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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 dripped the blood
Of countless thousands who in loyalty
Perished beneath his vacillating mood).
Then from those twitching lips there fell again
'Have I done well?' The agonizing pain
Was clear to those around his bed, and one
Answered, astonished, with beseeching tone:
'But surely, General, you have done well,
You over all of us have done most well.'
 
 
But Cromwell with a twisted smile replied
'No!' – as he fought for breath – 'I – only – tried!'
Then closed his eyes, smiled quietly, and died.