Read Delphi Works of Ford Madox Ford (Illustrated) Online
Authors: Ford Madox Ford
Delphi Works of Ford Madox Ford (Illustrated) (630 page)
“Brother, what’s that bird tolling yonder?”
“Why, Jasper, that’s a cuckoo.”
“He’s a roguish chaffing sort of bird, isn’t he, brother?”
“He is, Jasper.”
“But you rather like him, brother?... well, brother, and what’s
a gipsy?” —
The Romany Rye.
TELL me, brother, what’s a cuckoo, but a roguish chaffing bird?
Not a nest’s his own, no bough-rest’s his own,
and he’s never man’s good word,
But his call is musical and rings pleasant on the ear.
And the spring would scarce be spring
If the cuckoo did not sing
In the leafy months o’ the year.
Tell me, brother, what’s a gipsy, but a roguish chaffing chap?
Not a cot’s his own, not a man would groan
For a gipsy’s worst mishap,
But his tent looks quaint when bent
On the sidesward of a lane,
And you’d deem the rain more dreary
And the long white road more weary
If we never came again.
Would your May days seem more fair
Were we chals deep read in books,
Were we cuckoos cawing rooks,
All the world cathedral closes,
Where the very sunlight dozes
Were the sounds all organ pealing, psalm and song and prayer?
THE TOWNSMAN
PLEASANT enough in the seed time,
Pleasant enough in the hay time,
Pleasant enough in the grain time,
When oaks don golden gowns,
But the need time,
The grey time,
How bear ye them,
How fare ye then
When the rain clouds whip over the gorse on the downs,
How bear ye, them, how fare ye then?
GIPSY
We lie round the fire and we hark to the wind
As it wails in the gorse and it whips on the down,
And the wet-wood smoke drives us winking blind,
But there’s smoke and wind and woe in the town
Harder to bear
There than here in the saddest month of the weariest year.
A WEALDEN TRIO
1st Voice
WHEN ye’ve got a child’ats whist for want of food,
And a grate as grey’s y’r’air for want of wood,
And y’r man and you ain’t nowise not much good;
Together
Oh —
It’s hard work a-Christmassing,
Carolling,
Singin’ songs about the “Babe what’s born.”
2nd Voice
When ye’ve’eered the bailiffs’and upon the latch,
And ye’ve feeled the rain a-trickling through the thatch,
An’ y’r man can’t git no stones to break ner yit no
sheep to watch —
Together
Oh —
We’ve got to come a-Christmassing,
Carolling,
Singin’ of the “Shepherds on that morn.”
3rd Voice
,
more cheerfully
‘E was a man’s poor as us, very near,
An’’E’ad’is trials and danger,
An’ I think’E’ll think of us when’E sees us singin’ ‘ere;
For’is mother was poor, like us, poor dear,
An’ she bore Him in a manger.
Together
Oh —
It’s warm in the heavens, but it’s cold upon the earth;
An’ we ain’t no food at table nor no fire upon the hearth;
And it’s bitter hard a-Christmassing,
Carolling,
Singin’ songs about our Saviour’s birth;
Singin’ songs about the Babe what’s born;
Singin’ of the shepherds on that morn.
DOWN near the earth
On the steaming furrows
Things are harsh and black enough
Dearth there is and lack enough,
And immemorial sorrows
Stultify sweet mirth
Till she borrows
Bitterness and blackness from the earth.
COME up from the field,
Come up from the fold,
For the farmer has broken,
His things must be sold.
Drive the flock from the fold,
And the stock from the field,
And the team from the furrow,
And see what they yield.
Coom up!
Come up from the marsh,
Come down from the hops,
Come down thro’ the ventways,
Come cater the copse.
Come down from the hops,
Come up from the marsh,
Tho’ selling be bitter
And creditors harsh,
Coom up!
Bring all you can find,
Take the clock from the wall,
The crocks from the dairy,
The arm-chair and all.
Tear the prints from the wall,
Bring all you can find,
Now turn up your collars,
To keep out the wind.
Bid up!
So come up from the field, come up from the fold,
For the poor old farmer his things must be sold;
Come up from the fold, come up from the field,
Now stand all together, let’s see what they yield.
Bid up!
THE OLD SMUGGLER SPEAKS
AL’INGTON Knoll it stands up high,
Guidin’ the sailors sailin’ by,
Stands up high fer all to see
Cater the marsh and crost the sea.
Al’ington Knoll’s a mound a top,
With a dick all round and it’s bound to stop,
For them as made it in them old days
Sees to it well that theer it stays,
For that ol’ Knoll is watched so well
By drownded men let outen Hell;
They watches well and keeps it whole
For a sailor’s mark — the goodly Knoll.
Farmer Finn as farms the ground
Tried to level that goodly mound,
But not a chap from Lydd to Lym’
Thought that job were meant for him.
Finn’e fetched a chap fro’ th’ Sheeres,
One o’ yer spunky devil-may-keeres,
Giv him a shovel and pick and spade,
Promised him double what we was paid.
He digged till ten, and he muddled on
Till he’d digged up a sword and askillington —
A grit old sword as long as me,
An’ grit ol’ bones as you could see.
He digged and digged the livelong day,
Till the sun went down in Fairlight Bay;
He digged and digged, and behind his back
The lamps shone out and the marsh went black,
And the sky in the west went black from red,
An’ the wood went black — an’ the man was dead.
But wheer he’d digged the chark shone white
Out to sea like Calais light.
Al’ington Knoll it stands up high,
Guidin’ the sailors sailin’ by,
Stands up high for all to see
Cater the marsh and crost the sea.
BRIGHT white clouds and April skies
May make your heart feel bonny,
But summer’s sun and flower’s growth
Will fill my hives with honey,
And mead is sweet to a pugging tooth
When it’s dark at four and snow clouds rise.
Owl light’s sweet if the moon be bright,
And trysting’s no bad folly,
But give me mead and a warm hearthstone,
And a cosy pipe and Dolly
— And Dolly to devil a mutton bone
When it’s dark at four of a winter’s night.
OLD Winter’s hobbling down the road,
Dame Autumn’s cloak looks frosty grey
With a furry edge.
We deemed it berry red in the ray
The sun vouchsafed the dying day
E’en now through the gap in the hedge.
Chorus
Spring’s gone, Summer’s past,
Autumn will never, never catch them,
But Winter hobbles along so fast
You’d almost think he’d match them.
Old Winter carries a heavy load,
Sticks and stakes to your heart’s desire,
But as for me,
I’ll not tramp in the Autumn mire,
But sit and blink at the merry fire
And hark to the kettle’s minstrelsy.
Chorus
Spring’s gone, Summer’s past,
Autumn was mellow, mellow yellow,
But for all old Winter’s hollow blast
He’s not such a bad old fellow.
PARLOUR AT DYMCHURCH
GOOD NIGHT, we’d best be jogging on,
The moon’s been up a while,
We’ve got to get to Bonnington,
Nigh seven mile.
But the marsh ain’d so lone if you’ve heered a good song,
And you hum it aloud as you cater along,
Nor the stiles half so high, nor the pack so like lead,
If you’ve heered a good tale an’ it runs in your head.
So, come, we’d best be jogging on,
The moon will give us light,
We’ve got to get to Bonnington,
To sleep to-night.
TWO decades and a minute,
And half a moon in the sky,
Like a broken willow pattern plate
And a jangling bell to din it,
Dingle — dong — twelve strokes —
Two decades and a minute.
FOR ROSSETTI’S FIRST PAINTING
WHETHER the beginnings of things notable
Have in them anything worth noting.
Whether an acorn’s worth the thinking of
Or eagle’s egg suggests the sweep of wings in the clear blue,
Is just an idle question.
There’s this:
If you should hold the acorn ‘twixt your fingers,
You’ll conjure up an oak maybe,
A great gnarled trunk, criss-crossed and twisting branches
And quivering of leaves.
Or if the egg lies in the hollow of your hand,
And the possessor says, “It is an eagle’s.”
You’ll deem you’re looking up into high heaven,
And see, far, far above you,
Leisurely circling, now amongst the clouds, now
against the sun,
A careless span of pinions;
You’ll see, maybe, in short, such oaks and eagle-flights
As never were, save in an idler’s dream.
But then again:
An acorn’s just an acorn, food for swine, and never
(The chances are so great, so very great against it),
Never will become a tempest-breasting oak.
And then this eagle’s egg,
It’s blown and empty of its contents,
And just reposes on its cotton wool
In a collector’s box.
So with these sketches:
Maybe you’ll let them trick you into dreaming
A hundred masterpieces:
Halls full of never-to-be-equalled brushwork:
Or let the music of a witching name beguile you
To the remembrance of a master’s sonnets.
Or you may say, with just a tilting of the nose towards heaven:
“The thing’s amiss — it’s worthless,
We’ve seen a daub as good
Hang flapping unobserved in such a High Street,
Decked with the faded, weather-beaten effigy
Of so-and-so of noble memory —
The thing’s amiss, it’s worthless.”
And yet — it’s just a question.
COLUMBINE TO PIERROT
[She hums her words.)
AH — Ah — Ah — if you ask for a love like that,
Qu’est c’-Qu’est c’-Qu’est c’que tu fais dans cette galère?
Hark — Hark — Hark — Hear the twittering, rustling feet: —
Alors, qu’est ce-e, qu’est ce-e qu’on peut faire.
She speaks.
Tender and trusting and true
That they may be otherwhere:
Here one is just what one is —
And — as for pledges to you —
There — drink the scent of my hair:
There — snatch your moment of bliss.
She sings again.
Tender — Tender — Tender, trusting and true
That, That, That they may be, they may be otherwhere:
Si — tu veux autre chose, je n’ai rien de plus,
Qu’est c’-Qu’est c’-Qu’est c’ que tu fais dans cette galère?
