No.101

The Colour of His Hair

A.E. Housman 1859-1936

Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?

And what has he been after, that they groan and shake their fists?

And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?

Oh they’re taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.

‘Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;

In the good old time ’twas hanging for the colour that it is;

Though hanging isn’t bad enough and flaying would be fair

For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.

Oh a deal of pains he’s taken and a pretty price he’s paid

To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;

But they’ve pulled the beggar’s hat off for the world to see and stare,

And they’re haling him to justice for the colour of his hair.

Now ’tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet,

And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,

And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare

He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair.

-o0o-

No.100

I'm Going To See You Today

Joyce Grenfell 1910-79

This is our red letter day

It's come at last, you see

Couldn't really be a better day

It's meant for you and me

This day we've been awaiting patiently

It is perfection to me, for - 

I'm going to see you today

All's well with my world

And the people that I meet

As I hurry down the street

Seem to know I'm on my way

Coming to you -

This is a beautiful day

I'm treading on air

And my feet have taken two wings

My heart with happiness sings

I'll see you today.

-o0o-

No.99

Nursery Rhyme of Innocence and Experience

Charles Causley 1917–2003

I had a silver penny

And an apricot tree

And I said to the sailor

On the white quay

‘Sailor O sailor

Will you bring me

If I give you my penny

And my apricot tree

‘A fez from Algeria

An Arab drum to beat

A little gilt sword

And a parakeet?’

And he smiled and he kissed me

As strong as death

And I saw his red tongue

And I felt his sweet breath

‘You may keep your penny

And your apricot tree

And I’ll bring your presents

Back from sea.’

O the ship dipped down

On the rim of the sky

And I waited while three

Long summers went by

Then one steel morning

On the white quay

I saw a grey ship

Come in from sea

Slowly she came

Across the bay

For her flashing rigging

Was shot away

All round her wake

The seabirds cried

And flew in and out

Of the hole in her side

Slowly she came

In the path of the sun

And I heard the sound

Of a distant gun

And a stranger came running

Up to me

From the deck of the ship

And he said, said he

‘O are you the boy

Who would wait on the quay

With the silver penny

And the apricot tree?

‘I’ve a plum-coloured fez

And a drum for thee

And a sword and a parakeet

From over the sea.’

‘O where is the sailor

With bold red hair?

And what is that volley

On the bright air?

‘O where are the other

Girls and boys?

And why have you brought me

Children’s toys?’

-o0o-

No.98

The Inchcape Rock

Robert Southey 1774-1843

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,

The ship was still as she could be,

Her sails from heaven received no motion,

Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock

The waves flow’d over the Inchcape Rock;

So little they rose, so little they fell,

They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The Abbot of Aberbrothok

Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;

On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,

And over the waves its warning rung.

When the Rock was hid by the surge’s swell,

The mariners heard the warning bell;

And then they knew the perilous Rock,

And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The Sun in heaven was shining gay,

All things were joyful on that day;

The sea-birds scream’d as they wheel’d round,

And there was joyaunce in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen

A darker speck on the ocean green;

Sir Ralph the Rover walk’d his deck,

And he fix’d his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring,

It made his whistle, it made him sing;

His heart was mirthful to excess,

But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;

Quoth he, ‘My men, put out the boat,

And row me to the Inchcape Rock,

And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.’

The boat is lower’d, the boatmen row,

And to the Inchcape Rock they go;

Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,

And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound,

The bubbles rose and burst around;

Quoth Sir Ralph, ‘The next who comes to the Rock

Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.'

Sir Ralph the Rover sail’d away,

He scour’d the seas for many a day;

And now grown rich with plunder’d store,

He steers his course for Scotland’s shore.

So thick a haze o’erspreads the sky

They cannot see the Sun on high;

The wind hath blown a gale all day,

At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand,

So dark it is they see no land.

Quoth Sir Ralph, ‘It will be lighter soon,

For there is the dawn of the rising Moon.’

‘Canst hear,’ said one, ‘the breakers roar?

For methinks we should be near the shore.’

‘Now where we are I cannot tell,

But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.’

They hear no sound, the swell is strong;

Though the wind hath fallen they drift along,

Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,―

‘Oh Christ! It is the Inchcape Rock!’

Sit Ralph the Rover tore his hair;

He curst himself in his despair;

The waves rush in on every side,

The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But even in his dying fear

One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,
A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell,

The Devil below was ringing his knell.

-o0o-

No.97

The Skylark

James Hogg 1770-1835

Bird of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless,

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place,

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud,

Far in the downy cloud,

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.

Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green,

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,

Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,

Low in the heather blooms

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place,

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

-o0o-

No.96

Something Tapped
 Thomas Hardy 1840-1928

Something tapped on the pane of my room
When there was never a trace
Of wind or rain, and I saw in the gloom
My weary Belovèd's face.

"O I am tired of waiting," she said,
"Night, morn, noon, afternoon;
So cold it is in my lonely bed,
And I thought you would join me soon!"

I rose and neared the window-glass,
But vanished thence had she:
Only a pallid moth, alas,
Tapped at the pane for me.

-o0o-

No.95

The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna

Charles Wolfe 1791-1823

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O’er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning;

By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him,

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head,

And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone

And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,

But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

-o0o-