Rebel Verses Part 2

Then closed his eyes, smiled quietly, and died.

Anywhere but Here

Anywhere but here, Ned, Any bloomin hole, Golly! if it aint like tearin Body from yer soul!

War's a bloomin sight too wearin: Home for William Towl!

Once I uster think our village Took the prize for dead, Now I know it wor a Para- -dise around me head; Don't I wish as I could see it-- Just a minute--Ned!

Did I iver cuss my luck Fer comin' fore the Bench; Doin what I did fer poachin, Arter this ole trench Would be like a holiday At seaside wi' a wench.

This is h.e.l.l, boy, don't ferget it, h.e.l.l wi'out the fun, Let me see a plough agen An you can ev my gun; You'll hear me shout across the sea When this d.a.m.n war is done.

The East Wind

The Spring was mild, the air was warm, All green the things upon the farm, The corn put forth its tender sprout, The daffodils came bursting out; Above the hedge, in skimming flight, The blackbird hardly touched the light, Whilst in the meadows lush and green The lambs and foals at play were seen; When suddenly the wind turned round And blew across from 'Deadman's Ground'

(Where Farmer Rogers caught his wife And killed her with a carving knife) The oldest labourers about, Who read the weather inside out, Say, when it comes from out that quarter, You know it's nothing else but slaughter; For when it blows from there by night It fills the animals with fright, And when it blows from there by day It drives your happiness away; It nips the fruit, it starves the corn, And everything that's newly born; It sweeps the land with icy breath, And strikes all growing things with death.

The farmer feels his liver growl, And soon his children start to howl, Until they wonder why the weather Can fill a man wi' crazy blether; He kicks his dog, then rushes out To sack his foreman with a shout, Growls at his wife, and scolds his daughter Because the ducks have left the water; He sees the wrack upon the wing, And feels his life a wasted thing.

The labourers, with wrinkled faces, Are keeping in the shady places, Afraid of wind and master, too, And very careful what they do.

Down in the fields, with backs all hunched, The horses and the cattle, bunched, Stand by the hedge to miss the blast That wails and whines and whistles past; Their coats are ruffled wrong way round, Because it blows off 'Deadman's Ground'; Their tails are down, their eyes are dull, And quiet is the angry bull.

But yet the sky is bright and blue With everything of clearest hue, The Wolds are close enough to feel: Their trees and houses cut in steel: The sun is tempting with a smile, The wind is slaying with a knife, (It aggravated Rogers' bile-- He killed himself upon his wife) It kills the young, it kills the old, It fells the timid with the bold; Swift as a flash, hard as a stone, Sharp as a flint, dry as a bone, It pierces you without a sound, The blast that comes from 'Deadman's Ground': For when the wind is in the East It's neither fit for man nor beast.

Peter Wray

No more I hear the waters roar, Roused at the comin' of the bore, No more the river turns agen, To sweep across the level fen; No more the winds in fury ride Along the marshes wild and wide Afore the risin' of the tide: The waters roam no more.

No more I wade along the fen For heron or for water hen, Nor hug the bottom of my boat As to the feeding ducks I'd float; Nor ambushed laay wi' rovin' eye To watch like specks agen the sky The wild geese circlin' on high: The waters roam no more.

No more I creep, nor crouchin', run, Nor trail my owd long-barrelled gun Nor listen 'ow the water laps About my sunken fis.h.i.+n' traps; 'Tis eighty year sin, as a boy, I first 'elped at the duck decoy, An' now--I know but little joy: The waters roam no more.

My feyther knew the hidden ways, Across the waste and marshy maze, He knew each haunt of bird an' fish, An' how to find 'em at his wish; While sometimes in his punt he'd sing Until the reedy d.y.k.es'd ring, But now's the end of everything: The waters roam no more.

When, on a stormy winter's night There stirs a noise, or sudden light, I lay an' pant, to hear 'em shout In panic 'coz the water's out; For long I look, an' anxious strain; Alas! my hope is allers vain, An' sad I go to sleep again: The waters roam no more.

No more the waters roam the land, But hid away on every hand Are led in channels to the sea, Instead of flowin' fancy free, Instead of roarin' fierce an' wild The same as when I wor a child, They creep imprisoned an' defiled: The waters roam no more.

Oh Fools

Oh Fools! who plough, with hunger faint; Who reap the harvest, lacking grain; Oh Sheep! who offer no complaint; Oh Worms! who dare not turn again.

The farmer leads the best of lives, His food pours in: abundant feast; Full fed upon your sweat he thrives; And you--and you--are but a beast!

Each day you tend the growing corn, 'The ox shall not be muzzled'--True!

All animals must have their turn; But less than any beast are you!

The horse is stabled, dry and warm, His food is measured, manger-full; The sheep is valued on the farm, A price is found for meat and wool.

You--you are but a working man!

Your wages run from day to day, Your wife and brood live as they can; They count for no return of pay.

Old age creeps o'er your wrinkled face, Your shoulders droop toward the soil; When, faltering, you leave the race, The workhouse well repays your toil.

Oh piteous soul! with none to care, At length they recognize your worth; And England yields, herself, your share: A pauper grave in Mother Earth.

Elfin Dancer

Beneath unfathomable seas, Deeper than dreams, Sounder than sleep, Beyond the magic of the trees Where never light nor gladness gleams, Where neither life nor love can glow; There, you lie low: Frozen, encased in crystal shape, Enwrapped, enmeshed by claws that gape; And not until you start from sleep May you be drawn from cavern deep, And never till the earth has quaked Can you from fairy trance be waked.

You dance!

You dance on tiptoe!

Up from the grave of withered fears, The earth wind, rus.h.i.+ng in your ears, Spirit of joy and youth, most fair, Crowned by your wonder-loosened hair; You dance!

You dance on tiptoe!

The gra.s.s just bending at your feet, The earth untouched, as fairy-fleet Onward you go, Upward you flow, Up through the leaves, a spiral flame, A tongue of fire, with arrow-aim, Whose mystic essence inter-blending Flows in a torrent never ending; Through that strange tree whose blossoms pale Wreathe, lily-like, a bridal veil!

(Mysterious tree, whose knotted base Scarce bears the ardour of your chase!) Emerging thence by rapture swayed You rise from leafy ambuscade Poised in the ether, to and fro, One moment, hesitating--so-- Flas.h.i.+ng from elfin eyes one glance Still on tiptoe You dance!

You dance!

Oh! earth-born spirit!

Swift wonder child of flame; The essence of your being, Dull human eyes, unseeing, Can never hope to tame; You may be wors.h.i.+pped from afar!

By faith, by hope, we see the star From whence, you came: Fleet as the wind amongst the hills Your spirit listeth as it wills; Oh Pagan huntress, chaste and wild, You dwell amongst us, undefiled!

But if we falter at your door At one false step your shrine, before One discord note, one word awry You vanish straight from human eye: The earth unfolds herself to seize, Your laughter echoes in the trees; And you are known no more.

A. G. Webster

(_Painter_, _Rebel_, _and Lover of Music_)

Like old Sebastian Bach, who went alone, Working, unnoticed, with a single aim, He lived and moved amongst you all unknown; You gave him neither honour nor civic fame; No Freedom of your city crowned his head; No recognition of his genius came: But--- Citizens of Lincoln--- I tell you that your greatest citizen is dead!