Part 24

THE old coach-road through a common of furze, With knolls of pine, ran white; Berries of autumn, with thistles, and burrs, And spider-threads, droop’d in the light.

The light in a thin blue veil peered sick; The sheep grazed close and still; The smoke of a farm by a yellow rick Curled lazily under a hill.

No fly shook the round of the silver net; No insect the swift bird chased; Only two travellers moved and met Across that hazy waste.

One was a girl with a babe that throve, Her ruin and her bliss; One was a youth with a lawless love, Who clasped it the more for this.

The girl for her babe hummed prayerful speech; The youth for his love did pray; Each cast a wistful look on each, And either went their way.

THE BEGGAR’S SOLILOQUY

NOW, this, to my notion, is pleasant cheer, To lie all alone on a ragged heath, Where your nose isn’t sniffing for bones or beer, But a peat-fire smells like a garden beneath. The cottagers bustle about the door, And the girl at the window ties her strings. She’s a dish for a man who’s a mind to be poor; Lord! women are such expensive things.

We don’t marry beggars, says she: why, no: It seems that to make ’em is what you do; And as I can cook, and scour, and sew, I needn’t pay half my victuals for you. A man for himself should be able to scratch, But tickling’s a luxury:—love, indeed! Love burns as long as the lucifer match, Wedlock’s the candle! Now, that’s my creed.

III

The church-bells sound water-like over the wheat; And up the long path troop pair after pair. The man’s well-brushed, and the woman looks neat: It’s man and woman everywhere! Unless, like me, you lie here flat, With a donkey for friend, you must have a wife: She pulls out your hair, but she brushes your hat. Appearances make the best half of life.

You nice little madam! you know you’re nice. I remember hearing a parson say You’re a plateful of vanity pepper’d with vice; You chap at the gate thinks t’ other way. On his waistcoat you read both his head and his heart: There’s a whole week’s wages there figured in gold! Yes! when you turn round you may well give a start: It’s fun to a fellow who’s getting old.

Now, that’s a good craft, weaving waistcoats and flowers, And selling of ribbons, and scenting of lard: It gives you a house to get in from the showers, And food when your appetite jockeys you hard. You live a respectable man; but I ask If it’s worth the trouble? You use your tools, And spend your time, and what’s your task? Why, to make a slide for a couple of fools.

You can’t match the colour o’ these heath mounds, Nor better that peat-fire’s agreeable smell. I’m clothed-like with natural sights and sounds; To myself I’m in tune: I hope you’re as well. You jolly old cot! though you don’t own coal: It’s a generous pot that’s boiled with peat. Let the Lord Mayor o’ London roast oxen whole: His smoke, at least, don’t smell so sweet.

VII

I’m not a low Radical, hating the laws, Who’d the aristocracy rebuke. I talk o’ the Lord Mayor o’ London because I once was on intimate terms with his cook. I served him a turn, and got pensioned on scraps, And, Lord, Sir! didn’t I envy his place, Till Death knock’d him down with the softest of taps, And I knew what was meant by a tallowy face!

VIII

On the contrary, I’m Conservative quite; There’s beggars in Scripture ’mongst Gentiles and Jews: It’s nonsense, trying to set things right, For if people will give, why, who’ll refuse? That stopping old custom wakes my spleen: The poor and the rich both in giving agree: Your tight-fisted shopman’s the Radical mean: There’s nothing in common ’twixt him and me.

He says I’m no use! but I won’t reply. You’re lucky not being of use to him! On week-days he’s playing at Spider and Fly, And on Sundays he sings about Cherubim! Nailing shillings to counters is his chief work: He nods now and then at the name on his door: But judge of us two, at a bow and a smirk, I think I’m his match: and I’m honest—that’s more.

No use! well, I mayn’t be. You ring a pig’s snout, And then call the animal glutton! Now, he, Mr. Shopman, he’s nought but a pipe and a spout Who won’t let the goods o’ this world pass free. This blazing blue weather all round the brown crop, He can’t enjoy! all but cash he hates. He’s only a snail that crawls under his shop; Though he has got the ear o’ the magistrates.

Now, giving and taking’s a proper exchange, Like question and answer: you’re both content. But buying and selling seems always strange; You’re hostile, and that’s the thing that’s meant. It’s man against man—you’re almost brutes; There’s here no thanks, and there’s there no pride. If Charity’s Christian, don’t blame my pursuits, I carry a touchstone by which you’re tried.

XII

—‘Take it,’ says she, ‘it’s all I’ve got’: I remember a girl in London streets: She stood by a coffee-stall, nice and hot, My belly was like a lamb that bleats. Says I to myself, as her shilling I seized, You haven’t a character here, my dear! But for making a rascal like me so pleased, I’ll give you one, in a better sphere!

XIII

And that’s where it is—she made me feel I was a rascal: but people who scorn, And tell a poor patch-breech he isn’t genteel, Why, they make him kick up—and he treads on a corn. It isn’t liking, it’s curst ill-luck, Drives half of us into the begging-trade: If for taking to water you praise a duck, For taking to beer why a man upbraid?

XIV

The sermon’s over: they’re out of the porch, And it’s time for me to move a leg; But in general people who come from church, And have called themselves sinners, hate chaps to beg. I’ll wager they’ll all of ’em dine to-day! I was easy half a minute ago. If that isn’t pig that’s baking away, May I perish!—we’re never contented—heigho!

BY THE ROSANNA TO F. M.

STANZER THAL, TYROL