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,

So I lead my reckless children from below
Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine.

With my "Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!''
[And the axe has cleared the mountain,
croup and crest!]

So we ride the iron stallions down to drink,
Through the cañons to the waters of the
West!

And the tunes that mean 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

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 "Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!

[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— 10 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 truth1, the joy of life unquestioned-I, the GreekI, 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!

"THE LINER SHE'S A LADY."

THE Liner she's a lady, 'an she never looks nor 'eeds

The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, an' 'e gives 'er all she needs;

But. oh, the little cargo-boats, that sail the wet seas roun',

They're just the same as you an' me a-plyin' up an' down!

Plyin' up an' down, Jenny, 'angin' round the

Yard,

All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth 'Ard;

Anythin' for business, an' we're growin' oldPlyin' up an' down, Jenny, waitin' in the

cold!

The Liner she's a lady by the paint upon 'er face, An' if she meets an accident they call it sore dis

grace:

The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, and 'e's always

'andy by,

But, oh, the little cargo-boats! they've got to load or die.

The Liner she's a lady, and 'er route is cut an'

dried;

The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, an' 'e always keeps

beside;

But, oh, the little cargo-boats that 'aven't any

man!

They've got to do their business first, and make the most they can.

The Liner she's a lady, and if a war should

come,

The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, and 'e'd bid 'er stay

at home;

But, oh, the little cargo-boats that fill with every

tide!

'E'd 'ave to up an' fight for them, for they are England's pride.

The Liner she's a lady, but if she wasn't made, There still would be the cargo-boats for 'ome an'

foreign trade.