THE SONS OF MARTHA

75

The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn

to restore to the mouth,

And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth

They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.

They do not teach that His Pity allows them to leave their work when they damn-well choose. As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,

Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's days may be long in the land.

Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat;

Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that!

Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a

witness to any creed,

But simple service simply given to his own kind in

their common need.

And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd-they

know the angels are on their side.

They know in them is the Grace confessèd, and for

them are the Mercies multiplied.

They sit at the Feet-they hear the Word-they see how truly the Promise runs;

They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and

the Lord He lays it on Martha's Sons!

MARY'S SON

If you stop to find out what your wages will be
And how they will clothe and feed you,
Willie, my son, don't you go on the Sea,
For the Sea will never need you.

If you ask for the reason of every command,
And argue with people about you,
Willie, my son, don't you go on the Land,
For the Land will do better without you.

If you stop to consider the work you have done And to boast what your labour is worth, dear, Angels may come for you, Willie, my son,

But you'll never be wanted on Earth, dear!

THE SONG OF THE LATHES

1918

(Being the words of the tune hummed at her lathe by
Mrs. L. Embsay, widow.)

THE fans and the beltings they roar round me.
The power is shaking the floor round me

Till the lathes pick up their duty and the midnightshift takes over.

It is good for me to be here!

Guns in Flanders-Flanders guns!
(I had a man that worked 'em once !)
Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!

Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!

Shells for guns in Flanders! Feed the guns!

The cranes and the carriers they boom over me,
The bays and the galleries they loom over me,
With their quarter-mile of pillars growing little in
the distance:

It is good for me to be here!

THE SONG OF THE LATHES

The Zeppelins and Gothas they raid over us.

Our lights give warning, and fade over us.

(Seven thousand women keeping quiet in the darkness!)

Oh, it is good for me to be here!

The roofs and the buildings they grow round me,
Eating up the fields I used to know round me;
And the shed that I began in is a sub-inspector's
office-

So long have I been here!

I've seen six hundred mornings make our lamps grow dim,

Through the bit that isn't painted round our sky

light rim,

And the sunshine in the window slope accord

ing to the seasons,

Twice since I've been here.

The trains on the sidings they call to us

With the hundred thousand blanks that they haul

to us;