THE EVERLASTING MERCY.

by John Masefield.

From '41 to '51 I was my folk's contrary son; I bit my father's hand right through And broke my mother's heart in two.

I sometimes go without my dinner Now that I know the times I've gi'n her.

From '51 to '6l I cut my teeth and took to fun.

I learned what not to be afraid of And what stuff women's lips are made of; I learned with what a rosy feeling Good ale makes floors seem like the ceiling, And how the moon gives shiny light To lads as roll home singing by't.

My blood did leap, my flesh did revel, Saul Kane was tokened to the devil.

From '61 to '67 I lived in disbelief of heaven.

I drunk, I fought, I poached, I wh.o.r.ed, I did despite unto the Lord, I cursed, 'twould make a man look pale, And nineteen times I went to jail.

Now, friends, observe and look upon me, Mark how the Lord took pity on me.

By Dead Man's Thorn, while setting wires, Who should come up but Billy Myers, A friend of mine, who used to be As black a sprig of h.e.l.l as me, With whom I'd planned, to save encroachin', Which fields and coverts each should poach in.

Now when he saw me set my snare, He tells me 'Get to h.e.l.l from there.

This field is mine,' he says, 'by right; If you poach here, there'll be a fight.

Out now,' he says, 'and leave your wire; It's mine.'

'It ain't.'

'You put.'

'You liar.'

'You closhy put.'

'You b.l.o.o.d.y liar.'

'This is my field.'

'This is my wire.'

'I'm ruler here.'

'You ain't.'

'I am.'

'I'll fight you for it.'

'Right, by d.a.m.n.

Not now, though, I've a-sprained my thumb, We'll fight after the harvest hum.

And Silas Jones, that bookie wide, Will make a purse five pounds a side.'

Those were the words, that was the place By which G.o.d brought me into grace.

On Wood Top Field the peewits go Mewing and wheeling ever so; And like the shaking of a timbrel Cackles the laughter of the whimbrel.

In the old quarry-pit they say Head-keeper Pike was made away.

He walks, head-keeper Pike, for harm, He taps the windows of the farm; The blood drips from his broken chin, He taps and begs to be let in.

On Wood Top, nights, I've shaked to hark The peewits wambling in the dark Lest in the dark the old man might Creep up to me to beg a light.

But Wood Top gra.s.s is short and sweet And springy to a boxer's feet; At harvest hum the moon so bright Did shine on Wood Top for the fight.

When Bill was stripped down to his bends I thought how long we two'd been friends, And in my mind, about that wire, I thought 'He's right, I am a liar, As sure as skilly's made in prison The right to poach that copse is his'n.

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

'I'm fighting to defend a lie.

And this moonshiny evening's fun Is worse than aught I ever done.'

And thinking that way my heart bled so I almost stept to Bill and said so.

And now Bill's dead I would be glad If I could only think I had.

But no. I put the thought away For fear of what my friends would say.

They'd backed me, see? O Lord, the sin Done for the things there's money in.

The stakes were drove, the ropes were hitched, Into the ring my hat I pitched.

My corner faced the Squire's park Just where the fir-trees make it dark; The place where I begun poor Nell Upon the woman's road to h.e.l.l.

I thought oft, sitting in my corner After the time-keep struck his warner (Two brandy flasks, for fear of noise, Clinked out the time to us two boys).

And while my seconds chafed and gloved me I thought of Nell's eyes when she loved me, And wondered how my tot would end, First Nell cast off and now my friend; And in the moonlight dim and wan I knew quite well my luck was gone; And looking round I felt a spite At all who'd come to see me fight; The five and forty human faces Inflamed by drink and going to races, Faces of men who'd never been Merry or true or live or clean; Who'd never felt the boxer's trim Of brain divinely knit to limb, Nor felt the whole live body go One tingling health from top to toe; Nor took a punch nor given a swing, But just soaked deady round the ring Until their brains and bloods were foul Enough to make their throttles howl, While we whom Jesus died to teach Fought round on round, three minutes each.

And thinking that, you'll understand I thought, 'I'll go and take Bill's hand.

I'll up and say the fault was mine, He sha'n't make play for these here swine.'

And then I thought that that was silly, They'd think I was afraid of Billy: They'd think (I thought it, G.o.d forgive me) I funked the hiding Bill could give me.

And that thought made me mad and hot.

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

They sha'n't think that. I will not. I'm d.a.m.ned if I will. I will not.'

Time!

From the beginning of the bout My luck was gone, my hand was out.

Right from the start Bill called the play, But I was quick and kept away Till the fourth round, when work got mixed, And then I knew Bill had me fixed.

My hand was out, why, Heaven knows; Bill punched me when and where he chose.

Through two more rounds we quartered wide And all the time my hands seemed tied; Bill punched me when and where he pleased.

The cheering from my backers ceased, But every punch I heard a yell Of 'That's the style, Bill, give him h.e.l.l.'

No one for me, but Jimmy's light 'Straight left! Straight left!' and 'Watch his right.'

I don't know how a boxer goes When all his body hums from blows; I know I seemed to rock and spin, I don't know how I saved my chin; I know I thought my only friend Was that clinked flask at each round's end When my two seconds, Ed and Jimmy, Had sixty seconds help to gimme.

But in the ninth, with pain and knocks I stopped: I couldn't fight nor box.

Bill missed his swing, the light was tricky, But I went down, and stayed down, d.i.c.ky.

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

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

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

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

And round the ring there ran a t.i.tter: 'Saved by the call, the b.l.o.o.d.y quitter.'

They drove (a dodge that never fails) A pin beneath my finger nails.

They poured what seemed a running beck Of cold spring water down my neck; Jim with a lancet quick as flies Lowered the swellings round my eyes.

They sluiced my legs and fanned my face Through all that blessed minute's grace; They gave my calves a thorough kneading, They salved my cuts and stopped the bleeding.

A gulp of liquor dulled the pain, And then the two flasks clinked again.

Time!

There was Bill as grim as death.

He rushed, I clinched, to get more breath.

And breath I got, though Billy bats Some stinging short-arms in my slats.

And when we broke, as I foresaw, He swung his right in for the jaw.

I stopped it on my shoulder bone, And at the shock I heard Bill groan-- A little groan or moan or grunt As though I'd hit his wind a bunt.

At that, I clinched, and while we clinched, His old-time right-arm dig was flinched, And when we broke he hit me light As though he didn't trust his right, He flapped me somehow with his wrist As though he couldn't use his fist, And when he hit he winced with pain.

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

So I got strength and Bill gave ground, And that round was an easy round.