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diff --git a/77833-0.txt b/77833-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e9c9418 --- /dev/null +++ b/77833-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6199 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77833 *** + + + + + + + POEMS FROM PUNCH + + 1909-1920 + + + WITH AN INTRODUCTORY ESSAY + BY + W. B. DRAYTON HENDERSON + + + _REPRINTED BY PERMISSION OF + THE PROPRIETORS_ + + + + MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED + ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON + 1922 + + + + + COPYRIGHT + + PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN + + + + +Preface + + Of "Singing masons building roofs of gold." + _King Henry V._ I. 11. + +The following poems from 'Punch' are brought together to represent a +larger number which amid much delightful but, as is fitting, +ephemeral verse, serve the permanent interest of the Comic Spirit. +They cover the period between 1908, when the last collection of the +sort was published, and the end of 1920. The latter date I have +accepted as a terminus, because it seems to mark, as nearly as it can +be marked, the end of a period that is distinct from other periods, +and the commencement of a new one. + +Odd happenings tell us that this new cycle has arrived--old names, +questions, and problems begin to turn up again: and not exactly as +they were. Just now, for instance, harsh news comes roaring out of +Printing House Square, pounding ragged holes in the gentle noise of +Fleet Street. The Australians have added more thorns to our cricket +laurel. Before the next 'bus bound prayerfully to Paul's wipes out +the horrid spot with its smooth low singing, rampant patriotism is at +work compelling indolent youth from "pat-ball" to the manly "willow." +In a little while there will be fresh ardours on the village +greens--and cartoons of the ardours: arduous as ever, even if +diminished somewhat of the pride of 1909. We have come from strike +to strike also. And sales-people, who were then growing to oily +perfection, whence they slipped and fell, are once more polite. The +war the messes hoped would come between the polo and the huntin' +proved strangely accommodating, and so came. The cause of +women--dear ever to the Comic Spirit--presses on to new supremacies. +Their goals of the decade are now matters of antiquarian interest. +But new illumine the future--and in their light the Comic Spirit, no +doubt, smiles her Mona Lisa smile as she wanders in the churches of +sainted women who converted wild Saxons or suchlike, and made them +sit down orderly in their thousands,--from St. Materiana's to St. +Editha's, and beyond. For there she reads firm protests of modern +incapacity for such spiritualities, and sees spaces provided for the +signatures of incapable, modest females; sees them--if she wanders +where I did--unfilled, unsigned! + + +The difficulties of this last decade, if they were different +difficulties from those of other decades, gave some individuality to +the comedy of the time: using 'comedy' in its broadest sense, as +indicating the behaviour of the Comic Spirit. For comedy as such is +for the most part the encounter of the Comic Spirit with +difficulties, and its triumph over them. Not the struggle, mark it; +for Struggle and Agonies, properties of the Tragic Spirit or whomever +else, are no belongings of the Comic. Neither is victory deferred, +or partial victory which suits the pathetic; or unworthy victory, +which may suit the burlesque. The Comic Spirit encounters, and it +overthrows. _Veni_, _vidi_, _vixi_, is its record--with 'vidi' and +all intervening delays left out. It does its seeing as it comes, and +when it arrives it is already victor--with laurels and a Triumph. + +Also, it is a victor without expectation. It did not look like a +victor. You would not have picked it in the paddock--not even to +place. Its appearance at the start is, characteristically, +insignificant. The course set appears to be impossible for it. Yet +it romps in a winner, and its very life becomes the doing of the +impossible, the overturning of something big by something very +little. Put it tersely, high comedy is the immediate Triumph of a +seemingly minor over a seemingly major value. + +To this end the Comic Spirit makes use of all sorts of properties, +simple and subtle, animate and inanimate. It could man a rush and +overcome Othello, if it had the mind, or in Mercutio overcome +battalions of Fates. It does actually begin even more simply and +terminate quite as high; and since the height is where we wish to +come, it may be useful to follow the progress, through some typical +situations. + +At the start may come some simple slipperiness, tropical or arctic, +playful underneath the impressed dignity of a greatness of the flesh +or the church or the state; upsetting it completely, and winning a +laughter that would be incredible if the victim were less great or +the offence more so. Not much above would come some small folly--a +mole on Cyrano's nose, or, say, the spectacles that crown +Dostoievsky's Government official in _An Unfortunate Incident_. This +minor property, steadfast on the head of the official at the instant +of his complete disappearance down the throat of a very major +crocodile, draws, quite understandably, the uproarious laughter of +his friend and wife-widow. Next might come a spider, as in the +historical case of Miss Muffet. Solidly seated upon a tuffet, +fortified with curds and whey inside and outside, and embellished, no +doubt, with implements suiting her occupation, no one could have been +more formidable than that person. In comparison, the spider was the +most obvious minor. Yet no sooner did he arrive, having done his +seeing as he came, than his now well-known victory was allowed by the +most bigoted strategical-retirement war correspondents. And since +then he has retained his fame, without contest, as a veritable +instrument of comedy. + +Of higher but parallel significance is a certain apple in Mr. +Augustus John's picture--"Down to the Sea": at least, I always feel +it so. An unquestionable procession of weird women and strange +children moves along a headland. They are of a world where there is +nothing that one knows. It might easily be intolerable. But one of +the women holds an apple in her hand. It gleams amongst the unknown, +an offering to the Intelligence; and propitiatory, so that the +bewildered deity, finding something so insignificant and familiar so +much more than holding its own against strangeness, shares in the +triumph, first in anticipation through sympathy, then actually using +the apple as a sort of _point-d'appui_ whence to search out the +unknown:--as Eve did. + +Raise the level yet higher, and instead of simple meanings overcoming +strange people it is the microcosmic simple human who triumphs +against scarcely conceivable cosmic splendour. Remember Sirius +rising with Procyon attendant and the unlooseable glittering bands of +Orion--suns and suns and the white wonder of nebula. It is only +recalled, not seen, the time being day, but recalled so as to present +the true magnitude. Somewhere beneath it walk Dr. Middleton, of +Meredith's _The Egoist_, with his daughter Clara but this moment +self-withdrawn from immolation before the pattern of Patternes, and +with no reason to be grateful to her unshriven parent. "Clara linked +her arm with her father's and said, on a sudden brightness, 'Sirius, +papa!' + +"He repeated it in the profoundest manner. 'Sirius! And is there,' +he asked, 'a feminine scintilla of sense in that?' + +"It is the name of the star I was thinking of, dear papa. + +"It was the star observed by King Agamemnon before the sacrifice in +Aulis. You were thinking of that? But, my love, my Iphigenia, you +have not a father who will insist on sacrificing you! + +"Did I hear him tell you to humour me, papa? + +"Dr. Middleton humphed. + +"'Verily the dog star rages in many heads,' he responded." + +That is all the apology Clara ever got or, indeed, ever needed. +Against cosmic brightness her microcosmic affair lifted itself, and +proved (as Hardy proved in another connection), "that of the two +contrasting magnitudes the latter was, for us, the more important": +proved it immediately, with an opulence of light against any doubtful +interpretation, like that of Sirius itself, preserved against "a +night of frost and strong moonlight." + +The human triumph can be intenser also, as a last illustration will +show from Tchaikovski's "Trio in A minor"--To the memory of a great +artist. The second movement, as near as can be, presents the drama +of the artistic effort under stress of the imminence of death. _Ars +longa, vita brevis_ is the theme--the uncertainty of which is carried +on the strings, while the sombre certainty, the sombre sense of +mortality moves upon the muffled pianoforte, a sort of dead march: + + Comes death on shadowy and resistless feet; + Death is the end, the end. + +Against this opposition, and commentary, the theme of the artist's +life seems to develop: to strengthen. It heeds. Then it takes swift +possession. The actual theme from the piano is appropriated by the +strings, and in a glory of technical as well as moral triumph minor +absorbs major: and death, become not the foe but an actual material +of art, is swallowed up in victory. + + +All comedy--even high comedy--is not necessarily as intent as this +last: nor all--even low--so simple as the nursery rhyme. Yet all, +worth the name, has sympathy with both--from Menander to Shakespeare +or Molière or Meredith. The apparent major may be age and +tallow-dripping corpulence, as in the case of Falstaff, and the +triumph that of the mere suppressed voice of the Comic Spirit +breaking through in his shout on Gadshill,--"They hate us, youth." +More often it is no physical defeat, but a moral one. It is +convention without meaning, learning without significance, mode +without kindliness, show without reason: every sort of sham and +hardening of mind or heart against the unformulated fact of fluid +life. And comedy is, so, life's victory. + +This victory, of course, is not confined to art. Living that is +worth the name must be a succession of such instances, becoming, as +culture ripens, of greater range, and surer. + +In comparison with earlier times this larger embrace shows itself now +and then--a quality of our time or race: particularly in the front we +present to circumstances or events that people quite unmoved by the +Comic Spirit might find anything but attractive, except as an +occasion for martyrdom or some such hardening of mind quite opposed +to the immediately accessible Comic Spirit. We can enjoy the hidden +beauty, or the very fact of opposition, behind the forbiddingness of +things--even though the forbiddingness destroys body and body-comfort +at a stroke. Enjoy it, too, not in the negative way of _Non dolets_, +but actively and radiantly. To one so gifted, the forbiddingness of +forbidden cities becomes as nothing, and the shadow of their golden +watch-towers everything, as it falls, mingling with lotus blossom, in +the moat. The Antarctic, blowing its cheeks off with storm and +promise of immediate destruction, is of little account--and the +"splendid pirate" of Sir Ernest Shackleton's last expedition buys +matches in the face of it and pays for them in futures--a bottle of +champagne per match, to be handed over at a dream 'pub' in a most +improbable future. The war furnished other illustrations. This +spirit was one of its very few virtues, without which it could not +have carried on at all. Simple and daily life has them too, with the +same result. For the spirit of comedy is the hope within and the +light upon it, its shelter and its power to dare. It is the urge to +a radiant beauty in the house of life we build, and the metal by +which the roof, as it were, of that common house becomes a roof of +gold. + + +If our comedy is the golden roof we raise, the shining triumph of the +small matter of man's spirit over frowning great difficulties, +something must be exacted of the builders who, if it is reared at +all, must rear it. True comedy is essentially social. It reflects +truth, and its servants building it constantly and immaterially must +be servants of the truest social good. Satirists and cynics, +tragedians and farceurs, may be as remote from life as they please +and as individualistic. The servant of the Comic Spirit knows his +kind, moves with them and loves them. He could be strong without +this love no more than Antaeus without earth. It puts him in +possession of the strength of the whole. Allow for the necessary +semi-detachment of the artist, and it gives to all who serve the +Comic Spirit that sense of more than equalness to the task which +makes men sing as they work and of that work otherwise perhaps +uninspired, makes the true _domus aurea_. + + +Doubtless such love can be intense, and foster comedy, where there is +little to love. But it goes beyond intensity where there is much. +It becomes diverse, many-coloured, passionate yet urbane, robust yet +fanciful; and comedy, responsive to all its moods, becomes as various. + +The pages of _Punch_, to apply what has been said, are an +illustration of such Comedy. In obvious and in subtler ways, of fine +jocoserie or of fine courage, they show the unrecorded minor besting +the plausible major. Sometimes, if not mountains, then sizable hills +are brought to labour, and the _ridiculus mus_ which ultimately +appears proves to be of quite different maternity, putting them to +the blush: as in Mr. Hilton Brown's "To an Early Daffodil," or Mr. +Chalmers's "To a Bank of England Pigeon," where the modern instance, +modest Scillies or drab Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, wins the +prize from the epic Cyclades or from Cypris-not-to-be-outdone. Mr. +Chalmers gives an even more natural example of it in "Little Cow +Hay." Here the good story of the wholesome doings of the Culpeppers, +fit and famous, is piled high--only to have an insignificant ribald +moment, regardless of them all, flutter with proud crowing to its +very crown: + + But that must be nigh + Sixty seasons away, + When things was all different + D'ye see--an' to-day + There ain't no Culpeppers + At Little Cow Hay. + +Sometimes the minor human makes the triumph. Opposed by a full-grown +if incomplete planet, he takes it up, without effort, as a very +little thing: Smith, M.A., Oxon., for instance, of Mr. Bretherton's +poem; or the hero of "The Desert Optimist," who, if history went so +far, would doubtless be Piccadillyish in Penang and urban in the Gobi. + +Most often, however, it is no particular coup of the Comic Spirit +that these poems celebrate. It is the Comic Spirit preparing itself +for any, by making sure of the strong social life, in all its +disciplines or humours, from which its strength springs. It +contemplates the towers which whisper to Smith in Mesopotamy the +smooth, cool enchantments of the Middle Age. It regards +London--Fleet Street levying tribute from all romance, Charing Cross +Road and the ancient kingdom of books, people and zoo and parks--and +from all this it gathers the comfort "of no mean city," so that our +gentlemen adventurers at the end of things may possess that, and with +it give a genuinely comic overturn to alien unpleasantnesses at time +of need. Such help is precious, and Mr. Symns is not the first to +record it. + + "Urbs errat ante oculos;" + Then Fortune, send me where you list, + I care not, London holds me close + An exile, yet an optimist. + + +The greatest of such times of need has (we hope) come and gone. And +not a little of the activity of the Comic Spirit while it lasted was +just such a gathering, on a larger scale, and such a distribution of +the gathered strength. The khaki flood covered up accounted +landmarks. Even among the priests of the Ideal, the Ideal was not +seldom lost. The Comic Spirit remembered both, and quietly recalled +some things that were continuous beneath all change. The resulting +poems as they appeared in _Punch_ dealt with traditional themes, +fairies and fancies and symbols of the spiritual ripening of the land +under generations of love; but with a new tenderness, accented by the +need, and also a new scope that included in the magic circle actual +work-a-day doings, especially those of ships and sea. Of these, Miss +Farjeon's "Nursery Rhymes of London Town" come first to thought, with +Miss Fyleman's fairy poems and Miss Fox Smith's marines, all three +represented here, and, fortunately, available complete in separate +volumes as well. + +It is needless to speak of the strength which came from such +accounting of our spiritual possession. Col. McCrae's "In Flanders +Fields," and Mrs. Robertson Glasgow's "Dulce et Decorum," antiphonal +one to the other, are both included here. They answer for those who + + ...with the flame of their bright youth unspent + Went shouting up the pathway to the sun. + +And history can take care of the rest. It is necessary to complete +the tale of possession, however, by noting, in addition to the +"Nimphidia" and poems of sentiment, those in memory of great servants +of the Social Good, and hence of the Comic Spirit, or of that spirit +itself most immediately, which _Punch_ admitting in its scheme from +the start, makes possible to include here. And finally, there are +the poems on sport. There is an obvious difference between the +tenderness and fancy of the 'Nimphidia' and the rollicking certainty +of the last. Yet the two are complementary as flowers and earth. +Oberon was first cousin to Robin Hood before Robin had become a myth, +and now may be half your fairy music is the echo of yesterday's or +yester-year's hunting horn. Half your fairy flowers grow on fields +that have known harsh ploughing--Flanders fields will bear them among +their poppies. So, if the noting of national sentiment contributes +to the Comic Spirit, this noting of national discipline (which has a +sentiment of its own now, as well as that it may help to create) does +so also. It may be war, or hunting, or cricket, or + + When eight strong fellows are out to row + With a slip of a lad to guide them: + +from it all comes to the individual the strength of the group--and a +knowledge too of those peculiar delights of comedy, a genuine +sincerity of technique and a constant opposition of the best laid +plans to a trifle--a ball or a fox or a rapid feather--with the +certainty that out of that situation laughter may spring. + +W. B. DRAYTON HENDERSON. + + + + +Prefatory Note + +The poems in this collection are reprinted by permission of their +proprietors, the proprietors of _Punch_. They are used with the +added consent of their authors, or their representatives except in +one case, of death, and two where present addresses are unknown. In +some cases the consent of book-publishers has been superadded. All +this we acknowledge gratefully. It would be gratifying if, in +return, this use might add to the fame of the poets represented. The +wish is, however, presumptuous, seeing that most of them are known, +even outside the pages of _Punch_ by many readers: C. K. Burrow +through his _In Time of Peace_, etc. (Collins); Hartley Carrick, +through _The Muse in Motley_ (Bowes); P. R. Chalmers, _Green Days_, +etc. (Maunsel); Mrs. Eden, _Coal and Candlelight_, etc. (Lane), etc.; +Miss Farjeon, _Nursery Rhymes of London Town_, etc. (Duckworth); Miss +Fyleman, _Fairies and Chimneys_, etc. (Methuen); Miss Fox Smith, +_Sailor Town_, etc. (Matthews), _Rhymes of the Red Ensign_ (Hodder +and Stoughton), etc.; Crosbie Garstin, _Vagabond Verses_ (Sidgwick +and Jackson), with which will be coupled a new volume (Heinemann) +including poems from _Punch_ reprinted here; A. P. Herbert, _Play +Hours with Pegasus_, etc. (Blackwell); A. L. Jenkins, _Forlorn +Adventures_ (Sidgwick and Jackson); E. V. Knox, _The Brazen Lyre_ +(Murray), etc.; R. C. Lehmann, _The Vagabond_ (Lane); W. H. Ogilvie, +_Rainbows and Witches_, etc. (Matthews), _Hearts of Gold_, etc. +(Oxford); R. K. Risk, _Songs of the Links_ (Duckworth); Sir Owen +Seaman, _In Cap and Bells_, etc. (Lane), and _A Harvest of Chaff_, +etc. (Constable). + + + + + Contents + + + At Putney + + Ballad of the Resurrection Packet, The + Ballade of August + Bazar + Belfries, The + Blue Roses + Booklover, The + Breaking-up Song + By the Canal in Flanders + By the Roman Road + + Cambridge in Kharki + Canadian to his Parents, A + Child of the Sun, A + "Commem." + Cornish Lullaby, A + Cottage Garden Prayer + + Dartymoor, For + Defaulters + Desert Optimist, The + Despair of my Muse, The + Devon Men + Devil in Devon, The + Dream, A + Dream Ship, A + Dulce Domum + "Dulce et Decorum" + + Failure of Sympathy, A + Fairies in the Malverns + Fairy Music + Fairy Went A-Marketing, A + Farewell to Summer + February Trout Fancy, A + Figure Head, The + First Game, The + For Dartymoor + Fount of Inspiration + + "Gambol" + Ghosts of Paper + Glad Good-bye, The + Golden Valley, The + Good-bye, Australians! + Guns of Verdun + + Herbs of Grace + Honey Meadow + House in a Wood, A + Huntin' Weather + Hymn for High Places + + Ideal Home, The + In Flanders Fields + In Memoriam--William Booth + In Memoriam--George Meredith + In Memoriam--Algernon Charles Swinburne + In Winter + Inland Golf + Inn o' the Sword, The + + Jimmy, Killed in Action + + Labuntur Anni + Lanes leading down to the Thames, The + Last Cock Pheasant, The + Left Smiling + Lighted Way, The + Lines to a Mudlark + Little Cow Hay + "Little Foxes, The" + Little Ships, The + Lone Hand, The + + Medalitis + Mixed Shooting, On + My First Flight + + New Resistance, The + North Sea Ground, The + Nurse, The + Nursery Rhymes of London Town + + Old Ships, The + On Simon's Stack + Oxford Revisited + + Pagan Fancies + + "Quat' sous Lait" + + Ramshackle Room, A + Return, The + + Saturdays + School for Motley, The + Seats of the Mighty + Sitting Bard, The + Sometimes + Song of Syrinx, A + Southampton + Southward + Spanish Ledges + Spring Cleaning + Strange Servant, The + Summer and Sorrow + + Three Ships, The + Time's Revenges + To a Bank of England Pigeon + To a Cuckoo, Heard on the Links + To a Dear Departed + To an Early Daffodil + To an Egyptian Boy + To an Unknown Deer + To Santa Claus + To Smith in Mesopotamy + To the God of Love + "Treasure Island" + + Vagrant, A + Voyage Of H.M.S. "President," The + + Watch in the Night, A + Whine from a Wooer, A + Wild Swan, The + Windmill, The + Wintry Fires + Wireless + Woods of France, The + + + + + The School for Motley + +["It is pessimism which produces wit. Optimism is nearly always +dull."] + + When I was a feather-brained stripling + And new to my frivolous Muse, + I parodied AUSTIN and KIPLING + And floundered in CALVERLEY'S shoes. + With hope as a tonic I primed my internals + And sent in my stuff to the various journals + + Although the wet blanket of chronic + Rejection adhered to my form, + I took the above-mentioned tonic + And managed to keep myself warm. + My verses were light, but my spirits were lighter; + Some day, I kept saying, the sky would get brighter. + + Years passed, but my lot never varied, + And hope seemed to suffer a slump, + And life became empty and arid-- + In short, I contracted the "hump." + Despair filled my heart, once so sanguine and placid; + Thenceforward I wrote not with ink, but with acid. + + I put away laughter and pleasure, + I sought Fortune's arrows and slings, + And found what a wonderful treasure + Lies hid on the dark side of things; + For woe gave me wit, and my bile-begot vapours + Procured me the ear of the humorous papers. + + And now, when prosperity chases + The frown from my forehead, I go + And scatter my cash at the races, + Or visit a music-hall show; + Restored to a decent depression, _instanter_ + I turn out a column of exquisite banter. + + Sour grapes make the daintiest nectar; + I fill up a bumper each night + To banish the fatuous spectre + Of dull-witted joy from my sight, + And, sitting alone in a darkness Cimmerian, + I drink to the toast, 'A long life and a weary 'un!' + + STANLEY J. FAY. + July 5, 1911. + + + + + _The Elder Song_ + + + + To the God of Love + + Come to me, Eros, if you needs must come + This year, with milder twinges; + Aim not your arrow at the bull's-eye plumb, + But let the outer pericardium + Be where the point impinges. + + Garishly beautiful I watch them wane + Like sunsets in a pink west, + The passions of the past; but O their pain! + You recollect that nice affair with Jane? + We nearly had an inquest. + + I want some mellower romance than these, + Something that shall not waken + The bosom of the bard from midnight ease, + Nor spoil his appetite for breakfast, please + (Porridge and eggs and bacon). + + Something that shall not steep the soul in gall. + Nor plant it _in excelsis_, + Nor quite prevent the bondman in its thrall + From biffing off the tee as good a ball + As anybody else's; + + But rather, when the world is dull and gray + And everything seems horrid, + And books are impotent to charm away + The leaden-footed hours, shall make me say, + "My hat!" (and strike my forehead) + + "I am in love, O circumstance how sweet! + O ne'er to be forgot knot!" + And praise the damsel's eyebrows, and repeat + Her name out loud, until it's time to eat, + Or go to bed, or what not. + + This is the kind of desultory bolt, + Eros, I bid you shoot me; + One with no barb to agitate and jolt, + One where the feathers have begun to moult-- + Any old sort will suit me. + + E. G. V. KNOX. + April 5, 1911. + + + + +The New Resistance + +[A novel form of opposition is threatened on the part of mutinous +wives. The development is due to the success of certain Suffragettes +who, after being admitted to gaol of their own heroic choice, have +contrived by dint of fasting to prevail on Mr. HERBERT GLADSTONE to +let them out.] + + No, Frederica, no; I may have knuckled + Under, at times, to woman's soft appeal, + But now I have my armour on and buckled; + Tears cannot melt that tegument of steel; + That which I've said I've said: + "You _shall not_ wear a bee-hive on your head!" + + I have allowed you loosely to conduct your + Home-life according to your lack of taste, + But to permit this pestilential structure + Would be to have my dignity displaced; + Frankly I draw the line + At such a hat on any wife of mine. + + When we exchanged our pledges at the altar + You undertook to honour and obey; + And though, ere now, I have been known to palter + With manhood's rights, this time I'll have my way; + I lay the law down flat, + Saying, "You _shall not_ wear a thing like that." + + Nor would it shake my purpose should you follow + The lead of Suffragettes that live on air, + Refusing, out of cussedness, to swallow + Your salutary meals. I shouldn't care + Two paltry jots or tittles + What attitude you took about your victuals. + + You might adopt a course of strict starvation, + But you would never break my manly pride; + You might arrest the fount of sustentation + Till you were just a bag of bones and hide, + But that would not disturb + A man of stouter stuff than GLADSTONE (HERB.). + + Believe me, I am anything but brutal; + I take no pleasure in a hollow cheek; + I could not get my heart to hum or tootle + If you were slowly waning week by week; + But here I must be firm, + Or I should show no better than a worm. + + And, if you stuck to it and went on sinking + Until you failed to draw another breath, + Your widower would console himself with thinking + That there are tragedies far worse than death: + Dishonour may be reckoned + The first of such, and your bee-hat the second. + + SIR OWEN SEAMAN. + July 28, 1909. + + + + + A Whine from a Wooer + + Once on a time, ere leagues for woman's freedom + Had shed upon the world their golden gleam, + Ere dames had stormed the fortress of M.P.dom, + The mere man reigned supreme. + + No female dared to challenge that position; + She only lived to grovel at his throne, + Content if she obtained his kind permission + To call her soul her own. + + Then, lovers' vows were food for maids' digestion; + Then, swains received their meed of fond support, + Or read in azure eyes the plaintive question,-- + Why come you not to court? + + That was indeed a great and glorious era; + But now we mourn for moments that are not, + Since modern damsels bluntly state that we're a + Sad and sorry lot. + + Lovers, whose wounds still crave the same old healing, + Find when they come to throw the handkerchief + An absolutely callous lack of feeling + Almost beyond belief. + + I love my country; I would gladly serve her; + But, since her daughters have no eyes to see + A matrimonial prize, I say with fervour, + "This is no place for me!" + + Fixed is my resolution to escape hence; + I used to think my skin was fairly tough, + But kicks have been more plentiful than ha'pence; + It isn't good enough! + + England, farewell, a long farewell; for why let + The heart remain a slave for chits to tease, + When there is many a comfy little islet + Set in the Southern seas. + + Thither I'll go, a lorn and lonely wight who, + Grown tired of wooing Phyllises, may rest + Content to know some coloured beads would buy two, + _Two_ of the very best! + + HARTLEY CARRICK. + Jan. 26, 1910. + + + + + The Glad Good-bye + +[According to the New York correspondent of _The Daily Telegraph_, +recent practical tests prove that the substitution of ragtime +melodies for the lugubrious farewell music usually played on a big +liner's departure does away with the mournful scenes attending such +functions and puts everybody in the best of spirits.] + + When I broke the news to Mabel that a most insistent cable + Had demanded my departure to a land across the sea, + She occasioned some dissension by announcing her intention + Of delaying her farewell until the vessel left the quay. + + I displayed a frigid shoulder to her scheme, and frankly told her + That no public show of sentiment my tender heart should sear, + For I knew the tears would blind me when "The Girl I Left Behind Me" + And the strains of "Auld Lang Syne" reverberated in my ear. + + But I've recently relented and quite willingly consented + To be sped upon my journey by the mistress of my soul; + I shall banish sorrow's canker ere the sailors weigh the anchor, + And present a smiling visage when the ship begins to roll. + + There'll be no one feeling chippy when the band plays "Mississippi" + (Such a melody would even lend a fillip to a wreck); + I shall laugh and warble freely when they start "The Robert E. Lee," + And my cup will be complete when "Snooky-Ookums" sweeps the deck. + + Tears of joy there'll be for shedding when "The Darkie's Ragtime Wedding" + Sends a syncopated spasm through the passengers and crew; + And, when warning tocsins clang go, down the gangway Mab will tango, + While I bunny-hug the steward to the tune of "Hitchy-Koo." + + STANLEY J. FAY. + July 30, 1913. + + + + + Wintry Fires + + Lady, having been engaged since May-day + (Pity that the Spring should ever stop!) + Now the year's no longer in its heyday, + Don't you think we'd better let it drop? + + In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly + Turns to love, as doubtless you're aware; + In the Spring we wax exceeding sprightly, + Due, no doubt, to something in the air. + + Then, as was both natural and proper, + We two met and, scorning all delay, + Vowed to wed, and neither cared a copper + For the pregnant fact that it was May. + + Summer came and, warming with the weather, + Rarely was an ardour such as mine; + You'll recall that, take it altogether, + For an English summer it was fine. + + Summer turned to Autumn, and September + Opened to the world her golden feast; + Quite a record month, as you'll remember, + And my love, if anything, increased. + + Honestly, I thought it was a sure case; + Only, now the early Winter's come, + Lady, as in others', so in your case, + I confess to getting rather numb. + + Do not deem me fickle, dear, and faithless; + Though the readjustment seems to be + Sudden--not to call it startling--natheless + You can hardly put it down to me. + + Love appears, for some unfathomed reason, + Like a flow'r that ripens with the sun; + And, like everything that has its season, + Withers when its little course is run. + + That's what I conceive to be the matter; + And I write, believe me, with regret; + For I own, with no desire to flatter, + That you're quite the nicest girl I've met. + + Still, farewell, or (put it less severely) + _Au revoir_; I hope you'll keep the ring; + Snows are brief, and I, who loved you dearly + Once, again may do so--in the Spring. + + CAPT. KENDALL. + _Almanack_, 1914. + + + + + The Fount of Inspiration + + You ask me, Araminta, why my pen, + Whose airy efforts helped me once to win you, + Has, since you made me happiest of men, + Apparently resolved to discontinue + Its periodic flights + And steadily avoids the Muses' heights. + + I, too, have wondered. Are connubial cares + Antipathetic to divine afflatus? + Yet many a bard has piped his liveliest airs + After surrendering his single status; + Or can it be the War + That's been and dried me up in every pore? + + Darling, I groped for light, but found no ray; + Chill with despair, I almost ceased to seek a + Way through the fog, when suddenly to-day + Like ARCHIMEDES I exclaimed, "Eureka!" + I found indeed the path + This morning as I lay inside my bath. + + For yesterday to rural scenes you fled + And left me, duty's slave, to desolation; + To-day I sought my tub with measured tread + And spent an hour immersed in contemplation + Just as I used to do + Ere yet in beauty side by side we grew. + + No urgent call to breakfast broke my rest; + Serene and snug I heard the quarters chiming, + And, as the brimming waters lapped my breast, + Almost unconsciously I started rhyming; + Then through my mind it shot + That thus were all my master-works begot. + + Straight from the slopes of Helicon the stream + Poured through the tap its music-making shower; + Each floating bubble held a precious gleam + Which grew to glory as a lyric flower; + Idly I laved my curls, + And from the sponge there dropped a rain of pearls. + + Therefore, when back you hasten to my side, + Place this, my love, among your resolutions-- + Though eggs grow chill and bacon petrified, + Never to hustle me in my ablutions, + And, to redeem your fault, + Order me several tins of Attic Salt. + + STANLEY J. FAY. + July 28, 1915. + + + + + Time's Revenges + +[A straight talk addressed by a middle-aged bachelor to the love of +his youth.] + + No, Honoria, I am greatly flattered + When you cast a soft, seductive eye + On a figure permanently battered + Out of shape by Anno Domini; + Yet, you'll take it please, from me, + It can never, never be. + + Vainly,--and you mustn't be offended + Should a certain candour mark my words-- + Vainly is the obvious net extended + Underneath the eyes of us old birds; + Nor are we--it sounds unkind-- + Taking any salt behind. + + You have passed, you say, the salad season, + Growing sick of boyhood's callow fluff; + You prefer the age of settled reason-- + Men with minds composed of sterner stuff; + All your nature, now so ripe, + Yearns towards the finished type. + + Yes, but what about your full-fledged fogeys? + Youth is good enough for us, I guess; + Still we like it fluffy; still the vogue is + Sweet-and-Twenty--ay, or even less; + Only lately I have been + Badly hit by Seventeen. + + I have known my heart to melt like tallow + In the company of simple youth, + Careless though its brain was clearly shallow, + Beauty being tantamount to Truth; + Give us freshness, free of art, + We'll supply the brainy part. + + Thus in _your_ hands I was soft as putty + Ere your intellect began to grow, + When we went a-Maying in the nutty + Time--it seems a thousand years ago; + _Then_ I wished to make you mine; + Why on earth did you decline? + + You declined because you had a notion + You could choose a husband when you would; + There were better fish inside the ocean + Than had come to hand--or quite as good; + So, until you reached the thirties, + We were treated much as dirt is. + + Then you grew a little less fastidious, + Wondering if your whale would soon arrive, + Till your summers (age is so insidious) + Touched their present total--45; + Well, then, call it 38; + Anyhow, it's _far_ too late. + + You may say there's something most unknightly + Something almost rude about my tone? + No, Honoria, when regarded rightly, + These are Time's revenges, not my own; + You may deem it want of tact, + Still, I only state the fact. + + Yet, to end upon a note less bitter, + You shall hear what chokes me off to-day: + 'Tis the thought (it makes my heart-strings twitter) + Of a Young Thing chasing nuts in May: + 'Tis my loyalty to Her, + To the Girl that once you were. + + SIR OWEN SEAMAN. + _Almanack_, 1910. + + + + + _Chorus of the Months_ + + + + To an Early Daffodil + + Rare, rare bloom of the sun enslaven, + Laughter-laden and gold-bedight, + How came you to a Northern haven, + To a sky the colour of anthracite? + To what fair land do your thoughts go homing, + Southern shore with cream waves combing, + Where the birds and bees are all day roaming + And nightingales sing to the stars all night? + + Was it Persephone's guileless finger + Coaxed you first from Sicily's sward, + Where the herdsmen's steps were fain to linger + And the cattle splashed in the drowsy ford, + While the Satyrs danced with their Naiad neighbours + To a measure of shepherd-pipes and tabors, + And the Cyclops toiled at his endless labours + By the flaming forges of Etna's lord? + + Or were you born by the staid Cephissus + Where the dull Boeotian days went by, + To mind men ever of fond Narcissus + Where Helicon climbed to the stormy sky; + Where the clouds still follow the tearful Hyads + By the homes of the oak-tree Hamadryads, + And the Thracian wind with its sough and sigh adds + Homage to graves where the heroes lie? + + I love to think it; but could you tell us + We should find, I fear, that with all your class + You know as much of the land of Hellas + As I do, say, of the Khyber Pass. + For I doubt you are none of the old-time lilies + Beloved of Hector and fleet Achilles; + In the Channel Isles, or perhaps the Scillies, + You were grown in a hot-house under glass. + + C. HILTON BROWN. + Feb. 14, 1912. + + + + + The Despair of My Muse + + Ye great brown hares, grown madder through the Spring! + Ye birds that utilise your tiny throttles + To make the archways of the forest ring + Or go about your easy house-hunting! + Ye toads! ye axolotls! + + Ye happy blighters all, that squeal and squat + And fly and browse where'er the mood entices, + Noting in every hedge or woodland grot + The swelling surge of sap, but noting not + The rise in current prices! + + But chiefly you, ye birds, whose jocund note + (Linnets and larks and jays and red-billed ousels) + Oft in those happier springtides now remote + Caused me to catch the lyre and clear my throat + After some coy refusals! + + Ay, and would cause me now--I have such bliss + Seeing the star-set vale, the pearls, the agates + Sown on the wintry boughs by Flora's kiss-- + Only the trouble in my case is this, + I do not feed on maggots. + + Could I but share your diet cheap and rude, + Your simple ways in trees and copses lurking; + But no, I need a pipe and lots of food, + A comfortable chair on which to brood-- + Silence! the bard is working. + + Could I but know that freedom from all care + That comes, I say, from gratis sets of suitings + And homes that need not premium nor repair + Except with sticks and mud and moss and hair, + My! there would be some flutings. + + So and so only would the ivory rod + Stir the wild strings once more to exaltation, + So and so only the impetuous god + Pound in my bosom and produce that odd + Tum-tiddly-um sensation. + + And often as I heard the throstles vamp, + Pouring their liquid notes like golden syrup, + Out would I go and round the garden tramp, + Wearing goloshes if the day were damp, + And imitate their chirrup. + + Or, bowling peacefully upon my bike, + Well breakfasted, by no distractions flustered, + Pause near a leafy copse or brambled dyke, + And answer song for song the black-backed shrike, + The curlew and the bustard. + + But now--ah, why prolong the dreadful strain?-- + Limply my hand the unstrung harp relaxes; + The dear old days will not come back again + Whatever Mr. AUSTEN CHAMBERLAIN + Does with the nation's taxes. + + Lambs, buds, leap up; the lark to heaven climbs; + Bread does the same; the price of baccy's brutal; + And save (I do not note it in _The Times_) + They make exceptions for evolving rhymes, + Dashed if I mean to tootle! + + E. G. V. KNOX. + March 24, 1920. + + + + + A Child of the Sun + + Winged pirate with the poisoned dagger! + Devourer of the jampot's hoard, + And quite incorrigible ragger + Of every British breakfast board, + Till blind with surfeit to your doom you stagger, + Drunk as a lord; + + Till, trapped amid the heady spices, + Snared by the treason of your taste, + Foreseeing not the hand that slices + (Be cautious, woman, not with haste!)-- + Mary, who's always bold at such a crisis, + Severs your waist; + + Wasp (to be brief), my dear good fellow-- + A pestilential bore to some + Who mark you round their plates grow mellow, + But I am glad to hear you hum-- + Which is your favourite brand, old boy, the yellow + Or greengage plum? + + 'Ware of your appetite for toping + I do not shriek nor tremble if + I find you round my foodstuffs sloping, + But, like a man, at danger sniff, + Watching my hour, well-armed and always hoping + To have you stiff. + + Nay, what is more, I praise your pounces, + I contemplate with joy your nerve; + At every boom my bosom bounces, + It almost pains me when you swerve + Down to your last long sleep in 16 oz. + Of pure conserve. + + For this I know, what time you smother + Remembrance in that final bout, + The sun's your sire, the earth's your mother, + You bring the days of halcyon drought; + Therefore I weep for you the while, my brother, + I wipe you out. + + E. G. V. KNOX + July 20, 1910. + + + + + Herbs of Grace + + VI.-ROSEMARY + + Whenas on summer days I see + That sacred herb, the Rosemary, + The which, since once our Lady threw + Upon its flow'rs her robe of blue, + Has never shown them white again, + But still in blue doth dress them-- + _Then, oh, then + I think upon old friends and bless them._ + + And when beside my winter fire + I feel its fragrant leaves suspire, + Hung from my hearth-beam on a hook, + Or laid within a quiet book + There to awake dear ghosts of men + When pages ope that press them-- + _Then, oh, then + I think upon old friends and bless them._ + + The gentle Rosemary, I wis, + Is Friendship's herb and Memory's. + Ah, ye whom this small herb of grace + Brings back, yet brings not face to face, + Yea, all who read those lines I pen, + Would ye for truth confess them? + _Then, oh, then + Think upon old friends and bless them._ + + W. W. BLAIR FISH. + April 11, 1917. + + + + + Spring Cleaning + + The hailstorm stopped; a watery sun came out, + And late that night I clearly saw the moon; + The lilac did not actually sprout, + But looked as if it ought to do in June. + I did not say, "My love, it is the Spring"; + I rubbed my chilblains in a cheerful way + And asked if there was some warm woollen thing + My wife had bought me for the first of May; + And, just to keep the ancient customs green, + We said we'd give the poor old house a clean. + + Good Mr. Ware came down with all his men, + And filled the house with lovely oily pails, + And went away to lunch at half-past ten, + And came again at tea-time with some nails. + And laid a ladder on the daffodil, + And opened all the windows they could see, + And glowered fiercely from the window sill + On me and Mrs. Tompkinson at tea, + And set large quantities of booby-traps + And then went home--a little tired, perhaps. + + They left their paint-pots strewn about the stair, + And switched the lights off--but I knew the game; + They took the geyser--none could tell me where; + It was impossible to wash my frame. + The painted windows would not shut again, + But gaped for ever at the Eastern skies; + The house was full of icicles and rain; + The bedrooms smelled of turpentine and size; + And if there be a more unpleasant smell + I have no doubt that it was there as well. + + My wife went out and left me all alone, + While more men came and clamoured at the door + To strip the house of everything I own, + The curtains and the carpets from the floor, + The kitchen range, the cushions and the stove, + And ask me things that husbands never know, + "Is this 'ere paint the proper shade of mauve?" + Or "Where is it this lino has to go?" + I slunk into the cellar with the cat, + This being where the men had put my hat. + + I cowered in the smoking-room, unmanned; + The days dragged by and still the men were here. + And then I said, "I, too, will take a hand," + And borrowed lots of decorating gear. + I painted the conservatory blue; + I painted all the rabbit-hutches red; + I painted chairs in every kind of hue, + A summer-house, a table and a shed; + And all of it was very much more fair + Than any of the work of Mr. Ware. + + But all his men were stung with sudden pique + And worked as never a worker worked before; + They decorated madly for a week + And then the last one tottered from the door, + And I was left, still working day and night, + For I have found a way of keeping warm, + And putting paint on everything in sight + Is surely Art's most satisfying form; + I know no joy so simple and so true + As painting the conservatory blue. + + A. P. HERBERT. + May 14, 1919. + + + + + Lines to a Mudlark + + [In memory of the days when Summers were wet.] + + Thrice happy fay, ah, would that men could model + Their lives on thine, most beautiful, most calm, + Melodious songster! List, how, while we swaddle + Our limbs in mackintoshes, thy clear psalm + Rises untroubled. Lo! low thou dost waddle + About in filthy pools and find them balm, + Insatiate of beastliness and muck, + Blithe spirit of our summer, hail, O duck! + + There is no gleam of comfort in the heavens, + Now, while we sit with suppliant hands and groan, + Pavilion-bound the impotent elevens, + The farmer cursing at the tempest's moan, + But thou, O duck, O duck, of Mrs. Evans, + For ever singest in mellifluous tone, + The deluge pouring from thy rain-proof back, + Loud orisons of praise. Thou goest "Quack," + + And once more, "Quack," well knowing to recover + The first fine careless sound, egregious brute, + Out in the orchard yonder, where some lover + Maybe has wandered with goloshless boot + In other years, and plucked from boughs above her + (Matching his lady's cheek) the ripened fruit: + But now in vain they vaunt their crimson front, + One cannot pick them, not without a punt. + + Ah, yes, thou singest on, thy voice assuages + (Or ought to) human plaints about the corn, + Perhaps the self-same voice that in past ages + Cheered the sick heart of HAM some early morn, + As he leaned out and cried, "The flood still rages, + The Ark is tossing in a sea forlorn, + But some live thing is happy; don't condemn + Our Eastern climate, JAPHET! Cheer up, SHEM!" + + But I, when I observe no sunshine dapple + The leaden pall above, the rayless gloom, + And hear thee singing 'neath the pendant apple, + Although I praise thee, duck, I also fume, + I ask for vengeance, for the gods who grapple + With too much fortune, for the hand of doom; + I like to think that thou must end thy joys, + And stop that silly sort of rootling noise. + + I lift my nose to catch the wafted savour + Of incense stealing from the onion-bed, + The perfume of the sage leaf. O, thou laver + In filthiness and slush, I want thee dead-- + No more to gloat upon our grief, nor favour + The air with that wild music, but instead + With vermeil fruit, like those on yonder trees, + Garnished in dissolution. Also peas. + + E. G. V. KNOX. + SEPT. 4, 1912. + + + + + Pagan Fancies + + Blow, Father Triton, blow your wreathéd horn + Cheerily, as is your wont, and let the blast + Circle our island on the breezes born; + Blow, while the shining hours go swiftly past. + Rise, Proteus, from the cool depths rise, and be + A friend to them that breast your ancient sea. + + I shall be there to greet you, for I tire + Of the dull meadows and the crawling stream. + Now with a heart uplifted and a-fire + I come to greet you and to catch the gleam + Of jocund Nereids tossing in the air + The sportive tresses of their amber hair. + + High on a swelling upland I shall stand + Stung by the buffets of the wind-borne spray; + Or join the troops that sport upon the sand, + With shouts and laughter wearing out the day; + Or pace apart and listen to the roar + Of the great waves that beat the crumbling shore. + + Then, when the children all are lapped in sleep + The pretty Nymphlets of the sea shall rise, + And we shall know them as they flit and creep + And peep and glance and murmur lullabies; + While the pale moon comes up beyond the hill, + And Proteus rests and Triton's horn is still. + + R. C. LEHMANN. + Aug. 14, 1912. + + + + + Ballade of August + + Now when the street-pent airs blow stale + A longing stirs us as of yore + To take the old Odyssian trail, + To bend upon the trireme's oar + For isled stream and hill-bound shore; + To lay aside the dirty pen + For summer's blue and golden store + 'Neath other skies, 'mid stranger men! + + Then let the rover's call prevail + That opes for us the enchanted door, + That bids us stretch the silken sail + For bays o'er which the seabirds soar, + And foam-flecked rollers pitch and roar, + Where nymph maybe, and mermaiden, + Come beachward to the moonrise hoar, + 'Neath other skies, 'mid stranger men! + + Blue-eyed Calypsos, Circes pale + (The sage who shuns them I abhor), + These--for a fortnight--shall not fail + To thrill the heart's susceptive core, + To bind us with their ancient lore, + Who rather like to listen when + Sweet-lipp'd the sirens voice their score, + 'Neath other skies, 'mid stranger men! + + ENVOY + + Masters, who seek the minted ore, + It's only August now and then, + Ah, take the Wanderer's way once more, + 'Neath other skies, 'mid stranger men! + + P. R. CHALMERS. + Aug. 23, 1911. + + + + + Farewell to Summer + + Summer, if now at length your time is through, + And, as occurs with lovers, we must part, + My poor return for all the debt, your due, + Is just to say that you may keep my heart; + Still warm with heat-waves rolling up the sky, + Its melting tablets mark in mid-September + Their record of the best three months that I + Ever remember. + + I had almost forgotten how it felt + Not to awake at dawn to sweltering mirth, + And hourly modify my ambient belt + To cope with my emaciated girth; + It seems that always I have had to stay + My forehead's moisture with the frequent mopper, + And found my cheek assume from day to day + A richer copper. + + Strange spells you wrought with your transforming glow! + O London drabness bathed in lucent heat! + O Mansions of the late Queen Anne, and O + Buckingham Palace (also Wimpole Street)! + O laughing skies traditionally sad! + O barometric forecasts never "rainy"! + O balmy days, and nodes, let me add, + _Ambrosianae!_ + + And if your weather brought the strikers out + And turned to desert-brown the verdant plot; + If civic fathers, who are often stout, + Murmured at times, "This is a bit too hot!" + If the slow blood of rural swains has stirred + When stating what their views about the crops is, + Or jammy lips have flung some bitter word + At this year's wopses;-- + + What then? You may have missed the happy mean, + But by excess of virtue's ample store, + Proving your lavish heart was over-keen, + And for that fault I love you yet the more; + Nay, had you been more temperate in your zeal, + I should have lacked the best of all your giving-- + The thirst, the lovely thirst, that made me feel + Life worth the living. + + SIR OWEN SEAMAN. + Sept. 20, 1911. + + + + + A Failure of Sympathy + + When the dead leaves adown the lane are hurried, + And all the dells are bare and bonfires smoke, + The bard (by rights) should be extremely worried, + He ought not to evolve a single joke, + But wander, woods among, a pale down-hearted bloke. + + And I (of old) have felt the chestnuts patter + Like sounds of nails upon my coffin-lid; + My landlady, disturbed about the matter, + Asked if I liked my food; I said I did; + But told her where I ailed, and why Joy's face was hid. + + "The flowers," I said, "are gone; once more Proserpina + Is rapt by Pluto to the iron gates; + Can even hard-boiled eggs prolong the chirp in a + Poetic bosom at such awful dates?" + And she said nothing, but removed the breakfast plates. + + But now (I know not why) I feel quite jolly; + The ways are thick with mire, the woods are sere; + The rain is falling, I have lost my brolly, + Yet still my aptitude for song and cheer + Seems unaffected by the damp. It's deuced queer. + + And when I wander by the leafless spinneys + I notice as a mere phenomenon + The way they've moulted; I would give two guineas + To feel the good old thrill, but ah, it's gone: + I neither weep nor tear my hair; I just move on. + + I quite enjoy my meals (it seems like treason); + Far other was the case in days of yore, + When every mood of mine subserved the season-- + Mirth for the flowery days, and mirth no more + When Summer ended and her garlands choked the floor. + + You bid me take my fill of joy, dear reader, + And hang repining! but I dread my bliss; + If I can prove myself a hearty feeder, + Saying to tea-shop fairs, "Two crumpets, Miss," + What time Demeter's daughter feels that icy kiss, + + Shall I be some day cold to Nature's laughter? + Shall I no longer leap and shout and sing + And shake with vernal odes the echoing rafter, + When at the first warm flush of amorous Spring + The woodlands shine again? That _would_ be sickening. + + E. G. V. KNOX. + Nov. 1, 1911. + + + + + To Santa Claus + + Historic Santa! Seasonable Claus! + Whose bulging sack is pregnant with delight; + Who comest in the middle of the night + To stuff distracting playthings in the maws + Of stockings never built for infant shins, + Suspended from the mantelpiece by pins. + + Thou who on earth was named Nicholas-- + There be dull clods who doubt thy magic power + To tour the sleeping world in half-an-hour, + And pop down all the chimneys as you pass + With woolly lambs and dolls of frabjous size + For grubby hands and wonder-laden eyes. + + Not so thy singer, who believes in thee + Because he has a young and foolish spirit; + Because the simple faith that bards inherit + Of happiness is still the master key, + Opening life's treasure-house to whoso clings + To the dim beauty of imagined things. + + Wherefore, good Kringle, do not pass me by, + Who am too old, alas! for trains and blocks, + But stuff the Love of Beauty in my socks + And Childlike Faith to last me till I die; + And there'll be room, I doubt not, in the toes + For Magic Cap and Spectacles of Rose. + + And not a song of beauty, sung of old, + Or saga of the dead heroic days, + And not a blossom laughing by the ways, + Or wind of April blowing on the wold + But in my heart shall have the power to stir + The shy communion of the worshipper. + + Hark! On the star-bright highways of the sky + Light hoofs beat and the far-off sleigh-bell sounds! + Is it old Santa on his gracious rounds + Or one dead legend drifting sadly by? + Not mine to say. And, though I long to peep, + Santa shall always find me fast asleep. + + C. H. BRETHERTON. + Dec. 26, 1917. + + + + + In Winter + + Boreas blows on his high wood whistle, + Over the coppice and down the lane + Where the goldfinch chirps from the haulm of the thistle + And mangolds gleam in the farmer's wain. + Last year's dead and the new year sleeping + Under its mantle of leaves and snow; + Earth holds beauty fast in her keeping + But Life invincible stirs below. + + Runs the sap in each root and rhizome, + Primrose yellow and snowdrop cold, + Windyflowers when the chiffchaff flies home, + Lenten lilies with crowns of gold. + Soon the woods will be blithe with bracken, + April whisper of lambs at play; + Springs will triumph--and our old black hen + (Thank the Lord!) will begin to lay. + + C. H. BRETHERTON. + Jan. 22, 1919. + + + + +_Sport_ + + + + Huntin' Weather + + There's a dog-fox down in Lannigan's spinney + (And Lannigan's wife has hens to mourn); + The hunters stamp in their stalls and whinny, + Soft with leisure an' fat with corn. + + The colts are pasturin', bold an' lusty, + Sleek they are with their coats aglow, + Ripe to break, but the bits grow rusty + And the saddles sit in a dusty row. + + Old O'Dwyer was here a-Monday + With a few grey gran'fathers out for a field + (Like the ghostly hunt of a dead-an'-done day), + They--an' some lassies that giggled an' squealed. + + The houn's they rioted like the devil + (They ran a hare an' they killed a goose); + I cursed Caubeen, but he looked me level: + "The boys are away--so what's the use?" + + The mists lie clingin' on bog an' heather, + Haws hang red on the silver thorn; + It's huntin' weather, ay, huntin' weather, + But trumpets an' bugles have beat the horn! + + CROSBIE GARSTIN. + Jan. 5, 1916. + + + + + A February Trout-Fancy + + Now are the days ere the crocus + Peeps in the Park, + Ere the first snowdrops invoke us, + Ere the brown lark + Hymns over headland and heather + Spring and her riot of weather, + Days when the East winds are moaning together, + Dreary and dark! + + Still, just at times comes a hint of + Softness that brings, + Spite of the season, a glint of + April's own wings: + Violets hawked on the highway, + West winds a-whoop down a byway, + Silver clouds loose on the blue of their sky-way, + Such are the things! + + Yes, though old Winter o'ertake us + Swiftly again, + These are the portents that make us + Pause by the pane-- + Windows where weavers of tackle + Snare us with shows that unshackle + Dreams, as we gaze upon tinsel and hackle, + Greenheart and cane! + + Visions of bud on the sallow, + Swards in gay gown, + Glimpses of pool and of shallow, + Streams brimming down; + Wail of the wandering plover, + Flute of the thrush in the cover, + Swirl of the pounder that breaks, turning over + At your March Brown! + + Hark to the reel's sudden shrill of + Line that's ripped out, + Feel the rod thrill with the thrill of + Fate still in doubt, + Till, where the shingles are showing, + Yours are the rainbow tints glowing + Crimson and gold on a lusty and knowing + Devonshire trout! + + Such are the fancies they throw us, + Sun and soft air, + Woven at windows that show us, + Lingering there, + Not the mere flies for our buying, + Not only rods for our trying, + But--if we've eyes for it--all the undying + Fun o' Spring Fair! + + P. R. CHALMERS. + Feb. 9, 1910. + + + + + At Putney + + When eight strong fellows are out to row, + With a slip of a lad to guide them, + I warrant they'll make the light ship go, + Though the coach on the launch may chide them, + With his "Six, get on to it! Five, you're late! + Don't hurry the slides, and use your weight! + You're bucketing, Bow; and, as to Four, + The sight of his shoulders makes me sore!" + + But Stroke has steadied his fiery men, + And the lift on the boat gets stronger; + And the Coxswain suddenly shouts for "Ten! + Reach out to it, longer, longer!" + While the wind and the tide raced hand in hand + The swing of the crew and the pace were grand; + But now that the two meet face to face + It's buffet and slam and a tortoise-pace. + + For Hammersmith Bridge has rattled past, + And, oh, but the storm is humming. + The turbulent white steeds gallop fast; + They're tossing their crests and coming. + It's a downright rackety, gusty day, + And the backs of the crew are drenched in spray; + But it's "Swing, boys, swing till you're deaf and blind, + And you'll beat and baffle the raging wind." + + They have slipped through Barnes; they are round the bend; + And the chests of the eight are tightening. + "Now spend your strength, if you've strength to spend, + And away with your hands like lightning! + Well rowed!"--and the coach is forced to cheer-- + "Now stick to it, all, for the post is near!" + And, lo, they stop at the coxswain's call, + With its message of comfort, "Easy all!" + + So here's to the sturdy undismayed + Eight men who are bound together + By the faith of the slide and the flashing blade + And the swing and the level feather; + To the deeds they do and the toil they bear; + To the dauntless mind and the will to dare; + And the joyous spirit that makes them one + Till the last fierce stroke of the race is done. + + R. C. LEHMANN. + March 16, 1910. + + + + + "Gambol" + + I stood among the rapturous kennelled pack, + Rejecting love from many a slobbering jaw, + Caressing many a twisting mottled back + And gripping here and there a friendly paw. + But yet a well-known white-and-liver stern + I sought in vain amid the dappled scramble. + A sudden apprehension made me turn + And say, "Where's Gambol?" + + Gambol--a nailer on a failing scent, + Leading by fifty yards across the plough! + Gambol, who erst would riot and repent, + Who loved to instigate a kennel row! + Who'd often profit by "a private view" + "Huic-ing to him" incarnadined from cover, + And when a "half-cooked hare" sat squatting, who + Through roots would shove her! + + I turned with mute inquiry in my eyes, + Dire rumours of distemper made me dumb, + The kennel huntsman, chary of replies, + Behind his shoulder jerked a horny thumb. + Such silence, though familiar, boded ill; + With doubts and fears increasing every minute, + I paused before a doorway--all was still + As death within it. + + Gambol was stretched upon a truss of hay, + But not the ruthless hound that I had known. + That snarling terrorist of many a fray + Now at my feet lay low, but not alone, + Then rose to greet me--slowly shaking free + Four sleek round shapes that piped a puling twitter-- + And fawned, half shamed, half proud for me to see + Her brand-new litter. + + MISS JESSIE POPE. + March 20, 1912. + + + + + "The Little Foxes" + + This was a wisdom that SOLOMON said + In a garden of citron and roses red, + A word he wove, where his grey apes played, + In the rhyme he strung for love of a maid; + Thus went his learning, most discerning, + Thus he sang of his old designs, + "Take us the foxes--little foxes, + Little dog-foxes that spoil the vines!" + + (Though SOLOMON never since he was born + Had heard the twang of a huntsman's horn, + Killing his foxes, so I'll be bound, + Without the help of a horse or hound, + Still down the ages, this his sage's + Word with gallanter meaning shines, + When we take foxes, little foxes, + Little dog-foxes that spoil the vines!) + + So when the morn hangs misty now + Where the grass shows never a patch of plough, + Hark to the cry on the spruce-crowned hill, + For SOLOMON'S wisdom is working still; + Hark to the singing voices flinging, + White sterns waving among the pines, + All for the foxes--little foxes, + Little dog-foxes that spoil the vines. + + The lift of a cap at the cover side, + A thud of hoofs in a squelchy ride, + And the pack is racing a breast-high scent + Like a shadow cloud o'er a windy bent! + Customer cunning--full of running, + Never a moment the game declines; + Thus are the foxes--little foxes, + Little dog-foxes that spoil the vines. + + So it's afternoon, and eight miles away + That beat, dead-weary and stiff with clay + A tired mask, set for a distant whin, + Is turned on Death with a brigand grin! + There by the paling, wet brush trailing, + Still he bares them his lips' long lines; + So die the foxes--little foxes, + Little dog-foxes that spoil the vines. + + This was the wisdom that SOLOMON made + In a garden of citron and almug shade, + That a man and a horse might find them fun + Wherever the little dog-foxes run, + Since of his meaning we've been gleaning, + Since we've altered his old designs. + All about foxes--little foxes, + Little dog-foxes that spoil the vines! + + P. R. CHALMERS. + April 3, 1912. + + + + + To a Cuckoo, Heard on the Links + + Bohemian spirit! unencumbered by Penates, + And sole performer of the woodland band + Whose contributions I can recognise with great ease, + Let others count you shifting as the sand, + But surely underneath that bosom black-barred + There lurks a sentiment that I (the hack-bard) + Can fully comprehend. So, cuckoo, here's my hand. + + Not for the sake of ease you flit about the copses + And bid your partner to an alien care, + Entrust the incubation of her popsy-wopsies, + Planting the eggy mites at unaware; + But art, the voice of art, is ever calling. + How could CARUSO sing with infants squalling? + To fetter genius is to drive it to despair. + + Should I not turn also my heartstrings to macadam? + I too deposit, whereso'er I could, + A host of unmelodious babies (if I had 'em) + Or in the kindly shelter of some wood + (With robins), or whatever creche was going, + Soon as I felt the inspiration flowing, + The bubbling in my brain-pan? Yes, by Jove, I should. + + 'Tis therefore that I sometimes wonder when I hear you + Fulfil the valley with that vagrant noise, + Now by the holm-oak yonder, now beside this near yew + (Unhampered as you are by household ploys), + Why you have never hit on something neater, + Some outburst less monotonous of metre, + Less easy to be aped by unregenerate boys. + + Is it perhaps that, like that other star, the throstle, + Simply to prove your throat can stand the strain, + You too keep on, the Spring's repetitive apostle, + Piping your pæan till it haunts the brain? + I cannot say. But what I find so sad is + One never knows if you or if the caddies + Are making all that rumpus. There it goes again! + + E. G. V. KNOX. + April 21, 1909. + + + + + The First Game + + There comes a Day (I can hear it coming), + One of those glorious deep-blue days, + When larks are singing and bees are humming, + And Earth gives voice in a thousand ways-- + Then I, my friends, I too shall sing, + And hum a foolish little thing, + And whistle like (but not too like) a blackbird in the Spring. + + There looms a Day (I can feel it looming; + Yes, it will be in a month or less), + When all the flowers in the world are blooming + And Nature flutters her fairest dress-- + Then I, my friends, I too shall wear + A blazer that will make them stare, + And brush--this is official: I shall also brush my hair. + + It is the day that I watch for yearly, + Never before has it come so late; + But now I've only a month--no, merely + A couple of fortnights left to wait; + And then (to make the matter plain) + I hold--at last!--a bat again: + Dear HOBBS! the weeks this summer--think! the _weeks_ + I've lived in vain! + + I see already the first ball twisting + Over the green as I take my stand, + I hear already long-on insisting + It wasn't a chance that came to hand-- + Or no; I see it miss the bat + And strike me on the knee, whereat + Some fool, some silly fool at point, says blandly, "How was that?" + + Then, scouting later, I hold a hot 'un + At deep square-leg from the local FRY, + And at short mid-on to the village SCOTTON + I snap a skimmer some six-foot high-- + Or else, perhaps, I get the ball, + Upon the thumb, or not at all, + Or right into the hands, and then, lorblessme, let it fall. + + But what care I? It's the game that calls me-- + Simply to be on the field of play; + How can it matter what fate befalls me, + With ten good fellows and one good day? ... But still, + I rather hope spectators will, + Observing any lack of skill, + Remark, "This is his first appearance." Yes, I _hope_ they will. + + A. A. MILNE. + July 6, 1910. + + + + + Inland Golf + + I hate the dreadful hollow, in the shade of the little wood, + Its lips in the grass above are bearded with flame-gold whin; + I have tried to forget the past, to play the shot as I should, + But echo there, however I put it, answers me, "In!" + + For there in that ghastly pit long years ago I was found, + Playing the sad three-more, interring the sphere where it fell; + Mangled and flattened and hacked and dinted deep in the ground, + My ball had the look that is joy to the loafer with balls to sell. + + Down at the foot of the cliff, whose shadow makes dusk of the dawn, + Maddened I stood and muttered, making a friend of despair; + Then out I climbed while the wind that had tricked me began to fawn, + Politely removing the sand that had made a mat of my hair. + + Why do they prate of the blessings of golf on an inland course + Where the "pretty" is but the plain, the "rough," prehensile hay, + That yields up the ball (if at all) to a reckless _tour de force_, + And mocks with rippling mirth your search in it day by day. + + And the lost-ball madness flushes up in the 12-man's head, + When the breeze brings down the impatient, contemptuous "Fore!" + Till he gives it up at last and, dropping another instead, + Envies those fortunate folk, the dead, who need golf no more. + + R. K. RISK. + July 12, 1911. + + + + + To an Unknown Deer + + [Somewhere above the head of Loch Fyne.] + + King of the treeless forest, lo, I come! + This is to let you have the welcome news + That you will shortly hear my bullet's hum + Shatter Argyll amid her mountain dews; + Will hear, from hill to hill, its rumour fly + To startle (if the wind be not contrary) + The tripper gathering picture-postcards by + The pier at Inveraray. + + This is your funeral, my friend, not mine, + So play the game, for slackness I abhor; + Give me a broadside target, large and fine, + A hundred paces off--don't make it more; + If in a sitting posture when we meet, + You mustn't think of moving; stay quite steady + Or (better) rise, and standing on your feet + Wait there till I am ready. + + Lurk not in hollows where you can't be found, + Or let the local colour mock my search; + But take the sky-line; choose the sort of ground + That shows you up as obvious as a church; + Don't skulk among your hinds, or use for scouts + The nimble progeny of last year's harem + To bring reports upon my whereabouts + In case I chance to scare 'em. + + If I should perforate you in a place + Not strictly vital, but from that rude shock + Death must ensue, don't run and hide your face, + But let me ease you with another knock; + And if, by inadvertence, I contrive + Initially to miss you altogether, + Stand till I empty out my clip of five, + Or make you bite the heather. + + As for your points, I take a snobbish view: + I dearly love a stag of Royal stuff; + But, if a dozen's more than you can do, + Ten (of the best) will suit me well enough; + As for your weight, I want a bulky beast, + That I may win a certain patron's benison, + Loading his board, to last a week at least, + With whiffy slabs of venison. + + Finally, be a sportsman; try to play + Your part in what should prove a big success; + Let me repeat--don't keep too far away; + My distance is a hundred yards (or less); + So, ere the eager gillies ope your maw, + I'll say, in tones to such occasions proper, + The while I drink your death in usquebagh, + "He is indeed a topper!" + + Nor shall that sentence be your sole reward; + Our mutual prowess in the fatal Glen + Your headpiece, stuffed and mounted, shall record + And be the cynosure of envious men; + And when they see that segment of the bag, + And want the tale again and I must tell it, + I'll say how stoutly, like a well-bred stag, + You stopped the soft-nosed pellet. + + SIR OWEN SEAMAN. + Sept. 14, 1910. + + + + + Medalitis + + In the full height and glory of the year, + When husbandmen are housing golden sheaves, + Before the jealous frost has come to shear + From the bright woodland its reluctant leaves, + I pass within a gateway, where the trees, + Tall, stately, multi-coloured, manifold, + Draw the eye on as to some Chersonese, + Spanning the pathway with their arch of gold. + + A river sings and loiters through the grass, + Girdling a pleasance scythed and trimly shorn; + And here I watch men vanish and repass + To the last hour of eve from early morn; + Dryads peer out at them, and goat-foot Pan + Plays on his pipe to their unheeding ears; + They pass, like pilgrims in a caravan, + Towards some Mecca in the far-off years. + + Blind to the woodland's autumn livery, + Blind to the emerald pathway that they tread, + Deaf to the river's low-pitched lullaby, + Their limbs are quick and yet their souls are dead; + Nothing to them the song of any bird, + For them in vain were horns of Elfland wound, + Blind, deaf and stockfish-mute; for, in a word, + They are engaged upon a Medal Round. + + Making an anxious torment of a game + Whose humours now intrigue them not at all, + They chase the flying wraith of printed fame, + With card and pencil arithmetical; + With features pinched into a painful frown + Looming misfortunes they anticipate, + Or, as the fatal record is set down, + Brood darkly on a detrimental 8. + + These are in thrall to Satan, who devised + Pencil and card to tempt weak men to sin, + Whereby their prowess might be advertised-- + Say, 37 Out and 40 In; + Rarely does any victim break his chains + And from his nape the lethal burden doff-- + The man with medal virus in his veins + Seldom outlives it and gets back to Golf. + + R. K. RISK. + Oct. 2, 1912. + + + + + My First Flight + + Stranded at Brighton and bored to monotony, + Sadly I roamed by the crowd-haunted shore; + Fed up with bathing and boating and botany, + Languidly humming the strains of "Asthore"; + Then, in the offing, descended an aeroplane, + Gaily the pilot came striding my way; + "'Afternoon, Sir!" he exclaimed. "Would you dare a 'plane + Voyage to-day?" + + Turning, I gazed with an eye that was critical + At the contraption of fabric and wires; + Flying's a game which my friends in the City call + Simply gilt-edged--it uplifts and inspires. + Holiday-makers stood by in expectancy, + Cinema merchants rushed up with their reels; + "Go it!" cried somebody; "go an' get wrecked an' see + Just how it feels." + + I who had fought for a seat in an omnibus + Surely could never recoil from a 'plane? + There, newly painted, she stood like a Romney 'bus, + Bidding me soar through the vasty inane. + Breathing a prayer for myself and my Fatherland + Swiftly I scrambled aboard (the First Act); + Upward we soared till I felt I would rather land + Promptly--intact. + + Swift rushed the air and the engine was thunderous, + "Say, shall I stunt you?" the pilot then roared. + Clouds were above us and Brighton was under us; + Peace reigned below--there was Panic on board. + Fiercely pulsated my turbulent heart inside, + Fiercely we skidded and stunted and swayed; + Grimly I crouched in that brute of a Martinsyde-- + Dazed and dismayed. + + Every mad moment seemed in its intensity + More than a cycle of slow-moving years; + Finally I, in a state of dumb density, + Reached _terra firma_ mid hurricane cheers. + Since I've decided that nothing can justify + Passenger flights in a nerve-racking 'plane; + _Others_ may welcome the sport, but I'm cussed if I + Try it again. + + G. R. SAMWAYS. + Aug. 13, 1919. + + + + + On Mixed Shooting + + Let my Bettina take it not amiss + Nor deem that from my side I wish to shove her + If I forego the too, too poignant bliss + Of her adjacence in the hedgerow's cover, + Where I propose to lurk + And do among the driven birds some deadly work. + + Linked in the dance, you cannot be too near, + Nor where the waves permit our joint immersion; + Dinners or theatres yield an added cheer + With you beside me to afford diversion + From thoughts of play or platter, + And not of fundamental things that really matter. + + But here, where my immortal soul, afire + With fervour savouring almost of religion, + Fain would pursue, unvexed, its one desire-- + To down the partridge or the errant pigeon, + What if you stood (or sat) + Close by and asked me if I liked your latest hat? + + I could not bear it; you would sap my nerve; + My hand and eye would cease to work together; + I could not rightly gauge the covey's swerve, + And, swinging round to spray the rearmost feather, + I might mislay my wits + And blow your smart confection into little bits. + + Go rather where he stands, a field away, + Yon youth who likes himself; go there, my Betty, + Beguile his vision; round his trigger lay + "One strangling golden hair" (D. G. ROSSETTI). + That ought to spoil his feats + And keep him fairly quiet in between the beats. + + But later, when the luncheon-hour is come, + Be near me all you will; for then your prattle + Will be most welcome with its pleasant hum + So out of place amid the stress of battle; + Over an Irish stew, + With "Bristol cream" to top it, I am _tout à vous_. + + Not that your virtues have no higher use; + Such gifts would grace the loftiest position; + But where the birds come down wind like the deuce + I mark the limit of your woman's mission; + In other circs, elsewhere, + "A ministering angel thou"; but not just there. + + SIR OWEN SEAMAN. + Oct. 11, 1911. + + + + + Southward + + When against the window-pane tap the fingers of the rain, + An ill rain, a chill rain, dripping from the eaves, + When the farmers haul their logs and the marsh is whisht with fogs, + And the wind sighs like an old man, brushing withered leaves; + When the Summertime is gone and the Winter creeping on, + The doleful Northern winter of snow and sleet and hail, + Then I smell the salty brine and I see you, ship o' mine, + Bowling through the sunshine under all plain sail. + + I can see you, Lady love, the Trade clouds strung above, + White clouds, bright clouds, flocking South with you; + Like snowy lily buds are the flowery foaming suds + That bloom about your forefoot as you tread the meadows blue. + Oh the diamond Southern Cross! Oh the wheeling albatross! + Oh the shoals of silver flying-fish that skim beside the rail! + Though my body's in the North still my heart goes faring forth + Bowling through the sunshine under all plain sail. + + C. H. BRETHERTON. + Dec. 6, 1916. + + + + + The Last Cock-Pheasant + + Splendour, whom lately on your glowing flight + Athwart the chill and cheerless winter-skies + I marked and welcomed with a futile right, + And then a futile left, and strained my eyes + To see you so magnificently large, + Sinking to rest beyond the fir-wood's marge-- + + Not mine, not mine the fault; despise me not + In that I missed you; for the sun was down, + And the dim light was all against the shot; + And I had booked a bet of half-a-crown. + My deadly fire is apt to be upset + By many causes--always by a bet. + + Or had I overdone it with the sloes, + Snared by their home-picked brand of ardent gin + Designed to warm a shivering sportsman's toes + And light a fire his reckless head within? + Or did my silly loader put me off + With aimless chatter with regard to golf? + + You too, I think, displayed a lack of nerve; + You did not quite--now did you?--play the game; + For when you saw me you were seen to swerve, + Doubtless in order to disturb my aim. + No, no, you must not ask me to forgive + A swerve because you basely planned to live. + + At any rate, I missed you, and you went, + The last day's absolutely final bird, + Scathless, and left me very ill content; + And someone (was it I?) pronounced a word, + A word which rather forcible than nice is, + A little word which does not rhyme with Isis. + + Farewell! I may behold you once again + When next November's gales have stripped the leaf. + Then, while your upward flight you grandly strain, + May I be there to add you to my sheaf; + And may they praise your tallness, saying "This + Was such a bird as men are proud to miss!" + + R. C. LEHMANN. + Jan. 25, 1911. + + + + + Labuntur Anni + + [To a Chital Head on the Wall of a London Club.] + + Light in the East, the dawn wind singing, + Solemn and grey and chill, + Rose in the sky, with Orion swinging + Down to the distant hill; + The grass dew-pearled and the _mohwa_ shaking + Her scented petals across the track, + And the herd astir to the new day breaking-- + Gods! How it all comes back. + + So it was, and on such a morning + Somebody's bullet sped, + And you, as you called to the herd a warning, + Dropped in the grasses dead; + And some stout hunter's heart was brimming + For joy that the gods of sport were good-- + With a lump in his throat and his eyes a-dimming, + As the eyes of sportsmen should;-- + + As mine have done in the springtime running, + As mine in the halcyon days + Ere trigger-finger had lapsed from cunning + Or foot from the forest ways, + When I'd wake with the stars and the sunrise meeting + In the dewy fragrance of myrrh and musk, + Peacock and spurfowl sounding a greeting + And the jungle mine till dusk. + + You take me back to the valleys of laughter, + The hills that hunters love, + The sudden rain and the sunshine after, + The cloud and the blue above, + The morning mist and creatures crying, + The beat in the drowsy afternoon, + Clear-washed eve with the sunset dying, + Night and the hunter's moon. + + Not till all trees and jungles perish + Shall we go back that way + To those dear hills that the hunters cherish, + Where the hearts of the hunters stay; + So you dream on of the ancient glories, + Of water-meadows and hinds and stags, + While I and my like tell old, old stories... + Ah! but it drags--it drags. + + C. HILTON BROWN. + April 14, 1920. + + + + +_School_ + + + + "Commem." + + Fair ladies, why don't you direct us + What hour you are coming from Town + In the toilets that ravage the masculine pectus, + The bonnets that knock a man down? + Silky and summery flounces and flummery, + Gossamer muslins and lawns, + With the spring in your air and a rose in your hair + And a step that is light as a fawn's? + + Our Fellows, both clergy and laity, + Leaving their sheltering oaks, + In a rapture of light irresponsible gaiety + Burst into flannels and jokes; + The Dean is canoeing, the Bursar is wooing, + The Junior Proctor you'll find + In a sumptuous punt with a damsel in front + And a Bull-dog to push from behind. + + Ah, moist are our meadows, but moister + My lip at the thought of it all! + Soft ripple of dresses that flow in the cloister, + Girl laughter that rings on the wall! + But avaunt, trepidation! it's time for the station; + I'm glad that my trousers are pressed; + For I think you'll arrive by the 4.45, + And I want to be looking my best. + + G. W. ARMITAGE. + June 28, 1911. + + + + + A Ramshackle Room + + When the gusts are at play with the trees on the lawn, + And the lights are put out in the vault of the night; + When within all is snug, for the curtains are drawn, + And the fire is aglow and the lamps are alight, + Sometimes, as I muse, from the place where I am + My thoughts fly away to a room near the Cam. + + 'Tis a ramshackle room, where a man might complain + Of a slope in the ceiling, a rise in the floor; + With a view on a court and a glimpse on a lane, + And no end of cool wind through the chinks of the door; + With a deep-seated chair that I love to recall, + And some groups of young oarsmen in shorts on the wall. + + There's a fat jolly jar of tobacco, some pipes-- + A meerschaum, a briar, a cherry, a clay-- + There's a three-handled cup fit for Audit or Swipes + When the breakfast is done and the plates cleared away. + There's a litter of papers, of books a scratch lot, + Such as _Plato_, and _Dickens_, and _Liddell_ and _Scott_. + + And a crone in a bonnet that's more like a rag + From a mist of remembrance steps suddenly out; + And her funny old tongue never ceases to wag + As she tidies the room where she bustles about; + For a man may be strong and a man may be young, + But he can't put a drag on a Bedmaker's tongue. + + And, oh, there's a youngster who sits at his ease + In the hope, which is vain, that the tongue may run down, + With his feet on the grate and a book on his knees, + And his cheeks they are smooth and his hair it is brown. + Then I sigh myself back to the place where I am + From that ramshackle room near the banks of the Cam. + + R. C. LEHMANN. + Feb. 9, 1910. + + + + + Cambridge in Kharki + + [Impressions of an absent Alumnus.] + + Since 1642, when CROMWELL (late + Of Sidney Sussex), constitution-wrecker, + Sat on the Cam to keep the college plate + From drifting into CHARLES'S low exchequer, + No shattering battle-blast has shocked the walls + Of these enchanted halls. + + But now their hoary shrines and hallowed shade + Provide the billets for a camp's headquarters; + An army, bedded out on King's Parade, + Usurps the wonted haunt of gowns and mortars, + Even adopts--a wanton thing to do-- + The blessed name of "Blue"! + + The paths where pensive scholars paced at ease + Ring to the hustling clank of spurs and sabres; + The ploughshare, forged for pale examinees, + Forgets its usual academic labours + And, commandeered for ends unknown before, + Turns to a tool of war. + + The buttery becomes a mere canteen; + Upon the dais whence the Johnian fellow + Pities the undergraduate's rude cuisine + (His own condition verging on the mellow), + Foreign attachés eat the local swans + Bred for the use of dons. + + I see the grass of many an ancient court + All divots where the cavalry has pawed it; + I see the thirsty aides-de-camp resort + There where the Trinity fountain runs with audit; + I see the Reverend MONTAGU, Chief BUTLER, + Acting as army sutler! + + Those swards that grace his own familiar quad, + Where only angels (looking in from Ely), + Angels and dons alone, till now have trod-- + There I remark the War-Lord, Colonel SEELY, + Brazenly tramping, under martial law, + Dead to a sense of awe. + + Where mid her storied reeds old Granta flows + Profane vedettes discuss the morrow's mêlée; + On Parker's sacred Piece the troopers dose, + And, when the sudden bugle sounds reveille, + Feed their indifferent chargers on the dews + Ambrosial of the Muse. + + And what is this strange object like a whale + In Jesus Close? None ever thought to meet a + Monster like that, on such a bulgy scale + (Not though it bore the classic sign of "Beta"), + Lashed for the night in yon Elysian lair-- + Not there, my child, not there. + + The peaceful pedant by his well-trimmed lamp, + Dimly aware of this adjacent bogie, + Protests against the horrors of a camp + And _Cur_, he asks, _cur cedunt armis togae_? + And the same thought is echoed on the lips + Of bedders and of gyps. + + O Cambridge, home of Culture's pure delights, + My fostering Mother, what a desecration! + Yet England chose you (out of several sites) + To be her bulwark and to save the nation; + Compared with this proud triumph you have won, + Pray, what has Oxford done? + + SIR OWEN SEAMAN. + Sept. 25, 1912. + + + + + Oxford Revisited + + Last week, a prey to military duty, + I turned my lagging footsteps to the West; + I have a natural taste for scenic beauty, + And all my pent emotions may be guessed + To find myself again + At Didcot, loathliest junction of the plain. + + But all things come unto the patient waiter, + "Behold!" I cried, "in yon contiguous blue + Beetle the antique spires of Alma Mater + Almost exactly as they used to do + In 1898, + When I became an undergraduate. + + "O joys whereto I went as to a bridal, + With Youth's fair aureole clustering on a brow + That no amount of culture (herpecidal) + Will coax the semblance of a crop from now, + Once more I make ye mine; + There is a train that leaves at half-past nine. + + "In a rude land where life among the boys is + One long glad round of cards and coffin juice, + And any sort of intellectual poise is + The constant butt of well-expressed abuse, + And it is no disgrace + To put a table-knife inside one's face, + + "I have remembered picnics on the Isis, + Bonfires and bumps and BOFFIN'S cakes and tea, + Nor ever dreamed a European crisis + Would make a British soldier out of me-- + The mute inglorious kind + That push the beastly war on from behind. + + "But here I am" (I mused) "and quad and cloister + Are beckoning to me with the old allure; + The lovely world of Youth shall be mine oyster + Which I for one-and-ninepence can secure, + Reaching on Memory's wing + Parnassus' groves and Wisdom's fabled spring." + + But oh, the facts! How doomed to disillusion + The dreams that cheat the mind's responsive eye! + Where are the undergrads in gay profusion + Whose waistcoats made melodious the High, + All the _jeunesse dorée_ + That shed the glamour of an elder day? + + Can this be Oxford? And is that my college + That vomits khaki through its sacred gate? + Are those the schools where once I aired my knowledge + Where nurses pass and ambulances wait? + Ah! sick ones, pale of face, + I too have suffered tortures in that place! + + In Tom his quad the Bloods no longer flourish; + Balliol is bare of all but mild Hindoos; + The stalwart oars that Isis used to nourish + Are in the trenches giving Fritz the Blues, + And many a stout D.D. + Is digging trenches with the V.T.C. + + Why press the search when every hallowed close is + Cluttered with youthful soldiers forming fours; + While the drum stutters and the bugler blows his + Loud summons, and the hoarse bull-sergeant roars, + While almost out of view + The thrumming biplane cleaves the astonished blue? + + It is a sight to stir the pulse of poet, + These splendid youths with zeal and courage fired. + But as for Private Me, M.A.--why, blow it! + The very sight of soldiers makes me tired; + Learning--detached, apart-- + I sought, not War's reverberating art. + + Vain search! But see! One ancient institution + Still doing business at the same old stand; + 'Tis Messrs. Barclay's Bank, or I'm a Proossian, + That erst dispensed my slender cash-in-hand; + I'll borrow of their pelf + And buy some War Loan to console myself. + + C. H. BRETHERTON. + Feb. 21, 1917. + + + + + Breaking-Up Song + + Now, when the ties that lightly bind us + Slacken awhile at the call of Home, + Leaving our latter-day science behind us, + Leaving the love of ancient Rome-- + Ere we depart to enjoy for a season + Freedom from regular work and rules, + Come let us all in rhyme and reason + Honour the best of schools. + + Here's to our Founder, whose ancient bounty + Freely bestowed with a pious care, + Fostered the youth of his native county, + Gave us a name we are proud to bear. + Here's to his followers, wise gift-makers, + Friends who helped when our numbers were few, + Widened our walls and enlarged our acres, + Stablished the school anew. + + Here's to our Head, in whom all centres, + Ruling his realm with a kindly sway; + Here's to the Masters, our guides and mentors, + Helpers in work and comrades in play; + Here's to the Old Boys, working their way up + Out in the world on the ladder of Fame; + Here's to the New Boys, learning to play up, + Ay, and to play the game. + + Time will bring us our seasons of trial, + Seasons of joy when our ship arrives, + Yet, whatever be writ on the dial, + Now is the golden hour of our lives; + Now is the feast spread fair before us-- + None but slackers or knaves or fools + Ever shall fail to swell the chorus, + "Here's to the best of schools." + + C. L. GRAVES and E. V. LUCAS. + March 13, 1912. + + + + +_Metropolis_ + + + + The Ideal Home + +[With apologies to the progressive organisers of a certain Exhibition +at Olympia.] + + "Before the thing ends," I observed to my Lilian, + "Let's hasten and see if it's true + That the Fortunate Isles and the Vale of Avilion + Are dumped at Olympia. Do." + And Lilian said, "Thos, + Happy thought!" and it was; + But that very same day it occurred to a million + Intelligent Londoners too. + + There were hangings and curtains and carpets and ranges + For kitchens, and cauldrons and pots, + And vacuum-cleaners and servant-exchanges, + And toys for the infantile tots. + There were homes of the Russ + Which would not do for us; + There was furniture taken from futurist granges + At Hanwell and similar spots. + + There were baths with gold taps and a malachite stopper, + And one with a card that explained + It was open to all who expended a copper + To fill it and try it. But, trained + As we were in the rules + Of Victorian schools, + Neither Lilian nor I thought that that would be proper, + And so we severely refrained. + + There were rooms which suggested the time when the slattern + Should trouble no longer, and all + Should be comfort and peace in the empire of Saturn, + But oh, it was hot in that hall! + And "Lilian," said I, + "I could drop. Let us buy + That brace of armchairs of a willowy pattern, + And rest by the side of this stall." + + But Lilian said "No." The implacable faces + Of constables frowned. With a sob + We turned us away from that palmy oasis + And went and had tea for a bob. + That was helpful, no doubt, + But before we got out + Through the ranks of the ravenous, squealing for places, + We all but expired in the mob. + + "This is closer," said Lil, "than the bell of a diver." + "It's awful," I answered, "my sweet; + Any room in this show would be dear at a fiver, + Compared with our worst. Let us fleet." + So I hastened to nab + A well-oiled taxicab, + And "The Ideal Home," I remarked to the driver, + And mentioned our number and street. + + E. G. V. KNOX. + October 29, 1913. + + + + + Ghosts of Paper + + Should you go down Ludgate Hill, + As I'm sure you sometimes will, + When the dark comes soft and new, + Smudged and smooth and powder-blue, + And the lights on either hand + Run away to reach the Strand; + And the winter rains that stream + Make the pavements glance and gleam; + There you'll see the wet roofs rise + Packed against the lamp-lit skies, + And at once you shall look down + Into an enchanted town. + Jewelled Fleet Street, golden gay, + Sloughs the drab of work-a-day, + Conjuring before you then + All her ghosts of ink and pen, + Striking from her magic mint + Places you have loved in print, + From the fairy towns and streets + Raised by Djinn and fierce Afreets, + To the columned brass that shone + On the gates of Babylon; + You shall wander, mazed, amid + Pylon, palm, and pyramid; + You shall see, where taxis throng, + River lamps of old Hong Kong; + See the ramparts standing tall + Of the wondrous Tartar Wall; + See, despite of rain and wind, + Marble towns of rosy Ind, + And the domes and palaces + Crowning Tripolis and Fez; + While, where buses churn and splash, + There's the ripple of a sash, + Silken maid and paper fan + And the peach-bloom of Japan; + But, the finest thing of all, + You shall ride a charger tall + Into huddled towns that haunt + Picture-books of old Romaunt, + Where go squire and knight and saint, + Heavy limned in golden paint; + You shall ride above the crowd + On a courser pacing proud, + In fit panoply and meet + Through be-cobbled square and street, + Where with bays and gestures bland + Little brown-faced angels stand! + + * * * * + + These are some of things you'll view + When the night is blurred and blue, + If you look down Ludgate Hill, + As I'm sure you often will! + + P. R. CHALMERS. + Jan. 4, 1911. + + + + + The Desert Optimist + + An exile, I would fain forget + That circumstance hath put me down + Quite close to places like Tibet, + But very far from London town. + + And though the outlook's rather drear + I sometimes fancy I detect + A sort of Cockney atmosphere, + A Metropolitan effect. + + Behind my chair in solemn state + The bearer and khansama stand, + Swart replicas of those who wait + In Piccadilly or the Strand. + + My punkah brings a grateful wind + To cheeks climatically brown'd, + A fitful gust that calls to mind + The draughts about the Underground. + + And though they spoil my morning rest + I like to lie awake and hark + To parrakeets whose notes suggest + Their captive kin in Regent's Park. + + About my house the pigeons roost, + They perch upon the compound walls, + Own brothers to the friends who used + To flap me greeting from St. Paul's. + + In yellow waves the dawn-mist drives + Across the paddy-field and jogs + The memory of one who strives + To reconstruct his London fogs. + + And when I hear a bullock-cart + Go rumbling 'neath its harvest truss + The echo wakens in my heart + The music of the omnibus. + + And thus it is I've learned to find + A remedy for things that irk; + My desert fades and with a kind + Of cinematographic jerk-- + + "Urbs errat ante oculos;" + Then, Fortune, send me where you list, + I care not, London holds me close, + An exile, yet an optimist. + + J. M. SYMNS. + Aug. 2, 1911. + + + + + To a Bank of England Pigeon + + Descendant of the doves of Aphrodite + Who fluttered in that type of beauty's train + And followed her affairs--the grave, the flighty, + Cooing in just your calm, uncaring strain, + Whether she thought to rid her of a rival, + Or bring some laggard lover to her knees;-- + I see you, Sir, the latter-day survival + Of such fair plumed satellites as these! + + "Bred in the bone," perchance you know the motto! + And so you doubtless dream of tides that lace + O'er snow-white sand by some blue Paphian grotto, + Or of your sires' dark, murmurous, woodland Thrace; + A penny whistle shrilling 'mid the traffic + May seem the goat-foot god's own oaten trill, + Till you shall think to hear the Maenads maffic + In the upborne commotion of Cornhill! + + And from your perch where sooty winds are striving, + O Bank Stock-dove, as o'er Hymettian bloom + You yet may watch the busy bees a-hiving + The sweet and subtle fragrance of the Boom, + And see, as once before the Cyprian matron, + The crowds that wait, obsequious and discreet, + On her, your passionless and newer patron, + The stern Old Lady of Threadneedle Street! + + P. R. CHALMERS. + May 11, 1910. + + + + + Left Smiling + + It is the joyful time when out of town + (For me a large red letter checks it) + To sea and loch, to dale and windy down + The public makes its annual exit, + Deeming that they are dotty in the mind + Who choose to stay behind. + + "Exodus" is the tag the papers use, + A Scriptural term from ancient Jewry, + But I shall always steadily refuse + To do like PHARAOH in his fury + And fling my horse and chariot on their track + To fetch the people back. + + Poor crowded souls, who think that when they fare + Forth to the briny, there to wallow, + They leave in London's every street and square + An aching void, a yawning hollow. + "Town," they observe, "is empty!" It is not: + I still am on the spot. + + They picture Beauty vanished from the Park, + Clubland a waste for flies to buzz in, + The Halls of Song and high Cinema dark, + And here and there a country cousin + Sharing with vagrant cat and mongrel dawg + The putrid dust of Aug. + + These are their views who shun the quiet shade + And go _en masse_ in search of glamour, + Wash in the same sea, walk the same parade, + Fill the same solitude with clamour, + And on the same rock, in a fist like Fame's, + Knife their confounded names. + + So let them trip it where their neighbours press + With loud excursion and alarum, + And leave me London in her Summer dress + Exquisite as the lily (_arum_) + And fragrant with the absence, all too short, + Of the more stuffy sort. + + For then, when all the obvious people flit, + The town unlocks her rarer treasures; + More freely, with companions few but fit, + I taste the less obtrusive pleasures + With which the Choicer Spirits keep in touch + (As Editors and such). + + Dearer I find than any change of scene + The charm of old familiar places, + When the dull obstacle that stood between + Fades and reveals their hidden graces. + London with half her Londoners removed + Is very much improved. + + _Enfin, j'y reste_. And, if some folk regard + My conduct as a thing of beauty, + Saying, "He stops in town, this virtuous bard, + Because he loves the way of Duty," + Why, let them talk; I shall not take the trouble + To prick this wanton bubble. + + SIR OWEN SEAMAN. + July 31, 1912. + + + + + The Sitting Bard + +[Lines addressed to one of those officials who charge you a copper +for your seat in St. James's Park.] + + Fellow, you have no _flair_ for art, I fear, + Who thus confound me with the idle Many-- + The loafer pensive o'er his betting rag, + The messenger (express) with reeking fag, + The nursemaid sighing for her bombardier-- + All charged the same pew-rate, a common penny. + + I am an artist; I am not as these; + He does me horrid despite who confuses + My taste with theirs who come this way to chuck + Light provender to some exotic duck, + Whereas I sit beneath these secular trees + In close collaboration with the Muses. + + To me St. James's Park is holy ground; + In fancy I regard these glades as Helicon's; + This lake (although an artificial pond) + To Hippocrene should roughly correspond; + Others, not I, shall make its shores resound, + Bandying chaff with yonder jaunty pelicans. + + All this escaped you, lacking minstrel lore. + 'Tis so with poets: men are blind and miss us; + You did not mark my eye's exultant mood, + The inflated chest, the listening attitude, + Nor, bent above the mere, the look I wore + When lost in self-reflection--like Narcissus. + + Else you could scarce have charged me for my seat; + I must have earned an honorary session; + For how could I have strained your solid chair, + I that am all pure spirit, fine as air, + And sit as light as when with wingéd feet + Mercury settles, leaving no impression? + + Well, take your paltry penny, trivial dun! + And bid your chair-contractors freely wallow + In luxury therewith; but, when you find + Another in this hallowed seat reclined, + Squeeze him for tuppence, saying, "_Here sat one + On June the fifth and parleyed with Apollo_." + + SIR OWEN SEAMAN. + June 11, 1913. + + + + + Nursery Rhymes of London Town + + KINGSWAY + + Walking on the King's Way, lady, my lady, + Walking on the King's Way, will you go in red? + With a silken wimple, and a ruby on your finger, + And a furry mantle trailing where you tread? + Neither red nor ruby I'll wear upon the King's Way; + I will go in duffle grey with nothing on my head. + + Walking on the King's Way, lady, my lady, + Walking on the King's Way, will you go in blue? + With an ermine border, and a plume of peacock feathers, + And a silver circlet, and a sapphire on your shoe? + Neither blue nor sapphire I'll wear upon the King's Way; + I will go in duffle grey, and barefoot too. + + Walking on the King's Way, lady, my lady, + Walking on the King's Way, will you go in green? + With a golden girdle, and a pointed velvet slipper, + And a crown of emeralds fit for a queen? + Neither green nor emerald I'll wear upon the King's Way; + I will go in duffle grey so lovely to be seen, + And Somebody will kiss me and call me his queen. + + March 2, 1916. + + + + HAYMARKET + + I went up to the Hay-market upon a summer day, + I went up to the Hay-market to sell a load of hay-- + To sell a load of hay and a little bit over, + And I sold it all to a pretty girl for a nosegay of red clover. + + A nosegay of red clover and a hollow golden straw; + Now wasn't that a bargain, the best you ever saw? + I whistled on my straw in the market-place all day, + And the London folk came flocking for to foot it in the hay. + + + + THE ANGEL + + The Angel flew down + One morning to town, + But didn't know where to rest; + For they shut her out of the East End + And they shut her out of the West. + + The Angel went on + To Islington, + And there the people were kinder. + If ever you go to Islington + That's where you will find her. + + MISS E. FARJEON. + June 4, 1916. + + + + + The Booklover + + By Charing Cross in London Town + There runs a road of high renown, + Where antique books are ranged on shelves + As dark and dusty as themselves. + + And many booklovers have spent + Their substance there with great content, + And vexed their wives and filled their homes + With faded prints and massive tomes. + + And ere I sailed to fight in France + There did I often woo Romance, + Searching for jewels in the dross, + Along the road to Charing Cross. + + But booksellers and men of taste + Have fled the towns the Hun laid waste, + And within Ypres Cathedral square + I sought but found no bookshops there. + + What little hope have books to dwell + 'Twixt Flemish mud and German shell? + Yet have I still upon my back, + Hid safely in my haversack, + + A tattered Horace, printed fine + (Anchor and Fish, the printer's sign), + Of sage advice, of classic wit; + Much wisdom have I gained from it. + + And should I suffer sad mischance + When Summer brings the Great Advance, + I pray no cultured Bosch may bag + My Aldus print to swell his swag. + + Yet would I rather ask of Fate + So to consider my estate, + That I may live to loiter down + By Charing Cross in London Town. + + NORMAN DAVEY. + June 21, 1916. + + + + + The Lanes leading down to the Thames + + There are beautiful lanes leading down to the Thames + By the meadows all studded with buttercup gems, + Where the thrush and the blackbird and cuckoo all day + Waft their songs on the incense of roses and may. + + But the lanes here in London, near warehouse and mart, + Are as winding and steep and as dear to my heart; + Their mansions all mildewed in tenderest tones, + With priceless old doorways by INIGO JONES. + + Though the roadway is rough and the cobbles are hard, + There are plane-trees in leaf in St. Dunstan's churchyard, + And the twittering sparrows their parliament keep + In the peaceful demesne where the citizens sleep. + + Oh! the sights and the sounds of those wonderful lanes, + The tramp of the horses, the creak of the cranes, + Men fresh from the perils that lurk in the seas, + The balm of the Indies that spices the breeze. + + Crude critics find fault with the fish-porters' yells, + The strength of the briny and orangey smells, + But they're part of the charm of the lanes I hold dear, + "Harp," "Pudding" and "Idol," "Love," "Water" and "Beer." + + R. H. ROBERTS. + July 12, 1916. + + + + + To a Dear Departed + +["Georgina," the largest of the giant tortoises at the Zoo, has died. +She was believed to be about two hundred and fifty years old.] + + Winds blow cold and the rain, Georgina, + Beats and gurgles on roof and pane; + Over the Gardens that once were green a + Shadow stoops and is gone again; + Only a sob in the wild swine's squeal + Only the bark of the plunging seal, + Only the laugh of the striped hyæna + Muffled with poignant pain. + + Long ago, in the mad glad May days, + Woo'd I one who was with us still; + Bade him wake to the world's blithe heydays, + Leap in joyance and eat his fill; + Sang I, sweet as the bright-billed ousel, a + Pæan of praise for thy pal, Methuselah. + Ah! he too in the Winter's grey days + Died of the usual chill. + + He was old when the Reaper beckoned, + Ripe for the paying of Nature's debt; + Forty score--if he'd lived a second-- + Years had flown, but he lingered yet; + But you had gladdened this vale of tears + For a bare two hundred and fifty years; + You, Georgina, we always reckoned + One of the younger set. + + Winter's cold and the influenza + Wreaked and ravaged the ranks among; + Bills that babbled a gay cadenza, + Snouts that snuffled and claws that clung-- + Now they whistle and root and run + In Happy Valleys beyond the sun; + Never back to the ponds and pens a + Sigh of regret is flung. + + Flaming parrots and pink flamingoes, + Birds of Paradise, frail as fair; + Monkeys talking a hundred lingoes, + Ring-tailed lemur and Polar bear-- + Somehow our grief was not profound + When they passed to the Happy Hunting Ground; + Deer and ducks and yellow dog dingoes + Croaked, but we did not care. + + But you--ah, you were our pride, our treasure, + Care-free child of a kingly race. + Undemonstrative? Yes, in a measure, + But every movement replete with grace. + Whiles we mocked at the monkeys' tricks + Or pored apart on the apteryx; + These could yield but a passing pleasure; + Yours was the primal place. + + How our little ones' hearts would flutter + When your intelligent eye peeped out, + Saying as plainly as words could utter, + "Hurry up with that Brussels-sprout!" + How we chortled with simple joy + When you bit that impudent errand-boy; + "That'll teach him," we heard you mutter, + "Whether I've got the gout." + + Fairest, rarest in all the Zoo, you + Bound us tight in affection's bond; + Now you're gone from the friends that knew you, + Wails the whaup in the Waders' Pond; + Wails the whaup and the seamews keen a + Song of sorrow; but you, Georgina, + Frisk for ever where warm winds woo you, + There, in the Great Beyond. + + C. H. BRETHERTON. + Feb. 19, 1919. + + + + +"_Dulce Domum_" + + + + By the Roman Road + + The wind it sang in the pine-tops, it sang like a humming harp; + The smell of the sun on the bracken was wonderful sweet and sharp, + As sharp as the piney needles, as sweet as the gods were good, + For the wind it sung of the old gods, as I came through the wood! + It sung how long ago the Romans made a road, + And the gods came up from Italy and found them an abode. + + It sang of the wayside altars (the pine-tops sighed like the surf), + Of little shrines uplifted, of stone and scented turf, + Of youths divine and immortal, of maids as white as the snow + That glimmered among the thickets a mort of years ago! + All in the cool of dawn, all in the twilight grey, + The gods came up from Italy along the Roman way! + + The altar smoke it has drifted and faded afar on the hill; + No wood-nymphs haunt the hollows; the reedy pipes are still; + No more the youth Apollo shall walk in his sunshine clear; + No more the maid Diana shall follow the fallow-deer + (The woodmen grew so wise, the woodmen grew so old, + The gods went back to Italy--or so the story's told!) + + But the woods are full of voices and of shy and secret things-- + The badger down by the brook-side, the flick of a woodcock's wings, + The plump of a falling fir-cone, the pop of the sun-ripe pods, + And the wind that sings in the pine-tops the song of the ancient gods-- + The song of the wind that says the Romans made a road, + And the gods came up from Italy and found them an abode! + + P. R. CHALMERS. + July 31, 1912. + + + + + Little Cow Hay + + Stephen Culpepper + Of Little Cow Hay + Farmed four hundred acres-- + As Audit-book say; + An' he rode on a flea-bitten + Fiddle-faced grey; + + There's the house--in the hollow, + With gable an' eave, + But they've altered it so + That you wouldn't believe;-- + Wouldn't know the old place + If he saw it--old Steve; + + His dads an' his gran'dads + Had lived there before;-- + Born, married an' died there-- + At least half a score; + Big men the Culpeppers-- + As high as the door! + + His wife was a Makepeace-- + An' none likelier, + For she'd five hundred pounds + When he married o' her; + An' a grey eye as kindly + As grey lavender; + + He'd sweetest o' roses, + He'd soundest o' wheat; + Six sons--an' a daughter + To make 'em complete, + An' he always said Grace + When they sat down to meat! + + He'd the Blessin' o' Heaven + On barnyard an' byre, + For he made the best prices + Of all in the shire; + An' he always shook hands + With the Parson an' Squire! + + An' whether his markets + Had downs or had ups, + He walked 'em three couple + O' blue-mottle pups-- + As clumsy as ducklings-- + As crazy as tups! + + But that must be nigh + Sixty seasons away, + When things was all diff'rent + D'ye see--an' to-day + There ain't no Culpeppers + At Little Cow Hay! + + P. R. CHALMERS. + Oct. 8, 1913. + + + + + On Simon's Stack + + Hill shepherds, hard north-country men, + Bring down the baa'ing blackface droves + To market or to shearing-pen + From the high places and the groves-- + High places of the fox and gled, + Groves of the stone-pine on the scree, + Lone sanctuaries where we have said, + "The gods have been; the gods may be!" + + 'Mid conifer and fern and whin + I sat; the turf was warm and dry; + A sailing speck, the peregrine + Wheeled in the waste of azure sky; + The blue-grey clouds of pinewoods clung, + Their vanguard climbed the heathery steep; + A terrier with lolling tongue + Blinked in my shadow, half asleep. + + The Legion's Way shone far beneath; + A javelin white as Adria's foam, + It gleamed across dark leagues of heath + To Rome, to everlasting Rome; + Likewise from Rome to Simon's Stack + (That's logical, at least), and so + It may have brought a Huntress back + On trails She followed long ago! + + I watched my drifting smoke-wreaths rise, + And pictured Pagans plumed and tense + Who climbed the hill to sacrifice + To great Diana's excellence; + And--"Just the sort of church for me," + I said, and heard a fir-cone fall; + The puppy bristled at my knee-- + And that was absolutely all. + + A queer thing is a clump of fir; + But, if it's old and on a hill, + Free to that ancient trafficker, + The wind, it's ten times queerer still; + Sometimes it's filled with bag-pipe skirls, + Anon with heathen whispering; + Just then it seemed alive with girls + Who laughed, and let a bowstring sing! + + Yes, funny things your firwoods do: + They fill with elemental sounds; + Hence, one has fancied feet that flew + And the high whimpering of hounds; + A wind from down the corrie's cup-- + "Only the wind," said I to Tramp; + He heard--stern down and hackles up, + I--with a forehead strangely damp. + + * * * * + + Wind? or the Woodland Chastity + Passing, as once, upon Her way, + That left a little dog and me + Confounded in the light of day? + A rabbit hopped across the track; + The pup pursued with shrill ki-yi; + I asked him which, when he came back; + He couldn't tell--no more can I. + + P. R. CHALMERS. + Sept. 24, 1913. + + + + + For Dartymoor + + Now I be man ov Dartymoor, + Grim Dartymoor, grey Dartymoor; + I come vrom wur there hain't no war, + An' Tavy be a-voaming; + I'd pigs an' sheep _an'_ lass--Aw my! + The beyootifullest maid 'er be! + An' one vine day 'er comes to I, + An' zays--"My Jan," 'er zays,--"lukee! + To France yu must be roaming! + Vur Devon needs her sons again; + Her du be rousing moor an' fen; + An' yu must fight wi' Devon men + Vur Dartymoor, your Dartymoor!" + + I zays, zays I, "Leave Dartymoor? + Grim Dartymoor, grey Dartymoor? + Dear life," I zays, "_whatever vor,_ + While Tavy be a-voaming? + While pigs be pigs, an' 'earts be true; + An' market prices purty vair; + Why should 'un go an' _parley-voo_?" + 'Er zays, "'Cuz yu be waanted there! + Thet's why yu must be roaming! + Vur Devon needs her sons again; + Her du be rousing moor an' fen; + An' yu must fight wi' Devon men + Vur Dartymoor; my Dartymoor! + + "Ef yu woan't fight vur Dartymoor, + Grim Dartymoor, grey Dartymoor, + Things shall be as they wur avore + Us courted in the gloaming!" + 'Er zays an' left me arl alone, + A-thinking over what 'er zaid, + Till arl was plain as Dewar Stone-- + I zays to Dad, "Mind pigs is fed, + While I be gone a-roaming! + Vur Devon needs her sons again; + Her du be rousing moor an' fen; + An' I must fight wi' Devon men + Vur Dartymoor, our Dartymoor!" + + DUDLEY CLARK. + May 5, 1915. + + + + + The Golden Valley + + [Herefordshire.] + + Abbeydore, Abbeydore, + Land of apples and of gold, + Where the lavish field-gods pour + Song and cider manifold; + Gilded land of wheat and rye, + Land where laden branches cry, + "Apples for the young and old + Ripe at Abbeydore!" + + Abbeydore, Abbeydore, + Where the shallow river spins + Elfin spells for evermore, + Where the mellow kilderkins + Hoard the winking apple-juice + For the laughing reapers' use; + All the joy of life begins + There at Abbeydore. + + Abbeydore, Abbeydore, + In whose lap of wonder teems + Largess from a wizard store, + World of idle, crooning streams-- + From a stricken land of pain + May I win to you again, + Garden of the God of Dreams, + Golden Abbeydore. + + PERCY HAZELDEN. + Feb. 9, 1916. + + + + + Devon Men + + From Bideford to Appledore the meadows lie aglow + With kingcup and buttercup that flout the summer snow; + And crooked-back and silver-head shall mow the grass to-day, + And lasses turn and toss it till it ripen into hay; + For gone are all the careless youth did reap the land of yore, + The lithe men and long men, + The brown men and strong men, + The men that hie from Bideford and ruddy Appledore. + + From Bideford and Appledore they swept the sea of old + With cross-bow and falconet to tap the Spaniard's gold; + They sped away with dauntless DRAKE to traffic on the Main, + To trick the drowsy galleon and loot the treasure train; + For fearless were the gallant hands that pulled the sweeping oar, + The strong men, the free men, + The bold men, the seamen, + The men that sailed from Bideford and ruddy Appledore. + + From Bideford and Appledore in craft of subtle grey + Are strong hearts and steady hearts to keep the sea to-day; + So well may fare the garden where the cider-apples bloom + And Summer weaves her colour-threads upon a golden loom; + For ready are the tawny hands that guard the Devon shore, + The cool men, the bluff men, + The keen men, the tough men, + The men that hie from Bideford and ruddy Appledore! + + PERCY HAZELDEN. + July 7, 1915. + + + + + Southampton + + The sky is grey and the clouds are weeping; + Winter wails in the wind again; + Night with her eyes bedimmed comes creeping; + The sea is hidden in dusk and rain. + + This is the gate of the path that leads us + Whither our duty the goal has set; + This is the way Old England speeds us-- + Darkness, dreariness, wind and wet! + + This is the gate where battle sends us, + Gaunt and broken, in pain and pride; + This is the welcome Home extends us-- + Weeping rain on the cold grey tide. + + Would we have balmy sunshine glowing + Over the blue from the blue above? + Rather the rain and the night wind blowing, + Rather the way of the land we love! + + W. K. HOLMES. + Dec. 22, 1915. + + + + + Cottage Garden Prayer + + Little garden gods, + You of good bestowing, + You of kindly showing + Mid the potting and the pods, + Watchers of geranium beds, + Pinks and stocks and suchlike orders, + Rose, and sleepy poppy-heads,-- + Bless us in our borders, + Little garden gods! + + Little garden gods, + Bless the time of sowing, + Watering and growing; + Lastly, when our sunflower nods, + And our rambler's red array + Waits the honey-bee her labours, + Bless our garden that it may + Beat our next-door neighbour's, + Little garden gods! + + P. R. CHALMERS. + May 8, 1912. + + + + + The Devil in Devon + + The Devil walked about the land + And softly laughed behind his hand + To see how well men worked his will + And helped his darling projects still, + The while contentedly they said: + "There is no Devil; he is dead." + + But when by chance one day in Spring + Through Devon he went wandering + And for an idle moment stood + Upon the edge of Daccombe wood, + Where bluebells almost hid the green, + With the last primroses between, + He bit his lip and turned away + And could do no more work that day. + + MISS ROSE FYLEMAN. + May 26, 1920. + + + + + Dulce Domum + + The air is full of rain and sleet, + A dingy fog obscures the street; + I watch the pane and wonder will + The sun be shining on Boar's Hill, + Rekindling on his western course + The dying splendour of the gorse + And kissing hands in joyous mood + To primroses in Bagley Wood. + I wish that when old Phœbus drops + Behind yon hedgehog-haunted copse + And high and bright the Northern Crown + Is standing over White Horse Down + I could be sitting by the fire + In that my Land of Heart's Desire-- + A fire of fir-cones and a log + And at my feet a fubsy dog + In Robinwood! In Robinwood! + I think the angels, if they could, + Would trade their harps for railway tickets + Or hang their crowns upon the thickets + And walk the highways of the world + Through eves of gold and dawns empearled, + Could they be sure the road led on + Twixt Oxford spires and Abingdon + To where above twin valleys stands + Boar's Hill, the best of promised lands; + That at the journey's end there stood + A heaven on earth like Robinwood. + + Heigho! The sleet still whips the pane + And I must turn to work again + Where the brown stout of Erin hums + Through Dublin's aromatic slums + And Sinn Fein youths with shifty faces + Hold "Parliaments" in public places + And, heaping curse on mountainous curse + In unintelligible Erse, + Harass with threats of war and arson + Base Briton and still baser CARSON. + But some day when the powers that be + Demobilise the likes of me + (Some seven years hence, as I infer, + My actual exit will occur) + Swift o'er the Irish Sea I'll fly, + Yea, though each wave be mountains high, + Nor pause till I descend to grab + Oxford's surviving taxicab. + Then "Home!" (Ah, HOME! my heart be still!) + I'll say, and, when we reach Boar's Hill, + I'll fill my lungs with heaven's own air + And pay the cabman twice his fare, + Then, looking far and looking nigh, + Bare-headed and with hand on high, + "Hear ye," I'll cry, "the vow I make, + Familiar sprites of byre and brake, + _J'y suis, j'y reste_. Let Bolshevicks + Sweep from the Volga to the Styx; + Let internecine carnage vex + The gathering hosts of Poles and Czechs, + And Jugo-Slavs and Tyrolese + Impair the swart Italian's ease-- + Me for Boar's Hill! These war-worn ears + Are deaf to cries for volunteers; + No Samuel Browne or British warm + Shall drape this svelte Apolline form + Till over Cumnor's outraged top + The actual shells begin to drop; + Till below Youlberry's stately pines + Echo the whiskered Bolshy's lines + And General TROTSKY'S baggage blocks + The snug bar-parlour of 'The Fox.'" + + C. H. BRETHERTON. + Feb. 5, 1919. + + + + + The Seats of the Mighty + + I think there can be nothing much more fair + Than owning some large mansion in the shires, + And living almost permanently there, + In constant touch with animals and squires; + Yet there is joy in peering through the gates + Or squinting from the summit of a wall + At other people's beautiful estates, + Wondering what they have to pay in rates + And coveting it all. + + Yes, it is sweet to circle with one's spouse + Some antique Court, constructed by QUEEN ANNE, + Complete with oaks and tennis-courts and cows, + And many a nice respectful serving-man, + With dogs and donkeys and perhaps a swan, + And lovely ladies having _such_ a time, + And garden-parties always going on, + And ruins where the guide-book says KING JOHN + Did nearly every crime. + + Yes, it is sweet; but what I want to know + Is why one has to prowl about outside; + Surely the Earl of Bodleton and Bow, + Surely Sir Egbert and his lovely bride + Should wait all eager in the entrance-way + To ask us in and take us through the grounds, + And give one food and worry one to stay, + Instead of simply keeping one at bay + With six or seven hounds. + + Surely they realise one wants to see + The mullioned windows in the South-West wing, + The private trout-stream and the banyan-tree, + The lilac bedroom where they lodged the King; + Surely they know how Bolshevist we feel + Outside, where shrubberies obstruct the view, + Particularly as they scarce conceal + The Earl and household at a hearty meal + Under the old, old yew. + + I do not grudge the owner of The Chase; + I do not loathe the tenant of The Lea; + I only want to walk about his place + And just imagine it belongs to me; + That is the kind of democratic sport + For keeping crime and Bolshevism low; + I don't imagine that the fiercest sort + Feel quite so anarchist at Hampton Court, + Where anyone may go. + + But I dare say that many a man must take + Long looks of wonderment at Number Nine, + Laburnum Avenue, and vainly ache + To go inside a dwelling so divine; + And if indeed some Marquis knocks one day + And says, "I'm tired of standing in the street; + I want to see your mansion, if I may," + I shall receive him in the nicest way + And show him round my "seat." + + A. P. HERBERT. + Oct. 15, 1919. + + + + +"_Nimphidia_" + + + + Blue Roses + + Shepherd in delicate Dresden china, + Loitering ever the while you twine a + Garland of oddly azure roses, + All for a shepherdess passing fair; + Poor little shepherdess waiting there + All the time for your china posies, + Posies pale for her jet-black hair! + + Doesn't she wait (oh the anxious glances!) + Flowers for one of your stately dances, + A crown to finish a dainty toilette, + (Haven't the harps just now begun, + Minuets 'neath a china sun?)-- + Doesn't she dread that the dust may soil it, + When, oh _when_ will the boy be done? + + Summer and winter and still you linger, + Laggard lover with lazy finger, + Never your little maid's wreath completing, + Still half-strung are its petalled showers; + Must she wait all her dancing hours, + Wait in spite of her shy entreating, + Wait for ever her azure flowers? + + P. R. CHALMERS. + Aug. 30, 1911. + + + + + A House in a Wood + + So 'tis your will to have a cell, + My Betsey, of your own and dwell + Here where the sun for ever shines + That glances off the holly spines-- + A clearing where the trunks are few, + Here shall be built a house for you, + The little walls of beechen stakes + Wattled with twigs from hazel brakes, + Tiled with white oak-chips that lie round + The fallen giants on the ground; + Under your little feet shall be + A ground-work of wild strawberry + With gadding stem, a pleasant wort + Alike for carpet and dessert. + Here, Betsey, in the lucid shade + Come, let us twine a green stockade + With slender saplings all about, + And a small window to look out, + So that you may be "Not at Home" + If any mortal callers come. + Then shall arrive to make you mirth + The four wise peoples of the earth: + The thrifty ants who run around + To fill their store-rooms underground; + The rabbit-folk, a feeble race, + From out their rocky sleeping-place; + The grasshoppers who have no king, + Yet come in companies to sing; + The lizard slim who shyly stands + Swaying upon his slender hands-- + I'll give them all your new address. + For me, my little anchoress, + I'll never stir the bracken by + Your house; the brown wood butterfly, + Passing you like the sunshine's fleck + That gilds the nape of your warm neck, + Shall still report me how you do + And bring me all the news of you, + And tell me (where I sit alone) + How gay you are, and how you're grown + A fox-glove's span in the soft weather. + + * * * * + + No? Then we'll wander home together. + + MRS. HELEN PARRY EDEN. + July 24, 1912. + + + + + A Song of Syrinx + + Little lady, whom 'tis said + Pan tried very hard to please, + I expect before you fled + 'Neath the wondering willow-trees, + Ran away from his caress + In the Doric wilderness, + That you'd led him on a lot, + Said you would, and then would not,-- + No way that to treat a man, + Little lady loved of Pan! + + I expect you'd dropped your eyes + (Eyes that held your stream's own hue, + Kingfishers and dragon-flies + Sparkling in their ripple blue), + And you'd tossed your tresses up, + Yellow as the cool king-cup, + And you'd dimpled at his vows + Underneath the willow boughs, + Ere you mocked him, ere you ran, + Little lady loved of Pan! + + So they've turned you to a reed, + As the great Olympians could, + You've to bow, so they've decreed, + When old Pan comes through the wood, + You've to curtsey and to gleam + In the wind and in the stream + (Which are forms, I've heard folks say, + That the god adopts to-day), + And we watch you bear your ban, + Little lady loved of Pan! + + For in pleasant spots you lie + Where the lazy river is, + Where the chasing whispers fly + Through the beds of bulrushes, + Where the big chub, golden dun, + Turns his sides to catch the sun, + Where one listens for the queer + Voices in the splashing weir, + Where I know that still you can + Weave a spell to charm a man, + Little lady loved of Pan! + + P. R. CHALMERS. + Sept. 13, 1911. + + + + + Honey Meadow + + Here, Betsey, where the sainfoin blows + Pink and the grass more thickly grows, + Where small brown bees are winging + To clamber up the stooping flowers, + We'll share the sweet and sunny hours + Made murmurous with their singing. + + Dear, it requires no small address + In such a billowy floweriness + For you, so young, to sally; + Yet would you still out-stay the sun + And linger when his light was done + Along the haunted valley. + + O small brown fingers, clutched to seize + The biggest blooms, don't spill the bees; + Imagine what contempt he + Would meet who ventured to arrive + Home, of an evening, at the hive + With both his pockets empty! + + Moreover, if you steal their share, + The bees become too poor to spare + Their sweets nor part with any + Honey at tea-time; so for you + What were for them a cell too few + Would be a sell too many! + + Or, what were worse for you and me, + They might admire the industry + So thoughtlessly paraded, + And, tired of their brown queen, maintain + That no one needed Betsey-Jane + As urgently as they did. + + So would you taste in some far clime + The plunder of eternal thyme + And you would quite forget us, + Our cottage and these English trees, + When you were Queen of Honey Bees + At Hybla or Hymettus. + + MRS. HELEN PARRY EDEN. + Sept. 18, 1912. + + + + + A Dream + + And at night we'd find a town, + Flat-roofed, by a star-strewn sea, + Where the pirate crew came down + To a long-forgotten quay, + And we'd meet them in the gloaming, + Tarry pigtails, back from roaming, + With a pot of pirate ginger for the likes of her and me! + + She was small and rather pale, + Grey-eyed, grey as smoke that weaves, + And we'd watch them stowing sail, + Forty most attractive thieves; + Propped against the porphyry column, + She was seven, sweet and solemn, + And she'd hair blue-black as swallows when they flit + beneath the eaves. + + On the moonlit sands and bare, + Clamorous, jewelled in the dusk, + There would be an Eastern Fair, + We could smell the mules and musk, + We could see the cressets flaring, + And we'd run to buy a fairing + Where a black man blew a fanfare on a carven ivory tusk; + + And we'd stop before the stall + Of a grave green-turbaned khan, + Gem or flower--he kept them all-- + Persian cat or yataghan, + And I'd pay a golden guinea + And she'd fill her holland pinny + With white kittens and red roses and blue stones + from Turkestan! + + * * * * + + London streets have flowers anew, + London shops with gems are set; + When you've none to give them to, + What is pearl or violet? + Vain things both and emptinesses, + So they wait a dream-Princess's + Coming, if she's sweet and solemn with grey eyes + and hair of jet! + + P. R. CHALMERS. + Jan. 24, 1912. + + + + + A Vagrant + + The humble bee + No skep has he, + No twisted, straw-thatched dome, + A ferny crest + Provides his nest, + The mowing-grass his home. + + The crook-beaked shrike + His back may spike + And pierce him with a thorn; + The humble bee + A tramp is he + And there is none to mourn. + + O'er bank and brook, + In wooded nook, + He wanders at his whim, + Lives as he can, + Owes naught to man, + And man owes naught to him. + + No hive receives + The sweets he gives, + No flowers for him are sown, + Yet wild and gay + He hums his way, + A nomad on his own. + + MISS JESSIE POPE. + May 20, 1914. + + + + + "Treasure Island" + + A lover breeze to the roses pleaded, + Failed and faltered, took heart and advanced; + Up over the peaches, unimpeded, + A great Red Admiral ducked and danced; + But the boy with the book saw not, nor heeded, + Reading entranced--entranced! + + He read, nor knew that the fat bees bumbled; + He woke no whit to the tea-bell's touch, + The browny pigeons that wheeled and tumbled, + (For how should a pirate reck of such?). + He read, and the flaming flower-beds crumbled, + At tap of the sea-cook's crutch! + + And lo, there leapt for him dolphins running + The peacock seas of the buccaneer, + Lone, savage reefs where the seals lay sunning, + The curve of canvas, the creak of gear; + For ever the Master's wondrous cunning + Lent him of wizard lear! + + * * * * + + But lost are the garden days of leisure, + Lost with their wide-eyed ten-year-old, + Yet if you'd move to a bygone measure, + Or shape your heart to an ancient mould, + Maroons and schooners and buried treasure + Wrought on a page of gold,-- + + Then take the book in the dingy binding, + Still the magic comes, bearded, great, + And swaggering files of sea-thieves winding + Back, with their ruffling cut-throat gait, + Reclaim an hour when we first went finding + Pieces of Eight--of Eight. + + P. R. CHALMERS. + July 5, 1911. + + + + + Bazar + + Dive in from the sunlight, smiting like a falchion, + Underneath the awnings to the sudden shade, + Saunter through the packed lane, many-voiced, colourful, + Rippling with the currents of the South and Eastern trade. + + Here are Persian carpets, ivory and peach-bloom, + Tints to fill the heart of any child of man, + Here are copper rose-bowls, leopard-skins, emeralds, + Scarlet slippers curly-toed and beads from Kordofan. + + Water-sellers pass with brazen saucers tinkling; + Hajjis in the doorways tell their amber beads; + Buy a lump of turquoise, a scimitar, a neckerchief + Worked with rose and saffron for a lovely lady's needs. + + Here we pass the goldsmiths, copper, brass and silver-smiths, + All a-clang and jingle, all a-glint and gleam; + Here the silken webs hang, shimmering, delicate, + Soft-hued as an afterglow and melting as a dream. + + Buy a little blue god brandishing a sceptre, + Buy a dove with coral feet and pearly breast, + Buy some ostrich feathers, silver shawls, perfume jars, + Buy a stick of incense for the shrine that you love best. + + MISS MACKELLAR. + July 23, 1913. + + + + + A Fairy went A-Marketing + + A fairy went a-marketing-- + She bought a little fish; + She put it in a crystal bowl + Upon a golden dish; + All day she sat in wonderment + And watched its silver gleam. + And then she gently took it up + And slipped it in a stream. + + A fairy went a-marketing-- + She bought a coloured bird; + It sang the sweetest, shrillest song + That ever she had heard; + She sat beside its painted cage + And listened half the day, + And then she opened wide the door + And let it fly away. + + A fairy went a-marketing-- + She bought a winter gown + All stitched about with gossamer + And lined with thistledown; + She wore it all the afternoon + With prancing and delight, + Then gave it to a little frog + To keep him warm at night. + + A fairy went a-marketing-- + She bought a gentle mouse + To take her tiny messages, + To keep her tiny house; + All day she kept its busy feet + Pit-patting to and fro, + And then she kissed its silken ears, + Thanked it, and let it go. + + MISS ROSE FYLEMAN. + Jan. 2, 1918. + + + + + Fairies in the Malverns + + As I walked over Hollybush Hill + The sun was low and the winds were still, + And never a whispering branch I heard + Nor ever the tiniest call of a bird. + + And when I came to the topmost height + Oh, but I saw such a wonderful sight, + All about on the hill-crest there + The fairies danced in the golden air. + + Danced and frolicked with never a sound + In and out in a magical round; + Wide and wider the circle grew + Then suddenly melted into the blue. + + * * * * + + As I walked down into Eastnor Vale + The stars already were twinkling pale, + And over the spaces of dew-white grass + I saw a marvellous pageant pass. + + Tiny riders on tiny steeds + Decked with blossoms and armed with reeds, + With gossamer banners floating far + And a radiant queen in an ivory car. + + The beeches spread their petticoats wide + And curtseyed low upon either side; + The rabbits scurried across the glade + To peep at the glittering cavalcade. + + Far and farther I saw them go + And vanish into the woods below; + Then over the shadowy woodland ways + I wandered home in a sweet amaze. + + * * * * + + But Malvern people need fear no ill + Since fairies bide in their country still. + + MISS ROSE FYLEMAN. + Aug. 28, 1918. + + + + + Fairy Music + + When the fiddlers play their tunes you may sometimes hear, + Very softly chiming in, magically clear, + Magically high and sweet, the tiny crystal notes + Of fairy voices bubbling free from tiny fairy throats. + + When the birds at break of day chant their morning prayers + Or on sunny afternoons pipe ecstatic airs, + Comes an added rush of sound to the silver din-- + Songs of fairy troubadours gaily joining in. + + When athwart the drowsy fields summer twilight falls, + Through the tranquil air there float elfin madrigals; + And in wild November nights, on the winds astride, + Fairy hosts go rushing by, singing as they ride. + + Every dream that mortals dream, sleeping or awake, + Every lovely fragile hope--these the fairies take, + Delicately fashion them and give them back again + In tender limpid melodies that charm the hearts of men. + + MISS ROSE FYLEMAN. + Sept. 18, 1918. + + + + + Sometimes + + Some days are fairy days. The minute that you wake + You have a magic feeling that you never could mistake; + You may not see the fairies, but you know they're all about, + And any single minute they might all come popping out; + You want to laugh, you want to sing, you want to dance and run, + Everything is different, everything is fun; + The sky is full of fairy clouds, the streets are fairy ways-- + _Anything_ might happen on truly fairy days. + + Some nights are fairy nights. Before you go to bed + You hear their darling music go chiming in your head; + You look into the garden and through the misty grey, + You see the trees all waiting in a breathless kind of way. + All the stars are smiling; they know that very soon + The fairies will come singing from the land behind the moon. + If only you could keep awake when Nurse puts out the light... + _Anything_ might happen on a truly fairy night. + + MISS ROSE FYLEMAN. + June 16, 1920. + + + + + The Wild Swan + +[Lament on a very rare bird who recently appeared in England, and was +immediately shot.] + + Over the sea (ye maids) a wild swan came; + (O maidens) it was but the other day; + Men saw him as he passed with earnest aim + To some sequestered spot down Norfolk way-- + A thing whose like had not been seen for years: + _Lament, ye damsels, nor refuse your tears._ + + Serene, he winged his alabaster flight + Neath the full beams of the mistaken sun + O'er gazing crowds, till at th' unwonted sight + Some unexpected sportsman with a gun + Brought down the bird, all fluff, mid sounding cheers: + _Mourn, maidens, mourn, and wipe the thoughtful tears._ + + Well you may weep. No common bird was he. + Has it not long been known, the whole world wide, + A wild swan is a prince of faerie, + Who comes in such disguise to choose his bride + From those of humble lot and tame careers, + _Of whom I now require some punctual tears._ + + Wherefore, I say, let every scullion-wench + Grieve, nor the dairy-maid from sobs refrain; + The sad postmistress, too, should feel the wrench, + And the lone tweeny of her loss complain; + Let one--let all afflict the listening spheres: + _Deplore, ye maids, his fate with rueful tears._ + + It was for these he sought this teeming land, + High on the silvery wings of old romance; + One knows not where he had bestowed his hand, + But e'en the least had stood an equal chance + Of such fair triumph o'er her bitter peers + _And the sweet pleasure of their anguished tears._ + + O prince of faerie! O stately swan! + And ye, whose hopes are with the might-have-beens, + Curst be the wretch through whom those hopes have gone, + Who blew your magic swain to smithereens; + Let your full sorrows whelm his stricken ears; + _Lament, ye damsels, nor refuse your tears._ + + CAPT. KENDALL. + March 18, 1914. + + + + + The Strange Servant + + Tall she is, and straight and slender, + With soft hair beneath a cap + Pent and pinned; within her lap + Weep her lily hands, for work too tender. + + She's a fairy, through transgression + Doomed to doff her webby smock, + Doomed to rise at six o'clock, + Doomed to bear a mistress's repression. + + Once she romped in fairy revels + Down the dim moon-dappled glades, + Rode on thrilling honey-raids, + Danced the glow-lamps out on lawny levels. + + Ere her trouble she was tiny: + 'Tis her doom to be so tall; + Thus her hair no more will fall + To her feet, all shimmering and sunshiny. + + O her eyes--like pools at twilight, + Mournful, whence pale radiance peers! + O her voice, that throbs with tears + In the attic 'neath the staring skylight! + + Daylong does she household labour, + Lights the fires and scrubs the floors, + Washes up and answers doors, + Ushers in the dread suburban neighbour. + + Then at night she seeks her attic, + Parts her clothes with those pale hands, + Slips at last her shift, and stands + Moon-caressed, most yearningly ecstatic, + + Arms out pleads her condonation-- + Hapless one! she gains no grace; + They whom fairy laws abase + Serve the utter term of tribulation. + + Yet (though far her happy wood is) + Oft her folk fly in at night, + Pour sweet pity on her plight, + Comfort her with gossipry and goodies. + + W. W. BLAIR FISH. + Oct. 1, 1916. + + + + + To an Egyptian Boy + + Child of the gorgeous East, whose ardent suns + Have kissed thy velvet skin to deeper lustre + And given thine almond eyes + A look more calm and wise + Than any we pale Westerners can muster, + Alas! my mean intelligence affords + No clue to grasp the meaning of the words + Which vehemently from thy larynx leap. + How is it that the liquid language runs? + "_Nai--soring--trîf--erwonbi--aster---ferish--îp._" + + E'en so, methinks, did CLEOPATRA woo + Her vanquished victor, couched on scented roses + And PHARAOH from his throne + With more imperious tone + Addressed in some such terms rebellious Moses; + And esoteric priests in Theban shrines, + Their ritual conned from hieroglyphic signs, + Thus muttered incantations dark and deep + To Isis and Osiris, Thoth and Shu: + "_Nai--soring--trîf--erwonbi--aster---ferish--îp._" + + In all my youthful studies why was this + Left out? What tutor shall I blame my folly on? + From Sekhet-Hetepu + Return to mortal view, + O shade of BRUGSCH or MARIETTE or CHAMPOLLION; + Expound the message latent in his speech + Or send a clearer medium, I beseech; + For lo! I listen till I almost weep + For anguish at the priceless gems I miss: + "_Nai--soring--trîf--erwonbi--aster--ferish--îp._" + + To sundry greenish orbs arranged on trays-- + Unripe, unluscious fruit--he draws attention. + My mind, till now so dark, + Receives a sudden spark + That glows and flames to perfect comprehension; + And I, whom no Rosetta Stone assists, + Become the peer of Egyptologists, + From whom exotic tongues no secrets keep; + For this is what the alien blighter says: + "Nice orang'; three for one piastre; very cheap." + + H. W. BERRY. + Jan. 8, 1919. + + + + +_In Memoriam_ + + + + In Memoriam + + Algernon Charles Swinburne + + BORN 1837. DIED APRIL 10, 1909. + + What of the night? For now his day is done, + And he, the herald of the red sunrise, + Leaves us in shadow even as when the sun + Sinks from the sombre skies. + + High peer of SHELLEY, with the chosen few + He shared the secrets of Apollo's lyre, + Nor less from Dionysian altars drew + The god's authentic fire. + + Last of our land's great singers, dowered at birth + With music's passion, swift and sweet and strong, + Who taught in heavenly numbers, new to earth, + The wizardry of song-- + + His spirit, fashioned after Freedom's mould, + Impatient of the bonds that mortals bear, + Achieves a franchise large and uncontrolled, + Rapt through the void of air. + + "What of the night?" For him no night can be; + The night is ours, left songless and forlorn; + Yet o'er the darkness, where he wanders free, + Behold, a star is born! + + SIR OWEN SEAMAN. + APRIL 21, 1909. + + + + + In Memoriam + + George Meredith, O.M. + + BORN 1828. DIED MAY 18, 1909 + + Masked in the beauty of the May-dawn's birth, + Death came and kissed the brow still nobly fair, + And hushed that heart of youth for which the earth + Still kept its morning air. + + Long time initiate in her lovely lore, + Now is he one with Nature's woods and streams + Whereof, a Paradisal robe, he wore + The visionary gleams. + + Among her solitudes he moved apart; + The mystery of her clouds and star-sown skies, + Touched by the fusing magic of his art, + Shone clear for other eyes. + + When from his lips immortal music broke, + It was the myriad voice of vale and hill; + "The lark ascending" poured a song that woke + An echo sweeter still. + + Yet most we mourn his loss as one who gave + The gift of laughter and the boon of tears, + Interpreter of life, its gay and grave, + Its human hopes and fears. + + Seer of the soul of things, inspired to know + Man's heart and woman's, over all he threw + The spell of fancy's iridescent glow, + The sheen of sunlit dew. + + And of the fellowship of that great Age + For whose return our eyes have waited long, + None left so rich a twofold heritage + Of high romance and song. + + We knew him, fronted like the Olympian gods, + Large in his loyalty to land and friend, + Fearless to fight alone with Fortune's odds, + Fearless to face the end. + + And he is dead. And at the parting sign + We speak, too late, the love he little guessed, + And bid him in the nation's heart for shrine + Take his eternal rest. + + SIR OWEN SEAMAN. + May 26, 1909. + + + + + In Memoriam + + William Booth + + FOUNDER AND COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE + SALVATION ARMY. + + BORN 1829. DIED AUGUST 20, 1912. + + As theirs, the warrior knights of Christian fame, + Who for the Faith led on the battle line, + Who stormed the breach and swept through blood and flame + Under the Cross for sign, + + Such was his life's crusade; and, as their death + Inspired in men a purpose pure of taint-- + In some great cause to give their latest breath-- + So died this soldier-saint. + + Nay, his the nobler warfare, since his hands + Set free the thralls of misery and her brood-- + Hunger and haunting shame and sin that brands-- + And gave them hope renewed. + + Bruised souls, and bodies broken by despair, + He healed their heartache and their wounds he dressed, + And drew them, so redeemed, his task to share, + Sworn to the same high quest. + + Armed with the Spirit's wisdom for his sword, + His feet with tidings of salvation shod, + He knew no foes save only such as warred + Against the peace of God. + + Scorned or acclaimed, he kept his harness bright, + Still, through the darkest hour, untaught to yield + And at the last, his face toward the light, + Fell on the victor's field. + + No laurelled blazon rests above his bier, + Yet a great people bows its stricken head + Where he who fought without reproach or fear, + Soldier of Christ, lies dead. + + SIR OWEN SEAMAN. + Aug. 28, 1912. + + + + +_The War_ + + + + Wireless + + There sits a little demon + Above the Admiralty, + To take the news of seamen + Seafaring on the sea; + So all the folk aboard-ships + Five hundred miles away + Can pitch it to their Lordships + At any time of day. + + The cruisers prowl observant; + Their crackling whispers go; + The demon says, "Your servant," + And lets their Lordships know; + A fog's come down off Flanders? + A something showed off Wick? + The captains and commanders + Can speak their Lordships quick. + + The demon sits a-waking; + Look up above Whitehall-- + E'en now, mayhap, he's taking + The Greatest Word of all; + From smiling folk aboard-ships + He ticks it off the reel:-- + "An' may it please your Lordships: + A Fleet's put out o' Kiel!" + + P. R. CHALMERS. + Nov. 11, 1914. + + + + + Guns of Verdun + + Guns of Verdun point to Metz + From the plated parapets; + Guns of Metz grin back again + O'er the fields of fair Lorraine. + + Guns of Metz are long and grey + Growling through a summer day; + Guns of Verdun, grey and long, + Boom an echo of their song. + + Guns of Metz to Verdun roar, + "Sisters, you shall foot the score"; + Guns of Verdun say to Metz, + "Fear not, for we pay our debts." + + Guns of Metz they grumble, "When?" + Guns of Verdun answer then, + "Sisters, when to guard Lorraine + Gunners lay you East again!" + + P. R. CHALMERS. + Sept. 2, 1914. + + + + + The Woods of France + + MIDSUMMER 1915. + + Not this year will the hamadryads sing + The old-time songs of Arcady that ran + Down the Lycæan glades; the joyous ring + Of satyr dancers call away their clan; + Not this year follow on the ripened Spring + The Summer pipes of Pan. + + Cometh a time--as times have come before-- + When the loud legions rushing in array, + The flying bullet and the cannon roar, + Scatter the Forest Folk in pale dismay + To hie them far from their green dancing floor, + And wait a happier day. + + Yet think not that your Forest Folk are dead; + To this old haunt, when friend has vanquished foe, + They will return anon with lightsome tread + And labour that this place they love and know, + All broken now and bruised, may raise its head + And still in beauty grow. + + Wherefore they wait the coming of good time + In the green English woods down Henley way, + In meadows where the tall cathedrals chime, + Or watching from the white St. Margaret's Bay, + Or North among the heather hills that climb + Above the Tweed and Tay. + + And you, our fighters in the woods of France, + Take heart and smite their enemy, the Hun, + Who knows not Arcady, by whom the dance + Of fauns is scattered, at whose deeds the sun + Hides in despair; strike boldly and perchance + The work will soon be done. + + To you, so fighting, messengers will bring + The comfort of quiet places; in the din + Of battle you shall hear the murmuring + Of the home winds and waters; there will win + Through to your hearts the word, "Still Pan is king; + His Midsummer is in." + + C. HILTON BROWN. + June 23, 1915. + + + + + Summer and Sorrow + + Brier rose and woodbine flaunting by the wayside, + Field afoam with ox-eyes, crowfoot's flaming gold, + Poppies in the corn-rig, broom on every braeside, + Once again 'tis summer as in years of old-- + Only in my bosom lags the winter's cold. + + All among the woodland hyacinths are gleaming; + O the blue of heaven glinting through the trees! + Lapped in noonday languor Nature lies a-dreaming, + Lulled to rest by droning clover-haunting bees. + (Deeper dreams my dear love, slain beyond the seas.) + + Lost against the sunlight happy larks are singing, + Lowly list their loved ones nestled in the plain; + Bright about my pathway butterflies are winging, + Fair and fleet as moments mourned for now in vain-- + In my eyes the shadow, at my heart the pain. + + A. B. GILLESPIE. + July 28, 1915. + + + + + Defaulters + + For an extra drink + Defaulters we, + We cuts the lawn in front of the Mess; + We're shoved in clink, + Ten days C.B., + And rolls the lawn in front of the Mess. + + We picks up weeds + And 'umps the coal; + We trims the lawn in front of the Mess; + We're plantin' seeds, + The roads we roll, + Likewise the lawn in front of the Mess. + + The Officers they + Are sloshin' balls + On the lawn we've marked in front of the Mess; + And every day + Our names they call + To rake the lawn in front of the Mess. + + And once a while + They 'as a "do" + On the lawn in front of the Officers' Mess. + Ain't 'arf some style, + Band playin' too, + On our bloomin' lawn in front of the Mess. + + They dances about + And digs their 'eels + In our lawn in front of the Officers' Mess; + There ain't no doubt + As 'ow we feels + For the lawn in front of the Officers' Mess. + + The turf's gone west, + And so you see + There ain't much lawn in front of the Mess. + We does our best, + Gets more C.B., + And mends the lawn in front of the Mess. + + The C.O., who + Sez 'e can see + We loves the lawn in front of the Mess + 'E knows this too-- + Without C.B. + There'd be no lawn in front of the Mess. + + C. T. PEZARE. + Aug. 11, 1915. + + + + + A Canadian to His Parents + + Mother and Dad, I understand + At last why you've for ever been + Telling me how that way-off land + Of yours was Home; for since I've seen + The place that up to now was just a name + I feel the same. + + The college green, the village hall, + St. Paul's, The Abbey, how could I + Spell out your meaning, I whose all + Was peaks that pricked a sun-down sky + And endless prairie lands that stretched below + Their pathless snow? + + But now I've trodden magic stairs + Age-rounded in a Norman fane, + Beat time to bells that trembled prayers + Down spangly banks of country lane, + Throbbed with the universal heart that beats + In London streets. + + I'd heard of world-old chains that bind + So tight that she can scarcely stir, + Till tired Old England drops behind + Live nations more awake than her, + Like us out West. I thought it all was true + Before I knew. + + But England's sure what she's about, + And moves along in work and rest + Too big and set for brag and shout, + And so I never might have guessed + All that she means unless I'd watched her ways + These battle-days. + + And now I've seen what makes me proud + Our chaps have proved a soldier's right + To England; glad that I'm allowed + My bit with her in field and fight; + And since I'm come to join them Over There + I claim my share. + + C. CONWAY PLUMBE. + Sept. 1, 1915. + + + + + "_Quat' Sous Lait_" + + Marie Thérèse is passing fair, + Marie Thérèse has red gold hair, + Marie Thérèse is passing shy, + And Marie Thérèse is passing by; + Soldiers lounging along the street + Smile as they rise to their aching feet, + And with aching hearts they make their way + After the maiden for _quat' sous lait_. + + Beer in the mug is amber brown, + Beer in the mug is the stuff to drown + Dust and drought and a parching thirst; + Beer in the mug comes an easy first, + Except when Marie Thérèse is near, + With the sun in her tresses so amber clear; + Then quickly we leave our estaminets + For Marie Thérèse's _quat' sous lait_. + + Yvonne Pol of _La Belle Française_ + Cannot compare with Marie Thérèse; + Berthe of the "Coq" looks old and staid + When one but thinks of our dairymaid; + Beer in the mug is good to quench + Thirsts of men who can speak no French; + Heaven is ours who can smile and say, + "Marie Thérèse, give me _quat' sous lait_." + + DENIS GARSTIN. + Aug. 18, 1915. + + + + + In Flanders Fields + + In Flanders fields the poppies blow + Between the crosses, row on row, + That mark our place; and in the sky + The larks, still bravely singing, fly + Scarce heard amid the guns below. + + We are the Dead. Short days ago + We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, + Loved and were loved, and now we lie + In Flanders fields. + + Take up our quarrel with the foe: + To you from failing hands we throw + The torch; be yours to hold it high. + If ye break faith with us who die + We shall not sleep, though poppies grow + In Flanders fields. + + LT.-COL. JOHN McCRAE. + Dec. 8, 1915. + + + + + _Dulce et Decorum_ + + O young and brave, it is not sweet to die, + To fall and leave no record of the race, + A little dust trod by the passers-by, + Swift feet that press your lonely resting-place; + Your dreams unfinished, and your song unheard-- + Who wronged your youth by such a careless word? + + All life was sweet--veiled mystery in its smile; + High in your hands you held the brimming cup; + Love waited at your bidding for a while, + Not yet the time to take its challenge up; + Across the sunshine came no faintest breath + To whisper of the tragedy of death. + + And then, beneath the soft and shining blue, + Faintly you heard the drum's insistent beat; + The echo of its urgent note you knew, + The shaken earth that told of marching feet; + With quickened breath you heard your country's call, + And from your hands you let the goblet fall. + + You snatched the sword, and answered as you went, + For fear your eager feet should be outrun, + And with the flame of your bright youth unspent + Went shouting up the pathway to the sun. + O valiant dead, take comfort where you lie. + So sweet to live? Magnificent to die! + + MRS. ROBERTSON GLASGOW. + Jan. 26, 1916. + + + + + The Nurse + + Here in the long white ward I stand, + Pausing a little breathless space, + Touching a restless fevered hand, + Murmuring comfort's commonplace-- + + Long enough pause to feel the cold + Fingers of fear about my heart; + Just for a moment, uncontrolled, + All the pent tears of pity start. + + While here I strive, as best I may, + Strangers' long hours of pain to ease, + Dumbly I question--_Far away + Lies my beloved even as these?_ + + MISS G. M. MITCHELL. + Aug. 30, 1916. + + + + + Jimmy--Killed in Action + + Horses he loved, and laughter, and the sun, + A song, wide spaces and the open air; + The trust of all dumb living things he won, + And never knew the luck too good to share. + + His were the simple heart and open hand, + And honest faults he never strove to hide; + Problems of life he could not understand, + But as a man would wish to die he died. + + Now, though he will not ride with us again, + His merry spirit seems our comrade yet, + Freed from the power of weariness or pain, + Forbidding us to mourn--or to forget. + + W. K. HOLMES. + Aug. 1, 1917. + + + + + The Inn o' the Sword + + A SONG OF YOUTH AND WAR. + + Roving along the King's highway + I met wi' a Romany black. + "Good day," says I; says he, "Good day, + And what may you have in your pack?" + "Why, a shirt," says I, "and a song or two + To make the road go faster." + He laughed: "Ye'll find or the day be through + There's more nor that, young master. + Oh, roving's good and youth is sweet + And love is its own reward; + But there's that shall stay your careless feet + When ye come to the Sign o' the Sword." + + "Riddle me, riddlemaree," quoth I, + "Is a game that's ill to win, + And the day is o'er fair such tasks to try"-- + Said he, "Ye shall know at the inn." + With that he suited his path to mine + And we travelled merrily, + Till I was ware of the promised sign + And the door of an hostelry. + And the Romany sang, "To the very life + Ye shall pay for bed and board; + Will ye turn aside to the House of Strife? + Will ye lodge at the Inn o' the Sword?" + + Then I looked at the inn 'twixt joy and fear, + And the Romany looked at me. + Said I, "We ha' come to a parting here + And I know not who you be." + But he only laughed as I smote on the door: + "Go, take ye the fighting chance; + Mayhap I once was a troubadour + In the knightly days of France. + Oh, the feast is set for those who dare + And the reddest o' wine outpoured; + And some sleep sound after peril and care + At the Hostelry of the Sword." + + A. L. JENKINS. + Jan. 24, 1917. + + + + + The Lighted Way + + Little beam of purest ray + Lying like a path of glory + Through the chimney-pots that sway + Over London's topmost storey, + Lighting to the knightly fray + Pussies black and brown and gray, + Lovesick tenors young and gay, + Whiskered bassos old and hoary, + Shining from my attic room + Thou dost lure them to their doom. + + How could I without thine aid + Greet their ill-timed serenade? + How discover in the dark + If the hair-brush found its mark, + Or distinguish hits from misses + As the whistling soap-dish hisses, + Lifting like a bursting bomb + James, the next door neighbour's Tom? + + Now by nailing half a kipper + Neath thy radiance I can down + (Aiming carefully at the brown + With a bootjack or a slipper) + Half the amorous cats in Town. + Now as I remove my boots + I can count the stricken brutes, + Chalking as I pass to bed + On the wall above my head, + "Thirteen wounded, seven dead." + + I have strafed the surly Fritz + In the neighbourhood of "Wipers," + Bombed the artless Turk to bits, + Potted his elusive snipers, + Blown his comfortable lair + Like a nest of stinging vipers + Several hundred feet in air; + But the sport was tame, I wis, + In comparison with this, + When the bottle built for stout + Lays the chief soprano out, + And the heavy letter-weight + Drums on her astonished mate, + Ginger Bill, the bass, who falls + Uttering fearful caterwauls. + + * * * * + + (_Later._) Baleful shaft of light, + Blazing like a ruddy beacon, + Guiding through the starless night + Zeppelins that come to wreak on + Sleeping Londoners the might + Of Teutonic _schrecklichkeit_, + Tears bedew the pillow white + Which I lay my blenching cheek on, + For the minion of the law, + Who in peace-time droops and drowses, + From a point of vantage saw, + Gleaming high above the houses, + Thee, incriminating ray, + And--there is a fine to pay. + + C. H. BRETHERTON. + Nov. 8, 1916. + + + + + Hymn for High Places + + In darkened days of strife and fear, + When far from home and hold, + I do essay my soul to cheer + As did wise men of old; + When folk do go in doleful guise + And are for life afraid, + I to the hills will lift mine eyes + From whence doth come mine aid. + + I shall my soul a temple make + Where hills stand up on high; + Thither my sadness shall I take + And comfort there descry; + For every good and noble mount + This message doth extend-- + That evil men must render count + And evil days must end. + + For, sooth, it is a kingly sight + To see God's mountain tall + That vanquisheth each lesser height + As great hearts vanquish small; + Stand up, stand up, ye holy hills, + As saints and seraphs do, + That ye may bear these present ills + And lead men safely through. + + Let high and low repair and go + To where great hills endure; + Let strong and weak be there to seek + Their comfort and their cure; + And for all hills in fair array + Now thanks and blessings give, + And, bearing healthful hearts away, + Home go and stoutly live. + + C. HILTON BROWN. + Aug. 22, 1917. + + + + + To Smith in Mesopotamy + + Master of Arts, how is it with you now? + Our spires stand up against the saffron dawn + And Isis breaks in silver at the prow + Of many a skiff, and by each dewy lawn + Purple and gold the tall flag-lilies stand; + And SHELLEY sleeps above his empty tomb + Hard by the staircase where you had your room, + And all the scented lilacs are in bloom, + But you are far from this our fairy-land. + + Your heavy wheel disturbs the ancient dust + Of empires dead ere Oxford saw the light. + Those flies that form a halo round your crust + And crawl into your sleeping-bag at night-- + Their grandsires drank the blood of NADIR SHAH, + And tapped the sacred veins of SULEYMAN; + There flashed dread TIMOUR'S whistling yataghan, + And soothed the tiger ear of GENGHIZ KHAN + The cream of Tartary's battle-drunk "Heiyah!" + + And yonder, mid the colour and the cries + Of mosque and minaret and thronged bazaars + And fringéd palm-trees dark against the skies + HARUN AL RASCHID walked beneath the stars + And heard the million tongues of old Baghdad, + Till out of Basrah, as the dawn took wing, + Came up the laden camels, string on string; + But now there is not left them anything + Of all the wealth and wisdom that they had. + + Somehow I cannot see you, lean and browned, + Chasing the swart Osmanli through the scrub + Or hauling railroad ties and "steel mild round" + Sunk in the sands of Irak to the hub, + Heaping coarse oaths on Mesopotamy; + But rather strewn in gentlemanly ease + In some cool _serdab_ or beneath the trees + That fringe the river-bank you hug your knees + And watch the garish East go chattering by. + + And at your side some wise old priest reclines + And weaves a tale of dead and glorious days + When MAMUN reigned; expounds the heavenly signs + Whose movements fix the span of mortal days; + Touches on Afreets and the ways of Djinns; + Through his embroidered tale real heroes pass, + RUSTUM the bold and BAHRAM the wild ass, + Who never dreamed of using poisoned gas + Or spread barbed wire before the foeman's shins. + + I think I hear you saying, "Not so much + Of waving palm-trees and the flight of years; + It's evident that you are out of touch + With war as managed by the Engineers. + Hot blasts of _sherki_ are our daily treat, + And toasted sandhills full of Johnny Turk + And almost anything that looks like work, + And thirst and flies and marches that would irk + A cast-iron soldier with asbestos feet." + + Know, then, the thought was fathered by the wish + We oldsters feel, that you and everyone + Who through the heat and flies conspire to dish + The "_Drang nach Osten_" of the beastly Hun + Shall win their strenuous virtue's modest wage. + And if at Nishapur and Babylon + The cup runs dry, we'll fill it later on, + And here where Cherwell soothes the fretful don + In flowing sherbet pledge our easeful sage. + + C. H. BRETHERTON. + June 6, 1917. + + + + + By the Canal in Flanders + + By the canal in Flanders I watched a barge's prow + Creep slowly past the poplar-trees; and there I made a vow + That when these wars are over and I am home at last + However much I travel I shall not travel fast. + + Horses and cars and yachts and planes: I've no more use for such: + For in three years of war's alarms I've hurried far too much; + And now I dream of something sure, silent and slow and large; + So when the War is over--why, I mean to buy a barge. + + A gilded barge I'll surely have, the same as Egypt's Queen, + And it will be the finest barge that ever you have seen; + With polished mast of stout pitch pine, tipped with a ball of gold, + And two green trees in two white tubs placed just abaft the hold. + + So when past Pangbourne's verdant meads, by Clieveden's mossy stems, + You see a barge all white-and-gold come gliding down the Thames, + With tow-rope spun from coloured silks and snow-white horses three, + Which stop beside your river house--you'll know the bargee's me. + + I'll moor my craft beside your lawn; so up and make good cheer! + Pluck me your greenest salads! Draw me your coolest beer! + For I intend to lunch with you and talk an hour or more + Of how we used to hustle in the good old days of war. + + NORMAN DAVEY. + Sept. 5, 1917. + + + + + A Watch in the Night + + "Watchmen, what of the night?" + "Rumours clash from the towers; + The clocks strike different hours; + The vanes point different ways. + Through darkness leftward and right + Voices quaver and boom, + Pealing our victory's praise, + Tolling the tocsin of doom." + + "Optimist, what of the night?" + "Night is over and gone; + See how the dawn marches on, + Triumphing, over the hills. + Armies of foemen in flight + Scatter dismay and despair, + Wild is the terror that fills + War-lords that crouch in their lair." + + "Pessimist, what of the night?" + "Blackness that walls us about; + The last little star has gone out, + Whelmed in the wrath of the storm. + Exhaustless, resistless in might, + The enemy faints not nor fails; + Thundering, swarm upon swarm, + He sweeps like a flood through the vales. + + "Pacifist, what of the night?" + "We hear the thunder afar, + But all is still where we are; + Good and evil are friends. + Here in the passionless height + War and morality cease, + And the noon with the midnight blends + In perennial twilight of peace." + + H. E. WILKES. + Feb. 6, 1918. + + + + + The Windmill + + A SONG of VICTORY. + + Yes, it was all like a garden glowing + When first we came to the hill-top there, + And we laughed to know that the Bosch was going, + And laughed to know that the land was fair; + Acre by acre of green fields sleeping, + Hamlets hid in the tufts of wood, + And out of the trees were church-towers peeping, + And away on a hillock the Windmill stood. + + _Then, ah then, 'twas a land worth winning, + And now there is naught but the naked clay, + But I can remember the Windmill spinning, + And the four sails shone in the sun that day._ + + But the guns came after and tore the hedges + And stripped the spinneys and churned the plain, + And a man walks now on the windy ledges + And looks for a feather of green in vain; + Acre by acre the sad eye traces + The rust-red bones of the earth laid bare, + And the sign-posts stand in the market-places + To say that a village was builded there. + + _But better the French fields stark and dying + Than ripe for a conqueror's fat content, + And I can remember the mill-sails flying, + Yet I cheered with the rest when the Windmill went._ + + Away to the East the grass-land surges + Acre by acre across the line, + And we must go on till the end like scourges, + Though the wilderness stretch from sea to Rhine; + But I dream some days of a great reveille, + When the buds shall burst in the Blasted Wood, + And the children chatter in Death-Trap Alley, + And a windmill stand where the Windmill stood. + + _And we that remember the Windmill spinning. + We may go under, but not in vain, + For our sons shall come in the new beginning + And see that the Windmill spins again._ + + A. P. HERBERT. + April 10, 1918. + + + + + The Return + + Into the home-side wood, the long straight aisle of pines, + I turned with a slower step than ever my youth-time knew; + Dusk was gold in the valley, grey in the deep-cut chines, + And below, like a dream afloat, was the quiet sea's fading blue. + + Oh, it was joy to see the still night folding down + Over the simple fields I loved, saved by the sacred dead, + Playmates and friends of mine, brothers in camp and town, + The loyal hearts that leapt at the word that England said. + + I paused by the cross-roads' sign, for a tinkling sound rang clear, + The small sharp sound of a bell away up the western road; + And presently out of the mist, with clank and clatter of gear, + Rumbled the carrier's cart with its tilt and its motley load:-- + + The old grey horse that moved in the misty headlight's gleam, + The carrier crouched on his seat, with the bellboy perched astride, + Voices from under the tilt, and laughter--was it a dream, + Or was I awake and alive, standing there by the cross-roads' side? + + So I came to the village street where glinting lights shone fair, + The little homely lights that make the glad tears start; + And I knew that one was yearning and waiting to welcome me there, + She that is mother in blood and steadfast comrade in heart. + + Oh, but my youth swept back like the tide to a thirsty shore, + Or the little wind at dawn that heralds the wash of rain; + And I ran, I ran, with a song in my heart to the unlatched door, + I returned to the gentle breast that had nursed me--a boy again! + + C. KENNETH BURROW. + Dec. 18, 1918. + + + + + Good-Bye, Australians + + Through the Channel's drift and toss + Swift your homing transports churn; + Soon for you the Southron Cross + High above your bows shall burn; + Soon beyond the rolling Bight + Gleam the Leeuwin's lance of light. + + Rich reward your hearts shall hold, + None less dear if long delayed, + For with gifts of wattle-gold + Shall your country's debt be paid; + From her sunlight's golden store + She shall heal your hurts of war. + + Ere the mantling Channel mist + Dim your distant decks and spars, + And your flag that victory kissed + And Valhalla hung with stars-- + Crowd and watch our signal fly: + "Gallant hearts, good-bye! _Good-bye!_" + + W. H. OGILVIE. + Jan. 15, 1919. + + + + + The Belfries + + If you should go to La Bassée + Or Bethune, grey and bare, + You'll hear the sweetest bells that play + A faint and chiming air; + And belfries in each little town + Sing out the hour and mark it down. + + If you should go to La Bassée + Or walk the Bethune street + You'll see the lorries pass that way + And hear the tramp of feet; + And where the road with trees is lined + You'll watch the long battalions wind. + + But all the clocks that mark the time + Are months and years too slow, + And all the bells that ring and chime + Strike hours of long ago, + And all the belfries where you pass + Lie tumbled in the dust and grass. + + Yet still the long battalions wind. + Though all the men are gone, + Because one hour has stayed behind + And wanders there alone-- + Yes, one heroic shining hour + Chimes on from every fallen tower. + + MRS. A. P. TROTTER. + Aug. 27, 1919. + + + + + Saturdays + + Now has the soljer handed in his pack, + And "Peace on earth, goodwill to all" been sung; + I've got a pension and my ole job back-- + Me, with my right leg gawn and half a lung; + But, Lord! I'd give my bit o' buckshee pay + And my gratuity in honest Brads + To go down to the field nex' Saturday + And have a game o' football with the lads. + + It's Saturdays as does it. In the week + It's not too bad; there's cinemas and things; + But I gets up against it, so to speak, + When half-day-off comes round again and brings + The smell o' mud an' grass an' sweating men + Back to my mind--there's no denying it; + There ain't much comfort tellin' myself then, + "Thank Gawd, I went _toot sweet_ an' did my bit!" + + Oh, yes, I knows I'm lucky, more or less; + There's some pore blokes back there who played the game + Until they heard the whistle go, I guess, + For Time an' Time eternal. All the same + It makes me proper down at heart and sick + To see the lads go laughing off to play; + I'd sell my bloomin' soul to have a kick-- + But what's the good of talkin', anyway? + + E. W. PIGOTT. + Jan. 28, 1920. + + + + +_Sea-Scape_ + + + + The North Sea Ground + + Oh, Grimsby is a pleasant town as any man may find, + An' Grimsby wives are thrifty wives, an' Grimsby girls are kind, + An' Grimsby lads were never yet the lads to lag behind + When there's men's work doin' on the North Sea ground. + + An' it's "Wake up, Johnnie!" for the high tide's flowin', + An' off the misty waters a cold wind blowin'; + Skipper's come aboard, an' it's time that we were goin', + An' there's fine fish waitin' on the North Sea ground. + + Soles in the Silver Pit--an' there we'll let 'em lie; + Cod on the Dogger--oh, we'll fetch 'em by-an'-by; + War on the water--an' it's time to serve an' die, + For there's wild work doin' on the North Sea ground. + + An' it's "Wake up, Johnnie!" they want you at the trawlin' + (With your long sea-boots and your tarry old tarpaulin'); + All across the bitter seas duty comes a-callin' + In the Winter's weather off the North Sea ground. + + It's well we've learned to laugh at fear--the sea has taught us how; + It's well we've shaken hands with death--we'll not be strangers now, + With death in every climbin' wave before the trawler's bow, + An' the black spawn swimmin' on the North Sea ground. + + Good luck to all our fightin' ships that rule the English sea; + Good luck to our brave merchantmen wherever they may be; + The sea it is their highway, an' we've got to sweep it free + For the ships passin' over on the North Sea ground. + + An' it's "Wake up, Johnnie!" for the sea wind's crying; + "Time an' time to go where the herrin' gulls are flyin';" + An' down below the stormy seas the dead men lyin', + Oh, the dead lying quiet on the North Sea ground! + + MISS C. FOX SMITH. + March 24, 1915. + + + + + The Ballad of the Resurrection Packet + + Oh, she's in from the deep water, she's safe in port once more, + With shot 'oles in the funnel which were not there before; + Yes, she's 'ome, dearie, 'ome, an' we've 'alf the sea inside! + Ought to 'ave sunk, but she couldn't if she tried. + + An' it was "'Ome, dearie, 'ome, oh, she'll bring us 'ome some day, + Rollin' both rails under in the old sweet way, + Freezin' in the foul weather, fryin' in the fine, + The resurrection packet of the Salt 'Orse Line!" + + If she'd been built for sinkin' she'd have done it long ago; + She's tried her best in every sea an' all the winds that blow, + In hurricanes at Galveston, pamperos off the Plate, + An' icy Cape 'Orn snorters which freeze you while you wait. + + She's been ashore at Vallipo, Algoa Bay likewise, + She's broke her screw-shaft off Cape Race an' stove 'er bows in ice, + She's lost 'er deck-load overboard an' 'alf 'er bulwarks too, + An' she's come in with fire aboard, smokin' like a flue. + + But it's "'Ome, dearie, 'ome, oh, she gets there just the same, + Reekin', leakin', 'alf a wreck, scarred an' stove an' lame; + Patch 'er up with putty, lads, tie 'er up with twine, + The resurrection packet of the Salt 'Orse Line!" + + A bit west the Scillies the sky was stormy red, + "To-night we'll lift Saint Agnes Light if all goes well," we said, + But we met a slinkin' submarine as dark was comin' down, + An' she ripped our rotten plates away an' left us there to drown. + + A bit west the Scillies we thought her sure to sink, + There was 'alf a gale blowin', the sky was black as ink, + The seas begun to mount an' the wind begun to thunder, + An' every wave that come, oh, we thought 'twould roll 'er under. + + But it was "'Ome, dearie, 'ome, an' she'll get there after all, + Steamin' when she can steam, an' when she can't she'll crawl; + This year, next year--rain or storm or shine-- + The resurrection packet of the Salt 'Orse Line!" + + We thought about the bulk-'eads--we wondered if they'd last, + An' the cook 'e started groanin' an' repentin' of the past; + But thinkin' an' groanin', oh, they wouldn't shift the water, + So we got the pumps a-workin' same as British seamen oughter. + + If she'd been a crack liner she'd 'ave gone like a stone, + An' why she didn't sink is a thing as can't be known; + Our arms was made of lead, our backs was split with achin', + But we pumped 'er into port just before the day was breakin'! + + For it was "'Ome, dearie, 'ome, oh, she'll bring us 'ome some day,-- + Don't you 'ear the pumps a-clankin' in the old sweet way?-- + This year, next year--rain or storm or shine-- + She's the resurrection packet of the Salt 'Orse Line!" + + MISS C. FOX SMITH. + Nov. 3, 1915. + + + + + The Figure-Head + + A SALT SEA YARN. + + There was an ancient carver that carved of a saint, + But the parson wouldn't have it, so he took a pot of paint + And changed its angel garment for a dashing soldier rig, + And said it was a figure-head and sold it to a brig. + + The brig hauled her mainsail to an off-shore draught, + Then she shook her snowy royals and the Scillies went abaft; + And cloudy with her canvas she ran before the Trade + Till she got to the Equator, where she struck a merrymaid. + + A string of pearls and conches were all of her togs, + But the flying-fish and porpoises they followed her like dogs; + She had a voice of silver and lips of coral red, + She climbed the dolphin-striker and kissed the figure-head. + + Then every starry evening she'd swim in the foam + About the bows, a-singing like a nightingale at Home; + She'd call to him and sing to him as sweetly as a bird, + But the wooden-headed effigy he never said a word. + + And every starry evening in the Doldrum calms + She'd wriggle up the bobstay and throw her tender arms + About his scarlet shoulders and fondle him and cry + And stroke his curly whiskers, but he never winked an eye. + + She couldn't get an answer to her tears or moans, + So she went and told her daddy, told the ancient Davy Jones; + Old Davy damned his eyesight and puzzled of his wits, + Then whistled up his hurricanes and tore the brig to bits. + + Down on the ocean-bed, green fathoms deep, + Where the wrecks lie rotting and great sea-serpents creep, + In a gleaming grotto all built of sailors' bones, + Sits the handsome figure-head, listening to Miss Jones. + + Songs o' love she sings him the livelong day, + And she hangs upon his bosom and sobs the night away, + But he never, never answers, for beneath his soldier paint + The wooden-headed lunatic still thinks that he's a saint. + + CROSBIE GARSTIN. + July 26, 1916. + + + + + The Little Ships + +["The small steamer ---- struck a mine yesterday and sank. The crew +perished."--Daily Paper.] + + Who to the deep in ships go down + Great marvels do behold, + But comes the day when some must drown + In the grey sea and cold. + For galleons lost great bells do toll, + But now must we implore + God's ear for sunken Little Ships + Who are not heard of more. + + When ships of war put out to sea + They go with guns and mail, + That so the chance may equal be + Should foemen them assail; + But Little Ships men's errands run + And are not clad for strife; + God's mercy then on Little Ships + Who cannot fight for life. + + To warm and cure, to clothe and feed, + They stoutly put to sea, + And since that men of them had need + Made light of jeopardy; + Each in her hour her fate did meet + Nor flinched nor made outcry; + God's love be with these Little Ships + Who could not choose but die. + + To friar and nun, and every one + Who lives to save and tend, + Sisters were these whose work is done + And cometh thus to end; + Full well they knew what risk they ran + But still were strong to give; + God's grace for all the Little Ships + Who died that men might live. + + C. HILTON BROWN. + Sept. 20, 1916. + + + + + The Lone Hand + + She took her tide and she passed the Bar with the + first o' the morning light; + She dipped her flag to the coast patrol at the + coming down of the night; + She has left the lights of the friendly shore and + the smell of the English land, + And she's somewhere South o' the Fastnet now-- + God help her ... South o' the Fastnet now, + Playing her own lone hand. + + She is ugly and squat as a ship can be, she was new + when the Ark was new, + But she takes her chance and she runs her risk as + well as the best may do; + And it's little she heeds the lurking death and + little she gets of fame, + Out yonder South o' the Fastnet now-- + God help her ... South o' the Fastnet now, + Playing her own lone game. + + She has played it once, she has played it twice, + she has played it times a score; + Her luck and her pluck are the two trump cards + that have won her the game before; + And life is the stake where the tin fish run and + Death is the dealer's name, + Out yonder South o' the Fastnet now-- + God help her ... South o' the Fastnet now, + Playing her own lone game. + + MISS C. FOX SMITH. + Jan. 2, 1918. + + + + + A Dream Ship + + Oh I wish I had a clipper ship with carvings on her counter, + With lanterns on her poop-rail of beaten copper wrought; + I would dress her like a lady in the whitest cloth and mount her + With a long bow-chasing swivel and a gun at every port. + + I would sign me on a master who had solved MERCATOR'S riddle, + A nigger cook with earrings who neither chewed nor drank, + Who wore a red bandanna and was handy on the fiddle, + I would take a piping bos'un and a cabin-boy to spank. + + Then some fine Summer morning when the Falmouth cocks were crowing + I would set my capstan spinning to the chanting of all hands, + And the milkmaids on the uplands would lament to see me going + As I beat for open Channel and away to foreign lands, + _Singing--_ + Fare ye well, O lady mine, + Fare ye well, my pretty one, + For the anchor's at the cat-head and the voyage is begun, + The wind is in the mainsail, we're slipping from the land + Hull-down with all sail making, close-hauled with + the white-tops breaking, + Bound for the Rio Grande. + Fare ye well! + + With the flying-fish around us and a porpoise school before us, + Full crowded under royals to the south'ard we would sweep; + We would hear the bull whales blowing and the mermaids + sing in chorus, + And perhaps the white seal mummies hum their chubby calves to sleep. + + We would see the hot towns paddling in the surf of Spanish waters, + And prowl beneath dim balconies and twang discreet guitars, + And sigh our adoration to Don Juan's lovely daughters + Till they lifted their mantillas and their dark eyes shone like stars. + + We would cruise by fairy islands where the gaudy parrot screeches + And the turtle in his soup-tureen floats basking in the calms; + We would see the fire-flies winking in the bush above the beaches + And a moon of honey yellow drifting up behind the palms. + + We would crown ourselves with garlands and tread a frolic measure + With the nut-brown island beauties in the firelight by the huts; + We would give them rum and kisses; we would hunt for pirate treasure, + And bombard the apes with pebbles in exchange for coco-nuts. + + When we wearied of our wand'rings 'neath the blazing Southern heaven + And dreamed of Kentish orchards fragrant-scented after rain, + Of the cream there is in Cornwall and the cider brewed in Devon, + We would crowd our yards with canvas and sweep foaming home again, + _Singing--_ + Cheerily, O lady mine, + Cheerily, my sweetheart true, + For the blest Blue Peter's flying and I'm rolling home to you; + For I'm tired of Spanish ladies and of tropic afterglows, + Heart-sick for an English Spring-time, all afire + for an English ring-time, + In love with an English rose. + Rolling home! + + CROSBIE GARSTIN. + Jan. 17, 1917. + + + + + The Voyage of H.M.S. _President_ + + A DREAM + +[Mr. Punch means no disrespect to H.M.S. _President_, which, being +moored in the Thames off Bouverie Street, he has always looked upon +as his guardship, but he has often wondered what would happen if only +a few thousands of the officers and men borne on her books were to +issue from the Admiralty and elsewhere--but especially from the +Admiralty--and go on board their ship; hence the disquieting dream +that follows.] + + It was eighteen bells in the larboard watch with + a neap-tide running free, + And a gale blew out of the Ludgate Hills when + the _President_ put to sea; + An old mule came down Bouverie Street to give + her a helping hand, + And I didn't think much of the ship as such, but + the crew was something grand. + + The bo'sun stood on a Hoxton bus and blew the + Luncheon Call, + And the ship's crew came from the four wide + winds, but chiefly from Whitehall; + They came like the sand on a wind-swept strand, + like shots from a Maxim gun, + And the old mule stood with the tow-rope on and + said, "It can't be done." + + With a glitter of wiggly braid they came, with a + clatter of forms and files, + The little A.P.'s they swarmed like bees, the + Commodores stretched for miles; + Post-Captains came with hats in flame, and + Admirals by the ell, + And which of the lot was the biggest pot there + was never a man could tell. + + They choked the staggering quarter-deck and did + the thing no good; + They hung like tars on the mizzen-spars (or those + of the crowd that could); + Far out of view still streamed the queue when the + moke said, "Well, I'm blowed + If I'll compete with the 'ole damn Fleet," and he + pushed off down the road. + + And the great ship she sailed after him, though + the Lord knows how she did, + With her gunwales getting a terrible wetting and + a brace of her stern sheets hid, + When up and spoke a sailor-bloke and he said, + "It strikes me queer, + And I've sailed the sea in the R.N.V. this five-and + forty year; + + "But a ship as can't 'old 'arf 'er crew, why, what + sort of a ship is 'er? + And oo's in charge of the pore old barge if dangers + do occur? + And I says to you, I says, "'Eave to, until this + point's agreed';" + And some said, "Why?" and the rest, "Ay, + ay," but the mule he paid no heed. + + So the old beast hauled and the Admirals bawled + and the crew they fought like cats, + And the ship went dropping along past Wapping + and down by the Plumstead Flats; + But the rest of the horde that wasn't aboard they + trotted along the bank, + Or jumped like frogs from the Isle of Dogs, or + fell in the stream and sank. + + But while they went by the coast of Kent up spoke + an aged tar-- + "A joke's a joke, but this 'ere moke is going a bit + too far; + I can tell by the motion we're nearing the ocean--and + _that's_ too far for me;" + But just as he spoke the tow-rope broke and the + ship sailed out to sea. + + And somewhere out on the deep, no doubt, they + probe the problems through + Of who's in charge of the poor old barge and what + they ought to do; + And the great files flash and the dockets crash and + the ink-wells smoke like sin, + But many a U-boat tells the tale how the _President_ + did her in. + + For many have tried to pierce her hide and flung + torpedoes at her, + But the vessel, they found, was barraged round + with a mile of paper matter; + The whole sea swarms with Office Forms and the + U-boats stick like glue, + So nothing can touch the _President_ much, for + nothing at all gets through. + + * * * * + + But never, alack, will the ship come back, for the + _President_ she's stuck too. + + A. P. HERBERT. + May 15, 1918. + + + + + The Old Ships + + They called 'em from the breakers' yards, the + shores of Dead Men's Bay, + From coaling wharves the wide world round, + red-rusty where they lay, + And chipped and caulked and scoured and tarred + and sent 'em on their way. + + It didn't matter what they were nor what they + once had been, + They cleared the decks of harbour-junk and + scraped the stringers clean + And turned 'em out to try their luck with the + mine and submarine... + + With a scatter o' pitch and a plate or two, + And she's fit for the risks o' war-- + Fit for to carry a freight or two, + The same as she used before; + To carry a cargo here and there, + And what she carries she don't much care + Boxes or barrels or baulks or bales, + Coal or cotton or nuts or nails, + Pork or pepper or Spanish beans, + Mules or millet or sewing-machines, + Or a trifle o' lumber from Hastings Mill... + She's carried 'em all and she'll carry 'em still, + The same as she's done before. + + And some were waiting for a freight, and some were laid away, + And some were liners that had broke all records in their day, + And some were common eight-knot tramps that couldn't make it pay. + + And some were has-been sailing cracks of famous old renown, + Had logged their eighteen easy when they ran their easting down + With cargo, mails and passengers bound South from London Town... + + With a handful or two o' ratline stuff, + And she's fit for to sail once more; + She's rigged and she's ready and right enough, + The same as she was before; + The same old ship on the same old road + She's always used and she's always knowed, + For there isn't a blooming wind can blow + In all the latitudes, high or low, + Nor there isn't a kind of sea that rolls, + From both the Tropics to both the Poles, + But she's knowed 'em all since she sailed sou' Spain, + She's weathered the lot, and she'll do it again, + The same as she's done before. + + And sail or steam or coasting craft, the big ships with the small, + The barges which were steamers once, the hulks that once were tall, + They wanted tonnage cruel bad, and so they fetched 'em all. + + And some went out as fighting-craft and shipped a fighting crew, + But most they tramped the same old road they always used to do, + With a crowd of merchant-sailormen, as might be me or you... + + With a lick o' paint and a bucket o' tar, + And she's fit for the seas once more, + To carry the Duster near and far, + The same as she used before; + The same old Rag on the same old round, + Bar Light vessel and Puget Sound, + Brass and Bonny and Grand Bassam, + Both the Rios and Rotterdam-- + Dutch and Dagoes, niggers and Chinks, + Palms and fire-flies, spices and stinks-- + Portland (Oregon), Portland (Maine), + She's been there once and she'll go there again, + The same as she's been before. + + * * * * + + Their bones are strewed to every tide from Torres Strait to Tyne-- + God's truth, they've paid their blooming dues to + the tin-fish and the mine, + By storm or calm, by night or day, from Longships light to Line. + + With a bomb or a mine or a bursting shell, + And she'll follow the seas no more, + She's fetched and carried and served you well, + The same as she's done before-- + They've fetched and carried and gone their way, + As good ships should and as brave men may... + And we'll build 'em still, and we'll breed 'em again, + The same good ships and the same good men, + The same--the same--the same as we've done before! + + MISS C. FOX SMITH. + April 9, 1919. + + + + + The Three Ships + + I had tramped along through dockland till the day was all but spent, + But for all the ships I there did find I could not be content; + By the good pull-ups for carmen and the Chinese dives I passed, + And the streets of grimy houses each one grimier than the last, + And the shops whose shoddy oilskins many a sailorman has cursed + In the wintry Western ocean when it's weather of the worst-- + All among the noisy graving docks and waterside saloons + And the pubs with punk pianos grinding out their last year's tunes, + And the rattle of the winches handling freights from near and far; + And the whiffs of oil and engines, and the smells of bilge and tar; + And of all the craft I came across, the finest for to see + Was a dandy ocean liner--but she wasn't meant for me! + She was smart as any lady, and the place was fair alive + With the swarms of cooks and waiters, just like bees about a hive; + It was nigh her time for sailing, and a man could hardly stir + For the piles of rich folks' dunnage here and there and everywhere. + But the stewards and the awnings and the white paint and the gold + Take a deal o' living up to for a chap that's getting old; + And the mailboat life's a fine one, but a shellback likes to be + Where he feels a kind o' homelike after half his life at sea. + + So I sighed and passed her by--"Fare you well, my dear," said I, + "You're as smart and you're as dainty as can be; + You're a lady through and through, but I know it wouldn't do-- + You're a bit too much a rich man's gal for me!" + + So I rambled on through dockland, but I couldn't seem to find + Out of all the craft I saw there just the one to please my mind; + There were tramps and there were tankers, there were freighters + large and small, + There were concrete ships and standard ships and motor ships + and all, + And of all the blessed shooting-match the one I liked the best + Was a saucy topsail schooner from some harbour in the West. + She was neat and she was pretty as a country lass should be, + And the girl's name on her counter seemed to suit her to a T; + You could almost smell the roses, almost see the red and green + Of the Devon plough and pasture where her home port must have been, + And I'll swear her blocks were creaking in a kind o' Devon drawl-- + Oh, she took my fancy rarely, but I left her after all! + For it's well enough, is coasting, when the summer days are long, + And the summer hours slip by you just as sweetly as a song, + When you catch the scent of clover blowing to you off the shore, + And there's scarce a ripple breaking from the Land's End to the Nore; + But I like a bit more sea-room when the short dark days come in, + And the Channel gales and sea-fogs and the nights as black as sin, + When you're groping in a fairway that's as crowded as a town + With the whole damned Channel traffic looking out to run you down, + Or a bloody lee shore's waiting with its fierce and foaming lips + For the bones of poor drowned sailormen and broken ribs of ships. + + So I sighed and shook my head--"Fare you well, my dear," I said, + "You're a bit too fond o' soundings, lass, for me; + Oh, you're Devon's own dear daughter--but my fancy's for deep water + And I think I'll set a course for open sea!" + + So I tramped along through dockland, through the Isle of Dogs I went, + But for all the ships I found there still I couldn't be content, + Till, not far from Millwall Basin, in a dingy, dreary pond, + Mouldy wharf-sheds all around it and a breaker's yard beyond, + With its piles of rusty anchors and chain-cables large and small, + Broken bones of ships forgotten--there I found her after all! + She was foul from West Coast harbours, she was worn with + wind and tide, + There was paint on all the bright work that was once her + captain's pride, + And her gear was like a junk-store, and her decks a shame to see, + And her shrouds they wanted rattling down as badly as could be; + But she lay there on the water just as graceful as a gull, + Keeping some old builder's secret in her strong and slender hull; + By her splendid sweep of sheer-line and her clean, keen clipper bow + You might know she'd been a beauty, and, by God, she was one now! + And the river gulls were crying, and the sluggish river tide + Made a kind of running whisper by her red and rusted side, + And the river breeze came murmuring her tattered gear among, + Like some old shellback, known of old, that sings a sailor's song, + That whistles through his yellow teeth an old deepwater tune + (The same did make the windows shake in the Boomerang Saloon!), + Or by the steersman's elbow stays to tell a seaman's tale + About the skippers and the crews in great old days of sail! + + And I said: "My dear, although you are growing old, I know, + And as crazy and as cranky as can be, + If you'll take me for your lover, oh we'll sail the wide seas over, + You're the ship among them all that's meant for me!' + + MISS C. FOX SMITH. + Oct. 1, 1919. + + + + + Spanish Ledges + + SCILLY. + + The bells of Cadiz clashed for them + When they sailed away; + The Citadel guns, saluting, crashed for them + Over the Bay; + With banners of saints aloft unfolding, + Their poops a glitter of golden moulding, + Tambours throbbing and trumpets neighing, + Into the sunset they went swaying. + But the port they sought they wandered wide of, + And they won't see Spain again this side of Judgment Day. + + For they're down, deep down, in Dead Man's Town, + Twenty fathoms under the clean green waters. + No more hauling sheets in the rolling treasure fleets, + No more stinking rations and dread red slaughters; + No galley oars shall bow them nor shrill whips cow them, + Frost shall not shrivel them nor the hot sun smite, + No more watch to keep, nothing now but sleep-- + Sleep and take it easy in the long twilight. + + The bells of Cadiz tolled for them + Mournful and glum; + Up in the Citadel requiems rolled for them + On the black drum; + Priests had many a mass to handle, + Nuestra Señora many a candle, + And many a lass grew old in praying + For a sight of those topsails homeward swaying-- + But it's late to wait till a girl is bride of + A Jack who won't be back this side of Kingdom Come. + + But little they care down there, down there, + Hid from time and tempest by the jade-green waters; + They have loves a-plenty down at fathom twenty, + Pearly-skinned silver-finned mer-kings' daughters. + At the gilt quarter-ports sit the Dons at their sports, + A-dicing and drinking the red wine and white, + While the crews forget their wrongs in the sea-maids' songs + And dance upon the foc'sles in the grey ghost light. + + CROSBIE GARSTIN. + Sept. 22, 1920. + + + + + A Cornish Lullaby + + A.D. 1760. + + Sleep, my little ugling, + Daddy's gone a-smuggling, + Daddy's gone to Roscoff in the _Mevagissey Maid_, + A sloop of ninety tons + With ten brass-carriage guns, + To teach the King's ships manners and respect for honest trade. + + Hush, my joy and sorrow, + Daddy'll come to-morrow + Bringing baccy, tea and snuff and brandy home from France; + And he'll run the goods ashore + While the old Collectors snore + And the wicked troopers gamble in the dens of Penzance. + + Rock-a-bye, my honey, + Daddy's making money; + You shall be a gentleman and sail with privateers, + With a silver cup for sack + And a blue coat on your back, + With diamonds on your finger-bones and gold rings in your ears. + + CROSBIE GARSTIN. + June 30, 1920. + + + + + PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD. + THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, GLASGOW. + + + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77833 *** |