Songs from Books

THE BEES AND THE FLIES

A farmer of the Augustan AgePerused in Virgil's golden page,The story of the secret wonFrom Proteus by Cyrene's son —How the dank sea-god showed the swainMeans to restore his hives again.More briefly, how a slaughtered bullBreeds honey by the bellyful.The egregious rustic put to deathA bull by stopping of its breath,Disposed the carcass in a shedWith fragrant herbs and branches spread,And, having thus performed the charm,Sat down to wait the promised swarm.Nor waited long. The God of DayImpartial, quickening with his rayEvil and good alike, beheldThe carcass – and the carcass swelled.Big with new birth the belly heavesBeneath its screen of scented leaves.Past any doubt, the bull conceives!The farmer bids men bring more hivesTo house the profit that arrives;Prepares on pan, and key and kettle,Sweet music that shall make 'em settle;But when to crown the work he goes,Gods! what a stink salutes his nose!Where are the honest toilers? WhereThe gravid mistress of their care?A busy scene, indeed, he sees,But not a sign or sound of bees.Worms of the riper grave unhidBy any kindly coffin lid,Obscene and shameless to the light,Seethe in insatiate appetite,Through putrid offal, while aboveThe hissing blow-fly seeks his love,Whose offspring, supping where they supt,Consume corruption twice corrupt.

ROAD-SONG OF THE BANDAR-LOG

Here we go in a flung festoon,Half-way up to the jealous moon!Don't you envy our pranceful bands?Don't you wish you had extra hands?Wouldn't you like if your tails were —so—Curved in the shape of a Cupid's bow?  Now you're angry, but – never mind,  Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!Here we sit in a branchy row,Thinking of beautiful things we know;Dreaming of deeds that we mean to do,All complete, in a minute or two —Something noble and grand and good,Won by merely wishing we could.  Now we're going to – never mind,  Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!All the talk we ever have heardUttered by bat or beast or bird —Hide or fin or scale or feather —Jabber it quickly and all together!Excellent! Wonderful! Once again!Now we are talking just like men.  Let's pretend we are … never mind,  Brother, thy tail hangs down behind! This is the way of the Monkey-kind!Then join our leaping lines that scumfish through the pines,That rocket by where, light and high, the wild-grape swings.By the rubbish in our wake, and the noble noise we make,Be sure, be sure, we're going to do some splendid things.

'OUR FATHERS ALSO'

Thrones, Powers, Dominions, Peoples, Kings,Are changing 'neath our hand;Our fathers also see these thingsBut they do not understand.By – they are by with mirth and tears,Wit or the works of Desire —Cushioned about on the kindly yearsBetween the wall and the fire.The grapes are pressed, the corn is shocked —Standeth no more to glean;For the Gates of Love and Learning lockedWhen they went out between.All lore our Lady Venus bares,Signalled it was or toldBy the dear lips long given to theirsAnd longer to the mould.All Profit, all Device, all TruthWritten it was or saidBy the mighty men of their mighty youth,Which is mighty being dead.The film that floats before their eyesThe Temple's Veil they call;And the dust that on the Shewbread liesIs holy over all.Warn them of seas that slip our yokeOf slow-conspiring stars —The ancient Front of Things unbrokeBut heavy with new wars?By – they are by with mirth and tears,Wit or the waste of Desire —Cushioned about on the kindly yearsBetween the wall and the fire.

A BRITISH-ROMAN SONG

(A.D. 406)My father's father saw it not,  And I, belike, shall never come,To look on that so-holy spot —    The very Rome —Crowned by all Time, all Art, all Might,  The equal work of Gods and Man,City beneath whose oldest height —    The Race began!Soon to send forth again a brood,  Unshakeable, we pray, that clings,To Rome's thrice-hammered hardihood —    In arduous things.Strong heart with triple armour bound,  Beat strongly, for thy life-blood runs,Age after Age, the Empire round —    In us thy Sons.Who, distant from the Seven Hills,  Loving and serving much, requireThee —thee to guard 'gainst home-born ills,    The Imperial Fire!

A PICT SONG

Rome never looks where she treads.  Always her heavy hooves fall,On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads;  And Rome never heeds when we bawl.Her sentries pass on – that is all,  And we gather behind them in hordes,And plot to reconquer the Wall,  With only our tongues for our swords.We are the Little Folk – we!  Too little to love or to hate.Leave us alone and you'll see  How we can drag down the State!We are the worm in the wood!  We are the rot at the root!We are the germ in the blood!  We are the thorn in the foot!Mistletoe killing an oak —  Rats gnawing cables in two —Moths making holes in a cloak —  How they must love what they do!Yes – and we Little Folk too,  We are busy as they —Working our works out of view —  Watch, and you'll see it some day!No indeed! We are not strong,  But we know Peoples that are.Yes, and we'll guide them along,  To smash and destroy you in War!We shall be slaves just the same?  Yes, we have always been slaves,But you – you will die of the shame,  And then we shall dance on your graves!We are the Little Folk, we, etc.

THE STRANGER

The Stranger within my gate,  He may be true or kind.But he does not talk my talk —  I cannot feel his mind.I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,  But not the soul behind.The men of my own stock  They may do ill or well,But they tell the lies I am wonted to,  They are used to the lies I tell.We do not need interpreters  When we go to buy and sell.The Stranger within my gates,  He may be evil or good,But I cannot tell what powers control —  What reasons sway his mood;Nor when the Gods of his far-off land  May repossess his blood.The men of my own stock,  Bitter bad they may be,But, at least, they hear the things I hear,  And see the things I see;And whatever I think of them and their likes  They think of the likes of me.This was my father's belief  And this is also mine:Let the corn be all one sheaf —  And the grapes be all one vine,Ere our children's teeth are set on edge  By bitter bread and wine.

'RIMINI'

(Marching Song of a Roman Legion of the Later Empire)When I left home for Lalage's sakeBy the Legions' road to Rimini,She vowed her heart was mine to takeWith me and my shield to Rimini —(Till the Eagles flew from Rimini!)And I've tramped Britain, and I've tramped Gaul,And the Pontic shore where the snow-flakes fallAs white as the neck of Lalage —(As cold as the heart of Lalage!)And I've lost Britain, and I've lost Gaul,And I've lost Rome, and worst of all,I've lost Lalage!When you go by the Via Aurelia,As thousands have travelled before,Remember the Luck of the SoldierWho never saw Rome any more!Oh dear was the sweetheart that kissed himAnd dear was the mother that bore,But his shield was picked up in the heather,And he never saw Rome any more!And he left Rome, etc.When you go by the Via AureliaThat runs from the City to Gaul,Remember the Luck of the SoldierWho rose to be master of all!He carried the sword and the buckler,He mounted his guard on the Wall,Till the Legions elected him Cæsar,And he rose to be master of all!And he left Rome, etc.It's twenty-five marches to Narbo,It's forty-five more up the Rhone,And the end may be death in the heatherOr life on an Emperor's throne.But whether the Eagles obey us,Or we go to the Ravens – alone,I'd sooner be Lalage's loverThan sit on an Emperor's throne!We've all left Rome for Lalage's sake, etc.

'POOR HONEST MEN'

(A.D. 1800)Your jar of VirginnyWill cost you a guineaWhich you reckon too much by five shillings or ten;But light your churchwardenAnd judge it according,When I've told you the troubles of poor honest men!From the Capes of the Delaware,As you are well aware,We sail with tobacco for England – but then,Our own British cruisers,They watch us come through, sirs,And they press half a score of us poor honest men!Or if by quick sailing(Thick weather prevailing)We leave them behind (as we do now and then)We are sure of a gun fromEach frigate we run from,Which is often destruction to poor honest men!Broadsides the AtlanticWe tumble short-handed,With shot-holes to plug and new canvas to bend,And off the Azores,Dutch, Dons and MonsieursAre waiting to terrify poor honest men.Napoleon's embargoIs laid on all cargoWhich comfort or aid to King George may intend;And since roll, twist and leaf,Of all comforts is chief,They try for to steal it from poor honest men!With no heart for fight,We take refuge in flightBut fire as we run, our retreat to defend,Until our stern-chasersCut up her fore-braces,And she flies up the wind from us poor honest men!Twix' the Forties and Fifties,South-eastward the drift is,And so, when we think we are making Land's End,Alas! it is UshantWith half the King's Navy,Blockading French ports against poor honest men!But they may not quit station(Which is our salvation),So swiftly we stand to the Nor'ard again;And finding the tail ofA homeward-bound convoy,We slip past the Scillies like poor honest men.Twix' the Lizard and Dover,We hand our stuff over,Though I may not inform how we do it, nor when.But a light on each quarterLow down on the waterIs well understanded by poor honest men!Even then we have dangers,From meddlesome strangers,Who spy on our business and are not contentTo take a smooth answer,Except with a handspike …And they say they are murdered by poor honest men!To be drowned or be shotIs our natural lot,Why should we, moreover, be hanged in the end —After all our great painsFor to dangle in chainsAs though we were smugglers, not poor honest men?

'WHEN THE GREAT ARK'

When the Great Ark, in Vigo Bay,  Rode stately through the half-manned fleet,From every ship about her way  She heard the mariners entreat —'Before we take the seas again,Let down your boats and send us men!'We have no lack of victual here  With work – God knows! – enough for all,To hand and reef and watch and steer,  Because our present strength is small.While your three decks are crowded soYour crews can scarcely stand or go.'In war, your numbers do but raise  Confusion and divided will;In storm, the mindless deep obeys  Not multitudes but single skill;In calm, your numbers, closely pressed.Do breed a mutiny or pest.'We, even on unchallenged seas,  Dare not adventure where we would,But forfeit brave advantages  For lack of men to make 'em good;Whereby, to England's double cost.Honour and profit both are lost!'

PROPHETS AT HOME

Prophets have honour all over the Earth,  Except in the village where they were born.Where such as knew them boys from birth,  Nature-ally hold 'em in scorn.When Prophets are naughty and young and vain,  They make a won'erful grievance of it;(You can see by their writings how they complain),  But O, 'tis won'erful good for the Prophet!There's nothing Nineveh Town can give  (Nor being swallowed by whales between),Makes up for the place where a man's folk live,  Which don't care nothing what he has been.He might ha' been that, or he might ha' been this,  But they love and they hate him for what he is.

JUBAL AND TUBAL CAIN

Jubal sang of the Wrath of God  And the curse of thistle and thorn —But Tubal got him a pointed rod,  And scrabbled the earth for corn.  Old – old as that early mould,    Young as the sprouting grain —  Yearly green is the strife between    Jubal and Tubal Cain!Jubal sang of the new-found sea,  And the love that its waves divide —But Tubal hollowed a fallen tree  And passed to the further side.  Black – black as the hurricane-wrack,    Salt as the under-main —  Bitter and cold is the hate they hold —    Jubal and Tubal Cain!Jubal sang of the golden years  When wars and wounds shall cease —But Tubal fashioned the hand-flung spears  And showèd his neighbours peace.  New – new as the Nine point Two,    Older than Lamech's slain —  Roaring and loud is the feud avowed    Twix' Jubal and Tubal Cain!Jubal sang of the cliffs that bar  And the peaks that none may crown —But Tubal clambered by jut and scar  And there he builded a town.  High – high as the snowsheds lie,    Low as the culverts drain —  Wherever they be they can never agree —    Jubal and Tubal Cain!

THE VOORTREKKER

The gull shall whistle in his wake, the blind wave break in fire.He shall fulfil God's utmost will, unknowing his desire.And he shall see old planets change and alien stars arise,And give the gale his seaworn sail in shadow of new skies.Strong lust of gear shall drive him forth and hunger arm his hand,To win his food from the desert rude, his pittance from the sand.His neighbours' smoke shall vex his eyes, their voices break his rest,He shall go forth till south is north sullen and dispossessed.He shall desire loneliness and his desire shall bring,Hard on his heels, a thousand wheels, a People and a King.He shall come back on his own track, and by his scarce-cooled campThere shall he meet the roaring street, the derrick and the stamp:There he shall blaze a nation's ways with hatchet and with brand,Till on his last-won wilderness an Empire's outposts stand.

A SCHOOL SONG

'Let us now praise famous men' –  Men of little showing —For their work continueth,And their work continueth,Broad and deep continueth,  Greater than their knowing!Western wind and open surge  Took us from our mothers.Flung us on a naked shore(Twelve bleak houses by the shore!Seven summers by the shore!)  'Mid two hundred brothers.There we met with famous men  Set in office o'er us;And they beat on us with rods —Faithfully with many rods —Daily beat on us with rods,  For the love they bore us!Out of Egypt unto Troy —  Over Himalaya —Far and sure our bands have gone —Hy-Brasil or Babylon,Islands of the Southern Run,  And Cities of Cathaia!And we all praise famous men —  Ancients of the College;For they taught us common sense —Tried to teach us common sense —Truth and God's Own Common Sense,  Which is more than knowledge!Each degree of Latitude  Strung about CreationSeeth one or more of us(Of one muster each of us),Diligent in that he does,  Keen in his vocation.This we learned from famous men,  Knowing not its uses,When they showed, in daily work,Man must finish off his work —Right or wrong, his daily work —  And without excuses.Servants of the Staff and chain,  Mine and fuse and grapnel —Some before the face of Kings,Stand before the face of Kings;Bearing gifts to divers Kings —  Gifts of case and shrapnel.This we learned from famous men  Teaching in our borders,Who declarèd it was best,Safest, easiest, and best —Expeditious, wise, and best —  To obey your orders.Some beneath the further stars  Bear the greater burden:Set to serve the lands they rule,(Save he serve no man may rule),Serve and love the lands they rule;  Seeking praise nor guerdon.This we learned from famous men,  Knowing not we learned it.Only, as the years went by —Lonely, as the years went by —Far from help as years went by,  Plainer we discerned it.Wherefore praise we famous men  From whose bays we borrow —They that put aside To-day —All the joys of their To-day —And with toil of their To-day  Bought for us To-morrow!Bless and praise we famous men –  Men of little showing —For their work continueth,And their work continueth,Broad and deep continueth,  Great beyond their knowing!

THE LAW OF THE JUNGLE

_Now this is the Law of the Jungle – as old and as true as the sky; And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die.As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back —For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack._Wash daily from nose-tip to tail-tip; drink deeply, but never too deep;And remember the night is for hunting, and forget not the day is for sleep.The Jackal may follow the Tiger, but, Cub, when thy whiskers are grown,Remember the Wolf is a hunter – go forth and get food of thine own.Keep peace with the Lords of the Jungle – the Tiger, the Panther, the Bear;And trouble not Hathi the Silent, and mock not the Boar in his lair.When Pack meets with Pack in the Jungle, and neither will go from the trail,Lie down till the leaders have spoken – it may be fair words shall prevail.When ye fight with a Wolf of the Pack, ye must fight him alone and afar,Lest others take part in the quarrel, and the Pack be diminished by war.The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, and where he has made him his home,Not even the Head Wolf may enter, not even the Council may come.The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, but where he has digged it too plain,The Council shall send him a message, and so he shall change it again.If ye kill before midnight, be silent, and wake not the woods with your bay,Lest ye frighten the deer from the crops, and the brothers go empty away.Ye may kill for yourselves, and your mates, and your cubs as they need, and ye can;But kill not for pleasure of killing, and seven times never kill Man!If ye plunder his Kill from a weaker, devour not all in thy pride;Pack-Right is the right of the meanest; so leave him the head and the hide.The Kill of the Pack is the meat of the Pack. Ye must eat where it lies;And no one may carry away of that meat to his lair, or he dies.The Kill of the Wolf is the meat of the Wolf. He may do what he will,But, till he has given permission, the Pack may not eat of that Kill.Cub-Right is the right of the Yearling. From all of his Pack he may claimFull-gorge when the killer has eaten; and none may refuse him the same.Lair-Right is the right of the Mother. From all of her year she may claimOne haunch of each kill for her litter; and none may deny her the same.Cave-Right is the right of the Father – to hunt by himself for his own:He is freed of all calls to the Pack; he is judged by the Council alone.Because of his age and his cunning, because of his gripe and his paw,In all that the Law leaveth open, the word of the Head Wolf is Law.

Now these are the Laws of the Jungle, and many and mighty are they; But the head and the hoof of the Law and the haunch and the hump is – Obey!

'A SERVANT WHEN HE REIGNETH'

(For three things the earth is disquieted, and for four which it cannot bear: for a servant when he reigneth; and a fool when he is filled with meat; for an odious woman when she is married; and an handmaid that is heir to her mistress. – PROV. XXX. 21, 22, 23.)

Three things make earth unquiet,And four she cannot brook;The godly Agur counted themAnd put them in a book —Those Four Tremendous CursesWith which mankind is cursed:But a Servant when He ReignethOld Agur counted first.An Handmaid that is MistressWe need not call upon,A Fool when he is full of MeatWill fall asleep anon.An Odious Woman MarriedMay bear a babe and mend.But a Servant when He ReignethIs Confusion to the end.His feet are swift to tumult,His hands are slow to toil,His ears are deaf to reason,His lips are loud in broil.He knows no use for powerExcept to show his might,He gives no heed to judgmentUnless it prove him right.Because he served a masterBefore his Kingship came,And hid in all disasterBehind his master's name,So, when his Folly opensThe unnecessary hells,A Servant when He ReignethThrows the blame on some one else.His vows are lightly spoken,His faith is hard to bind.His trust is easy broken,He fears his fellow-kind.The nearest mob will move himTo break the pledge he gave —Oh a Servant when He ReignethIs more than ever slave!

'OUR FATHERS OF OLD'

Excellent herbs had our fathers of old —  Excellent herbs to ease their pain —Alexanders and Marigold,  Eyebright, Orris, and Elecampane.Basil, Rocket, Valerian, Rue,  (Almost singing themselves they run)Vervain, Dittany, Call-me-to-you —  Cowslip, Melilot, Rose of the Sun.    Anything green that grew out of the mould    Was an excellent herb to our fathers of old.Wonderful tales had our fathers of old —  Wonderful tales of the herbs and the stars —The Sun was Lord of the Marigold,  Basil and Rocket belonged to Mars.Pat as a sum in division it goes —  (Every plant had a star bespoke) —Who but Venus should govern the Rose?  Who but Jupiter own the Oak?    Simply and gravely the facts are told    In the wonderful books of our fathers of old.Wonderful little, when all is said,  Wonderful little our fathers knew.Half their remedies cured you dead —  Most of their teaching was quite untrue —'Look at the stars when a patient is ill,  (Dirt has nothing to do with disease,)Bleed and blister as much as you will,  Blister and bleed him as oft as you please.'    Whence enormous and manifold    Errors were made by our fathers of old.Yet when the sickness was sore in the land,  And neither planets nor herbs assuaged,They took their lives in their lancet-hand  And, oh, what a wonderful war they waged!Yes, when the crosses were chalked on the door —  (Yes, when the terrible dead-cart rolled,)Excellent courage our fathers bore —  Excellent heart had our fathers of old.    None too learned, but nobly bold    Into the fight went our fathers of old.If it be certain, as Galen says,  And sage Hippocrates holds as much —'That those afflicted by doubts and dismays  Are mightily helped by a dead man's touch',Then, be good to us, stars above!  Then, be good to us, herbs below!We are afflicted by what we can prove,  We are distracted by what we know —      So – ah, so!    Down from your heaven or up from your mould,    Send us the hearts of our fathers of old!

THE HERITAGE

Our Fathers in a wondrous age,  Ere yet the earth was small,Ensured to us an heritage,  And doubted not at allThat we, the children of their heart,  Which then did beat so high,In later time should play like part  For our posterity.A thousand years they steadfast built,  To 'vantage us and ours,The Walls that were a world's despair,  The sea-constraining Towers:Yet in their midmost pride they knew,  And unto Kings made known,Not all from these their strength they drew,  Their faith from brass or stone.Youth's passion, manhood's fierce intent.  With age's judgment wise,They spent, and counted not they spent.  At daily sacrifice.Not lambs alone nor purchased doves  Or tithe of trader's gold —Their lives most dear, their dearer loves,  They offered up of old.Refraining e'en from lawful things.  They bowed the neck to bearThe unadornèd yoke that brings  Stark toil and sternest care.Wherefore through them is Freedom sure;  Wherefore through them we standFrom all but sloth and pride secure,  In a delightsome land.Then, fretful, murmur not they gave  So great a charge to keep.Nor dream that awestruck Time shall save  Their labour while we sleep.Dear-bought and clear, a thousand year,  Our fathers' title runs.Make we likewise their sacrifice,  Defrauding not our sons.

CHAPTER HEADINGS

'BEAST AND MAN IN INDIA'They killed a child to please the GodsIn earth's young penitence,And I have bled in that Babe's steadBecause of innocence.I bear the sins of sinful menThat have no sin of my own,They drive me forth to Heaven's wrathUnpastured and alone.I am the meat of sacrifice,The ransom of man's guilt,For they give my life to the altar-knifeWherever shrine is built.The Goat.Between the waving tufts of jungle-grass,Up from the river as the twilight falls,Across the dust-beclouded plain they passOn to the village walls.Great is the sword and mighty is the pen,But greater far the labouring ploughman's blade,For on its oxen and its husbandmenAn Empire's strength is laid.The Oxen.The torn boughs trailing o'er the tusks aslant,The saplings reeling in the path he trod,Declare his might – our lord the Elephant,Chief of the ways of God.The black bulk heaving where the oxen pant,The bowed head toiling where the guns careen,Declare our might – our slave the ElephantAnd servant of the Queen.The Elephant.Dark children of the mere and marsh,Wallow and waste and lea,Outcaste they wait at the village gateWith folk of low degree.Their pasture is in no man's land.Their food the cattle's scorn,Their rest is mire and their desireThe thicket and the thorn.But woe to those who break their sleep,And woe to those who dareTo rouse the herd-bull from his keep,The wild boar from his lair!Pigs and Buffaloes.The beasts are very wise,Their mouths are clean of lies,They talk one to the other,Bullock to bullock's brotherResting after their labours,Each in stall with his neighbours.But man with goad and whip,Breaks up their fellowship,Shouts in their silky earsFilling their souls with fears.When he has ploughed the land,He says: 'They understand.'But the beasts in stall together,Freed from the yoke and tether,Say as the torn flanks smoke:'Nay, 'twas the whip that spoke.'