You couldn’t pack a Broadwood half a mile - |
You mustn’t leave a fiddle in the damp - |
You couldn’t raft an organ up the Nile, |
And play it in an Equatorial swamp. |
I travel with the cooking-pots and pails - |
I’m sandwiched ’tween the coffee and the pork - |
And when the dusty column checks and tails, |
You should hear me spur the rearguard to a walk! |
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With my «Pilly-willy-winky-winky-popp!» |
[Oh, it’s any tune that comes into my head!] |
So I keep ’em moving forward till they drop; |
So I play ’em up to water and to bed. |
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In the silence of the camp before the fight, |
When it’s good to make your will and say your prayer, |
You can hear my strumpty-tumpty overnight, |
Explaining ten to one was always fair. |
I’m the Prophet of the Utterly Absurd, |
Of the Patently Impossible and Vain - |
And when the Thing that Couldn’t has occurred, |
Give me time to change my leg and go again. |
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With my «Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tump!» |
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There was never voice before us till I led our lonely chorus, |
I - the war-drum of the White Man round the world! |
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By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread, |
Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own, - |
'Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed, |
In the silence of the herder’s hut alone - |
In the twilight, on a bucket upside down, |
Hear me babble what the weakest won’t confess - |
I am Memory and Torment - I am Town! |
I am all that ever went with evening dress! |
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With my «Tunka-tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!» |
[So the lights - the London Lights - grow near and plain!] |
So I rowel ’em afresh towards the Devil and the Flesh, |
Till I bring my broken rankers home again. |
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In desire of many marvels over sea, |
Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars, |
I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay |
Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger shores. |
He is blooded to the open and the sky, |
He is taken in a snare that shall not fail, |
He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die, |
Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale. |
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«Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hulla! Haul!» |
[Oh, the green that thunders aft along the deck!] |
Are you sick o’ towns and men? You must sign and sail again, |
For it’s «Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!» |
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Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon-day clear - |
Up the pass that packs the scud beneath our wheel - |
Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom sheer - |
Down the valley with our guttering brakes a squeal: |
Where the trestle groans and quivers in the snow, |
Where the many-shedded levels loop and twine, |
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Hear me lead my reckless children from below |
Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine! |
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With my «Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!» |
[Oh, the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and crest!] |
And we ride the iron stallions down to drink, |
Through the canons to the waters of the West! |
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And the tunes that mean so much to you alone - |
Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose - |
Vulgar times that bring the laugh that brings the groan - |
I can rip your very heartstrings out with those; |
With the feasting, and the folly, and the fun - |
And the lying, and the lusting, and the drink, |
And the merry play that drops you, when you’re done, |
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With my «Plunka-lunka-lunka-lunka-lunk!» |
Here’s a trifle on account of pleasure past, |
Ere the wit that made you win gives you eyes to see your sin |
And - the heavier repentance at the last! |
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Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof - |
I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man! |
Let the trumpet snare the foemen to the proof - |
I have known Defeat, and mocked it as we ran! |
My bray ye may not alter nor mistake |
When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things, |
But the Song of Lost Endeavour that I make, |
Is it hidden in the twanging of the strings? |
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With my «Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!» |
[Is it naught to you that hear and pass me by?] |
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But the word - the word is mine, when the order moves the line |
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The grandam of my grandam was the Lyre - |
[Oh, the blue below the little fisher-huts!] |
That the Stealer stooping beachward filled with fire, |
Till she bore my iron head and ringing guts! |
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To the tune of yestermorn I set the truth - |
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I, the everlasting Wonder-song of Youth! |
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With my «Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!» |
’ye lack, my noble masters! What d’ye lack? |
So I draw the world together link by link: |
Yea, from Delos up to Limerick and back! |