Rebel Verses
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The Rebel
I live in music, in poetry, and in the life reflective.I seek intellectual boldness in man, I worship mental swiftness in women.I have no love for lawyers, priests, schoolmasters, or any dogmatic men.I am with poor against rich, labour against employer, women against men; I fight beside all strikers, mutineers, and rebels.I welcome foes; I desire criticism.I loathe prejudice, either social or national; I repudiate all claims.I demand freedom of action and leisure for reflection.Facing Death, I would say: 'I have tasted all, tried all, dared all, suffered all, and I repent nothing.'Song of Revolt
Crowns are ashake,The princes and the Kings are bending low,And, round the world,Before the blast of Freedom, thrones are hurled:The People are awake!Over the Ark of TyrannyThe red flag flaunts abroad for all to see!Whilst to the roll of drumsSwelling triumphantly, the glad cry comes:The People shall be free!In dungeons, men, long-bound for freedom's sake,Forgotten of God, deep-frozen by despair,Hear with surprise that clangorous fanfare:The People are awake!Our fathers heard the call,When Liberty from her bonds like the angry sea,Pouring mightily forth, slew tyranny,And singing the Marseillaise, bade crowns to fall,That all men should be free!Men shall be slaves no more!From sea to seaThat Word of hope unspeakable succour brings;The day dawneth when there are no more Kings:And the People, the People shall be free!There Aint no God
There aint no God!Coz if there were —My boy what's under foreign sodWould be alive, and here:Instead of which young William PorterWhat never listed when he orter —Has his farm;And braunges yonder safe away from harm.Poor lad! – he went —I can't forgit that night —While Porter laughed him outer sight;Now – he is spent:Porter's all right.What does he care?He's thinking of another farm,Instead of laying in some ditchHe's rich!And folk'll gallop at his nod.I say it!Dost hear me … Thou?There aint no God!'The Night is Dark'
Safe-guarded dwellers in your sea-girt eyrieHow fares the fight?Terror has crept beneath your ocean wall,Horror is over-reaching, to appal;Your sons are menaced by a furnace fiery:What of the night?A hundred years have passed at easeSince last you fought on bended knees;And joints, unused, grow stiff and old,And hearts unroused are faint and cold;Whilst they who own but wealth, their creed,Stand helpless in the hour of need.Oh peace-bound nation!Lapped in rich sloth; untroubled generation!Know you that races change?Some dwindle slowly downward in decay,Unconscious, till the dawning of the day:At touch of fire we learn how they are faring;Thrice welcome is the test to nations daring;To some – how strange!Our ancient enemy – now brother —From one Napoleon to anotherHas seen his country ebb and flowAnd now he holds the sternest foe,Learning the lesson of strenuous fightTo brace defensive armour tight:But what of you – old IslandersSo roughly woke?Has gilded sloth 'mid dreamless calmStifled your soul, close wrapped from harm,In Neptune's cloak?Or is it but an idle dress,Thrown off at breath of fearful stress?Or has it slowly strangled that old oak?None may foretell;But this we know:As fire testeth iron through and through,So shall it be with you!Not yet have you passed furnace-wise,But soon, with newly opened eyes,Upon your knees,You shall discern Heaven's judgment on an age-long ease.Poets and prophets darkly sang;Unheeded then the tocsin rang;But now the sky is grey and dim,Your enemy is stern and grim,Your leaders slow;And, though you realise it not …You may lie low:For, though to fight one son is bold,Another hides, amassing gold;The strain falls not in equal measure:Whilst some lie cold —Others distil their blood for treasure,And that – Old England – if unchecked,Shall see your ancient Empire wrecked.You battle not to vanquish a great nation,Nor for safety, nor the sceptre of the seas,Nor for the Empire of a world at ease,Nor fame's fair scroll:For your salvation,You wrestle with Apollyon for your soul.And if you fail —Your epitaph: 'too late' —The Angel with the Pen shall grave your fate:Your glorious history of no avail;Whilst all the Earth shall know you were not great.Not arms, nor weapons forged, nor serried forces,Nor stout Allies nor multiplied resourcesThe victory giveth;Not ships afar, nor numbers gradual tale,Nor all your might, oh Britain! shall avail:Only the Spirit liveth!Yet this our hope (a hope unsaid),And still our faith (though faith be dead),That, as of old, you may awake,Cast off your senile mood, and shakeIrresolution to the wall;Bid equal sacrifice from all;That each surrender to the stateA measured offering to fate,Till Unity of Will, controlledShines through the nation, manifold:Then should your Spirit conquer as before,And Phœnix-like you should renew your youth and strength once more.Return
From exile and disaster,From banishment set free,We shall return in sorrow,Our homes once more to see.The storm will surely finish,The day must dawn at last,The floods at length diminish,The bitterness be past.From Fatherland long-banished(Oh, church in ruins low!Oh, roofs and chimneys vanished!)'Tis to our homes we go!The land is torn asunder,The orchard trees are bare;A muttering of thunderStill shakes the heavy air.Yet life goes on undaunted:With aching hearts, and sore,To raise our hearths and altarsWe shall return once more.Nietzsche
In the silence of the night-timeStartled, we can hear a murmurAs of someone tapping, tapping,Tapping at the breasts of idolsWith an auscultating hammer,Sounding all their hollow vitalsAs they helplessly endeavourTo evade with vain pretencesOr atone:Yes, we hear the distant thunderOf an earthquake that convulses;Poor old Mother Earth is shaken,Sorely tried and whirled asunder,Shaken by a fierce invader;Where grim and slow you creep below,Digging, digging, digging deep,Troglodyte, untiring minerAll alone!As you climb upon the mountains,Glaciers, icy precipices,Toward the lonely lightning-blastedPeak that towers above in silence,Plunging into deep crevassesWhere the frozen water falls:Monotone:And at last we wake from nightmare —Wake, to find ourselves denudedNaked, lonesome, 'mid our fellowsLacking father, wife, or mother,Lacking neighbour, child or brother:All disown.Still our eyes are fixed steadfastlyWhere you soar above the heavens,Spurning with your mighty pinionsCountless deities and angels,Shattering our fondest visionsWith your own:Ever on your knees you creep,Where the way is wild and steep.Digging, digging, digging deep,Whilst the priests and idols weep.Sacrament
Beloved mine! we cannot falter now;No threats avail, no claims affect this hour;That kiss, far more than sacerdotal vowOr golden circlet, making truly one– More solemn than any oath —Hath passed our lips:Whilst Love, the great compeller, the mighty powerIn his bewildering hand, hath seized us both.No pardon comes for those who wrongly readThe books on stone engraved —Our Primal Laws —Or fail to satisfy the unchanging Cause;Who reach this height, and fail, are dead indeed:Their being void, their souls are cast without;And from the Book their names are blotted out.There is no holding back, no base endeavour,The cup of true communion is filled,The sacrament prepared as we have willed;Hand joined to hand in clasp that none can sever;Our quittance sure, our resolution taken,With vows fulfilled we face the world unshaken;And each to each we pledge ourselves for ever.Fightin' Tomlinson
I sit by the chimbley corner,My blood is runnin' slow,My hands is white as a printed paage,Wot once wor red wi' the fighter's waage;They're withered an' wrinkled now wi' old aage;An' the fire's burnin' low.Once I could lether anyoneAn' strike a knock-down blow:My legs were limmack as a young bough,They could race or dance or foller the plough;But they're crookled and wemblin' all waays now,An' the fire's burnin' low.I 'member me of owden daays:At Metheringham Show:I fought young Jolland for a scarf,I nearly brok his back in half;He galloped hooam to Blankney BarffAs hard as he could go.I fought an' danced an' carried on,Razzlin 'igh an low;I drank as long as I could see,It made noa difference to me,I wor a match for any three:'Tis sixty year ago.They called me 'Fightin' Tomlinson,'(My name is Thomas Tow)I wor the champion o' the sheer;If any furriner come near,I never shirked nor felt noa fear,I allers 'ed a go.On ivery night o' Saturday,Noa matter raain nor snow,We gethered in the market plaaces,An' stripped stark naked to our waas'es,Gev' one another bloody faaces —A Sunday mornin' show!I fought at all the County Fairs,From Partney down to Stow;They called me nobbut a 'Billinghay Rough,'I niver knawed when I'd 'ed enough,For I wor made o' the proper stuff,I'd like to 'ev you know.Aye – them wor roughish times – my word!'Tis sixty year ago;Our heads wor hard, our hearts as well,I wonder as we niver fell,Into the burnin' pit of hell,Wheer dreadful fires glow.I used to hit like this – but nowI cannot strike a blow:My battle's nearly lost – or won,My poor owd limbs is omost done,The tears is droppin' one by one,An' the fire's burnin' low.The Labourers' Hymn
We have slaved for you long days and nights of bent and weary lives;Giving the strength of our muscles, our sweat, and our sons and wives;With less food than your horses, and homes less warm than your hives.We have ploughed and dug and sowed and reaped the seasons through and through,We have gathered in your grain and raised the 'Harvest Home' for you,Who gave starvation pay to us and kept from us our due.We asked for land and freedom, the right to till our own;To harvest and to garner for ourselves, what we had sown;We sought the fruit of our labour; you granted us a stone.Who gave our lives to your children? Who pledged our souls to thine?Who made you Lord and Master and placed us with the kine?Who gave you leave to drink our sweat and mix our blood with wine?To save the land for your children, who denied their country's wage,Our sons have left their homes to fight, to guard your heritage;When they return – Ah! woe to you before their righteous rage.You held the land in sufferance to answer for your right,To cherish those beneath you and lead them into fight;You have refused all payment, and trampled in your might.Our sons shall trample you and yours in their bloody and righteous rage,Who hid at home in shelter whilst they paid for the land its wage:They fought and died for the Land; and they shall enter their heritage.Oliver Cromwell
A group of men stood watching round the bed,Gazing in sadness at the lion's head,Ugly and massive, coarse, yet noble, too,Transfigured by the power shining through,The steadfast purpose, the unflinching will,Decisive, swift to save alive, or kill,As was required. Aye, and more was there;The tenderness, the pity, all the careOf one who watches o'er his fatherland,And bears upon his countenance the brandOf deep unutterable sorrow burnedInto his soul, whilst he, the lesson learnedThat they who wield responsibility,Alas, must always compromising be;And to help on the cause they deem divineMust waver from their ever rigid line.The singleness of heart for which they pray,Doth bow before expediency each day;No longer fate allows the choice betweenA good or evil course – with answer clean —But rather shews two evils to be done,And they must boldly choose the lesser one.'Tis this that makes him groan with agony,The searching question 'Is it well with me?'The question that at last must come to allWhen at their end, they wonderingly recallThis point – or that one – 'Was I justified?For there – I stepped out of my way for prideAnd there – I stooped, perhaps, to save a friend,Or – Pity swayed me over much to bendFrom justice there. Yes, I have always sinned.Weak! Weak!'Have pity on him now,The valley of the shadow dews his brow!Then in a half delirium he sawA vivid pageant passing through the door,Of all the deeds that he had ever done,Good or bad judgments, battles lost or won;There, in procession wide, all who had diedUnder his rule, either by civil law,Or by the swifter penalty of war,Passed mournfully, their faces ghastly pale,Their gaping wounds accusingly did rail;And last of all, stately, refined, and meek,The 'Martyr King,' the obstinate and weak,The strangest mixture England ever sawUpon her throne (And yet, poor man, he woreHis crown with piteous regal dignity,Whilst from his hands there slowly dripped the bloodOf countless thousands who in loyaltyPerished beneath his vacillating mood).Then from those twitching lips there fell again'Have I done well?' The agonizing painWas clear to those around his bed, and oneAnswered, astonished, with beseeching tone:'But surely, General, you have done well,You over all of us have done most well.'But Cromwell with a twisted smile replied'No!' – as he fought for breath – 'I – only – tried!'Then closed his eyes, smiled quietly, and died.Anywhere but Here
Anywhere but here, Ned,Any bloomin hole,Golly! if it aint like tearinBody from yer soul!War's a bloomin sight too wearin:Home for William Towl!Once I uster think our villageTook the prize for dead,Now I know it wor a Para--dise around me head;Don't I wish as I could see it —Just a minute – Ned!Did I iver cuss my luckFer comin' fore the Bench;Doin what I did fer poachin,Arter this ole trenchWould be like a holidayAt seaside wi' a wench.This is Hell, boy, don't ferget it,Hell wi'out the fun,Let me see a plough agenAn you can ev my gun;You'll hear me shout across the seaWhen this damn war is done.The East Wind
The Spring was mild, the air was warm,All green the things upon the farm,The corn put forth its tender sprout,The daffodils came bursting out;Above the hedge, in skimming flight,The blackbird hardly touched the light,Whilst in the meadows lush and greenThe lambs and foals at play were seen;When suddenly the wind turned roundAnd blew across from 'Deadman's Ground'(Where Farmer Rogers caught his wifeAnd killed her with a carving knife)The oldest labourers about,Who read the weather inside out,Say, when it comes from out that quarter,You know it's nothing else but slaughter;For when it blows from there by nightIt fills the animals with fright,And when it blows from there by dayIt drives your happiness away;It nips the fruit, it starves the corn,And everything that's newly born;It sweeps the land with icy breath,And strikes all growing things with death.The farmer feels his liver growl,And soon his children start to howl,Until they wonder why the weatherCan fill a man wi' crazy blether;He kicks his dog, then rushes outTo sack his foreman with a shout,Growls at his wife, and scolds his daughterBecause the ducks have left the water;He sees the wrack upon the wing,And feels his life a wasted thing.The labourers, with wrinkled faces,Are keeping in the shady places,Afraid of wind and master, too,And very careful what they do.Down in the fields, with backs all hunched,The horses and the cattle, bunched,Stand by the hedge to miss the blastThat wails and whines and whistles past;Their coats are ruffled wrong way round,Because it blows off 'Deadman's Ground';Their tails are down, their eyes are dull,And quiet is the angry bull.But yet the sky is bright and blueWith everything of clearest hue,The Wolds are close enough to feel:Their trees and houses cut in steel:The sun is tempting with a smile,The wind is slaying with a knife,(It aggravated Rogers' bile —He killed himself upon his wife)It kills the young, it kills the old,It fells the timid with the bold;Swift as a flash, hard as a stone,Sharp as a flint, dry as a bone,It pierces you without a sound,The blast that comes from 'Deadman's Ground':For when the wind is in the EastIt's neither fit for man nor beast.Peter Wray
No more I hear the waters roar,Roused at the comin' of the bore,No more the river turns agen,To sweep across the level fen;No more the winds in fury rideAlong the marshes wild and wideAfore the risin' of the tide:The waters roam no more.No more I wade along the fenFor heron or for water hen,Nor hug the bottom of my boatAs to the feeding ducks I'd float;Nor ambushed laay wi' rovin' eyeTo watch like specks agen the skyThe wild geese circlin' on high:The waters roam no more.No more I creep, nor crouchin', run,Nor trail my owd long-barrelled gunNor listen 'ow the water lapsAbout my sunken fishin' traps;'Tis eighty year sin, as a boy,I first 'elped at the duck decoy,An' now – I know but little joy:The waters roam no more.My feyther knew the hidden ways,Across the waste and marshy maze,He knew each haunt of bird an' fish,An' how to find 'em at his wish;While sometimes in his punt he'd singUntil the reedy dykes'd ring,But now's the end of everything:The waters roam no more.When, on a stormy winter's nightThere stirs a noise, or sudden light,I lay an' pant, to hear 'em shoutIn panic 'coz the water's out;For long I look, an' anxious strain;Alas! my hope is allers vain,An' sad I go to sleep again:The waters roam no more.No more the waters roam the land,But hid away on every handAre led in channels to the sea,Instead of flowin' fancy free,Instead of roarin' fierce an' wildThe same as when I wor a child,They creep imprisoned an' defiled:The waters roam no more.Oh Fools
Oh Fools! who plough, with hunger faint;Who reap the harvest, lacking grain;Oh Sheep! who offer no complaint;Oh Worms! who dare not turn again.The farmer leads the best of lives,His food pours in: abundant feast;Full fed upon your sweat he thrives;And you – and you – are but a beast!Each day you tend the growing corn,'The ox shall not be muzzled' – True!All animals must have their turn;But less than any beast are you!The horse is stabled, dry and warm,His food is measured, manger-full;The sheep is valued on the farm,A price is found for meat and wool.You – you are but a working man!Your wages run from day to day,Your wife and brood live as they can;They count for no return of pay.Old age creeps o'er your wrinkled face,Your shoulders droop toward the soil;When, faltering, you leave the race,The workhouse well repays your toil.Oh piteous soul! with none to care,At length they recognize your worth;And England yields, herself, your share:A pauper grave in Mother Earth.Elfin Dancer
Beneath unfathomable seas,Deeper than dreams,Sounder than sleep,Beyond the magic of the treesWhere never light nor gladness gleams,Where neither life nor love can glow;There, you lie low:Frozen, encased in crystal shape,Enwrapped, enmeshed by claws that gape;And not until you start from sleepMay you be drawn from cavern deep,And never till the earth has quakedCan you from fairy trance be waked.You dance!You dance on tiptoe!Up from the grave of withered fears,The earth wind, rushing in your ears,Spirit of joy and youth, most fair,Crowned by your wonder-loosened hair;You dance!You dance on tiptoe!The grass just bending at your feet,The earth untouched, as fairy-fleetOnward you go,Upward you flow,Up through the leaves, a spiral flame,A tongue of fire, with arrow-aim,Whose mystic essence inter-blendingFlows in a torrent never ending;Through that strange tree whose blossoms paleWreathe, lily-like, a bridal veil!(Mysterious tree, whose knotted baseScarce bears the ardour of your chase!)Emerging thence by rapture swayedYou rise from leafy ambuscadePoised in the ether, to and fro,One moment, hesitating – so —Flashing from elfin eyes one glanceStill on tiptoeYou dance!You dance!Oh! earth-born spirit!Swift wonder child of flame;The essence of your being,Dull human eyes, unseeing,Can never hope to tame;You may be worshipped from afar!By faith, by hope, we see the starFrom whence, you came:Fleet as the wind amongst the hillsYour spirit listeth as it wills;Oh Pagan huntress, chaste and wild,You dwell amongst us, undefiled!But if we falter at your doorAt one false step your shrine, beforeOne discord note, one word awryYou vanish straight from human eye:The earth unfolds herself to seize,Your laughter echoes in the trees;And you are known no more.A. G. Webster
(Painter, Rebel, and Lover of Music)Like old Sebastian Bach, who went alone,Working, unnoticed, with a single aim,He lived and moved amongst you all unknown;You gave him neither honour nor civic fame;No Freedom of your city crowned his head;No recognition of his genius came:But —Citizens of Lincoln —I tell you that your greatest citizen is dead!Oh, to be Home
Oh! to be home, now that the Autumn's coming,Where the clover's nodding and the bees are humming,Where the sun is scorching over fields of hay,And the country's ready for the harvest day;Where the bullocks stand knee-deep in meadows, browsing,Or underneath the shady trees are drowsing,Where the corn is turning colour, fit to reap,And in the sun, the horses lie asleep.Oh! to be home, now that the harvest's ready,Now the hay is gathered and the weather's steady,Now the reaper-sails across the fields are flying,And the barley – white as driven snow – is dying;When overhead, the harvest moon rides full,And daybreak brings a touch of frosty wool;While stackyards clear, are ready for their turn,And farmers smile across the level Hurn.Oh! to be home, now that the winter's nigh,And swifts by millions, flit about the sky,When thatchers all get busy with their pegs,And horses, out at grass, can stretch their legs;When inns at night, are full of tired men,Who've had a bumping harvest in the Fen;Tis then, tis then, none but a fool would roam;Tis then, tis then, I wish I were at home.Give Soldiers a Vote?
Give soldiers a vote?Don't talk so blame silly!They've gone to the WarTo beat Kyzer Billy;And till that be doneThere's plenty of fun.The war may be pressingBut – Politics first!Let's keep up the Game,Though the Heavens should burst;Then we're sure of our pay,Till the very Last Day.Great Scott! Don't you seeHow we stand on the brink?Give soldiers a vote?They would say what they think;And from power and payWe should rapidly sink.So don't talk about it,Don't mention it now;Let the men go to warAnd the women to plough;We Statesmen will govern…The Lord, He knows how!Alone
How now my heart! At this most fell cross-roadThe night far darker than a pit surrounds,And only by the lightning's fitful strokeCan'st see the perils that beset thy course;Too clear they loom on searing eyeballs flashed;Certain thy fate whatever twist or turn;Deep tolls a bell beneath the tempest's roar,And soon thy long-drawn struggle will be done.Thou art too steeped in artifice, old heart!So cunning that thou hardly art discerned:In caverns never touched by light of dayThou stirrest unbeknown;At first as lustyAs any pliant sapling in the spring,Soon as the lonely bull's dark hideArt hard and bitter; weathered by the storms;Cross-grained, bewildered, thy courage slowly failing;Thou standest here: forlorn, dismayed, alone.Thy years have passed away in that Great Search,The quest that bruises hearts on hardest stone;Seeking a refuge from dread loneliness,Some haven where the soul is not bereaved;Too often – my heart – hast thou been sorely bruised;And now at last the truth confronts thy gaze,Declared by flash against the pitiless night:'The soul must die as it hath lived – alone.'Alone! The shuddering echo dies away;No subterfuge, no shelter is there ever,There is no anodyne for weary hearts;For him who stands alone at this cross-roadThe only hope is death.From nothingness to nothingness thou passest!As thou wert born —As thou hast lived, so shalt thou die!Death is the only refuge: at his visageAll other spectres flee. Remorse that tearethLike the undying worm, and Failure,That sheeted gibberer, his brother,Who like two hounds have haunted thy abode,Must vanish at his touch:And soon, thy journey done, thy trouble over,Wrapped in the mantle of forgetfulnessThou shalt sleep well.Flesh of our Flesh
There is but one irrevocable bond,Heart of my heart! None other counteth here,All claims beside must fail, however fond,But this is surety never to be brokenBy us Beloved! the eternal tokenOf love made manifest beyond our fear:Of sweetest deepest draught the living bowl!Although remorse should tear our hearts in twain,The world, to part us, rageth now in vainAnd life new-born through life doth bind us ever:Strange incarnation! out of each made whole!No prayer avails, no penances can sever:The Holy Ghost – the Spirit – releaseth neverWhen flesh and blood and spirit beget a soul.