Rebel Verses Part 6

Aye; agen all the country round, Coz you're as good as could be found-- An' now--old gel--it's omost eight, Come on--yer know we moant be late, Off to the s.h.i.+p for our gla.s.s of aale; This yarn of yourn'll make a taale!

What's that--yer bunnet?

All rate ... be quick-- I'll wait for yer agen the gate.

To an old Friend

A tongue of lambent living flame Stirs lightly when I hear your name, Your features delicate and rare, Quiver with every thought you bear; It ever was a strange delight To see your charming face alight, To sit with you awhile apart And hear the beating of your heart, Or watch the message from your brain Into your eyes then back again.

And still it is my fairest dream-- That delicate ethereal gleam, The fire that played behind your face, Lighting it with such fairy grace; Such intuition sweet and wild; Why should you always be a child?

You cannot ever hope to grow Into a woman; oh dear no!

The fairies never would allow Such desecration; so that, now, You must be reconciled to stay For ever as you are to-day.

What an enchanting fate is this!

Eternally a child to be, Laughing with that untroubled bliss That only haunts the fancy free: Yes, yours is happiness indeed; Barefoot to roam the woodland vale, All careless, though your feet should bleed Because you hear the nightingale; All heedless, though the thorns should tear, And though the pain be fierce and wild, For Nature gives to you her kiss; And you will always be her child.

Is it finished?

Well--Is it finished, Is the long day-dream done?

The battle lost, and won?

Has love at length diminished And night begun?

Do you pa.s.s to another?

Yet still I hold Devotion all untold; Although you mate a brother And leave me cold.

My heart beats but for thee And every thought is thine, As flowers to the sun incline; For once thou lovedst me And all was mine.

Though destiny may banish, My heart is still the same; And thine is all my fame; Although thy love may vanish, True burns my flame.

And, thou mayst know That shouldst thou call to me, Where-ever I may be, Like arrow from its bow Straight I will fly to thee.

Oh, Lincoln, City of my dreams

As far away as childhood seems Thou standest on thy Roman hill, And memory holds thee frozen, still, Engraved on steel where moonlight streams.

For leagues along the landscape mild Thy towers twin the scene command, Embattlements of fairyland; Romance incarnate to a child.

Though other cities cast a spell, Ever thou holdst my heart in chains; And still I hear across the plains At midnight's stroke that ancient bell

Whose giant throbbing scarcely seems A mortal sound at Heaven's gate: It echoes round the exile's fate-- Oh Lincoln! City of my dreams!

The Fool

What say?

Tharp?

Yis: Aaron Tharp lived theer!

Not quite sharp?

Not quite--I fear!

T'wer very sad!

Though theer wor summat--'tis hard to say-- But he come to his end and went away; He'd a nice little place as his feyther made, All gone to pot, I be much afraid.

Old Aaron built it in his day, A worthy feller true an' sound, Respected by the country round; To think as his name should be forgotten!

If he'd known what a fool he had begotten!

He toiled an' moiled into his grave To leave a lad what couldn't save!

Noa note of grace, noa sense of cas.h.!.+

He lost his all be bein' ras.h.!.+

An' for what!-- For what!-- To play the fiddle!

'Hey diddle diddle!'

To make up tunes in his empty head An' ruin his eyes wi' the books he read!

He raumed an' babbled all day long About the way to sing a song!

Follered the lads at plough about To hear 'em sing would make him shout!

He'd sit on the bar of the s.h.i.+p at night: To catch the tunes was his delight, Or to play the fiddle about the town:-- An' all the while his trade went down!

That trade what poor old Aaron tended It's fell to nowt an' can't be mended Coz businesses is all the same You've simply got to play the game With all your soul an' all your heart Or else you'll soon be in the cart.

He was encouraged by our parson!

T'wer wrong of parson!

It's very well for them to talk To sing an' play and idle, walk, But aren't they paid for doin' that?

They mind their bread is b.u.t.tered fat.

Parsons is sensible you see, O'most as cute as lawyers be, Not quite--a course coz noa one could-- But very nigh--just as they should.

Parsons is sound at heart, I say, They never quarrels wi' their pay, Soa it wor wrong of Parson theer, Coz Aaron n.o.bbut lacked a cheer.

He made his tunes, he played about An' none but Parson had a doubt What he was bound for--poor young lad!

A course I'll own,--though he wor mad,-- Them tunes he played, them songs he sung, They minded you of bein' young; They took me back, a boy, agen At work wi' Feyther down the Fen, When all the birds they uster sing At sunrise till the air would ring, And sheep and cows would stir about Wi' everything to make yer shout, Yes it wor strange what he could do, His fiddle seemed to mazzle you, The labourers would catch a song-- An' they _was_ catchy--all along; They sing 'em yet; an' Georgy Bell He plays 'em by the village well.

But all the while, trade didn't mend Until at last ther' come the end.

They selled him up, lock stock an' stoan, An' off he went away, aloan; Because he sung but couldn't save.

I think his feyther in the grave Must sure a-stirred, 'owever deep: That smash would waken any sleep!

Young Aaron went-- I dunno where-- They say he's gone to Manchester, An' there, mayhap, mid soot an' smoke, Makes music for the city folk; Plays on his fiddle, time, agen Them tunes he larned down Martin Fen From shepherds or from waggon-boys Or men at plough,--or any noise: He made his tunes out of the air, From birds or beasts--he didn't care!

An' Parson, says he'll make a name (Our Parson, what's the one to blame!) As if he ever could agen Find such a hoam as Martin Fen; As if he could, by fiddle fad, Get half the name his feyther had.

Lost in some smoky town he plays An' thinks, I lay, on sunny days, Of all the things what makes life dear Like beans and bacon, cheese and beer; A dreamy good-for-nothing lad, Sure bound to lose all what he had.

He might a-riz, an' come to be As high as _you_, or even _me_!

An' bin well known the country round As comfortable, warm, an' sound.