Part 12

Queen Bess Was Harry’s daughter!

The Queen was in her chamber, and she was middling old, Her petticoat was satin and her stomacher was gold. Backwards and forwards and sideways did she pass, Making up her mind to face the cruel looking-glass. The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass As comely or as kindly or as young as once she was!

The Queen was in her chamber, a-combing of her hair, There came Queen Mary’s spirit and it stood behind her chair, Singing, ‘Backwards and forwards and sideways you may pass, But I will stand behind you till you face the looking-glass. The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass As lovely or unlucky or as lonely as I was!’

The Queen was in her chamber, a-weeping very sore, There came Lord Leicester’s spirit and it scratched upon the door, Singing, ‘Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass, But I will walk beside you till you face the looking-glass. The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass As hard and unforgiving or as wicked as you was!’

The Queen was in her chamber; her sins were on her head; She looked the spirits up and down and statelily she said: ‘Backwards and forwards and sideways though I’ve been, Yet I am Harry’s daughter and I am England’s Queen!’ And she faced the looking-glass (and whatever else there was), And she saw her day was over and she saw her beauty pass In the cruel looking-glass that can always hurt a lass More hard than any ghost there is or any man there was!

THE WRONG THING

A Truthful Song

THE BRICKLAYER:

I tell this tale, which is strictly true, just by way of convincing you How very little since things were made Things have altered in the building trade.

A year ago, come the middle o’ March, We was building flats near the Marble Arch, When a thin young man with coal-black hair Came up to watch us working there.

Now there wasn’t a trick in brick or stone That this young man hadn’t seen or known; Nor there wasn’t a tool from trowel to maul But this young man could use ‘em all! Then up and spoke the plumbyers bold, Which was laying the pipes for the hot and cold: ‘Since you with us have made so free, Will you kindly say what your name might be?’

The young man kindly answered them: ‘It might be Lot or Methusalem, Or it might be Moses (a man I hate), Whereas it is Pharaoh surnamed the Great.

‘Your glazing is new and your plumbing’s strange, But other-wise I perceive no change, And in less than a month, if you do as I bid, I’d learn you to build me a Pyramid.’

THE SAILOR:

I tell this tale, which is stricter true, just by way of convincing you How very little since things was made Things have altered in the shipwright’s trade.

In Blackwall Basin yesterday A China barque re-fitting lay, When a fat old man with snow-white hair Came up to watch us working there.

Now there wasn’t a knot which the riggers knew But the old man made it--and better too; Nor there wasn’t a sheet, or a lift, or a brace, But the old man knew its lead and place.

Then up and spake the caulkyers bold, Which was packing the pump in the after-hold: ‘Since you with us have made so free, Will you kindly tell what your name might be?’

The old man kindly answered them: ‘it might be Japhet, it might be Shem, Or it might be Ham (though his skin was dark), Whereas it is Noah, commanding the Ark.

‘Your wheel is new and your pumps are strange, But otherwise I perceive no change, And in less than a week, if she did not ground, I’d sail this hooker the wide world round!’

BOTH: We tell these tales, which are strictest true, etc.

The Wrong Thing

Dan had gone in for building model boats; but after he had filled the schoolroom with chips, which he expected Una to clear away, they turned him out of doors and he took all his tools up the hill to Mr Springett’s yard, where he knew he could make as much mess as he chose. Old Mr Springett was a builder, contractor, and sanitary engineer, and his yard, which opened off the village street, was always full of interesting things. At one end of it was a long loft, reached by a ladder, where he kept his iron-bound scaffold-planks, tins of paints, pulleys, and odds and ends he had found in old houses. He would sit here by the hour watching his carts as they loaded or unloaded in the yard below, while Dan gouged and grunted at the carpenter’s bench near the loft window. Mr Springett and Dan had always been particular friends, for Mr Springett was so old he could remember when railways were being made in the southern counties of England, and people were allowed to drive dogs in carts.

One hot, still afternoon--the tar-paper on the roof smelt like ships--Dan, in his shirt-sleeves, was smoothing down a new schooner’s bow, and Mr Springett was talking of barns and houses he had built. He said he never forgot any stick or stone he had ever handled, or any man, woman, or child he had ever met. Just then he was very proud of the Village Hall at the entrance of the village, which he had finished a few weeks before.

‘An’ I don’t mind tellin’ you, Mus’ Dan,’ he said, ‘that the Hall will be my last job top of this mortal earth. I didn’t make ten pounds--no, nor yet five--out o’ the whole contrac’, but my name’s lettered on the foundation stone--Ralph Springett, Builder--and the stone she’s bedded on four foot good concrete. If she shifts any time these five hundred years, I’ll sure-ly turn in my grave. I told the Lunnon architec’ so when he come down to oversee my work.’

‘What did he say?’ Dan was sandpapering the schooner’s port bow.

‘Nothing. The Hall ain’t more than one of his small jobs for him, but ‘tain’t small to me, an’ my name is cut and lettered, frontin’ the village street, I do hope an’ pray, for time everlastin’. You’ll want the little round file for that holler in her bow. Who’s there?’ Mr Springett turned stiffly in his chair.

A long pile of scaffold-planks ran down the centre of the loft. Dan looked, and saw Hal o’ the Draft’s touzled head beyond them. [See ‘Hal o’ the Draft’ in PUCK OF POOK’S HILL.]