IV BALLADES

Gigantic daughter of the West (The phrase is Tennysonian), who From this unconquerable breast The vigorous milk of Freedom drew —We gave it freely—shall the crest Of Empire in your keeping true, Shall England—I forget the rest, But Consols are at 82.

Now why should anyone invest, As even City people do (His Lordship did among the rest), When stocks—but what is that to you? And then, who ever could have guessed About the guns—and horses too!— Besides, they knew their business best, And Consols are at 82.

It serves no purpose to protest, It isn’t manners to halloo About the way the thing was messed— Or vaguely call a man a Jew. A gentleman who cannot jest Remarked that we should muddle through (The continent was much impressed), And Consols are at 82.

And, Botha lay at Pilgrim’s Rest And Myberg in the Great Karroo (A desert to the south and west), And Consols are at 82.

Permit me—if you do not mind— To add it would be screaming fun If, after printing this, I find Them after all at 81. Or 70 or 63, Or 55 or 44, Or 39 and going free, Or 28—or even more. No matter—take no more advice From doubtful and intriguing men. Refuse the stuff at any price, And slowly watch them fall to 10. Meanwhile I feel a certain zest In writing once again the new Refrain that all is for the best, And Consols are at 82.

Prince, you and I were barely thirty-three, And now I muse and wonder if it’s true, That you were you and I myself was me, And 3 per cents were really 82!

What dwelling hath Sir Harland Pott That died of drinking in Bungay? Nathaniel Goacher who was shot Towards the end of Malplaquet? The only thing that we can say, (The only thing that has been said) About these gentlemen is, “Nay! But where are the unanswering dead”

Lord Bumplepuppy, too, that got The knock from Messrs Dawkins’ dray? And Jonas, whom the Cachalot Begulphed in Esdraelon Bay? The Calvinistic John McKay, Who argued till his nostrils bled, And dropped in apoplexy? Nay! But where are the unanswering dead?

And Heliodorus too, that hot Defender of the Roman sway; And He, the author of the “Tot Mercedes dant Victoriæ,” And all the armoured squadrons gay That ever glory nourishèd In all the world’s high charges? Nay! But where are the unanswering dead?

Prince, have you ever learnt to pray Upon your knees beside your bed? You miserable waxwork? Nay! But where are the unanswering dead?

Lady and Queen and Mystery manifold And very Regent of the untroubled sky, Whom in a dream St Hilda did behold And heard a woodland music passing by: You shall receive me when the clouds are high With evening and the sheep attain the fold. This is the faith that I have held and hold, And this is that in which I mean to die.

Steep are the seas and savaging and cold In broken waters terrible to try; And vast against the winter night the wold, And harbourless for any sail to lie. But you shall lead me to the lights, and I Shall hymn you in a harbour story told. This is the faith that I have held and hold, And this is that in which I mean to die.

Help of the half-defeated, House of gold, Shrine of the Sword, and Tower of Ivory; Splendour apart, supreme and aureoled, The Battler’s vision and the World’s reply. You shall restore me, O my last Ally, To vengeance and the glories of the bold. This is the faith that I have held and hold, And this is that in which I mean to die.

Prince of the degradations, bought and sold, These verses, written in your crumbling sty, Proclaim the faith that I have held and hold And publish that in which I mean to die.

I’m going out to dine at Gray’s With Bertie Morden, Charles and Kit, And Manderly who never pays, And Jane who wins in spite of it, And Algernon who won’t admit The truth about his curious hair And teeth that very nearly fit:— And Mrs Roebeck will be there.

And then to-morrow someone says That someone else has made a hit In one of Mister Twister’s plays. And off we go to yawn at it; And when it’s petered out we quit For number 20, Taunton Square, And smoke, and drink, and dance a bit:— And Mrs Roebeck will be there.

And so through each declining phase Of emptied effort, jaded wit, And day by day of London days Obscurely, more obscurely, lit; Until the uncertain shadows flit Announcing to the shuddering air A Darkening, and the end of it:— And Mrs Roebeck will be there.

Prince, on their iron thrones they sit, Impassible to our despair, The dreadful Guardians of the Pit:— And Mrs Roebeck will be there.

The cause of all the poor in ’93: The cause of all the world at Waterloo: The shouts of what was terrible and free Behind the guns of Vengeance and her crew: The Maid that rode so straightly and so true And broke the line to pieces in her pride— They had to chuck it up; it wouldn’t do; The Devil didn’t like them, and they died.

Cæsar and Alexander shall agree That right athwart the world their bugles blew: And all the lads that marched in Lombardy Behind the young Napoleon charging through: All that were easy swordsmen, all that slew The Monsters, and that served our God and tried The temper of this world—they lost the clue. The Devil didn’t like them, and they died.

You, the strong sons of anger and the sea, What darkness on the wings of battle flew? Then the great dead made answer: “Also we With Nelson found oblivion: Nelson, who When cheering out of port in spirit grew To be one purpose with the wind and tide— Our nameless hulks are sunk and rotted through: The Devil didn’t like us and we died.”

Prince, may I venture (since it’s only you) To speak discreetly of The Crucified? He was extremely unsuccessful too: The Devil didn’t like Him, and He died.

John Calvin whose peculiar fad It was to call God murderous, Which further led that feverish cad To burn alive the Servetus. The horrible Bohemian Huss, The tedious Wycliffe, where are they? But where is old Nestorius? The wind has blown them all away.

The Kohen out of Novdograd Who argued from the Roman Jus “Privata fasta nihil ad Rem nisi sint de sacribus.” And Hume, who made a dreadful fuss About the Resurrection Day And said it was ridiculous— The wind has blown them all away.

Of Smith the gallant Mormon lad That took of wives an over-plus: Johanna Southcott who was mad And nasty Nietzsche, who was worse. Of Tolstoy, the Eccentric Russ, Our strong Posterity shall say: “Lord Jesus! What are these to us? The wind has blown them all away!”

Prince, should you meet upon a bus A man who makes a great display Of Dr Haeckel, argue thus:— The wind has blown them all away.