Dancing by the Light of the Moon

by Gyles Brandreth

  Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the hearses,

  So strong you thump, O terrible drums – so loud you bugles blow.

  The Walrus and the Carpenter

  by Lewis Carroll

  (1832–98)

  The sun was shining on the sea,

  Shining with all his might:

  He did his very best to make

  The billows smooth and bright –

  And this was odd, because it was

  The middle of the night.

  The moon was shining sulkily,

  Because she thought the sun

  Had got no business to be there

  After the day was done –

  ‘It’s very rude of him,’ she said,

  ‘To come and spoil the fun!’

  The sea was wet as wet could be,

  The sands were dry as dry.

  You could not see a cloud, because

  No cloud was in the sky:

  No birds were flying overhead –

  There were no birds to fly.

  The Walrus and the Carpenter

  Were walking close at hand;

  They wept like anything to see

  Such quantities of sand:

  ‘If this were only cleared away,’

  They said, ‘it would be grand!’

  ‘If seven maids with seven mops

  Swept it for half a year,

  Do you suppose,’ the Walrus said,

  ‘That they could get it clear?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said the Carpenter,

  And shed a bitter tear.

  ‘O Oysters, come and walk with us!’

  The Walrus did beseech.

  ‘A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,

  Along the briny beach:

  We cannot do with more than four,

  To give a hand to each.’

  The eldest Oyster looked at him,

  But never a word he said:

  The eldest Oyster winked his eye,

  And shook his heavy head –

  Meaning to say he did not choose

  To leave the oyster-bed.

  But four young Oysters hurried up,

  All eager for the treat:

  Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,

  Their shoes were clean and neat –

  And this was odd, because, you know,

  They hadn’t any feet.

  Four other Oysters followed them,

  And yet another four;

  And thick and fast they came at last,

  And more, and more, and more –

  All hopping through the frothy waves,

  And scrambling to the shore.

  The Walrus and the Carpenter

  Walked on a mile or so,

  And then they rested on a rock

  Conveniently low:

  And all the little Oysters stood

  And waited in a row.

  ‘The time has come,’ the Walrus said,

  ‘To talk of many things:

  Of shoes – and ships – and sealing-wax –

  Of cabbages – and kings –

  And why the sea is boiling hot –

  And whether pigs have wings.’

  ‘But wait a bit,’ the Oysters cried,

  ‘Before we have our chat;

  For some of us are out of breath,

  And all of us are fat!’

  ‘No hurry!’ said the Carpenter.

  They thanked him much for that.

  ‘A loaf of bread,’ the Walrus said,

  ‘Is what we chiefly need:

  Pepper and vinegar besides

  Are very good indeed –

  Now if you’re ready, Oysters dear,

  We can begin to feed.’

  ‘But not on us!’ the Oysters cried,

  Turning a little blue.

  ‘After such kindness, that would be

  A dismal thing to do!’

  ‘The night is fine,’ the Walrus said.

  ‘Do you admire the view?

  ‘It was so kind of you to come!

  And you are very nice!’

  The Carpenter said nothing but

  ‘Cut us another slice:

  I wish you were not quite so deaf –

  I’ve had to ask you twice!’

  ‘It seems a shame,’ the Walrus said,

  ‘To play them such a trick,

  After we’ve brought them out so far,

  And made them trot so quick!’

  The Carpenter said nothing but

  ‘The butter’s spread too thick!’

  ‘I weep for you,’ the Walrus said:

  ‘I deeply sympathise.’

  With sobs and tears he sorted out

  Those of the largest size,

  Holding his pocket-handkerchief

  Before his streaming eyes.

  ‘O Oysters,’ said the Carpenter,

  ‘You’ve had a pleasant run!

  Shall we be trotting home again?’

  But answer came there none –

  And this was scarcely odd, because

  They’d eaten every one.

  The Yarn of the ‘Nancy Bell’

  by W. S. Gilbert

  (1836–1911)fn5

  ’Twas on the shores that round our coast

  From Deal to Ramsgate span,

  That I found alone on a piece of stone

  An elderly naval man.

  His hair was weedy, his beard was long,

  And weedy and long was he,

  And I heard this wight on the shore recite,

  In a singular minor key:

  ‘Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,

  And the mate of the Nancy brig,

  And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,

  And the crew of the captain’s gig.’

  And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,

  Till I really felt afraid,

  For I couldn’t help thinking the man had been drinking,

  And so I simply said:

  ‘Oh, elderly man, it’s little I know

  Of the duties of men of the sea,

  And I’ll eat my hand if I understand

  How you can possibly be

  ‘At once a cook, and a captain bold,

  And the mate of the Nancy brig,

  And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,

  And the crew of the captain’s gig.’

  Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which

  Is a trick all seamen larn,

  And having got rid of a thumping quid,

  He spun this painful yarn:

  ‘’Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell

  That we sailed to the Indian sea,

  And there on a reef we come to grief,

  Which has often occurred to me.

  ‘And pretty nigh all o’ the crew was drowned

  (There was seventy-seven o’ soul)

  And only ten of the Nancy’s men

  Said “Here!” to the muster roll.

  ‘There was me and the cook and the captain bold,

  And the mate of the Nancy brig,

  And the bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,

  And the crew of the captain’s gig.

  ‘For a month we’d neither wittles nor drink,

  Till a-hungry we did feel,

  So, we drawed a lot, and, accordin’ shot

  The captain for our meal.

  ‘The next lot fell to the Nancy’s mate,

  And a delicate dish he made;

  Then our appetite with the midshipmite

  We seven survivors stayed.

  ‘And then we murdered the bo’sun tight,

  And he much resembled pig;

  Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,

  On the crew of the captain’s gig.

  ‘Then only the cook and me was left,

  And the delicate question, “Which

  Of us two goes to the kettle?” arose,

  And we argued it out as sich.


  ‘For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,

  And the cook he worshipped me;

  But we’d both be blowed if we’d either be stowed

  In the other chap’s hold, you see.

  ‘“I’ll be eat if you dines off me,” says TOM,

  “Yes, that,” says I, “you’ll be,” –

  “I’m boiled if I die, my friend,” quoth I,

  And “Exactly so,” quoth he.

  ‘Says he, “Dear JAMES, to murder me

  Were a foolish thing to do,

  For don’t you see that you can’t cook me,

  While I can – and will – cook you!”

  ‘So he boils the water, and takes the salt

  And the pepper in portions true

  (Which he never forgot), and some chopped shallot,

  And some sage and parsley too.

  ‘“Come here,” says he, with a proper pride,

  Which his smiling features tell,

  “’T will soothing be if I let you see

  How extremely nice you’ll smell.”

  ‘And he stirred it round and round and round,

  And he sniffed at the foaming froth;

  When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals

  In the scum of the boiling broth.

  ‘And I eat that cook in a week or less,

  And – as I eating be

  The last of his chops, why, I almost drops,

  For a wessel in sight I see.

  * * * * * *

  ‘And I never grieve, and I never smile,

  And I never larf nor play,

  But I sit and croak, and a single joke

  I have – which is to say:

  ‘Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,

  And the mate of the Nancy brig,

  And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,

  And the crew of the captain’s gig!’

  ‘The Lord Chancellor’s Song’ from Iolanthe

  by W. S. Gilbert

  Love, unrequited, robs me of my rest:

  Love, hopeless love, my ardent soul encumbers:

  Love, nightmare like, lies heavy on my chest,

  And weaves itself into my midnight slumbers!

  When you’re lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is taboo’d by anxiety,

  I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in, without impropriety;

  For your brain is on fire – the bedclothes conspire of usual slumber to plunder you:

  First your counterpane goes, and uncovers your toes, and your sheet slips demurely from under you;

  Then the blanketing tickles – you feel like mixed pickles – so terribly sharp is the pricking,

  And you’re hot, and you’re cross, and you tumble and toss till there’s nothing ’twixt you and the ticking.

  Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap, and you pick ’em all up in a tangle;

  Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to remain at its usual angle!

  Well, you get some repose in the form of a doze, with hot eye-balls and head ever aching,

  But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams that you’d very much better be waking;

  For you dream you are crossing the Channel, and tossing about in a steamer from Harwich –

  Which is something between a large bathing machine and a very small second-class carriage –

  And you’re giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat) to a party of friends and relations –

  They’re a ravenous horde – and they all came on board at Sloane Square and South Kensington Stations.

  And bound on that journey you find your attorney (who started that morning from Devon);

  He’s a bit undersized, and you don’t feel surprised when he tells you he’s only eleven.

  Well, you’re driving like mad with this singular lad (by-the-bye, the ship’s now a four-wheeler),

  And you’re playing round games, and he calls you bad names when you tell him that ‘ties pay the dealer’;

  But this you can’t stand, so you throw up your hand, and you find you’re as cold as an icicle,

  In your shirt and your socks (the black silk with gold clocks), crossing Salisbury Plain on a bicycle:

  And he and the crew are on bicycles too – which they’ve somehow or other invested in –

  And he’s telling the tars all the particulars of a company he’s interested in –

  It’s a scheme of devices, to get at low prices all goods from cough mixtures to cables

  (Which tickled the sailors) by treating retailers as though they were all vegetables –

  You get a good spadesman to plant a small tradesman (first take off his boots with a boot-tree),

  And his legs will take root, and his fingers will shoot, and they’ll blossom and bud like a fruit-tree –

  From the greengrocer tree you get grapes and green pea, cauliflower, pineapple and cranberries,

  While the pastry-cook plant cherry brandy will grant, apple puffs, and three-corners, and Banburys –

  The shares are a penny, and ever so many are taken by Rothschild and Baring,

  And just as a few are allotted to you, you awake with a shudder despairing –

  You’re a regular wreck, with a crick in your neck, and no wonder you snore, for your head’s on the floor, and you’ve needles and pins from your soles to your shins, and your flesh is a-creep, for your left leg’s asleep, and you’ve cramp in your toes, and a fly on your nose, and some fluff in your lung, and a feverish tongue, and a thirst that’s intense, and a general sense that you haven’t been sleeping in clover;

  But the darkness has passed, and it’s daylight at last, and the night has been long – ditto ditto my song – and thank goodness they’re both of them over!

  Pied Beauty

  by Gerard Manley Hopkins

  (1844–89)fn6

  Glory be to God for dappled things –

  For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

  For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

  Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;

  Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;

  And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

  All things counter, original, spare, strange;

  Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

  With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

  He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

  Praise him.

  The Song of the Smoke

  by W. E. B. Du Bois

  (1868–1963)fn7

  I am the Smoke King

  I am black!

  I am swinging in the sky,

  I am wringing worlds awry;

  I am the thought of the throbbing mills,

  I am the soul of the soul-toil kills,

  Wraith of the ripple of trading rills;

  Up I’m curling from the sod,

  I am whirling home to God;

  I am the Smoke King

  I am black.

  I am the Smoke King,

  I am black!

  I am wreathing broken hearts,

  I am sheathing love’s light darts;

  Inspiration of iron times

  Wedding the toil of toiling climes,

  Shedding the blood of bloodless crimes –

  Lurid lowering ’mid the blue,

  Torrid towering toward the true,

  I am the Smoke King,

  I am black.

  I am the Smoke King,

  I am black!

  I am darkening with song,

  I am hearkening to wrong!

  I will be black as blackness can –

  The blacker the mantle, the mightier the man!

  For blackness was ancient ere whiteness began.

  I am daubing God in night,

  I am swabbing Hell in white:

  I am the Smoke King

  I am black.

  I am the
Smoke King

  I am black!

  I am cursing ruddy morn,

  I am hearsing hearts unborn:

  Souls unto me are as stars in a night,

  I whiten my black men – I blacken my white!

  What’s the hue of a hide to a man in his might?

  Hail! great, gritty, grimy hands –

  Sweet Christ, pity toiling lands!

  I am the Smoke King

  I am black.

  The Listeners

  by Walter de la Mare

  (1873–1956)

  ‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,

  Knocking on the moonlit door;

  And his horse in the silence champed the grasses

  Of the forest’s ferny floor:

  And a bird flew up out of the turret,

  Above the Traveller’s head:

  And he smote upon the door again a second time;

  ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.

  But no one descended to the Traveller;

  No head from the leaf-fringed sill

  Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,

  Where he stood perplexed and still.

  But only a host of phantom listeners

  That dwelt in the lone house then

  Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight

  To that voice from the world of men:

  Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,

  That goes down to the empty hall,

  Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken

  By the lonely Traveller’s call.

  And he felt in his heart their strangeness,

  Their stillness answering his cry,

  While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,

  ’Neath the starred and leafy sky;

  For he suddenly smote on the door, even

  Louder, and lifted his head: –

  ‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,

  That I kept my word,’ he said.

  Never the least stir made the listeners,

  Though every word he spake

  Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house

  From the one man left awake:

  Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,

  And the sound of iron on stone,

  And how the silence surged softly backward,

  When the plunging hoofs were gone.

  Welsh Incident

  by Robert Graves

  (1895–1985)

  ‘But that was nothing to what things came out

  From the sea-caves of Criccieth yonder.’

  ‘What were they? Mermaids? dragons? ghosts?’

  ‘Nothing at all of any things like that.’

  ‘What were they, then?’

  ‘All sorts of queer things,