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1894
YOU couldn’t pack a Broadwood half a mile— | |
| You mustn’t leave a fiddle in the damp— | |
| You couldn’t raft an organ up the Nile, | |
| And play it in an Equatorial swamp. | |
| I travel with the cooking-pots and pails— | 5 |
| 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! | |
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| With my “Pilly-willy-winky-winky-popp!” | |
| [Oh, it’s any tune that comes into my head!] | 10 |
| So I keep ’em moving forward till they drop; | |
| So I play ’em up to water and to bed. | |
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| 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, | 15 |
| 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 Couldn’t has occurred, | |
| Give me time to change my leg and go again. | 20 |
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| With my “Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-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! | |
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| By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread, | 25 |
| 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— | 30 |
| I am Memory and Torment—I am Town! | |
| I am all that ever went with evening dress! | |
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| With my “Tunka-tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!” | |
| [So the lights—the London Lights—grow near and plain!] | |
| So I rowel ’em afresh towards the Devil and the Flesh, | 35 |
| Till I bring my broken rankers home again. | |
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| 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. | 40 |
| 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. | |
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| With my “Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah! Haul!” | 45 |
| [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!” | |
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| Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon-day clear— | |
| Up the pass that packs the scud beneath our wheel— | 50 |
| 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 | 55 |
| 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! | 60 |
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| 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— | 65 |
| 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. | |
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| With my “Plunka-lunka-lunka-lunka-lunk!” | |
| Here’s a trifle on account of pleasure past, | 70 |
| Ere the wit that made you win gives you eyes to see your sin | |
| And—the heavier repentance at the last! | |
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| Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof— | |
| I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man! | |
| Let the trumpet snare the foeman to the proof— | 75 |
| 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? | 80 |
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| 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! | |
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| The grandam of my grandam was the Lyre— | 85 |
| [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— | 90 |
| I, the joy of life unquestioned—I, the Greek— | |
| I, the everlasting Wonder-song of Youth! | |
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| 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: | 95 |
| Yea, from Delos up to Limerick and back! | |
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