Of Pacchiarotto, and How He Worked in Distemper
I
Query: was ever a quainter
Crotchet than this of the painter
Giacomo Pacchiarotto
Who took "Reform" for his motto?
II
He, pupil of old Fungaio,
Is always confounded (heigho!)
With Pacchia, contemporaneous
No question, but how extraneous
In the grace of soul, the power
Of hand,—undoubted dower
Of Pacchia who decked (as we know,
My Kirkup!) San Bernardino,
Turning the small dark Oratory
To Siena's Art-laboratory,
As he made its straitness roomy
And glorified its gloomy,
With Bazzi and Beccafumi.
(Another heigho for Bazzi:
How people miscall him Razzi!)
III
This Painter was of opinion
Our earth should be his dominion
Whose Art could correct to pattern
What Nature had slurred—the slattern!
And since, beneath the heavens,
Things lay now at sixes and sevens,
Or, as he said, sopra-sotto—
Thought the painter Pacchiarotto
Things wanted reforming, therefore.
"Wanted it"—ay, but wherefore?
When earth held one so ready
As he to step forth, stand steady
In the middle of God's creation
And prove to demonstration
What the dark is, what the light is,
What the wrong is, what the right is,
What the ugly, what the beautiful,
What the restive, what the dutiful,
In Mankind profuse around him?
Man, devil as now he found him,
Would presently soar up angel
At the summons of such evangel,
And owe—what would Man not owe
To the painter Pacchiarotto?
Ay, look to thy laurels, Giotto!
IV
But Man, he perceived, was stubborn,
Grew regular brute, once cub born;
And it struck him as expedient—
Ere he tried to make obedient;
The wolf, fox, bear, and monkey
By piping advice in one key,—
That his pipe should play a prelude
To something heaven-tinged not hell-hued,
Something not harsh but docile,
Man-liquid, not Man-fossil—
Not fact, in short, but fancy.
By a laudable necromancy
He would conjure up ghosts—a circle
Deprived of the means to work ill
Should his music prove distasteful
And pearls to the swine go wasteful.
To be rent of swine—that was hard!
With fancy he ran no hazard:
Fact might knock him o'er the mazard.
V
So, the painter Pacchiarotto
Constructed himself a grotto
In the quarter of Stalloreggi—
As authors of note allege ye.
And on each of the whitewashed sides of it
He painted—(none far and wide so fit
As he to perform in fresco)—
He painted nor cried quiesco
Till he peopled its every square foot
With Man—from the Beggar barefoot
To the Noble in cap and feather;
All sorts and conditions together.
The Soldier in breastplate and helmet
Stood frowningly—hail fellow well met—
By the Priest armed with bell, book, and candle.
Nor did he omit to handle
The Fair Sex, our brave distemperer:
Not merely King, Clown, Pope, Emperor—
He diversified too his Hades
Of all forms, pinched Labor and paid Ease,
With as mixed an assemblage of Ladies.
VI
Which work done, dry,—he rested him,
Cleaned palette, washed brush, divested him
Of the apron that suits frescanti,
And, bonnet on ear stuck jaunty,
This hand upon hip well planted,
That, free to wave as it wanted,
He addressed in a choice oration
His folk of each name and nation,
Taught its duty to every station.
The Pope was declared an arrant
Impostor at once, I warrant.
The Emperor—truth might tax him
With ignorance of the maxim
"Shear sheep but nowise flay them!"
And the Vulgar that obey them,
The Ruled, well-matched with the Ruling,
They failed not of wholesome schooling
On their knavery and their fooling.
As for Art—where's decorum? Pooh-poohed it is
By Poets that plague us with lewd ditties,
And Painters that pester with nudities!
VII
Now, your rater and debater
Is balked by a mere spectator
Who simply stares and listens
Tongue-tied, while eye nor glistens
Nor brow grows hot and twitchy,
Nor mouth, for a combat itchy,
Quivers with some convincing
Reply—that sets him wincing?
Nay, rather—reply that furnishes
Your debater with just what burnishes
The crest of him, all one triumph,
As you see him rise, hear him cry "Humph!
Convinced am I? This confutes me?
Receive the rejoinder that suits me!
Confutation of vassal for prince meet—
Wherein all the powers that convince meet,
And mash my opponent to mincemeat!"
VIII
So, off from his head flies the bonnet,
His hip loses hand planted on it,
While t' other hand, frequent in gesture,
Slinks modestly back beneath vesture,
As—hop, skip and jump,—he's along with
Those weak ones he late proved so strong with!
Pope, Emperor, lo, he's beside them,
Friendly now, who late could not abide them,
King, Clown, Soldier, Priest, Noble, Burgess;
And his voice, that out-roared Boanerges,
How minikin-mildly it urges
In accents how gentled and gingered
Its word in defence of the injured!
"Oh, call him not culprit, this Pontiff!
Be hard on this Kaiser ye won't if
Ye take into con-si-der-ation
What dangers attend elevation!
The Priest—who expects him to descant
On duty with more zeal and less cant?
He preaches but rubbish he's reared in.
The Soldier, grown deaf (by the mere din
Of battle) to mercy, learned tippling
And what not of vice while a stripling.
The Lawyer—his lies are conventional.
And as for the Poor Sort—why mention all
Obstructions that leave barred and bolted
Access to the brains of each dolt-head?"
IX
He ended, you wager? Not half! A bet?
Precedence to males in the alphabet!
Still, disposed of Man's A B C, there's X
Y Z want assistance,—the Fair Sex I
How much may be said in excuse of
Those vanities—males see no use of—
From silk shoe on heel to laced poll's-hood!
What's their frailty beside our own falsehood?
The boldest, most brazen of . . . trumpets,
How kind can they be to their dumb pets!
Of their charms—how are most frank, how few venal!
While as for those charges of Juvenal—
Quœ nemo dixisset in toto
Nisi (œdepol) ore illoto—
He dismissed every charge with an "A page!"
X
Then, cocking (in Scotch phrase) his cap a-gee,
Right hand disengaged from the doublet
—Like landlord, in house he had sublet
Resuming of guardianship gestion,
To call tenants' conduct in question—
Hop, skip, jump, to inside from outside
Of chamber, he lords, ladies, louts eyed
With such transformation of visage
As fitted the censor of this age.
No longer an advocate tepid
Of frailty, but champion intrepid
Of strength,—not of falsehood but verity,—
He, one after one, with asperity
Stripped bare all the cant-clothed abuses,
Disposed of sophistic excuses,
Forced folly each shift to abandon,
And left vice with no leg to stand on.
So crushing the force he exerted,
That Man at his foot lay converted!
XI
True—Man bred of paint-pot and mortar!
But why suppose folks of this sort are
More likely to hear and be tractable
Than folks all alive and, in fact, able
To testify promptly by action
Their ardor, and make satisfaction
For misdeeds non verbis sed factis?
"With folks all alive be my practice
Henceforward! O mortar, paint-pot O,
Farewell to ye I" cried Pacchiarotto,
"Let only occasion intérpose!"
XII
It did so: for, pat to the purpose
Through causes I need not examine,
There fell upon Siena a famine.
In vain did the magistrates busily
Seek succor, fetch grain out of Sicily,
Nay, throw mill and bakehouse wide open—
Such misery followed as no pen
Of mine shall depict ye. Faint, fainter
Waxed hope of relief: so, our painter,
Emboldened by triumph of recency,
How could he do other with decency
Than rush in this strait to the rescue,
Play schoolmaster, point as with fescue
To each and all slips in Man's spelling
The law of the land?—slips now telling
With monstrous effect on the city,
Whose magistrates moved him to pity
As, bound to read law to the letter,
They minded their hornbook no better.
XIII
I ought to have told you, at starting,
How certain, who itched to be carting
Abuses away clean and thorough
From Siena, both province and borough,
Had formed themselves into a company
Whose swallow could bolt in a lump any
Obstruction of scruple, provoking
The nicer throat's coughing and choking:
Fit Club, by as fit a name dignified
Of "Freed Ones"—"Bardotti"—which signified
"Spare-Horses" that walk by the wagon
The team has to drudge for and drag on.
This notable Club Pacchiarotto
Had joined long since, paid scot and lot to,
As free and accepted "Bardotto."
The Bailiwick watched with no quiet eye
The outrage thus done to society,
And noted the advent especially
Of Pacchiarotto their fresh ally.
XIV
These Spare-Horses forthwith assembled:
Neighed words whereat citizens trembled
As oft as the chiefs, in the Square by
The Duomo, proposed a way whereby
The city were cured of disaster.
"Just substitute servant for master,
Make Poverty Wealth and Wealth Poverty,
Unloose Man from overt and covert tie,
And straight out of social confusion
True Order would spring!" Brave illusion—
Aims heavenly attained by means earthly!
XV
Off to these at full speed rushed our worthy,—
Brain practised and tongue no less tutored,
In argument's armor accoutred,—
Sprang forth, mounted rostrum, and essayed
Proposals like those to which "Yes" said
So glibly each personage painted
O' the wall-side wherewith you're acquainted.
He harangued on the faults of the Bailiwick:
"Red soon were our State-candle's paly wick,
If wealth would become but interfluous;
Fill voids up with just the superfluous;
If ignorance gave way to knowledge
—Not pedantry picked up at college
From Doctors, Professors et cætera—
(They say: 'kai to loipa'—like better a
Long Greek string of kappas, taus, lambdas,
Tacked on to the tail of each damned ass)—
No knowledge we want of this quality,
But knowledge indeed—practicality
Through insight's fine universality!
If you shout 'Bailiffs, out on ye all! Fie,
Thou Chief of our forces, Amalfi,
Who shieldest the rogue and the clot poll!'
If you pounce on and poke out, with what pole
I leave ye to fancy, our Siena's
Beast-litter of sloths and hyenas—"
(Whoever to scan this is ill able
Forgets the town's name's a disyllable)—
"If, this done, ye did—as ye might—place
For once the right man in the right place,
If you listened to me" . . .
XVI
At which last "I."
There flew at his throat like a mastiff
One Spare-Horse—another and another!
Such outbreak of tumult and pother,
Horse-faces a-laughing and fleering,
Horse-voices a-mocking and jeering,
Horse-hands raised to collar the caitiff
Whose impudence ventured the late "If"—
That, had not fear sent Pacchiarotto
Off tramping, as fast as could trot toe,
Away from the scene of discomfiture—
Had he stood there stock-still in a dumbfit—sure
Am I he had paid in his peison
Till his mother might fail to know her son,
Though she gazed on him never so wistful,
do the figure so tattered and tristful.
Each mouth full of curses, each fist full
Of cuffings—behold, Pacchiarotto,
The pass which thy project has got to,
Of trusting, nigh ashes still hot—tow!
(The paraphrase—which I much need—is
From Horace "per ignes incedis.")
XVII
Right and left did he dash helter-skelter
In agonized search of a shelter.
No purlieu so blocked and no alley
So blind as allowed him to rally
His spirits and see—nothing hampered
His steps if he trudged and not scampered
Up here and down there in a city
That's all ups and downs, more the pity
For folks who would outrun the constable.
At last he stopped short at the one stable
And sure place of refuge that's offered
Humanity. Lately was coffered
A corpse in its sepulchre, situate
By St. John's Observance. "Habituate
Thyself to the strangest of bedfellows,
And, kicked by the live, kiss the dead fellows!"
So Misery counselled the craven.
At once he crept safely to haven
Through a hole left unbricked in the structure.
Ay, Misery, in have you tucked your
Poor client and left him conterminous
With—pah!—the thing fetid and verminous!
(I gladly would spare you the detail,
But History writes what I retail.)
XVIII
Two days did he groan in his domicile:
"Good Saints, set me free and I promise I'll
Adjure all ambition of preaching
Change, whether to minds touched by teaching
—The smooth folk of fancy, mere figments
Created by plaster and pigments,—
Or to minds that receive with such rudeness
Dissuasion from pride, greed and lewdness,
—The rough folk of fact, life's true specimens
Of mind—'haud in posse sed esse mens'
As it was, is, and shall be forever
Despite of my utmost endeavor.
O live foes I thought to illumine,
Henceforth lie untroubled your gloom in!
I need my own light, every spark, as
I couch with this sole friend—a carcase!"
XIX
Two days thus he maundered and rambled;
Then, starved back to sanity, scrambled
From out his receptacle loathsome.
"A spectre!"—declared upon oath some
Who saw him emerge and (appalling
To mention) his garments a-crawling
With plagues far beyond the Egyptian.
He gained, in a state past description,
A convent of months, the Observancy.
XX
Thus far is a fact: I reserve fancy
For Fancy's more proper employment:
And now she waves wing with enjoyment,
To tell ye how preached the Superior,
When somewhat our painter's exterior
Was sweetened. He needed (no mincing
The matter) much soaking and rinsing,
Nay, rubbing with drugs odoriferous,
Till, rid of his garments pestiferous,
And, robed by the help of the Brotherhood
In odds and ends,—this gown and t' other hood,—
His empty inside first well-garnished,—
He delivered a tale round, unvarnished.
XXI
"Ah, Youth!" ran the Abbot's admonishment,
"Thine error scarce moves my astonishment.
For—why shall I shrink from asserting?—
Myself have had hopes of converting
The foolish to wisdom, till, sober,
My life found its May grow October.
I talked and I wrote, but, one morning,
Life's Autumn bore fruit in this warning:
'Let tongue rest, and quiet thy quill be!
Earth is earth and not heaven, and ne'er will be.'
Man's work is to labor and leaven—
As best he may—earth here with heaven;
'Tis work for work's sake that he's needing:
Let him work on and on as if speeding
Work's end, but not dream of succeeding!
Because if success were intended,
Why, heaven would begin ere earth ended.
A Spare-Horse? Be rather a thill-horse,
Or—what's the plain truth—just a mill-horse!
Earth's a mill where we grind and wear mufflers:
A whip awaits shirkers and shufflers
Who slacken their pace, sick of lugging
At what don't advance for their tugging.
Though round goes the mill, we must still post
On and on as if moving the mill-post.
So, grind away, mouth-wise and pen-wise,
Do all that we can to make men wise!
And if men prefer to be foolish,
Ourselves have proved horse-like not mulish:
Sent grist, a good sackful, to hopper,
And worked as the Master thought proper.
Tongue I wag, pen I ply, who am Abbot;
Stick, thou, Son, to daub-brush and dab-pot!
But, soft! I scratch hard on the scab hot?
Though cured of thy plague, there may linger
A pimple I fray with rough finger?
So soon could my homily transmute
Thy brass into gold? Why, the man's mute!"
XXII
"Ay, Father, I'm mute with admiring
How Nature's indulgence untiring
Still bids us turn deaf ear to Reason's
Best rhetoric—clutch at all seasons
And hold fast to what's proved untenable!
Thy maxim is—Man's not amenable
To argument: whereof by consequence—
Thine arguments reach me: a non-sequence!
Yet blush not discouraged, O Father!
I stand unconverted, the rather
That nowise I need a conversion.
No live man (I cap thy assertion)
By argument ever could take hold
Of me. 'Twas the dead thing, the clay-cold,
Which grinned 'Art thou so in a hurry
That out of warm light thou must scurry
And join me down here in the dungeon
Because, above, one's Jack and one—John,
One's swift in the race, one—a hobbler,
One's a crowned king and one—a capped cobbler,
Rich and poor, sage and fool, virtuous, vicious?
Why complain? Art thou so unsuspicious
That all's for an hour of essaying
Who's fit and who's unfit for playing
His part in the after-construction
—Heaven's Piece whereof Earth's the Induction?
Things rarely go smooth at Rehearsal.
Wait patient the change universal,
And act, and let act, in existence!
For, as thou art clapped hence or hissed hence,
Thou host thy promotion or otherwise.
And why must wise thou have thy brother wise
Because in rehearsal thy cue be
To shine by the side of a booby?
No polishing garnet to ruby!
All's well that ends well—through Art's magic.
Some end, whether comic or tragic,
The Artist has purposed, be certain!
Explained at the fall of the curtain—
In showing thy wisdom at odds with
That folly: he tries men and gods with
No problem for weak wits to solve meant,
But one worth such Author's evolvement.
So, back nor disturb play's production
By giving thy brother instruction
To throw up his fool's-part allotted!
Lest haply thyself prove besotted
When stript, for thy pains, of that costume
Of sage, which has bred the imposthume
I prick to relieve thee of,—Vanity!'
XXIII
"So, Father, behold me in sanity!
I'm back to the palette and mahlstick:
And as for Man—let each and all stick
To what was prescribed them at starting!
Once planted as fools—no departing
From folly one inch, sæculorum
In sæcula! Pass me the jorum,
And push me the platter—my stomach
Retains, through its fasting, still some ache—
And then, with your kind Benedicite.
Good-by!"
XXIV
I have told with simplicity
My tale, dropped those harsh analytics,
And tried to content you, my critics,
Who greeted my early uprising!
I knew you through all the disguising,
Droll dogs, as I jumped up, cried, "Heyday!
This Monday is—what else but May-day?
And these in the drabs, blues, and yellows.
Are surely the privileged fellows.
So, saltbox and bones, tongs and bellows!"
(I threw up the window) "Your pleasure?"
XXV
Then he who directed the measure—
An old friend—put leg forward nimbly,
"We critics as sweeps out your chimbly!
Much soot to remove from your flue, sir!
Who spares coal in kitchen an't you, sir!
And neighbors complain it's no joke, sir,
—You ought to consume your own smoke, sir!"
XXVI
Ah, rogues, but my housemaid suspects you—
Is confident oft she detects you
In bringing more filth into my house
Than ever you found there! I'm pious,
However: 'twas God made you dingy
And me—with no need to be stingy
Of soap, when 'tis sixpence the packet.
So, dance away, boys, dust my jacket,
Bang drum and blow fife—ay, and rattle
Your brushes, for that's half the battle!
Don't trample the grass,—hocus-pocus
With grime my Spring snowdrop and crocus,—
And, what with your rattling and tinkling,
Who knows but you give me an inkling
How music sounds, thanks to the jangle
Of regular drum and triangle?
Whereby, tap-tap, chink-chink, 'tis proven
I break rule as bad as Beethoven.
"That chord now—a groan or a grunt is 't?
Schumann's self was no worse contrapuntist.
No ear! or if ear, so tough-gristled—
He thought that he sung while he whistled!"
XXVII
So, this time I whistle, not sing at all,
My story, the largess I fling at all
And every the rough there whose aubade
Did its best to amuse me,—nor so bad!
Take my thanks, pick up largess, and scamper
Off free, ere your mirth gets a damper!
You've Monday, your one day, your fun-day,
While mine is a year that's all Sunday.
I've seen you, times—who knows how many?—
Dance in here, strike up, play the zany,
Make mouths at the Tenant, hoot warning
You'll find him decamped next May-morning;
Then scuttle away, glad to 'scape hence
With—kicks? no, but laughter and ha'pence!
Mine's freehold, by grace of the grand Lord
Who lets out the ground here,—my landlord:
To him I pay quit-rent—devotion;
Nor hence shall I budge, I've a notion,
Nay, here shall my whistling and singing
Set all his street's echoes a-ringing
Long after the last of your number
Has ceased my front-court to encumber
While, treading down rose and ranunculus,
You Tommy-make-room-for-your-Uncle us!
Troop, all of you—man or homunculus,
Quick march! for Xanthippe, my house-maid,
If once on your pates she a souse made
With what, pan or pot, bowl or skoramis,
First comes to her hand—things were more amiss!
I would not for worlds be your place in—
Recipient of slops from the basin!
You, jack-in-the-Green, leaf-and-twiggishness
Won't save a dry thread on your priggishness!
While as for Quilp-Hop-o'-my-thumb there,
Banjo-Byron that twangs the strum-strum there—
He'll think as the pickle he curses,
I've discharged on his pate his own verses!
"Dwarfs are saucy," says Dickens: so, sauced in
Your own sauce,[1] . . .
XXVIII
But, back to my Knight of the Pencil,
Dismissed to his fresco and stencil!
Whose story—begun with a chuckle,
And throughout timed by raps of the knuckle,—
To small enough purpose were studied
If it ends with crown cracked or nose bloodied.
Come, critics,—not shake hands, excuse me!
But—say have you grudged to amuse me
This once in the forty-and-over
Long years since you trampled my clover
And scared from my house-eaves each sparrow
I never once harmed by that arrow
Of song, karterotaton belos,
(Which Pindar declares the true melos,)
I was forging and filing and finishing,
And no whit my labors diminishing
Because, though high up in a chamber
Where none of your kidney may clamber
Your hullabaloo would approach me?
Was it "grammar" wherein you would "coach" me—
You,—pacing in even that paddock
Of language allotted you ad hoc,
With a clog at your fetlocks,—you—scorners
Of me free of all its four corners?
Was it "clearness of words which convey thought"?
Ay, if words never needed enswathe aught
But ignorance, impudence, envy
And malice—what word-swathe would then vie
With yours for a clearness crystalline?
But had you to put in one small line
Some thought big and bouncing—as noddle
Of goose, born to cackle and waddle
And bite at man's heel as goose-wont is,
Never felt plague its puny os frontis—
You'd know, as you hissed, spat and sputtered,
Clear cackle is easily uttered!
XXIX
Lo, I've laughed out my laugh on this mirth-day!
Beside, at week's end, dawns my birthday,
That hebdome, hieron emar—
(More things in a day than you deem are!)
—Tei gar Apollona chrusaora
Egeinato Leto. So, gray or ray
Betide me, six days hence, I'm vexed here
By no sweep, that's certain, till next year!
"Vexed?"—roused from what else were insipid ease!
Leave snoring abed to Pheidippides!
We'll up and work! won't we, Euripides?
poem by Robert Browning from Pacchiarotto (1876)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Related quotes
Painter Man
Went to college, studied arts
To be an artist make a start
Studied hard, gettin my degree
But no one seemed to notice me
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Tried cartoons and comic books
Dirty postcards could have done
Here was where the money laid
Classic art has had its day
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Did adverts for t.v.
Household shops and brands of tea
Labels all around the cans
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
La...la...la...la...la...la...
La...la...la...la...la...la...la...
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
song performed by by Boney M.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Sodger's Lassie
A'the toun is to the doun
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Ab's gane, Rab's gane,
Aggie's gane, Maggie's gane,
A' the toun is to the doun,
An's left the house to wae and me.
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha'll hae a blaeberrie?
Ah, to min' o' auld lang syne,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
Sodger Tam, he cam an' cam,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie;
Still I went, an' still I bent,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Berries high, an' berries low,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Tam maun come where berries grow,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha'll hae a blaeberrie?
Ah, to min' o' auld lang syne,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
Never ance I looked at Tam,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Weel I kent him when he cam,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Baith our faces to the groun',
Puin' o' the blaeberrie,
Tam cam near without a soun',
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wow! but we were near, I ween,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
A' the air was warm between,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Could a lassie think o' ill,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie?
Berries e'en grow where they will,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Berries here, an' berries there,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
I was kissed or I was ware,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Wha wad fash wi' ane anither
Puin' o' the blaeberrie?
Berries whiles will grow thegither,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
I was kissed or I could speer,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Hech! that folk sud come sae near,
A' to pu' a blaeberrie!
While I grat and chid forbye,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Doun we sat-I ken na why-
A' amang the blaeberrie.
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha 'll hae a blaeberrie?
Oh, to min' o' auld lang syne,
A' amang the blaeberrie!
Sidelong Tam he cam an' cam
A' amang the blaeberrie.
Wha could tell he meant na fair?
Weel I ken I chid him sair,
But that day we gaed na mair
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha 'll hae a blaeberrie?
Oh, to min' o' auld lang syne,
Doun amang the blaeberrie!
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Ah Me!
When maiden loves, she sits and sighs,
She wanders to and fro;
Unbidden tear-drops fill her eyes,
And to all questions she replies,
With a sad heigho!
'Tis but a little word - "heigho!"
So soft, 'tis scarcely heard - "heigho!"
An idle breath -
Yet life and death
May hang upon a maid's "heigho!"
When maiden loves, she mopes apart,
As owl mopes on a tree;
Although she keenly feels the smart,
She cannot tell what ails her heart,
With its sad "Ah me!"
'Tis but a foolish sigh - "Ah me!"
Born but to droop and die - "Ah me!"
Yet all the sense
Of eloquence
Lies hidden in a maid's "Ah me!"
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Brent River Bride
Flow proudly fair river,
For one who fell under
Your spell was the liver
Doc, Gershon - asunder
Found all his plans, muddled
By nymphs of the water -
He greatly befuddled
Then married the daughter
Of Count Joe of Wandle
Far south of the city
And went on to fondle
Her milk flowing titty.
I send this wet letter
To Brentische planners;
Such amour is better
Than yekkishe manners.
LRH
6.5.06 In reply to GWH's Bride of Brent of 6.5.06
Bride of Brent
Unlike Lucia from far Lammermoor,
fair Linda, hailing from far Chaumonix,
excels when she’s preparing salmon or
deep-frying spuds and spinach that aren’t gammony.
She tried to keep the frog which wooing went
outside the net she guarded as a goalie
till she became the Bride of River Brent
and played the role of Princess Rowley-Powley.
The frog, he always used to say “Heigh-ho, '
because he knew that he could never find a
more lovely princess once she’d kissed him so
he was more charmed than Chaumonix by Linda.
Inspired by Linda, who married me at the Brent Bridge Hotel in August 1996, and by “A frog he would a-wooing go”: [Old folk song].
A Frog he would a-wooing go,
Heigho! says Rowley,
Whether his mother would let him or no.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigho! says Anthony Rowley.
So off he set with his opera hat,
Heigho! says Rowley,
And on the way he met with a Rat.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigho! says Anthony Rowley.
'Now pray, Mr. Rat, won't you come with me, '
Heigho! says Rowley,
'Kind Mrs. Mousey for to see? '
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigho! says Anthony Rowley.
And when they came to Mousey's hall,
Heigho! says Rowley,
They gave a knock and they gave a call.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigho! says Anthony Rowley.
'Pray, Mrs. Mouse, are you within? '
Heigho! says Rowley,
'Yes, kind sirs, I'm sitting to spin.'
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigho! says Anthony Rowley.
'Pray, Mrs. Mouse, will you give us some beer? '
Heigho! says Rowley,
'For Froggy and I are fond of good cheer.'
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach.
Heigho! says Anthony Rowley.
'Pray, Mr. Frog, will you give us a song? '
Heigho! says Rowley,
'But let it be something that's not very long.'
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigho! says Anthony Rowley.
'Indeed, Mrs. Mouse, ' replied the frog,
Heigho! says Rowley,
'A cold has made me as hoarse as a hog.'
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigho! says Anthony Rowley.
'Since you have caught cold, Mr. Frog, ' Mousey said,
Heigho! says Rowley,
'I'll sing you a song that I have just made.'
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigho! says Anthony Rowley.
But while they were all a merry-making,
Heigho! says Rowley,
A cat and her kittens came tumbling in.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigho! says Anthony Rowley.
The cat she seized the rat by the crown;
Heigho! says Rowley,
And the kittens pulled the little mouse down.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigho! says Anthony Rowley.
This put Mr. Frog in a terrible fright,
Heigho! says Rowley,
He put on his hat, and he wished them goodnight.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigho! says Anthony Rowley.
But as Mr. Frog was crossing the brook,
Heigho! says Rowley,
A lily-white duck came and gobbled him up.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigho! says Anthony Rowley.
So there was an end of one, two, and three,
Heigho! says Rowley,
The rat, the mouse, and little froggee!
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigho! says Anthony Rowley.
© 2006 Gershon Hepner 6/5/06
poem by Linda Hepner
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Orkney Lullaby
A moonbeam floateth from the skies,
Whispering, "Heigho, my dearie!
I would spin a web before your eyes,--
A beautiful web of silver light,
Wherein is many a wondrous sight
Of a radiant garden leagues away,
Where the softly tinkling lilies sway,
And the snow-white lambkins are at play,--
Heigho, my dearie!"
A brownie stealeth from the vine
Singing, "Heigho, my dearie!
And will you hear this song of mine,--
A song of the land of murk and mist
Where bideth the bud the dew hath kist?
Then let the moonbeam's web of light
Be spun before thee silvery white,
And I shall sing the livelong night,--
Heigho, my dearie!"
The night wind speedeth from the sea,
Murmuring, "Heigho, my dearie!
I bring a mariner's prayer for thee;
So let the moonbeam veil thine eyes,
And the brownie sing thee lullabies;
But I shall rock thee to and fro,
Kissing the brow he loveth so,
And the prayer shall guard thy bed, I trow,--
Heigho, my dearie!"
poem by Eugene Field
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So now we are pushing economic reform, bank reform and enterprise reform. So we can finish that reform this year, in September or October. Then our economy may be much more, you know, normalized.
quote by Kim Dae Jung
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Master's Hand
The painter was a genius,
His pupil knew this well,
For in the times that they discuss
They bond as in a spell...
They think such thoughts that change their art,
Their purpose and their style,
Such that new wisdom can impart
Its reasons for a smile...
The pupil spent a whole weekend
Within the studio,
Together with his brand new friend,
Who seemed all things to know...
The painting pupil's Easter scene
Was called The Cross of Christ.
Behold the Man... The Nazarene...
God's Lamb here sacrificed...
The pupil thought his painting done
When Sunday night came round,
He smiled as if a war was won,
As if a treasure found...
The master painter let him leave
So he could travel home
And yet Christ's painting made him grieve
The cruelty of Rome...
And in the night, he painted on,
Transforming here and there,
A stream of light to shine upon
The Saviour's bleeding hair...
With Pilate's words now coloured gold,
For all the world to see
The greatest story ever told...
Christ died for you and me...
When morning came, he painted still,
The gamblers at Christ's feet,
The thieves who died there on that hill,
The sort you'd hate to meet...
The scoffers in the crowd below
And Mary full of tears...
The crown of thorns, Christ's blood in flow,
While Satan stares and cheers...
Then something new the painter felt
That he should add that day...
A weeping angel humbly knelt
At Christ's feet there to pray...
He was Death's angel sent ahead
To see Christ crucified
And then to wait till Christ was dead
Before His blood had dried...
Then all was done... the painter wept...
The masterpiece complete...
He went to sleep and gently slept
And felt a peace so sweet...
That night, the pupil had returned,
He saw the work of art
And thus a new respect was earned
That stayed within his heart...
The exhibition hall was filled
The day it was on show
And everybody there was thrilled
With faces all aglow...
The Cross of Christ is famous now,
With posters sold worldwide,
For God was in that work somehow,
Just like when Jesus died...
Denis Martindale, copyright, September 2012.
We can hear the word of the Lord on
Revelation TV on UK Sky Digital 581
as well as the WATCH NOW link on
the revelationtv-dot-com website...
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Pauper's Christmas Carol
Full of drink and full of meat,
On our SAVIOUR'S natal day,
CHARITY'S perennial treat;
Thus I heard a Pauper say:—
'Ought not I to dance and sing
Thus supplied with famous cheer?
Heigho!
I hardly know—
Christmas comes but once a year.
'After labor's long turmoil,
Sorry fare and frequent fast,
Two-and-fifty weeks of toil,
Pudding-time is come at last!
But are raisins high or low,
Flour and suet cheap or dear?
Heigho!
I hardly know—
Christmas comes but once a year.
'Fed upon the coarsest fare
Three hundred days and sixty-four,
But for one on viands rare,
Just as if I wasn't poor!
Ought not I to bless my stars,
Warden, clerk, and overseer?
Heigho!
I hardly know—
Christmas comes but once a year.
'Treated like a welcome guest,
One of Nature's social chain,
Seated, tended on, and press'd—
But when shall I be press'd again,
Twice to pudding, thrice to beef,
A dozen times to ale and beer?
Heigho!
I hardly know—
Christmas comes but once a year.
'Come to-morrow how it will;
Diet scant and usage rough,
Hunger once has had its fill,
Thirst for once has had enough,
But shall I ever dine again?
Or see another feast appear?
Heigho!
I only know—
Christmas comes but once a year!
'Frozen cares begin to melt,
Hopes revive and spirits flow—
Feeling as I have not felt
Since a dozen months ago—
Glad enough to sing a song—
To-morrow shall I volunteer?
Heigho!
I hardly know—
Christmas comes but once a year.
'Bright and blessed is the time,
Sorrows end and joys begin,
While the bells with merry chime
Ring the Day of Plenty in!
But the happy tide to hail,
With a sigh or with or a tear,
Heigho!
I hardly know—
Christmas comes but once a year!'
poem by Thomas Hood
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The Painter (Ang Pintor)
The Painter...
He colored the sky
He colored the sea
and even the mountains
and the field.
The Painter...
He colored the roses
and even the birds
and animals
in the farm.
The Painter...
even my life...
He colored.
But the Painter,
I guess no one
have seen Him yet.
The Painter...
can anyone paint the colors
of His life?
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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The Queen Of Query
So necessary
So stubborn so mule-like so carrot-like very
The queen of query
So dangerous daring
Quest artillery
Quest snares unleash
Shoes unnecessary
Stumble to reach
The truth so much very
The queen of query
Will you me marry
I’m dazzled I’m puzzled
By your bravery
The queen of query
We will be merry
Once riffled and shot so so much very
Conclusion:
Questions die out
Before the first shout
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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I wish that the Democrats would put some effort into Social Security reform, illegal immigration's reform, tax reform, or some of the other real issues that are out there.
quote by Jack Kingston
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Night And Day
It's like I'm hit by Cupid's dart -
Are romantic words enough?
I wish I were your sweetheart
And your trusted one true love...
To me, your smiles are sunshine
And to me, your tears are rain...
If you were my Valentine,
Then you'd not hear me complain.
I wish I were your hero,
Your champion till life's end -
He who fought against the foe,
Defiantly as your friend.
I wish I were a painter,
An artist of great renown,
To me, there's nothing quainter
Than to paint you in your gown.
I wish I were a sculptor,
Like a craftsman with my hands -
Somehow to capture rapture
That each lover understands.
I wish I were a singer,
Like some brilliant baritone -
So I could be the bringer
Of great love songs yet unknown.
I wish I were a poet,
All your beauty to convey.
I want the world to know it,
Like I know it... night and day...
poem by Denis Martindale
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To Undo What It Was That Should Have Been
Reform?
Is that similar to rebirth?
Or re-defining what is?
And if that is the case...
Those who now suggest,
A redefining of things to reform...
To do to get things done,
Will need to re-address themselves,
With amnesia.
To undo what it was that should have been,
Those without a conscious intentionally did...
To enable a reform to do that is defined with a doing.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Your Comment
Your comment burn me
Your query made me laugh.
It is your query that made active
My mind and body the whole day.
I love you I like your everythings
Your query your comment made it clear
You too love me much.
I am in your eyes I know
I am ready to hear your words
You know and you know I am with you
Without you I have no existence
My hands always doing your works
My eyes always seeing your sights
My foot stands on your earth.
It is you only who can take me
From place to place and each and
Every place is the same and one.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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A Border Ballad
OH, I haven't got long to live, for we all
Die soon, e'en those who live longest;
And the poorest and weakest are taking their chance
Along with the richest and strongest.
So it's heigho for a glass and a song,
And a bright eye over the table,
And a dog for the hunt when the game is flush.
And the pick of a gentleman's stable.
There is Dimmock o' Dune, he was here yesternight,
But he's rotting to-day on Glen Arragh;
'Twas the hand o' MacPherson that gave him the blow,
And the vultures shall feast on his marrow.
But it's heigho for a brave old song
And a glass while we are able;
Here's a health to death and another cup
To the bright eye over the table.
I can show a broad back and a jolly deep chest,
But who argues now on appearance?
A blow or a thrust or a stumble at best
May send me to-day to my clearance.
Then it's heigho for the things I love,
My mother'll be soon wearing sable,
But give me my horse and my dog and my glass,
And a bright eye over the table.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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The motto of chivalry is also the motto of wisdom; to serve all, but love only one.
Alone
There came to me softly a small wind from the sea.
And it lifted a curl as it passed by me.
But I sang sorrow and ho the heavy day!
And I sang heigho and well-away!
Again there came softly a small wind from the sea,
And it lifted a curl as it passed by me.
And still I sang sorrow and ho the heavy day!
And I sang heigho and well-away!
Once more there came softly that small wind from the sea,
And it lifted a curl as it passed by me.
I hushed my song of sorrow and ho the heavy day,
And I hushed my heigho and well-away.
Then, when I was silent, that small wind from the sea,
It came the fourth time tenderly to me;
To me, to me,
Sitting by the sea,
Sitting sad and solitary thinking of thee.
Like warm lips it touched me-that soft wind from the sea,
And I trembled and wept as it passed by me.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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The educator must believe in the potential power of his pupil, and he must employ all his art in seeking to bring his pupil to experience this power.
quote by Alfred Adler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Good teachers make the best of a pupil's means; great teachers foresee a pupil's ends.
quote by Maria Callas
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Motto And Morris
Motto and Morris,
With love in the air to catch your view!
And like the apples of love in the garden of peace,
But try to move up straight with your positive mind always.
Motto and Morris,
Come and share your love with me tonight;
For the colours of the rainbow are now seen up high,
And like leaders with workers inthe land of plenty.
See! !
I have heard the news;
Listen!
I have seen your lovely flower;
And like your motto and the muse of Morris,
But, love is in the air and you have to be very wise to come closer to it!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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