قراءة كتاب King Cole

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‏اللغة: English

King Cole

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المؤلف:

Masefield John

دار النشر: Project Gutenberg

الصفحة رقم: 5

circus left the streets of flowers and flags,
King Cole walked with it, huddling in his rags.
They reached the western gate and sought to pass.

"Take back this frowsy show to where it was,"
The sergeant of the gateway-sentry cried;
"You know quite well you cannot pass outside."

The Showman:

But we were told to pass here, by the guard.

The Sergeant:

Here are the printed orders on the card.
No traffic, you can read. Clear out.

The Showman:

But where?

The Sergeant:

Where you're not kicked from, or there's room to spare.
Go back and out of town the way you came.

The Showman:

I've just been sent from there. Is this a game?

The Sergeant:

You'll find it none, my son, if that's your tone.

The Showman:

You redcoats; ev'n your boots are not your own.

The Sergeant:

No, they're the Queen's; I represent the Queen.

The Showman:

Pipeclay your week's accounts, you red marine.

The Sergeant:

Thank you, I will. Now vanish. Right-about.

The Showman:

Right, kick the circus in or kick it out,
But kick us, kick us hard, we've got no friends,
We've no Queen's boots or busbies on our ends;
We're poor, we like it, no one cares; besides
These dirty artists ought to have thick hides.
The dust, like us, is fit for boots to stamp,
None but Queen's redcoats are allowed to camp
In this free country.

A Policeman:

What's the trouble here?

The Showman:

A redcoat dog, in need of a thick ear.

The Policeman:

The show turned back? No, sergeant, let them through.
They can't turn back, because the Prince is due.
Best let them pass.

The Sergeant:

Then pass; and read the rules
Another time.

The Showman:

You fat, red-coated fools.

The Policeman:

Pass right along.

They passed. Beyond the town
A farmer gave them leave to settle down
In a green field beside the Oxford road.
There the spent horses ceased to drag the load;
The tent was pitched beneath a dropping sky,
The green-striped tent with all its gear awry.
The men drew close to grumble: in the van
The showman parted from the wandering man.

The Showman:

You see; denied a chance; denied bare bread.

King Cole:

I know the stony road that artists tread.

The Showman:

You take it very mildly, if you do.
How would you act if this were done to you?

King Cole:

Go to the Mayor.

The Showman:

I am not that kind,
I'll kneel to no Court prop with painted rind.
You and your snivelling to them may go hang.
I say: "God curse the Prince and all his gang."

The Wife:

Ah, no, my dear, for Life hurts everyone,
Without our cursing. Let the poor Prince be;
We artist folk are happier folk than he,
Hard as it is.

The Showman:

I say: God let him see
And taste and know this misery that he makes.
He strains a poor man's spirit till it breaks,
And then he hangs him, while a poor man's gift
He leaves unhelped, to wither or to drift.
Sergeants at city gates are all his care.
We are but outcast artists in despair.
They dress in scarlet and he gives them gold.

King Cole:

Trust still to Life, the day is not yet old.

The Showman:

By God! our lives are all we have to trust.

King Cole:

Life changes every day and ever must.

The Showman:

It has not changed with us, this season, yet.

King Cole:

Life is as just as Death; Life pays its debt.

The Showman:

What justice is there in our suffering so?

King Cole:

This: that not knowing, we should try to know.

The Showman:

Try. A sweet doctrine for a broken heart.

King Cole:

The best (men say) in every manly part.

The Showman:

Is it, by Heaven? I have tried it, I.
I tell you, friend, your justice is a lie;
Your comfort is a lie, your peace a fraud;
Your trust a folly and

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