One may fall but he falls by himself—
Falls by himself with himself to blame,
One may attain and to him is pelf,
Loot of the city in Gold or Fame.
Plunder of earth shall be all his own
Who travels the fastest and travels alone.
Wherefore the more ye be holpen and stayed,
Stayed by a friend in the hour of toil,
Sing the heretical song I have made—
His be the labour and yours be the spoil,
Win by his aid and the aid disown—
He travels the fastest who travels alone!
‘How far is St. Helena from a little child at
play?’ What makes you want to wander there with
all the world between? Oh, Mother, call your
son again or else he’ll run away. (No one
thinks of winter when the grass is green!)
‘How far is St. Helena from a fight in Paris
street?’ I haven’t time to answer now—the
men are falling fast. The guns begin to thunder,
and the drums begin to beat. (If you take the first
step you will take the last!)
‘How far is St. Helena from the field of Austerlitz?’
You couldn’t hear me if I told—so
loud the cannons roar. But not so far for people
who are living by their wits. (’Gay go up’
means ‘Gay go down’ the wide world o’er!)
‘How far is St. Helena from an Emperor of France?’
I cannot see—I cannot tell—the
crowns they dazzle so. The Kings sit down to
dinner, and the Queens stand up to dance. (After
open weather you may look for snow!)
‘How far is St. Helena from the Capes of Trafalgar?’
A longish way—a longish way—with
ten year more to run. It’s South across
the water underneath a setting star. (What you
cannot finish you must leave undone!)
‘How far is St. Helena from the Beresina ice?’
An ill way—a chill way—the ice
begins to crack. But not so far for gentlemen
who never took advice. (When you can’t go
forward you must e’en come back!)
‘How far is St. Helena from the field of Waterloo?’
A near way—a clear way—the ship
will take you soon. A pleasant place for gentlemen
with little left to do, (Morning never tries you
till the afternoon!)
‘How far from St. Helena to the Gate of Heaven’s
Grace?’ That no one knows—that no
one knows—and no one ever will. But
fold your hands across your heart and cover up your
face, And after all your trapesings, child, lie still!
These were my companions going forth by night—
(For Chil! Look you, for Chil!)
Now come I to whistle them the ending of the fight.
(Chil! Vanguards of Chil!)
Word they gave me overhead of quarry newly slain,
Word I gave them underfoot of buck upon the plain.
Here’s an end of every trail—they
shall not speak again!
