Part 4
On a winter’s night long time ago (_The bells ring loud and the bells ring low_), When high howled wind, and down fell snow (Carillon, Carilla). Saint Joseph he and Nostre Dame, Riding on an ass, full weary came From Nazareth into Bethlehem. And the small child Jesus smile on you.
II
And Bethlehem inn they stood before (_The bells ring less and the bells ring more_), The landlord bade them begone from his door (Carillon, Carilla). “Poor folk” (says he), “must lie where they may, For the Duke of Jewry comes this way, With all his train on a Christmas Day.” And the small child Jesus smile on you.
III
Poor folk that may my carol hear (_The bells ring single and the bells ring clear_), See! God’s one child had hardest cheer! (Carillon, Carilla). Men grown hard on a Christmas morn; The dumb beast by and a babe forlorn. It was very, very cold when our Lord was born. And the small child Jesus smile on you.
IV
Now these were Jews as Jews must be (_The bells ring merry and the bells ring free_). But Christian men in a band are we (Carillon, Carilla). Empty we go, and ill be-dight, Singing Noël on a Winter’s night. Give us to sup by the warm firelight, And the small child Jesus smile on you.
THE BIRDS
When Jesus Christ was four years old, The angels brought Him toys of gold, Which no man ever had bought or sold.
And yet with these He would not play. He made Him small fowl out of clay, And blessed them till they flew away: _Tu creasti Domine_.
Jesus Christ, Thou child so wise, Bless mine hands and fill mine eyes, And bring my soul to Paradise.
IN A BOAT
Lady! Lady! Upon Heaven-height, Above the harsh morning In the mere light.
Above the spindrift And above the snow, Where no seas tumble, And no winds blow.
The twisting tides, And the perilous sands Upon all sides Are in your holy hands.
The wind harries And the cold kills; But I see your chapel Over far hills.
My body is frozen, My soul is afraid: Stretch out your hands to me, Mother and maid.
Mother of Christ, And Mother of me, Save me alive From the howl of the sea.
If you will Mother me Till I grow old, I will hang in your chapel A ship of pure gold.
SONG
INVITING THE INFLUENCE OF A YOUNG LADY UPON THE OPENING YEAR
I
You wear the morning like your dress And are with mastery crowned; Whenas you walk your loveliness Goes shining all around. Upon your secret, smiling way Such new contents were found, The Dancing Loves made holiday On that delightful ground.
II
Then summon April forth, and send Commandment through the flowers; About our woods your grace extend A queen of careless hours. For oh, not Vera veiled in rain, Nor Dian’s sacred Ring, With all her royal nymphs in train Could so lead on the Spring.
THE RING
When I was flying before the King In the wood of Valognes in my hiding, Although I had not anything I sent a woman a golden ring.
A Ring of the Moors beyond Leon With emerald and with diamond stone, And a writing no man ever had known, And an opal standing all alone.
The shape of the ring the heart to bind: The emerald turns from cold to kind: The writing makes her sure to find:-- But the evil opal changed her mind.
Now when the King was dead, was he, I came back hurriedly over the sea From the long rocks in Normandy To Bosham that is by Selsey. And we clipt each other knee to knee. But what I had was lost to me.
CUCKOO!
In woods so long time bare. Cuckoo! Up and in the wood, I know not where Two notes fall. Yet I do not envy him at all His phantasy. Cuckoo! I too, Somewhere, I have sung as merrily as he Who can dare, Small and careless lover, so to laugh at care, And who Can call Cuckoo! In woods of winter weary, In scented woods, of winter weary, call Cuckoo! In woods so long time bare.
THE LITTLE SERVING MAID
I
There was a Queen of England, And a good Queen too. She had a house in Powis Land With the Severn running through; And Men-folk and Women-folk Apprenticed to a trade; But the prettiest of all Was a Little Serving Maid.
II
“Oh Madam, Queen of England! Oh will you let me go! For there’s a Lad in London And he would have it so. And I would have it too, Madam, And with him would I bide; And he will be the Groom, Madam, And I shall be the Bride!”
III
“Oh fie to you and shame to you, You Little Serving Maid! And are you not astonied? And are you not afraid? For never was it known Since Yngelonde began That a Little Serving Maid Should go a-meeting of a man!
IV
Then the Little Serving Maid She went and laid her down, With her cross and her bede, In her new courting gown. And she called in Mother Mary’s name And heavily she sighed: “I think that I have come to shame!” And after that she died.
V
The good Queen of England Her women came and ran: “The Little Serving Maid is dead From loving of a man!” Said the good Queen of England “That is ill news to hear! Take her out and shroud her, And lay her on a bier.”
VI
They laid her on a bier, In the court-yard all; Some came from Foresting, And some came from Hall. And Great Lords carried her, And proud Priests prayed. And that was the end Of the Little Serving Maid.
AUVERGNAT
There was a man was half a clown (It’s so my father tells of it). He saw the church in Clermont town And laughed to hear the bells of it.
He laughed to hear the bells that ring In Clermont Church and round of it; He heard the verger’s daughter sing, And loved her for the sound of it.
The verger’s daughter said him nay; She had the right of choice in it. He left the town at break of day: He hadn’t had a voice in it.
The road went up, the road went down, And there the matter ended it. He broke his heart in Clermont town, At Pontgibaud they mended it.
DRINKING SONG
ON THE EXCELLENCE OF BURGUNDY WINE
My jolly fat host with your face all a-grin, Come, open the door to us, let us come in. A score of stout fellows who think it no sin If they toast till they’re hoarse, and they drink till they spin, Hoofed it amain, Rain or no rain, To crack your old jokes, and your bottles to drain.
Such a warmth in the belly that nectar begets As soon as his guts with its humour he wets, The miser his gold, and the student his debts, And the beggar his rags and his hunger forgets. For there’s never a wine Like this tipple of thine From the great hill of Nuits to the River of Rhine.
Outside you may hear the great gusts as they go By Foy, by Duerne, and the hills of Lerraulx, But the rain he may rain, and the wind he may blow, If the Devil’s above there’s good liquor below. So it abound, Pass it around, Burgundy’s Burgundy all the year round.
DRINKING DIRGE
A thousand years ago I used to dine In houses where they gave me such regale Of dear companionship and comrades fine That out I went alone beyond the pale; And riding, laughed and dared the skies malign To show me all the undiscovered tale-- But my philosophy’s no more divine, I put my pleasure in a pint of ale.
And you, my friends, oh! pleasant friends of mine, Who leave me now alone, without avail, On Californian hills you gave me wine, You gave me cider-drink in Longuevaille; If after many years you come to pine For comradeship that is an ancient tale-- You’ll find me drinking beer in Dead Man’s Chine. I put my pleasure in a pint of ale.
In many a briny boat I’ve tried the brine, From many a hidden harbour I’ve set sail, Steering towards the sunset where there shine The distant amethystine islands pale.
There are no ports beyond the far sea-line, Nor any halloa to meet the mariner’s hail; I stand at home and slip the anchor-line. I put my pleasure in a pint of ale.
ENVOI
Prince! Is it true when you go out to dine You bring your bottle in a freezing pail? Why then you cannot be a friend of mine. _I_ put my pleasure in a pint of ale.
WEST SUSSEX DRINKING SONG
They sell good Beer at Haslemere And under Guildford Hill. At Little Cowfold as I’ve been told A beggar may drink his fill: There is a good brew in Amberley too, And by the bridge also; But the swipes they take in at Washington Inn Is the very best Beer I know.
_Chorus._
With my here it goes, there it goes, All the fun’s before us: The Tipple’s Aboard and the night is young, The door’s ajar and the Barrel is sprung, I am singing the best song ever was sung And it has a rousing chorus.
If I were what I never can be, The master or the squire: If you gave me the hundred from here to the sea, Which is more than I desire: Then all my crops should be barley and hops, And did my harvest fail I’d sell every rood of mine acres I would For a belly-full of good Ale.
_Chorus._
With my here it goes, there it goes, All the fun’s before us: The Tipple’s aboard and the night is young, The door’s ajar and the Barrel is sprung, I am singing the best song ever was sung And it has a rousing Chorus.
A BALLAD ON SOCIOLOGICAL ECONOMICS
A while ago it came to pass (Merry we carol it all the day), There sat a man on the top of an ass (Heart be happy and carol be gay In spite of the price of hay).
And over the down they hoofed it so (Happy go lucky has best of fare), The man up above and the brute below (And singing we all forget to care A man may laugh if he dare).
Over the stubble and round the crop (Life is short and the world is round), The donkey beneath and the man on the top (Oh! let good ale be found, be found, Merry good ale and sound).
It happened again as it happened before (Tobacco’s a boon but ale is bliss), The moke in the ditch and the man on the floor (And that is the moral to this, to this Remarkable artifice).
HERETICS ALL
Heretics all, whoever you be, In Tarbes or Nimes, or over the sea, You never shall have good words from me. _Caritas non conturbat me._
But Catholic men that live upon wine Are deep in the water, and frank, and fine; Wherever I travel I find it so, _Benedicamus Domino_.
On childing women that are forlorn, And men that sweat in nothing but scorn: That is on all that ever were born, _Miserere Domine_.
To my poor self on my deathbed, And all my dear companions dead, Because of the love that I bore them, _Dona Eis Requiem_.
HA’NACKER MILL
Sally is gone that was so kindly Sally is gone from Ha’nacker Hill. And the Briar grows ever since then so blindly And ever since then the clapper is still, And the sweeps have fallen from Ha’nacker Mill
Ha’nacker Hill is in Desolation: Ruin a-top and a field unploughed. And Spirits that call on a fallen nation Spirits that loved her calling aloud: Spirits abroad in a windy cloud.
Spirits that call and no one answers; Ha’nacker’s down and England’s done. Wind and Thistle for pipe and dancers And never a ploughman under the Sun. Never a ploughman. Never a one.
TARANTELLA
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn? And the tedding and the spreading Of the straw for a bedding, And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees, And the wine that tasted of the tar? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers (Under the vine of the dark verandah)? Do you remember an Inn, Miranda, Do you remember an Inn? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers Who hadn’t got a penny, And who weren’t paying any, And the hammer at the doors and the Din? And the Hip! Hop! Hap! Of the clap Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl Of the girl gone chancing, Glancing, Dancing, Backing and advancing, Snapping of the clapper to the spin Out and in---- And the Ting, Tong, Tang of the Guitar! Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn?
Never more; Miranda, Never more. Only the high peaks hoar: And Aragon a torrent at the door. No sound In the walls of the Halls where falls The tread Of the feet of the dead to the ground No sound: But the boom Of the far Waterfall like Doom.
THE CHAUNTY OF THE “NONA”
I
Come list all ye Cullies and Doxies so dear, You shall hearken to the tale of the Bold Marineer That took ship out of Holyhead and drove her so hard Past Bardsey, Pwlheli, Port Madoc, and Fishguard-- _Past Bardsey, Pwlheli, Port Madoc, and Fishguard_.
II
Then he dropped out of Fishguard on a calm Summer’s day, By St David’s and Strumbles and across St Bride’s Bay; Circumnavigating Skomer, that Island, around, With the heart of a Lion he threaded Jack Sound-- _With the heart of a Lion he threaded Jack Sound_.
III
But from out the Main Ocean there rolled a great cloud, So he clawed into Milford Haven by the Fog Blast so loud, Until he dropped anchor in a deep-wooded bay, Where all night with Old Sleep and Quiet Sadness he lay-- _Where all night with Old Sleep and Quiet Sadness he lay_.
IV
Next morning was a Doldrum, and he whistled for a breeze, Which came from the N.N.W.’ard all across the high seas; And in passing St Govan’s lightship he gave them good night, But before it was morning he raised Lundy Light-- _Before it was morning he had raised Lundy Light_.
V
Then he tossed for twelve hours in that horrible place Which is known to the Mariner as the Great White Horse Race, Till with a slant about three bells, or maybe near four, He saw white water breaking upon Loud Appledore-- _He saw white water breaking upon Loud Appledore_.
VI
The Pirates of Appledore, the Wines of Instow; But her nose is for Bideford with the tide at the flow. Rattle anchor, batten hatches, and leave your falls curled. The Long Bridge of Bideford is the end of the World-- _The Long Bridge of Bideford is the end of the World_.
THE WINGED HORSE
I
It’s ten years ago to-day you turned me out o’ doors To cut my feet on flinty lands and stumble down the shores, And I thought about the all-in-all, oh more than I can tell! But I caught a horse to ride upon and I rode him very well, He had flame behind the eyes of him and wings upon his side. And I ride, and I ride!
II
I rode him out of Wantage and I rode him up the hill, And there I saw the Beacon in the morning standing still, Inkpen and Hackpen and southward and away High through the middle airs in the strengthening of the day, And there I saw the channel-glint and England in her pride. And I ride, and I ride!
III
And once a-top of Lambourne down toward the hill of Clere I saw the Host of Heaven in rank and Michael with his spear, And Turpin out of Gascony and Charlemagne the Lord, And Roland of the marches with his hand upon his sword For the time he should have need of it, and forty more beside. And I ride, and I ride!
IV
For you that took the all-in-all the things you left were three. A loud voice for singing and keen eyes to see, And a spouting well of joy within that never yet was dried! And I ride.
STREPHON’S SONG
(FROM “THE CRUEL SHEPHERDESS”)
When I was not much older Than Cupid, but bolder, I asked of his Mother in passing her bower What it was in their blindness Men asked of her kindness And she said it was nought but a delicate flower: Such a delicate, delicate, delicate flower!
This morning you kissed me, By noon you dismissed me As though such great things were the jest of one hour, And you left me still wondering If I were not too blundering To deal with that delicate, delicate flower: ’Tis such a delicate, delicate, delicate flower!
For if that’s the complexion Of Ladies’ affection I must needs be a fool to remain in their power; But there’s that in me burning Which brings me returning To beg for the delicate, delicate flower; To implore for that delicate, delicate flower!
IV
BALLADES
SHORT BALLADE AND POSTSCRIPT ON CONSOLS AND BOERS
I
Gigantic daughter of the West (The phrase is Tennysonian), who From this unconquerable breast The vigorous milk of Freedom drew --We gave it freely--shall the crest Of Empire in your keeping true, Shall England--I forget the rest, But Consols are at 82.
II
Now why should anyone invest, As even City people do (His Lordship did among the rest), When stocks--but what is that to you? And then, who ever could have guessed About the guns--and horses too!-- Besides, they knew their business best, And Consols are at 82.
III
It serves no purpose to protest, It isn’t manners to halloo About the way the thing was messed-- Or vaguely call a man a Jew. A gentleman who cannot jest Remarked that we should muddle through (The continent was much impressed), And Consols are at 82.
_Envoi._
And, Botha lay at Pilgrim’s Rest And Myberg in the Great Karroo (A desert to the south and west), And Consols are at 82.
_Postscript._
Permit me--if you do not mind-- To add it would be screaming fun If, after printing this, I find Them after all at 81.
Or 70 or 63, Or 55 or 44, Or 39 and going free, Or 28--or even more.
No matter--take no more advice From doubtful and intriguing men. Refuse the stuff at any price, And slowly watch them fall to 10.
Meanwhile I feel a certain zest In writing once again the new Refrain that all is for the best, And Consols are at 82.
_Last Envoi._
Prince, you and I were barely thirty-three, And now I muse and wonder if it’s true, That you were you and I myself was me, And 3 per cents were really 82!
BALLADE OF THE UNANSWERED QUESTION
I
What dwelling hath Sir Harland Pott That died of drinking in Bungay? Nathaniel Goacher who was shot Towards the end of Malplaquet? The only thing that we can say, (The only thing that has been said) About these gentlemen is, “Nay! But where are the unanswering dead”
II
Lord Bumplepuppy, too, that got The knock from Messrs Dawkins’ dray? And Jonas, whom the Cachalot Begulphed in Esdraelon Bay? The Calvinistic John McKay, Who argued till his nostrils bled, And dropped in apoplexy? Nay! But where are the unanswering dead?
III
And Heliodorus too, that hot Defender of the Roman sway; And He, the author of the “_Tot Mercedes dant Victoriæ_,” And all the armoured squadrons gay That ever glory nourishèd In all the world’s high charges? Nay! But where are the unanswering dead?
_Envoi_
Prince, have you ever learnt to pray Upon your knees beside your bed? You miserable waxwork? Nay! But where are the unanswering dead?
BALLADE TO OUR LADY OF CZESTOCHOWA
I
Lady and Queen and Mystery manifold And very Regent of the untroubled sky, Whom in a dream St Hilda did behold And heard a woodland music passing by: You shall receive me when the clouds are high With evening and the sheep attain the fold. This is the faith that I have held and hold, And this is that in which I mean to die.
II
Steep are the seas and savaging and cold In broken waters terrible to try; And vast against the winter night the wold, And harbourless for any sail to lie. But you shall lead me to the lights, and I Shall hymn you in a harbour story told. This is the faith that I have held and hold, And this is that in which I mean to die.
III
Help of the half-defeated, House of gold, Shrine of the Sword, and Tower of Ivory; Splendour apart, supreme and aureoled, The Battler’s vision and the World’s reply. You shall restore me, O my last Ally, To vengeance and the glories of the bold. This is the faith that I have held and hold, And this is that in which I mean to die.
_Envoi_
Prince of the degradations, bought and sold, These verses, written in your crumbling sty, Proclaim the faith that I have held and hold And publish that in which I mean to die.
BALLADE OF HELL AND OF MRS ROEBECK
I
I’m going out to dine at Gray’s With Bertie Morden, Charles and Kit, And Manderly who never pays, And Jane who wins in spite of it, And Algernon who won’t admit The truth about his curious hair And teeth that very nearly fit:-- And Mrs Roebeck will be there.
II
And then to-morrow someone says That someone else has made a hit In one of Mister Twister’s plays. And off we go to yawn at it; And when it’s petered out we quit For number 20, Taunton Square, And smoke, and drink, and dance a bit:-- And Mrs Roebeck will be there.
III
And so through each declining phase Of emptied effort, jaded wit, And day by day of London days Obscurely, more obscurely, lit; Until the uncertain shadows flit Announcing to the shuddering air A Darkening, and the end of it:-- And Mrs Roebeck will be there.
_Envoi_
Prince, on their iron thrones they sit, Impassible to our despair, The dreadful Guardians of the Pit:-- And Mrs Roebeck will be there.
BALLADE OF UNSUCCESSFUL MEN
I
The cause of all the poor in ’93: The cause of all the world at Waterloo: The shouts of what was terrible and free Behind the guns of _Vengeance_ and her crew: The Maid that rode so straightly and so true And broke the line to pieces in her pride-- They had to chuck it up; it wouldn’t do; The Devil didn’t like them, and they died.
II
Cæsar and Alexander shall agree That right athwart the world their bugles blew: And all the lads that marched in Lombardy Behind the young Napoleon charging through: All that were easy swordsmen, all that slew The Monsters, and that served our God and tried The temper of this world--they lost the clue. The Devil didn’t like them, and they died.
III
You, the strong sons of anger and the sea, What darkness on the wings of battle flew? Then the great dead made answer: “Also we With Nelson found oblivion: Nelson, who When cheering out of port in spirit grew To be one purpose with the wind and tide-- Our nameless hulks are sunk and rotted through: The Devil didn’t like us and we died.”
_Envoi_
Prince, may I venture (since it’s only you) To speak discreetly of The Crucified? He was extremely unsuccessful too: The Devil didn’t like Him, and He died.
BALLADE OF THE HERESIARCHS
I