IIISONGS

Helost his money first of all—And losing that is half the story—And later on he tried a fallWith Fate, in things less transitory.He lost his heart—and found it dead—(His one and only true discovery),And after that he lost his head,And lost his chances of recovery.He lost his honour bit by bitUntil the thing was out of question.He worried so at losing it,He lost his sleep and his digestion.He lost his temper—and for good—The remnants of his reputation,His taste in wine, his choice of food,And then, in rapid culmination,His certitudes, his sense of truth,His memory, his self-control,The love that graced his early youth,And lastly his immortal soul.

Helost his money first of all—And losing that is half the story—And later on he tried a fallWith Fate, in things less transitory.

He lost his heart—and found it dead—(His one and only true discovery),And after that he lost his head,And lost his chances of recovery.

He lost his honour bit by bitUntil the thing was out of question.He worried so at losing it,He lost his sleep and his digestion.

He lost his temper—and for good—The remnants of his reputation,His taste in wine, his choice of food,And then, in rapid culmination,

His certitudes, his sense of truth,His memory, his self-control,The love that graced his early youth,And lastly his immortal soul.

Ona 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 cameFrom Nazareth into Bethlehem.And the small child Jesus smile on you.

AndBethlehem 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.

Poorfolk 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.

Nowthese 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.

WhenJesus 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.

WhenJesus 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.

Lady! Lady!Upon Heaven-height,Above the harsh morningIn the mere light.Above the spindriftAnd above the snow,Where no seas tumble,And no winds blow.The twisting tides,And the perilous sandsUpon all sidesAre in your holy hands.The wind harriesAnd the cold kills;But I see your chapelOver 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 aliveFrom the howl of the sea.If you will Mother meTill I grow old,I will hang in your chapelA ship of pure gold.

Lady! Lady!Upon Heaven-height,Above the harsh morningIn the mere light.

Above the spindriftAnd above the snow,Where no seas tumble,And no winds blow.

The twisting tides,And the perilous sandsUpon all sidesAre in your holy hands.

The wind harriesAnd the cold kills;But I see your chapelOver 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 aliveFrom the howl of the sea.

If you will Mother meTill I grow old,I will hang in your chapelA ship of pure gold.

INVITING THE INFLUENCE OF A YOUNG LADY UPON THE OPENING YEAR

Youwear the morning like your dressAnd are with mastery crowned;Whenas you walk your lovelinessGoes shining all around.Upon your secret, smiling waySuch new contents were found,The Dancing Loves made holidayOn that delightful ground.

Thensummon April forth, and sendCommandment through the flowers;About our woods your grace extendA queen of careless hours.For oh, not Vera veiled in rain,Nor Dian’s sacred Ring,With all her royal nymphs in trainCould so lead on the Spring.

WhenI was flying before the KingIn the wood of Valognes in my hiding,Although I had not anythingI sent a woman a golden ring.A Ring of the Moors beyond LeonWith 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 seaFrom the long rocks in NormandyTo Bosham that is by Selsey.And we clipt each other knee to knee.But what I had was lost to me.

WhenI was flying before the KingIn the wood of Valognes in my hiding,Although I had not anythingI sent a woman a golden ring.

A Ring of the Moors beyond LeonWith 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 seaFrom the long rocks in NormandyTo Bosham that is by Selsey.And we clipt each other knee to knee.But what I had was lost to me.

Inwoods so long time bare.Cuckoo!Up and in the wood, I know not whereTwo notes fall.Yet I do not envy him at allHis phantasy.Cuckoo!I too,Somewhere,I have sung as merrily as heWho can dare,Small and careless lover, so to laugh at care,And whoCan callCuckoo!In woods of winter weary,In scented woods, of winter weary, callCuckoo!In woods so long time bare.

Therewas a Queen of England,And a good Queen too.She had a house in Powis LandWith the Severn running through;And Men-folk and Women-folkApprenticed to a trade;But the prettiest of allWas a Little Serving Maid.

“Oh Madam, Queen of England!Oh will you let me go!For there’s a Lad in LondonAnd 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!”

“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 knownSince Yngelonde beganThat a Little Serving MaidShould go a-meeting of a man!

Thenthe Little Serving MaidShe went and laid her down,With her cross and her bede,In her new courting gown.And she called in Mother Mary’s nameAnd heavily she sighed:“I think that I have come to shame!”And after that she died.

Thegood Queen of EnglandHer women came and ran:“The Little Serving Maid is deadFrom 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.”

Theylaid 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 endOf the Little Serving Maid.

Therewas a man was half a clown(It’s so my father tells of it).He saw the church in Clermont townAnd laughed to hear the bells of it.He laughed to hear the bells that ringIn 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.

Therewas a man was half a clown(It’s so my father tells of it).He saw the church in Clermont townAnd laughed to hear the bells of it.

He laughed to hear the bells that ringIn 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.

Myjolly 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 sinIf 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 begetsAs 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 wineLike this tipple of thineFrom the great hill of Nuits to the River of Rhine.Outside you may hear the great gusts as they goBy 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.

Such a warmth in the belly that nectar begetsAs 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 wineLike this tipple of thineFrom the great hill of Nuits to the River of Rhine.

Outside you may hear the great gusts as they goBy 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.

A thousandyears ago I used to dineIn houses where they gave me such regaleOf dear companionship and comrades fineThat out I went alone beyond the pale;And riding, laughed and dared the skies malignTo 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 pineFor 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 shineThe 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.

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 pineFor 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 shineThe 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.

Prince! Is it true when you go out to dineYou bring your bottle in a freezing pail?Why then you cannot be a friend of mine.Iput my pleasure in a pint of ale.

Theysell good Beer at HaslemereAnd under Guildford Hill.At Little Cowfold as I’ve been toldA 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 InnIs the very best Beer I know.

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 sungAnd 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 failI’d sell every rood of mine acres I wouldFor a belly-full of good Ale.

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 failI’d sell every rood of mine acres I wouldFor a belly-full of good Ale.

Withmy 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 sungAnd it has a rousing Chorus.

A whileago 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 gayIn 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 careA 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 thisRemarkable artifice).

A whileago 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 gayIn 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 careA 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 thisRemarkable artifice).

Hereticsall, 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 wineAre 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.

Hereticsall, 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 wineAre 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.

Sallyis gone that was so kindlySally is gone from Ha’nacker Hill.And the Briar grows ever since then so blindlyAnd ever since then the clapper is still,And the sweeps have fallen from Ha’nacker MillHa’nacker Hill is in Desolation:Ruin a-top and a field unploughed.And Spirits that call on a fallen nationSpirits 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 dancersAnd never a ploughman under the Sun.Never a ploughman. Never a one.

Ha’nacker Hill is in Desolation:Ruin a-top and a field unploughed.And Spirits that call on a fallen nationSpirits 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 dancersAnd never a ploughman under the Sun.Never a ploughman. Never a one.

Doyou remember an Inn,Miranda?Do you remember an Inn?And the tedding and the spreadingOf 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 muleteersWho 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 clapOf the hands to the twirl and the swirlOf the girl gone chancing,Glancing,Dancing,Backing and advancing,Snapping of the clapper to the spinOut 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 soundIn the walls of the Halls where fallsThe treadOf the feet of the dead to the groundNo sound:But the boomOf the far Waterfall like Doom.

Never more;Miranda,Never more.Only the high peaks hoar:And Aragon a torrent at the door.No soundIn the walls of the Halls where fallsThe treadOf the feet of the dead to the groundNo sound:But the boomOf the far Waterfall like Doom.

Comelist all ye Cullies and Doxies so dear,You shall hearken to the tale of the Bold MarineerThat took ship out of Holyhead and drove her so hardPast Bardsey, Pwlheli, Port Madoc, and Fishguard—Past Bardsey, Pwlheli, Port Madoc, and Fishguard.

Thenhe 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.

Butfrom 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.

Nextmorning 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.

Thenhe tossed for twelve hours in that horrible placeWhich 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.

ThePirates 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.

It’s ten years ago to-day you turned me out o’ doorsTo 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!

I rodehim 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 awayHigh 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!

Andonce a-top of Lambourne down toward the hill of ClereI 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 swordFor the time he should have need of it, and forty more beside.And I ride, and I ride!

Foryou 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.

(FROM “THE CRUEL SHEPHERDESS”)

WhenI was not much olderThan Cupid, but bolder,I asked of his Mother in passing her bowerWhat it was in their blindnessMen asked of her kindnessAnd she said it was nought but a delicate flower:Such a delicate, delicate, delicate flower!This morning you kissed me,By noon you dismissed meAs though such great things were the jest of one hour,And you left me still wonderingIf I were not too blunderingTo deal with that delicate, delicate flower:’Tis such a delicate, delicate, delicate flower!For if that’s the complexionOf Ladies’ affectionI must needs be a fool to remain in their power;But there’s that in me burningWhich brings me returningTo beg for the delicate, delicate flower;To implore for that delicate, delicate flower!

This morning you kissed me,By noon you dismissed meAs though such great things were the jest of one hour,And you left me still wonderingIf I were not too blunderingTo deal with that delicate, delicate flower:’Tis such a delicate, delicate, delicate flower!

For if that’s the complexionOf Ladies’ affectionI must needs be a fool to remain in their power;But there’s that in me burningWhich brings me returningTo beg for the delicate, delicate flower;To implore for that delicate, delicate flower!

Giganticdaughter of the West(The phrase is Tennysonian), whoFrom this unconquerable breastThe vigorous milk of Freedom drew—We gave it freely—shall the crestOf Empire in your keeping true,Shall England—I forget the rest,But Consols are at 82.

Nowwhy 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 guessedAbout the guns—and horses too!—Besides, they knew their business best,And Consols are at 82.

Itserves no purpose to protest,It isn’t manners to hallooAbout the way the thing was messed—Or vaguely call a man a Jew.A gentleman who cannot jestRemarked that we should muddle through(The continent was much impressed),And Consols are at 82.

And, Botha lay at Pilgrim’s RestAnd Myberg in the Great Karroo(A desert to the south and west),And Consols are at 82.

Postscript.

Permitme—if you do not mind—To add it would be screaming funIf, after printing this, I findThem 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 adviceFrom doubtful and intriguing men.Refuse the stuff at any price,And slowly watch them fall to 10.Meanwhile I feel a certain zestIn writing once again the newRefrain that all is for the best,And Consols are at 82.

Permitme—if you do not mind—To add it would be screaming funIf, after printing this, I findThem 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 adviceFrom doubtful and intriguing men.Refuse the stuff at any price,And slowly watch them fall to 10.

Meanwhile I feel a certain zestIn writing once again the newRefrain 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!

Whatdwelling hath Sir Harland PottThat died of drinking in Bungay?Nathaniel Goacher who was shotTowards 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”

LordBumplepuppy, too, that gotThe knock from Messrs Dawkins’ dray?And Jonas, whom the CachalotBegulphed in Esdraelon Bay?The Calvinistic John McKay,Who argued till his nostrils bled,And dropped in apoplexy? Nay!But where are the unanswering dead?

AndHeliodorus too, that hotDefender of the Roman sway;And He, the author of the “TotMercedes dant Victoriæ,”And all the armoured squadrons gayThat ever glory nourishèdIn all the world’s high charges? Nay!But where are the unanswering dead?

Prince, have you ever learnt to prayUpon your knees beside your bed?You miserable waxwork? Nay!But where are the unanswering dead?

Ladyand Queen and Mystery manifoldAnd very Regent of the untroubled sky,Whom in a dream St Hilda did beholdAnd heard a woodland music passing by:You shall receive me when the clouds are highWith 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.

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