'Er petticut was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gutty pavin'-stones, An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat-jes' the Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? 40 The fool was stripped to his foolish hide (Even as you and I!) Which she might have seen when she threw him aside (Even as you and I) And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame 30 That stings like a white-hot brand. It's coming to know that she never knew why (Seeing at last she could never know why) And never could understand. RECESSIONAL 1 1 (A Victorian Ode) God of our fathers, known of oldLord of our far-flung battle lineBeneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine— Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget-lest we forget! The tumult and the shouting dies- An humble and a contrite heart. Far-called, our navies melt away On dune and headland sinks the fireLo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget-lest we forget! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not thee in awe Such boasting as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the LawLord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! 1 Written at the time of Queen Victoria's Jubilee |