Sith you must go with me,” said she,

  “To wait upon my will.

  And you may lead a thousand men

  Nor ever draw the rein,

  But before you lead the Fairy Queen

  ‘Twill burst your heart in twain.”

  He has slipped his foot from the stirrup-bar,

  The bridle from his hand,

  And he is bound by hand and foot

  To the Queen of Fairy Land.

  “If I have taken the common clay

  And wrought it cunningly

  In the shape of a God that was digged a clod,

  The greater honour to me.”

  “If thou hast taken the common clay,

  And thy hands be not free

  From the taint of the soil, thou hast made thy spoil

  The greater shame to thee.”

  The lark will make her hymn to God,

  The partridge call her brood,

  While I forget the heath I trod,

  The fields wherein I stood.

  ‘Tis dule to know not night from morn,

  But greater dule to know

  I can but hear the hunter’s horn

  That once I used to blow.

  There were three friends that buried the fourth,

  The mould in his mouth and the dust in his eyes,

  And they .went south and east and north —

  The strong man fights but the sick man dies.

  There were three friends that spoke of the dead —

  The strong man fights but the sick man dies —

  “And would he were here with us now,” they said,

  “The Sun in our face and the wind in our eyes.”

  Yet at the last ere our spearmen had found him,

  Yet at the last, ere a sword-thrust could save,

  Yet at the last, with his masters around him,

  He spoke of the Faith as a master to slave.

  Yet at the last though the Kafirs had maimed him,

  Broken by bondage and wrecked by the reiver,

  Yet at the last, tho’ the darkness had claimed him,

  He colled on Allah and died a Believer!

  The Liner She’s a Lady

  1894

  The Liner she’s a lady, an’ she never looks nor ‘eeds —

  The Man-o’-War’s ‘er ‘usband, an’ ‘e gives ‘er all she needs;

  But, oh, the little cargo-boats, that sail the wet seas roun’,

  They’re just the same as you an’ me a-plyin’ up an’ down!

  Plyin’ up an’ down, Jenny, ‘angin’ round the Yard,

  All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth ‘Ard;

  Anythin’ for business, an’ we’re growin’ old —

  Plyin’ up an’ down, Jenny, waitin’ in the cold!

  The Liner she’s a lady by the paint upon ‘er face,

  An’ if she meets an accident they count it sore disgrace.

  The Man-o’-War’s ‘er ‘usband, and ‘e’s always ‘andy by,

  But, oh, the little cargo-boats, they’ve got to load or die!

  The Liner she’s a lady, and ‘er route is cut an’ dried;

  The Man-o’-War’s ‘er ‘usband, an’ ‘e always keeps beside;

  But, oh, the little cargo-boats that ‘aven’t any man,

  They’ve got to do their business first, and make the most they can!

  The Liner she’s a lady, and if a war should come,

  The Man-o’-War’s ‘er ‘usband, and ‘e’d bid ‘er stay at home,

  But, oh, the little cargo-boats that fill with every tide!

  ‘E’d ‘ave to go up an’ fight for them, for they are England’s pride.

  The Liner she’s a lady, but if she wasn’t made,

  There still would be the cargo-boats for ‘ome an’ foreign trade.

  The man-o’-War’s ‘er ‘usband, but if we wasn’t ‘ere,

  ‘E wouldn’t have to fight at all for ‘ome an’ friends so dear.

  ‘Ome an’ friends so dear, Jenny, ‘angin’ round the Yard,

  All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth ‘Ard;

  Anythin’ for business, an’ we’re growin’ old —

  ‘Ome an’ friends so dear, Jenny, waitin’ in the cold!

  Lollius

  Horace, BK. V. Ode 13.

  1920

  WHY gird at Lollius if he care

  To purchase in the city’s sight,

  With nard and roses for his hair,

  The name of Knight?

  Son of unmitigated ‘sires

  Enriched by trade in Afric corn,

  His wealth allows, his wife requires,

  Him to be born.

  Him slaves shall serve with zeal renewed

  At lesser wage for longer whiles,

  And school- and station-masters rude

  Receive with smiles.

  His bowels shall be sought in charge

  By learned doctors; all his sons

  And nubile daughters shall enlarge

  Their horizons.

  For fierce she-Britons, apt to smite

  Their upward-climbing sisters down,

  Shall smooth their plumes and oft invite

  The brood to town.

  For these delights will he disgorge

  The State enormous benefice,

  But-by the head of either George-

  He pays not twice!

  Whom neither lust for public pelf,

  Nor itch to make orations, vex-

  Content to honour his own self

  With his own cheques-

  That man is clean. At least, his house

  Springs cleanly from untainted gold-

  Not from a conscience or a spouse

  Sold and resold.

  Time was, you say, before men knew

  Such arts, and rose by Virtue guided?

  The tables rock with laughter-you

  Not least derided.

  London Stone

  Nov. 11, 1923

  WHEN you come to London Town,

  (Grieving-grieving! )

  Bring your flowers and lay them down

  At the place of grieving.

  When you come to London Town,

  (Grieving-grieving!)

  Bow your head and mourn your own,

  With the others grieving.

  For those minutes, let it wake

  (Grieving-grieving!)

  All the empty-heart and ache

  That is not cured by grieving.

  For those minutes, tell no lie:

  (Grieving-grieving!)

  “Grave, this is thy victory;

  And the sting of death is grieving.”

  Where’s our help, from Earth or Heaven,

  (Grieving-grieving!)

  To comfort us for what we’ve given,

  And only gained the grieving?

  Heaven’s too far and Earth too near,

  (Grieving-grieving!)

  But our neighbour’s standing here,

  Grieving as we’re grieving.

  What’s his burden. every day?

  (Grieving-grieving!)

  Nothing man can count or weigh,

  But loss and love’s own grieving.

  What is the tie betwixt us two

  (Grieving-grieving!)

  That must last our whole lives through?

  “As I suffer, so do you.”

  That may ease the grieving.

  The Long Trail

  There’s a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,

  And the ricks stand grey to the sun,

  Singing: “Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the dover,

  “And your English summer’s done.”

  You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind,

  And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;

  You have heard the song — how long? how long?

  Pull out on the trail again!

  Ha’ done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,

  We’ve seen the seasons through,

  And it’s time to turn the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

  Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new!

  It’s North you may run to the rime-ringed sun

  Or South to the blind Hom’s hate;

  Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,

  Or West to the Golden Gate —

  Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,

  And the wildest tales are true,

  And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

  And life runs large on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.

  The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old

  And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;

  And I’d sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll

  Of a black Bilbao tramp,

  With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,

  And a drunken Dago crew,

  And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail

  From Cadiz south on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new.

  There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,

  Or the way of a man with a maid;

  But the sweetest way to me is a ship’s upon the sea

  In the heel of the North-East Trade.

  Can you hear the crash on her brows, dear lass.

  And the drum of the racing screw,

  As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

  As she lifts and ‘scends on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new?

  See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,

  And the fenders grind and heave,

  And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate,

  And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;

  It’s “Gang-plank up and in,” dear lass,

  It’s “Hawsers warp her through!”

  And it’s “All clear aft” on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

  We’re backing down on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.

  O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,

  And the sirens hoot their dread,

  When foot by foot we creep o’er the hueless, viewless deep

  To the sob of the questing lead!

  It’s down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,

  With the Grinfleet Sands in view,

  Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

  And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.

  O the blazing tropic night, when the wake’s a welt of light

  That holds the hot sky tame,

  And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors

  Where the scared whale flukes in flame!

  Her plates are flaked by the sun, dear lass

  And her ropes are taut with the dew,

  For we’re booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

  We’re sagging south on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.

  Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb,

  And the shouting seas drive by,

  And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing,

  And the Southern Cross rides high!

  Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,

  That blaze in the velvet blue.

  They’re all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

  They’re God’s own guides on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.

  Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start

  We’re steaming all too slow,

  And it’s twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle

  Where the trumpet-orchids blow!

  You have heard the call of the off-shore wind

  And the voice of the deep-sea rain;

  You have heard the song-how long? how long?

  Pull out on the trail again!

  The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,

  And The Deuce knows we may do

  But we’re back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

  We’re down, hull-down, on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new!

  The Looking-Glass

  A Country Dance

  “Gloriana” - Rewards and Fairies

  Queen Bess was Harry’s daughter. Stand forward partners all!

  In ruff and stomacher and gown

  She danced King Philip down-a-down,

  And left her shoe to show ‘twas true –

  (The very tune I’m playing you)

  In Norgem at Brickwall!

  The Queen was in her chamber, and she was middling old.

  Her petticoat was satin, and her stomacher was gold.

  Backwards and forwards and sideways did she pass,

  Making up her mind to face the cruel looking-glass.

  The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass

  As comely or as kindly or as young as what she was!

  Queen Bess was Harry’s daughter. Now hand your partners all!

  The Queen was in her chamber, a-combing of her hair.

  There came Queen Mary’s spirit and It stood behind her char,

  Singing “Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass,

  But I will stand behind you till you face the looking-glass.

  The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass

  As lovely or unlucky or as lonely as I was!”

  Queen Bess was Harry’s daughter. Now turn your partners all!

  The Queen was in her chamber, a-weeping very sore.

  There came Lord Leicester’s spirit and It scratched upon the door,

  Singing “Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass,

  But I will walk beside you till you face the looking-glass.

  The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass,

  As hard and unforgiving or as wicked as you was!”

  Queen Bess was Harry’s daughter. Now kiss your partners all!

  The Queen was in her chamber, her sins were on her head.

  She looked the spirits up and down and statelily she said: -

  “Backwards and forwards and sideways though I’ve been,

  Yet I am Harry’s daughter and I am England’s Queen!”

  And she saw her day was over and she saw her beauty pass

  In the cruel looking-glass, that can always hurt a lass

  More hard than any ghost there is or any man there was!

  Loot

  If you’ve ever stole a pheasant-egg be’ind the keeper’s back,

  If you’ve ever snigged the washin’ from the line,

  If you’ve ever crammed a gander in your bloomin’ ‘aversack,

  You will understand this little song o’ mine.

  But the service rules are ‘ard, an’ from such we are debarred,

  For the same with English morals does not suit.

  (Cornet: Toot! toot!)

  W’y, they call a man a robber if ‘e stuffs ‘is marchin’ clobber

  With the —

  (Chorus) Loo! loo! Lulu! lulu! Loo! loo! Loot! loot! loot!

  Ow the loot!

  Bloomin’ loot!

  That’s the thing to make the boys git up an’ shoot!

  It’s the same with dogs an’ men,

  If you’d make ‘em come again

  Clap ‘em forward with a Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot!

  (ff) Whoopee! Tear ‘im, puppy! Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot!

  If you’ve knocked a nigger edgeways when ‘e’s thrustin’ for your life,

  You must leave ‘im very careful where ‘e fell;

  An’ may thank your stars an’ gaiters if you didn’t feel ‘is knife

  That you ain’t told off to bury ‘im as well.

  Then the sweatin’ Tommies wonder as they spade the beggars under

  Why lootin’ should be entered as a crime;

  So if my song you’ll ‘ear, I will learn you plain an’ clear

  ‘Ow to pay yourself for fightin’ overtime.

  (Chorus) With the loot, . . .

  Now remember when you’re ‘acking round a gilded Burma god

  That ‘is eyes is very often precious stones;

  An’ if you treat a nigger to a dose o’ cleanin’-rod

  ‘E’s like to show you everything ‘e owns.

  When ‘e won’t prodooce no more, pour some water on the floor

  Where you ‘ear it answer ‘ollow to the boot

  (Cornet: Toot! toot!) —

  When the ground begins to sink, shove your baynick down the chink,

  An’ you’re sure to touch the —

  (Chorus) Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot!

  Ow the loot! . . .

  When from ‘ouse to ‘ouse you’re ‘unting, you must always work in pairs —

  It ‘alves the gain, but safer you will find —

  For a single man gets bottled on them twisty-wisty stairs,

  An’ a woman comes and clobs ‘im from be’ind.

  When you’ve turned ‘em inside out, an’ it seems beyond a doubt

  As if there weren’t enough to dust a flute

  (Cornet: Toot! toot!) —

  Before you sling your ‘ook, at the ‘ousetops take a look,

  For it’s underneath the tiles they ‘ide the loot.

  (Chorus) Ow the loot! . . .

  You can mostly square a Sergint an’ a Quartermaster too,

  If you only take the proper way to go;

  I could never keep my pickin’s, but I’ve learned you all I knew —

  An’ don’t you never say I told you so.

  An’ now I’ll bid good-bye, for I’m gettin’ rather dry,