Part 5

Should I lapse to what I was Ere we met; (Such can not be, but because Some forget Let me feign it)—none would notice That where she I know by rote is Spread a strange and withering change, Like a drying of the wells Where she dwells.

To feel I might have kissed— Loved as true— Otherwhere, nor Mine have missed My life through. Had I never wandered near her, Is a smart severe—severer In the thought that she is nought, Even as I, beyond the dells Where she dwells.

And Devotion droops her glance To recall What bond-servants of Chance We are all. I but found her in that, going On my errant path unknowing, I did not out-skirt the spot That no spot on earth excels, —Where she dwells!

1870.

THE SERGEANT’S SONG (1803)

WHEN Lawyers strive to heal a breach, And Parsons practise what they preach; Then Little Boney he’ll pounce down, And march his men on London town! Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lorum, Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lay!

When Justices hold equal scales, And Rogues are only found in jails; Then Little Boney he’ll pounce down, And march his men on London town! Rollicum-rorum, &c.

When Rich Men find their wealth a curse, And fill therewith the Poor Man’s purse; Then Little Boney he’ll pounce down, And march his men on London town! Rollicum-rorum, &c.

When Husbands with their Wives agree, And Maids won’t wed from modesty; Then Little Boney he’ll pounce down, And march his men on London town! Rollicum-rorum, tol-tol-lorum, Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lay!

1878.

Published in “The Trumpet-Major,” 1880.

VALENCIENNES (1793)

BY CORP’L TULLIDGE: see “The Trumpet-Major” IN MEMORY OF S. C. (PENSIONER). DIED 184–

WE trenched, we trumpeted and drummed, And from our mortars tons of iron hummed Ath’art the ditch, the month we bombed The Town o’ Valencieën.

’Twas in the June o’ Ninety-dree (The Duke o’ Yark our then Commander been) The German Legion, Guards, and we Laid siege to Valencieën.

This was the first time in the war That French and English spilled each other’s gore; —Few dreamt how far would roll the roar Begun at Valencieën!

’Twas said that we’d no business there A-topperèn the French for disagreën; However, that’s not my affair— We were at Valencieën.

Such snocks and slats, since war began Never knew raw recruit or veteran: Stone-deaf therence went many a man Who served at Valencieën.

Into the streets, ath’art the sky, A hundred thousand balls and bombs were fleën; And harmless townsfolk fell to die Each hour at Valencieën!

And, sweatèn wi’ the bombardiers, A shell was slent to shards anighst my ears: —’Twas nigh the end of hopes and fears For me at Valencieën!

They bore my wownded frame to camp, And shut my gapèn skull, and washed en cleän, And jined en wi’ a zilver clamp Thik night at Valencieën.

“We’ve fetched en back to quick from dead; But never more on earth while rose is red Will drum rouse Corpel!” Doctor said O’ me at Valencieën.

’Twer true. No voice o’ friend or foe Can reach me now, or any livèn beën; And little have I power to know Since then at Valencieën!

I never hear the zummer hums O’ bees; and don’ know when the cuckoo comes; But night and day I hear the bombs We threw at Valencieën . . .

As for the Duke o’ Yark in war, There be some volk whose judgment o’ en is mean; But this I say—a was not far From great at Valencieën.

O’ wild wet nights, when all seems sad, My wownds come back, as though new wownds I’d had; But yet—at times I’m sort o’ glad I fout at Valencieën.

Well: Heaven wi’ its jasper halls Is now the on’y Town I care to be in . . . Good Lord, if Nick should bomb the walls As we did Valencieën!

1878–1897.