Rebel Verses

Weak! Weak!'
Have pity on him now,
The valley of the shadow dews his brow!

Then in a half delirium he saw
A vivid pageant passing through the door,
Of all the deeds that he had ever done,
Good or bad judgments, battles lost or won;
There, in procession wide, all who had died
Under his rule, either by civil law,
Or by the swifter penalty of war,
Passed mournfully, their faces ghastly pale,
Their gaping wounds accusingly did rail;
And last of all, stately, refined, and meek,
The 'Martyr King,' the obstinate and weak,
The strangest mixture England ever saw
Upon her throne (And yet, poor man, he wore
His crown with piteous regal dignity,
Whilst from his hands there slowly dripped the blood
Of countless thousands who in loyalty
Perished beneath his vacillating mood).
Then from those twitching lips there fell again
'Have I done well?' The agonizing pain
Was clear to those around his bed, and one
Answered, astonished, with beseeching tone:
'But surely, General, you have done well,
You over all of us have done most well.'

But Cromwell with a twisted smile replied
'No!' – as he fought for breath – 'I – only – tried!'
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 Hell, boy, don't ferget it,
Hell 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 damn 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,