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Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon

day clearUp the pass that packs the scud beneath our

wheel Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom

sheerDown 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

aloneCommon tunes that make you choke and

blow your nose,

Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that brings the

groanI 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 myPlunka - 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 myTa-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

[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 truthI, the joy of life unquestioned—I, the Greek

I, the everlasting Wonder Song of Youth!

With myTinka-tinka-linka-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

'eedsThe 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 Ports-

mouth Ard; Anythin' for business, anwe'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.

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