Walter – A True Story
We rode thoughout the night
From eve till morn’s grey light
And all the while a tempest howled before us
But we never gave an inch
Not from our journey flinch
And we never felt the weariness come o’er us.
All through that long long night
Just tucked in behind the fight,
Was a youth whose Christian name is known as Walter
Tenaciously he clung
And to our back wheels hung
And ne’er an inch all night did Walter falter.
We tried to shake him off
But Walter was too tough
And from his self-appointed place he would not budge
When the going got too hard
And we thought he’d walk a yard
He’d get off too and just behind us trudge.
But when later in the day
The wind behind us lay
Walter got in front and disappeared
And blinding all the while
He gained mile after mile
And not until at supper re-appeared.
So we thought we would celebrate
In honour of our mate
And make to him a decent presentation
So we said a little speech
(Though we kept him out of reach)
Whilst we placed him on an hero’s elevation.
With a medal on his breast
And a proudly swelling chest
We took his photo, mounted on his bike,
With the trophy in his hand
The effect was simply grand
For a right good champion’s posture he did strike.
So at some future date
When his year’s are getting late
And his feet too weak to try and push a pedal
He will tell his son’s the story
Of how he gained such glory
And framed upon the wall will be his medal.
Whitsun 1926
The Call
A great red sun is setting
Across the azure sea;
A wealth of shade and colour
Into the western lea:
A voice calls o’er the waters
Bidding me to free
My soul from work-day fetters
To sail the restless sea.
The road winds o’er the mountains
Across the peaceful plains;
It strides across the moorlands
Before it’s goal attains:
I hear the road a-calling –
I see those leafy lanes
I cannot help but answer
Ere the long day wanes.
A silver thread is winding,
Through deeply hidden dales
I see the sparkling waters
A coursing down the vales;
The music of the dancing flood –
A song that never fails
To draw me to the riverside –
To hear the river’s tales.
Across the open moorland
(Yon ridge that cleaves the sky)
The whispering breeze is calling –
I hear the moor fowl cry:
That bed of moss and heather,
Where content I may lie
Besides the rippling moorland burn
That dances lightly by.
Beyond yon tree-clad valley
The towering mountains rise;
A tumbled, mighty, rocky mass
Uprearing to the skies:
Amongst those peaks is freedom
Away from man’s device
About those crags and precipice
I’ll find a paradise.
The sun is over the forest,
A scene of sylvan peace
It forms a leafy pattern
A-slanting through the trees
The shady roof waves gently
Stirred by the summer breeze
‘Tis there I’d love to wander
Wherever I may please.
The restless sea is breaking
In wavelets o’er the shore
The Southern breeze is calling
Across the lonely moor
The shady, coloured woodlands
The river’s gentle roar
But most of all I hear the road –
The ever open door. 1922
