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    REBEL VERSES


    NEW YORK AGENTS
    LONGMANS, GREEN & CO.
    FOURTH AVENUE AND 30TH STREET


    REBEL VERSES
    BY
    BERNARD GILBERT


    OXFORD
    B. H. BLACKWELL, BROAD STREET
    MCMXVIII


BY THE SAME AUTHOR


    VERSE: LINCOLNSHIRE LAYS;
           FARMING LAYS;
           GONE TO THE WAR;
           WAR WORKERS.

    DRAMA: ELDORADO;
           THEIR FATHER'S WILL;
           THE RUSKINGTON POACHER.

    FICTION: WHAT SHALL IT PROFIT?
             TATTERSHALL CASTLE;
             THE YELLOW FLAG.

    POLITICAL: FARMERS AND TARIFF REFORM: WHAT EVERY FARMER
                 WANTS: THE FARM LABOURER'S FIX.

    MISCELLANEOUS: LIVING LINCOLN; FORTUNES FOR FARMERS.


FROM _The New Witness_

    MR. BERNARD GILBERT is one of the discoveries of the War. For
    years, it seems, he has been writing poetry, but it is only
    recently that an inapprehensive country has awakened to the
    fact. Now he is taking his rightful place among our foremost
    singers. What William Barnes was to Dorset, what T. E. Brown was
    to the Manx people--this is Mr. Gilbert to the folk of his
    native county of Lincoln. He has interpreted their lives, their
    sorrows, their aspirations, with a surprising fidelity. Mr.
    Gilbert never loses his grip upon realities. One feels that he
    knows the men of whom he writes in their most intimate moods;
    knows, too, their defects, which he does not shrink from
    recording. There is little of the dreamy idealism of the South
    in the peasant people of Lincolnshire. The outwardly respectable
    chapel-goer who asks himself, in a moment of introspection

        But why not have a good time here?
        Why should the Devil have all the beer?

    is true to type. But he has, too, his softer moods. Fidelity in
    friendship, courage, resource and perseverance--these are
    typical of the men of the Fens.

  TO
  MORLEY ROBERTS


  _Acknowledgments to the Editors of the:_
      _English Review_
      _New Age_
      _Colour_
      _Westminster Gazette_
      _New Witness_
      _To-Day_
      _Clarion_
      _Australian Triad_
      _Bystander_
      _Musical Student_
      _and Nash's Magazine_
  _in whose columns these verses have appeared during 1917._




Contents


    THE REBEL
    SONG OF REVOLT
    THERE AINT NO GOD
    THE NIGHT IS DARK
    RETURN
    NIETZSCHE
    SACRAMENT
    FIGHTIN' TOMLINSON
    THE LABOURER'S HYMN
    OLIVER CROMWELL
    ANYWHERE BUT HERE
    A. G. WEBSTER
    EAST WIND
    PETER WRAY
    OH FOOLS
    ELFIN DANCER
    OH TO BE HOME
    GIVE SOLDIERS A VOTE
    ALONE
    FLESH OF OUR FLESH
    THIS TOWN IS HELL
    TIMBERLAND BELLS
    DAME PEACH
    FRIENDS
    CHARING CROSS
    LOVE NOT TOO MUCH
    MACHIAVELLI
    REMORSE
    THE MANDRAKE'S HORRID SCREAM
    ONE DAY
    NO WIFE
    TO AN OLD FRIEND
    IS IT FINISHED
    OH LINCOLN, CITY OF MY DREAMS
    THE FOOL




The Rebel


    I live in music, in poetry, and in the life reflective.
    I seek intellectual boldness in man, I worship mental swiftness in
        women.
    I have no love for lawyers, priests, schoolmasters, or any dogmatic
        men.
    I am with poor against rich, labour against employer, women against
        men; I fight beside all strikers, mutineers, and rebels.
    I welcome foes; I desire criticism.
    I loathe prejudice, either social or national; I repudiate all
        claims.
    I demand freedom of action and leisure for reflection.
    Facing Death, I would say:  'I have tasted all, tried all, dared
        all, suffered all, and I repent nothing.'




Song of Revolt


    Crowns are ashake,
    The princes and the Kings are bending low,
    And, round the world,
    Before the blast of Freedom, thrones are hurled:
    The People are awake!

    Over the Ark of Tyranny
    The red flag flaunts abroad for all to see!
    Whilst to the roll of drums
    Swelling triumphantly, the glad cry comes:
    The People shall be free!

    In dungeons, men, long-bound for freedom's sake,
    Forgotten of God, deep-frozen by despair,
    Hear with surprise that clangorous fanfare:
    The People are awake!

    Our fathers heard the call,
    When Liberty from her bonds like the angry sea,
    Pouring mightily forth, slew tyranny,
    And singing the Marseillaise, bade crowns to fall,
    That all men should be free!

    Men shall be slaves no more!
    From sea to sea
    That Word of hope unspeakable succour brings;
    The day dawneth when there are no more Kings:
    And the People, the People shall be free!




There Aint no God


    There aint no God!
    Coz if there were--
    My boy what's under foreign sod
    Would be alive, and here:
    Instead of which young William Porter
    What never listed when he orter--
    Has his farm;
    And braunges yonder safe away from harm.

    Poor lad!--he went--
    I can't forgit that night--
    While Porter laughed him outer sight;
    Now--he is spent:
    Porter's all right.

    What does he care?
    He's thinking of another farm,
    Instead of laying in some ditch
    He's rich!
    And folk'll gallop at his nod.

    I say it!
    Dost hear me... Thou?
    There aint no God!




'The Night is Dark'


    Safe-guarded dwellers in your sea-girt eyrie
    How fares the fight?
    Terror has crept beneath your ocean wall,
    Horror is over-reaching, to appal;
    Your sons are menaced by a furnace fiery:
    What of the night?

    A hundred years have passed at ease
    Since last you fought on bended knees;
    And joints, unused, grow stiff and old,
    And hearts unroused are faint and cold;
    Whilst they who own but wealth, their creed,
    Stand helpless in the hour of need.

    Oh peace-bound nation!
    Lapped in rich sloth; untroubled generation!
    Know you that races change?
    Some dwindle slowly downward in decay,
    Unconscious, till the dawning of the day:
    At touch of fire we learn how they are faring;
    Thrice welcome is the test to nations daring;
    To some--how strange!

    Our ancient enemy--now brother--
    From one Napoleon to another
    Has seen his country ebb and flow
    And now he holds the sternest foe,
    Learning the lesson of strenuous fight
    To brace defensive armour tight:
    But what of you--old Islanders
    So roughly woke?
    Has gilded sloth'mid dreamless calm
    Stifled your soul, close wrapped from harm,
    In Neptune's cloak?
    Or is it but an idle dress,
    Thrown off at breath of fearful stress?
    Or has it slowly strangled that old oak?

    None may foretell;
    But this we know:
    As fire testeth iron through and through,
    So shall it be with you!
    Not yet have you passed furnace-wise,
    But soon, with newly opened eyes,
    Upon your knees,
    You shall discern Heaven's judgment on an age-long ease.

    Poets and prophets darkly sang;
    Unheeded then the tocsin rang;
    But now the sky is grey and dim,
    Your enemy is stern and grim,
    Your leaders slow;
    And, though you realise it not...
    You may lie low:
    For, though to fight one son is bold,
    Another hides, amassing gold;
    The strain falls not in equal measure:
    Whilst some lie cold--
    Others distil their blood for treasure,
    And that--Old England--if unchecked,
    Shall see your ancient Empire wrecked.

    You battle not to vanquish a great nation,
    Nor for safety, nor the sceptre of the seas,
    Nor for the Empire of a world at ease,
    Nor fame's fair scroll:
    For your salvation,
    You wrestle with Apollyon for your soul.

    And if you fail--
    Your epitaph: 'too late'--
    The Angel with the Pen shall grave your fate:
    Your glorious history of no avail;
    Whilst all the Earth shall know you were not great.

    Not arms, nor weapons forged, nor serried forces,
    Nor stout Allies nor multiplied resources
    The victory giveth;
    Not ships afar, nor numbers gradual tale,
    Nor all your might, oh Britain! shall avail:
    Only the Spirit liveth!
    Yet this our hope (a hope unsaid),
    And still our faith (though faith be dead),
    That, as of old, you may awake,
    Cast off your senile mood, and shake
    Irresolution to the wall;
    Bid equal sacrifice from all;
    That each surrender to the state
    A measured offering to fate,
    Till Unity of Will, controlled
    Shines through the nation, manifold:

    Then should your Spirit conquer as before,
    And Phoenix-like you should renew your youth and strength once more.




Return


    From exile and disaster,
      From banishment set free,
    We shall return in sorrow,
      Our homes once more to see.

    The storm will surely finish,
      The day must dawn at last,
    The floods at length diminish,
      The bitterness be past.

    From Fatherland long-banished
      (Oh, church in ruins low!
    Oh, roofs and chimneys vanished!)
      'Tis to our homes we go!

    The land is torn asunder,
      The orchard trees are bare;
    A muttering of thunder
      Still shakes the heavy air.

    Yet life goes on undaunted:
      With aching hearts, and sore,
    To raise our hearths and altars
      We shall return once more.




Nietzsche


    In the silence of the night-time
    Startled, we can hear a murmur
    As of someone tapping, tapping,
    Tapping at the breasts of idols
    With an auscultating hammer,
    Sounding all their hollow vitals
    As they helplessly endeavour
    To evade with vain pretences
        Or atone:
    Yes, we hear the distant thunder
    Of an earthquake that convulses;
    Poor old Mother Earth is shaken,
    Sorely tried and whirled asunder,
    Shaken by a fierce invader;
    Where grim and slow you creep below,
    Digging, digging, digging deep,
    Troglodyte, untiring miner
    All alone!
    As you climb upon the mountains,
    Glaciers, icy precipices,
    Toward the lonely lightning-blasted
    Peak that towers above in silence,
    Plunging into deep crevasses
    Where the frozen water falls:
    Monotone:
    And at last we wake from nightmare--
    Wake, to find ourselves denuded
    Naked, lonesome,'mid our fellows
    Lacking father, wife, or mother,
    Lacking neighbour, child or brother:
    All disown.
    Still our eyes are fixed steadfastly
    Where you soar above the heavens,
    Spurning with your mighty pinions
    Countless deities and angels,
    Shattering our fondest visions
    With your own:
    Ever on your knees you creep,
    Where the way is wild and steep.
    Digging, digging, digging deep,
    Whilst the priests and idols weep.




Sacrament


    Beloved mine! we cannot falter now;
    No threats avail, no claims affect this hour;
    That kiss, far more than sacerdotal vow
    Or golden circlet, making truly one
    --More solemn than any oath--
    Hath passed our lips:
    Whilst Love, the great compeller, the mighty power
    In his bewildering hand, hath seized us both.

    No pardon comes for those who wrongly read
    The books on stone engraved--
    Our Primal Laws--
    Or fail to satisfy the unchanging Cause;
    Who reach this height, and fail, are dead indeed:
    Their being void, their souls are cast without;
    And from the Book their names are blotted out.

    There is no holding back, no base endeavour,
    The cup of true communion is filled,
    The sacrament prepared as we have willed;
    Hand joined to hand in clasp that none can sever;
    Our quittance sure, our resolution taken,
    With vows fulfilled we face the world unshaken;
    And each to each we pledge ourselves for ever.




Fightin' Tomlinson


    I sit by the chimbley corner,
    My blood is runnin' slow,
    My hands is white as a printed paage,
    Wot once wor red wi' the fighter's waage;
    They're withered an' wrinkled now wi' old aage;
    An' the fire's burnin' low.

    Once I could lether anyone
    An' strike a knock-down blow:
    My legs were limmack as a young bough,
    They could race or dance or foller the plough;
    But they're crookled and wemblin' all waays now,
    An' the fire's burnin' low.

    I'member me of owden daays:
    At Metheringham Show:
    I fought young Jolland for a scarf,
    I nearly brok his back in half;
    He galloped hooam to Blankney Barff
    As hard as he could go.

    I fought an' danced an' carried on,
    Razzlin 'igh an low;
    I drank as long as I could see,
    It made noa difference to me,
    I wor a match for any three:
    'Tis sixty year ago.

    They called me 'Fightin' Tomlinson,'
    (My name is Thomas Tow)
    I wor the champion o' the sheer;
    If any furriner come near,
    I never shirked nor felt noa fear,
    I allers 'ed a go.

    On ivery night o' Saturday,
    Noa matter raain nor snow,
    We gethered in the market plaaces,
    An' stripped stark naked to our waas'es,
    Gev' one another bloody faaces--
    A Sunday mornin' show!

    I fought at all the County Fairs,
    From Partney down to Stow;
    They called me nobbut a 'Billinghay Rough,'
    I niver knawed when I'd 'ed enough,
    For I wor made o' the proper stuff,
    I'd like to 'ev you know.

    Aye--them wor roughish times--my word!
    'Tis sixty year ago;
    Our heads wor hard, our hearts as well,
    I wonder as we niver fell,
    Into the burnin' pit of hell,
    Wheer dreadful fires glow.

    I used to hit like this--but now
    I cannot strike a blow:
    My battle's nearly lost--or won,
    My poor owd limbs is omost done,
    The tears is droppin' one by one,
    An' the fire's burnin' low.




The Labourers' Hymn


    We have slaved for you long days and nights of bent and weary lives;
    Giving the strength of our muscles, our sweat, and our sons and wives;
    With less food than your horses, and homes less warm than your hives.

    We have ploughed and dug and sowed and reaped the seasons through and
        through,
    We have gathered in your grain and raised the 'Harvest Home' for you,
    Who gave starvation pay to us and kept from us our due.

    We asked for land and freedom, the right to till our own;
    To harvest and to garner for ourselves, what we had sown;
    We sought the fruit of our labour; you granted us a stone.

    Who gave our lives to your children? Who pledged our souls to thine?
    Who made you Lord and Master and placed us with the kine?
    Who gave you leave to drink our sweat and mix our blood with wine?

    To save the land for your children, who denied their country's wage,
    Our sons have left their homes to fight, to guard your heritage;
    When they return--Ah! woe to you before their righteous rage.

    You held the land in sufferance to answer for your right,
    To cherish those beneath you and lead them into fight;
    You have refused all payment, and trampled in your might.

    Our sons shall trample you and yours in their bloody and righteous
       rage,
    Who hid at home in shelter whilst they paid for the land its wage:
    They fought and died for the Land; and they shall enter their
       heritage.




Oliver Cromwell


    A group of men stood watching round the bed,
    Gazing in sadness at the lion's head,
    Ugly and massive, coarse, yet noble, too,
    Transfigured by the power shining through,
    The steadfast purpose, the unflinching will,
    Decisive, swift to save alive, or kill,
    As was required. Aye, and more was there;
    The tenderness, the pity, all the care
    Of one who watches o'er his fatherland,
    And bears upon his countenance the brand
    Of deep unutterable sorrow burned
    Into his soul, whilst he, the lesson learned
    That they who wield responsibility,
    Alas, must always compromising be;
    And to help on the cause they deem divine
    Must waver from their ever rigid line.
    The singleness of heart for which they pray,
    Doth bow before expediency each day;
    No longer fate allows the choice between
    A good or evil course--with answer clean--
    But rather shews two evils to be done,
    And they must boldly choose the lesser one.

    'Tis this that makes him groan with agony,
    The searching question 'Is it well with me?'
    The question that at last must come to all
    When at their end, they wonderingly recall
    This point--or that one--'_Was I justified?
    For there--I stepped out of my way for pride
    And there--I stooped, perhaps, to save a friend,
    Or--Pity swayed me over much to bend
    From justice there. Yes, I have always sinned.
    Weak! Weak!_'
    Have pity on him now,
    The valley of the shadow dews his brow!

    Then in a half delirium he saw
    A vivid pageant passing through the door,
    Of all the deeds that he had ever done,
    Good or bad judgments, battles lost or won;
    There, in procession wide, all who had died
    Under his rule, either by civil law,
    Or by the swifter penalty of war,
    Passed mournfully, their faces ghastly pale,
    Their gaping wounds accusingly did rail;
    And last of all, stately, refined, and meek,
    The 'Martyr King,' the obstinate and weak,
    The strangest mixture England ever saw
    Upon her throne (And yet, poor man, he wore
    His crown with piteous regal dignity,
    Whilst from his hands there slowly