  Produced by Al Haines. [image] Cover THE EVERLASTING MERCY BY AUTHOR OF LONDON First Edition, Crown 8vo, November 1911; Entered at the Library of All rights reserved BY THE SAME AUTHOR THE WIDOW IN THE BYE STREET Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. THE TRAGEDY OF POMPEY THE GREAT Crown 8vo, Cloth, 3s. 6d. net; London: SIDGWICK & JACKSON LTD. TO Thy place is biggyd above the sterrys deer, Noon erthely paleys wrouhte in so statly wyse, Com on my freend, my brothir moost enteer, For the I offryd my blood in sacrifise. JOHN LYDGATE. THE EVERLASTING MERCY From '41 to '51 I was my folk's contrary son; I bit my father's hand right through And broke my mother's heart in two. I sometimes go without my dinner Now that I know the times I've gi'n her. From '51 to '6l I cut my teeth and took to fun. I learned what not to be afraid of And what stuff women's lips are made of; I learned with what a rosy feeling Good ale makes floors seem like the ceiling, And how the moon gives shiny light To lads as roll home singing by't. My blood did leap, my flesh did revel, Saul Kane was tokened to the devil. From '61 to '67 I lived in disbelief of heaven. I drunk, I fought, I poached, I whored, I did despite unto the Lord, I cursed, 'twould make a man look pale, And nineteen times I went to jail. Now, friends, observe and look upon me, Mark how the Lord took pity on me. By Dead Man's Thorn, while setting wires, Who should come up but Billy Myers, A friend of mine, who used to be As black a sprig of hell as me, With whom I'd planned, to save encroachin', Which fields and coverts each should poach in. Now when he saw me set my snare, He tells me 'Get to hell from there. This field is mine,' he says, 'by right; If you poach here, there'll be a fight. Out now,' he says, 'and leave your wire; It's mine.' 'It ain't.' 'You put.' 'You liar.' 'You closhy put.' 'You bloody liar.' 'This is my field.' 'This is my wire.' 'I'm ruler here.' 'You ain't.' 'I am.' 'I'll fight you for it.' 'Right, by damn. Not now, though, I've a-sprained my thumb, We'll fight after the harvest hum. And Silas Jones, that bookie wide, Will make a purse five pounds a side.' Those were the words, that was the place By which God brought me into grace. On Wood Top Field the peewits go Mewing and wheeling ever so; And like the shaking of a timbrel Cackles the laughter of the whimbrel. In the old quarry-pit they say Head-keeper Pike was made away. He walks, head-keeper Pike, for harm, He taps the windows of the farm; The blood drips from his broken chin, He taps and begs to be let in. On Wood Top, nights, I've shaked to hark The peewits wambling in the dark Lest in the dark the old man might Creep up to me to beg a light. But Wood Top grass is short and sweet And springy to a boxer's feet; At harvest hum the moon so bright Did shine on Wood Top for the fight. When Bill was stripped down to his bends I thought how long we two'd been friends, And in my mind, about that wire, I thought 'He's right, I am a liar, As sure as skilly's made in prison The right to poach that copse is his'n. I'll have no luck to-night,' thinks I. 'I'm fighting to defend a lie. And this moonshiny evening's fun Is worse than aught I ever done.' And thinking that way my heart bled so I almost stept to Bill and said so. And now Bill's dead I would be glad If I could only think I had. But no. I put the thought away For fear of what my friends would say. They'd backed me, see? O Lord, the sin Done for the things there's money in. The stakes were drove, the ropes were hitched, Into the ring my hat I pitched. My corner faced the Squire's park Just where the fir-trees make it dark; The place where I begun poor Nell Upon the woman's road to hell. I thought oft, sitting in my corner After the time-keep struck his warner (Two brandy flasks, for fear of noise, Clinked out the time to us two boys). And while my seconds chafed and gloved me I thought of Nell's eyes when she loved me, And wondered how my tot would end, First Nell cast off and now my friend; And in the moonlight dim and wan I knew quite well my luck was gone; And looking round I felt a spite At all who'd come to see me fight; The five and forty human faces Inflamed by drink and going to races, Faces of men who'd never been Merry or true or live or clean; Who'd never felt the boxer's trim Of brain divinely knit to limb, Nor felt the whole live body go One tingling health from top to toe; Nor took a punch nor given a swing, But just soaked deady round the ring Until their brains and bloods were foul Enough to make their throttles howl, While we whom Jesus died to teach Fought round on round, three minutes each. And thinking that, you'll understand I thought, 'I'll go and take Bill's hand. I'll up and say the fault was mine, He sha'n't make play for these here swine.' And then I thought that that was silly, They'd think I was afraid of Billy: They'd think (I thought it, God forgive me) I funked the hiding Bill could give me. And that thought made me mad and hot. 'Think that, will they? Well, they shall not. They sha'n't think that. I will not. I'm Damned if I will. I will not.' Time! From the beginning of the bout My luck was gone, my hand was out. Right from the start Bill called the play, But I was quick and kept away Till the fourth round, when work got mixed, And then I knew Bill had me fixed. My hand was out, why, Heaven knows; Bill punched me when and where he chose. Through two more rounds we quartered wide And all the time my hands seemed tied; Bill punched me when and where he pleased. The cheering from my backers ceased, But every punch I heard a yell Of 'That's the style, Bill, give him hell.' No one for me, but Jimmy's light 'Straight left! Straight left!' and 'Watch his right.' I don't know how a boxer goes When all his body hums from blows; I know I seemed to rock and spin, I don't know how I saved my chin; I know I thought my only friend Was that clinked flask at each round's end When my two seconds, Ed and Jimmy, Had sixty seconds help to gimme. But in the ninth, with pain and knocks I stopped: I couldn't fight nor box. Bill missed his swing, the light was tricky, But I went down, and stayed down, dicky. 'Get up,' cried Jim. I said, 'I will.' Then all the gang yelled, 'Out him, Bill. Out him.' Bill rushed ... and Clink, Clink, Clink. Time! and Jim's knee, and rum to drink. And round the ring there ran a titter: 'Saved by the call, the bloody quitter.' They drove (a dodge that never fails) A pin beneath my finger nails. They poured what seemed a running beck Of cold spring water down my neck; Jim with a lancet quick as flies Lowered the swellings round my eyes. They sluiced my legs and fanned my face Through all that blessed minute's grace; They gave my calves a thorough kneading, They salved my cuts and stopped the bleeding. A gulp of liquor dulled the pain, And then the two flasks clinked again. Time! There was Bill as grim as death. He rushed, I clinched, to get more breath. And breath I got, though Billy bats Some stinging short-arms in my slats. And when we broke, as I foresaw, He swung his right in for the jaw. I stopped it on my shoulder bone, And at the shock I heard Bill groan-- A little groan or moan or grunt As though I'd hit his wind a bunt. At that, I clinched, and while we clinched, His old-time right-arm dig was flinched, And when we broke he hit me light As though he didn't trust his right, He flapped me somehow with his wrist As though he couldn't use his fist, And when he hit he winced with pain. I thought, 'Your sprained thumb's crocked again.' So I got strength and Bill gave ground, And that round was an easy round. During the wait my Jimmy said, 'What's making Billy fight so dead? He's all to pieces. Is he blown?' 'His thumb's out.' 'No? Then it's your own. It's all your own, but don't be rash-- He's got the goods if you've got cash, And what one hand can do he'll do, Be careful this next round or two.' Time! There was Bill, and I felt sick That luck should play so mean a trick And give me leave to knock him out After he'd plainly won the bout. But by the way the man came at me He made it plain he meant to bat me; If you'd a seen the way he come You wouldn't think he'd crocked a thumb. With all his skill and all his might He clipped me dizzy left and right; The Lord knows what the effort cost, But he was mad to think he'd lost, And knowing nothing else could save him He didn't care what pain it gave him. He called the music and the dance For five rounds more and gave no chance. Try to imagine if you can The kind of manhood in the man, And if you'd like to feel his pain, You sprain your thumb and hit the sprain, And hit it hard, with all your power On something hard for half-an-hour, While someone thumps you black and blue, And then you'll know what Billy knew. Bill took that pain without a sound Till half-way through the eighteenth round, And then I sent him down and out, And Silas said, 'Kane wins the bout.' When Bill came to, you understand, I ripped the mitten from my hand And went across to ask Bill shake. My limbs were all one pain and ache, I was so weary and so sore I don't think I'd a stood much more. Bill in his corner bathed his thumb, Buttoned his shirt and glowered glum. 'I'll never shake your hand,' he said. 'I'd rather see my children dead. I've been about and had some fun with you, But you're a liar and I've done with you. You've knocked me out, you didn't beat me; Look out the next time that you meet me, There'll be no friend to watch the clock for you And no convenient thumb to crock for you, And I'll take care, with much delight, You'll get what you'd a got to-night; That puts my meaning clear, I guess, Now get to hell; I want to dress.' I dressed. My backers one and all Said, 'Well done you,' or 'Good old Saul. 'Saul is a wonder and a fly 'un, What'll you have, Saul, at the Lion?' With merry oaths they helped me down The stony wood-path to the town. The moonlight shone on Cabbage Walk, It made the limestone look like chalk, It was too late for any people, Twelve struck as we went by the steeple. A dog barked, and an owl was calling, The Squire's brook was still a-falling, The carved heads on the church looked down On 'Russell, Blacksmith of this Town,' And all the graves of all the ghosts Who rise on Christmas Eve in hosts To dance and carol in festivity For joy of Jesus Christ's Nativity (Bell-ringer Dawe and his two sons Beheld 'em from the bell-tower once), Two and two about about Singing the end of Advent out, Dwindling down to windlestraws When the glittering peacock craws, As craw the glittering peacock should When Christ's own star comes over the wood. Lamb of the sky come out of fold Wandering windy heavens cold. So they shone and sang till twelve When all the bells ring out of theirselve; Rang a peal for Christmas morn, Glory, men, for Christ is born. All the old monks' singing places Glimmered quick with flitting faces, Singing anthems, singing hymns Under carven cherubims. Ringer Dawe aloft could mark Faces at the window dark Crowding, crowding, row on row, Till all the church began to glow. The chapel glowed, the nave, the choir, All the faces became fire Below the eastern window high To see Christ's star come up the sky. Then they lifted hands and turned, And all their lifted fingers burned, Burned like the golden altar tallows, Burned like a troop of God's own Hallows, Bringing to mind the burning time When all the bells will rock and chime And burning saints on burning horses Will sweep the planets from their courses And loose the stars to burn up night. Lord, give us eyes to bear the light. We all went quiet down the Scallenge Lest Police Inspector Drew should challenge. But 'Spector Drew was sleeping sweet, His head upon a charges sheet, Under the gas-jet flaring full, Snorting and snoring like a bull, His bull cheeks puffed, his bull lips blowing, His ugly yellow front teeth showing. Just as we peeped we saw him fumble And scratch his head, and shift, and mumble. Down in the lane so thin and dark The tan-yards stank of bitter bark, The curate's pigeons gave a flutter, A cat went courting down the gutter, And none else stirred a foot or feather. The houses put their heads together, Talking, perhaps, so dark and sly, Of all the folk they'd seen go by, Children, and men and women, merry all, Who'd some day pass that way to burial. It was all dark, but at the turning The Lion had a window burning. So in we went and up the stairs, Treading as still as cats and hares. The way the stairs creaked made you wonder If dead men's bones were hidden under. At head of stairs upon the landing A woman with a lamp was standing; She greet each gent at head of stairs With 'Step in, gents, and take your chairs. The punch'll come when kettle bubble, But don't make noise or there'll be trouble.' 'Twas Doxy Jane, a bouncing girl With eyes all sparks and hair all curl, And cheeks all red and lips all coal, And thirst for men instead of soul. She's trod her pathway to the fire. Old Rivers had his nephew by her. I step aside from Tom and Jimmy NOTE 'The Everlasting Mercy' first appeared in The English Review for October 1911. I thank the Editor and Proprietors of that paper for permitting me to reprint it here. The persons and events described in the poem are entirely imaginary, and no reference is made or intended to any living person. JOHN MASEFIELD. THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH FROM SIDGWICK & JACKSON'S LIST JOHN MASEFIELD THE WIDOW IN THE BYE STREET. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net. Third Impression "Mr Masefield is no common realist, but universalizes his tragedy in the grand manner.... We are convinced that he is writing truly of human nature, which is the vital thing.... The last few stanzas show us pastoral poetry in the very perfection of simplicity."--Spectator. 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