Verses 1889-1896

THE DERELICT

And reports the derelict Mary Pollock still at sea.

SHIPPING NEWS.          I was the staunchest of our fleet          Till the sea rose beneath our feet       Unheralded, in hatred past all measure.          Into his pits he stamped my crew,          Buffeted, blinded, bound and threw,       Bidding me eyeless wait upon his pleasure.     Man made me, and my will     Is to my maker still,  Whom now the currents con, the rollers steer —     Lifting forlorn to spy     Trailed smoke along the sky,  Falling afraid lest any keel come near!     Wrenched as the lips of thirst,     Wried, dried, and split and burst,  Bone-bleached my decks, wind-scoured to the graining;     And jarred at every roll     The gear that was my soul  Answers the anguish of my beams’ complaining.     For life that crammed me full,     Gangs of the prying gull  That shriek and scrabble on the riven hatches!     For roar that dumbed the gale,     My hawse-pipes guttering wail,  Sobbing my heart out through the uncounted watches!     Blind in the hot blue ring     Through all my points I swing —  Swing and return to shift the sun anew.     Blind in my well-known sky     I hear the stars go by,  Mocking the prow that cannot hold one true!     White on my wasted path     Wave after wave in wrath  Frets ‘gainst his fellow, warring where to send me.     Flung forward, heaved aside,     Witless and dazed I bide  The mercy of the comber that shall end me.     North where the bergs careen,     The spray of seas unseen  Smokes round my head and freezes in the falling;     South where the corals breed,     The footless, floating weed  Folds me and fouls me, strake on strake upcrawling.     I that was clean to run     My race against the sun —  Strength on the deep, am bawd to all disaster —     Whipped forth by night to meet     My sister’s careless feet,  And with a kiss betray her to my master!     Man made me, and my will     Is to my maker still —  To him and his, our peoples at their pier:     Lifting in hope to spy     Trailed smoke along the sky,  Falling afraid lest any keel come near!

THE ANSWER

  A Rose, in tatters on the garden path,  Cried out to God and murmured ‘gainst His Wrath,  Because a sudden wind at twilight’s hush  Had snapped her stem alone of all the bush.  And God, Who hears both sun-dried dust and sun,  Had pity, whispering to that luckless one,  “Sister, in that thou sayest We did not well —  What voices heardst thou when thy petals fell?”   And the Rose answered, “In that evil hour  A voice said, `Father, wherefore falls the flower?  For lo, the very gossamers are still.’  And a voice answered, `Son, by Allah’s will!’”  Then softly as a rain-mist on the sward,  Came to the Rose the Answer of the Lord:  “Sister, before We smote the dark in twain,  Ere yet the stars saw one another plain,  Time, Tide, and Space, We bound unto the task  That thou shouldst fall, and such an one should ask.”   Whereat the withered flower, all content,  Died as they die whose days are innocent;  While he who questioned why the flower fell  Caught hold of God and saved his soul from Hell.

THE SONG OF THE BANJO

  You couldn’t pack a Broadwood half a mile —   You mustn’t leave a fiddle in the damp —  You couldn’t raft an organ up the Nile,   And play it in an Equatorial swamp.  I travel with the cooking-pots and pails —   I’m sandwiched ‘tween the coffee and the pork —  And when the dusty column checks and tails,   You should hear me spur the rear-guard to a walk!      With my “Pilly-willy-winky-winky popp!”        [Oh, it’s any tune that comes into my head!]      So I keep ‘em moving forward till they drop;       So I play ‘em up to water and to bed.  In the silence of the camp before the fight,   When it’s good to make your will and say your prayer,  You can hear my strumpty-tumpty overnight   Explaining ten to one was always fair.  I’m the Prophet of the Utterly Absurd,   Of the Patently Impossible and Vain —  And when the Thing that Couldn’t has occurred,   Give me time to change my leg and go again.      With my “Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tum-pa tump!”        In the desert where the dung-fed camp-smoke curled      There was never voice before us till I led our lonely chorus,       I – the war-drum of the White Man round the world!  By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread,   Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own, —  ‘Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed,   In the silence of the herder’s hut alone —  In the twilight, on a bucket upside down,   Hear me babble what the weakest won’t confess —  I am Memory and Torment – I am Town!   I am all that ever went with evening dress!      With my “Tunk-a tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!”        [So the lights – the London Lights – grow near and plain!]      So I rowel ‘em afresh towards the Devil and the Flesh,       Till I bring my broken rankers home again.  In desire of many marvels over sea,   Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars,  I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay   Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger shores.  He is blooded to the open and the sky,   He is taken in a snare that shall not fail,  He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die,   Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale.      With my “Hya!  Heeya!  Heeya!  Hullah!  Haul!”        [O the green that thunders aft along the deck!]      Are you sick o’ towns and men?  You must sign and sail again,       For it’s “Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!”  Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon-day clear —   Up the pass that packs the scud beneath our wheel —  Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom sheer —   Down the valley with our guttering brakes asqueal:  Where the trestle groans and quivers in the snow,   Where the many-shedded levels loop and twine,  So I lead my reckless children from below   Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine.      With my “Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!”        [And the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and crest!]      So we ride the iron stallions down to drink,       Through the canyons to the waters of the West!  And the tunes that mean so much to you alone —   Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose,  Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that brings the groan —   I can rip your very heartstrings out with those;  With the feasting, and the folly, and the fun —   And the lying, and the lusting, and the drink,  And the merry play that drops you, when you’re done,   To the thoughts that burn like irons if you think.      With my “Plunka-lunka-lunka-lunka-lunk!”        Here’s a trifle on account of pleasure past,      Ere the wit that made you win gives you eyes to see your sin       And the heavier repentance at the last!  Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof —   I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man!  Let the trumpets snare the foeman to the proof —   I have known Defeat, and mocked it as we ran!  My bray ye may not alter nor mistake   When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things,  But the Song of Lost Endeavour that I make,   Is it hidden in the twanging of the strings?      With my “Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!”        [Is it naught to you that hear and pass me by?]      But the word – the word is mine, when the order moves the line       And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die.  Of the driven dust of speech I make a flame   And a scourge of broken withes that men let fall:  For the words that had no honour till I came —   Lo! I raise them into honour over all!  By the wisdom of the centuries I speak —   To the tune of yestermorn I set the truth —  I, the joy of life unquestioned – I, the Greek —   I, the everlasting Wonder Song of Youth!      With my “Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!”        [What d’ye lack, my noble masters?  What d’ye lack?]      So I draw the world together link by link:       Yea, from Delos up to Limerick and back!

THE LINER SHE’S A LADY

  The Liner she’s a lady, an’ she never looks nor ‘eeds —  The Man-o’-War’s ‘er ‘usband, an’ ‘e gives ‘er all she needs;  But, oh, the little cargo-boats, that sail the wet seas roun’,  They’re just the same as you an’ me a-plyin’ up an’ down!       Plyin’ up an’ down, Jenny, ‘angin’ round the Yard,       All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth ‘Ard;       Anythin’ for business, an’ we’re growin’ old —       Plyin’ up an’ down, Jenny, waitin’ in the cold!  The Liner she’s a lady by the paint upon ‘er face,  An’ if she meets an accident they count it sore disgrace:  The Man-o’-War’s ‘er ‘usband, and ‘e’s always ‘andy by,  But, oh, the little cargo-boats! they’ve got to load or die.  The Liner she’s a lady, and ‘er route is cut an’ dried;  The Man-o’-War’s ‘er ‘usband, an’ ‘e always keeps beside;  But, oh, the little cargo-boats that ‘aven’t any man,  They’ve got to do their business first, and make the most they can!  The Liner she’s a lady, and if a war should come,  The Man-o’-War’s ‘er ‘usband, and ‘e’d bid ‘er stay at home;  But, oh, the little cargo-boats that fill with every tide!  ‘E’d ‘ave to up an’ fight for them, for they are England’s pride.  The Liner she’s a lady, but if she wasn’t made,  There still would be the cargo-boats for ‘ome an’ foreign trade.  The Man-o’-War’s ‘er ‘usband, but if we wasn’t ‘ere,  ‘E wouldn’t have to fight at all for ‘ome an’ friends so dear.       ‘Ome an’ friends so dear, Jenny, ‘angin’ round the Yard,       All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth ‘Ard;       Anythin’ for business, an’ we’re growin’ old —       ‘Ome an’ friends so dear, Jenny, waitin’ in the cold!

MULHOLLAND’S CONTRACT

  The fear was on the cattle, for the gale was on the sea,  An’ the pens broke up on the lower deck an’ let the creatures free —  An’ the lights went out on the lower deck, an’ no one near but me.  I had been singin’ to them to keep ‘em quiet there,  For the lower deck is the dangerousest, requirin’ constant care,  An’ give to me as the strongest man, though used to drink and swear.  I see my chance was certain of bein’ horned or trod,  For the lower deck was packed with steers thicker’n peas in a pod,  An’ more pens broke at every roll – so I made a Contract with God.  An’ by the terms of the Contract, as I have read the same,  If He got me to port alive I would exalt His Name,  An’ praise His Holy Majesty till further orders came.  He saved me from the cattle an’ He saved me from the sea,  For they found me ‘tween two drownded ones where the roll had landed me —  An’ a four-inch crack on top of my head, as crazy as could be.  But that were done by a stanchion, an’ not by a bullock at all,  An’ I lay still for seven weeks convalessing of the fall,  An’ readin’ the shiny Scripture texts in the Seaman’s Hospital.  An’ I spoke to God of our Contract, an’ He says to my prayer:  “I never puts on My ministers no more than they can bear.  So back you go to the cattle-boats an’ preach My Gospel there.  “For human life is chancy at any kind of trade,  But most of all, as well you know, when the steers are mad-afraid;  So you go back to the cattle-boats an’ preach ‘em as I’ve said.  “They must quit drinkin’ an’ swearin’, they mustn’t knife on a blow,  They must quit gamblin’ their wages, and you must preach it so;  For now those boats are more like Hell than anything else I know.”  I didn’t want to do it, for I knew what I should get,  An’ I wanted to preach Religion, handsome an’ out of the wet,  But the Word of the Lord were lain on me, an’ I done what I was set.  I have been smit an’ bruis]\ed, as warned would be the case,  An’ turned my cheek to the smiter exactly as Scripture says;  But following that, I knocked him down an’ led him up to Grace.  An’ we have preaching on Sundays whenever the sea is calm,  An’ I use no knife or pistol an’ I never take no harm,  For the Lord abideth back of me to guide my fighting arm.  An’ I sign for four-pound-ten a month and save the money clear,  An’ I am in charge of the lower deck, an’ I never lose a steer;  An’ I believe in Almighty God an’ preach His Gospel here.  The skippers say I’m crazy, but I can prove ‘em wrong,  For I am in charge of the lower deck with all that doth belong —  Which they would not give to a lunatic, and the competition so strong!

ANCHOR SONG

  Heh!  Walk her round.  Heave, ah heave her short again!   Over, snatch her over, there, and hold her on the pawl.  Loose all sail, and brace your yards back and full —   Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all!    Well, ah fare you well; we can stay no more with you, my love —     Down, set down your liquor and your girl from off your knee;           For the wind has come to say:           “You must take me while you may,        If you’d go to Mother Carey        (Walk her down to Mother Carey!),     Oh, we’re bound to Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!”  Heh!  Walk her round.  Break, ah break it out o’ that!   Break our starboard-bower out, apeak, awash, and clear.  Port – port she casts, with the harbour-mud beneath her foot,   And that’s the last o’ bottom we shall see this year!    Well, ah fare you well, for we’ve got to take her out again —     Take her out in ballast, riding light and cargo-free.        And it’s time to clear and quit        When the hawser grips the bitt,     So we’ll pay you with the foresheet and a promise from the sea!  Heh!  Tally on.  Aft and walk away with her!   Handsome to the cathead, now; O tally on the fall!  Stop, seize and fish, and easy on the davit-guy.   Up, well up the fluke of her, and inboard haul!    Well, ah fare you well, for the Channel wind’s took hold of us,     Choking down our voices as we snatch the gaskets free.        And it’s blowing up for night,        And she’s dropping Light on Light,     And she’s snorting under bonnets for a breath of open sea,  Wheel, full and by; but she’ll smell her road alone to-night.   Sick she is and harbour-sick – O sick to clear the land!  Roll down to Brest with the old Red Ensign over us —   Carry on and thrash her out with all she’ll stand!    Well, ah fare you well, and it’s Ushant slams the door on us,     Whirling like a windmill through the dirty scud to lee:           Till the last, last flicker goes           From the tumbling water-rows,        And we’re off to Mother Carey        (Walk her down to Mother Carey!),     Oh, we’re bound for Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!

THE LOST LEGION

  There’s a Legion that never was ‘listed,   That carries no colours or crest,  But, split in a thousand detachments,   Is breaking the road for the rest.  Our fathers they left us their blessing —   They taught us, and groomed us, and crammed;  But we’ve shaken the Clubs and the Messes   To go and find out and be damned                      (Dear boys!),   To go and get shot and be damned.  So some of us chivy the slaver,   And some of us cherish the black,  And some of us hunt on the Oil Coast,   And some on – the Wallaby track:  And some of us drift to Sarawak,   And some of us drift up The Fly,  And some share our tucker with tigers,   And some with the gentle Masai                      (Dear boys!),   Take tea with the giddy Masai.  We’ve painted The Islands vermilion,   We’ve pearled on half-shares in the Bay,  We’ve shouted on seven-ounce nuggets,   We’ve starved on a Seedeeboy’s pay;  We’ve laughed at the world as we found it —   Its women and cities and men —  From Sayyid Burgash in a tantrum   To the smoke-reddened eyes of Loben                      (Dear boys!),   We’ve a little account with Loben.  The ends o’ the Earth were our portion,   The ocean at large was our share.  There was never a skirmish to windward   But the Leaderless Legion was there:  Yes, somehow and somewhere and always   We were first when the trouble began,  From a lottery-row in Manila,   To an I.D.B. race on the Pan                      (Dear boys!),   With the Mounted Police on the Pan.  We preach in advance of the Army,   We skirmish ahead of the Church,  With never a gunboat to help us   When we’re scuppered and left in the lurch.  But we know as the cartridges finish,   And we’re filed on our last little shelves,  That the Legion that never was ‘listed   Will send us as good as ourselves                      (Good men!),   Five hundred as good as ourselves.  Then a health (we must drink it in whispers)   To our wholly unauthorised horde —  To the line of our dusty foreloopers,   The Gentlemen Rovers abroad —  Yes, a health to ourselves ere we scatter,   For the steamer won’t wait for the train,  And the Legion that never was ‘listed   Goes back into quarters again!                      ‘Regards!   Goes back under canvas again.                      Hurrah!   The swag and the billy again.                      Here’s how!   The trail and the packhorse again.                      Salue!   The trek and the laager again.

THE SEA-WIFE

  There dwells a wife by the Northern Gate,   And a wealthy wife is she;  She breeds a breed o’ rovin’ men   And casts them over sea.  And some are drowned in deep water,   And some in sight o’ shore,  And word goes back to the weary wife   And ever she sends more.  For since that wife had gate or gear,   Or hearth or garth or bield,  She willed her sons to the white harvest,   And that is a bitter yield.  She wills her sons to the wet ploughing,   To ride the horse of tree,  And syne her sons come back again   Far-spent from out the sea.  The good wife’s sons come home again   With little into their hands,  But the lore of men that ha’ dealt with men   In the new and naked lands;  But the faith of men that ha’ brothered men   By more than easy breath,  And the eyes o’ men that ha’ read wi’ men   In the open books of death.  Rich are they, rich in wonders seen,   But poor in the goods o’ men;  So what they ha’ got by the skin o’ their teeth   They sell for their teeth again.  For whether they lose to the naked life   Or win to their hearts’ desire,  They tell it all to the weary wife   That nods beside the fire.  Her hearth is wide to every wind   That makes the white ash spin;  And tide and tide and ‘tween the tides   Her sons go out and in;  (Out with great mirth that do desire   Hazard of trackless ways,  In with content to wait their watch   And warm before the blaze);  And some return by failing light,   And some in waking dream,  For she hears the heels of the dripping ghosts   That ride the rough roof-beam.  Home, they come home from all the ports,   The living and the dead;  The good wife’s sons come home again   For her blessing on their head!

HYMN BEFORE ACTION

  The earth is full of anger,   The seas are dark with wrath,  The Nations in their harness   Go up against our path:  Ere yet we loose the legions —   Ere yet we draw the blade,  Jehovah of the Thunders,   Lord God of Battles, aid!  High lust and froward bearing,   Proud heart, rebellious brow —  Deaf ear and soul uncaring,   We seek Thy mercy now!  The sinner that forswore Thee,   The fool that passed Thee by,  Our times are known before Thee —   Lord, grant us strength to die!  For those who kneel beside us   At altars not Thine own,  Who lack the lights that guide us,   Lord, let their faith atone.  If wrong we did to call them,   By honour bound they came;  Let not Thy Wrath befall them,   But deal to us the blame.  From panic, pride, and terror,   Revenge that knows no rein,  Light haste and lawless error,   Protect us yet again.  Cloak Thou our undeserving,   Make firm the shuddering breath,  In silence and unswerving   To taste Thy lesser death!  Ah, Mary pierced with sorrow,   Remember, reach and save  The soul that comes to-morrow   Before the God that gave!  Since each was born of woman,   For each at utter need —  True comrade and true foeman —   Madonna, intercede!  E’en now their vanguard gathers,   E’en now we face the fray —  As Thou didst help our fathers,   Help Thou our host to-day!  Fulfilled of signs and wonders,   In life, in death made clear —  Jehovah of the Thunders,   Lord God of Battles, hear!

TO THE TRUE ROMANCE

       Thy face is far from this our war,        Our call and counter-cry,       I shall not find Thee quick and kind,        Nor know Thee till I die,       Enough for me in dreams to see        And touch Thy garments’ hem:       Thy feet have trod so near to God        I may not follow them.  Through wantonness if men profess   They weary of Thy parts,  E’en let them die at blasphemy   And perish with their arts;  But we that love, but we that prove   Thine excellence august,  While we adore discover more   Thee perfect, wise, and just.  Since spoken word Man’s Spirit stirred   Beyond his belly-need,  What is is Thine of fair design   In thought and craft and deed;  Each stroke aright of toil and fight,   That was and that shall be,  And hope too high, wherefore we die,   Has birth and worth in Thee.  Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee   To gild his dross thereby,  And knowledge sure that he endure   A child until he die —  For to make plain that man’s disdain   Is but new Beauty’s birth —  For to possess in loneliness   The joy of all the earth.  As Thou didst teach all lovers speech   And Life all mystery,  So shalt Thou rule by every school   Till love and longing die,  Who wast or yet the Lights were set,   A whisper in the Void,  Who shalt be sung through planets young   When this is clean destroyed.  Beyond the bounds our staring rounds,   Across the pressing dark,  The children wise of outer skies   Look hitherward and mark  A light that shifts, a glare that drifts,   Rekindling thus and thus,  Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne   Strange tales to them of us.  Time hath no tide but must abide   The servant of Thy will;  Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme   The ranging stars stand still —  Regent of spheres that lock our fears,   Our hopes invisible,  Oh ‘twas certes at Thy decrees   We fashioned Heaven and Hell!  Pure Wisdom hath no certain path   That lacks thy morning-eyne,  And captains bold by Thee controlled   Most like to Gods design;  Thou art the Voice to kingly boys   To lift them through the fight,  And Comfortress of Unsuccess,   To give the dead good-night —  A veil to draw ‘twixt God His Law   And Man’s infirmity,  A shadow kind to dumb and blind   The shambles where we die;  A rule to trick th’ arithmetic   Too base of leaguing odds —  The spur of trust, the curb of lust,   Thou handmaid of the Gods!  O Charity, all patiently   Abiding wrack and scaith!  O Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats   Yet drops no jot of faith!  Devil and brute Thou dost transmute   To higher, lordlier show,  Who art in sooth that lovely Truth   The careless angels know!       Thy face is far from this our war,        Our call and counter-cry,       I may not find Thee quick and kind,        Nor know Thee till I die.       Yet may I look with heart unshook        On blow brought home or missed —       Yet may I hear with equal ear        The clarions down the List;       Yet set my lance above mischance        And ride the barriere —       Oh, hit or miss, how little ‘tis,        My Lady is not there!

THE FLOWERS

To our private taste, there is always something a little exotic,

almost artificial, in songs which, under an English aspect and dress,

are yet so manifestly the product of other skies. They affect us

like translations; the very fauna and flora are alien, remote;

the dog’s-tooth violet is but an ill substitute for the rathe primrose,

nor can we ever believe that the wood-robin sings as sweetly in April

as the English thrush. —

THE ATHENAEUM.            Buy my English posies!             Kent and Surrey may —            Violets of the Undercliff             Wet with Channel spray;            Cowslips from a Devon combe —             Midland furze afire —            Buy my English posies             And I’ll sell your heart’s desire!      Buy my English posies!       You that scorn the May,      Won’t you greet a friend from home       Half the world away?      Green against the draggled drift,       Faint and frail and first —      Buy my Northern blood-root       And I’ll know where you were nursed:  Robin down the logging-road whistles, “Come to me!”   Spring has found the maple-grove, the sap is running free;  All the winds of Canada call the ploughing-rain.  Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!      Buy my English posies!       Here’s to match your need —      Buy a tuft of royal heath,       Buy a bunch of weed      White as sand of Muysenberg       Spun before the gale —      Buy my heath and lilies       And I’ll tell you whence you hail!  Under hot Constantia broad the vineyards lie —  Throned and thorned the aching berg props the speckless sky —  Slow below the Wynberg firs trails the tilted wain —  Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!      Buy my English posies!       You that will not turn —      Buy my hot-wood clematis,       Buy a frond o’ fern      Gathered where the Erskine leaps       Down the road to Lorne —      Buy my Christmas creeper       And I’ll say where you were born!  West away from Melbourne dust holidays begin —  They that mock at Paradise woo at Cora Lynn —  Through the great South Otway gums sings the great South Main —  Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!      Buy my English posies!       Here’s your choice unsold!      Buy a blood-red myrtle-bloom,       Buy the kowhai’s gold      Flung for gift on Taupo’s face,       Sign that spring is come —      Buy my clinging myrtle       And I’ll give you back your home!  Broom behind the windy town; pollen o’ the pine —  Bell-bird in the leafy deep where the ratas twine —  Fern above the saddle-bow, flax upon the plain —  Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!      Buy my English posies!       Ye that have your own      Buy them for a brother’s sake       Overseas, alone.      Weed ye trample underfoot       Floods his heart abrim —      Bird ye never heeded,       Oh, she calls his dead to him!  Far and far our homes are set round the Seven Seas;  Woe for us if we forget, we that hold by these!  Unto each his mother-beach, bloom and bird and land —  Masters of the Seven Seas, oh, love and understand.