Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MARLBOROUGH FAIR, by MARGARET LOUISA WOODS



Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

MARLBOROUGH FAIR, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: I warr'nt our street be near so wide
Last Line: And the long down is whispering low 'goodnight.'
Alternate Author Name(s): Woods, Mrs. Margaret Louisa Bradley
Subject(s): Abandonment; Amusement Parks; Animals; Children; Churchyards; Circus; Country Dances; Country Life; Entertainers; Festivals; Fiddles; Games; Guns; Lions; Marlborough, England; Merry-go-grounds; Mourning; Musical Instruments; Night; Pleasure; Desertion; C


The Scene is the High Street of Marlborough in the forties of the Nineteenth
Century. It is a very wide street, the houses old, with redtiled or rough-cast
gables, or with the straight lines and fine mouldings of the Eighteenth Century.

A pent-house runs under the houses, supported by slight wooden pillars. At one
end the street terminates in an old Town Hall, at the other a large church with

a fine conspicuous tower, and a churchyard with secular yews, divides the
roadway in two. The street is full of the clamour and colour of a great Mob
Fair; shows, dancing-booths and stalls where all manner of goods are on sale.

A MINOR CITIZEN OF MARLBOROUGH PROLOGISES.

I WARR'NT our Street be near so wide
As London High Street, else our Fair
Would burst un. Half the country side
Do come a-pleasuring. See there?
Hunderds and Hunderds! A good few
However be n't a-come for pleasure!
Ourn be a tarrible great Fair
For hiring farmers' lads and maidies.
In washen smock and stockings blue
And in their hats their knots o' new
Gay ribbon, sit the lads a-row
By the Rose and Crown; likewise the maidies
Wi' breast-knots. Farmers and their ladies
Walk past 'em slow-like, take the measure
Of one and t'other, while their leisure
Do hang on their poor hands like lead.
Each lad do look a wooden-head
Till he be hired; then off he'll go
So sprack's a squirrel, shake a leg
In "John and Mary," stroll at ease

To see the world, how it do wag.
Lord, what a sight it be! A crowd
O' folk, most like a swarm o' bees,
Gentry wi' boys and little girlies
In pretty frocks and shining curlës,
Farmers wi' jingling pockets, proud
And full o' victuals. They be waxen
Too fat, they farmers, in these parts,
'Presses the poor man, starves un, racks un.
Their wives in Paisley shawls, wi' broad
Bosoms that bear up brooches, linger
Some goods to buy and some to finger;
Since more'n the richest can afford
Do load the stalls. Crockery and tarts,
Hardware and ribbons, pink soap hearts,
Wi' Cupids in 'em, lamps and wicks,
Good Whites and Woolseys, sugar-sticks
A-striped wi' colours, Parliament,
Pins, bulls-eyes, trumpets, jumping frogs,
And china figures—lambs and dogs,
Wenches in shifts, Shakespeare, the Dook,
And such-like things to ornament
Your chimney. Even the townsfolk throng,
And country folk have come in carts
And great slow wagons, many a long
Lone mile, or traipsed the footpath ways
By field and forest, for to look,
At Marlborough Fair. You see 'em gaze
About 'em in a kind o' maze,
Solemn-like, while the whole street's length
O' shows be sounding like a gong
Wi' dancing-booths and roundabouts
That play the organ, wi' the shouts
O' showmen, each with all his strength
A-bellowing Walk in! and vying
Wi' t'other in big boasts and lying.

Up o' the platform jugglers swaller
Daggers, and haul, yard after yard,
Out o' their throats long strips o' paper.
Dentists pull teeth, their patients holler,
Or don't—leastways to hear 'em's hard—
And dressed up foreign-fashion, quacks
Vend magic medicines, while Cheap Jacks
Drive a good trade wi' fun and patter.
Right i' the crowd, their carpet spread,
The tumblers make a ring and caper,
Stand on their own or t'other's head.
Then in a moment, such a clatter!
In comes the coach, wi' horn a-blowing.
Half squeezed to death the people scatter
Before it, while the women clutch
Their brats and scream. Down jumps a groom
To the leaders' heads, for they be going
Wi' dancing steps, don't relish much,
The Beauties!—see their rolling eyes
And skins a-quiver!—all that n'ise.
The London passengers look down
And quake; for sure there be n't much room
For they to pass. They thought our Town
Were very quiet! And true it be
When up above the din, the people,
Peering beyond the painted boat
That swings and drops, the flaunting gay
Picters that lie so bold, I see
The street-front, same as every day
Stand over pent-house gables red
With crooked lattices, it seems
Odd-like, as things fall out in dreams,
And stranger yet the tall old steeple
That takes of all our noise no note,
Or the gay Fair beneath it spread.

The Church Tower

At end of town, from churchyard yew
It lifts a high and solemn head,
The Church tower, having more to do
With quiet clouds that float and float
In heaven, than buzzing riot of ours.
The birds that hover and go by,
Seeking their business in the blue,
Heed not the Fair, but round the tower's
Gray battlements wheel in the sky.

The din we make a mile away
Is hushed, and all the heavens are still,
And the long downs where roads do climb
So steep and white up many a hill;
Shepherds that watch the passing day
Careless of us, now stoop to fill
Their ears with that far-travelling chime,
Ancient, the timeless voice of Time.

Hush! Now through the brazen blare,
The human hoarse sea-murmur of the Fair
Here and there, a little heard
And more divined, I catch the word
A man would say could he but find
The dark things moving in his mind.
I hear the souls of alien things
Chance-medley here together flings,
And spirit winds that from the loud
Uproar, breathe sometimes o'er the crowd,
Whose faces turn, a glimmering mass,
This way and that to feel them pass.

THE DANCING BOOTH

The Voice of the Fiddle

Hark, hark, hark to the gallant old fiddle!

Don't you know the fiddle's tune,
Up and down and round again?
Brings her up the middle soon,
Frolicking and found again.

Plays you round a score or two
Times, nor seems to drop a bit,
Calls for more and more o' you,
Never lets you stop a bit.

Fiddler once did ply the bow,
But the tune outwitted him.
He would hunt it high and low,
Till the devil pitied him.

Flies his elbow faster now,
He's no more the guide of it,
Fiddle-bow is master now,
Devil sits astride of it.

Nights while Fiddler swills, you may
Guess the fiddle's fun begins.
Over stream and hills away!
Everything to run begins.

Weasel armies hurry past,
Keeper's birds to Neighbour fly,
Sheep o'er downland scurry fast,
Mare and oxen labour by.

Clouds are racing, out the moon
Comes to see who revel there.
Tossing woodlands shout the tune,
Shadows chase the devil there.

Then when on your truckle-bed
Winds o' night are rocking you,
Round about your chuckle-head
Runs the fiddle, mocking you.

Hark, hark, hark to the merry old fiddle!

The Voice of the "John and Mary" Dance.

Two by two and side by side
Jog to the music, then divide
This be John and Mary.
Don't 'ee speak, there ben't no need,
But to the music pay good heed,
Nor of steps be chary.
Cast your sheep's-eyes now awhile,
Till she blush, but don't 'ee smile,
Dancing John and Mary.
You and she—What else do matter?—
Dance together. Folks who chatter
Land in some quandary.
In a shädy läne a-walkin'
Maybe you might do some talkin';
Lads be that unwary!
Paid you have and so 'twere best
Take your moneysworth, nor rest,
Dancing John and Mary.

Over the clitter-clatter of speech,
The harsh mechanic blare and rattle,
As up some bright river-reach,
Where stones and shallow water prattle,
Sweeps with whelming overpour,
Breaks a big wave of the sea—
So there sweeps across the Fair,
Savage and deep, a lion's roar.
The Voice of Africa is there,
Of primal Earth, remote, immense,
Where Life seems but a Force, a tense
Fierce elemental Will to Be.

It dies, in shallow noises drowned,
While gaping rustics listening stare,
Not knowing what it speaks or whence
It comes, that deep and alien sound.

THE WILD BEAST SHOW

The Voice of the Lions

Sleeping Lion. The dim o' the forest, the cavern dark!
Wait the drop o' the scarlet sun!
We'll up and away ere night's begun.
Oho, the glorious dark!
Day is dying above us—Hark!

Waking Lion. I have a dream. Will it never be done?

Sleeping Lion. Night on the veldt will be falling, night!
Comrade, have you no thirst to slake?
I smell, I hear the crawl o' the snake,
A monkey chatter in flight,
We too will hunt and will slay to-night!

Waking Lion. There's a thirst in my heart I may never slake.

Sleeping Lion. Shadows are creeping from boulder and bush
(Up and follow me, comrade mine!)
With eyes of fire that suddenly shine.
What speeds to the river? Hush!
Through the rustling reeds they trample and push.

Waking Lion. A nightmare of apes that chatter and whine!

Sleeping Lion. To the water, comrade! A silver space
Where stars are swimming. The draught is cool,
There's lapping and wading in shallow and pool—
Oho, how the ripples race
From the feet of the buck that are flying apace!

Waking Lion. Come nearer! A handsbreadth nearer, fool!

Sleeping Lion. Eager and soft through the rushes creep!
The big bull antelope scents around,
He is off! We are after him, bound on bound—
Oho for the flying leap
On the neck of him, claw and fang struck deep!

Waking Lion. In my dream we whimper and crawl discrowned.

Sleeping Lion. Uplift a voice in the darkness, roar
Comrade! The round Earth owns its King.
He has slain, he has come to the banqueting,
The people tremble before
His sound and are still to hear him roar.

Waking Lion. Brother, O Brother! An ape is king.

The Country Folk and the Beasts

Rebecca. Aw Etherd! Do ee smell 'em?
Etherd. Ay.
Rebecca. Thee 'sniffs as beanflower were ablow.
Etherd. It be a main queer stink surely,
And I be glad to smell un. 's know
Us couldn' get the like at home.
Rebecca. No, that us couldn'.
Showman. On the right
We next come to the Roosian bear
What hugs a man to death.
Etherd. Aw there!
'A be a gawney! Hug a man!
Rebecca. Etherd, ha' done!
Etherd. Try ef ee can——
Rebecca. No gammuting! I'd not ha' come——
Showman. The King of Beasts, whose roar at night
Would terrify you, were he free.
Rebecca. It be a wonderment to see
Alive such Bible beastës, so
As sheep or harses. Apes, I vow!
Like as the ships o' Tarshish brought
To Solomon on goolden throone——
Etherd. Be lion Scripture?
Rebecca. That 'a be!
When David were a shepherd, 's know,
'A lost a lamb along o' he.
Etherd. Reynard! And Huntsman, säme as now,
I warr'nt found cause to pay un nought.
Rebecca. Nay! By the beard, King David caught
The lion and smote him——
Etherd. By the beard!
'A were a Nat'ral! Proper! That
Ben't how to catch 'em. By the scruff.
I wonder now 'a weren't afeared.
Dall it, be venturesome enuff
To handle dogs, vighting or veeding.
To Measter, 's know, I put it pat.
"Etherd," says he, "Jus' go and haul
Yon dog o' Miller's off. Tray's bleeding."
"Measter," says I, "I don't a-care
To touch yon dog." "Why not, saaft-poll?"
Says he, "The dog 'a knows thee." "Ay,
And I knows dog—that's reason why—"
I says it pat—" I knows he well.
That's reason why."
Rebecca. Both lion and bear
King David smote, the Scriptures tell,
And slew them——
Etherd. [sulkily]. Then volks weren't the same
In Bible landës.
Rebecca. Nay, small bläme
To thee! But Tray ben't killed?
Etherd. Not he!
Pounceful 'a ben't, yet bin 'a must,
Fights like a good un—säme as me.
Camel. Umph, umph!
Give me a quartern of desert dust!
Neighbours, a hard life I have led,
But sun there was and sand in the East,
And a toothsome meal when I was fed.
All past and gone! But they might at least——
Rebecca. Be all more like a picture-book
Than aught o' real.
Etherd. An ugly beast!
Rebecca. Camel, he be.
Etherd. Well, he do look
A Peter Grievous, to be shower!
Camel. Umph, umph!
Few are our days on the wretched Earth
And dark, but I tasted a moment's mirth
Once in Damascus.
Rebecca. O my vlower!
Etherd! My hat! Camel have snatch un!
Etherd. Varmint!
Showman. What made yer get so near?
Just let me come.
Etherd. That's right, Zir, catch un
Athirt the muzzle.
Camel. Umph! Don't bother!
I've spewed the thing out
Rebecca. Dear, O dear!
My vlower be sp'ilte!
Etherd. There now! They'll match un
At Harr'son's—thee shall have another.
Camel. No sympathy felt for me, that's clear,
Though the thing was a fraud—disgraceful! Well,
At least I have made the creature yell
Almost as loud—almost as loud—
Damascus! The hot, aromatic smell
Of the dim bazaar—with a noiseless tread
We pace in file thro' a turbaned crowd.
He sits in his shop; I turn my head
Silently. Nip! Like a rotten stick
The bone of his arm broke twice. The trick
Was good. Ah me! I was young and gay.
Umph, umph!
Showman. The lions have not been fed to-day,
But a Negro Chief who knows not fear,
Will enter now these lions' cage.
Etherd. A gallus chap 'a must be!
Rebecca. O
Etherd! I don't a-care to stay
And see un.
Etherd. [with indignant surprise]. Wants to go away
Afore he——? No, Rebecca, no!
Showman. You'll see this noble Black appear
Taming the lions for all their rage.
Etherd. See un down there? I'd not do such
Voolhardy thing.
Sambo. [to Showman's wife]. Missus, dey bite—
Sambo in debbil of a fright.
Showman's wife. I'll give yer courage. Tho' 'tis Dutch
'Twill warm your heart. Ain't it a treat!
You'd never get French brandy neat
But for them brutes.
Sambo. De lions will drink it
Out of my heart.
Showman's wife. Never you think it!
They know your thoughts, so bear in mind
Them pokers in my fire behind.
Sambo. O Brandy Spirit, make me bold
As Daniel in de den!
Etherd. Be cold
And all of a garn wi' sweat. I touch
'A's hand. Thee be a stupe! Don't hide
Thee's feäce and never see'n inside.

The Lions. Brother, he comes!
Prepare, prepare!
Not again he escapes—
Tear him, tear!
What do we fear?
Neither hoof nor paw
Has the pitiful one,
Neither fang nor claw.
Leap on him, leap,
Fell him and tear
The sweet flesh of him—
Ah, he is there!
His eye, brother,
Is a strange thing.
In his white eye
Is a red red sting,
And I must crawl,
Brother, I must,
Tho' the rage in my throat
Is dry like dust.

Showman. As tame as dawgs they do their tricks,
Look at 'em jumping over sticks.
Sambo. Not dat way, Caesar! Here, Sah!
The Voice of the Whip. Crack!
The snake shall sting you, belly and back.

The Lions. Brother, escape
Only the horrible
Eyes of the ape.
Didst thou but so,
Then were we bold,
Then should we leap,
Fell him and keep,
Claw him and hold,
Then should we know
Wretchedest shape,
Powerless and weak,
Hauled by the nape,
Screaming in fear,
Him—but an ape.

Sambo. [loud]. Ober de stick! Ober de stick!
[low] Debbils! De irons dey burn you quick!
Showman. Out of the cage now safe and sound
Will leap our noble-hearted Black
And ask of your kindness——
Sambo. My limbs do quake!
How shall I turn me! De Spirit make
Dere blood as water, as brandy mine!
Showman. ——to drink your health in a glass of wine.
Sambo. Ober and done again! Ober de horror!
Showman. ——to-night again, also to-morrer.
Rebecca. Lion! At the bars how he do bound
O Lord! them great red roaring jaws!
Etherd. Ha' done! Be worse than lion's, your claws.

THE LITTLE GIRL AND THE PERFORMING PONY

A little circle in a little tent,
All warm and dim, but through a rent,
A sunbeam looks, entering to light
Upon the hair and cheek and white
Frock of a little girl and just
Tease her with dance of golden dust.
Falls on a pony, too, in flitters
A dog-like pony, rough and low
And black, with eye that rolls and glitters,
Blue-white at edge, following intent
His Master's meaning with the slow
Beat of a hoof, or bow of sage
And serious head. Four-footed mage,
How patiently he makes reply!
"Who likes the ladies?" "What's her age?"
And, "What's o'clock?" Indifferently
He tells, nor troubles what you ask,
Scenting the oats behind the task.

The little girl. Little pony, lovely pony, if I had you for my
own——
Pony. What would you do?
Little girl. Jump on your little back, of course, and canter off alone.

Pony. Where would you go?
Little girl. Down the street and in, pony, where the gates are open
wide,
There'd be shadows on the lawn there, and not a soul beside.
Pony. So they tell you.
Little girl. Down the green garden ways, dear, where I'm not allowed to

ride.
Pony. Oh Missie! Oh!
Little girl. The weary flowers would smile at us, the merry flowers
would nod,
To the patter of your pretty hoofs, that never mark the sod.
Pony. You'll get the stick.
Little girl. We should gallop round the meadow, dear, as fast as you
could lay
Your little legs to ground; they're far too short to run away.
Pony. When I want, they're very quick.
Little girl. I'd never tire you much, dear, because we'd sit and play
In the corner of the haystack, among the lovely hay.
Pony. Pulling at the rick?
Little girl. I'd be your Master then, you with wise and watching eyes
Listening grave to all I asked, would bow and stamp replies.
Questions no one answers you would answer, surely, being wise.
Pony. Do you know the trick?
Little girl. How old is Fraulein Krebs? Think! She don't remember,
dear!
You should tell me, and I'd write it in her diary, large and clear.
Pony. Little girl, you're nine.
Little girl. I would house you as a hunter's housed, in a loose-box
like a room,
Straw for bedding, oats to eat, and at morning-time a groom
Should with hissing entertain you while he put you on a shine,
Little pony, lovely pony, if only you were mine.

Pony. Come! You're talking stuff.
Little girls are nice enuff,
But how much notice do people take
Of promises they make?
I'm older, and I know well
It's fairy-tales, the things you tell.
A little girl could never learn
Me a trick to earn
My living, that I can see.
But Master, wise is he
And powerful, doing the thing he wills.
Grooms they sit in buttoned coats
Whipping ponies up hills.
My Master helps behind.
Sweet is my sieve of oats,
Good to roll upon a bed
Of bracken deep and dead,
Where the green hollies grow.
Up in the oaks the wind
Frets; I am snug below.
Couched in the tent together
Drowse we in wild weather
Patiently, he and I.
Horses that shine as glass,
Grooms-well, they're not my class.
Thank you, Missie. Good-bye.

SHOOTING FOR COKER-NUTS

Plucked by many a dusky hand
Were these and rolled on a tropic shore
Of scarlet blossom and silver sand,
Where the black men sit and nurse their knees
And stare idly at blue seas.

Now these coker-nuts roll on the floor,
Of Marlborough High Street in a pile
Before the painted shooting-range.
And here as there in the far and strange
Country, they're making somebody's living.
Over them see a matron smile,
Swarthy and handsome and broad of face
'Twixt the banded brown of her glossy hair.
In her ears are shining silver rings,
Her head and massive throat are bare,
She needs good length in her apron strings
And has a jolly voice and loud
To cry her wares and draw the crowd.

The Show-woman. Fine Coker-nuts! My lads we're giving
Clean away! Who wants to win 'em?
Fresh Coker-nuts! The milk's yet in 'em.
Come boys! Only a penny a shot,
Three nuts if you hit and the fun if not.
1st lad. Why thur now! O' vire-arms I be n't no lover.
The pop of a gun do make I skip.
Other lads. Gawney!
[Several shoot and all miss.]

2nd lad. The gun ha' beat this trip.
3rd lad. Do seem to toss the shot fair over.

1st lad. To right.
3rd lad. Thee try and thee'll discover.
The Voice of the gun. Bang! Bang!
You pay your penny and you make your noise.
Ha, ha! The little gun has beaten you, boys.
Lads. Here comes Dick Manders, keeper's son.
A gallus chap!
1st lad. A gallus cap,
Wi' ribbin tails, an' stuck awry.
3rd lad. Be Scotch cap saöme as gentry wear un.
Lads. Hi, Dicky! Have a shot now, Dicky!
You're one to shoot! He be that tricky,
The Coker-nut-shy, us ha'n't got one.
Now do ee shoot!
Dicky. I can't get near un.
Here, give it us. I'll have a try.
Show-woman. Ay, Sir, you know how to handle a gun!
You'll ruin me fair.
1st lad. Thee'll vire too high.
Lads. Thee mind thy business. Dicky knows his.

[Dicky fires and misses.]

Dicky. Dall it! This gun be a crooked one.
Show-woman. Try again, Sir. You'll soon take its measure.

[Dicky fires again and nearly hits.]

The Voice of the gun. Bang! Bang!
You pay your penny and take what you get.
Clever little gun will beat you yet.
Dicky (to the gun). I tell ee whatever, if Coker-nut-shy
Be cunning and clever it shan't best I.
[Fires twice, more wide of the mark each time.]

The Voice of the gun.
Bang! Bang!
Chap proposes,
Gun disposes
Of shot and chap.
Dicky. Dang the old gun!
1st lad. Thee vires too high.
Point low, to left.
Dicky. Suppose you try.
Lads. Saaft-poll! Be thee a-teachin o' we?
Be afeared to shoot?
1st lad. Don't take no pleasure
In shot-guns. But as good as he
Can vire an' miss—in my old hat.

[Shoots and hits the mark.]

The Voice of the gun. Bang! Bang!
Once in a while I make it easy,
Because my old girl's bound to please ye.
Lads. Dall it! He've hit! He've hit the mark.
3rd lad. Might ha' done it as well i' the dark.
Dicky. If ee'll hit un again I'll give ee a fairin.
1st lad. [Taking nuts from the Show-woman.]
No thank ee. The lady be doin' that.
For vire-arms I never was one for carin',
But I don't a-mind cuttin' a comb—or a Scotch cap.
Lads. Just hark to un, Dicky! If he be n't darin'!
For the likes o' he—
Dicky. I don't care a rap.

THE MERRY-GO-ROUND

Merry-go-round is a-turning, turning!
What will you mount upon, where will you ride?
Merry-go-round is a-turning!
Where the gilded chariots glide
Merry-go-round is a-calling, calling,
Where the galloping horses arch in pride
Their elegant necks with manes a-flowing
And scarlet nostrils bravely glowing,
The dapple and white, the black and the bay.
The organ is high over every sound,
You can hear it calling a mile away,
It is whirling its galloping tune around
While the Merry-go-round is turning, turning!

Whither away goes the Merry-go-round,
Busily whirling, dizzily whirling?
Say, on its narrow circle of ground,
Fast or slow though it go, it abides
And the company giddily, giddily glides.
Dabs of colour, red country faces,
A crimson feather, a grass-green sash,
The white of a dress or a bonnet flash,
Appear, disappear, and return again,
Like beads on a rapid revolving chain
That is tense with the force of its own motion,
Busily whirling, dizzily whirling.

Yet with the wheel of the merry-go-round
On manifold roads do the riders travel,
On wonderful ways, in marvellous places.
They have drunk of a wind like a wizard's potion,
And the spin of the wheel to a rush and a ravel
Of colour and noise, a skein unwound
Rapidly, something meaningless, blurred,
Transforms the eddying Fair's commotion,
While the Merry-go-round, the Merry-go-round
Is turning, turning.

Over meadow and fallow with horn and hound
Goes the galloping gray of the farmer's boy,
And the soldier's son with a valorous joy
On the enemy's roaring guns has spurred
His bay, and the couple at ease in the yellow
And azure car—the peony pride
Of the sweetheart, the grin of the rustic fellow!—
Are riding like gentlefolks in a carriage,
The church-bells ring in a downland village,
And he is the bridegroom and she the bride.
On a white steed, with a bridle of gold,
The child in the broidery frock is flying.
Beneath her the suns of the world have rolled
And she sees enchanted countries lying,
With palm and minaret, fairy and Djinn,
Beautiful ladies and palace halls
Where the gold-fish swim, and no foot falls
And a king half marble throned therein.

But the Merry-go-round is turning, turning
Slower; until as a chain drops slack
When the speed of it fails, in a moment, back
The riders suddenly come, descend
Amazed that the journey should have an end
And they be standing upon the ground.
But the Merry-go-round, the Merry-go-round
Above them still will be turning, turning.

Like the wheel of Life it is turning, turning,
While they wondering stand, with a burden new,
It is off and away with a brave young crew.
Watch how forth overhead they are faring,
Mounted and glorious, proudly staring,
O'er the humbled world they leave behind.
They are swinging the way-worn circle round,
Busily whirling, dizzily whirling,
They are swift on the tide, they are sailing the wind,
To shores where never a ship was bound,
To the Fortunate Isles that will never be found,
On the track of the stars that are yet to find,
Busily whirling, dizzily whirling
On the Merry-go-round, the Merry-go-round.

But hardly the journey appears begun
And the riders firm in the saddle seated
When the flying circles are all completed,
The riders are down, and the journey is done.
Staring they stand, while away with its new
Spirited, arrogant, splendid crew,
The Merry-go-round is turning, turning.

At evening, with the rising of the moon
And redder than the moon, begins to hover
A glare over the unwonted street and over
The thickening hoarse confusion of the Fair.

Hark, Hark! Hurrying from the osiered river
And tangled hollows where they lair at noon,
A patter of hoofs, a shuffle of the bare
Broad feet of some huge semi-bestial rover!
The gross Immortals of the Earth break cover,
With panting chuckle run towards the Fair.

Soon shall bewildered shadows toss and waver
Hither and thither, fleeing from the red
Leap o' the naked flame, flare upon flare,
In whose harsh radiance out of darkness pushes
Fiercely distinct, each rude fire-painted head
O' the gazing crowd—till back the darkness rushes.
Lo, visioned in a momentary glare,
Once and again some shape portentous rises,
Ageless, renewed. The Immortal gods are there,
Wallowing Silenus reels in fresh disguises,
With rustic jowls the masked Satyrs stare
And grin about illumined booths, aware
Of the young nymphs, their old appointed prizes.

THE VOICE OF THE ALE-HOUSE

Drink and drink, you country fellow!
Fool, your time and coin to waste!
Hark how the wise men sit here quaffing
Ale, in every glass they taste
Lurks a jest to keep them laughing, laughing, laughing.
Come and drink, you country fellow!

What would you pay for? Pleasure, pleasure!
Here you'll find it, here's no lie.
Pay you may for idle staring—
Out you come with an empty eye.
Pay you may for a tune and a little
Shake of a leg, or a fairing brittle.
Ale's the good the golden fairing!
Haste! I'll fill you high with pleasure, pleasure, pleasu re.
Come and drink, you country fellow.

Day by day, you country fellow,
Dull as beasts, with them you bide.
Ay, but the beasts have food and housing
Better than for you the gods provide.
Brutes would mock you could they think,
Till they saw you here carousing, carousing, carousing,
Till they saw how a man can drink.

All your days, you country fellow,
Still the self-same way you've spent.
Only a note you're sounding, sounding,
On another's instrument.
Take your holiday, make your holiday,
Now's your turn to call the tune.

Take your moneysworth, full measure,
Till you dance with stars and moon.
Songs at home you fear to troll,
Roar 'em loud for all men's pleasure, pleasure, pleasure.
Squire nor parson shall control
Here, your body nor yet your soul,
You're the master, country fellow.

Heed no more the foolish fiddle,
List the tune of the glasses' chink.
What of a maid will you win by dancing?
Bring your wenches here to drink.
Drink and set the street a-dancing, dancing, dancing,
Set the church-tower running up the middle,
To a tune your ears shall hum,
Jollier far than flute or fiddle.
Steal away, you starers! Come,
Come and drink, you country fellow!

GOODNIGHT

Now on the town and on the down is falling
Twilight in purple folds and in the failing
Day, the long-lifting high-ways glimmer white,
And black the homeward people, up them faring.
'Goodnight,' the weary homeward people say,
And back from cart and wagon voices calling,
Answer 'Goodnight' from near and far away,
Echo along the darkening down 'Goodnight.'

The Hunter's Moon over the stream has risen,
A gleam among the poplars then a vision,
Large and serene behind their lattice frail.
The town deep down grows fiery in the vale.
Stealthily night draws on, but light in heaven
Lingers, a pure translucent spirit of day.

Here on the height, seeming of shadows woven,
Shadowless shapes, wayfarers go their way:
And deep deep in the valley peers the tower
Sinking below the vaporous seas of even.
With solemn clang the reverberating hour
Strikes, and the curfew bell begins to say,
Unto the soul, "Thus do I toll the day
Down where days lie, and none may back be given."

The Voice of the Church Tower

Time do I tell,
The hours in their succession,
Sound I their knell
And their resurrection.

Time know I not,
Centuries and seasons.
Deeper men forgot
Have set me my foundations.

Stand I nor change,
Tho' as clouds above me,
Mobile and strange
Passes Life below me.

I the hour of birth
Sounded, I to bridal
This heaped earth
Summoned, and to burial;

Parcelled out their days
In their time of labour,
Called to God's praise,
To waking and to slumber.

Now to you men,
For all your new devices,
Speak I as then,
Nor change with your disguises.

Need have I none
To alter, while with wailing
Life is begun
And goeth out with mourning.

The old Hours I dole,
The former admonitions.
Deep in the soul
Of man are my foundations.

Chill and more chill upon the hill deserted
Mingle the fluid shadows and vague moonlight,
Silence absorbs the last long curfew-chime,
The downs are faintly sighing to the night
With that mysterious voice whose whisper haunted
Their hollows and their temples of old time.

And now I know how long ago it faded
That day, which seemed a moment since yet here,
A ghost out of the abyss of time ascended,
A ghost long lost out of some buried year.
The wheels that ground the flinty dust are still,
The trudging steps have passed over the hill,
Towards no kind cottage hearth to disappear;
But on to the ultimate void, where hang suspended
Sounds that will strike no more on earthly ear,
Sights that from earthly eyes are banished.

I have beheld in silver eld their faces
Who then were lusty and young, have seen them go
Pleased in their comely ancient country dresses;
Have heard familiarly their chanting slow
Speech in grey villages of the flooded vale
Or on the downs' wan beautiful wildernesses,
Where stands the wheeled hut—while to and fro
Ran the dark shepherd dog and far off fleeces
Of wandered flocks in the low light were pale.

Day after day they have passed away and ended
Their time-worn world, held in the hills' grey fold;
They are gone, they are silent, none again shall know
Their speech or aspect in their former places.
They are one with the majestic Past, they are blended
In pale procession with dim nameless races,
Whose monuments brooding in the waste behold
The secular change of stars. Along the height
The solemn pageant rolls. They all are gone,
And the long down is whispering low 'Goodnight.'





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