Songs Of The Road | Page 2

From the palm to the pine,
From the snow to the line,
Brothers together
And children of Thee.
SIR NIGEL'S SONG
A sword! A sword! Ah, give me a sword!
For the world is all to win.?Though the way be hard and the door be
barred,?The strong man enters in.?If Chance or Fate still hold the gate,
Give me the iron key,?And turret high, my plume shall fly,
Or you may weep for me!
A horse! A horse! Ah, give me a horse,
To bear me out afar,?Where blackest need and grimmest deed,
And sweetest perils are.?Hold thou my ways from glutted days,
Where poisoned leisure lies,?And point the path of tears and wrath
Which mounts to high emprise.
A heart! A heart! Ah, give me a heart,
To rise to circumstance!?Serene and high, and bold to try
The hazard of a chance.?With strength to wait, but fixed as fate,
To plan and dare and do;?The peer of all -- and only thrall,
Sweet lady mine, to you!
THE ARAB STEED
I gave the 'orse 'is evenin' feed,
And bedded of 'im down,?And went to 'ear the sing-song
In the bar-room of the Crown,?And one young feller spoke a piece
As told a kind of tale,?About an Arab man wot 'ad
A certain 'orse for sale.
I 'ave no grudge against the man --
I never 'eard 'is name,?But if he was my closest pal
I'd say the very same,?For wot you do in other things
Is neither 'ere nor there,?But w'en it comes to 'orses
You must keep upon the square.
Now I'm tellin' you the story
Just as it was told last night,?And if I wrong this Arab man
Then 'e can set me right;?But s'posin' all these fac's _are_ fac's,
Then I make bold to say?That I think it was not sportsmanlike
To act in sich a way.
For, as I understand the thing,
'E went to sell this steed --?Which is a name they give a 'orse
Of some outlandish breed --,?And soon 'e found a customer,
A proper sportin' gent,?Who planked 'is money down at once
Without no argument.
Now when the deal was finished
And the money paid, you'd think?This Arab would 'ave asked the gent
At once to name 'is drink,?Or at least 'ave thanked 'im kindly,
An' wished 'im a good day,?And own as 'e'd been treated
In a very 'andsome way.
But instead o' this 'e started
A-talkin' to the steed,?And speakin' of its "braided mane"
An' of its "winged speed,"?And other sich expressions
With which I can't agree,?For a 'orse with wings an' braids an' things
Is not the 'orse for me.
The moment that 'e 'ad the cash --
Or wot '_e_ called the gold,?'E turned as nasty as could be:
Says 'e, "You're sold! You're sold!"?Them was 'is words; it's not for me
To settle wot he meant;?It may 'ave been the 'orse was sold,
It may 'ave been the gent.
I've not a word to say agin
His fondness for 'is 'orse,?But why should 'e insinivate
The gent would treat 'im worse??An' why should 'e go talkin'
In that aggravatin' way,?As if the gent would gallop 'im
And wallop 'im all day?
It may 'ave been an' 'arness 'orse,
It may 'ave been an 'ack,?But a bargain is a bargain,
An' there ain't no goin' back;?For when you've picked the money up,
That finishes the deal,?And after that your mouth is shut,
Wotever you may feel.
Supposin' this 'ere Arab man
'Ad wanted to be free,?'E could 'ave done it businesslike,
The same as you or me;?A fiver might 'ave squared the gent,
An' then 'e could 'ave claimed?As 'e'd cleared 'imself quite 'andsome,
And no call to be ashamed.
But instead 'o that this Arab man
Went on from bad to worse,?An' took an' chucked the money
At the cove wot bought the 'orse;?'E'd 'ave learned 'im better manners,
If 'e'd waited there a bit,?But 'e scooted on 'is bloomin' steed
As 'ard as 'e could split.
Per'aps 'e sold 'im after,
Or per'aps 'e 'ires 'im out,?But I'd like to warm that Arab man
Wen next 'e comes about;?For wot 'e does in other things
Is neither 'ere nor there,?But w'en it comes to 'orses
We must keep 'im on the square.
A POST-IMPRESSIONIST
Peter Wilson, A.R.A.,?In his small atelier,?Studied Continental Schools,?Drew by Academic rules.?So he made his bid for fame,?But no golden answer came,?For the fashion of his day?Chanced to set the other way,?And decadent forms of Art?Drew the patrons of the mart.
Now this poor reward of merit?Rankled so in Peter's spirit,?It was more than he could bear;?So one night in mad despair?He took his canvas for the year?("Isle of Wight from Southsea Pier"),?And he hurled it from his sight,?Hurled it blindly to the night,?Saw it fall diminuendo?From the open lattice window,?Till it landed with a flop?On the dust-bin's ashen top,?Where, 'mid damp and rain and grime,?It remained till morning time.
Then