An’ tell thin in Hiven about Molly Magee an’ her Danny O’Roon,
Till Holy St. Pether gets up wid his kays an’ opens the gate!
An’ shure, be the Crass, that’s betther nor cuttin’ the Sassenach whate
To be there wid the Blessed Mother, an’ Saints an’ Marthyrs galore,
An’ singin’ yer ‘Aves’ an’ ‘Pathers’ for iver an’ ivermore.
XVI.
Au’ now that I tould yer Honour what-iver I hard an’ seen,
Yer Honour ‘ill give me a thrifle to dhrink yer health in potheen.
The Spinster’s Sweet-Arts
I.
MILK for my sweet-arts, Bess! fur it mun be the time about now
When dolly cooms in fro’ the far-end close wi’ her paäils fro’ the cow.
Eh! tha be new to the plaäce — thou’rt gaäpin’ — doesn’t tha see
I calls ‘em arter the fellers es once was sweet upo’ me?
II.
Naäy to be sewer it be past ‘er time. What maäkes ‘er sa laäte?
Goa to the laäne at the back, an’ looök thruf Maddison’s gaäte!
III.
Sweet-arts! Molly belike may ‘a lighted to-night upo’ one.
Sweet-arts! thanks to the Lord that I niver not listen’d to noän!
So I sits i’ my oän armchair wi’ my oän kettle theere o’ the hob,
An’ Tommy the fust, an’ Tommy the second, an’ Steevie an’ Rob.
IV.
Rob, coom cop ‘ere o’ my knee. Thou sees that i’ spite o’ the men
I ‘a kep’ thruf thick an’ thin my two ‘oonderd a-year to mysen;
Yis! thaw tha call’d me es pretty es ony lass i’ the Shere;
An’ thou be es pretty a Tabby, but Robby I seed thruf ya theere.
V.
Feyther ‘ud saäy I wur ugly es sin, an’ I beänt not vaäin,
But I niver wur downright hugly, thaw soom ‘ud ‘a thowt ma plaäin,
An’ I wasn’t sa plaäin i’ pink ribbons, ye said I wur pretty i’ pinks,
An’ I liked to ‘ear it I did, but I brunt sich a fool as ye thinks;
Ye was stroäkin ma down wi’ the ‘air, as I be a-stroäkin o’ you,
But whiniver I looöked i’ the glass I wur sewer that it couldn’t be true;
Niver wur pretty, not I, but ye knaw’d it wur pleasant to ‘ear,
Thaw it warn’t not me es wur pretty, but my two ‘oonderd a-year.
VI.
D’ya mind the murnin’ when we was a-walkin’ togither, an’ stood
By the claäy’d-oop pond, that the foalk be sa scared at, i’ Gigglesby wood,
Wheer the poor wench drowndid hersen, black Sal, es’ed been disgraäced?
An’ I feel’d thy arm es I stood wur a-creeäpin about my waäist;
An’ me es wur allus afear’d of a man’s gittin’ over fond,
I sidled awaäy an’ awaäy till I plumpt foot fust i’ the pond;
And, Robby, I niver ‘a liked tha sa well, as I did that daäy,
Fur tha joompt in thysen, an’ tha hoickt my feet wi’ a flop fro’ the claäy.
Ay, stick oop thy back, an’ set oop thy taäil, tha may gie ma a kiss,
Fur I walk’d wi’ tha all the way hoam an’ wur niver sa nigh saäyin’ Yis.
But wa boath was i’ sich a clat we was shaämed to cross Gigglesby Greeän,
Fur a cat may looök at a king thou knaws but the cat mun be clean.
Sa we boäth on us kep out o’ sight o’ the winders o’ Gigglesby Hinn —
Naäy, but the claws o’ tha! quiet! they pricks clean thruf to the skin —
An’ wa boäth slinkt ‘oäm by the brokken shed i’ the laäne at the back,
Wheer the poodle runn’d at tha once, an’ thou runn’d oop o’ the thack;
An’ tha squeedg’d my ‘and i’ the shed, fur theere we was forced to ‘ide,
Fur I seed that Steevie wur coomin’, and one o’ the Tommies beside.
VII.
Theere now, what art ‘a mewin at, Steevie? for owt I can tell —
Robby wur fust to be sewer, or I mowt ‘a liked tha as well.
VIII.
But, Robby, I thowt o’ tha all the while I wur chaängin’ my gown,
An’ I thowt shall I chaänge my staäte? but, O Lord, upo’ coomin’ down —
My bran-new carpet es fresh es a midder o’ flowers i’ Maäy —
Why ‘edn’t tha wiped thy shoes? it wur clatted all ower wi’ claäy.
An’ I could ‘a cried ammost, fur I seed that it couldn’t be,
An’ Robby I gied tha a raätin that sattled thy coortin o’ me.
An’ Molly an’ me was agreed, as we was a-cleanin’ the floor,
That a man be a durty thing an’ a trouble an’ plague wi’ indoor.
But I rued it arter a bit, fur I stuck to tha moor na the rest,
But I couldn’t ‘a lived wi’ a man an’ I knaws it be all fur the best.
IX.
Naäy — let ma stroäk tha down till I maäkes tha es smooth es silk,
But if I ‘ed married tha, Robby, thou’d not ‘a been worth thy milk,
Thou’d niver ‘a cotch’d ony mice but ‘a left me the work to do,
And ‘a taäen to the bottle beside, so es all that I ‘ears be true;
But I loovs tha to maäke thysen ‘appy, an’ soa purr awaäy, my dear,
Thou ‘ed wellnigh purr’d ma awaäy fro’ my oän two ‘oonderd a-year.
X.
Sweärin agean, you Toms, as ye used to do twelve year sin’!
Ye niver ‘eärd Steevie swear ‘cep’ it wur at a dog coomin’ in,
An’ boath o’ ye mun be fools to be hallus a-shawin’ your claws,
Fur I niver cared nothink for neither — an’ one o’ ye deäd ye knaws!
Coom give hoäver then, weant ye? I warrant ye soom fine daäy —
Theere, dig down — I shall hew to gie one or tother awaäy.
Can’t ye taäke pattern by Steevie? ye shant hew a drop fro’ the paäil.
Steevie be right good manners bang thruf to the tip o’ the taäil.
XI.
Robby, git down wi’tha, wilt tha? let Steevie coom oop o’ my knee.
Steevie, my lad, thou ‘ed very nigh been the Steevie fur me!
Robby wur fust to be sewer, ‘e wur burn an’ bred i’ the ‘ouse,
But thou be es ‘ansom a tabby es iver patted a mouse.
XII.
An’ I beänt not vaäin, but I knaws I ‘ed led tha a quieter life
Nor her wi’ the hepitaph yonder! “A faäithfnl an’ loovin’ wife!”
An’ ‘cos o’ thy farm by the beck, an’ thy windmill oop o’ the croft,
Tha thowt tha would marry ma, did tha? but that wur a bit ower soft,
Thaw thou was es soäber es daäy, wi’ a niced red faäce, an’ es cleän
Es a shillin’ fresh fro’ the mint wi’ a bran-new ‘eäd o’ the Queeän,
An’ thy farmin’ es cleän es thysen’, fur, Steevie, tha kep’ it sa neät
That I niver not spied sa much es a poppy along wi’ the wheät,
An’ the wool of a thistle a-flyin’ an’ seeädin’ tha haäted to see;
‘Twur es bad es a battle-twig1 ‘ere i’ my oän blue chaumber to me.
Ay, roob thy whiskers ageän ma, fur I could ‘a taäen to tha well,
But fur thy bairns, poor Steevie, a bouncin’ boy an’ a gell.
XIII.
An’ thou was es fond o’ thy bairns es I be mysen o’ my cats,
But I niver not wish’d fur childer, I hevn’t naw likin’ fur brats;
Pretty anew when ya dresses ‘em oop, an’ they goäs fur a walk,
Or sits wi’ their ‘ands afoor ‘em, an’ doesn’t not ‘inder the talk!
But their bottles o’ pap, an’ their mucky bibs, an’ the clats an’ the clouts,
An’ their mashin’ their toys to pieäces an’ maäkin’ ma d
eaf wi’ their shouts,
An’ hallus a-joompin’ about ma as if they was set upo’ springs,
An’ a haxin’ ma hawkard questions, an’ saäyin’ ondecent things,
Alt’ a-callin’ ma ‘hugly’ mayhap to my faäce, or a teärin’ my gown —
Dear! dear! dear! I mun part them Tommies — Steevie git down.
XIV.
Ye be wuss nor the men-tommies, you. I tell’d ya, na moor o’ that!
Tom, lig theere o’ the cushion, an’ tother Tom ‘ere o’ the mat.
XV.
Theere! I ha’ master’d them! Hed I married the Tommies — O Lord,
To loove an’ obaäy the Tommies! I couldn’t ‘a stuck by my word.
To be horder’d about, an’ waäked, when Molly ‘d put out the light,
By a man coomin’ in wi’ a hiccup at ony hour o’ the night!
An’ the taäble staäin’d wi’ ‘is aäle, an’ the mud o’ ‘is boots o’ the stairs,
An’ the stink o’ ‘is pipe i’ the ‘ouse, an’ the mark o’ ‘is ‘eäd o’ the chairs!
An’ noun o’ my four sweet-arts ‘ud ‘a let me ‘a led my oän waäy,
Sa I likes ‘em best wi’ taäils when they ‘evn’t a word to saäy.
XVII.
An’ I sits i’ my oän little parlour, an’ sarved by my oän little lass,
Wi’ my oän little garden outside, an’ my oän bed o’ sparrow-grass,
An’ my oän door-poorch wi the woodbine an’ jessmine a-dressin’ it greeän,
An’ my oän fine Jackman i’ purple a roäbin’ the ‘ouse like a Queeän.
XVII.
An’ the little gells bobs to ma hoffens es I be abroad i’ the laänes,
When I goäs fur to coomfut the poor es be down wi’ their haäches an’ their paäins:
An’ a haäf-pot o’ jam, or a mossel o’ meät when it beänt too dear,
They maäkes ma a graäter Laädy nor ‘er i’ the mansion theer,
Hes ‘es hallus to hax of a man how much to spare or to spend;
An’ a spinster I be an’ I will be, if soä pleäse God, to the hend.
XVIII.
Mew! mew! — Bess wi’ the milk! what ha maäde our Molly sa laäte?
It should ‘a been ‘ere by seven, an’ theere — it be strikin’ height —
‘Cushie wur craäzed fur’er cauf’ well — I ‘eärd ‘er a maäkin’ ‘er moän,
An’ I thowt to mysen ‘thank God that I hevn’t naw cauf o’ my oän.’
Theere!
Set it down!
Now Robby!
You Tommies shall waäit to-night
Till Robby an’ Steevie ‘es ‘ed their lap — an’ it sarves ye right.
The Charge of the Heavy Brigade at Balaclava, Prologue
Prologue to General Hamley
OUR BIRCHES yellowing and from each
The light leaf falling fast,
While squirrels from our fiery beech
Were bearing off the mast,
You came, and look’d and loved the view
Long-known and loved by me,
Green Sussex fading into blue
With one gray glimpse of sea;
And, gazing from this height alone,
We spoke of what had been
Most marvellous in the wars your own
Crimean eyes had seen;
And now — like old-world inns that take
Some warrior for a sign
That therewithin a guest may make
True cheer with honest wine —
Because you heard the lines I read
Nor utter’d word of blame,
I dare without your leave to head
These rhymings with your name,
Who know you but as one of those
I fain would meet again,
Yet know you, as your England knows
That you and all your men
Were soldiers to her heart’s desire,
When, in the vanish’d year,
You saw the league-long rampart-fire
Flare from Tel-el-Kebir
Thro’ darkness, and the foe was driven,
And Wolseley overthrew
Arâbi, and the stars in heaven
Paled, and the glory grew.
The Charge of the Heavy Brigade at Balaclava
October 25, 1854
I.
THE CHARGE of the gallant three hundred, the Heavy Brigade!
Down the hill, down the hill, thousands of Russians,
Thousands of horsemen, drew to the valley — and stay’d;
For Scarlett and Scarlett’s three hundred were riding by
When the points of the Russian lances arose in the sky;
And he call’d, ‘Left wheel into line!’ and they wheel’d and obey’d.
Then he look’d at the host that had halted he knew not why,
And he turn’d half round, and he bade his trumpeter sound
To the charge, and he rode on ahead, as he waved his blade
To the gallant three hundred whose glory will never die —
‘Follow,’ and up the hill, up the hill, up the hill,
Follow’d the Heavy Brigade.
II.
The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, and the might of the fight!
Thousands of horsemen had gather’d there on the height,
With a wing push’d out to the left and a wing to the right,
And who shall escape if they close? but he dash’d up alone
Thro’ the great gray slope of men,
Sway’d his sabre, and held his own
Like an Englishman there and then;
All in a moment follow’d with force
Three that were next in their fiery course,
Wedged themselves in between horse and horse,
Fought for their lives in the narrow gap they had made —
Four amid thousands! and up the hill, up the hill,
Gallopt the gallant three hundred, the Heavy Brigade.
III.
Fell like a cannon-shot,
Burst like a thunderbolt,
Crash’d like a hurricane,
Broke thro’ the mass from below,
Drove thro’ the midst of the foe,
Plunged up and down, to and fro,
Rode flashing blow upon blow,
Brave Inniskillens and Greys
Whirling their sabres in circles of light!
And some of us, all in amaze,
Who were held for a while from the fight,
And were only standing at gaze,
When the dark-muffled Russian crowd
Folded its wings from the left and the right,
And roll’d them around like a cloud, —
O, mad for the charge and the battle were we,
When our own good redcoats sank from sight,
Like drops of blood in a dark-gray sea,
And we turn’d to each other, whispering, all dismay’d,
‘Lost are the gallant three hundred of Scarlett’s Brigade!’
IV.
‘Lost one and all’ were the words
Mutter’d in our dismay;
But they rode like victors and lords
Thro’ the forest of lances and swords
In the heart of the Russian hordes,
They rode, or they stood at bay —
Struck with the sword-hand and slew,
Down with the bridle-hand drew
The foe from the saddle and threw
Underfoot there in the fray —
Ranged like a storm or stood like a rock
In the wave of a stormy day;
Till suddenly shock upon shock
Stagger’d the mass from without,
Drove it in wild disarray,
For our men gallopt up with a cheer and a shout,
And the foeman surged, and waver’d, and reel’d
Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of the field,
And ov
er the brow and away.
V.
Glory to each and to all, and the charge that they made!
Glory to all the three hundred, and all the Brigade!
NOTE. — The ‘three hundred’ of the ‘Heavy Brigade’ who made this famous charge were the Scots Greys and the 2d squadron of Inniskillens; the remainder of the ‘Heavy Brigade’ subsequently dashing up to their support.
The ‘three’ were Scarlett’s aide-de-camp, Elliot, and the trumpeter, and Shegog the orderly, who had been close behind him.
Epilogue
IRENE.
NOT this way will you set your name
A star among the stars.
POET.
What way?
IRENE.
You praise when you should blame
The barbarism of wars.
A juster epoch has begun.
POET.
Yet tho’ this cheek be gray,
And that bright hair the modern sun,
Those eyes the blue to-day,
You wrong me, passionate little friend.
I would that wars should cease,
I would the globe from end to end
Might sow and reap in peace,
And some new Spirit o’erbear the old,
Or Trade re-frain the Powers
From war with kindly links of gold,
Or Love with wreaths of flowers.
Slav, Teuton, Kelt, I count them all
My friends and brother souls,
With all the peoples, great and small,
That wheel between the poles.
But since our mortal shadow, Ill,
To waste this earth began —
Perchance from some abuse of Will
In worlds before the man
Involving ours — he needs must fight
To make true peace his own,
He needs must combat might with might,
Or Might would rule alone;
And who loves war for war’s own sake
Is fool, or crazed, or worse;
But let the patriot-soldier take
His meed of fame in verse;
Nay — tho’ that realm were in the wrong
For which her warriors bleed,
It still were right to crown with song
The warrior’s noble deed —
A crown the Singer hopes may last,
For so the deed endures;
But Song will vanish in the Vast;
And that large phrase of yours
‘A star among the stars,’ my dear,
Is girlish talk at best;
For dare we dally with the sphere
As he did half in jest,
Old Horace? ‘I will strike,’ said he,
‘The stars with head sublime,’
But scarce could see, as now we see,
Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series Page 121