SONGS
of the
ARMY OF THE NIGHT.
by
FRANCIS ADAMS.
“For the cause of Labour all over the Earth.”
second edition.
London:
william reeves, 185, fleet street, e.c.
TO EDITH.
“My sweet, my child, through all this night
Of dark and wind and rain,
Where thunder crashes, and the light
Sears the bewildered brain,
“It is your face, your lips, your eyes
I see rise up; I hear
Your voice that sobs and calls and cries,
Or shrills and mocks at fear.
“O this that’s mine is yours as well,
For side by side our feet
Trod through these bitter brakes of hell.
Take it, my child, my sweet!”
CONTENTS.
page
Preface
11
This Book
15
songs of the army of the night.
Proem:—“Outside London”
18
part i.—england.
In the Camp
19
“Axiom”
20
Drill
20
Evening Hymn in the Hovels
21
In the Street: “Lord Shaftesbury”
22
“Liberty”
22
In the Edgware Road
24
To the Girls of the Unions
24
Hagar
25
“Why?”
26
A Visitor in the Camp
27
“Lord Leitrim”
28
“Anarchism”
28
Belgravia by Night: “Move on!”
29
Jesus
29
Parallels for the Pious
30
“Prayer”
30
To the Christians
31
“Defeat”
31
To John Ruskin
To the Emperor William
34
Song of the Dispossessed: “To Jesus”
34
Art
35
The Peasants’ Revolt
35
“Analogy”
37
In Trafalgar Square
37
A Street Fight
37
To a Workman, a would-be Suicide
39
Dublin at Dawn
40
The Caged Eagle
41
To Ireland
42
To Charles Parnell
42
An “Assassin”
43
Russia
44
Père-la-Chaise
45
Aux Ternes
46
“The Truth”
47
To the Sons of Labour
48
To the Artists
49
“One among so Many”
50
The New Locksley Hall
52
Farewell to the Market: “Susannah and Mary-Jane”
58
part ii.—here and there.
In the Pit: “Chant of the Firemen”
60
A Mahommadan Ship Fireman
61
To India
61
To England:
I. “There was a time”
61
II. “We hate you”
62
III. “I whom you fed with shame”
IV. “England, the Land I loved”
63
Hong Kong Lyrics:
I. “At Anchor in that Harbour”
64
II. “There is much in this Sea-way City”
65
III. “I stand and watch the Soldiers”
65
IV. “Happy Valley”
66
A Glimpse of China:
I. In a Sampan
67
II. In a Chair
67
III. “Caste”
68
IV. Over the Samovar
69
To Japan
70
Dai Butsu
70
“England”
71
The Fisherman
71
A South-Sea Islander
72
New Summer Converts
72
A Death at Sea:
I. “Dead in the Sheep-Pen”
73
II. “In the Warm, Cloudy Night”
74
III. “Dirge”
74
part iii.—australia.
The Outcasts
75
James Moorhouse
75
In the Sea Gardens: “The Man of the Nation”
78
“Upstarts”
79
Labour—Capital—Land
79
Australia
80
Art
80
“Henry George”
81
William Wallace
The Australian Flag
83
To an Old Friend in England: “Esau”
84
At the Seamen’s Union: “The Seamen and the Miners”
84
To His Love
85
Her Poem: “My Baby Girl that was born and died on the same day”
86
To Henry George in America
86
“Algernon Charles Swinburne”
87
To an Unionist
88
To my Friend, Sydney Jephcott
89
To E. L. Zox
89
“Father Abe”: Song of the American Sons of Labour
90
“A Fool”
93
Mount Rennie:
I. The Australian Press speaks
95
II. The Time-Spirit speaks
97
“Tyranny”: The Delegates speak
97
From a Verandah: “Armageddon”
98
“Elsie”—A Memory
99
“Nationalism and M’Ilwraith”
99
To the Emperor William
100
A Story
101
At the India Docks
103
Dirge: “A Little Soldier of the Army of the Night”
108
To Queen Victoria in England
109
Farewell to the Children
111
Epode: On the Ranges, Queensland
113
Australian Press Notices
116
PREFACE.
A few words of preface
I make no apology for several poems in the First Part which are fierce, which are even blood-thirsty. As I felt I wrote, and I will not lessen the truth of what inspired those feelings by eliminating or suppressing the record of them. Rather, let me ask you, whoever you be, to imagine what the cause was, from the effect in one who was (unhappily) born and bred into the dominant class, and whose chief care and joy in life was in the pursuit of a culture which draws back instinctively from the violent and the terrible. I will go further. I will arraign my country and my day, because their iniquity would not let me follow out the laws of my nature, which were for luminosity and quiet, for the wide and genial view, but made me “take arms against a sea of troubles,” hoping only too often “by opposing to end them.” No, we make no apology for bloody sweat and for tears of fire wrung out of us in the Gethsemane and on the Calvary of our country: we make no apology to those whom we have the right to curse.
In the Second Part—“Here and There,” the record of a short trip in the East—the sight of the sin which England has committed not only against herself, against Ireland, against Scotland, but against India, against China, against the sweetest and gentlest people in the earth, the Japanese—the sight of this, and of the signs of England’s doom, the punishment for the abuse of the greatest trust any modern nation has had given to her, inspires a hatred which only that punishment can appease. In the Third Part—“Australia”—there is neither ferocity nor blood-thirstiness. Its key-note is hope, hope that dreads but does not despair.
I may add that in this edition I have sacrificed all merely personal aspects of the poems to attempt to give the book a more complete totality. We know well enough that allowance will rarely be made for any of these things: that our plea for comprehension will too often be an idle one. None the less we make it, for the sake of those who are willing to attempt to realize the social problem and to seek within themselves what they can do for its solution. We have no care whatever as to what view they take of it. Let them be with us or against us, it matters not, if only they will make this effort, if only they will ponder it in their hearts. Ninety-nine out of a hundred of us are concerned in this problem. We are all of us true sons of Labour who have suffered the robbery of the wages of Competition. One word more. The Australian is apt to deprecate the socialism of the European or the American. The darker aspects of the European or American civilization are not striking here. They are here; they are more than incipient, very much more; but they are not striking. Let such an one pause. “We speak of that which we do know,” and, for the rest, not only do we bid “him that has ears, to hear,” but “him that has eyes, to see.”
Brothers all over the earth, brothers and sisters, you of that silent company whose speech is only in the unknown deeds of love, the unknown devotions, the unknown heroisms, it is to you we speak! Our heart is against your heart; you can feel it beat. Soul speaks to soul through lips whose utterance is a need. In your room alone, in your lonely walks, in the still hours of day and night, we will be with you. We will speak with you, we will plead with you, for these piteous ones. In the evening trees you shall hear the sound of our weeping. Our sobs shall shake in the wind of wintry nights. We are the spirit of those piteous ones, the wronged, the oppressed, the robbed, the murdered, and we bid you open your warm heart, your light-lit soul to us! We will thrill you with the clarion of hate and defiance and despair in the tempest of land and sea. You shall listen to us there also. We will touch your eyes and lips with fire. No, we will never let you go, till you are ours and theirs! And you too, O sufferers, you too shall stay with us, and shall have comfort. Look, we have suffered, we have agonized, we have longed to hasten the hour of rest. But beyond the darkness there is light, beyond the turbulence peace. “Courage, and be true to one another.” “We bid you hope!”
THIS BOOK.
I give this Book
to you,—
Man or woman, girl or boy, labourer, mechanic, clerk, house-servant, whoever you may be, whose wages are not the worth of your work,—no, nor a fraction of it—whose wages are the minimum which you and those like you, pressed by the desire for life in the dreadful struggle of “Competition,” will consent to take from your Employers who, thanks to it, are able thus to rob you:—
I give it to you,
in the hope that you may see how you are being robbed,—how Capital that is won by paying you your competition wages is plunder,—how Rent that is won by the
I give this Book to you,
in the hope that you may at last realize this, and in your own fashion never cease the effort to make your fellow-sufferers realize it:—
I give it to you,
in the hope that you may formally enrol yourself in the ranks of the Army of the Night, and that you will offer up the best that has been granted you of heart and soul and mind towards the working out of that better time when, in victorious peace, we silence our drums and trumpets, furl our banners, drag our cannons to their place of rest, and solemnly disarming ourselves, become citizens once more or, if soldiers, then soldiers of the Army of the Day!
SONGS
OF
THE ARMY OF THE NIGHT.
“Blessed are the poor in spirit . . . blessed are the mourners . . . Ye are the salt of the earth.”—The Good tidings as given by Matthew.
PROEM.
“OUTSIDE LONDON.”
In the black night, along the mud-deep roads,
Amid the threatening boughs and ghastly streams,
Hark! sounds that gird the darknesses like goads,
Murmurs and rumours and reverberant dreams,
Tramplings, breaths, movements, and a little light.—
The marching of the Army of the Night!
The stricken men, the mad brute-beasts are keeping
No more their places in the ditches or holes,
But rise and join us, and the women, weeping
Beside the roadways, rise like demon-souls.
Fill up the ranks! What shimmers there so bright?
The bayonets of the Army of the Night!
Fill up the ranks! We march in steadfast column,
In wavering lines yet forming more and more;
Men, women, children, sombre, silent, solemn,
Rank follows rank like billows to the shore.
Dawnwards we tramp, towards the day and light.
On, on and up, the Army of the Night!
I.
“ENGLAND.”
IN THE CAMP.
This is a leader’s tent. “Who gathers here?”
Enter and see and listen. On the ground
Men sit or stand, enter or disappear,
Dark faces and deep voices all around.
One answers you. “You ask who gathers here?
Companions! Generals we have none, nor chief.
What need is there? The plan is all so clear—
The future’s hope, the present’s grim relief!
“Food for us all, and clothes, and roofs come first.
The means to gain them? This, our leaguered band!
The hatred of the robber rich accursed
Keeps foes together, makes fools understand.
“Beyond the present’s faith, the future’s hope
Points to the dawning hour when all shall be
But one. The man condemned shall fit the rope
Around the hangman’s neck, and both be free!
“The sun then rises on a happier land
Where Wealth and Labour sound but as one word.
We drill, we train, we arm our leaguered band.
What is there more to tell you have not heard?”
This is a leader’s tent. They gather here,
Resolute, stern, menacing. On the ground
They sit or stand, enter or disappear,
Dark faces and deep voices all around.
“AXIOM.”
Let him who toils, enjoy
Fruit of his toiling.
Let him whom sweats annoy,
No more be spoiling.
For we would have it be
That, weak or stronger,
Not he who works, but he
Who works not, hunger!
DRILL.
When day’s hard task’s done,
Eve’s scant meal partaken,
Out we steal each one,
Weariless, unshaken.
In small reeking squares,
Garbaged plots, we gather,
Little knots and pairs,
Brother, sister, father.
Then the word is given.
In their silent places
Under lowering heaven,
Range our stern-set faces.
Now we march and wheel
In our clumsy line,
Shouldering sticks for steel,
Thoughts like bitter brine!
Drill, drill, drill, and drill!
It is only thus
Conquer yet we will
Those who’ve conquered us.
Patience, sisters, mothers!
We must not forget
Dear dead fathers, brothers;
They must teach us yet.
In that hour we see,
The hour of our desire,
What shall their slayers be?
As the stubble to the fire!
EVENING HYMN IN THE HOVELS.
“We sow the fertile seed and then we reap it;
We thresh the golden grain; we knead the bread.
Others that eat are glad. In store they keep it,
While we hunger outside with hearts like lead.
Hallelujah!
“We hew the stone and saw it, rear the city.
Others inhabit there in pleasant ease.
We have no thing to ask of them save pity,
No answer they to give but what they please.
Hallelujah!
“Is it for ever, fathers, say, and mothers,
That we must toil and never know the light?
Is it for ever, sisters, say, and brothers,
That they must grind us dead here in the night?
Hallelujah!
“O we who sow, reap, knead, shall we not also
Have strength and pleasure of the food we make?
O we who hew, build, deck, shall we not also
The happiness that we have given partake?
Hallelujah!”
IN THE STREET.
LORD ----.
You have done well, we say it. You are dead,
And, of the man that with the right hand takes
Less than the left hand gives, let it be said
He has done something for our wretched sakes.
For those to whom you gave their daily bread
Rancid with God-loathed “charity,” their drink
Putrid with man-loathed “sin,” we bow our head
Grateful, as the great hearse goes by, and think.
Yes, you have fed the flesh and starved the soul
Of thousands of us; you have taught too well
The rich are little gods beyond control,
Save of your big God of the heaven and hell.
We thank you. This was pretty once, and right.
Now it wears rather thin. My lord, good night!
“Liberty!” Is that the cry, then?
We have heard it oft of yore.
Once it had, we think, a meaning;
Let us hear it now no more.
We have read what history tells us
Of its heroes, martyrs too.
Doubtless they were very splendid,
But they’re not for me and you.
There were Greeks who fought and perished,
Won from Persians deathless graves.
Had we lived then, we’re aware that
We’d have been those same Greeks’ slaves!
Then a Roman came who loved us;
Cæsar gave men tongues and swords.
Crying “Liberty,” they fought him,
Cato and his cut-throat lords.
When he’d give a broader franchise,
Lift the mangled nations bowed,
Crying “Liberty!” they killed him,
Brutus and his pandar crowd.
We have read what history tells us,
O the truthful memory clings!
Tacitus, the chartered liar,
Gloating over poisoned kings!
“Liberty!” The stale cry echoes
Past snug homesteads, tinsel thrones,
Over smoking fields and hovels,
Murdered peasants’ bleaching bones.
That’s the cry that mocked us madly,
Toiling in our living graves,
When hell-mines sent up the chorus:
“Britons never shall be slaves!”
“Liberty!” We care not for it!
What we care for’s food, clothes, homes,
For our dear ones toiling, waiting
For the time that never comes!
IN THE EDGWARE ROAD.
(To LORD L----.)
Will you not buy? She asks you, my lord, you
Who know the points desirable in such.
She does not say that she is perfect. True,
She’s not too pleasant to the sight or touch.
But then—neither are you!
Her cheeks are rather fallen in; a mist
Glazes her eyes, for all their hungry glare.
Her lips do not breathe balmy when they’re kissed.
And yet she’s not more loathsome than, I swear,
Your grandmother at whist.
My lord, she will admit, and need not frame
Excuses for herself, that she’s not chaste.
First a young lover had her; then she came
From one man’s to another’s arms, with haste.
Your mother did the same.
Moreover, since she’s married, once or twice
She’s sold herself for certain things at night,
To sell one’s body for the highest price
Of social ease and power, all girls think right.
Your sister did it thrice.
What, you’ll not buy? You’ll curse at her instead?—
Her children are alone, at home, quite near.
These winter streets, so gay at nights, ’tis said,
Have ’ticed the wanton out. She could not hear
Her children cry for bread!
TO THE GIRLS OF THE UNIONS.
Girls, we love you, and love
Asks you to give again
That which draws it above,
Beautiful, without stain.
Give us weariless faith
In our Cause pure, passionate,
Dearer than life and death,
Dear as the love that’s it!
Give to the man who turns
Traitrous hands or forlorn
Back from the plough that burns,
Give him pitiless scorn!
Let him know that no wife
Would bear him a fearless child
To hate and loathe the life
Of a leprous father defiled.
Girls, we love you, and love
Asks you to give again
That which draws it above,
Beautiful, without stain!
HAGAR.
She went along the road,
Her baby in her arms.
The night and its alarms
Made deadlier her load.
Her shrunken breasts were dry;
She felt the hunger bite.
She lay down in the night,
She and the child, to die.
But it would wail, and wail,
And wail. She crept away.
She had no word to say,
Yet still she heard the wail.
She took a jaggèd stone;
She wished it to be dead.
She beat it on the head;
It only gave one moan.
She has no word to say;
She sits there in the night.
The east sky glints with light,
And it is Christmas Day!
“WHY!”
“Why is it we toil so?
Where go all the gains?
What do we produce for it,
All our pangs and pains?”
Why it is we toil so,
Is it because, like sheep,
Since our fathers sought the shears,
We the same course keep.
Where go all the gains? Well,
It must be confessed,
First the landlords take the rent,
And the masters take the rest.
What do we produce for it?
Gentlemen!—and then
Imitation snobs who’d be
Like the gentlemen!
“What, is it for such as these
That we suffer thus?
Fuddle-brained and vicious fools,
Vermin venomous?
“What, is that why on the top
Creeps that Royal Louse,
The prince of pheasants and cigars,
Of ballet-girls and grouse?”
Yes, that’s why, my Christian friends,
They slave and slaughter us.
England is made a dunghill that
Some bugs may breed and buzz.
A VISITOR IN THE CAMP.
To Mary Robinson. [27]
“What, are you lost, my pretty little lady?
This is no place for such sweet things as you.
Our bodies, rank with sweat, will make you sicken,
And, you’ll observe, our lives are rank lives too.”
“Oh no, I am not lost! Oh no, I’ve come here
(And I have brought my lute, see, in my hand),
To see you, and to sing of all you suffer
To the great world, and make it understand!”
“Well, say! If one of those who’d robbed you thousands,
Dropped you a sixpence in the gutter where
You lay and rotted, would you call her angel,
For all her charming smile and dainty air?”
“Oh no, I come not thus! Oh no, I’ve come here
With heart indignant, pity like a flame,
To try and help you!”—“Pretty little lady,
It will be best you go back whence you came.”
“‘Enthusiasms’ we have such little time for!
In our rude camp we drill the whole day long.
When we return from out the serried battle,
“LORD LEITRIM.”
My Lord, at last you have it! Now we know
Truth’s not a phrase, justice an idle show.
Your life ran red with murder, green with lust.
Blood has washed blood clean, and, in the final dust
Your carrion will be purified. Yet, see,
Though your body perish, for your soul shall be
An immortality of infamy!
“ANARCHISM.”
’Tis not when I am here,
In these homeless homes,
Where sin and shame and disease
And foul death comes;
’Tis not when heart and brain
Would be still and forget
Men and women and children
Dragged down to the pit:
But when I hear them declaiming
Of “liberty,” “order,” and “law,”
The husk-hearted gentleman
And the mud-hearted bourgeois,
That a sombre hateful desire
Burns up slow in my breast
To wreck the great guilty temple,
And give us rest!
BELGRAVIA BY NIGHT.
“Move On!”
“The foxes have holes,
And the birds of the air have nests,
But where shall the heads of the sons of men
Be laid, be laid?”
“Where the cold corpse rests,
Where the sightless moles
Burrow and yet cannot make it afraid,
Rout but cannot wake it again,
There shall the heads of the sons of men
Be laid, laid!”
JESUS.
Where is poor Jesus gone?
He sits with Dives now,
And not even the crumbs are flung
To Lazarus below.
Where is poor Jesus gone?
Is he with Magdalen?
He doles her one by one
Her wages of shame!
Where is poor Jesus gone?
The good Samaritan,
What does he there alone?
He stabs the wounded man!
Where is poor Jesus gone,
The lamb they sacrificed?
They’ve made God of his carrion
And labelled it “Christ!”
PARALLELS FOR THE PIOUS.
“He holds a pistol to my head,
Swearing that he will shoot me dead,
If he have not my purse instead,
The robber!”
“He, with the lash of wealth and power,
Flogs out my heart and flings the dower,
The plundered pittance of his hour,
The robber!”
“He shakes his serpent tongue that lies,
Wins trust for poisoned sophistries
And stabs me in the dark, and flies,
The assassin!”
“He pits me in the dreadful fight
Against my fellow. Then he quite
Strips both his victims in the night,
The assassin!”
“PRAYER.”
This is what I pray
In this horrible day,
In this terrible night,
God will give me light.
Such as I have had,
That I go not mad.
This is what I seek,
God will keep me meek
Till mine eyes behold,
Till my lips have told
All this hellish crime.—
Then it’s sleeping time!
TO THE CHRISTIANS.
Take, then, your paltry Christ,
Your gentleman God.
We want the carpenter’s son,
With his saw and hod.
We want the man who loved
The poor and oppressed,
Who hated the rich man and king
And the scribe and the priest.
We want the Galilean
Who knew cross and rod.
It’s your “good taste” that prefers
A bastard God!
“DEFEAT?”
Who is it speaks of defeat?—
I tell you a Cause like ours
Is greater than defeat can know;
It is the power of powers!
As surely as the earth rolls round,
As surely as the glorious sun
Brings the great world sea-wave,
Must our Cause be won!
What is defeat to us?—
Learn what a skirmish tells,
While the great Army marches on
To storm earth’s hells!
TO JOHN RUSKIN.
(After reading his “Modern Painters.”)
Yes, you do well to mock us, you
Who knew our bitter woe—
To jeer the false, deny the true
In us blind struggling low,
While, on your pleasant place aloft
With flowers and clouds and streams,
At our black sweat and toil you scoffed
That marred your idle dreams.
“Oh, freedom, what was that to us,”
(You’d shout down to us there),
“Except the freedom foul, vicious,
From all of good and fair?
“Obedience, faith, humility,
To us were empty names.”—
The like to you (might we reply)
Whose noisy life proclaims
Presumption, want of human love,
Impatience, filthy breath, [32]
The snob in soul who looks above,
Trampling on what’s beneath.
When did you strive, in nobler part,
With love and gentleness,
To help one soul, to win one heart
To joy and hope and peace?
Go to, vain prophet, without faith
In God who maketh new,
With hankerings for this putrid death,
This Flesh-feast of the Few,
This Social Structure of red mud,
This Edifice of slime,
Whose bricks are bones, whose mortar’s blood,
Whose pinnacle is Crime!—
Go to, for we who strain our power
For light and warmth and scope,
For wives’, for children’s happier hour,
Can teach you faith and hope.
Hark to the shout of those who cleared
The Missionary Ridge!
Look on those dead who never feared
The battle’s bloody bridge!
Watch the stern swarm at that last breach
March up that came not thence—
And learn Democracy can teach
Divine obedience. [33]
Pass through that South at last brought low
Where loyal freemen live,
And learn Democracy knows how
To utterly forgive.
Come then, and take this free-given bread
Of us who’ve scarce enough;
Hush your proud lips, bow down your head
And worship human love!
You are at least a man, of men a king.
You have a heart, and with that heart you love.
The race you come from is not gendered of
The filthy sty whose latest litter cling
Round England’s flesh-pots, gorged and gluttoning.
No, but on flaming battle-fields, in courts
Of honour and of danger old resorts,
The name of Hohen-Zollern clear doth ring.
O Father William, you, not falsely weak,
Who never spared the rod to spoil the child,
Our mighty Germany, we only speak
To bless you with a blessing sweet and mild,
Ere that near heaven your weary footsteps seek
Where love with liberty is reconciled.