Grey-legged old cocks and hens sedate in age,Marching with jerks as though they moved on springs,With sidelong hate in round eyes red with rage,And shouldered muskets clipped by jealous wings,Then an array of horns and stupid things:Sheep on a hill with harebells, hare for dinner.'Hare.' A slow darkness covered up the sinner.'But little time is right hand fain of blow.'Only a second changes life to death;Hate ends before the pulses cease to go,There is great power in the stop of breath.There's too great truth in what the dumb thing saith,Hate never goes so far as that, nor can.'I am what life becomes. D'you hate me, man?'Hate with his babbling instant, red and damning,Passed with his instant, having drunken red.'You've killed him.''No, I've not, he's only shamming.Get up.' 'He can't.' 'O God, he isn't dead.''O God.' 'Here. Get a basin. Bathe his head.Ernie, for God's sake, what are you playing at?I only give him one like, with the bat.'Man cannot call the brimming instant back;Time's an affair of instants spun to days;If man must make an instant gold, or black,Let him, he may, but Time must go his ways.Life may be duller for an instant's blaze.Life's an affair of instants spun to years,Instants are only cause of all these tears.Then Anna screamed aloud. 'Help. Murder. Murder.''By God, it is,' he said. 'Through you, you slut.'Backing, she screamed, until the blacksmith heard her.'Hurry,' they cried, 'the woman's throat's being cut.'Jim had his coat off by the water butt.'He might come to,' he said, 'with wine or soup.I only hit him once, like, with the scoop.Splash water on him, chaps. I only meantTo hit him just a clip, like, nothing more.There. Look. He isn't dead, his eyelids went.And he went down. O God, his head's all tore.I've washed and washed: it's all one gob of gore.He don't look dead to you? What? Nor to you?Not kill, the clip I give him, couldn't do.''God send; he looks damn bad,' the blacksmith said.'Py Cot,' his mate said, 'she wass altogether;She hass an illness look of peing ted.''Here. Get a glass,' the smith said, 'and a feather.''Wass you at fightings or at playings whether?''Here, get a glass and feather. Quick's the word.'The glass was clear. The feather never stirred.'By God, I'm sorry, Jim. That settles it.''By God. I've killed him then.' 'The doctor might.''Try, if you like; but that's a nasty hit.''Doctor's gone by. He won't be back till night.''Py Cot, the feather was not looking right.''By Jesus, chaps, I never meant to kill 'un.Only to bat. I'll go to p'leece and tell 'un.O Ern, for God's sake speak, for God's sake speak.'No answer followed: Ern had done with dust,'The p'leece is best,' the smith said, 'or a beak.I'll come along; and so the lady must.Evans, you bring the lady, will you just?Tell 'em just how it come, lad. Come your ways;And Joe, you watch the body where it lays.'They walked to town, Jim on the blacksmith's arm.Jimmy was crying like a child, and saying,'I never meant to do him any harm.'His teeth went clack, like bones at murmurs playing,And then he trembled hard and broke out praying,'God help my poor old mother. If he's dead,I've brought her my last wages home,' he said.He trod his last free journey down the street;Treading the middle road, and seeing both sides,The school, the inns, the butchers selling meat,The busy market where the town divides.Then past the tanpits full of stinking hides,And up the lane to death, as weak as pith.'By God, I hate this, Jimmy,' said the smith.VIAnna in black, the judge in scarlet robes,A fuss of lawyers' people coming, going,The windows shut, the gas alight in globes,Evening outside, and pleasant weather blowing.'They'll hang him?' 'I suppose so; there's no knowing.''A pretty piece, the woman, ain't she, John?He killed the fellow just for carrying on.''She give her piece to counsel pretty clear.''Ah, that she did, and when she stop she smiled.''She's had a-many men, that pretty dear;She's drove a-many pretty fellows wild.''More silly idiots they to be beguiled.''Well, I don't know.' 'Well, I do. See her eyes?Mystery, eh? A woman's mystery's lies.''Perhaps.' 'No p'raps about it, that's the truth.I know these women; they're a rotten lot.''You didn't use to think so in your youth.''No; but I'm wiser now, and not so hot.Married or buried,Isay, wives or shot,These unmanned, unattached Maries and SusansMake life no better than a proper nuisance.''Well, I don't know.' 'Well, if you don't you will.''I look on women as as good as men.''Now, that's the kind of talk that makes me ill.When have they been as good? I ask you when?''Always they have.' 'They haven't. Now and thenP'raps one or two was neither hen nor fury.''One for your mother, that. Here comes the jury.'Guilty. Thumbs down. No hope. The judge passed sentence;'A frantic passionate youth, unfit for life,A fitting time afforded for repentance,Then certain justice with a pitiless knife.For her his wretched victim's widowed wife,Pity. For her who bore him, pity. (Cheers.)The jury were exempt for seven years.'All bowed; the Judge passed to the robing-room,Dismissed his clerks, disrobed, and knelt and prayedAs was his custom after passing doom,Doom upon life, upon the thing not made.'O God, who made us out of dust, and laidThee in us bright, to lead us to the truth,O God, have pity upon this poor youth.Show him Thy grace, O God, before he die;Shine in his heart; have mercy upon me,Who deal the laws men make to travel byUnder the sun upon the path to Thee;O God Thou knowest I'm as blind as he,As blind, as frantic, not so single, worse,Only Thy pity spared me from the curse.Thy pity, and Thy mercy, God, did save,Thy bounteous gifts, not any grace of mine,From all the pitfalls leading to the grave,From all the death-feasts with the husks and swine.God, who hast given me all things, now make shineBright in this sinner's heart that he may see.God, take this poor boy's spirit back to Thee.'Then trembling with his hands, for he was old,He went to meet his college friend, the Dean,The loiterers watched him as his carriage rolled.'There goes the Judge,' said one, and one was keen:'Hanging that wretched boy, that's where he's been.'A policeman spat, two lawyers talked statistics,'"Crime passionel" in Agricultural Districts.''They'd oughtn't hang a boy': but one said 'Stuff.This sentimental talk is rotten, rotten.The law's the law and not half strict enough,Forgers and murderers are misbegotten,Let them be hanged and let them be forgotten.A rotten fool should have a rotten end;Mend them, you say? The rotten never mend.'And one 'Not mend? The rotten not, perhaps.The rotting would; so would the just infected.A week in quod has ruined lots of chapsWho'd all got good in them till prison wrecked it.'And one, 'Society must be protected.''He's just a kid. She trapped him.' 'No, she didden.''He'll be reprieved.' 'He mid be and he midden.'So the talk went; and Anna took the train,Too sad for tears, and pale; a lady spokeAsking if she were ill or suffering pain?'Neither,' she said; but sorrow made her choke,'I'm only sick because my heart is broke.My friend, a man, my oldest friend here, died.I had to see the man who killed him, tried.He's to be hanged. Only a boy. My friend.I thought him just a boy; I didn't know.And Ern was killed, and now the boy's to end,And all because he thought he loved me so.''My dear,' the lady said; and Anna, 'Oh.It's very hard to bear the ills men make,He thought he loved, and it was all mistake.''My dear,' the lady said; 'you poor, poor woman,Have you no friends to go to?' 'I'm alone.I've parents living, but they're both inhuman,And none can cure what pierces to the bone.I'll have to leave and go where I'm not known.Begin my life again.' Her friend said 'Yes.Certainly that. But leave me your address:For I might hear of something; I'll enquire,Perhaps the boy might be reprieved or pardoned.Couldn't we ask the rector or the squireTo write and ask the Judge? He can't be hardened.What do you do? Is it housework? Have you gardened?Your hands are very white and soft to touch.''Lately I've not had heart for doing much.'So the talk passes as the train descendsInto the vale and halts and starts to climbTo where the apple-bearing country endsAnd pleasant-pastured hills rise sweet with thyme,Where clinking sheepbells make a broken chimeAnd sunwarm gorses rich the air with scentAnd kestrels poise for mice, there Anna went.There, in the April, in the garden-close,One heard her in the morning singing sweet,Calling the birds from the unbudded rose,Offering her lips with grains for them to eat.The redbreasts come with little wiry feet,Sparrows and tits and all wild feathery things,Brushing her lifted face with quivering wings.Jimmy was taken down into a cell,He did not need a hand, he made no fuss.The men were kind 'for what the kid done ... wellThe same might come to any one of us.'They brought him bits of cake at tea time: thusThe love that fashioned all in human ken,Works in the marvellous hearts of simple men.And in the nights (they watched him night and day)They told him bits of stories through the grating,Of how the game went at the football play,And how the rooks outside had started mating.And all the time they knew the rope was waiting,And every evening friend would say to friend,'I hope we've not to drag him at the end.'And poor old mother came to see her son,'The Lord has gave,' she said, 'The Lord has took;I loved you very dear, my darling one,And now there's none but God where we can look.We've got God's promise written in His Book,He will not fail; but oh, it do seem hard.'She hired a room outside the prison yard.'Where did you get the money for the room?And how are you living, mother; how'll you live?''It's what I'd saved to put me in the tomb,I'll want no tomb but what the parish give.''Mother, I lied to you that time, O forgive,I brought home half my wages, half I spent,And you went short that week to pay the rent.I went to see'r, I spent my money on her,And you who bore me paid the cost in pain.You went without to buy the clothes upon her:A hat, a locket, and a silver chain.O mother dear, if all might be again,Only from last October, you and me;O mother dear, how different it would be.We were so happy in the room together,Singing at "Binger-Bopper," weren't us, just?And going a-hopping in the summer weather,And all the hedges covered white with dust,And blackberries, and that, and traveller's trust.I thought her wronged, and true, and sweet, and wise,The devil takes sweet shapes when he tells lies.Mother, my dear, will you forgive your son?''God knows I do, Jim, I forgive you, dear;You didn't know, and couldn't, what you done.God pity all poor people suffering here,And may His mercy shine upon us clear,And may we have His Holy Word for mark,To lead us to His Kingdom through the dark.''Amen.' 'Amen,' said Jimmy; then they kissed.The warders watched, the little larks were singing,A plough team jangled, turning at the rist;Beyond, the mild cathedral bells were ringing,The elm-tree rooks were cawing at the springing:O beauty of the time when winter's done,And all the fields are laughing at the sun!'I s'pose they've brought the line beyond the Knapp?''Ah, and beyond the Barcle, so they say.''Hearing the rooks begin reminds a chap.Look queer, the street will, with the lock away;O God, I'll never see it.' 'Let us pray.Don't think of that, but think,' the mother said,'Of men going on long after we are dead.Red helpless little things will come to birth,And hear the whistles going down the line,And grow up strong and go about the earth,And have much happier times than yours and mine;And some day one of them will get a sign,And talk to folk, and put an end to sin,And then God's blessed kingdom will begin.God dropped a spark down into everyone,And if we find and fan it to a blazeIt'll spring up and glow like--like the sun,And light the wandering out of stony ways.God warms His hands at man's heart when he prays,And light of prayer is spreading heart to heart;It'll light all where now it lights a part.And God who gave His mercies takes His mercies,And God who gives beginning gives the end.I dread my death; but it's the end of curses,A rest for broken things too broke to mend.O Captain Christ, our blessed Lord and Friend,We are two wandered sinners in the mire,Burn our dead hearts with love out of Thy fire.And when thy death comes, Master, let us bear itAs of Thy will, however hard to go;Thy Cross is infinite for us to share it,Thy help is infinite for us to know.And when the long trumpets of the Judgment blowMay our poor souls be glad and meet agen,And rest in Thee.' 'Say, "Amen," Jim.' 'Amen.'* * * * *There was a group outside the prison gate,Waiting to hear them ring the passing bell,Waiting as empty people always waitFor the strong toxic of another's hell.And mother stood there, too, not seeing well,Praying through tears to let His will be done,And not to hide His mercy from her son.Talk in the little group was passing quick.'It's nothing now to what it was, to watch.''Poor wretched kid, I bet he's feeling sick.''Eh? What d'you say, chaps? Someone got a match?''They draw a bolt and drop you down a hatchAnd break your neck, whereas they used to strangleIn olden times, when you could see them dangle.'Some one said, 'Off hats' when the bell began.Mother was whimpering now upon her knees.A broken ringing like a beaten panIt sent the sparrows wavering to the trees.The wall-top grasses whickered in the breeze,The broken ringing clanged, clattered and clangedAs though men's bees were swarming, not men hanged.Now certain Justice with the pitiless knife.The white sick chaplain snuffling at the nose.'I am the resurrection and the life.'The bell still clangs, the small procession goes,The prison warders ready ranged in rows.'Now, Gurney, come, my dear; it's time,' they said.And ninety seconds later he was dead.Some of life's sad ones are too strong to die,Grief doesn't kill them as it kills the weak,Sorrow is not for those who sit and cryLapped in the love of turning t'other cheek,But for the noble souls austere and bleakWho have had the bitter dose and drained the cupAnd wait for Death face fronted, standing up.As the last man upon the sinking ship,Seeing the brine creep brightly on the deck,Hearing aloft the slatting topsails rip,Ripping to rags among the topmast's wreck,Yet hoists the new red ensign without speck,That she, so fair, may sink with colours flying,So the old widowed mother kept from dying.She tottered home, back to the little room,It was all over for her, but for life;She drew the blinds, and trembled in the gloom;'I sat here thus when I was wedded wife;Sorrow sometimes, and joy; but always strife.Struggle to live except just at the last,O God, I thank Thee for the mercies past.Harry, my man, when we were courting; eh...The April morning up the Cony-gree.How grand he looked upon our wedding day."I wish we'd had the bells," he said to me;And we'd the moon that evening, I and he,And dew come wet, oh, I remember how,And we come home to where I'm sitting now.And he lay dead here, and his son was born here;He never saw his son, his little Jim.And now I'm all alone here, left to mourn here,And there are all his clothes, but never him.He's down under the prison in the dim,With quicklime working on him to the bone,The flesh I made with many and many a groan.Oh, how his little face come, with bright hair,Dear little face. We made this room so snug;He sit beside me in his little chair,I give him real tea sometimes in his mug.He liked the velvet in the patchwork rug.He used to stroke it, did my pretty son,He called it Bunny, little Jimmie done.And then he ran so, he was strong at running,Always a strong one, like his dad at that.In summertimes I done my sewing sunning,And he'd be sprawling, playing with the cat.And neighbours brought their knitting out to chatTill five o'clock; he had his tea at five;How sweet life was when Jimmy was alive.'* * * * *Darkness and midnight, and the midnight chimes.Another four-and-twenty hours begin,Darkness again, and many, many times,The alternating light and darkness spinUntil the face so thin is still more thin,Gazing each earthly evening wet or fineFor Jimmy coming from work along the line.Over her head the Chester wires hum,Under the bridge the rocking engines flash.'He's very late this evening, but he'll comeAnd bring his little packet full of cash(Always he does) and supper's cracker hash,That is his favourite food excepting bacon.They say my boy was hanged; but they're mistaken.And sometimes she will walk the cindery mile,Singing, as she and Jimmy used to do,Singing 'The parson's dog lep over a stile,'Along the path where water lilies grow.The stars are placid on the evening's blue,Burning like eyes so calm, so unafraid,On all that God has given and man has made.Burning they watch, and mothlike owls come out,The redbreast warbles shrilly once and stops;The homing cowman gives his dog a shout,The lamps are lighted in the village shops.Silence; the last bird passes; in the copseThe hazels cross the moon, a nightjar spins,Dew wets the grass, the nightingale begins.Singing her crazy song the mother goes,Singing as though her heart were full of peace,Moths knock the petals from the dropping rose,Stars make the glimmering pool a golden fleece,The moon droops west, but still she does not cease,The little mice peep out to hear her sing,Until the inn-man's cockerel shakes his wing.And in the sunny dawns of hot Julys,The labourers going to meadow see her there.Rubbing the sleep out of their heavy eyes,They lean upon the parapet to stare;They see her plaiting basil in her hair,Basil, the dark red wound-wort, cops of clover,The blue self-heal and golden Jacks of Dover.Dully they watch her, then they turn to goTo that high Shropshire upland of late hay;Her singing lingers with them as they mow,And many times they try it, now grave, now gay,Till, with full throat, over the hills away,They lift it clear; oh, very clear it towersMixed with the swish of many falling flowers.'The Widow in the Bye Street' first appeared inThe English Reviewfor February 1912. I thank the editor and proprietors of theReviewfor permitting me to reprint it here.The persons and events described in the poem are entirely imaginary, and no reference is made or intended to any living person.JOHN MASEFIELD.10*th May* 1912.THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH* * * * * * * *JOHN MASEFIELDTHE EVERLASTING MERCYFifth Impression. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. netSOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS"Mr Masefield is to be congratulated on a remarkable achievement--a vital portrait of a man, the drama of a great spiritual conquest, and many passages of high beauty."--Spectator."This is probably the most important addition to English religious poetry since Francis Thompson wrote 'The Hound of Heaven.' 'The Everlasting Mercy' is the story of a conversion; not the 'interesting' conversion of some cultured and introspective Agnostic, full of wise saws and modern instances, but the sensational, primitive, catastrophic conversion of a village wastrel, violent alike in body, mind and soul--a drunkard, poacher, bully and libertine.... In it Mr Masefield has accomplished two separate things. He has written a superb poem, swift in its pace and vivid in its phrasing, and produced as well a psychological document of surpassing interest.... He has brought the flaming torch of beauty to light the dry processes of the religious psychologist."--EVELYN UNDERHILL inThe Daily News."Here, beyond question, in 'The Everlasting Mercy,' is a great poem, as true to the essentials of its ancient art as it is astoundingly modern in its method; a poem, too, which 'every clergyman in the country ought to read as a revelation of the heathenism still left in the land.' ... Its technical force is on a level with its high, inspiring thought. It makes the reader think; it goads him to emotion; and it leaves him alive with a fresh appreciation of the wonderful capacity of human nature to receive new influences and atone for old and apparently ineradicable wrongs."--ARTHUR WAUGH inThe Daily Chronicle.JOHN MASEFIELDTHE TRAGEDY OF POMPEY THE GREATLibrary Edition, 3s. 6d. net; paper wrappers, 1s. 6d. netSecond Impression"Fine, nervous, dramatic English. Words which eat into the soul, which have a meaning, which are revelatory of character. A fine virility about the whole play and its conception. An altogether admirable piece of writing which fully justifies Mr Masefield's real literary distinction."--Observer."In this Roman tragedy, while we admire its closely knit structure, dramatic effectiveness, and atmosphere of reality ... the warmth and colour of the diction are the most notable things.... He knows the art of phrasing; he has the instinct for and by them."--Athenaeum."The talk of Pompey, of Domitius, of Acilius, is not that of great lords, but rather of men like Hawkins and Drake. This is the result of Mr Masefield's imaginative handling. He sees them so, and so they live. They live indeed. Their characters are clear and bold; they say nothing but what reveals them and helps to make the tragedy a rich as well as a moving thing. It is poetry. It is almost music, and on the first few pages there are notes that linger with us to the end, haunting us like the blowing of horns in an old and silent forest."--Mr EDWARD THOMAS inThe Daily Chronicle."He has written a great tragedy.... The dialogue is written in strong, simple, and nervous prose, flashing with poetic insight, significance, and suggestion. The characters are intensely alive, the situations are handled by a master hand, and the whole play is pregnant with that high and solemn pathos which is the gift of the born writer of tragedies."--Morning Post.SIDGWICK & JACKSON'S MODERN DRAMA"Messrs Sidgwick & Jackson are choosing their plays excellently."--Saturday Review."The distinction, which is quite appreciable, of being included in the series of modern plays published by Messrs Sidgwick & Jackson, in which there is nothing bad."--Manchester Guardian.THREE PLAYS BY GRANVILLE BARKER:"The Marrying of Ann Leete," "The Voysey Inheritance," and "Waste." In one Vol., 5s. net; singly, cloth, 2s. net; paper wrappers, 1s. 6d. net.Third Impression.Special Edition, on hand-made paper, limited to 50 numbered copies, signed by the author, extra bound in three volumes, in a case, £1, 1s. net per set."Mr Granville Barker, by virtue of these three plays alone, unquestionably ranks among the first of our serious literary dramatists."--The Observer.THE MADRAS HOUSE. A Comedy in Four Acts.By GRANVILLE BARKER. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. net; paper wrappers, 1s. 6d. net. Third Impression."You can read 'The Madras House' at your leisure, dip into it here and there, turn a tit-bit over lovingly on the palate ... and the result is, in our experience, a round of pleasure. 'The Madras House' ... is so good in print that everybody should make a mental note to read it."--The Times.PRUNELLA; or, Love in a Dutch Garden.By LAURENCE HOUSMAN and GRANVILLE BARKER. With a Frontispiece and Music to "Pierrot's Serenade," by JOSEPH MOORAT. Fcap. 4to, 5s. net. Theatre Edition, crown 8vo, wrappers, 1s. net."A very charming love tale, which works slowly to a climax of great and touching beauty."--Daily News.CHAINS. A Play in Four Acts.By ELIZABETH BAKER. Crown 8vo, cloth, 1s. 6d. net; paper wrappers, 1s. net.Second Impression."Nothing could be more free from stage artifices than Miss Baker's play. It is simplicity itself, both in its construction and its dialog.... But it is just the sort of play that one likes to buy and read, for it is real and alive, and a play full of ideas."--The Daily Mail.
Grey-legged old cocks and hens sedate in age,Marching with jerks as though they moved on springs,With sidelong hate in round eyes red with rage,And shouldered muskets clipped by jealous wings,Then an array of horns and stupid things:Sheep on a hill with harebells, hare for dinner.'Hare.' A slow darkness covered up the sinner.
Grey-legged old cocks and hens sedate in age,
Marching with jerks as though they moved on springs,
With sidelong hate in round eyes red with rage,
And shouldered muskets clipped by jealous wings,
Then an array of horns and stupid things:
Sheep on a hill with harebells, hare for dinner.
'Hare.' A slow darkness covered up the sinner.
'But little time is right hand fain of blow.'Only a second changes life to death;Hate ends before the pulses cease to go,There is great power in the stop of breath.There's too great truth in what the dumb thing saith,Hate never goes so far as that, nor can.'I am what life becomes. D'you hate me, man?'
'But little time is right hand fain of blow.'
Only a second changes life to death;
Hate ends before the pulses cease to go,
There is great power in the stop of breath.
There's too great truth in what the dumb thing saith,
Hate never goes so far as that, nor can.
'I am what life becomes. D'you hate me, man?'
Hate with his babbling instant, red and damning,Passed with his instant, having drunken red.'You've killed him.''No, I've not, he's only shamming.Get up.' 'He can't.' 'O God, he isn't dead.''O God.' 'Here. Get a basin. Bathe his head.Ernie, for God's sake, what are you playing at?I only give him one like, with the bat.'
Hate with his babbling instant, red and damning,
Passed with his instant, having drunken red.
'You've killed him.'
'No, I've not, he's only shamming.
'No, I've not, he's only shamming.
Get up.' 'He can't.' 'O God, he isn't dead.'
'O God.' 'Here. Get a basin. Bathe his head.
Ernie, for God's sake, what are you playing at?
I only give him one like, with the bat.'
Man cannot call the brimming instant back;Time's an affair of instants spun to days;If man must make an instant gold, or black,Let him, he may, but Time must go his ways.Life may be duller for an instant's blaze.Life's an affair of instants spun to years,Instants are only cause of all these tears.
Man cannot call the brimming instant back;
Time's an affair of instants spun to days;
If man must make an instant gold, or black,
Let him, he may, but Time must go his ways.
Life may be duller for an instant's blaze.
Life's an affair of instants spun to years,
Instants are only cause of all these tears.
Then Anna screamed aloud. 'Help. Murder. Murder.''By God, it is,' he said. 'Through you, you slut.'Backing, she screamed, until the blacksmith heard her.'Hurry,' they cried, 'the woman's throat's being cut.'Jim had his coat off by the water butt.'He might come to,' he said, 'with wine or soup.I only hit him once, like, with the scoop.
Then Anna screamed aloud. 'Help. Murder. Murder.'
'By God, it is,' he said. 'Through you, you slut.'
Backing, she screamed, until the blacksmith heard her.
'Hurry,' they cried, 'the woman's throat's being cut.'
Jim had his coat off by the water butt.
'He might come to,' he said, 'with wine or soup.
I only hit him once, like, with the scoop.
Splash water on him, chaps. I only meantTo hit him just a clip, like, nothing more.There. Look. He isn't dead, his eyelids went.And he went down. O God, his head's all tore.I've washed and washed: it's all one gob of gore.He don't look dead to you? What? Nor to you?Not kill, the clip I give him, couldn't do.'
Splash water on him, chaps. I only meant
To hit him just a clip, like, nothing more.
There. Look. He isn't dead, his eyelids went.
And he went down. O God, his head's all tore.
I've washed and washed: it's all one gob of gore.
He don't look dead to you? What? Nor to you?
Not kill, the clip I give him, couldn't do.'
'God send; he looks damn bad,' the blacksmith said.'Py Cot,' his mate said, 'she wass altogether;She hass an illness look of peing ted.''Here. Get a glass,' the smith said, 'and a feather.''Wass you at fightings or at playings whether?''Here, get a glass and feather. Quick's the word.'The glass was clear. The feather never stirred.
'God send; he looks damn bad,' the blacksmith said.
'Py Cot,' his mate said, 'she wass altogether;
She hass an illness look of peing ted.'
'Here. Get a glass,' the smith said, 'and a feather.'
'Wass you at fightings or at playings whether?'
'Here, get a glass and feather. Quick's the word.'
The glass was clear. The feather never stirred.
'By God, I'm sorry, Jim. That settles it.''By God. I've killed him then.' 'The doctor might.''Try, if you like; but that's a nasty hit.''Doctor's gone by. He won't be back till night.''Py Cot, the feather was not looking right.''By Jesus, chaps, I never meant to kill 'un.Only to bat. I'll go to p'leece and tell 'un.
'By God, I'm sorry, Jim. That settles it.'
'By God. I've killed him then.' 'The doctor might.'
'Try, if you like; but that's a nasty hit.'
'Doctor's gone by. He won't be back till night.'
'Py Cot, the feather was not looking right.'
'By Jesus, chaps, I never meant to kill 'un.
Only to bat. I'll go to p'leece and tell 'un.
O Ern, for God's sake speak, for God's sake speak.'No answer followed: Ern had done with dust,'The p'leece is best,' the smith said, 'or a beak.I'll come along; and so the lady must.Evans, you bring the lady, will you just?Tell 'em just how it come, lad. Come your ways;And Joe, you watch the body where it lays.'
O Ern, for God's sake speak, for God's sake speak.'
No answer followed: Ern had done with dust,
'The p'leece is best,' the smith said, 'or a beak.
I'll come along; and so the lady must.
Evans, you bring the lady, will you just?
Tell 'em just how it come, lad. Come your ways;
And Joe, you watch the body where it lays.'
They walked to town, Jim on the blacksmith's arm.Jimmy was crying like a child, and saying,'I never meant to do him any harm.'His teeth went clack, like bones at murmurs playing,And then he trembled hard and broke out praying,'God help my poor old mother. If he's dead,I've brought her my last wages home,' he said.
They walked to town, Jim on the blacksmith's arm.
Jimmy was crying like a child, and saying,
'I never meant to do him any harm.'
His teeth went clack, like bones at murmurs playing,
And then he trembled hard and broke out praying,
'God help my poor old mother. If he's dead,
I've brought her my last wages home,' he said.
He trod his last free journey down the street;Treading the middle road, and seeing both sides,The school, the inns, the butchers selling meat,The busy market where the town divides.Then past the tanpits full of stinking hides,And up the lane to death, as weak as pith.'By God, I hate this, Jimmy,' said the smith.
He trod his last free journey down the street;
Treading the middle road, and seeing both sides,
The school, the inns, the butchers selling meat,
The busy market where the town divides.
Then past the tanpits full of stinking hides,
And up the lane to death, as weak as pith.
'By God, I hate this, Jimmy,' said the smith.
VI
Anna in black, the judge in scarlet robes,A fuss of lawyers' people coming, going,The windows shut, the gas alight in globes,Evening outside, and pleasant weather blowing.'They'll hang him?' 'I suppose so; there's no knowing.''A pretty piece, the woman, ain't she, John?He killed the fellow just for carrying on.'
Anna in black, the judge in scarlet robes,
A fuss of lawyers' people coming, going,
The windows shut, the gas alight in globes,
Evening outside, and pleasant weather blowing.
'They'll hang him?' 'I suppose so; there's no knowing.'
'A pretty piece, the woman, ain't she, John?
He killed the fellow just for carrying on.'
'She give her piece to counsel pretty clear.''Ah, that she did, and when she stop she smiled.''She's had a-many men, that pretty dear;She's drove a-many pretty fellows wild.''More silly idiots they to be beguiled.''Well, I don't know.' 'Well, I do. See her eyes?Mystery, eh? A woman's mystery's lies.'
'She give her piece to counsel pretty clear.'
'Ah, that she did, and when she stop she smiled.'
'She's had a-many men, that pretty dear;
She's drove a-many pretty fellows wild.'
'More silly idiots they to be beguiled.'
'Well, I don't know.' 'Well, I do. See her eyes?
Mystery, eh? A woman's mystery's lies.'
'Perhaps.' 'No p'raps about it, that's the truth.I know these women; they're a rotten lot.''You didn't use to think so in your youth.''No; but I'm wiser now, and not so hot.Married or buried,Isay, wives or shot,These unmanned, unattached Maries and SusansMake life no better than a proper nuisance.'
'Perhaps.' 'No p'raps about it, that's the truth.
I know these women; they're a rotten lot.'
'You didn't use to think so in your youth.'
'No; but I'm wiser now, and not so hot.
Married or buried,Isay, wives or shot,
These unmanned, unattached Maries and Susans
Make life no better than a proper nuisance.'
'Well, I don't know.' 'Well, if you don't you will.''I look on women as as good as men.''Now, that's the kind of talk that makes me ill.When have they been as good? I ask you when?''Always they have.' 'They haven't. Now and thenP'raps one or two was neither hen nor fury.''One for your mother, that. Here comes the jury.'
'Well, I don't know.' 'Well, if you don't you will.'
'I look on women as as good as men.'
'Now, that's the kind of talk that makes me ill.
When have they been as good? I ask you when?'
'Always they have.' 'They haven't. Now and then
P'raps one or two was neither hen nor fury.'
'One for your mother, that. Here comes the jury.'
Guilty. Thumbs down. No hope. The judge passed sentence;'A frantic passionate youth, unfit for life,A fitting time afforded for repentance,Then certain justice with a pitiless knife.For her his wretched victim's widowed wife,Pity. For her who bore him, pity. (Cheers.)The jury were exempt for seven years.'
Guilty. Thumbs down. No hope. The judge passed sentence;
'A frantic passionate youth, unfit for life,
A fitting time afforded for repentance,
Then certain justice with a pitiless knife.
For her his wretched victim's widowed wife,
Pity. For her who bore him, pity. (Cheers.)
The jury were exempt for seven years.'
All bowed; the Judge passed to the robing-room,Dismissed his clerks, disrobed, and knelt and prayedAs was his custom after passing doom,Doom upon life, upon the thing not made.'O God, who made us out of dust, and laidThee in us bright, to lead us to the truth,O God, have pity upon this poor youth.
All bowed; the Judge passed to the robing-room,
Dismissed his clerks, disrobed, and knelt and prayed
As was his custom after passing doom,
Doom upon life, upon the thing not made.
'O God, who made us out of dust, and laid
Thee in us bright, to lead us to the truth,
O God, have pity upon this poor youth.
Show him Thy grace, O God, before he die;Shine in his heart; have mercy upon me,Who deal the laws men make to travel byUnder the sun upon the path to Thee;O God Thou knowest I'm as blind as he,As blind, as frantic, not so single, worse,Only Thy pity spared me from the curse.
Show him Thy grace, O God, before he die;
Shine in his heart; have mercy upon me,
Who deal the laws men make to travel by
Under the sun upon the path to Thee;
O God Thou knowest I'm as blind as he,
As blind, as frantic, not so single, worse,
Only Thy pity spared me from the curse.
Thy pity, and Thy mercy, God, did save,Thy bounteous gifts, not any grace of mine,From all the pitfalls leading to the grave,From all the death-feasts with the husks and swine.God, who hast given me all things, now make shineBright in this sinner's heart that he may see.God, take this poor boy's spirit back to Thee.'
Thy pity, and Thy mercy, God, did save,
Thy bounteous gifts, not any grace of mine,
From all the pitfalls leading to the grave,
From all the death-feasts with the husks and swine.
God, who hast given me all things, now make shine
Bright in this sinner's heart that he may see.
God, take this poor boy's spirit back to Thee.'
Then trembling with his hands, for he was old,He went to meet his college friend, the Dean,The loiterers watched him as his carriage rolled.'There goes the Judge,' said one, and one was keen:'Hanging that wretched boy, that's where he's been.'A policeman spat, two lawyers talked statistics,'"Crime passionel" in Agricultural Districts.'
Then trembling with his hands, for he was old,
He went to meet his college friend, the Dean,
The loiterers watched him as his carriage rolled.
'There goes the Judge,' said one, and one was keen:
'Hanging that wretched boy, that's where he's been.'
A policeman spat, two lawyers talked statistics,
'"Crime passionel" in Agricultural Districts.'
'They'd oughtn't hang a boy': but one said 'Stuff.This sentimental talk is rotten, rotten.The law's the law and not half strict enough,Forgers and murderers are misbegotten,Let them be hanged and let them be forgotten.A rotten fool should have a rotten end;Mend them, you say? The rotten never mend.'
'They'd oughtn't hang a boy': but one said 'Stuff.
This sentimental talk is rotten, rotten.
The law's the law and not half strict enough,
Forgers and murderers are misbegotten,
Let them be hanged and let them be forgotten.
A rotten fool should have a rotten end;
Mend them, you say? The rotten never mend.'
And one 'Not mend? The rotten not, perhaps.The rotting would; so would the just infected.A week in quod has ruined lots of chapsWho'd all got good in them till prison wrecked it.'And one, 'Society must be protected.''He's just a kid. She trapped him.' 'No, she didden.''He'll be reprieved.' 'He mid be and he midden.'
And one 'Not mend? The rotten not, perhaps.
The rotting would; so would the just infected.
A week in quod has ruined lots of chaps
Who'd all got good in them till prison wrecked it.'
And one, 'Society must be protected.'
'He's just a kid. She trapped him.' 'No, she didden.'
'He'll be reprieved.' 'He mid be and he midden.'
So the talk went; and Anna took the train,Too sad for tears, and pale; a lady spokeAsking if she were ill or suffering pain?'Neither,' she said; but sorrow made her choke,'I'm only sick because my heart is broke.My friend, a man, my oldest friend here, died.I had to see the man who killed him, tried.
So the talk went; and Anna took the train,
Too sad for tears, and pale; a lady spoke
Asking if she were ill or suffering pain?
'Neither,' she said; but sorrow made her choke,
'I'm only sick because my heart is broke.
My friend, a man, my oldest friend here, died.
I had to see the man who killed him, tried.
He's to be hanged. Only a boy. My friend.I thought him just a boy; I didn't know.And Ern was killed, and now the boy's to end,And all because he thought he loved me so.''My dear,' the lady said; and Anna, 'Oh.It's very hard to bear the ills men make,He thought he loved, and it was all mistake.'
He's to be hanged. Only a boy. My friend.
I thought him just a boy; I didn't know.
And Ern was killed, and now the boy's to end,
And all because he thought he loved me so.'
'My dear,' the lady said; and Anna, 'Oh.
It's very hard to bear the ills men make,
He thought he loved, and it was all mistake.'
'My dear,' the lady said; 'you poor, poor woman,Have you no friends to go to?' 'I'm alone.I've parents living, but they're both inhuman,And none can cure what pierces to the bone.I'll have to leave and go where I'm not known.Begin my life again.' Her friend said 'Yes.Certainly that. But leave me your address:For I might hear of something; I'll enquire,Perhaps the boy might be reprieved or pardoned.Couldn't we ask the rector or the squireTo write and ask the Judge? He can't be hardened.What do you do? Is it housework? Have you gardened?Your hands are very white and soft to touch.''Lately I've not had heart for doing much.'
'My dear,' the lady said; 'you poor, poor woman,
Have you no friends to go to?' 'I'm alone.
I've parents living, but they're both inhuman,
And none can cure what pierces to the bone.
I'll have to leave and go where I'm not known.
Begin my life again.' Her friend said 'Yes.
Certainly that. But leave me your address:
For I might hear of something; I'll enquire,
Perhaps the boy might be reprieved or pardoned.
Couldn't we ask the rector or the squire
To write and ask the Judge? He can't be hardened.
What do you do? Is it housework? Have you gardened?
Your hands are very white and soft to touch.'
'Lately I've not had heart for doing much.'
So the talk passes as the train descendsInto the vale and halts and starts to climbTo where the apple-bearing country endsAnd pleasant-pastured hills rise sweet with thyme,Where clinking sheepbells make a broken chimeAnd sunwarm gorses rich the air with scentAnd kestrels poise for mice, there Anna went.
So the talk passes as the train descends
Into the vale and halts and starts to climb
To where the apple-bearing country ends
And pleasant-pastured hills rise sweet with thyme,
Where clinking sheepbells make a broken chime
And sunwarm gorses rich the air with scent
And kestrels poise for mice, there Anna went.
There, in the April, in the garden-close,One heard her in the morning singing sweet,Calling the birds from the unbudded rose,Offering her lips with grains for them to eat.The redbreasts come with little wiry feet,Sparrows and tits and all wild feathery things,Brushing her lifted face with quivering wings.
There, in the April, in the garden-close,
One heard her in the morning singing sweet,
Calling the birds from the unbudded rose,
Offering her lips with grains for them to eat.
The redbreasts come with little wiry feet,
Sparrows and tits and all wild feathery things,
Brushing her lifted face with quivering wings.
Jimmy was taken down into a cell,He did not need a hand, he made no fuss.The men were kind 'for what the kid done ... wellThe same might come to any one of us.'They brought him bits of cake at tea time: thusThe love that fashioned all in human ken,Works in the marvellous hearts of simple men.
Jimmy was taken down into a cell,
He did not need a hand, he made no fuss.
The men were kind 'for what the kid done ... well
The same might come to any one of us.'
They brought him bits of cake at tea time: thus
The love that fashioned all in human ken,
Works in the marvellous hearts of simple men.
And in the nights (they watched him night and day)They told him bits of stories through the grating,Of how the game went at the football play,And how the rooks outside had started mating.And all the time they knew the rope was waiting,And every evening friend would say to friend,'I hope we've not to drag him at the end.'
And in the nights (they watched him night and day)
They told him bits of stories through the grating,
Of how the game went at the football play,
And how the rooks outside had started mating.
And all the time they knew the rope was waiting,
And every evening friend would say to friend,
'I hope we've not to drag him at the end.'
And poor old mother came to see her son,'The Lord has gave,' she said, 'The Lord has took;I loved you very dear, my darling one,And now there's none but God where we can look.We've got God's promise written in His Book,He will not fail; but oh, it do seem hard.'She hired a room outside the prison yard.
And poor old mother came to see her son,
'The Lord has gave,' she said, 'The Lord has took;
I loved you very dear, my darling one,
And now there's none but God where we can look.
We've got God's promise written in His Book,
He will not fail; but oh, it do seem hard.'
She hired a room outside the prison yard.
'Where did you get the money for the room?And how are you living, mother; how'll you live?''It's what I'd saved to put me in the tomb,I'll want no tomb but what the parish give.''Mother, I lied to you that time, O forgive,I brought home half my wages, half I spent,And you went short that week to pay the rent.
'Where did you get the money for the room?
And how are you living, mother; how'll you live?'
'It's what I'd saved to put me in the tomb,
I'll want no tomb but what the parish give.'
'Mother, I lied to you that time, O forgive,
I brought home half my wages, half I spent,
And you went short that week to pay the rent.
I went to see'r, I spent my money on her,And you who bore me paid the cost in pain.You went without to buy the clothes upon her:A hat, a locket, and a silver chain.O mother dear, if all might be again,Only from last October, you and me;O mother dear, how different it would be.
I went to see'r, I spent my money on her,
And you who bore me paid the cost in pain.
You went without to buy the clothes upon her:
A hat, a locket, and a silver chain.
O mother dear, if all might be again,
Only from last October, you and me;
O mother dear, how different it would be.
We were so happy in the room together,Singing at "Binger-Bopper," weren't us, just?And going a-hopping in the summer weather,And all the hedges covered white with dust,And blackberries, and that, and traveller's trust.I thought her wronged, and true, and sweet, and wise,The devil takes sweet shapes when he tells lies.
We were so happy in the room together,
Singing at "Binger-Bopper," weren't us, just?
And going a-hopping in the summer weather,
And all the hedges covered white with dust,
And blackberries, and that, and traveller's trust.
I thought her wronged, and true, and sweet, and wise,
The devil takes sweet shapes when he tells lies.
Mother, my dear, will you forgive your son?''God knows I do, Jim, I forgive you, dear;You didn't know, and couldn't, what you done.God pity all poor people suffering here,And may His mercy shine upon us clear,And may we have His Holy Word for mark,To lead us to His Kingdom through the dark.'
Mother, my dear, will you forgive your son?'
'God knows I do, Jim, I forgive you, dear;
You didn't know, and couldn't, what you done.
God pity all poor people suffering here,
And may His mercy shine upon us clear,
And may we have His Holy Word for mark,
To lead us to His Kingdom through the dark.'
'Amen.' 'Amen,' said Jimmy; then they kissed.The warders watched, the little larks were singing,A plough team jangled, turning at the rist;Beyond, the mild cathedral bells were ringing,The elm-tree rooks were cawing at the springing:O beauty of the time when winter's done,And all the fields are laughing at the sun!
'Amen.' 'Amen,' said Jimmy; then they kissed.
The warders watched, the little larks were singing,
A plough team jangled, turning at the rist;
Beyond, the mild cathedral bells were ringing,
The elm-tree rooks were cawing at the springing:
O beauty of the time when winter's done,
And all the fields are laughing at the sun!
'I s'pose they've brought the line beyond the Knapp?''Ah, and beyond the Barcle, so they say.''Hearing the rooks begin reminds a chap.Look queer, the street will, with the lock away;O God, I'll never see it.' 'Let us pray.Don't think of that, but think,' the mother said,'Of men going on long after we are dead.
'I s'pose they've brought the line beyond the Knapp?'
'Ah, and beyond the Barcle, so they say.'
'Hearing the rooks begin reminds a chap.
Look queer, the street will, with the lock away;
O God, I'll never see it.' 'Let us pray.
Don't think of that, but think,' the mother said,
'Of men going on long after we are dead.
Red helpless little things will come to birth,And hear the whistles going down the line,And grow up strong and go about the earth,And have much happier times than yours and mine;And some day one of them will get a sign,And talk to folk, and put an end to sin,And then God's blessed kingdom will begin.
Red helpless little things will come to birth,
And hear the whistles going down the line,
And grow up strong and go about the earth,
And have much happier times than yours and mine;
And some day one of them will get a sign,
And talk to folk, and put an end to sin,
And then God's blessed kingdom will begin.
God dropped a spark down into everyone,And if we find and fan it to a blazeIt'll spring up and glow like--like the sun,And light the wandering out of stony ways.God warms His hands at man's heart when he prays,And light of prayer is spreading heart to heart;It'll light all where now it lights a part.
God dropped a spark down into everyone,
And if we find and fan it to a blaze
It'll spring up and glow like--like the sun,
And light the wandering out of stony ways.
God warms His hands at man's heart when he prays,
And light of prayer is spreading heart to heart;
It'll light all where now it lights a part.
And God who gave His mercies takes His mercies,And God who gives beginning gives the end.I dread my death; but it's the end of curses,A rest for broken things too broke to mend.O Captain Christ, our blessed Lord and Friend,We are two wandered sinners in the mire,Burn our dead hearts with love out of Thy fire.
And God who gave His mercies takes His mercies,
And God who gives beginning gives the end.
I dread my death; but it's the end of curses,
A rest for broken things too broke to mend.
O Captain Christ, our blessed Lord and Friend,
We are two wandered sinners in the mire,
Burn our dead hearts with love out of Thy fire.
And when thy death comes, Master, let us bear itAs of Thy will, however hard to go;Thy Cross is infinite for us to share it,Thy help is infinite for us to know.And when the long trumpets of the Judgment blowMay our poor souls be glad and meet agen,And rest in Thee.' 'Say, "Amen," Jim.' 'Amen.'
And when thy death comes, Master, let us bear it
As of Thy will, however hard to go;
Thy Cross is infinite for us to share it,
Thy help is infinite for us to know.
And when the long trumpets of the Judgment blow
May our poor souls be glad and meet agen,
And rest in Thee.' 'Say, "Amen," Jim.' 'Amen.'
* * * * *
There was a group outside the prison gate,Waiting to hear them ring the passing bell,Waiting as empty people always waitFor the strong toxic of another's hell.And mother stood there, too, not seeing well,Praying through tears to let His will be done,And not to hide His mercy from her son.
There was a group outside the prison gate,
Waiting to hear them ring the passing bell,
Waiting as empty people always wait
For the strong toxic of another's hell.
And mother stood there, too, not seeing well,
Praying through tears to let His will be done,
And not to hide His mercy from her son.
Talk in the little group was passing quick.'It's nothing now to what it was, to watch.''Poor wretched kid, I bet he's feeling sick.''Eh? What d'you say, chaps? Someone got a match?''They draw a bolt and drop you down a hatchAnd break your neck, whereas they used to strangleIn olden times, when you could see them dangle.'
Talk in the little group was passing quick.
'It's nothing now to what it was, to watch.'
'Poor wretched kid, I bet he's feeling sick.'
'Eh? What d'you say, chaps? Someone got a match?'
'They draw a bolt and drop you down a hatch
And break your neck, whereas they used to strangle
In olden times, when you could see them dangle.'
Some one said, 'Off hats' when the bell began.Mother was whimpering now upon her knees.A broken ringing like a beaten panIt sent the sparrows wavering to the trees.The wall-top grasses whickered in the breeze,The broken ringing clanged, clattered and clangedAs though men's bees were swarming, not men hanged.
Some one said, 'Off hats' when the bell began.
Mother was whimpering now upon her knees.
A broken ringing like a beaten pan
It sent the sparrows wavering to the trees.
The wall-top grasses whickered in the breeze,
The broken ringing clanged, clattered and clanged
As though men's bees were swarming, not men hanged.
Now certain Justice with the pitiless knife.The white sick chaplain snuffling at the nose.'I am the resurrection and the life.'The bell still clangs, the small procession goes,The prison warders ready ranged in rows.'Now, Gurney, come, my dear; it's time,' they said.And ninety seconds later he was dead.
Now certain Justice with the pitiless knife.
The white sick chaplain snuffling at the nose.
'I am the resurrection and the life.'
The bell still clangs, the small procession goes,
The prison warders ready ranged in rows.
'Now, Gurney, come, my dear; it's time,' they said.
And ninety seconds later he was dead.
Some of life's sad ones are too strong to die,Grief doesn't kill them as it kills the weak,Sorrow is not for those who sit and cryLapped in the love of turning t'other cheek,But for the noble souls austere and bleakWho have had the bitter dose and drained the cupAnd wait for Death face fronted, standing up.
Some of life's sad ones are too strong to die,
Grief doesn't kill them as it kills the weak,
Sorrow is not for those who sit and cry
Lapped in the love of turning t'other cheek,
But for the noble souls austere and bleak
Who have had the bitter dose and drained the cup
And wait for Death face fronted, standing up.
As the last man upon the sinking ship,Seeing the brine creep brightly on the deck,Hearing aloft the slatting topsails rip,Ripping to rags among the topmast's wreck,Yet hoists the new red ensign without speck,That she, so fair, may sink with colours flying,So the old widowed mother kept from dying.
As the last man upon the sinking ship,
Seeing the brine creep brightly on the deck,
Hearing aloft the slatting topsails rip,
Ripping to rags among the topmast's wreck,
Yet hoists the new red ensign without speck,
That she, so fair, may sink with colours flying,
So the old widowed mother kept from dying.
She tottered home, back to the little room,It was all over for her, but for life;She drew the blinds, and trembled in the gloom;'I sat here thus when I was wedded wife;Sorrow sometimes, and joy; but always strife.Struggle to live except just at the last,O God, I thank Thee for the mercies past.
She tottered home, back to the little room,
It was all over for her, but for life;
She drew the blinds, and trembled in the gloom;
'I sat here thus when I was wedded wife;
Sorrow sometimes, and joy; but always strife.
Struggle to live except just at the last,
O God, I thank Thee for the mercies past.
Harry, my man, when we were courting; eh...The April morning up the Cony-gree.How grand he looked upon our wedding day."I wish we'd had the bells," he said to me;And we'd the moon that evening, I and he,And dew come wet, oh, I remember how,And we come home to where I'm sitting now.
Harry, my man, when we were courting; eh...
The April morning up the Cony-gree.
How grand he looked upon our wedding day.
"I wish we'd had the bells," he said to me;
And we'd the moon that evening, I and he,
And dew come wet, oh, I remember how,
And we come home to where I'm sitting now.
And he lay dead here, and his son was born here;He never saw his son, his little Jim.And now I'm all alone here, left to mourn here,And there are all his clothes, but never him.He's down under the prison in the dim,With quicklime working on him to the bone,The flesh I made with many and many a groan.
And he lay dead here, and his son was born here;
He never saw his son, his little Jim.
And now I'm all alone here, left to mourn here,
And there are all his clothes, but never him.
He's down under the prison in the dim,
With quicklime working on him to the bone,
The flesh I made with many and many a groan.
Oh, how his little face come, with bright hair,Dear little face. We made this room so snug;He sit beside me in his little chair,I give him real tea sometimes in his mug.He liked the velvet in the patchwork rug.He used to stroke it, did my pretty son,He called it Bunny, little Jimmie done.
Oh, how his little face come, with bright hair,
Dear little face. We made this room so snug;
He sit beside me in his little chair,
I give him real tea sometimes in his mug.
He liked the velvet in the patchwork rug.
He used to stroke it, did my pretty son,
He called it Bunny, little Jimmie done.
And then he ran so, he was strong at running,Always a strong one, like his dad at that.In summertimes I done my sewing sunning,And he'd be sprawling, playing with the cat.And neighbours brought their knitting out to chatTill five o'clock; he had his tea at five;How sweet life was when Jimmy was alive.'
And then he ran so, he was strong at running,
Always a strong one, like his dad at that.
In summertimes I done my sewing sunning,
And he'd be sprawling, playing with the cat.
And neighbours brought their knitting out to chat
Till five o'clock; he had his tea at five;
How sweet life was when Jimmy was alive.'
* * * * *
Darkness and midnight, and the midnight chimes.Another four-and-twenty hours begin,Darkness again, and many, many times,The alternating light and darkness spinUntil the face so thin is still more thin,Gazing each earthly evening wet or fineFor Jimmy coming from work along the line.
Darkness and midnight, and the midnight chimes.
Another four-and-twenty hours begin,
Darkness again, and many, many times,
The alternating light and darkness spin
Until the face so thin is still more thin,
Gazing each earthly evening wet or fine
For Jimmy coming from work along the line.
Over her head the Chester wires hum,Under the bridge the rocking engines flash.'He's very late this evening, but he'll comeAnd bring his little packet full of cash(Always he does) and supper's cracker hash,That is his favourite food excepting bacon.They say my boy was hanged; but they're mistaken.
Over her head the Chester wires hum,
Under the bridge the rocking engines flash.
'He's very late this evening, but he'll come
And bring his little packet full of cash
(Always he does) and supper's cracker hash,
That is his favourite food excepting bacon.
They say my boy was hanged; but they're mistaken.
And sometimes she will walk the cindery mile,Singing, as she and Jimmy used to do,Singing 'The parson's dog lep over a stile,'Along the path where water lilies grow.The stars are placid on the evening's blue,Burning like eyes so calm, so unafraid,On all that God has given and man has made.
And sometimes she will walk the cindery mile,
Singing, as she and Jimmy used to do,
Singing 'The parson's dog lep over a stile,'
Along the path where water lilies grow.
The stars are placid on the evening's blue,
Burning like eyes so calm, so unafraid,
On all that God has given and man has made.
Burning they watch, and mothlike owls come out,The redbreast warbles shrilly once and stops;The homing cowman gives his dog a shout,The lamps are lighted in the village shops.Silence; the last bird passes; in the copseThe hazels cross the moon, a nightjar spins,Dew wets the grass, the nightingale begins.
Burning they watch, and mothlike owls come out,
The redbreast warbles shrilly once and stops;
The homing cowman gives his dog a shout,
The lamps are lighted in the village shops.
Silence; the last bird passes; in the copse
The hazels cross the moon, a nightjar spins,
Dew wets the grass, the nightingale begins.
Singing her crazy song the mother goes,Singing as though her heart were full of peace,Moths knock the petals from the dropping rose,Stars make the glimmering pool a golden fleece,The moon droops west, but still she does not cease,The little mice peep out to hear her sing,Until the inn-man's cockerel shakes his wing.
Singing her crazy song the mother goes,
Singing as though her heart were full of peace,
Moths knock the petals from the dropping rose,
Stars make the glimmering pool a golden fleece,
The moon droops west, but still she does not cease,
The little mice peep out to hear her sing,
Until the inn-man's cockerel shakes his wing.
And in the sunny dawns of hot Julys,The labourers going to meadow see her there.Rubbing the sleep out of their heavy eyes,They lean upon the parapet to stare;They see her plaiting basil in her hair,Basil, the dark red wound-wort, cops of clover,The blue self-heal and golden Jacks of Dover.
And in the sunny dawns of hot Julys,
The labourers going to meadow see her there.
Rubbing the sleep out of their heavy eyes,
They lean upon the parapet to stare;
They see her plaiting basil in her hair,
Basil, the dark red wound-wort, cops of clover,
The blue self-heal and golden Jacks of Dover.
Dully they watch her, then they turn to goTo that high Shropshire upland of late hay;Her singing lingers with them as they mow,And many times they try it, now grave, now gay,Till, with full throat, over the hills away,They lift it clear; oh, very clear it towersMixed with the swish of many falling flowers.
Dully they watch her, then they turn to go
To that high Shropshire upland of late hay;
Her singing lingers with them as they mow,
And many times they try it, now grave, now gay,
Till, with full throat, over the hills away,
They lift it clear; oh, very clear it towers
Mixed with the swish of many falling flowers.
'The Widow in the Bye Street' first appeared inThe English Reviewfor February 1912. I thank the editor and proprietors of theReviewfor permitting me to reprint it here.
The persons and events described in the poem are entirely imaginary, and no reference is made or intended to any living person.
JOHN MASEFIELD.10*th May* 1912.
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THE EVERLASTING MERCY
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