“Know this, my brethren, Heaven
is clear
And all the clouds are gone—
The Proper Sort shall flourish now,
Good times are coming on”—
The evil that was threatened late
To all of our degree,
Hath passed in discord and debate,
And, Hey then up go we!
A common people strove in vain
To shame us unto toil,
But they are spent and we remain,
And we shall share the spoil
According to our several needs
As Beauty shall decree,
As Age ordains or Birth concedes,
And, Hey then up go we!
And they that with accursed zeal
Our Service would amend,
Shall own the odds and come to heel
Ere worse befall their end
For though no naked word be wrote
Yet plainly shall they see
What pinneth Orders to their coat,
And, Hey then up go we!
Our doorways that, in time of fear,
We opened overwide
Shall softly close from year to year
Till all be purified;
For though no fluttering fan be heard
Nor chaff be seen to flee—
The Lord shall winnow the Lord’s
Preferred—
And, Hey then up go we!
Our altars which the heathen brake
Shall rankly smoke anew,
And anise, mint, and cummin take
Their dread and sovereign
due,
Whereby the buttons of our trade
Shall all restored be
With curious work in gilt and braid,
And, Hey then up go we!
Then come, my brethren, and prepare
The candlesticks and bells,
The scarlet, brass, and badger’s
hair
Wherein our Honour dwells,
And straitly fence and strictly keep
The Ark’s integrity
Till Armageddon break our sleep ...
And, Hey then up go we!
I sat down in the club smoking-room to fill a pipe.
* * * *
*
It was entirely natural that I should be talking to
“Boy” Bayley. We had met first, twenty
odd years ago, at the Indian mess of the Tyneside
Tail-twisters. Our last meeting, I remembered,
had been at the Mount Nelson Hotel, which was by no
means India, and there we had talked half the night.
Boy Bayley had gone up that week to the front, where
I think he stayed a long, long time.
But now he had come back.
“Are you still a Tynesider?” I asked.
“I command the Imperial Guard Battalion of the
old regiment, my son,” he replied.
“Guard which? They’ve been Fusiliers
since Fontenoy. Don’t pull my leg, Boy.”
“I said Guard, not Guard-s. The I. G. Battalion
of the Tail-twisters. Does that make it any clearer?”
“Not in the least.”
“Then come over to the mess and see for yourself.
We aren’t a step from barracks. Keep on
my right side. I’m—I’m
a bit deaf on the near.”
