Part 5
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.