Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon day clear Up the pass that packs the scud beneath our wheel Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom sheer Down the valley with our guttering brakes asqueal: Where the trestle groans and quivers in the snow, Where the many-shedded levels loop and twine, So I lead my reckless children from below With my "Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!'' So we ride the iron stallions down to drink, And the tunes that mean so much to you alone Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose, Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that brings the groan I can rip your very heartstrings out with those; With the feasting, and the folly, and the fun And the lying, and the lusting, and the drink, And the merry play that drops you, when you're done, To the thoughts that burn like irons if you Here's a trifle on account of pleasure past, Ere the wit that made you win gives you eyes to see your sin And the heavier repentance at the last. Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof- When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things, With my "Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp! [Is it naught to you that hear and pass me by ?] But the word-the word is mine, when the order moves the line And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die. The grandam of my grandam was the Lyre— 10 the blue below the little fisher-huts!] That the Stealer stooping beachward filled with fire, Till she bore my iron head and ringing guts! By the wisdom of the centuries I speak To the tune of yestermorn I set the truth1, the joy of life unquestioned-I, the GreekI, the everlasting Wonder Song of Youth! With my "Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!"' So I draw the world together link by link: back! "THE LINER SHE'S A LADY." THE Liner she's a lady, 'an she never looks nor 'eeds The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, an' 'e gives 'er all she needs; But. oh, the little cargo-boats, that sail the wet seas roun', They're just the same as you an' me a-plyin' up an' down! Plyin' up an' down, Jenny, 'angin' round the Yard, All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth 'Ard; Anythin' for business, an' we're growin' oldPlyin' up an' down, Jenny, waitin' in the cold! The Liner she's a lady by the paint upon 'er face, An' if she meets an accident they call it sore dis grace: The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, and 'e's always 'andy by, But, oh, the little cargo-boats! they've got to load or die. The Liner she's a lady, and 'er route is cut an' dried; The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, an' 'e always keeps beside; But, oh, the little cargo-boats that 'aven't any man! They've got to do their business first, and make the most they can. The Liner she's a lady, and if a war should come, The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, and 'e'd bid 'er stay at home; But, oh, the little cargo-boats that fill with every tide! 'E'd 'ave to up an' fight for them, for they are England's pride. The Liner she's a lady, but if she wasn't made, There still would be the cargo-boats for 'ome an' foreign trade. |