Collected Poems: Volume Two. Alfred Noyes
seamed and scarred! Lord, I felt as if myself was in a public boozing, While my own old woman went about and scrubbed and charred! Lord, it seemed so hard! Tick, tack, tick, tack, she never gained a yard.
V
Yus, and there in front of her—I hadn't seen it rightly—
Lurked that little finger-post to point another road,
Just a tiny path of poppies twisting infi-nite-ly
Through the whispering seas of wheat, a scarlet thread that showed
White with ox-eye daisies here and there and chalky cobbles,
Blue with waving corn-flowers: far and far away it glowed,
Winding into heaven, I thinks; but, Lord, the way she hobbles,
Lord, she'll never reach it, for she bears too great a load;
Yus, and then I knowed,
If she did, she couldn't, for the board was marked No Road.
VI
Tick, tack, tick, tack, I couldn't wait no longer! Up I gets and bows polite and pleasant as a toff— "Arternoon," I says, "I'm glad your boots are going stronger; Only thing I'm dreading is your feet 'ull both come off." Tick, tack, tick, tack, she didn't stop to answer, "Arternoon," she says, and sort o' chokes a little cough, "I must get to Piddinghoe to-morrow if I can, sir!" "Demme, my good woman! Haw! Don't think I mean to loff," Says I, like a toff, "Where d'you mean to sleep to-night? God made this grass for go'ff."
VII
Tick, tack, tick, tack, and smilingly she eyed me (Dreadful the low cunning of these creechars, don't you think?) "That's all right! The weather's bright. Them bushes there 'ull hide me. Don't the gorse smell nice?" I felt my derned old eyelids blink! "Supper? I've a crust of bread, a big one, and a bottle," (Just as I expected! Ah, these creechars always drink!) "Sugar and water and half a pinch of tea to rinse my throttle, Then I'll curl up cosy!"—"If you're cotched it means the clink!" —"Yus, but don't you think If a star should see me, God 'ull tell that star to wink?"
VIII
"Now, look here," I says, "I don't know what your blooming age is!"
"Three-score years and five," she says, "that's five more years to go
Tick, tack, tick tack, before I gets my wages!" "Wages all be damned," I says, "there's one thing that I know— Gals that stay out late o' nights are sure to meet wi' sorrow. Speaking as a toff," I says, "it isn't comme il faut! Tell me why you want to get to Piddinghoe to-morrow."— "That was where my son worked, twenty years ago!"— "Twenty years ago? Never wrote? May still be there? Remember you? … Just so!"
IX
Yus, it was a drama; but she weren't my long-lost parent!
Tick, tack, tick, tack, she trotted all the while, Never getting forrarder, and not the least aware on't, Though I stood beside her with a sort of silly smile Stock-still! Tick, tack! This blooming world's a bubble: There I stood and stared at it, mile on flowery mile, Chasing o' the sunset—"Gals are sure to meet wi' trouble Staying out o' nights," I says, once more, and tries to smile, "Come, that ain't your style, Here's a shilling, mother, for to-day I've made my pile!"
X
Yus, a dozen coppers, all my capital, it fled, sir,
Representin' twelve bokays that cost me nothink each,
Twelve bokays o' corn-flowers blue that grew beside my bed, sir,
That same day, at sunrise, when the sky was like a peach:
Easy as a poet's dreams they blossomed round my head, sir,
All I had to do was just to lift my hand and reach:
So, upon the roaring waves I cast my blooming bread, sir,
Bread I'd earned with nose-gays on the bare-foot Brighton beach,
Nose-gays and a speech, All about the bright blue eyes they matched on Brighton beach.
XI
Still, you've only got to hear the bankers on the budget,
Then you'll know the giving game is hardly "high finance";
Which no more it wasn't for that poor old dame to trudge it,
Tick, tack, tick, tack, on such a devil's dance: Crumbs, it took me quite aback to see her stop so humble, Casting up into my face a sort of shiny glance, Bless you, bless you, that was what I thought I heard her mumble; Lord, a prayer for poor old Bill, a rummy sort of chance! Crumbs, that shiny glance Kinder made me king of all the sky from here to France.
XII
Tick, tack, tick, tack, but now she toddled faster: Soon she'd reach the little twisted by-way through the wheat. "Look 'ee here," I says, "young woman, don't you court disaster! Peepin' through yon poppies there's a cottage trim and neat White as chalk and sweet as turf: wot price a bed for sorrow, Sprigs of lavender between the pillow and the sheet?" "No," she says, "I've got to get to Piddinghoe to-morrow! P'raps they'd tell the work'us! And I've lashings here to eat: Don't the gorse smell sweet?" … Well, I turned and left her plodding on beside the wheat.
XIII
Every cent I'd given her like a hero in a story;
Yet, alone with leagues of wheat I seemed to grow aware
Solomon himself, arrayed in all his golden glory,
Couldn't vie with Me, the corn-flower king, the millionaire!
How to cash those bright blue cheques that night? My trouser pockets
Jingled sudden! Six more pennies, crept from James knew where!
Crumbs! I hurried back with eyes just bulging from their sockets,
Pushed 'em in the old dame's fist and listened for the prayer,
Shamming not to care,
Bill—the blarsted chicken-thief, the corn-flower millionaire.
XIV
Tick, tack, tick, tack, and faster yet she clattered! Ay, she'd almost gained a yard! I left her once again. Feeling very warm inside and sort of 'ighly flattered, On I plodded, all alone, with hay-stacks in my brain. Suddenly, with chink—chink—chink, the old sweet jingle Startled me! 'Twas thruppence more! Three coppers round and plain! Lord, temptation struck me and I felt my gullet tingle. Then—I hurried back, beside them seas of golden grain: No, I can't explain; There I thrust 'em in her fist, and left her once again.
XV
Tinkle-chink! Three ha'pence! If the vulgar fractions followed,
Big fleas have little fleas! It flashed upon me there—
Like the snakes of Pharaoh which the snakes of Moses swallowed
All the world was playing at the tortoise and the hare:
Half the smallest atom is—my soul was getting tipsy—
Heaven is one big circle and the centre's everywhere,
Yus, and that old woman was an angel and a gipsy,
Yus, and Bill, the chicken-thief, the corn-flower millionaire,
Shamming not to care,
What was he? A seraph on the misty rainbow-stair!
XVI
Don't you make no doubt of it! The deeper that you look, sir,
All your ancient poets tell you just the same as me—
What about old Ovid and his most indecent book, sir,
Morphosizing females into flower and star and tree?
What about old Proteus and his 'ighly curious 'abits,
Mixing of his old grey beard into the