Wessex Poems and Other Verses

Ditty

(E.L.G.)

Beneath a knap where flown

Nestlings play,

Within walls of weathered stone,

Far away

From the files of formal houses,

By the bough the firstling browses,

Lives a Sweet: no merchants meet,

No man barters, no man sells

Where she dwells.

Upon that fabric fair

"Here is she!"

Seems written everywhere

Unto me.

But to friends and nodding neighbours

Fellow-wights in lot and labours,

Who descry the times as I,

No such lucid legend tells

Where she dwells.

Should I lapse to what I was

Ere we met;

(Such will not be, but because

Some forget

Let me feign it)--none would notice

That where she and I know by rote is

Spread a strange and withering change,

Like a drying of the wells

Where she dwells.

To feel I might have kissed--

Loved as true--

Otherwhere, nor Mine have missed

My life through,

Had I never wandered near her,

Is a smart severe--severer

In the thought that she is nought,

Even as I, beyond the dells

Where she dwells.

And Devotion droops her glance

To recall

What bond-servants of Chance

We are all.

I but found her in that, going

On my errant path unknowing,

I did not out-skirt the spot

That no spot on earth excels,

--Where she dwells.

1870.

The Sergeant's Song

(1803)

When Lawyers strive to heal a breach,

And Parsons practise what they preach;

Then Boney he'll come pouncing down,

And march his men on London town!

Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lorum,

Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lay!

When Justices hold equal scales,

And Rogues are only found in jails;

Then Boney he'll come pouncing down,

And march his men on London town!

Rollicum-rorum, &c.

When Rich Men find their wealth a curse,

And fill therewith the Poor Man's purse;

Then Boney he'll come pouncing down,

And march his men on London town!

Rollicum-rorum, &c.

When Husbands with their Wives agree,

And Maids won't wed from modesty;

Then Boney he'll come pouncing down,

And march his men on London town!

Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lorum,

Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lay!

1878.

Published in "The Trumpet-Major" 1880.

Valenciennes

(1793)
BY CORP'L TULLIDGE, in "The Trumpet Major"

In Memory of S.C. (Pensioner). Died 184-

We trenched, we trumpeted and drummed,

And from our mortars tons of iron hummed

Ath'art the ditch, the month we bombed

        The Town o' Valencieën.

'Twas in the June o' Ninety-dree

(The Duke o' Yark our then Commander been)

The German Legion, Guards, and we

        Laid siege to Valencieën.

This was the first time in the war

That French and English spilled each other's gore;

--Few dreamt how far would roll the roar

        Begun at Valencieën!

'Twas said that we'd no business there

A-topperèn the French for disagreën;

However, that's not my affair--

        We were at Valencieën.

Such snocks and slats, since war began

Never knew raw recruit or veteràn:

Stone-deaf therence went many a man

        Who served at Valencieën.

Into the streets, ath'art the sky,

A hundred thousand balls and bombs were fleën;

And harmless townsfolk fell to die

        Each hour at Valencieën.

And, sweatèn wi' the bombardiers,

A shell was slent to shards anighst my ears:

--'Twas nigh the end of hopes and fears

        For me at Valencieën!

They bore my wownded frame to camp,

And shut my grapèn skull, and washed en cleän,

And jined en wi' a zilver clamp

        Thik night at Valencieën.

"We've fetched en back to quick from dead

But never more on earth while rose is red

Will drum rouse Corpel!" Doctor said

        O' me at Valencieën.

'Twer true. No voice o' friend or foe

Can reach me now, or any livèn beën;

And little have I power to know

        Since then at Valencieën!

I never hear the zummer hums

O' bees; and don' know when the cuckoo comes;

But night and day I hear the bombs

        We threw at Valencieën. . . .

As for the Duke O' Yark in war,

There may be volk whose judgment o' en is meän;

But this I say--he was not far

        From great at Valencieën.

O' wild wet nights, when all seems sad,

My wownds come back, as though new wownds I'd had;

But yet--at times I'm sort o' glad

        I fout at Valencieën.

Well: Heaven wi' its jasper halls

Is now the on'y Town I care to be in. . . .

Good Lord, if Nick should bomb the walls

        As we did Valencieën!

1878-1897

San Sebastion

(August 1813)

With Thoughts of Sergant M____ (Pensioner), who died 185-

"Why, Sergeant, stray on the Ivel Way,

As though at home there were spectres rife?

From first to last 'twas a proud career!

And your sunny years with a gracious wife

Have brought you a daughter dear.

"I watched her to-day; a more comely maid,

As she danced in her muslin bowed with blue,

Round a Hintock maypole never gayed."

--"Aye, aye; I watched her this day, too,

As it happens," the Sergeant said.

"My daughter is now," he again began,

"Of just such an age as one I knew

When we of the Line, the Forlorn-hope van,

On an August morning--a chosen few--

Stormed San Sebastian.

"She's a score less three; so about was she--

The maiden I wronged in Peninsular days. . . .

You may prate of your prowess in lusty times,

But as years gnaw inward you blink your bays,

And see too well your crimes!

"We'd stormed it at night, by the flapping light

Of burning towers, and the mortar's boom:

We'd topped the breach; but had failed to stay,

For our files were misled by the baffling gloom,

And we said we'd storm by day.

"So, out of the trenches, with features set,

On that hot, still morning, in measured pace,

Our column climbed; climbed higher yet,

Past the fauss'bray, scarp, up the curtain-face,

And along the parapet.

"From the batteried hornwork the cannoneers

Have crashing balls of iron fire;

On the shaking gap mount the volunteers

In files, and as they mount expire

Amid curses, groans, and cheers.

"Five hours did we storm, five hours re-form,

As Death cooled those hot blood pricked on;

Till our cause was helped by a woe within:

They were blown from the summit we'd leapt upon,

And madly we entered in.

"On end for plunder, 'mid rain and thunder

That burst with the lull of our cannonade,

We vamped the streets in the stifling air--

Our hunger unsoothed, our thirst unstayed--

And ransacked the buildings there.

"From the shady vaults of their walls of white

We rolled rich puncheons of Spanish grape,

Till at length, with the fire of the wine alight,

I saw at the doorway a fair fresh shape--

A woman, a sylph, or sprite.

"Afeard she fled, and with heated head

I pursued to the chamber she called her own;

--When might is right no qualms deter

And having her helpless and alone

I wreaked my will on her.

"She raised her beseeching eyes to me,

And I heard the words of prayer she sent

In her own soft language. . . . Fatefully

I copied those eyes for my punishment

In begetting the girl you see!

"So, to-day I stand with a God-set brand

Like Cain's, when he wandered from kindred's ken. . . .

I served through the war that made Europe free;

I wived me in peace-year. But, hid from men,

I bear that mark on me.

"Maybe we shape our offspring's guise

From fancy, or we know not what,

And that no deep impression dies,--

For the mother of my child is not

The mother of her eyes.

"And I nightly stray on the Ivel Way

As though at home there were spectres rife;

I delight me not in my proud career;

And 'tis coals of fire that a gracious wife

Should have brought me a daughter dear!"

The Stranger's Song

(As sung by MR. CHARLES CHARRINGTON in the play of "The Three Wayfarers")

O my trade it is the rarest one,

           Simple shepherds all--

My trade is a sight to see;

For my customers I tie, and take 'em up on high,

    And waft 'em to a far countree!

My tools are but common ones,

           Simple shepherds all--

My tools are no sight to see:

A little hempen string, and a post whereon to swing.

    Are implements enough for me!

Tomorrow is my working day,

           Simple shepherds all--

To-morrow is a working day for me:

For the farmer's sheep is slain, and the lad who did it ta'en,

    And on his soul may God ha' mer-cy!

Printed in "The Three Stranger," 1883.

The Burghers

(17__)

The sun had wheeled from Grey's to Dammer's Crest,

And still I mused on that Thing imminent:

At length I sought the High-street to the West.

The level flare raked pane and pediment

And my wrecked face, and shaped my nearing friend

Like one of those the Furnace held unshent.

"I've news concerning her," he said. "Attend.

They fly to-night at the late moon's first gleam:

Watch with thy steel: two righteous thrusts will end

Her shameless visions and his passioned dream.

I'll watch with thee, to testify thy wrong--

To aid, maybe. --Law consecrates the scheme."

I started, and we paced the flags along,

Till I replied: "Since it has come to this

I'll do it! But alone. I can be strong."

Three hours past Curfew, when the Froom's mild hiss

Reigned sole, undulled by whirr of merchandize,

From Prummery-Tout to where the Gibbet is,

I crossed my pleasaunce hard by Glyd-path Rise,

And stood beneath the wall. Eleven strokes went,

And to the door they came, contrariwise,

And met in clasp so close I had but bent

My lifted blade on either to have let

Their two souls loose upon the firmament.

But something held my arm. "A moment yet

As pray-time ere you wantons die!" I said;

And then they saw me. Swift her gaze was set

With eye and cry of love illimited

Upon her Heart-king. Never upon me

Had she thrown look of love so thoroughsped! . . .

At once she flung her faint form shieldingly

On his, against the vengeance of my vows;

The which o'erruling, her shape shielded he.

Blanked by such love, I stood as in a drowse,

And the slow moon edged from the upland nigh,

My sad thoughts moving thuswise: "I may house

And I may husband her, yet what am I

But licensed tyrant to this bonded pair?

Says Charity, Do as ye would be done by." . . .

Hurling my iron to the bushes there,

I bade them stay. And, as if brain and breast

Were passive, they walked with me to the stair.

Inside the house none watched; and on we prest

Before a mirror, in whose gleam I read

Her beauty, his,--and mine own mien unblest;

Till at her room I turned. "Madam," I said,

"Have you the wherewithal for this? Pray speak.

Love fills no cupboard. You'll need daily bread."

"We've nothing, sire," she lipped; "and nothing seek.

'Twere base in me to rob my lord unware;

Our hands will earn a pittance week by week."

And next I saw she had piled her raiment rare

Within the garde-robes, and her household purse,

Her jewels, her least lace of personal wear;

And stood in homespun. Now grown wholly hers,

I handed her the gold, her jewels all,

And him the choicest of her robes diverse.

"I'll take you to the doorway in the wall,

And then adieu," I told them. "Friends, withdraw."

They did so; and she went--beyond recall.

And as I paused beneath the arch I saw

Their moonlit figures--slow, as in surprise--

Descend the slope, and vanish on the haw.

"'Fool,' some will say," I thought. --"But who is wise,

Save God alone, to weigh my reasons why?"

--"Hast thou struck home?" came with the boughs' night-sighs.

It was my friend. "I have struck well. They fly,

But carry wounds that none can cicatrize."

--"Not mortal?" said he. "Lingering -- worse," said I.