Fairies and Fusiliers Part 4

I WONDER WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE DROWNED?

Look at my knees, That island rising from the steamy seas!

The candles a tall lightship; my two hands Are boats and barges anch.o.r.ed to the sands, With mighty cliffs all round; They're full of wine and riches from far lands....

_I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_

I can make caves, By lifting up the island and huge waves And storms, and then with head and ears well under Blow bubbles with a monstrous roar like thunder, A bull-of-Bashan sound.

The seas run high and the boats split asunder....

_I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_

The thin soap slips And slithers like a shark under the ships.

My toes are on the soap-dish--that's the effect Of my huge storms; an iron steamer's wrecked.

The soap slides round and round; He's biting the old sailors, I expect....

_I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_

DOUBLE RED DAISIES

Double red daisies, they're my flowers, Which n.o.body else may grow.

In a big quarrelsome house like ours They try it sometimes--but no, I root them up because they're my flowers, Which n.o.body else may grow.

_Claire has a tea-rose, but she didn't plant it; Ben has an iris, but I don't want it.

Daisies, double red daisies for me, The beautifulest flowers in the garden._

Double red daisy, that's my mark: I paint it in all my books!

It's carved high up on the beech-tree bark, How neat and lovely it looks!

So don't forget that it's my trade mark; Don't copy it in your books.

_Claire has a tea-rose, but she didn't plant it; Ben has an iris, but I don't want it.

Daisies, double red daisies for me, The beautifulest flowers in the garden._

CAREERS

Father is quite the greatest poet That ever lived anywhere.

You say you're going to write great music-- I chose that first: it's unfair.

Besides, now I can't be the greatest painter and do Christ and angels, or lovely pears and apples and grapes on a green dish, or storms at sea, or anything lovely, Because that's been taken by Claire.

It's stupid to be an engine-driver, And soldiers are horrible men.

I won't be a tailor, I won't be a sailor, And gardener's taken by Ben.

It's unfair if you say that you'll write great music, you horrid, you unkind (I simply loathe you, though you are my sister), you beast, cad, coward, cheat, bully, liar!

Well? Say what's left for me then!

But _we_ won't go to your ugly music.

(Listen!) Ben will garden and dig, And Claire will finish her wondrous pictures All flaming and splendid and big.

And I'll be a perfectly marvellous carpenter, and I'll make cupboards and benches and tables and ... and baths, and nice wooden boxes for studs and money, And you'll be jealous, you pig!

I'D LOVE TO BE A FAIRY'S CHILD

Children born of fairy stock Never need for shirt or frock, Never want for food or fire, Always get their heart's desire: Jingle pockets full of gold, Marry when they're seven years old.

Every fairy child may keep Two strong ponies and ten sheep; All have houses, each his own, Built of brick or granite stone; They live on cherries, they run wild-- I'd love to be a Fairy's child.

THE NEXT WAR

You young friskies who today Jump and fight in Father's hay With bows and arrows and wooden spears, Playing at Royal Welch Fusiliers, Happy though these hours you spend, Have they warned you how games end?

Boys, from the first time you prod And thrust with spears of curtain-rod, From the first time you tear and slash Your long-bows from the garden ash, Or fit your shaft with a blue jay feather, Binding the split tops together, From that same hour by fate you're bound As champions of this stony ground, Loyal and true in everything, To serve your Army and your King, Prepared to starve and sweat and die Under some fierce foreign sky, If only to keep safe those joys That belong to British boys, To keep young Prussians from the soft Scented hay of father's loft, And stop young Slavs from cutting bows And bendy spears from Welsh hedgerows.

Another War soon gets begun, A dirtier, a more glorious one; Then, boys, you'll have to play, all in; It's the cruellest team will win.

So hold your nose against the stink And never stop too long to think.

Wars don't change except in name; The next one must go just the same, And new foul tricks unguessed before Will win and justify this War.

Kaisers and Czars will strut the stage Once more with pomp and greed and rage; Courtly ministers will stop At home and fight to the last drop; By the million men will die In some new horrible agony; And children here will thrust and poke, Shoot and die, and laugh at the joke, With bows and arrows and wooden spears, Playing at Royal Welch Fusiliers.

STRONG BEER

"What do you think The bravest drink Under the sky?"

"Strong beer," said I.

"There's a place for everything, Everything, anything, There's a place for everything Where it ought to be: For a chicken, the hen's wing; For poison, the bee's sting; For almond-blossom, Spring; A beerhouse for me."

"There's a prize for every one Every one, any one, There's a prize for every one, Whoever he may be: Crags for the mountaineer, Flags for the Fusilier, For English poets, beer!

Strong beer for me!"

"Tell us, now, how and when We may find the bravest men?"

"A sure test, an easy test: Those that drink beer are the best, Brown beer strongly brewed, English drink and English food."

Oh, never choose as Gideon chose By the cold well, but rather those Who look on beer when it is brown, Smack their lips and gulp it down.

Leave the lads who tamely drink With Gideon by the water brink, But search the benches of the Plough, The Tun, the Sun, the Spotted Cow, For jolly rascal lads who pray, Pewter in hand, at close of day, "Teach me to live that I may fear The grave as little as my beer."

MARIGOLDS

With a fork drive Nature out, She will ever yet return; Hedge the flowerbed all about, Pull or stab or cut or burn, She will ever yet return.

Look: the constant marigold Springs again from hidden roots.