Rebel Verses

This Town is Hell

This town is Hell, and all the people in itAre devils, roasting for their sins like cinders;They've train and tram instead of lark and linnet,For sun are lamps, for sky are only windows,They have no air to breathe, no room to rove,And crowd so closely that you cannot move;Robbing each other whilst nobody hinders:In towns, there is no Providence above.If Providence there is above this city,The fog and smoke must cover it from pity,For folk are crazed, and run instead of walking,To catch – they know not what – all nonsense talking.Old farm! Old farm! I wish I hadn't left you!And if my time came back, I wouldn't part:You gave me pleasant thoughts to dwell upon,And peaceful days and quietness of heart.For here, no happiness can come at all,The nights are cursed by idle folk at play;Here is no sleepy smell of new mown hay,Or soothing noise of cattle in their stall;No scent of may in bloom, or beans in flower,No drowsy sound of bees among the clover;But only hooters, droning every hour;With smoke and dirt and misery all over.Sometimes, when dazed by this un-human placeI have remembered me the days so dear,And seen again the horses out at plough,Their shoulders pressing forward in the gear:The smell, the sound, come back with strange surprise,To think that I am down Long Martin Fen;It brings the tears into my aching eyes,To dream that I am farming once again.

Timberland Bells

I used to hear them faintlyThose evening bells for prayer,Across the fields of Tilney,Beyond the sunset's glare.I heard them in my childhood,Those bells of Timberland,When I was always happy,Holding my father's hand.Enchanted in the distance,They rode upon the air,Seeming to float from Heaven;I knew not how nor where.All through life's dusty pathway,I heard those bells ring out,A chiming in the distance,That sung, my path about.My father – how I miss him —Lies in the churchyard there,He takes my hand no longerHe knows not how I fare.But I would give up everythingTo hold again his hand,And hear across the meadowsThe bells of Timberland.

'Dame Peach'

Old Dame Peach stuck like a leech to any good bargin what fell in her reach,She never let slip what come in her grip: however they turned she was ready for each;She'd strip herself bare or sell you her hair, or put up a price for her best china ware,Her very own bed in which she was wed would be yours in a second, if only you dare;Of childer she'd lots and would lend you their cots, and although you'd have backed her to lose in a race,Yet at business she shone when the others wor done; and nobody ever could stand in her place.Among all the men she took care of her-sen and was never alarmed at the roughest of tricks,She'd sit in a bar suppin' ale from a jar, till a bargain was driven, her profit to fix.Folk knew her all round and none ever was found but at one time or other had met her somehow,A good stand-up fight it was all her delight: she would get up at midnight to sell you a cow;She bested the men what came out of the Fen, and the folk from the Wold they found theirsens sold,While them from the Heath they was allers beneath; for however they tried they was out in the cold.The top of the tree was our Mrs. P. at swapping a horse or a cargo of tea,She'd purchase old wicks or a truckload of bricks or a house full of furniture, just for a spree,Though she's mounted on high somewhere up in the sky, wherever she is there is business ahead,But I wish she was back when we'd have a real crack on the friends that are gone and the days that are fled;When her shop was a store and a thousand things more; with her busy in-gathering all she could reach:A jewel, a treasure, a caution, a pleasure: Oh! sadly we miss her, our Old Mrs. Peach.

Friends

Years ago,Simply ages;I don't knowHow the deuce they go:Like turning pages!We're still friends at any rate;Nothing can invalidateThe fun we had,Good or bad,Always together,Not caring whetherEarthquake or thunder,Over or under;Joy in each heart;Singing like thrushesYoung in bushes:Now – we're apart.I've never been so happy since then:They talk of the love of women and men,It's not half so true as that of friends;Not passionate, not selfish,Never ends …Not our fault to be forced away,Destiny came:A wedge:We could not turn its edge;And so it fell upon that bitter day.We might have had such times!But – No! No!It wouldn't go;And after that 'twas never the same;I can't encompass it by rhymes,Halting and tame;There it lies —Not to be altered by tears or sighs:We meet, stealing;Eyes on the door;With banished feeling —But – No more!

Charing Cross – 1916

Round Charing Cross in carrion rowThe crowd press in; a sight to see;Their mouths agape, their eyes aglow,With morbid curiosity.Those twisted limbs, those bandaged faces!Humanity all broken down!The ghostly grim procession races:Hell's handicraft in London Town.The bestial throng with pampered eyes —Faces of goat or sheep or bull —All greedy with a glad surpriseOf ghoulish horror drinking full.Heroic citizens, well nourished,Who feast your eyes: – What sight to see?By you the Coliseum flourished;You thronged, as now, round Calvary.

Love not too much

Have you too greatly loved?Sister take warning!Once let your soul be moved,Sable your mourning;If he be satiate,Then an ingratiate,Waiteth the dawning.Shew not the passionThat stirs in your veins,Far more alluringTo handle the reins,His love ensuring…In masculine fashionIf certain – he wanes.He the pursuerMust ever press on,Passionate wooerWhilst you are a stone;Shew but a touch,Yet never too muchAnd the battle is won.Man is a monsterMade to be stroked,Close then your armsCover your charms;Great the enticementOf beauties when hidden,Of passion well cloaked.Crazed, he shall plead,For what you yield gladly,Fiercer his greed,For what you give madly;You may have measureOf love's burning pleasureAnd still hold your treasure…Sister take heed!

Niccolo Machiavelli

From thy serene abode thou lookest downWith pitying eye upon a rabble routWho strive and plot and fight and turn about,Endeavouring to seize some phantom crown, —Whether of kingdom or of some small town,Or village – or one single home – their own:They stumble, and with hurried steps awryBlindly they miss their opportunity;Whilst, all the time, thy Golden Book is there,Ripe with earth's wisdom; but they only stareOr pass along with stupid scoff and curse,Using thy name for 'scoundrelly' or worse.Of all those who have striven to endowThe world with garnered knowledge, only thouHast for so long endured of thorns the crown;Beneath the feet of swine thy name is thrown;And in the streets thy priceless wit doth lie;So that, alone, the stooping passer-byUndaunted by an epithet, may find;And treasuring like gold seven times refined,Open the casket with exultant airTo see the Pearl of Wisdom lying there.

Remorse

Pierce you another, pleasure bent,Or wound the helpless innocent;The Holy Ghost shall not relent.Beyond the tortured body's cryDread is the mind's dull misery;Remorse, the worm, can never die.'Oh to repay it,' Judas saith:Who robs the innocent of breath,Certain shall live to welcome death.

The Mandrake's Horrid Scream

Why ain't the Mester back?Down these owd Fens there ain't noa neighbours,An' when he's finished wi' his labours,He gallops off full crack!I sits aloan an' shaakes wi' fearWhile he be rousin' at the 'Deer.'Them what's in towns has niver triedTo live aloan, all terrified;They talk about churchyards at night,Or things wi' chains dressed up in white:Why! Bless my soul! I'd gladly sleepIn any place what made them creep!Coz allers they've a friend aboutTo hear if they should give a shout!They dunno what it is to fearBut – here —What's that?Only the cat!An' she's as black as Death's own self,She squats all loathly on yon shelf,Wi' one unwinkin' eye on meI wish the Devil —No!Not He!I didn't mean to mention names,Nor interfere wi' others gaames:They saay as cats is really witches,Like Betty Williamson, now dead,What uster wear her husband's breechesAn' ate the queerest food, foak said;She set beside her open doorWi' one foot allers off the floor,Quietly knitting; one eye castTo overlook you as you passed;An' just the same, yon nasty critterStares at me now that soft an' bitter!Oh Dear! I wish my man would came!May ague twist, an' strike him dumb!May fairies nip his liver outAn' leave him nare a tongue to shout.Forsaking me, all loansome hereWith iverything what's wrong and queer.From out my winder, where I sitI see the willows round yon pit:Dark Pit where Moller Holmes was foundAs some said, – accidental drowned! —But I heard screechin', terrified,About the time he must a died!Having noa bottom, soa they say;It's dreadful secrets there must stayUntil the Resurrection Day!Oh where the Devil is that Tom?I'll give him 'pub' when he gits hoam:The wind is moanin' round that PitAs if somebody wished to flit:There's Things in there what stirs by nightAn' if you see, yer hair turns white;Around, they say, the Mandrake growsWhat's pulled at dead of night by thoseWho little care although it screamsTo wake poor mortals from their dreams.Our parson tells of Powers Evil:(An' Providence can't beat the Devil)Where should they laay, but in yon Pit?What makes me squirl to think on it:All gashly arms a-reachin' outTo clamber up yer water spoutAn' reach you through —Oh Lor!Who's that?'Tis something comin'I hear it hummin'…My dear good Tom! Thank God it's him!I was afraid of something grim —I've bin a-wantin' you soa long —You lousy mawkin', stinkin' strongOf beer an' bacca! Off to bed!I'll larn yer, Thomas, who you've wed:'Fore morn, you'll wish as you was dead.

One Day

I read you poems all the day,And all the night I dreamed of you,Wild nightmares riding sweet sleep through,Whilst all the time I longed to sayMore tenderly, my roundelay,And ardently with verse to woo.I read you poems all the day;You gave them up again to me,For all the night I seemed to seeYour face a vision on my way,As with the murmuring of streamsYour voice commingled in my dreams.I read you poems all the day;Ah! would that you could hear me now!Accepting the unuttered vowMy spirit yearned but dare not say:Yet still though you are far awayI read you poems all the day.

No Wife

Tom! Tom! What yer think?I've 'ed the Parson's wifeThe first time in 'er life, acrost our door!What for?What for? Why Tom, you'd niver niver guess!Not if you lived as old as Grammer BessWhat's lately sworeShe's a hunder an' four —She wants us two, to go off an' git spliced!Oh Christ!What's got 'er now:The cow!You well may swear;Coz 'ow she dare – an' why —Will make you swear agen, or laugh – surelie!Just light yer pipeNow you look comfortable – soYou're rough – old Tom – I know —Black as a crow!But I'm fond on yer ladAs any fool could see!An' whether we're good or badYou've bin maain good ter me.But – blast 'er silly eyes!What yer say to 'er, then?I said a lot!I telled 'er what!A-comin' ere wi' 'er fancy airs,'Er what's never known no cares,Lookin' that wise —Just coz she catched a Parson![An' noa great shaakes ayther —She'd nowt of a feytherWhile 'er half-brother run away to seaAn' took to blue waterWi' their ole cook's daughter]'You talk of "sin" an' "shame,"' I sez, 'to me?You talks just like a foolOr a silly bairn at schoolCoz nobody about could doubt,But what we're happy together him an' me;Just look,' I sez, 'at any in this streetWhat couple can you find about to beatMy Tom an' me what's bin together years,Happy an' comfortable;Never noa serious trouble —Nuthin' I mean to set us by the ears —Good reason why!'I sez – sez I —'Coz we're a free an' equal pair;We got to treat each other fairOr else we part.'Well said now Missus! That were smart!'To part!' sez she, 'lookin' all down her noaz,'Ow could you leave your hoam wi' childer three?'I sez – sez I – 'that dudn't bother meCoz I can earn enough for food an' cloaz.I can maintain 'em by mysen,' sez I,'An' would at any time o' day.I'm not a slave – an' anywayI'd manage if I 'ed to do,I'm not a slave,' I sez, 'like you!'You didn't – Come! —I did – I did!I meant it too.'If your man turns up stunt,' sez I,'You can't goa off, or let him fly;You can't maintain yoursen – not you! —Lettin' aloan the bairns, you 'aint!'(That made her squirm all down her back!)''Ow could you wok up on a stack?Or yok a hoss or bake or wesh;If your man drinks or starts to threshYou couldn't leave him coz he holds yer:You're tied by laws and friends what scolds yer;Yer ain't like me, as free as air.I'm not afraid whoever stare,Nayther is Tom!We minds oursensAn' thinks noa more of foaks than hens,Coz if I doant behave mysen —Or him —We parts! —Why doant we?Why?Becoz we're free an' happy here,Becoz we treats each other fair!'You giv 'er the rough o' yer tongue, old gel,But – what a sell!Comin' 'ere to ride rough shodCoz she's a 'wife.'Why – bless my lifeShe doesn't know she's born;She couldn't find her own corn!I sent 'er off wi' a flea in 'er ear!An' will again if she dost come near!But she weant!The white faced critter —Wi' a noaz like a knifeAn' a smile that bitterAs if she would kill.A wife!What does she know of life? —Nowt!Nor ever will! —But tomorrer's SundayAn' we'll go to Church!What?Yes! Just for once; an' sit together,Like birds of a feather!We aint ashamed to show our facesTo them what thinks we be disgraces.We'll goa together Tom – for sureWe'll goa this once an' then noa more —If you be willin'?Aye lass – I'm willin' —I'll back you up as I've allers done,Agen Parson's wife or anyone.Aye; agen all the country round,Coz you're as good as could be found —An' now – old gel – it's omost eight,Come on – yer know we moant be late,Off to the Ship for our glass of aale;This yarn of yourn'll make a taale!What's that – yer bunnet?All rate … be quick —I'll wait for yer agen the gate.

To an old Friend

A tongue of lambent living flameStirs lightly when I hear your name,Your features delicate and rare,Quiver with every thought you bear;It ever was a strange delightTo see your charming face alight,To sit with you awhile apartAnd hear the beating of your heart,Or watch the message from your brainInto your eyes then back again.And still it is my fairest dream —That delicate ethereal gleam,The fire that played behind your face,Lighting it with such fairy grace;Such intuition sweet and wild;Why should you always be a child?You cannot ever hope to growInto a woman; oh dear no!The fairies never would allowSuch desecration; so that, now,You must be reconciled to stayFor ever as you are to-day.What an enchanting fate is this!Eternally a child to be,Laughing with that untroubled blissThat only haunts the fancy free:Yes, yours is happiness indeed;Barefoot to roam the woodland vale,All careless, though your feet should bleedBecause you hear the nightingale;All heedless, though the thorns should tear,And though the pain be fierce and wild,For Nature gives to you her kiss;And you will always be her child.

Is it Finished?

Well – Is it finished,Is the long day-dream done?The battle lost, and won?Has love at length diminishedAnd night begun?Do you pass to another?Yet still I holdDevotion all untold;Although you mate a brotherAnd leave me cold.My heart beats but for theeAnd every thought is thine,As flowers to the sun incline;For once thou lovedst meAnd all was mine.Though destiny may banish,My heart is still the same;And thine is all my fame;Although thy love may vanish,True burns my flame.And, thou mayst knowThat shouldst thou call to me,Where-ever I may be,Like arrow from its bowStraight I will fly to thee.

Oh, Lincoln, City of my dreams

As far away as childhood seemsThou standest on thy Roman hill,And memory holds thee frozen, still,Engraved on steel where moonlight streams.For leagues along the landscape mildThy towers twin the scene command,Embattlements of fairyland;Romance incarnate to a child.Though other cities cast a spell,Ever thou holdst my heart in chains;And still I hear across the plainsAt midnight's stroke that ancient bellWhose giant throbbing scarcely seemsA mortal sound at Heaven's gate:It echoes round the exile's fate —Oh Lincoln! City of my dreams!

The Fool

What say?Tharp?Yis: Aaron Tharp lived theer!Not quite sharp?Not quite – I fear!T'wer very sad!Though theer wor summat – 'tis hard to say —But he come to his end and went away;He'd a nice little place as his feyther made,All gone to pot, I be much afraid.Old Aaron built it in his day,A worthy feller true an' sound,Respected by the country round;To think as his name should be forgotten!If he'd known what a fool he had begotten!He toiled an' moiled into his graveTo leave a lad what couldn't save!Noa note of grace, noa sense of cash!He lost his all be bein' rash!An' for what! —For what! —To play the fiddle!'Hey diddle diddle!'To make up tunes in his empty headAn' ruin his eyes wi' the books he read!He raumed an' babbled all day longAbout the way to sing a song!Follered the lads at plough aboutTo hear 'em sing would make him shout!He'd sit on the bar of the Ship at night:To catch the tunes was his delight,Or to play the fiddle about the town: —An' all the while his trade went down!That trade what poor old Aaron tendedIt's fell to nowt an' can't be mendedCoz businesses is all the sameYou've simply got to play the gameWith all your soul an' all your heartOr else you'll soon be in the cart.He was encouraged by our parson!T'wer wrong of parson!It's very well for them to talkTo sing an' play and idle, walk,But aren't they paid for doin' that?They mind their bread is buttered fat.Parsons is sensible you see,O'most as cute as lawyers be,Not quite – a course coz noa one could —But very nigh – just as they should.Parsons is sound at heart, I say,They never quarrels wi' their pay,Soa it wor wrong of Parson theer,Coz Aaron nobbut lacked a cheer.He made his tunes, he played aboutAn' none but Parson had a doubtWhat he was bound for – poor young lad!A course I'll own, – though he wor mad, —Them tunes he played, them songs he sung,They minded you of bein' young;They took me back, a boy, agenAt work wi' Feyther down the Fen,When all the birds they uster singAt sunrise till the air would ring,And sheep and cows would stir aboutWi' everything to make yer shout,Yes it wor strange what he could do,His fiddle seemed to mazzle you,The labourers would catch a song —An' they was catchy – all along;They sing 'em yet; an' Georgy BellHe plays 'em by the village well.But all the while, trade didn't mendUntil at last ther' come the end.They selled him up, lock stock an' stoan,An' off he went away, aloan;Because he sung but couldn't save.I think his feyther in the graveMust sure a-stirred, 'owever deep:That smash would waken any sleep!Young Aaron went —I dunno where —They say he's gone to Manchester,An' there, mayhap, mid soot an' smoke,Makes music for the city folk;Plays on his fiddle, time, agenThem tunes he larned down Martin FenFrom shepherds or from waggon-boysOr men at plough, – or any noise:He made his tunes out of the air,From birds or beasts – he didn't care!An' Parson, says he'll make a name(Our Parson, what's the one to blame!)As if he ever could agenFind such a hoam as Martin Fen;As if he could, by fiddle fad,Get half the name his feyther had.Lost in some smoky town he playsAn' thinks, I lay, on sunny days,Of all the things what makes life dearLike beans and bacon, cheese and beer;A dreamy good-for-nothing lad,Sure bound to lose all what he had.He might a-riz, an' come to beAs high as you, or even me!An' bin well known the country roundAs comfortable, warm, an' sound.His name is known for many a mile,It raises far-an'-wide, a smile:While folk they whisper 'Not right sharp'!A fool! a fool! wor Aaron Tharp.