Part 3
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.
THE END OF THE ROAD
IN THESE BOOTS AND WITH THIS STAFF Two hundred leaguers and a half Walked I, went I, paced I, tripped I, Marched I, held I, skelped I, slipped I, Pushed I, panted, swung and dashed I; Picked I, forded, swam and splashed I, Strolled I, climbed I, crawled and scrambled, Dropped and dipped I, ranged and rambled; Plodded I, hobbled I, trudged and tramped I, And in lonely spinnies camped I, And in haunted pinewoods slept I, Lingered, loitered, limped and crept I, Clambered, halted, stepped and leapt I; Slowly sauntered, roundly strode I, And ... (Oh! Patron saints and Angels That protect the four Evangels! And you Prophets vel majores Vel incerti, vel minores, Virgines ac confessores Chief of whose peculiar glories Est in Aula Regis stare Atque orare et exorare Et clamare et conclamare Clamantes cum clamoribus Pro Nobis Peccatoribus.) Let me not conceal it.... _Rode I._ (For who but critics could complain Of “riding” in a railway train?) Across the valley and the high-land, With all the world on either hand Drinking when I had a mind to, Singing when I felt inclined to; Nor ever turned my face to home Till I had slaked my heart at Rome.
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 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).
AN ORACLE
THAT WARNED THE WRITER WHEN ON PILGRIMAGE
Matutinus adest ubi Vesper, et accipiens te Saepe recusatum voces intelligit hospes Rusticus ignotas notas, ac flumina tellus Occupat--In sancto tum, tum, stans Aede caveto Tonsuram Hirsuti Capitis, via namque pedestrem Ferrea praeveniens cursum, peregrine, laborem Pro pietate tua inceptum frustratur, amore Antiqui Ritus alto sub Numine Romae.
_Translation of the above_:--
When early morning seems but eve And they that still refuse receive: When speech unknown men understand; And floods are crossed upon dry land. Within the Sacred Walls beware The Shaven Head that boasts of Hair, For when the road attains the rail The Pilgrim’s great attempt shall fail.
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_.
THE DEATH AND LAST CONFESSION OF WANDERING PETER
When Peter Wanderwide was young He wandered everywhere he would: And all that he approved was sung, And most of what he saw was good.
When Peter Wanderwide was thrown By Death himself beyond Auxerre, He chanted in heroic tone To priests and people gathered there:
“If all that I have loved and seen Be with me on the Judgment Day, I shall be saved the crowd between From Satan and his foul array.
“Almighty God will surely cry, ‘St. Michael! Who is this that stands With Ireland in his dubious eye, And Perigord between his hands,
“‘And on his arm the stirrup-thongs, And in his gait the narrow seas, And in his mouth Burgundian songs, But in his heart the Pyrenees?’
“St. Michael then will answer right (And not without angelic shame), ‘I seem to know his face by sight: I cannot recollect his name...?’
“St. Peter will befriend me then, Because my name is Peter too: ‘I know him for the best of men That ever walloped barley brew.
“‘And though I did not know him well And though his soul were clogged with sin, _I_ hold the keys of Heaven and Hell. Be welcome, noble Peterkin.’
“Then shall I spread my native wings And tread secure the heavenly floor, And tell the Blessed doubtful things Of Val d’Aran and Perigord.”
* * * * *
This was the last and solemn jest Of weary Peter Wanderwide. He spoke it with a failing zest, And having spoken it, he died.
DEDICATORY ODE
I mean to write with all my strength (It lately has been sadly waning), A ballad of enormous length-- Some parts of which will need explaining.[1]
Because (unlike the bulk of men Who write for fame or public ends), I turn a lax and fluent pen To talking of my private friends.[2]
For no one, in our long decline, So dusty, spiteful and divided, Had quite such pleasant friends as mine, Or loved them half as much as I did.
* * * * *
The Freshman ambles down the High, In love with everything he sees, He notes the very Midland sky, He sniffs a more than Midland breeze.
“Can this be Oxford? This the place?” (He cries) “of which my father said The tutoring was a damned disgrace, The creed a mummery, stuffed and dead?
“Can it be here that Uncle Paul Was driven by excessive gloom, To drink and debt, and, last of all, To smoking opium in his room?
“Is it from here the people come, Who talk so loud, and roll their eyes, And stammer? How extremely rum! How curious! What a great surprise.
“Some influence of a nobler day Than theirs (I mean than Uncle Paul’s), Has roused the sleep of their decay, And flecked with light their ancient walls.
“O! dear undaunted boys of old, Would that your names were carven here, For all the world in stamps of gold, That I might read them and revere.
“Who wrought and handed down for me This Oxford of the larger air, Laughing, and full of faith, and free, With youth resplendent everywhere?”
Then learn: thou ill-instructed, blind, Young, callow, and untutored man, Their private names were ...[3] Their club was called REPUBLICAN.
* * * * *
Where on their banks of light they lie, The happy hills of Heaven between, The Gods that rule the morning sky Are not more young, nor more serene
Than were the intrepid Four that stand, The first who dared to live their dream. And on this uncongenial land To found the Abbey of Theleme.
We kept the Rabelaisian plan:[4] We dignified the dainty cloisters With Natural Law, the Rights of Man, Song, Stoicism, Wine and Oysters.
The library was most inviting: The books upon the crowded shelves Were mainly of our private writing: We kept a school and taught ourselves.
We taught the art of writing things On men we still should like to throttle: And where to get the Blood of Kings At only half a crown a bottle.
* * * * *
Eheu Fugaces! Postume! (An old quotation out of mode); My coat of dreams is stolen away My youth is passing down the road.
* * * * *
The wealth of youth, we spent it well And decently, as very few can. And is it lost? I cannot tell: And what is more, I doubt if you can.
The question’s very much too wide, And much too deep, and much too hollow, And learned men on either side Use arguments I cannot follow.
They say that in the unchanging place, Where all we loved is always dear, We meet our morning face to face And find at last our twentieth year....
They say (and I am glad they say) It is so; and it may be so: It may be just the other way, I cannot tell. But this I know:
From quiet homes and first beginning, Out to the undiscovered ends, There’s nothing worth the wear of winning, But laughter and the love of friends.
* * * * *
But something dwindles, oh! my peers, And something cheats the heart and passes, And Tom that meant to shake the years Has come to merely rattling glasses.
And He, the Father of the Flock, Is keeping Burmesans in order, An exile on a lonely rock That overlooks the Chinese border.
And One (Myself I mean--no less), Ah!--will Posterity believe it-- Not only don’t deserve success, But hasn’t managed to achieve it.
Not even this peculiar town Has ever fixed a friendship firmer, But--one is married, one’s gone down, And one’s a Don, and one’s in Burmah.
* * * * *
And oh! the days, the days, the days, When all the four were off together: The infinite deep of summer haze, The roaring charge of autumn weather!
* * * * *
I will not try the reach again, I will not set my sail alone, To moor a boat bereft of men At Yarnton’s tiny docks of stone.
But I will sit beside the fire, And put my hand before my eyes, And trace, to fill my heart’s desire, The last of all our Odysseys.
The quiet evening kept her tryst: Beneath an open sky we rode, And passed into a wandering mist Along the perfect Evenlode.
The tender Evenlode that makes Her meadows hush to hear the sound Of waters mingling in the brakes, And binds my heart to English ground.
A lovely river, all alone, She lingers in the hills and holds A hundred little towns of stones, Forgotten in the western wolds
* * * * *
I dare to think (though meaner powers Possess our thrones, and lesser wits Are drinking worser wine than ours, In what’s no longer Austerlitz)
That surely a tremendous ghost, The brazen-lunged, the bumper-filler, Still sings to an immortal toast, The Misadventures of the Miller.
The unending seas are hardly bar To men with such a prepossession: We were? Why then, by God, we _are_-- Order! I call the Club to session!
You do retain the song we set, And how it rises, trips and scans? You keep the sacred memory yet, Republicans? Republicans?
You know the way the words were hurled, To break the worst of fortune’s rub? I give the toast across the world, And drink it, “Gentlemen: the Club.”
FOOTNOTES:
[1] But do not think I shall explain To any great extent. Believe me, I partly write to give you pain, And if you do not like me, leave me.
[2] And least of all can you complain, Reviewers, whose unholy trade is, To puff with all your might and main Biographers of single ladies.
[3] Never mind.
[4] The plan forgot (I know not how, Perhaps the Refectory filled it), To put a chapel in; and now We’re mortgaging the rest to build it.
DEDICATION ON THE GIFT OF A BOOK TO A CHILD
Child! do not throw this book about! Refrain from the unholy pleasure Of cutting all the pictures out! Preserve it as your chiefest treasure.
Child, have you never heard it said That you are heir to all the ages? Why, then, your hands were never made To tear these beautiful thick pages!
Your little hands were made to take The better things and leave the worse ones: They also may be used to shake The Massive Paws of Elder Persons.
And when your prayers complete the day, Darling, your little tiny hands Were also made, I think, to pray For men that lose their fairylands.
DEDICATION OF A CHILD’S BOOK OF IMAGINARY TALES
WHEREIN WRONG-DOERS SUFFER
And is it true? It is not true! And if it was it wouldn’t do For people such as me and you, Who very nearly all day long Are doing something rather wrong.
HOMAGE
I
There is a light around your head Which only Saints of God may wear, And all the flowers on which you tread In pleasaunce more than ours have fed, And supped the essential air Whose summer is a-pulse with music everywhere.
II
For you are younger than the mornings are That in the mountains break; When upland shepherds see their only star Pale on the dawn, and make In his surcease the hours, The early hours of all their happy circuit take.
FILLE-LA-HAINE
Death went into the steeple to ring, And he pulled the rope and he tolled a knell. Fille-la-Haine, how well you sing! Why are they ringing the Passing Bell? _Death went into the steeple to ring; Fille-la-Haine, how well you sing!_
Death went down the stream in a boat, Down the river of Seine went he; Fille-la-Haine had a pain in her throat, Fille-la-Haine was nothing to me. _Death went down the stream in a boat; Fille-la-Haine had a pain in her throat._
Death went up the hill in a cart (I have forgotten her lips and her laughter). Fille-la-Haine was my sweetheart (And all the village was following after). _Death went up the hill in a cart. Fille-la-Haine was my sweetheart._
THE MOON’S FUNERAL
I
The Moon is dead. I saw her die. She in a drifting cloud was drest, She lay along the uncertain west, A dream to see. And very low she spake to me: “I go where none may understand, I fade into the nameless land, And there must lie perpetually.” And therefore I, And therefore loudly, loudly I And high And very piteously make cry: “The Moon is dead. I saw her die.”
II
And will she never rise again? The Holy Moon? Oh, never more! Perhaps along the inhuman shore Where pale ghosts are Beyond the low lethean fen She and some wide infernal star-- To us who loved her never more, The Moon will never rise again. Oh! never more in nightly sky Her eye so high shall peep and pry To see the great world rolling by. For why? The Moon is dead. I saw her die.
THE HAPPY JOURNALIST
I love to walk about at night By nasty lanes and corners foul, All shielded from the unfriendly light And independent as the owl.
By dirty grates I love to lurk; I often stoop to take a squint At printers working at their work. I muse upon the rot they print.
The beggars please me, and the mud: The editors beneath their lamps As--Mr. Howl demanding blood, And Lord Retender stealing stamps,
And Mr. Bing instructing liars, His elder son composing trash; Beaufort (whose real name is Meyers) Refusing anything but cash.
I like to think of Mr. Meyers, I like to think of Mr. Bing. I like to think about the liars: It pleases me, that sort of thing.
Policemen speak to me, but I, Remembering my civic rights, Neglect them and do not reply. I love to walk about at nights!
At twenty-five to four I bunch Across a cab I can’t afford. I ring for breakfast after lunch. I am as happy as a lord!
LINES TO A DON
Remote and ineffectual Don That dared attack my Chesterton, With that poor weapon, half-impelled, Unlearnt, unsteady, hardly held, Unworthy for a tilt with men-- Your quavering and corroded pen; Don poor at Bed and worse at Table, Don pinched, Don starved, Don miserable; Don stuttering, Don with roving eyes, Don nervous, Don of crudities; Don clerical, Don ordinary, Don self-absorbed and solitary; Don here-and-there, Don epileptic; Don puffed and empty, Don dyspeptic; Don middle-class, Don sycophantic, Don dull, Don brutish, Don pedantic; Don hypocritical, Don bad, Don furtive, Don three-quarters mad; Don (since a man must make an end), Don that shall never be my friend.
* * * * *
Don different from those regal Dons! With hearts of gold and lungs of bronze, Who shout and bang and roar and bawl The Absolute across the hall, Or sail in amply bellowing gown Enormous through the Sacred Town, Bearing from College to their homes Deep cargoes of gigantic tomes; Dons admirable! Dons of Might! Uprising on my inward sight Compact of ancient tales, and port And sleep--and learning of a sort. Dons English, worthy of the land; Dons rooted; Dons that understand. Good Dons perpetual that remain A landmark, walling in the plain-- The horizon of my memories-- Like large and comfortable trees.
* * * * *
Don very much apart from these, Thou scapegoat Don, thou Don devoted, Don to thine own damnation quoted, Perplexed to find thy trivial name Reared in my verse to lasting shame. Don dreadful, rasping Don and wearing, Repulsive Don--Don past all bearing. Don of the cold and doubtful breath, Don despicable, Don of death; Don nasty, skimpy, silent, level; Don evil; Don that serves the devil. Don ugly--that makes fifty lines. There is a Canon which confines A Rhymed Octosyllabic Curse If written in Iambic Verse To fifty lines. I never cut; I far prefer to end it--but Believe me I shall soon return. My fires are banked, yet still they burn To write some more about the Don That dared attack my Chesterton.
NEWDIGATE POEM
A PRIZE POEM SUBMITTED BY MR. LAMBKIN OF BURFORD TO THE EXAMINERS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD ON THE PRESCRIBED POETIC THEME SET BY THEM IN 1893, “THE BENEFITS OF THE ELECTRIC LIGHT”