The River's Tale

Twenty bridges from Tower to Kew--

(Twenty bridges or twenty-two)--

Wanted to know what the River knew,

For they were young and the Thames was old,

And this is the tale that the River told:--

"I WALK my beat before London Town,

Five hour up and seven down.

Up I go till I end my run

At Tide-end-town, which is Teddington.

Down I come with the mud in my hands

And plaster it over the Maplin Sands.

But I'd have you know that these waters of mine

Were once a branch of the River Rhine,

When hundreds of miles to the East I went

And England was joined to the Continent.

"I remember the bat-winged lizard-birds,

The Age of Ice and the mammoth herds,

And the giant tigers that stalked them down

Through Regent's Park into Camden Town.

And I remember like yesterday

The earliest Cockney who came my way,

When he pushed through the forest that lined the Strand,

With paint on his face and a club in his hand.

He was death to feather and fin and fur.

He trapped my beavers at Westminster.

He netted my salmon, he hunted my deer,

He killed my heron off Lambeth Pier.

He fought his neighbour with axes and swords,

Flint or bronze, at my upper fords,

While down at Greenwich, for slaves and tin,

The tall Phoenician ships stole in.

And North Sea war-boats, painted and gay,

Flashed like dragon-flies, Erith way;

And Norseman and Negro and Gaul and Greek

Drank with the Britons in Barking Creek,

And life was gay, and the world was new,

And I was a mile across at Kew!

But the Roman came with a heavy hand,

And bridged and roaded and ruled the land,

And the Roman left and the Danes blew in--

And that's where your history-books begin!"

The Roman Centurion's Song

Roman Occupation of Britain, A.D. 300

LEGATE, I had the news last night--my cohort ordered home

By ships to Portus Itius and thence by road to Rome.

I've marched the companies aboard, the arms are stowed below;

Now let another take my sword. Command me not to go!

I've served in Britain forty years, from Vectis to the Wall.

I have none other home than this, nor any life at all.

Last night I did not understand, but, now the hour draws near

That calls me to my native land, I feel that land is here.

Here where men say my name was made, here where my work was done;

Here where my dearest dead are laid--my wife--my wife and son;

Here where time, custom, grief and toil, age, memory, service, love,

Have rooted me in British soil. Ah, how can I remove?

For me this land, that sea, these airs, those folk and fields suffice.

What purple Southern pomp can match our changeful Northern skies,

Black with December snows unshed or pearled with August haze--

The clanging arch of steel-grey March, or June's long-lighted days?

You'll follow widening Rodanus till vine and olive lean

Aslant before the sunny breeze that sweeps Nemausus clean

To Arelate's triple gate: but let me linger on,

Here where our stiff-necked British oaks confront Euroclydon!

You'll take the old Aurelian Road through shore-descending pines

Where, blue as any peacock's neck, the Tyrrhene Ocean shines.

You'll go where laurel crowns are won, but--will you e'er forget

The scent of hawthorn in the sun, or bracken in the wet?

Let me work here for Britain's sake--at any task you will--

A marsh to drain, a road to make or native troops to drill.

Some Western camp (I know the Pict) or granite Border keep,

Mid seas of heather derelict, where our old messmates sleep.

Legate, I come to you in tears--My cohort ordered home!

I've served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome?

Here is my heart, my soul, my mind--the only life I know,

I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go!

The Pirates in England

Saxon Invasion, A.D. 400-600

WHEN Rome was rotten-ripe to her fall,

And the sceptre passed from her hand,

The pestilent Picts leaped over the wall

To harry the English land.

The little dark men of the mountain and waste,

So quick to laughter and tears,

They came panting with hate and haste

For the loot of five hundred years.

They killed the trader, they sacked the shops,

They ruined temple and town--

They swept like wolves through the standing crops

Crying that Rome was down.

They wiped out all that they could find

Of beauty and strength and worth,

But they could not wipe out the Viking's Wind

That brings the ships from the North.

They could not wipe out the North-East gales

Nor what those gales set free--

The pirate ships with their close-reefed sails,

Leaping from sea to sea.

They had forgotten the shield-hung hull

Seen nearer and more plain,

Dipping into the troughs like a gull,

And gull-like rising again--

The painted eyes that glare and frown

In the high snake-headed stem,

Searching the beach while her sail comes down,

They had forgotten them!

There was no Count of the Saxon Shore

To meet her hand to hand,

As she took the beach with a grind and a roar,

And the pirates rushed inland!

The Dane-Geld

A.D. 980-1016

IT is always a temptation to an armed and agile nation

To call upon a neighbour and to say:--

"We invaded you last night--we are quite prepared to fight,

Unless you pay us cash to go away."

And that is called asking for Dane-geld,

And the people who ask it explain

That you've only to pay 'em the Dane-geld

And then you'll get rid of the Dane!

It is always a temptation to a rich and lazy nation,

To puff and look important and to say:--

"Though we know we should defeat you, we have not the time to meet you.

We will therefore pay you cash to go away."

And that is called paying the Dane-geld;

But we've proved it again and again,

That if once you have paid him the Dane-geld

You never get rid of the Dane.

It is wrong to put temptation in the path of any nation,

For fear they should succumb and go astray;

So when you are requested to pay up or be molested,

You will find it better policy to say:--

"We never pay any-one Dane-geld,

Nor matter how trifling the cost;

For the end of that game is oppression and shame,

And the nation that plays it is lost!"

The Anvil

Norman Conquest, 1066

ENGLAND'S on the anvil--hear the hammers ring--

Clanging from the Severn to the Tyne!

Never was a blacksmith like our Norman King--

England's being hammered, hammered, hammered into line.

England's on the anvil! Heavy are the blows!

(But the work will be a marvel when it's done.)

Little bits of Kingdoms cannot stand against their foes.

England's being hammered, hammered, hammered into one!

There shall be one people--it shall serve one Lord--

(Neither Priest nor Baron shall escape!)

It shall have one speech and law, soul and strength and sword.

England's being hammered, hammered, hammered into shape!

Norman and Saxon

A.D. 1100

"MY son," said the Norman Baron, "I am dying, and you will be heir

To all the broad acres in England that William gave me for my share

When we conquered the Saxon at Hastings, and a nice little handful it is.

But before you go over to rule it I want you to understand this:--

"The Saxon is not like us Normans. His manners are not so polite.

But he never means anything serious till he talks about justice and right.

When he stands like an ox in the furrow with his sullen set eyes on your own,

And grumbles, 'This isn't fair dealing,' my son, leave the Saxon alone.

"You can horsewhip your Gascony archers, or torture your Picardy spears;

But don't try that game on the Saxon; you'll have the whole brood round your ears.

From the richest old Thane in the country to the poorest chained serf in the field,

They'll be at you and on you like hornets, and, if you are wise, you will yield.

"But first you must master their language, their dialect, proverbs and songs.

Don't trust any clerk to interpret when they come with the tale of their wrongs.

Let them know that you know what they're saying; let them feel that you know what to say.

Yes, even when you want to go hunting, hear 'em out if it takes you all day.

"They'll drink every hour of the daylight and poach every hour of the dark.

It's the sport not the rabbits they're after (we've plenty of game in the park).

Don't hang them or cut off their fingers. That's wasteful as well as unkind,

For a hard-bitten, South-country poacher makes the best man-at-arms you can find.

"Appear with your wife and the children at their weddings and funerals and feasts.

Be polite but not friendly to Bishops; be good to all poor parish priests.

Say 'we', 'us' and 'ours' when you're talking, instead of 'you fellows' and 'I.'

Dont' ride over seeds; keep your temper; and never you tell 'em a lie!"

The Reeds of Runnymede

Magna Charta, June 15, 1215

AT Runnymede, at Runnymede,

What say the reeds at Runnymede?

The lissom reeds that give and take,

That bend so far, but never break.

They keep the sleepy Thames awake

With tales of John at Runnymede.

At Runnymede, at Runnymede,

Oh, hear the reeds at Runnymede:--

"You musn't sell, delay, deny,

A freeman's right or liberty.

It wakes the stubborn Englishry,

We saw 'em roused at Runnymede!

"When through our ranks the Barons came,

With little thought of praise or blame,

But resolute to play the game,

They lumbered up to Runnymede;

And there they launched in solid line

The first attack on Right Divine--

The curt, uncompromising 'Sign!'

That settled John at Runnymede.

"At Runnymede, at Runnymede,

Your rights were won at Runnymede!

No freeman shall be fined or bound,

Or dispossessed of freehold ground,

Except by lawful judgment found

And passed upon him by his peers.

Forget not, after all these years,

The Charter signed at Runnymede."

And still when Mob or Monarch lays

To rude a hand on English ways,

The whisper wakes, the shudder plays,

Across the reeds at Runnymede.

And Thames, that knows the moods of kings,

And crowds and priests and suchlike things,

Rolls deep and dreadful as he brings

Their warning down from Runnymede!

My Father's Chair

Parliaments of Henry III., 1265

THERE are four good legs to my Father's Chair--

Priest and People and Lords and Crown.

I sits on all of 'em fair and square,

And that is the reason it don't break down.

I won't trust one leg, nor two, nor three,

To carry my weight when I sets me down.

I wants all four of 'em under me--

Priest and People and Lords and Crown.

I sits on all four and I favours none--

Priest, nor People, nor Lords, nor Crown:

And I never tilts in my chair, my son,

And that is the reason it don't break down.

When your time comes to sit in my Chair,

Remember your Father's habits and rules.

Sit on all four legs, fair and square,

And never be tempted by one-legged stools!

      B A C K