2008 March

Full well I trow that when I die
Down drops the curtain;
Another show is all my eye
And Betty Martin.
I know the score, and with a smile
Of rueful rating,
I reckon I am not worth while
Perpetuating.

I hope that God,–if God there be
Of love and glory,
Will let me off Eternity,
And end my story.
Will count me just a worn-out bit
Of human matter,
Who’s done his job or bungled it,
–More like the latter.

I did not beg for mortal breath,
Plus hell or Heaven;
So let the last pay-off be death,
And call it even.
To Nature I will pay my debt
With stoic laughter:
But spare me, God, your awful threat
Of Life Here-after!

Have ever you heard of the Land of Beyond,
That dreams at the gates of the day?
Alluring it lies at the skirts of the skies,
And ever so far away;
Alluring it calls: O ye the yoke galls,
And ye of the trail overfond,
With saddle and pack, by paddle and track,
Let’s go to the Land of Beyond!

Have ever you stood where the silences brood,
And vast the horizons begin,
At the dawn of the day to behold far away
The goal you would strive for and win?
Yet ah! in the night when you gain to the height,
With the vast pool of heaven star-spawned,
Afar and agleam, like a valley of dream,
Still mocks you a Land of Beyond.

Thank God! there is always a Land of Beyond
For us who are true to the trail;
A vision to seek, a beckoning peak,
A farness that never will fail;
A pride in our soul that mocks at a goal,
A manhood that irks at a bond,
And try how we will, unattainable still,
Beho ld it, our Land of Beyond!

The same old sprint in the morning, boys, to the same old din and smut;
Chained all day to the same old desk, down in the same old rut;
Posting the same old greasy books, catching the same old train:
Oh, how will I manage to stick it all, if I ever get back again?

We’ve bidden good-bye to life in a cage, we’re finished with pushing a pen;
They’re pumping us full of bellicose rage, they’re showing us how to be men.
We’re only beginning to find ourselves; we’re wonders of brawn and thew;
But when we go back to our Sissy jobs, — oh, what are we going to do?

For shoulders curved with the counter stoop will be carried erect and square;
And faces white from the office light will be bronzed by the open air;
And we’ll walk with the stride of a new-born pride, with a new-found joy in our eyes,
Scornful men who have diced with death under the naked skies.

And when we get back to the dreary grind, and the bald-headed boss’s call,
Don’t you think that the dingy w indow-blind, and the dingier office wall,
Will suddenly melt to a vision of space, of violent, flame-scarred night?
Then . . . oh, the joy of the danger-thrill, and oh, the roar of the fight!

Don’t you think as we peddle a card of pins the counter will fade away,
And again we’ll be seeing the sand-bag rims, and the barb-wire’s misty grey?
As a flat voice asks for a pound of tea, don’t you fancy we’ll hear instead
The night-wind moan and the soothing drone of the packet that’s overhead?

Don’t you guess that the things we’re seeing now will haunt us through all the years;
Heaven and hell rolled into one, glory and blood and tears;
Life’s pattern picked with a scarlet thread, where once we wove with a grey
To remind us all how we played our part in the shock of an epic day?

Oh, we’re booked for the Great Adventure now, we’re pledged to the Real Romance;
We’ll find ourselves or we’ll lose ourselves somewhere in giddy old France;
We’ll know the zest of the fighte r’s life; the best that we have we’ll give;
We’ll hunger and thirst; we’ll die . . . but first — we’ll live; by the gods, we’ll live!

We’ll breathe free air and we’ll bivouac under the starry sky;
We’ll march with men and we’ll fight with men, and we’ll see men laugh and die;
We’ll know such joy as we never dreamed; we’ll fathom the deeps of pain:
But the hardest bit of it all will be — when we come back home again.

For some of us smirk in a chiffon shop, and some of us teach in a school;
Some of us help with the seat of our pants to polish an office stool;
The merits of somebody’s soap or jam some of us seek to explain,
But all of us wonder what we’ll do when we have to go back again.

School yourself to savour most
Joys that have but little cost;
Prove the best of life is free,
Sun and stars and sky and sea;
Eager in your eyes to please,
Proffer meadows, brooks and trees;
Nature strives for your content,
Never charging you a cent.

Learn to love a garden gay,
Flowers and fruit in rich array.
Care for dogs and singing birds,
Have for children cheery words.
Find plain food and comfort are
More than luxury by far.
Music, books and honest friends
Outweigh golden dividends.

Love your work and do it well,
Scorning not a leisure spell.
Hold the truest form of wealth
Body fit and ruddy health.
Let your smile of happiness
Rustic peace serenely stress:
Home to love and heart to pray–
Thank your God for every day.

He wrote a play; by day and night
He strove with passion and delight;
Yet knew, long ere the curtain drop,
His drama was a sorry flop.

In Parliament he sought a seat;
Election Day brought dire defeat;
Yet he had wooed with word and pen
Prodigiously his fellow men.

And then he wrote a lighter play
That made him famous in a day.
He won a seat in Parliament,
And starry was the way he went.

Yet as he neared the door of death
They heard him say with broken breath:
‘For all I’ve spoken, planned and penned,
I’m just a wash-out in the end.’

So are we all; our triumphs won
Are mean by what we might have done.
Our victories that men applaud
Are sordid in the sight of God.

He was my one and only love;
My world was mirror for his face.
We were as close as hand and glove,
Until he came with smiling grace
To say: ‘We must be wise, my dear.
You are the idol of today,
But I too plan a proud career,–
Let’s kiss and go our way.’

And then he soared to sudden fame,
And even queens applauded him.
A halo glorified his name
That dust of time may never dim.
And me,–I toured golden Brazil,
Yet as gay mobs were cheering me,
The sun seemed black, the brilliance chill,
My triumph mockery.

Today if I should say: ‘Hello!’
He’d say: ‘How are you?’ I’d say: ‘Fine.’
Yet never shall he see the woe,
The wanness of my frail decline.
I love him now and always will.
Oh may his star be long to set!
My Maurice is an idol still,–
What wreaths for Mistinguette!

When I was young I was too proud
To wheel my daughter in her pram.
“It’s infra dig,” I said aloud,–
Bot now I’m old, behold I am
Perambulating up and down
Grand-daughter through the town.

And when I come into the Square,
Beside the fountain I will stop;
And as to rest I linger there,
The dames will say: “How do, Grand-pop!
Lucindy Jane with eyes so blue
Looks more and more like you.”

And sure it’s pleased as Punch I get,
And take Lucindy on my knee;
Aye, at the risk of getting wet,
I blether to the girls a wee:
Then as we have a bottle date
Home we perambulate.

Gosh! That’s the joy of all my day;
And as I play the part of nurse:
“She’s got your nose,” I hear them say.
Thinks I: “Well now, she might have worse.”
And how I dream I’ll live to see
A great-grandchild upon my knee,
Whom folks say looks lik e me!

Zut! it’s two o’clock.
See! the lights are jumping.
Finish up your bock,
Time we all were humping.
Waiters stack the chairs,
Pile them on the tables;
Let us to our lairs
Underneath the gables.

Up the old Boul’ Mich’
Climb with steps erratic.
Steady . . . how I wish
I was in my attic!
Full am I with cheer;
In my heart the joy stirs;
Couldn’t be the beer,
Must have been the oysters.

In obscene array
Garbage cans spill over;
How I wish that they
Smelled as sweet as clover!
Charing women wait;
Cafes drop their shutters;
Rats perambulate
Up and down the gutters.

Down the darkened street
Market carts are creeping;
Horse with wary feet,
Red-faced driver sleeping.
Loads of vivid greens,
Carrots, leeks, potatoes,
Cabbages and beans,
Turnips and tomatoes.

Pair of dapper chaps,
Cigarettes and sashes,
Stare at me, perhaps
Desperate Apach

They’re hanging Bill at eight o’ clock,
And millions will applaud.
He killed, and so they have to kill,
Such is the will of God.
His brother Tom is on my bed
To keep me comforted.

I see his bleary, blotchy face,
I hear his sodden snore.
He plans that he can take Bill’s place;
I felt worse than a whore
As in his arms I cried all night,
Thinking of poor Bill’s plight.

I keep my eyes upon the clock;
It nears the stroke of eight.
I think how bravely Bill will walk
To meet his gallows fate . . .
His loaded gun is in the tent,–
I know now what he meant.

Though Tom is boastful he will wed
With me, no more to part,
I’ll put a bullet through his head,
Another through my heart:
At eight, stone-dead we three will be,
–Bill, Tom and me.

All day with brow of anxious thought
The dictionary through,
Amid a million words he sought
The sole one that would do.
He wandered on from pub to pub
Yet never ceased to seek
With burning brain and pencil stub
The Word Unique.

Said he: ‘I’ll nail it down or die.
Oh Heaven help me, pray!’
And then a heavy car dashed by,
And he was in the way.
They rushed him to the hospital,
And though his chance was bleak,
He cried: ‘I’ll croak, but find I shall
The Word Unique.’

They reckoned he was off his head,
And could be it was so;
For as they bent above his bed
He mumbled soft and low.
And then a name they heard him speak,
Yet did not deem it odd . . .
At last he’d found the Word Unique,–
Just God.