THE EVERLASTING MERCY

* A Distributed Proofreaders US Ebook *

This ebook is made available at no cost and with very few restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make a change in the ebook (other than alteration for different display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of the ebook. If either of these conditions applies, please check with an FP administrator before proceeding.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be under copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada, check your country's copyright laws. If the book is under copyright in your country, do not download or redistribute this file.

Title: The Everlasting Mercy
Author: Masefield, John
Date of first publication: 1913
Date first posted:
Date last updated: November 18, 2018
Faded Page ebook#20181140

Produced by Al Haines.

Thy place is biggyd above the sterrys deer,

Noon erthely paleys wrouhte in so statly wyse,

Com on my freend, my brothir moost enteer,

For the I offryd my blood in sacrifise.

JOHN LYDGATE.

From '41 to '51

I was my folk's contrary son;

I bit my father's hand right through

And broke my mother's heart in two.

I sometimes go without my dinner

Now that I know the times I've gi'n her.

From '51 to '6l

I cut my teeth and took to fun.

I learned what not to be afraid of

And what stuff women's lips are made of;

I learned with what a rosy feeling

Good ale makes floors seem like the ceiling,

And how the moon gives shiny light

To lads as roll home singing by't.

My blood did leap, my flesh did revel,

Saul Kane was tokened to the devil.

From '61 to '67

I lived in disbelief of heaven.

I drunk, I fought, I poached, I whored,

I did despite unto the Lord,

I cursed, 'twould make a man look pale,

And nineteen times I went to jail.

Now, friends, observe and look upon me,

Mark how the Lord took pity on me.

By Dead Man's Thorn, while setting wires,

Who should come up but Billy Myers,

A friend of mine, who used to be

As black a sprig of hell as me,

With whom I'd planned, to save encroachin',

Which fields and coverts each should poach in.

Now when he saw me set my snare,

He tells me 'Get to hell from there.

This field is mine,' he says, 'by right;

If you poach here, there'll be a fight.

Out now,' he says, 'and leave your wire;

It's mine.'

'It ain't.'

'You put.'

'You liar.'

'You closhy put.'

'You bloody liar.'

'This is my field.'

'This is my wire.'

'I'm ruler here.'

'You ain't.'

'I am.'

'I'll fight you for it.'

'Right, by damn.

Not now, though, I've a-sprained my thumb,

We'll fight after the harvest hum.

And Silas Jones, that bookie wide,

Will make a purse five pounds a side.'

Those were the words, that was the place

By which God brought me into grace.

On Wood Top Field the peewits go

Mewing and wheeling ever so;

And like the shaking of a timbrel

Cackles the laughter of the whimbrel.

In the old quarry-pit they say

Head-keeper Pike was made away.

He walks, head-keeper Pike, for harm,

He taps the windows of the farm;

The blood drips from his broken chin,

He taps and begs to be let in.

On Wood Top, nights, I've shaked to hark

The peewits wambling in the dark

Lest in the dark the old man might

Creep up to me to beg a light.

But Wood Top grass is short and sweet

And springy to a boxer's feet;

At harvest hum the moon so bright

Did shine on Wood Top for the fight.

When Bill was stripped down to his bends

I thought how long we two'd been friends,

And in my mind, about that wire,

I thought 'He's right, I am a liar,

As sure as skilly's made in prison

The right to poach that copse is his'n.

I'll have no luck to-night,' thinks I.

'I'm fighting to defend a lie.

And this moonshiny evening's fun

Is worse than aught I ever done.'

And thinking that way my heart bled so

I almost stept to Bill and said so.

And now Bill's dead I would be glad

If I could only think I had.

But no. I put the thought away

For fear of what my friends would say.

They'd backed me, see? O Lord, the sin

Done for the things there's money in.

The stakes were drove, the ropes were hitched,

Into the ring my hat I pitched.

My corner faced the Squire's park

Just where the fir-trees make it dark;

The place where I begun poor Nell

Upon the woman's road to hell.

I thought oft, sitting in my corner

After the time-keep struck his warner

(Two brandy flasks, for fear of noise,

Clinked out the time to us two boys).

And while my seconds chafed and gloved me

I thought of Nell's eyes when she loved me,

And wondered how my tot would end,

First Nell cast off and now my friend;

And in the moonlight dim and wan

I knew quite well my luck was gone;

And looking round I felt a spite

At all who'd come to see me fight;

The five and forty human faces

Inflamed by drink and going to races,

Faces of men who'd never been

Merry or true or live or clean;

Who'd never felt the boxer's trim

Of brain divinely knit to limb,

Nor felt the whole live body go

One tingling health from top to toe;

Nor took a punch nor given a swing,

But just soaked deady round the ring

Until their brains and bloods were foul

Enough to make their throttles howl,

While we whom Jesus died to teach

Fought round on round, three minutes each.

And thinking that, you'll understand

I thought, 'I'll go and take Bill's hand.

I'll up and say the fault was mine,

He sha'n't make play for these here swine.'

And then I thought that that was silly,

They'd think I was afraid of Billy:

They'd think (I thought it, God forgive me)

I funked the hiding Bill could give me.

And that thought made me mad and hot.

'Think that, will they? Well, they shall not.

They sha'n't think that. I will not. I'm

Damned if I will. I will not.'

Time!

From the beginning of the bout

My luck was gone, my hand was out.

Right from the start Bill called the play,

But I was quick and kept away

Till the fourth round, when work got mixed,

And then I knew Bill had me fixed.

My hand was out, why, Heaven knows;

Bill punched me when and where he chose.

Through two more rounds we quartered wide

And all the time my hands seemed tied;

Bill punched me when and where he pleased.

The cheering from my backers ceased,

But every punch I heard a yell

Of 'That's the style, Bill, give him hell.'

No one for me, but Jimmy's light

'Straight left! Straight left!' and 'Watch his right.'

I don't know how a boxer goes

When all his body hums from blows;

I know I seemed to rock and spin,

I don't know how I saved my chin;

I know I thought my only friend

Was that clinked flask at each round's end

When my two seconds, Ed and Jimmy,

Had sixty seconds help to gimme.

But in the ninth, with pain and knocks

I stopped: I couldn't fight nor box.

Bill missed his swing, the light was tricky,

But I went down, and stayed down, dicky.

'Get up,' cried Jim. I said, 'I will.'

Then all the gang yelled, 'Out him, Bill.

Out him.' Bill rushed ... and Clink, Clink, Clink.

Time! and Jim's knee, and rum to drink.

And round the ring there ran a titter:

'Saved by the call, the bloody quitter.'

They drove (a dodge that never fails)

A pin beneath my finger nails.

They poured what seemed a running beck

Of cold spring water down my neck;

Jim with a lancet quick as flies

Lowered the swellings round my eyes.

They sluiced my legs and fanned my face

Through all that blessed minute's grace;

They gave my calves a thorough kneading,

They salved my cuts and stopped the bleeding.

A gulp of liquor dulled the pain,

And then the two flasks clinked again.

Time!

There was Bill as grim as death.

He rushed, I clinched, to get more breath.

And breath I got, though Billy bats

Some stinging short-arms in my slats.

And when we broke, as I foresaw,

He swung his right in for the jaw.

I stopped it on my shoulder bone,

And at the shock I heard Bill groan--

A little groan or moan or grunt

As though I'd hit his wind a bunt.

At that, I clinched, and while we clinched,

His old-time right-arm dig was flinched,

And when we broke he hit me light

As though he didn't trust his right,

He flapped me somehow with his wrist

As though he couldn't use his fist,

And when he hit he winced with pain.

I thought, 'Your sprained thumb's crocked again.'

So I got strength and Bill gave ground,

And that round was an easy round.

During the wait my Jimmy said,

'What's making Billy fight so dead?

He's all to pieces. Is he blown?'

'His thumb's out.'

'No? Then it's your own.

It's all your own, but don't be rash--

He's got the goods if you've got cash,

And what one hand can do he'll do,

Be careful this next round or two.'

Time! There was Bill, and I felt sick

That luck should play so mean a trick

And give me leave to knock him out

After he'd plainly won the bout.

But by the way the man came at me

He made it plain he meant to bat me;

If you'd a seen the way he come

You wouldn't think he'd crocked a thumb.

With all his skill and all his might

He clipped me dizzy left and right;

The Lord knows what the effort cost,

But he was mad to think he'd lost,

And knowing nothing else could save him

He didn't care what pain it gave him.

He called the music and the dance

For five rounds more and gave no chance.

Try to imagine if you can

The kind of manhood in the man,

And if you'd like to feel his pain,

You sprain your thumb and hit the sprain,

And hit it hard, with all your power

On something hard for half-an-hour,

While someone thumps you black and blue,

And then you'll know what Billy knew.

Bill took that pain without a sound

Till half-way through the eighteenth round,

And then I sent him down and out,

And Silas said, 'Kane wins the bout.'

When Bill came to, you understand,

I ripped the mitten from my hand

And went across to ask Bill shake.

My limbs were all one pain and ache,

I was so weary and so sore

I don't think I'd a stood much more.

Bill in his corner bathed his thumb,

Buttoned his shirt and glowered glum.

'I'll never shake your hand,' he said.

'I'd rather see my children dead.

I've been about and had some fun with you,

But you're a liar and I've done with you.

You've knocked me out, you didn't beat me;

Look out the next time that you meet me,

There'll be no friend to watch the clock for you

And no convenient thumb to crock for you,

And I'll take care, with much delight,

You'll get what you'd a got to-night;

That puts my meaning clear, I guess,

Now get to hell; I want to dress.'

I dressed. My backers one and all

Said, 'Well done you,' or 'Good old Saul.

'Saul is a wonder and a fly 'un,

What'll you have, Saul, at the Lion?'

With merry oaths they helped me down

The stony wood-path to the town.

The moonlight shone on Cabbage Walk,

It made the limestone look like chalk,

It was too late for any people,

Twelve struck as we went by the steeple.

A dog barked, and an owl was calling,

The Squire's brook was still a-falling,

The carved heads on the church looked down

On 'Russell, Blacksmith of this Town,'

And all the graves of all the ghosts

Who rise on Christmas Eve in hosts

To dance and carol in festivity

For joy of Jesus Christ's Nativity

(Bell-ringer Dawe and his two sons

Beheld 'em from the bell-tower once),

Two and two about about

Singing the end of Advent out,

Dwindling down to windlestraws

When the glittering peacock craws,

As craw the glittering peacock should

When Christ's own star comes over the wood.

Lamb of the sky come out of fold

Wandering windy heavens cold.

So they shone and sang till twelve

When all the bells ring out of theirselve;

Rang a peal for Christmas morn,

Glory, men, for Christ is born.

All the old monks' singing places

Glimmered quick with flitting faces,

Singing anthems, singing hymns

Under carven cherubims.

Ringer Dawe aloft could mark

Faces at the window dark

Crowding, crowding, row on row,

Till all the church began to glow.

The chapel glowed, the nave, the choir,

All the faces became fire

Below the eastern window high

To see Christ's star come up the sky.

Then they lifted hands and turned,

And all their lifted fingers burned,

Burned like the golden altar tallows,

Burned like a troop of God's own Hallows,

Bringing to mind the burning time

When all the bells will rock and chime

And burning saints on burning horses

Will sweep the planets from their courses

And loose the stars to burn up night.

Lord, give us eyes to bear the light.

We all went quiet down the Scallenge

Lest Police Inspector Drew should challenge.

But 'Spector Drew was sleeping sweet,

His head upon a charges sheet,

Under the gas-jet flaring full,

Snorting and snoring like a bull,

His bull cheeks puffed, his bull lips blowing,

His ugly yellow front teeth showing.

Just as we peeped we saw him fumble

And scratch his head, and shift, and mumble.

Down in the lane so thin and dark

The tan-yards stank of bitter bark,

The curate's pigeons gave a flutter,

A cat went courting down the gutter,

And none else stirred a foot or feather.

The houses put their heads together,

Talking, perhaps, so dark and sly,

Of all the folk they'd seen go by,

Children, and men and women, merry all,

Who'd some day pass that way to burial.

It was all dark, but at the turning

The Lion had a window burning.

So in we went and up the stairs,

Treading as still as cats and hares.

The way the stairs creaked made you wonder

If dead men's bones were hidden under.

At head of stairs upon the landing

A woman with a lamp was standing;

She greet each gent at head of stairs

With 'Step in, gents, and take your chairs.

The punch'll come when kettle bubble,

But don't make noise or there'll be trouble.'

'Twas Doxy Jane, a bouncing girl

With eyes all sparks and hair all curl,

And cheeks all red and lips all coal,

And thirst for men instead of soul.

She's trod her pathway to the fire.

Old Rivers had his nephew by her.

I step aside from Tom and Jimmy

To find if she'd a kiss to gimme.

I blew out lamp 'fore she could speak.

She said, 'If you ain't got a cheek,'

And then beside me in the dim,

'Did he beat you or you beat him?'

'Why, I beat him' (though that was wrong).

She said, 'You must be turble strong.

I'd be afraid you'd beat me, too.'

'You'd not,' I said, 'I wouldn't do.'

'Never?'

'No, never.'

'Never?'

'No.'

'O Saul. Here's missus. Let me go.'

It wasn't missus, so I didn't,

Whether I mid do or I midn't,

Until she'd promised we should meet

Next evening, six, at top of street,

When we could have a quiet talk

On that low wall up Worcester Walk.

And while we whispered there together

I give her silver for a feather

And felt a drunkenness like wine

And shut out Christ in husks and swine.

I felt the dart strike through my liver.

God punish me for't and forgive her.

Each one could be a Jesus mild,

Each one has been a little child,

A little child with laughing look,

A lovely white unwritten book;

A book that God will take, my friend,

As each goes out at journey's end.

The Lord who gave us Earth and Heaven

Takes that as thanks for all He's given.

The book he lent is given back

All blotted red and smutted black.

'Open the door,' said Jim, 'and call.'

Jane gasped 'They'll see me. Loose me, Saul.'

She pushed me by, and ducked downstair

With half the pins out of her hair.

I went inside the lit room rollin'

Her scented handkerchief I'd stolen.

'What would you fancy, Saul?' they said.

'A gin punch hot and then to bed.'

'Jane, fetch the punch bowl to the gemmen;

And mind you don't put too much lemon.

Our good friend Saul has had a fight of it,

Now smoke up, boys, and make a night of it.'

The room was full of men and stink

Of bad cigars and heavy drink.

Riley was nodding to the floor

And gurgling as he wanted more.

His mouth was wide, his face was pale,

His swollen face was sweating ale;

And one of those assembled Greeks

Had corked black crosses on his cheeks.

Thomas was having words with Goss,

He 'wouldn't pay, the fight was cross.'

And Goss told Tom that 'cross or no,

The bets go as the verdicts go,

By all I've ever heard or read of.

So pay, or else I'll knock your head off.'

Jim Gurvil said his smutty say

About a girl down Bye Street way.

And how the girl from Froggatt's circus

Died giving birth in Newent work'us.

And Dick told how the Dymock wench

Bore twins, poor thing, on Dog Hill bench;

And how he'd owned to one in court

And how Judge made him sorry for't.

Jock set a Jew's harp twanging drily;

'Gimme another cup,' said Riley.

A dozen more were in their glories

With laughs and smokes and smutty stories;

And Jimmy joked and took his sup

And sang his song of 'Up, come up.'

Jane brought the bowl of stewing gin

And poured the egg and lemon in,

And whisked it up and served it out

While bawdy questions went about.

Jack chucked her chin, and Jim accost her

With bits out of the 'Maid of Gloster.'

And fifteen arms went round her waist.

(And then men ask, Are Barmaids chaste?)

O young men, pray to be kept whole

From bringing down a weaker soul.

Your minute's joy so meet in doin'

May be the woman's door to ruin;

The door to wandering up and down,

A painted whore at half a crown.

The bright mind fouled, the beauty gay

All eaten out and fallen away,

By drunken days and weary tramps

From pub to pub by city lamps,

Till men despise the game they started

Till health and beauty are departed,

And in a slum the reeking hag

Mumbles a crust with toothy jag,

Or gets the river's help to end

The life too wrecked for man to mend.

We spat and smoked and took our swipe

Till Silas up and tap his pipe,

And begged us all to pay attention

Because he'd several things to mention.

We'd seen the fight (Hear, hear. That's you);

But still one task remained to do;

That task was his, he didn't shun it,

To give the purse to him as won it;

With this remark, from start to out

He'd never seen a brisker bout.

There was the purse. At that he'd leave it.

Let Kane come forward to receive it.

I took the purse and hemmed and bowed,

And called for gin punch for the crowd;

And when the second bowl was done,

I called, 'Let's have another one.'

Si's wife come in and sipped and sipped

(As women will) till she was pipped.

And Si hit Dicky Twot a clouter

Because he put his arm about her;

But after Si got overtasked

She sat and kissed whoever asked.

My Doxy Jane was splashed by this,

I took her on my knee to kiss.

And Tom cried out, 'O damn the gin;

Why can't we all have women in?

Bess Evans, now, or Sister Polly,

Or those two housemaids at the Folly?

Let someone nip to Biddy Price's,

They'd all come in a brace of trices.

Rose Davies, Sue, and Betsy Perks;

One man, one girl, and damn all Turks.'

But, no. 'More gin,' they cried; 'Come on.

We'll have the girls in when it's gone.'

So round the gin went, hot and heady,

Hot Hollands punch on top of deady.

Hot Hollands punch on top of stout

Puts madness in and wisdom out.

From drunken man to drunken man

The drunken madness raged and ran.

'I'm climber Joe who climbed the spire.'

'You're climber Joe the bloody liar.'

'Who says I lie?'

'I do.'

'You lie,

I climbed the spire and had a fly.'

'I'm French Suzanne, the Circus Dancer,

I'm going to dance a bloody Lancer.'

'If I'd my rights I'm Squire's heir.'

'By rights I'd be a millionaire.'

'By rights I'd be the lord of you,

But Farmer Scriggins had his do,

He done me, so I've had to hoove it,

I've got it all wrote down to prove it.

And one of these dark winter nights

He'll learn I mean to have my rights;

I'll bloody him a bloody fix,

I'll bloody burn his bloody ricks.'

From three long hours of gin and smokes,

And two girls' breath and fifteen blokes',

A warmish night, and windows shut,

The room stank like a fox's gut.

The heat and smell and drinking deep

Began to stun the gang to sleep.

Some fell downstairs to sleep on the mat,

Some snored it sodden where they sat.

Dick Twot had lost a tooth and wept,

But all the drunken others slept.

Jane slept beside me in the chair,

And I got up; I wanted air.

I opened window wide and leaned

Out of that pigstye of the fiend

And felt a cool wind go like grace

About the sleeping market-place.

The clock struck three, and sweetly, slowly,

The bells chimed Holy, Holy, Holy;

And in a second's pause there fell

The cold note of the chapel bell,

And then a cock crew, flapping wings,

And summat made me think of things

How long those ticking clocks had gone

From church and chapel, on and on,

Ticking the time out, ticking slow

To men and girls who'd come and go,

And how they ticked in belfry dark

When half the town was bishop's park,

And how they'd rung a chime full tilt

The night after the church was built,

And how that night was Lambert's Feast,

The night I'd fought and been a beast.

And how a change had come. And then

I thought, 'You tick to different men.'

What with the fight and what with drinking

And being awake alone there thinking,

My mind began to carp and tetter,

'If this life's all, the beasts are better.'

And then I thought, 'I wish I'd seen

The many towns this town has been;

I wish I knew if they'd a-got

A kind of summat we've a-not,

If them as built the church so fair

Were half the chaps folk say they were;

For they'd the skill to draw their plan,

And skill's a joy to any man;

And they'd the strength, not skill alone,

To build it beautiful in stone;

And strength and skill together thus...

O, they were happier men than us.

'But if they were, they had to die

The same as every one and I.

And no one lives again, but dies,

And all the bright goes out of eyes,

And all the skill goes out of hands,

And all the wise brain understands,

And all the beauty, all the power

Is cut down like a withered flower.

In all the show from birth to rest

I give the poor dumb cattle best.'

I wondered, then, why life should be,

And what would be the end of me

When youth and health and strength were gone

And cold old age came creeping on?

A keeper's gun? The Union ward?

Or that new quod at Hereford?

And looking round I felt disgust

At all the nights of drink and lust,

And all the looks of all the swine

Who'd said that they were friends of mine;

And yet I knew, when morning came,

The morning would be just the same,

For I'd have drinks and Jane would meet me

And drunken Silas Jones would greet me,

And I'd risk quod and keeper's gun

Till all the silly game was done.

'For parson chaps are mad supposin'

A chap can change the road he's chosen.'

And then the Devil whispered 'Saul,

Why should you want to live at all?

Why fret and sweat and try to mend?

It's all the same thing in the end.

But when it's done,' he said, 'it's ended.

Why stand it, since it can't be mended?'

And in my heart I heard him plain,

'Throw yourself down and end it, Kane.'

'Why not?' said I. 'Why not? But no.

I won't. I've never had my go.

I've not had all the world can give.

Death by and by, but first I'll live.

The world owes me my time of times,

And that time's coming now, by crimes.'

A madness took me then. I felt

I'd like to hit the world a belt.

I felt that I could fly through air,

A screaming star with blazing hair,

A rushing comet, crackling, numbing

The folk with fear of judgment coming,

A 'Lijah in a fiery car

Coming to tell folk what they are.

'That's what I'll do,' I shouted loud,

'I'll tell this sanctimonious crowd,

This town of window-peeping, prying,

Maligning, peering, hinting, lying,

Male and female human blots

Who would, but daren't be, whores and sots,

That they're so steeped in petty vice

That they're less excellent than lice,

That they're so soaked in petty virtue

That touching one of them will dirt you,

Dirt you with the stain of mean

Cheating trade and going between,

Pinching, starving, scraping, hoarding

Spying through the chinks of boarding

To see if Sue the prentice lean

Dares to touch the margarine.

Fawning, cringing, oiling boots,

Raging in the crowd's pursuits,

Flinging stones at all the Stephens,

Standing firm with all the evens,

Making hell for all the odd,

All the lonely ones of God,

Those poor lonely ones who find

Dogs more mild than human kind.

For dogs,' I said, 'are nobles born

To most of you, you cockled corn.

I've known dogs to leave their dinner,

Nosing a kind heart in a sinner.

Poor old Crafty wagged his tail

The day I first came home from jail,

When all my folk, so primly clad,

Glowered black and thought me mad,

And muttered how they'd been respected,

While I was what they'd all expected.

(I've thought of that old dog for years,

And of how near I come to tears.)

'But you, you minds of bread and cheese,

Are less divine than that dog's fleas.

You suck blood from kindly friends,

And kill them when it serves your ends.

Double traitors, double black,

Stabbing only in the back,

Stabbing with the knives you borrow

From the friends you bring to sorrow.

You stab all that's true and strong;

Truth and strength you say are wrong;

Meek and mild, and sweet and creeping,

Repeating, canting, cadging, peeping,

That's the art and that's the life

To win a man his neighbour's wife.

All that's good and all that's true,

You kill that, so I'll kill you.'

At that I tore my clothes in shreds

And hurled them on the window leads;

I flung my boots through both the winders

And knocked the glass to little flinders;

The punch bowl and the tumblers followed,

And then I seized the lamps and holloed.

And down the stairs, and tore back bolts,

As mad as twenty blooded colts;

And out into the street I pass,

As mad as two-year-olds at grass,

A naked madman waving grand

A blazing lamp in either hand.

I yelled like twenty drunken sailors,

'The devil's come among the tailors.'

A blaze of flame behind me streamed,

And then I clashed the lamps and screamed

'I'm Satan, newly come from hell.'

And then I spied the fire-bell.

I've been a ringer, so I know

How best to make a big bell go.

So on to bell-rope swift I swoop,

And stick my one foot in the loop

And heave a down-swig till I groan,

'Awake, you swine, you devil's own.'

I made the fire-bell awake,

I felt the bell-rope throb and shake;

I felt the air mingle and clang

And beat the walls a muffled bang,

And stifle back and boom and bay

Like muffled peals on Boxing Day,

And then surge up and gather shape,

And spread great pinions and escape;

And each great bird of clanging shrieks

O Fire, Fire! from iron beaks.

My shoulders cracked to send around

Those shrieking birds made out of sound

With news of fire in their bills.

(They heard 'em plain beyond Wall Hills.)

Up go the winders, out come heads,

I heard the springs go creak in beds;

But still I heave and sweat and tire,

And still the clang goes 'Fire, Fire!'

'Where is it, then? Who is it, there?

You ringer, stop, and tell us where.'

'Run round and let the Captain know.'

'It must be bad, he's ringing so.'

'It's in the town, I see the flame;

Look there! Look there, how red it came.'

'Where is it, then 'O stop the bell.'

I stopped and called: 'It's fire of hell;

And this is Sodom and Gomorrah,

And now I'll burn you up, begorra.'

By this the firemen were mustering,

The half-dressed stable men were flustering,

Backing the horses out of stalls

While this man swears and that man bawls,

'Don't take th'old mare. Back, Toby, back.

Back, Lincoln. Where's the fire, Jack?'

'Damned if I know. Out Preston way.'

'No. It's at Chancey's Pitch, they say.'

'It's sixteen ricks at Pauntley burnt.'

'You back old Darby out, I durn't.'

They ran the big red engine out,

And put 'em to with damn and shout.

And then they start to raise the shire,

'Who brought the news, and where's the fire?'

They'd moonlight, lamps, and gas to light 'em.

I give a screech-owl's screech to fright 'em,

And snatch from underneath their noses

The nozzles of the fire hoses.

'I am the fire. Back, stand back,

Or else I'll fetch your skulls a crack;

D'you see these copper nozzles here?

They weigh ten pounds apiece, my dear;

I'm fire of hell come up this minute

To burn this town, and all that's in it.

To burn you dead and burn you clean,

You cogwheels in a stopped machine,

You hearts of snakes, and brains of pigeons,

You dead devout of dead religions,

You offspring of the hen and ass,

By Pilate ruled, and Caiaphas.

Now your account is totted. Learn

Hell's flames are loose and you shall burn.'

At that I leaped and screamed and ran,

I heard their cries go 'Catch him, man.'

'Who was it?' 'Down him.' 'Out him, Ern.

'Duck him at pump, we'll see who'll burn.'

A policeman clutched, a fireman clutched,

A dozen others snatched and touched.

'By God, he's stripped down to his buff.'

'By God, we'll make him warm enough.'

'After him.' 'Catch him,' 'Out him,' 'Scrob him.

'We'll give him hell.' 'By God, we'll mob him.'

'We'll duck him, scrout him, flog him, fratch him.

'All right,' I said. 'But first you'll catch him.'

The men who don't know to the root

The joy of being swift of foot,

Have never known divine and fresh

The glory of the gift of flesh,

Nor felt the feet exult, nor gone

Along a dim road, on and on,

Knowing again the bursting glows,

The mating hare in April knows,

Who tingles to the pads with mirth

At being the swiftest thing on earth.

O, if you want to know delight,

Run naked in an autumn night,

And laugh, as I laughed then, to find

A running rabble drop behind,

And whang, on every door you pass,

Two copper nozzles, tipped with brass,

And doubly whang at every turning,

And yell, 'All hell's let loose, and burning.'

I beat my brass and shouted fire

At doors of parson, lawyer, squire,

At all three doors I threshed and slammed

And yelled aloud that they were damned.

I clodded squire's glass with turves

Because he spring-gunned his preserves.

Through parson's glass my nozzle swishes

Because he stood for loaves and fishes,

But parson's glass I spared a tittle.

He give me an orange once when little,

And he who gives a child a treat

Makes joy-bells ring in Heaven's street,

And he who gives a child a home

Builds palaces in Kingdom come,

And she who gives a baby birth

Brings Saviour Christ again to Earth,

For life is joy, and mind is fruit,

And body's precious earth and root.

But lawyer's glass--well, never mind,

Th'old Adam's strong in me, I find.

God pardon man, and may God's son

Forgive the evil things I've done.

What more? By Dirty Lane I crept

Back to the Lion, where I slept.

The raging madness hot and floodin'

Boiled itself out and left me sudden,

Left me worn out and sick and cold,

Aching as though I'd all grown old;

So there I lay, and there they found me

On door-mat, with a curtain round me.

Si took my heels and Jane my head

And laughed, and carried me to bed.

And from the neighbouring street they reskied

My boots and trousers, coat and weskit;

They bath-bricked both the nozzles bright

To be mementoes of the night,

And knowing what I should awake with

They flannelled me a quart to slake with,

And sat and shook till half-past two

Expecting Police Inspector Drew.

I woke and drank, and went to meat

In clothes still dirty from the street.

Down in the bar I heard 'em tell

How someone rang the fire-bell,

And how th'inspector's search had thriven,

And how five pounds reward was given.

And Shepherd Boyce, of Marley, glad us

By saying it was blokes from mad'us,

Or two young rips lodged at the Prince

Whom none had seen nor heard of since,

Or that young blade from Worcester Walk

(You know how country people talk).

Young Joe the ostler come in sad,

He said th'old mare had bit his dad.

He said there'd come a blazing screeching

Daft Bible-prophet chap a-preaching,

Had put th'old mare in such a taking

She'd thought the bloody earth was quaking.

And others come and spread a tale

Of cut-throats out of Gloucester jail,

And how we needed extra cops

With all them Welsh come picking hops;

With drunken Welsh in all our sheds

We might be murdered in our beds.

By all accounts, both men and wives

Had had the scare up of their lives.

I ate and drank and gathered strength,

And stretched along the bench full length,

Or crossed to window seat to pat

Black Silas Jones's little cat.

At four I called, 'You devil's own,

The second trumpet shall be blown.

The second trump, the second blast;

Hell's flames are loosed, and judgment's passed.

Too late for mercy now. Take warning

I'm death and hell and Judgment morning.'

I hurled the bench into the settle,

I banged the table on the kettle,

I sent Joe's quart of cider spinning.

'Lo, here begins my second inning.'

Each bottle, mug, and jug and pot

I smashed to crocks in half a tot;

And Joe, and Si, and Nick, and Percy

I rolled together topsy versy.

And as I ran I heard 'em call,

'Now damn to hell, what's gone with Saul?'

Out into street I ran uproarious

The devil dancing in me glorious.

And as I ran I yell and shriek

'Come on, now, turn the other cheek.'

Across the way by almshouse pump

I see old puffing parson stump.

Old parson, red-eyed as a ferret

From nightly wrestlings with the spirit;

I ran across, and barred his path.

His turkey gills went red as wrath

And then he froze, as parsons can.

'The police will deal with you, my man.'

'Not yet,' said I, 'not yet they won't;

And now you'll hear me, like or don't.

The English Church both is and was

A subsidy of Caiaphas.

I don't believe in Prayer nor Bible,

They're lies all through, and you're a libel,

A libel on the Devil's plan

When first he miscreated man.

You mumble through a formal code

To get which martyrs burned and glowed.

I look on martyrs as mistakes,

But still they burned for it at stakes;

Your only fire's the jolly fire

Where you can guzzle port with Squire,

And back and praise his damned opinions

About his temporal dominions.

You let him give the man who digs,

A filthy hut unfit for pigs,

Without a well, without a drain,

With mossy thatch that lets in rain,

Without a 'lotment, 'less he rent it,

And never meat, unless he scent it,

But weekly doles of 'leven shilling

To make a grown man strong and willing,

To do the hardest work on earth

And feed his wife when she gives birth,

And feed his little children's bones.

I tell you, man, the Devil groans.

With all your main and all your might

You back what is against what's right;

You let the Squire do things like these,

You back him in't and give him ease,

You take his hand, and drink his wine,

And he's a hog, but you're a swine.

For you take gold to teach God's ways

And teach man how to sing God's praise.

And now I'll tell you what you teach

In downright honest English speech.

'You teach the ground-down starving man

That Squire's greed's Jehovah's plan.

You get his learning circumvented

Lest it should make him discontented

(Better a brutal, starving nation

Than men with thoughts above their station),

You let him neither read nor think,

You goad his wretched soul to drink

And then to jail, the drunken boor;

O sad intemperance of the poor.

You starve his soul till it's rapscallion,

Then blame his flesh for being stallion.

You send your wife around to paint

The golden glories of "restraint."

How moral exercise bewild'rin'

Would soon result in fewer children.

You work a day in Squire's fields

And see what sweet restraint it yields;

A woman's day at turnip picking,

Your heart's too fat for plough or ricking.

'And you whom luck taught French and Greek

Have purple flaps on either cheek,

A stately house, and time for knowledge,

And gold to send your sons to college,

That pleasant place, where getting learning

Is also key to money earning.

But quite your damn'dest want of grace

Is what you do to save your face;

The way you sit astride the gates

By padding wages out of rates;

Your Christmas gifts of shoddy blankets

That every working soul may thank its

Loving parson, loving squire

Through whom he can't afford a fire.

Your well-packed bench, your prison pen,

To keep them something less than men;

Your friendly clubs to help 'em bury,

Your charities of midwifery.

Your bidding children duck and cap

To them who give them workhouse pap.

O, what you are, and what you preach,

And what you do, and what you teach

Is not God's Word, nor honest schism,

But Devil's cant and pauperism.'

By this time many folk had gathered

To listen to me while I blathered;

I said my piece, and when I'd said it,

I'll do old purple parson credit,

He sunk (as sometimes parsons can)

His coat's excuses in the man.

'You think that Squire and I are kings

Who made the existing state of things,

And made it ill. I answer, No,

States are not made, nor patched; they grow,

Grow slow through centuries of pain

And grow correctly in the main,

But only grow by certain laws

Of certain bits in certain jaws.

You want to doctor that. Let be.

You cannot patch a growing tree.

Put these two words beneath your hat,

These two: securus judicat.

The social states of human kinds

Are made by multitudes of minds.

And after multitudes of years

A little human growth appears

Worth having, even to the soul

Who sees most plain it's not the whole.

This state is dull and evil, both,

I keep it in the path of growth;

You think the Church an outworn fetter;

Kane, keep it, till you've built a better.

And keep the existing social state;

I quite agree it's out of date,

One does too much, another shirks,

Unjust, I grant; but still ... it works.

To get the whole world out of bed

And washed, and dressed, and warmed, and fed,

To work, and back to bed again,

Believe me, Saul, costs worlds of pain.

Then, as to whether true or sham

That book of Christ, Whose priest I am;

The Bible is a lie, say you,

Where do you stand, suppose it true?

Good-bye. But if you've more to say,

My doors are open night and day.

Meanwhile, my friend, 'twould be no sin

To mix more water in your gin.

We're neither saints nor Philip Sidneys,

But mortal men with mortal kidneys.'

He took his snuff, and wheezed a greeting,

And waddled off to mothers' meeting;

I hung my head upon my chest,

I give old purple parson best.

For while the Plough tips round the Pole

The trained mind outs the upright soul,

As Jesus said the trained mind might,

Being wiser than the sons of light,

But trained men's minds are spread so thin

They let all sorts of darkness in;

Whatever light man finds they doubt it,

They love not light, but talk about it.

But parson'd proved to people's eyes

That I was drunk, and he was wise;

And people grinned and women tittered,

And little children mocked and twittered

So blazing mad, I stalked to bar

To show how noble drunkards are,

And guzzled spirits like a beast,

To show contempt for Church and priest,

Until, by six, my wits went round

Like hungry pigs in parish pound.

At half-past six, rememb'ring Jane,

I staggered into street again

With mind made up (or primed with gin)

To bash the cop who'd run me in;

For well I knew I'd have to cock up

My legs that night inside the lock-up,

And it was my most fixed intent

To have a fight before I went.

Our Fates are strange, and no one knows his;

Our lovely Saviour Christ disposes.

Jane wasn't where we'd planned, the jade.

She'd thought me drunk and hadn't stayed.

So I went up the Walk to look for her

And lingered by the little brook for her,

And dowsed my face, and drank at spring,

And watched two wild duck on the wing.

The moon come pale, the wind come cool,

A big pike leapt in Lower Pool,

The peacock screamed, the clouds were straking,

My cut cheek felt the weather breaking;

An orange sunset waned and thinned

Foretelling rain and western wind,

And while I watched I heard distinct

The metals on the railway clinked.

The blood-edged clouds were all in tatters,

The sky and earth seemed mad as hatters;

They had a death look, wild and odd,

Of something dark foretold by God.

And seeing it so, I felt so shaken

I wouldn't keep the road I'd taken,

But wandered back towards the inn

Resolved to brace myself with gin.

And as I walked, I said, 'It's strange,

There's Death let loose to-night, and Change.'

In Cabbage Walk I made a haul

Of two big pears from lawyer's wall,

And, munching one, I took the lane

Back into Market-place again.

Lamp-lighter Dick had passed the turning

And all the Homend lamps were burning,

The windows shone, the shops were busy,

But that strange Heaven made me dizzy.

The sky had all God's warning writ

In bloody marks all over it,

And over all I thought there was

A ghastly light beside the gas.

The Devil's tasks and Devil's rages

Were giving me the Devil's wages.

In Market-place it's always light,

The big shop windows make it bright;

And in the press of people buying

I spied a little fellow crying

Because his mother'd gone inside

And left him there, and so he cried.

And mother'd beat him when she found him,

And mother's whip would curl right round him,

And mother'd say he'd done't to crost her,

Though there being crowds about he'd lost her.

Lord, give to men who are old and rougher

The things that little children suffer,

And let keep bright and undefiled

The young years of the little child.

I pat his head at edge of street

And gi'm my second pear to eat.

Right under lamp, I pat his head,

'I'll stay till mother come,' I said,

And stay I did, and joked and talked,

And shoppers wondered as they walked.

'There's that Saul Kane, the drunken blaggard,

Talking to little Jimmy Jaggard.

The drunken blaggard reeks of drink.'

'Whatever will his mother think?'

'Wherever has his mother gone?

Nip round to Mrs Jaggard's, John,

And say her Jimmy's out again,

In Market-place, with boozer Kane.'

'When he come out to-day he staggered.

O, Jimmy Jaggard, Jimmy Jaggard.'

'His mother's gone inside to bargain,

Run in and tell her, Polly Margin,

And tell her poacher Kane is tipsy

And selling Jimmy to a gipsy.'

'Run in to Mrs Jaggard, Ellen,

Or else, dear knows, there'll be no tellin',

And don't dare leave yer till you've fount her,

You'll find her at the linen counter.'

I told a tale, to Jim's delight,

Of where the tom-cats go by night,

And how when moonlight come they went

Among the chimneys black and bent,

From roof to roof, from house to house,

With little baskets full of mouse

All red and white, both joint and chop

Like meat out of a butcher's shop;

Then all along the wall they creep

And everyone is fast asleep,

And honey-hunting moths go by,

And by the bread-batch crickets cry;

Then on they hurry, never waiting

To lawyer's backyard cellar grating

Where Jaggard's cat, with clever paw,

Unhooks a broke-brick's secret door;

Then down into the cellar black,

Across the wood slug's slimy track,

Into an old cask's quiet hollow,

Where they've got seats for what's to follow;

Then each tom-cat lights little candles,

And O, the stories and the scandals,

And O, the songs and Christmas carols,

And O, the milk from little barrels.

They light a fire fit for roasting

(And how good mouse-meat smells when toasting),

Then down they sit to merry feast

While moon goes west and sun comes east.

Sometimes they make so merry there

Old lawyer come to head of stair

To 'fend with fist and poker took firm

His parchments channelled by the bookworm,

And all his deeds, and all his packs

Of withered ink and sealing wax;

And there he stands, with candle raised,

And listens like a man amazed,

Or like a ghost a man stands dumb at,

He says, 'Hush! Hush! I'm sure there's summat!'

He hears outside the brown owl call,

He hears the death-tick tap the wall,

The gnawing of the wainscot mouse,

The creaking up and down the house,

The unhooked window's hinges ranging,

The sounds that say the wind is changing.

At last he turns, and shakes his head,

'It's nothing, I'll go back to bed.'

And just then Mrs Jaggard came

To view and end her Jimmy's shame.

She made one rush and gi'm a bat

And shook him like a dog a rat.

'I can't turn round but what you're straying.

I'll give you tales and gipsy playing.

I'll give you wand'ring off like this

And listening to whatever 't is,

You'll laugh the little side of the can,

You'll have the whip for this, my man;

And not a bite of meat nor bread

You'll touch before you go to bed.

Some day you'll break your mother's heart,

After God knows she's done her part,

Working her arms off day and night

Trying to keep your collars white.

Look at your face, too, in the street.

What dirty filth 've you found to eat?

Now don't you blubber here, boy, or

I'll give you sum't to blubber for.'

She snatched him off from where we stand

And knocked the pear-core from his hand,

And looked at me, 'You Devil's limb,

How dare you talk to Jaggard's Jim;

You drunken, poaching, boozing brute, you.

If Jaggard was a man he'd shoot you.'

She glared all this, but didn't speak,

She gasped, white hollows in her cheek;

Jimmy was writhing, screaming wild,

The shoppers thought I'd killed the child.

I had to speak, so I begun.

'You'd oughtn't beat your little son;

He did no harm, but seeing him there

I talked to him and gi'm a pear;

I'm sure the poor child meant no wrong,

It's all my fault he stayed so long,

He'd not have stayed, mum, I'll be bound

If I'd not chanced to come around.

It's all my fault he stayed, not his.

I kept him here, that's how it is.'

'Oh! And how dare you, then?' says she,

'How dare you tempt my boy from me?

How dare you do't, you drunken swine,

Is he your child or is he mine?

A drunken sot they've had the beak to,

Has got his dirty whores to speak to,

His dirty mates with whom he drink,

Not little children, one would think.

Look on him, there,' she says, 'look on him

And smell the stinking gin upon him,

The lowest sot, the drunk'nest liar,

The dirtiest dog in all the shire:

Nice friends for any woman's son

After ten years, and all she's done.

'For I've had eight, and buried five,

And only three are left alive.

I've given them all we could afford,

I've taught them all to fear the Lord.

They've had the best we had to give,

The only three the Lord let live.

'For Minnie whom I loved the worst

Died mad in childbed with her first.

And John and Mary died of measles,

And Rob was drownded at the Teasels.

And little Nan, dear little sweet,

A cart run over in the street;

Her little shift was all one stain,

I prayed God put her out of pain.

And all the rest are gone or going

The road to hell, and there's no knowing

For all I've done and all I've made them

I'd better not have overlaid them.

For Susan went the ways of shame

The time the 'till'ry regiment came,

And t'have her child without a father

I think I'd have her buried rather.

And Dicky boozes, God forgimme,

And now't's to be the same with Jimmy.

And all I've done and all I've bore

Has made a drunkard and a whore,

A bastard boy who wasn't meant,

And Jimmy gwine where Dicky went;

For Dick began the self-same way

And my old hairs are going gray,

And my poor man's a withered knee,

And all the burden falls on me.

'I've washed eight little children's limbs,

I've taught eight little souls their hymns,

I've risen sick and lain down pinched

And borne it all and never flinched;

But to see him, the town's disgrace,

With God's commandments broke in's face,

Who never worked, not he, nor earned,

Nor will do till the seas are burned,

Who never did since he was whole

A hand's turn for a human soul,

But poached and stole and gone with women,

And swilled down gin enough to swim in;

To see him only lift one finger

To make my little Jimmy linger.

In spite of all his mother's prayers,

And all her ten long years of cares,

And all her broken spirit's cry

That drunkard's finger puts them by,

And Jimmy turns. And now I see

That just as Dick was, Jim will be,

And all my life will have been vain.

I might have spared myself the pain,

And done the world a blessed riddance

If I'd a drowned 'em all like kittens.

And he the sot, so strong and proud,

Who'd make white shirts of's mother's shroud,

He laughs now, it's a joke to him,

Though it's the gates of hell to Jim.

'I've had my heart burnt out like coal,

And drops of blood wrung from soul

Day in, day out, in pain and tears,

For five and twenty wretched years;

And he, he's ate the fat and sweet,

And loafed and spat at top of street,

And drunk and leched from day till morrow,

And never known a moment's sorrow.

He come out drunk from th'inn to look

The day my little Ann was took;

He sat there drinking, glad and gay,

The night my girl was led astray;

He praised my Dick for singing well,

The night Dick took the road to hell;

And when my corpse goes stiff and blind,

Leaving four helpless souls behind,

He will be there still, drunk and strong.

It do seem hard. It do seem wrong.

But "Woe to him by whom the offence,"

Says our Lord Jesus' Testaments.

Whatever seems, God doth not slumber

Though He lets pass times without number.

He'll come with trump to call His own,

And this world's way'll be overthrown.

He'll come with glory and with fire

To cast great darkness on the liar,

To burn the drunkard and the treacher,

And do His judgment on the lecher,

To glorify the spirits' faces

Of those whose ways were stony places,

Who chose with Ruth the better part;

O Lord, I see Thee as Thou art,

O God, the fiery four-edged sword,

The thunder of the wrath outpoured,

The fiery four-faced creatures burning,

And all the four-faced wheels all turning,

Coming with trump and fiery saint.

Jim, take me home, I'm turning faint.'

They went, and some cried, 'Good old sod.

'She put it to him straight, by God.'

Summat she was, or looked, or said,

Went home and made me hang my head.

I slunk away into the night

Knowing deep down that she was right.

I'd often heard religious ranters,

And put them down as windy canters,

But this old mother made me see

The harm I done by being me,

Being both strong and given to sin

I 'tracted weaker vessels in.

So back to bar to get more drink,

I didn't dare begin to think,

And there were drinks and drunken singing,

As though this life were dice for flinging;

Dice to be flung, and nothing furder,

And Christ's blood just another murder.

'Come on, drinks round, salue, drink hearty.

Now, Jane, the punch-bowl for the party.

If any here won't drink with me

I'll knock his bloody eyes out. See?

Come on, cigars round, rum for mine,

Sing us a smutty song, some swine.'

But though the drinks and songs went round

That thought remained, it was not drowned.

And when I'd rise to get a light

I'd think, 'What's come to me to-night?'

There's always crowds when drinks are standing.

The house doors slammed along the landing,

The rising wind was gusty yet,

And those who came in late were wet;

And all my body's nerves were snappin'

With sense of summat 'bout to happen,

And music seemed to come and go

And seven lights danced in a row.

There used to be a custom then,

Miss Bourne, the Friend, went round at ten

To all the pubs in all the place

To bring the drunkard's soul to grace;

Some sulked, of course, and some were stirred,

But none gave her a dirty word.

A tall pale woman, grey and bent,

Folk said of her that she was sent.

She wore Friend's clothes, and women smiled,

But she'd a heart just like a child.

She come to us near closing time

When we were at some smutty rhyme,

And I was mad and ripe for fun;

I wouldn't a minded what I done,

So when she come so prim and grey

I pound the bar and sing, 'Hooray,

Here's Quaker come to bless and kiss us,

Come, have a gin and bitters, missus.

Or may be Quaker girls so prim

Would rather start a bloody hymn.

Now, Dick, oblige. A hymn, you swine,

Pipe up the "Officer of the Line,"

A song to make one's belly ache,

Or "Nell and Roger at the Wake,"

Or that sweet song, the talk in town,

"The lady fair and Abel Brown."

"O, who's that knocking at the door."

Miss Bourne'll play the music score.'

The men stood dumb as cattle are,

They grinned, but thought I'd gone too far,

There come a hush and no one break it,

They wondered how Miss Bourne would take it.

She up to me with black eyes wide,

She looked as though her spirit cried;

She took my tumbler from the bar

Beside where all the matches are

And poured it out upon the floor dust,

Among the fag-ends, spit and sawdust.

'Saul Kane,' she said, 'when next you drink,

Do me the gentleness to think

That every drop of drink accursed

Makes Christ within you die of thirst,

That every dirty word you say

Is one more flint upon His way,

Another thorn about His head,

Another mock by where He tread,

Another nail, another cross.

All that you are is that Christ's loss.'

The clock run down and struck a chime

And Mrs Si said, 'Closing time.'

The wet was pelting on the pane

And something broke inside my brain,

I heard the rain drip from the gutters

And Silas putting up the shutters,

While one by one the drinkers went;

I got a glimpse of what it meant,

How she and I had stood before

In some old town by some old door

Waiting intent while someone knocked

Before the door for ever locked;

She was so white that I was scared,

A gas-jet, turned the wrong way, flared,

And Silas snapped the bars in place.

Miss Bourne stood white and searched my face.

When Silas done, with ends of tunes

He 'gan a-gathering the spittoons,

His wife primmed lips and took the till.

Miss Bourne stood still and I stood still,

And 'Tick. Slow. Tick. Slow' went the clock.

She said, 'He waits until you knock.'

She turned at that and went out swift,

Si grinned and winked, his missus sniffed.

I heard her clang the Lion door,

I marked a drink-drop roll to floor;

It took up scraps of sawdust, furry,

And crinkled on, a half inch, blurry;

A drop from my last glass of gin;

And someone waiting to come in,

A hand upon the door latch gropin'

Knocking the man inside to open.

I know the very words I said,

They bayed like bloodhounds in my head.

'The water's going out to sea

And there's a great moon calling me;

But there's a great sun calls the moon,

And all God's bells will carol soon

For joy and glory and delight

Of someone coming home to-night.'

Out into darkness, out to night,

My flaring heart gave plenty light,

So wild it was there was no knowing

Whether the clouds or stars were blowing;

Blown chimney pots and folk blown blind

And puddles glimmering like my mind,

And chinking glass from windows banging,

And inn signs swung like people hanging,

And in my heart the drink unpriced,

The burning cataracts of Christ.

I did not think, I did not strive,

The deep peace burnt my me alive;

The bolted door had broken in,

I knew that I had done with sin.

I knew that Christ had given me birth

To brother all the souls on earth,

And every bird and every beast

Should share the crumbs broke at the feast.

O glory of the lighted mind.

How dead I'd been, how dumb, how blind.

The station brook, to my new eyes,

Was babbling out of Paradise;

The waters rushing from the rain

Were singing Christ has risen again.

I thought all earthly creatures knelt

From rapture of the joy I felt.

The narrow station-wall's brick ledge,

The wild hop withering in the hedge,

The lights in huntsman's upper storey

Were parts of an eternal glory,

Were God's eternal garden flowers.

I stood in bliss at this for hours.

O glory of the lighted soul.

The dawn came up on Bradlow Knoll,

The dawn with glittering on the grasses,

The dawn which pass and never passes.

'It's dawn,' I said, 'and chimney's smoking,

And all the blessed fields are soaking.

It's dawn, and there's an engine shunting;

And hounds, for huntsman's going hunting.

It's dawn, and I must wander north

Along the road Christ led me forth.'

So up the road I wander slow

Past where the snowdrops used to grow

With celandines in early springs,

When rainbows were triumphant things

And dew so bright and flowers so glad,

Eternal joy to lass and lad.

And past the lovely brook I paced,

The brook whose source I never traced,

The brook, the one of two which rise

In my green dream in Paradise,

In wells where heavenly buckets clink

To give God's wandering thirsty drink

By those clean cots of carven stone

Where the clear water sings alone.

Then down, past that white-blossomed pond,

And past the chestnut trees beyond,

And past the bridge the fishers knew,

Where yellow flag flowers once grew,

Where we'd go gathering cops of clover,

In sunny June times long since over.

O clover-cops half white, half red,

O beauty from beyond the dead.

O blossom, key to earth and heaven,

O souls that Christ has new forgiven.

Then down the hill to gipsies' pitch

By where the brook clucks in the ditch.

A gipsy's camp was in the copse,

Three felted tents, with beehive tops,

And round black marks where fires had been,

And one old waggon painted green,

And three ribbed horses wrenching grass,

And three wild boys to watch me pass,

And one old woman by the fire

Hulking a rabbit warm from wire.

I loved to see the horses bait.

I felt I walked at Heaven's gate,

That Heaven's gate was opened wide

Yet still the gipsies camped outside.

The waste souls will prefer the wild,

Long after life is meek and mild.

Perhaps when man has entered in

His perfect city free from sin,

The campers will come past the walls

With old lame horses full of galls,

And waggons hung about with withies,

And burning coke in tinkers' stithies,

And see the golden town, and choose,

And think the wild too good to lose.

And camp outside, as these camped then

With wonder at the entering men.

So past, and past the stone-heap white

That dewberry trailers hid from sight,

And down the field so full of springs,

Where mewing peewits clap their wings,

And past the trap made for the mill

Into the field below the hill.

There was a mist along the stream,

A wet mist, dim, like in a dream;

I heard the heavy breath of cows,

And waterdrops from th'alder boughs;

And eels, or snakes, in dripping grass

Whipping aside to let me pass.

The gate was backed against the ryme

To pass the cows at milking time.

And by the gate as I went out

A moldwarp rooted earth wi 's snout.

A few steps up the Callows' Lane

Brought me above the mist again;

The two great fields arose like death

Above the mists of human breath.

All earthly things that blessed morning

Were everlasting joy and warning.

The gate was Jesus' way made plain,

The mole was Satan foiled again,

Black blinded Satan snouting way

Along the red of Adam's clay;

The mist was error and damnation,

The lane the road unto salvation,

Out of the mist into the light;

O blessed gift of inner sight.

The past was faded like a dream;

There come the jingling of a team,

A ploughman's voice, a clink of chain,

Slow hoofs, and harness under strain.

Up the slow slope a team came bowing,

Old Callow at his autumn ploughing,

Old Callow, stooped above the hales.

Ploughing the stubble into wales;

His grave eyes looking straight ahead,

Shearing a long straight furrow red;

His plough-foot high to give it earth

To bring new food for men to birth.

O wet red swathe of earth laid bare,

O truth, O strength, O gleaming share,

O patient eyes that watch the goal,

O ploughman of the sinner's soul.

O Jesus, drive the coulter deep

To plough my living man from sleep.

Slow up the hill the plough team plod,

Old Callow at the task of God,

Helped by man's wit, helped by the brute

Turning a stubborn clay to fruit,

His eyes for ever on some sign

To help him plough a perfect line.

At top of rise the plough team stopped,

The fore-horse bent his head and cropped

Then the chains chack, the brasses jingle,

The lean reins gather through the cringle,

The figures move against the sky,

The clay wave breaks as they go by.

I kneeled there in the muddy fallow,

I knew that Christ was there with Callow,

That Christ was standing there with me,

That Christ had taught me what to be,

That I should plough, and as I ploughed

My Saviour Christ would sing aloud,

And as I drove the clods apart

Christ would be ploughing in my heart,

Through rest-harrow and bitter roots,

Through all my bad life's rotten fruits.

O Christ who holds the open gate,

O Christ who drives the furrow straight,

O Christ, the plough, O Christ, the laughter

Of holy white birds flying after,

Lo, all my heart's field red and torn,

And Thou wilt bring the young green corn,

The young green corn divinely springing,

The young green corn for ever singing;

And when the field is fresh and fair

Thy blessed feet shall glitter there.

And we will walk the weeded field,

And tell the golden harvest's yield,

The corn that makes the holy bread

By which the soul of man is fed,

The holy bread, the food unpriced,

Thy everlasting mercy, Christ.

The share will jar on many a stone,

Thou wilt not let me stand alone;

And I shall feel (Thou wilt not fail),

Thy hand on mine upon the hale.

Near Bullen Bank, on Gloucester Road,

Thy everlasting mercy showed

The ploughman patient on the hill

For ever there, for ever still,

Ploughing the hill with steady yoke

Of pine-trees lightning-struck and broke.

I've marked the May Hill ploughman stay

There on his hill, day after day

Driving his team against the sky,

While men and women live and die.

And now and then he seems to stoop

To clear the coulter with the scoop,

Or touch an ox to haw or gee

While Severn stream goes out to sea.

The sea with all her ships and sails,

And that great smoky port in Wales,

And Gloucester tower bright i' the sun,

All know that patient wandering one.

And sometimes when they burn the leaves

The bonfires' smoking trails and heaves,

And girt red flames twink and twire

As though he ploughed the hill afire.

And in men's hearts in many lands

A spiritual ploughman stands

For ever waiting, waiting now,

The heart's 'Put in, man, zook the plough.'

By this the sun was all one glitter,

The little birds were all in twitter;

Out of a tuft a little lark

Went higher up than I could mark,

His little throat was all one thirst

To sing until his heart should burst,

To sing aloft in golden light

His song from blue air out of sight.

The mist drove by, and now the cows

Came plodding up to milking house,

Followed by Frank, the Callows' cowman,

Who whistled 'Adam was a ploughman.'

There come such cawing from the rooks,

Such running chuck from little brooks,

One thought it March, just budding green

With hedgerows full of celandine.

An otter out of stream and played,

Two hares come loping up and stayed;

Wide-eyed and tender-eared but bold.

Sheep bleated up by Penny's fold.

I heard a partridge covey call;

The morning sun was bright on all.

Down the long slope the plough team drove

The tossing rooks arose and hove.

A stone struck on the share. A word

Came to the team. The red earth stirred.

I crossed the hedge by shooter's gap,

I hitched my boxer's belt a strap,

I jumped the ditch and crossed the fallow

I took the hales from farmer Callow.

How swift the summer goes,

Forget-me-not, pink, rose.

The young grass when I started

And now the hay is carted,

And now my song is ended,

And all the summer spended;

The blackbird's second brood

Routs beech-leaves in the wood

The pink and rose have speeded,

Forget-me-not has seeded.

Only the winds that blew,

The rain that makes things new,

The earth that hides things old,

And blessings manifold.

O lovely lily clean,

O lily springing green,

O lily bursting white,

Dear lily of delight,

Spring in my heart agen

That I may flower to men.

GREAT HAMPDEN. June 1911.

'The Everlasting Mercy' first appeared in The English Review for October 1911. I thank the Editor and Proprietors of that paper for permitting me to reprint it here. The persons and events described in the poem are entirely imaginary, and no reference is made or intended to any living person.

"Mr Masefield is no common realist, but universalizes his tragedy in the grand manner.... We are convinced that he is writing truly of human nature, which is the vital thing.... The last few stanzas show us pastoral poetry in the very perfection of simplicity."--Spectator.

"In 'The Widow in the Bye Street' all Mr Masefield's passionate love of loveliness is utterly fused with the violent and unlovely story, which glows with an inner harmony. The poem, it is true, ends on a note of idyllism which recalls Theocritus; but this is no touch of eternal decoration. Inevitably the story has worked towards this culmination."--Bookman.

A Play in Three Acts. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net. Wrappers, 1s. 6d. net. Third Impression

"In this Roman tragedy, while we admire its closely knit structure, dramatic effectiveness, and atmosphere of reality ... the warmth and colour of the diction are the most notable things.... He knows the art of phrasing; he has the instinct for and by them."--Athaeneum.

"He has written a great tragedy.... The dialogue is written in strong, simple and nervous prose, flashing with poetic insight, significance and suggestion. The characters are intensely alive, the situations are handled by a master hand, and the whole play is pregnant with that high and solemn pathos which is the gift of the born writer of tragedies."--Morning Post.

EDINBURGH REVISITED. By JAMES BONE. Extra Crown 8vo, with 50 Drawings by HANSLIP FLETCHER. Cloth gilt, 5s. net. Original Edition, with Etched Frontispiece, 16 Collotypes, and over 50 Line Drawings by HANSLIP FLETCHER, Demy 4to, 264 pages, £1, 1s. net; Edition de Luxe, limited to 30 signed copies, £3, 3s. each.

TOM BROWN'S SCHOOLDAYS. By THOMAS HUGHES. With a Preface by LORD KILBRACKEN, and an Introduction and Notes by F. SIDGWICK. Illustrated from contemporary Portraits and Drawings. Large square 8vo, buckram gilt, 10s. 6d. net.

UMBRIA PAST AND PRESENT. By MARY LOVETT CAMERON. With 15 Original Photographs and 26 Drawings by C. G. VENANZI. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.

THE WILD HARP. A Selection from Irish Poetry, By KATHARINE TYNAN. With Decorated Title and Borders to every page by C. M. WATTS. Royal 8vo, designed cloth binding, 7s. 6d. net.

ATTA TROLL. Translated from the German of Heine by HERMAN SCHEFFAUER. With an Introduction and Notes by Dr OSCAR LEVY, and Illustrated by WILLY POGANY. Small Fcap. 8vo, 3s. 6d. net.

THE TRUE OPHELIA: and other Stories of Shakespeare's Women. By AN ACTRESS. Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net.

THE GLORY THAT WAS GREECE: A Survey of Hellenic Culture. By J. C. STOBART, M.A., Late Lecturer in History at Trinity College, Cambridge. Superroyal 8vo, profusely illustrated in Colour, Gravure and Line. Price 30s. net.

"Mr Stobart does a real service when he gives the reading but non-expert public this fine volume, embodying the latest results of research, blending them, too, into as agreeable a narrative as we have met with for a long while."--Guardian.

THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME. By J. C. STOBART, M.A. (Uniform with the above.) 30s. net.

"It is a book which must be read; it is a book which should be in the library of every school and every college ... the illustrations have been quite superbly reproduced. Messrs Sidgwick & Jackson are to be very cordially congratulated on having published such an excellent book."--Observer.

SHIPS AND WAYS OF OTHER DAYS. By E. KEBLE CHATTERTON. With a Coloured Frontispiece by CHARLES DIXON, and 120 Illustrations.

SAILING SHIPS AND THEIR STORY. By E. KEBLE CHATTERTON. With a Coloured Frontispiece by CHARLES DIXON, and over 130 Illustrations.

STEAM-SHIPS AND THEIR STORY. By R. A. FLETCHER. With a Coloured Frontispiece and 150 Illustrations. The foregoing three volumes, Extra Royal 8vo, in designed cover, cloth gilt, l6s. net each.

MINES AND THEIR STORY; Gold, Diamonds, Silver, Coal and Iron. By J. BERNARD MANNIX. Extra Royal 8vo, with a Coloured Frontispiece and numerous illustrations. (Uniform with "Sailing Ships.") In designed cover, cloth gilt, 16s. net.

THE LIFE-BOAT AND ITS STORY. By NOEL T. METHLEY, F.R.G.S. With 70 Illustrations. Demy 8vo, cloth gilt, 7s. 6d. net.

GARDEN DESIGN in Theory and Practice. By MADELINE AGAR. With 4 Coloured Plates, 16 full-page and 90 other Illustrations. Second Edition, revised, cloth extra, 5s. net.

OLD CHINATOWN. A Book of Pictures by ARNOLD GENTHE. With Text by WILL IRWIN. Demy 8vo, cloth gilt, 7s. 6d. net. Ninety-one Photographs from life in the Chinese quarter of San Francisco, taken before it was destroyed in the great disaster of 1906.

THE RUSSIAN BALLET. By ELLEN TERRY. With Drawings by PAMELA COLMAN SMITH. Demy 4to, cloth, 3s. 6d. net.

POEMS. By R. C. PHILLIMORE. With a Preface by JOHN MASEFIELD. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net.

GULLIVER'S VOYAGES to Lilliput and Brobdingnag. Illustrated by F. A. STAYNES. With 8 Colour Plates and over 80 Drawings in the Text, printed in Two Colours throughout; decorated initials, title-page, and end-papers. Designed cloth extra, in coloured wrapper, 5s.

THE ORANGE CAT and Other Verses. By FFRIDA WOLFE. Illustrated by P. A. STAYNES. Demy 4to, picture boards, in colour throughout, 1s. 6d.

ROUNDABOUT WAYS. By FFRIDA WOLFE. Illustrated by P. A. STAYNES. Demy 4to., cloth, in colour throughout, 3s. 6d.

THE COCKATOO: a Story of Public School Life and Adventure. By MAX BITTENBERG. Illustrated. Crown 8vo, 5s.

UNDINE. By F. DE LA MOTTE FOUQUE; translated by EDMUND GOSSE. With a Photogravure Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net.

THE MAGIC KEY and Other Fairy Tales. By GRACE INKSON. Illustrated by CATHERINE MANN. Pott 4to, cloth, 2s. 6d.

THE NEW CHILD'S GUIDE TO KNOWLEDGE. By LAURENCE HOUSMAN. A Book of Poems and Moral Lessons. Illustrated by the AUTHOR. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net. Ornamental paper wrappers, 1s. net.

PELLE THE CONQUEROR: Boyhood. By MARTIN ANDERSON NEXO. Translated from the Danish by JESSIE MUIR. Crown 8vo. 6s.

"Novel-readers in search of something out of the common will be grateful to the publishers and the very competent translator.... The detailed realism of the life at the farm is presented firmly and vividly."--Spectator.

THE THIRD MISS SYMONS. By F. M. MAYOR. With a Preface by JOHN MASEFIELD. Impl. 16mo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. net.

"Mr Masefield has formed a high opinion of Miss Mayor's work, but nothing beyond what her art deserves."--Glasgow Herald.

THE TEMPLE ON THE HILL. A Tale of Transylvania. By ELSA DE SZASZ. Impl. 16mo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. net.

"The book is wonderful, and the English of it noble and simple."--Pall Mall Gazette.

THE CELESTIAL OMNIBUS: and other Stories. By E. M. FORSTER, author of "Howards End," etc. With cover design and end-papers by ROGER FRY. Impl. 16mo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. net.

TIME'S WALLET: A Novel Told in Letters. By LUCY DALE and G. M. FAULDING. Crown 8vo, 6s.

AN INN UPON THE ROAD. By JANET DODGE (Author of "Tony Unregenerate.") Crown 8vo, 6s.

FOUR PLAYS. By GILBERT CANNAN. "James and John," "Miles Dixon," "Mary's Wedding," and "A Short Way with Authors." Cloth, 2s. 6d. net.

THE EMANCIPATION. A Play in Three Acts. By LEONARD INKSTER. Cloth, 2s. net; paper, 1s. 6d. net.

THE PRICE OF THOMAS SCOTT. A Play in Three Acts. By ELIZABETH BAKER, Author of "Chains." Cloth, 2s. net; paper, 1s. 6d. net.

THE POLITICIANS. A Comedy in Four Acts. By FRANK G. LAYTON ("STEPHEN ANDREW"). Cloth, 2s. net; paper, 1s. 6d. net.

THE EDUCATION OF MR SURRAGE. A Comedy in Four Acts. By ALLAN MONKHOUSE, Author of "Mary Broome." Cloth, 2s. net; paper, 1s. 6d. net.

THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE. A Play in One Act. By GEORGE CALDERON, author of "The Fountain." Crown 8vo, wrappers, 6d. net each.

"Messrs Sidgwick & Jackson are choosing their plays excellently."--Saturday Review.

THREE PLAYS BY GRANVILLE BARKER: "The Marrying of Ann Leete," "The Voysey Inheritance," and "Waste." In one Vol., 5s. net; singly, cloth, 2s. net; paper wrappers, 1s. 6d. net.

THE MADRAS HOUSE. A Comedy in Four Acts. By GRANVILLE BARKER. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. net; paper wrappers, 1s. 6d. net.

ANATOL. A Sequence of Dialogues. By ARTHUR SCHNITZLER. Paraphrased for the English Stage by GRANVILLE BARKER. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. net; paper wrappers, 1s. 6d. net.

PRUNELLA; or Love in a Dutch Garden. By LAURENCE HOUSMAN and GRANVILLE BARKER. With a Frontispiece and Music to "Pierrot's Serenade," by JOSEPH MOORAT. Fcap. 4to, 5s. net. Theatre Edition, crown 8vo, wrappers, 1s. net.

CHAINS. A Play in Four Acts. By ELIZABETH BAKER, Crown 8vo, cloth, 1s. 6d. net; paper wrappers, 1s. net.

RUTHERFORD & SON. By GITHA SOWERBY. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net; paper, 1s. 6d. net.

THE NEW SIN. By B. MACDONALD HASTINGS. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. net; paper, 1s. net.

HINDLE WAKES. A Play in Four Acts. By STANLEY HOUGHTON. Cloth, 2s. net; paper, 1s. 6d. net.

THE TRIAL OF JEANNE D'ARC. A Play in Four Acts. By EDWARD GARNETT. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net.

PAINS AND PENALTIES. By LAURENCE HOUSMAN. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net; paper, 1s. 6d. net.