for tbe Xtbrars of Tflnivereit? of Toronto out of tbe proceeds of tbe funfc
bequeatbefc b£ B. pbillips Stewart, JS.H.,
OB. A.D. 1892.
PIPES AND TABORS
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
GREEN DAYS AND BLUE DAYS A PECK o' MAUT
&
Y PIPES & TABORS
A BOOK OF LIGHT VERSE
BY
PATRICK Rf "CHALMERS
METHUEN & GO. LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
First Published in 1921
TO
WINIFRED
HERE are the things you fancy best —
Foxes ) and trout, and fairies , And hedgerows, where the terriers quest ',
And gardens, ghosts, and dairies ; June mornings, with the cuckoo rife,
Chill eves, where pheasants clatter ; In fact, the little things of life —
The things that "do not matter" !
Here gold is but the gold of gorsey
And silver — that of salmon ; Here's rod and reel, and hound and horse,
And paths remote from Mammon — The little things that matter not,
To heads too high above them; Thank God, my dear, at least you've got
The child's heart still to love them !
CONTENTS
FACTS AND FABLES
PAGE
A GARDEN BREAKFAST i
RIVAL BLUES ..... 3 THE BEES ..... 4 FATHER THAMES .... 6 THE VISIONARY . . . . 8
Two VIEWS OF THINGS . . .10
THE VISITOR . . . . .11
FACT AND FABLE . . . .14
THE PIPER — I . . . .17
THE PIPER — II . . . .18
THE MAY TREE . . . .19
AT MELGUND . . 21
riii PIPES AND TABORS
PAGE
To THE SHADE OF R. L. S. . . . 22
THE BLACKBIRD . . . .25
THE ROVERS . . . . .28
JAPANESE . . . . .30
HAY HARVEST . . . .31
ST. LUKE'S SUMMER . . . .33
SIGNS OF INNS . . . .34
THE CALL OF THE WILD . . -37
KITTY ADARE . . . . - 39
THE STRANGER . . . .42
THE DANDELION . . . .47
THE PEEL TOWER . . . .49
IN LONDON . . . . .52
THE LADY'S WALK . . . .54
THE PRAYER-MAT . . . -57
A CHANTY . . . . -59
OUT OF BABYLON . . . .62
ON WAKING . . . . .64
CONTENTS ix
PAGE
THE SOUTHDOWNS . . . .66
THEOCRITUS . . . . .68
LOVE IN AUGUST . . . .69
THE DREAM BIRD . . . 70
BALLADE OF CRYING FOR THE MOON . 74
A BALLADE OF DRIVEN GROUSE . . 76
OF THE RETURN . . . .78
BIRDS, DOGS, AND SOME ECHOES
THE CUCKOO . . . . -79
To BARRY . . . . .81
To A Civic SEA-GULL . . .84
PHILOMEL AND PROCNE . . .86
AT THE TOWER . . . .87
THE CROSSBILLS . . . .89
ACCORDING TO COCKER . . 91
To Two SPRING PARTRIDGES . . 93
THE RUNNING BIRD . . . .96
PIPES AND TABORS
PAGE 98
INFANTRY . . . . .99
IN LIMEHOUSE , . . .101
KINGS FROM THE EAST . . . 103
JULES FRANQOIS .... 105 GUNS OF VERDUN . . . .107
THE STEEPLE . . . . .108
THE STREAM AND THE CHASE THE KELPIE . . . .
. .... 113
IN THE BEGINNING . . . .115
CUBBING . . . ^ » 117
THE SEA-TROUT . . . .119
To AN M.F.H. . . . .122
A DEBTOR TO THE GODS . . .125
THE CREAM OF IT . . . I2;
To A JUNE Fox . . . .130
MOST of the following verses have already appeared in Country Life, The Chapbook, The fiield, Methuen's Magazine, Punch, The Landswoman, The Westminster Gazette, The Flyfisher? Club Journal, The Sewanee Review (U.S.A.), etc., and are now reproduced in book form by the courtesy of those concerned.
P. R. C.
FACTS AND FABLES
A GARDEN BREAKFAST
CHINA fair and damask's snow, Silver, winking and a-glow, — Here's the garden table laid In the cedar's pleasant shade, 'Gainst the blaze of morning shine, Warm, but fresh at half-past nine ;
Trout we have, and yellow cream,
White wheat bread, and cakes that steam
Coffee, in a Georgian pot,
Black as night, and scalding hot ;
Boiling milk ; and, deftly rolled,
Golden butter-pats, a-cold
From the ice pack in the dish ;
Eggs, as fresh as heart could wish ;
Heather honey, in the comb,
Brown as bees that brought it home ;
Sugar (lump and sifted) is
Here ; and late red strawberries ;
2 PIPES AND TABORS
Great, pale peaches, warm with sun ; Cigarettes, for when we've done, In the flat, fat, silver box ; — All 'mid roses, cloves, and stocks ; While the hours, a pageant gay, Wait for us, in right array — Gold and blue and holiday !
RIVAL BLUES
T3ETWEEN the beechwood's silver JD stems
As I was passing by, I saw the blue of Father Thames,
The very blue of sky ; When lo, in hyacinthine flood,
The bluebells, bursting through, Made every hollow in the wood
A lake of livelier blue !
THE BEES
THE brown bee sings among the heather
A little song and small — A song of hills and summer weather
And all things musical ; An ancient song, an ancient story
For days divine as when The gods came down in noontide's glory And walked with sons of men.
A merry song, since skies are sunny, —
How in a Dorian dell Was borne the bland, the charmed honey
To young Comatas' cell ; Thrice-happy boy the Nine to pleasure
That they for hours of ill Did send, in love, the golden measure,
The honey of their hill.
Gone are the gods ? Nay, he who chooses
This morn may lie at ease And on a hillside woo the Muses
And hear their honey-bees ;
THE BEES
And haply 'mid the heath-bell's savour Some rose-winged chance decoy,
To win the old Pierian favour That fed the shepherd-boy.
FATHER THAMES
Y
'E Muses, light sleeping
Where Hippocrene's leaping, Come brush from the kirtle the spray that begems,
And make me a measure Of summer and pleasure, As gay as a piper, in praise of old Thames !
Oh, broad are his reaches, Oh, brilliant the beaches That margin that dear and delectable stream ;
From shallows of amber His irises clamber,
His kingcups are golden, his kingfishers gleam !
So best do we love him, May's zenith above him, His alders in blossom, his thrushes in song, His chestnut lamps litten From Rushey to Ditton, In pale waxen lustres to light him along !
FATHER THAMES 7
From now to September Old tunes he'll remember Of sunshine and water, of shadow and leaves,
And all the dear graces Of sweet, pretty faces, And all the dim magic of midsummer eves !
O Ancient of Waters, Your sons and your daughters — Small wonder they praise you with laughter and love,
When broad you come streaming Through summer meads gleaming, The chestnuts' brave candles to light you above !
THE VISIONARY
"T^WAS last week at Pebble Ba7
J_ That I saw the little goat, Harnessed to a little shay,
Old was he and poor in coat, And he lugged his load along Where the barefoot children throng Round the nigger minstrels' song.
But his eye, aloof and chill,
Said to me as plain as plain, " I am waiting, waiting still,
Till the gods come back again ; Starved and ugly, mean, unkempt, I have dreams by you undreamt, And — I hold you in contempt !
" Dreams of forest routs that trooped,
Shadowy maidens crowned with vines, Dreams where Dian's self has stooped Darkling 'neath the scented pines ; Or where he, old father Pan, Took the hooves of me and ran Fluting through the heart of man.
THE VISIONARY 9
" Surely he must come again, He the great, the horned one ?
Shan't I caper in his train Through the hours of feast and fun ! "
And he looked with eyes of jade
Through the sunshine, through the shade,
Far beyond Marine Parade.
Should you go to Pebble Bay, Golfing or to bathe and boat ;
Should you see a loaded shay, In the shafts a scarecrow goat, —
Tell him that you hope (with me)
Pan will shortly set him free,
Pipe him home to Arcady.
TWO VIEWS OF THINGS
AT OTHING'S as nice as the hope— 1 \| Springtime, or ringtime, or feast : Love can be shrew that would preach,
to a Pope ; May has a wind in the east,
My dear — Always a wind in the east.
Nothing's as bad as might be — Christmas or age or cigars : Clouds have got linings of silver, to see ; Night has a lining of stars,
My dear — Always a lining of stars.
THE VISITOR
THE white goat Amaryllis, She wandered at her will At time of daffodillies
Afar and up the hill : We hunted and we halloa'd
And back she came at dawn, But what d'you think had followed ? — A little, pagan Faun !
His face was like a berry,
His ears were high and pricked : His hoofs tapped loud and merry
And up the path he clicked ; A junket from the dairy
We set in shiny delf, He ate it — peart but wary —
As Christian as yourself !
He stayed about the steading, — Laid luck on barn and byre ;
A blanket for his bedding We spread beside the fire ;
12 PIPES AND TABORS
And when the cocks crowed gaily Before the dawn was ripe,
He'd call the milkmaids daily Upon a reedy pipe !
That fortnight of his staying
The work went smooth as silk : The hens were all in laying,
The cows were all in milk : And then — and then one morning
The maids woke up at day Without his oaten warning —
And found him gone away.
He left no trace behind him ;
But still the milkmaids deem That they, perhaps, may find him
With butter and with cream : Beside the door they set them
In bowl and golden pat, But no one comes to get them —
Unless, maybe, the cat.
The white goat Amaryllis, She wanders at her will
At time of daffodillies
Away up Woolcombe Hill ;
THE VISITOR 13
She stays until the morrow, Then back she comes at dawn,
But never — to our sorrow — The little, pagan Faun.
FACT AND FABLE
FOR miles I'd tramped by down and hill;
With eve I found the happy ending ; All in the sunset, golden chill.
The collie met me, grave, befriending ; I saw the roof-tree down the vale,
Brave fields of harvest spread there- under ; The collie waved a feathery tail
And brought me to the House of Wonder.
Houses, like people, so 'tis thought,
Bear character upon their faces, Born of their company, and wrought
Upon by inward gifts and graces : Here, through the harvest's gold array
And evening's mellow far niente, Looked kindliness and work-a-day,
And happy hours and peace and plenty.
FACT AND FABLE 15
For, lo, it seemed the Downs amid
I'd found a folded bit of Britain, Laid by in lavender and hid
The year — let's say — Tom Jones was
written ; An old farm manor-house it is
With fantails fluttering on the gables, A place of men and memories
And solid facts and homespun fables.
For Fact : a fortnight passed me by
'Mid ancient oak and secret panel, And strawberries of late July
And distant glimpses of the Channel ; Fair morns to wake on — were they not ? —
Full of the pigeon's coo and cadence, Each day a page of Caldecott,
All cream and flowers and pretty maidens.
For Fable : as I smoked a pipe
In conclave with a black-haired cow- man, Grey-eyed, in that fine Celtic type,
As much the poet as the ploughman —
16 PIPES AND TABORS
" Seems kind of lucky here," said I ;
" Your very ducklings look more downy Than others do." He grinned: "An'
why ?
May happen, sir, that that's the brownie !
" ' There isn't many left,' says you ;
As hearts grow hard, the breed gets
rarer ; Yet, when he goes, the luck goes too,
And prices fall and boards be barer ; But if so be you does your part
An' feeds him fair and treats folk
proper, Keepin' for all the kindly heart —
The Lucky Lad's a certain stopper ! "
Well, should you go by Butser way
And hit the god-sent path, and follow, You'll find, at closing of the day,
The old house in the valley-hollow, Laid by in lavender, forgot,
The home of peace and ancient plenty ; A brownie may be there or not —
The hearts are kind enough for twenty !
THE PIPER
THE sun shines, the wind blows, The burn runs, the grass grows, And all the young maidens go gaily
and good.
There's flowers in the hedges, And all the green spinneys,
And bluebells spill out of the wood !
'Tis May and 'tis morning, Yet, maidens, take warning,
Though warmly the sun shines, though
soft blows the wind, One walks with the bluebells A-flame in the thickets,
More cruel than tigers in Ind !
You'd hear a lone fluting The morning saluting —
Afar and afar you would follow away — So never you hark to The tune of the Piper
That pipes to young maidens in May !
THE PIPER II
LAST night in the wood an old piper went by,
And he twittered a tune on his reeds, And the planets,- to hear him, stood still
in the sky, And the wood-flowers awoke on the meads.
The moon floated up, like a bubble of
gold,
And the wood was all silver and jade ; She'd heard of the piper, by field and by
fold, Since she was a slip of a maid :
With his thin, little piping he went as he
came,
With a thin, little echo behind ; But the tune of the piper had never a
name ; 'Twas the Earth and the Stars and the
Wind.
THE MAY TREE
THE Bay Tree, the Bay Tree Full weightily is hung, The May Tree's the gay tree
The meadows all among, So finely decked, so freshly dight In crimson, pink, and creaming white, Oh, she's my dear, and my delight When all the world is young !
The Bay Tree, the Bay Tree
A sombre wreath doth twine, The May Tree, the May Tree 'S a merry maid, and mine, Her blossom breaks in flame and foam, The loveliest 'neath Heaven's dome, The scent of her's the scent of home And warm as country wine !
The Bay Tree, the Bay Tree It looks on me with doubt,
The May Tree's the gay tree That ne'er a swain would flout ;
20 PIPES AND TABORS
And snowdrop stirs the feet o' the year, And poppy holds the heat o' the year, But ah, the sweet, the sweet o' the year Is when the May Tree's out !
AT MELGUND
(One of the residences of Cardinal Beaton)
SOME fields, a burn, a little wood, And there the castled ruin stood In Autumn rain and solitude ;
I walked into the crumbling hall, Where oft had walked the Cardinal ; A proud and cruel priest withal ;
Who, for intrigue and faggot, paid The price, at last, on MelviPs blade, Unshriven, and, for that, afraid ;
" The warm, peaked beard, the furtive face, The red robes, worn with sumptuous grace, One half might see in this sad place ! "
Said I ; and as the words were said, A great dog fox the ruin fled — A sudden, sinuous form in red ;
An evil thing, that leapt the wall As silent as a leaf might fall ; The daws wheeled screaming. That was all.
TO THE SHADE OF R. L. S.
(On reading " A Lowden Sabbath Morn " for the Nth time)
MAGICIAN, singer in the old, historic And meditative Scots, the dear, the
slow —
Once more I dip into your friendly Doric, And let fleet fancy go.
And as I read, where loved, quaint words
go pranking, The pages weave, once more, their sober
spells,
Lent of your Lallan, and your clinkum- clanking
Of Lowden's Sabbath bells.
And, captive, lo, I find myself refilling The breeks of boyhood, in Victorian
style ;
And treading doucely (e'en if no' that willing !)
Just such a kirkward mile :
TO THE SHADE OF R. L. S. 23
On just such Sunday morning as you tell of, On just such summer day as that you
sing,
Full of the cushat's croon, the warm, sweet smell of
The June woods burgeoning ;
Full of the cushat's cry, the lark's high
carol, The blue of Grampian, and the blue of
sky;
And ken't old forms in seventh day apparel, That solemnly draw nigh.
Master, those mornings, years ago, were
over ; Their mellowed rigours and their sleepy
hours
Live, as I read, like wafts of old, grey clover
Among the garden flowers.
For still you ring the bells in Memory's
steeple, And still they call — your simple songs
and plain —
The kind old faces of a kind old people Who come no more again ;
24 PIPES AND TABORS
And still your heart sings on in this your
rhyming — A living laverock o'er your " stookit
corn,"
To " rowst the slaw," like Lowden's kirk bells chiming
A-down a summer morn.
THE BLACKBIRD
THE Blackbird, the Blackbird he sits upon a tree, His beak is bright and golden, and his
notes come flying free, And to hear him sing and whistle, well, you
hardly would suppose 'Tis a Blackbird, a Blackbird that pecks off your nose !
The King (you know the story), he was
counting up his gold, The Queen was eating honey (and I've
loved her from of old), The Maid (you've seen her picture), she
was pretty as a rose, But down came the Blackbird and pecked
off her nose !
What an ending to an idyll ! what a terrible
to do On a calm domestic morning, 'neath a sky
serenely blue !
25
26 PIPES AND TABORS
What a calling out of Archers ! — all too
late the twangy bows, — For the Blackbird, the Blackbird had
pecked off her nose !
'Tis the same with anybody, — when their
skies seem clear and soft, Falls the bolt, explodes the bombshell ; —
I've experienced it full oft ; You may blame 'em where you fancy,
your dramatic overthrows, But it really is the Blackbird who's pecked
off your nose !
So when you add your pennies — like the
King, or, on the green Say your washing's fair and finished, or
eat honey, like the Queen, — Don't you take too much for granted,
'ware, then, thunderbolts and blows, — And the Blackbird, the Blackbird that
pecks off your nose !
That's the moral of the story, for I put it
past a doubt That he doesn't come so often if he finds
you're looking out,
THE BLACKBIRD 27
So you may count your money, or your
honey, or your close If you don't forget the Blackbird who
pecks off your nose !
THE ROVERS
A TATTERED old woman called Carroty Nan Once used to sell buttons outside The
Green Man ; But when she was young she had had a
silk gown, And sailed with the rovers from famed
Colon Town ; But now she sold buttons, in cold and in
rain, And she often was singing this mournful
refrain :
" O pretty names on charts
From the Gulf to Carribee, And the bully, rover hearts Beating in from the sea, With their pigtails on their backs And their ear-rings all o' gold ; O my fine rover Jacks,
All of old ! "
28
THE ROVERS
29
And when she was tipsy, as likely as not
She'd tell you of beaches, blue, steamy, and hot,
Of monkeys, and murders, poll parrots, and wrecks,
And white rum, and sunshine, and blood on the decks ;
But she's dead of an ague, and never no more
Shall I hear, on the wind, her most sorrow- ful score :
" O pretty names on maps
From The Pines to Port o'
Spain,
And the pretty rover chaps That'll ne'er come again, With their ear-rings in their ears, And their pockets full of gold ; O my bold buccaneers All of old ! "
JAPANESE
THEY are two little, terrible men Half so high as my pen, Naked as frogs to see ; Wrestlers in old, soft ivory ; Tiger faced, and limbed like bulls — Breathing, hair-poised miracles ;
Each one is bending to each, Wide legged, for grip they reach ; Vigour that lives alway, Since, of old on a happy day, He, the sculptor, bid them be Wrestlers to eternity !
For the sculptor, seeing them, said :
" When I've been a long time dead,
Folk will look, and will cry —
' Here is Art that doth not die ;
No other now, no other then,
Could make such little, terrible men ! ' "
HAY HARVEST
I MET a man mowing A meadow of hay ; So smoothly and flowing His swathes fell away, At break of the day Up Hambleden way ; A yellow-eyed collie
Was guarding his coat — Loose-limbed and lob-lolly, But wise and remote ;
The morning came leaping, —
'Twas four o' the clock, The world was still sleeping
At Hambleden Lock, — As sound as a rock Slept village and Lock ; " Fine morning ! " the man says,
And I says, " Fine day ! " Then I to my fancies
And he to his hay !
32 PIPES AND TABORS
And lovely and quiet,
And lonely and chill, Lay river and eyot,
And meadow and mill ; — I think of them still — Mead, river, and mill ; For wasn't it jolly
With only us three — The yellow-eyed collie,
The mower and me ?
ST. LUKE'S SUMMER
HIS mornings were opals that smouldered and grew And flushed, in Aurora's most gossamer
gauze, To days in a triumph — gold, scarlet, and
blue —
That pageanted past like a flight of macaws !
His woodlands were orange, were crimson
— a blaze,
A dazzle of colours that flaunted and fled, Till lordly cock pheasants that walked in
his ways Looked sober as doves on the carpets he
spread ;
Each dusk was a turquoise, a bed for the
stars, With tangled across it slow skeins of black
rooks ; While indoors the firelight laughed out
through the bars
And painted Romance on the pages of books ! 3
SIGNS OF INNS
THE Herald lives in cloister grey ; He lives by clerkly rules ; He dreams in coats and colours gay,
In argent, or, and gules ; He blazons knightly shield and banner
In dim monastic hall, And in a grave and reverend manner He earns his bread withal.
Were I a herald fair and fit
So featly for to limn As though I'd learnt the lore of it
Among; tne seraphim, Pd leave the schools to clerkly people
And walk, as dawn begins, From steeple unto distant steeple,
And paint the signs of inns.
The Dragon, as I'd see him, is
A loving beast and long, And oh, the Goat and Compasses,
'Twould fill my soul with song ;
34
SIGNS OF INNS 35
The Bell, The Bull, The Rose and Rummer, Such themes should like me still
At Yule, or when the heart of Summer Lies blue on vale and hill.
Let others' blazonry find place
Supported, scrolled with gold, A glowing dignity and grace
On honoured walls and old ; And let it likewise be attended
In stately circumstance With mottoes writ o' Latin splendid
Or courtly words of France ;
But I would paint The Golden Tun
And others to my mind, And mellow them in rain and sun,
And hang them on the wind ; And I would say, " My handcraft creaking
On this autumnal gale, Unto all wayfarers is speaking
In praise of rest and ale."
Then .bless the man who puts a sign
Above an open door, And bless the hop, root, leaf and vine,.
And bless the Lord therefor ;
36 PIPES AND TABORS
And bless the Unicorn and Lion That keep the King his crown,
And may we reach the inn of Zion The day our signs come down !
THE CALL OF THE WILD
(" The Highlands of East Africa have become the fashion as a winter home for Aristocrats." — Advertisement)
THE osiers of Oakham and Melton, The pastures of Pytchley and
Quorn,
No longer the Marquis shall belt on His breeches of buckskin at morn, To ride o'er their good lands, When grass and when woodlands Resound with the hound and the horn !
No more the Duke's pheasants shall
rocket,
Ordained to this end from the nest, No more the head keeper shall pocket The tip of the blue-blooded guest ; No more my lord fixes The partridge with sixes, Or knocks over 'cocks with a zest !
37
38 PIPES AND TABORS
For over our England doth dawn a New day, when our insular store Of kindly and old-fashioned fauna
Shall please not our Best, any more ; — Can grouse — low or high — count With Baron and Viscount, Who pant for the ant-eater's gore ?
O rosy East African Highlands,
Where ever-new prodigies lurk, The gifted and gay of these islands Are getting the guide-book to work ; Ere Yule's cheery chill has Drawn nigh, your Gorillas Shall greet these elite ones of Burke !
/'// know not your peaks and your passes,
That sleep in a splendour of sun ; As one of the mild, middle classes, I look to the rabbit for fun, And still make the Zoo do For Quagga and Koodoo, And pass the Wild-ass bits of bun !
KITTY ADARE
SWEET as a wild-rose was Kitty Adare,
Blithe as a laverock and shy as a hare ; 'Mid all the grand ladies of all the grand
cities You'd not find a face half so pretty as
Kitty's ; " 'Tis a fine morning this, Kit," says I ;
she says, " It is," The day she went walking to Colliton Fair.
She was bred to give trouble, was Kitty
Adare, For she had my heart caught like a bird in
a snare ;
Oh, her laugh was the ripple of quick- running water, And — the seventh - born child of a
seventh-born daughter — She wore the green shoes that the fairies
had brought her
To help her go dancing that day at the Fair !
39
40 PIPES AND TABORS
She'd the foot of a princess, had Kitty
Adare, And the road fell behind her like peel off
a pear ; She was into the town with the lads and
the lasses, And the shouting of showmen and
braying of asses, And on to the green where the best of
the grass is,
With the sun shining bright on the fun of the Fair !
She was light as a feather, was Kitty
Adare, And she danced like a flame in a current
of air ; Oh, look at her now — she retreating,
advancing, And stepping and stopping, and gliding
and glancing ! There wasn't a one was her marrow at
dancing
Of all the young maidens who danced at the Fair.
KITTY ADARE 4z
O Kitty, O Kitty, O Kitty Adare,
Till the music was beaten you danced to
it there ; And the fiddler, poor fellow, the way
that he was in, Him sweating for six and his bow
wanting rosin, He was put past the fiddling a month —
all because in
A pair of green shoes Kitty danced at the Fair !
THE STRANGER
IT was high June, and I went, after tea, Down to the river with a fishing-rod ; The golden vale's hay harvest pageantry Slept in the haze — a sun-steeped Land of
Nod,
Its meads as fair as ere th' Olympians trod, Bedaisied and great elmed, afar and high A lark's song tinkled down the drowsy sky ;
A useless afternoon as well I knew (Unless for tennis or a cricket match), The idle stream gave back the idle blue, But while there's water and a trout to catch By run or carrier, stickle, holt, or hatch, A chance remains, and on, in high content, Knee-deep among the meadow-sweet I went.
(Oh, ways enchanted ! where the Alderneys Stand in the shallows, twitching tails and
ears, Mild meadow nymphs that eye our
Odysseys,
THE STRANGER 43
Where, through the mirrored grove, the
halcyon sheers, And big, blue dragons haunt the bullrush
spears ;
And he, the furcoat fay, the water-vole Plunks, on our coming, from the pollard
bole.)
Yet for the angler was there naught, until Apollo, westering, made the Cumnors' rim And dying, throned on naked down and
hill,
Let in the coolth of eve, and lo, a slim New risen stone fly floated, poised and trim, And a great trout loomed up on lazy fin, A shade 'mid dappled shades, and sucked
it in !
I knew him well, beside the mill tail's
marge
He'd loll contemptuous, alderman in size, And I, returning tremulous to the charge, Crawling, submitted him a fly, then flies, But none that found a favour in his eyes, Or earned one complimentary move of
head ; 66 Master, try this" a voice beside me said ;
44 PIPES AND TABORS
And turning as I knelt, a-nigh me lay A man of dignity, yet eager-eyed, A stranger, clad in homely, hodden grey — Full breeched, broad-buckled shoon, laced
collar wide, And sober hose, dew drenched, «and pollen
pied;
O'er all an antic, oddly hat he wore ; And — where could I have seen his face
before ?
" Try him with this, good Master ! " and
thereon He caught my trace and to it bound a
fly-
A thing of dread and fear to think upon, Big as a half-fledged sparrow to descry ; Yet, somehow, held by his compelling eye, Over the fish I flicked it, with a splash — The big trout stirred, then, had it in a
flash !
The fair, bent wand, the flying reel, the
leap — Keenly the stranger conned the equal
bout — Till, in due moment, bending o'er the
deep,
THE STRANGER 45
Deftly he netted him and laid him out, Five flawless pounds — the pink of perfect
trout ; Regained his lure, and then, with grave
goodwill, Said," Sir, you use the angle rod with skill ! "
So, as my pulses calmed, we lay along, In the lush grasses, as the evening died, And, to the lulling of the lasher's song, He spoke of flies and fishes, with a wide, Sound knowledge, and a certain gentle
pride ; " You know our river ? " " Marry, sir,"
said he, " I know all rivers, passing well — they me ! "
And talking on of old Arcadian things, A moon, as warm as apricot, climbed light To the sweet blue of June's long darkenings, Till the soft bats chased by in falcon
flight ; And lo ! a nightjar rattled and 'twas
night ; We rose, " Why not," said I, " come back
and sup — Cold duckling, strawberry salad, and a
cup ? "
46 PIPES AND TABORS
He shook his head and smiled and turned
his gaze Across the vale where, twinkling one by
one, The lamps of farmsteads pricked their
glow-worm rays,
" I've far to fare before to-morrow's sun, Though once at meat I yielded me to
none, A man doth change ; he travels slow who
dines ; Brother, farewell, as men say now, Tight
lines ! "
Then I, in sudden tumult, " Honest sir (His speech I'd found infectious !), ere
you go,
Our pleasant meeting were the pleasanter For chance of others like thereto, and
so ... Mayhap, your name ? " He chuckled,
" Don't you know ? " And whimsically faced me, friend to
friend ; " Walton," said he, then, was not. That's
the end.
THE DANDELION
WHEN through the dusk the white owl weaves
His web above the wood, When you can hear the little leaves Whisper together thick as thieves,
Then, if you should Try to discover or find out What waves the baby ferns about,
Why (we are told) The pixies pass, a little band Of little men from Fairyland,
Green-kerchiefed, brown and old ; They cross the moonlight, quiet, quaint, Up the dark meadow, just to paint
The Dandelion gold !
The Dandelion's fierce and free,
But still we always find, Although he's fierce as fierce can be, And prouder than the tallest tree,
He doesn't mind
47
48 PIPES AND TABORS
Their paint a bit, but spreads each spine, Just like a spikey porcupine
Of " coral strands " ; And, when they've done, with pomp he
views A crest that beats the cockatoo's,
That's golder than the sands.
Oh, let us likewise hail with zest Those who would dress us in our best And wash our face and hands !
THE PEEL TOWER
GRIM sentinel among the pines Massed at the entrance to the glen, I trace in your grey moss-grown lines Old tales of far-off times and men !
Could stones but speak, how you'd en- large
On blades sent home, on blows with- stood,
Fierce charge and roaring counter-charge, And rough-and-tumble hardihood.
So, when I've lingered where you lend The shadow of your rampart high
On afternoons when hilltops blend Their blue with sister blue of sky,
It seems to me the stunted firs That in the middle distance stand
Are little Pictish moorlanders,
A painted, cautious, crouching band; 4
50 PIPES AND TABORS
That creep and lurk in slow retreat, And watch, with flint-tipped dart on string,
The Legion's skirmishers that beat Methodically through the ling ;
While by the river's broken banks Again the sun's aglint upon
The Eagles, and the ordered ranks, Behind the tall centurion.
They fade ; and now each ragged spruce Becomes a dhuinewassal stern
Who goes to strike a blow for Bruce And break a spear at Bannockburn.
Again, I see a picket pause ;
I know the Stuart lilt he croons The while he gazes o'er the shaws
For " Butcher " Cumberland's dragoons.
You tough old stones — you're well imbued With many a desperate doing, dared
By painted Pict, by clansman rude, By covenanting Georgian laird !
THE PEEL TOWER 5!
You've seen the ruffian side of things, Fights grimly settled man to man,
Red cattle-raids and moss-troopings, The robber, and the cateran ;
Yet still you stand, where dreams are wrought —
Born to the grouse cock's challenge loud, 'Neath the red hills, where Time is naught,
And Life the shadow of a cloud.
IN LONDON
NOW upon the window-sills There are yellow daffodils, There's tulip and there's hyacinth each
tasteful box adorning ; And our street, at times old-maidy, Looks a gaily gowned young lady, So dainty and so debutante all on an April morning !
Blue and white is all the sky, And the clouds are driving high (Around each windy corner how the
whistling gusts go shrilly !) And the square is full of cooing, For the wood-pigeons are wooing, And there's sunshine on the pavement all the way to Piccadilly !
See the sparrows wag their tails On the newly painted rails, Or they flutter at their nesting very fussy, very faddy,
IN LONDON 53
There are motors smoothly humming, And there's fifeing and there's drum- ming
When the Guards go by to barracks to the lilting " Hielan' Laddie ! "
On the plane-tree's budding bough There's the thrush who tells us how He has found in spite of stucco that the
city sap is springing, Tells us how to note the blisses Of a morning such as this is, And how April means adventure, and how youth must go a-flinging !
Yes, he tells us that it is Just the day for Odysseys, " There's a magic out this morning," says
the thrush, " A man can well see ! " And the grass is green and growing, And the winds of Spring are blowing, The sky is blue at Charing Cross, the river's blue at Chelsea !
THE LADY'S WALK
I KNOW a Manor by the Thames ; Pve seen it oft through beechen stems In leafy Summer weather ; We've moored the punt its lawns beside Where peacocks strut in flaunting pride, The Muse and I together.
There I have seen the shadows grow Gigantic, as the sun sinks low,
Leaving forlorn the dial ; When zephyrs in the borders stir, Distilling stock and lavender
To fill some fairy's phial.
There, when the dusk joins hands with
night (I like to think the story's right —
I had it from the Rector — Still, don't believe unless you choose !), Doth walk, between the shapen yews,
A little pretty spectre,
THE LADY'S WALK 55
The Lady Rose, a well-born maid Whose true-love in this garden glade —
A bold, if faithless, fellow — Had loved, but left her for the sake Of venturing with Frankie Drake,
And died at Puerto Bello ;
While she — poor foolish, loving Rose — Of heart-break, so the story goes,
Died very shortly after, One day — as Art requires — when Spring Had set the hawthorns blossoming
And waked the lanes to laughter.
And so adown these alleys dim, Where oft she'd kept a tryst with him,
She nightly comes a-roaming ; And, sorrowing still, yet finds content, I fancy, where " Sweet Themmes " is blent
With flower-beds and the gloaming.
Ah me, the leaf is down to-day ; Does still the little phantom stray,
Poor pretty ghost, a-shiver, When sad flowers droop their weary heads Along the chill autumnal beds
Beside the misty river ?
56 PIPES AND TABORS
Or does it, at the year's decline — As sensible as Proserpine —
When Autumn skies do harden, Go down and coax the seeds to grow Till daffodillies stand a-row
And April's in the garden ?
I cannot tell ; what's more, I doubt I'm rather old to stand about
To see her, in November ; I only know, in Autumn hours, A pretty ghost and Summer flowers
Are pleasant to remember.
THE PRAYER-MAT
THE rug arrived — a wondrous thing ; Its blended colours seemed to bring The splendours of an Eastern Spring
To cheer a London Christmas ; One almost sees some pious Khan Kneel on it by his caravan, East somewhere, say, near Teheran, When Suez was an isthmus !
I further note your flattering thought — That since its web and weft were wrought Where Hafiz sang and Rustum fought,
My hand might try to harp it : To this I'd say my modest Muse Would very certainly refuse To harp — or even wear her shoes —
On such a magic carpet !
It tells of far-off city gates Where turbaned traders fill the crates With sun-dried store of figs and dates For juvenile excesses ;
57
58 PIPES AND TABORS
And, in this magic of the loom, I see the Persian roses bloom, And catch the fragrant ghost perfume Of flowery wildernesses !
It paints for me the shiny East,
Mysterious, pagan, unpoliced,
Where Muezzins call to Fast or Feast,
Where minaret and dome are ; And when its conjured visions tire And vanish in the sinking fire They leave behind this one desire —
This echo from old Omar, —
I want you, then, O friend of mine, To come to-morrow night and dine ; You'll find the fitting flask of wine,
The necessary verses (No, not my own !), a loaf of bread (Bisque, sole, and game might do instead ?), I'll need no " Thou " to crown the spread
If you will share these mercies !
A CHANTY
THERE was an old mariner man at Wapping
Who kept a curiosity shop, He bought things, and sold things, and had
things for swopping, From an ivory junk to a peppermint
drop; Singing, Blow up the trumpets
That blow the full-moon, For we must be in China Before the monsoon !
He'd baldfaced Bhuddas from out o' the
Indies,
And golden-dusted gods from Siam, And Japanese ginger in jars in his windies, And he once went to China and saw the
Great Cham ! Singing, Blow up the trumpets,
And beat the bassoon,
But we must be in China
Before the full-moon !
59
60 PIPES AND TABORS
Oh, China's the place to take a chap's fancy, And he there met a lass called Li-
Wang-Ho, But for old sake's sake he christened her
Nancy,
After a girl as he'd known at Bow ; Singing, Blow up the trumpets
That sound the typhoon, For we must be in China Before the monsoon !
She lived in an elegant pinky pagoda
In the thick of a dragon-'aunted wood, And it's six o' rum to an ice-cream soda He'd liked to have married her where
she stood ; Singing, Blow up the trumpets,
There's roses in June,
But we must get to China
Before the full-moon.
But that there wood it was full o' wonder,
And when he went his luck to try, A big green dragon he bellowed like thunder And chased him as far as next July ! Singing, Blow up the trumpets,
Oh, blow them in tune, For we must be in China Before the monsoon !
A CHANTY 61
So he signed on with a tea-ship for Wapping, For London Town where the traders
g°' Where the fogs come up and the rain is
a-dropping, And he married the girl as he'd known
at Bow ! Singing, Blow up the trumpets
From Cork to Kowloon, But we must be in China Before the full-moon !
OUT OF BABYLON
THE moon was up, the deed was done, And things that ran as shadows run Pursued us to the Brazen Gate, Where the king-carven lions wait Beside the doors of Babylon.
There was no sound to break the spell Save footsteps, light as leaves, that fell And followed ever, followed on Where the enchanted moonlight shone O'er charmed towers and terrible.
The Wizard's word was muttered low ; The Brazen Doors swung open — so ;
The Wizard's word was soothly said ;
The footsteps died, and forth we fled Into the darkness, long ago.
Now of the deed that had been done, And what pursued, as shadows run,
And of the word that passed us through — The Wizard's word, the word of rue — I may not speak to anyone.
OUT OF BABYLON 63
I only sing the fear of flight, And ask your pity on my plight, For the pale Wizard's eyes of ill Keep tryst throughout the years, and
still They find me every Friday night !
ON WAKING
T)AINTED gaily on the cup, JT When I drink my early tea And consider getting up
As a thing about to be, There's a pink and podgy bird
For a minute's vague employment, Fairy, fat, and most absurd For my half- awake enjoyment.
For 'twas only but just now
That I wandered where he stood Very haughty on a bough
In a green and silent wood, 'Mid the burnished colibris,
Each a buzzing blue scintilla, Where the wind comes through the trees
Faintly flavoured with vanilla.
That's the sugared land of spice Where one's luck is always in, And the girls are always nice
And the favourites always win ; 64
ON WAKING 65
Where a dun is never seen
And there's always pots of money,
And the grass is always green And the skies for ever sunny.
Bird of plump and pleasing wing
And of curved and curious make, You're a very friendly thing
When I'm cross and half-awake, And the grey comes through the blind —
For you link the unideal With the dreams I've left behind,
With the rainbow and unreal.
THE SOUTHDOWNS
Grey Men of the South
X They look to glim of seas, This gentle day of drouth
And sleepy Autumn bees, Pale skies and wheeling hawk,
And scent of trodden thyme, Brown butterflies and chalk
And the sheep-bells' chime.
The Grey Men they are old,
Ah, very old they be ; They've stood upside the wold
Since all eternity ; They standed in a ring
And the elk-bull roared to them When David was the king
In famed Jerusalem.
King David he was wise, He loved the pleasant land ;
He lifted up his eyes
To see the hilltops stand :
66
THE SOUTHDOWNS 67
Till his old heart held cheer, As yours and mine may hold
On these grey hills, my dear, So peaceful and so old.
THEOCRITUS
I WATCHED the chasing swallows ring, I heard a lark's song, far away, The meadows all were blossoming With buttercup, and surge of may;
Above the elms the dappled blue Bent to a land of -young content;
The wheeling rooks, black winged, threw Their quick, black shadows where I went ;
Ah, singer of the hills and sea,
Pan and the nymphs and old delight,
Was ever morn in Sicily
So gay, so green, so blue and white ?
LOVE IN AUGUST
LOVE in April : see the spinning Bubbles wink and froth and leap,- Much too light a wine for binning, Not the kind that pays to keep ; Love in April's lass and lad stuff, —
Nectar when you're not grown up, But, to seasoned palates, sad stuff Only fit for ballroom cup !
Love in June : a wine to study,
So the tasters say, but young, Raw and rasping, big and ruddy,
Lying fiery on the tongue ; Wine to buy, say they, and one with
Quite a promise, given care, Yet I claim, when all is done with,
Love in June's still ordinaire !
Love in August : grand and mellow,
Rare and soft with Time a-wing, — Love in August has no fellow
In the cellars of a king ; Gold of all the summer's mintage
Lingers whilst our goblets clink, — Love in August's of the Vintage,
Love in August's fit to drink !
THE DREAM BIRD
IN the sunny South Pacific there's an island all uncharted Where the lazy seals lie basking through
the drowsy afternoon ; Not a tramp has ever hailed it, nor has dip
of oar-blade started A single wash of ripple in the calm of
its lagoon ; Never hurricane may harm it, though at
times the land breeze, leaping Through glades of magic dream-cups,
sets the fern fronds all asway, Ere, trembling through the palm-trees,
a summer moon is steeping The beach in sudden silver at the ending of the day.
Could you tread the sun-bleached coral
where the warm and spicy valleys Run up from deep blue water where the golden fire-fish gleams,
You would see across the twilight of the
breathless forest alleys —
7o
THE DREAM BIRD 71
A flashing, feathered jewel, — flit the Bird
of Pleasant Dreams. Never met him ? Very likely, though you
know the nightmare's prancing (How often at your bedside has her
hateful hoof been heard !) ; Yet if peace be on your pillow, and your
dreams be all entrancing, You've to thank the ministrations of my kindly little bird !
In his plumes the gold of sunset with the
pink of morning mingles, And his throat of ruby velvet every
humming-bird's outvies, While his wings are blue as ocean when
the sapphire sweeps the shingles (There's a fortune in his feathers were
you dressing salmon flies !) ; From his pinion breathes a fragrance, not
of languid tropic hours (Oh, the pallid, waxen orchids where the
branches twine and net !), But a hint of home and summer, and of
cottage garden flowers, A scent of briar roses and sweet peas and mignonette !
72 PIPES AND TABORS
Could you slip across the sea-line when the
sun is westward stealing, And by grace of fairy magic on the coral
take your post, You would see his radiant cohorts round
the wavy palm-tops wheeling Ere they wing it through the darkness
with the dreams you favour most, To the streets and crowded courtyards,
to the cottage, to the palace, To the wakeful and the weary, they are
speeding mile on mile, Bringing pleasant thoughts and fancies picked from out the dream-bloom chalice,
Where it blows 'mid sea and silence on the small enchanted Isle !
No, I've not exactly seen him, though I
well remember waking On a perfect night last summer with
my window open wide On a quaint old dialed garden of Eliza- bethan making,
Where between the prim yew-hedges you could see the Channel tide,
THE DREAM BIRD 73
(Some cricket match, I fancy, for in dreams
I'd sent the leather Soaring through the empyrean) ; and
Fd rather like to bet That, although I didn't see him, — not a
single, shining feather, — He had just that moment quitted — for I still smelt mignonette !
BALLADE OF CRYING FOR THE MOON
THERE are moons of all quarters and kinds, There's the moon of the Poacher's
delight, And the Harvester's Moon when the hinds
Lead home the brown barley all night, So brilliant she is and so bright ;
There's a Hunting Moon men watch
the sky for,
And Dan Russell prepares him for flight, But, ah me, for the Moon that I cry for !
There's the little, new sickle one finds
When (results, I admit, have been
slight !) I uncover my head to the winds
And wish with the whole of my might ; There are shields of full silver alight
From the nights of lost Junes one might
die for, — Old Thames flowing golden and white,
But, ah me, for the Moon that I cry for !
CRYING FOR THE MOON 75
And in all of her beauty that blinds,
And in all of her majesty dight, 'Twas Dian (in Dorian minds)
Who darkling sought Latmos's height, And, lost in the pines and the night,
The lips of her shepherd she'd sigh for, As Dolly the Milking-Maid might,
But, ah me, for the Moon that I cry for!
ENVOY
Princess, I'm in sorriest plight,
And I lack me the tongue to say why
for, But read me a little a-right —
Ah me, for the Moon that I cry for !
A BALLADE OF DRIVEN GROUSE
YE say that your gun's fair gone gyte, That you're missin' the coveys
a' through, An' your language is that impolite
Fowk wad think ye'd the de'il in your
moo ;
Here's a ferlie I'd bring tae your view (Though aiblins professors 'ud froon),
An' ye'll kill once ye ken the way hoo — Tak heed tae haud into the broun !
They grouse has a gey nesty flight,
Yin that fair gies a body the grue, When they link doon the win' quick as
light, An' ye never could shoot when it
blew, Though ye're fine at a hare on the
ploo,
Or a craw when he's branched up aboon ; Ay, there's mony a lad that's like you, An' he's best haudin' into the broun !
BALLADE OF DRIVEN GROUSE 77
There's some has a skill an' a sight
That can pick their birds oot o' the blue,
Be the braes in their braws, or in white Wi' snaw-wreaths o' winter-time's brew. Come they single, or packed in a crew,
Clean killed, I wad wadger a croon, But the likes o' that kind is gey few,
Ye'd be best haudin' into the broun !
ENVOY
Losh, Prince, but ye've got it the noo, Yon's a brace an' a half ye ca'd doon,
Ye'll dae fine once ye ken whit tae do — Tak heed tae haud into the broun !
OF THE RETURN
OH, London Strand, 'tis all a-hum And thronged with wheels and
men, But I would slack till kingdom come
And never touch a pen, For I am fresh caught from the spells
That haunt the home of deer,
And I have heard the heather bells
That sound so small and clear.
Oh, London Strand's a sounding shore,
Laborious and murk, Yet I would idle evermore
And never set to work, For I have drunk of days that shone,
That fast, as grouse-packs, flew, And looked, mayhap too often, on
The hills when they were blue.
BIRDS, DOGS, AND SOME ECHOES
THE CUCKOO
THE cuckoo, when the lambkins bleat, Does nothing else but sing and eat. The other birds in dale and dell Sing also — but they work as well.
When daisies star the April sward, His eggs he places out to board, That when his nursery should be full He may not be responsible.
When other birds, from rooks to wrens, Good husbands are and citizens, The cuckoo's little else beyond A captivating vagabond.
The other birds who dawn acclaim, Their songs are sweet but much the same ; The cuckoo has a ruder tone But absolutely all his own.,
79
80 PIPES AND TABORS
Now where's the bard that it would irk To eat his meals and not to work ? — And it's prodigiously worth while To have an individual style.
So I would be the cuckoo bold And loaf in meadows white-and-gold, And make a song unique as his And shirk responsibilities.
TO BARRY
(A Sealyham)
I HEARD the guggle and the tiny twitter
Of five fat atoms feeding as one whole, And stooped and picked you, mewling,
from the litter,
A thing no bigger than a penny roll ; But still possessed of a discerning soul !
For as I held you, small, and soft, and
squirming,
I knew you to be knowledgeable, when You licked my chin with puppy tongue,
confirming That you had recognized me — even
then — As the most wise, the very best of men !
I never wanted you to make a winner (Your show bench slave were luckier
far deceased !), Fate shaped you just for friend and
fellow-sinner —
A tough, hard-bitten, happy little beast, As ready at a fight as at a feast ; 6
82 PIPES AND TABORS
Short legged you go, broad brow'd and
wiry coated,
Founts of affection in your limpid eyes, Quick as a bolt — as many a buck rat's
noted
In the brief instant ere the varmint dies, And you invite applause with stern that plies !
And, if in cover (busy as a beaver),
Yip-yap, you say, and out the rabbit
slips,— Drops to the Gun, — who straight must
act retriever, — Woe worth his game if once you get to
grips,—
Fur fairly pulped, or Feather chewed to strips, —
What then ? your sires were never silk- mouthed gentles
To lift a partridge e'er so eggshell light, You come, my boy, from Cymric detri- mentals, Tough customers in cairn, or earth,
or fight,
Who never barked when there was chance to bite !
TO BARRY 83
But best I love you as the fellow-creature, The small, white shadow instant at my
heels, The firelit hearthrug's most outstanding
feature, For suasive paw and melting eye at
meals, And half a hundred other heart appeals.
Long may you live to cock your " stumpie
tailie "
And end the tabbies' nightly Eisteddfod, And long leagues yet may your white
paws go gaily, And leap responsive to my lightest
nod —
The only thing that e'er made me a god!
TO A CIVIC SEA-GULL
BIRD that flits over the river, Tern of the Westminster tide, Where the black barges deliver
Coal on the Waterloo side, Renegade fowl and domestic,
Wouldn't you rather to-day Be where Atlantic swings grave and
gigantic
Into a seal-haunted, salmon-run bay, Where the two Uists loom lone and
majestic, Far, far away ?
Cockney you come as the sparrows,
Seeking the bard and his dole, Sprats from itinerant barrows,
Crumbs for to comfort your soul — Say, shall he pass you unheeding,
Deaf to your mendicant woe, All unobserving of white wings a-curving,
Or shall he soften and suddenly glow — • Wax at the wail of your indigent pleading ?
Possibly so.
34
TO A CIVIC SEA-GULL 85
For, with your fluttersome fawning,
For, with your parasite cries, Somehow he sniffs the cool dawning,
Somehow he sees the grey skies Bend o'er the grey of the Islands,
Glint on the tides where they quest Hawk-winged, those others, your hardier brothers,
Wilder of pinion and bolder of breast, By the dark shores where their skerries and highlands
Frown to the west !
PHILOMEL AND PROCNE
T)HILOMEL the nightingale J. Singing in the sycamore, Tells the oft-repeated tale,
Fills the moonlight with her lore — Ancient love, ancient pain, " Little Sister, come again ! "
Procne, dressed in white and black —
Swallow in our sunny eaves, Plaintively she twitters back For her sister of the leaves, — Twitters low, twitters plain — " Little Sister, come again ! "
Foolish little sisters two
Seeking each the other one, Philomel, by dark and dew, Procne, by the light of sun ; Thus the twain, never fain, Make their world-old plaint, in vain- " Little Sister, come again ! "
86
AT THE TOWER
UPON the old black guns The old black raven hops ; We give him bits of buns
And cake and acid-drops ; He's wise, and his way's devout,
But he croaks and he flaps his wings (And the flood runs out and the sergeants
shout)
For the first and the last of things ; He croaks to Robinson, Brown, and
Jones,
The song of the ravens, " Dead Men's Bones ! "
For into the lifting dark
And a drizzle of clearing rain,
His sire flapped out of the ark And never came back again ;
So I always fancy that,
Ere the frail lost blue showed thin,
Alone he sat upon Ararat
To see a new world in,
87
88 PIPES AND TABORS
And yelped to the void from a cairn of
stones The song of the ravens, " Dead Men's
Bones ! "
When the last of mankind lie slain
On Armageddon's field, When the last red west has ta'en
The last day's flaming shield, There shall sit when the shadows run
(D'you doubt, good sirs, d'you doubt ?) His last rogue son on an empty gun
To see an old world out ; And he'll croak (as to Robinson, Brown,
and Jones)
The song of the ravens, " Dead Men's Bones ! "
THE CROSSBILLS
A NORTHERN pinewood once we knew, My dear, when younger by some
lustres, Where little painted crossbills flew
And pecked among the fir-cone clusters ; They hobnobbed and sidled
In coats all aflame, While young Autumn idled, And we did the same.
They've cut the wood down now, I fear,
And made it into war material, For when the crossbills came, one year Their firs were lying most funereal, And steam saws were humming,
And engines at haul, A new Winter coming And more trees to fall.
9o PIPES AND TABORS
Ah, well, let's hope now Peace at length Is here, that when our young plantations In days unborn have got the strength And pride of ancient generations, The red birds shall show there
From tree to dark tree, If two folk should go there As friendly as we !
ACCORDING TO COCKER
SOME talk of retrievers, Or hounds like old Belvoirs', Make puppies receivers
For sentiment vain, Name dandies (close lockers), Love lurchers (law-mockers), — But give me the Cockers Again and again !
The leaf's getting golder, Stroll out, gun on shoulder, Down hedgerows a-smoulder
With berries a-new ; For steady employment, For dash and enjoyment, A Cocker's the boy meant
To come with you, too !
He'll frisk like a kitten, He'll flash and he'll flit on, But work like a Briton,
Through thickest of thorn ; 91
92 PIPES AND TABORS
He's little and dandy, He's tireless and handy, And kinder than candy And merry as morn !
And never mind whether 'Tis fur or 'tis feather, On stubble or heather,
Or water or land, A kill — he'll retrieve it, A runner — you leave it To him, — you'll receive it
Brought gaily " to hand " !
What brain could be brighter ? Whose manners politer ? What trouble's not righter,
His paw on your knee ? And, big dogs and small dogs, And short dogs and tall dogs, A Cocker of all dogs,
A Cocker for me !
TO TWO SPRING PARTRIDGES
O HAPPY pair, in brown and bloomy feather,
Upon the breezy uplands how you run, A part, to me, of March's hard, blue
weather, His snell, dry winds, his hot, compelling
sun ;
Forgotten now the loud, lead-dealing gun, Where you, most lover-like, go forth
together
And, courtship being done, Select a nesting-place And brood your chicks, and lead them through soft days of grace ;
Choose you, I beg, with care, and eye to
trouble —
(The ogre rook, the egg-devouring jay), In the warm sedges 'twixt a blackthorn
double, On some South slope where rains may
drain away ;
There, please, your dozen cream brown ova lay,
93
94 PIPES AND TABORS
Contiguous to some future barley stubble,
Or acres of late hay —
Where you, when they should hatch, May, in due privacy, take out your mouse- like batch !
Parents you'll be, I know it, in perfection — Prompting your babes where lurking
evil lowers, Thwarting the kestrel's sudden earth
inflection ; 'Gainst rat or weasel, strongest of strong
towers ; And, to the thud and pelt of thunder
showers, Spreading, umbrella-wise, your wing's
protection,
Till, on the rain-drenched flowers, Sunshine sets gems a-swing, And on you pass, o'er drying fields, a-foraging ;
So, be you circumspect, that fair September Shall find your cheeping lot at Game's
estate,
Without deploring any single member Through some such contretemps un- fortunate,
TO TWO SPRING PARTRIDGES 95
Ready, in fact, to meet ordained Fate, Well grown and stout (as though it were
November),
When through the home park gate We come, with " Sweep " and
" Shot,"
Bidden, once more, to shoot " some young birds for the pot ! "
But you yourselves, proud father, tender
mother —
(Tender, at least, in your solicitudes !), May you, once more, be spared to raise
another, And many other, bonny, toothsome
broods ; But if swift Death your fellowship
concludes, — Then may he smite you, speeding with
each other,
O'er dark December roods, Driven o'er marksman deft, — And crumpled in mid-air — a glorious right and left !
THE RUNNING BIRD
(A Plea to the Guns)
MASTERS, when you come at night To the Manor or the Court, Muddy and with appetite
From your clean and proper sport, Do you ever call to mind " Runners " that you left behind ?
Be it far from me to spill
Tears, to crocodile's akin ; If we shoot we mean to kill ;
Pain may have a part therein ; And the very best of men Gets a " runner " now and then.
Yet, where's he who does not feel Some compunction, less or more,
When the dogs are called to heel, And the search is given o'er,
And a creature left to be
Foxes' food by you or me ?
96
THE RUNNING BIRD 97
Such may happen, well I know,
How so certain be our aim, Yet at least we surely owe
This much to the thing we maim, That we let the dogs try on Till the thinnest chance has gone.
Though the programme's all behind, Though the best ground's still unshot,
Though the keeper looks his mind — These, to us, shall matter not ;
Work old Pilot, staunch of strain,
Back and fro, and back again.
Thus when we come home to tea
And the firelight in the hall, Pleasant cates and company
And the goodness of it all, May no shadow haunt the cup For a " runner " not picked up !
WILHELM
g°°d thing comes from out of Kaiserland," Says Phyllis ; but beside the fire I note One Wilhelm, sleek in tawny gold of
coat, Most satin-smooth to the caresser's hand.
A velvet mien ; an eye of amber, full Of that which keeps the faith with us
for life ; Lover of meal-times ; hater of yard-dog
strife ; Lordly, with silken ears most strokeable.
Familiar on the hearth, refuting her, He sits, the antic-pawed, the proven
friend, The whimsical, the grave, and reverend —
Wilhelm the Dachs from out of Hanover.
9s
INFANTRY 1914
IN Paris Town, in Paris Town — 'twas 'neath an April sky — I saw a regiment of the line go marching
to Versailles ; When white along the Bois there shone
the chestnut's waxen cells, And the sun was winking on the long
Lebels, Flic flac, flic flac, on all the long Lebels !
The flowers were out along the Bois, the
leaves were overhead, And I saw a regiment of the line that swung
in blue and red ; The youth of things, the joy of things,
they made my heart to beat, And the quick-step lilting and the tramp
of feet ! Flic flac, flic flac, the tramping of the
feet!
99
ioo PIPES AND TABORS
The spiked nuts have fallen and the leaf
is dead and dry Since last I saw a regiment go marching
to Versailles ; And what became of all of those that
heard the music play ? They trained them for the Frontier upon
an August day ; Flic Jlac9 flic flac, all on an August day !
And some of them they stumbled on the
slippery summer grass, And there they left them lying with their
faces to Alsace ; The others — they'd have told you — ere the
chestnut's decked for Spring, Would march beneath some linden trees to
call upon a King, Flic flac, flic flac, to call upon a King.
IN LIMEHOUSE 1914
ASTWARD the buzzing tram-car
dips
Adown Commercial Road, Till you may see the masts of ships, With all their canvas stowed, Stand o'er the house-tops, high
Against blue sky ; And thus Romance doth stray, 'Mid work-a-day.
Oh, drabbest of all penny fares ! Yet may you catch a glimpse Of little dusty courts and squares Where little dusty imps
Play by the plane-trees there,
Squalid, un-fair — If these a child or tree Could ever be.
The trams they go with hoot and lurch Long miles, through glare and grime,
With here and there a dim, cool church Wide open all the time ;
102 PIPES AND TABORS
Where on this lovely day
Folk stop to pray That wars, at length, may cease
And we have peace.
KINGS FROM THE EAST
of wonderment, V __ ' Pink as the morn, There, of the sunrise sent,
Reigned the Sun-Born ; From the high heaven's gate,
Sprung from the flame, Ere Nineveh was great,
Ere Thebes a name !
Emeralds, milky pearls
Plucked from blue seas, Footfall of silken girls —
Such for their ease ; Shimmer and silken sheen,
Jewel and maid — These but the damascene
Chasing the blade !
For on a royal day Lost in the years, Chose they the Happy Way —
The way of spears ; 103
104 pIpES AND TABORS
Ere Rome's first bastionings Climbed from the sods
In the old East were kings Warring with gods.
Lo, through the eastern sky
Crimson is drawn, Kings in their panoply
Ride with the dawn ; Sprung from high heaven's gate,
Sprung from the flame, Ere Nineveh was great,
Ere Thebes a name !
JULES FRANCOIS
JULES FRANCOIS is poet, and gaUant and gay ; Jules Francois makes frocks in the Rue de
la Paix ; Since the mobilization Jules Francois's the
one
That sits by the breech of a galloping gun, In the team of a galloping gun !
When the wheatfields of August stood
white on the plain Jules Francois was ordered to go to
Lorraine, Since the guns would get flirting with
good Mr. Krupp And wanted Jules Francois to limber
them up,
To lay them and limber them up !
The road it was dusty, the road it was long, But there was Jules Francois to make you a song ;
io6 PIPES AND TABORS
He sang them a song, and he fondled his
gun, Though I wouldn't translate it he sang it
Al ;
His battery thought it Ai !
The morning was fresh and the morning
was cool When they stopped in an orchard two
miles out of Toul, And the grey muzzles spat through the
grey muzzles' smoke, And there was Jules Francois to make you
a joke,
To crack his idea of a joke : —
" The road to our Paris 'tis hard as can be ; The road to that London he halts at the
sea; So, vois-tu, mon gars ? 'tis as certain as
sin This wisdom that chooses the road to
Berlin ! "
So he followed the road to Berlin.
GUNS OF VERDUN
GUNS of Verdun point to Metz From the plated parapets ; Guns of Metz grin back again O'er the fields of fair Lorraine.
Guns of Metz are long and grey, Growling through a summer day ; Guns of Verdun, grey and long, Boom an echo of their song.
Guns of Metz to Verdun roar,
" Sisters, you shall foot the score " ;
Guns of Verdun say to Metz,
" Fear not, for we pay our debts."
Guns of Metz they grumble, " When ? " Guns of Verdun answer then, " Sisters, when to guard Lorraine Gunners lay you East again ! "
107
THE STEEPLE
THERE'S mist in the hollows, There's gold on the tree, And South go the swallows Away over sea.
They home in our steeple That climbs in the wind,
And, parson and people, We welcome them kind.
The steeple was set here
In 1266 ; If William could get here
He'd burn it to sticks.
He'd burn it for ever,
Bells, belfry, and vane, That swallows would never
Come back there again.
He'd bang down their perches
With cannon and gun, For churches are churches,
And William's a Hun.
108
THE STEEPLE 109
So — mist in the hollow And leaf falling brown —
Ere home comes the swallow May William be down !
And high stand the steeples
From Lincoln to Wells, For parsons and peoples,
For birds and for bells !
THE STREAM AND THE CHASE
THE KELPIE
THE scoffer rails at ancient tales Of lake and stream and river ; The wise man owns that in his bones The kelpie makes him shiver.
Big salmon-flies the scoffer buys, Long rods and wading stockings ;
Unpicturesque he walks in Esk With unbelief and mockings.
" A river-horse ! O-ho, of course ! " And shouts with ribald laughter ;
He does not see in his cheap glee The kelpie trotting after.
The storm comes chill from off the hill ;
An eerie wind doth holloa ; And near and near by surges drear
The water-horse doth follow.
ii2 PIPES AND TABORS
A snort, a snuff ; enough, enough ;
Past prayer or human help he Comes never more to mortal door
Who meets the water-kelpie.
F*AN, th pack,
FAN the hunt terrier, runs with the
A little white bitch with a patch on her
back ;
She runs with the pack as her ancestors ran — We've an old-fashioned lot here and breed
'em like Fan ; Round of skull, harsh of coat, game and
little and low, The sort that we bred sixty seasons ago.
So she's harder than nails, and she's nothing
to learn From her scarred little snout to her cropped
little stern, And she hops along gaily, in spite of her
size, With twenty-four couple of big badger-
pyes. ('Tis slow, but 'tis sure is the old white
and grey,
And 'twill sing to a fox for a whole winter day.) 8
ii4 PIPES AND TABORS
Last year at Rook's Rough, just as Ben put
'em in, 'Twas Fan found the rogue who was curled
in the whin ; She pounced at his brush with a drive and
a snap, " Tip-Tap, boys," she told 'em, " I've
found him, Tip-Tap ! " And they put down their noses and
spoke to his line Like bells in a steeple most stately and
fine.
'"Twas a point of ten miles and a kill in the dark
That frightened the pheasants in Fallow- field Park,
And into the worry flew Fan like a shot
And snatched the tit-bit that old Rummage
had got ; Eloop, little Fan with the patch on her
back,
She broke up her fox with the best of the pack.
IN THE BEGINNING
ERE the season turns And the crocus burns Her torch at the flame of Spring,
I dream of lands
Where a birchwood stands On banks that roar and ring ;
And — swift and black —
Of a foam-flecked wrack That the sea-run salmon knows,
Who has won his girth
And his warrior worth Where the humpback whale-school blows !
The stream runs deep
And the hill-showers sweep, And the tops in white are tricked ;
His scales they shine
Of the ice-cold brine, And his tail is tide-lice ticked ;
And I would wish
For a big cock fish,
"5
ii6 PIPES AND TABORS
And a combat fast and grim, And for half an hour Of his fighting-power
And the rod that's bent in him !
Now whether we reach His ringing beach
And look on his burnished mail, When it's give and take Till the surface break
In the swirls of a huge spent tail, Till he bulks and rolls, Where the shingle shoals,
The gods themselves may know, But by every god Of a reel and rod,
At least I have dreamt it so !
CUBBING
THEY swarm through the gateway, with outcry and flicker of stern, Hounds, in a hustle, That scatter and bustle, Crash in the oak-scrub and shatter green
oceans of fern ; And their voices are up in a terrible,
whimpering mirth, That drifts through the cover most
marvellous, wonderful sweet, I hear them (Stand still, mare !) out
here in the half-carried wheat, For they're on to the litter, the little red cubs that the vixen put down in our earth — The poor little beggars
They're new to it yet, And some of 'em's safe to Get eaten, I bet !
Hark to the music ! they're singing as fine as you like.
Twenty-two couple, So satiny supple,
ii8 PIPES AND TABORS
Dairymaid that was, we walked her —
Huic ! Dairymaid, huic ! — 'Tain't discipline talking to hounds when they're hunting, but no one's to hear, And I'm proud of our Dairymaid — watch her — the best-looking hound in the pack, And it's sun-up and six in the morning,
and discipline's slack,
And the mare, she's above herself too, and no wonder — the first time she's seen hounds this year !
For life's right as ninepence,
And rid of its rubs, At six in the morning, But — poor little cubs !
THE SEA-TROUT
(Western Highlands)
THE stag to the hill And the bee to the clover, The kite to his kiU
And the maid to her lover, The bard to his dreams
And the scribe to his cunning But I to the streams Where the sea-trout are running.
The streams of the South
Flow in green meadow places ; You open your mouth
And breathe in the soft graces ; Their fishes are wise
And take time to consider, And you stalk every rise
Like a hart in Balquhidder.
In the North the streams flow
With the peat running through them,
And the gods long ago
Have hurled granite into them ;
120 PIPES AND TABORS
The sea-trout's a flash Silver sudden as laughter,
And he comes with a smash And considers it after.
At forty yards fair
Off the reel he'll deliver A leap in the air
And a roll on the river, And the issue's in doubt
Till the net's underneath him, And he dies a sea-trout —
Better bay could I wreathe him ?
The loveliest — oh,
For a music that I lack To sing you his snow
And his silver and lilac ! The wildest, the best,
And the bravest of fishes, And, however he's dressed,
The most dainty of dishes.
But the stag to the hill And the bee to the clover,
The hawk to his kill
And, a hundred times over,
THE SEA-TROUT 121
My heart to the hue
Of brown pools and romantic, And the trout running through
Off the tides of Atlantic.
TO AN M.F.H.
(On assuming Office)
OOD Master, you've shouldered the
burden,
The toil, the expense, and the brunt, A task with no " Thank you " or guerdon,
For you've now taken over the Hunt. The woodlands are waiting in ember, All serely look downland and mead, Will you hear, for 'tis hard on November, A word of good-speed ?
Yes, now that the entry's been blooded And cubs have been taught to take wing,
The farmers and keepers been studied, You're up to the actual thing ;
Your fields will be finer and larger
Than late ones — of circumstance robbed,
With Mars on a lashing ex-charger, Diana demobbed.
And foxes ? We've foxes too many — The War is the why and because ;
And the claims are the prettiest penny, And the Hunt's not so liked as it was ;
TO AN M.F.H. 123
There'll be crabbers, of course, and
decriers
(A Master's the life of a dog), And, like frogs in the fable, the sighers Who sigh for King Log.
But never you worry ; sit quiet
And shape your own course as you can ; There are hounds that'll babble and riot —
We find the same failings in man ; You've to be martinet in your habits,
A Cromwell in might to command, And Captains shall tremble like rabbits At lift of your hand.
But blend you the jackboot with butter ;
Be wise as the serpent, and coo Like the dove ; take your hat off and utter
Quick compliment, prompt How d'ye do? Be bland (but a Draco empowered)
With a crowd edging in for a start, Though in cover a home-loving coward Is breaking your heart.
From a goose gobbled up to the thought- less
Who ride over young grass and seed, The onus is yours, sir, you're naught less
Than scapegoat for every misdeed ;
124 PIPES AND TABORS
A tyrant the thrusters may rank you,
But one of the rear of the ruck Endeavours, good Master, to thank you, To wish you Good Luck !
For trouble's your lot out of reason — Complaints, correspondence no end, With, maybe, say twice in the season, The gallop that makes the amend, When you've shaken the crowd that was
in it
And, free from the " blundering mass," There's nothing to stop you a minute For oceans of grass.
Then, half an hour on, may Fate find
you
'Longside of the pack, in your place, Your huntsman a furlong behind you,
A scratch and a grin on your face, Your fox at the end of his chapter,
The tan heads all up as they view- Well, no one, young fellow, is apter To be there than you.
A DEBTOR TO THE GODS
1AM a debtor to the gods For pleasant days with fishing-rods, When, in co-operative mood, All things have laboured for my good, The sky been fair, the wind been light, The water just exactly right ; And when the fishes that I sought Have done pecisely as they ought.
Its books Olympus balances
I find with trivialities,
Lest great catastrophe abide
To be, in time, a boast and pride, —
" Aye, it was thus and thus, young man,
That came — and went, Leviathan ! "
Whereas the trivial — and duller —
A horse is of another colour ;
So when the gods would have me pay
They send, — you know the sort of day,
Fulfilled of flies that will not float
Yet fasten glibly in your coat,
125
126 PIPES AND TABORS
With dabchicks who, in floundering rout,
Put down, at once, your rising trout ;
A train too late, a reel forgot,
A rival in your favourite spot,
The day, in fact, when all you try
In sure, sad sequence runs awry ;
And, haply bitterest of all,
When night, on such a day, doth fall —
On empty creel, and heart of gall —
To have reluctant ear to lend
To the successes of a friend ;
These are some things for which one
looks When the High Gods make up their books.
And yet, in sober sooth, my son, All things considered, said, and done, I, in despite of all their odds, Remain a debtor to the gods For pleasant days with fishing-rods !
THE CREAM OF IT
the primrose and the dog- rose,
'Twixt the March Brown and the Drake, Till young rooks, in gollywog rows,
Hold the windy elms awake, Lie the paths that Ariel flits on
When we dream, in cities mean, Easter waters, streams at Whitsun, And of stolen days between !
Dreams of dark of northern rivers,
And the pass still packed with snow (For the months are stubborn givers
Where the Spring-run salmon show), Where the North-East storms and blusters,
Yet the courting grouse cock swanks, And in shy and starry clusters
Peeps the primrose on the banks !
Dreams — a flow of crystal wanders 'Neath the high wind-haunted chalk,
And the captious pounder ponders, And the dry-fly pundits stalk ;
128 PIPES AND TABORS
And an inn there is at even
Where the brethren sit confessed
Of the Orkneys to Loch Leven, From Loch Leven to the Test !
Dreams, where Thames the old, slow speeding,
Glides through lilac'd hours and gay, Where the ten-pound trout was feeding
(So you're told !) but yesterday ; Where you check your leisured homing
(Empty creeled !) to stand and hear Philomela, in the gloaming,
Call the waiting Summer near !
Dreams of leisure, dreams of pleasure,
Dreams that crown their radiant rout With the mayfly's mazy measure,
And a carnival of trout ; Where the cuckoo calls uncaring
Down the endless afternoon, And the dog-rose twines his fairing
On the bonny brows of June !
While the rivers do not falter But run downward to the main,
While the changing seasons alter, And the swallow comes again,
THE CREAM OF IT 129
While the tadpole to the frog grows
And the acorn to the tree, Shall the primrose and the dog-rose
Bind the golden hours for me !
TO A JUNE FOX
NOW may you lick your pads in peace And sleep with your nose in your
brush, Nor fear at morn the note of the horn
Shall spoil the note of the thrush, For in the gorse the brown bees bumble And all your little ones squeak and tumble, Tumble and squeak and rush !
You were the thief that stole the geese
And killed in the russet red, But you paid the joke when a fox-hound
spoke,
And into the wind you fled ; That was the day when you did them
rarely,
Raced them level and beat them squarely, Out of the osier-bed !
But now shall the bristling whimper
cease,
The clamorous cry be still, And you shall turn in the growing fern
And bask on the gorse-clad hill, 130
TO A JUNE FOX 131
Nor cock an ear, when the lark rejoices, To catch the terrible, singing voices All lifted up to kill !
So you may get your ribs some grease
And go your woodland way, No hound shall run in the June-tide sun,
No earth be stopped ere the day, When you lie in the owl-light, lithe and
limber,
Under the oak-tree's ancient timber, To see the little ones play !
But that the cubs may show increase
And grow to be bandits free, You must cross the vale in the moon- beams pale
And up by the barnyard be, To pick from the roost, with a fancy fine, a Turkey poult, or a Cochin China, Or ducklings two and three !
So the babes shall lick their chops in
peace,
The bones and feathers among, And get them strength and sinuous
length, And brain and leg and lung,
132 PIPES AND TABORS
That they may run straight-necked and
knowing,
When the woods awake at the horn's far blowing
And the towl of a fox-hound's tongue !
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