The widow and the orphan

That pray for ten per cent,
They clapped their trailers on us
Το spy the road we went.
They watched the foreign sailings
(They scan the shipping still),
And that's your Christian people
Returning good for ill!

God bless the thoughtful islands
Where never warrants come;
God bless the just Republics
That give a man a home,
That ask no foolish questions,
But set him on his feet;

And save his wife and daughters

From the workhouse and the street!

On church and square and market
The noonday silence falls;
You'll hear the drowsy mutter
Of the fountain in our halls.

Asleep amid the yuccas

The city takes her ease

Till twilight brings the land-wind
To the clicking jalousies.

Day long the diamond weather,
The high, unaltered blue-

The smell of goats and incense

And the mule-bells tinkling through.

Day long the warder ocean

That keeps us from our kin,

And once a month our levee

When the English mail comes in.

You'll find us up and waiting

To treat you at the bar;

For they are English ground.

We sail o' nights to England

And join our smiling Boards;
Our wives go in with Viscounts
And our daughters dance with Lords:
But behind our princely doings,
And behind each coup we make,
We feel there's Something Waiting,
And we meet It when we wake.

Ah God! One sniff of England -
To greet our flesh and blood
To hear the hansoms slurring
Once more through London mud!

Our towns of wasted honour

Our streets of lost delight!

How stands the old Lord Warden?

Are Dover's cliffs still white?

THE SONG OF THE BANJO

1894

You could n't pack a Broadwood half a mile —

You must n't leave a fiddle in the damp-
You could n't raft an organ up the Nile,
And play it in an Equatorial swamp.

I travel with the cooking-pots and pails

I'm sandwiched 'tween the coffee and the pork

And when the dusty column checks and tails,

You should hear me spur the rearguard to a walk!

With my "Pilly-willy-winky-winky popp!

[Oh, it's any tune that comes into my head!]
So I keep 'em moving forward till they drop;
So I play 'em up to water and to bed.

In the silence of the camp before the fight,

When it's good to make your will and say your prayer,
You can hear my strumpty-tumpty overnight,
Explaining ten to one was always fair.
I'm the Prophet of the Utterly Absurd,
Of the Patently Impossible and Vain -
And when the Thing that Could n't has occurred,
Give me time to change my leg and go again.

With my " Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tum-pa tump!"

In the desert where the dung-fed camp-smoke curled. There was never voice before us till I led our lonely chorus, I the war-drum of the White Man round the world!

By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread,
Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own,
'Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed,

In the silence of the herder's hut alone
In the twilight, on a bucket upside down,
Hear me babble what the weakest won't confess
I am Memory and Torment - I am Town!
I am all that ever went with evening dress!

With my "Tunk-a tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!”
[So the lights - the London Lights
plain !]

grow near and

So I rowel 'em afresh towards the Devil and the Flesh,
Till I bring my broken rankers home again.

In desire of many marvels over sea,

Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars,
I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay
Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger shores.

He is blooded to the open and the sky,

He is taken in a snare that shall not fail, He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die, Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale.

With my "Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah! Haul!" [Oh the green that thunders aft along the deck!] Are you sick o' towns and men? You must sign and sail again,

For it's "Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!"

Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon-day clear
Up the pass that packs the scud beneath our wheel-
Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom sheer
Down the valley with our guttering brakes asqueal:
Where the trestle groans and quivers in the snow,
Where the many-shedded levels loop and twine,
Hear me lead my reckless children from below
Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine.

With my

"Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!"

[Oh the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and crest!]

And we ride the iron stallions down to drink,

Through the cañons to the waters of the West!

And the tunes that means so much to you alone

Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose,
Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that brings the groan
I can rip your very heartstrings out with those;
With the feasting, and the folly, and the fun-
And the lying, and the lusting, and the drink,

And the merry play that drops you, when you're done,
To the thoughts that burn like irons if you think.

With my

"Plunka-lunka-lunka-lunka-lunk!" Here's a trifle on account of pleasure past,

Ere the wit that made you win gives you eyes to see your

sin

And the heavier repentance at the last!

Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof

-

I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man!
Let the trumpets snare the foeman to the proof —
I have known Defeat, and mocked it as we ran!
My bray ye may not alter nor mistake

When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things,
But the Song of Lost Endeavour that I make,
Is it hidden in the twanging of the strings?

With my

[Is it naught to you that hear and pass me by?] But the word the word is mine, when the order moves the line

And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die!

The grandam of my grandam was the Lyre

[O the blue below the little fisher-huts!]

That the Stealer stooping beachward filled with fire,
Till she bore my iron head and ringing guts!

By the wisdom of the centuries I speak

To the tune of yestermorn I set the truth

I, the joy of life unquestioned I, the Greek-
I, the everlasting Wonder Song of Youth!

With my

"Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!"

[What d'ye lack, my noble masters? What d'ye lack?]

So I draw the world together link by link:

Yea, from Delos up to Limerick and back!