Songs Of The Road

BENDY'S SERMON

[Bendigo, the well-known Nottingham prize fighter, became converted to religion, and preached at revival meetings throughout the country.]

 
     You didn't know of Bendigo!   Well, that
          knocks me out!
     Who's your board school teacher?   What's
          he been about?
 
 
     Chock-a-block with fairy-tales – full of
          useless cram,
     And never heard o' Bendigo, the pride of
          Nottingham!
 
 
     Bendy's short for Bendigo.   You should
          see him peel!
     Half of him was whalebone, half of him
          was steel,
 
 
     Fightin' weight eleven ten, five foot nine
          in height,
     Always ready to  oblige if you  want a
          fight.
 
 
     I could talk of Bendigo from here to king-
          dom come,
     I guess before I ended you would wish your
          dad was dumb.
 
 
     I'd tell you how he fought Ben Caunt, and
          how the deaf 'un fell,
     But the game is done, and the men are
          gone – and maybe it's as well.
 
 
     Bendy he turned Methodist – he said he
          felt a call,
     He stumped the country preachin' and you
          bet he filled the hall,
 
 
     If you seed him in the pulpit, a-bleatin'
          like a lamb,
     You'd   never know   bold   Bendigo,   the
          pride of Nottingham.
 
 
     His hat was like a funeral, he'd got a
          waiter's coat,
     With a hallelujah collar and a choker round
          his throat,
 
 
     His pals would laugh and say in chaff that
          Bendigo was right,
     In takin' on the devil, since he'd no one
          else to fight.
 
 
     But he was very earnest, improvin' day by
          day,
     A-workin' and a-preachin' just as his duty
          lay,
 
 
     But the devil he was waitin', and in the
          final bout,
     He hit him hard below his guard and
          knocked poor Bendy out.
 
 
     Now I'll tell you how it happened. He
          was preachin' down at Brum,
     He was billed just like a circus, you should
          see the people come,
 
 
     The chapel it was crowded, and in the fore-
          most row,
     There was half a dozen bruisers who'd a
          grudge at Bendigo.
 
 
     There was Tommy Piatt of Bradford,
          Solly Jones of Perry Bar,
     Long Connor from the Bull Ring, the
          same wot drew with Carr,
 
 
     Jack Ball the fightin  gunsmith, Joe Mur-
          phy from the Mews,
     And Iky Moss, the bettin' boss, the
          Champion of the Jews.
 
 
     A very pretty handful a-sittin' in a
          string,
     Full of beer and impudence, ripe for any-
          thing,
 
 
     Sittin' in a string there, right under
          Bendy's nose,
     If his message was for sinners, he could
          make a start on those.
 
 
     Soon he heard them chaflin'; "Hi, Bendy!
          Here's a go!"
     "How much are you coppin' by this Jump
          to Glory show?"
 
 
     "Stow it, Bendy! Left the ring!  Mighty
          spry of you!
     Didn't  everybody know  the  ring  was
          leavin' you."
 
 
     Bendy fairly sweated as he stood above
          and prayed,
     "Look down, O Lord, and grip me with
          a strangle hold!" he said.
 
 
     "Fix me with a strangle hold! Put a stop
          on me!
     I'm slippin', Lord, I'm slippin' and I'm
          clingin' hard to Thee!"
 
 
     But the roughs they kept on chaffin' and
          the uproar it was such
     That the preacher in the pulpit might be
          talkin' double Dutch,
 
 
     Till a workin' man he shouted out, a-
          jumpin' to his feet,
     "Give us a lead, your reverence, and heave
          'em in the street."
 
 
     Then  Bendy  said, "Good  Lord, since
          first I left my sinful ways,
     Thou knowest that to Thee alone I've
          given up my days,
 
 
     But now, dear Lord" – and here he laid his
          Bible on the shelf —
     "I'll take, with your permission, just five
          minutes for myself."
 
 
     He vaulted from the pulpit like a tiger
          from a den,
     They say it was a lovely sight to see him
          floor his men;
 
 
     Right and left, and left and right, straight
          and true and hard,
     Till the Ebenezer Chapel looked more like
          a knacker's yard.
 
 
     Platt was standin' on his back and lookup
          at his toes,
     Solly Jones of Perry Bar was feelin' for
          his nose,
 
 
     Connor of the Bull Ring had all that he
          could do
     Rakin' for his ivories that lay about the
          pew.
 
 
     Jack Ball the fightin' gunsmith was in a
          peaceful sleep,
     Joe Murphy lay across him, all tied up
          in a heap,
 
 
     Five of them was twisted in a tangle on
          the floor,
     And Iky Moss, the bettin' boss, had
          sprinted for the door.
 
 
     Five repentant fightin' men, sitting in a
          row,
     Listenin' to words of grace from Mister
          Bendigo,
 
 
     Listenin' to his reverence – all as good
          as gold,
     Pretty little baa-lambs, gathered to the
          fold.
 
 
     So that's the way that Bendy ran his
          mission in the slum,
     And preached the Holy Gospel to the
          fightin' men of Brum,
 
 
     "The Lord," said he, "has given me His
          message from on high,
     And if  you interrupt Him, I will know
          the reason why."
 
 
     But to think of all your schooling clean
          wasted, thrown away,
     Darned if I can make out what you're
          learnin' all the day,
 
 
     Grubbin' up old fairy-tales, fillin' up with
          cram,
     And didn't know of Bendigo, the pride
          of Nottingham.
 

II. – PHILOSOPHIC VERSES

COMPENSATION

 
     The grime is on the window pane,
          Pale the London sunbeams fall,
     And show the smudge of mildew stain,
          Which lies on the distempered wall.
 
 
     I am a cripple, as you see,
          And here I lie, a broken thing,
     But God has given flight to me,
          That mocks the swiftest eagle wing.
 
 
     For if I will to see or hear,
          Quick as the thought my spirit flies,
     And lo! the picture flashes clear,
          Through all the mist of centuries.
 
 
     I can recall the Tigris' strand,
          Where once the Turk and Tartar met,
     When the great Lord of Samarcand
          Struck down the Sultan Bajazet.
 
 
     Under a ten-league swirl of dust
          The roaring battle swings and sways,
     Now reeling down, now upward thrust,
          The crescent sparkles through  the haze.
 
 
     I see the Janissaries fly,
          I see the chain-mailed leader fall,
     I hear the Tekbar clear and high,
          The true believer's battle-call.
 
 
     And tossing o'er the press I mark
          The horse-tail banner over all,
     Shaped like the smudge of mildew dark
          That lies on the distempered wall.
 
 
     And thus the meanest thing I see
          Will set a scene within my brain,
     And every sound that comes to me,
          Will bring strange echoes back again.
 
 
     Hark now!   In rhythmic monotone,
          You hear the murmur of the mart,
     The low, deep, unremitting moan,
          That  comes  from  weary London's heart.
 
 
     But I can change it to the hum
          Of multitudinous acclaim,
     When triple-walled Byzantium,
          Re-echoes the Imperial name.
 
 
     I hear the beat of armed feet,
          The legions clanking on their way,
     The long shout rims from street to street,
          With rolling drum and trumpet bray.
 
 
     So I hear it rising, falling,
          Till it dies away once more,
     And I hear the costers calling
          Mid the weary London roar.
 
 
     Who shall pity then the lameness,
          Which still holds me from the ground?
     Who commiserate the sameness
          Of the scene that girds me round?
 
 
     Though I lie a broken wreck,
          Though I seem to want for all,
     Still the world is at my beck
          And the ages at my call.
 

THE BANNER OF PROGRESS

 
     There's a banner in our van,
     And we follow as we can,
     For at times we scarce can see it,
     And at times it flutters high.
     But however it be flown,
     Still we know it as our own,
     And we follow, ever follow,
     Where we see the banner fly.
 
 
     In the struggle and the strife,
     In the weariness of life,
     The banner-man may stumble,
     He may falter in the fight.
     But if one should fail or slip,
     There are other hands to grip,
     And it's forward, ever forward,
     From the darkness to the light.
 

HOPE

 
     Faith may break on reason,
     Faith may prove a treason
          To that highest gift
          That is granted by Thy grace;
     But Hope!   Ah, let us cherish
     Some spark that may not perish,
          Some tiny spark to cheer us,
          As we wander through the waste!
 
 
     A little lamp beside us,
     A little lamp to guide us,
          Where the path is rocky,
          Where the road is steep.
     That when the light falls dimmer,
     Still some God-sent glimmer
          May hold us steadfast ever,
          To the track that we should keep.
 
 
     Hope for the trending of it,
     Hope for the ending of it,
     Hope for all around us,
          That it ripens in the sun.
 
 
     Hope for what is waning,
     Hope for what is gaining,
     Hope for what is waiting
          When the long day is done.
 
 
     Hope that He, the nameless,
     May still be best and blameless,
          Nor ever end His highest
          With the earthworm and the slime.
     Hope that o'er the border,
     There lies a land of order,
     With higher law to reconcile
          The lower laws of Time.
 
 
     Hope that every vexed life,
     Finds within that next life,
          Something that may recompense,
          Something that may cheer.
     And that perchance the lowest one
     Is truly but the slowest one,
          Quickened by the sorrow
          Which is waiting for him here.