Rebel Verses

Anywhere but Here

 
Anywhere but here, Ned,
Any bloomin hole,
Golly! if it aint like tearin
Body from yer soul!
War's a bloomin sight too wearin:
Home for William Towl!
 
 
Once I uster think our village
Took the prize for dead,
Now I know it wor a Para-
-dise around me head;
Don't I wish as I could see it —
Just a minute – Ned!
 
 
Did I iver cuss my luck
Fer comin' fore the Bench;
Doin what I did fer poachin,
Arter this ole trench
Would be like a holiday
At seaside wi' a wench.
 
 
This is Hell, boy, don't ferget it,
Hell wi'out the fun,
Let me see a plough agen
An you can ev my gun;
You'll hear me shout across the sea
When this damn war is done.
 

The East Wind

 
The Spring was mild, the air was warm,
All green the things upon the farm,
The corn put forth its tender sprout,
The daffodils came bursting out;
Above the hedge, in skimming flight,
The blackbird hardly touched the light,
Whilst in the meadows lush and green
The lambs and foals at play were seen;
When suddenly the wind turned round
And blew across from 'Deadman's Ground'
(Where Farmer Rogers caught his wife
And killed her with a carving knife)
The oldest labourers about,
Who read the weather inside out,
Say, when it comes from out that quarter,
You know it's nothing else but slaughter;
For when it blows from there by night
It fills the animals with fright,
And when it blows from there by day
It drives your happiness away;
It nips the fruit, it starves the corn,
And everything that's newly born;
It sweeps the land with icy breath,
And strikes all growing things with death.
The farmer feels his liver growl,
And soon his children start to howl,
Until they wonder why the weather
Can fill a man wi' crazy blether;
He kicks his dog, then rushes out
To sack his foreman with a shout,
Growls at his wife, and scolds his daughter
Because the ducks have left the water;
He sees the wrack upon the wing,
And feels his life a wasted thing.
The labourers, with wrinkled faces,
Are keeping in the shady places,
Afraid of wind and master, too,
And very careful what they do.
Down in the fields, with backs all hunched,
The horses and the cattle, bunched,
Stand by the hedge to miss the blast
That wails and whines and whistles past;
Their coats are ruffled wrong way round,
Because it blows off 'Deadman's Ground';
Their tails are down, their eyes are dull,
And quiet is the angry bull.
But yet the sky is bright and blue
With everything of clearest hue,
The Wolds are close enough to feel:
Their trees and houses cut in steel:
The sun is tempting with a smile,
The wind is slaying with a knife,
(It aggravated Rogers' bile —
He killed himself upon his wife)
It kills the young, it kills the old,
It fells the timid with the bold;
Swift as a flash, hard as a stone,
Sharp as a flint, dry as a bone,
It pierces you without a sound,
The blast that comes from 'Deadman's Ground':
For when the wind is in the East
It's neither fit for man nor beast.
 

Peter Wray

 
No more I hear the waters roar,
Roused at the comin' of the bore,
No more the river turns agen,
To sweep across the level fen;
No more the winds in fury ride
Along the marshes wild and wide
Afore the risin' of the tide:
The waters roam no more.
 
 
No more I wade along the fen
For heron or for water hen,
Nor hug the bottom of my boat
As to the feeding ducks I'd float;
Nor ambushed laay wi' rovin' eye
To watch like specks agen the sky
The wild geese circlin' on high:
The waters roam no more.
 
 
No more I creep, nor crouchin', run,
Nor trail my owd long-barrelled gun
Nor listen 'ow the water laps
About my sunken fishin' traps;
'Tis eighty year sin, as a boy,
I first 'elped at the duck decoy,
An' now – I know but little joy:
The waters roam no more.
 
 
My feyther knew the hidden ways,
Across the waste and marshy maze,
He knew each haunt of bird an' fish,
An' how to find 'em at his wish;
While sometimes in his punt he'd sing
Until the reedy dykes'd ring,
But now's the end of everything:
The waters roam no more.
 
 
When, on a stormy winter's night
There stirs a noise, or sudden light,
I lay an' pant, to hear 'em shout
In panic 'coz the water's out;
For long I look, an' anxious strain;
Alas! my hope is allers vain,
An' sad I go to sleep again:
The waters roam no more.
 
 
No more the waters roam the land,
But hid away on every hand
Are led in channels to the sea,
Instead of flowin' fancy free,
Instead of roarin' fierce an' wild
The same as when I wor a child,
They creep imprisoned an' defiled:
The waters roam no more.
 

Oh Fools

 
Oh Fools! who plough, with hunger faint;
Who reap the harvest, lacking grain;
Oh Sheep! who offer no complaint;
Oh Worms! who dare not turn again.
 
 
The farmer leads the best of lives,
His food pours in: abundant feast;
Full fed upon your sweat he thrives;
And you – and you – are but a beast!
 
 
Each day you tend the growing corn,
'The ox shall not be muzzled' – True!
All animals must have their turn;
But less than any beast are you!
 
 
The horse is stabled, dry and warm,
His food is measured, manger-full;
The sheep is valued on the farm,
A price is found for meat and wool.
 
 
You – you are but a working man!
Your wages run from day to day,
Your wife and brood live as they can;
They count for no return of pay.
 
 
Old age creeps o'er your wrinkled face,
Your shoulders droop toward the soil;
When, faltering, you leave the race,
The workhouse well repays your toil.
 
 
Oh piteous soul! with none to care,
At length they recognize your worth;
And England yields, herself, your share:
A pauper grave in Mother Earth.
 

Elfin Dancer

 
Beneath unfathomable seas,
Deeper than dreams,
Sounder than sleep,
Beyond the magic of the trees
Where never light nor gladness gleams,
Where neither life nor love can glow;
There, you lie low:
Frozen, encased in crystal shape,
Enwrapped, enmeshed by claws that gape;
And not until you start from sleep
May you be drawn from cavern deep,
And never till the earth has quaked
Can you from fairy trance be waked.
 
 
You dance!
You dance on tiptoe!
Up from the grave of withered fears,
The earth wind, rushing in your ears,
Spirit of joy and youth, most fair,
Crowned by your wonder-loosened hair;
You dance!
You dance on tiptoe!
The grass just bending at your feet,
The earth untouched, as fairy-fleet
Onward you go,
Upward you flow,
Up through the leaves, a spiral flame,
A tongue of fire, with arrow-aim,
Whose mystic essence inter-blending
Flows in a torrent never ending;
Through that strange tree whose blossoms pale
Wreathe, lily-like, a bridal veil!
(Mysterious tree, whose knotted base
Scarce bears the ardour of your chase!)
Emerging thence by rapture swayed
You rise from leafy ambuscade
Poised in the ether, to and fro,
One moment, hesitating – so —
Flashing from elfin eyes one glance
Still on tiptoe
You dance!
You dance!
 
 
Oh! earth-born spirit!
Swift wonder child of flame;
The essence of your being,
Dull human eyes, unseeing,
Can never hope to tame;
You may be worshipped from afar!
By faith, by hope, we see the star
From whence, you came:
Fleet as the wind amongst the hills
Your spirit listeth as it wills;
Oh Pagan huntress, chaste and wild,
You dwell amongst us, undefiled!
But if we falter at your door
At one false step your shrine, before
One discord note, one word awry
You vanish straight from human eye:
The earth unfolds herself to seize,
Your laughter echoes in the trees;
And you are known no more.