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 BY C. ALlfEIM. CLARKE. 
 
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Cornell University Library 
 PR 6005.L323V8 
 
 "Voices" and other verses. 
 
 3 1924 013 596 691 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013596691 
 
IC 
 
 VOICES." 
 
''Voices" 
 
 AND OTHER VERSES. 
 
 BY 
 
 c! ALLEN CLARKE, 
 
 CHRISTMAS, 1895. 
 
 LONDON 
 "Clarion" Oface, 72, Fleet Street. 
 
 MANCHESTER 
 
 Tlie Labour Press Society Limited, 
 
 37 and 59, Tib Street. 
 
jfiftancbester : 
 
 THE LABOUR PRESS SOCIETY LTD., 
 57 AND 59, Tib Street. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 • I have only two things to say in this prefatory 
 prose about these rhymes, — first, that this volume 
 is a selection from verses written between my 
 fourteenth and thirtieth years ; and second, that 
 the compositions are not arranged in chronological 
 order. 
 
TO ALL COMRADES. 
 
 Dear Comrade, here's my jingle — stuiF, — 
 Of dips towards dark, leaps towards light- 
 
 I hope you'll find it good enough,- 
 And — that is all I need to write. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Introductory 
 
 The Voice of the Instrument 
 
 Song of the Sowers 
 
 The Voice from the Optimist 
 
 The Voice from the Cynic 
 
 The Voice from the Loom 
 
 The Voice from the Robbed . 
 
 The Voice of the Slum-Child 
 
 PAGE. 
 9 
 
 lO 
 
 13 
 14 
 16 
 
 19 
 
 20 
 23 
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Page 12, line 13, " thunders's " should be " thunder's." 
 
 Page 84, line 5, " seared " should be '■ scared." 
 
 Page 91, line 24, " haul " should be " hurl." 
 
 Page 99, line 17, " wine " should be " music." 
 
 Page 113, lines, "mayn't got' wa' " should be " mayn't go to t'wa.' 
 
 Page 117, line i, " a stocking " should be " the stocking." 
 
 Songs of a Sorrow . . 
 
 One Morn in Spring . . 
 
 Longing 
 
 Not for us 
 
 I am only a Little Child 
 
 New Year in the Cemetery 
 
 Song of a Hope 
 
 The Spirit and the Boy 
 
 In Memoriam 
 
 There is more . . 
 
 Cattle and Children 
 
 My Castle 
 
 62 
 
 63 
 64 
 64 
 65 
 65 
 70 
 72 
 74 
 75 
 75 
 76 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Introductory 
 
 The Voice of the Instrument 
 
 Song of the Sowers 
 
 The Voice from the Optimist 
 
 The Voice from the Cynic 
 
 The Voice from the Loom 
 
 The Voice from the Robbed . . 
 
 The Voice of the Slum-Child 
 
 Voice of the Respectable 
 
 Voice of the Disenchanted 
 
 Voice of the Factory Operative 
 
 Voice of the North . . 
 
 Voice of the Christ-Brother 
 
 Voice of the Poor Poet 
 
 Voice of the Manufacturing Slave 
 
 Voice of the Miner . . 
 
 Voice of the Doctor 
 
 Voice of the Gun Inventor 
 
 The Voice of the Christmas Bells 
 
 The Idyl of the Cheap Trip 
 
 Some Echoes of a Joy, a Sorrow, and a 
 
 Songs of a Sorrow . . 
 
 One Morn in Spring . . 
 
 Longing 
 
 Not for us 
 
 I am only a Little Child 
 
 New Year in the Cemetery 
 
 Song of a Hope 
 
 The Spirit and the Boy 
 
 In Memoriam 
 
 There is more . . 
 
 Cattle and Children 
 
 My Castle 
 
 Hops 
 
If? 
 
 Life 
 
 Oh, Sweetheart, the Day's Work 
 My Maiden of Eighteen 
 
 Oh Saddest 
 
 On the Fleetwood Fishermen 
 
 A Factory Song 
 
 O Blessed be the Holidays . . 
 
 Sunday 
 
 The Strange City 
 
 Oh, Lads Arise ! 
 
 AUen-a-Dale's Song of His Bride 
 
 There are Songs 
 
 A Man must Pay 
 
 The Jester's Song . . 
 
 What's a Man for ? 
 
 Heigho ! 
 
 Our Good Old Mother. . 
 
 Lov'st Thou the Sun ? 
 
 All for to bring the Summer home 
 
 A Vision 
 
 Pleasure (?) 
 
 Written in the Sun 
 
 Stars 
 
 Song 
 
 For the Vanquished 
 
 On a Lark 
 
 Come, Children . . 
 Voice of the Half Timers . . 
 The Letter to Santa Claus 
 To My Sweetheart Wife . . 
 
it 
 
 Doices/ 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 Lo ! I, now sojourning on this planet-isle, 
 In the wide sea of space, amidst a crowd 
 
 Of fellow-beings, for a little while, 
 
 Hear voices crying — softly some, some loud ; 
 
 And I but turn to words as I pass by 
 
 Their inarticulate but soul- born cry. 
 
 Some know not what they cry, and some know not 
 The cry at all ; like smitten wood or stone 
 
 They give out sound, bearing their weary lot. 
 As did the generations dead and gone ; 
 
 But, struck by Fate's great hammer, the iron 
 rings 
 
 And the wood groans ; and so the poet sings. 
 
 I hear these voices crying out alway ; 
 
 Some in the lonely silence of the night ; 
 Some in the busy tumult of the day ; 
 
 Some valorously, and some in awe or fright ; 
 Some with a sweet, some with a bitter tone ; 
 Few with a laugh, and many with a moan. 
 
 Some with a blessing, others with a curse ; 
 
 Some with a shout of joy, or wail of grief; 
 Some full of faith whose pleasures they rehearse ; 
 
 Some with a pessimistic unbelief ; 
 Some from the narrow sheepfold of a creed ; 
 Some from the broader, fuller life they lead. 
 
lO VOICES 
 
 But none is wholly atheist, and none 
 Full firm believer ; he who says he is 
 
 Is liar, fool, or hypocrite, and on 
 His own soul sets the seal of littleness. 
 
 And measures by his own short self the whole 
 Of Nature infinite and God's great soul. 
 
 But hear them speak themselves ; I say no more 
 But this to those who question, "Who are you. 
 
 That as interpreter would go before 
 This mighty multitude ? " I answer true, 
 
 " I but feel in my heart all that they feel. 
 And what they cannot tell you / reveal." 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE INSTRUMENT. 
 
 I CAN but sing what I am moved to sing, 
 
 I can but write what I am wrought to write ; 
 
 I only bring what I am given to bring. 
 And sing of day in snatches of the night ; 
 
 Yet in the dark I keep faith in the sun. 
 
 And know that day will come when night is done. 
 
 I can but play the tunes my pipe allows, 
 I can but sing the scale my voice permits ; 
 
 And though you place the garland on my brows. 
 Or target me for critics and tart wits, 
 
 I can but sing my song and say my say, 
 
 Then in the night and darkness go my way, 
 
 I can but say my say and sing my song — 
 I'm like an instrument of many keys, 
 
 Which passing days their fingers sweep along, 
 And play whatever melody they please ; 
 
 And, be it sad or gay, to them 'tis good : 
 
 While I — I'm but the ivory and the wood. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. II 
 
 On me the days make music of the dawn 
 
 In major tones that laugh and glow and leap ; 
 
 Or from me in a minor mode is drawn 
 
 The dreamy round of night and rest and sleep ; 
 
 Or bursting psean of birth, low dirge of death, 
 
 And all the sounds that break in human breath. 
 
 Or song of prattling childhood ; yearning youth, 
 Manhood and maidenhood, and love and fame ; 
 
 The mother's lullaby ; the- sage's truth ; 
 The hero's glory and the villain's shame ; 
 
 The idler's empty life, the worker's doom ; 
 
 And all betwixt the cradle and the tomb. 
 
 And hope of some beyond, — elusive sphere 
 
 Where wrongs are righted, misery's tears are dried, 
 
 Where all the distant that we prayed were near 
 No longer fades on the horizon wide, 
 
 But truth and love and justice all have come 
 
 And hailed man home in their eternal home. 
 
 All these things speak within me to the touch 
 Of some one key or keys ; and light or dull, 
 
 Mirthful or sorrowful (as we deem it such). 
 No doubt the player thinks it beautiful. 
 
 Ah, then, who plays ? Blind Chance, or can it be 
 
 That the pianist is a Deity ? 
 
 Like to the wires that to the ivory keys 
 Link each its note, so to the soul in me 
 
 Invisibly are linked the fields, the trees. 
 The stars, the sun, the mountains, and the sea ; 
 
 And as the keys are struck you hear the note 
 
 From star or sun or sea or mountain float. 
 
 The fire-note of the sun that thrills with life 
 And burns with hope ; the ice-note of the moon 
 
 A-chill, a-weary with despair ; the strife 
 When ocean chords are pedalled in the tune ; 
 
 The wild lark's warble ; nightingale's sweet trill ; 
 
 The thrush at twilight when all else is still. 
 
12 , VOICES 
 
 The lovers' kiss of ecstasy in the gloam ; 
 
 The children's revel on the village green ; 
 The greeting to the father coming home ; 
 
 The murmur of the cradle rocked unseen ; 
 The lilt of the carouser reeling by ; 
 The mother's prayer ; the fretting infant's cry. 
 
 The widow and the orphan ; the oppressed 
 
 Of every clime and race, white slaves or black ; 
 
 The sweated sufferers who the slums infest ; 
 The fallen village girl who daren't go back ; 
 
 The slaves of steam who toil in forge and mill 
 
 Where knaves have turned a blessing into ill. 
 
 The thunders's boom ; the gloomy raven's croak ; 
 
 The serpent's hiss ; the wolf's snarl at the sheep ; 
 The sighs of those who bear a cruel yoke ; 
 
 The chorus of the tempest on the deep ; 
 The wee faint music of the opening buds 
 And growing grass in meadows and lone woods. 
 
 And good and evil ; foul and fair ; and dark 
 And light ; and smiling sun and shadow grim ; 
 
 Yet louder than the frog croaks sings the lark, 
 And what's a frog's curse to a skylark's hymn 
 
 And this holds true when all is said and done, 
 
 The shadows could not be were there no sun. 
 
 Even as the sun exceeds the shadows (though 
 To us, being far, he seemeth less) I say 
 
 Right outshines wrong, and virtue vice ; and so 
 Discord is fractional harmony in life's lay ; 
 
 And in the end, where'er and when it be, 
 
 The right shall triumph and the good be free. 
 
 It may be when my voice is heard no more, 
 
 It may be in some other life afar ; 
 The way with olives may be shaded o'er, 
 
 Or lead through all the blood and woe of war ; 
 But when the instrument is hushed and mute 
 This song you'll sing while gathering the fruit. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 13 
 
 For oh, the sun is more than shadows are, 
 
 The light is more than dark, the day than night ; — 
 
 And I, poor minstrel, stroll 'neath sun and star, 
 Yet ever keep my face turned toward the light, 
 
 And may but sing my song and say my say, 
 
 Then bid you all good night and go my way. 
 
 SONG OF THE SOWERS. 
 
 Scatter the seed undaunted, 
 
 Some of it will take root ; 
 If we but behold the sprouting, 
 
 Others shall see the fruit ;, 
 Out in the early morning. 
 
 In the first bleak days of spring. 
 When the fields are bare and flowers unborn. 
 
 And few birds sing. 
 
 Forth to your labour nobly 
 
 In the cold and the undawned dark, 
 You'll hear with the shining sunrise 
 
 The cheering song of the lark ; 
 And you know that invisibly round you 
 
 The fruit is evolving fast ; 
 And others shall see what we but dream — 
 
 At last, at last. 
 
 Nigh us are leafless hedges. 
 
 Round us are budless trees. 
 There's a nip of the frost of winter 
 
 In the keen and wild March breeze ; 
 But the seedtime gives a promise 
 
 Of all it holds in store. 
 And summer shall show the beautiful truths 
 
 Now covered o'er. 
 
14 VOICES 
 
 And after the summer the autumn 
 
 Shall bring the fruitage sweet ; 
 Then forth shall come the paean 
 
 Prom many a bird's retreat ; 
 And those who gather the harvest 
 
 Shall place the tear-dewed wreath 
 On the graves of those who sowed the seed, 
 
 And thus found death. 
 
 Forth to your labour bravely, 
 
 Though skies seem most unkind ; 
 When tranisent clouds are frowning 
 
 Is not the sun behind ? 
 Oh, bear the stings and the bowlings 
 
 Of springtide's wintry blast, 
 For you know that the time of reaping 
 
 Shall come at last. 
 
 THE VOICE FROM THE OPTIMIST. 
 (a song of hope.) 
 
 Sing, mother, sing ; 
 Though babes be cheap and bread be dear, 
 And the thought of the morrow is full of fear, 
 
 What shall it bring ? — 
 God's over all. 
 
 Toil, father, toil ; 
 Not all the labour shall be in vain, 
 Nor the smile of the sun and the tears of the 
 rain 
 
 On the waiting soil, — 
 God's over all. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. I5 
 
 Fight, soldier, fight ; 
 Though foes be many and comrades few, 
 And there seemeth more than thy arm can do, 
 
 Let thy heart be light, — 
 God's over all. 
 
 Hope, mourner, hope ; 
 Though the dead soil fall on the coffin lid 
 Like a broken heart, there is something hid 
 
 Beyond our scope, — 
 God's over all. 
 
 Write, poet, write ; 
 Fill the hearts of thy fellows with songs of cheer ; 
 Prophetic, cry, " The dawn is near, 
 
 Though it yet be night, — 
 God's over all ! " 
 
 Lift, poet, lift ; 
 Accursed be the craven whose verse is a tomb ! 
 From thy higher ground behold in the gloom 
 
 The first bright rift, — 
 God's over all. 
 
 On, brothers, on ; 
 Pluck out faint hearts, they are hard to bear ; 
 Better die on the march than on beds of 
 despair ; 
 
 Wrong never won, — 
 God's over all. 
 
 Band, brothers, band 
 Together, and hearts and hands unite ; 
 One sunbeam does not make the light 
 
 That days a land, — 
 God's over all. 
 
 Hope, leaders, hope, — 
 Have pity, for they you call, long blind, 
 A weary while ere the way they find 
 
 In the dark must grope, — 
 God's over all. 
 
l(5 VOICES 
 
 Faith, captains, strong ; 
 If men are slow, be slow to blame, 
 Long-fettered limbs cannot run like flamf, 
 
 But must limp along, — 
 God's over all. 
 
 Love, comrades, love 1 
 Ever let that be your bugle call. 
 And unto you shall all things fall, 
 
 And ye shall prove — 
 God's over all. 
 
 THE VOICE FROM THE CYNIC. 
 
 A MISERABLE world, upon my soul ! 
 
 A measly, mouldy, grubby sort of planet ! 
 As rotten as a rake from pole to pole. 
 
 And scabbed all o'er the skin where'er you 
 scan it ; 
 And yet 'tis said, God made it. If that's true 
 'Tis pity that He'd nothing else to do ! 
 
 A jerry-built world, made out of dirt-cheap shoddy, 
 And run up just for sale (excuse the term), 
 
 Under a contract with some heavenly body — 
 Or perhaps a Manchester or Birmingham firm ; 
 
 First let to Adam and Eve ; to the Devil next — 
 
 Poor fool, how he was sold 1 No wonder he's 
 vext. 
 
 Into this Black Hole of the Universe, 
 The folks are thrust head first, wild willy-nilly, 
 
 And by a mode than which none could be worse, 
 And few as inconvenient or silly ; 
 
 There's nought more slipshod than the sexual 
 rabies. 
 
 Which starts in love, or lust, and ends in babies. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 17 
 
 And then the thing that crawls (forgive my 
 laughter !) 
 
 Upon this globe, and self-styled Man, the snob! 
 Made from the refuse slime remaining, after 
 
 The jerry-builders had finished the planet-job, — 
 Jerry-built it must have been, ay, I stick to it, ^ 
 
 For it only took six short small days to do it. 
 
 And oh, these men and women ! Creation's lords 
 
 And ladies, glorious title ! the only things 
 That have the privilege of thoughts and words 
 To make fools of themselves, and run round 
 rings 
 Of science and philosophy with big boast, — 
 Not knowing that they've learned least who know 
 most. 
 
 And they say to themselves, " Lo, we are more 
 Than brutes and birds, for we have intellect 
 
 While they have only instinct ; let us soar, 
 
 And climb the heights of mind, with heads 
 erect, 
 
 Until we are as Gods, and by-and-bye 
 
 We'll be etherealised up in the sky." 
 
 The brutes have instinct only ; crowing man 
 Has reason, which is mightier at its least ; 
 
 But never since the world to spin began 
 Has instinct made such fool of any beast, 
 
 As heavenly reason that has led astray 
 
 Millions of these God's images cut in clay. 
 
 God's images forsooth ! Oh, have ye seen 
 
 The hideous, villainous loafer in the street ; 
 The grinning rural imbecile ; have ye been 
 Down in the slums, and marked what there you 
 meet? 
 Such faces ! Yet, in his own likeness God 
 Made man — and these are samples ! Truth, 'tis 
 odd! 
 
l8 VOICES 
 
 And slowly through the centuries men advance, 
 And pride themselves upon their civilisation, 
 
 When now, to-day, a woman's shape and glance, 
 A dance, a song ; a fisty arbitration 
 
 Betwixt two males, knock ages of progress down, 
 
 And man breaks back unto the savage clown, 
 
 A thrill of sex, crossed by a rival's form, 
 
 The original mud-spring of some fleshly passion, 
 
 Stirred or disturbed, arouses the old storm. 
 And sinks men back to the primeval fashion, 
 
 Resolving, like chemists' acid, with stinks and scents. 
 
 Our complex culture to its rude elements. 
 
 Under our sleek religion, under our art, 
 Under our laws, our science, our education, 
 
 There lurks for ever the ancient savage heart, 
 With its old puzzle of downward inclination ; 
 
 And whether we creep, or walk, or stand, or fall. 
 
 This beastly human nature rules us all. 
 
 We may have trained ourselves for many days 
 
 To be the stoic, calm and rational. 
 Pressed down our passions, or brought low their blaze, 
 
 And sunk the individual in the national. 
 When, sudden, there comes a crisis in our lives, 
 The angel vanishes and the devil revives. 
 
 And in an instant, the civilised veneer 
 
 Is burned and shrivelled, scorched the progress 
 paint. 
 
 And the primeval savage shakes his spear 
 And shrieks for blood — the protoplasmic taint ; 
 
 And human nature, just the same to-day 
 
 As centuries since, swings man in senseless sway. 
 
 Bah ! it was always so, and always will be ; 
 
 Trick out your savage in the modern suit. 
 Send him to school, convert him, and he'll still be 
 
 The roaring dustwork, rowdy at the root ; 
 For soon or late some cause the ape will rouse, 
 And human nature crash out for carouse. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. I9 
 
 . Man has been dipped in divinity, but one spot 
 Is vulnerable to the flesh (as all must feel), 
 As Achilles' mother dipping him forgot 
 
 That in her hand she held him by the heel ; 
 Invulnerable he, as Grecian poets tell, 
 All but the heel — and so one day he fell. 
 
 How stupid, selfish, men are, nearly all ; 
 
 Who tries to lift them unto lovelier things 
 Can vouch how aggravatingly they fall — 
 
 How jealous of their own low rank-sprung 
 kings ; 
 And how they snarl and scramble for the bone, 
 And care not, so they're fed, who goes with none ! 
 
 For human nature is the changeless ocean, 
 And civilisation but the dams and dykes 
 
 That hold it in restraint ; there comes commotion, 
 The thunder bellows and the tempest strikes, 
 
 And dams and dykes are swiftly swept aside, 
 
 And the sea takes its own again, far and wide. 
 
 Oh, Man ! A noble theme ! A lofty lay ! 
 
 And Woman too ! Well mated are ye both. 
 If there's a heaven, and angels look down, say 
 
 How they must laugh, then pity, and then 
 loathe. 
 A miserable world and all that's in it ! 
 No decent Scheme would tolerate it a minute. 
 
 THE VOICE FROM THE LOOM. 
 
 THE weaver's song. 
 
 The years weave in, and the years weave out, 
 
 And Time, like a shuttle, flies, 
 And weaves the web of day and night 
 
 Across the eternal skies. 
 
 And the golden sun is woven in 
 
 The pattern of many a day. 
 For a happy some ; while others weep 
 
 That the cloth is dull and grey. 
 
20 VOICES 
 
 Oh, weave the days, and weave the nights ! 
 
 And in the pattern twine 
 The glorious sun and the twinkling stars 
 
 In many a bright design. 
 
 Oh, weave the nights, and weave the days ! 
 
 And show the silver moon. 
 And the rustling trees and the heavenly grove, 
 
 And the lass and the love-lorn loon. 
 
 Oh, weave the days, and weave the nights ! 
 
 And the gold of the bridal ring, 
 And the silver grey of the aged head. 
 
 And the birds by the nest that sing. 
 
 The years weave in, and the years weave out, 
 
 And time, like a shuttle, flies, 
 And some find faith, and some find doubt, 
 Some truth, and others lies. 
 
 And the warp of the long, long years unrolls, 
 And is crossed by the weft of the days, 
 
 And is making the cloth of finished souls. 
 With a pattern for blame or praise. 
 
 Oh, weave the days, and weave the nights! 
 
 Weave on in joy or pain ; 
 Ihe favoured shall all make fancy goods — 
 
 But many shall make the plain. 
 
 Let the red sun rise, and the white moon wane ! 
 
 But work the Master's will. 
 Till warp and weft are together wrought. 
 
 And the tired machine is still ! 
 
 THE VOICE FROM THE ROBBED. 
 
 Yield us our rights, or share with us our wrongs ; 
 
 We want no charity, we want restitution ; 
 Our heavy groans are mocked by your light songs. 
 
 Your riches rail at our destitution. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 21 
 
 Yield us our rights — uot give ; not yours to give 
 
 The heritage that ye hold to our evil, 
 The right to labour with the right to live, 
 
 Free, growing Godward, 'stead of to the devil. 
 
 Not yours alone the inheritance of earth, 
 Ye who are great by gold or breed-position ; 
 
 But every babe's an equal heir at birth, 
 
 And should through life continue that condition. 
 
 Where are the deeds, signed by the Almighty's hand, 
 Which dower on you the land and hill and river ? 
 
 Where are the documents whereon you stand 
 The privileged heirs of the Eternal Giver ? 
 
 Ye never had them : neither you nor they 
 
 From whom ye hold your lands can show the title 
 
 To that you claim : God had no blue-blood clay, 
 Extra to Adam's, to fill with essence vital. 
 
 All men have equal rights to all God made. 
 In spite of human laws, howe'er belauded ; 
 
 That outcast wretch owns mead and hill and glade, 
 But's of his heritage somehow been defrauded. 
 
 A human mouth is title deed to bread, 
 
 A human hand clear proof of right to labour ; 
 
 And he who won't admit such — on his head 
 Be the great curse of loving not his neighbour. 
 
 God sends no soul on earth without a body, 
 God sends no body without the means to keep it ; 
 
 And Nature never produces any shoddy ; 
 If we will but sow corn she'll let us reap it. 
 
 Nature is true ; she practices no deceit ; 
 
 Her goods are labelled right ; no adulteration : 
 She scatters all her stores about our feet. 
 
 And our good health is her remuneration. 
 
 A pair of eyes are cheques on Nature's wealth 
 Of beauty, and were thus by God intended ; 
 
 We were not meant to feed our eyes by stealth, 
 But use them till the last glance is expended. 
 
22 VOICES 
 
 That which a man brings into the world is his ; 
 
 His hands, his feet, his brain, are his possessions. 
 His private property ; all else than this 
 
 To God is theft, whate'er his own impressions. 
 
 What are the charges against you ? — They are here, 
 Written in this living volume of humanity, 
 
 Written on leaves of flesh with blood and tear ; 
 Read thou therein, and rid thyself of vanity. 
 
 Comma'd with hunger, sweating, drink, and vice. 
 Full-stopped with death, — now, aren't they cheerful 
 chapters ? 
 
 Too tragic, eh ? — The volume's very nice. 
 And ought to send rich readers into raptures. 
 
 The chapter on starving babes ; the chapter on 
 sweating ; — 
 
 See that wretch making shirts, while prostitution 
 Pulls at her skirts : thus Satan spreads his netting 
 
 Even in the virtuous English Constitution. 
 
 Seven living there, on thirteen shillings a week ; 
 
 Foolish, no doubt, and merits condemnation ; 
 But Nature, when she's busy (so to speak). 
 
 Doesn't consider the Law of Population. 
 
 Hard grinding lives ; from work to bed, and then, 
 From bed to work again ; the programme's pretty ; — 
 
 If God makes angels out of these women and men, 
 The mode of manufacture seems a pity. 
 
 Ay, shut the book, the pages are too sad. 
 Too full of ugly details, things unpleasant ; 
 
 And perhaps the future sections are quite as bad, — 
 The present's quite sufficient for the present. 
 
 Yield us our rights, then, ye who law our wrongs ; 
 
 Justice we claim, and our fraternity ; 
 To us as well as you the world belongs. 
 
 The earth was made for all from ail eternity. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 23 
 
 VOICE OF THE SLUM-CHILD. 
 
 O Soldier with the coat so red 
 
 So fine a man to see. 
 Thou art not fighting for the right 
 
 Unless thou fight'st for me. 
 
 O Merchant with the coat so good, 
 
 So busy a man to see. 
 Thou art not trading for the right 
 
 Unless thou trad'st for me. 
 
 O M.P. with the hat so tall. 
 
 So wise a man to see, 
 Thou art not making laws aright 
 
 If thou mak'st not laws for me. 
 
 O Editor with the pen so quick, 
 
 So clever a man to see, 
 Thou art not writing for the right, 
 
 Unless thou writ'st for me. 
 
 O Preacher with the gown so black, 
 
 So holy a man to see. 
 Thou art not preaching for the Christ 
 
 Unless thou preach'st for me. 
 
 VOICE OF THE RESPECTABLE. 
 
 THE RESPECTABLE FATHER'S ADVICE TO HIS SON. 
 
 Pray, hearken my advice, my son ; 
 It is from threads of wisdom spun. 
 Aim all thy life at this one goal 
 With all thy heart and all thy soul — 
 Whatever comes, whatever goes. 
 Just trim thy sails as the wind blows, 
 And always be Respectable, 
 Respectable. 
 
24 VOICES 
 
 In fashion be in everything, 
 
 And bow unto the common king ; 
 
 In religion or in politics 
 
 With the conventional commix ; 
 
 Let nought unpopular touch thy life ; 
 
 In choosing clothes, or creed, or wife, 
 
 Pray, always be Respectable, 
 Respectable. 
 
 Give unto public charities. 
 But heed not private miseries ; 
 Neglect the breach, but patch the chink ; 
 Oft shut thine eyes, and sometimes wink; 
 Shut eyes to injustice and oppression, 
 And wink when thou see'st due occasion, 
 But always be Respectable, 
 Respectable. 
 
 Avoid the base contaminations 
 Of poor acquaintance, or relations ; 
 Cut thou thy friend when he is down. 
 And meet his smiling with a frown ; 
 But always seek to cultivate 
 The favours of the rich and great. 
 
 For that is quite Respectable, 
 
 Respectable. 
 Let sinful vessels shout " Reform ! " 
 Bide thou in port safe from the storm ; 
 Avoid the low minority, 
 Keep in with the majority ; 
 Enthusiasm's vulgar, so 
 Pray none for any new cause show. 
 
 But always be Respectable, 
 
 Respectable. 
 Attend thy sanctuary twice a day, 
 And thou wilt make religion pay ; 
 To " go and work," home beggars tell. 
 But give to foreign missions well ; 
 And, that no evil thee befall, 
 Wear sober black and hat that's tall, 
 
 And always be Respectable, 
 
 Respectable. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 25 
 
 Have no connection with the " masses," 
 
 But keep thou solid with the " classes ; " 
 
 Uphold the law — dost thou ask which ? — 
 
 The law as written for the rich ; 
 
 Keep all traditions inviolate 
 
 Of holy Church and godly State, 
 
 And always be Respectable, 
 Respectable. 
 
 Believe what everyone believes ; 
 
 Call all new thinkers " atheists — thieves ! " 
 
 Shun thou the tampering agitator — 
 
 (He'd disestablish the equator) ; 
 
 Do this, and after a life well lived, 
 
 In heaven thou shalt be received, 
 
 And eternally be Respectable, 
 Respectable. 
 
 VOICE OF THE DISENCHANTED. 
 
 How bitter when some beautiful belief 
 Is shattered into nought by fatal fact ! 
 
 And Truth becomes a murderer and a thief, 
 
 W ho kills our faith and robs us of its pleasure, 
 When thus by him the soul is once attacked ; 
 
 And, sighing for the loss of our loved treasure, 
 We spend the days and nights in pining grief. 
 
 And thus, I loved a girl, and I believed 
 That she was all she seemed to be, for I 
 
 Could never think that such sweet eyes deceived. 
 
 And so I deemed her pure and good and holy 
 For many a magic month, till recently, — 
 
 Which fills my ravaged heart with melancholy, — 
 I learned that she spoke false, and I am grieved ! 
 
 c 
 
2 6 VOICES 
 
 Nay, chide me not, nor sneering from me turn, 
 I was a child in trust, and that's no shame ; 
 
 Then flout me not, that I am sad tb learn 
 
 At the expense of trust in man and woman ; 
 
 'Tis paying dear indeed, — and who's to blame ?- 
 
 To learn that all is hollow which is human ; 
 I've lost my dearest faiths, and so I mourn ! 
 
 My happy world is gone ! who shall restore 
 That earth I dwelt in ? Oh, it was a place. 
 
 Where all was fond and fair. The apple's core 
 
 Mocked not its lovely skin ; and all was beauty. 
 There was no concealed gall ; there was no trace 
 
 Of headache in the wine. Truth was love's duty, 
 And honest heart shone in the honest face ! 
 
 Oh my lost world ! Perhaps I have but dreamed 
 In thinking I e'er dwelt in thee in bliss ; 
 
 Or perhaps some evil sprite, which angel seemed, 
 
 Has touched my eyes and so dispelled the vision 
 Of that bright land where virtue is esteemed 
 
 And vice abhorred. Oh, that my realm Elysian 
 Should turn out such a withering world as this ! 
 
 The youth's idea of the world of man 
 
 Proves but a myth, which it is pain to yield ; 
 
 The straight and simple faith, which cannot span 
 
 Debasements and deceits and disillusions, 
 
 Is jeered and jagged to death ; and one by one 
 
 His foiled beliefs are slain in foul confusions. 
 Which devastate the soul, as war a field. 
 
 Oh, it is terrible to learn in woe 
 
 That all is false which we believed in joy 1 
 
 And it is hard to be compelled to know 
 
 What we imagined never had existence ; 
 To find our gold is but a base alloy. 
 
 And suffer to be crushed without resistance 
 The pure and grand ideals of the boy ! 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 27 
 
 Thus it is sad ta love a lovely maid, 
 And think her pure as is the mountain stream, 
 
 And then discover, but without her aid. 
 
 That she is thick in mud, and needs but stirring 
 To show a turbid brook ; and so, dismayed, 
 
 We turn away with heavy heart despairing 
 When some dark fact breaks love's enchanted 
 dream. 
 
 Thus am I thrust from out a fairyland. 
 And cast upon this hideous world of ours ; 
 
 I sing of my lost home ; few understand ; 
 
 They think I rave when singing of its blisses. 
 And laugh and sneer, except a scattered band, 
 
 A few who once dwelt in it too, perhaps ; and this is 
 What makes me mournful many hungry hours. 
 
 VOIGE OF THE FACTORY OPERATIVE. 
 
 THE BUZZER BLOWS. 
 
 [The buzzer is the shrieking factory or workshop whistle that 
 calls the workers to their toil ; once it was hideously common ; 
 now, thanks to clocks and watches, it is getting pleasantly scarce.] 
 
 Oooo ! — Oooo ! — the buzzer blows ! 
 
 It's half-past five ! 
 
 Look alive ! 
 
 Jump in your clothes ! 
 Oooo ! — ^Oooo ! — the buzzer blows ! 
 
 Oooo ! — Oooo ! — sharp and shrill ! 
 
 The buzzer blows ! 
 
 Off to the mill ; 
 
 No longer doze ; 
 Oooo ! — Oooo ! — the buzzer blows ! 
 
28 VOICES 
 
 Oooo ! — Oooo ! — the buzzer blows ! 
 
 Get up, get up ! 
 
 No time for bite ! 
 
 No time for sup ! 
 Oooo ! — Oooo ! — the buzzer blows ! 
 
 Oooo ! — Oooo ! — hear it shriek ! 
 The buzzer screams — 
 " No time for sleep ! 
 No time for dreams !" — 
 
 Oooo ! — Oooo ! — the steamy shriek ! 
 
 Oooo ! — Oooo ! — he yells us forth ! 
 From scanty beds, 
 With weary hearts, 
 And heavy heads ! 
 
 Oooo ! — Oooo ! — he yells us forth ! 
 
 Oooo !— Oooo !— till the tale be told !— 
 In summer hot. 
 In winter cold, 
 The same hard lot — 
 
 Oooo !— Oooo !— till the tale be told ! 
 
 Oooo ! — Oooo ! — up, lasses and lads ! 
 
 Up in the grey ! 
 
 Up, mammies and dads ! 
 
 Long toil for short pay ! 
 Oooo ! — Oooo ! — up, lasses and lads ! 
 
 Oooo ! — Oooo ! — the buzzer tears 
 
 Our rest away ! 
 
 He rends the dawn ! 
 
 He bleeds the day ! 
 Oooo ! — Oooo ! — how the buzzer swears ! 
 
 Oooo ! — Oooo ! — though life be drear 
 Where buzzers rave. 
 Yet one cannot hear 
 Within the grave 
 
 That weird whistle. — So take cheer! 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 29 
 
 VOICE OF THE NORTH. 
 
 Greeting, — the North to the South ; — 
 
 Our voice is a factory's roar, 
 And there's bitterness in our mouth 
 
 Because our hearts are sore ; 
 But here, from our moors and hills. 
 
 Whose spirit and strength we partake, 
 Here from our marts and mills, 
 
 We shout that we are awake ! 
 
 Greeting ! — from thick black towns. 
 
 That have banished the fields and flowers. 
 Where the smoke fiend ever frowns 
 
 From the tops of his thousand towers ; 
 Greeting, — to your clean skies, 
 
 And happy hills and streams. 
 Which only come to our eyes 
 
 In the drowsy dim of dreams. 
 
 Greeting, — our hills are rough. 
 
 Greeting, — our moors are bleak ; 
 But they have made us tough. 
 
 And given us courage to speak ; 
 And we call to the South " Arise !" 
 
 And join us sword in hand. 
 Till the curse of the century flies 
 
 A-dying from our land ! 
 
 Greeting, — the North to the Earth, — 
 
 We have all our duty to do ; 
 We are battling for peace and mirth, 
 
 For the good and the pure and the true '. 
 And the strong wild spirit of the North, 
 
 That all hardships can endure. 
 Inspires and urges us forth 
 
 To the victory that's sure ! 
 
30 VOICES 
 
 Greeting, — the North to the Past, — 
 
 To the men who fought and died, 
 Who were faithful to the last 
 
 To the cause of the Crucified ; 
 For humanity they fought, 
 
 And bravely perished thus, 
 Whose graves in vain are sought. 
 
 But whose souls are with God, — and us. 
 
 To the Future greeting, too ! 
 
 We shall battle for thy sake. 
 Through sorrow our march pursue. 
 
 And our hearts and bodies ache ; 
 We have faith that sings by the way, 
 
 And know, in our grief and care. 
 That all we suffer to day 
 
 Means less for our children to bear. 
 
 Greeting, — the North to the Devil, — 
 
 We shall press thee wondrous warm, 
 For we shall smite the evil 
 
 In every size and form ; 
 No glossy tricks of appearance 
 
 Shall screen the bad from wrath. 
 For all that is vile shall have clearance 
 
 Though an angel's shape it hath. 
 
 Greeting, — the North is strong, 
 
 Though poverty and ill 
 We have suffered deep and long. 
 
 There's fighting in us still ! 
 Let all who love their kind 
 
 Come follow us to the fray, 
 Though the world lag behind 
 
 The North will lead the way ! 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 3I 
 
 Greeting, — the North to God, — 
 
 Lord, help us in our cause, 
 Though we suffer beneath Thy rod 
 
 Because we have broken Thy laws. 
 Christ, help us to amend. 
 
 Let us conquer self and sin, 
 That the evil days may end 
 
 And the righteous days begin. 
 
 VOICE OF THE CHRIST-BROTHER. 
 
 SPINNING. 
 
 The spindles whirr and whizz — 
 
 The busy day's beginning — 
 The great shafts turn in thunder, 
 The straps slip o'er and under, 
 The wheels whirl like a wonder. 
 And here and there, like lightning. 
 
 Revolving steel-work flashes ; 
 And, all the wide room whitening 
 
 Just like a fall of snow, 
 
 Or as dandelions blow, 
 The dusty cotton-flufF is falling. 
 
 Soft and slow ; 
 And there is ceaseless roaring, 
 A boom that is appalling, 
 That e'er and anon in crashes 
 Breaks like a wave a-shoring. 
 Human yawn and sleepy stir 
 The day is just beginning. 
 And the spindles whizz and whirr — 
 My brothers, what are you spinning? 
 
 What a spluttering noise your mill 
 
 About its work is making ! 
 Not so the sun came rising. 
 And his work is more surprising. 
 Than all man's steel devising, 
 
32 VOICES 
 
 Yet he in all his splendour 
 
 Came with not the faintest humming, 
 Rose eastward bright and tender, 
 And nobody heard him coming, 
 For he makes no cumbrous fuss, 
 No creaking and hissing and rumble ; 
 No, he raves not thus 
 As if in endless grumble. 
 But does his work so sweetly, 
 So gently, yet completely. 
 That nobody knows 'tis done. 
 
 Yet 'tis done all the same. 
 Thus spins on the sun 
 
 Twirling threads of flame — 
 
 And the spindles whirr and whizz, 
 And the day is just beginning — 
 May nothing spin amiss ! — 
 
 O brothers, what are you spinning ? 
 
 The cotton is soft and white, 
 
 The town is hard and black ; 
 The flowers have shrunk away 
 
 And are not coming back; 
 The grass is driven far. 
 
 The birds are farther still, 
 And the river that fouls your town 
 
 Is not the stream of the hill. 
 The ugly smoke goes up the skies, 
 
 The steam is in the air, 
 You have driven Nature far away, 
 
 And stripped her bowers bare. 
 The mills are giant-great, 
 
 The chimneys giant-tall. 
 The smoke patch is a huge one. 
 
 But oh ! that is not all — 
 
 O whirr and whizz go the spindles, 
 
 What losing ? and what winning ? 
 Blest bargains, or curst swindles-r 
 My brothers, which are you spinning ? 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 33 
 
 Far off Dame Nature is spinning — 
 The world her spinning-wheel — 
 Grassy fields and forests 
 
 Where one may dream and feel, 
 Spinning leaves and flowers, 
 
 Spinning fresh air, and light 
 From the rainbow flax of the sunbeams 
 Whose threads are heavenly bright ; 
 And the song of the glad birds mingles 
 
 With the hum of her wondrous wheel, 
 
 With the babble of brooks and billows, 
 
 And more than words can unseal ; 
 
 Thus Nature is ever spinning 
 
 The bid glory into the new, 
 
 As from the first beginning — 
 
 But, my brothers, what spin you ? 
 
 Now hushed the whirr of the spindles ; 
 
 The day is dim and done ; 
 Back to your wives and children, 
 
 Take them what ye have won. 
 Spin, spin, spin — in the morning. 
 
 Spin, spin, spin — all the day ; 
 Ye are spinning big towns and ugly. 
 
 Ye are spinning the green to grey ; 
 Ye are making money and commerce. 
 
 Ye are making smoke and dirt ; 
 Are ye spinning life into pleasure, 
 
 Are ye spinning it into hurt ? 
 Wide is the town around you, 
 
 And oh, how dreadful and dull ! 
 With steam and smoke and stenches 
 
 Your streets and souls are full ! 
 Spin, spin ! — look at the children ! — 
 
 Are these the faces ye spin ? 
 Are these the things ye are spinning, 
 
 Disease and death and sin ? 
 
34 VOICES 
 
 Slums of shame and squalor, 
 Wretchedness and rags — 
 Are these the things ye are spinning 
 Out of your cotton-bags ? — 
 
 But hushed are the shining spindles, 
 
 The day is dark and done. 
 Go and receive your wages — 
 O brothers, what have you spun ? 
 
 VOICE OF THE POOR POET. 
 
 I'll be the poet of the poor. 
 
 I'll be the poet of the poor, — 
 The rich have rhymsters of their own 
 With silver tongue but heart of stone, 
 Prim petted poets who merely rhyme 
 To pass away their, patrons' time, 
 Singing of lords and ladies gay 
 Whose life is one long holiday ; 
 I could not sing such songs, I'm sure, — 
 I'll be the poet of the poor. 
 
 I'll be the poet of the poor, — 
 I'll sing of humble homes and lives. 
 Of working men and working wives. 
 Of lowly joys and lowly griefs. 
 Of poor folks' doubts, hopes, and beliefs, 
 Of struggling hard for daily bread, 
 The dreary round of work and bed ; — 
 Although the wolf howls at the door 
 I'll be the poet of the poor. 
 
 I'll be the poet of the poor, — 
 To those that spin and those who weave 
 A message in a song I'll leave. 
 To cheer the heart and mend the mind. 
 And help the sorrowing soul to find 
 In spite of noise and dirt and strife 
 Some music in the loom of life, 
 Unheard, unthought of, heretofore, — 
 I'll be the poet of the poor. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 35 
 
 I'll be the poet of the poor, — 
 I'll sing of all that lies between 
 The cradle and the coffin scene, 
 Sing, to myself and nature true, 
 Songs for the many, not for the few, 
 For all the down-trodden, despised, opprest. 
 For those who are weary and long for rest. 
 For those whose burdens are heavy and sore, — 
 I'll be the poet of the poor. 
 
 I'll be the poet of the poor, — 
 To those whose eyes with toil are dull 
 I'll try to show something beautiful, 
 I'll try to touch some long-mute chords 
 With a poet's thought in a minstrel's words. 
 And thus in the sad care- crowded heart 
 To cause some echo of heaven to start, 
 That shall make it thrill with hope once more, — 
 I'll be the poet of the poor. 
 
 I'll be the poet of the poor, — 
 Not glorify money, gilt, and dress, 
 And parasites, and idleness, 
 But will from flower, and star, and brook. 
 From common chapters of Nature's book 
 Extract some thought, some living line. 
 That links the human to divine, 
 And makes men brothers the whole world o'er, — 
 I'll be the poet of the poor. 
 
 VOICE OF THE MANUFACTURING SLAVE. 
 
 Fast in a cage of circumstance. 
 Whose bars are worse than iron bars, 
 
 A woodland instinct stirs my throat, 
 And so I sing to sun and stars. 
 
35 VOICES 
 
 The smoke too often steals my sun, 
 Smothers too oft my stars in gloom ; 
 
 And then I wonder how they shine, 
 Where grass is green and wild flowers bloom. 
 
 And then I think, that were I free, 
 Where nothing lives but to rejoice, 
 
 How I should sing a merrier song. 
 In clearer notes and stronger voice. 
 
 But here ! — I watch my dull grey world, 
 
 I watch till I am weary worn. 
 Where men are happy when they die, 
 
 And children curst in being born. 
 
 By some strange sympathy of heart, 
 (No soul can grow or fade alone), 
 
 My sisters' and my brothers' griefs 
 Touch me as if they were my own. 
 
 My burdened brother in the street, — 
 His torture breaks my back as his ; 
 
 My suffering sister in her shame, — 
 I share with her her miseries. 
 
 I shout with children at their play ; 
 
 I moan with mothers at their toil ; 
 I with the factory engine throb ; 
 
 I flutter with the pregnant soil. 
 
 In one small cottage window smiles 
 A little plant with struggling buds. 
 
 And from that tiny germ of green 
 I fill my eyes with mighty woods. 
 
 And so, although I feel the pain 
 Of fleshy fret and stifling strife, 
 
 I feel some universal joy 
 Shine round the sorrow of my life. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 37 
 
 And deeper still I feel this truth, — 
 
 Would men but hearken wisdom's call, 
 
 The joy we now but get in crumbs 
 Would be the daily food of all. 
 
 VOICE OF THE MINER. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE PICK. 
 
 Click, click, click ! 
 
 The song of the pick — 
 
 Hark! 
 
 Down in the dark ! 
 In underground tunnels, deep and grim. 
 Where gas burns blue, and lights droop dim, 
 
 Click, click, click, 
 
 The song of the pick ! 
 In the grave where buried suns are stowed, 
 Digging them out in many a black load, 
 That we may warm our hands to-day. 
 
 Click, click, click. 
 
 The song of the pick ! 
 
 What does it say ? 
 Who can interpret its telegraph code ? — 
 
 Click, click, click ! 
 
 Click, click, click. 
 
 The song of the pick ! 
 It says — There's a man down here. 
 
 He is crouched in a hole, 
 
 He is hewing for coal ; 
 There's a lamp by his side, but its light is but 
 drear. 
 
 There is dust in his breath. 
 
 And all round him creeps death, 
 Above him, all round him, right against him, 
 is death. 
 
 He is down here all day, 
 
 And the world's far away, 
 
 And what is his pay ? 
 Nay, God forgive us, 'twould shame one to say ! 
 
38 VOICES 
 
 Click, click, click, 
 The song of the pick ! — 
 A woman sits poor in the world far above. 
 For miners are human and women must love. 
 And the cupboard's nigh empty, 
 
 The house is but bare, 
 And the children aren't clothed 
 
 With luxurious care, 
 And the face of the mother 
 
 Shows a most anxious air, — 
 For clothes are dear, 
 
 And the pit is deep. 
 And food is costly — 
 
 And coal is cheap ! 
 And daddy is working in danger 
 
 Down there! 
 A-digging black diamonds, , 
 
 But robbed of his share ; 
 So his wife and his child and himself 
 
 Go bare ; 
 And the masters declare 
 
 This arrangement's quite fair ; 
 But it's not to the fellow who's toiling down 
 
 there ! 
 With night all around him and death everywhere. 
 Click, click, click ! 
 That's the song of the pick ! 
 
 Click, click, click, 
 
 The song of the pick ! 
 
 It says — Shame on the country, 
 
 The church and the crown. 
 That puts idlers up 
 
 And holds workers down ! 
 Shame on the glory 
 
 That's built on starvation ! 
 Shame on the people, 
 
 Shame on the nation. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 39 
 
 That can't — or won't — see, 
 But lets these things be ! 
 And whose palaces are reared 
 
 On a fiendish foundation ! 
 Oh wise competition, 
 That gives gold to the master, 
 To the workmen low wages and death and 
 disaster ; 
 
 Oh wise competition, 
 That throws the half of each loaf away, 
 And gives the other half unto the few. 
 While the many go scrambling to fight for the 
 
 crumbs 
 In dull towns and slums ; 
 And this is civilisation they say, 
 And the world is well-to-do. 
 
 Click, click, click, 
 Goes the song of the pick, — 
 Of this life we are sick. 
 Our heads may be thick. 
 
 But the stomach is sharp 
 When it's cut to the quick ; 
 Click, click, click. 
 We are not coal or brick, 
 
 And we've suffered too long 
 And we're getting quite sick, 
 
 And we shan't slave much more,- 
 
 Click, click, click, click ! 
 Read ye the message. 
 
 And read it right quick, — 
 The lamp wants more oil 
 
 When it flares the dry wick ! — 
 And our bodies are ill, 
 
 And our hearts are a-sick. 
 We're a-weary of wrong, — 
 
 And the pick goes click ! click ! 
 We know what we feel 
 And it means a good deal, — 
 
40 VOICES 
 
 This click, click, click ! 
 
 This song of the pick. 
 Oh, mark it well, mark ! 
 
 Ye who live in the light, 
 Though it comes from the dark 
 And the depths of the night ! 
 
 Tick, tick, tick ! 
 Our hearts are a-sore. 
 And we can't bear much more, 
 Oh, think it well o'er. 
 
 This click, click, click ! 
 
 This song of the pick ! 
 
 VOICE OF THE DOCTOR. 
 
 [A medical paper says that owing to the great pace of every- 
 thing now-a-days — pressure at school, at business, at work — we are 
 all going mad, and proves the statement by the fact that lunacy is 
 largely on the increase in England.] 
 
 This century is the fastest age 
 That e'er was writ in history's page, 
 We're quick in work and play and ways, 
 Put double time in our nights and days, 
 And so without a word of chaff. 
 We're living express by telegraph, 
 But the speed is telling on our nerves, 
 And Nature's giving what man deserves, 
 And we're all going mad. 
 
 The spinning mules just gallop now. 
 Where once they crawled on a,nyhow, 
 And the weaver who minds his looms to-day 
 Must get through a deal or pack away ; 
 Our railway trains are next to flying. 
 We're quicker at hving, we're quicker at dying ; 
 And in the House of Commons too. 
 You know how they now-a-days rush Bills 
 through — 
 
 For our M.P.'s are going mad as well. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 4I 
 
 It's the same all round and everywhere, 
 Speed, speed, speed, fills all the air, 
 Printing machines dash off in an hour 
 What our forefathers with all their power 
 Couldn't have done in a month ; and so 
 There's now no room for anything slow ; 
 And the pulpit, too, is getting fast 
 And there'll be changes there at last, 
 
 For the parsons are going mad as well. 
 
 D yes, 'tis a marvellous epoch indeed, 
 Fast in more ways than that meaning speed. 
 And if things keep going on like this 
 With wondrous whirl and worrying whizz, 
 Man will so improve his mental stature 
 That in time he'll get ahead of Nature, 
 And reap the corn before it's sown. 
 And produce babies by telephone, — ; 
 And they'll all be born mad. 
 
 VOICE OF THE GUN INVENTOR. 
 
 [Monsieur Turpin's gun will fire 5,000 shots per minute.] 
 
 We're getting on, we're getting on. 
 By moon and stars and every sun ; 
 
 On nobler thing they never shone 
 Than this electric patent gun. 
 
 Let Stephenson a back seat take. 
 Let Watt behind that same seat run. 
 
 They're just not in it ; give the cake 
 To Turpin's glorious godlike gun. 
 
 The locomotive's out of puff. 
 
 The steam engine must end in smoke, 
 
 But Turpin's gun is genuine stuff, 
 A boon and blessing to all folk. 
 
42 VOICES 
 
 Five thousand shots a minute ! Gods ! 
 
 Ye're all eclipsed by modern man, 
 And devils too, he'll give you odds. 
 
 And beat you easy — for he can. 
 
 Homeric heroes' war-machines 
 Are twopenny toys to Turpin's gun ; — 
 
 He'd simply blow them off the scenes 
 Ere they had time to turn and run. 
 
 And Milton's heavenly fighting host, 
 With all the weapons they devised, 
 
 Are worlds behind ; — the Holy Ghost 
 Would by this gun be shock-surprised. 
 
 Gods may make life, and stir up clay 
 
 With soul, and mind, and human breath ; 
 
 But man in one thing leads the way — 
 He's very big at making death ! 
 
 Ye fiends and demons down below, 
 
 Where ye have howled since earth began ; 
 
 You don't know anything, you know ; 
 Come up, and take a tip from man ! 
 
 For man's got on, — he's civilised, 
 
 And soon will fill the world with fun ; 
 
 For all his progress is comprised 
 
 In Turpin's nineteenth century gun ! 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE CHRISTMAS BELLS. 
 
 What say the Christmas bells ? — 
 Oh, God, let my spirit write 
 No words of mine to-night. 
 But let Thy unseen hand 
 
 Guide my pen. 
 And tell to women and men 
 The message of the bells, — 
 And let them understand I 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 43 
 
 What say the Christmas bells ? — 
 The rich man lies in his cosy bed, 
 
 His kitchen with food is stored ; 
 No thought of poverty troubles his head 
 
 As he thinks of his ;noney hoard ; 
 But the poor man crouches in desolate room 
 
 Whose rent swells the rich man's gold, 
 And his children cry in the starving gloom, 
 
 A-hungry and a-cold. 
 
 Ding, dong 1 ding, dong 1 
 
 Might is right, and money is strong ! 
 Ding, dong ! ding, dong ! 
 
 Christ is asleep, and sleepeth long ! 
 
 What say the Christmas bells ? — 
 A few wax fat while many wane thin ; 
 
 Some — rows of houses ; and some — not one 1 
 And one man wastes in folly and sin 
 
 The bread that scores could live upon ! 
 One steals the shirts from a thousand backs 
 
 That he may boast of a drawing-room suite ; 
 And he that worketh the most things lacks. 
 
 While he that toils not hath most to eat ! 
 
 Ding, dong 1 ding, dong ! 
 
 He that hath gold can do no wrong ! 
 Ding, dong ! ding, dong ! 
 
 Justice is only a dreamer's song ! 
 
 What say the Christmas bells ? — 
 Meanly mangered the Blest Babe lay, 
 
 The infant who owned the universe, — 
 The parents suffer still to-day : 
 
 The children suffer far, far worse ! 
 Oh, Bethlehem Baby, look to-night — 
 
 Thy birthday night — in the eyes of men ; 
 See if they flinch from Thy pure gaze bright, 
 
 And turn their hard hearts there and then ! 
 
44 VOICES 
 
 Ding, dong ! ding, dong ! 
 
 Banish selfishness and wrong ! 
 Ding, dong ! ding, dong ! 
 
 Light the lamp that's been out so long ! 
 
 What say the Christmas bells ? — 
 The curse of God on the greed of man ! 
 
 Reproach of Christ on the Judas-heart 
 That barters its fellows, with baleful ban, 
 
 In the name of trade in the business mart ! 
 Look, oh, look in the Christ-child's eyes ! 
 
 Let God ope your own and His law reveal ! 
 Hug the Bethlehem Babe to your hearts, and be 
 wise. 
 
 And crush the serpent beneath your heel ! 
 Call ye to mind the far-off time. 
 
 Conjure the stable up to-night ; 
 Stand with the shepherds in vision sublime. 
 
 And a Little Child shall lead you aright. 
 
 Ding, dong ! ding, dong ! 
 
 Hear the chant of the angel throng ! 
 Peace on earth, 
 
 'Mong men goodwill ; 
 Let the Saviour's birth 
 Be the death of ill ! 
 Ding, dong ! ding, dong ! 
 
 Sing in deeds Heaven's Christmas song! 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 45 
 
 THE IDYL OF THE CHEAP TRIP. 
 I. 
 
 The Lover Soliloquiseth in Bed. 
 Whit-Friday to-morrow, my Darling, 
 
 And You've promised to go with me, 
 Down on the cheap excursion 
 
 For a holiday glimpse of the sea. 
 
 And oh how I faltered when asking 
 If you, my sweet angel, would deign 
 
 To bring Eden with you to-morrow 
 For me and the trippers' train. 
 
 Ah clearly there rises before me 
 
 The moon, and the twilight lane. 
 And the misty hawthorn hedgerows, 
 
 Still wet with the afternoon rain. 
 
 And the stars, and the clouds up among them, 
 And the silence of earth and of sky, 
 
 And the darkness that crouched in the valleys, 
 And frowned on the hills, lonely high. 
 
 And your face like a bunch of May blossom, 
 And your eyes of the bonniest blue. 
 
 That ever a rapt poet sang of, 
 Or ever a rapt painter drew. 
 
 And you said yes, you said yes, my darling, 
 And I never could tell you the bliss. 
 
 The wild awful splendour and pleasure, 
 Of that soft little shy timid " Yes." 
 
 I lie here in the silence of midnight, 
 For gladness has banished all sleep ; 
 
 I lie thinking of you, my own darling. 
 And blest is the vigil I keep. 
 
 And I see the great stars through my window, 
 
 Out there in the distance of night. 
 And I laugh and I chatter unto them. 
 
 And tell them of all my delight. 
 
46 VOICES 
 
 And I think of you now where you're slumbering 
 
 So innocent, holy, and pure, 
 Your head on the snowy white pillow, 
 
 Not more spotless than you, I am sure. 
 
 Oh Sweetheart ! God guard you, God keep you, 
 God shield you from evil, my dove ! — 
 
 Oh Darling, how grand and exalting 
 It is to be young and in love ! 
 
 And oh now, what fears fond and foolish, 
 From the depths of my love are up-drawn, 
 
 And they haunt me and mock me, all crying, 
 " But what if the morrow ne'er dawn ? " 
 
 I can't go to sleep ; I could wander 
 , All night through the grass and the dew. 
 All night through the streets of the city, 
 A-thinking, a-thinking of you ! 
 
 For of all the bright days since creation, 
 
 Of all the bright days yet to be, 
 No day can, or could, be, my Darling, 
 
 What to-morrow will be unto me. 
 
 For to-morrow, to-morrow, my Darling, 
 You've promised to go down with me 
 
 On the heavenly-invented excursion, 
 For a holiday glimpse of the sea. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Maiden Soliloquiseth in Bed. 
 
 Oh, how my merry heart flutters, 
 
 And I tremble like one caught in crime, — 
 
 For 'tis sweeter than sweetness of honey 
 To love for the very first time ! 
 
 And he asked me to go out to-morrow, 
 And his voice rings like bells in my brain, 
 
 Oh he asked me, — he asked me, and kissed me, 
 Down in the leafy old lane. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 47 
 
 And I'm happy, oh happy, so happy ! 
 
 For oh 'tis a rapture suljlime, 
 By the one whom you love o'er all others 
 
 To be kissed for the very first time ! 
 
 Oh I wonder, now, was I too forward ? 
 
 Should I have forbidden that kiss ? 
 Is it wrong — is it right ? — I'm confounded 
 
 With all this bewildering bliss. 
 
 And he loves me, he loves but me only, 
 And he kissed me, he kissed me, to-night ; 
 
 And I love him, I love but him only. 
 And my soul it is full of delight. 
 
 I'm sure when I left him this evening, 
 So full that I scarcely could speak. 
 
 That when I came home my dear mother 
 Could see his warm kiss on my cheek. 
 
 And I blushed, and I wanted no supper ; 
 
 They'd think I was light in the head ; 
 But silent, and glowing, and thrilling, 
 
 I quietly crept off to bed. 
 
 For I'm only seventeen, and I'm happy. 
 
 As angels in heaven up above, 
 Though I am too young, says my mother, 
 
 To be thinking of sweethearts and love. 
 
 And what dress should I wear now to-morrow ? 
 
 Should it be the print white one, or pink ? 
 He says I look best in the white one. 
 
 So to please him I'll wear it I think. 
 
 And to-morrow again I shall see him. 
 And we'll go on the trip to the sea ; — 
 
 Oh morning, come morning, come quickly, 
 And bring back my sweetheart to me ! 
 
48 VOICES 
 
 III. 
 
 The Young Man ariseth early. 
 
 Oh beautiful the calm cool dawn 
 That lies asleep in yonder skies, 
 
 But beautiful, more beautiful, 
 My sweetheart's wakening eyes. 
 
 Oh beautiful the beams of light 
 That leap across the gulfs of grey ; 
 
 But beautiful, more beautiful. 
 My Love this day. 
 
 Oh beautiful the rising sun, 
 
 And yon white clouds all tossed about, 
 Like sheets and pillows of the bed 
 
 He riseth out. 
 
 But lovelier far than sun or star, 
 Than morn or eve, or day or night, 
 
 My sweetheart with her laughing eyes 
 So wondrous bright ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 He Maketh a Comparison. 
 
 Hark ! 
 How the lark 
 Pilots the day through the sea of dark ; 
 Singing a song 
 As he sails along 
 The silver shores of light ; 
 While the night 
 Rolls in great waves o'er which the sunbeams 
 ride, 
 And then like the tide, 
 The deep gloom ebbs away, 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 49 
 
 And leaves the stretching sands of day 
 
 All bright, 
 Showing but rocks of varied cloud ; 
 
 While loud 
 The glad birds sing in the woods, 
 And the sunbeams kiss the buds 
 That laugh on the wakening trees, 
 And over the summer leas 
 The cattle slowly go ; 
 
 And soft the morn winds blow ; 
 
 And sweet from dell and field 
 
 Floats the scent the glad flowers yield ; 
 
 And daylight, cloaked in shadow. 
 
 Glides over mount and meadow, 
 
 And all things, sleep forsaking. 
 
 Proclaim that day is breaking, 
 
 And the rested world awaking. 
 
 The Young Man fetcheth his Gtvl, and seeth these- things 
 by the way. 
 
 How happy the folks look 
 
 Hastening down to the station. 
 
 There are father and mother, 
 And the little girl sticking unto her brother, 
 And the crowing baby, all animation ; 
 What a very gay page in life's dull book. 
 
 The father is smoking his pipe, 
 And the white whiffs float up over his head, 
 
 And the mother she carries a satchel 
 With tea and butter and bread. 
 Ah, there goes a couple of lovers ; 
 
 And there a wild gang of rough boys, 
 Shouting, and joking, and laughing, 
 
 And making no end of a noise ; 
 There's the little man with a big family. 
 
 He looks sadly harassed, poor chap ; 
 
50 VOICES 
 
 Here's a woman o'erladen with luggage 
 Spitefully giving her youngster a slap ; 
 
 All sorts of men, women and children, 
 Hurrying down to the station, — 
 
 And it's only 5 a.m., — the day's before 'em. 
 And much to see and do ere its termination. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Young Man and his Girl in the crowded Railway 
 Carriage; the Jolly Man passeth the Whisky Bottle round. 
 
 Come, take a sip, and don't be afraid. 
 
 It's the purest Irish Whisky ; 
 It's good for a man and it's good for a maid, 
 
 Though too much of it's rather risky. 
 
 You decline ? Ah well, you'll learn sense by-and-bye, 
 Your sweetheart objects to you drinking ? 
 
 You'll do aught she wishes you now ; but when wed 
 You'll be of a different thinking. 
 
 When babies, and bother, and bad times, and all that, 
 Come storming upon you quite frisky. 
 
 You'll be glad to find refuge a brief happy while 
 In the glorious harbour of whisky. 
 
 You're young and in love ; just struck the first time 
 I can see, and you've got it quite badly, — 
 
 Well, it's all in a life — ^it will soon wear away, — 
 Nay, miss, don't frown on me sadly. 
 
 It's all true that I'm saying, — I once loved^the same — 
 Full of hope, all-believing, — love eternal, — 
 
 But it cooled when I married, — oh pity it's true, — 
 But love is a trickster infernal. 
 
 You may take it from me as a tip, my boy, 
 
 Though I'm not a sour lady-hater, 
 That the heart that begins by filling with love 
 
 Ends by filling a perambulator ! 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 5I 
 
 ' Now, isn't that so ? " (and he turned to his wife 
 With a big merry face, and eyes winking), 
 
 ' Get away, theau greight foo ! " (she replied with 
 a smile), ' 
 
 " We're not aw o' thy way o' thinking." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Various People in the Carriage open their Mouths, and 
 
 have their say. 
 
 On flies the train ; 
 It glides through the meadows, it slides by the mills, 
 
 It races the brooks that are waiting for rain. 
 It leaves far behind it the dark old hills : 
 Through the black tunnel. 
 
 Then out into day. 
 Puffing smoke from its funnel. 
 On and away. 
 
 A village ; a row of houses ; lines of hedges ; 
 
 Telegraph wires, signal boxes, and poles ; 
 A pond in the meadow full of sluggish sedges : — 
 
 On shoots the train with its hundreds of souls. 
 
 The Politician's Prate. 
 
 " What do you think of Home Rule ? 
 
 Gladstone's my man," says one. 
 " He's' daft," replies another, 
 
 " Clean completely gone." 
 
 " Give women a vote, do you say ? 
 
 Nonsense ! All my eye ! 
 Let the men look after the nation, 
 
 And the women the home, say I." 
 
 The Socialist puts a word in. 
 
 " Strikes and lockouts ? Ay, 
 There's plenty of them now-a-days, 
 
 For the poor may go to the devil 
 While the rich folk go their ways. 
 
52 VOICES 
 
 " I am a Socialist, comrades, 
 
 And you, if you weren't so dense, 
 
 Would stand by my side to-morrow, 
 As you will if you ever get sense. 
 
 " I hate not the rich, my brothers, — 
 But oh ! I love the poor ! — 
 
 Ane I'd like to kill the cruel wolf, 
 That's ever about their door." 
 
 Another Man speaks. 
 
 "Oh shut up wi' thy Socialist gassin. 
 We're on a cheap trip to-day : 
 
 Let's forget eaur work an' eaur trouble, 
 An' sing a song an' be gay." 
 
 The Betting Man has a word. 
 
 " What'll come in first at the Derby, 
 Can to give us a good tip, Jack ? 
 
 I'd like for t' win some money 
 
 If I but knowed what for t' back." 
 
 The Woman chimes in. 
 
 " Yo men never think o't' women, 
 So long as yo get yore grub ; 
 
 Just see if yo corn't do summat 
 For t' slaves o't' washin' tub." 
 
 A Man retorts. 
 
 " Oh shut up do, yo grumblers, 
 The world's all right, I'm sure, 
 
 An' if yo connot enjoy it. 
 Why grin at it an' endure." 
 
 The Woman continues. 
 
 " It's aw reet for yo men to chatter, 
 That's abeaut aw yo con do ; 
 
 It would bring yo to yore senses 
 If yo had a babby or two. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 53 
 
 " An' had for t' suckle an nuss 'em, 
 An' sickness poo 'em through, 
 . An' plan how to train 'em an' clothe 'em, 
 An' fill their bailies, too. 
 
 " Yo men's weel off, let me tell yo, 
 Yo know when yore work's begun, 
 
 An' yo know when yo'n done an' finished, — 
 But a woman's work's ne'er done." 
 
 " Then yo spend yore spare time arguin' 
 
 O'er wages, wark, an' strike. 
 But yo owt for t' go through a confinement 
 
 Just for t' lam what it's like." 
 
 And the women laughed meaningly, and the men, 
 Grinned back at them, and talk went on again, 
 And then the train into the station slowed. 
 And forth, all at once, the stream of trippers flowed. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The Young Man pointeth things out to his Sweetheart. 
 
 See, how glorious ! These streets run down to the sea, 
 Can't you smell the fresh salty air ? What a lot of 
 
 folks ! 
 Hear those women shouting, " Hot Water ! Breakfast ! 
 
 Tea !" 
 See the trippers laughing, and cracking good old jokes. 
 Ah, here's the Promenade. Now, isn't it grand ? 
 See, stretching far away, the sea, foam-whitened, 
 Steamers and boats thereon ; far off, strangely brightened, 
 The horizon, painted with sweet colours. Look, the sand. 
 And the merry youngsters on it with bucket and spade, 
 Look at the heap and heaps of sand they've made. 
 Ah, the jolly niggers ; list to the banjo's twanging, 
 See that comic old girl on a tambourine banging. ' 
 There's a mesmerist ; there a conjuror, clever chap, 
 The people gape at him, eyes strained in sockets. 
 
54 VOICES 
 
 While he conjures their pence and halfpence out of their 
 
 pockets. 
 There's a phrenologist, see, with a cranium map, 
 Opening the oracle bumps ; a blind man there 
 Singing Sankey's hymns out on the sunlit air, 
 To harmonium music, his wife going round with a tin, 
 To see what the so-disposed will drop therein. 
 On the crowded pier the band is playing — what a mass ! 
 And the dancers are waltzing round, 
 To the witching sound. 
 Every lad with his lass. 
 Now isn't it all a busy and animated scene — 
 
 All this bustle — people — excitement — and enjoyment ? 
 Yet to-morrow they'll all be back at their employment, 
 
 And the sea will never know that they have been. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Thy Young Man and his Sweetheart sit on the Grassy Cliffs, 
 
 Ah, here, high over the sea. 
 
 Now, isn't it delicious ? 
 You alone with me, — 
 
 What more could the angels wish us ? 
 
 Ah, dear sweet eyes of blue ! 
 
 Dear face so fresh and rosy ! 
 I've a nest in my heart for you, 
 
 And you snuggle there so cosy. 
 
 I wonder and wonder again 
 
 However such joy can be ! 
 And why, out of all, all men 
 
 It should come to me — to me ! 
 
 Ah, dear, I look in your eyes, 
 And I fondle your pretty cheek, 
 
 And than here, in distant skies. 
 No further for heaven need seek. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 55 
 
 I clasp your hand, — come nigh ! — 
 Crowds, seas, and lands disperse, — 
 
 There are only you and I 
 In all the Universe ! 
 
 X. 
 
 The Young Man Ramhleth — metaphorically, of convse. 
 
 There's nothing harsh in the world, 
 
 No trouble, pain, nor sorrow ; 
 You've not to go back to your looms, 
 
 Nor I to my desk to-morrow. 
 
 The world is far away. 
 
 It is farther away than a. vision. 
 
 And we are strolling to-day 
 
 In realms that are really Elysian. 
 
 No factories, no forges, no smoke. 
 
 No School Boards, Town Councils, Elections, 
 
 We've left them and lost them and come 
 Far away in other directions. 
 
 No spindles, no shuttles, no steam, 
 
 No ledgers, and pens with ink flowing ; 
 
 We've strayed into Eden, I think. 
 Not knowing where we were going. 
 
 We've strayed into Eden, I'm sure. 
 And I must confess that I'm suited, 
 
 Unless we see signs that point out, — 
 " Trespassers prosecuted !" 
 
 XI. 
 
 The Young Man Museth after his EcUasy, while She mteth the 
 Fashion af the girls' dresses as they pass by. 
 
 Oh this tremendous sight of sea. 
 
 It dumbs the words that one would speak, 
 
 (How I wish we could marry, but that can't be, — 
 I'm only a clerk with a guinea a week). 
 
56 VOICES 
 
 How the billows murmur far below, 
 
 Their everlasting monotone, 
 (What would it cost, I'd like to know. 
 
 To furnish a little house of one's own ?) 
 
 How lovely She is, how tender Her eyes ! 
 
 What wondrous Hair ! what a glorious Face ! 
 (Yet her mother and sisters, to my surprise, 
 
 In features are only commonplace). 
 
 I'd like to sit here for ever with Her, 
 In all this sunshine, and love, and sea, — 
 
 (I wonder how She came to prefer 
 A plain and stupid fellow like me !). 
 
 Fly, riddles and doubts, ibr it's true, it's true ! 
 
 It's true, oh earth, and heaven, and sea ! 
 That her lips are red and her eyes are blue. 
 
 And I love her, I love her, and She — loves me ! 
 
 XII 
 
 The Young Man and the Maid, Weary with Running After all 
 the Sights, take Tea together, and she pours out the liquid 
 and cutteth the bread. 
 
 Ah, as I see you now, dear. 
 
 Cutting the bread and butter, — 
 
 I'm thinking sweet and frenzied things 
 I hardly dare to utter. 
 
 I'm thinking how some day, darling,-^ 
 Stop it ? — Nay, I'm not able, — 
 
 You'll just officiate like this 
 At our own cottage table. 
 
 You'll pour out the warm tea gushing. 
 
 Smiling, as now you're doing ; 
 And I shall recall in a tender thought 
 
 These sweet old days of wooing. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 57 
 
 Nay, do not say I'm silly, 
 
 I am but in love and jolly ; 
 Smile on ; there's oft a deal of sense 
 
 In a little bit of folly. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 As they go to the Station at night she sheweth him a Drunken 
 Man cursing, his wife scolding him along, and their 
 children wailing at their heels. 
 
 Shall we ever be like that ? 
 
 Oh the horror, the sin, the disgrace ! 
 Did you see him raise his fist and strike 
 
 The woman in the face ? 
 
 Once perhaps he told unto her 
 The story you've told unto me ; 
 
 They were wed ; and no doubt were happy a 
 while, — 
 But now what a change you see ! 
 
 Don't you think it's best for a woman, 
 
 Rather than suchwise to fall, 
 Rather than have such a husband 
 
 Never to marry at all ? 
 
 You say — you look — I believe you ! — 
 
 That j/oM would never be so, — 
 There is truth in your eyes — I ne'er doubted — 
 
 How sad is the sight. — Let us go ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The Homeward Journey. 
 
 The day is done, we glide along, 
 
 In rhythm clanks the throbbing train ; 
 There's sound of laugh and jest and song. 
 As onward we speed home again. 
 
5^ VOICES 
 
 The cars are dark ; no lamps are lit ; 
 
 (How thoughtful railway companies are !) 
 And in a corner close we sit, 
 
 Amidst the rest, yet from them far ! 
 
 Pale lights are gleaming ; o'er the grass 
 The twilight chill and grey there creeps ; 
 
 The shadows gather as we pass ; 
 And stars sail in the heavenly deeps. 
 
 I press my arm around your waist ; 
 
 Upon my shoulder lies your head ; 
 And all the people round us placed. 
 
 As far as we know, might be dead. 
 
 Some yawn and sleep, and all are tired, 
 And some are drunk, and many gay ; — 
 
 What different motives have inspired 
 The holders of this holiday ! 
 
 Some bawl foul songs, and some sing hymns, 
 And some would pray, and some would fight ; 
 
 While farther, vaster, darkness dims 
 
 The earth and skies, and grows the night. 
 
 We two, we thrill, we burn, we glow. 
 Our hands are touching in the gloom ; 
 
 For we two know what we two know ; 
 Our hearts, like flowers, are in rich bloom. 
 
 For earth and stars, and moon and sun. 
 
 And times and tides, and winds and weather, 
 
 All mysteries, powers, since'life begun. 
 
 Have wrought and brought us two together. 
 
 And we two know what we two know, 
 And none may share our secret bliss ; 
 
 And days may come and days may go, 
 But ne'er another day like this ! 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 59 
 
 XV, 
 
 The Young Man and the Maiden Bid Good -Night. 
 
 Good night, my Love, — 
 The wind's in the trees, and the stars in the skies, 
 And we two dwell in a Paradise, — 
 
 Good night, my Love ! 
 
 Good night, my Love,— 
 Oh the glory and mystery of this hour ! — 
 Love has given us a golden dower, — 
 
 Good night, my Love !— 
 
 Good night, my Love ! — 
 God bless you and keep you till next we meet, 
 I hold your hand and I kiss you sv/eet, — 
 
 Good night, my Love ! 
 
60 VOICES 
 
 SOME ECHOES OF A JOY, A SORROW, 
 
 AND A HOPE. 
 
 A JOY, a sorrow, and a hope ; 
 An isle of peace, a sea of strife, 
 A dreatn of things beyond our scope, — 
 And this is life. 
 
 A joy, a joy, a joy of love ! 
 
 A sorrow, sorrow, sorrow of death ! 
 A hope, a hope, of life above ! — 
 
 And this is breath. 
 
 SONGS OF A JOY. 
 
 I. 
 
 Oh yes, we'll be wed in the spring, my love. 
 When the flowers in bud time bloom, 
 
 When the birds begin to sing, my love. 
 The music that's voiced perfume ; 
 
 Oh yes, we'll be wed in the spring, my love, 
 
 When winter has taken wing, my love. 
 And light has glorified gloom. 
 
 Oh wait till the frost-time flees, my love, 
 And the merry brooks prattle fun, 
 
 And by unseen hands of the breeze, my love, 
 The green leaves are unspun ; 
 
 When the earth dofi"s her winter dress, my love. 
 
 For the robe of loveliness, my love. 
 Woven for her by stars and sun. 
 
 When the sky is a beaming blue, my love, 
 
 And the sun is a glittering gold, 
 I'll go to church with you, my love, 
 
 A sweet bride to behold ; 
 And the wedding bells shall ring, my love, 
 In the kissing days of spring, my love, 
 
 When the world's all sweetheart-souled. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 6l 
 
 II. 
 
 How the heart leaps up in the spring, my dear, 
 And the soul begins to sing, my dear, 
 
 When the sky is blue 
 
 And the world's all new. 
 And the sun is a crown for a king, my dear, 
 
 Of a brilliant golden hue. 
 
 Oh the songs of the birds have come then ,my dear. 
 To gladden the hearts of men, my dear, 
 
 And the earth is bright 
 
 With a fresh delight, 
 And the poet takes his pen, my dear. 
 
 In loving mood to write. 
 
 And at night in the dim deep woods, my dear, 
 The fairies make flowers and buds, my dear, 
 
 And loosen the brooks, 
 
 And make sweet nooks. 
 For souls like Robin Hood's, my dear, 
 
 Unto whom the fields are books. 
 
 Oh in spring we will be wed, my dear. 
 And the holy words be said, my dear. 
 
 That make us one 
 
 Till hfe be done. 
 Till life and love are dead, my dear. 
 
 And we are nought to none. 
 
 And I will make a song, my dear, 
 
 To charm the listening throng, my dear. 
 
 Of love and life, 
 
 And a winsome wife, 
 And faithfulness that is strong, my dear, 
 
 A song with true love rife. 
 
 And I'll sing of a humble cot, my dear. 
 Where wealth and rank come not, my dear, 
 
 Yet nevertheless 
 
 Has a loveliness 
 That makes content our lot, my dear. 
 
 And gives us happiness. 
 
62 VOICES 
 
 SONGS OF A SORROW. 
 
 AMID HER ANGEL ANCESTRY. 
 
 Amid her angel ancestry, 
 In the high and holy halls of heaven, 
 Lonely and lorn sat she. 
 
 Not long had she had dwelling there : 
 She seemed the same as when on earth, 
 Only more strangely fair. 
 
 Divinely blue her eyes and deep. 
 But had not yet quite lost the look 
 Of human eyes that weep. 
 
 Her face had with her brighter birth 
 A spirit glory gained ; yet scarce 
 Shone heavenlier than on earth. 
 
 She heard heaven's songs; yet, had she choice 
 She rather would have heard again 
 The music of his voice. 
 
 She saw heaven's palaced hills and plains, 
 And sylvan streams and shining glades, 
 Where birds sang blissful strains. 
 
 And yet she sighed "Ah me ! " much moved, 
 " Oh more than this I love that earth 
 Whereon we lived and loved ! " 
 
 And then a form stole to her side, — 
 Her long-dead mother's, — and she fell 
 Into her arms and cried. 
 
 And by-and-by her brother came 
 Who had been lost at sea, and he 
 Was just the dear old same. 
 
 Her arms around his neck she threw. 
 And laid her head upon his breast, 
 And wept like gentle dew. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 63 
 
 And then up glided one, who yearned 
 To see her, having loved her with 
 The love that's unreturned. 
 
 For he on earth had loved her well ; 
 But she had loved not him ; her heart 
 Thrilled to another's spell. 
 
 And he had died ere she was wed, — 
 And now in heaven he came to her, 
 (Both of them being dead). 
 
 She looked at him, but did not speak, 
 And he — he turned away from her 
 With sorrow on his cheek. 
 
 And all the friends that she had known, 
 Came unto her to welcome her ; 
 But she did naught but moan. 
 
 And then her eyes with tears grew dim. 
 And she looked round with a sad sweet smile, 
 And said, " I wait for Him ! " 
 
 While the soul in her face told true and clear 
 " I would rather be with Him on earth 
 Than with the angels here ! " 
 
 ONE MORN IN SPRING. 
 
 One morn in spring, not long ago. 
 
 The whole earth looked so bright 
 That I thought she wore a bridal dress 
 
 Of sweet white light ; 
 But then some Unknown Power 
 
 Came out of the heavens in a cloud. 
 And in that Presence, the wedding dress 
 
 Was turned to a cold white shroud. 
 
64 VOICES 
 
 Ah, is it a wedding dress she wears ? 
 
 Or is it a shroud wears she ? 
 These eyes of mine are so full of tears 
 
 I cannot see ! 
 Is it shroud or wedding dress ? 
 
 And what has wrought the change ? — 
 Alas ! it is wedding dress and shroud ! — 
 
 How true, and sad, and strange ! 
 
 LONGING. 
 
 I SEE the faces loved by me. 
 When the shadows of evening fall ; 
 
 But there is one that I cannot see, 
 And the dearest of them all. 
 
 And voices that are sweet and kind 
 
 Fall on my listless ear ; 
 But I long for a face that I cannot find, 
 
 And a voice that I cannot hear. 
 
 NOT FOR US. 
 
 Not for us to unravel 
 
 The wherefore things are done ; 
 Not for the living to travel 
 
 The way that the dead have gone ; 
 Not for us on the branches 
 
 To see right down to the root, 
 Nor to know why one flower withers 
 
 While another blooms into fruit. 
 
 Not for us to measure 
 
 The heights and depths of Space ; 
 We have but little leisure 
 
 To look in Nature's face ; 
 But her hidden heart's strange secrets 
 
 We have not the power to read, 
 And the one who guesses nearest 
 
 Is a favoured child indeed. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 65 
 
 We can only live and wonder — 
 
 We can only die and rest, — 
 And calculate and ponder 
 
 Whether we're curst or blest 
 By being sent into the shadows 
 
 To search for the far-off light, — 
 Vain quest, that is always ended 
 
 By the fall of the unknown night. 
 
 AM ONLY A LITTLE CHILD. 
 
 I AM only a little child, 
 
 Who hither and thither roams. 
 Asking questions, to which 
 
 No answer ever comes. 
 
 Some of my queries are wise, 
 Foolish no doubt are some ; 
 
 And I cry on my mother to speak 
 But she is deaf and dumb. 
 
 I sit on her lap, and look 
 
 In her face, but she's also blind ; 
 
 And speaks but by deaf-mute signs 
 Whose meanings are hard to find. 
 
 But oh soon this mother of mine 
 Will clasp me to her breast, 
 
 And answer my wondering soul 
 By soothing me to rest. 
 
 I have played at her feet till tired. 
 And the night is coming deep, 
 
 When she'll take me in her arms 
 And lull me to sleep — to sleep. 
 
 NEW YEAR IN THE CEMETERY. 
 
 The town keeps New Year festival, 
 
 But here am I, 
 
 Come out to keep you company. 
 Where only death is within call. 
 
66 VOICES 
 
 For you are lonely here, my Dear, 
 
 And 'twere not fair 
 
 For me to be a-wandering there, 
 While you were by yourself left here. 
 
 So here I come to talk with you, 
 Look in your eyes. 
 And conjure up that paradise 
 
 Which once belonged unto us two. 
 
 Come Darling, nestle by my side, 
 
 And let me feel 
 
 Your tender arms around me steal. 
 My Love, my Sweetheart, and my Bride! 
 
 Ah, what say you ? — your arms are cold ? 
 
 Your kiss is chill ? — 
 
 Let it be icy as it will, 
 I love you, love you, as of old ! 
 
 Ah, now a smile is on your face, 
 
 You love to hear 
 
 My lover's vows ; list on, my dear. 
 Though this for love is scarce the place. 
 
 And are you very lonely ? Do 
 
 You long for me ? 
 
 Oh, Darling, soon as I am free 
 I'll come and share your timeless sphere. 
 
 They frolic yon with youthful zest, 
 
 And brass seems gold ; 
 
 But warmest hearts must soon grow coldr 
 And all will hither come to rest. 
 
 The rival organs grind away, 
 
 The trumpets speak ; 
 
 And youths and maidens laughing seek 
 To catch fair pleasure while they may. 
 
 The clown upon his platform stands. 
 And makes his jokes, 
 And all the gay and jolly folks 
 
 Stare up at him and clap their hands. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 67 
 
 Ah fool ! — and fools ! — but let them be, 
 
 For life is short, 
 
 And at best but a sighing sort. 
 So let them laugh in levity. 
 
 What's that you say ? — Don't be so grim ? 
 
 Dear, I am not ; 
 
 But life is but a weary lot 
 To one whose eyes and faith are dim. 
 
 I must not grieve ? — Ah, hard it is, 
 
 But since you say 
 
 That we shall meet again some day, 
 I'll try to cheer myself by this. 
 
 And from this bitter rock of grief, 
 
 I'll strike a song 
 
 Of waters for the thirsting throng, 
 Of which, alas, I am the chief. 
 
 Ah, what ? — you bid me go — you think 
 
 That I prefer 
 
 To wander in yon giddy stir, 
 Where passion prowls and glasses clink ? 
 
 Nay, not so, darhng ; better far 
 
 I hke this spot 
 
 Than brightest haunts where you are not, 
 For I am happy where you are. 
 
 What's that you say. Sweet Eyes of Blue ? 
 
 Your bed is chill — 
 
 And that you have to lie 50 still — 
 And the neighbours are so quiet too ? 
 
 You say it in your own sad style. 
 
 The same sweet way 
 
 You used to talk when life was gay. 
 And with your own peculiar smile. 
 
68 VOICES 
 
 Well, — 'tis not like the home we had 
 
 That short sweet while, 
 
 Where even the furniture wore a smile, 
 And all the house seemed young and glad. 
 
 Wait, wait ! — but not for long, Sweetheart, 
 For soon I'll come, 
 To this our last and real home, 
 
 Where nothing henceforth shall us part. 
 
 And we will sit together and see 
 
 The world go by, 
 
 With all its wondrous mystery, — 
 With our hands clasped upon your knee. 
 
 And we will watch the lovers go 
 
 Adown the lanes, 
 
 Tasting love's pleasures, and its pains, 
 And smile, because we once did so. 
 
 Ah, smile in wisdom, which is sorrow. 
 
 For we well know, 
 
 That till they are like us, their woe 
 Will only increase every morrow. 
 
 And we will calmly sit and look 
 
 Upon the world. 
 
 With all that lies therein unfurled. 
 And read it as it were a book. 
 
 And we shall see the husband die. 
 
 And widow left. 
 
 To moan in anguish all bereft, — 
 Until another love comes by. 
 
 And we shall see the hopeful pair, 
 
 Not married long, 
 
 Working, in love and vigour strong, 
 For bread, yet daily finding care. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 69 
 
 And we shall see the mothers go, 
 
 And fathers flee, 
 
 And orphaned children's misery ; 
 And all that death can make men know. 
 
 But we shall fear it not, secure 
 
 In truth sublime, 
 
 That we are safe from ills of time. 
 And have nought earthly to endure. 
 
 And yet, ah me ! I'd count it worth 
 
 The lover's pain 
 
 To know the lover's bliss again 
 That we two shared upon the earth. 
 
 Ah, you look puzzled, just as you 
 
 Looked when in life 
 
 I ope'd my poet's heart, my Wife, 
 And we two built the world anew. 
 
 But yet I see you understand, 
 
 And with wide eyes, 
 
 Fuller of love than of surprise. 
 Clinging and trusting, hold my hand. 
 
 Well, kiss me. Darling, I must go ; 
 
 I've work to do, 
 
 To build a memory for us two. 
 In verse that all good souls shall know. 
 
 So to your quiet grave make haste, 
 
 With my last kiss 
 
 Upon your lips in ghostly bliss. 
 And my arm's pressure round your waist. 
 
 Nay, weep not, I shall come again 
 
 Ere very long, 
 
 To talk with you and sing a song 
 About our love and all our pain. 
 
JO VOICES 
 
 There, smooth your snow-white wedding dress, 
 
 And trip away 
 
 O'er dreary graves in weird array, 
 Remembering our last caress. 
 
 It was a whim of mine, my Wife, 
 
 That you should have 
 Your wedding dress on in the grave, 
 My Bride in death as well in life. 
 
 Oh, happy time, too sweet to last ! 
 
 I cry in vain 
 
 To have the dead days back again. 
 And all the beauty of the past. 
 
 Well, we must part, alas ! alas ! 
 Nay, do not weep, — 
 Is it not a blessed thing to sleep 
 
 For ever under the green grass ? 
 
 And if your neighbours are too quiet, 
 
 At that fret not ; 
 
 You'd count that mercy if your lot 
 Were still in our mad world of riot. 
 
 One kiss ! — Good-bye ! — The shadows come. 
 
 The day is done. 
 
 And the last gleam of setting sun 
 Falls like God's smile upon your home. 
 
 SONG OF A HOPE. 
 
 JERUSALEM THE GOLDEN, 
 
 Jerusalem the Golden, 
 
 With balm of Gilead blest, 
 Oh vision dear and olden, 
 
 Of souls that long for rest ; 
 Of those who are a-weary 
 
 With walking life's rough way, 
 Where all is dim and dreary. 
 
 And none would care to stay. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 7I 
 
 Oh, famed in sacred story, 
 
 Sweet City of the Dead, 
 We longf to see the glory 
 
 To which our loved are fled ; 
 We long to know the places 
 
 Where they in bliss have trod. 
 And kiss the vanished faces 
 
 That long have been with God. 
 
 Oh, there will be such greetings 
 
 Within thy holy gate. 
 Such laughing-crying meetings, 
 
 As tongue could ne'er relate. 
 Of lovers, long time sundered. 
 
 Of wives and husbands too. 
 Who oft in woe have wondered 
 
 If all they hoped were true. 
 
 Oh, City of the Yonder, 
 
 Where we shall someday be, 
 'Mid shadows here we wander, 
 
 And yearn for light and thee ; 
 Where all the broken-hearted 
 
 For e'er are eased of pain. 
 And souls that here were parted 
 
 In rapture meet again. 
 
 Oh, City of Reunion, 
 
 Where all farewells are o'er. 
 Where knowledge is communion, 
 
 And mystery is no more ; 
 Where all that earth gave heaven. 
 
 All loved ones passed away. 
 Shall back to us be given. 
 
 For ever and for aye ! 
 
72 VOICES 
 
 fllMecellaneous IDerses. 
 
 THE SPIRIT AND THE BOY, 
 
 A boy within a meadow played ; 
 So pure of soul was he, 
 That it was given to him to see 
 
 The spirits haunting sun and shade ; 
 
 The holy ones that loved the light, 
 
 And evil things that chose the night. 
 
 He could interpret songs of birds, 
 Or read the language of the sky,. 
 Tell what the wind said blowing by. 
 
 Or turn the brooklet's hum to words ; 
 
 And see in all the world about 
 
 What others never could find out. 
 
 Yet for those eyes that could not see, 
 And for those ears that could not hear, 
 He wrote the music of our sphere, 
 
 In all variety of key ; 
 
 From things anear and things remote 
 
 Took up the chord and caught a note. 
 
 Within the meadow he reposed. 
 
 And to his side a spirit came, 
 
 A being of a mystic name. 
 Which ne'er to mortals was disclosed ; 
 And to the boy he said, " To thee 
 A boon is granted now from me." 
 
 Within this world where thou art cast. 
 Like shipwrecked sailor on a shore 
 He knew not of, nor saw before, 
 Blown hither by the fates' rough blast. 
 And where thou must draw anxious breath 
 Till rescued by the Ship of Death. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 73 
 
 Upon this barren strand, I say, 
 
 Where all to thee is strange and new ; 
 (Yet others know the same plight too, 
 
 Look eager out day after day, 
 
 For that most blessed ship to come 
 
 Which takes them off and bears them home). 
 
 Upon this desert isle of life, 
 Where all existence is a fight. 
 Where much is dark and little light, 
 And there is less of peace than strife, 
 One of two courses thou niay'st take. 
 Which will thy life much easier make. 
 
 The youth exclaimed, " And what are they ?" 
 " Behold," the shining spirit said, 
 " Look on the ground and overhead, 
 
 And thou can'st then select a way." 
 
 The boy obeyed, and in the grass 
 
 He saw a crawling serpent pass. 
 
 And up above a bird there soared. 
 Sweeping majestic through the air, — 
 The one was foul, the other fair. 
 
 Yet both the common world ignored ; 
 
 One crept around impeding things, 
 
 The other cleared them by his wings. 
 
 " Thus," said the Spirit, " Thou may'st be 
 The exalted bird or grovelling snake ; 
 By creeping thou thy way may'st make. 
 
 And never heed though thou may'st see 
 
 The griefs and wants that round thee lie. 
 
 Or all the wrongs thou may'st espy. 
 
 " Or thou may'st be the glorious bird. 
 Soaring above, by all men seen. 
 Singing of spots where thou hast been. 
 
 Yet never having thy heart stirred 
 
 To pity with the things of woe. 
 
 That daily happen down below. 
 
74 VOICES 
 
 " Which wilt thou be ?" The boy replied, 
 In sublime strength, with eyes that glowed, 
 " I'll take the common usual road, 
 
 And sing my songs by the wayside ; 
 
 I'll follow neither heartless plan, 
 
 But go through life just as a man." 
 
 The Spirit sighed and shook his head, 
 " It is the hardest way to go. 
 And yet I'm glad thou hast chosen so ; 
 
 I would have done the same," he said ; 
 
 " But the man's way is so hard to make. 
 
 And so easy that of the bird or snake." 
 
 And then he vanished, and the boy 
 Went to his task with cheerful will. 
 Resolved to change all wrong and ill, 
 
 All full of hope and full of joy ; 
 
 And be his failure or success, 
 
 The good intent is none the less. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 Dr. Rothwell (" Adam Chester "). 
 Died November 20, 1887. 
 
 As thou didst love the flowers of poetry well, 
 Lo, I have gathered from my own wee plot 
 A bunch of amaranth and forget-me-not. 
 
 To place upon thy grave. And 1 could tell 
 How thou assisted sweetly into light 
 A budding poet struggling in the night. 
 
 ThoQ wert a friend to all that needed one, 
 A guide to many who had lost their way, 
 A counsellor with cheerful words and gay, 
 
 A father oft to many a fatherless son ; 
 Full of ripe wisdom, clothed in fancy quaint 
 Fresh from a heart that had no selfish taint, 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 75 
 
 And thou art dead ? Nay, hear the answer come, — 
 An angel in disguise hath been called home. 
 
 THERE IS MORE. 
 
 There is more in the sun than we see, 
 There is more in the world than we think. 
 
 There is more in bread than we eat, 
 And in water than we drink. 
 
 There is more in a song than we hear. 
 There is more in a book than we read ; 
 
 There is more in a word than is said, 
 More than is done in a deed. 
 
 There is more in love than we dream 
 (And nothing can we make less), 
 
 There is more in life than we know. 
 More in death than we guess. 
 
 CATTLE AND CHILDREN. 
 
 Our cattle and crops we breed, 
 By science and skill protected ; 
 
 But the welfare of human seed 
 Is ignorantly neglected. 
 
 For cattle, good houses and food, 
 
 For plants, good watching and tending 
 
 But for children, human brood, 
 Indifference unending. 
 
 Let us boast of our cows and swine ! 
 
 Our sheep and horses so clever ! 
 But the children in slums that pine 
 
 Are a shame to us for ever ! 
 
76 VOICES 
 
 MY CASTLE. 
 
 Long, long ago, in time of youth, 
 
 I built a castle in air, 
 And many and many a golden day 
 
 I went and dwelt me there ; 
 Ay, many and many a golden day, 
 
 And many a silver night, 
 I went to my castle and strolled its grounds 
 
 In a fairyland delight. 
 
 I built my castle with loving care, — 
 
 I took the rainbow's hues. 
 And many a marvellous moonbeam rare 
 
 Dipt and washed in the dews ; 
 With star-rays bright I made the roof, 
 
 From the sun I got each beam ; 
 For delicate must the structure be 
 
 That is founded on a dream. 
 
 I made the pillars of fairest fact 
 
 Carved o'er with beauteous thought. 
 The walls were covered with verse and prose 
 
 In prettiest patterns wrought ; 
 The windows were clear and round and clean, 
 
 And looked on the garden wide, 
 Where all the flowers of poetry grew 
 
 In the glorious land outside. > 
 
 I was my very own architect, 
 
 My very own builder, too ; 
 And the castle was built in a wondrous style. 
 
 Strange mixture of old and new : 
 With Eastern luxury and Western art 
 
 I furnished every room, 
 And hung a lamp of hope where'er 
 
 Dark corners gathered gloom. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 77 
 
 And the good folks came from Fairyland, 
 
 And from many a story book ; 
 From fable, song, and legend and tale, 
 
 Their way to my castle they took : 
 And many a knight and lady fair. 
 
 The loveliest and the best, 
 From every clime of fancy's realms 
 
 Came unto me to rest. 
 
 And elves and gnomes, and goblins and nymphs, 
 
 And the gods of Rome and Greece, 
 Were welcome to my halls, and there 
 
 All dwelt together in peace ; 
 Egyptian magicians and Hindoo priests, 
 
 With all their curious rites, 
 And all the heroes and ladies who lived 
 
 In the grand Arabian Nights. 
 
 Ah me ! my gorgeous castle in air, 
 
 Where I dwelt through happy youth, 
 Where every fact was a charming dream. 
 
 And every dream was truth ! — 
 Ah me ! my castle is crumbled now, 
 
 And its ruins are sad to see. 
 And grisly demons and spectres haunt 
 
 The glory that used to be. 
 
 For out in the spoiling world I went, 
 
 And I had to fight for bread ; 
 My castle in air was far away, 
 
 And I dwelt in hovels instead ; 
 And the paths that to my castle led 
 
 Were effaced by care and wrong. 
 And I saw no more the fairy folk, 
 
 And heard no more their song. 
 
73 VOICES* 
 
 1 lost my way in scalding steam, 
 
 ' My eyes with smoke were sore ; 
 My ears were deafened with machines, 
 
 The day was all a roar ; 
 And every time that I longed to go 
 
 Back to my airy abode, 
 I stood bewildered and groaned in grief. 
 
 For I could not find the road. 
 
 At last ! at last ! after journeys long 
 
 On many a false vile way, 
 I found the path to my castle again, 
 
 In the dawn of an autumn day ; 
 With joy I ran, with hope I flew. 
 
 And at length I reached the gate. 
 To find my castle in ruins grey 
 
 And the gardens desolate. 
 
 Iii vain I have tried to build it again 
 
 Through many a weary day. 
 But I've lost and cannot regain the plan 
 
 Though for ever I work and pray ; 
 So amidst the ruins forlorn I stand, 
 
 While the night is creeping on. 
 And sing sad songs in an alien land 
 
 Of the beauty dead and gone. 
 
 IF? 
 
 I THOUGHT to-day, . 
 As I watched my baby-girl at play, 
 
 What should I do. 
 If God saw fit to part us two ? 
 
 And the hot tears came 
 Into my eyes like liquid flam^e. 
 
 And my soul was wrought 
 To anguish by the very thought ! 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 79 
 
 For my babe is fair, 
 The fairies gave her her flaxen hair, 
 
 And her eyes are bright 
 With the wondering glory of childhood's light. 
 
 And her ways are sweet 
 As the music of her pattering feet ; 
 
 And she has come 
 Into my heart and made her home. 
 
 Her baby hands 
 Have led me back to long-lost lands 
 
 Of happy dreams, 
 Where everything is what it seems. 
 
 Her prattle quaint 
 Free from the stale and grown-up taint ; 
 
 Ripples all day 
 Like sunshine on a dreary bay. 
 
 And shower and shine 
 Shall weave her in this life of mine 
 
 Through all the years, 
 Whether they be of joy or tears. 
 
 Oh, sun and rain 
 Shall all the closer knit us twain ; 
 
 And ice and snow 
 Shall make our hearts the warmer glow. 
 
 Then, bonny bud. 
 Of tender, opening babyhood ! — 
 
 Thy season past, 
 In God's own garden bloom at last ! 
 
8o VOICES 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 Life is deeper than tears, 
 
 Life is deeper than laughter ; 
 Life is deeper than years 
 
 Present or hereafter ; 
 All our joys and troubles, 
 
 All our peace and strife : 
 These are but the bubbles 
 
 On the foam of life ; 
 And life is deeper than they, 
 
 Deeper than thought can say. 
 Deeper than night or day, 
 Deeper than sleep : 
 Life is as deep as death is deep. 
 
 Life is more than it seems. 
 
 More than the new babe's crying. 
 More than the schoolboy's themes. 
 
 More than the old man's dying ; 
 More than the young man's aims. 
 
 More than the lovers' blisses. 
 More than the gossip of dames, 
 
 More than the babble of misses ; 
 Deeper than business. 
 Deeper than money or dress, 
 Deeper than books can express, 
 Deeper than deeds : 
 Life is deeper than churches and creeds. 
 
 Life's more than a little place 
 
 And a little time on earth ; 
 More than death can efface. 
 
 More than the womb gives birth ; 
 More than a glimpse at the sun. 
 
 More than a look at the moon. 
 More than is seen and done. 
 
 Morn, noon, and afternoon. 
 Life is more than these, 
 'Tis more than we may please, 
 'Tis deeper than lands or seas, 
 Deeper than breath : 
 Life is as deep as, and deeper than, death ! 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 8l 
 
 OH, SWEETHEART, THE DAY'S WORK 
 IS OVER. 
 
 Oh, sweetheart, the day's work is over. 
 
 And eve sheds her peace o'er the town, 
 While yon in the far-away moorlands 
 
 The setting sun slowly goes down ; 
 The mills are deserted and quiet. 
 
 The workers till morn are released. 
 The chorus of spindles is over, 
 
 The song of the shuttles has ceased. 
 
 Let us hie to the beautiful meadows. 
 
 Which night is beginning to veil. 
 And there in the soft twilight shadows, 
 
 I'll tell you the happy old tale ; 
 And the lark, in the sky high above us. 
 
 Shall sing in his merriest key. 
 But nothing on this side of heaven, love, 
 
 Shall be half as contented as we. 
 
 Away from the mills and the houses, 
 
 Away from the kingdom of steam, 
 Away from the hard, stony pavements, 
 
 Till we think of the town as a dream ; 
 Away to the field and the woodland, 
 
 Away to the shy little glen. 
 Where the light-hearted throstle is singing 
 
 A song for the children of men. 
 
 Oh, sweetheart, the day's work is over. 
 
 And I, your fond lover, am here, 
 And longing to take you a- walking 
 
 In haunts that to lovers are dear ; 
 For there, 'mid the trees, I may whisper, 
 
 While gently the night cometh down. 
 The passionate language of Cupid, 
 
 That would sound out of place in the town. 
 
82 VOICES 
 
 And there in the calm we will wander, 
 
 Till the sly stars peep down through the trees, 
 And the flowers, and the leaves on the branches, 
 
 Have been all lulled to sleep by the breeze ; 
 For in the society of nature 
 
 All base worldly thoughts flee away. 
 And we shall be freshened and strengthened 
 
 For the work of the on-coming day. 
 
 We'll stroll by the murmuring streamlet, 
 
 Along the green base of the hill ; 
 We'll gather the fair wayside blossoms, 
 
 We'll breathe the pure air to our fill ; 
 So come, with your blue eyes a-beaming, 
 
 Oh, come, with your cheeks rosy-red, 
 I'm waiting and waiting, my darling, 
 
 With a thousand sweet things to be said. 
 
 Oh, sweetheart, how sweet is a playtime 
 
 To those who've worked hard for a while, 
 To the toilers in factories frowning^ 
 
 How lovely is nature's glad smile ; 
 Oh, away from the spindle and shuttle. 
 
 And out to the flower and the tree ; 
 Come, sweetheart, your lover is waiting, 
 
 Oh, rise, love, and wander with me. 
 
 MY MAIDEN OF EIGHTEEN. 
 
 A LOVELY white-laced bonnet, 
 With gleaming green leaves on it. 
 Not adorning, but enriching 
 A beauty most bewitching ; 
 And smiling sweet thereunder 
 Two eyes of azure wonder. 
 Set in a face of roses. 
 Red and white, wherein reposes 
 All the subtle charm of spring. 
 Of the mating birds that sing, 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 83 
 
 Of the dainty buds awaking, 
 Of the fields in verdure breaking, 
 Of flowerets, just unfolding, 
 Within their bosoms holding 
 All the hidden summer glory : 
 Soft hints of amorous story ; 
 She embodies all, all these — 
 The gentle vernal breeze, 
 The blue and white spring sky, 
 The swallow skimming by. 
 All fair things of youth, 
 Present hints of coming truth, 
 Pretty pleasant prophecies, 
 Sunny sights and mysteries, 
 Miniatured in full and seen 
 In my maiden of eighteen. 
 
 OH SADDEST. 
 Oh saddest of all saddest things beneath the stars or 
 
 sun. 
 What has been that should not have been, and cannot 
 
 be undone. 
 
 'The half-forgotten follies of an amorous good-souled 
 
 youth. 
 Who would not lie, yet to his bride dare not admit the 
 
 truth. 
 
 Sins that were sweet seductions, hot frenzies that soon 
 
 froze. 
 That leap up in the later life all armed as fiercest foes. 
 
 And jeering things that start from out the unexpected 
 
 places, 
 Sickly, staring skeletons, with mocking, grinning faces. 
 
 The skeletons of things that once we deemed were 
 
 passing fair. 
 But now the covering is ofF-^and only horror there. 
 
84 VOICES 
 
 And gone the luring smile that made the Evil beautiful, 
 And only left the loathsomeness of fleshless bone and 
 
 skull. 
 Ah, sad when such a sight springs up, when we would 
 
 look above, 
 And will not keep itself concealed from those we fondest 
 
 love. 
 
 But not content with piercing our own seared soul with 
 
 smarts, 
 Must also touch our dearest and embitter their pure 
 
 hearts. 
 
 And oh, to feel the agony as we see them shrink away. 
 From the thing of night that we ne'er dreamed would 
 come to haunt our day. 
 
 To see their grief, to see their tears, when startled 
 
 unawares 
 By the spectre from our past, and know the fault is ours, 
 
 not theirs. 
 Oh vain regret and self-reproach, and unavailing woe. 
 When there comes the painful reaping of the things we 
 
 should not sow. 
 
 Oh, look into the future in every word and deed. 
 And think about the harvest before you set the seed. 
 
 For bitterest of all bitter things beneath the stars or sun. 
 Things that should never have been done that cannot be 
 undone. 
 
 ON THE FLEETWOOD FISHERMEN: 
 
 LOST IN THE GREAT STORM OF DECEMBER 22, 1894. 
 
 Long will many remember 
 The great gale of December, 
 Eighteen-hundred-and-ninety-four ; 
 But the widows on Fleetwood shore 
 Will forget it nevermore 
 While they can hear winds wail, or sea-waves roar ; 
 But in the calendar in deep black set it : 
 Their day of woe ! 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 85 
 
 The fleet went forth ; 'twas a common event ; 
 The fishers had sailed the famiUar main 
 For years, and had always come back again ; 
 This journey the same old routine meant : 
 What else could they think ? 
 Men on the brink 
 Of their graves walk daily, indifferent ; 
 E'en in the midst of uncertain strife 
 One grows to a certain habit of life, 
 And forgets that death 
 Is a part of breath ; 
 Which is well. For if not, life would be one long 
 
 shrink. 
 So, without farewells, ne'er dreaming that they 
 No more should see their children's face. 
 Nor sit again in the usual place 
 On the hearthstone, the fishermen went away. 
 
 The fleet went forth. And the day wore on; 
 The wind rose up when the light was gone ; 
 The sea foamed white 
 As the night grew black ; 
 O'er land and water roared the gale. 
 And the wives on shore were in anxious plight. 
 And on the morrow. 
 Broken, crippled, some boats returned 
 And told their tale 
 Of storm and sorrow ; 
 Then 'twas tears for the boats that never came back, 
 And the widows and orphans mourned. 
 
 What can we do 
 
 To ease grief like this ? 
 But little, true. 
 
 Yet a little there is. 
 Oh, the widowed wives and bairns, alack ! 
 
 Whose cupboards cannot be filled by the dead, 
 Though we cannot give them their breadwinners 
 back. 
 We can give them — bread ! 
 
86 VOICES 
 
 A FACTORY SONG. 
 
 MY DARLING SHE'S A WEAVER. 
 
 My darling she's a weaver, 
 And she has four looms ; 
 
 And I'll never, never leave her ! 
 For she has four looms ! 
 
 She's glorious and she's graceful, 
 
 And of beauty she's a faceful ; 
 
 O, she's altogether tasteful, 
 And she has four looms ! 
 
 Admirers she has plenty, 
 
 And she has four looms ; 
 For she's tempting and she's twenty, 
 
 And she has four looms ; 
 She's my sister and my mother. 
 And my father and my brother, 
 And myself — and one sweet other, 
 And she has four looms. 
 
 In the morn she rises early. 
 For she has four looms^; 
 Where the mill makes hurly-burly, 
 
 Oh, she has four looms ; 
 When the lively lark, upspringing, 
 Fills dawn's rosy ear with singing. 
 Towards the weaving-shed she's winging, 
 And she has four looms. 
 
 Where machines make roar and rattle. 
 Oh, she has four looms ; 
 
 In the sound of labour's battle, 
 Oh, she has four looms ; 
 
 Where the air and heat are awful, 
 
 And yet perfectly lawful, 
 
 And where Mammon gets his mawful. 
 Oh, she has four looms. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 87 
 
 In the evening we go walking, 
 
 And she has four looms ; 
 And you just should hear her talking, 
 
 For she has four looms ; 
 O, beyond all comprehension 
 Is our rapture's Jiigh dimension, 
 For to love is our intention. 
 
 And she has four looms. 
 
 By-and-by there'll be a wedding. 
 
 For she has four looms ; 
 And won't there be a spreading ! 
 
 For she has four looms ! 
 For she's all a man could long for, 
 Love the right and shun the wrong for, 
 Fight a fight and sing a song for, 
 
 And she has four looms. 
 
 O BLESSED BE THE HOLIDAYS. 
 
 O BLESSED be the holidays 
 
 That come our work between I 
 Like plots of sweet refreshing flowers 
 
 Or lawns of level green ! 
 O blessed be the holidays, 
 
 That nothing can defer, 
 That come like oases of trees 
 
 In the desert of the year. 
 
 O blessed be the holidays 
 
 That shut up shop and mill ; 
 That send us to the pleasant sea, 
 
 Or to the wood and hill ; 
 That bring the sunshine to our lives, 
 
 With gloom so shadowed o'er. 
 And in our children's withered cheeks 
 
 Make roses bloom once more ! 
 
VOICES 
 
 O blessed be all holidays, 
 
 And blest ilideed be he 
 Who first invented holidays 
 
 To set the workers free ; 
 Blest be those saints whose days remove 
 
 Awhile our toil's restraints ; 
 But O, how sad the calendar 
 
 Does not contain more saints ! 
 
 SUNDAY. 
 
 You must not laugh on Sunday, 
 
 You must be quite severe. 
 You must not laugh on Sunday, 
 Though you may drop a tear. 
 You must be mum, 
 You must be glum, 
 And not the least bit frolicsome 
 On our good old English Sunday. 
 
 You must not drink on Sunday ; 
 
 Though you may have a thirst, 
 Pray keep that thirst till Monday, 
 And let it do its worst ; 
 Though you be dry. 
 To drink don't try, 
 But keep yourself, just by-the-by, 
 As dry as our English Sunday. 
 
 Be mournful good on Sunday, 
 
 Go in for sermons long. 
 Chime in at church and chapel 
 With weary sacred song ; 
 Just show you're glad 
 By being sad, 
 Be good until you feel quite bad. 
 As bad as our English Sunday. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. gg 
 
 For 'tis a sin, on Sunday, 
 
 To think of fun and joke ; 
 But it is righteous living 
 
 To crawl in black and croak, — 
 To pull a face 
 All o'er the place, 
 And try to make the human race 
 As stiff as our English Sunday. 
 
 And yet, God made the Sunday, 
 
 As well as the rest of the week, 
 And meant men to be happy, 
 Not miserable and bleak, — 
 For a man may play. 
 And laugh and be gay. 
 The whole of the holy Sabbath day, 
 And yet go to heaven on a Sunday ! 
 
 THE STRANGE CITY. 
 
 There's a place where it's always dark, 
 
 A city with blood-red walls. 
 Where never the light, or even a spark 
 
 Of sweet hope falls. 
 The monarch there who reigns 
 
 Is a black fiend called Despair ; 
 His laws are agonising pains. 
 And he has bound in thorny chains 
 
 All subjects there. 
 Thoughts are they who dwell 
 
 In that city where all is grim, 
 Thoughts who'd rebel and their king expel, 
 But alas! they know, and but too well, 
 
 That they cannot banish him. 
 
 There's a river, narrow yet deep, 
 Which through that city flows ; 
 
 Its waters are tears of eyes that weep, 
 Its banks are woes ; 
 
go VOICES 
 
 Sorrow is that stream's name, 
 
 And all Thoughts shunned its tide, 
 But when Despair to rule them came 
 He clutched each thought with his hand of flame, 
 
 Which kills all pride, 
 Then raised each one on high. 
 
 And into the sombre stream. 
 With hateful eye and cursing cry. 
 He plunged those Thoughts, while from the sky 
 
 Shrank Hope's last golden beam. 
 
 In their winged and fairy-like cars, 
 Those rare Thoughts will explore 
 The rapturous realms in the secret stars, 
 
 Ah, never more ! 
 For when from Sorrow's tide 
 
 All frightened and faint they came. 
 They felt their wings fall by their side, 
 
 While across and around them they descried 
 A chain of flame : ' 
 Vain is each desire. 
 And mad effort to be free. 
 For they all expire in torture dire, 
 As they try to rend that fetter of fire, 
 And gain their liberty. 
 
 In a room, on an iron throne. 
 
 Sits the frightful King Despair, 
 Where imprisoned Thoughts for ever groan 
 
 In ropes of care ; 
 Oh, that is a racking room. 
 
 The abode of that killing king ; — 
 The frowning roof is formed of gloom, 
 With darkness gathered from chilling tomb. 
 
 And plumes from Night's black wing : 
 From red blood and white tears 
 
 Come the ghastly walls and floor. 
 Ah, bitter tears wept o'er men's biers, 
 ■ And blood from those whom Despair rears 
 His grisly banner o'er. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 9I 
 
 Horrid fiends and demons dwell 
 
 In that city on Hell's own verge, 
 And dripping heart- drops slowly knell 
 
 A solemn dirge : 
 Pale phantoms ever moan, — 
 
 The ghosts of Thoughts that are fled, 
 A blasting ban o'er the place is thrown, 
 O'er that city inhabited alone 
 By living dead 
 Vicious vultures tear 
 
 At the city's tottering walls. 
 And a Worm is there in a central lair 
 Who with the Fiend of the Grave will share 
 The city's spoils when it falls. 
 
 When Despair began to reign 
 
 The Queen of the City stole 
 Away to escape his binding chain, 
 
 Her name was Soul ; 
 Trembling, anxious, she waits, 
 
 In a cave by the city walls, 
 She sees below Hell's open gates, 
 While a tale of doom her fear relates 
 
 That her appals ; 
 Despair will haul her to hell — 
 
 He plays a pitiless part, — 
 And there she'll dwell where demons yell, 
 While the Grave Fiends howls a funeral knell 
 
 O'er that fallen city, — my Heart. 
 
92 VOICES 
 
 [songs from " RARE ROBIN HOOD."] 
 
 OH, LADS ARISE! 
 
 Oh, lads arise ! 
 
 And lasses too ! 
 When the morning skies 
 
 Are bright and blue, 
 And earth and heaven 
 
 Look holy new, 
 For morn's the time 
 
 To woo, too woo ! 
 
 Oh, lasses rise ! 
 
 And lads as well ! 
 And feast your eyes 
 
 In wood and dell. 
 When the air is fresh. 
 
 And the day new-born, 
 And the skylark sings 
 
 In the heart of morn. 
 
 Oh, lasses and lads 
 
 Be up and away. 
 By field and stream 
 
 At the break o' day ; 
 Rejoice with the earth, 
 
 And shine with the sun, 
 In the glory and joy 
 
 Of a day begun. 
 
 ALLEN-A-DALE'S SONG OF HIS BRIDE. 
 
 She's the beauty of the dawning. 
 And the perfume of all posies, 
 
 And the murmur of sweet waters, 
 And the glory of red roses. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 93 
 
 She's the green delight of meadows 
 Where the larks and thrushes sing, 
 
 And the summer lights and shadows, 
 And the mystery of the spring. 
 
 She's the sun in golden splendour. 
 
 And the moon in silver gleam ; 
 She's the dream of all that's real, 
 
 And the real of all that's dream. 
 I could sing her witching wonders 
 
 More than seven ty-times-and-seven, 
 For she's all on earth I long for, 
 
 And all I want of heaven. 
 
 THERE ARE SONGS. 
 
 There are songs to be sung, 
 
 There are tales to be told, 
 While the heart is young 
 
 And the soul is bold ; 
 There are deeds to do. 
 
 And thoughts to think, 
 While the soul is true, 
 
 And does not shrink. 
 
 There are songs to sing, 
 
 There are tales to tell, 
 While life is spring 
 
 And the pulse goes well ; 
 There are wrongs to right 
 
 That have cursed men long, 
 And foes to smite 
 
 While the arm is strong. 
 
 While the heart hopes high, 
 
 And the soul is brave, 
 Oh strive — till ye die ! — 
 
 All oppressed ones to save ; 
 For subiimer than story, 
 
 Diviner than song, 
 The power and the glory 
 
 Of righting the wrong. 
 
94 VOICES 
 
 A MAN MUST PAY. 
 
 A MAN must pay 
 
 For everything, 
 A man must pay 
 
 Be he slave or king ; 
 He must pay for his food, 
 
 He must pay for his wijfe, 
 And pay for his death 
 
 When he's paid for his life. 
 
 Heigho ! A man must pay ! 
 Pay to-morrow if not to-day ! 
 There's no escape, no running away ! 
 For everything a man must pay ! 
 
 A man must pay 
 
 Be he fool or wise ; 
 He must pay if he laughs, 
 
 Must pay if he cries ; 
 He must pay, be it cake 
 
 Or only dry bread. 
 And then at the last 
 
 He must pay for his bed. 
 
 Heigho ! A man can't choose ! 
 
 He must pay if he win and pay if he lose 
 There's no escape, do what he vrill, 
 But every man must pay his bill. 
 
 For breakfast pay. 
 
 Or dine or sup ; 
 Pay for full bowl 
 
 Or empty cup ; 
 For all he does 
 
 By night or day, 
 Whatever the price, 
 
 A man must pay. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 95 
 
 Heigho, no running away ! 
 
 For everything a man must pay ! 
 And pay at last, whatever he get, 
 His life to settle Nature's debt ; 
 
 And mayhap, then, beyond the sod 
 
 Have the great reckoning up with God ! 
 
 THE JESTER'S SONG. 
 
 Summer's hot and winter's cold, 
 Grunt-a-grunt, said the pigs ; 
 
 What's this world we here behold ? 
 Grunt-a-grunt, said the pigs. 
 
 The rose is red and the skies are blue, 
 Grunt-a-grunt, said the pigs ; 
 
 And man is flesh, and woman too, 
 Grunt-a-grunt, said the pigs. 
 
 .Why should a man run after a maid ? 
 
 Grunt-a-grunt, said the pigs. 
 Kissing is very good for trade, 
 
 Grunt-a-grunt, said the pigs. 
 
 Milk the cows and curd the cheese, 
 Grunt-a-grunt, said the pigs; 
 
 Troll a ballad and take your ease, 
 Grunt-a-grunt, said the pigs. 
 
 Adam and Eve our fathers were, 
 Grunt-a-grunt, said the pigs ; 
 
 And they've been dead this many a year, 
 Grunt-a-grunt, said the pigs. 
 
 Lords and ladies are but clay, 
 Grunt-a-grunt, said the pigs ; 
 
 Even as we rot, so must they, 
 Grunt-a-grunt, said the pigs. 
 
 Let 'em woo, and let 'em wed, 
 Grunt-a-grunt, said the pigs ; 
 
 They're very mortal when they're dead, 
 Grunt-a-grunt, said the pigs. 
 
96 VOICES 
 
 Fill our bellies and keep us warm, 
 Grunt-a-grunt, said the pigs. 
 
 And Mary guard us from all harm, 
 Grunt-a-grunt, said the pigs. 
 
 Let us sing though we don't know why, 
 Grunt-a-grunt, said the pigs ; 
 
 And we'll all go to heaven when we die, 
 Grunt-a-grunt, said the pigs. 
 
 WHAT'S A MAN FOR? 
 
 Up with the lark ! 
 
 Up with the light ! 
 What's a man for 
 
 If not to fight ? 
 Brighten your blades, 
 
 Your bows make right — 
 What's a man for 
 
 If not to fight ? 
 
 Up with the moon 
 
 In night's dark blue, 
 While the west wind sighs 
 
 The lone groves through, 
 For lasses are many, 
 
 And lads not few. 
 And what's a man for 
 
 If not to woo ? 
 
 Up' with the knife 
 
 The roast beef to greet. 
 Your mouth o'er the board, 
 
 Beneath it your feet ; 
 For the world's well provided, 
 
 And dining is sweet. 
 And what's a man for 
 
 If not to eat ? 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 97 
 
 Up with the glass 
 
 In brotherly clink, 
 Up with the cup, 
 
 Let others go think ; 
 Up with the glass 
 
 When the wine bubbles wink. 
 For what's a man for 
 
 If not to drink ? 
 
 Up with the song, 
 
 Be you peasant or king, 
 For the heart likes a tune, 
 
 And life's a good thing. 
 And God loves to hear 
 
 The music out-ring. 
 For what's a man for 
 
 If not to sing ? 
 
 But, greatest of all. 
 
 Where the world's full of wrong. 
 To leave wine and lass. 
 
 To leave meat and song. 
 To take up the sword 
 
 And brandish it bright 
 For what's a man for 
 
 If not to fight ? 
 
 So forth to the battle 
 
 With glory and thrill, 
 To lower the tyrant, 
 
 To vanquish the ill. 
 And what if we fall 
 
 While the combat runs high ? 
 For what's a man for 
 
 If not to die ? 
 
98 VOICES 
 
 Oh ! many are groaning, 
 
 Oppressed and forlorn, 
 No peace in the night. 
 
 No joy in the morn. 
 To these let us ever 
 
 All honest help give 
 For what's a man for 
 
 If not to live ? 
 
 So forth to the saving, 
 
 And let us not rest 
 Till to mend the torn world 
 
 We've all done our best. 
 Let us strike at the wrong. 
 
 Let us strive for the right, 
 For what's a man for 
 
 If not to fight ? 
 
 HEIGHO! 
 
 Heigho ! why fret and mope ? 
 Sing ho ! a song of hope ! 
 Hang care ! though life's a loan 
 The spending of it is all our own ! 
 
 Heigho ! why let it rain ! 
 Sing ho ! 'twill clear again ! 
 Fal la ! the storm's soon blown ! 
 Hang care ! the weather's our own ! 
 
 Heigho ! the sky's all right ! 
 
 Sing ho ! the heart is hght ! 
 
 Breath wasn't given to sigh and groah,- 
 
 Breathe free, the air's our own ! 
 
 Heigho ! the leaves are green ! 
 Sing ho ! in the sun"s sweet sheen ! 
 Fal la ! to the lark's glad tone ! 
 Hang care ! the wood's our own ! 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 99 
 
 Heigho ! let curs go cower ! 
 Sing ho ! for right is power! 
 Fal la ! let cowards moan ! 
 Hang care ! the town's our own ! 
 
 Heigho ! put tyrants down ! 
 Sing ho ! though villains frown ! 
 Fal la ! and let it be known ! — 
 Hang care! — the world's our own ! 
 
 OUR GOOD OLD MOTHER. 
 
 Our good old mother, our dear, kind mother, 
 
 Our tender old mother, the earth, 
 She loves us all, each sister and brother, 
 
 That she has given birth ; 
 And there's meat for all, and drink for all, 
 
 And clothes for every one, 
 And the happiest life for the veriest thrall, 
 If only her will were done. 
 But heigho ! instead of that. 
 Some get the lean and some the fat, 
 And the children of earth, in scrambling, waste 
 Three times more than ever they taste, 
 And woe's the world for that ! 
 
 God's our Father, and earth's our mother, 
 
 Our bounteous old mother, the earth ; 
 And if we did fair to one another 
 Life would be wine and mirth, 
 For there's meat and drink for you and me, 
 
 And clothes for every one, 
 If men and women could only see 
 How the serving-out should be done. 
 But heigho ! instead of that, 
 A few are sharp and many are flat, 
 And the world goes round in day and night, 
 With much that's wrong and little that's right, 
 And woe's the world for that ! 
 
lOO VOICES 
 
 LOV'ST THOU THE SUN? 
 
 Lov'sT thou the sun, 
 
 And the field and the tree ? 
 Lov'st thou the air, 
 
 And would'st be free ? 
 Then up, my friend, 
 
 Whoever thou be, 
 Come forth and strike 
 
 A blow with' me ! 
 
 Oh, dost thou hate 
 
 AH ill and wrong ? 
 And pity those 
 
 Who have suffered long ? 
 And art thou a man 
 
 With a heart m thee ? 
 Then up and strike 
 
 A blow with me ! 
 
 Lov'st thou thy home, 
 
 And a happy life ? 
 Lov'st thou thy babes, 
 
 Lov'st thou thy wife ? 
 Then up, my friend. 
 
 Wherever thou be. 
 And in God's name fight 
 
 For man with me ! 
 
 ALL FOR TO BRING THE SUMMER HOME. 
 
 Robin Hood and Little John, 
 
 They are a merry pair O ! 
 And we will hie to the greenwood gay 
 
 To see what they do there O ! 
 With hel-an'-tow, 
 And rum-be-low, 
 Right cheerily we'll up and go 
 
 As soon as any day O ! 
 All for to bring the summer home. 
 
 The summer and the May O ! 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. lOI 
 
 Robin Hood and Marion, 
 
 They are a noble pair O ! — 
 Enough for all, too much for none, 
 
 But every man his share O ! 
 With hel-an'-tow, 
 And rum-be-low. 
 Right cheerily we'll up and go, 
 
 As soon as any day O ! 
 To bring the summer to men's lives, 
 
 The summer and the May O ! 
 
 (IDore flDi6cellancou0 Derses. 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 Now I have come to my throne, 
 The whole world hither call; 
 
 My battles I fought alone. 
 The spoil I will share with all. 
 
 No narrow creed for me. 
 
 No clannish ties of blood, 
 Let me a brother be 
 
 To the whole world's brotherhood. 
 
 Though they heeded not my moan. 
 Though they let me stand or fall. 
 
 Now I have come to my throne 
 I will share my realm with all. 
 
 Bitter and dark the fight — 
 
 And the wounds are bleeding yet ! — 
 And they left me alone in my plight — 
 
 But 'tis glory to forget t 
 
 'Tis glory to forget 
 
 The wrongs done to us by others ; 
 So call all the world and let 
 
 It share with me like brothers. 
 
I'oa VOICES 
 
 Gone the nights when I lay 
 
 Stricken and like to die ! 
 For the crown is mine to-day, 
 
 And a generous king am I ! 
 
 So now I am come to my throne 
 The whole world hither call ; 
 
 My battles I fought alone, 
 But the spoil I will share with all ! 
 
 PLEASURE (?) 
 
 All on a merry summer's morn, 
 
 When crowds were thick in Blackpool town. 
 We wandered grasswards and away. 
 
 From toiling trippers laid us down. 
 
 While round the great and iron Tower 
 The people jostled, jerked, and jammed. 
 
 In Babel discord ; dinful day ; 
 Delusive holiday of the damned. 
 
 They called it pleasure ; noisy rush ; 
 
 A choking, sweating, senseless press. 
 This vain attempt to snatch a joy 
 
 From jerry-gilded ugliness. 
 
 A hundred thousand hungry mouths 
 Gasped for one draught of pure ozone 
 
 Upon one little mile of ground — 
 While leagues of fields lay all alone. 
 
 Oh, that such slaves should be such fools ! 
 
 To flock and fret in stinking streets. 
 When Nature's wide and high domain 
 
 Invites them with its scented sweets. 
 
 How shall we teach this misled mob 
 That flowery fields and quiet bowers 
 
 Are more than asphalt promenades 
 
 And singing (?) rooms and iron Towers ? 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. I03 
 
 How shall we show them lovingly 
 
 (For we must lift in gentle way) 
 That one packed annual rowdy round 
 
 Is not at all a holiday ? 
 
 Harsh is the mirth of multitudes ; 
 
 They see naught who strain neck to see ; 
 The devil always leads the crowd, 
 
 But God's the guide of two or three. 
 
 And he who wallows in the mud 
 
 Has company enough, I own ; 
 For men may drag through dust in droves, 
 
 But one must enter heaven alone. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE SUN. 
 
 Come, through the thrilling shine of spring, 
 
 To the soft coolness of the woods. 
 Where fresh leaves breathe what wild birds sing 
 
 From music writ in opening buds. 
 
 Come to the sweetness of the meads. 
 
 Past hedgerows glad with cuckoo-flowers, 
 
 Where cheery lark the concert leads, 
 
 Through grassy days and coloured hours ; 
 
 Where daisy, queen of floral blooms, 
 
 Holds sisterhood with mean herbs most small. 
 
 And buttercup, king-crowned, illumes 
 The fields with golden joy for all ; 
 
 Cowslips, and flowers of hill and dell, 
 
 Like poetry visible to the view. 
 And bluebells, — as if heaven once fell 
 
 Upon the earth, took root, and grew ; 
 
 And shepherd's purse in honest white. 
 Too wee to hold the springtide wealth 
 
 Of violets and all flowered delight : 
 
 Shall-make you rich in mirth and health. 
 
104 VOICES 
 
 The swalloiw glitters through the air 
 Like feathered lightning ; butterflies 
 
 Of happy yellow, some more rare, 
 Display their painting's mysteries. 
 
 The sun o'er all with tender force 
 Glows fiery, watching with a smile 
 
 The vital stream, of which he's source, 
 Flow through its seasons ; all the while 
 
 It bubbles into bud and leaf, 
 
 It ripples into bird and song, 
 Warms into hues of joy and grief, 
 
 Weaves dust to man, and glides along. 
 
 The light, the heat, the magic strange, 
 
 The spirit of all matter's strife, 
 That riddle of birth, and growth, and change, 
 
 We cannot fathom — but call life. 
 
 Which makes man kin to plant and beast, 
 
 And hints one origin to all 
 (As is the greatest, so the least) 
 
 Are spun from out that flaming ball. 
 
 And just as as all things have their time — 
 Spring, summer, autumn, winter ; too, 
 
 Comes end to reason and to rhyme ; 
 Creeds, nations, laws, rot and renew. 
 
 Thoughts, schemes of men, and human things, 
 Grow, flourish, fade, to dust dissolve, 
 
 Like flowers, and grass, and insect's wings. 
 As seasons and as years revolve. 
 
 'Tis endless ring ; no last, no first ; 
 
 But one truth roots in everything — 
 From one year's ugly death shall burst 
 
 The living beauty of next spring. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. t05 
 
 We live to grow a little more, 
 
 A little higher, than life that's gone ; 
 
 To add to what's been done before. 
 To die and pass the progress on. 
 
 And what haps next ? — We can but dream ; 
 
 We can but guess at what is best, 
 And hope some Being Beyond, Supreme, 
 
 May be entrusted with the rest. 
 
 STARS. 
 
 If other planets peopled be, 
 
 And they see earth afar. 
 Our world unto their eyes just looks 
 
 A radiant star ! 
 
 They do not see its misery. 
 For bread the endless fight ! 
 
 They only see it in their sky 
 An orb of light. 
 
 Its woes, its griefs, its tears, its pains, 
 
 Its shadows dark and sad 
 They see not ;— 'tis to them a star 
 
 Of glory glad. 
 
 And so, those bright and lovely stars 
 
 Which we behold at night, 
 Which poets praise as beautiful, 
 
 Gleaming delight, — 
 
 May only be grim worlds like ours, 
 
 Where want and sin, 
 And other things all bad and foul 
 
 Have entered in. 
 
 Yet unto us all else is sealed, 
 
 The broken heart, life's bitter fight. 
 
 We see not in the star that shines 
 A globe of light. 
 
 H 
 
I06 VOICES 
 
 Who knows then, but, in some strange way 
 (For human souls can't see thus far). 
 
 That worlds of woe in God's heaven shine 
 Each one a star ! 
 
 How can we judge ? If unto us 
 The earth be dull and dark and drear, 
 
 To all the universe outside 
 'Tis a shining sphere! 
 
 Oh gloomy mystery of pain ! 
 
 Oh most inscrutable designs ! 
 Perhaps suffering is required to make 
 
 A star that shines ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Cheer up, cheer up ; don't dine and sup 
 
 And walk with sour-faced sorrow ; 
 Enjoy to-day as best you may — 
 
 Let trouble come to-morrow ; 
 Look up, look up ; the bitter cup 
 
 Gulp down with cheery laughter, 
 To-day we'll pluck the rose good-luck, 
 
 Though thorns may prick us after. 
 
 Oh, smile at fate and scorn his hate, 
 Take heart and think he's chaffing, 
 
 At night or noon, 'neath sun or moon 
 Break all his blows with laughing ; 
 
 Why fret forlorn because to-morn 
 May hap be dark and dismal ? 
 
 If to-day be bright let thy heart be light- 
 Not dreaming of night abysmal. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. IO7 
 
 With long, long face and funeral pace 
 
 Do not go forth to-day, man, 
 To-morrow's woe to find, and so 
 
 Meet trouble when half-way, man ; 
 If to-morrow break with grief and ache, 
 
 Time then for melancholy ; 
 But to-day, to-day, let thy soul be gay. 
 
 To weep o'er the future is folly. 
 
 To-morrow's fears, to-morrow's tears, 
 
 May never come at all, man, 
 To-morrow's rain, to-morrow's pain. 
 
 On us may never fall, man ; 
 Oh, why then dim with shadows grim 
 
 The sweet and happy present ? 
 And with the nought of an o'erstretched thought 
 
 Make the sum of life unpleasant ? 
 
 FOR THE VANQUISHED. 
 
 Sing the song of the victors ! 
 
 Tell it with trumpet and drum ! 
 But never a cheer for the vanquished 
 
 Who stricken lie and dumb ! 
 
 Glory and gold for the winner ! 
 
 To him that hath shall be given ! 
 But never a thought for the loser 
 
 No matter how well he hath striven ! 
 
 Praise and shout for the victor ! 
 
 Laurel and fame's bright crown ! 
 But silence and scorn for the vanquished, 
 
 Who lies defeated and down ! 
 
 So here's to the health of the vanquished, 
 To those who fought and fell. 
 
 Who lost, yet perhaps as the victor 
 Deserved to win as well ! 
 
ids VOICES 
 
 Oh, all ye beaten and baffled, 
 Wherever and what ye be, 
 
 My heart goes out to you gently, 
 In brotherly sympathy. 
 
 Enough and to spare have the victors 
 With glory and laurel and crown ! 
 
 So I, I shout for the vanquished 
 Because they are beaten and down. 
 
 ON A LARK, 
 
 Singing on Wednesday Morning, February 15th, 1893. 
 
 Fresh in the frosty February dawn 
 
 A lark sang blithely o'er the silvered meads, 
 
 And o'er black hedge-rows budded with ice-beads ; 
 
 The curtains of the horizon, close drawn, 
 Were misty grey, but overhead the sky 
 Was breaking into blue, with white lace fringed. 
 And in the east the rising sun had tinged 
 
 His couch of night with gold : the morn was shy 
 And very still and silent, like a maid 
 Pondering, part-waked, in bed, ere she arise, 
 Her dreams of night with sunrise in her eyes ; 
 
 Thus day, with half her virgin charms displayed, 
 Arose and drest herself in robes of light. 
 And sang — the lark her voice — a carol bright. 
 
 O lark that sang when all the world was bare. 
 And field and tree their suits of flower and leaf 
 Had not redeemed from winter ; but in grief 
 
 Of poverty, moped despondent — Bird of air, 
 I thank thee for thy music, for it brought 
 A vision of greenwoods to me, and hiJls 
 Alive with springtide mirth and frolicking rills. 
 
 And warmed the winter with a summer thought. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. JOg 
 
 Oh how I listened to thy shrill sweet soug, 
 That midst the desert of impending snows, 
 Dar'st prophecy the coming of the rose, 
 And cheerily call the timid spring along. 
 O lark ! thy faith be mine in days of gloom 
 To see the summer with its light and bloom. 
 
 Ifor tbe Cbilbren. 
 
 COME, CHILDREN. 
 
 Come hither all ye children, 
 And gather round my knee ; 
 
 For you have the ears to listen, 
 And you have the eyes to see. 
 
 The grown folks are so silly 
 
 A-getting empty gold. 
 That they never find the glory 
 
 Which cannot be bought or sold. 
 
 But you and I, my children, 
 We'll wander hand in hand, 
 
 Through the rooms of Poesy Palace, 
 In the fields of Fairyland. 
 
 The big ones may call us foolish, 
 And pretend to mock and laugh, 
 
 But we shall eat the wheat, dears, 
 While they but chew the cha£f. 
 
 We'll visit the elves and fairies, 
 In the children's part of earth ; 
 
 For sweeter than jingle of money 
 Is the music of their mirth. 
 
 We'll help Jack slay the Giants, 
 Or up the Beanstalk climb, 
 
 In those big brave days of wonder 
 In " Once upon a time." 
 
IIO ' VOICES 
 
 We'll sit dark with Cinderella, 
 Dance bright with her at the ball ; 
 
 And Aladdin's Lamp shall light us, 
 Through caverns that appal. 
 
 Red Riding Hood shall take us 
 Through the weird wolf-haunted wood ; 
 
 But no bad thing shall harm us, 
 Because we'll all be good. 
 
 We'll see how the kiss of Beauty, 
 
 Turns the Beast into a Man ; 
 And find out all that's fairy, 
 
 Since ever the world began. 
 
 We'll see how the flowers come blooming. 
 Watch fairies blow buds on the trees ; 
 
 And we'll top the mighty mountains, 
 And sail o'er shining seas. 
 
 We'll go where the lark learns music. 
 Where the brooklets babble low. 
 
 In that world of pretty visions 
 Where the business folks ne'er go. 
 
 We'll try to find where the insects 
 Get their magic humming-tops ; 
 
 Where the butterflies' wings are painted 
 With colours^not bought in shops. 
 
 And let sour men call us foolish. 
 
 And think they are very wise 
 Because they can see nothing 
 
 When there's a whole world in our eyes. 
 
 Ah yes, they may call us foolish, 
 But what more foolish, say we, 
 
 Than sweating and fretting and dying 
 For a life of fiddle-de-dee ? 
 
 Their faces are pale and weary, 
 
 Their heads quite often ache, 
 And their appetites need physic 
 
 While we feed on fairy cake. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. Ill 
 
 They struggle, and hurry, and worry, 
 
 For a fortune of fiddle-de-dee. 
 And a Ghost with a Sharp Scythe mocks 
 them — 
 
 But that they cannot see. 
 
 So, let them scurry and scramble, 
 
 But we will take our ease 
 Where the bonny birds are singing 
 
 In the midst of summer trees. 
 
 Let the knowing ones rush and rattle ; 
 
 They forget Christ said (and smiled), 
 " Ye cannot enter The Kingdom 
 
 Except as a little child, ! " 
 
 Oh, we'll go to a world where never 
 Comes black smoke or white steam. 
 
 Where factories do not frighten. 
 Nor hideous whistles scream.. 
 
 Where there are no suffering children 
 
 Crying in rags for bread ; 
 But all that come are welcome, 
 
 And all are clothed and fed. 
 
 Where no cruel folks are fighting 
 
 For gold till out of breath. 
 And in their madness trampling 
 
 The little ones to death. 
 
 Ah ! we will laugh in the heaven 
 
 Where all true pleasures grow. 
 While the grave grown folks are howling 
 
 In the other place below. 
 
 So come hither, all my children, 
 
 With me you shall go along. 
 And we'll skip through Fairy Meadows, 
 
 And sing a Fairy Song. 
 
112 VOICES 
 
 VOICE OF THE HALF-TIMERS. 
 
 Dragged fro' bed, an' early stirrin' 
 
 Wheer awth' whizzin' wheels are whirrin' 
 
 Wheer th' great factory roars an' hums 
 
 Aw abeaut our dreary whums, 
 
 Up ant' five ant' day beginnin', 
 
 Six o'clock we starten spinnin', 
 
 Six o'clock we starten weivin', 
 
 For a long day's toil an' dreivin' 
 
 Summer breet, or winter dark, 
 
 We are alius cheeaned to t' wark, 
 
 Mornin's weet, or cowd, or hot, 
 
 We'n to face it whether or not, 
 
 Then 'mdng spinnin' wheels aw day 
 
 We maun moil while others play, 
 
 'MoDg aw th' snaky straps an' bands, 
 
 That snap off fingers, tangle bonds, 
 
 Jerk off arms by t' roots and e'en 
 
 Sometimes murder us off t' scene ; 
 
 Bare o' feet, wi' rowled up sleeves, 
 
 A pair o' drawers on eaur legs ; thus weives 
 
 An' winds an' spins eaur sweatin' doom 
 
 In t' factory, be it leet or gloom. 
 
 Then at' bell-heaur we rush forth 
 
 r rain fro' t' west or frost fro' t' north, 
 
 Reet fro' t' roastin' into t' chill 
 
 To fetch hot wayter into t' mill 
 
 For eaur bosses breakfasts, — aw 
 
 This allowed by mon an' law. 
 
 Aw this done that eaur faythers an' mothers 
 
 May keep their wages up ; for others 
 
 Owder than us this load we bear 
 
 O' grindin' sufFerin' and care ; 
 
 We're forced to carry on eaur back 
 
 Eaur selfish parents aw' reaund t' track. 
 
 True we're sickly, slight, and sma', 
 
 But what aw that ? Brass pays for aw ; 
 
 True we dee at a gallopin' rate. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. I I3 
 
 For deeath is deep and hard to cheat ; 
 But what's it matter ? We must fa' 
 That England's trade may'nt go t' wa' 
 We mun be sacrificed, ghastly gory, 
 For British commerce an' England's glory. 
 
 That's not aw ; when worn and bent 
 
 Wi' a mornin's work, to t' skoo we're sent, 
 
 To pick up theer in hauve-a-day 
 
 A full day's larnin' as we may ; 
 
 An' oft we feel so tired and fagged, 
 
 So done an' drowsy, nipped an' nagged. 
 
 That o'er eaur lessons we crave for sleep, 
 
 An' eaur een will shut, an' slumber creep 
 
 Into eaur hearts ; an' then, of course 
 
 We'n to keep eaur dayleets oppen by force, 
 
 An sums and spellins an' Scripter an' cane 
 
 Aire aw mixed up in eaur bothered brain, 
 
 An' t' skoo' just buzzes like a mule 
 
 Spinnin' vulgar fractions and compound rule, 
 
 An' dozin', we feel, as we yearn for ea\ir beds 
 
 That factory an' skoo' are at feight in eaur yeads, 
 
 An' pooin' an' rivin' us aw to bits 
 
 As they tug at eaur nerves and tangle eaur wits. 
 
 Hear us then, an' pity us 1 
 
 Here's fit cause for a famous fuss ! 
 
 Preachers, writers, lords, M.P's ! 
 
 Think of us a bit if yo' please ! 
 
 We're towd at skoo' that once a Babby 
 
 We're born long sin' in a stable shabby. 
 
 But growed up sweet an' good ; so odd. 
 
 That nowty folks kilt Him for being God, 
 
 An' Him, — what made watterinto ale, 
 
 What conjured the ocean eaut of a gale. 
 
 What fed five theausand wi' plates and deeshes, 
 
 Eaut o' five little loaves and feeshes, — 
 
 Well Him — that's neaw lung deead an' gone. 
 
 Which is pity, for He were a gradely mon ! — 
 
 Once seet a chilt in t' midst o' folk, 
 
 An' said, wi' his voice in a sobbin' choke, 
 
114 VOICES 
 
 " Unless like a little child yo' become 
 
 Yo'll never get into th' heavenly whum, 
 
 And woe to him, by t' devil defiled, 
 
 What dares to injure a little child, 
 
 For at t' Last Day it shall be wuss for him, 
 
 Than if chucked int' sea an' unable to swim, 
 
 Chucked in t' deep sea, not teed in a seek, 
 
 But dreauned wi' a milestone reaund his neck" !* 
 
 Hear yo', then, eaur faythers an' mothers ! 
 
 Hear yo', then, aw grown-up others ! 
 
 An' ax yoresels what would yo' do 
 
 If Christ coom lookin' Lancashire through, 
 
 An' seed us hauve-timers at wark an' skoo'. 
 
 What would He say neaw ? — What would He do? 
 
 Us plagued mites knows ! An' yo' done too ! — 
 
 Why he'd punce an' pummel yo' black an' blue! 
 
 An' then, maybe, for a change o' show, 
 
 Make parents of us an' childer o' yo, 
 
 (If He thowt fit He could yessy do that. 
 
 For he were a dab wi' t' conjurin-hat). 
 
 So yo' could lam what it's like for t' be 
 
 Hauve-time in skoo' an' factory. 
 
 An' then, — but we wouldn't make things wuss. 
 
 For we couldn't treat yo' as yo' treat us ! 
 
 THE LETTER TO SANTA CLAUS. 
 
 Old Santa Claus clapped on his coat. 
 And his hat — 'twas Christmas Eve — 
 
 And went to his stable and harnessed his horse 
 In the Land of Make-Believe. 
 
 A wonderful land is Make-Believe, 
 
 Far up in the Heaven of Seems ; 
 'Tis everything that you never saw. 
 
 Except, maybe, in dreams. 
 
 You may look for it North, you may hunt for it South, 
 You may scan for it East and West ; 
 
 But you'll never find it on any map. 
 
 Though you do your Board School best. 
 
 * This and the preceding Scriptural mistakes are samples of those actually 
 made by half-timers. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. I IS 
 
 Well, Santa Claus put his greatcoat on, 
 
 With its winter collar of fur. 
 And on his hands his thick warm gloves — 
 
 'Twas the freeziest part of the year. 
 
 He harnessed his horse to his lightning sleigh, 
 
 With its jingling jangling bells, 
 And he cried, " Gee up, and away we go ! 
 
 All over the hills and dells ! " 
 
 Then fast he flew like a shooting star. 
 
 Past the silver shore of the moon, 
 And the night was dark, and the dark was 
 mum 
 
 As the pantomime pantaloon. 
 
 And the Man in the Moon cried, " Santa Claus, 
 Ho, ho 1 pray say where you go ? " 
 
 And Santa Claus winked at the Man in the 
 Moon, 
 And softly said, " You know ! " 
 
 And on and on, like a comet express, 
 
 The sleigh ran down the sky. 
 Past the glittering gates of Fairyland, 
 
 And the borders of By-and-By. 
 
 And Santa Claus saw the fairies at work, 
 
 Though the fairies called it play ; 
 They were painting the sun a merry face 
 
 To show on Christmas Day. 
 
 And hard by the gates of Fairyland, 
 
 Where the Christmas presents grow. 
 He saw the Old Woman plucking her Geese, 
 
 To make the Christmas sn4iw. 
 r 
 Then Santa Claus stopped and filled his sleigh 
 
 With gifts for the girls and boys. 
 And all the fairies came and helped, 
 
 And there was such a pretty noise. 
 
Il6 VOICES 
 
 Said Santa Claus, as he packed and packed, 
 
 " Now here's a horse for Fred, 
 A ball for Carrie, a book for Tom, 
 
 Some sweets for Polly and Ned. 
 
 " Here for Vinnie is a darling doll, 
 
 For Allen a Jack-in-the-box," 
 And Santa Claus laughed as he filled his sleigh, 
 
 And thought of the stockings and socks. 
 
 Quite soon the sleigh was cram-jam full, 
 And the fairies all sang " Hurrah ! " 
 
 And Santa Claus called, as he drove away, 
 "A glad good-night — ta-ta !" 
 
 He sped by the cottage of busy Jack Frost, 
 Who sits weaving the dews and rains 
 
 Into sheets of ice to spread on the ponds, 
 And frost-flowers for window-panes. 
 
 Then presently Santa Claus came to the earth. 
 Where the chimney pots stood upright. 
 
 And said, " I must gallop down every one 
 Before the end of the night." 
 
 Right swiftly he went to work, and placed 
 In each little stocking its share. 
 
 And he chuckled all over his jolly face 
 As he tippy-toed here and there. 
 
 But when he came to some hearthstone where 
 With his kind bright eyes he spied 
 
 One little stocking was missing this year, 
 Why, he sat him down and cried. 
 
 So on he went from house to house, 
 
 All through the night alone. 
 Surprised to find how the children's legs 
 
 Since his last visit had grown. 
 
 Then he came to a house where a poor boy 
 dwelt. 
 
 Whose stocking he found all right. 
 But was quite amazed, as he looked thereon. 
 
 When a written note met his sight. 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. II7 
 
 Yes, there was a note to a stocking pinned, 
 And the writing was big and strong. 
 
 And Santa Claus put his spectacles on, 
 And read it straight along. 
 
 " Dear Santa Claus," the letter said, — 
 As Santa Claus read it he smiled, — 
 
 " Please take whatever you've got for me, 
 And give it some poorer child ! " 
 
 Then Santa Claus said, " God bless this boy 1 
 
 He shall know the joy of joys — 
 'Tis better to have a soul like his 
 
 Than both stockings full of toys ! " 
 
 And Santa Claus in that stocking left 
 A present from God's own skies — 
 
 But what that boy got you can only know 
 By being and doing likewise. 
 
 TO MY SWEETHEART-WIFE. 
 
 Sweet wife, our little book is done, — 
 The poetry we have known together, 
 
 The songs that were to us like sun 
 
 When days were dark in wintry weather. 
 
 The rhymes that on our hearth I wove 
 
 To robe my thoughts and deck our love. 
 
 Ah, you and I know how these songs 
 Came unto us with tears or laughter, 
 
 From household calm, from stir of throngs, 
 From toil and play, and thinkings after, 
 
 From love's warm kisses, baby breath, 
 
 From struggle, — and from cold white death. 
 
 Our woodland walks, our grass-way strolls. 
 Bird-music, and the stream's soft rindle. 
 
 With fancies of our searching souls 
 Set to the tune of loom and spindle, 
 
 Our young one's prattle, chats with those. 
 
 We know for friends : — we count none foes. 
 
Il8 VOICES 
 
 Aye, and my sweetheart (called my wife), 
 
 We two know how these rhymes were written ; 
 
 Some in glad days not rich but rife. 
 Some, bitter days by lean want bitten, 
 
 When all the music in my head 
 
 Could bring us not one crumb of bread. 
 
 wounding days ! when wild and wan, 
 Beat down beneath the panic trample. 
 
 With wife and babes to death nigh done, 
 While villains lived in luxury ample, 
 
 1 almost raved at God and man 
 
 And damned the whole Provoking Plan. 
 
 Well, let that be ! We can forgive 
 
 All who have wronged us, hurt us, prest us, 
 
 For we have triumphed and we live ! 
 
 And they, who sought to curse, have blest us ! 
 
 The lark in heaven with song afire 
 
 Forgets the snakes that hiss in mire. 
 
 Now softer feelings, wiser thoughts. 
 Have purified the things that pain us. 
 
 We could forgive those clawing naughts 
 
 Had they prevailed when they'd have slain us, 
 
 For none 'gainst others can do a crime 
 
 But harms himself at the same time. 
 
 Well, we'll not talk of these past dusts — 
 Of struggle, straining, stress and sadness, 
 
 The troubles, treacheries, and thrusts 
 That might have worried us to madness, 
 
 But, praying for all who wrought us ill. 
 
 Thank God we're here to fight on still. 
 
 This book was written at all times, — 
 When babies were about me playing 
 
 With pretty prattle to my rhymes. 
 My soul inspired by childish saying. 
 
 Oft with our darlings on my knee 
 
 I've dreamed and written what we see. 
 
 For our home is a lowly cot. 
 We're far from rich, though we're not poor 
 
 Ours is a humble happy lot, 
 
AND OTHER VERSES. 119 
 
 No ' blood ' nor ' money ' knows our door ; 
 Plain factory folks by birth : the mill 
 Grinds most our kindred daily still. 
 
 Nursery and study one ; so oft 
 
 When at my ear the Muse, inspiring, 
 
 Has been a-whispering, strange and soft, 
 Some sudden childish yell, untiring. 
 
 Has sent the grand idea a-crash, 
 
 And banished glory in a flash. 
 
 Vain then to piece the broken dream 
 
 With troubled trying ; there's no finding 
 
 Fancies frightened off by scream 
 
 Of naughty babe ; 'tis best ne'er minding, 
 
 But catching the child up with a kiss 
 
 Find therein more than vision -bliss. 
 
 And yet, when all is said, 'tis hard, 
 
 And very, very aggravating 
 To be a baby-bothered bard 
 
 Jerked noisily earthwards when afflating. 
 Or pulled from Pegasus by force 
 To right a clamorous boy's toy horse. 
 
 Yet, bless our bairns ! Their love will scan, 
 And by their bothering they show it. 
 
 Better to be a good father than 
 
 A mild and moderate petulant poet. 
 
 For when they're put to bed at night 
 
 We've hours for pen and book-delight. 
 
 So here we have our children's words 
 
 Twined in with thoughts of love and duty, 
 
 With sound of sea and voice of birds, 
 Man's misery and Nature's beauty. 
 
 With simple strivings to set forth 
 
 What God is showing to us on earth. 
 
 We've done our best to live a life 
 Of generous good ; to help all others 
 
 O'ercome and falling in the strife. 
 To treat all souls as sifters, brothers, 
 
 And shared as far as ere we might 
 
 With those who were in poorer plight. 
 
120 VOICES. 
 
 We wish none ill : rejoice should we 
 
 Were all folks more than our luck sharing, 
 
 For certain then at least we'd be 
 
 That none were starving or despairing ; 
 
 And unto others' faults we've grown 
 
 More lenient than to our own. 
 
 And what though some of those we've tried 
 Tohelp have turned out "frauds" and "fakers" 
 
 Have tricked like knaves, like loafers lied, 
 Givers are blest whate'er the takers ; 
 
 And these, although they gall us sore, 
 
 Must have our mercy all the more. 
 
 For we do not know all ; know not 
 
 What circumstance of birth or rearing, 
 
 Hereditary blight or blot 
 With all their efforts interfering. 
 
 Makes it so hopeless these to save. 
 
 But bans and blasts them to the grave. 
 
 Ah well ! — Now let our book go forth 
 With all its strength and all its failings, 
 
 God and ourselves know what its worth. 
 What price its carols and its wailings. 
 
 For we have paid for both ; and yet 
 
 To heaven and earth are deep in debt. 
 
 Sweetheart, said I, our book was done ? 
 
 Nay, that speech needs some thoughtful 
 mending. 
 These but beginnings arc, to run 
 
 To sequels till God sets the ending. 
 And makes beginning and ending meet 
 In one great circle, closed, complete. 
 
 Dear sweetheart, comrade, woman, wife, 
 Thus far the end of this endeavour ; 
 
 From skyward soarings out of strife 
 Like lark I seek my home-nest ever ; 
 
 To-day we've had our joy and sorrow. 
 
 And merrily we'll meet the morrow.