 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
DICK DALGLEISH
Just a mechanic with big, broad head,—
Carpenter, maybe, or engineer,—
Deft with a skilled hand at winning his bread,
Scornful of varnish and show and veneer;
Rough-handed, plain-spoken, strong in his youth,
Loyal to all of his order and craft;
Loudly maintaining the fact and the truth,
At all pretences as loudly he laughed;
Laughed at quill-drivers, and white-fingered dandies
Measuring ribbons with yard-stick and tape;
Laughed more at frowsy men doctoring brandies,
And calling their drugs the pure fruit of the grape:
He slept through the night, and he toiled all the day,
And nothing he drank but the brook by the way.
Carpenter, maybe, or engineer,—
Deft with a skilled hand at winning his bread,
Scornful of varnish and show and veneer;
Rough-handed, plain-spoken, strong in his youth,
Loyal to all of his order and craft;
Loudly maintaining the fact and the truth,
At all pretences as loudly he laughed;
Laughed at quill-drivers, and white-fingered dandies
Measuring ribbons with yard-stick and tape;
Laughed more at frowsy men doctoring brandies,
And calling their drugs the pure fruit of the grape:
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And nothing he drank but the brook by the way.
Out on a holiday, wholesomely dressed,
Clean-washed, clean-shirted, his wife by his side,
With a small baby she clasped to her breast,
And chirped to, and watched with a motherly pride.
Proud of her baby, and proud of her Man,
All her young face was like sunshine to see;
No sickly vapours had she, nor a wan
Fine-lady look, but was healthful as he.
How she looked up to him! Who was so clever?
Who was so good as her Dick? It is true
He was blunt-spoken, but then he would never
Harm a poor worm or a fly, if he knew;
And he read everything—science, and plays,
And poems, and all that the newspaper says.
Clean-washed, clean-shirted, his wife by his side,
With a small baby she clasped to her breast,
And chirped to, and watched with a motherly pride.
Proud of her baby, and proud of her Man,
All her young face was like sunshine to see;
No sickly vapours had she, nor a wan
Fine-lady look, but was healthful as he.
How she looked up to him! Who was so clever?
Who was so good as her Dick? It is true
He was blunt-spoken, but then he would never
Harm a poor worm or a fly, if he knew;
And he read everything—science, and plays,
And poems, and all that the newspaper says.
Out on a holiday, sailing down
The broad clear river that bore away
Thronging crowds from the broiling town
To the birch-clad hill or the sandy bay;
Shrewdly he glanced at either shore,
Lined with the half-finished skeleton ships,
Spoke of their rigging, abaft and afore,
And what they might do at their trial trips;
Plainly knew all about this one's gearing,
The other one's engines, paddles, or screw,
And the new methods of working and steering,
What coal they needed, and what coal could do;
And shrewdly projected a wonderful dream,
Into the future, of iron and steam.
The broad clear river that bore away
Thronging crowds from the broiling town
To the birch-clad hill or the sandy bay;
Shrewdly he glanced at either shore,
Lined with the half-finished skeleton ships,
Spoke of their rigging, abaft and afore,
And what they might do at their trial trips;
Plainly knew all about this one's gearing,
The other one's engines, paddles, or screw,
And the new methods of working and steering,
What coal they needed, and what coal could do;
And shrewdly projected a wonderful dream,
Into the future, of iron and steam.
I scarce know why, but I rather took
To the manly bearing of him, and the fond
Young pride which his wife showed in every look,
Than to all the rest, as their ways I conned:
They were mostly broad-cloth citizen folks,
Each with his newspaper where he read
The markets first, and the price of stocks,
And what at the bankrupt court sittings was said:
They carried their business with them always;
While their wives were towny and overdressed,
Talked of their city life and its small ways,
And dinners and weddings and fashion and taste.
So I took my seat, with a frank good-day,
By the big mechanic in homespun grey.
To the manly bearing of him, and the fond
Young pride which his wife showed in every look,
Than to all the rest, as their ways I conned:
They were mostly broad-cloth citizen folks,
Each with his newspaper where he read
The markets first, and the price of stocks,
And what at the bankrupt court sittings was said:
They carried their business with them always;
While their wives were towny and overdressed,
Talked of their city life and its small ways,
And dinners and weddings and fashion and taste.
So I took my seat, with a frank good-day,
By the big mechanic in homespun grey.
I was fain to speak of his craft and trade,
But he went rather at first for books:
Did I not think that Darwin made
A case for the worms as against the rooks?
What had the birds done for earth like these
Dumb, silent ploughers who made the soil
For rooks to nestle on its high trees,
And man to live by his sweat and toil?
That was a man, sir, with hardly a rival
For his power to see, and his grasp of thought;
And as for his doctrine of fit survival,
That's the new gospel this age has got;
And we must be rid of the drones in the hive,
That the true workers may live and thrive.
But he went rather at first for books:
Did I not think that Darwin made
A case for the worms as against the rooks?
What had the birds done for earth like these
Dumb, silent ploughers who made the soil
For rooks to nestle on its high trees,
And man to live by his sweat and toil?
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For his power to see, and his grasp of thought;
And as for his doctrine of fit survival,
That's the new gospel this age has got;
And we must be rid of the drones in the hive,
That the true workers may live and thrive.
They're nearly all drones now on board here to-day;
Our lads went off with an earlier boat;
But wife, sir, and baby must have their own way,
And she likes the gentle-folks when she's afloat.
It is so, you know, Kate; you're fain now to hear
The sweet-spoken damsels come praising your child;
And if we went down, you would rather appear
With respectable folk, pretty-mannered and mild,
Than stand at the judgment with Dick, Tom, and Harry
Not more than half-sobered with gulps of the sea—
Oh, how can I say so, when you chose to marry
Such a blunt working chap, such a rough tyke as me?
That's true; yet you cannot deny it was you
Brought me here with this soft-handed, soft-headed crew.
Our lads went off with an earlier boat;
But wife, sir, and baby must have their own way,
And she likes the gentle-folks when she's afloat.
It is so, you know, Kate; you're fain now to hear
The sweet-spoken damsels come praising your child;
And if we went down, you would rather appear
With respectable folk, pretty-mannered and mild,
Than stand at the judgment with Dick, Tom, and Harry
Not more than half-sobered with gulps of the sea—
Oh, how can I say so, when you chose to marry
Such a blunt working chap, such a rough tyke as me?
That's true; yet you cannot deny it was you
Brought me here with this soft-handed, soft-headed crew.
Would you wish me, old girl, now, to be just like these,
With broadcloth and white linen worn every day,
And to saunter through 'Change for an hour at my ease,
And call that my work, though it looks so like play?
Their brow never sweats with the work they have done,
Unless at some queer job that looks rather ill,
And then it is but for the risk that they run,
When they shuffle the cards for a trial of skill.
Now, I come home at evening, Kate, dirty and weary,
But my conscience is clean, and my head, too, is clear;
I don't sit, and drink wine, and make the house dreary,
As some of them do half the days of the year;
I take on no stains from my work or my play
Which a pail of fresh water will not wash away.
With broadcloth and white linen worn every day,
And to saunter through 'Change for an hour at my ease,
And call that my work, though it looks so like play?
Their brow never sweats with the work they have done,
Unless at some queer job that looks rather ill,
And then it is but for the risk that they run,
When they shuffle the cards for a trial of skill.
Now, I come home at evening, Kate, dirty and weary,
But my conscience is clean, and my head, too, is clear;
I don't sit, and drink wine, and make the house dreary,
As some of them do half the days of the year;
I take on no stains from my work or my play
Which a pail of fresh water will not wash away.
They buy and they sell for the rise or fall,
When neither a rise nor a fall should be,
Filching a profit still, great or small,
For the doing of nothing that I can see.
There's a little chap sitting yonder—look!
He's bulling and bearing all the day long;
And they're fain to glance at his jotting-book,
For they say that his guesses are seldom wrong;
I call him the big flea blood-sucking commerce,
And these are the little fleas blood-sucking him;
And they live upon us, all our winters and summers—
Swarms of them, sir—in the handsomest trim,
They make their game, and the stakes are laid,
And they rake in the gold which the workers made
Yet what have they done for the world by their strokes
Of betting and hedging? I want to know that.
And who is the happier hearing their jokes?
And whose life is helped by the jobs they are at?
With their sharp arithmetic they fashion a blade
That cuts a big slice of our profit away;
And yet they've done nothing for it except trade
On the folly of some, for which all have to pay!
I used to read Carlyle, and laughed at his “gig-men,”
And I still like the old fellow's rough tongue a bit;
But he never yet said how the “clothes-men” and “wig-men”
Must make way at last for the men who are fit.
That's Darwin's discovery; and how can you doubt
These chaps, like the dodo, are bound to die out?
When neither a rise nor a fall should be,
Filching a profit still, great or small,
For the doing of nothing that I can see.
There's a little chap sitting yonder—look!
He's bulling and bearing all the day long;
And they're fain to glance at his jotting-book,
For they say that his guesses are seldom wrong;
I call him the big flea blood-sucking commerce,
And these are the little fleas blood-sucking him;
And they live upon us, all our winters and summers—
Swarms of them, sir—in the handsomest trim,
They make their game, and the stakes are laid,
And they rake in the gold which the workers made
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Of betting and hedging? I want to know that.
And who is the happier hearing their jokes?
And whose life is helped by the jobs they are at?
With their sharp arithmetic they fashion a blade
That cuts a big slice of our profit away;
And yet they've done nothing for it except trade
On the folly of some, for which all have to pay!
I used to read Carlyle, and laughed at his “gig-men,”
And I still like the old fellow's rough tongue a bit;
But he never yet said how the “clothes-men” and “wig-men”
Must make way at last for the men who are fit.
That's Darwin's discovery; and how can you doubt
These chaps, like the dodo, are bound to die out?
When you spoke to me first, you were wishing to know
About us, the working men; what our thoughts are;
And whereto our strikes and our unions grow;
And how near the end is, or, maybe, how far.—
Ah, folks are grown curious about us, who once
Sniffed the grease of our moleskins, and hurried them past.
You're not of that sort, I allow; and perchance
We are crustier, now that our day's come at last,
Than we should be. That comes of the way we've been living;
Men trample on man, and they make him a brute;
Though of course we ought all to be taking and giving,
And keep our good humour and manhood to boot.
But those who have tasted of slight and neglect,
When folk grow too civil, are apt to suspect.
About us, the working men; what our thoughts are;
And whereto our strikes and our unions grow;
And how near the end is, or, maybe, how far.—
Ah, folks are grown curious about us, who once
Sniffed the grease of our moleskins, and hurried them past.
You're not of that sort, I allow; and perchance
We are crustier, now that our day's come at last,
Than we should be. That comes of the way we've been living;
Men trample on man, and they make him a brute;
Though of course we ought all to be taking and giving,
And keep our good humour and manhood to boot.
But those who have tasted of slight and neglect,
When folk grow too civil, are apt to suspect.
I don't say it's right. But at one time I made
What was plainly to me a new thing in our line;
A saving of labour to quicken the trade,
And bring in more wealth than the gold in a mine.
Well, I spoke to the head of our firm; but he turned,
With a big oath, and bade me go work at my tools;
He had heard such tales once till his fingers were burned,
And he found that your workmen-inventors were fools.
But afterwards, learning more truly about it,
Oh, he spoke me so bland, and would fain see the thing;
So I brought forth my model—as proud, do not doubt it,
As Kate of her baby there,—and with a swing
Of the big hammer, I dashed it in bits,
Saying, What could come out of a working man's wits?
What was plainly to me a new thing in our line;
A saving of labour to quicken the trade,
And bring in more wealth than the gold in a mine.
Well, I spoke to the head of our firm; but he turned,
With a big oath, and bade me go work at my tools;
He had heard such tales once till his fingers were burned,
And he found that your workmen-inventors were fools.
But afterwards, learning more truly about it,
Oh, he spoke me so bland, and would fain see the thing;
So I brought forth my model—as proud, do not doubt it,
As Kate of her baby there,—and with a swing
Of the big hammer, I dashed it in bits,
Saying, What could come out of a working man's wits?
I had toiled at it, sir, every night for a year,
So hopeful and happy in seeing my thought
Turned now into iron, and coming out clear,
At last, through a plain inspiration I got.—
For why should not God inspire minds to invent
As well as to preach, and be praised for His gift?
Sir, it came like a flash and a thrill that were sent
In a moment of failure, when I was adrift;
As “the still small voice,” which the prophet must hearken,
Because it was God's, so the thing came to me,
Like the gladness of light when that failure did darken
Around me, and I was as broken as he:
And what is the joy of their gold, and their gain,
To the gladness I had when I saw it all plain?
So hopeful and happy in seeing my thought
Turned now into iron, and coming out clear,
At last, through a plain inspiration I got.—
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As well as to preach, and be praised for His gift?
Sir, it came like a flash and a thrill that were sent
In a moment of failure, when I was adrift;
As “the still small voice,” which the prophet must hearken,
Because it was God's, so the thing came to me,
Like the gladness of light when that failure did darken
Around me, and I was as broken as he:
And what is the joy of their gold, and their gain,
To the gladness I had when I saw it all plain?
You think it was childish to waste the ripe fruit
Of my labour and thought. Not a whit; it's all here
As clear in my head as that day, and to boot
Some riper thought still that may some time appear.
But I told you this only to show how, in vain,
Folk think all at once they can heal the huge rent
In our social order where one's heart and brain
Find seldom the right places for which they were meant.—
But why don't I patent the thing I invented?—
Oh, and rise in the world, as they say, and grow rich,
And have a grand house finely papered and painted,
And mount me a-horseback to land in a ditch,
And dress my good Kate in her sealskin and silk,
And quaff my champagne as it were bottled milk?
Of my labour and thought. Not a whit; it's all here
As clear in my head as that day, and to boot
Some riper thought still that may some time appear.
But I told you this only to show how, in vain,
Folk think all at once they can heal the huge rent
In our social order where one's heart and brain
Find seldom the right places for which they were meant.—
But why don't I patent the thing I invented?—
Oh, and rise in the world, as they say, and grow rich,
And have a grand house finely papered and painted,
And mount me a-horseback to land in a ditch,
And dress my good Kate in her sealskin and silk,
And quaff my champagne as it were bottled milk?
Well, I once knew a man with a head-piece to think,
And hands that could work out the thought of his head—
It is true that he had a bad weakness for drink,
And would whimper about it, and wish he were dead;—
But he took to that line, and had everything fine,
A house in a big square, with lamps at the door,
And carriages, horses, and flunkies, and wine,
And heaven knows what that he had not before.
But the ladies were shy of his wife; and the flunkies—
The lazy fat rogues, I'd have sweated them well—
At the back of his chair stood, and grinned there like monkeys,
And down in the kitchen they laughed at his bell;
And he had not a moment of comfort or peace,
Till a crash stript him bare as a sheep of its fleece.
And hands that could work out the thought of his head—
It is true that he had a bad weakness for drink,
And would whimper about it, and wish he were dead;—
But he took to that line, and had everything fine,
A house in a big square, with lamps at the door,
And carriages, horses, and flunkies, and wine,
And heaven knows what that he had not before.
But the ladies were shy of his wife; and the flunkies—
The lazy fat rogues, I'd have sweated them well—
At the back of his chair stood, and grinned there like monkeys,
And down in the kitchen they laughed at his bell;
And he had not a moment of comfort or peace,
Till a crash stript him bare as a sheep of its fleece.
No, I'll not take that way, sir; I don't care to rise
Above my own class—we are happier so.
The Son of the Carpenter now, He was wise
In the old town of Nazareth long, long ago.
We are not very pious, we workmen, I fear,
Don't go much to church, but we read about Him;
And the things that we read are not quite what we hear
The minister blow off like froth from the brim
Of a pot of small beer. Nay, I don't blame the preacher;
It's just what we want that we find in our books;
As the sun is a painter to some, and a bleacher
To others; it is as the eye is that looks;
You open the door to which you have the key,
And I find the message that God meant for me.
Above my own class—we are happier so.
The Son of the Carpenter now, He was wise
In the old town of Nazareth long, long ago.
We are not very pious, we workmen, I fear,
Don't go much to church, but we read about Him;
And the things that we read are not quite what we hear
The minister blow off like froth from the brim
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It's just what we want that we find in our books;
As the sun is a painter to some, and a bleacher
To others; it is as the eye is that looks;
You open the door to which you have the key,
And I find the message that God meant for me.
But the Carpenter, now, did not care to be great,
And to ape what the fine lords of Herod might do,
Nor yet be called Rabbi, and sit in the gate
As a Judge, or a Parliament man to the Jew.
The fox had his hole, and the bird of the air
Had its nest; but He had not roof o'er His head,
And heeded not purple and sumptuous fare,
And borrowed a grave when He lay with the dead.
And this is the gospel I read in the story—
Though I don't say it mayn't have another to you—
The Lord did not seek His own honour and glory,
But stood by His craftsmen and fishers all through.
He held to His class that their ills he might cure,
And lift up the head of the needy and poor.
And to ape what the fine lords of Herod might do,
Nor yet be called Rabbi, and sit in the gate
As a Judge, or a Parliament man to the Jew.
The fox had his hole, and the bird of the air
Had its nest; but He had not roof o'er His head,
And heeded not purple and sumptuous fare,
And borrowed a grave when He lay with the dead.
And this is the gospel I read in the story—
Though I don't say it mayn't have another to you—
The Lord did not seek His own honour and glory,
But stood by His craftsmen and fishers all through.
He held to His class that their ills he might cure,
And lift up the head of the needy and poor.
Well, that is our gospel too, that is our Ark,
Not to rise from our class, but to raise the class higher,
Not to take to the nice ways of lawyer or clerk,
Not to turn from the hammer, the file, and the fire;
But to stand by our order and stick to our tools,
And still win our bread by the sweat of our brow,
And to organise labour by Christian-like rules,
Not that some, but that all, may be better than now,
May have homes of more comfort, and lives with more leisure
To read, and to think, and to well understand,
And to get, like us here now, some holiday pleasure;
For they do the work that enriches the land.
No! I don't care to rise for myself, till I see
The rest get a chance, too, of rising with me.
Not to rise from our class, but to raise the class higher,
Not to take to the nice ways of lawyer or clerk,
Not to turn from the hammer, the file, and the fire;
But to stand by our order and stick to our tools,
And still win our bread by the sweat of our brow,
And to organise labour by Christian-like rules,
Not that some, but that all, may be better than now,
May have homes of more comfort, and lives with more leisure
To read, and to think, and to well understand,
And to get, like us here now, some holiday pleasure;
For they do the work that enriches the land.
No! I don't care to rise for myself, till I see
The rest get a chance, too, of rising with me.
You're a Christian, sir? Well! so am I, in a way,
Though some of our fellows, and good fellows too,
Have no other gospel or God, as they say,
Than Man, and what man's brain and fingers may do.
I don't go with them, but I reckon my trade
May be my church too, if the right heart is there,
A-healing the wounds which the selfish have made,
And helping the helpless their burden to bear.
He is parson and priest, though his apron be leather,
And he tuck up his shirt-sleeves to do his job well,
Whose heart is most loving to sister and brother,
Most ready to go where the sorrowful dwell,
And to show to the erring the right way of truth,
And bring them again to the faith of their youth.
Though some of our fellows, and good fellows too,
Have no other gospel or God, as they say,
Than Man, and what man's brain and fingers may do.
I don't go with them, but I reckon my trade
May be my church too, if the right heart is there,
A-healing the wounds which the selfish have made,
And helping the helpless their burden to bear.
He is parson and priest, though his apron be leather,
And he tuck up his shirt-sleeves to do his job well,
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Most ready to go where the sorrowful dwell,
And to show to the erring the right way of truth,
And bring them again to the faith of their youth.
Now, the faith of my youth was that Christ would redeem
The life of the poor from its sorrow and sin,
Would wake up the world from its wealth-loving dream
To seek the true riches of manhood within,
In wisdom and worth, and the peace which they bring.
That's the word which I heard from my old mother's lips;
But now it's another guess-song that they sing,
And the light of her heaven has all suffered eclipse.
Oh, we boast that the poor man may rise in the world,
And we point to his sons who are lords in the state,
A-driving in carriages, scented and curled,
Or making their bow to the Gold-Stick-in-Wait.
And where shall you find, now, a sight that's so grand,
Except in this truth-loving, Christ-serving land?
The life of the poor from its sorrow and sin,
Would wake up the world from its wealth-loving dream
To seek the true riches of manhood within,
In wisdom and worth, and the peace which they bring.
That's the word which I heard from my old mother's lips;
But now it's another guess-song that they sing,
And the light of her heaven has all suffered eclipse.
Oh, we boast that the poor man may rise in the world,
And we point to his sons who are lords in the state,
A-driving in carriages, scented and curled,
Or making their bow to the Gold-Stick-in-Wait.
And where shall you find, now, a sight that's so grand,
Except in this truth-loving, Christ-serving land?
Well, well! what rare tricks we do play, to be sure,
With our conjuring cards, and our thimbles and peas!
To think that a God could come here, and endure
A cross to make lordlings and ladies like these,
And to leave all the rest of His brothers to pine!
There's your thimble, and Christ in't; but presto! begone!
Lo! the devil is there, where the glory divine
A short while ago sat in sorrow alone!
Oh blessed the poor—if they only get money;
And blessed the meek—if they stand to their rights;
And all who are selfish shall have milk and honey,
For they are the salt of the earth and its lights!
Ay! that's the new gospel, I call it, of Gold;
But we working men will hold fast to the old.
With our conjuring cards, and our thimbles and peas!
To think that a God could come here, and endure
A cross to make lordlings and ladies like these,
And to leave all the rest of His brothers to pine!
There's your thimble, and Christ in't; but presto! begone!
Lo! the devil is there, where the glory divine
A short while ago sat in sorrow alone!
Oh blessed the poor—if they only get money;
And blessed the meek—if they stand to their rights;
And all who are selfish shall have milk and honey,
For they are the salt of the earth and its lights!
Ay! that's the new gospel, I call it, of Gold;
But we working men will hold fast to the old.
Yes, I know we're divided, as other folk are,
And what is yet worse, we are cursed with that drink;
And many are selfish, and some of us mar
A good cause with bad ways, and some do not think;
And we've blundered, 'tis true, and been wrong now and then,
And done what we should not—as who has not done?
But we'll learn by our failures; we're only poor men,
Kept like children till lately, now trying to run;
And sometimes, of course, we get tript up and tumble;
But still on our clouds, lo! the rainbow is set,
And a light springeth up in the hearts of the humble,
Will grow to more fulness, and gladden us yet—
But there! I've been preaching until I have got
A drop in my heart that is bitter and hot.
That's the way with all preaching; it don't make one sweet.
Where's Kate and the baby? They'll put me all right.
Oh, the ladies are praising its hands and its feet,
And its mouth and its nose, and its precious eyesight!
Well, well! do you see, sir, that narrow green glen,
With the strip of dark alders, that show where the stream
Flows on in its loneliness far from men,
And ripples, and murmurs like one in a dream?
I speak like a fool, for of course you can't hear it,
Though I hear it singing away to itself,
Or sobbing at times like a sore troubled spirit,
Or laughing perhaps as it slides down a shelf;
I was born there, sir; and we're going to try
A week with old mother—Kate and baby and I.
And what is yet worse, we are cursed with that drink;
And many are selfish, and some of us mar
A good cause with bad ways, and some do not think;
And we've blundered, 'tis true, and been wrong now and then,
And done what we should not—as who has not done?
But we'll learn by our failures; we're only poor men,
Kept like children till lately, now trying to run;
And sometimes, of course, we get tript up and tumble;
But still on our clouds, lo! the rainbow is set,
And a light springeth up in the hearts of the humble,
Will grow to more fulness, and gladden us yet—
But there! I've been preaching until I have got
A drop in my heart that is bitter and hot.
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Where's Kate and the baby? They'll put me all right.
Oh, the ladies are praising its hands and its feet,
And its mouth and its nose, and its precious eyesight!
Well, well! do you see, sir, that narrow green glen,
With the strip of dark alders, that show where the stream
Flows on in its loneliness far from men,
And ripples, and murmurs like one in a dream?
I speak like a fool, for of course you can't hear it,
Though I hear it singing away to itself,
Or sobbing at times like a sore troubled spirit,
Or laughing perhaps as it slides down a shelf;
I was born there, sir; and we're going to try
A week with old mother—Kate and baby and I.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |