Chapter 4

Oh, it's heavy work is fighting, but our soldiers do it well-- Lo, the booming of the batteries, the clatter of the shell!-- And it's weary work retiring, but they kept a dauntless front, All our company of heroes who have borne the dreadful brunt. They can meet the foe and beat him, They can scatter and defeat him, For they learnt a steady lesson (and they taught a lesson, too), Having set their teeth in earnest and sat tight and seen it through.

Then their brothers trooped to join them, taking danger for a bride, Not in insolence and malice, but in honour and in pride; Caring nought to be recorded on the muster-roll of fame, So they struck a blow for Britain and the glory of her name. Toil and wounds could but delight them, Death itself could not affright them, Who went out to fight for freedom and the red and white and blue, While they set their teeth as firm as flint and vowed to see it through.

THE DEATH OF EUCLID

["Euclid, we are told, is at last dead, after two thousand years of an immortality that he never much deserved."--_The Times Literary Supplement_.]

A THRENODY for EUCLID! This is he Who with his learning made our youth a waste, Holding our souls in fee; A god whose high-set crystal throne was based Beyond the reach of tears, Deeper than time and his relentless years!

Come then, ye Angle-Nymphs, and make lament; Ye little Postulates, and all the throng Of Definitions, with your heads besprent In funeral ashes, ye who long Worshipped the King and followed in his train; For he is dead and cannot rise again.

Then from the shapes that beat their breasts and wept, Soft to the light a gentle Problem stepped, And, lo, her clinging robe she swiftly loosed And with majestic hands her side produced:

"Sweet Theorem," she said, and called her mate, "Sweet Theorem, be with me at this hour. How oft together in a dear debate We two bore witness to our Sovereign's power. But he is dead and henceforth all our days Are wrapped in gloom, And we who never ceased to sing his praise May weep our lord, but cannot call him from his tomb."

And, as they bowed their heads and to and fro Wove in a mournful gait their web of woe, Two sentinels forth came, Their hearts aflame, And moved behind the pair: "Warders we are," they cried, "Of these two sisters who were once so fair, So joyous in their pride." And now their massy shields they lifted high, Embossed with letters three, And, though a mist of tears bedimmed each eye, The sorrowing Nymphs could see Q., E. and F. on one, and on the other Q. E. D.

But on a sudden, with a hideous noise Of joy and laughter rushed a rout of boys; And all the mourners in affright Scattered to left and right. Problems and Theorems and Angles too, Postulates, Definitions, Circles, Planes, A jibbering crew, With all their hoary gains Of knowledge, from their monarch dead Into the outer darkness shrieking fled.

And now with festal dance and laughter loud Broke in the boyish and intruding crowd; Nor did they fail, Seeing that all the painful throng was sped, To let high mirth prevail, And raise the song of joy for EUCLID dead.

TO POSTUMOUS IN OCTOBER

When you and I were younger the world was passing fair; Our days were sped with laughter, our steps were free as air; Life lightly lured us onward, and ceased not to unroll In endless shining vistas a playground for the soul. But now no glory fires us; we linger in the cold, And both of us are weary, and both are growing old; Come, Postumus, and face it, and, facing it, confess Your years are half a hundred, and mine are nothing less.

When you and I were twenty, my Postumus, we kept In tidy rooms in College, and there we snugly slept. And still, when I am dreaming, the bells I can recall That ordered us to chapel or welcomed us to hall. The towers repeat our voices, the grey and ancient Courts Are filled with mirth and movement, and echo to our sports; Then riverward we trudge it, all talking, once again Down all the long unlovely extent of Jesus Lane.

One figure leads the others; with frank and boyish mien, Straight back and sturdy shoulders, he lords it o'er the scene; His grip is firm and manly, his cheeks are smooth and red; The tangled curls cling tightly about his jolly head. And when we launch the eight-oar I hear his orders ring; With dauntless iteration I see his body swing: The pride of all the river, the mainstay of our crew-- O Postumous, my bold one, can this be truly you?

Nay, Postumus, my comrade, the years have hurried on; You're not the only Phoenix, I know, whose plumes are gone. When I recall your splendour, your memory, too, is stirred; You too can show a moulted, but once refulgent, bird; And, if I still should press you, you too could hardly fail To point a hateful moral where I adorned the tale. 'Twere better to be thankful to Heaven that ruled it so, And gave us for our spending the days of long ago.

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.

THE LAST STRAW

I sing the sofa! It had stood for years, An invitation to benign repose, A foe to all the fretful brood of fears, Bidding the weary eye-lid sink and close. Massive and deep and broad it was and bland-- In short the noblest sofa in the land.

You, too, my friend, my solid friend, I sing, Whom on an afternoon I did behold Eying--'twas after lunch--the cushioned thing, And murmuring gently, "Here are realms of gold, And I shall visit them," you said, "and be The sofa's burden till it's time for tea."

"Let those who will go forth," you said, "and dare, Beyond the cluster of the little shops, To strain their limbs and take the eager air, Seeking the heights of Hedsor and its copse. I shall abide and watch the far-off gleams Of fairy beacons from the world of dreams."

Then forth we fared, and you, no doubt, lay down, An easy victim to the sofa's charms, Forgetting hopes of fame and past renown, Lapped in those padded and alluring arms. "How well," you said, and veiled your heavy eyes, "It slopes to suit me! This is Paradise."

So we adventured to the topmost hill, And, when the sunset shot the sky with red, Homeward returned and found you taking still Deep draughts of peace with pillows 'neath your head. "His sleep," said one, "has been unduly long." Another said, "Let's bring and beat the gong."

"Gongs," said a third and gazed with looks intent At the full sofa, "are not adequate. There fits some dread, some heavy, punishment For one who sleeps with such a dreadful weight. Behold with me," he moaned, "a scene accurst. The springs are broken and the sofa's burst!"

Too true! Too true! Beneath you on the floor Lay blent in ruin all the obscure things That were the sofa's strength, a scattered store Of tacks and battens and protruded springs. Through the rent ticking they had all been spilt, Mute proofs and mournful of your weight and guilt.

And you? You slept as sweetly as a child, And when you woke you recked not of your shame, But babbled greetings, stretched yourself and smiled From that eviscerated sofa's frame, Which, flawless erst, was now one mighty flaw Through the addition of yourself as straw.

THE OLD GREY MARE

There's a line of rails on an upland green With a good take-off and a landing sound, Six fences grim as were ever seen, And it's there I would be with fox and hound. Oh, that was a country free and fair For the raking stride of my old grey mare!

With her raking stride, and her head borne high, And her ears a-prick, and her heart a-flame, And the steady look of her deep brown eye, I warrant the grey mare knew the game: It was "Up to it, lass," and before I knew We were up and over, and on we flew.

The rooks from the grass got up, and so, With a caw and flap, away they went; When the grey mare made up her mind to go At the tail of the bounds on a breast-high scent, The best of the startled rooks might fail To match her flight over post and rail.

While some of the thrusters grew unnerved, And looked and longed for an open gate, And one crashed down and another swerved, She went for it always true and straight: She pounded the lot, for she made it good With never a touch of splintered wood.

Full many a year has come and gone Since last she gathered her spring for me, And lifted me up, and so flew on Unchecked in a country fair and free. I've ridden a score since then, but ne'er Crossed one that could live with the old grey mare.

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 thebend; 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.

"A LITTLE BIT OF BLUE"

When the waves rise high and higher as they toss about together, And the March-winds, loosed and angry, cut your chilly heart in two, Here are eighteen gallant gentlemen who come to face the weather All for valour and for honour and a little bit of blue!

_Chorus._ Oh get hold of it and shove it! It is labour, but you love it; Let your stroke be long and mighty; keep your body on the swing; While your pulses dance a measure Full of pride and full of pleasure. And the boat flies free and joyous like a swallow on the wing.

Isis blessed her noble youngsters as they left her; Father Camus Sped his youths to fame and Putney from his grey and ancient Courts:-- "Keep," they said, "the old traditions, and we know you will not shame us When you try the stormy tideway in your zephyrs and your shorts.

"For it's toil and tribulation till your roughnesses are polished, And it's bitterness and sorrow till the work of oars is done; But it's high delight and triumph when your faults are all abolished, With yourself and seven brothers firmly welded into one."

So they stood the weary trial and the people poured to greet them, Filled a cup with praise and welcome--it was theirs to take and quaff; And they ranged their ships alongside, and the umpire came to meet them, And they stripped themselves and waited till his pistol sent them off.

With a dash and spurt and rally; with a swing and drive and rattle, Both the boats went flashing faster as they cleft the swelling stream; And the old familiar places, scenes of many a sacred battle, Just were seen for half a moment and went by them in a dream.

But at last the flag has fallen and the splendid fight is finished, And the victory is blazoned on the record-roll of Fame. They are spent and worn and broken, but their soul is undiminished; There are winners now and losers, but their glory is the same!

_Chorus_. Oh get hold of it and shove it! It is labour, but you love it; Let your stroke be long and mighty; keep your body on the swing; While your pulses dance a measure Full of pride and full of pleasure, And the boat flies free and joyous like a swallow on the wing.

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 in 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!"

IN MEMORIAM

FRANCIS COWLEY BURNAND, 1836-1917

EDITOR OF "PUNCH," 1880-1906

Hail and Farewell, dear Brother of the Pen, Maker of sunshine for the minds of men, Lord of bright cheer and master of our hearts-- What plaint is fit when such a friend departs? Not with mere ceremonial words of woe Come we to mourn--you would not have it so; But with our memories stored with joyous fun, Your constant largesse till your life was done, With quips, that flashed through frequent twists and bends, Caught from the common intercourse of friends; And gay allusions gayer for the zest Of one who hurt no friend and spared no jest. What arts were yours that taught you to indite What all men thought, but only you could write!

That wrung from gloom itself a fleeting smile; Rippled with laughter but refrained from guile; Led you to prick some bladder of conceit Or trip intrusive folly's blundering feet, While wisdom at your call came down to earth, Unbent awhile and gave a hand to mirth!

You too had pondered mid your jesting strife The deeper issues of our mortal life; Guided to God by faith no doubt could dim, You fought your fight and left the rest to Him, Content to set your heart on things above And rule your days by laughter and by love.

Rest in our memories! You are guarded there By those who knew you as you lived and were. There mid our Happy Thoughts you take your stand, A sun-girt shade, and light that shadow-land.