The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sonnets and Verse, by H. Belloc.

He lost his money first of all
—And losing that is half the story—
And later on he tried a fall
With Fate, in things less transitory.

He lost his heart—and found it dead—
(His one and only true discovery),
And after that he lost his head,
And lost his chances of recovery.

He lost his honour bit by bit
Until the thing was out of question.
He worried so at losing it,
He lost his sleep and his digestion.

He lost his temper—and for good—
The remnants of his reputation,
His taste in wine, his choice of food,
And then, in rapid culmination,

His certitudes, his sense of truth,
His memory, his self-control,
The love that graced his early youth,
And lastly his immortal soul.

III

SONGS

NOËL

And Bethlehem inn they stood before
(The bells ring less and the bells ring more),
The landlord bade them begone from his door
(Carillon, Carilla).
“Poor folk” (says he), “must lie where they may,
For the Duke of Jewry comes this way,
With all his train on a Christmas Day.”
And the small child Jesus smile on you.

III

Poor folk that may my carol hear
(The bells ring single and the bells ring clear),
See! God’s one child had hardest cheer!
(Carillon, Carilla).
Men grown hard on a Christmas morn;
The dumb beast by and a babe forlorn.
It was very, very cold when our Lord was born.
And the small child Jesus smile on you.

Now these were Jews as Jews must be
(The bells ring merry and the bells ring free).
But Christian men in a band are we
(Carillon, Carilla).
Empty we go, and ill be-dight,
Singing Noël on a Winter’s night.
Give us to sup by the warm firelight,
And the small child Jesus smile on you.

THE BIRDS

When Jesus Christ was four years old,
The angels brought Him toys of gold,
Which no man ever had bought or sold.

And yet with these He would not play.
He made Him small fowl out of clay,
And blessed them till they flew away:
Tu creasti Domine.

Jesus Christ, Thou child so wise,
Bless mine hands and fill mine eyes,
And bring my soul to Paradise.

IN A BOAT

Lady! Lady!
Upon Heaven-height,
Above the harsh morning
In the mere light.

Above the spindrift
And above the snow,
Where no seas tumble,
And no winds blow.

The twisting tides,
And the perilous sands
Upon all sides
Are in your holy hands.

The wind harries
And the cold kills;
But I see your chapel
Over far hills.

My body is frozen,
My soul is afraid:
Stretch out your hands to me,
Mother and maid.

Mother of Christ,
And Mother of me,
Save me alive
From the howl of the sea.

If you will Mother me
Till I grow old,
I will hang in your chapel
A ship of pure gold.

SONG

Then summon April forth, and send
Commandment through the flowers;
About our woods your grace extend
A queen of careless hours.
For oh, not Vera veiled in rain,
Nor Dian’s sacred Ring,
With all her royal nymphs in train
Could so lead on the Spring.

THE RING

When I was flying before the King
In the wood of Valognes in my hiding,
Although I had not anything
I sent a woman a golden ring.

A Ring of the Moors beyond Leon
With emerald and with diamond stone,
And a writing no man ever had known,
And an opal standing all alone.

The shape of the ring the heart to bind:
The emerald turns from cold to kind:
The writing makes her sure to find:—
But the evil opal changed her mind.

Now when the King was dead, was he,
I came back hurriedly over the sea
From the long rocks in Normandy
To Bosham that is by Selsey.
And we clipt each other knee to knee.
But what I had was lost to me.

CUCKOO!

In woods so long time bare.
Cuckoo!
Up and in the wood, I know not where
Two notes fall.
Yet I do not envy him at all
His phantasy.
Cuckoo!
I too,
Somewhere,
I have sung as merrily as he
Who can dare,
Small and careless lover, so to laugh at care,
And who
Can call
Cuckoo!
In woods of winter weary,
In scented woods, of winter weary, call
Cuckoo!
In woods so long time bare.

THE LITTLE SERVING MAID

“Oh Madam, Queen of England!
Oh will you let me go!
For there’s a Lad in London
And he would have it so.
And I would have it too, Madam,
And with him would I bide;
And he will be the Groom, Madam,
And I shall be the Bride!”

III

“Oh fie to you and shame to you,
You Little Serving Maid!
And are you not astonied?
And are you not afraid?
For never was it known
Since Yngelonde began
That a Little Serving Maid
Should go a-meeting of a man!

Then the Little Serving Maid
She went and laid her down,
With her cross and her bede,
In her new courting gown.
And she called in Mother Mary’s name
And heavily she sighed:
“I think that I have come to shame!”
And after that she died.

The good Queen of England
Her women came and ran:
“The Little Serving Maid is dead
From loving of a man!”
Said the good Queen of England
“That is ill news to hear!
Take her out and shroud her,
And lay her on a bier.”

They laid her on a bier,
In the court-yard all;
Some came from Foresting,
And some came from Hall.
And Great Lords carried her,
And proud Priests prayed.
And that was the end
Of the Little Serving Maid.

AUVERGNAT

There was a man was half a clown
(It’s so my father tells of it).
He saw the church in Clermont town
And laughed to hear the bells of it.

He laughed to hear the bells that ring
In Clermont Church and round of it;
He heard the verger’s daughter sing,
And loved her for the sound of it.

The verger’s daughter said him nay;
She had the right of choice in it.
He left the town at break of day:
He hadn’t had a voice in it.

The road went up, the road went down,
And there the matter ended it.
He broke his heart in Clermont town,
At Pontgibaud they mended it.

DRINKING SONG

ON THE EXCELLENCE OF BURGUNDY WINE

My jolly fat host with your face all a-grin,
Come, open the door to us, let us come in.
A score of stout fellows who think it no sin
If they toast till they’re hoarse, and they drink till they spin,
Hoofed it amain,
Rain or no rain,
To crack your old jokes, and your bottles to drain.

Such a warmth in the belly that nectar begets
As soon as his guts with its humour he wets,
The miser his gold, and the student his debts,
And the beggar his rags and his hunger forgets.
For there’s never a wine
Like this tipple of thine
From the great hill of Nuits to the River of Rhine.

Outside you may hear the great gusts as they go
By Foy, by Duerne, and the hills of Lerraulx,
But the rain he may rain, and the wind he may blow,
If the Devil’s above there’s good liquor below.
So it abound,
Pass it around,
Burgundy’s Burgundy all the year round.

DRINKING DIRGE

A thousand years ago I used to dine
In houses where they gave me such regale
Of dear companionship and comrades fine
That out I went alone beyond the pale;
And riding, laughed and dared the skies malign
To show me all the undiscovered tale—
But my philosophy’s no more divine,
I put my pleasure in a pint of ale.

And you, my friends, oh! pleasant friends of mine,
Who leave me now alone, without avail,
On Californian hills you gave me wine,
You gave me cider-drink in Longuevaille;
If after many years you come to pine
For comradeship that is an ancient tale—
You’ll find me drinking beer in Dead Man’s Chine.
I put my pleasure in a pint of ale.

In many a briny boat I’ve tried the brine,
From many a hidden harbour I’ve set sail,
Steering towards the sunset where there shine
The distant amethystine islands pale.

There are no ports beyond the far sea-line,
Nor any halloa to meet the mariner’s hail;
I stand at home and slip the anchor-line.
I put my pleasure in a pint of ale.

ENVOI

Prince! Is it true when you go out to dine
You bring your bottle in a freezing pail?
Why then you cannot be a friend of mine.
I put my pleasure in a pint of ale.

WEST SUSSEX DRINKING SONG

With my here it goes, there it goes,
All the fun’s before us:
The Tipple’s Aboard and the night is young,
The door’s ajar and the Barrel is sprung,
I am singing the best song ever was sung
And it has a rousing chorus.

If I were what I never can be,
The master or the squire:
If you gave me the hundred from here to the sea,
Which is more than I desire:
Then all my crops should be barley and hops,
And did my harvest fail
I’d sell every rood of mine acres I would
For a belly-full of good Ale.

Chorus.

With my here it goes, there it goes,
All the fun’s before us:
The Tipple’s aboard and the night is young,
The door’s ajar and the Barrel is sprung,
I am singing the best song ever was sung
And it has a rousing Chorus.

A BALLAD ON SOCIOLOGICAL ECONOMICS

A while ago it came to pass
(Merry we carol it all the day),
There sat a man on the top of an ass
(Heart be happy and carol be gay
In spite of the price of hay).

And over the down they hoofed it so
(Happy go lucky has best of fare),
The man up above and the brute below
(And singing we all forget to care
A man may laugh if he dare).

Over the stubble and round the crop
(Life is short and the world is round),
The donkey beneath and the man on the top
(Oh! let good ale be found, be found,
Merry good ale and sound).

It happened again as it happened before
(Tobacco’s a boon but ale is bliss),
The moke in the ditch and the man on the floor
(And that is the moral to this, to this
Remarkable artifice).

HERETICS ALL

Heretics all, whoever you be,
In Tarbes or Nimes, or over the sea,
You never shall have good words from me.
Caritas non conturbat me.

But Catholic men that live upon wine
Are deep in the water, and frank, and fine;
Wherever I travel I find it so,
Benedicamus Domino.

On childing women that are forlorn,
And men that sweat in nothing but scorn:
That is on all that ever were born,
Miserere Domine.

To my poor self on my deathbed,
And all my dear companions dead,
Because of the love that I bore them,
Dona Eis Requiem.

HA’NACKER MILL

Sally is gone that was so kindly
Sally is gone from Ha’nacker Hill.
And the Briar grows ever since then so blindly
And ever since then the clapper is still,
And the sweeps have fallen from Ha’nacker Mill

Ha’nacker Hill is in Desolation:
Ruin a-top and a field unploughed.
And Spirits that call on a fallen nation
Spirits that loved her calling aloud:
Spirits abroad in a windy cloud.

Spirits that call and no one answers;
Ha’nacker’s down and England’s done.
Wind and Thistle for pipe and dancers
And never a ploughman under the Sun.
Never a ploughman. Never a one.

TARANTELLA

Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of the tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark verandah)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn’t got a penny,
And who weren’t paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the Din?
And the Hip! Hop! Hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of the clapper to the spin
Out and in——
And the Ting, Tong, Tang of the Guitar!
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?

Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar:
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the Halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far Waterfall like Doom.

THE CHAUNTY OF THE “NONA”

But from out the Main Ocean there rolled a great cloud,
So he clawed into Milford Haven by the Fog Blast so loud,
Until he dropped anchor in a deep-wooded bay,
Where all night with Old Sleep and Quiet Sadness he lay—
Where all night with Old Sleep and Quiet Sadness he lay.

Next morning was a Doldrum, and he whistled for a breeze,
Which came from the N.N.W.’ard all across the high seas;
And in passing St Govan’s lightship he gave them good night,
But before it was morning he raised Lundy Light—
Before it was morning he had raised Lundy Light.

Then he tossed for twelve hours in that horrible place
Which is known to the Mariner as the Great White Horse Race,
Till with a slant about three bells, or maybe near four,
He saw white water breaking upon Loud Appledore—
He saw white water breaking upon Loud Appledore.

The Pirates of Appledore, the Wines of Instow;
But her nose is for Bideford with the tide at the flow.
Rattle anchor, batten hatches, and leave your falls curled.
The Long Bridge of Bideford is the end of the World—
The Long Bridge of Bideford is the end of the World.

THE WINGED HORSE

I rode him out of Wantage and I rode him up the hill,
And there I saw the Beacon in the morning standing still,
Inkpen and Hackpen and southward and away
High through the middle airs in the strengthening of the day,
And there I saw the channel-glint and England in her pride.
And I ride, and I ride!

III

And once a-top of Lambourne down toward the hill of Clere
I saw the Host of Heaven in rank and Michael with his spear,
And Turpin out of Gascony and Charlemagne the Lord,
And Roland of the marches with his hand upon his sword
For the time he should have need of it, and forty more beside.
And I ride, and I ride!

For you that took the all-in-all the things you left were three.
A loud voice for singing and keen eyes to see,
And a spouting well of joy within that never yet was dried!
And I ride.

STREPHON’S SONG

When I was not much older
Than Cupid, but bolder,
I asked of his Mother in passing her bower
What it was in their blindness
Men asked of her kindness
And she said it was nought but a delicate flower:
Such a delicate, delicate, delicate flower!

This morning you kissed me,
By noon you dismissed me
As though such great things were the jest of one hour,
And you left me still wondering
If I were not too blundering
To deal with that delicate, delicate flower:
’Tis such a delicate, delicate, delicate flower!

For if that’s the complexion
Of Ladies’ affection
I must needs be a fool to remain in their power;
But there’s that in me burning
Which brings me returning
To beg for the delicate, delicate flower;
To implore for that delicate, delicate flower!

IV

BALLADES

SHORT BALLADE AND POSTSCRIPT ON CONSOLS AND BOERS

Now why should anyone invest,
As even City people do
(His Lordship did among the rest),
When stocks—but what is that to you?
And then, who ever could have guessed
About the guns—and horses too!—
Besides, they knew their business best,
And Consols are at 82.

III

It serves no purpose to protest,
It isn’t manners to halloo
About the way the thing was messed—
Or vaguely call a man a Jew.
A gentleman who cannot jest
Remarked that we should muddle through
(The continent was much impressed),
And Consols are at 82.

Envoi.

And, Botha lay at Pilgrim’s Rest
And Myberg in the Great Karroo
(A desert to the south and west),
And Consols are at 82.

Permit me—if you do not mind—
To add it would be screaming fun
If, after printing this, I find
Them after all at 81.

Or 70 or 63,
Or 55 or 44,
Or 39 and going free,
Or 28—or even more.

No matter—take no more advice
From doubtful and intriguing men.
Refuse the stuff at any price,
And slowly watch them fall to 10.

Meanwhile I feel a certain zest
In writing once again the new
Refrain that all is for the best,
And Consols are at 82.

Prince, you and I were barely thirty-three,
And now I muse and wonder if it’s true,
That you were you and I myself was me,
And 3 per cents were really 82!

BALLADE OF THE UNANSWERED QUESTION

Lord Bumplepuppy, too, that got
The knock from Messrs Dawkins’ dray?
And Jonas, whom the Cachalot
Begulphed in Esdraelon Bay?
The Calvinistic John McKay,
Who argued till his nostrils bled,
And dropped in apoplexy? Nay!
But where are the unanswering dead?

III

And Heliodorus too, that hot
Defender of the Roman sway;
And He, the author of the “Tot
Mercedes dant Victoriæ,”
And all the armoured squadrons gay
That ever glory nourishèd
In all the world’s high charges? Nay!
But where are the unanswering dead?