The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

Glory! Hallelujah! March along together!
March along, march along, every kind of weather!
Wet or dry, shower or shine, ready night and day,
Travelling to Jesus, singing on the way!
He is waiting for us, yonder in the sky,
Stooping down His shining head to

Hear

Our

Cry!

‘'Alleloojah! 'alleloojah! Round the corner of the street
They're a-coming and a-singing, with a sound of tramping feet,
Throw the windy open, Jenny—let me 'ear the fife and drum—
Garn; the cold can't 'arm me, Jenny—ain't I book'd for Kingdom Come?
I've got the doctor's ticket for a third-class seat, ye know,
And the Lord 'll blow His whistle, and the train begin to go . . .
'Alleloojah! How I love 'em!—and the music—and the rhyme—
My 'eart's a-marchin’ with 'em, and my feet is beatin' time!
Lift me up and let me see them—Lord, how bright they looks to-day!
Ain't it 'eavenly? Men and women, boys and gels, they march away!
Who's that wavin’? It's the Captain, bless his 'art! He sees me plain—
It was 'im as 'ad me chris'en'd, called me “'Alleloojah Jane!”
And the minute I was chris'en'd, somethink lep' in my inside,
And I saw, fur off and shining, Golden Gates as open'd wide,
And I 'eard the Angels 'oller, and I answered loud and clear,
And the blessèd larfing Jesus cried, “You've got to march up 'ere!”
And I march'd and lep' and shouted till my throat was sick and sore,
Down I tumbled with diptheery, and I couldn't march no more!’

Glory! Hallelujah! Sound the fife and drum!
Brother, won't you join us, bound for Kingdom Come?
Wear our regimentals, spick and span and gay,
And be always ready to listen and obey?
Form in marching order, stepping right along,
While above the angels smile and

Join

Our

Song!

‘Are they gone? Well, lay me down, Jenny—for p'r'aps this very day
The Lord 'll read the roll-call, so there ain't much time to stay.
But afore I leave yer, Jenny, for the trip as all must take,
Jest you 'ear me bless the music that fust blew my soul awake . . .
I was born in dirt and darkness—I was blind and dumb with sin—
For the typhus 'ad took father, and my mother's-milk was gin,
And at sixteen I was walkin’ like the other gels ye meet,
And I kep' a little sister by my earnin's on the street.
Well, they say 'twas orful sinful, but 'twas all I'd got to do,
For I 'ad to get my livin', and to keep my sister too;
And poor Bess, yer see, was sickly—for she'd never been the same
Since she got a kick from father on the back, wot made her lame;—
As for mother, she was berried too, thank God! One winter night
Been run over by a Pickford, when mad drunk, and serve her right!
So we two was left together, and poor Bess, 'twas 'ard for 'er,
For her legs was thin as matches, and she couldn't scursly stir;

357

But so pretty! with her thin face, and her silken yeller 'air,
And so 'andy with her needle, in her invalidy chair,
And when at night I left her to walk out in street and lane,
Tho' I come 'ome empty-'anded, she'd a kiss for sister Jane.
But 'twas 'ard, and allays 'arder, just to keep ourselves at all,
Me so precious black and ugly, Bess so 'flicted and so small,
For tho' only one year younger, she'd 'a' passed for twelve or less;
But, Lor bless ye, she was clever, and could read and spell, could Bess!
(She'd learnt it at the 'ospital from some kind nuss, yer see.)
When I brought 'er 'ome a paper she could read the noos to me,
All the p'lice noos and the murders, and the other rum things there,
And for 'ours I'd sit and listen by her invalidy chair!

‘Well, one night as I was climbin’ up the stair, tir'd out and sad,
For the luck had been ag'in me, and 'twas pouring down like mad,
I 'eard her voice a-screaming! and from floor to floor I ran,
Till I reach'd our room and sor 'er, and beside her was a man,
An ugly Spanish sailor as was lodgin' in the place,
And the beast was 'olding Bessie and a-kissing of her face,
And she cried and scream'd and struggled, a-tryin' to get free,
And the beast he 'eard me comin' and turned round 'is face to me,
And I sor it black and ugly with the drink and worse beside,
And I screech'd, “Let go my sister!” while she 'id her face and cried.
Then the man look'd black as thunder, and he swore he'd 'ave my life
If I stay'd there, and his fingers began feelin' for his knife,
But I lep' and seized a poker as was lying by the grate,
And I struck 'im on the forrid (bet your life he got it straight—
For I felt as strong as twenty!), and he guv an angry groan,
Drew the knife, and lep' to stab me, then roll'd over like a stone!
And the landlord and the lodgers came a-rushin' up the stair,
While I knelt by Bess, who'd fainted in her invalidy chair!

‘Well, Jenny, no one blamed me!—and the p'lice said “Serve him right!”—
I never saw his face ag'in arter that drefful night;
But ever arter that poor Bess seem'd dull and full of care,
And she droop'd and droop'd and sicken'd in her invalidy chair.
Some trouble of the 'art, they said (that shock was her death-blow!)
And I watched her late and early, and I knew as she must go;
And the doctor gave her physic, and she'd all as she could eat,
And I bought her many a relish, when I'd luck upon the street;
But one mornin', close on Easter, when I waken'd in our bed,
I turn'd and see her lyin’ with her arms out, stiff and dead!
And I cried a bit and kiss'd her, then got out o' bed and drest,
Wash'd her face, put on clean linen, placed her 'ands upon her breast,
And she look'd . . . she look'd . . . so pretty!
God was good! I'd luck just then—
I scraped the money somehow, till I'd nigh on one pound ten,
And I bought poor Bess a coffin, and a grave where she could lie—
She got no workus berryin'—thank God for that, sez I!
And the neighbours sor me foller, all a-gatherin' in a crowd,
And I never felt as lonesome, but I never felt so proud!

‘Arter that, I sort o' drifted 'ere and there about the town,
Like a smut blown from a chimbly, and a long time comin' down!

358

And I took to drink like mother, and the drink it made me mad,
So, between the streets and prison, well, my luck was orful bad!
I was 'onest, tho', and never robb'd a man, or thief'd (not me!)
Tho' they quodded me for fightin' and bad langwidge, don't yer see?
And at last, somehow or other, how it come about ain't clear,
I was took to a big 'ospital, and kep' there nigh a year,
And I felt—well, now, I'll tell yer—like a bit of orange peel,
All muddy and all rotten, wot you squash beneath your 'eel!
Well, the doctors 'ealed and cured me, but one mornin', when they said
I must go to a reformat'ry, sez I, “No, strike me dead!”
And I felt a kind of loathin' for them all, and thought of Bess
Lyin' peaceful there at Stepney in her clean white fun'ral dress.
And I left the place next mornin'—I was wild, ye see, to go—
And 'twas Christmas, when I trampled back to Stepney thro' the snow—
And I met a chap who treated me and made me blazin' tight,
And I lost my 'ed and waken'd in the streets at dead o' night,
And the snow was fallin', fallin', and 'twas thick upon the ground,
And I'd got no place to go to, and my 'ed was whirlin' round,
When I see a lamp afore me, and a door stood open wide,
And I took it for a publick, till they sang a psalm inside,
And I sez, “It's them Salvationists!” and turned to go away,
When one comes out, their Captain, and calls out for me to stay;
And he touch'd me on the shoulder, and he sez, “Wot's up, my lass?”
And I sez, “I ain't teetotal!” and I larf'd, and tried to pass,
But he looked me in the face, he did, and sez, “Wot brings ye 'ere?
Speak out if you're in trouble, and we'll 'elp ye, never fear!”
And I sez, “I ain't in trouble!” but he looks me in the eyes,
And he answers sharp and sudden, “Don't you tell me any lies—
The Lord Jesus 'ates a liar!” and at that I shut my fist,
I'd 'a' struck 'im if'e'd let me, but he ketch'd me by the wrist,
And he whisper'd, oh, so gentle, “You're our sister, lass,” he said,
“And to-night I think our sister 'as no place to lay her 'ed!
Come in—your friends are waitin'—they've been waitin' many a day—
And at last you've come, my sister, and I think you've come to stay!”’

Glory! Hallelujah! Fighting for the Lord!
Sinners kneel before us, fearing fire and sword!
Never you take service with the Devil's crew—
Here you'll get promotion, if you're straight and true!
Jesus is Field-marshal! Jesus, Heaven's King,
Points us forward, forward, while we

March

And

Sing!

‘Still a-playin’ in the distance! 'Allelujah! Fife and drum!
'Ere's my blessin' on the music, now I'm bound for Kingdom Come!
Well, that night ?—They guv me shelter, and a shakedown nice and clean,
And no one ax'd no questions—who I was, or wot I'd been—
But next mornin' when I waken'd, with a 'ed that split in two,
In there comes a nice old lady, and sez smilin', “How d'ye do?”
And I nods and answers sulky, for “she's come to preach,” thinks I,
But we gets in conwersation, and at last, the Lord knows why,
I tells her about Bessy,—and I see her eyes grow dim,
And outside, while I was talkin', sounds the loud Salvation 'ymn.

359

“Well,” sez she, “she's gone to glory, and she's up among the Blest,
For it's poor gels like your sister as Lord Jesus likes the best!”
And from that she got me talkin' of myself, and when she 'eard
All my story as I've told yer, up she got without a word,
And she kiss'd me on the forrid! then she sez, “All that's gone past!
And there's lots of life before you, now you've come to us at last!”
Then I larf'd—“I ain't Salvationist, and never mean to be!
Tho' a-prayin' and a-singin' may suit you, it won't suit me!”
But she sez, “You just 'ave patience, for the thing wot's wrong with you
Is just this—you're downright wretched, all for want of work to do!
One so pretty should be 'appy as a bird upon a tree”
(Me pretty! and me 'appy!) “for the Lord, my dear,” sez she,
“Likes nice cheerful folks about Him, and can't bear to see them sad,
For He's fond of fun and music and of everythink that's glad!”

‘Well, she got me work, and told me folks must labour every one,
And I said I'd be teetotal (just to please her, and for fun!)
But I allays hated working, and my 'eart felt dull and low,
And thinks I, “The publick's better, and religion ain't no go,”
For somethink black and 'eavy seem'd a-workin' in my breast,
And I used to go 'ysteric, and I never felt at rest . . .
But one mornin', when the Army was agatherin', I stood by,
And they 'ollered, “Glory, glory, to our Father in the sky!”
And I thought the tune was jolly, and I sang out loud and gay,
And the minute I begun it, 'arf my trouble pass'd away,
And the louder as I sung it, that great lump I felt inside
Grew a-lighter and a-lighter, while I lep and sung and cried!
And when the song was over, up the Captain comes to me,
And he sez, “That voice of yourn, Jane, is as good as any three!
Why, you're like a op'ry singer!” he sez, larfin'. . . . “Never mind,”
He sez (for I look'd sulky, and his 'eart was allays kind!)
“Never mind—there's many among us of such singin' would be proud—
He's a long way off, is Jesus, so we've got to make it loud!”
Then they march'd, and I went marchin', for I seem'd gone mad that day,
And my 'art inside was dancin' every footstep of the way.
Yes, and that there singin' saved me! for the louder as I sung,
Why, the more my load was lighten'd, and it seem'd as how I sprung
From the ground right up to Jesus, and I 'eard Him 'oller clear,
“Keep a marchin' and a-singin', for you've got to get up 'ere!”’

Hear

Our

Cry!

‘Coming back? Ah, yes, I 'ear them, louder, louder, as they come;
Lord, if I might only jine them, march ag'in to fife and drum!
. . . I feels faint. . . . A drop o' water!—There, I'm better, but my 'ed
Is a-swimmin' to the music. . . . Now it's stop't. . . . Wot's that ye said?
They're a-standing 'neath the windy? Lift me up, and let me see,
For the sight of them as saved me is like life and breath to me!
No, I can't!—all's black afore me—and my singin's a'most done. . . .
Now, it's lighter! I can see them! all a-standin' in the sun!

360

Look, look, it's the Lord Jesus! He's a-formin' them in line,
His white 'orse is golden-bridled, and 'is eyes—see, how they shine!
'E's a-speakin'! Read the Roll-Call! They're a-throngin' one and all,
With their things in marchin' order, they're a-answ'rin' to the call,
My turn will soon be comin', for the march must soon begin. . . .
‘Alleloojah Jane! That's me, sir! Ready? Ready, sir! Fall in!’

L'Envoi to the Preceding Poem.

Nought is so base that Nature cannot turn
Its dross to shining gold,
No lamb so lost that it may never learn
The footpath to the fold.

Be sure this trampled clay beneath our feet
Hath life as fair as ours,
Be sure this smell of foulness is as sweet
As scent of fresh young flowers.

All is a mystery and a change,—a strife
Of evil powers with good:
Sin is the leaven wherewith the bread of life
Is fashion'd for our food.

God works with instruments as foul as these,
Sifts Souls from dregs of sense,
Death is His shadow—Sorrow and Disease
Are both His handmaidens!

Out of the tangled woof of Day and Night
His web of Life is spun:
Dust in the beam is just as surely Light
As yonder shining Sun!