Andromeda and Other Poems Part 19

Eversley, 1870.

THE DELECTABLE DAY

The boy on the famous gray pony, Just bidding good-bye at the door, Plucking up maiden heart for the fences Where his brother won honour of yore.

The walk to 'the Meet' with fair children, And women as gentle as gay,-- Ah! how do we male hogs in armour Deserve such companions as they?

The afternoon's wander to windward, To meet the dear boy coming back; And to catch, down the turns of the valley, The last weary chime of the pack.

The climb homeward by park and by moorland, And through the fir forests again, While the south-west wind roars in the gloaming, Like an ocean of seething champagne.

And at night the septette of Beethoven, And the grandmother by in her chair, And the foot of all feet on the sofa Beating delicate time to the air.

Ah, G.o.d! a poor soul can but thank Thee For such a delectable day!

Though the fury, the fool, and the swindler, To-morrow again have their way!

Eversley, 6th November 1872.

JUVENTUS MUNDI

List a tale a fairy sent us Fresh from dear Mundi Juventus.

When Love and all the world was young, And birds conversed as well as sung; And men still faced this fair creation With humour, heart, imagination.

Who come hither from Morocco Every spring on the sirocco?

In russet she, and he in yellow, Singing ever clear and mellow, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you, Did he beat you? Did he beat you?'

Phyllopneustes wise folk call them, But don't know what did befall them, Why they ever thought of coming All that way to hear gnats humming, Why they built not nests but houses, Like the b.u.mble-bees and mousies.

Nor how little birds got wings, Nor what 'tis the small c.o.c.k sings-- How should they know--stupid fogies?

They daren't even believe in bogies.

Once they were a girl and boy, Each the other's life and joy.

He a Daphnis, she a Chloe, Only they were brown, not snowy, Till an Arab found them playing Far beyond the Atlas straying, Tied the helpless things together, Drove them in the burning weather, In his slave-gang many a league, Till they dropped from wild fatigue.

Up he caught his whip of hide, Lashed each soft brown back and side Till their little brains were burst With sharp pain, and heat, and thirst, Over her the poor boy lay, Tried to keep the blows away, Till they stiffened into clay, And the ruffian rode away: Swooping o'er the tainted ground, Carrion vultures gathered round, And the gaunt hyenas ran Tracking up the caravan.

But--ah, wonder! that was gone Which they meant to feast upon.

And, for each, a yellow wren, One a c.o.c.k, and one a hen, Sweetly warbling, flitted forth O'er the desert toward the north.

But a shade of bygone sorrow, Like a dream upon the morrow, Round his tiny brainlet clinging, Sets the wee c.o.c.k ever singing, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you, Did he beat you? Did he beat you?'

Vultures croaked, and hopped, and flopped, But their evening meal was stopped.

And the gaunt hyenas foul Sat down on their tails to howl.

Northward towards the cool spring weather, Those two wrens fled on together, On to England o'er the sea, Where all folks alike are free.

There they built a cabin, wattled Like the huts where first they prattled, Hatched and fed, as safe as may be, Many a tiny feathered baby.

But in autumn south they go Past the Straits and Atlas' snow, Over desert, over mountain, To the palms beside the fountain, Where, when once they lived before, he Told her first the old, old story.

'What do the doves say? Curuck Coo, You love me and I love you.'

1872.

VALENTINE'S DAY

Oh! I wish I were a tiny browny bird from out the south, Settled among the alder-holts, and twittering by the stream; I would put my tiny tail down, and put up my tiny mouth, And sing my tiny life away in one melodious dream.

I would sing about the blossoms, and the suns.h.i.+ne and the sky, And the tiny wife I mean to have in such a cosy nest; And if some one came and shot me dead, why then I could but die, With my tiny life and tiny song just ended at their best.

Eversley, 1873

BALLAD: LORRAINE, LORRAINE, LORREE

1

'Are you ready for your steeple-chase, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree?

Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree, You're booked to ride your capping race to-day at Coulterlee, You're booked to ride Vindictive, for all the world to see, To keep him straight, to keep him first, and win the run for me.

Barum, Barum,' etc.

2

She clasped her new-born baby, poor Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree, 'I cannot ride Vindictive, as any man might see, And I will not ride Vindictive, with this baby on my knee; He's killed a boy, he's killed a man, and why must he kill me?'

3

'Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree, Unless you ride Vindictive to-day at Coulterlee, And land him safe across the brook, and win the blank for me, It's you may keep your baby, for you'll get no keep from me.'

4

'That husbands could be cruel,' said Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree, 'That husbands could be cruel, I have known for seasons three; But oh! to ride Vindictive while a baby cries for me, And be killed across a fence at last for all the world to see!'

5

She mastered young Vindictive--Oh! the gallant la.s.s was she, And kept him straight and won the race as near as near could be; But he killed her at the brook against a pollard willow-tree, Oh! he killed her at the brook, the brute, for all the world to see, And no one but the baby cried for poor Lorraine, Lorree.

Last poem written in illness.

Colorado, U.S.A.

June 1874.

MARTIN LIGHTFOOT'S SONG {346}