Fairies and Fusiliers Part 3

FAUN

Here down this very way, Here only yesterday King Faun went leaping.

He sang, with careless shout Hurling his name about; He sang, with oaken stock His steps from rock to rock In safety keeping, "Here Faun is free, Here Faun is free!"

Today against yon pine, Forlorn yet still divine, King Faun leant weeping.

"They drank my holy brook, My strawberries they took, My private path they trod."

Loud wept the desolate G.o.d, Scorn on scorn heaping, "Faun, what is he, Faun, what is he?"

THE SPOILSPORT

My familiar ghost again Comes to see what he can see, Critic, son of Conscious Brain, Spying on our privacy.

Slam the window, bolt the door, Yet he'll enter in and stay; In tomorrow's book he'll score Indiscretions of today.

Whispered love and muttered fears, How their echoes fly about!

None escape his watchful ears, Every sigh might be a shout.

No kind words nor angry cries Turn away this grim spoilsport; No fine lady's pleading eyes, Neither love, nor hate, nor ... port.

Critics wears no smile of fun, Speaks no word of blame nor praise, Counts our kisses one by one, Notes each gesture, every phrase.

My familiar ghost again Stands or squats where suits him best; Critic, son of Conscious Brain, Listens, watches, takes no rest.

THE SHIVERING BEGGAR

Near Clapham village, where fields began, Saint Edward met a beggar man.

It was Christmas morning, the church bells tolled, The old man trembled for the fierce cold.

Saint Edward cried, "It is monstrous sin A beggar to lie in rags so thin!

An old grey-beard and the frost so keen: I shall give him my fur-lined gaberdine."

He stripped off his gaberdine of scarlet And wrapped it round the aged varlet, Who clutched at the folds with a muttered curse, Quaking and chattering seven times worse.

Said Edward, "Sir, it would seem you freeze Most bitter at your extremities.

Here are gloves and shoes and stockings also, That warm upon your way you may go."

The man took stocking and shoe and glove, Blaspheming Christ our Saviour's love, Yet seemed to find but little relief, Shaking and shivering like a leaf.

Said the saint again, "I have no great riches, Yet take this tunic, take these breeches, My shirt and my vest, take everything, And give due thanks to Jesus the King."

The saint stood naked upon the snow Long miles from where he was lodged at Bowe, Praying, "O G.o.d! my faith, it grows faint!

This would try the temper of any saint.

"Make clean my heart, Almighty, I pray, And drive these sinful thoughts away.

Make clean my heart if it be Thy will, This d.a.m.ned old rascal's shivering still!"

He stooped, he touched the beggar man's shoulder; He asked him did the frost nip colder?

"Frost!" said the beggar, "no, stupid lad!

'Tis the palsy makes me shiver so bad."

JONAH

A purple whale Proudly sweeps his tail Towards Nineveh; Gla.s.sy green Surges between A mile of roaring sea.

"O town of gold, Of splendour multifold, Lucre and l.u.s.t, Leviathan's eye Can surely spy Thy doom of death and dust."

On curving sands Vengeful Jonah stands.

"Yet forty days, Then down, down, Tumbles the town In flaming ruin ablaze."

With swift lament Those Ninevites repent.

They cry in tears, "Our hearts fail!

The whale, the whale!

Our sins p.r.i.c.k us like spears."

Jonah is vexed; He cries, "What next? what next?"

And shakes his fist.

"Stupid city, The shame, the pity, The glorious crash I've missed."

Away goes Jonah grumbling, Murmuring and mumbling; Off ploughs the purple whale, With disappointed tail.

JOHN SKELTON

What could be dafter Than John Skelton's laughter?

What sound more tenderly Than his pretty poetry?

So where to rank old Skelton?

He was no monstrous Milton, Nor wrote no "Paradise Lost,"

So wondered at by most, Phrased so disdainfully, Composed so painfully.

He struck what Milton missed, Milling an English grist With homely turn and twist.

He was English through and through, Not Greek, nor French, nor Jew, Though well their tongues he knew, The living and the dead: Learned Erasmus said, _Hie 'unum Britannicarum Lumen et decus literarum._ But oh, Colin Clout!

How his pen flies about, Twiddling and turning, Scorching and burning, Thrusting and thrumming!

How it hurries with humming, Leaping and running, At the tipsy-topsy Tunning Of Mistress Eleanor Rumming!

How for poor Philip Sparrow Was murdered at Carow, How our hearts he does harrow Jest and grief mingle In this jangle-jingle, For he will not stop To sweep nor mop, To prune nor prop, To cut each phrase up Like beef when we sup, Nor sip at each line As at brandy-wine, Or port when we dine.

But angrily, wittily, Tenderly, prettily, Laughingly, learnedly, Sadly, madly, Helter-skelter John Rhymes serenely on, As English poets should.

Old John, you do me good!