More Bywords

Sailors came from the Western Main,
Their prizes they sold, of ingots of gold,
Or plate from the galleys of Spain.

Then beakers full fine, to hold the red wine,
Were cast in his furnace’s mould,
Or tankards rich chased, in intricate taste,
Gimmal rings of the purest gold.

On each New Year’s morn, no man thought it scorn—
Whether statesman, or warrior brave—
The choicest device, of costliest price,
For a royal off’ring to crave.

“Bring here such a toy as the most may joy
The eyes of our gracious Queen,
Rows of orient pearls, gold pins for her curls,
Silver network, all glistening sheen.”

Each buyer who came—lord, squire, or dame—
Behaved in most courteous guise,
Showing honour due, as to one they knew
To be at once wealthy and wise.

In London Guild Hall, the citizens all,
Esteemed him their future Lord Mayor;
Not one did he meet, in market or street,
But made him a reverence fair.

“Ho,” said Master Smith, “I will try the pith
Of this smooth-faced courtesy;
Do they prize myself, do they prize my pelf,
Do they value what’s mine or me?”

His gold chain of pride he hath laid aside,
And furred gown of the scarlet red;
He set on his back a fardel and pack,
And a hood on his grizzled head.

His ’prentices all he hath left in stall,
But running right close by his side,
In spite of his rags, guarding well his bags,
His small Messan dog would abide.

So thus, up and down, through village and town,
In rain or in sunny weather,
Through Surrey’s fair land, his staff in his hand,
Went he and the dog together.

“Good folk, hear my prayer, of your bounty spare,
Help a wanderer in his need;
Better days I have seen, a rich man I have been,
Esteemed both in word and deed.”

In the first long street, certain forms he did meet,
But scarce might behold their faces;
From matted elf-locks eyes stared like an ox,
And shambling were their paces!

Not one gave him cheer, nor would one come near,
As he turned him away to go,
Then a heavy stone at the dog was thrown,
To deal a right cowardly blow.

In Mitcham’s fair vale, the men ’gan to rail,
“Not a vagabond may come near;”
Each mother’s son ran, each boy and each man,
To summon the constable here.

The cart’s tail behind, the beggar they bind,
They flogged him full long and full sore;
They hunted him out, did that rabble rout,
And bade him come thither no more!

All weary and bruised, and scurvily used,
He went trudging along his track;
The lesson was stern he had come to learn,
And yet he disdained to turn back.

Where Walton-on-Thames gleams fair through the stems
Of its tufted willow palms,
There were loitering folk who most vilely spoke,
Nor would give him one groat in alms.

“Dog Smith,” was the cry, “behold him go by,
The fool who hath lost all he had!”
For only to tease can delight and can please
The ill-nurtured village lad.

Behold, in Betchworth was a blazing hearth
With a hospitable door.
“Thou art tired and lame,” quoth a kindly dame,
“Come taste of our humble store.

“Though scant be our fare, thou art welcome to share;
We rejoice to give thee our best;
Come sit by our fire, thou weary old sire,
Come in, little doggie, and rest.”

And where Mole the slow doth by Cobham go,