A Rose, in tatters on the garden path, Cried out to G.o.d and murmured 'gainst His Wrath, Because a sudden wind at twilight's hush Had snapped her stem alone of all the bush.

And G.o.d, Who hears both sun-dried dust and sun, Had pity, whispering to that luckless one, "Sister, in that thou sayest We did not well -- What voices heardst thou when thy petals fell?"

And the Rose answered, "In that evil hour A voice said, 'Father, wherefore falls the flower?

For lo, the very gossamers are still.'

And a voice answered, 'Son, by Allah's will!'"

Then softly as a rain-mist on the sward, Came to the Rose the Answer of the Lord: "Sister, before We smote the dark in twain, Ere yet the stars saw one another plain, Time, Tide, and s.p.a.ce, We bound unto the task That thou shouldst fall, and such an one should ask."

Whereat the withered flower, all content, Died as they die whose days are innocent; While he who questioned why the flower fell Caught hold of G.o.d and saved his soul from h.e.l.l.

THE SONG OF THE BANJO

You couldn't pack a Broadwood half a mile -- You mustn't leave a fiddle in the damp -- You couldn't raft an organ up the Nile, And play it in an Equatorial swamp.

_I_ travel with the cooking-pots and pails -- _I'm_ sandwiched 'tween the coffee and the pork -- And when the dusty column checks and tails, You should hear me spur the rear-guard to a walk!

With my "_Pilly-w.i.l.l.y-winky-winky popp!_"

[Oh, it's any tune that comes into my head!]

So I keep 'em moving forward till they drop; So I play 'em up to water and to bed.

In the silence of the camp before the fight, When it's good to make your will and say your prayer, You can hear my _strumpty-tumpty_ overnight Explaining ten to one was always fair.

I'm the Prophet of the Utterly Absurd, Of the Patently Impossible and Vain -- And when the Thing that Couldn't has occurred, Give me time to change my leg and go again.

With my "_Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tum-pa tump!_"

In the desert where the dung-fed camp-smoke curled There was never voice before us till I led our lonely chorus, I -- the war-drum of the White Man round the world!

By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread, Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own, -- 'Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed, In the silence of the herder's hut alone -- In the twilight, on a bucket upside down, Hear me babble what the weakest won't confess -- I am Memory and Torment -- I am Town!

I am all that ever went with evening dress!

With my "_Tunk-a tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!_"

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

So I rowel 'em afresh towards the Devil and the Flesh, Till I bring my broken rankers home again.

In desire of many marvels over sea, Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars, I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger sh.o.r.es.

He is blooded to the open and the sky, He is taken in a snare that shall not fail, He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die, Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale.

With my "_Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah! Haul!_"

[O the green that thunders aft along the deck!]

Are you sick o' towns and men? You must sign and sail again, For it's "Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!"

Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon-day clear -- Up the pa.s.s that packs the scud beneath our wheel -- Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom sheer -- Down the valley with our guttering brakes asqueal: Where the trestle groans and quivers in the snow, Where the many-shedded levels loop and twine, So I lead my reckless children from below Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine.

With my "_Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!_"

[And the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and crest!]

So we ride the iron stallions down to drink, Through the canyons to the waters of the West!

And the tunes that mean so much to you alone -- Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose, Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that brings the groan -- I can rip your very heartstrings out with those; With the feasting, and the folly, and the fun -- And the lying, and the l.u.s.ting, and the drink, And the merry play that drops you, when you're done, To the thoughts that burn like irons if you think.

With my "_Plunka-lunka-lunka-lunka-lunk!_"

Here's a trifle on account of pleasure past, Ere the wit that made you win gives you eyes to see your sin And the heavier repentance at the last!

Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof -- I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man!

Let the trumpets snare the foeman to the proof -- I have known Defeat, and mocked it as we ran!

My bray ye may not alter nor mistake When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things, But the Song of Lost Endeavour that I make, Is it hidden in the tw.a.n.ging of the strings?

With my "_Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!_"

[Is it naught to you that hear and pa.s.s me by?]

But the word -- the word is mine, when the order moves the line And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die.

Of the driven dust of speech I make a flame And a scourge of broken withes that men let fall: For the words that had no honour till I came -- Lo! I raise them into honour over all!

By the wisdom of the centuries I speak -- To the tune of yestermorn I set the truth -- I, the joy of life unquestioned -- I, the Greek -- I, the everlasting Wonder Song of Youth!

With my "_Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!_"

[What d'ye lack, my n.o.ble masters? What d'ye lack?]

So I draw the world together link by link: Yea, from Delos up to Limerick and back!

THE LINER SHE'S A LADY

The Liner she's a lady, an' she never looks nor 'eeds -- The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, an' 'e gives 'er all she needs; But, oh, the little cargo-boats, that sail the wet seas roun', They're just the same as you an' me a-plyin' up an' down!

Plyin' up an' down, Jenny, 'angin' round the Yard, All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth 'Ard; Anythin' for business, an' we're growin' old -- Plyin' up an' down, Jenny, waitin' in the cold!

The Liner she's a lady by the paint upon 'er face, An' if she meets an accident they count it sore disgrace: The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, and 'e's always 'andy by, But, oh, the little cargo-boats! they've got to load or die.

The Liner she's a lady, and 'er route is cut an' dried; The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, an' 'e always keeps beside; But, oh, the little cargo-boats that 'aven't any man, They've got to do their business first, and make the most they can!

The Liner she's a lady, and if a war should come, The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, and 'e'd bid 'er stay at home; But, oh, the little cargo-boats that fill with every tide!

'E'd 'ave to up an' fight for them, for they are England's pride.

The Liner she's a lady, but if she wasn't made, There still would be the cargo-boats for 'ome an' foreign trade.

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

'Ome an' friends so dear, Jenny, 'angin' round the Yard, All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth 'Ard; Anythin' for business, an' we're growin' old -- 'Ome an' friends so dear, Jenny, waitin' in the cold!

MULHOLLAND'S CONTRACT

The fear was on the cattle, for the gale was on the sea, An' the pens broke up on the lower deck an' let the creatures free -- An' the lights went out on the lower deck, an' no one near but me.

I had been singin' to them to keep 'em quiet there, For the lower deck is the dangerousest, requirin' constant care, An' give to me as the strongest man, though used to drink and swear.

I see my chance was certain of bein' horned or trod, For the lower deck was packed with steers thicker'n peas in a pod, An' more pens broke at every roll -- so I made a Contract with G.o.d.

An' by the terms of the Contract, as I have read the same, If He got me to port alive I would exalt His Name, An' praise His Holy Majesty till further orders came.

He saved me from the cattle an' He saved me from the sea, For they found me 'tween two drownded ones where the roll had landed me -- An' a four-inch crack on top of my head, as crazy as could be.

But that were done by a stanchion, an' not by a bullock at all, An' I lay still for seven weeks convalessing of the fall, An' readin' the shiny Scripture texts in the Seaman's Hospital.