Trev's Twitters
TREV AND HIS TWITTERS
Trevor was born in Elland in Yorkshire in 1913 and after
attending secondary school there gained a B.Sc. in Electrical Engineering at
Manchester University College of Technology.
Various jobs with Metropolitan-Vickers, Record Electrical
Co. Ltd. of Altrincham and the firm of Industrial Energy Costs at Lytham St.
Anne's followed until his retirement in 1978.
Sadly, his wife Lilian died just three years later and with his family
having flown the nest, Trevor found himself alone. Leaving North Wales, to where he had retired
and after various moves, he found himself in North Devon where on joining the
Ilfracombe Walkers he met Kathy, who kindly took him into Barn Cottage. Here he stayed for over 20 years, becoming a
real member of the village and where with many friends and neighbours he
celebrated his 100th birthday.
Trevor began writing for the Newsletter in 2006 and his
Twitters began in 2007, his December contribution was No. 44.
Always ahead of any deadlines, he would hand me, with his
winning smile, poems he had remembered, written in his spidery hand-writing and
on paper torn from a notepad! So I have
just a few left for this issue -
Twitters from Beyond No. 45!
Bless you, Trev.
Ed. TREV'S TWITTERS - No.45 Triolet Henry Austin Dobson 1840-1921 Henry Austin Dobson was an English poet,
critic and biographer, whose love and knowledge of the 18th century lent a
graceful elegance to his work and inspired his critical studies. In 1856 he entered
the Board of Trade where he remained until his retirement in 1901. He married in 1868 and became the father of
10, living in the London suburb of Ealing until his death in 1921.
Wilderness An excerpt from the Rubaiyat of Omar
Khayyam, 1048-1131, the Middle Eastern poet and translated by Edward
Fitzgerald. Come to the Fair [Trev's message at the end of
this says: 'I can't recall who wrote
this, please help my faulty memory.'
The song was written in 1917, the lyrics by Helen Taylor and the music
by Easthope Martin.] Under the Greenwood Tree From
As You Like It, William Shakespeare [1564-1616] Illustrations: Paul Swailes
And it turned to a Sonnet.
It began a la mode,
I intended an Ode:
But Rose cross'd the road
In her latest new bonnet;
I intended an Ode;
And it turned to a Sonnet.
A jug of wine, a loaf of bread - with Thou
Beside me singing in the wilderness -
Oh, wilderness were Paradise enow!
Heigh-ho! come to the fair!
All the stalls on the green are as fine as can be!
With trinkets and tokens so pretty to see,
So it's come then, maidens and men,
To the fair in the pride of the morning.
So deck yourselves out in your finest array,
Heigh-ho! come to the fair!
The fiddles are playing the tune that you know:
Heigh-ho! come to the fair!
The drums are all beating, away let us go,
Heigh-ho! come to the fair!
There'll be racing and chasing from morning till night
,And roundabouts turning to left and to right,
So it's come then, maidens and men,
To the fair in the pride of the morning.
So lock up hour house, there'll be plenty of fun,
And it's Heigh-ho! come to the fair!
For love-making too, if so be you've a mind,
Heigh-ho! come to the fair!
For hearts that are happy are loving and kind,
Heigh-ho! come to the fair!
If 'Haste to the wedding' the fiddles should play,
I warrant you'll dance to the end of the day;
Come then, maidens and men,
To the fair in the pride of the morning.
The sun is a-shining to welcome the day,
With a Heigh-ho! come to the fair!
Maidens and men, maidens and men,
Come to the fair in the morning.
Heigh-ho! come to the fair!
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat.
Come hither, come hither, come hither,
Here shall he see
no enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun,
But loves to lie I' the sun.
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleased with what he gets.
Come hither, come hither, come hither,
Here shall he see
no enemy
But winter and rough weather.
7
TREV'S TWITTERS
The
Donkey
When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born;
With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil's walking parody
On all four-footed things.
The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.
Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.
G.K.
Chesterton [1874-1936]
Sonnet
XII
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness everywhere!
And yet this time removed was summer's time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
William
Shakespeare [1564-1616]
Illustrations by: Paul Swailes
Lung disease forced him to retire in 1882, and from that point on he
devoted himself to writing and literary research. However, his literary work started long
before his retirement, his first collection of poems having been published in
1873. In 1884 he married Monica
Waterhouse, daughter of Alfred
Waterhouse R.A., and spent the rest of his life in rural seclusion, first at Yattendon in Berkshire and then at Boars
Hill, Oxford, where he died.
He was elected to the
Fellowship of the Royal College of Physicians of London in 1900. Appointed Poet
Laureate in 1913, he is the only medical graduate to have held the office.
Trev
11
TREV'S TWITTERS
CROSSING THE BAR
Alfred Lord Tennyson [1809-1892]
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
Illustrations by: Paul Swailes
Trev
24
TREV'S TWITTERS
AUTUMN
I saw
old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like silence, listening
To silence, for no lonely bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn; --
Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright
With tangled gossamer that fell by night,
Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
Where
are the songs of Summer? -- With the sun,
Oping the dusky eyelids of the South,
Till shade and silence waken up as one,
And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.
Where are the merry birds? -- Away, away,
On panting wings through the inclement skies,
Lest owls should prey
Undazzled at noon-day,
And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.
Where
are the blooms of Summer -- In the west,
Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,
When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest
Like tearful Proserpine, snatched from her flowers
To a most gloomy breast.
Where is the pride of Summer, -- the green prime, --
The many, many leaves all twinkling? -- Three
On the mossed elm; three on the naked lime
Trembling, -- and one upon the old oak tree!
Where is the Dryad's immortality? --
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,
Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through
In the smooth holly's green eternity.
The
squirrel gloats on his accomplished hoard,
The ants have brimmed their garners with ripe grain,
And honey-bees have stored
The sweets of summer in their luscious cells;
The swallows all have winged across the main;
But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,
And sighs her tearful spells
Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain.
Alone, alone,
Upon a mossy stone,
Illustrated by: Paul Swailes
She
sits and reckons up the dead and gone,
With the last leaves for a love-rosary,
Whilst all the withered world looks drearily,
Like a dim picture of the drowned past
In the hushed mind's mysterious far away,
Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last
Into that distance, gray upon the gray.
O,
go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded
Under the languid downfall of her hair:
She wears a coronal of flowers faded
Upon her forehead, and a face of care; --
There is enough of withered every where
To make her bower, -- and enough of gloom;
There is enough of sadness to invite,
If only for the rose that died, -- whose doom
Is Beauty's, -- she that with the living bloom
Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light; --
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite
Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear, --
Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl;
Enough of fear and shadowy despair,
To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!
Thomas Hood [1798-1845]
NOVEMBER
The line of yellow light dies fast away
That crown'd the eastern copse; and chill and dun
Falls on the moor the brief November day.
Now the tired hunter winds a parting note,
And Echo bids good-night from every glade;
Yet wait awhile and see the calm leaves float
Each to his rest beneath their parent shade.
How like decaying life they seem to glide
And yet no second spring have they in store;
And where they fall, forgotten to abide
Is all their portion, and they ask no more.
Soon o'er their heads blithe April airs shall sing,
A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold,
The green buds glisten in the dews of Spring,
And all be vernal rapture as of old.
Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie,
In all the world of busy life around
No thought of them-in all the bounteous sky
No drop, for them, of kindly influence found.
Man's portion is to die and rise again:
Yet he complains, while these unmurmuring part
With their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain
As his when Eden held his virgin heart.
John Keble [1792-1866]
6
TREV'S TWITTERS
The Castle by the Lake
The tall castle by the lake?
With the rosy golden clouds
Of evening high above?
Oft have I seen it thus.
Also by bright moonlight,
With mist far out spread.
It sometimes seems to bow
To its image down below,
And then to stretch and strain
To the cloudy evening glow.
Do the wind and the water's lapping
Take on a fresher note?
Or is it the sound of lute strings
From the halls and festive song?
[A rough translation from one of Germany's 3 major poets - Schiller perhaps.]
Illustrated by: Paul Swailes
The Dragonfly
I wish no happier one than to be laid
Beneath a cool syringa's scented shade,
Or wavy willow, by the running stream,
Brimful of moral, where the dragon-fly,
Wanders as careless and content as I.
Thanks for this fancy, insect king,
Of purple crest and filmy wing,
Who with indifference givest up
The water-lily's golden cup,
To come again and overlook
What I am writing in my book.
Believe me, most who read the line
Will read with hornier eyes than thine;
And yet their souls shall live for ever,
And thine drop dead into the river!
God pardon them, O insect king,
Who fancy so unjust a thing!
Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]
Youth and Age
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee-
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!
When I was young?-Ah, woful When!
Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flashed along:-
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Nought cared this body for wind or weather
When Youth and I lived in't together.
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;
O! the joys, that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old!
Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,
Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
O Youth! for years so many and sweet,
'Tis known, that Thou and I were one,
I'll think it but a fond conceit-
It cannot be that Thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:-
And thou wert aye a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe, that thou are gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size:
But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are house-mates still.
Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve,
When we are old:
That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismist;
Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.
Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee-
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!
When I was young?-Ah, woful When!
Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flashed along:-
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Nought cared this body for wind or weather
When Youth and I lived in't together.
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;
O! the joys, that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old!
Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,
Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
O Youth! for years so many and sweet,
'Tis known, that Thou and I were one,
I'll think it but a fond conceit-
It cannot be that Thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:-
And thou wert aye a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe, that thou are gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size:
But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are house-mates still.
Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve,
When we are old:
That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismist;
Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.
Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee-
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!
When I was young?-Ah, woeful When!
Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flashed along:-
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Nought cared this body for wind or weather
When Youth and I lived in't together.
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;
O! the joys, that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old!
Ere I was old? Ah woeful Ere,
Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
O Youth! for years so many and sweet,
'Tis known, that Thou and I were one,
I'll think it but a fond conceit-
It cannot be that Thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:-
And thou wert aye a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe, that thou are gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size:
But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are house-mates still.
Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve,
When we are old:
That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismist;
Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]
10
TREV'S TWITTERS
Reginald Spofforth
This was a favourite piece of music for the local brass band when I was young.
Hail, smiling morn, smiling morn,
That tips the hills with gold, that tips the hills with gold,
And whose rosy fingers open wide
The gates of heav'n,
And whose rosy fingers open wide
The gates of heav'n!
And all the green fields,
That nature does enfold,
All the green fields, That nature does enfold.
At whose bright presence,
Darkness flies, darkness flies away,
Flies away! Flies away!
Hail, Hail, Hail, Hail,
Hail, Hail, Hail, Hail!
Reginald Spofforth [1769-1827], was an English
musician, active as an organist, conductor and music teacher, but mainly remembered as a
composer. His best known works are the glees Hail Smiling Morn [written in 1810 and described as having been 'possibly
the most popular glee in the entire repertory'] and Hark! the Lark at Heaven's Gate Sings.
He composed
about 75 glees, also three books of nursery
rhyme settings and many songs and duets, including songs for
various stage performances at Covent
Garden in the 1790s and two elaborate hymns. It is thought he never composed any instrumental
music.
Written at an Inn at Henley
To thee,
fair Freedom, I retire
From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;
Nor art thou found in mansions higher
Than the low cot or humble inn.
'Tis here
with boundless power I reign,
And every health which I begin
Converts dull port to bright champagne:
Such freedom crowns it at an inn.
I fly
from pomp, I fly from plate,
I fly from falsehood's specious grin;
Freedom I love and form I hate,
And choose my lodgings at an inn.
Here,
waiter! take my sordid ore,
Which lackeys else might hope to win;
It buys what courts have not in store,
It buys me freedom at an inn.
This poem was written in the Red Lion Inn in
Henley. It is said that Shenstone scratched it on a window pane of the Inn with
a diamond. A reproduction of the
original pane of glass is now in situ.
The Red
Lion was probably built in 1531, though it incorporates even older buildings
including a 14th century Chantry House. Famous guests include Samuel Johnson
(and his friend Boswell), Charles I and the Duke of Marlborough, who used
the Inn as a stopping point on his way to and from Blenheim Palace.
Son of Thomas Shenstone and
Anne Penn, Shenstone was born in 1714 at the Leasowes, Halesowen. He received part of his
formal education at Halesowen Grammar School. In 1741, Shenstone became bailiff
to the feoffees [trustees] of Halesowen Grammar School. He went to Pembroke College, Oxford in 1732 but took no degree.
While still at Oxford, he published poems on various occasions and in 1741 he published The Judgment of Hercules.
Shenstone inherited the
Leasowes estate, and retired there in 1745 to undertake what proved the chief
work of his life, the beautifying of his property. He embarked on elaborate
schemes of landscape gardening which gave The Leasowes a wide celebrity but
sadly impoverished the owner! Not a
contented recluse, he desired constant admiration of his gardens, and never
ceased to lament his lack of fame as a poet. Shenstone died unmarried.
14
TREV'S TWITTERS
For Exmoor Jean
Ingelow [1820-1897]
For Exmoor, where the red deer run, my weary heart doth cry:
She that will a rover wed, far her feet shall hie.
Narrow, narrow, shows the street, dully the narrow sky.
- Buy my cherries, whiteheart cherries, good my masters, buy!
For Exmoor -
O he left me, left alone, aye to think and sigh -
'Lambs feed down yon sunny coombe, hind and yearling shy
Mid the shrouding vapour walk now like ghosts on high.'
- Buy my cherries, blackheart cherries, lads and lasses, buy!
For Exmoor -
Dear my dear, why did nye so? Evil day have I,
Mark no more the antler'd stag, hear the curlew cry.
Milking at my father's gate while he leans anigh.
- Buy my cherries, whiteheart, blackheart, golden girls, O buy!
Illustrated by: Paul Swailes
What Bird So Sings
O 'tis the ravish'd nightingale.
Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu! she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! Who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor robin redbreast tunes his note!
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing
Cuckoo! to welcome in the spring!
Cuckoo! to welcome in the spring!
John Lyly
1553/4? - 1606 was an English poet, writer, dramatist and politician. He was born in Kent, the first of eight
children, and studied at Magdalen College, Oxford.
He sat in
parliament as member first for Hindon, then Aylesbury and later Appleby. Although he sought her patronage, he was
not favoured by Elizabeth I. He died
neglected and in poverty in the reign of James I.
The
proverb 'All is Fair in Love and War' has been attributed to John Lyly.
Spring is Coming
'Tis goodbye to all the snow.
Spring is coming, for the swallows
Have come back to tell me so.
Spring is coming, for the swallows
Have come back to tell me so.
In a corner of my window,
They have built a tiny nest;
Where the rosy sun can see it
As she sinks each night to rest
As the rosy sun can see it
As she sinks each night to rest.
[I don't know who the poet
is, or if I can remember it correctly.
Can anyone help?]
Trev
Looking this up on the
internet I found many others asking the same question, and in fact Trevor has
remembered more than anyone else. It
would seem to be one of those ditties, probably sung and at mothers' knees, that has been passed down over the years. Ed
12
TREV'S TWITTERS
A Tragedy
A man had his nose cut off from his head.
An operation was performed
But then t'was found he was deformed.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, deary me
Then it began to rain, you see.
His nose was on the wrong way round;
The rain came in and he was drowned.
A Tommy Handley song from ITMA - It's
That Man Again], part of the BBC's contribution to keeping the nation cheerful
during WWII.
Captain Stratton's Fancy
And some are all for dancing by the pale moonlight;
But rum alone's the tipple, and the heart's delight
Of the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of French,
And some'll swallow tay and stuff fit only for a wench;
But I'm for right Jamaica till I roll beneath the bench,
Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are for the lily, and some are for the rose,
But I am for the sugar-cane that in Jamaica grows;
For it's that that makes the bonny drink to warm my copper nose,
Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are fond of fiddles, and a song well sung,
And some are all for music for to lilt upon the tongue;
But mouths were made for tankards, and for sucking at the bung,
Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are fond of dancing, and some are fond of dice,
And some are all for red lips, and pretty lasses' eyes;
But a right Jamaica puncheon is a finer prize
To the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some that's good and godly ones they hold that it's a sin
To troll the jolly bowl around, and let the dollars spin;
But I'm for toleration and for drinking at an inn,
Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are sad and wretched folk that go in silken suits,
And there's a mort of wicked rogues that live in good reputes;
So I'm for drinking honestly, and dying in my boots,
Like an old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
John Masefield
John Edward Masefield, O.M. [1878 - 1967] was an English poet and writer, and Poet Laureate of the United
Kingdom from 1930 until his death in 1967. He is remembered as the author of
the classic children's novels The Midnight Folk and The Box of Delights, and poems, including Sea-Fever and Cargoes.
Trev
21
TREV'S TWITTERS
I can but eat a little meat,
My stomach is not good;
But sure I think that I can drink
With he that wears a hood.
Though I go bare, take you no care,
I nothing am a-cold;
I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side go bare, go bare;
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.
I love no roast but a nut-brown toast,
And a crab laid in the fire;
A little bread shall do me stead;
Much bread I not desire.
No frost not snow, no wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if I wold;
I am so wrapp'd and thoroughly lapp'd
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side, etc.
And Tib, my wife, that as her life,
Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinks she till you may see
The tears run down her cheek;
Then doth she trowl to me the bowl
Even as a maltworm should;
And saith, 'Sweetheart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and old.'
Back and side, etc.
Now let them drink till they nod and wink,
Even as good fellows should do;
They shall not miss to have the bliss
Good ale doth bring man to;
And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls
Or have them lustily troll'd,
God save the lives of them and their wives,
Whether they be young or old.
Back and side, etc.
William Stevenson [1530-1575]
William Stevenson was an English clergyman and presumed playwright of the early English
language comedy Gammer Gurton's
Needle.
Born in Durham, he studied at Christ's College, Cambridge, where he received his Bachelor of Arts degree in 1553, his Master of
Arts degree in 1560 and his Bachelor of Divinity degree, also in 1560. Account books at Christ's College list him
in 1550-1553 and again in 1559-1560 as involved in putting on plays, though
they do not mention Gammer Gurton's Needle explicitly. He became a prebend
at Durham Cathedral in 1561.
The Means to Attain a Happy Life
MARTIAL, the things that do attain
The happy life, be these, I find :
The riches left, not got with pain ;
The fruitful ground, the quiet mind :
The equal friend, no grudge, no strife ;
No charge of rule, nor governance ;
Without disease, the healthful life ;
The household of continuance :
The mean diet, no delicate fare ;
True wisdom join'd with simpleness
;
The night discharged of all care,
Where wine the wit may not oppress:
The faithful wife, without debate ;
Such sleeps as may beguile the night.
Contented with thine own estate ;
Ne wish for Death, ne fear his might
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey
[1516/17 to 19th January 1547] was an English Aristocrat and one of the
founders of English Renaissance poetry.
He was the eldest son of Thomas Howard,
3rd Duke of Norfolk, and his second wife, the former Lady Elizabeth
Stafford He was reared at Windsor with
Henry VIII's illegitimate son Henry FitzRoy, 1st Duke of Richmond and Somerset,
they became close friends and, later, brothers-in-law. He became Earl of Surrey in 1524 when his
grandfather died and his father became Duke of Norfolk.
His first cousin, Anne Boleyn, was
executed on charges of adultery and treason.
Henry VIII consumed by delusions and increasing illness, became
convinced that Surrey had planned to usurp the crown from his son Edward and
had him imprisoned - with his father - sentenced him to
death and
beheaded for treason on the 19th January 1547.
His father survived execution as it had been set for the day following
the King's death, but remained in prison.
Surrey's son Thomas became heir to the Dukedom of Norfolk instead,
inheriting it on the 3rd Duke's death in 1554.
Henry Howard
is buried in a spectacular tomb in the church of St. Michael the Archangel in
Framlingham.
18
TREV'S
TWITTERS
Hunting
Songs
Bright Phoebus
Bright Phoebus has mounted the chariot of day,
And the hounds and the horns call each sportsman away,
Through meadows and woods with speed now they bound,
Whilst health, rosy health, is in exercise found.
Hark away is the word to the sound of the horn
And echo, blithe echo, makes jovial the morn.
Each hill and each valley is
lovely to view,
While puss flies the covert and dogs quick pursue,
Behold where she flies o'er the wide spreading plain,
While the loud open pack pursue her again.
Hark away is the word to the sound of the horn
And echo, blithe echo, makes jovial the morn.
At length puss is caught and lies panting for breath,
And the shout of the huntsman's the signal for death,
No joys can delight like the sports of the field,
To hunting all pleasure and pastime must yield.
Hark away is the word to the sound of the horn
And echo, blithe echo, makes jovial the morn.
Tally Ho
Who delight in the joys of the field;
Mankind, tho' they blame, are all eager as you,
And no one the contest will yield,
His Lordship, his worship, his honour, his grace
A-hunting continually go,
All ranks and degrees are engaged in the chase.
With, hark forward! huzza! tally ho!
The lawyer will rise with the first of the morn
To hunt for a mortgage or deed;
The husband gets up at the sound of the horn
And rides to the common full speed;
The patriot is thrown in pursuit of the game;
The poet, too, often lays low.
Who, mounted on Pegasus, flies after fame,
With, hark forward! huzza! tally ho!
While fearless o'er hills, and o'er woodlands we sweep,
Tho' prudes on our pastime may frown,
How oft do they decency's bounds overleap,
And the fences of virtue break down.
Thus public, or private, for pension, for place,
For amusement, for passion, for show,
All ranks and degrees are engaged in the chase.
With, hark forward! huzza! tally ho!
The
Moment Aurora
I put on my clothes and I called for my groom;
And my head heavy still, from the fumes of last night,
Took a bumper of brandy to set all things right:
And now we're all saddled, Fleet, Dapple and Grey;
Who seemed longing to hear the glad sound, hark awayl
Will whistle, by this, had uncoupled his hounds;
Whose ecstasy nothing could keep within bounds
Twas now, by the clock, about five in the morn;
And we all galloped off to the sound of the horn;
Jack Garter, Bill Babbler and Dick at the gun;
And by this time the merry Tom Fairplay made one,
Who, while we were jogging on blithesome and gay
Sung a song, and the chorus was - hark, hark away!
And no signs of madam, or trace of her feet;
And now Jemmy Lurcher, had ev'ry bush beat,
nay, we just had begun our hard fortune to curse,
When all of a sudden, out starts Mistress Puss;
Men, horses, and dogs, not a moment would stay.
And echo was heard to cry, hark, hark away!
The chase was a fine one, she took o'er the plain;
Which she doubled, and doubled and doubled again;
Till at last she to cover returned out of breath,
Where I and will Whistle were in at the death;
Then, in triumph, for you I the hare did display;
And cry'd to the horns, my boys, hark, hark away!
Illustrations by:Paul Swailes
These songs are selected as typical from
the Edinburgh Miscellany of 1808, which is crammed with many more, showing how
popular the pursuit was at the time.
Note the emphasis on early rising and healthy exercise!
Trev
31
TREV'S TWITTERS - IN PRAISE OF WINE
Had Neptune
Been as wise, at least been as merry as we,
He'd have thought better on't, and instead of the brine
Would have filled the vast ocean with generous wine.
What trafficking then would have been on the main,
For the sake of good liquor as well as for gain!
No fear then of tempest, or danger of sinking,
The fishes ne'er drown that are always a-drinking.
The hot thirsty sun would drive with more haste
Secure in the evening of such a repast;
And when he'd got tipsy would have taken his nap
With double the pleasure in Thesis's lap.
By the force of his rays and thus heated with wine,
Consider how gloriously Phoebus would shine.
What vast exhalation he'd draw up on high,
To relieve the poor earth as it waited supply.
How happy us mortals when bless'd with such rain;
To fill all our vessels and fill them again;
Nay even the beggar that has ne'er a dish
Might jump in the river and drink like a fish.
What mirth and contentment on everyone's brow,
Hob as great as a prince, dancing after the plough,
The birds in the air as they play on the wing
Altho' they but sip would eternally sing.
The stars, who I think, don't to drinking incline
Would frisk and rejoice at the fume of the wine;
And merrily twinkling would soon let us know
That they were as happy as mortals below.
Had this been the case then what had we enjoy'd,
Our spirits still rising, our fancy ne'er cloy'd;
A pox then on Neptune when t'was in his pow'r
To slip, like a fool, such a fortunate hour.
This lovely 8-verse piece of nonsense was written by Joseph Ritson who was born in humble circumstances at Stockton, near Durham, in 1752. In 1775 he settled in London where he practiced law at Gray's Inn and pursued his literary studies at the British Museum. He was high bailiff of the liberty of the Savoy, complementing his antiquarian interests. He was one of the first to study local poetry and popular legends but was notorious for his fierce attacks on some of the literary leaders of his day. Formerly a Jacobite sympathiser, he became a republican during the French Revolution. He died, impoverished and insane, in 1803 after making a bonfire of manuscripts in his rooms at Gray's Inn.
My Temple with Clusters
Illustrations by Paul Swailes
And barter all joys for a goblet of wine,
In search of Venus no longer I'll run
But stop and forget her at Bacchus' tun.
Yet why thus resolve to relinquish the fair?
'Tis folly with spirits like mine to despair;
For what mighty charms can be found in a glass
If not filled to the health of some favourite lass?
'Tis woman whose charms every rapture impart,
And leads a new spring to the pulse of the heart;
The miser himself, so supreme in her sway,
Grows a convert to love and resigns her his key.
At the sound of her voice Sorrow lifts up her head
And Poverty listens, well pleas'd from her shed;
While Age, in an ecstasy, hobbling along,
Beats time, with his crutch, to the tune of her song.
Then bring me a goblet from Bacchus's hoard,
The largest and deepest that stands on his board;
I'll fill up a brimmer and drink to the fair;
'Tis the thirst of a lover - and pledge me who dare!
Trev
21
TREV'S TWITTERS - SONGS OF THE SEA
The
Wandering Sailor
A competence in life to gain;
Undaunted braves the stormy seas
To find at last content and ease;
In hopes, when toil an danger's o'er
To anchor on his native shore.
When winds blow hard and mountains roll,
And thunders shake from pole to pole;
Tho' dreadful waves surrounding foam,
Still flattering fancy wafts him home;
In hopes, when toil and danger's o'er
To anchor on his native shore.
When round the bowl the jovial crew
The early scenes of youth renew,
Tho' each his favourite fair will boast,
This is the universal toast:
May we when toil and danger's o'er,
Cast anchor on our native shore!
Blow High, Blow Low
Blow high, blow low! let tempest tear
The mainmast by the board!
My heart [with thoughts of thee, my dear!
And love well stored]
Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear.
The roaring wind, the raging sea,
In hopes, on shore, to be once more
Safe moored with thee.
Aloft, while mountains high we go,
The whistling winds that scud along,
And the surge roaring from below,
Shall my signal be, to think on thee.
And this shall be my song,
Blow high, blow low! let tempest tear
The mainmast by the board!
My heart [with thoughts of thee, my dear!
And love well stored]
And on that night [when all the crew
The memory of their former lives,
O'er flowing cans of flip renew,
And drink their sweethearts and their wives],
I'll heave a sigh, and think of thee.
And, as the ship rolls through the sea,
The burden of my song shall be.
Blow high, blow low! let tempest tear
The mainmast by the board!
My heart [with thoughts of thee, my dear!
And love well stored]
Come,
Come my Jolly Lads
Brisk gales our sails shall crowd;
Then bustle, bustle, boys, haul the boat,
The boatswain pipes aloud.
All hands on board, our ship's unmoored,
The rising gale fills ev'ry sail,
Our ship's well manned and stored.
Then sling the flowing bowl, then sling the flowing bowl,
Fond hopes arise, the girls we prize, shall bless each jovial soul;
Then the can, boys, bring, we'll drink and sing,
While the foaming billows roll.
Now to the Spanish coast we're bound to steer,
To see our rights maintained;
Then bear a hand, be steady boys,
Soon we shall see
Old England once again.
From shore to shore loud cannons roar,
Our tars shall show the haughty foe
Britannia rules the main.
Then sling the flowing bowl, then sling the flowing bowl,
Fond hopes arise, the girls we prize, shall bless each jovial soul;
Then the can, boys, bring, we'll drink and sing,
While the foaming billows roll.
This broadside was a favourite with sailors. It is said to have been written by Richard Brinsley Sheridan [1751-1816]. An English dramatist and politician, Sheridan is better known for his works 'The Rivals' and 'School for Scandal'.
A broadside ballad is a descriptive or narrative verse or song usually in a simple ballad form and on a popular theme. Sung or recited in public places it was also printed on broadsides for sale in the streets. They were one of the most common forms of printed material between the 16th and 19th centuries, particularly in Britain, Ireland and North America.
Davy
Jones's Locker
Weigh'd anchor and cast out for sea;
For he never refuse'd for his country and King
To fight, or no lubber was he;
To hand, reef and steer, and house everything light,
Full well did he know every inch;
Tho' the top lifts of sailors the tempest should smite,
Jack never was known for to flinch.
Aloft from the masthead one day be espied
seven sail which appear'd to his view.
Clear the decks, sponge the guns was instantly cried,
And each to his station then flew;
They fought until many of their fellows were slain
And silenc'd was every gun;
Twos then that old English valour was vain,
For by numbers, alas! they're undone.
Yet think not bold Jack, though by conquest dismayed
Could tamely submit to his fate;
When his country he found he no longer could serve,
Looking round, he address'd thus each mate:
What's life d'ye see when our liberty's gone,
Much nobler it were for to die,
So now for old Davy - then plunged in the main
E'en the cherub above heav'd a sigh.
These four songs are selected as typical
of the period - early 19th century - from the Gentleman's Song Book, which
contains almost as many sea songs as hunting ones. What I find rather strange is that none of
them mention a captain or other officer apart from brief references to a bo'sun. They must
have had some!
Trev
llustrations
by Paul Swailes
13
TREV'S TWITTERS
Thank
You One and All
Many thanks to those dozens of friends and neighbours who
popped in to help celebrate my 100th Birthday [Sunday February 10th in case
you've forgotten!], also for the lovely cards and presents. To those who didn't come, I can only say you
missed a treat.
It was a wonderful event, if a bit tiring, and I enjoyed
myself thoroughly. Great to see you
all.
I mustn't forget a special thank you to Kath and her family
who arranged the refreshments, liquid and otherwise. Trev
Old Wooden Walls of England
I held the helm, and ne'er ran foul of shore;
In pitch-dark nights my reck'ning prov'd so true,
We rode out safe the hardest gale that blew.
And when for fight the signal high was shewn,
Thro' fire and smoke old Boreas straight bore down;
And now my timbers are not fit for sea,
Old England's wooden walls my toast shall be.
From age to age, as ancient story shews,
We rul'd the deep, in spite of envious foes;
And still aloft, tho' worlds combine, we'll rise,
If all at home are splic'd in friendly ties.
In loud broadsides we'll tell both France and Spain,
We're own'd by Neptune sov'reigns of the main.
Oh! would my timbers were now fit for sea!
Yet England's wooden walls my toast shall be.
from The
Fair American, a comic opera in 3 Acts by
Frederick
Pilon, 1750-1788. Performed to
universal applause at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.
Cock a Doodle Do
My dame has lost her shoe.
The master's lost his fiddling stick,
And doesn't know what to do.
Artwork: Debbie Cook
The first
two lines were used in a murder pamphlet in England, 1606, which seems to
suggest that children sang those lines, or very similar ones, to mock the cockerel's "crow". The first full version
recorded was in Mother Goose's Melody,
published in London around 1765. By the
mid-nineteenth century, when it was collected by James Orchard
Halliwell, it was very popular and three additional verses, perhaps more recent
in origin had been added [Wikipedia]:
Cock a doodle do!
What is my dame to do?
Till master's found his fiddlingstick,
She'll dance without her shoe
Cock a doodle do!
My dame has found her shoe,
And master's found his fiddling stick
Sing cock a doodle do!
Cock a doodle do!
My dame will dance with you,
While master fiddles his fiddlingstick,
And knows not what to do.
Trev
20
TREV'S TWITTERS
Winter Nights
And clouds their storms discharge; Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze and cups o'erflow with wine;
Let well-toned words amaze with harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights shall wait on honey love
While youthful revels, masques and courtly sights
Sleeps tender spells remove.
This time doth well dispense with lovers long discourse;
Much speech hath some defence, though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well; some measures comely tread;
Some knotted riddles tell, some poems smoothly read,
The summer has his joys, and winter his delights
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.
Thomas Campion, 1567-1620
Born in London, Campion
was an English composer, poet and physician, writing over a hundred songs for
the lute, masques for dancing and an authoritative technical treatise on music, He was
educated at Peterhouse, Cambridge but left without a degree, entered Gray's Inn
to study Law but was never called to the bar;
but received his Medical Degree from the University of Caen in 1605. It is possible that he died of the plague and
is buried at St. Dunstan-in-the-West, Fleet Street.
Mortal Man
What is it makes thy nose so red?
Thou silly fool, that looks so pale,
'Tis supping Sarah Jenkins' ale.
I believe there is somewhere up north a tavern with this
intriguing title and a signboard showing a suitably endowed gentleman. Sarah Jenkins was, no doubt, one of many ale
wives of the day, possibly more skilful than
most. I doubt if she was ever the pub
landlady.
Trev
When Once the Gods
Their goblets with fresh nectar flow, which make them more divine.
Since drinking deifies the soul, let's push about the flowing bowl,
Since drinking deifies the soul, let's push about the flowing bowl.
A flowing bowl, a flowing bowl,
Since drinking deifies the soul, let's push about the flowing bowl.
The glitt'ring star and ribbon blue, that deck a courtiers breast,
May hide a heart of blackest hue, though by a King caress'd.
Let him in pride and splendour roll; we're happier or'er a flowing bowl.
A flowing bowl, etc.
For liberty let patriots rare, and damn the courtly crew,
Because, like them, they want to have the loaves and fishes too!
I care not who divides the cole, so I can share a flowing bowl.
A flowing bowl, etc.
Let Mansfield Lord Chief Justice be, Sir Fletcher speaker still,
At home let Rodney rule the sea, and Pitt the Treasury still;
No place I want throughout the whole; I want an ever-flowing bowl.
A flowing bowl, etc.
The son wants square toes at old Nick. The miss is made to wed;
The doctors want us to be sick; the undertaker dead:
All have their wants from pole to pole, I want an ever-flowing bowl.
A flowing bowl, etc.
[This drinking song from
the Musical Miscellany of 1808 has more than a hint of politics in it, no doubt
reflecting those of the time. T.]
A Drinking Song
It is not fit the wretch should be in competition set with me.
Who can drink ten times more than he, make a new world,
ye powers divine!
Stacked with nothing else but wine: let wine be earth and air and
sea and let that wine be all for me!
Henry
Carey [1693-1743]
Probably better known for his longer
poem 'Sally in our Alley', Carey was a poet, dramatist and songwriter, an
anti-Walpolean and a patriot. His
melodies continue to be sung today and were widely praised after his death,
although due to his anonymity, some of his works have been credited to others.
Give me Ale
And winter tells a heavy tale;
When pyes and doves and rooks and crows
Sit cursing of the frosts and snows,
Then give me ale.
Ale in a Saxon runkin then,
Such as will make grimalkin prate;
Bids valour burgeon in tall men,
Quickens the pelt wit and pen,
Despises fate.
Ale the absent battle fights,
And frames the march of Swedish drums,
Disputes with princes, laws and rights,
What's done and past tell mortal wights,
And what's to come.
Ale, that the plowman's heart up keeps
And equals it with tyrants throne,
That unifies the eye that over weeps,
And lulls in sure and dainty sleeps
The over wearied bones.
Grandchild of Ceres, Bacchus' daughter,
Wine emulous neighbour, though but
Enabling all the nymphs of waterstale,
And filling each man's heart with laughter -
Ha! Give me ale.
Anon
*Charokko = Scirocco
Trev
30
MY 100 YEARS - BY TREV
Born: 10th February 1913 in Elland, Yorkshire Parents: Albert and Emily. I was educated first at Elland Primary School and then Elland Secondary School passing my 11+ and School Certificate [now G.C.S.E.] before gaining a B.Sc. Tech [in Electrical Engineering] at Manchester University College of Technology.
I began work as a Probationary College Apprentice with Metropolitan-Vickers at Trafford Park, Manchester, and after Sales Correspondent in their Meter Department. Then followed ten years as Assistant Sales Manager for the Record Electrical Company Limited at Altrincham, Cheshire, makers of electrical measuring equipment before being promoted to Technical Executive and staying with the company a further twenty-six years. In this position I represented the company at the British Standards Institution in London and later, the BSI at International Organisation conferences which were held in various countries including France, Sweden, Hungary, Slovenia and Russia [St. Petersburg]. This position was terminated by redundancy following a takeover.
After various temporary and freelance work, I secured the job of Tariff Consultant with the firm of Industrial Energy Costs of Lytham St. Annes in Lancashire, which lasted six years until my retirement in February 1978.
On the 17th December 1936, after a two-year courtship, I married Lilian Newton, a specialist silk weaver and an orphan from Macclesfield. On the 19th December 1943 she presented me with our daughter Anthea, followed on the 1st April 1947 by our son Victor.
Unfortunately, my dear wife contracted bowel cancer which was not detected soon enough and in spite of the removal of a tumour the condition was too widespread and after a long struggle on 15th March 1981 she succumbed. We had been married for over 44 years. By then both our children had flown the nest and got married, producing in their turn four girls and two boys between them, so I was left alone save for an old and ailing Labrador.
How I left North Wales, to where I had retired and finally, by various moves, landed up in Ilfracombe is too long a story! Suffice to say that by joining the Ilfracombe Walkers I met Kathy and she very kindly took me into Barn Cottage where she has been my guardian angel ever since.
22
TREV'S TWITTERS
Winter Nights
And clouds their storms discharge; Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze and cups o'erflow with wine;
Let well-toned words amaze with harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights shall wait on honey love
While youthful revels, masques and courtly sights
Sleeps tender spells remove.
This time doth well dispense with lovers long discourse;
Much speech hath some defence, though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well; some measures comely tread;
Some knotted riddles tell, some poems smoothly read,
The summer has his joys, and winter his delights
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.
Thomas Campion, 1567-1620
Born in London, Campion was an English composer, poet and physician, writing over a hundred songs for the lute, masques for dancing and an authoritative technical treatise on music, He was educated at Peterhouse, Cambridge but left without a degree, entered Gray's Inn to study Law but was never called to the bar; but received his Medical Degree from the University of Caen in 1605. It is possible that he died of the plague and is buried at St. Dunstan-in-the-West, Fleet Street.
Mortal Man
What is it makes thy nose so red?
Thou silly fool, that looks so pale,
'Tis supping Sarah Jenkins' ale.
I believe there is somewhere up north a tavern with this intriguing title and a signboard showing a suitably endowed gentleman. Sarah Jenkins was, no doubt, one of many ale wives of the day, possibly more skilful than most. I doubt if she was ever the pub landlady. T.
A Drinking Song
It is not fit the wretch should be in competition set with me.
Who can drink ten times more than he, make a new world, ye powers divine!
Stacked with nothing else but wine: let wine be earth and air and sea and let that wine be all for me!
Henry Carey [1693-1743]
Probably better known for his longer poem 'Sally in our Alley', Carey was a
poet, dramatist and songwriter, an anti-Walpolean and a patriot. His melodies
continue to be sung today and were widely praised after his death, although due
to his anonymity, some of his works have been credited to others.
23
TREV'S TWITTERS
Nothing Like Grog
(Charles
Dibdin)
A plague on those musty old lubbers,
Who tell us to fast and think,
And patient fall in with life's rubbers
With nothing but water to drink.
A can of good stuff, had they twigg'd it
Would have sent them for pleasure agog;
And in spite of the rules.
And in spite of the rules of the schools.
The old fools would have all of 'em swigg'd it
And swore there was nothing like grog.
My father, when last I from Guinea
Return'd with abundance of wealth,
Cried, "Jack, never be such a ninny
To drink." Says I, "father, your health."
So I pass'd round the stuff soon he twigg'd it,
And it set the old codger agog
And he swigged it and mother
And sister and brother
And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'e it,
And swore there was nothing like grog.
One day, when the Chaplain was preaching,
Behind him I curiously slunk,
And, while he our duty was teaching,
As how we should never get drunk,
I tip't him the stuff, and he twigg'd it,
Which soon set his rev'rence agog.
And he swigg'd; and Nick swigg'd,
And Ben swigg'd, and Dick swigg'd,
And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it,
And swore there was nothing like grog.
Then trust me, there's nothing as drinking
So pleasant on this side the grave;
It keeps the unhappy from thinking,
And makes e'en more valiant the brave.
For me, from the moment I twigg'd it
The good stuff has so set me agog
Sick or well, late or early
Wind foully or fairly,
I've constantly swigg'd it,
And dam'me there's nothing like grog.
Charles Dibdin 1745-1814
A British musician, dramatist, novelist, actor and
song-writer, Charles Dibdin was born in Southampton, the son of a parish clerk
and the youngest of 18 children.
He had a colourful life with connections
to many of the London theatres and playhouses and wrote in excess of 360
songs. Married early in life he
deserted his wife leaving her destitute.
Two illicit relationships followed, marrying the second, Miss Wild, on
the death of his wife. Father to numerous
children, his two sons, Charles and Thomas John, were also popular dramatists
in their day.
There is a memorial plaque to Dibdin on the tower of
Holyrood Church Southampton, and one at the Royal Hospital Greenwich. Michael Heseltine, MP, is a distant
relative. A fan of Dibdin's works, he
was responsible for the Government's erection of a statue in Greenwich.
An Irish Drinking Song
That they never go, how come you so;
Would you seriously make the good folks die with laughter;
To be sure their dogs tricks we don't know.
With your smallilou nonsense and all your queer boddens,
Since whisky's a liquor divine;
To be sure the old ancients as well as the moderns
Did not love a sly sip of good wine.
Apicius and Aesop, as authors assure
Would swig 'till as drunk as a beast.
Then what do you think of that rogue Epicurus,
Was not he a tight hand at a fest.
With your smallilou, etc.
Alexander the Great at his banquets who drank hard,
When he no more worlds could subdue,
Shed tears to be sure, but t'was tears of the tankard,
To refresh him and pray would not you.
With your smallilou, etc.
Then that other old fellow they call Aristotle,
Such a devil of a tippler was he.
That one night having taken too much of his bottle,
The thief staggered into the sea.
With your smallilou, etc.
Then they made what they call of their wine a libation,
Which as all authority quotes;
They threw on the ground, musha what baderation,
To be sure 'twas not thrown down their throats.
[Taken
from the Musical Miscellany, 1808 Edition]
Trev
12
TREVOR'S TWITTERS
The Brown Jug
[in which I will drink to sweet Nan of the Vale]
Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old soul,
As e'er drank a bottle, or fathomed a bowl;
In boozing about 'twas his praise to excel,
And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.
It chanced as in dog-days he sat at his ease,
In his flower-woven arbour, as gay as you please,
With a friend and a pipe puffing sorrows away.
And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay
His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut,
And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.
His body when long in the ground it had lain,
And time into clay had resolved it again,
A potter found out in its covert so snug,
And with part of fat Toby he formed this brown jug;
Now sacred to friendship, and mirth, and mild ale,
So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the Vale!
By the Gaily Circling Glass
we can see how minutes pass;
By the hollow cask we're told
How the waning night grows old.
Soon, too soon, the busy day
Drives us from our sports away.
What have we with day to do?
Sons of care t'was made for you!
By the silence of the owl;
By the chirping on the thorn,
By the butts that empty roll,
We foretell the approach of morn.
Fill, then, fill the vacant glass,
Let no precious moment slip,
Flout the moralising ass:
Joys find entrance at the lip.
These two ditties are taken from the Edinburgh Musical Miscellany of 1808. The first was written by Francis Fawkes [1721-1777], the second by John Milton [1608-1674].
24
TREV'S
TWITTERS
All
remembered by Trev
The Brook
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down the valley;
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come & men may go,
But I go on forever.
I chatter over stony ways
In little sharps and trebles;
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles;
With many a curve my banks I fret
By, many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow;
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come, & men may go,
But I go on forever.
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling.
And here and there a foamy flake,
Upon me as I travel,
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come, & men may go,
But I go on forever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers;
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows;
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars,
I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come, & men may go,
But I go on forever.
Alfred,
Lord Tennyson
Illustrated by: Peter Rothwell
Under the
Greenwood Tree
Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas'd with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
William Shakespeare
1564-1616
Song of a Traveller
Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night,
I will make a palace fit for you and me
Of green days in forests, and blue days at sea.
I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,
Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom;
And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white
In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.
And this shall be for music when no one else is near,
The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!
That only I remember, that only you admire,
Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.
Robert Louis Stevenson
1850-1894
Illustrated by: Paul Swailes
from 'Through the Looking-glass', Lewis Carroll,
1832-1898
"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 sympathize.'
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."
39
TREV'S TWITTERS
SPRING
Description of Spring
With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale;
The nightingale with feathers now she sings;
The turtle to her make hath told her tale.
Summer is come, for every spray now springs,
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale;
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings;
The fishes float with now repaired scale
The adder all her slough away she slings;
The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale;
The busy bee her honey now she wings;
Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale.
And thus I see among these pleasant things
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey [1516-1547]
Welcome to Spring
O! 'tis the ravished nightingale.
Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereau, she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick song! Who is't now we hear?
None by the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor Robin Redbreast tunes his note;
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing
Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring!
John Lyly [?1554-1606]
Spring
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring.
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning fit;
In every street these tunes our dear do greet;
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we,to-witta-woo!
Spring, the sweet spring!
Thomas Nashe [156l7-1601]
[This poem first appeared in the April 1991 issue]
To Spring
Through the clear windows of the morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
The hills tell one another, and the listening
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn'd
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth
And let thy holy feet visit our clime!
Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.
O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head,
Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.
William Blake [1757-1823]
Illustrations by: Paul Swailes
32
TREV'S TWITTERS
Three Clerihews
[by Mr. Clerihew 'Himself']
Said "I am going to dine with some men.
If anyone calls,
Say I'm designing St. Pauls."
What I like about Clive,
Is that he's no longer alive.
There's a great deal to be said
For being dead.
Daniel Defoe,
Lived a long time agol
He had nothing to do, so
He wrote Robinson Crusoe
Edmund Clerihew Bentley
He was born in London and educated at St. Paul's School and Merton College, Oxford.
His father was a civil servant
but also a rugby union international, having played in the first ever
international match for England against Scotland in 1871.
Bentley worked on several newspapers, including the Daily
Telegraph and published his first collection of poetry in 1905, which
popularised the clerihew form. His
detective novel, Trent's Last Case [1913] was much acclaimed, numbering Dorothy
L. Sayers among its admirers, and was adapted as a film in 1920 and again in
1929 and 1952. From 1936 to 1949 he was
President of the Detection Club.
Bentley died at the age of 80 in 1956.
His son, Nicholas Bentley, an illustrator, famous for his humorous
cartoons died in 1978.
Four Limericks
Who was stung in the arm by a wasp.
When asked 'Does it hurt?' He replied 'No, it doesn't
I'm so glad it wasn't a hornet.'
W.S. Gilbert
A rare old bird is the pelican
Its beak holds more than its bellycan.
He can take in his beak, Food enough for a week,
I'm darned if I know how the hellican.
Dixon Merritt [1879-1972]
A sleeper from the Amazon
Put nighties that were his gra'mazon;
The reason? That he was too fat
To get his own pyjamazon.
Anon
A major, with wonderful force
Called out, in Hyde Park, for a horse.
All the flowers looked round, But no horse could be found,
So he just rhododendron, of course.
Anon.
Two Parodies by Lewis Carol
How doth the little crocodile, Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile on every glistening scale.
How cheerfully he seems to grin! How neatly spreads his claws!
And welcomes little fishes in, with ghoulish smiling jaws!
[A parody on 'How doth the little Busy Bee,
Isaac Watts 1674-1748]
Twinkle, twinkle, little bat, how I wonder what you're at;
Up above the world so high, like a tea-tray in the sky.
[A parody on Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star written by sisters Ann and
Jane Taylor, 1783-1824]
Cork and Work and Card and Ward
I take
it you already know
Of tough and bough and cough and dough?
Others may stumble, but not you
On
hiccough, thorough, lough and through?
Well done! And now you wish, perhaps,
To learn of less familiar traps:
Beware of heard, a dreadful word
That looks like beard and sounds like bird,
And dead: it's said like bed, not bead;
For goodness sake don't call it 'deed'!
Watch out for meat and great and threat
(They rhyme with suite and straight and debt).
A moth is not a moth in mother,
Nor both in bother, broth in brother,
And here is not a match for there
Nor dear and fear for bear and pear;
And then there's dose and rose and lose,
Just look them up -- and goose and choose,
And cork and work and card and ward,
And font and front and word and sword,
And do and go and thwart and cart --
Come, come, I've hardly made a start!
A dreadful language? Man alive!
I'd mastered it when I was five!
Extracted from The Children's Library
produced by Simon & Schuster of New York, this anonymous poem illustrating
many of the problem words for English spelling is believed to have first
appeared in The Times 1936.
Trev
14
TREV'S TWITTERS
Happiness and Despondency
I've got sixpence, jolly, jolly sixpence,
I've got sixpence to last me all my life.
I've got tuppence to spend and tuppence to lend
And tuppence to take home to my wife.
No cares have I to grieve me,
No pretty little girls to deceive me.
I'm as happy as a king, believe me,
As I go rolling home.
I Wish I Was Single Again
For when I was single, my pockets did jingle,
I wish I was single again!
I married a wife, oh then, oh then, I married a wife, oh then.
I married a wife, the bane of my life,
I wish I was single again.
My wife she died, oh then, oh then, my wife she died, oh then,
My wife she died, I laughed till I cried,
With joy to be single again.
I married another, oh then, oh then, I married another, oh then,
I married another, far worse than the other
I wish I was single again!
[And serve him jolly well right! Trev]
The sixpence, known colloquially as the tanner or half-shilling was a British pre-decimal coin, worth six [pre-1971] pennies or 1/40th of a pound sterling. In England, the first sixpences were struck in the reign of Edward VI in 1551 and continued until they were rendered obsolete by decimalisation in 1971. Sixpences were originally supposed to be demonetized upon decimalisation in 1971. However, they remained legal tender until 30 June 1980.
As the supply of silver threepence coins disappeared, sixpences replaced them as the coins put into Christmas puddings. They have also been seen as a lucky charm for brides and as a good luck charm by Royal Air Force Aircrew who have them sewn behind their wings or brevets, a custom dating back to the Second World War. Brian May, the guitarist with the rock group Queen, uses a sixpence piece as a plectrum.