The Saracen's Head looks down the lane, / Where we shall never drink wine again; / For the wicked old Women who feel well-bred / Have turned to a tea-shop the Saracen's Head. // The Saracen's Head out of Araby came, / King Richard riding in arms like flame, / And where he established his folk to be fed / He set up his spear-and the Saracen's Head. // But the Saracen's Head outlived the Kings, / It thought and it thought of most horrible things; / Of Health and of Soap and of Standard Bread, / And of Saracen drinks at the Saracen's Head. // So the Saracen's Head fulfils its name, / They drink no wine -a ridiculous game- / And I shall wonder until I'm dead, / How it ever came into the Saracen's Head.
Old Noah, he had an ostrich farm, and fowls on the greatest scale; / He ate his egg with a ladle in an egg-cup big as a pail, / And the soup he took was Elephant Soup and the fish he took was Whale; / But they all were small to the cellar he took when he set out to sail; / And Noah, he often said to his wife when he sat down to dine, / «I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the wine.» // The cataract of the cliff of heaven fell blinding off the brink, / As if it would wash the stars away as suds go down a sink, / The seven heavens came roaring down for the throats of hell to drink, / And Noah, he cocked his eye and said, «It looks like rain, I think», / The water has drowned the Matterhorn as deep as a Mendip mine, / But I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the wine. // But Noah he sinned, and we have sinned; on tipsy feet we trod, / Till a great big black teetotaller was sent to us for a rod, / And you can't get wine at a P.S.A. or chapel or Eisteddfod; / For the Curse of Water has come again because of the wrath of God, // And water is on the Bishop's board and the Higher Thinker's shrine, / But I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the wine.
King George that lives in London Town, / I hope they will defend his crown, / And Bonyparte be quite put down / On Christmas Day in the morning. // Old squire is gone to the Meet today / All in his -
The song of the sorrow of Melisande is a very weary song and a dreary song, / The glory of Mariana's grange had got into great decay, / The song of the Raven Never More has never been called a cheery song, / And the brightest things in Baudelaire are anything else but gay. // But who will write us a riding song, / Or a hunting song or a drinking song, / Fit for them that arose and rode, / When day and the wine were red? / But bring me a quart of claret out, / And I will write you a clinking song, / A song of war and a song of wine, / And a song to wake the dead. // The song of the fury of Fragolette is a florid song and a torrid song, / The song of the sorrow of Tara is sung to a harp unstrung, / The song of the cheerful Shropshire Kid I consider a perfectly horrid song, / And the song of the happy Futurist is a song that can't be sung. // But who will write us a riding song, / Or a fighting song or a drinking song, / Fit for the fathers of you and me, / That knew how to think and thrive? / But the song of Beauty and Art and Love / Is simply an utterly stinking song, / To double you up and drag you down, / And damn your soul alive.
God made the wicked Grocer, / For a mystery and a sign, / That men might shun the awful shops, / And go to inns to dine; / Where the bacon's on the rafter / And the wine is in the wood, / And God that made good laughter / Has seen that they are good. // The evil-hearted Grocer / Would call his mother «Ma'am,» / And bow at her and bob at her, / Her aged soul to damn; / And rub his horrid hands and ask, / What article was next; / Though mortis in articulo, / should be her proper text. // His props are not his children / But pert lads underpaid, / Who call out «Cash!» and bang about, / To work his wicked trade; / He keeps a lady in a cage, / Most cruelly all day, / And makes her count and calls her «Miss,» / Until she fades away. // The righteous minds of inn-keepers / Induce them now and then / To crack a bottle with a friend, / Or treat unmoneyed men; / But who hath seen the Grocer / Treat housemaids to his teas, / Or crack a bottle of fish-sauce, / Or stand a man a cheese? // He sells us sands of Araby / As sugar for cash down, / He sweeps his shop and sells the dust, / The purest salt in town; / He crams with cans of poisoned meat / Poor subjects of the King, / And when they die by thousands / Why, he laughs like anything. // The Wicked Grocer groces / In spirits and in wine, / Not frankly and in fellowship, / As men in inns to dine; / But packed with soap and sardines / And carried off by grooms, / For to be snatched by Duchesses, / And drunk in dressing-rooms. // The hell-instructed Grocer / Has a temple made of tin, / And the ruin of good inn-keepers / Is loudly urged therein; / But now the sands are running out / From sugar of a sort, / The Grocer trembles; for his time / Just like his weight is short.
I come from Castlepatrick and my heart is on my sleeve, / And any sword or pistol boy can hit it with me leave, / It shines there for an epaulette, as golden as a flame, / As naked as me ancestors, as noble as me name. / For I come Castlepatrick and my heart is on my sleeve, / But a lady stole it from me on St. Gallowglass's Eve. // The folks that live in Liverpool, their heart is in their boots; / They go to Hell like lambs, they do, because the hooter hoots. / Where man may not be dancin', though the wheels may dance all day; / And men may not be smokin', but only chimneys may. / But I come Castlepatrick and my heart is on my sleeve, / But a lady stole it from me on St. Poleylander's Eve. // The folks that live in black Belfast, their heart is in their mouth; / They see us making murders in the meadows of the South; / They think a plough's a rack they do, and cattle-calls are creeds, / And they think we're burnin' witches when we're only burnin' weeds. / But I come from Castlepatrick, and me heart is on me sleeve; / But a lady stole it from me on St. Barnabas's Eve.
CAPÍTULOS XII - XIII
You will find me drinking rum / Like a sailor in a slum, / You will find me drinking beer like a Bavarian; / You will find me drinking gin / In the lowest kind of inn, / Because I am a rigid Vegetarian. // So I cleared the inn of wine, / And I tried to climb the Sign; / And I tried to hail the constable as «Marion»; / But he said I couldn't speak, / And he bowled me to the Beak, / Because I was a Happy Vegetarian. // Oh I knew a Doctor Gluck / And his nose it had a hook, / And his attitudes were anything but Aryan; / So I gave him all the pork / That I had, upon a fork; / Because I am myself a Vegetarian. // I am silent in the Club, / I am silent in the pub, / I am silent on a bally peak in Darien; / For I stuff away for life, / Shoving peaks in with a knife, / Because I am at heart a Vegetarian. // No more the milk of cows / Shall pollute my private house, / Than the milk of the wild mares of the Barbarian; / I will stick to port and sherry, / For they are so very, very, / So very, very, very Vegetarian. // O, Lord Ivywood may lop, / And his privilege is sylvan and riparian; / And is also free to top, / But -
Nebuchadnezzar, the King of the Jews, / Suffered from new and original views, / He crawled on his hands and knees it's said, / With grass in his mouth and a crown on his head, / With a wowtyiddly, etc. // Those in traditional paths that trod, / Thought the thing was curse from God; / But a Pioneer men always abuse, / Like Nebuchadnezzar the King of the Jews. // Black Lord Foulon the Frenchmen slew, / Thought it a Futurist thing to do; / He offered them grass
instead of bread, / So they stuffed him with grass when they cut off his head. / With a wowtyiddly, etc. // For the pride of his soul he perished then, / But of course it is always of Pride that men / A Man in Advance of his Age accuse / Like Nebuchadnezzar the King of the Jews. // Simeon Scudder of Styx, in Maine, / Thought of the thing and was at it again; / He gave good grass and water in pails / To a thousand Irishmen hammering rails, / With a wowtyiddly, etc. // Appetites differ, and tied to a stake, / He was tarred and feathered for Conscience Sake; / But stoning the prophets is ancient news, / Like Nebuchadnezzar the King of the Jews.
Mr. Mandragon the Millionaire, he wouldn't have wine or wife, / He couldn't endure complexity; he lived the simple life; / He ordered his lunch by megaphone in manly, simple tones, / And used all his motors for canvassing voters, and twenty telephones; / Besides a dandy little machine, / Cunning and neat as ever was seen, / With a hundred pulleys and cranks between, / Made of iron and kept quite clean, / To hoist him out of his healthful bed on every day of his life, / And wash him and brush him and shave him and dress him to live the Simple Life. //
Mr. Mandragon was most refined and quietly, neatly dressed, / Say all the American newspapers that know refinement best; / Quiet and neat the hair and hat, and the coat quiet and neat, / A trouser worn upon either leg, while boots adorned the feet; / And not, as anyone might expect, / A Tiger Skin, all stripped and specked, / And a Peacock Hat with the tail erect, / A scarlet tunic with sunflowers decked. / That might have had a more marked effect, / And pleased the pride of a weaker man that yearned for wine or wife; / But fame and the flagon for Mr. Mandragon obscured the Simple Life. // Mr. Mandragon the Millionaire, I am happy to say, is dead. / He enjoyed a quiet funeral in a crematorium shed, / And he lies there fluffy and soft and grey and certainly quite refined, / When he might have rotted to flowers and fruit with Adam and all mankind. / Or been eaten by bears that fancy blood, / Or burnt on a big tall tower of wood, / In a towering flame as a heathen should, / Or even sat with us here at food, / Merrily taking twopenny rum and cheese with a pocket knife, / But these are luxuries lost for him that lived for the Simple Life.
The haven't got no noses / The fallen sons of Eve, / Even the smell of roses / Is not what they supposes, / But more than mind discloses, / And more than men believe. // They haven't got no noses, / They cannot even tell / When door and darkness closes / The park a Jew encloses, / Where even the Law of Moses / Will let you steal a smell; // The brilliant smell of water, / The brave smell of a stone, / The smell of dew and thunder / And old bones buried under, / Are things in which they blunder / And err, if left alone. // The wind from winter forests, / The scent of scentless flowers, / The breath of bride's adorning, / The smell of snare and warning, / The smell of Sunday morning, / God gave to us for ours. // And Quoodle here discloses / All things that Quoodle can; / They haven't got no noses, / They haven't got no noses, / And goodness only knowses / The Noselessness of Man.
St. George he was for England, / And before he killed the dragon / He drank a pint of English ale / Out of an English flagon. / For though he fast right readily / In hair-shirt or in mail, / It isn't safe to give him cakes / Unless you give him ale. // St. George he was for England, / And right gallantly set free / The lady left for dragon's meat / And tied up to a tree; / But since he stood for England / And knew what England means, / Unless you give him bacon, / You mustn't give him beans. // St. George he was for England, / And shall wear the shield he wore / When we go out in armour, / With the battle-cross before; / But though he is jolly company / And very pleased to dine, / It isn't safe to give him nuts / Unless you give him wine.
Feast on wine or fast on water, / And your honour shall stand sure; / God Almighty's son and daughter, / He the valiant, she the pure. / If an angel out of heaven / Brings you other things to drink, / Thank him for his kind intentions, / Go and pour them down the sink. // Tea is like the East he grows in, / A great yellow Mandarin, / With urbanity of manner, / And unconsciousness of sin; / All the women, like a harem, / At his pig-tail troop along, / And, like all the East he grows in, / He is Poison when he's strong. // Tea, although an Oriental, / Is a gentleman at least; / Cocoa is cad and coward, / Cocoa is a vulgar beast; / Cocoa is a dull, disloyal, / Lying, crawling cad and clown, / And may very well be grateful / To the fool that takes him down. // As for all the windy waters, / They were rained like trumpets down, / When good drink had been dishonoured / By the tipplers of the town. / When red wine had brought red ruin, / And the death-dance of our times, / Heaven sent us Soda Water / As a torment for our crimes.
Some say that Guy of Warwick, / The man that killed the Cow, / And brake the mighty Boar alive, / Beyond the Bridge at Slough, / Went up against a Loathly Worm / That Wasted all the Downs, / And so the roads that twist and squirm / (If I may be allowed the term) / From the writhing of the stricken Worm / That died in seven towns. / I see no scientific proof / That this idea is sound, / And I should say they wound about / To find the town of Roundabout, / The merry town of Roundabout / That makes the world go round. // Some say that Robin Goodfellow, / Whose lantern lights the meads, / (To steal phrase Sir Walter Scott / In heaven no longer needs) / Such dance around the trysting-place / The moonstruck lover leads; / Which superstition I should scout; / There is more faith in honest doubt, / (As Tennyson has pointed out) / Than in those nasty creeds. / But peace and righteousness (St. John) / In Roundabout can kiss, / And since that's all that's found about / The pleasant town of Roundabout, / The roads they simply bound about, / To find out where it is. // Some say that when Sir Lancelot / Went forth to find the Grail, / Grey Merlin wrinkled up the roads / For hope that he should fail; / All roads led back to Lyonesse / And Camelot in the Vale; / I cannot yield assent to this / Extravagant hypothesis, / The plain, shrewd Briton will dismiss / Such rumours (Daily Mail). / But in the streets of Roundabout / Are no such factions found, / Or theories to expound about / Or roll upon the ground about, / In the happy town of Roundabout / That makes the world go round.
Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode, / The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road. / A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire, / And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire. / A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread / That night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head. // I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire, / And for to fight the Frenchmen I did not much desire; / But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayed / To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made, / Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands / The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands. // His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run / Behind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun? / The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which, / But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch. / God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear / The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier. // My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage, / Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age, / But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth, / And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death; / For there is good news yet to heat and fine things to be seen / Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.
The road turned first toward the left / Where Pinker's quarry made the cleft; / The path turned next toward the right / Because the mastiff used to bite; / Then left, because of Slippery Height, / And then again toward the right. / We could not take the left because / It would have been against the laws; / Squire closed it in King William's day / Because it was a Right of Way. / Still Right; to dodge the ridge of chalk / Where Parson's Ghost it used to walk, / Till someone Parson used to know / Met him blind drunk in Callao. / Then left, a long way round, to skirt / The good land where old Doggy Burt / Was owner of the Crown and Cup, / And would not give his freehold up; / Right, missing the old river-bed, / They tried to make him take instead / Right, since they say Sir Gregory / Went mad and let the Gypsies be, / And so they have their camp secure. / And, though not honest, they are poor, / And that is something; then along / And first to right-no, I am wrong! / Second to right, of course; the first / Is what the holy sisters cursed, / And none defy their awful oaths / Since the policemen lost his clothes / Because of fairies; right again, / What used to be High Toby Lane, / Left by the double larch and right / Until the milestone is in sight, / Because the road is firm and good / From past the milestone to the wood; / And I was told by Dr. Lowe / Whom Mr. Wimpole's aunt would know, / Who lives at Oxford writing books, / And ain't so silly as he looks; / The Romans did that little bit / And we've done all the rest of it; / By which we hardly seem to score; / Left, and then forward as before / To where they nearly hanged Miss Browne, / Who told them not to cut her down, / But loose the rope or let her swing, / Because it was a waste of string; / Left once again by Hunker's Cleft, / And right beyond the elm, and left, / By Pill's right by Nineteen Nicks / And left -
In the city set upon slime and loam / They cry in their parliament «Who goes home?» / And there is no answer in arch or dome, / For none in the city of graves goes home / Yet these shall perish and understand, / For God has pity on this great land. / Men that are men again; who goes home? / Tocsin and trumpeter! Who goes home? / For there's blood on the field and blood on the foam, / And blood on the body when man goes home. / And a voice valedictory -Who is for Victory? / Who is for Liberty? Who goes home?
The Druids waved their golden knives / And danced around the Oak / When they had sacrificed a man; / But though the learned search and scan / No single modern person can / Entirely see the joke; / But though they cut the throats of men / They cut not down the tree, / And from the blood the saplings spring / Of oak-woods yet to be. / But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, / He rots the tree as ivy would, / He clings and crawls as ivy would / About the sacred tree. // King Charles he fled from Worcester fight / And hid him in the Oak; / In convent schools no man of tact / Would trace and praise his every act, / Or argue that he was in fact / A strict and sainted bloke. / But not by him the sacred woods / Have lost their fancies free, / And though he was extremely big / He did not break the tree. / But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, / He breaks the tree as ivy would, / And eats the woods as ivy would / Between us and the sea. // Great Collingwood walked down the glade / And flung the acorns free, / That oaks might still be in the grove / As oaken as the beams above, / When the great Lover sailors love / Was kissed by Death at sea. / But though for him the oak-trees fell / To build the oaken ships, / The woodman worshipped what he smote / And honoured even the chips. / But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, / He hates the tree as ivy would, / As the dragon of the ivy would / That has us in his grips.
Lady, the light is dying in the skies, / Lady, and let us die when honour dies, / Your dear, dropped glove was like a gauntlet flung, / When you and I were young. / For something more than splendour stood; and ease was not the only good / About the woods in Ivywood when you and I were young. // Lady, the stars are falling pale and small, / Lady, we will not live if life be all / Forgetting those good stars in heaven hung / When all the world was young, / For more than gold was in a ring, and love was not a little thing / Between the trees in Ivywood when all the world was young.