffered all, and I repent nothing.' + + + + +Song of Revolt + + + Crowns are ashake, + The princes and the Kings are bending low, + And, round the world, + Before the blast of Freedom, thrones are hurled: + The People are awake! + + Over the Ark of Tyranny + The red flag flaunts abroad for all to see! + Whilst to the roll of drums + Swelling triumphantly, the glad cry comes: + The People shall be free! + + In dungeons, men, long-bound for freedom's sake, + Forgotten of God, deep-frozen by despair, + Hear with surprise that clangorous fanfare: + The People are awake! + + Our fathers heard the call, + When Liberty from her bonds like the angry sea, + Pouring mightily forth, slew tyranny, + And singing the Marseillaise, bade crowns to fall, + That all men should be free! + + Men shall be slaves no more! + From sea to sea + That Word of hope unspeakable succour brings; + The day dawneth when there are no more Kings: + And the People, the People shall be free! + + + + +There Aint no God + + + There aint no God! + Coz if there were-- + My boy what's under foreign sod + Would be alive, and here: + Instead of which young William Porter + What never listed when he orter-- + Has his farm; + And braunges yonder safe away from harm. + + Poor lad!--he went-- + I can't forgit that night-- + While Porter laughed him outer sight; + Now--he is spent: + Porter's all right. + + What does he care? + He's thinking of another farm, + Instead of laying in some ditch + He's rich! + And folk'll gallop at his nod. + + I say it! + Dost hear me ... Thou? + There aint no God! + + + + +'The Night is Dark' + + + Safe-guarded dwellers in your sea-girt eyrie + How fares the fight? + Terror has crept beneath your ocean wall, + Horror is over-reaching, to appal; + Your sons are menaced by a furnace fiery: + What of the night? + + A hundred years have passed at ease + Since last you fought on bended knees; + And joints, unused, grow stiff and old, + And hearts unroused are faint and cold; + Whilst they who own but wealth, their creed, + Stand helpless in the hour of need. + + Oh peace-bound nation! + Lapped in rich sloth; untroubled generation! + Know you that races change? + Some dwindle slowly downward in decay, + Unconscious, till the dawning of the day: + At touch of fire we learn how they are faring; + Thrice welcome is the test to nations daring; + To some--how strange! + + Our ancient enemy--now brother-- + From one Napoleon to another + Has seen his country ebb and flow + And now he holds the sternest foe, + Learning the lesson of strenuous fight + To brace defensive armour tight: + But what of you--old Islanders + So roughly woke? + Has gilded sloth 'mid dreamless calm + Stifled your soul, close wrapped from harm, + In Neptune's cloak? + Or is it but an idle dress, + Thrown off at breath of fearful stress? + Or has it slowly strangled that old oak? + + None may foretell; + But this we know: + As fire testeth iron through and through, + So shall it be with you! + Not yet have you passed furnace-wise, + But soon, with newly opened eyes, + Upon your knees, + You shall discern Heaven's judgment on an age-long ease. + + Poets and prophets darkly sang; + Unheeded then the tocsin rang; + But now the sky is grey and dim, + Your enemy is stern and grim, + Your leaders slow; + And, though you realise it not ... + You may lie low: + For, though to fight one son is bold, + Another hides, amassing gold; + The strain falls not in equal measure: + Whilst some lie cold-- + Others distil their blood for treasure, + And that--Old England--if unchecked, + Shall see your ancient Empire wrecked. + + You battle not to vanquish a great nation, + Nor for safety, nor the sceptre of the seas, + Nor for the Empire of a world at ease, + Nor fame's fair scroll: + For your salvation, + You wrestle with Apollyon for your soul. + + And if you fail-- + Your epitaph: 'too late'-- + The Angel with the Pen shall grave your fate: + Your glorious history of no avail; + Whilst all the Earth shall know you were not great. + + Not arms, nor weapons forged, nor serried forces, + Nor stout Allies nor multiplied resources + The victory giveth; + Not ships afar, nor numbers gradual tale, + Nor all your might, oh Britain! shall avail: + Only the Spirit liveth! + Yet this our hope (a hope unsaid), + And still our faith (though faith be dead), + That, as of old, you may awake, + Cast off your senile mood, and shake + Irresolution to the wall; + Bid equal sacrifice from all; + That each surrender to the state + A measured offering to fate, + Till Unity of Will, controlled + Shines through the nation, manifold: + + Then should your Spirit conquer as before, + And Phoenix-like you should renew your youth and strength once more. + + + + +Return + + + From exile and disaster, + From banishment set free, + We shall return in sorrow, + Our homes once more to see. + + The storm will surely finish, + The day must dawn at last, + The floods at length diminish, + The bitterness be past. + + From Fatherland long-banished + (Oh, church in ruins low! + Oh, roofs and chimneys vanished!) + 'Tis to our homes we go! + + The land is torn asunder, + The orchard trees are bare; + A muttering of thunder + Still shakes the heavy air. + + Yet life goes on undaunted: + With aching hearts, and sore, + To raise our hearths and altars + We shall return once more. + + + + +Nietzsche + + + In the silence of the night-time + Startled, we can hear a murmur + As of someone tapping, tapping, + Tapping at the breasts of idols + With an auscultating hammer, + Sounding all their hollow vitals + As they helplessly endeavour + To evade with vain pretences + Or atone: + Yes, we hear the distant thunder + Of an earthquake that convulses; + Poor old Mother Earth is shaken, + Sorely tried and whirled asunder, + Shaken by a fierce invader; + Where grim and slow you creep below, + Digging, digging, digging deep, + Troglodyte, untiring miner + All alone! + As you climb upon the mountains, + Glaciers, icy precipices, + Toward the lonely lightning-blasted + Peak that towers above in silence, + Plunging into deep crevasses + Where the frozen water falls: + Monotone: + And at last we wake from nightmare-- + Wake, to find ourselves denuded + Naked, lonesome, 'mid our fellows + Lacking father, wife, or mother, + Lacking neighbour, child or brother: + All disown. + Still our eyes are fixed steadfastly + Where you soar above the heavens, + Spurning with your mighty pinions + Countless deities and angels, + Shattering our fondest visions + With your own: + Ever on your knees you creep, + Where the way is wild and steep. + Digging, digging, digging deep, + Whilst the priests and idols weep. + + + + +Sacrament + + + Beloved mine! we cannot falter now; + No threats avail, no claims affect this hour; + That kiss, far more than sacerdotal vow + Or golden circlet, making truly one + --More solemn than any oath-- + Hath passed our lips: + Whilst Love, the great compeller, the mighty power + In his bewildering hand, hath seized us both. + + No pardon comes for those who wrongly read + The books on stone engraved-- + Our Primal Laws-- + Or fail to satisfy the unchanging Cause; + Who reach this height, and fail, are dead indeed: + Their being void, their souls are cast without; + And from the Book their names are blotted out. + + There is no holding back, no base endeavour, + The cup of true communion is filled, + The sacrament prepared as we have willed; + Hand joined to hand in clasp that none can sever; + Our quittance sure, our resolution taken, + With vows fulfilled we face the world unshaken; + And each to each we pledge ourselves for ever. + + + + +Fightin' Tomlinson + + + I sit by the chimbley corner, + My blood is runnin' slow, + My hands is white as a printed paage, + Wot once wor red wi' the fighter's waage; + They're withered an' wrinkled now wi' old aage; + An' the fire's burnin' low. + + Once I could lether anyone + An' strike a knock-down blow: + My legs were limmack as a young bough, + They could race or dance or foller the plough; + But they're crookled and wemblin' all waays now, + An' the fire's burnin' low. + + I 'member me of owden daays: + At Metheringham Show: + I fought young Jolland for a scarf, + I nearly brok his back in half; + He galloped hooam to Blankney Barff + As hard as he could go. + + I fought an' danced an' carried on, + Razzlin 'igh an low; + I drank as long as I could see, + It made noa difference to me, + I wor a match for any three: + 'Tis sixty year ago. + + They called me 'Fightin' Tomlinson,' + (My name is Thomas Tow) + I wor the champion o' the sheer; + If any furriner come near, + I never shirked nor felt noa fear, + I allers 'ed a go. + + On ivery night o' Saturday, + Noa matter raain nor snow, + We gethered in the market plaaces, + An' stripped stark naked to our waas'es, + Gev' one another bloody faaces-- + A Sunday mornin' show! + + I fought at all the County Fairs, + From Partney down to Stow; + They called me nobbut a 'Billinghay Rough,' + I niver knawed when I'd 'ed enough, + For I wor made o' the proper stuff, + I'd like to 'ev you know. + + Aye--them wor roughish times--my word! + 'Tis sixty year ago; + Our heads wor hard, our hearts as well, + I wonder as we niver fell, + Into the burnin' pit of hell, + Wheer dreadful fires glow. + + I used to hit like this--but now + I cannot strike a blow: + My battle's nearly lost--or won, + My poor owd limbs is omost done, + The tears is droppin' one by one, + An' the fire's burnin' low. + + + + +The Labourers' Hymn + + + We have slaved for you long days and nights of bent and weary lives; + Giving the strength of our muscles, our sweat, and our sons and wives; + With less food than your horses, and homes less warm than your hives. + + We have ploughed and dug and sowed and reaped the seasons through and + through, + We have gathered in your grain and raised the 'Harvest Home' for you, + Who gave starvation pay to us and kept from us our due. + + We asked for land and freedom, the right to till our own; + To harvest and to garner for ourselves, what we had sown; + We sought the fruit of our labour; you granted us a stone. + + Who gave our lives to your children? Who pledged our souls to thine? + Who made you Lord and Master and placed us with the kine? + Who gave you leave to drink our sweat and mix our blood with wine? + + To save the land for your children, who denied their country's wage, + Our sons have left their homes to fight, to guard your heritage; + When they return--Ah! woe to you before their righteous rage. + + You held the land in sufferance to answer for your right, + To cherish those beneath you and lead them into fight; + You have refused all payment, and trampled in your might. + + Our sons shall trample you and yours in their bloody and righteous + rage, + Who hid at home in shelter whilst they paid for the land its wage: + They fought and died for the Land; and they shall enter their + heritage. + + + + +Oliver Cromwell + + + A group of men stood watching round the bed, + Gazing in sadness at the lion's head, + Ugly and massive, coarse, yet noble, too, + Transfigured by the power shining through, + The steadfast purpose, the unflinching will, + Decisive, swift to save alive, or kill, + As was required. Aye, and more was there; + The tenderness, the pity, all the care + Of one who watches o'er his fatherland, + And bears upon his countenance the brand + Of deep unutterable sorrow burned + Into his soul, whilst he, the lesson learned + That they who wield responsibility, + Alas, must always compromising be; + And to help on the cause they deem divine + Must waver from their ever rigid line. + The singleness of heart for which they pray, + Doth bow before expediency each day; + No longer fate allows the choice between + A good or evil course--with answer clean-- + But rather shews two evils to be done, + And they must boldly choose the lesser one. + + 'Tis this that makes him groan with agony, + The searching question 'Is it well with me?' + The question that at last must come to all + When at their end, they wonderingly recall + This point--or that one--'_Was I justified? + For there--I stepped out of my way for pride + And there--I stooped, perhaps, to save a friend, + Or--Pity swayed me over much to bend + From justice there. Yes, I have always sinned. + Weak! Weak!_' + Have pity on him now, + The valley of the shadow dews his brow! + + Then in a half delirium he saw + A vivid pageant passing through the door, + Of all the deeds that he had ever done, + Good or bad judgments, battles lost or won; + There, in procession wide, all who had died + Under his rule, either by civil law, + Or by the swifter penalty of war, + Passed mournfully, their faces ghastly pale, + Their gaping wounds accusingly did rail; + And last of all, stately, refined, and meek, + The 'Martyr King,' the obstinate and weak, + The strangest mixture England ever saw + Upon her throne (And yet, poor man, he wore + His crown with piteous regal dignity, + Whilst from his hands there slowly dripped the blood + Of countless thousands who in loyalty + Perished beneath his vacillating mood). + Then from those twitching lips there fell again + 'Have I done well?' The agonizing pain + Was clear to those around his bed, and one + Answered, astonished, with beseeching tone: + 'But surely, General, you have done well, + You over all of us have done most well.' + + But Cromwell with a twisted smile replied + 'No!'--as he fought for breath--'I--only--tried!' + Then closed his eyes, smiled quietly, and died. + + + + +Anywhere but Here + + + Anywhere but here, Ned, + Any bloomin hole, + Golly! if it aint like tearin + Body from yer soul! + War's a bloomin sight too wearin: + Home for William Towl! + + Once I uster think our village + Took the prize for dead, + Now I know it wor a Para- + -dise around me head; + Don't I wish as I could see it-- + Just a minute--Ned! + + Did I iver cuss my luck + Fer comin' fore the Bench; + Doin what I did fer poachin, + Arter this ole trench + Would be like a holiday + At seaside wi' a wench. + + This is Hell, boy, don't ferget it, + Hell wi'out the fun, + Let me see a plough agen + An you can ev my gun; + You'll hear me shout across the sea + When this damn war is done. + + + + +The East Wind + + + The Spring was mild, the air was warm, + All green the things upon the farm, + The corn put forth its tender sprout, + The daffodils came bursting out; + Above the hedge, in skimming flight, + The blackbird hardly touched the light, + Whilst in the meadows lush and green + The lambs and foals at play were seen; + When suddenly the wind turned round + And blew across from 'Deadman's Ground' + (Where Farmer Rogers caught his wife + And killed her with a carving knife) + The oldest labourers about, + Who read the weather inside out, + Say, when it comes from out that quarter, + You know it's nothing else but slaughter; + For when it blows from there by night + It fills the animals with fright, + And when it blows from there by day + It drives your happiness away; + It nips the fruit, it starves the corn, + And everything that's newly born; + It sweeps the land with icy breath, + And strikes all growing things with death. + The farmer feels his liver growl, + And soon his children start to howl, + Until they wonder why the weather + Can fill a man wi' crazy blether; + He kicks his dog, then rushes out + To sack his foreman with a shout, + Growls at his wife, and scolds his daughter + Because the ducks have left the water; + He sees the wrack upon the wing, + And feels his life a wasted thing. + The labourers, with wrinkled faces, + Are keeping in the shady places, + Afraid of wind and master, too, + And very careful what they do. + Down in the fields, with backs all hunched, + The horses and the cattle, bunched, + Stand by the hedge to miss the blast + That wails and whines and whistles past; + Their coats are ruffled wrong way round, + Because it blows off 'Deadman's Ground'; + Their tails are down, their eyes are dull, + And quiet is the angry bull. + But yet the sky is bright and blue + With everything of clearest hue, + The Wolds are close enough to feel: + Their trees and houses cut in steel: + The sun is tempting with a smile, + The wind is slaying with a knife, + (It aggravated Rogers' bile-- + He killed himself upon his wife) + It kills the young, it kills the old, + It fells the timid with the bold; + Swift as a flash, hard as a stone, + Sharp as a flint, dry as a bone, + It pierces you without a sound, + The blast that comes from 'Deadman's Ground': + For when the wind is in the East + It's neither fit for man nor beast. + + + + +Peter Wray + + + No more I hear the waters roar, + Roused at the comin' of the bore, + No more the river turns agen, + To sweep across the level fen; + No more the winds in fury ride + Along the marshes wild and wide + Afore the risin' of the tide: + The waters roam no more. + + No more I wade along the fen + For heron or for water hen, + Nor hug the bottom of my boat + As to the feeding ducks I'd float; + Nor ambushed laay wi' rovin' eye + To watch like specks agen the sky + The wild geese circlin' on high: + The waters roam no more. + + No more I creep, nor crouchin', run, + Nor trail my owd long-barrelled gun + Nor listen 'ow the water laps + About my sunken fishin' traps; + 'Tis eighty year sin, as a boy, + I first 'elped at the duck decoy, + An' now--I know but little joy: + The waters roam no more. + + My feyther knew the hidden ways, + Across the waste and marshy maze, + He knew each haunt of bird an' fish, + An' how to find 'em at his wish; + While sometimes in his punt he'd sing + Until the reedy dykes'd ring, + But now's the end of everything: + The waters roam no more. + + When, on a stormy winter's night + There stirs a noise, or sudden light, + I lay an' pant, to hear 'em shout + In panic 'coz the water's out; + For long I look, an' anxious strain; + Alas! my hope is allers vain, + An' sad I go to sleep again: + The waters roam no more. + + No more the waters roam the land, + But hid away on every hand + Are led in channels to the sea, + Instead of flowin' fancy free, + Instead of roarin' fierce an' wild + The same as when I wor a child, + They creep imprisoned an' defiled: + The waters roam no more. + + + + +Oh Fools + + + Oh Fools! who plough, with hunger faint; + Who reap the harvest, lacking grain; + Oh Sheep! who offer no complaint; + Oh Worms! who dare not turn again. + + The farmer leads the best of lives, + His food pours in: abundant feast; + Full fed upon your sweat he thrives; + And you--and you--are but a beast! + + Each day you tend the growing corn, + 'The ox shall not be muzzled'--True! + All animals must have their turn; + But less than any beast are you! + + The horse is stabled, dry and warm, + His food is measured, manger-full; + The sheep is valued on the farm, + A price is found for meat and wool. + + You--you are but a working man! + Your wages run from day to day, + Your wife and brood live as they can; + They count for no return of pay. + + Old age creeps o'er your wrinkled face, + Your shoulders droop toward the soil; + When, faltering, you leave the race, + The workhouse well repays your toil. + + Oh piteous soul! with none to care, + At length they recognize your worth; + And England yields, herself, your share: + A pauper grave in Mother Earth. + + + + +Elfin Dancer + + + Beneath unfathomable seas, + Deeper than dreams, + Sounder than sleep, + Beyond the magic of the trees + Where never light nor gladness gleams, + Where neither life nor love can glow; + There, you lie low: + Frozen, encased in crystal shape, + Enwrapped, enmeshed by claws that gape; + And not until you start from sleep + May you be drawn from cavern deep, + And never till the earth has quaked + Can you from fairy trance be waked. + + You dance! + You dance on tiptoe! + Up from the grave of withered fears, + The earth wind, rushing in your ears, + Spirit of joy and youth, most fair, + Crowned by your wonder-loosened hair; + You dance! + You dance on tiptoe! + The grass just bending at your feet, + The earth untouched, as fairy-fleet + Onward you go, + Upward you flow, + Up through the leaves, a spiral flame, + A tongue of fire, with arrow-aim, + Whose mystic essence inter-blending + Flows in a torrent never ending; + Through that strange tree whose blossoms pale + Wreathe, lily-like, a bridal veil! + (Mysterious tree, whose knotted base + Scarce bears the ardour of your chase!) + Emerging thence by rapture swayed + You rise from leafy ambuscade + Poised in the ether, to and fro, + One moment, hesitating--so-- + Flashing from elfin eyes one glance + Still on tiptoe + You dance! + You dance! + + Oh! earth-born spirit! + Swift wonder child of flame; + The essence of your being, + Dull human eyes, unseeing, + Can never hope to tame; + You may be worshipped from afar! + By faith, by hope, we see the star + From whence, you came: + Fleet as the wind amongst the hills + Your spirit listeth as it wills; + Oh Pagan huntress, chaste and wild, + You dwell amongst us, undefiled! + But if we falter at your door + At one false step your shrine, before + One discord note, one word awry + You vanish straight from human eye: + The earth unfolds herself to seize, + Your laughter echoes in the trees; + And you are known no more. + + + + +A. G. Webster + +(_Painter_, _Rebel_, _and Lover of Music_) + + + Like old Sebastian Bach, who went alone, + Working, unnoticed, with a single aim, + He lived and moved amongst you all unknown; + You gave him neither honour nor civic fame; + No Freedom of your city crowned his head; + No recognition of his genius came: + But--- + Citizens of Lincoln--- + I tell you that your greatest citizen is dead! + + + + +Oh, to be Home + + + Oh! to be home, now that the Autumn's coming, + Where the clover's nodding and the bees are humming, + Where the sun is scorching over fields of hay, + And the country's ready for the harvest day; + Where the bullocks stand knee-deep in meadows, browsing, + Or underneath the shady trees are drowsing, + Where the corn is turning colour, fit to reap, + And in the sun, the horses lie asleep. + + Oh! to be home, now that the harvest's ready, + Now the hay is gathered and the weather's steady, + Now the reaper-sails across the fields are flying, + And the barley--white as driven snow--is dying; + When overhead, the harvest moon rides full, + And daybreak brings a touch of frosty wool; + While stackyards clear, are ready for their turn, + And farmers smile across the level Hurn. + + Oh! to be home, now that the winter's nigh, + And swifts by millions, flit about the sky, + When thatchers all get busy with their pegs, + And horses, out at grass, can stretch their legs; + When inns at night, are full of tired men, + Who've had a bumping harvest in the Fen; + Tis then, tis then, none but a fool would roam; + Tis then, tis then, I wish I were at home. + + + + +Give Soldiers a Vote? + + + Give soldiers a vote? + Don't talk so blame silly! + They've gone to the War + To beat Kyzer Billy; + And till that be done + There's plenty of fun. + + The war may be pressing + But--Politics first! + Let's keep up the Game, + Though the Heavens should burst; + Then we're sure of our pay, + Till the very Last Day. + + Great Scott! Don't you see + How we stand on the brink? + Give soldiers a vote? + They would say what they think; + And from power and pay + We should rapidly sink. + + So don't talk about it, + Don't mention it now; + Let the men go to war + And the women to plough; + We Statesmen will govern.... + The Lord, He knows how! + + + + +Alone + + + How now my heart! At this most fell cross-road + The night far darker than a pit surrounds, + And only by the lightning's fitful stroke + Can'st see the perils that beset thy course; + Too clear they loom on searing eyeballs flashed; + Certain thy fate whatever twist or turn; + Deep tolls a bell beneath the tempest's roar, + And soon thy long-drawn struggle will be done. + + Thou art too steeped in artifice, old heart! + So cunning that thou hardly art discerned: + In caverns never touched by light of day + Thou stirrest unbeknown; + At first as lusty + As any pliant sapling in the spring, + Soon as the lonely bull's dark hide + Art hard and bitter; weathered by the storms; + Cross-grained, bewildered, thy courage slowly failing; + Thou standest here: forlorn, dismayed, alone. + + Thy years have passed away in that Great Search, + The quest that bruises hearts on hardest stone; + Seeking a refuge from dread loneliness, + Some haven where the soul is not bereaved; + Too often--my heart--hast thou been sorely bruised; + And now at last the truth confronts thy gaze, + Declared by flash against the pitiless night: + 'The soul must die as it hath lived--alone.' + Alone! The shuddering echo dies away; + No subterfuge, no shelter is there ever, + There is no anodyne for weary hearts; + For him who stands alone at this cross-road + The only hope is death. + + From nothingness to nothingness thou passest! + As thou wert born-- + As thou hast lived, so shalt thou die! + Death is the only refuge: at his visage + All other spectres flee. Remorse that teareth + Like the undying worm, and Failure, + That sheeted gibberer, his brother, + Who like two hounds have haunted thy abode, + Must vanish at his touch: + And soon, thy journey done, thy trouble over, + Wrapped in the mantle of forgetfulness + Thou shalt sleep well. + + + + +Flesh of our Flesh + + + There is but one irrevocable bond, + Heart of my heart! None other counteth here, + All claims beside must fail, however fond, + But this is surety never to be broken + By us Beloved! the eternal token + Of love made manifest beyond our fear: + Of sweetest deepest draught the living bowl! + Although remorse should tear our hearts in twain, + The world, to part us, rageth now in vain + And life new-born through life doth bind us ever: + Strange incarnation! out of each made whole! + No prayer avails, no penances can sever: + The Holy Ghost--the Spirit--releaseth never + When flesh and blood and spirit beget a soul. + + + + +This Town is Hell + + + This town is Hell, and all the people in it + Are devils, roasting for their sins like cinders; + They've train and tram instead of lark and linnet, + For sun are lamps, for sky are only windows, + They have no air to breathe, no room to rove, + And crowd so closely that you cannot move; + Robbing each other whilst nobody hinders: + In towns, there is no Providence above. + + If Providence there is above this city, + The fog and smoke must cover it from pity, + For folk are crazed, and run instead of walking, + To catch--they know not what--all nonsense talking. + Old farm! Old farm! I wish I hadn't left you! + And if my time came back, I wouldn't part: + You gave me pleasant thoughts to dwell upon, + And peaceful days and quietness of heart. + + For here, no happiness can come at all, + The nights are cursed by idle folk at play; + Here is no sleepy smell of new mown hay, + Or soothing noise of cattle in their stall; + No scent of may in bloom, or beans in flower, + No drowsy sound of bees among the clover; + But only hooters, droning every hour; + With smoke and dirt and misery all over. + + Sometimes, when dazed by this un-human place + I have remembered me the days so dear, + And seen again the horses out at plough, + Their shoulders pressing forward in the gear: + The smell, the sound, come back with strange surprise, + To think that I am down Long Martin Fen; + It brings the tears into my aching eyes, + To dream that I am farming once again. + + + + +Timberland Bells + + + I used to hear them faintly + Those evening bells for prayer, + Across the fields of Tilney, + Beyond the sunset's glare. + + I heard them in my childhood, + Those bells of Timberland, + When I was always happy, + Holding my father's hand. + + Enchanted in the distance, + They rode upon the air, + Seeming to float from Heaven; + I knew not how nor where. + + All through life's dusty pathway, + I heard those bells ring out, + A chiming in the distance, + That sung, my path about. + + My father--how I miss him-- + Lies in the churchyard there, + He takes my hand no longer + He knows not how I fare. + + But I would give up everything + To hold again his hand, + And hear across the meadows + The bells of Timberland. + + + + +'Dame Peach' + + + Old Dame Peach stuck like a leech to any good bargin what fell in + her reach, + She never let slip what come in her grip: however they turned she + was ready for each; + She'd strip herself bare or sell you her hair, or put up a price + for her best china ware, + Her very own bed in which she was wed would be yours in a second, + if only you dare; + Of childer she'd lots and would lend you their cots, and although + you'd have backed her to lose in a race, + Yet at business she shone when the others wor done; and nobody ever + could stand in her place. + + Among all the men she took care of her-sen and was never alarmed at + the roughest of tricks, + She'd sit in a bar suppin' ale from a jar, till a bargain was + driven, her profit to fix. + Folk knew her all round and none ever was found but at one time or + other had met her somehow, + A good stand-up fight it was all her delight: she would get up at + midnight to sell you a cow; + She bested the men what came out of the Fen, and the folk from the + Wold they found theirsens sold, + While them from the Heath they was allers beneath; for however they + tried they was out in the cold. + + The top of the tree was our Mrs. P. at swapping a horse or a cargo + of tea, + She'd purchase old wicks or a truckload of bricks or a house full of + furniture, just for a spree, + Though she's mounted on high somewhere up in the sky, wherever she + is there is business ahead, + But I wish she was back when we'd have a real crack on the friends + that are gone and the days that are fled; + When her shop was a store and a thousand things more; with her busy + in-gathering all she could reach: + A jewel, a treasure, a caution, a pleasure: Oh! sadly we miss her, + our Old Mrs. Peach. + + + + +Friends + + + Years ago, + Simply ages; + I don't know + How the deuce they go: + Like turning pages! + + We're still friends at any rate; + Nothing can invalidate + The fun we had, + Good or bad, + Always together, + Not caring whether + Earthquake or thunder, + Over or under; + Joy in each heart; + Singing like thrushes + Young in bushes: + Now--we're apart. + + I've never been so happy since then: + They talk of the love of women and men, + It's not half so true as that of friends; + Not passionate, not selfish, + Never ends ... + Not our fault to be forced away, + Destiny came: + A wedge: + We could not turn its edge; + And so it fell upon that bitter day. + + We might have had such times! + But--No! No! + It wouldn't go; + And after that 'twas never the same; + I can't encompass it by rhymes, + Halting and tame; + There it lies-- + Not to be altered by tears or sighs: + We meet, stealing; + Eyes on the door; + With banished feeling-- + But--No more! + + + + +Charing Cross--1916 + + + Round Charing Cross in carrion row + The crowd press in; a sight to see; + Their mouths agape, their eyes aglow, + With morbid curiosity. + + Those twisted limbs, those bandaged faces! + Humanity all broken down! + The ghostly grim procession races: + Hell's handicraft in London Town. + + The bestial throng with pampered eyes-- + Faces of goat or sheep or bull-- + All greedy with a glad surprise + Of ghoulish horror drinking full. + + Heroic citizens, well nourished, + Who feast your eyes:--What sight to see? + By you the Coliseum flourished; + You thronged, as now, round Calvary. + + + + +Love not too much + + + Have you too greatly loved? + Sister take warning! + Once let your soul be moved, + Sable your mourning; + If he be satiate, + Then an ingratiate, + Waiteth the dawning. + + Shew not the passion + That stirs in your veins, + Far more alluring + To handle the reins, + His love ensuring.... + In masculine fashion + If certain--he wanes. + + He the pursuer + Must ever press on, + Passionate wooer + Whilst you are a stone; + Shew but a touch, + Yet never too much + And the battle is won. + + Man is a monster + Made to be stroked, + Close then your arms + Cover your charms; + Great the enticement + Of beauties when hidden, + Of passion well cloaked. + + Crazed, he shall plead, + For what you yield gladly, + Fiercer his greed, + For what you give madly; + You may have measure + Of love's burning pleasure + And still hold your treasure.... + Sister take heed! + + + + +Niccolo Machiavelli + + + From thy serene abode thou lookest down + With pitying eye upon a rabble rout + Who strive and plot and fight and turn about, + Endeavouring to seize some phantom crown,-- + Whether of kingdom or of some small town, + Or village--or one single home--their own: + They stumble, and with hurried steps awry + Blindly they miss their opportunity; + Whilst, all the time, thy Golden Book is there, + Ripe with earth's wisdom; but they only stare + Or pass along with stupid scoff and curse, + Using thy name for 'scoundrelly' or worse. + + Of all those who have striven to endow + The world with garnered knowledge, only thou + Hast for so long endured of thorns the crown; + Beneath the feet of swine thy name is thrown; + And in the streets thy priceless wit doth lie; + So that, alone, the stooping passer-by + Undaunted by an epithet, may find; + And treasuring like gold seven times refined, + Open the casket with exultant air + To see the Pearl of Wisdom lying there. + + + + +Remorse + + + Pierce you another, pleasure bent, + Or wound the helpless innocent; + The Holy Ghost shall not relent. + + Beyond the tortured body's cry + Dread is the mind's dull misery; + Remorse, the worm, can never die. + + 'Oh to repay it,' Judas saith: + Who robs the innocent of breath, + Certain shall live to welcome death. + + + + +The Mandrake's Horrid Scream + + + Why ain't the Mester back? + Down these owd Fens there ain't noa neighbours, + An' when he's finished wi' his labours, + He gallops off full crack! + I sits aloan an' shaakes wi' fear + While he be rousin' at the 'Deer.' + Them what's in towns has niver tried + To live aloan, all terrified; + They talk about churchyards at night, + Or things wi' chains dressed up in white: + Why! Bless my soul! I'd gladly sleep + In any place what made them creep! + Coz allers they've a friend about + To hear if they should give a shout! + They dunno what it is to fear + But--here-- + _What's that?_ + Only the cat! + An' she's as black as Death's own self, + She squats all loathly on yon shelf, + Wi' one unwinkin' eye on me + I wish the Devil-- + No! + Not _He_! + I didn't mean to mention names, + Nor interfere wi' others gaames: + They saay as cats is really witches, + Like Betty Williamson, now dead, + What uster wear her husband's breeches + An' ate the queerest food, foak said; + She set beside her open door + Wi' one foot allers off the floor, + Quietly knitting; one eye cast + To overlook you as you passed; + An' just the same, yon nasty critter + Stares at me now that soft an' bitter! + Oh Dear! I wish my man would came! + May ague twist, an' strike him dumb! + May fairies nip his liver out + An' leave him nare a tongue to shout. + Forsaking me, all loansome here + With iverything what's wrong and queer. + + From out my winder, where I sit + I see the willows round yon pit: + Dark Pit where Moller Holmes was found + As some said,--accidental drowned!-- + But I heard screechin', terrified, + About the time he must a died! + Having noa bottom, soa they say; + It's dreadful secrets there must stay + Until the Resurrection Day! + Oh where the Devil is that Tom? + I'll give him 'pub' when he gits hoam: + The wind is moanin' round that Pit + As if somebody wished to flit: + There's Things in there what stirs by night + An' if you see, yer hair turns white; + Around, they say, the Mandrake grows + What's pulled at dead of night by _those_ + Who little care although it screams + To wake poor mortals from their dreams. + Our parson tells of Powers Evil: + (An' Providence can't beat the Devil) + Where should they laay, but in yon Pit? + What makes me squirl to think on it: + All gashly arms a-reachin' out + To clamber up yer water spout + An' reach you through-- + Oh Lor! + _Who's that?_ + 'Tis something comin' + I hear _it_ hummin'.... + + My dear good Tom! Thank God it's him! + I was afraid of something grim-- + I've bin a-wantin' you soa long-- + You lousy mawkin', stinkin' strong + Of beer an' bacca! Off to bed! + I'll larn yer, Thomas, who you've wed: + 'Fore morn, you'll wish as you was dead. + + + + +One Day + + + I read you poems all the day, + And all the night I dreamed of you, + Wild nightmares riding sweet sleep through, + Whilst all the time I longed to say + More tenderly, my roundelay, + And ardently with verse to woo. + + I read you poems all the day; + You gave them up again to me, + For all the night I seemed to see + Your face a vision on my way, + As with the murmuring of streams + Your voice commingled in my dreams. + + I read you poems all the day; + Ah! would that you could hear me now! + Accepting the unuttered vow + My spirit yearned but dare not say: + Yet still though you are far away + I read you poems all the day. + + + + +No Wife + + + Tom! Tom! What yer think? + I've 'ed the Parson's wife + The first time in 'er life, acrost our door! + + What for? + + What for? Why Tom, you'd niver niver guess! + Not if you lived as old as Grammer Bess + What's lately swore + She's a hunder an' four-- + _She wants us two, to go off an' git spliced!_ + + Oh Christ! + What's got 'er now: + The cow! + + You well may swear; + Coz 'ow she dare--an' why-- + Will make you swear agen, or laugh--surelie! + Just light yer pipe + Now you look comfortable--so + You're rough--old Tom--I know-- + Black as a crow! + But I'm fond on yer lad + As any fool could see! + An' whether we're good or bad + You've bin maain good ter me. + + But--blast 'er silly eyes! + What yer say to 'er, then? + I said a lot! + I telled 'er what! + A-comin' ere wi' 'er fancy airs, + 'Er what's never known no cares, + Lookin' that wise-- + Just coz she catched a Parson! + [An' noa great shaakes ayther-- + She'd nowt of a feyther + While 'er half-brother run away to sea + An' took to blue water + Wi' their ole cook's daughter] + 'You talk of "sin" an' "shame,"' I sez, 'to me? + You talks just like a fool + Or a silly bairn at school + Coz nobody about could doubt, + But what we're happy together him an' me; + Just look,' I sez, 'at any in this street + What couple can you find about to beat + My Tom an' me what's bin together years, + Happy an' comfortable; + Never noa serious trouble-- + Nuthin' I mean to set us by the ears-- + Good reason why!' + I sez--sez I-- + 'Coz we're a free an' equal pair; + We got to treat each other fair + Or else we part.' + + Well said now Missus! That were smart! + + 'To part!' sez she, 'lookin' all down her noaz, + 'Ow could you leave your hoam wi' childer three?' + I sez--sez I--'that dudn't bother me + Coz I can earn enough for food an' cloaz. + I can maintain 'em by mysen,' sez I, + 'An' would at any time o' day. + I'm not a slave--an' anyway + I'd manage if I 'ed to do, + I'm not a slave,' I sez, 'like you!' + + You didn't--Come!-- + + I did--I did! + I meant it too. + 'If your man turns up stunt,' sez I, + 'You can't goa off, or let him fly; + You can't maintain yoursen--not you!-- + Lettin' aloan the bairns, you 'aint!' + (That made her squirm all down her back!) + ''Ow could you wok up on a stack? + Or yok a hoss or bake or wesh; + If your man drinks or starts to thresh + You couldn't leave him coz he holds yer: + You're tied by laws and friends what scolds yer; + Yer ain't like me, as free as air. + I'm not afraid whoever stare, + Nayther is Tom! + We minds oursens + An' thinks noa more of foaks than hens, + Coz if I doant behave mysen-- + Or him-- + We parts!-- + Why doant we? + Why? + Becoz we're free an' happy here, + Becoz we treats each other fair!' + + You giv 'er the rough o' yer tongue, old gel, + But--what a sell! + + Comin' 'ere to ride rough shod + Coz she's a 'wife.' + Why--bless my life + She doesn't know she's born; + She couldn't find her own corn! + I sent 'er off wi' a flea in 'er ear! + An' will again if she dost come near! + But she weant! + The white faced critter-- + Wi' a noaz like a knife + An' a smile that bitter + As if she would kill. + A wife! + What does she know of life?-- + Nowt! + Nor ever will!-- + But tomorrer's Sunday + An' we'll go to Church! + + What? + + Yes! Just for once; an' sit together, + Like birds of a feather! + We aint ashamed to show our faces + To them what thinks we be disgraces. + We'll goa together Tom--for sure + We'll goa this once an' then noa more-- + If you be willin'? + + Aye lass--I'm willin'-- + I'll back you up as I've allers done, + Agen Parson's wife or anyone. + Aye; agen all the country round, + Coz you're as good as could be found-- + An' now--old gel--it's omost eight, + Come on--yer know we moant be late, + Off to the Ship for our glass of aale; + This yarn of yourn'll make a taale! + What's that--yer bunnet? + All rate ... be quick-- + I'll wait for yer agen the gate. + + + + +To an old Friend + + + A tongue of lambent living flame + Stirs lightly when I hear your name, + Your features delicate and rare, + Quiver with every thought you bear; + It ever was a strange delight + To see your charming face alight, + To sit with you awhile apart + And hear the beating of your heart, + Or watch the message from your brain + Into your eyes then back again. + + And still it is my fairest dream-- + That delicate ethereal gleam, + The fire that played behind your face, + Lighting it with such fairy grace; + Such intuition sweet and wild; + Why should you always be a child? + + You cannot ever hope to grow + Into a woman; oh dear no! + The fairies never would allow + Such desecration; so that, now, + You must be reconciled to stay + For ever as you are to-day. + What an enchanting fate is this! + Eternally a child to be, + Laughing with that untroubled bliss + That only haunts the fancy free: + Yes, yours is happiness indeed; + Barefoot to roam the woodland vale, + All careless, though your feet should bleed + Because you hear the nightingale; + All heedless, though the thorns should tear, + And though the pain be fierce and wild, + For Nature gives to you her kiss; + And you will always be her child. + + + + +Is it finished? + + + Well--Is it finished, + Is the long day-dream done? + The battle lost, and won? + Has love at length diminished + And night begun? + + Do you pass to another? + Yet still I hold + Devotion all untold; + Although you mate a brother + And leave me cold. + + My heart beats but for thee + And every thought is thine, + As flowers to the sun incline; + For once thou lovedst me + And all was mine. + + Though destiny may banish, + My heart is still the same; + And thine is all my fame; + Although thy love may vanish, + True burns my flame. + + And, thou mayst know + That shouldst thou call to me, + Where-ever I may be, + Like arrow from its bow + Straight I will fly to thee. + + + + +Oh, Lincoln, City of my dreams + + + As far away as childhood seems + Thou standest on thy Roman hill, + And memory holds thee frozen, still, + Engraved on steel where moonlight streams. + + For leagues along the landscape mild + Thy towers twin the scene command, + Embattlements of fairyland; + Romance incarnate to a child. + + Though other cities cast a spell, + Ever thou holdst my heart in chains; + And still I hear across the plains + At midnight's stroke that ancient bell + + Whose giant throbbing scarcely seems + A mortal sound at Heaven's gate: + It echoes round the exile's fate-- + Oh Lincoln! City of my dreams! + + + + +The Fool + + + What say? + Tharp? + Yis: Aaron Tharp lived theer! + Not quite sharp? + Not quite--I fear! + T'wer very sad! + Though theer wor summat--'tis hard to say-- + But he come to his end and went away; + He'd a nice little place as his feyther made, + All gone to pot, I be much afraid. + Old Aaron built it in his day, + A worthy feller true an' sound, + Respected by the country round; + To think as his name should be forgotten! + If he'd known what a fool he had begotten! + He toiled an' moiled into his grave + To leave a lad what couldn't save! + Noa note of grace, noa sense of cash! + He lost his all be bein' rash! + + An' for what!-- + For what!-- + To play the fiddle! + 'Hey diddle diddle!' + To make up tunes in his empty head + An' ruin his eyes wi' the books he read! + He raumed an' babbled all day long + About the way to sing a song! + Follered the lads at plough about + To hear 'em sing would make him shout! + He'd sit on the bar of the Ship at night: + To catch the tunes was his delight, + Or to play the fiddle about the town:-- + An' all the while his trade went down! + That trade what poor old Aaron tended + It's fell to nowt an' can't be mended + Coz businesses is all the same + You've simply got to play the game + With all your soul an' all your heart + Or else you'll soon be in the cart. + + He was encouraged by our parson! + T'wer wrong of parson! + It's very well for them to talk + To sing an' play and idle, walk, + But aren't they paid for doin' that? + They mind their bread is buttered fat. + Parsons is sensible you see, + O'most as cute as lawyers be, + Not quite--a course coz noa one could-- + But very nigh--just as they should. + Parsons is sound at heart, I say, + They never quarrels wi' their pay, + Soa it wor wrong of Parson theer, + Coz Aaron nobbut lacked a cheer. + + He made his tunes, he played about + An' none but Parson had a doubt + What he was bound for--poor young lad! + A course I'll own,--though he wor mad,-- + Them tunes he played, them songs he sung, + They minded you of bein' young; + They took me back, a boy, agen + At work wi' Feyther down the Fen, + When all the birds they uster sing + At sunrise till the air would ring, + And sheep and cows would stir about + Wi' everything to make yer shout, + Yes it wor strange what he could do, + His fiddle seemed to mazzle you, + The labourers would catch a song-- + An' they _was_ catchy--all along; + They sing 'em yet; an' Georgy Bell + He plays 'em by the village well. + + But all the while, trade didn't mend + Until at last ther' come the end. + + They selled him up, lock stock an' stoan, + An' off he went away, aloan; + Because he sung but couldn't save. + I think his feyther in the grave + Must sure a-stirred, 'owever deep: + That smash would waken any sleep! + Young Aaron went-- + I dunno where-- + They say he's gone to Manchester, + An' there, mayhap, mid soot an' smoke, + Makes music for the city folk; + Plays on his fiddle, time, agen + Them tunes he larned down Martin Fen + From shepherds or from waggon-boys + Or men at plough,--or any noise: + He made his tunes out of the air, + From birds or beasts--he didn't care! + An' Parson, says he'll make a name + (Our Parson, what's the one to blame!) + As if he ever could agen + Find such a hoam as Martin Fen; + As if he could, by fiddle fad, + Get half the name his feyther had. + + Lost in some smoky town he plays + An' thinks, I lay, on sunny days, + Of all the things what makes life dear + Like beans and bacon, cheese and beer; + A dreamy good-for-nothing lad, + Sure bound to lose all what he had. + He might a-riz, an' come to be + As high as _you_, or even _me_! + An' bin well known the country round + As comfortable, warm, an' sound. + + His name _is_ known for many a mile, + It raises far-an'-wide, a smile: + While folk they whisper 'Not right sharp'! + A fool! a fool! wor Aaron Tharp. + + + PRINTED AT + THE HOLYWELL PRESS + OXFORD + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Rebel Verses, by Bernard Gilbert + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REBEL VERSES *** + +***** This file should be named 36803-8.txt or 36803-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/8/0/36803/ + +Produced by David E. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Rebel Verses + +Author: Bernard Gilbert + +Release Date: July 20, 2011 [EBook #36803] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REBEL VERSES *** + + + + +Produced by David E. Brown, Bryan Ness, Matthew Wheaton +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images +generously made available by The Internet Archive/American +Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + +<div> + +<br> + +<br> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 438px;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="438" height="600" alt="" title=""> +</div> + +<p class="spacer"></p> + +<h1 id="booktitle">REBEL VERSES</h1> + +<p class="spacer"> </p> + +<p class="h4">NEW YORK AGENTS<br> +LONGMANS, GREEN & Co.<br> +FOURTH AVENUE AND 30TH STREET</p> + +<p class="spacer"> </p> + +<p class="h1">REBEL VERSES</p> + +<p class="h4">BY</p> + +<p class="h2">BERNARD GILBERT</p> + +<p class="spacer"> </p> + +<p class="h3">OXFORD<br> +B. H. BLACKWELL, BROAD STREET<br> +MCMXVIII</p> + +<p class="spacer"> </p> + +<p class="h3"><span class="smcap">By the Same Author</span></p> + +<p class="out4"> + <b>VERSE</b>: <span class="smcap">Lincolnshire Lays</span>; + <span class="smcap">Farming Lays</span>; + <span class="smcap">Gone To the War</span>; + <span class="smcap">War Workers</span>.</p> + + <p class="out4"><b>DRAMA</b>: <span class="smcap">Eldorado</span>; + <span class="smcap">Their Father's Will</span>; + <span class="smcap">The Ruskington Poacher</span>.</p> + + <p class="out4"><b>FICTION</b>: <span class="smcap">What shall it Profit?</span> + <span class="smcap">Tattershall Castle</span>; + <span class="smcap">The Yellow Flag</span>.</p> + + <p class="out4"><b>POLITICAL</b>: <span class="smcap">Farmers and Tariff Reform</span>: <span class="smcap">What Every Farmer + Wants</span>: <span class="smcap">The Farm Labourer's Fix</span>.</p> + + <p class="out4"><b>MISCELLANEOUS</b>: <span class="smcap">Living Lincoln</span>; <span class="smcap">Fortunes for Farmers</span>.</p> + +<p class="spacer"> </p> + +<p class="h3"><span class="smcap">From</span> <i>The New Witness</i></p> + +<blockquote><p><span class="smcap">Mr. Bernard Gilbert</span> is one of the discoveries of the War. For +years, it seems, he has been writing poetry, but it is only recently +that an inapprehensive country has awakened to the fact. Now +he is taking his rightful place among our foremost singers. What +William Barnes was to Dorset, what T. E. Brown was to the +Manx people—this is Mr. Gilbert to the folk of his native county +of Lincoln. He has interpreted their lives, their sorrows, their +aspirations, with a surprising fidelity. Mr. Gilbert never loses his +grip upon realities. One feels that he knows the men of whom +he writes in their most intimate moods; knows, too, their defects, +which he does not shrink from recording. There is little of the +dreamy idealism of the South in the peasant people of Lincolnshire. +The outwardly respectable chapel-goer who asks himself, +in a moment of introspection<br> +<br> +<span style="margin-left:4em">But why not have a good time here?</span><br> +<span style="margin-left:4em">Why should the Devil have all the beer?</span><br> +<br> +is true to type. But he has, too, his softer moods. Fidelity in +friendship, courage, resource and perseverance—these are typical +of the men of the Fens.</p> +</blockquote> + +<p class="spacer"> </p> + +<p class="h4">TO<br> +MORLEY ROBERTS</p> + +<p class="spacer"> </p> + +<p class="out4"><i>Acknowledgments to the Editors of the:</i><br> +<i>English Review</i><br> +<i>New Age</i><br> +<i>Colour</i><br> +<i>Westminster Gazette</i><br> +<i>New Witness</i><br> +<i>To-Day</i><br> +<i>Clarion</i><br> +<i>Australian Triad</i><br> +<i>Bystander</i><br> +<i>Musical Student</i><br> +<i>and Nash's Magazine</i><br> +<span style="margin-left:-4em;"><i>in whose columns these verses have appeared during 1917.</i></span></p> + +<p class="spacer"> </p> + +<p><span class="pagenum">[vii]</span></p> + +<p class="h3">Contents</p> + +<div class="centered"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" width="70%" summary=""> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> </td> + <td class="tdrfirst">PAGE</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#The_Rebel"> + <span class="smcap">The Rebel</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">1</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Song_of_Revolt"> + <span class="smcap">Song of Revolt</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">2</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#There_Aint_no_God"> + <span class="smcap">There aint no God</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">3</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#The_Night_is_Dark"> + <span class="smcap">The Night is Dark</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">4</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Return"> + <span class="smcap">Return</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">8</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Nietzsche"> + <span class="smcap">Nietzsche</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">9</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Sacrament"> + <span class="smcap">Sacrament</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">11</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Fightin_Tomlinson"> + <span class="smcap">Fightin' Tomlinson</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">12</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#The_Labourers_Hymn"> + <span class="smcap">The_Labourer's_Hymn</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">15</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Oliver_Cromwell"> + <span class="smcap">Oliver Cromwell</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">17</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Anywhere_but_Here"> + <span class="smcap">Anywhere but Here</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">20</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#The_East_Wind"> + <span class="smcap">East Wind</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">21</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Peter_Wray"> + <span class="smcap">Peter Wray</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">24</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Oh_Fools"> + <span class="smcap">Oh Fools</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">26</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Elfin_Dancer"> + <span class="smcap">Elfin Dancer</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">28</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#A_G_Webster"> + <span class="smcap">A. G. Webster</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">30</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Oh_to_be_Home"> + <span class="smcap">Oh to be Home</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">31</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Give_Soldiers_a_Vote"> + <span class="smcap">Give Soldiers a Vote</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">32</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Alone"> + <span class="smcap">Alone</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">33</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Flesh_of_our_Flesh"> + <span class="smcap">Flesh of our Flesh</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">35</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#This_Town_is_Hell"> + <span class="smcap">This Town is Hell</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">36</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Timberland_Bells"> + <span class="smcap">Timberland Bells</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">38</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Dame_Peach"> + <span class="smcap">Dame Peach</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">39</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Friends"> + <span class="smcap">Friends</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">41</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Charing_Cross_1916"> + <span class="smcap">Charing Cross</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">43</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Love_not_too_much"> + <span class="smcap">Love not too Much</span></a> + <span class="pagenum">[viii]</span> + </td> + <td class="tdr">44</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Niccolo_Machiavelli"> + <span class="smcap">Machiavelli</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">46</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Remorse"> + <span class="smcap">Remorse</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">47</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#The_Mandrakes_Horrid_Scream"> + <span class="smcap">The Mandrake's Horrid Scream</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">48</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#One_Day"> + <span class="smcap">One Day</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">51</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#No_Wife"> + <span class="smcap">No Wife</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">52</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#To_an_old_Friend"> + <span class="smcap">To an Old Friend</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">57</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Is_it_finished"> + <span class="smcap">Is it Finished</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">59</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#Oh_Lincoln_City_of_my_dreams"> + <span class="smcap">Oh Lincoln, City of my Dreams</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">60</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> + <a href="#The_Fool"> + <span class="smcap">The Fool</span></a> + </td> + <td class="tdr">61</td> + </tr> +</table></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum">[1]</span></p> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="The_Rebel" id="The_Rebel"></a>The Rebel</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I live in music, in poetry, and in the life reflective.<br></span> +<span class="i0">I seek intellectual boldness in man, I worship mental swiftness in women.<br></span> +<span class="i0">I have no love for lawyers, priests, schoolmasters, or any dogmatic men.<br></span> +<span class="i0">I am with poor against rich, labour against employer, women against men; I fight beside all strikers, mutineers, and rebels.<br></span> +<span class="i0">I welcome foes; I desire criticism.<br></span> +<span class="i0">I loathe prejudice, either social or national; I repudiate all claims.<br></span> +<span class="i0">I demand freedom of action and leisure for reflection.<br></span> +<span class="i0">Facing Death, I would say: 'I have tasted all, tried all, dared all, suffered all, and I repent nothing.'<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[2]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Song_of_Revolt" id="Song_of_Revolt"></a>Song of Revolt</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Crowns are ashake,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The princes and the Kings are bending low,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And, round the world,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Before the blast of Freedom, thrones are hurled:<br></span> +<span class="i0">The People are awake!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Over the Ark of Tyranny<br></span> +<span class="i0">The red flag flaunts abroad for all to see!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Whilst to the roll of drums<br></span> +<span class="i0">Swelling triumphantly, the glad cry comes:<br></span> +<span class="i0">The People shall be free!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In dungeons, men, long-bound for freedom's sake,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Forgotten of God, deep-frozen by despair,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Hear with surprise that clangorous fanfare:<br></span> +<span class="i0">The People are awake!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Our fathers heard the call,<br></span> +<span class="i0">When Liberty from her bonds like the angry sea,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Pouring mightily forth, slew tyranny,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And singing the Marseillaise, bade crowns to fall,<br></span> +<span class="i0">That all men should be free!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Men shall be slaves no more!<br></span> +<span class="i0">From sea to sea<br></span> +<span class="i0">That Word of hope unspeakable succour brings;<br></span> +<span class="i0">The day dawneth when there are no more Kings:<br></span> +<span class="i0">And the People, the People shall be free!<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[3]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="There_Aint_no_God" id="There_Aint_no_God"></a>There Aint no God</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There aint no God!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Coz if there were—<br></span> +<span class="i0">My boy what's under foreign sod<br></span> +<span class="i0">Would be alive, and here:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Instead of which young William Porter<br></span> +<span class="i0">What never listed when he orter—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Has his farm;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And braunges yonder safe away from harm.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Poor lad!—he went—<br></span> +<span class="i0">I can't forgit that night—<br></span> +<span class="i0">While Porter laughed him outer sight;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Now—he is spent:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Porter's all right.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What does he care?<br></span> +<span class="i0">He's thinking of another farm,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Instead of laying in some ditch<br></span> +<span class="i0">He's rich!<br></span> +<span class="i0">And folk'll gallop at his nod.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I say it!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Dost hear me ... Thou?<br></span> +<span class="i0">There aint no God!<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[4]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="The_Night_is_Dark" id="The_Night_is_Dark"></a>'The Night is Dark'</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Safe-guarded dwellers in your sea-girt eyrie<br></span> +<span class="i0">How fares the fight?<br></span> +<span class="i0">Terror has crept beneath your ocean wall,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Horror is over-reaching, to appal;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Your sons are menaced by a furnace fiery:<br></span> +<span class="i0">What of the night?<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A hundred years have passed at ease<br></span> +<span class="i0">Since last you fought on bended knees;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And joints, unused, grow stiff and old,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And hearts unroused are faint and cold;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Whilst they who own but wealth, their creed,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Stand helpless in the hour of need.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh peace-bound nation!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Lapped in rich sloth; untroubled generation!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Know you that races change?<br></span> +<span class="i0">Some dwindle slowly downward in decay,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Unconscious, till the dawning of the day:<br></span> +<span class="i0">At touch of fire we learn how they are faring;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Thrice welcome is the test to nations daring;<br></span> +<span class="i0">To some—how strange!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Our ancient enemy—now brother—<br></span> +<span class="i0">From one Napoleon to another<br></span> +<span class="i0">Has seen his country ebb and flow<br></span> +<span class="i0">And now he holds the sternest foe,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Learning the lesson of strenuous fight<br></span> +<span class="i0">To brace defensive armour tight:<br></span> +<span class="i0">But what of you—old Islanders<br></span> +<span class="i0">So roughly woke?<br></span> +<span class="i0">Has gilded sloth 'mid dreamless calm<br></span> +<span class="i0">Stifled your soul, close wrapped from harm,<br></span> +<span class="i0">In Neptune's cloak?<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or is it but an idle dress,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Thrown off at breath of fearful stress?<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or has it slowly strangled that old oak?<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">None may foretell;<br></span> +<span class="i0">But this we know:<br></span> +<span class="i0">As fire testeth iron through and through,<br></span> +<span class="i0">So shall it be with you!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Not yet have you passed furnace-wise,<br></span> +<span class="i0">But soon, with newly opened eyes,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Upon your knees,<br></span> +<span class="i0">You shall discern Heaven's judgment on an age-long ease.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Poets and prophets darkly sang;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Unheeded then the tocsin rang;<br></span> +<span class="i0">But now the sky is grey and dim,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Your enemy is stern and grim,<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[6]</span><span class="i0">Your leaders slow;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And, though you realise it not ...<br></span> +<span class="i0">You may lie low:<br></span> +<span class="i0">For, though to fight one son is bold,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Another hides, amassing gold;<br></span> +<span class="i0">The strain falls not in equal measure:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Whilst some lie cold—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Others distil their blood for treasure,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And that—Old England—if unchecked,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Shall see your ancient Empire wrecked.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You battle not to vanquish a great nation,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Nor for safety, nor the sceptre of the seas,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Nor for the Empire of a world at ease,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Nor fame's fair scroll:<br></span> +<span class="i0">For your salvation,<br></span> +<span class="i0">You wrestle with Apollyon for your soul.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And if you fail—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Your epitaph: 'too late'—<br></span> +<span class="i0">The Angel with the Pen shall grave your fate:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Your glorious history of no avail;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Whilst all the Earth shall know you were not great.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not arms, nor weapons forged, nor serried forces,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Nor stout Allies nor multiplied resources<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[7]</span><span class="i0">The victory giveth;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Not ships afar, nor numbers gradual tale,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Nor all your might, oh Britain! shall avail:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Only the Spirit liveth!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Yet this our hope (a hope unsaid),<br></span> +<span class="i0">And still our faith (though faith be dead),<br></span> +<span class="i0">That, as of old, you may awake,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Cast off your senile mood, and shake<br></span> +<span class="i0">Irresolution to the wall;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Bid equal sacrifice from all;<br></span> +<span class="i0">That each surrender to the state<br></span> +<span class="i0">A measured offering to fate,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Till Unity of Will, controlled<br></span> +<span class="i0">Shines through the nation, manifold:<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then should your Spirit conquer as before,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And Phœnix-like you should renew your youth and strength once more.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[8]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Return" id="Return"></a>Return</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From exile and disaster,<br></span> +<span class="i2">From banishment set free,<br></span> +<span class="i0">We shall return in sorrow,<br></span> +<span class="i2">Our homes once more to see.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The storm will surely finish,<br></span> +<span class="i2">The day must dawn at last,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The floods at length diminish,<br></span> +<span class="i2">The bitterness be past.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From Fatherland long-banished<br></span> +<span class="i2">(Oh, church in ruins low!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, roofs and chimneys vanished!)<br></span> +<span class="i2">'Tis to our homes we go!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The land is torn asunder,<br></span> +<span class="i2">The orchard trees are bare;<br></span> +<span class="i0">A muttering of thunder<br></span> +<span class="i2">Still shakes the heavy air.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet life goes on undaunted:<br></span> +<span class="i2">With aching hearts, and sore,<br></span> +<span class="i0">To raise our hearths and altars<br></span> +<span class="i2">We shall return once more.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[9]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Nietzsche" id="Nietzsche"></a>Nietzsche</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In the silence of the night-time<br></span> +<span class="i0">Startled, we can hear a murmur<br></span> +<span class="i0">As of someone tapping, tapping,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Tapping at the breasts of idols<br></span> +<span class="i0">With an auscultating hammer,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Sounding all their hollow vitals<br></span> +<span class="i0">As they helplessly endeavour<br></span> +<span class="i0">To evade with vain pretences<br></span> +<span class="i4">Or atone:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Yes, we hear the distant thunder<br></span> +<span class="i0">Of an earthquake that convulses;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Poor old Mother Earth is shaken,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Sorely tried and whirled asunder,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Shaken by a fierce invader;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Where grim and slow you creep below,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Digging, digging, digging deep,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Troglodyte, untiring miner<br></span> +<span class="i2">All alone!<br></span> +<span class="i0">As you climb upon the mountains,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Glaciers, icy precipices,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Toward the lonely lightning-blasted<br></span> +<span class="i0">Peak that towers above in silence,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Plunging into deep crevasses<br></span> +<span class="i0">Where the frozen water falls:<br></span> +<span class="i2">Monotone:<br></span> +<span class="i0">And at last we wake from nightmare—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Wake, to find ourselves denuded<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[10]</span><span class="i0">Naked, lonesome, 'mid our fellows<br></span> +<span class="i0">Lacking father, wife, or mother,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Lacking neighbour, child or brother:<br></span> +<span class="i0">All disown.<br></span> +<span class="i0">Still our eyes are fixed steadfastly<br></span> +<span class="i0">Where you soar above the heavens,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Spurning with your mighty pinions<br></span> +<span class="i0">Countless deities and angels,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Shattering our fondest visions<br></span> +<span class="i0">With your own:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Ever on your knees you creep,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Where the way is wild and steep.<br></span> +<span class="i0">Digging, digging, digging deep,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Whilst the priests and idols weep.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[11]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Sacrament" id="Sacrament"></a>Sacrament</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Beloved mine! we cannot falter now;<br></span> +<span class="i0">No threats avail, no claims affect this hour;<br></span> +<span class="i0">That kiss, far more than sacerdotal vow<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or golden circlet, making truly one<br></span> +<span class="i0">—More solemn than any oath—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Hath passed our lips:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Whilst Love, the great compeller, the mighty power<br></span> +<span class="i0">In his bewildering hand, hath seized us both.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No pardon comes for those who wrongly read<br></span> +<span class="i0">The books on stone engraved—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Our Primal Laws—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or fail to satisfy the unchanging Cause;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Who reach this height, and fail, are dead indeed:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Their being void, their souls are cast without;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And from the Book their names are blotted out.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There is no holding back, no base endeavour,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The cup of true communion is filled,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The sacrament prepared as we have willed;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Hand joined to hand in clasp that none can sever;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Our quittance sure, our resolution taken,<br></span> +<span class="i0">With vows fulfilled we face the world unshaken;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And each to each we pledge ourselves for ever.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[12]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Fightin_Tomlinson" id="Fightin_Tomlinson"></a>Fightin' Tomlinson</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I sit by the chimbley corner,<br></span> +<span class="i0">My blood is runnin' slow,<br></span> +<span class="i0">My hands is white as a printed paage,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Wot once wor red wi' the fighter's waage;<br></span> +<span class="i0">They're withered an' wrinkled now wi' old aage;<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' the fire's burnin' low.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Once I could lether anyone<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' strike a knock-down blow:<br></span> +<span class="i0">My legs were limmack as a young bough,<br></span> +<span class="i0">They could race or dance or foller the plough;<br></span> +<span class="i0">But they're crookled and wemblin' all waays now,<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' the fire's burnin' low.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I 'member me of owden daays:<br></span> +<span class="i0">At Metheringham Show:<br></span> +<span class="i0">I fought young Jolland for a scarf,<br></span> +<span class="i0">I nearly brok his back in half;<br></span> +<span class="i0">He galloped hooam to Blankney Barff<br></span> +<span class="i0">As hard as he could go.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I fought an' danced an' carried on,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Razzlin 'igh an low;<br></span> +<span class="i0">I drank as long as I could see,<br></span> +<span class="i0">It made noa difference to me,<br></span> +<span class="i0">I wor a match for any three:<br></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis sixty year ago.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[13]</span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They called me 'Fightin' Tomlinson,'<br></span> +<span class="i0">(My name is Thomas Tow)<br></span> +<span class="i0">I wor the champion o' the sheer;<br></span> +<span class="i0">If any furriner come near,<br></span> +<span class="i0">I never shirked nor felt noa fear,<br></span> +<span class="i0">I allers 'ed a go.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">On ivery night o' Saturday,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Noa matter raain nor snow,<br></span> +<span class="i0">We gethered in the market plaaces,<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' stripped stark naked to our waas'es,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Gev' one another bloody faaces—<br></span> +<span class="i0">A Sunday mornin' show!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I fought at all the County Fairs,<br></span> +<span class="i0">From Partney down to Stow;<br></span> +<span class="i0">They called me nobbut a 'Billinghay Rough,'<br></span> +<span class="i0">I niver knawed when I'd 'ed enough,<br></span> +<span class="i0">For I wor made o' the proper stuff,<br></span> +<span class="i0">I'd like to 'ev you know.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Aye—them wor roughish times—my word!<br></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis sixty year ago;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Our heads wor hard, our hearts as well,<br></span> +<span class="i0">I wonder as we niver fell,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Into the burnin' pit of hell,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Wheer dreadful fires glow.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[14]</span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I used to hit like this—but now<br></span> +<span class="i0">I cannot strike a blow:<br></span> +<span class="i0">My battle's nearly lost—or won,<br></span> +<span class="i0">My poor owd limbs is omost done,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The tears is droppin' one by one,<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' the fire's burnin' low.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[15]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="The_Labourers_Hymn" id="The_Labourers_Hymn"></a>The Labourers' Hymn</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We have slaved for you long days and nights of bent and weary lives;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Giving the strength of our muscles, our sweat, and our sons and wives;<br></span> +<span class="i0">With less food than your horses, and homes less warm than your hives.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We have ploughed and dug and sowed and reaped the seasons through and through,<br></span> +<span class="i0">We have gathered in your grain and raised the 'Harvest Home' for you,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Who gave starvation pay to us and kept from us our due.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We asked for land and freedom, the right to till our own;<br></span> +<span class="i0">To harvest and to garner for ourselves, what we had sown;<br></span> +<span class="i0">We sought the fruit of our labour; you granted us a stone.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Who gave our lives to your children? Who pledged our souls to thine?<br></span> +<span class="i0">Who made you Lord and Master and placed us with the kine?<br></span> +<span class="i0">Who gave you leave to drink our sweat and mix our blood with wine?<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[16]</span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To save the land for your children, who denied their country's wage,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Our sons have left their homes to fight, to guard your heritage;<br></span> +<span class="i0">When they return—Ah! woe to you before their righteous rage.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You held the land in sufferance to answer for your right,<br></span> +<span class="i0">To cherish those beneath you and lead them into fight;<br></span> +<span class="i0">You have refused all payment, and trampled in your might.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Our sons shall trample you and yours in their bloody and righteous rage,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Who hid at home in shelter whilst they paid for the land its wage:<br></span> +<span class="i0">They fought and died for the Land; and they shall enter their heritage.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[17]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Oliver_Cromwell" id="Oliver_Cromwell"></a>Oliver Cromwell</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A group of men stood watching round the bed,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Gazing in sadness at the lion's head,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Ugly and massive, coarse, yet noble, too,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Transfigured by the power shining through,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The steadfast purpose, the unflinching will,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Decisive, swift to save alive, or kill,<br></span> +<span class="i0">As was required. Aye, and more was there;<br></span> +<span class="i0">The tenderness, the pity, all the care<br></span> +<span class="i0">Of one who watches o'er his fatherland,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And bears upon his countenance the brand<br></span> +<span class="i0">Of deep unutterable sorrow burned<br></span> +<span class="i0">Into his soul, whilst he, the lesson learned<br></span> +<span class="i0">That they who wield responsibility,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Alas, must always compromising be;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And to help on the cause they deem divine<br></span> +<span class="i0">Must waver from their ever rigid line.<br></span> +<span class="i0">The singleness of heart for which they pray,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Doth bow before expediency each day;<br></span> +<span class="i0">No longer fate allows the choice between<br></span> +<span class="i0">A good or evil course—with answer clean—<br></span> +<span class="i0">But rather shews two evils to be done,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And they must boldly choose the lesser one.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Tis this that makes him groan with agony,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The searching question 'Is it well with me?'<br></span> +<span class="i0">The question that at last must come to all<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[18]</span><span class="i0">When at their end, they wonderingly recall<br></span> +<span class="i0">This point—or that one—'<i>Was I justified?</i><br></span> +<span class="i0"><i>For there—I stepped out of my way for pride</i><br></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And there—I stooped, perhaps, to save a friend,</i><br></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Or—Pity swayed me over much to bend</i><br></span> +<span class="i0"><i>From justice there. Yes, I have always sinned.</i><br></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Weak! Weak!</i>'<br></span> +<span class="i0">Have pity on him now,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The valley of the shadow dews his brow!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then in a half delirium he saw<br></span> +<span class="i0">A vivid pageant passing through the door,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Of all the deeds that he had ever done,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Good or bad judgments, battles lost or won;<br></span> +<span class="i0">There, in procession wide, all who had died<br></span> +<span class="i0">Under his rule, either by civil law,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or by the swifter penalty of war,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Passed mournfully, their faces ghastly pale,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Their gaping wounds accusingly did rail;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And last of all, stately, refined, and meek,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The 'Martyr King,' the obstinate and weak,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The strangest mixture England ever saw<br></span> +<span class="i0">Upon her throne (And yet, poor man, he wore<br></span> +<span class="i0">His crown with piteous regal dignity,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Whilst from his hands there slowly dripped the blood<br></span> +<span class="i0">Of countless thousands who in loyalty<br></span> +<span class="i0">Perished beneath his vacillating mood).<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[19]</span><span class="i0">Then from those twitching lips there fell again<br></span> +<span class="i0">'Have I done well?' The agonizing pain<br></span> +<span class="i0">Was clear to those around his bed, and one<br></span> +<span class="i0">Answered, astonished, with beseeching tone:<br></span> +<span class="i0">'But surely, General, you have done well,<br></span> +<span class="i0">You over all of us have done most well.'<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But Cromwell with a twisted smile replied<br></span> +<span class="i0">'No!'—as he fought for breath—'I—only—tried!'<br></span> +<span class="i0">Then closed his eyes, smiled quietly, and died.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[20]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Anywhere_but_Here" id="Anywhere_but_Here"></a>Anywhere but Here</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Anywhere but here, Ned,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Any bloomin hole,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Golly! if it aint like tearin<br></span> +<span class="i0">Body from yer soul!<br></span> +<span class="i0">War's a bloomin sight too wearin:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Home for William Towl!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Once I uster think our village<br></span> +<span class="i0">Took the prize for dead,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Now I know it wor a Para-<br></span> +<span class="i0">-dise around me head;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Don't I wish as I could see it—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Just a minute—Ned!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Did I iver cuss my luck<br></span> +<span class="i0">Fer comin' fore the Bench;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Doin what I did fer poachin,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Arter this ole trench<br></span> +<span class="i0">Would be like a holiday<br></span> +<span class="i0">At seaside wi' a wench.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This is Hell, boy, don't ferget it,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Hell wi'out the fun,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Let me see a plough agen<br></span> +<span class="i0">An you can ev my gun;<br></span> +<span class="i0">You'll hear me shout across the sea<br></span> +<span class="i0">When this damn war is done.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[21]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="The_East_Wind" id="The_East_Wind"></a>The East Wind</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Spring was mild, the air was warm,<br></span> +<span class="i0">All green the things upon the farm,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The corn put forth its tender sprout,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The daffodils came bursting out;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Above the hedge, in skimming flight,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The blackbird hardly touched the light,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Whilst in the meadows lush and green<br></span> +<span class="i0">The lambs and foals at play were seen;<br></span> +<span class="i0">When suddenly the wind turned round<br></span> +<span class="i0">And blew across from 'Deadman's Ground'<br></span> +<span class="i0">(Where Farmer Rogers caught his wife<br></span> +<span class="i0">And killed her with a carving knife)<br></span> +<span class="i0">The oldest labourers about,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Who read the weather inside out,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Say, when it comes from out that quarter,<br></span> +<span class="i0">You know it's nothing else but slaughter;<br></span> +<span class="i0">For when it blows from there by night<br></span> +<span class="i0">It fills the animals with fright,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And when it blows from there by day<br></span> +<span class="i0">It drives your happiness away;<br></span> +<span class="i0">It nips the fruit, it starves the corn,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And everything that's newly born;<br></span> +<span class="i0">It sweeps the land with icy breath,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And strikes all growing things with death.<br></span> +<span class="i0">The farmer feels his liver growl,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And soon his children start to howl,<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[22]</span><span class="i0">Until they wonder why the weather<br></span> +<span class="i0">Can fill a man wi' crazy blether;<br></span> +<span class="i0">He kicks his dog, then rushes out<br></span> +<span class="i0">To sack his foreman with a shout,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Growls at his wife, and scolds his daughter<br></span> +<span class="i0">Because the ducks have left the water;<br></span> +<span class="i0">He sees the wrack upon the wing,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And feels his life a wasted thing.<br></span> +<span class="i0">The labourers, with wrinkled faces,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Are keeping in the shady places,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Afraid of wind and master, too,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And very careful what they do.<br></span> +<span class="i0">Down in the fields, with backs all hunched,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The horses and the cattle, bunched,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Stand by the hedge to miss the blast<br></span> +<span class="i0">That wails and whines and whistles past;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Their coats are ruffled wrong way round,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Because it blows off 'Deadman's Ground';<br></span> +<span class="i0">Their tails are down, their eyes are dull,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And quiet is the angry bull.<br></span> +<span class="i0">But yet the sky is bright and blue<br></span> +<span class="i0">With everything of clearest hue,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The Wolds are close enough to feel:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Their trees and houses cut in steel:<br></span> +<span class="i0">The sun is tempting with a smile,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The wind is slaying with a knife,<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[23]</span><span class="i0">(It aggravated Rogers' bile—<br></span> +<span class="i0">He killed himself upon his wife)<br></span> +<span class="i0">It kills the young, it kills the old,<br></span> +<span class="i0">It fells the timid with the bold;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Swift as a flash, hard as a stone,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Sharp as a flint, dry as a bone,<br></span> +<span class="i0">It pierces you without a sound,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The blast that comes from 'Deadman's Ground':<br></span> +<span class="i0">For when the wind is in the East<br></span> +<span class="i0">It's neither fit for man nor beast.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[24]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Peter_Wray" id="Peter_Wray"></a>Peter Wray</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No more I hear the waters roar,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Roused at the comin' of the bore,<br></span> +<span class="i0">No more the river turns agen,<br></span> +<span class="i0">To sweep across the level fen;<br></span> +<span class="i0">No more the winds in fury ride<br></span> +<span class="i0">Along the marshes wild and wide<br></span> +<span class="i0">Afore the risin' of the tide:<br></span> +<span class="i4">The waters roam no more.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No more I wade along the fen<br></span> +<span class="i0">For heron or for water hen,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Nor hug the bottom of my boat<br></span> +<span class="i0">As to the feeding ducks I'd float;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Nor ambushed laay wi' rovin' eye<br></span> +<span class="i0">To watch like specks agen the sky<br></span> +<span class="i0">The wild geese circlin' on high:<br></span> +<span class="i4">The waters roam no more.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No more I creep, nor crouchin', run,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Nor trail my owd long-barrelled gun<br></span> +<span class="i0">Nor listen 'ow the water laps<br></span> +<span class="i0">About my sunken fishin' traps;<br></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis eighty year sin, as a boy,<br></span> +<span class="i0">I first 'elped at the duck decoy,<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' now—I know but little joy:<br></span> +<span class="i4">The waters roam no more.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[25]</span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My feyther knew the hidden ways,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Across the waste and marshy maze,<br></span> +<span class="i0">He knew each haunt of bird an' fish,<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' how to find 'em at his wish;<br></span> +<span class="i0">While sometimes in his punt he'd sing<br></span> +<span class="i0">Until the reedy dykes'd ring,<br></span> +<span class="i0">But now's the end of everything:<br></span> +<span class="i4">The waters roam no more.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When, on a stormy winter's night<br></span> +<span class="i0">There stirs a noise, or sudden light,<br></span> +<span class="i0">I lay an' pant, to hear 'em shout<br></span> +<span class="i0">In panic 'coz the water's out;<br></span> +<span class="i0">For long I look, an' anxious strain;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Alas! my hope is allers vain,<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' sad I go to sleep again:<br></span> +<span class="i4">The waters roam no more.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No more the waters roam the land,<br></span> +<span class="i0">But hid away on every hand<br></span> +<span class="i0">Are led in channels to the sea,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Instead of flowin' fancy free,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Instead of roarin' fierce an' wild<br></span> +<span class="i0">The same as when I wor a child,<br></span> +<span class="i0">They creep imprisoned an' defiled:<br></span> +<span class="i4">The waters roam no more.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[26]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Oh_Fools" id="Oh_Fools"></a>Oh Fools</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh Fools! who plough, with hunger faint;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Who reap the harvest, lacking grain;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Oh Sheep! who offer no complaint;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Oh Worms! who dare not turn again.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The farmer leads the best of lives,<br></span> +<span class="i0">His food pours in: abundant feast;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Full fed upon your sweat he thrives;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And you—and you—are but a beast!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Each day you tend the growing corn,<br></span> +<span class="i0">'The ox shall not be muzzled'—True!<br></span> +<span class="i0">All animals must have their turn;<br></span> +<span class="i0">But less than any beast are you!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The horse is stabled, dry and warm,<br></span> +<span class="i0">His food is measured, manger-full;<br></span> +<span class="i0">The sheep is valued on the farm,<br></span> +<span class="i0">A price is found for meat and wool.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You—you are but a working man!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Your wages run from day to day,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Your wife and brood live as they can;<br></span> +<span class="i0">They count for no return of pay.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[27]</span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Old age creeps o'er your wrinkled face,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Your shoulders droop toward the soil;<br></span> +<span class="i0">When, faltering, you leave the race,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The workhouse well repays your toil.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh piteous soul! with none to care,<br></span> +<span class="i0">At length they recognize your worth;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And England yields, herself, your share:<br></span> +<span class="i0">A pauper grave in Mother Earth.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[28]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Elfin_Dancer" id="Elfin_Dancer"></a>Elfin Dancer</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Beneath unfathomable seas,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Deeper than dreams,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Sounder than sleep,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond the magic of the trees<br></span> +<span class="i0">Where never light nor gladness gleams,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Where neither life nor love can glow;<br></span> +<span class="i0">There, you lie low:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Frozen, encased in crystal shape,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Enwrapped, enmeshed by claws that gape;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And not until you start from sleep<br></span> +<span class="i0">May you be drawn from cavern deep,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And never till the earth has quaked<br></span> +<span class="i0">Can you from fairy trance be waked.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You dance!<br></span> +<span class="i0">You dance on tiptoe!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Up from the grave of withered fears,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The earth wind, rushing in your ears,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Spirit of joy and youth, most fair,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Crowned by your wonder-loosened hair;<br></span> +<span class="i0">You dance!<br></span> +<span class="i0">You dance on tiptoe!<br></span> +<span class="i0">The grass just bending at your feet,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The earth untouched, as fairy-fleet<br></span> +<span class="i0">Onward you go,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Upward you flow,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Up through the leaves, a spiral flame,<br></span> +<span class="i0">A tongue of fire, with arrow-aim,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Whose mystic essence inter-blending<br></span> +<span class="i0">Flows in a torrent never ending;<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[29]</span><span class="i0">Through that strange tree whose blossoms pale<br></span> +<span class="i0">Wreathe, lily-like, a bridal veil!<br></span> +<span class="i0">(Mysterious tree, whose knotted base<br></span> +<span class="i0">Scarce bears the ardour of your chase!)<br></span> +<span class="i0">Emerging thence by rapture swayed<br></span> +<span class="i0">You rise from leafy ambuscade<br></span> +<span class="i0">Poised in the ether, to and fro,<br></span> +<span class="i0">One moment, hesitating—so—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Flashing from elfin eyes one glance<br></span> +<span class="i0">Still on tiptoe<br></span> +<span class="i0">You dance!<br></span> +<span class="i0">You dance!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh! earth-born spirit!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Swift wonder child of flame;<br></span> +<span class="i0">The essence of your being,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Dull human eyes, unseeing,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Can never hope to tame;<br></span> +<span class="i0">You may be worshipped from afar!<br></span> +<span class="i0">By faith, by hope, we see the star<br></span> +<span class="i0">From whence, you came:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Fleet as the wind amongst the hills<br></span> +<span class="i0">Your spirit listeth as it wills;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Oh Pagan huntress, chaste and wild,<br></span> +<span class="i0">You dwell amongst us, undefiled!<br></span> +<span class="i0">But if we falter at your door<br></span> +<span class="i0">At one false step your shrine, before<br></span> +<span class="i0">One discord note, one word awry<br></span> +<span class="i0">You vanish straight from human eye:<br></span> +<span class="i0">The earth unfolds herself to seize,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Your laughter echoes in the trees;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And you are known no more.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[30]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="A_G_Webster" id="A_G_Webster"></a>A. G. Webster</h2> + +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">(<i>Painter</i>, <i>Rebel</i>, <i>and Lover of Music</i>)</span><br> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Like old Sebastian Bach, who went alone,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Working, unnoticed, with a single aim,<br></span> +<span class="i0">He lived and moved amongst you all unknown;<br></span> +<span class="i0">You gave him neither honour nor civic fame;<br></span> +<span class="i0">No Freedom of your city crowned his head;<br></span> +<span class="i0">No recognition of his genius came:<br></span> +<span class="i0">But—-<br></span> +<span class="i0">Citizens of Lincoln—-<br></span> +<span class="i0">I tell you that your greatest citizen is dead!<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[31]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Oh_to_be_Home" id="Oh_to_be_Home"></a>Oh, to be Home</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh! to be home, now that the Autumn's coming,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Where the clover's nodding and the bees are humming,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Where the sun is scorching over fields of hay,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And the country's ready for the harvest day;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Where the bullocks stand knee-deep in meadows, browsing,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or underneath the shady trees are drowsing,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Where the corn is turning colour, fit to reap,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And in the sun, the horses lie asleep.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh! to be home, now that the harvest's ready,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Now the hay is gathered and the weather's steady,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Now the reaper-sails across the fields are flying,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And the barley—white as driven snow—is dying;<br></span> +<span class="i0">When overhead, the harvest moon rides full,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And daybreak brings a touch of frosty wool;<br></span> +<span class="i0">While stackyards clear, are ready for their turn,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And farmers smile across the level Hurn.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh! to be home, now that the winter's nigh,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And swifts by millions, flit about the sky,<br></span> +<span class="i0">When thatchers all get busy with their pegs,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And horses, out at grass, can stretch their legs;<br></span> +<span class="i0">When inns at night, are full of tired men,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Who've had a bumping harvest in the Fen;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Tis then, tis then, none but a fool would roam;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Tis then, tis then, I wish I were at home.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[32]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Give_Soldiers_a_Vote" id="Give_Soldiers_a_Vote"></a>Give Soldiers a Vote?</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Give soldiers a vote?<br></span> +<span class="i0">Don't talk so blame silly!<br></span> +<span class="i0">They've gone to the War<br></span> +<span class="i0">To beat Kyzer Billy;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And till that be done<br></span> +<span class="i0">There's plenty of fun.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The war may be pressing<br></span> +<span class="i0">But—Politics first!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Let's keep up the Game,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Though the Heavens should burst;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Then we're sure of our pay,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Till the very Last Day.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Great Scott! Don't you see<br></span> +<span class="i0">How we stand on the brink?<br></span> +<span class="i0">Give soldiers a vote?<br></span> +<span class="i0">They would say what they think;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And from power and pay<br></span> +<span class="i0">We should rapidly sink.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So don't talk about it,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Don't mention it now;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Let the men go to war<br></span> +<span class="i0">And the women to plough;<br></span> +<span class="i0">We Statesmen will govern....<br></span> +<span class="i0">The Lord, He knows how!<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[33]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Alone" id="Alone"></a>Alone</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How now my heart! At this most fell cross-road<br></span> +<span class="i0">The night far darker than a pit surrounds,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And only by the lightning's fitful stroke<br></span> +<span class="i0">Can'st see the perils that beset thy course;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Too clear they loom on searing eyeballs flashed;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Certain thy fate whatever twist or turn;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Deep tolls a bell beneath the tempest's roar,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And soon thy long-drawn struggle will be done.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thou art too steeped in artifice, old heart!<br></span> +<span class="i0">So cunning that thou hardly art discerned:<br></span> +<span class="i0">In caverns never touched by light of day<br></span> +<span class="i0">Thou stirrest unbeknown;<br></span> +<span class="i0">At first as lusty<br></span> +<span class="i0">As any pliant sapling in the spring,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Soon as the lonely bull's dark hide<br></span> +<span class="i0">Art hard and bitter; weathered by the storms;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Cross-grained, bewildered, thy courage slowly failing;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Thou standest here: forlorn, dismayed, alone.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thy years have passed away in that Great Search,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The quest that bruises hearts on hardest stone;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Seeking a refuge from dread loneliness,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Some haven where the soul is not bereaved;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Too often—my heart—hast thou been sorely bruised;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And now at last the truth confronts thy gaze,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Declared by flash against the pitiless night:<br></span> +<span class="i0">'The soul must die as it hath lived—alone.'<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[34]</span><span class="i0">Alone! The shuddering echo dies away;<br></span> +<span class="i0">No subterfuge, no shelter is there ever,<br></span> +<span class="i0">There is no anodyne for weary hearts;<br></span> +<span class="i0">For him who stands alone at this cross-road<br></span> +<span class="i0">The only hope is death.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From nothingness to nothingness thou passest!<br></span> +<span class="i0">As thou wert born—<br></span> +<span class="i0">As thou hast lived, so shalt thou die!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Death is the only refuge: at his visage<br></span> +<span class="i0">All other spectres flee. Remorse that teareth<br></span> +<span class="i0">Like the undying worm, and Failure,<br></span> +<span class="i0">That sheeted gibberer, his brother,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Who like two hounds have haunted thy abode,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Must vanish at his touch:<br></span> +<span class="i0">And soon, thy journey done, thy trouble over,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Wrapped in the mantle of forgetfulness<br></span> +<span class="i0">Thou shalt sleep well.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[35]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Flesh_of_our_Flesh" id="Flesh_of_our_Flesh"></a>Flesh of our Flesh</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There is but one irrevocable bond,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Heart of my heart! None other counteth here,<br></span> +<span class="i0">All claims beside must fail, however fond,<br></span> +<span class="i0">But this is surety never to be broken<br></span> +<span class="i0">By us Beloved! the eternal token<br></span> +<span class="i0">Of love made manifest beyond our fear:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Of sweetest deepest draught the living bowl!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Although remorse should tear our hearts in twain,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The world, to part us, rageth now in vain<br></span> +<span class="i0">And life new-born through life doth bind us ever:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Strange incarnation! out of each made whole!<br></span> +<span class="i0">No prayer avails, no penances can sever:<br></span> +<span class="i0">The Holy Ghost—the Spirit—releaseth never<br></span> +<span class="i0">When flesh and blood and spirit beget a soul.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[36]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="This_Town_is_Hell" id="This_Town_is_Hell"></a>This Town is Hell</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This town is Hell, and all the people in it<br></span> +<span class="i0">Are devils, roasting for their sins like cinders;<br></span> +<span class="i0">They've train and tram instead of lark and linnet,<br></span> +<span class="i0">For sun are lamps, for sky are only windows,<br></span> +<span class="i0">They have no air to breathe, no room to rove,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And crowd so closely that you cannot move;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Robbing each other whilst nobody hinders:<br></span> +<span class="i0">In towns, there is no Providence above.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If Providence there is above this city,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The fog and smoke must cover it from pity,<br></span> +<span class="i0">For folk are crazed, and run instead of walking,<br></span> +<span class="i0">To catch—they know not what—all nonsense talking.<br></span> +<span class="i0">Old farm! Old farm! I wish I hadn't left you!<br></span> +<span class="i0">And if my time came back, I wouldn't part:<br></span> +<span class="i0">You gave me pleasant thoughts to dwell upon,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And peaceful days and quietness of heart.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[37]</span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For here, no happiness can come at all,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The nights are cursed by idle folk at play;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Here is no sleepy smell of new mown hay,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or soothing noise of cattle in their stall;<br></span> +<span class="i0">No scent of may in bloom, or beans in flower,<br></span> +<span class="i0">No drowsy sound of bees among the clover;<br></span> +<span class="i0">But only hooters, droning every hour;<br></span> +<span class="i0">With smoke and dirt and misery all over.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sometimes, when dazed by this un-human place<br></span> +<span class="i0">I have remembered me the days so dear,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And seen again the horses out at plough,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Their shoulders pressing forward in the gear:<br></span> +<span class="i0">The smell, the sound, come back with strange surprise,<br></span> +<span class="i0">To think that I am down Long Martin Fen;<br></span> +<span class="i0">It brings the tears into my aching eyes,<br></span> +<span class="i0">To dream that I am farming once again.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[38]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Timberland_Bells" id="Timberland_Bells"></a>Timberland Bells</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I used to hear them faintly<br></span> +<span class="i0">Those evening bells for prayer,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Across the fields of Tilney,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond the sunset's glare.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I heard them in my childhood,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Those bells of Timberland,<br></span> +<span class="i0">When I was always happy,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Holding my father's hand.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Enchanted in the distance,<br></span> +<span class="i0">They rode upon the air,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Seeming to float from Heaven;<br></span> +<span class="i0">I knew not how nor where.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All through life's dusty pathway,<br></span> +<span class="i0">I heard those bells ring out,<br></span> +<span class="i0">A chiming in the distance,<br></span> +<span class="i0">That sung, my path about.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My father—how I miss him—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Lies in the churchyard there,<br></span> +<span class="i0">He takes my hand no longer<br></span> +<span class="i0">He knows not how I fare.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But I would give up everything<br></span> +<span class="i0">To hold again his hand,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And hear across the meadows<br></span> +<span class="i0">The bells of Timberland.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[39]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Dame_Peach" id="Dame_Peach"></a>'Dame Peach'</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Old Dame Peach stuck like a leech to any good bargin what fell in her reach,<br></span> +<span class="i0">She never let slip what come in her grip: however they turned she was ready for each;<br></span> +<span class="i0">She'd strip herself bare or sell you her hair, or put up a price for her best china ware,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Her very own bed in which she was wed would be yours in a second, if only you dare;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Of childer she'd lots and would lend you their cots, and although you'd have backed her to lose in a race,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Yet at business she shone when the others wor done; and nobody ever could stand in her place.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Among all the men she took care of her-sen and was never alarmed at the roughest of tricks,<br></span> +<span class="i0">She'd sit in a bar suppin' ale from a jar, till a bargain was driven, her profit to fix.<br></span> +<span class="i0">Folk knew her all round and none ever was found but at one time or other had met her somehow,<br></span> +<span class="i0">A good stand-up fight it was all her delight: she would get up at midnight to sell you a cow;<br></span> +<span class="i0">She bested the men what came out of the Fen, and the folk from the Wold they found theirsens sold,<br></span> +<span class="i0">While them from the Heath they was allers beneath; for however they tried they was out in the cold.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[40]</span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The top of the tree was our Mrs. P. at swapping a horse or a cargo of tea,<br></span> +<span class="i0">She'd purchase old wicks or a truckload of bricks or a house full of furniture, just for a spree,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Though she's mounted on high somewhere up in the sky, wherever she is there is business ahead,<br></span> +<span class="i0">But I wish she was back when we'd have a real crack on the friends that are gone and the days that are fled;<br></span> +<span class="i0">When her shop was a store and a thousand things more; with her busy in-gathering all she could reach:<br></span> +<span class="i0">A jewel, a treasure, a caution, a pleasure: Oh! sadly we miss her, our Old Mrs. Peach.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[41]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Friends" id="Friends"></a>Friends</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Years ago,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Simply ages;<br></span> +<span class="i0">I don't know<br></span> +<span class="i0">How the deuce they go:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Like turning pages!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We're still friends at any rate;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Nothing can invalidate<br></span> +<span class="i0">The fun we had,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Good or bad,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Always together,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Not caring whether<br></span> +<span class="i0">Earthquake or thunder,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Over or under;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Joy in each heart;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Singing like thrushes<br></span> +<span class="i0">Young in bushes:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Now—we're apart.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I've never been so happy since then:<br></span> +<span class="i0">They talk of the love of women and men,<br></span> +<span class="i0">It's not half so true as that of friends;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Not passionate, not selfish,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Never ends ...<br></span> +<span class="i0">Not our fault to be forced away,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Destiny came:<br></span> +<span class="i0">A wedge:<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[42]</span><span class="i0">We could not turn its edge;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And so it fell upon that bitter day.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We might have had such times!<br></span> +<span class="i0">But—No! No!<br></span> +<span class="i0">It wouldn't go;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And after that 'twas never the same;<br></span> +<span class="i0">I can't encompass it by rhymes,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Halting and tame;<br></span> +<span class="i0">There it lies—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Not to be altered by tears or sighs:<br></span> +<span class="i0">We meet, stealing;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Eyes on the door;<br></span> +<span class="i0">With banished feeling—<br></span> +<span class="i0">But—No more!<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[43]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Charing_Cross_1916" id="Charing_Cross_1916"></a>Charing Cross—1916</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Round Charing Cross in carrion row<br></span> +<span class="i0">The crowd press in; a sight to see;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Their mouths agape, their eyes aglow,<br></span> +<span class="i0">With morbid curiosity.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Those twisted limbs, those bandaged faces!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Humanity all broken down!<br></span> +<span class="i0">The ghostly grim procession races:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Hell's handicraft in London Town.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The bestial throng with pampered eyes—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Faces of goat or sheep or bull—<br></span> +<span class="i0">All greedy with a glad surprise<br></span> +<span class="i0">Of ghoulish horror drinking full.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Heroic citizens, well nourished,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Who feast your eyes:—What sight to see?<br></span> +<span class="i0">By you the Coliseum flourished;<br></span> +<span class="i0">You thronged, as now, round Calvary.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[44]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Love_not_too_much" id="Love_not_too_much"></a>Love not too much</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Have you too greatly loved?<br></span> +<span class="i0">Sister take warning!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Once let your soul be moved,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Sable your mourning;<br></span> +<span class="i0">If he be satiate,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Then an ingratiate,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Waiteth the dawning.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Shew not the passion<br></span> +<span class="i0">That stirs in your veins,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Far more alluring<br></span> +<span class="i0">To handle the reins,<br></span> +<span class="i0">His love ensuring....<br></span> +<span class="i0">In masculine fashion<br></span> +<span class="i0">If certain—he wanes.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He the pursuer<br></span> +<span class="i0">Must ever press on,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Passionate wooer<br></span> +<span class="i0">Whilst you are a stone;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Shew but a touch,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Yet never too much<br></span> +<span class="i0">And the battle is won.<span class="pagenum">[45]</span><br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Man is a monster<br></span> +<span class="i0">Made to be stroked,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Close then your arms<br></span> +<span class="i0">Cover your charms;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Great the enticement<br></span> +<span class="i0">Of beauties when hidden,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Of passion well cloaked.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Crazed, he shall plead,<br></span> +<span class="i0">For what you yield gladly,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Fiercer his greed,<br></span> +<span class="i0">For what you give madly;<br></span> +<span class="i0">You may have measure<br></span> +<span class="i0">Of love's burning pleasure<br></span> +<span class="i0">And still hold your treasure....<br></span> +<span class="i0">Sister take heed!<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[46]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Niccolo_Machiavelli" id="Niccolo_Machiavelli"></a>Niccolo Machiavelli</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From thy serene abode thou lookest down<br></span> +<span class="i0">With pitying eye upon a rabble rout<br></span> +<span class="i0">Who strive and plot and fight and turn about,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Endeavouring to seize some phantom crown,—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Whether of kingdom or of some small town,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or village—or one single home—their own:<br></span> +<span class="i0">They stumble, and with hurried steps awry<br></span> +<span class="i0">Blindly they miss their opportunity;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Whilst, all the time, thy Golden Book is there,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Ripe with earth's wisdom; but they only stare<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or pass along with stupid scoff and curse,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Using thy name for 'scoundrelly' or worse.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Of all those who have striven to endow<br></span> +<span class="i0">The world with garnered knowledge, only thou<br></span> +<span class="i0">Hast for so long endured of thorns the crown;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Beneath the feet of swine thy name is thrown;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And in the streets thy priceless wit doth lie;<br></span> +<span class="i0">So that, alone, the stooping passer-by<br></span> +<span class="i0">Undaunted by an epithet, may find;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And treasuring like gold seven times refined,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Open the casket with exultant air<br></span> +<span class="i0">To see the Pearl of Wisdom lying there.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[47]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Remorse" id="Remorse"></a>Remorse</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Pierce you another, pleasure bent,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or wound the helpless innocent;<br></span> +<span class="i0">The Holy Ghost shall not relent.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Beyond the tortured body's cry<br></span> +<span class="i0">Dread is the mind's dull misery;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Remorse, the worm, can never die.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Oh to repay it,' Judas saith:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Who robs the innocent of breath,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Certain shall live to welcome death.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[48]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="The_Mandrakes_Horrid_Scream" id="The_Mandrakes_Horrid_Scream"></a>The Mandrake's Horrid Scream</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Why ain't the Mester back?<br></span> +<span class="i0">Down these owd Fens there ain't noa neighbours,<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' when he's finished wi' his labours,<br></span> +<span class="i0">He gallops off full crack!<br></span> +<span class="i0">I sits aloan an' shaakes wi' fear<br></span> +<span class="i0">While he be rousin' at the 'Deer.'<br></span> +<span class="i0">Them what's in towns has niver tried<br></span> +<span class="i0">To live aloan, all terrified;<br></span> +<span class="i0">They talk about churchyards at night,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or things wi' chains dressed up in white:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Why! Bless my soul! I'd gladly sleep<br></span> +<span class="i0">In any place what made them creep!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Coz allers they've a friend about<br></span> +<span class="i0">To hear if they should give a shout!<br></span> +<span class="i0">They dunno what it is to fear<br></span> +<span class="i0">But—here—<br></span> +<span class="i0"><i>What's that?</i><br></span> +<span class="i0">Only the cat!<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' she's as black as Death's own self,<br></span> +<span class="i0">She squats all loathly on yon shelf,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Wi' one unwinkin' eye on me<br></span> +<span class="i0">I wish the Devil—<br></span> +<span class="i0">No!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Not <i>He</i>!<br></span> +<span class="i0">I didn't mean to mention names,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Nor interfere wi' others gaames:<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[49]</span><span class="i0">They saay as cats is really witches,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Like Betty Williamson, now dead,<br></span> +<span class="i0">What uster wear her husband's breeches<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' ate the queerest food, foak said;<br></span> +<span class="i0">She set beside her open door<br></span> +<span class="i0">Wi' one foot allers off the floor,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Quietly knitting; one eye cast<br></span> +<span class="i0">To overlook you as you passed;<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' just the same, yon nasty critter<br></span> +<span class="i0">Stares at me now that soft an' bitter!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Oh Dear! I wish my man would came!<br></span> +<span class="i0">May ague twist, an' strike him dumb!<br></span> +<span class="i0">May fairies nip his liver out<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' leave him nare a tongue to shout.<br></span> +<span class="i0">Forsaking me, all loansome here<br></span> +<span class="i0">With iverything what's wrong and queer.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From out my winder, where I sit<br></span> +<span class="i0">I see the willows round yon pit:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Dark Pit where Moller Holmes was found<br></span> +<span class="i0">As some said,—accidental drowned!—<br></span> +<span class="i0">But I heard screechin', terrified,<br></span> +<span class="i0">About the time he must a died!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Having noa bottom, soa they say;<br></span> +<span class="i0">It's dreadful secrets there must stay<br></span> +<span class="i0">Until the Resurrection Day!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Oh where the Devil is that Tom?<br></span> +<span class="i0">I'll give him 'pub' when he gits hoam:<br></span> +<span class="i0">The wind is moanin' round that Pit<br></span> +<span class="i0">As if somebody wished to flit:<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[50]</span><span class="i0">There's Things in there what stirs by night<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' if you see, yer hair turns white;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Around, they say, the Mandrake grows<br></span> +<span class="i0">What's pulled at dead of night by <i>those</i><br></span> +<span class="i0">Who little care although it screams<br></span> +<span class="i0">To wake poor mortals from their dreams.<br></span> +<span class="i0">Our parson tells of Powers Evil:<br></span> +<span class="i0">(An' Providence can't beat the Devil)<br></span> +<span class="i0">Where should they laay, but in yon Pit?<br></span> +<span class="i0">What makes me squirl to think on it:<br></span> +<span class="i0">All gashly arms a-reachin' out<br></span> +<span class="i0">To clamber up yer water spout<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' reach you through—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Oh Lor!<br></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Who's that?</i><br></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis something comin'<br></span> +<span class="i0">I hear <i>it</i> hummin'....<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My dear good Tom! Thank God it's him!<br></span> +<span class="i0">I was afraid of something grim—<br></span> +<span class="i0">I've bin a-wantin' you soa long—<br></span> +<span class="i0">You lousy mawkin', stinkin' strong<br></span> +<span class="i0">Of beer an' bacca! Off to bed!<br></span> +<span class="i0">I'll larn yer, Thomas, who you've wed:<br></span> +<span class="i0">'Fore morn, you'll wish as you was dead.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[51]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="One_Day" id="One_Day"></a>One Day</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I read you poems all the day,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And all the night I dreamed of you,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Wild nightmares riding sweet sleep through,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Whilst all the time I longed to say<br></span> +<span class="i0">More tenderly, my roundelay,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And ardently with verse to woo.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I read you poems all the day;<br></span> +<span class="i0">You gave them up again to me,<br></span> +<span class="i0">For all the night I seemed to see<br></span> +<span class="i0">Your face a vision on my way,<br></span> +<span class="i0">As with the murmuring of streams<br></span> +<span class="i0">Your voice commingled in my dreams.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I read you poems all the day;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Ah! would that you could hear me now!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Accepting the unuttered vow<br></span> +<span class="i0">My spirit yearned but dare not say:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Yet still though you are far away<br></span> +<span class="i0">I read you poems all the day.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[52]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="No_Wife" id="No_Wife"></a>No Wife</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Tom! Tom! What yer think?<br></span> +<span class="i0">I've 'ed the Parson's wife<br></span> +<span class="i0">The first time in 'er life, acrost our door!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What for?<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What for? Why Tom, you'd niver niver guess!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Not if you lived as old as Grammer Bess<br></span> +<span class="i0">What's lately swore<br></span> +<span class="i0">She's a hunder an' four—<br></span> +<span class="i0"><i>She wants us two, to go off an' git spliced!</i><br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh Christ!<br></span> +<span class="i0">What's got 'er now:<br></span> +<span class="i0">The cow!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You well may swear;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Coz 'ow she dare—an' why—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Will make you swear agen, or laugh—surelie!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Just light yer pipe<br></span> +<span class="i0">Now you look comfortable—so<br></span> +<span class="i0">You're rough—old Tom—I know—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Black as a crow!<br></span> +<span class="i0">But I'm fond on yer lad<br></span> +<span class="i0">As any fool could see!<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' whether we're good or bad<br></span> +<span class="i0">You've bin maain good ter me.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But—blast 'er silly eyes!<br></span> +<span class="i0">What yer say to 'er, then?<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[53]</span><span class="i0">I said a lot!<br></span> +<span class="i0">I telled 'er what!<br></span> +<span class="i0">A-comin' ere wi' 'er fancy airs,<br></span> +<span class="i0">'Er what's never known no cares,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Lookin' that wise—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Just coz she catched a Parson!<br></span> +<span class="i0">[An' noa great shaakes ayther—<br></span> +<span class="i0">She'd nowt of a feyther<br></span> +<span class="i0">While 'er half-brother run away to sea<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' took to blue water<br></span> +<span class="i0">Wi' their ole cook's daughter]<br></span> +<span class="i0">'You talk of "sin" an' "shame,"' I sez, 'to me?<br></span> +<span class="i0">You talks just like a fool<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or a silly bairn at school<br></span> +<span class="i0">Coz nobody about could doubt,<br></span> +<span class="i0">But what we're happy together him an' me;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Just look,' I sez, 'at any in this street<br></span> +<span class="i0">What couple can you find about to beat<br></span> +<span class="i0">My Tom an' me what's bin together years,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Happy an' comfortable;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Never noa serious trouble—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Nuthin' I mean to set us by the ears—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Good reason why!'<br></span> +<span class="i0">I sez—sez I—<br></span> +<span class="i0">'Coz we're a free an' equal pair;<br></span> +<span class="i0">We got to treat each other fair<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or else we part.'<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Well said now Missus! That were smart!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'To part!' sez she, 'lookin' all down her noaz,<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[54]</span><span class="i0">'Ow could you leave your hoam wi' childer three?'<br></span> +<span class="i0">I sez—sez I—'that dudn't bother me<br></span> +<span class="i0">Coz I can earn enough for food an' cloaz.<br></span> +<span class="i0">I can maintain 'em by mysen,' sez I,<br></span> +<span class="i0">'An' would at any time o' day.<br></span> +<span class="i0">I'm not a slave—an' anyway<br></span> +<span class="i0">I'd manage if I 'ed to do,<br></span> +<span class="i0">I'm not a slave,' I sez, 'like you!'<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You didn't—Come!—<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I did—I did!<br></span> +<span class="i0">I meant it too.<br></span> +<span class="i0">'If your man turns up stunt,' sez I,<br></span> +<span class="i0">'You can't goa off, or let him fly;<br></span> +<span class="i0">You can't maintain yoursen—not you!—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Lettin' aloan the bairns, you 'aint!'<br></span> +<span class="i0">(That made her squirm all down her back!)<br></span> +<span class="i0">''Ow could you wok up on a stack?<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or yok a hoss or bake or wesh;<br></span> +<span class="i0">If your man drinks or starts to thresh<br></span> +<span class="i0">You couldn't leave him coz he holds yer:<br></span> +<span class="i0">You're tied by laws and friends what scolds yer;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Yer ain't like me, as free as air.<br></span> +<span class="i0">I'm not afraid whoever stare,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Nayther is Tom!<br></span> +<span class="i0">We minds oursens<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' thinks noa more of foaks than hens,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Coz if I doant behave mysen—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or him—<br></span> +<span class="i0">We parts!—<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[55]</span><span class="i0">Why doant we?<br></span> +<span class="i0">Why?<br></span> +<span class="i0">Becoz we're free an' happy here,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Becoz we treats each other fair!'<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You giv 'er the rough o' yer tongue, old gel,<br></span> +<span class="i0">But—what a sell!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Comin' 'ere to ride rough shod<br></span> +<span class="i0">Coz she's a 'wife.'<br></span> +<span class="i0">Why—bless my life<br></span> +<span class="i0">She doesn't know she's born;<br></span> +<span class="i0">She couldn't find her own corn!<br></span> +<span class="i0">I sent 'er off wi' a flea in 'er ear!<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' will again if she dost come near!<br></span> +<span class="i0">But she weant!<br></span> +<span class="i0">The white faced critter—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Wi' a noaz like a knife<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' a smile that bitter<br></span> +<span class="i0">As if she would kill.<br></span> +<span class="i0">A wife!<br></span> +<span class="i0">What does she know of life?—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Nowt!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Nor ever will!—<br></span> +<span class="i0">But tomorrer's Sunday<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' we'll go to Church!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What?<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yes! Just for once; an' sit together,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Like birds of a feather!<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[56]</span><span class="i0">We aint ashamed to show our faces<br></span> +<span class="i0">To them what thinks we be disgraces.<br></span> +<span class="i0">We'll goa together Tom—for sure<br></span> +<span class="i0">We'll goa this once an' then noa more—<br></span> +<span class="i0">If you be willin'?<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Aye lass—I'm willin'—<br></span> +<span class="i0">I'll back you up as I've allers done,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Agen Parson's wife or anyone.<br></span> +<span class="i0">Aye; agen all the country round,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Coz you're as good as could be found—<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' now—old gel—it's omost eight,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Come on—yer know we moant be late,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Off to the Ship for our glass of aale;<br></span> +<span class="i0">This yarn of yourn'll make a taale!<br></span> +<span class="i0">What's that—yer bunnet?<br></span> +<span class="i0">All rate ... be quick—<br></span> +<span class="i0">I'll wait for yer agen the gate.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[57]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="To_an_old_Friend" id="To_an_old_Friend"></a>To an old Friend</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A tongue of lambent living flame<br></span> +<span class="i0">Stirs lightly when I hear your name,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Your features delicate and rare,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Quiver with every thought you bear;<br></span> +<span class="i0">It ever was a strange delight<br></span> +<span class="i0">To see your charming face alight,<br></span> +<span class="i0">To sit with you awhile apart<br></span> +<span class="i0">And hear the beating of your heart,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or watch the message from your brain<br></span> +<span class="i0">Into your eyes then back again.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And still it is my fairest dream—<br></span> +<span class="i0">That delicate ethereal gleam,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The fire that played behind your face,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Lighting it with such fairy grace;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Such intuition sweet and wild;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Why should you always be a child?<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You cannot ever hope to grow<br></span> +<span class="i0">Into a woman; oh dear no!<br></span> +<span class="i0">The fairies never would allow<br></span> +<span class="i0">Such desecration; so that, now,<br></span> +<span class="i0">You must be reconciled to stay<br></span> +<span class="i0">For ever as you are to-day.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[58]</span><span class="i0">What an enchanting fate is this!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Eternally a child to be,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Laughing with that untroubled bliss<br></span> +<span class="i0">That only haunts the fancy free:<br></span> +<span class="i0">Yes, yours is happiness indeed;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Barefoot to roam the woodland vale,<br></span> +<span class="i0">All careless, though your feet should bleed<br></span> +<span class="i0">Because you hear the nightingale;<br></span> +<span class="i0">All heedless, though the thorns should tear,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And though the pain be fierce and wild,<br></span> +<span class="i0">For Nature gives to you her kiss;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And you will always be her child.<br></span> +</div></div> +<p><span class="pagenum">[59]</span></p> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Is_it_finished" id="Is_it_finished"></a>Is it Finished?</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Well—Is it finished,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Is the long day-dream done?<br></span> +<span class="i0">The battle lost, and won?<br></span> +<span class="i0">Has love at length diminished<br></span> +<span class="i0">And night begun?<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Do you pass to another?<br></span> +<span class="i0">Yet still I hold<br></span> +<span class="i0">Devotion all untold;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Although you mate a brother<br></span> +<span class="i0">And leave me cold.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My heart beats but for thee<br></span> +<span class="i0">And every thought is thine,<br></span> +<span class="i0">As flowers to the sun incline;<br></span> +<span class="i0">For once thou lovedst me<br></span> +<span class="i0">And all was mine.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Though destiny may banish,<br></span> +<span class="i0">My heart is still the same;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And thine is all my fame;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Although thy love may vanish,<br></span> +<span class="i0">True burns my flame.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And, thou mayst know<br></span> +<span class="i0">That shouldst thou call to me,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Where-ever I may be,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Like arrow from its bow<br></span> +<span class="i0">Straight I will fly to thee.<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[60]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Oh_Lincoln_City_of_my_dreams" id="Oh_Lincoln_City_of_my_dreams"></a>Oh, Lincoln, City of my dreams</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As far away as childhood seems<br></span> +<span class="i0">Thou standest on thy Roman hill,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And memory holds thee frozen, still,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Engraved on steel where moonlight streams.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For leagues along the landscape mild<br></span> +<span class="i0">Thy towers twin the scene command,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Embattlements of fairyland;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Romance incarnate to a child.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Though other cities cast a spell,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Ever thou holdst my heart in chains;<br></span> +<span class="i0">And still I hear across the plains<br></span> +<span class="i0">At midnight's stroke that ancient bell<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Whose giant throbbing scarcely seems<br></span> +<span class="i0">A mortal sound at Heaven's gate:<br></span> +<span class="i0">It echoes round the exile's fate—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Oh Lincoln! City of my dreams!<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[61]</span></div></div> + +<hr class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="The_Fool" id="The_Fool"></a>The Fool</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What say?<br></span> +<span class="i0">Tharp?<br></span> +<span class="i0">Yis: Aaron Tharp lived theer!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Not quite sharp?<br></span> +<span class="i0">Not quite—I fear!<br></span> +<span class="i0">T'wer very sad!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Though theer wor summat—'tis hard to say—<br></span> +<span class="i0">But he come to his end and went away;<br></span> +<span class="i0">He'd a nice little place as his feyther made,<br></span> +<span class="i0">All gone to pot, I be much afraid.<br></span> +<span class="i0">Old Aaron built it in his day,<br></span> +<span class="i0">A worthy feller true an' sound,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Respected by the country round;<br></span> +<span class="i0">To think as his name should be forgotten!<br></span> +<span class="i0">If he'd known what a fool he had begotten!<br></span> +<span class="i0">He toiled an' moiled into his grave<br></span> +<span class="i0">To leave a lad what couldn't save!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Noa note of grace, noa sense of cash!<br></span> +<span class="i0">He lost his all be bein' rash!<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">An' for what!—<br></span> +<span class="i0">For what!—<br></span> +<span class="i0">To play the fiddle!<br></span> +<span class="i0">'Hey diddle diddle!'<br></span> +<span class="i0">To make up tunes in his empty head<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' ruin his eyes wi' the books he read!<br></span> +<span class="i0">He raumed an' babbled all day long<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[62]</span><span class="i0">About the way to sing a song!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Follered the lads at plough about<br></span> +<span class="i0">To hear 'em sing would make him shout!<br></span> +<span class="i0">He'd sit on the bar of the Ship at night:<br></span> +<span class="i0">To catch the tunes was his delight,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or to play the fiddle about the town:—<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' all the while his trade went down!<br></span> +<span class="i0">That trade what poor old Aaron tended<br></span> +<span class="i0">It's fell to nowt an' can't be mended<br></span> +<span class="i0">Coz businesses is all the same<br></span> +<span class="i0">You've simply got to play the game<br></span> +<span class="i0">With all your soul an' all your heart<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or else you'll soon be in the cart.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He was encouraged by our parson!<br></span> +<span class="i0">T'wer wrong of parson!<br></span> +<span class="i0">It's very well for them to talk<br></span> +<span class="i0">To sing an' play and idle, walk,<br></span> +<span class="i0">But aren't they paid for doin' that?<br></span> +<span class="i0">They mind their bread is buttered fat.<br></span> +<span class="i0">Parsons is sensible you see,<br></span> +<span class="i0">O'most as cute as lawyers be,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Not quite—a course coz noa one could—<br></span> +<span class="i0">But very nigh—just as they should.<br></span> +<span class="i0">Parsons is sound at heart, I say,<br></span> +<span class="i0">They never quarrels wi' their pay,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Soa it wor wrong of Parson theer,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Coz Aaron nobbut lacked a cheer.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He made his tunes, he played about<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[63]</span><span class="i0">An' none but Parson had a doubt<br></span> +<span class="i0">What he was bound for—poor young lad!<br></span> +<span class="i0">A course I'll own,—though he wor mad,—<br></span> +<span class="i0">Them tunes he played, them songs he sung,<br></span> +<span class="i0">They minded you of bein' young;<br></span> +<span class="i0">They took me back, a boy, agen<br></span> +<span class="i0">At work wi' Feyther down the Fen,<br></span> +<span class="i0">When all the birds they uster sing<br></span> +<span class="i0">At sunrise till the air would ring,<br></span> +<span class="i0">And sheep and cows would stir about<br></span> +<span class="i0">Wi' everything to make yer shout,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Yes it wor strange what he could do,<br></span> +<span class="i0">His fiddle seemed to mazzle you,<br></span> +<span class="i0">The labourers would catch a song—<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' they <i>was</i> catchy—all along;<br></span> +<span class="i0">They sing 'em yet; an' Georgy Bell<br></span> +<span class="i0">He plays 'em by the village well.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But all the while, trade didn't mend<br></span> +<span class="i0">Until at last ther' come the end.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They selled him up, lock stock an' stoan,<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' off he went away, aloan;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Because he sung but couldn't save.<br></span> +<span class="i0">I think his feyther in the grave<br></span> +<span class="i0">Must sure a-stirred, 'owever deep:<br></span> +<span class="i0">That smash would waken any sleep!<br></span> +<span class="i0">Young Aaron went—<br></span> +<span class="i0">I dunno where—<br></span> +<span class="i0">They say he's gone to Manchester,<br></span> +<span class="pagenum">[64]</span><span class="i0">An' there, mayhap, mid soot an' smoke,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Makes music for the city folk;<br></span> +<span class="i0">Plays on his fiddle, time, agen<br></span> +<span class="i0">Them tunes he larned down Martin Fen<br></span> +<span class="i0">From shepherds or from waggon-boys<br></span> +<span class="i0">Or men at plough,—or any noise:<br></span> +<span class="i0">He made his tunes out of the air,<br></span> +<span class="i0">From birds or beasts—he didn't care!<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' Parson, says he'll make a name<br></span> +<span class="i0">(Our Parson, what's the one to blame!)<br></span> +<span class="i0">As if he ever could agen<br></span> +<span class="i0">Find such a hoam as Martin Fen;<br></span> +<span class="i0">As if he could, by fiddle fad,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Get half the name his feyther had.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Lost in some smoky town he plays<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' thinks, I lay, on sunny days,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Of all the things what makes life dear<br></span> +<span class="i0">Like beans and bacon, cheese and beer;<br></span> +<span class="i0">A dreamy good-for-nothing lad,<br></span> +<span class="i0">Sure bound to lose all what he had.<br></span> +<span class="i0">He might a-riz, an' come to be<br></span> +<span class="i0">As high as <i>you</i>, or even <i>me</i>!<br></span> +<span class="i0">An' bin well known the country round<br></span> +<span class="i0">As comfortable, warm, an' sound.<br></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">His name <i>is</i> known for many a mile,<br></span> +<span class="i0">It raises far-an'-wide, a smile:<br></span> +<span class="i0">While folk they whisper 'Not right sharp'!<br></span> +<span class="i0">A fool! a fool! wor Aaron Tharp.<br></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="spacer"> </p> + +<p class="h4">PRINTED AT<br> +THE HOLYWELL PRESS<br> +OXFORD</p> + +</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Rebel Verses, by Bernard Gilbert + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REBEL VERSES *** + +***** This file should be named 36803-h.htm or 36803-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/8/0/36803/ + +Produced by David E. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Rebel Verses + +Author: Bernard Gilbert + +Release Date: July 20, 2011 [EBook #36803] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REBEL VERSES *** + + + + +Produced by David E. Brown, Bryan Ness, Matthew Wheaton +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images +generously made available by The Internet Archive/American +Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + + REBEL VERSES + + + NEW YORK AGENTS + LONGMANS, GREEN & CO. + FOURTH AVENUE AND 30TH STREET + + + REBEL VERSES + BY + BERNARD GILBERT + + + OXFORD + B. H. BLACKWELL, BROAD STREET + MCMXVIII + + +BY THE SAME AUTHOR + + + VERSE: LINCOLNSHIRE LAYS; + FARMING LAYS; + GONE TO THE WAR; + WAR WORKERS. + + DRAMA: ELDORADO; + THEIR FATHER'S WILL; + THE RUSKINGTON POACHER. + + FICTION: WHAT SHALL IT PROFIT? + TATTERSHALL CASTLE; + THE YELLOW FLAG. + + POLITICAL: FARMERS AND TARIFF REFORM: WHAT EVERY FARMER + WANTS: THE FARM LABOURER'S FIX. + + MISCELLANEOUS: LIVING LINCOLN; FORTUNES FOR FARMERS. + + +FROM _The New Witness_ + + MR. BERNARD GILBERT is one of the discoveries of the War. For + years, it seems, he has been writing poetry, but it is only + recently that an inapprehensive country has awakened to the + fact. Now he is taking his rightful place among our foremost + singers. What William Barnes was to Dorset, what T. E. Brown was + to the Manx people--this is Mr. Gilbert to the folk of his + native county of Lincoln. He has interpreted their lives, their + sorrows, their aspirations, with a surprising fidelity. Mr. + Gilbert never loses his grip upon realities. One feels that he + knows the men of whom he writes in their most intimate moods; + knows, too, their defects, which he does not shrink from + recording. There is little of the dreamy idealism of the South + in the peasant people of Lincolnshire. The outwardly respectable + chapel-goer who asks himself, in a moment of introspection + + But why not have a good time here? + Why should the Devil have all the beer? + + is true to type. But he has, too, his softer moods. Fidelity in + friendship, courage, resource and perseverance--these are + typical of the men of the Fens. + + TO + MORLEY ROBERTS + + + _Acknowledgments to the Editors of the:_ + _English Review_ + _New Age_ + _Colour_ + _Westminster Gazette_ + _New Witness_ + _To-Day_ + _Clarion_ + _Australian Triad_ + _Bystander_ + _Musical Student_ + _and Nash's Magazine_ + _in whose columns these verses have appeared during 1917._ + + + + +Contents + + + THE REBEL + SONG OF REVOLT + THERE AINT NO GOD + THE NIGHT IS DARK + RETURN + NIETZSCHE + SACRAMENT + FIGHTIN' TOMLINSON + THE LABOURER'S HYMN + OLIVER CROMWELL + ANYWHERE BUT HERE + A. G. WEBSTER + EAST WIND + PETER WRAY + OH FOOLS + ELFIN DANCER + OH TO BE HOME + GIVE SOLDIERS A VOTE + ALONE + FLESH OF OUR FLESH + THIS TOWN IS HELL + TIMBERLAND BELLS + DAME PEACH + FRIENDS + CHARING CROSS + LOVE NOT TOO MUCH + MACHIAVELLI + REMORSE + THE MANDRAKE'S HORRID SCREAM + ONE DAY + NO WIFE + TO AN OLD FRIEND + IS IT FINISHED + OH LINCOLN, CITY OF MY DREAMS + THE FOOL + + + + +The Rebel + + + I live in music, in poetry, and in the life reflective. + I seek intellectual boldness in man, I worship mental swiftness in + women. + I have no love for lawyers, priests, schoolmasters, or any dogmatic + men. + I am with poor against rich, labour against employer, women against + men; I fight beside all strikers, mutineers, and rebels. + I welcome foes; I desire criticism. + I loathe prejudice, either social or national; I repudiate all + claims. + I demand freedom of action and leisure for reflection. + Facing Death, I would say: 'I have tasted all, tried all, dared + all, suffered all, and I repent nothing.' + + + + +Song of Revolt + + + Crowns are ashake, + The princes and the Kings are bending low, + And, round the world, + Before the blast of Freedom, thrones are hurled: + The People are awake! + + Over the Ark of Tyranny + The red flag flaunts abroad for all to see! + Whilst to the roll of drums + Swelling triumphantly, the glad cry comes: + The People shall be free! + + In dungeons, men, long-bound for freedom's sake, + Forgotten of God, deep-frozen by despair, + Hear with surprise that clangorous fanfare: + The People are awake! + + Our fathers heard the call, + When Liberty from her bonds like the angry sea, + Pouring mightily forth, slew tyranny, + And singing the Marseillaise, bade crowns to fall, + That all men should be free! + + Men shall be slaves no more! + From sea to sea + That Word of hope unspeakable succour brings; + The day dawneth when there are no more Kings: + And the People, the People shall be free! + + + + +There Aint no God + + + There aint no God! + Coz if there were-- + My boy what's under foreign sod + Would be alive, and here: + Instead of which young William Porter + What never listed when he orter-- + Has his farm; + And braunges yonder safe away from harm. + + Poor lad!--he went-- + I can't forgit that night-- + While Porter laughed him outer sight; + Now--he is spent: + Porter's all right. + + What does he care? + He's thinking of another farm, + Instead of laying in some ditch + He's rich! + And folk'll gallop at his nod. + + I say it! + Dost hear me ... Thou? + There aint no God! + + + + +'The Night is Dark' + + + Safe-guarded dwellers in your sea-girt eyrie + How fares the fight? + Terror has crept beneath your ocean wall, + Horror is over-reaching, to appal; + Your sons are menaced by a furnace fiery: + What of the night? + + A hundred years have passed at ease + Since last you fought on bended knees; + And joints, unused, grow stiff and old, + And hearts unroused are faint and cold; + Whilst they who own but wealth, their creed, + Stand helpless in the hour of need. + + Oh peace-bound nation! + Lapped in rich sloth; untroubled generation! + Know you that races change? + Some dwindle slowly downward in decay, + Unconscious, till the dawning of the day: + At touch of fire we learn how they are faring; + Thrice welcome is the test to nations daring; + To some--how strange! + + Our ancient enemy--now brother-- + From one Napoleon to another + Has seen his country ebb and flow + And now he holds the sternest foe, + Learning the lesson of strenuous fight + To brace defensive armour tight: + But what of you--old Islanders + So roughly woke? + Has gilded sloth 'mid dreamless calm + Stifled your soul, close wrapped from harm, + In Neptune's cloak? + Or is it but an idle dress, + Thrown off at breath of fearful stress? + Or has it slowly strangled that old oak? + + None may foretell; + But this we know: + As fire testeth iron through and through, + So shall it be with you! + Not yet have you passed furnace-wise, + But soon, with newly opened eyes, + Upon your knees, + You shall discern Heaven's judgment on an age-long ease. + + Poets and prophets darkly sang; + Unheeded then the tocsin rang; + But now the sky is grey and dim, + Your enemy is stern and grim, + Your leaders slow; + And, though you realise it not ... + You may lie low: + For, though to fight one son is bold, + Another hides, amassing gold; + The strain falls not in equal measure: + Whilst some lie cold-- + Others distil their blood for treasure, + And that--Old England--if unchecked, + Shall see your ancient Empire wrecked. + + You battle not to vanquish a great nation, + Nor for safety, nor the sceptre of the seas, + Nor for the Empire of a world at ease, + Nor fame's fair scroll: + For your salvation, + You wrestle with Apollyon for your soul. + + And if you fail-- + Your epitaph: 'too late'-- + The Angel with the Pen shall grave your fate: + Your glorious history of no avail; + Whilst all the Earth shall know you were not great. + + Not arms, nor weapons forged, nor serried forces, + Nor stout Allies nor multiplied resources + The victory giveth; + Not ships afar, nor numbers gradual tale, + Nor all your might, oh Britain! shall avail: + Only the Spirit liveth! + Yet this our hope (a hope unsaid), + And still our faith (though faith be dead), + That, as of old, you may awake, + Cast off your senile mood, and shake + Irresolution to the wall; + Bid equal sacrifice from all; + That each surrender to the state + A measured offering to fate, + Till Unity of Will, controlled + Shines through the nation, manifold: + + Then should your Spirit conquer as before, + And Phoenix-like you should renew your youth and strength once more. + + + + +Return + + + From exile and disaster, + From banishment set free, + We shall return in sorrow, + Our homes once more to see. + + The storm will surely finish, + The day must dawn at last, + The floods at length diminish, + The bitterness be past. + + From Fatherland long-banished + (Oh, church in ruins low! + Oh, roofs and chimneys vanished!) + 'Tis to our homes we go! + + The land is torn asunder, + The orchard trees are bare; + A muttering of thunder + Still shakes the heavy air. + + Yet life goes on undaunted: + With aching hearts, and sore, + To raise our hearths and altars + We shall return once more. + + + + +Nietzsche + + + In the silence of the night-time + Startled, we can hear a murmur + As of someone tapping, tapping, + Tapping at the breasts of idols + With an auscultating hammer, + Sounding all their hollow vitals + As they helplessly endeavour + To evade with vain pretences + Or atone: + Yes, we hear the distant thunder + Of an earthquake that convulses; + Poor old Mother Earth is shaken, + Sorely tried and whirled asunder, + Shaken by a fierce invader; + Where grim and slow you creep below, + Digging, digging, digging deep, + Troglodyte, untiring miner + All alone! + As you climb upon the mountains, + Glaciers, icy precipices, + Toward the lonely lightning-blasted + Peak that towers above in silence, + Plunging into deep crevasses + Where the frozen water falls: + Monotone: + And at last we wake from nightmare-- + Wake, to find ourselves denuded + Naked, lonesome, 'mid our fellows + Lacking father, wife, or mother, + Lacking neighbour, child or brother: + All disown. + Still our eyes are fixed steadfastly + Where you soar above the heavens, + Spurning with your mighty pinions + Countless deities and angels, + Shattering our fondest visions + With your own: + Ever on your knees you creep, + Where the way is wild and steep. + Digging, digging, digging deep, + Whilst the priests and idols weep. + + + + +Sacrament + + + Beloved mine! we cannot falter now; + No threats avail, no claims affect this hour; + That kiss, far more than sacerdotal vow + Or golden circlet, making truly one + --More solemn than any oath-- + Hath passed our lips: + Whilst Love, the great compeller, the mighty power + In his bewildering hand, hath seized us both. + + No pardon comes for those who wrongly read + The books on stone engraved-- + Our Primal Laws-- + Or fail to satisfy the unchanging Cause; + Who reach this height, and fail, are dead indeed: + Their being void, their souls are cast without; + And from the Book their names are blotted out. + + There is no holding back, no base endeavour, + The cup of true communion is filled, + The sacrament prepared as we have willed; + Hand joined to hand in clasp that none can sever; + Our quittance sure, our resolution taken, + With vows fulfilled we face the world unshaken; + And each to each we pledge ourselves for ever. + + + + +Fightin' Tomlinson + + + I sit by the chimbley corner, + My blood is runnin' slow, + My hands is white as a printed paage, + Wot once wor red wi' the fighter's waage; + They're withered an' wrinkled now wi' old aage; + An' the fire's burnin' low. + + Once I could lether anyone + An' strike a knock-down blow: + My legs were limmack as a young bough, + They could race or dance or foller the plough; + But they're crookled and wemblin' all waays now, + An' the fire's burnin' low. + + I 'member me of owden daays: + At Metheringham Show: + I fought young Jolland for a scarf, + I nearly brok his back in half; + He galloped hooam to Blankney Barff + As hard as he could go. + + I fought an' danced an' carried on, + Razzlin 'igh an low; + I drank as long as I could see, + It made noa difference to me, + I wor a match for any three: + 'Tis sixty year ago. + + They called me 'Fightin' Tomlinson,' + (My name is Thomas Tow) + I wor the champion o' the sheer; + If any furriner come near, + I never shirked nor felt noa fear, + I allers 'ed a go. + + On ivery night o' Saturday, + Noa matter raain nor snow, + We gethered in the market plaaces, + An' stripped stark naked to our waas'es, + Gev' one another bloody faaces-- + A Sunday mornin' show! + + I fought at all the County Fairs, + From Partney down to Stow; + They called me nobbut a 'Billinghay Rough,' + I niver knawed when I'd 'ed enough, + For I wor made o' the proper stuff, + I'd like to 'ev you know. + + Aye--them wor roughish times--my word! + 'Tis sixty year ago; + Our heads wor hard, our hearts as well, + I wonder as we niver fell, + Into the burnin' pit of hell, + Wheer dreadful fires glow. + + I used to hit like this--but now + I cannot strike a blow: + My battle's nearly lost--or won, + My poor owd limbs is omost done, + The tears is droppin' one by one, + An' the fire's burnin' low. + + + + +The Labourers' Hymn + + + We have slaved for you long days and nights of bent and weary lives; + Giving the strength of our muscles, our sweat, and our sons and wives; + With less food than your horses, and homes less warm than your hives. + + We have ploughed and dug and sowed and reaped the seasons through and + through, + We have gathered in your grain and raised the 'Harvest Home' for you, + Who gave starvation pay to us and kept from us our due. + + We asked for land and freedom, the right to till our own; + To harvest and to garner for ourselves, what we had sown; + We sought the fruit of our labour; you granted us a stone. + + Who gave our lives to your children? Who pledged our souls to thine? + Who made you Lord and Master and placed us with the kine? + Who gave you leave to drink our sweat and mix our blood with wine? + + To save the land for your children, who denied their country's wage, + Our sons have left their homes to fight, to guard your heritage; + When they return--Ah! woe to you before their righteous rage. + + You held the land in sufferance to answer for your right, + To cherish those beneath you and lead them into fight; + You have refused all payment, and trampled in your might. + + Our sons shall trample you and yours in their bloody and righteous + rage, + Who hid at home in shelter whilst they paid for the land its wage: + They fought and died for the Land; and they shall enter their + heritage. + + + + +Oliver Cromwell + + + A group of men stood watching round the bed, + Gazing in sadness at the lion's head, + Ugly and massive, coarse, yet noble, too, + Transfigured by the power shining through, + The steadfast purpose, the unflinching will, + Decisive, swift to save alive, or kill, + As was required. Aye, and more was there; + The tenderness, the pity, all the care + Of one who watches o'er his fatherland, + And bears upon his countenance the brand + Of deep unutterable sorrow burned + Into his soul, whilst he, the lesson learned + That they who wield responsibility, + Alas, must always compromising be; + And to help on the cause they deem divine + Must waver from their ever rigid line. + The singleness of heart for which they pray, + Doth bow before expediency each day; + No longer fate allows the choice between + A good or evil course--with answer clean-- + But rather shews two evils to be done, + And they must boldly choose the lesser one. + + 'Tis this that makes him groan with agony, + The searching question 'Is it well with me?' + The question that at last must come to all + When at their end, they wonderingly recall + This point--or that one--'_Was I justified? + For there--I stepped out of my way for pride + And there--I stooped, perhaps, to save a friend, + Or--Pity swayed me over much to bend + From justice there. Yes, I have always sinned. + Weak! Weak!_' + Have pity on him now, + The valley of the shadow dews his brow! + + Then in a half delirium he saw + A vivid pageant passing through the door, + Of all the deeds that he had ever done, + Good or bad judgments, battles lost or won; + There, in procession wide, all who had died + Under his rule, either by civil law, + Or by the swifter penalty of war, + Passed mournfully, their faces ghastly pale, + Their gaping wounds accusingly did rail; + And last of all, stately, refined, and meek, + The 'Martyr King,' the obstinate and weak, + The strangest mixture England ever saw + Upon her throne (And yet, poor man, he wore + His crown with piteous regal dignity, + Whilst from his hands there slowly dripped the blood + Of countless thousands who in loyalty + Perished beneath his vacillating mood). + Then from those twitching lips there fell again + 'Have I done well?' The agonizing pain + Was clear to those around his bed, and one + Answered, astonished, with beseeching tone: + 'But surely, General, you have done well, + You over all of us have done most well.' + + But Cromwell with a twisted smile replied + 'No!'--as he fought for breath--'I--only--tried!' + Then closed his eyes, smiled quietly, and died. + + + + +Anywhere but Here + + + Anywhere but here, Ned, + Any bloomin hole, + Golly! if it aint like tearin + Body from yer soul! + War's a bloomin sight too wearin: + Home for William Towl! + + Once I uster think our village + Took the prize for dead, + Now I know it wor a Para- + -dise around me head; + Don't I wish as I could see it-- + Just a minute--Ned! + + Did I iver cuss my luck + Fer comin' fore the Bench; + Doin what I did fer poachin, + Arter this ole trench + Would be like a holiday + At seaside wi' a wench. + + This is Hell, boy, don't ferget it, + Hell wi'out the fun, + Let me see a plough agen + An you can ev my gun; + You'll hear me shout across the sea + When this damn war is done. + + + + +The East Wind + + + The Spring was mild, the air was warm, + All green the things upon the farm, + The corn put forth its tender sprout, + The daffodils came bursting out; + Above the hedge, in skimming flight, + The blackbird hardly touched the light, + Whilst in the meadows lush and green + The lambs and foals at play were seen; + When suddenly the wind turned round + And blew across from 'Deadman's Ground' + (Where Farmer Rogers caught his wife + And killed her with a carving knife) + The oldest labourers about, + Who read the weather inside out, + Say, when it comes from out that quarter, + You know it's nothing else but slaughter; + For when it blows from there by night + It fills the animals with fright, + And when it blows from there by day + It drives your happiness away; + It nips the fruit, it starves the corn, + And everything that's newly born; + It sweeps the land with icy breath, + And strikes all growing things with death. + The farmer feels his liver growl, + And soon his children start to howl, + Until they wonder why the weather + Can fill a man wi' crazy blether; + He kicks his dog, then rushes out + To sack his foreman with a shout, + Growls at his wife, and scolds his daughter + Because the ducks have left the water; + He sees the wrack upon the wing, + And feels his life a wasted thing. + The labourers, with wrinkled faces, + Are keeping in the shady places, + Afraid of wind and master, too, + And very careful what they do. + Down in the fields, with backs all hunched, + The horses and the cattle, bunched, + Stand by the hedge to miss the blast + That wails and whines and whistles past; + Their coats are ruffled wrong way round, + Because it blows off 'Deadman's Ground'; + Their tails are down, their eyes are dull, + And quiet is the angry bull. + But yet the sky is bright and blue + With everything of clearest hue, + The Wolds are close enough to feel: + Their trees and houses cut in steel: + The sun is tempting with a smile, + The wind is slaying with a knife, + (It aggravated Rogers' bile-- + He killed himself upon his wife) + It kills the young, it kills the old, + It fells the timid with the bold; + Swift as a flash, hard as a stone, + Sharp as a flint, dry as a bone, + It pierces you without a sound, + The blast that comes from 'Deadman's Ground': + For when the wind is in the East + It's neither fit for man nor beast. + + + + +Peter Wray + + + No more I hear the waters roar, + Roused at the comin' of the bore, + No more the river turns agen, + To sweep across the level fen; + No more the winds in fury ride + Along the marshes wild and wide + Afore the risin' of the tide: + The waters roam no more. + + No more I wade along the fen + For heron or for water hen, + Nor hug the bottom of my boat + As to the feeding ducks I'd float; + Nor ambushed laay wi' rovin' eye + To watch like specks agen the sky + The wild geese circlin' on high: + The waters roam no more. + + No more I creep, nor crouchin', run, + Nor trail my owd long-barrelled gun + Nor listen 'ow the water laps + About my sunken fishin' traps; + 'Tis eighty year sin, as a boy, + I first 'elped at the duck decoy, + An' now--I know but little joy: + The waters roam no more. + + My feyther knew the hidden ways, + Across the waste and marshy maze, + He knew each haunt of bird an' fish, + An' how to find 'em at his wish; + While sometimes in his punt he'd sing + Until the reedy dykes'd ring, + But now's the end of everything: + The waters roam no more. + + When, on a stormy winter's night + There stirs a noise, or sudden light, + I lay an' pant, to hear 'em shout + In panic 'coz the water's out; + For long I look, an' anxious strain; + Alas! my hope is allers vain, + An' sad I go to sleep again: + The waters roam no more. + + No more the waters roam the land, + But hid away on every hand + Are led in channels to the sea, + Instead of flowin' fancy free, + Instead of roarin' fierce an' wild + The same as when I wor a child, + They creep imprisoned an' defiled: + The waters roam no more. + + + + +Oh Fools + + + Oh Fools! who plough, with hunger faint; + Who reap the harvest, lacking grain; + Oh Sheep! who offer no complaint; + Oh Worms! who dare not turn again. + + The farmer leads the best of lives, + His food pours in: abundant feast; + Full fed upon your sweat he thrives; + And you--and you--are but a beast! + + Each day you tend the growing corn, + 'The ox shall not be muzzled'--True! + All animals must have their turn; + But less than any beast are you! + + The horse is stabled, dry and warm, + His food is measured, manger-full; + The sheep is valued on the farm, + A price is found for meat and wool. + + You--you are but a working man! + Your wages run from day to day, + Your wife and brood live as they can; + They count for no return of pay. + + Old age creeps o'er your wrinkled face, + Your shoulders droop toward the soil; + When, faltering, you leave the race, + The workhouse well repays your toil. + + Oh piteous soul! with none to care, + At length they recognize your worth; + And England yields, herself, your share: + A pauper grave in Mother Earth. + + + + +Elfin Dancer + + + Beneath unfathomable seas, + Deeper than dreams, + Sounder than sleep, + Beyond the magic of the trees + Where never light nor gladness gleams, + Where neither life nor love can glow; + There, you lie low: + Frozen, encased in crystal shape, + Enwrapped, enmeshed by claws that gape; + And not until you start from sleep + May you be drawn from cavern deep, + And never till the earth has quaked + Can you from fairy trance be waked. + + You dance! + You dance on tiptoe! + Up from the grave of withered fears, + The earth wind, rushing in your ears, + Spirit of joy and youth, most fair, + Crowned by your wonder-loosened hair; + You dance! + You dance on tiptoe! + The grass just bending at your feet, + The earth untouched, as fairy-fleet + Onward you go, + Upward you flow, + Up through the leaves, a spiral flame, + A tongue of fire, with arrow-aim, + Whose mystic essence inter-blending + Flows in a torrent never ending; + Through that strange tree whose blossoms pale + Wreathe, lily-like, a bridal veil! + (Mysterious tree, whose knotted base + Scarce bears the ardour of your chase!) + Emerging thence by rapture swayed + You rise from leafy ambuscade + Poised in the ether, to and fro, + One moment, hesitating--so-- + Flashing from elfin eyes one glance + Still on tiptoe + You dance! + You dance! + + Oh! earth-born spirit! + Swift wonder child of flame; + The essence of your being, + Dull human eyes, unseeing, + Can never hope to tame; + You may be worshipped from afar! + By faith, by hope, we see the star + From whence, you came: + Fleet as the wind amongst the hills + Your spirit listeth as it wills; + Oh Pagan huntress, chaste and wild, + You dwell amongst us, undefiled! + But if we falter at your door + At one false step your shrine, before + One discord note, one word awry + You vanish straight from human eye: + The earth unfolds herself to seize, + Your laughter echoes in the trees; + And you are known no more. + + + + +A. G. Webster + +(_Painter_, _Rebel_, _and Lover of Music_) + + + Like old Sebastian Bach, who went alone, + Working, unnoticed, with a single aim, + He lived and moved amongst you all unknown; + You gave him neither honour nor civic fame; + No Freedom of your city crowned his head; + No recognition of his genius came: + But--- + Citizens of Lincoln--- + I tell you that your greatest citizen is dead! + + + + +Oh, to be Home + + + Oh! to be home, now that the Autumn's coming, + Where the clover's nodding and the bees are humming, + Where the sun is scorching over fields of hay, + And the country's ready for the harvest day; + Where the bullocks stand knee-deep in meadows, browsing, + Or underneath the shady trees are drowsing, + Where the corn is turning colour, fit to reap, + And in the sun, the horses lie asleep. + + Oh! to be home, now that the harvest's ready, + Now the hay is gathered and the weather's steady, + Now the reaper-sails across the fields are flying, + And the barley--white as driven snow--is dying; + When overhead, the harvest moon rides full, + And daybreak brings a touch of frosty wool; + While stackyards clear, are ready for their turn, + And farmers smile across the level Hurn. + + Oh! to be home, now that the winter's nigh, + And swifts by millions, flit about the sky, + When thatchers all get busy with their pegs, + And horses, out at grass, can stretch their legs; + When inns at night, are full of tired men, + Who've had a bumping harvest in the Fen; + Tis then, tis then, none but a fool would roam; + Tis then, tis then, I wish I were at home. + + + + +Give Soldiers a Vote? + + + Give soldiers a vote? + Don't talk so blame silly! + They've gone to the War + To beat Kyzer Billy; + And till that be done + There's plenty of fun. + + The war may be pressing + But--Politics first! + Let's keep up the Game, + Though the Heavens should burst; + Then we're sure of our pay, + Till the very Last Day. + + Great Scott! Don't you see + How we stand on the brink? + Give soldiers a vote? + They would say what they think; + And from power and pay + We should rapidly sink. + + So don't talk about it, + Don't mention it now; + Let the men go to war + And the women to plough; + We Statesmen will govern.... + The Lord, He knows how! + + + + +Alone + + + How now my heart! At this most fell cross-road + The night far darker than a pit surrounds, + And only by the lightning's fitful stroke + Can'st see the perils that beset thy course; + Too clear they loom on searing eyeballs flashed; + Certain thy fate whatever twist or turn; + Deep tolls a bell beneath the tempest's roar, + And soon thy long-drawn struggle will be done. + + Thou art too steeped in artifice, old heart! + So cunning that thou hardly art discerned: + In caverns never touched by light of day + Thou stirrest unbeknown; + At first as lusty + As any pliant sapling in the spring, + Soon as the lonely bull's dark hide + Art hard and bitter; weathered by the storms; + Cross-grained, bewildered, thy courage slowly failing; + Thou standest here: forlorn, dismayed, alone. + + Thy years have passed away in that Great Search, + The quest that bruises hearts on hardest stone; + Seeking a refuge from dread loneliness, + Some haven where the soul is not bereaved; + Too often--my heart--hast thou been sorely bruised; + And now at last the truth confronts thy gaze, + Declared by flash against the pitiless night: + 'The soul must die as it hath lived--alone.' + Alone! The shuddering echo dies away; + No subterfuge, no shelter is there ever, + There is no anodyne for weary hearts; + For him who stands alone at this cross-road + The only hope is death. + + From nothingness to nothingness thou passest! + As thou wert born-- + As thou hast lived, so shalt thou die! + Death is the only refuge: at his visage + All other spectres flee. Remorse that teareth + Like the undying worm, and Failure, + That sheeted gibberer, his brother, + Who like two hounds have haunted thy abode, + Must vanish at his touch: + And soon, thy journey done, thy trouble over, + Wrapped in the mantle of forgetfulness + Thou shalt sleep well. + + + + +Flesh of our Flesh + + + There is but one irrevocable bond, + Heart of my heart! None other counteth here, + All claims beside must fail, however fond, + But this is surety never to be broken + By us Beloved! the eternal token + Of love made manifest beyond our fear: + Of sweetest deepest draught the living bowl! + Although remorse should tear our hearts in twain, + The world, to part us, rageth now in vain + And life new-born through life doth bind us ever: + Strange incarnation! out of each made whole! + No prayer avails, no penances can sever: + The Holy Ghost--the Spirit--releaseth never + When flesh and blood and spirit beget a soul. + + + + +This Town is Hell + + + This town is Hell, and all the people in it + Are devils, roasting for their sins like cinders; + They've train and tram instead of lark and linnet, + For sun are lamps, for sky are only windows, + They have no air to breathe, no room to rove, + And crowd so closely that you cannot move; + Robbing each other whilst nobody hinders: + In towns, there is no Providence above. + + If Providence there is above this city, + The fog and smoke must cover it from pity, + For folk are crazed, and run instead of walking, + To catch--they know not what--all nonsense talking. + Old farm! Old farm! I wish I hadn't left you! + And if my time came back, I wouldn't part: + You gave me pleasant thoughts to dwell upon, + And peaceful days and quietness of heart. + + For here, no happiness can come at all, + The nights are cursed by idle folk at play; + Here is no sleepy smell of new mown hay, + Or soothing noise of cattle in their stall; + No scent of may in bloom, or beans in flower, + No drowsy sound of bees among the clover; + But only hooters, droning every hour; + With smoke and dirt and misery all over. + + Sometimes, when dazed by this un-human place + I have remembered me the days so dear, + And seen again the horses out at plough, + Their shoulders pressing forward in the gear: + The smell, the sound, come back with strange surprise, + To think that I am down Long Martin Fen; + It brings the tears into my aching eyes, + To dream that I am farming once again. + + + + +Timberland Bells + + + I used to hear them faintly + Those evening bells for prayer, + Across the fields of Tilney, + Beyond the sunset's glare. + + I heard them in my childhood, + Those bells of Timberland, + When I was always happy, + Holding my father's hand. + + Enchanted in the distance, + They rode upon the air, + Seeming to float from Heaven; + I knew not how nor where. + + All through life's dusty pathway, + I heard those bells ring out, + A chiming in the distance, + That sung, my path about. + + My father--how I miss him-- + Lies in the churchyard there, + He takes my hand no longer + He knows not how I fare. + + But I would give up everything + To hold again his hand, + And hear across the meadows + The bells of Timberland. + + + + +'Dame Peach' + + + Old Dame Peach stuck like a leech to any good bargin what fell in + her reach, + She never let slip what come in her grip: however they turned she + was ready for each; + She'd strip herself bare or sell you her hair, or put up a price + for her best china ware, + Her very own bed in which she was wed would be yours in a second, + if only you dare; + Of childer she'd lots and would lend you their cots, and although + you'd have backed her to lose in a race, + Yet at business she shone when the others wor done; and nobody ever + could stand in her place. + + Among all the men she took care of her-sen and was never alarmed at + the roughest of tricks, + She'd sit in a bar suppin' ale from a jar, till a bargain was + driven, her profit to fix. + Folk knew her all round and none ever was found but at one time or + other had met her somehow, + A good stand-up fight it was all her delight: she would get up at + midnight to sell you a cow; + She bested the men what came out of the Fen, and the folk from the + Wold they found theirsens sold, + While them from the Heath they was allers beneath; for however they + tried they was out in the cold. + + The top of the tree was our Mrs. P. at swapping a horse or a cargo + of tea, + She'd purchase old wicks or a truckload of bricks or a house full of + furniture, just for a spree, + Though she's mounted on high somewhere up in the sky, wherever she + is there is business ahead, + But I wish she was back when we'd have a real crack on the friends + that are gone and the days that are fled; + When her shop was a store and a thousand things more; with her busy + in-gathering all she could reach: + A jewel, a treasure, a caution, a pleasure: Oh! sadly we miss her, + our Old Mrs. Peach. + + + + +Friends + + + Years ago, + Simply ages; + I don't know + How the deuce they go: + Like turning pages! + + We're still friends at any rate; + Nothing can invalidate + The fun we had, + Good or bad, + Always together, + Not caring whether + Earthquake or thunder, + Over or under; + Joy in each heart; + Singing like thrushes + Young in bushes: + Now--we're apart. + + I've never been so happy since then: + They talk of the love of women and men, + It's not half so true as that of friends; + Not passionate, not selfish, + Never ends ... + Not our fault to be forced away, + Destiny came: + A wedge: + We could not turn its edge; + And so it fell upon that bitter day. + + We might have had such times! + But--No! No! + It wouldn't go; + And after that 'twas never the same; + I can't encompass it by rhymes, + Halting and tame; + There it lies-- + Not to be altered by tears or sighs: + We meet, stealing; + Eyes on the door; + With banished feeling-- + But--No more! + + + + +Charing Cross--1916 + + + Round Charing Cross in carrion row + The crowd press in; a sight to see; + Their mouths agape, their eyes aglow, + With morbid curiosity. + + Those twisted limbs, those bandaged faces! + Humanity all broken down! + The ghostly grim procession races: + Hell's handicraft in London Town. + + The bestial throng with pampered eyes-- + Faces of goat or sheep or bull-- + All greedy with a glad surprise + Of ghoulish horror drinking full. + + Heroic citizens, well nourished, + Who feast your eyes:--What sight to see? + By you the Coliseum flourished; + You thronged, as now, round Calvary. + + + + +Love not too much + + + Have you too greatly loved? + Sister take warning! + Once let your soul be moved, + Sable your mourning; + If he be satiate, + Then an ingratiate, + Waiteth the dawning. + + Shew not the passion + That stirs in your veins, + Far more alluring + To handle the reins, + His love ensuring.... + In masculine fashion + If certain--he wanes. + + He the pursuer + Must ever press on, + Passionate wooer + Whilst you are a stone; + Shew but a touch, + Yet never too much + And the battle is won. + + Man is a monster + Made to be stroked, + Close then your arms + Cover your charms; + Great the enticement + Of beauties when hidden, + Of passion well cloaked. + + Crazed, he shall plead, + For what you yield gladly, + Fiercer his greed, + For what you give madly; + You may have measure + Of love's burning pleasure + And still hold your treasure.... + Sister take heed! + + + + +Niccolo Machiavelli + + + From thy serene abode thou lookest down + With pitying eye upon a rabble rout + Who strive and plot and fight and turn about, + Endeavouring to seize some phantom crown,-- + Whether of kingdom or of some small town, + Or village--or one single home--their own: + They stumble, and with hurried steps awry + Blindly they miss their opportunity; + Whilst, all the time, thy Golden Book is there, + Ripe with earth's wisdom; but they only stare + Or pass along with stupid scoff and curse, + Using thy name for 'scoundrelly' or worse. + + Of all those who have striven to endow + The world with garnered knowledge, only thou + Hast for so long endured of thorns the crown; + Beneath the feet of swine thy name is thrown; + And in the streets thy priceless wit doth lie; + So that, alone, the stooping passer-by + Undaunted by an epithet, may find; + And treasuring like gold seven times refined, + Open the casket with exultant air + To see the Pearl of Wisdom lying there. + + + + +Remorse + + + Pierce you another, pleasure bent, + Or wound the helpless innocent; + The Holy Ghost shall not relent. + + Beyond the tortured body's cry + Dread is the mind's dull misery; + Remorse, the worm, can never die. + + 'Oh to repay it,' Judas saith: + Who robs the innocent of breath, + Certain shall live to welcome death. + + + + +The Mandrake's Horrid Scream + + + Why ain't the Mester back? + Down these owd Fens there ain't noa neighbours, + An' when he's finished wi' his labours, + He gallops off full crack! + I sits aloan an' shaakes wi' fear + While he be rousin' at the 'Deer.' + Them what's in towns has niver tried + To live aloan, all terrified; + They talk about churchyards at night, + Or things wi' chains dressed up in white: + Why! Bless my soul! I'd gladly sleep + In any place what made them creep! + Coz allers they've a friend about + To hear if they should give a shout! + They dunno what it is to fear + But--here-- + _What's that?_ + Only the cat! + An' she's as black as Death's own self, + She squats all loathly on yon shelf, + Wi' one unwinkin' eye on me + I wish the Devil-- + No! + Not _He_! + I didn't mean to mention names, + Nor interfere wi' others gaames: + They saay as cats is really witches, + Like Betty Williamson, now dead, + What uster wear her husband's breeches + An' ate the queerest food, foak said; + She set beside her open door + Wi' one foot allers off the floor, + Quietly knitting; one eye cast + To overlook you as you passed; + An' just the same, yon nasty critter + Stares at me now that soft an' bitter! + Oh Dear! I wish my man would came! + May ague twist, an' strike him dumb! + May fairies nip his liver out + An' leave him nare a tongue to shout. + Forsaking me, all loansome here + With iverything what's wrong and queer. + + From out my winder, where I sit + I see the willows round yon pit: + Dark Pit where Moller Holmes was found + As some said,--accidental drowned!-- + But I heard screechin', terrified, + About the time he must a died! + Having noa bottom, soa they say; + It's dreadful secrets there must stay + Until the Resurrection Day! + Oh where the Devil is that Tom? + I'll give him 'pub' when he gits hoam: + The wind is moanin' round that Pit + As if somebody wished to flit: + There's Things in there what stirs by night + An' if you see, yer hair turns white; + Around, they say, the Mandrake grows + What's pulled at dead of night by _those_ + Who little care although it screams + To wake poor mortals from their dreams. + Our parson tells of Powers Evil: + (An' Providence can't beat the Devil) + Where should they laay, but in yon Pit? + What makes me squirl to think on it: + All gashly arms a-reachin' out + To clamber up yer water spout + An' reach you through-- + Oh Lor! + _Who's that?_ + 'Tis something comin' + I hear _it_ hummin'.... + + My dear good Tom! Thank God it's him! + I was afraid of something grim-- + I've bin a-wantin' you soa long-- + You lousy mawkin', stinkin' strong + Of beer an' bacca! Off to bed! + I'll larn yer, Thomas, who you've wed: + 'Fore morn, you'll wish as you was dead. + + + + +One Day + + + I read you poems all the day, + And all the night I dreamed of you, + Wild nightmares riding sweet sleep through, + Whilst all the time I longed to say + More tenderly, my roundelay, + And ardently with verse to woo. + + I read you poems all the day; + You gave them up again to me, + For all the night I seemed to see + Your face a vision on my way, + As with the murmuring of streams + Your voice commingled in my dreams. + + I read you poems all the day; + Ah! would that you could hear me now! + Accepting the unuttered vow + My spirit yearned but dare not say: + Yet still though you are far away + I read you poems all the day. + + + + +No Wife + + + Tom! Tom! What yer think? + I've 'ed the Parson's wife + The first time in 'er life, acrost our door! + + What for? + + What for? Why Tom, you'd niver niver guess! + Not if you lived as old as Grammer Bess + What's lately swore + She's a hunder an' four-- + _She wants us two, to go off an' git spliced!_ + + Oh Christ! + What's got 'er now: + The cow! + + You well may swear; + Coz 'ow she dare--an' why-- + Will make you swear agen, or laugh--surelie! + Just light yer pipe + Now you look comfortable--so + You're rough--old Tom--I know-- + Black as a crow! + But I'm fond on yer lad + As any fool could see! + An' whether we're good or bad + You've bin maain good ter me. + + But--blast 'er silly eyes! + What yer say to 'er, then? + I said a lot! + I telled 'er what! + A-comin' ere wi' 'er fancy airs, + 'Er what's never known no cares, + Lookin' that wise-- + Just coz she catched a Parson! + [An' noa great shaakes ayther-- + She'd nowt of a feyther + While 'er half-brother run away to sea + An' took to blue water + Wi' their ole cook's daughter] + 'You talk of "sin" an' "shame,"' I sez, 'to me? + You talks just like a fool + Or a silly bairn at school + Coz nobody about could doubt, + But what we're happy together him an' me; + Just look,' I sez, 'at any in this street + What couple can you find about to beat + My Tom an' me what's bin together years, + Happy an' comfortable; + Never noa serious trouble-- + Nuthin' I mean to set us by the ears-- + Good reason why!' + I sez--sez I-- + 'Coz we're a free an' equal pair; + We got to treat each other fair + Or else we part.' + + Well said now Missus! That were smart! + + 'To part!' sez she, 'lookin' all down her noaz, + 'Ow could you leave your hoam wi' childer three?' + I sez--sez I--'that dudn't bother me + Coz I can earn enough for food an' cloaz. + I can maintain 'em by mysen,' sez I, + 'An' would at any time o' day. + I'm not a slave--an' anyway + I'd manage if I 'ed to do, + I'm not a slave,' I sez, 'like you!' + + You didn't--Come!-- + + I did--I did! + I meant it too. + 'If your man turns up stunt,' sez I, + 'You can't goa off, or let him fly; + You can't maintain yoursen--not you!-- + Lettin' aloan the bairns, you 'aint!' + (That made her squirm all down her back!) + ''Ow could you wok up on a stack? + Or yok a hoss or bake or wesh; + If your man drinks or starts to thresh + You couldn't leave him coz he holds yer: + You're tied by laws and friends what scolds yer; + Yer ain't like me, as free as air. + I'm not afraid whoever stare, + Nayther is Tom! + We minds oursens + An' thinks noa more of foaks than hens, + Coz if I doant behave mysen-- + Or him-- + We parts!-- + Why doant we? + Why? + Becoz we're free an' happy here, + Becoz we treats each other fair!' + + You giv 'er the rough o' yer tongue, old gel, + But--what a sell! + + Comin' 'ere to ride rough shod + Coz she's a 'wife.' + Why--bless my life + She doesn't know she's born; + She couldn't find her own corn! + I sent 'er off wi' a flea in 'er ear! + An' will again if she dost come near! + But she weant! + The white faced critter-- + Wi' a noaz like a knife + An' a smile that bitter + As if she would kill. + A wife! + What does she know of life?-- + Nowt! + Nor ever will!-- + But tomorrer's Sunday + An' we'll go to Church! + + What? + + Yes! Just for once; an' sit together, + Like birds of a feather! + We aint ashamed to show our faces + To them what thinks we be disgraces. + We'll goa together Tom--for sure + We'll goa this once an' then noa more-- + If you be willin'? + + Aye lass--I'm willin'-- + I'll back you up as I've allers done, + Agen Parson's wife or anyone. + Aye; agen all the country round, + Coz you're as good as could be found-- + An' now--old gel--it's omost eight, + Come on--yer know we moant be late, + Off to the Ship for our glass of aale; + This yarn of yourn'll make a taale! + What's that--yer bunnet? + All rate ... be quick-- + I'll wait for yer agen the gate. + + + + +To an old Friend + + + A tongue of lambent living flame + Stirs lightly when I hear your name, + Your features delicate and rare, + Quiver with every thought you bear; + It ever was a strange delight + To see your charming face alight, + To sit with you awhile apart + And hear the beating of your heart, + Or watch the message from your brain + Into your eyes then back again. + + And still it is my fairest dream-- + That delicate ethereal gleam, + The fire that played behind your face, + Lighting it with such fairy grace; + Such intuition sweet and wild; + Why should you always be a child? + + You cannot ever hope to grow + Into a woman; oh dear no! + The fairies never would allow + Such desecration; so that, now, + You must be reconciled to stay + For ever as you are to-day. + What an enchanting fate is this! + Eternally a child to be, + Laughing with that untroubled bliss + That only haunts the fancy free: + Yes, yours is happiness indeed; + Barefoot to roam the woodland vale, + All careless, though your feet should bleed + Because you hear the nightingale; + All heedless, though the thorns should tear, + And though the pain be fierce and wild, + For Nature gives to you her kiss; + And you will always be her child. + + + + +Is it finished? + + + Well--Is it finished, + Is the long day-dream done? + The battle lost, and won? + Has love at length diminished + And night begun? + + Do you pass to another? + Yet still I hold + Devotion all untold; + Although you mate a brother + And leave me cold. + + My heart beats but for thee + And every thought is thine, + As flowers to the sun incline; + For once thou lovedst me + And all was mine. + + Though destiny may banish, + My heart is still the same; + And thine is all my fame; + Although thy love may vanish, + True burns my flame. + + And, thou mayst know + That shouldst thou call to me, + Where-ever I may be, + Like arrow from its bow + Straight I will fly to thee. + + + + +Oh, Lincoln, City of my dreams + + + As far away as childhood seems + Thou standest on thy Roman hill, + And memory holds thee frozen, still, + Engraved on steel where moonlight streams. + + For leagues along the landscape mild + Thy towers twin the scene command, + Embattlements of fairyland; + Romance incarnate to a child. + + Though other cities cast a spell, + Ever thou holdst my heart in chains; + And still I hear across the plains + At midnight's stroke that ancient bell + + Whose giant throbbing scarcely seems + A mortal sound at Heaven's gate: + It echoes round the exile's fate-- + Oh Lincoln! City of my dreams! + + + + +The Fool + + + What say? + Tharp? + Yis: Aaron Tharp lived theer! + Not quite sharp? + Not quite--I fear! + T'wer very sad! + Though theer wor summat--'tis hard to say-- + But he come to his end and went away; + He'd a nice little place as his feyther made, + All gone to pot, I be much afraid. + Old Aaron built it in his day, + A worthy feller true an' sound, + Respected by the country round; + To think as his name should be forgotten! + If he'd known what a fool he had begotten! + He toiled an' moiled into his grave + To leave a lad what couldn't save! + Noa note of grace, noa sense of cash! + He lost his all be bein' rash! + + An' for what!-- + For what!-- + To play the fiddle! + 'Hey diddle diddle!' + To make up tunes in his empty head + An' ruin his eyes wi' the books he read! + He raumed an' babbled all day long + About the way to sing a song! + Follered the lads at plough about + To hear 'em sing would make him shout! + He'd sit on the bar of the Ship at night: + To catch the tunes was his delight, + Or to play the fiddle about the town:-- + An' all the while his trade went down! + That trade what poor old Aaron tended + It's fell to nowt an' can't be mended + Coz businesses is all the same + You've simply got to play the game + With all your soul an' all your heart + Or else you'll soon be in the cart. + + He was encouraged by our parson! + T'wer wrong of parson! + It's very well for them to talk + To sing an' play and idle, walk, + But aren't they paid for doin' that? + They mind their bread is buttered fat. + Parsons is sensible you see, + O'most as cute as lawyers be, + Not quite--a course coz noa one could-- + But very nigh--just as they should. + Parsons is sound at heart, I say, + They never quarrels wi' their pay, + Soa it wor wrong of Parson theer, + Coz Aaron nobbut lacked a cheer. + + He made his tunes, he played about + An' none but Parson had a doubt + What he was bound for--poor young lad! + A course I'll own,--though he wor mad,-- + Them tunes he played, them songs he sung, + They minded you of bein' young; + They took me back, a boy, agen + At work wi' Feyther down the Fen, + When all the birds they uster sing + At sunrise till the air would ring, + And sheep and cows would stir about + Wi' everything to make yer shout, + Yes it wor strange what he could do, + His fiddle seemed to mazzle you, + The labourers would catch a song-- + An' they _was_ catchy--all along; + They sing 'em yet; an' Georgy Bell + He plays 'em by the village well. + + But all the while, trade didn't mend + Until at last ther' come the end. + + They selled him up, lock stock an' stoan, + An' off he went away, aloan; + Because he sung but couldn't save. + I think his feyther in the grave + Must sure a-stirred, 'owever deep: + That smash would waken any sleep! + Young Aaron went-- + I dunno where-- + They say he's gone to Manchester, + An' there, mayhap, mid soot an' smoke, + Makes music for the city folk; + Plays on his fiddle, time, agen + Them tunes he larned down Martin Fen + From shepherds or from waggon-boys + Or men at plough,--or any noise: + He made his tunes out of the air, + From birds or beasts--he didn't care! + An' Parson, says he'll make a name + (Our Parson, what's the one to blame!) + As if he ever could agen + Find such a hoam as Martin Fen; + As if he could, by fiddle fad, + Get half the name his feyther had. + + Lost in some smoky town he plays + An' thinks, I lay, on sunny days, + Of all the things what makes life dear + Like beans and bacon, cheese and beer; + A dreamy good-for-nothing lad, + Sure bound to lose all what he had. + He might a-riz, an' come to be + As high as _you_, or even _me_! + An' bin well known the country round + As comfortable, warm, an' sound. + + His name _is_ known for many a mile, + It raises far-an'-wide, a smile: + While folk they whisper 'Not right sharp'! + A fool! a fool! wor Aaron Tharp. + + + PRINTED AT + THE HOLYWELL PRESS + OXFORD + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Rebel Verses, by Bernard Gilbert + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REBEL VERSES *** + +***** This file should be named 36803.txt or 36803.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/8/0/36803/ + +Produced by David E. 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