Part 1
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STREETS
AND OTHER VERSES
STREETS and other verses
By DOUGLAS GOLDRING
LONDON SELWYN & BLOUNT, LTD. 21 YORK BUILDINGS, W.C.2
NEW YORK THOMAS SELTZER 5 WEST FIFTIETH STREET
To
LOVERS OF LONDON
THIS RAGGED OFFERING
_Author’s Note_
Of the pieces contained in this collection fifteen are here printed in book form for the first time. The remainder are taken from the four volumes of verse which I have issued during the past ten years, all of which are now out of print.
“A Triumphal Ode” first appeared in _The Poetry Chapbook_, and “Post-Georgian Poet in Search of a Master,” in _Coterie_.
D. G.
_November 1st, 1920._
_This great grey city that bred me and mine—_ _Supreme, mysterious, dirty and divine—_ _Is made up all of contrast, light and gloom._
_It has green hills and parks where flowers bloom;_ _And shadowed pathways where young lips are shy_ _And warm hands tangle while the night slips by;_ _Deserts of humble brick, resigned and drear;_ _And crowded taverns, full of noise and beer;_ _Thronged streets where jostle theatre and hotel,_ _And stately terraces where rich folk dwell...._
_It has black alleys, and most dismal plains_ _Crossed by long, steady, fire-emitting trains;_ _Foul slums and palaces, prisons and spires_ _And suburbs where the jaundiced clerk expires._
_But love and hope are always with us, too:_ _And such bright eyes, to make the sky seem blue!_
_All of my life I have spent up and down_ _Adventurously, in this unending town,_ _And magic things have seen at Fortune Green_ _And fairies loitering in a grove at Sheen;_ _Chelsea made crimson in the sunset’s glare;_ _The dawn transfiguring even Russell Square...._
_And I have watched, all through a summer’s day,_ _The brown-winged barges loaded up with hay,_ _And seen the heavy cargo-steamers slide_ _Past Woolwich Ferry, with the flowing tide;_ _Found joy in travel on a motor ’bus,_ _And glowing worlds Within the Radius!_
_And so, for songs, my heart must needs repeat_ _The cries and whispers of the London street._
Contents
“_This great grey city that bred me and mine ..._”
PAGE
I
STREETS 17
VILLAS (LEYTONSTONE) 19
CHERRY GARDENS (ROTHERHITHE) 20
MARE STREET, N.E. 21
KINGSLAND ROAD, N.E. 22
LIVING-IN (BRIXTON RISE) 23
NEWPORT STREET, E. 24
THE SPANISH SAILOR (CHARLTON VALE) 25
OUTSIDE CHARING CROSS (2.35 P.M.) 26
SALOON BAR, RAILWAY ARMS (WATERLOO ROAD) 27
MRS. SKEFFYNGTON CALHUS 28
LITTLE HOUSES (HILL STREET, KNIGHTSBRIDGE) 30
MALISE-ROBES 31
THE YOUNG MARRIED COUPLE (MUSWELL HILL) 32
FIRST FLOOR BACK 33
MAISONNETTES (HARROW ROAD) 34
WALWORTH ROAD, S.E. 35
THE COUNTRY BOY 37
THE LETTER 38
LODGINGS (BLOOMSBURY) 40
“L’ILE DE JAVA” 41
THE POPLARS 42
WEST END LANE 43
HAMPSTEAD 45
OAK HILL WAY 48
SPANIARDS’ 49
RICHMOND PARK 50
WESTMINSTER BRIDGE (JUNE NIGHT) 51
GLADSTONE TERRACE 52
FRONT DOORS (BAYSWATER) 53
THE BALLAD OF THE BRAVE LOVER (THAMES EMBANKMENT) 55
THE QUARRY 56
IN A TAXI 57
IN PRAISE OF LONDON 58
II
HIGHBROW HILL 65
POST-GEORGIAN POET IN SEARCH OF A MASTER 66
MERVEILLEUSES DES NOS JOURS (1914) 68
DAISYMEAD 69
BENEVOLENCE 70
MR. REGINALD HYPHEN (ST. JAMES’S STREET) 71
SHE-DEVIL (DAVIES STREET) 72
RITZ (JULY, 1914) 73
A TRIUMPHAL ODE 74
III
MORITURA 79
THE VOICES 80
CUCKFIELD PARK 81
“NOW SLANTS THE MOONLIGHT...” 82
“SANG A MAID AT PEEP OF DAY” 83
A HOME-COMING 84
THE KISS 85
ON THE PROMENADE (MARCH WINDS: SEAFORD) 86
JUNE 87
TO —— 88
THE CASE OF PIERROT 89
POMPES FUNÈBRES 90
AH! YOU MOON 91
A LITTLE POEM ON SIN 92
HEART AND SOUL 93
THE SINGER’S JOURNEY 94
IV
BRIGHTON BEACH (WHIT-MONDAY, 1909) 99
BEAUGENCY-SUR-LOIRE 100
IN PICARDY 101
CALLE MEMO O LOREDAN 102
BARCELONA 103
JUILLAC-LE-COQ (CHARENTE) 104
ROADS 105
ENVOI (ARS LONGA) 106
_Part I_
_Streets_
Church Street wears ever a smile, from having watched bright belles Coming home with young men, after balls, “at all hours.” Its villas don’t mind; they say, “Go it, young swells, We’ve been young, too!” But Ebenezer Street glowers.
Chapel deacons live here, with side whiskers and pompous wives, Who play hymns on Sundays, and deeply deplore sinful acts. They’re convinced that their neighbours lead scandalous private lives; —That you and I ought to be shot, “if one knew all the facts.”
Goreham Street’s sad. Here lives old Jones the poet— He knew Swinburne and Watts, and has letters from “dear Charlie Keene.” Loo Isaacs lives here as well, and poor Captain Jowett: And the “Goreham Street Murder” was over at number thirteen.
Now George Street (E.C.) strikes a cheerful and strenuous note; It is full of live men of business, of ’buses and noise; Of Surbiton gents, very sleek, in top-hat and fur coat; And earnest young clerks who perspire, and take classes for boys.
But Audley Street has a calm and a gently fastidious air! Here I shall live when I’m rich, with my wife and my car: When we are pleased, we’ll never shout nor ruffle our hair, And a lift of the eyebrow will show how annoyed we are.
This is where life is lived nobly and sweetly and well: Here are beauty, all hardly-won things, and courage and love. Why people worship the slums and the poor so, I can never tell, For it’s virtue and baths and good cooking go hand in glove!
_Villas_
(_Leytonstone_)
All down Jamaica Road there are small bow windows Jutting out neighbourly heads in the street, And in each sits, framed, a quiet old woman. These watch the couples who pass or meet,
And some have borne sons, now ageing men; And most have seen death in their narrow house; Heard wedding bells for their grandchildren; Seen boys seek the bar for a last carouse;
And heard wives cry, through thin plaster walls, And watched babies laugh in the sun, outside. They treasure things up in their withered old hearts, And always they sit looking out, with eyes wide.
These queer old women, they watch, as they sit, Through the whole long day, what happens beneath They miss not a thing. Sometimes they knit, And sometimes dream a little, holding their breath.
1910.
_Cherry Gardens_
(_Rotherhithe_)
My man fell in, when he was drunk; They’d thrown him out o’ the “King’s Head.” From Wapping stairs he fell, and sunk. He was my man; he’s dead.
On the cold slab, a sight to see, They’ve laid him out—poor handsome chap— In Rotherhithe’s new mortuary. His head should dent my lap,
But I mayn’t warm him where he lies, Because I have no ring to show— Yet I’ve his bruises on my eyes; And bore his child a month ago.
_Mare Street, N.E._
In Mare Street, Hackney, Sunday nights, My Jim he’d search for souls to save: Beneath one of them showman’s lights He’d stand up white and brave.
“And who’s for Jesus now?” he’d call, “And who’s for Love that’s strong? Repent, believe: there’s Heaven for all That turns and flees from wrong....”
I wish no harm to my poor Jim, But God strike Lizzie dead! ’Twas cruel of her to lead the hymn, With me laid ill, in bed.
They’re gone—last month—to Leytonstone; Jim has a pulpit there; So I’m left hungering here alone, While _she_ joins him in pray’r.
_Kingsland Road, N.E._
_As I went walking down the Kingsland Road_ _I met an old man, with a very heavy load;_ _He had a crooked nose, and one tooth in his head,_ _And as I went by him he stopped me, and said:_
I’m an old, old man With a very heavy sack— But when I was a young ’un I’d a heavier pack.
Now my eyes are all dim, But my heart’s full of fun; Oh! heavy was my heart When my eyes were young.
I’d a cartload of trouble All along o’ my wife. —It was trying to be happy Made a Hell of my life!
I’m an old, old man With a gert heavy sack— But when I was a young ’un It nigh broke my back!
_When I looked in his eyes I saw that they were blue,_ _And the skin of his face it was wrinkled through and through,_ _He had big hairy ears, and his beard it was white:_ _And twittering and laughing he passed into the night._
_Living-In_
(_Brixton Rise_)
Through the small window comes the roar Of all the world of light outside: It is not midnight, yet our door Is shut on us, and we are tied.
What is he doing now—my dear? I left him all on fire for me: Will he be true? Oh God, I fear He’ll buy what I would give him free!
_Newport Street, E._
Down Newport Street, last Sunday night, Bill stabbed his sweetheart in the breast: She screamed and fell, a dreadful sight, And Bill strode on like one possest.
O Love’s a curse to them that’s young ’Twas all because of love and drink; Why couldn’t the silly hold her tongue, Or stop, before she spoke, to think?
She played with fire, did pretty Nell, So Bill must hang ere summer’s here: Christ, what a crowd are sent to Hell Through love, and poverty and beer!
_The Spanish Sailor_
(_Charlton Vale_)
Through lines of lights the river glides, Bestrewn with many a green-eyed ship, And swiftly down the slinking tides All night the heavy steamers slip.
Bright shone the moon when he slunk down, A-sailing to some foreign parts, Past Greenwich and past Gravesend Town, And caring nought for broken hearts.
’Twas in July. He kissed and fled: He stole my all and slipt to sea, And now I wish that I was dead —Or that his arms were crushing me.
_Outside Charing Cross_
(_2.35 p.m._)
Of course she’s there to see him off— Trust her for that. Tears in her eyes, enough to be becoming, The latest furs, then sympathy, for tea! And if he’s hit, my own, she’ll hear it first. She’ll be the one to fly to France, To bore the Doctor and the Nurse And drive him mad—if he still lives.
But I, who love him so my heart grows faint, Who’d gladly bleed to death to save him pain, Must wait and read the news in some blurred list.... Then, ever the grinning mask, day in, day out, While she, hard as a stone, Wears stylish black and tells her lover’s son How “Father died a hero in the War!”
1915.
_Saloon Bar, Railway Arms_
(_Waterloo Road_)
THE SERGEANT-MAJOR SPEAKS
Now you get out, you lousy tart! Outside’s my lawful wife and kids Turned up to watch the regiment depart, And all dressed neat, in black.
Why such as you’s orl right, maybe, In time of peace. And I’ll allow We’ve ’ad some fun, been on the spree— But now, you slut, it’s War.
Think o’ your Gord! That’s wot I say. The Missus there’s _respectable_— ’Er and the kids. If you don’t run away I’ll wring yer neck, yer cow! ’Ear me?
You ought to be ashamed of yerself, Turning up like this and making trouble! Come on, chuck it! Don’t ’owl. Give us a slobber then.... Now ’op it—poor little swine.
_Mrs. Skeffyngton Calhus_
Mrs. Skeffyngton Calhus has three sons killed in the war, (But to see her brave, sweet face, you would never guess it.) She has “given” some nephews as well, and cousins galore; “And if one feels sad,” she says, “one ought to suppress it.”
She belongs to two Funds, some Committees, and several clubs, Where she states what she’s done for England, with modest pride; And she works like a black at recruiting outside the pubs; And is always ready to tell “how her dear ones died.”
There were three of them—Bob, Jack and Arthur—handsome men; So good to their mother, so courteous, and brave, and kind! Well—she bred them for England! It was God’s will, Amen; For her sorrow on earth, a reward in Heaven she would find.
But Lily (the third from the left in “The Beauty-girl’s Glide”) Belonged to no clubs or committees, wasn’t noble at all; And the night of Jack’s death, in the wings, she broke down and cried Till her face was a sight and she couldn’t go on for the Ball.
She hadn’t bred him for England, nor looked for rewards “up above”; He was all that she cared for on earth; and she railed at Fate And called down a curse on those who had slain her love. The “for England” touch she couldn’t appreciate.
But Lily, of course, was only a simple soul. She lacked Mrs. Calhus’s exquisite self-control.
_Little Houses_
(_Hill Street, Knightsbridge_)
Little, houses, though prim, have often a secret glance That can speak to a heart outside—as one speaks to me— And even their close-drawn curtains seem to enhance The charm of their sly reserve, of their mystery....
I like to walk through the Square to your quiet street, And look at your windows—with just a suspicion of pride— For I may go in, when I dare, and sit at your feet, But the people who pass can’t guess what it’s like inside.
They haven’t a notion—but I see your small armchair And your dog, by the fire, and your novel thrown on the floor; And I know there will always be flowers when you are there, And always a smile for me, when I open your door!
_Malise-Robes_
The address is good—10A, North Molton Street— I’m clever at the trade, and doing well; Haven’t a single cause for discontent! Wilfrid is pleased: I’m safe: why mourn (you say) The old days when I loved him, and was poor? Ah, why! Fool, fool—to ask one that. I love him still, I think. Sometimes he comes And takes me off to Paris for a week; Flatters himself I’m “doing well at last”; That he’s not brought me harm; but, rather, good. It ought to be enough! And yet, and yet— You see I’m thirty-five, and I’ve no child.... True, I’ve the shares in “Malise Limited,” And that’s worth fifteen hundred solid pounds a year....
I’ll marry my Paris buyer. He’s a good sort: And we’ll soon be very rich.... But I’m so tired.
I wish he’d only kept me in a flat Somewhere in Maida Vale; come once a week And let me cook the dinner.... Votes! Good God! The way to manage women is the Turk’s....
_The Young Married Couple_
(_Muswell Hill_)
The Home of the young married couple is pleasant and clean, They receive me together. They say “Will I please come in,” And “not mind” some small thing (which I have not seen). Then: “Dinner is ready now”; and “shall we begin?”
They have a small daughter, and not too much money. They say That things must look up, by and by. They are merry and brave, They have grey days and bright days and days of play; And they always enjoy together the things that they have.
And often I envy my friends, as I sit and read All alone with my books and my thoughts, without child or wife: And I think I should like to marry very much indeed— If only the marriage sentence weren’t for life.
_First Floor Back_
Little room with the stone grey walls and the dusty books And a stone paved yard outside, and a high brick wall (And beyond the wall the trains to and fro passing All day and all night)— How I regret you now, little room with no view! I shall never see you again.
There I was all alone with my own wild heart. And now I have lent my heart: it is no more mine. There I was free to soar or to sink, no one speaking a word, Nothing holding me back, or distracting, or bidding me think Of callers “coming at five.” No one ever called, in that small bleak room.
No one called, it was cold. All alone Came the night to me And the bitter, grey London morning. And I was rich, with my bare grey walls, Rich, with my thoughts and dreams, Who now am poor— Imprisoned by plenty and by the years.
_Maisonnettes_
(_Harrow Road_)
The houses in Windermere Street are let off in floors, Which perhaps is the reason it always seems so to “swarm.” Little groups of girls and young men gather round its front doors And keen eyes at all windows observe who is “coming to harm.”
Every one in the street knew at once about poor Lizzie Brown! They saw the young chap she took up with, and “knew how ’twould be”; And they know why the blinds of the house at the corner are down, _And who pays the second floor’s rent, at a hundred and three._
_Walworth Road_
Dreams fairly haunt the Walworth Road (S.E.); Ride on the bonnets of the passers-by; Slide down the chimneys, and fly in between Warped, weasened doors and well-worn lintel-boards; Come in at windows and invade small rooms To chatter archly in old women’s ears, Making them laugh cracked laughter, deep in the throat, And weep with sweet, long, memorable thoughts....
They make bent grandfathers recall the day They played the fool in the sun, under the sky, And were the deuce with women, and finer chaps “Than ever you get, in these degenerate time....”
And then, they love to hover where maids sleep, Stirring the dewy lashes of soft eyes, Dimpling warm cheeks and parting tender lips. And in small ears, half-hidden in tangled curls, They tinkle such sly secrets of delight, That, when the sun cries “shame” to slugabeds, These wake, cooing like doves, with little trills and laughs And memories of a kiss, in that dream world Where “he” had swapped his bowler for a crown, And was a prince, and rode a great white horse!...
To the strong lads they whisper of the wars, Of glory and red coats; or of bright waves Tumbling, a foam of white, over a ship’s dipped nose In some tumultuous, splendid, sun-bathed sea; Or of adventures, where the world is warm And palm-trees stand above a glittering beach Under deep skies; where you may chance to meet Paul and Virginia; or an Arab horde— Slave-traders all, with muskets damascened— Or talk to small brown girls with nothing on....
Again, they tell of Rovers, from Sallee, With pistols in their belts, who cry “Hands Up!” But get a punch on the nose from British boys, Who steal their long feluccas with tall sails, And go adventuring through the burning blue, And meet a flight of porpoises and a dolphin, And make an island (as the daylight fades) Which has a fierce volcano in her midst And a little white port, with clustering white houses, And pirate vessels in her anchorage....
They are brave tales you broider, elfin dreams! Yet when the dawn awakens shining eyes, The same brown trams are surging to the Bridge, The same thin, grimy trees stand looking on; Nothing is changed. But oh, the day would be How dead without you!—in the Walworth Road.
_The Country Boy_
Ere Jack went up to London He held his head full high: His step was firm, his shoulders square And bright and bold his eye.
And ere he went to London Our maidens pleased him well, As little Rose from Yeovil, And dozens more, can tell.
But now the London ladies Have stolen all his thoughts, And wonderful rich presents He gives to those he courts.
But O, the smile has left his lips, His eyes are tired and dim, And he’s forgotten lads at home Who’ve not forgotten him.
1908.
_The Letter_
“O, the spring is sweet in London, Rose; the sun shines in the Park Very near as warm and happy as it used to shine at home— What’s the use of sitting sighing in my bedroom cold and dark When there’s many a girl will walk with me, if only asked to come?
“There’s lots of pretty faces, Dear, in all this jostling throng, There’s the girls I see at lunch-time in the tea-shop or the street, And the lady in the boarding-house, who sings me many a song In the drawing-room after dinner, O, her voice is soft and sweet!
“And I haven’t always wandered, all alone, with thoughts of you, And I’ve kissed sometimes (not often) other lips, my Rose, than yours, But I’m not a faithless villain—just a lad whose years are few, And who can’t afford to waste them sitting sorrowful indoors.
“Don’t think I have forgotten you, so true and good and kind, It’s only that life’s different now, a harder thing and strange: This London alters everything and makes your soul go blind, And the office work’s so tiring, Lord! you long for any change.
“So that’s why I write this letter: that you shouldn’t think it right Just because we used to promise things and kiss, in days gone by, To refuse the other fellows when they come to woo, at sight. O! London eats your heart and soul—my little Rose, Good-bye.”
_Lodgings_
(_Bloomsbury_)
As I climb these musty stairs, To my garret near the roof— Past the ladies singing airs From the latest Opéra-bouffe— I can see her little feet Twinkling in the brilliant light, I can hear the words so sweet That she said for my delight, When the whirling dance was over And she joined me in the night.
As I climb these hard-worn stairs To my garret near the roof, All her pretty, subtle airs, As she kept me half-aloof, Fill my thoughts and banish cares; I can hear her soft reproof When I kissed her unawares, As I climb these weary stairs To my garret near the roof.
“_L’Ile de Java_”
(_To Madame Josse_)
Madame, from out the hurrying throng Two boys have come to drink and talk; And one will make a little song And one a drawing, done in chalk.
When all goes wayward with our art And beauty dances out of sight, It’s good to still a hungry heart With chatter far into the night.