Selected Poems (Penguin Classics) (31 page)

And louts must make allowance – let’s say, for some blue fly

Which punctured a dewy scalp where the frizzles stuck awry –

Else Tom had fleered scot-free, so nearly over and done

Was the main of the job. Full-measure, the gentles enjoyed their fun,

As a twenty-five were tried, rank puritans caught at prayer

In a cow-house and laid by the heels, – have at ’em, devil may care!–

And ten were prescribed the whip, and ten a brand on the cheek,

And five a slit of the nose – just leaving enough to tweak.

Well, things at jolly high-tide, amusement steeped in fire,

[40] While noon smote fierce the roof’s red tiles to heart’s desire,

The Court a-simmer with smoke, one ferment of oozy flesh,

One spirituous humming musk mount-mounting until its mesh

Entoiled all heads in a fluster, and Serjeant Postlethwayte

– Dashing the wig oblique as he mopped his oily pate –

Cried ‘Silence, or I grow grease! No loophole lets in air?

Jurymen, – Guilty, Death! Gainsay me if you dare!’

– Things at this pitch, I say, – what hubbub without the doors?

What laughs, shrieks, hoots and yells, what rudest of uproars?

Bounce through the barrier throng a bulk comes rolling vast!

[50] Thumps, kicks, – no manner of use! – spite of them rolls at last

Into the midst a ball which, bursting, brings to view

Publican Black Ned Bratts and Tabby his big wife too:

Both in a muck-sweat, both … were never such eyes uplift

At the sight of yawning hell, such nostrils – snouts that sniffed

Sulphur, such mouths a-gape ready to swallow flame!

Horrified, hideous, frank fiend-faces! yet, all the same,

Mixed with a certain … eh? how shall I dare style – mirth,

The desperate grin of the guess that, could they break from earth,

Heaven was above, and hell might rage in impotence

[60] Below the saved, the saved!

                       ‘Confound you! (no offence!)

Out of our way, – push, wife! Yonder their Worships be!’

Ned Bratts has reached the bar, and ‘Hey, my Lords,’ roars he,

‘A Jury of life and death, Judges the prime of the land,

Constables, javelineers, – all met, if I understand,

To decide so knotty a point as whether ’twas Jack or Joan

Robbed the henroost, pinched the pig, hit the “King’s Arms” with a stone,

Dropped the baby down the well, left the tithesman in the lurch,

Or, three whole Sundays running, not once attended church!

What a pother – do these deserve the parish-stocks or whip,

[70] More or less brow to brand, much or little nose to snip, –

When, in our Public, plain stand we – that’s we stand here,

I and my Tab, brass-bold, brick-built of beef and beer,

– Do not we, slut? Step forth and show your beauty, jade!

Wife of my bosom – that’s the word now! What a trade

We drove! None said us nay: nobody loved his life

So little as wag a tongue against us, – did they, wife?

Yet they knew us all the while, in their hearts, for what we are

– Worst couple, rogue and quean, unhanged – search near and far!

Eh, Tab? The pedlar, now – o’er his noggin – who warned a mate

[80] To cut and run, nor risk his pack where its loss of weight

Was the least to dread, – aha, how we two laughed a-good

As, stealing round the midden, he came on where I stood

With billet poised and raised, – you, ready with the rope, –

Ah, but that’s past, that’s sin repented of, we hope!

Men knew us for that same, yet safe and sound stood we!

The lily-livered knaves knew too (I’ve balked a d—)

Our keeping the “Pied Bull” was just a mere pretence:

Too slow the pounds make food, drink, lodging, from out the pence!

There’s not a stoppage to travel has chanced, this ten long year,

[90] No break into hall or grange, no lifting of nag or steer,

Not a single roguery, from the clipping of a purse

To the cutting of a throat, but paid us toll. Od’s curse!

When Gypsy Smouch made bold to cheat us of our due,

– Eh, Tab? the Squire’s strong-box we helped the rascal to –

I think he pulled a face, next Sessions’ swinging-time!

He danced the jig that needs no floor, – and, here’s the prime,

’Twas Scroggs that houghed the mare! Ay, those were busy days!

‘Well, there we flourished brave, like scripture-trees called bays,

Faring high, drinking hard, in money up to head

[100]
– Not to say, boots and shoes, when … Zounds, I nearly said –

Lord, to unlearn one’s language! How shall we labour, wife?

Have you, fast hold, the Book? Grasp, grip it, for your life!

See, sirs, here’s life, salvation! Here’s – hold but out my breath –

When did I speak so long without once swearing? ’Sdeath,

No, nor unhelped by ale since man and boy! And yet

All yesterday I had to keep my whistle wet

While reading Tab this Book: book? don’t say “book” – they’re plays,

Songs, ballads and the like: here’s no such strawy blaze,

But sky wide ope, sun, moon, and seven stars out full-flare!

[110] Tab, help and tell! I’m hoarse. A mug! or – no, a prayer!

Dip for one out of the Book! Who wrote it in the Jail

– He plied his pen unhelped by beer, sirs, I’ll be bail!

‘I’ve got my second wind. In trundles she – that’s Tab.

“Why, Gammer, what’s come now, that – bobbing like a crab

On Yule-tide bowl – your head’s a-work and both your eyes

Break loose? Afeard, you fool? As if the dead can rise!

Say – Bagman Dick was found last May with fuddling-cap

Stuffed in his mouth: to choke’s a natural mishap!”

“Gaffer, be – blessed,” cries she, “and Bagman Dick as well!

[120] I, you, and he are damned: this Public is our hell:

We live in fire: live coals don’t feel! – once quenched, they learn –

Cinders do, to what dust they moulder while they burn!”

‘“If you don’t speak straight out,” says I – belike I swore –

“A knobstick, well you know the taste of, shall, once more,

Teach you to talk, my maid!” She ups with such a face,

Heart sunk inside me. “Well, pad on, my prate-apace!”

‘“I’ve been about those laces we need for … never mind!

If henceforth they tie hands, ’tis mine they’ll have to bind.

You know who makes them best – the Tinker in our cage,

[130] Pulled-up for gospelling, twelve years ago: no age

To try another trade, – yet, so he scorned to take

Money he did not earn, he taught himself the make

Of laces, tagged and tough – Dick Bagman found them so!

Good customers were we! Well, last week, you must know,

His girl, – the blind young chit, who hawks about his wares, –

She takes it in her head to come no more – such airs

These hussies have! Yet, since we need a stoutish lace, –

‘I’ll to the gaol-bird father, abuse her to his face!’

So, first I filled a jug to give me heart, and then,

[140] Primed to the proper pitch, I posted to their den –

Patmore
– they style their prison! I tip the turnkey, catch

My heart up, fix my face, and fearless lift the latch –

Both arms a-kimbo, in bounce with a good round oath

Ready for rapping out: no ‘Lawks’ nor ‘By my troth!’

‘“There sat my man, the father. He looked up: what one feels

When heart that leapt to mouth drops down again to heels!

He raised his hand … Hast seen, when drinking out the night,

And in, the day, earth grow another something quite

Under the sun’s first stare? I stood a very stone.

[150] ‘“‘Woman!’ (a fiery tear he put in every tone),

‘How should my child frequent your house where lust is sport,

Violence – trade? Too true! I trust no vague report.

Her angel’s hand, which stops the sight of sin, leaves clear

The other gate of sense, lets outrage through the ear.

What has she heard! – which, heard shall never be again.

Better lack food than feast, a Dives in the – wain

Or reign or train – of Charles!’ (His language was not ours:

’Tis my belief, God spoke: no tinker has such powers).

‘Bread, only bread they bring – my laces: if we broke

[160] Your lump of leavened sin, the loaf’s first crumb would choke!’

‘“Down on my marrow-bones! Then all at once rose he:

His brown hair burst a-spread, his eyes were suns to see:

Up went his hands: ‘Through flesh, I reach, I read thy soul!

So may some stricken tree look blasted, bough and bole,

Champed by the fire-tooth, charred without, and yet, thrice-bound

With dreriment about, within may life be found,

A prisoned power to branch and blossom as before,

Could but the gardener cleave the cloister, reach the core,

Loosen the vital sap: yet where shall help be found?

[170] Who says “How save it?” – nor “Why cumbers it the ground?”

Woman, that tree art thou! All sloughed about with scurf,

Thy stag-horns fright the sky, thy snake-roots sting the turf!

Drunkenness, wantonness, theft, murder gnash and gnarl

Thine outward, case thy soul with coating like the marle

Satan stamps flat upon each head beneath his hoof!

And how deliver such? The strong men keep aloof,

Lover and friend stand far, the mocking ones pass by,

Tophet gapes wide for prey: lost soul, despair and die!

What then? “Look unto me and be ye saved!” saith God:

[180] “I strike the rock, outstreats the life-stream at my rod!

Be your sins scarlet, wool shall they seem like, – although

As crimson red, yet turn white as the driven snow!” ’

‘“There, there, there! All I seem to somehow understand

Is – that, if I reached home, ’twas through the guiding hand

Of his blind girl which led and led me through the streets

And out of town and up to door again. What greets

First thing my eye, as limbs recover from their swoon?

A book – this Book she gave at parting. ‘Father’s boon –

The Book he wrote: it reads as if he spoke himself:

[190] He cannot preach in bonds, so, – take it down from shelf

When you want counsel, – think you hear his very voice!’

‘“Wicked dear Husband, first despair and then rejoice!

Dear wicked Husband, waste no tick of moment more,

Be saved like me, bald trunk! There’s greenness yet at core,

Sap under slough! Read, read!”

                    ‘Let me take breath, my lords!

I’d like to know, are these – hers, mine, or Bunyan’s words?

I’m ’wildered – scarce with drink, – nowise with drink alone!

You’ll say, with heat: but heat’s no stuff to split a stone

Like this black boulder – this flint heart of mine: the Book –

[200] That dealt the crashing blow! Sirs, here’s the fist that shook

His beard till Wrestler Jem howled like a just-lugged bear!

You had brained me with a feather: at once I grew aware

Christmas was meant for me. A burden at your back,

Good Master Christmas? Nay, – yours was that Joseph’s sack,

– Or whose it was, – which held the cup, – compared with mine!

Robbery loads my loins, perjury cracks my chine,

Adultery … nay, Tab, you pitched me as I flung!

One word, I’ll up with fist … No, sweet spouse, hold your tongue!

‘I’m hasting to the end. The Book, sirs – take and read!

[210] You have my history in a nutshell, – ay, indeed!

It must off, my burden! See, – slack straps and into pit,

Roll, reach the bottom, rest, rot there – a plague on it!

For a mountain’s sure to fall and bury Bedford Town,

“Destruction” – that’s the name, and fire shall burn it down!

O ’scape the wrath in time! Time’s now, if not too late.

How can I pilgrimage up to the wicket-gate?

Next comes Despond the slough: not that I fear to pull

Through mud, and dry my clothes at brave House Beautiful –

But it’s late in the day, I reckon: had I left years ago

[220] Town, wife, and children dear … Well, Christmas did, you know! –

Soon I had met in the valley and tried my cudgel’s strength

On the enemy horned and winged, a-straddle across its length!

Have at his horns, thwick – thwack: they snap, see! Hoof and hoof –

Bang, break the fetlock-bones! For love’s sake, keep aloof

Angels! I’m man and match, – this cudgel for my flail, –

To thresh him, hoofs and horns, bat’s wing and serpent’s tail!

A chance gone by! But then, what else does Hopeful ding

Into the deafest ear except – hope, hope’s the thing?

Too late i’ the day for me to thrid the windings: but

[230] There’s still a way to win the race by death’s short cut!

Did Master Faithful need climb the Delightful Mounts?

No, straight to Vanity Fair, – a fair, by all accounts,

Such as is held outside, – lords, ladies, grand and gay, –

Says he in the face of them, just what you hear me say.

And the Judges brought him in guilty, and brought him out

To die in the market-place – Saint Peter’s Green’s about

The same thing: there they flogged, flayed, buffeted, lanced with knives,

Pricked him with swords, – I’ll swear, he’d full a cat’s nine lives, –

So to his end at last came Faithful, – ha, ha, he!

[240] Who holds the highest card? for there stands hid, you see,

Behind the rabble-rout, a chariot, pair and all:

He’s in, he’s off, he’s up, through clouds, at trumpet-call,

Carried the nearest way to Heaven-gate! Odds my life –

Has nobody a sword to spare? not even a knife?

Then hang me, draw and quarter! Tab – do the same by her!

O Master Worldly-Wiseman … that’s Master Interpreter,