Time's Laughingstocks, and Other Verses

VIIAfter the FairThe singers are gone from the Cornmarket-place      With their broadsheets of rhymes,The street rings no longer in treble and bass      With their skits on the times,And the Cross, lately thronged, is a dim naked space   That but echoes the stammering chimes.From Clock-corner steps, as each quarter ding-dongs,      Away the folk roamBy the “Hart” and Grey’s Bridge into byways and “drongs,”      Or across the ridged loam;The younger ones shrilling the lately heard songs,   The old saying, “Would we were home.”The shy-seeming maiden so mute in the fair      Now rattles and talks,And that one who looked the most swaggering there      Grows sad as she walks,And she who seemed eaten by cankering care   In statuesque sturdiness stalks.And midnight clears High Street of all but the ghosts      Of its buried burghees,From the latest far back to those old Roman hosts      Whose remains one yet sees,Who loved, laughed, and fought, hailed their friends, drank their toasts   At their meeting-times here, just as these!1902.

Note. – “The Chimes” (line 6) will be listened for in vain here at midnight now, having been abolished some years ago.

THE DARK-EYED GENTLEMAN

II pitched my day’s leazings in Crimmercrock Lane,To tie up my garter and jog on again,When a dear dark-eyed gentleman passed there and said,In a way that made all o’ me colour rose-red,   “What do I see —   O pretty knee!”And he came and he tied up my garter for me.II’Twixt sunset and moonrise it was, I can mind:Ah, ’tis easy to lose what we nevermore find! —Of the dear stranger’s home, of his name, I knew nought,But I soon knew his nature and all that it brought.   Then bitterly   Sobbed I that heShould ever have tied up my garter for me!IIIYet now I’ve beside me a fine lissom lad,And my slip’s nigh forgot, and my days are not sad;My own dearest joy is he, comrade, and friend,He it is who safe-guards me, on him I depend;   No sorrow brings he,   And thankful I beThat his daddy once tied up my garter for me!

Note. – “Leazings” (line 1). – Bundle of gleaned corn.

TO CARREY CLAVEL

You turn your back, you turn your back,   And never your face to me,Alone you take your homeward track,   And scorn my company.What will you do when Charley’s seen   Dewbeating down this way?– You’ll turn your back as now, you mean?   Nay, Carrey Clavel, nay!You’ll see none’s looking; put your lip   Up like a tulip, so;And he will coll you, bend, and sip:   Yes, Carrey, yes; I know!

THE ORPHANED OLD MAID

I wanted to marry, but father said, “No —’Tis weakness in women to give themselves so;If you care for your freedom you’ll listen to me,Make a spouse in your pocket, and let the men be.”I spake on’t again and again: father cried,“Why – if you go husbanding, where shall I bide?For never a home’s for me elsewhere than here!”And I yielded; for father had ever been dear.But now father’s gone, and I feel growing old,And I’m lonely and poor in this house on the wold,And my sweetheart that was found a partner elsewhere,And nobody flings me a thought or a care.

THE SPRING CALL

Down Wessex way, when spring’s a-shine,   The blackbird’s “pret-ty de-urr!”In Wessex accents marked as mine   Is heard afar and near.He flutes it strong, as if in song   No R’s of feebler toneThan his appear in “pretty dear,”   Have blackbirds ever known.Yet they pipe “prattie deerh!” I glean,   Beneath a Scottish sky,And “pehty de-aw!” amid the treen   Of Middlesex or nigh.While some folk say – perhaps in play —   Who know the Irish isle,’Tis “purrity dare!” in treeland there   When songsters would beguile.Well: I’ll say what the listening birds   Say, hearing “pret-ty de-urr!” —However strangers sound such words,   That’s how we sound them here.Yes, in this clime at pairing time,   As soon as eyes can see herAt dawn of day, the proper way   To call is “pret-ty de-urr!”

JULIE-JANE

   Sing; how ’a would sing!   How ’a would raise the tuneWhen we rode in the waggon from harvesting      By the light o’ the moon!   Dance; how ’a would dance!   If a fiddlestring did but soundShe would hold out her coats, give a slanting glance,      And go round and round.   Laugh; how ’a would laugh!   Her peony lips would partAs if none such a place for a lover to quaff      At the deeps of a heart.   Julie, O girl of joy,   Soon, soon that lover he came.Ah, yes; and gave thee a baby-boy,      But never his name.   – Tolling for her, as you guess;   And the baby too.. ’Tis well.You knew her in maidhood likewise? – Yes,      That’s her burial bell.   “I suppose,” with a laugh, she said,   “I should blush that I’m not a wife;But how can it matter, so soon to be dead,      What one does in life!”   When we sat making the mourning   By her death-bed side, said she,“Dears, how can you keep from your lovers, adorning      In honour of me!”   Bubbling and brightsome eyed!   But now – O never again.She chose her bearers before she died      From her fancy-men.

Note. – It is, or was, a common custom in Wessex, and probably other country places, to prepare the mourning beside the death-bed, the dying person sometimes assisting, who also selects his or her bearers on such occasions.

“Coats” (line 7). – Old name for petticoats.

NEWS FOR HER MOTHER

I   One mile more is   Where your door is      Mother mine! —   Harvest’s coming,   Mills are strumming,      Apples fine,And the cider made to-year will be as wine.II   Yet, not viewing   What’s a-doing      Here around   Is it thrills me,   And so fills me      That I boundLike a ball or leaf or lamb along the ground.III   Tremble not now   At your lot now,      Silly soul!   Hosts have sped them   Quick to wed them,      Great and small,Since the first two sighing half-hearts made a whole.IV   Yet I wonder,   Will it sunder      Her from me?   Will she guess that   I said “Yes,” – that      His I’d be,Ere I thought she might not see him as I see!V   Old brown gable,   Granary, stable,      Here you are!   O my mother,   Can another      Ever barMine from thy heart, make thy nearness seem afar?

THE FIDDLER

The fiddler knows what’s brewing   To the lilt of his lyric wiles:The fiddler knows what rueing   Will come of this night’s smiles!He sees couples join them for dancing,   And afterwards joining for life,He sees them pay high for their prancing   By a welter of wedded strife.He twangs: “Music hails from the devil,   Though vaunted to come from heaven,For it makes people do at a revel   What multiplies sins by seven.“There’s many a heart now mangled,   And waiting its time to go,Whose tendrils were first entangled   By my sweet viol and bow!”

THE HUSBAND’S VIEW

“Can anything availBeldame, for my hid grief? —Listen: I’ll tell the tale,It may bring faint relief! —“I came where I was not known,In hope to flee my sin;And walking forth aloneA young man said, ‘Good e’en.’“In gentle voice and trueHe asked to marry me;‘You only – only youFulfil my dream!’ said he.“We married o’ Monday morn,In the month of hay and flowers;My cares were nigh forsworn,And perfect love was ours.“But ere the days are longUntimely fruit will show;My Love keeps up his song,Undreaming it is so.“And I awake in the night,And think of months gone by,And of that cause of flightHidden from my Love’s eye.“Discovery borders near,And then!.. But something stirred? —My husband – he is here!Heaven – has he overheard?” —“Yes; I have heard, sweet Nan;I have known it all the time.I am not a particular man;Misfortunes are no crime:“And what with our serious needOf sons for soldiering,That accident, indeed,To maids, is a useful thing!”

ROSE-ANN

Why didn’t you say you was promised, Rose-Ann?   Why didn’t you name it to me,Ere ever you tempted me hither, Rose-Ann,   So often, so wearifully?O why did you let me be near ’ee, Rose-Ann,   Talking things about wedlock so free,And never by nod or by whisper, Rose-Ann,   Give a hint that it wasn’t to be?Down home I was raising a flock of stock ewes,   Cocks and hens, and wee chickens by scores,And lavendered linen all ready to use,   A-dreaming that they would be yours.Mother said: “She’s a sport-making maiden, my son”;   And a pretty sharp quarrel had we;O why do you prove by this wrong you have done   That I saw not what mother could see?Never once did you say you was promised, Rose-Ann,   Never once did I dream it to be;And it cuts to the heart to be treated, Rose-Ann,   As you in your scorning treat me!

THE HOMECOMING

Grufflygrowled the wind on Toller downland broad and bare,And lonesome was the house, and dark; and few came there.“Now don’t ye rub your eyes so red; we’re home and have no cares;Here’s a skimmer-cake for supper, peckled onions, and some pears;I’ve got a little keg o’ summat strong, too, under stairs:– What, slight your husband’s victuals?  Other brides can tackle theirs!”The wind of winter mooed and mouthed their chimney like a horn,And round the house and past the house ’twas leafless and lorn.“But my dear and tender poppet, then, how came ye to agreeIn Ivel church this morning?  Sure, there-right you married me!”– “Hoo-hoo! – I don’t know – I forgot how strange and far ’twould be,An’ I wish I was at home again with dear daddee!”Gruffly growled the wind on Toller downland broad and bare,And lonesome was the house and dark; and few came there.“I didn’t think such furniture as this was all you’d own,And great black beams for ceiling, and a floor o’ wretched stone,And nasty pewter platters, horrid forks of steel and bone,And a monstrous crock in chimney.  ’Twas to me quite unbeknown!”Rattle rattle went the door; down flapped a cloud of smoke,As shifting north the wicked wind assayed a smarter stroke.“Now sit ye by the fire, poppet; put yourself at ease:And keep your little thumb out of your mouth, dear, please!And I’ll sing to ’ee a pretty song of lovely flowers and bees,And happy lovers taking walks within a grove o’ trees.”Gruffly growled the wind on Toller Down, so bleak and bare,And lonesome was the house, and dark; and few came there.“Now, don’t ye gnaw your handkercher; ’twill hurt your little tongue,And if you do feel spitish, ’tis because ye are over young;But you’ll be getting older, like us all, ere very long,And you’ll see me as I am – a man who never did ’ee wrong.”Straight from Whit’sheet Hill to Benvill Lane the blusters pass,Hitting hedges, milestones, handposts, trees, and tufts of grass.“Well, had I only known, my dear, that this was how you’d be,I’d have married her of riper years that was so fond of me.But since I can’t, I’ve half a mind to run away to sea,And leave ’ee to go barefoot to your d – d daddee!”Up one wall and down the other – past each window-pane —Prance the gusts, and then away down Crimmercrock’s long lane.“I – I – don’t know what to say to’t, since your wife I’ve vowed to be;And as ’tis done, I s’pose here I must bide – poor me!Aye – as you are ki-ki-kind, I’ll try to live along with ’ee,Although I’d fain have stayed at home with dear daddee!”Gruffly growled the wind on Toller Down, so bleak and bare,And lonesome was the house and dark; and few came there.“That’s right, my Heart!  And though on haunted Toller Down we be,And the wind swears things in chimley, we’ll to supper merrily!So don’t ye tap your shoe so pettish-like; but smile at me,And ye’ll soon forget to sock and sigh for dear daddee!” December 1901.

PIECES OCCASIONAL AND VARIOUS

A CHURCH ROMANCE

(Mellstock circa 1835)

She turned in the high pew, until her sightSwept the west gallery, and caught its rowOf music-men with viol, book, and bowAgainst the sinking sad tower-window light.She turned again; and in her pride’s despiteOne strenuous viol’s inspirer seemed to throwA message from his string to her below,Which said: “I claim thee as my own forthright!”Thus their hearts’ bond began, in due time signed.And long years thence, when Age had scared Romance,At some old attitude of his or glanceThat gallery-scene would break upon her mind,With him as minstrel, ardent, young, and trim,Bowing “New Sabbath” or “Mount Ephraim.”

THE RASH BRIDE

An Experience of the Mellstock Quire

IWe Christmas-carolled down the Vale, and up the Vale, and round the Vale,We played and sang that night as we were yearly wont to do —A carol in a minor key, a carol in the major D,Then at each house: “Good wishes: many Christmas joys to you!”IINext, to the widow’s John and I and all the rest drew on.  And IDiscerned that John could hardly hold the tongue of him for joy.The widow was a sweet young thing whom John was bent on marrying,And quiring at her casement seemed romantic to the boy.III“She’ll make reply, I trust,” said he, “to our salute?  She must!” said he,“And then I will accost her gently – much to her surprise! —For knowing not I am with you here, when I speak up and call her dearA tenderness will fill her voice, a bashfulness her eyes.IVSo, by her window-square we stood; ay, with our lanterns there we stood,And he along with us, – not singing, waiting for a sign;And when we’d quired her carols three a light was lit and out looked she,A shawl about her bedgown, and her colour red as wine.VAnd sweetly then she bowed her thanks, and smiled, and spoke aloud her thanks;When lo, behind her back there, in the room, a man appeared.I knew him – one from Woolcomb way – Giles Swetman – honest as the day,But eager, hasty; and I felt that some strange trouble neared.VI“How comes he there?.. Suppose,” said we, “she’s wed of late!  Who knows?” said we.– “She married yester-morning – only mother yet has knownThe secret o’t!” shrilled one small boy.  “But now I’ve told, let’s wish ’em joy!”A heavy fall aroused us: John had gone down like a stone.VIIWe rushed to him and caught him round, and lifted him, and brought him round,When, hearing something wrong had happened, oped the window she:“Has one of you fallen ill?” she asked, “by these night labours overtasked?”None answered.  That she’d done poor John a cruel turn felt we.VIIITill up spoke Michael: “Fie, young dame!  You’ve broke your promise, sly young dame,By forming this new tie, young dame, and jilting John so true,Who trudged to-night to sing to ’ee because he thought he’d bring to ’eeGood wishes as your coming spouse.  May ye such trifling rue!”IXHer man had said no word at all; but being behind had heard it all,And now cried: “Neighbours, on my soul I knew not ’twas like this!”And then to her: “If I had known you’d had in tow not me alone,No wife should you have been of mine.  It is a dear bought bliss!”XShe changed death-white, and heaved a cry: we’d never heard so grieved a cryAs came from her at this from him: heart-broken quite seemed she;And suddenly, as we looked on, she turned, and rushed; and she was gone,Whither, her husband, following after, knew not; nor knew we.XIWe searched till dawn about the house; within the house, without the house,We searched among the laurel boughs that grew beneath the wall,And then among the crocks and things, and stores for winter junketings,In linhay, loft, and dairy; but we found her not at all.XIIThen John rushed in: “O friends,” he said, “hear this, this, this!” and bends his head:“I’ve – searched round by the —well, and find the cover open wide!I am fearful that – I can’t say what.. Bring lanterns, and some cords to knot.”We did so, and we went and stood the deep dark hole beside.XIIIAnd then they, ropes in hand, and I – ay, John, and all the band, and ILet down a lantern to the depths – some hundred feet and more;It glimmered like a fog-dimmed star; and there, beside its light, afar,White drapery floated, and we knew the meaning that it bore.XIVThe rest is naught.. We buried her o’ Sunday.  Neighbours carried her;And Swetman – he who’d married her – now miserablest of men,Walked mourning first; and then walked John; just quivering, but composed anon;And we the quire formed round the grave, as was the custom then.XVOur old bass player, as I recall – his white hair blown – but why recall! —His viol upstrapped, bent figure – doomed to follow her full soon —Stood bowing, pale and tremulous; and next to him the rest of us.We sang the Ninetieth Psalm to her – set to Saint Stephen’s tune.

THE DEAD QUIRE

IBeside the Mead of Memories,Where Church-way mounts to Moaning Hill,The sad man sighed his phantasies:   He seems to sigh them still.II“’Twas the Birth-tide Eve, and the hamleteersMade merry with ancient Mellstock zest,But the Mellstock quire of former years   Had entered into rest.III“Old Dewy lay by the gaunt yew tree,And Reuben and Michael a pace behind,And Bowman with his family   By the wall that the ivies bind.IV“The singers had followed one by one,Treble, and tenor, and thorough-bass;And the worm that wasteth had begun   To mine their mouldering place.V“For two-score years, ere Christ-day light,Mellstock had throbbed to strains from these;But now there echoed on the night   No Christmas harmonies.VI“Three meadows off, at a dormered inn,The youth had gathered in high carouse,And, ranged on settles, some therein   Had drunk them to a drowse.VII“Loud, lively, reckless, some had grown,Each dandling on his jigging kneeEliza, Dolly, Nance, or Joan —   Livers in levity.VIII“The taper flames and hearthfire shineGrew smoke-hazed to a lurid light,And songs on subjects not divine   Were warbled forth that night.IX“Yet many were sons and grandsons hereOf those who, on such eves gone by,At that still hour had throated clear   Their anthems to the sky.X“The clock belled midnight; and ere longOne shouted, ‘Now ’tis Christmas morn;Here’s to our women old and young,   And to John Barleycorn!’XI“They drink the toast and shout again:The pewter-ware rings back the boom,And for a breath-while follows then   A silence in the room.XII“When nigh without, as in old days,The ancient quire of voice and stringSeemed singing words of prayer and praise   As they had used to sing:XIII“‘While shepherds watch’d their flocks by night,’ —Thus swells the long familiar soundIn many a quaint symphonic flight —   To, ‘Glory shone around.’XIV“The sons defined their fathers’ tones,The widow his whom she had wed,And others in the minor moans   The viols of the dead.XV“Something supernal has the soundAs verse by verse the strain proceeds,And stilly staring on the ground   Each roysterer holds and heeds.XVI“Towards its chorded closing barPlaintively, thinly, waned the hymn,Yet lingered, like the notes afar   Of banded seraphim.XVII“With brows abashed, and reverent tread,The hearkeners sought the tavern door:But nothing, save wan moonlight, spread   The empty highway o’er.XVIII“While on their hearing fixed and tenseThe aerial music seemed to sink,As it were gently moving thence   Along the river brink.XIX“Then did the Quick pursue the DeadBy crystal Froom that crinkles there;And still the viewless quire ahead   Voiced the old holy air.XX“By Bank-walk wicket, brightly bleached,It passed, and ’twixt the hedges twain,Dogged by the living; till it reached   The bottom of Church Lane.XXI“There, at the turning, it was heardDrawing to where the churchyard lay:But when they followed thitherward   It smalled, and died away.XXII“Each headstone of the quire, each mound,Confronted them beneath the moon;But no more floated therearound   That ancient Birth-night tune.XXIII“There Dewy lay by the gaunt yew tree,There Reuben and Michael, a pace behind,And Bowman with his family   By the wall that the ivies bind.XXIV“As from a dream each sobered sonAwoke, and musing reached his door:’Twas said that of them all, not one   Sat in a tavern more.”XXV– The sad man ceased; and ceased to heedHis listener, and crossed the leazeFrom Moaning Hill towards the mead —   The Mead of Memories.1897.

THE CHRISTENING

Whose child is this they bring   Into the aisle? —At so superb a thingThe congregation smileAnd turn their heads awhile.Its eyes are blue and bright,   Its cheeks like rose;Its simple robes uniteWhitest of calicoesWith lawn, and satin bows.A pride in the human race   At this paragonOf mortals, lights each faceWhile the old rite goes on;But ah, they are shocked anon.What girl is she who peeps   From the gallery stair,Smiles palely, redly weeps,With feverish furtive airAs though not fitly there?“I am the baby’s mother;   This gem of the raceThe decent fain would smother,And for my deep disgraceI am bidden to leave the place.”“Where is the baby’s father?” —   “In the woods afar.He says there is none he’d ratherMeet under moon or starThan me, of all that are.“To clasp me in lovelike weather,   Wish fixing when,He says: To be togetherAt will, just now and then,Makes him the blest of men;“But chained and doomed for life   To sloveningAs vulgar man and wife,He says, is another thing:Yea: sweet Love’s sepulchring!”1904.

A DREAM QUESTION

“It shall be dark unto you, that ye shall not divine.”

Micah iii. 6.I asked the Lord: “Sire, is this trueWhich hosts of theologians hold,That when we creatures censure youFor shaping griefs and ails untold(Deeming them punishments undue)You rage, as Moses wrote of old?When we exclaim: ‘BeneficentHe is not, for he orders pain,Or, if so, not omnipotent:To a mere child the thing is plain!’Those who profess to representYou, cry out: ‘Impious and profane!’”He: “Save me from my friends, who deemThat I care what my creatures say!Mouth as you list: sneer, rail, blaspheme,O manikin, the livelong day,Not one grief-groan or pleasure-gleamWill you increase or take away.“Why things are thus, whoso derides,May well remain my secret still.A fourth dimension, say the guides,To matter is conceivable.Think some such mystery residesWithin the ethic of my will.”

BY THE BARROWS

Not far from Mellstock – so tradition saith —Where barrows, bulging as they bosoms wereOf Multimammia stretched supinely there,Catch night and noon the tempest’s wanton breath,A battle, desperate doubtless unto death,Was one time fought.  The outlook, lone and bare,The towering hawk and passing raven share,And all the upland round is called “The He’th.”Here once a woman, in our modern age,Fought singlehandedly to shield a child —One not her own – from a man’s senseless rage.And to my mind no patriots’ bones there piledSo consecrate the silence as her deedOf stoic and devoted self-unheed.

A WIFE AND ANOTHER

   “War ends, and he’s returning      Early; yea,   The evening next to-morrow’s!” —      – This I sayTo her, whom I suspiciously survey,   Holding my husband’s letter      To her view. —   She glanced at it but lightly,      And I knewThat one from him that day had reached her too.   There was no time for scruple;      Secretly   I filched her missive, conned it,      Learnt that heWould lodge with her ere he came home to me.   To reach the port before her,      And, unscanned,   There wait to intercept them      Soon I planned:That, in her stead, I might before him stand.   So purposed, so effected;      At the inn   Assigned, I found her hidden: —      O that sinShould bear what she bore when I entered in!   Her heavy lids grew laden      With despairs,   Her lips made soundless movements      Unawares,While I peered at the chamber hired as theirs.   And as beside its doorway,      Deadly hued,   One inside, one withoutside      We two stood,He came – my husband – as she knew he would.   No pleasurable triumph      Was that sight!   The ghastly disappointment      Broke them quite.What love was theirs, to move them with such might!   “Madam, forgive me!” said she,      Sorrow bent,   “A child – I soon shall bear him.      Yes – I meantTo tell you – that he won me ere he went.”   Then, as it were, within me      Something snapped,   As if my soul had largened:      Conscience-capped,I saw myself the snarer – them the trapped.   “My hate dies, and I promise,      Grace-beguiled,”   I said, “to care for you, be      Reconciled;And cherish, and take interest in the child.”   Without more words I pressed him      Through the door   Within which she stood, powerless      To say more,And closed it on them, and downstairward bore.   “He joins his wife – my sister,”      I, below,   Remarked in going – lightly —      Even as thoughAll had come right, and we had arranged it so.   As I, my road retracing,      Left them free,   The night alone embracing      Childless me,I held I had not stirred God wrothfully.

THE ROMAN ROAD

The Roman Road runs straight and bareAs the pale parting-line in hairAcross the heath.  And thoughtful menContrast its days of Now and Then,And delve, and measure, and compare;Visioning on the vacant airHelmed legionaries, who proudly rearThe Eagle, as they pace again   The Roman Road.But no tall brass-helmed legionnaireHaunts it for me.  Uprises thereA mother’s form upon my ken,Guiding my infant steps, as whenWe walked that ancient thoroughfare,   The Roman Road.