I

                    The Best Man              (A Fact)

‘Twas whispered around that a wedding was pending,

          And rumour puts me as the man next the groom;

All morning I fought with a collar unbending

          Then dressed like a lord I went out to my doom.

Arrayed like a king in a mantle of glory,

          I joined with a throng that was happy and gay,

And for once the old clothes that were moss-grown and hoary

          To which I still clung, in a lumber room lay.

I fretted and fumed in the stiffest of collars,

          In agonies name I swore hard at those shoes

And solemnly vowed that for millions of dollars

          The name of ‘Best Man’ ne’er again would I use.

I crept into church in a frenzy of terror,

          I gave up the ring with a trembling hand

I was fearful of making the tiniest error

          For a little mistake would spread far o’er the land

At last the dread act  was done with and over,

          And off to the cafe our motor-cars sped;

A right bust up was laid – I thought I was in clover

          But shyness prevailing I ate nothing instead.

An evening of fun and music and dancing –

          But the ‘Best Man’ lay hid in an out of way place

And dreamed of his bike and the byways entrancing

          While the dancing and frolics grew faster apace.

I was dressed like a tramp in clothes moss-grown and hoary,

          And pedalled along at the back of the day

And yesterday’s fear, with that mantle of glory,

          Unwanted and lost, in a lumber room lay.

                                                                                          June 1925

I

An Appreciation

You may speak of the glories of Scotland

          Of lochs and hidden glens

Of isles and sparkling cascades

Beneath the frowning Bens:

You may speak of the beauties of Yorkshie,

          Or dream of the Derbyshire Dales;

Or ‘Bless the grey mountains of Donegal’

          Or the southern Downland trails.

You may praise all the glories of Lakeland –

          Of fell and waterfall;

But give me a Cambrian valley –

          The sweetest of them all!

Give me a Cambrian river

          Beneath and evening sky,

For there I’d linger for an age

          And let the world roll by.

                                                                      May 1926

The Best Way

At night when all my work is done

          And I am free to roam,

I ride away towards the hills

          (For I cannot stay at home)

The hours I have at leisure

          Are not so very long;

But through the woods and o’er the moors

Or where the river ceaseless roars

          I gladly glide along.

There’s the Sunday too, of freedom

          When early I can rise

For on the road at break of day

          Is found a paradise:

Sometimes my wheel goes northward

          To lands of grouse and heather,

Of chattering streams and upland dells –

I wander o’er the mossy fells

          No matter what the weather.

Or southward I may wander

          (Let me speak about the south)

In Derbyshire or Cheshire

          Where nought e’er seems uncouth,

Amongst those old world hamlets

          By some old village green,

Or wandering down those leafy lanes

And o’er the ridge as daylight wanes,

          A wealth of bounty seen.

There’s violets in the hedges.

          In pretty shades of blue

Primroses deck the forest

          With every golden hue

The wild sweet smelling hyacinth

          Bells that ring to you

And call you to the woodland glade

To linger in the sun-kissed shade –

These scenes are ever new.

And when as evening closes,

          And once again I find

Myself amid the sordid streets –

          Those precious scenes behind;

And when the workshop claims me

          And fetters round me bind

The moor and mountain, wood and mead,

A little lightsome metal steed

          Are called back to mind.

                                                                                       August 1924                                                      

I

 I have mentioned this item in the past, but I discovered over a long period of time that Charlie got the name wrong, in that ‘Jean’, who lived at her parents Bed and Breakfast in Sun Street, Ffestiniog, a predominately Welsh speaking area, was actually called ‘Jenny’.  Charlie did not know that, in ‘Welsh’ Jennie sounds like Jean.  I did track her down to the house in Sun Street, but she had sadly died some 10 years earlier, the house then (2009) contained relatives and I was told that Jenny was a confirmed flirt all her life, but who died childless.

And another Editors note, I typed up these poems properly, but this wordpress website insists on putting a double line space between individual lines of type and unless someone has a solution for that, this unfortunately is the result.

                                     Jean

There’s the pretty girl

And the witty girl

And the girl that bobs her hair;

          The girl that’s pert

          And the girl that’s a flirt

And the girl with a baby stare.

Now I know a girl who resides in Wales’

          The prettiest girl I’ve seen,

Whose beauty of feature, like Cumbria’s dales

Are such as is read of in fairy tales-

          And that girl’s name is Jean.

We were three care free cyclists on touring bent,

          Three cyclists young and keen;

Who into the Vale of Ffestiniog went,

And found that additional charm was lent

          By means of a lassie called Jean!

There’s one of our trio called ‘Blackberry Joe’

          A lanky youth, and lean;

Who confided to us in tones so low

Of his love for a lassie that all of us know

And that girl’s name is Jean! 

There’s old fashioned Tommy, a bachelor shy

          With girl’s he was never seen;

Who whispered to us as he sat by

Of his love for a lass who had caught his eye

          And that girl’s name is Jean!

Now I am a chap of rather dull wit,

          Wherever girl’s have been;

But one there is who made rather a hit-

And captured my heart something more than a bit

          And that girl’s name is Jean!!!

There we sat dreaming youthful dreams –

          Our knowledge of love was green;

Vainly plotting and scheming schemes

Through not a bit of intelligence gleams

          For the sake of a lassie named Jean!

Companions keen on a cycling tour,

          Happy and serene;

And now we’re enemies; though I’m sure

That always a woman was man’s undoer

          Pretty girls like Jean!

So follow the moral, cyclists all,

          And know by what you’ve seen;

Stand with your backs against the wall,

And fight resolved that you never will fall

          When on the scene pops Jean!  

                                                                            New Year Tour 1926

I

Here are some of Charlie Chadwick’s own poems, not previously published.

I will introduce them gradually over the coming weeks of ‘Norway in 1938’, to break the monotony of wind and rain, but will generally publish on the website on Wednesdays.

We Three  

There’s Tom and I, and ‘Blackberry Joe’

          Cyclists keen are we;

Bachelor boys of the Rolling Wheel

True to the game as tempered steel -

          Rollicking Mudlarks Three!

Sailors talk of the rolling deep,

          Singing songs of the sea;

But yo-ho-ho for the Open Road

Defy we will what wind e’er blowed

          Stamp on ‘em, Mudlarks Three!

There’s a gale on the road today boys,

          Floods on the river Dee;

Then gales we’ll face and floods we’ll brave,

What care we if tempests rave?

          Into it, Mudlarks Three!

The rain it raineth every day,

          Drenching ceaselessly,

We care not a jot for all the rain,

That ever fell on moor or plain

          Down to it, Mudlarks Three!

So here’s to the grand old cycling game,

          And here’s to the CTC;

And here’s to the wind and rain and snow

And Tom and I and ‘Blackberry Joe’-

          Rollicking Mudlarks Three

New Year Tour 1926