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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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