The Vagabond And Other Poems From Punch Part 3

And, since this is your own bright day, my dear, Of all the days that gem the sparkling year, See, we have picked as well as we were able And set your gifts upon your own small table: A knife from John, Who straightway thereupon, Lest you should cut your friends.h.i.+p for the boy, Receives a halfpenny and departs with joy.

The burnished inkstand was your mother's choice; For six new handkerchiefs I gave my voice, Having in view your tender little nose's Soft comfort; and the agate pen is Rosie's; The torch is Peg's, Guide for your errant legs When ways are dark, and, last, behold with these A pencil from your faithful Pekinese!

And now the mysteries are all revealed That were so long, so ardently concealed-- All save the cake which still is in the making, Not yet smooth-iced and unprepared for taking The thirteen flames That start the noisy games Of tea-time, when my happy little maid Thrones it triumphant, teened and unafraid.

So through the changing years may all delight Live in your face and make your being bright.

May the good sprites and busy fays befriend you, And cheerful thoughts and innocent defend you; And, far away From this most joyous day, When in the chambers of your mind you see Those who have loved you, then remember me.

THE DANCE

When good-nights have been prattled, and prayers have been said, And the last little sunbeam is tucked up in bed, Then, skirting the trees on a carpet of snow, The elves and the fairies come out in a row.

With a preening of wings They are forming in rings; Pirouetting and setting they cross and advance In a ripple of laughter, and pair for a dance.

And it's oh for the boom of the fairy ba.s.soon, And the oboes and horns as they strike up a tune, And the tw.a.n.g of the harps and the sigh of the lutes, And the clash of the cymbals, the purl of the flutes; And the fiddles sail in To the musical din, While the chief all on fire, with a flame for a hand, Rattles on the gay measure and stirs up his band.

With a pointing of toes and a lifting of wrists They are off through the whirls and the twirls and the twists; Thread the mazes of marvellous figures, and chime With a bow to a curtsey, and always keep time: All the gallant and girls In their diamonds and pearls, And their gauze and their sparkles, designed for a dance By the leaders of fairy-land fas.h.i.+on in France.

But the old lady fairies sit out by the trees, And the old beaux attend them as pert as you please.

They quiz the young dancers and scorn their display, And deny any grace to the dance of to-day; "In Oberon's reign,"

So they're heard to complain, "When we went out at night we could temper our fun With some manners in dancing, but now there are none."

But at last, though the music goes gallantly on, And the dancers are none of them weary or gone, When the gauze is in rags and the hair is awry, Comes a light in the East and a sudden c.o.c.k-cry.

With a scurry of fear Then they all disappear, Leaving never a trace of their gay little selves Or the winter-night dance of the fairies and elves.

PANSIES

Tufted and bunched and ranged with careless art Here, where the paving-stones are set apart, Alert and gay and innocent of guile, The little pansies nod their heads and smile.

With what a whispering and a lulling sound They watch the children sport about the ground, Longing, it seems, to join the pretty play That laughs and runs the light-winged hours away.

And other children long ago there were Who shone and played and made the garden fair, To whom the pansies in their robes of white And gold and purple gave a welcome bright.

Gone are those voices, but the others came.

Joyous and free, whose spirit was the same; And other pansies, robed as those of old, Peeped up and smiled in purple, white and gold.

For pansies are, I think, the little gleams Of children's visions from a world of dreams, Jewels of innocence and joy and mirth, Alight with laughter as they fall to earth.

Below, the ancient guardian, it may hap, The kindly mother, takes them in her lap, Decks them with glowing petals and replaces In the glad air the friendly pansy-faces.

So tread not rashly, children, lest you crush A part of childhood in a thoughtless rush.

Would you not treat them gently if you knew Pansies are little bits of children too?

THE DRAGON OF WINTER HILL

I

This is the tale the old men tell, the tale that was told to me, Of the blue-green dragon, The dreadful dragon, The dragon who flew so free, The last of his horrible scaly race Who settled and made his nesting place Some hundreds of thousands of years ago.

One day, as the light was falling low And the turbulent wind was still, In a stony hollow, Where none dared follow, Beyond the ridge on the gorse-clad summit, the summit of Winter Hill!

The news went round in the camp that night; it was d.i.c.kon who brought it first How the wonderful dragon, The fiery dragon, On his terrified eyes had burst.

"I was out," he said, "for a fat young buck, But never a touch I had of luck; And still I wandered and wandered on Till all the best of the day was gone; When, suddenly, lo, in a flash of flame Full over the ridge a green head came, A green head flapped with a snarling lip, And a long tongue set with an arrow's tip.

I own I didn't stand long at bay, But I cast my arrows and bow away, And I cast my coat, and I changed my plan, And forgot the buck, and away I ran-- And, oh, but my heart was chill: For still as I ran I heard the bellow Of the terrible slaughtering fierce-eyed fellow Who has made his lair on the gorse-clad summit, the summit of Winter Hill."

Then the women talked, as the women will, and the men-folk they talked too Of the raging dragon, The hungry dragon, The dragon of green and blue.

And the Bards with their long beards flowing down, They sat apart and were seen to frown.

But at last the Chief Bard up and spoke, "Now I swear by beech and I swear by oak, By the gra.s.s and the streams I swear," said he, "This dragon of d.i.c.kon's puzzles me.

For the record stands, as well ye know, How a hundred years and a year ago We dealt the dragons a smas.h.i.+ng blow By issuing from our magic tree A carefully-framed complete decree, Which ordered dragons to cease to be.

Still, since our d.i.c.kon is pa.s.sing sure That he saw a regular Simon pure.

Some dragon's egg, as it seems, contrived To elude our curses, and so survived On an inaccessible rocky shelf, Where at last it managed to hatch itself.

Whatever the cause, the result is plain: We're in for a dragon-fuss again.

We haven't the time, and, what is worse, We haven't the means to frame a curse.

So what is there left for us to say Save this, that our men at break of day Must gather and go to kill The monstrous savage Whose fire-blasts ravage The flocks and herds on the gorse-clad summit, the summit of Winter Hill?"

II

So the men, when they heard the Chief Bard utter the order that bade them try For the awful dragon, The dauntless dragon, They all of them shouted "Aye!"

For everyone felt a.s.sured that he, Whatever the fate of the rest might be, However few of them might survive, Was certainly safe to stay alive, And was probably bound to deal the blow That would shatter the beast and lay him low, And end the days of their dragon-foe.

And all the women-folk egged them on: It was "Up with your heart, and at him, John!"

Or "Gurth, you'll bring me his ugly head,"

Or "Lance, my man, when you've struck him dead, When he hasn't a wag in his fearful tail, Carve off and bring me a blue-green scale."

Then they set to work at their swords and spears-- Such a polis.h.i.+ng hadn't been seen for years.

They made the tips of their arrows sharp, Re-strung and burnished the Chief Bard's harp, Dragged out the traditional dragon-bag, Sewed up the rents in the tribal flag; And all in the midst of the talk and racket Each wife was making her man a packet-- A hunch of bread and a wedge of cheese And a nubble of beef, and, to moisten these, A flask of her home-brewed, not too thin, As a driving force for his javelin When the moment arrived to spill The blood of the terror Hatched out in error Who had perched his length on the gorse-clad summit, the summit of Winter Hill.

The night had taken her feast of stars, and the sun shot up in flame, When "Now for the dragon!

Who hunts the dragon?"

The call from the watchers came; And, shaking the mists of sleep away, The men stepped into the light of day, Twice two hundred in loose array; With a good round dozen of bards to lead them And their wives all waving their hands to speed them, While the Chief Bard, fixed in his chair of state, With his harp and his wreath looked most sedate.

It wasn't his place to fight or tramp; When the warriors went he stayed in camp; But still from his chair he harped them on Till the very last of the host had gone, Then he yawned and solemnly shook his head And, leaving his seat, returned to bed, To sleep, as a good man will Who, braving malice and t.i.ttle-tattle, Has checked his natural l.u.s.t for battle, And sent the rest to the gorse-clad summit, the summit of Winter Hill.

III

Marching at ease in the cheerful air, on duty and daring bent, In quest of the dragon, The fateful dragon, The fierce four hundred went: Over the hills and through the plain, And up the slopes of the hills again.

The sleek rooks, washed in the morning's dew, Rose at their coming and flapped and flew In a black procession athwart the blue; And the plovers circled about on high With many a querulous piping cry.

And the cropping ewes and the old bell-wether Looked up in terror and pushed together; And still with a grim unbroken pace The men moved on to their battle-place.

Softly, silently, all tip-toeing, With their lips drawn tight and their eyes all glowing, With gleaming teeth and straining ears And the suns.h.i.+ne laughing on swords and spears, Softly, silently on they go To the hidden lair of the fearful foe.

They have neared the stream, they have crossed the bridge, And they stop in sight of the rugged ridge, And it's "Flankers back!" and "Skirmishers in!"

And the summit is theirs to lose or win-- To win with honour or lose with shame; And so to the place itself they came, And gazed with an awful thrill At the ridge of omen, Beset by foemen, At the arduous summit, the gorse-clad summit, the summit of Winter Hill.