The
chances are he will bring home in his bag nothing but a field-mouse
he trod on by accident. Not the less his is the true sport and the
essential stuff of holiness.
As touching Christmas--but there is nothing like verse to clear the
mind, heat the blood, and make very humble the heart. Rouse thee,
Muse!
One Christmas Night in Pontgibaud
(_Pom-pom, rub-a-dub-dub_)
A man with a drum went to and fro
(_Two merry eyes, two cheeks chub_)
Nor not a citril within, without,
But heard the racket and heard the rout
And marvelled what it was all about
(_And who shall shrive Beelzebub?_)
He whacked so hard the drum was split
(_Pom-pom, rub-a-dub-dum_)
Out lept Saint Gabriel from it
(_Praeclarissimus Omnium_)
Who spread his wings and up he went
Nor ever paused in his ascent
Till he had reached the firmament
(_Benedicamus Dominum_).
That's what I shall sing (please God) at dawn to-morrow, standing on
the high, green barrow at Storrington, where the bones of Athelstan's
men are. Yea,
At dawn to-morrow
On Storrington Barrow
I'll beg or borrow
A bow and arrow
And shoot sleek sorrow
Through the marrow.
The floods are out and the ford is narrow,
The stars hang dead and my limbs are lead,
But ale is gold
And there's good foot-hold
On the Cuckfield side of Storrington Barrow.
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