The Project Gutenberg eBook of Boer War Lyrics

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Title: Boer War Lyrics

Author: Louis Selmer

Release date: January 10, 2014 [eBook #44641]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOER WAR LYRICS ***

BOER WAR LYRICS

BY
LOUIS SELMER

THE

PUBLISHERS
114
FIFTH AVENUE
London NEW YORK Montreal

CONTENTS.

PAGE
Prelude	vii
On the Trail of the Lion	3
The Gibbet-Song	28
The Scar	48
To England: A Forecast	56
War	60
Clio	66
Ave Pax	68
Alpha	70
Omega	71
Greatness	72
Peter Cronje	82
Christian De Wet	84
Oom Paul	85
Cecil Rhodes	87
Chamberlain	89
Salisbury	90
Peace Pending	92
Peace	96
After	99
Christian De Wet	101
Sine Die	103
A Concordance	104

PREFACE.

MOST of the verses in this little volume were conceived and written, if not quite finished, at the time of Cronje’s surrender at Paardeberg.

A certain doubt, however, as to any message of theirs, though modestly set off by a belief in their polemic and literary value, has, I think now, unduly delayed their advent into the crowded world of print; and, though the present juncture of a heralded, but, by no means, perfected peace, be perhaps not a very opportune moment for their publication, I have yet thought well to give them forth; the more, since what so be the outcome of the negotiations pending, and whichsoever be the motive of the stronger party thereto—whether a bitter, though slowly realized necessity, or, a trick of pure heart, or, say, tardy insight and charity, both—be this as it may—the long, though fruitless attempt on England’s part to compel a surrender by the South African republics of their political existence, illustrating and upholding, as no modern exhibition of this kind has done, how rampant is still in Man, and collective Man especially, a tacit faith in the bigger fist, or, euphemistically speaking, the predatory law of nature—this, I repeat it, can never, it seems to me, be sufficiently reprehended; and a hearty condemnation of it may, therefore, fitly form the theme of conscientious, if necessarily, censorious verse: with which contention the following pieces are frankly submitted, even at this late day of a stupendous struggle of moral Right—whatsoever its intellectual grounds and equipment—against an aggressive and overweening Might, whose partial defence allowed, rests, after all, and as already maintained, its wider base on purely material force, on that callous and objective expediency, which History, in her account of human odds, evermore reveals, and, far too often, glaringly condones.

New York, May, 1902.

Since the above was set down, Peace has at last gone forth, and of a pace with the better drift and traditions of England; but even so, there seems no valid ground why these Lyrics should not be heard, as an exponent in brief—inadequate, if you like, yet human no less—of a, for a long time, not to be forgotten broil, if, indeed, the sad imp of Contention has had his last say about it.

November, 1902.

PRELUDE.

Out of rare heart-deeps flowing,
Primer than thought-spring founts,
Upward, ’gainst vaster knowing,
Lightsome the Song-word mounts.

And athrob with some faith etern,
From Being’s deep-violed strings,
Draweth, to heaves that burn,
The advent and sooth of things.

Invokes unto Song, where the still Hopes go,
The Spirit’s immutable law.

BOER WAR LYRICS.

ON THE TRAIL OF THE LION.

(History in Verse.)

INTRODUCTION.

Somewhere to the Moonward, or Sunward, so to speak;
A span or two to Eastward, then Southward by a streak,
Was heard to blare of tomtom a shameless epic wail,
At fancy of some Lion who had whisked his blooming tail
Plumb thro’ a nest of hornets, nor never dreamt the hive
Had such a trick to mind him how were that tail alive.
And it seems the skies were blathering while every wind-god swore
The Pities would have curdled to hear the Beastie roar.
All offered salve and comfort, said never done was Wrong,
But some requiting Themis should venge it to her song;
Should smite the pesting dwarfies and heal the giant’s bruise,
See paw and toothie peak not for lack of worthy use.
And, O, the strain fell whopping to thunder—drip of sooth,
A lamb-like lyric slopping its pace with bleary ruth;
Nay, in sober last, an epic, outworking thro’ the fact,
Through blaze of hostile numbers, its own and bitter act.
And it shook us to the Westward—a touch of kin and near—
We banged our shoppy hatches: we had a right to hear.

ARGUMENT.

And this—yes, this, was the song of the Sorrowful True,
Which Father Wicked, the Old, for his child, the New,
He, and that cherub of rowdy fist,
Who’ll blithely shake it where erst he kissed—
That covered Holy, the unctuous Wrong—
With his blushing bouncer, St. Meek, the Strong;
Set jointly down (while in crafty doubt
A wilful Muse turned it inside out,
Bared hide and heart of the stalking lore,
Its bluff and cant to their dismal core—)
Set down, I say, to mock-halcyon cheers,
As, with knife at throat of the suckling years,
They bled the weans, lest with peaceful bear,
Or, for other virtues in hiding there,
The gods, who winnow all mortal stock,
Should nurse the goats while they weed the flock—
Let for lack of pasture the true herd pine:
And all for what? For a humping quibble on Mine and Thine!
Nay, lest Rue, the babbler, with saucy dare,
Should sit in judgment twixt Foul and Fair;
Should slaver worse, if she came of age,
With inglorious snivel wise Clio’s page:
Lest all of this, with what sousing tact
They niced her the diverse of whim and fact;
How glowed their zeal as they raked the Rue,
Broke font and tablet and put her through
Such drench of penance and convert-course,
Such Christian baptism from Truth, the Source:
Sure text nor ritual made never doubt,
Nor seasoned clerks, as with wary snout,
Each subtle wealsman stood sly at bay:
For leet or laurel—let wise Time say.
* * * * * * *
Well—this was the Song of the Sorrowful True:
A rip of a Muse—but it gives her view.
Curt and clear tho’, did the touches fall,
Such pithy halves as outspeak the Whole:
Are you with me still? Can you check a flout?
Then stretch a will to hear it out?

VIDELICET:
(Hour before Dawn—The Muse brooding.)

O, what hangs so leaden on the brow of Night,
As if grim Darkness ’pon herself had bred,
To make a second and a direr gloom?
What wrestles so the advent of the Light,
Whence from yon paths the white stars tread
Should visioned peer its orient bloom?

What thrills, withal, do baffled heave,
Then urge anew against the serried Dark,
At such beseech, their silent suit?
What muttered rolls half-halting cleave
These omened airs that still hang stark,
As big with what they dare not bruit?

(Faint Dawn.)

But yet it lifts, thro’ huddling blurs,
The eager Light. Lo, Day saddles the white Dawn,
At heel his troop, close-wheeling, spurs,
Unto his banner world-wide thrown,
Each waft, his way. Close Night unhoods;
No more beneath her grim gaze shrinks,
But featured fair, in tribute ruds
Each nether thing, and lifesome drinks.

(Full Dawn.)

But, O, scene-painting Light, what stage is yon?
Dim-figured tho’, what grim play breeds?
Troy’s second act? Where Hector stout, some Thetis’ son,
The deadly phalanx girds and leads?

What fatal Beauty bears in hand
With strumpet’s lure this sore divide?
For lo, her brow, to venal brand,
Reads fierce with lust of worldly pride!

Why wears true Grace so blanched a cheek?
What things o’ Night do rouse for prey,
Confound with grim and loathsome reek
The balmy breath of youngling Day?

What lists be those? What dirges wail?
Why drags white Peace yon gory pall?
I see great Mars in flame-knit mail,
I hear the fierce god’s buglers call.

And gleamy steel from scabbard flies,
War’s every hound is red at mouth,
No belching throat but havoc cries,
Would drench in blood the Summer’s drought.

Out, Sense! some trick is here of phrenzied Night;
These clamors wind no human breath,
But ghostly haunt yon winsome light
The phantom shades of legioned Death.

And yet yon orb is surely Day’s:
The Land re-speaks him, and his glass, the sea;
All tongues at one, no witness stays,
But owns his line observantly.

Nay, flung wide is now the portaled East;
Behind, before, Light’s lofty welcome burns,
Whose cheer wide-spread for Most and Least,
Repledged, alone, his host-call earns.

But O, what mates come here to feed!
They spill the sweet and lifesome wine;
They fool the sense with sightless greed,
The knife their law twixt yours and mine.

And these, for sure, are Afric’s strands,
And those have rid the hurly sea,
Whence towering fair great Albion stands,
His brow writ broad with Liberty;

With her, whose cheer is general joy—
The gracious board whose never mess
Lets these to pine, so those may cloy
And glut his maw, the Hog, Excess—

But these no more are kindred shores:
Here may her buckler rusting hang,
Where, still at beat, thro’ throbbing yores,
Oppression’s slave-blows dying rang.

Here, all thro’ fear and nothing love,
As if each patient light stood mute,
May ripping talons deal the Dove
This branding scan—a prostitute!

Thy pardon, god of lofty song,
Whose fires feed the Piaerian Spring,
If Truth for right to scoff at Wrong,
In thy fair flame a gall-nut fling!

Yes, yon, for sure, are Afric’s strands,
But where is the banneret of the Free?
What fouling touch of harpy hands
Has smirched his shield and panoply?

What spouse is this, my valiant Son?
What gross embrace for Freedom’s kiss:
These are the sheets of Abbadon,
The bastard clasp high Furies hiss!

O, John, was not thy bed as goodly broad
As Phœbus spans twixt East and West?
His, not the haunts thy fortune trode,
Right burly tho’, an honored guest?

But thou must grudge the meaner cot—
The plainer house thy Brother built—
This text deem, foolish, out of shot:
“That Have, for greed, shall sure be spilt?”

Would have ’gainst Worse this wisdom bear:
“Who dons the Might, but leaves her crown,
Shall stand her dupe; nay, all his wear
Shall never hide the thievish clown.”

O, John, I knew thy stomach hale and round,
With mortal sense for needful prog;
But this?—here any scab had led the hound,
Had smelt foul fare the noseless hog!

Oh yes; thy friends did this—those nothing-loaths:
Their bosom’s rank with self-sick stuff—
The Devil’s shufflers when he goads
And packs with Nice the Ne’er Enough—

The Devil, Self, and all his Swill,
Who knows how deep sits sordid lust;
How near all power lies to will,
Our wills to the damned Unjust.

Ah, yes—thy friends—each wily Dick,
Or under-helmsman to that crew
Who at no faith-breach blush to stick,
So but their grist come safely through;

Who, with the rough youth, Glory, ape apace,
Quite out of mind his Elder’s lease,
And for a brief from fame-fee’d days,
Would wash his hands in bleeding peace.

And he—no neuter he—he whoops so hard,
The brazen, roystering, gingo-sheet,
Who serves his vomit tricked with nard,
Thro’ flattering brag, the bloodfiend’s heat.

Who weeps to think the Lion dupe
To tearing wolves in shepherd’s cowls,
Then to his sore heart lays this stupe—
That there were innings to the howls—

And all for Empire: scape-goat-thing!
Look down, proud pile, at thine own feet!
Do not, thro’ knell, the ages sing
How tainted base, the top-strong seat

Shall, tumbling, empty all their sham,
And blaze this line on Story’s page—
That Fill thro’ Foul may never dam,
Or check the course her Vengers wage.

How Rule unbuilt each day anew,
With tempered glow each brutish fire,
Shall lack of pith to fame the True,
Unlaureled stand before the Sire.

Nay, to unbred ages hand the bill
For bounden due and bitter scan;
The compt and trust he shrank to fill,
To bate the sum of answering Man.

O, John, thy file of friends runs fast and queer!
Be sick awhile with honest doubt!
Best heart still doffs to wholesome Fear:
Revise thy list—leave spongers out!

Oh yes, I know what thou would’st say:
“Thou bits’t a stiff and rough-back mare,
Unblest, unbroke to right obey,
Lest as she catch the trumpet’s flare.”

But there again thy false friends spoke—
Each fisty Brave that wearies Time,
Who ’ld headlong rush the brazen yoke,
Than share a pace, so all may climb.

More apt to speed with reckless spur
Thy nicer o’er thy nobler star
Than bring to eye what tho’ it blur,
Yet, warning, sheens the misty Far.

Oh, yes, I know, as world-walks shift,
There is sore push for forward seats:
We quake at taunts from ride-hard Thrift,
Then late her pace with churlish heats—

And wear this mask before our hearts,
This paltry shift of truckling breed,
That veering Trade or waning marts—
All drift that swerves with human need—

May tide with looks the franker Light,
With crafty lead, its artless youth,
While Just, a bawd to brazen Right,
New bastards bear the groaning Truth.

Suppose we take a backward look,
Past years as yet scarce out o’ moulds:
You, from your near-illumined Book,
I—whence no home-trick holds.

In damning truth, a proper pry,
Since at its head War whets his sword,
While Justice puts her ægis by,
And eats his brag and bully’s word—

A look as far as when befell,
What glamored fierce the bridging sea,
Each flary crest at push to tell
How the white stones shone in Kimberley—

And dimmed your faith and glossed the pledge,
And juggled Right with wheedling Wrong;
Gave Cant new stand—this privilege:
To rest all cause on proof of Strong.

Your pious grab, the half-heart rue,
The hush you paid to still a twinge,
All snugged within this lofty view—
“He steers the moke who holds the cinch.”

But in your big Book that’s fable now,
Might sleep, kept not this line awake—
“That meddling pasts, ne’er done, somehow,
Assess for quits all present stake.”

Since just as deft his story wove
The yellow Devil in the Rand,
As Dame Empire, O, so high suave,
Took bleary Mammon by the hand—

And there was nudge and jobbing kiss,
And scan o’ map and leer of eye:
“How came our wits so wide of this—
It lay so near and tempting by?”

While in at gate flowed pick and raff,
For catch is life to brotherhood;
Each tribesman bent, thro’ clean or draff,
To swing his carp from out the mud.

And every hoist and tackle told,
As sure it ought, where sleek and trim,
At scoop and dive for wriggling gold,
The big Mouths join and steer the Swim.

While coy, thro’ fill of common eye,
As fadged with tooth of safer breed,
Smug Power yet found crumbs to fry,
While sampling Chefs gave dainty heed.

And snacks went ’round for taste and tout:
The Home-cook swore the stuff was fine:
“Why should such plums be ladled out
To grunting clod and boorish swine?”

“Not swell our own and proved Menu?
This crowd at board keeps coming still:
Suppose we shift, à son insu,
To nab his joint, and eke the bill?

“Or what’s the same—we fix his stew,
Put such a sauce in broth and dish—
Such plausive snap and tang o’ True—
That none shall dream we came to fish;

“But love of man was all we meant;
Till, less in doubt each lode-star gaze,
At Heaven’s clear, tho’ mute intent,
By as we head, to hold her pace.

“And this fellow, certes, has sore behoof
To take a word from wiser mouths,
Who has stretched his crib and smoky roof
Whence North-from, down, the zone-line souths;

“Almost a split—a crying jag;
A scare at top, a threat, below;
An ugly tuck that scrimps the bag
We meant to fill as harvests grow.

“In our big sail a plaguy reef,
Were it not that craft o’ his pert make
With too much head have come to grief,
Strew bottom up our rushing wake.

“Against the owl what counts the mouse?
But no. That strains a bit the proper zest:
He shall have due of grounds and house,
We’ll dish for him as for the rest.

“’Twill daze him, sure, our big provide,
Till, on a breath, he vent his stare:
‘Such doors as these had best be tried,
Ere back to thatch and homely fare.’

“And say he sulks, we’ll coax him in:
What does he care who carves the meat?
So fill of fodder strew the bin,
Who rules the loft, or heads the treat?

“He will never quibble on a word,
Give simple ‘rob’ a double sense;
But loyal strain shall well accord
With leave of thrift and competence.

“And ’tis trite as dirt, where’er we go,
The sleek slut, Trade, trots close at heel,
’Gainst whose hard sense how fares the saw,
The musty fib—‘Thou shalt not steal!’

“Yes—we’ll be his staff and hedge him fine,
Till lust of Have like gospel read,
And his backbone in the general spine
Does merge its hump and dogged breed.

“The idiot pluck with which he strove
To shield his hearth with freehold fence,
And rather wear the homely wove
Than rig to suit our lofty sense.

“His rooted stand and settled haze
The foot he plants ’gainst sudden New,
Whose golden tilth and reap of grace
Holds furrowed snug the only True.

“His crafty shield; those mealy snares
For simple lambs. His wolfish doubt,
When, stung and wrung with sore his cares,
They flocked to help friend Hodges out—

“And forced from faith his better word,
And warped his truth with keen despair,
That the large rights for which he chored
Should never greet a lineal heir.

“But all his throb and bitter sweat,
His blood paid down for desert lands,
Should snap its lease, be lightly set
A hawker’s trust in stranger hands—

“And how for this he bled and drove,
Cribbed-in this band of saintly Peace;
Played wary host to all their trove,
Made yare go ’round the golden fleece—

“And worst—those sons of loot, his bossy crew!
Who, fearing thieves, would chance no charm,
But gag the spoiler ’fore he grew
To oust their rights with legal arm.

“All this: shocks! ’Twere worth a bloody nose:
To size him up, then pare him down,
Till, as to cure the treatment grows,
We snug him hale within the Crown.

“A gem whose shine and proper place
And dapper fit to lofty plan
He’ll soon see clear thro’ his amaze,
With contrite heart—the leal man.

“And Square-toes’ gait at last be set;
With social wash to status brought
His lowly breed and rustic sweat:
O, God of Thrift! What happy thought!”
* * * * * * * *
When hard upon this longish muse,
Which, if it fail of absolute mold,
Is yet what, at a close peruse,
A muddled act does broadly hold—

When pat, to suit Godfather’s cue,
That pious child, the hungry League
Was christened snug and gospeled through,
Anoint with salve of high intrigue;

Nay, preached and bore the brainless gang,
Who gripped at throat the better hope
While Right, with due, past caution rang
How every neck was worth a rope.

And ’woke this cry with warning rouse—
“Since Neighbor Near seem Neighbor Pike,
’Twere time small fry made fast the house,
Girt fence and gate with double spike.”
* * * * * * * *
Since when, what other brood of kindred grace,
Which, true to stock, the devil yeans,
Joined trick and tooth and darksome ways
To work the bolts by subtler means!

While last—O, John, will ne’er thy friends be wise?
What balm, tho’ gross with clumsy tape,
What quacks’ set-up in surgeon’s guise
Came foisting, fuddling from the Cape!

What hangman’s cure and mad appeal,
What blind invoke past doubt of suit,
What sowings thrust with iron heel,
Whose yet no half has bore its fruit!

Oh, yes, thro’ stress and truce, and right along,
It still repeats the old-time game,
How brother Weak met brother Strong,
Who saw, and took, and felt no shame.

Whom so self-dread, that final awe,
Could graft on soul this chastening sense—
That endless widening circles Law,
Rules nations’ hopes as single mens’.

But strangled fierce his safer light,
Let smiling Nears hide frowning Fars,
Whose then approach twice ruthless write,
To hastening pace, fulfilling Stars.

Who pinned on back of brazen years
This shrift o’ theirs to coming times:
“He minded not the silent leers,
The steady sooth the Sybil rhymes.”

Whose burdened wreath may never bear
’Mong graven gems this baser stone,
Which, from low seat tho’ crude it flare,
Twice sorry dims the blazoned throne—

While doubly thence its legend reads:
“I tithe no blench to higher Wills,
But hold it cardinal ’mong creeds
’Tis love of self that all fulfills.”

Since, certes, good John, the wide Fates kiss:
Their sum-up Clerks need not be told
By one grim page to set this quizz—
“So little wise and yet so old.”

So heady still, spite curb of years,
Such toper there where hard heads brew
Against some Guest that sobering nears,
From draff o’ old the cleaner New.

From cross of Days some bear-up Creed—
To sum of Why the sweet Reply,
Than cyphered Fate of clearer breed,
And purge to text she teacheth by—

The “yea” to “nay” of self-sick man,
What crowns his raw and groan-fed Stars;
With olived light the vulture’s span
That gores as yet all warding bars;

Who, tho’ still she strew her trophied trail
O’er sanguine sore, but fading seas,
Marks lift, and girt with nobler mail,
As sturdy rise, white-bucklered Peace.
* * * * * * * *
But I have had my little say:—
The Muse is such a taunting lass;
She grips your hand, and will or nay,
’Tis bear her tongue ere brooked to pass—

In sooth, she says she’s really done:
O’erhead a prim and foolish Moon,
In trappings borrowed from the Sun,
Flaunts gay her frock and silver shoon.

E’en so will human Wit fling wide
Its took-on crest and glittering gear,
What are but glancings as they glide
From off the Truth’s all-spanning sphere.

So will the Muse stand hard at gaze
Beneath this mystic, myriad Arch,
Hear faint thro’ rush of whirling days
Time’s silent roundsmen file and march—

Their never ending, ordered beat,
Those footsteps yare that warning fall
And charge each hand to bide the meet,
Account his watch, or void the Roll.

Nay, nothing daunted, pause to catch
Perhaps their song, perhaps the jars;
Through sting and throb, at strain to match
Their measures to some boundless Star’s.

But yet at Wrong she cannot bide
Must have her jog at slug-slow Time:
How far it rouse his hard-bound hide—
Ah! there’s the test of quickening rhyme!

THE GIBBET-SONG.[1]

[1] The onus of the South African War seems, in the main, to have rested on three pairs of shoulders—those of Rhodes (who has now excused himself), Chamberlain and Milner.

The Gallows is a composite something—a sort of trio-also—known to assume burdens, likewise, to-wit: the Beam, the Trap, and the Rope.

I dozed—had dipped in gray of dreams—
While at gate of mind no sentry sat,
But such blithe watch and ward whereat
The Fancy laughs, more tricksy sports her airy gleams—
Had dipped—unrobed, immersed, for all she fought,
In the bath, each leaden limb of weary Thought.

Such truce!—while shoal of dreams slid restful by;
When, hark! Came phantomed not upon the misty air,
At hum and buzz, some quaint palavering there—
Some spell—which, ere the tranced ear could sort and try,
Took vision, too, put up, made free,
Where Reverie’s haunts and workings be.

The eeriest shapes—tho’ of yon fierce breed
That cows sweet Song, harsh-tunes her chime,
Thick-mists the heights she fain would climb,
Yet, e’en so, their sad defence and privilege plead:
Rude differences, of mark and poise,
That, ’gainst all manners, prompt her voice:

The weirdest set,—tho’ jovial, too, if looks describe,
And hardy Mirth—yon gamy stuff that seeks no bush,
Which Muse will start when, at a push,
She sports the string of hoot and jibe;
Tho’ God help! as many a licensed rascal knows,
A proper chord, for all its ring of lashing prose.

But who were they? By way of count, the eye
Had made them three—some treble pink, or clover there—
Tho’, sooth to say, I never saw the threefoil wear
The weird wild grace they conjured by.
But then, what can’t Illusion shadow forth,
That shames the needle, souths the north?

The First—in faith, all had a cunning trick
Of linking arms, a hang-together sort of look,
Which how to severalize and separate book
Comes hard, save unto whom, among Life’s pick
Of strange acquaintance, she makes free
Shall have close dealings with these Corporate Three.

This First—a lanky chap he was, of way-up size,
Clean-timbered, straight as pine-grain flows,
Or frank heart feels, yet now, for, certes, some heinous cause,
His way was curt, his speech came grim—some hanged surmise
His gaunt frame feels, which, as it shouldering brings
To view his level top, spoke curious things

While the Second, tho’ less staunch of thew,
Say, to the others beam as boards of clap,
Showed yet his ilk—a jaw alive as any trap;
Tho’ one, who backed his sense with feeling, too;
For the way he would warm up, take on, and lead,
When as some new light broke, was sight indeed.

And last, that sprawling Third—so meek, so mincing slim,
You’ld never ha’ dreamt how’s his gag was bound,
In the end, to clinch a subject, coil it round,
As he let out that twisting trick of him;
Which, till erring Man and Time debate no more,
Shall still leave points for Master Rope to score.

Well—here was Company, if all was square?
A doubt stood out, heard Heart say, “Brother Brain,
Good Sir, have you been chumming with the Wine again?”
When, “No,” flung back the Head, “I wasn’t there
This many a day; since when my kindling deities are
But a cup of Oolong and a mild cigar.”

Yet, drat the thing! ’Twould take no nay;
The stuff came fierce. Some blaze seemed on,
And, tho’ with no clear ground to go upon,
I thought I said, “Let come what may,
I’ll hear it out,” tho’ ’ts trick for strange now topped the score,
For by Grab and Stab! they spoke of War.

Yon feud that stains South Afric’s land,
The foul use to which a giant’s sword
Had long been put, ’gainst some young ward
Of freedom’s there. How the gallant tho’ forlorn band,
Compeers of Fame, made ring her page
With wonder of the strife they singly wage.

Nay, what took me most,—but then,
What good to ponder how these Councillors three
Came to speak so tactic-deep, so judgingly
’Bout how that bully’s brawl might not have been,
Had they, on strength of prospect, in their wholesome way,
From forth the tingling cheek of modern Day,