The Vagabond And Other Poems From Punch Part 8

While some of the thrusters grew unnerved, And looked and longed for an open gate, And one crashed down and another swerved, She went for it always true and straight: She pounded the lot, for she made it good With never a touch of splintered wood.

Full many a year has come and gone Since last she gathered her spring for me, And lifted me up, and so flew on Unchecked in a country fair and free.

I've ridden a score since then, but ne'er Crossed one that could live with the old grey mare.

AT PUTNEY

When eight strong fellows are out to row, With a slip of a lad to guide them, I warrant they'll make the light s.h.i.+p go, Though the coach on the launch may chide them, With his "Six, get on to it! Five, you're late!

Don't hurry the slides, and use your weight!

You're bucketing, Bow; and, as to Four, The sight of his shoulders makes me sore!"

But Stroke has steadied his fiery men, And the lift on the boat gets stronger; And the c.o.xswain suddenly shouts for "Ten!

Reach out to it, longer, longer!"

While the wind and the tide raced hand in hand The swing of the crew and the pace were grand; But now that the two meet face to face It's buffet and slam and a tortoise-pace.

For Hammersmith Bridge has rattled past, And, oh, but the storm is humming.

The turbulent white steeds gallop fast; They're tossing their crests and coming.

It's a downright rackety, gusty day, And the backs of the crew are drenched in spray; But it's "Swing, boys, swing till you're deaf and blind, And you'll beat and baffle the raging wind."

They have slipped through Barnes; they are round thebend; And the chests of the eight are tightening.

"Now spend your strength, if you've strength to spend, And away with your hands like lightning!

Well rowed!"--and the coach is forced to cheer-- "Now stick to it, all, for the post is near!"

And, lo, they stop at the c.o.xswain's call, With its message of comfort, "Easy all!"

So here's to the st.u.r.dy undismayed Eight men who are bound together By the faith of the slide and the flas.h.i.+ng blade And the swing and the level feather; To the deeds they do and the toil they bear; To the dauntless mind and the will to dare; And the joyous spirit that makes them one Till the last fierce stroke of the race is done.

"A LITTLE BIT OF BLUE"

When the waves rise high and higher as they toss about together, And the March-winds, loosed and angry, cut your chilly heart in two, Here are eighteen gallant gentlemen who come to face the weather All for valour and for honour and a little bit of blue!

_Chorus._ Oh get hold of it and shove it!

It is labour, but you love it; Let your stroke be long and mighty; keep your body on the swing; While your pulses dance a measure Full of pride and full of pleasure.

And the boat flies free and joyous like a swallow on the wing.

Isis blessed her n.o.ble youngsters as they left her; Father Camus Sped his youths to fame and Putney from his grey and ancient Courts:-- "Keep," they said, "the old traditions, and we know you will not shame us When you try the stormy tideway in your zephyrs and your shorts.

"For it's toil and tribulation till your roughnesses are polished, And it's bitterness and sorrow till the work of oars is done; But it's high delight and triumph when your faults are all abolished, With yourself and seven brothers firmly welded into one."

So they stood the weary trial and the people poured to greet them, Filled a cup with praise and welcome--it was theirs to take and quaff; And they ranged their s.h.i.+ps alongside, and the umpire came to meet them, And they stripped themselves and waited till his pistol sent them off.

With a dash and spurt and rally; with a swing and drive and rattle, Both the boats went flas.h.i.+ng faster as they cleft the swelling stream; And the old familiar places, scenes of many a sacred battle, Just were seen for half a moment and went by them in a dream.

But at last the flag has fallen and the splendid fight is finished, And the victory is blazoned on the record-roll of Fame.

They are spent and worn and broken, but their soul is undiminished; There are winners now and losers, but their glory is the same!

_Chorus_.

Oh get hold of it and shove it!

It is labour, but you love it; Let your stroke be long and mighty; keep your body on the swing; While your pulses dance a measure Full of pride and full of pleasure, And the boat flies free and joyous like a swallow on the wing.

THE LAST c.o.c.k-PHEASANT

Splendour, whom lately on your glowing flight Athwart the chill and cheerless winter-skies I marked and welcomed with a futile right, And then a futile left, and strained my eyes To see you so magnificently large, Sinking to rest beyond the fir-wood's marge--

Not mine, not mine the fault: despise me not In that I missed you; for the sun was down, And the dim light was all against the shot; And I had booked a bet of half-a-crown.

My deadly fire is apt to be upset By many causes--always by a bet.

Or had I overdone it with the sloes, Snared by their home-picked brand of ardent gin Designed to warm a s.h.i.+vering sportsman's toes And light a fire his reckless head within?

Or did my silly loader put me off With aimless chatter in regard to golf?

You too, I think, displayed a lack of nerve; You did not quite-now did you?-play the game; For when you saw me you were seen to swerve, Doubtless in order to disturb my aim.

No, no, you must not ask me to forgive A swerve because you basely planned to live.

At any rate I missed you, and you went, The last day's absolutely final bird, Scathless, and left me very ill content; And someone (was it I?) p.r.o.nounced a word, A word which rather forcible than nice is, A little word which does not rhyme with Isis.

Farewell! I may behold you once again When next November's gales have stripped the leaf.

Then, while your upward flight you grandly strain, May I be there to add you to my sheaf; And may they praise your tallness, saying "This Was such a bird as men are proud to miss!"

IN MEMORIAM

FRANCIS COWLEY BURNAND, 1836-1917

EDITOR OF "PUNCH," 1880-1906

Hail and Farewell, dear Brother of the Pen, Maker of suns.h.i.+ne for the minds of men, Lord of bright cheer and master of our hearts-- What plaint is fit when such a friend departs?

Not with mere ceremonial words of woe Come we to mourn--you would not have it so; But with our memories stored with joyous fun, Your constant largesse till your life was done, With quips, that flashed through frequent twists and bends, Caught from the common intercourse of friends; And gay allusions gayer for the zest Of one who hurt no friend and spared no jest.

What arts were yours that taught you to indite What all men thought, but only you could write!

That wrung from gloom itself a fleeting smile; Rippled with laughter but refrained from guile; Led you to p.r.i.c.k some bladder of conceit Or trip intrusive folly's blundering feet, While wisdom at your call came down to earth, Unbent awhile and gave a hand to mirth!

You too had pondered mid your jesting strife The deeper issues of our mortal life; Guided to G.o.d by faith no doubt could dim, You fought your fight and left the rest to Him, Content to set your heart on things above And rule your days by laughter and by love.

Rest in our memories! You are guarded there By those who knew you as you lived and were.

There mid our Happy Thoughts you take your stand, A sun-girt shade, and light that shadow-land.