Imágenes de página


With my 'Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tum-pa 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!

By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread,
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 confessI am Memory and Torment-I am Town!

I am all that ever went with evening dress!

With my 'Tunk-a tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!'

[So the lights-the London Lights-grow near
and plain!]

So I rowel 'em afresh towards the Devil and the

Till I bring my broken rankers home again.

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. 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.

With my 'Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah! Haul!' [O 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!'

Through the gorge that gives the stars at noonday clear

Up the pass that packs the scud beneath our wheelRound 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, So I lead my reckless children from below Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine.

With my 'Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!'
[And the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and

So we ride the iron stallions down to drink,

Through the canyons to the waters of the West!

And the tunes that mean so much to you aloneCommon tunes that make you choke and blow your


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-

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.

With my 'Plunka-lunka-lunka-lunka-lunk!'
Here's a trifle on account of pleasure past,


Ere the wit that made you win gives you eyes to see your sin

And the heavier repentance at the last!

Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof

I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man! Let the trumpets snare the foeman to the proof

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?

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.

The grandam of my grandam was the Lyre

[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-
I, the joy of life unquestioned-I, the Greek—
I, the everlasting Wonder Song of Youth!

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:

Yea, from Delos up to Limerick and back!




HE Liner she's a lady, an' she never looks nor 'eeds

The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, an' 'e gives 'er

all she needs;

But, oh, the little cargo-boats, that sail the wet seas


They're just the same as you an' me a-plyin' up an' down!

Plyin' up an' down, Jenny, 'angin' round the Yard, All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth 'Ard;

Anythin' for business, an' we're growin' old-
Plyin' up an' down, Jenny, waitin' in the cold!

The Liner she's a lady by the paint upon 'er face,
An' if she meets an accident they count it sore disgrace:
The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, and 'e's always 'andy

But, oh, the little cargo-boats! they've got to load or die.

The Liner she's a lady, and 'er route is cut an' dried; The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, an' 'e always keeps beside;


But, oh, the little cargo-boats that 'aven't any man, They've got to do their business first, and make the most they can!

The Liner she's a lady, and if a war should come, The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, and 'e'd bid 'er stay at home;

But, oh, the little cargo-boats that fill with every tide! 'E'd 'ave to up an' fight for them, for they are England's pride.

The Liner she's a lady, but if she wasn't made,

There still would be the cargo-boats for 'ome an' foreign trade.

The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, but if we wasn't 'ere, 'E wouldn't have to fight at all for 'ome an' friends so dear.

'Ome an' friends so dear, Jenny, 'angin' round the Yard,

All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth 'Ard;

Anythin' for business, an' we're growin' old

'Ome an' friends so dear, Jenny, waitin' in the cold!

« AnteriorContinuar »