III! LOG
>uth Mi among
a mosaic and
phrases u7//'< (as the verse of this skilful
' life lived /<• dly and
//t/N/c-//:. rantclla, which takes info
a compact mountain world oj atn and
ds, jroii. muleteers to " Aragon a torrent at the
who knows modern verse at all knows Liiu \ laughter and majestic attack; and knows Mr. ;htful humorous and comic verse, ost en \ihly for children, for M the had hoy " in particular, hut relished hy all
n to a plane ahove that of mere technical lit- 'lut a
rich and and entu
of imagination and pity: the superb sonnets. I1 All, The
;h and I ndering Peter, The Ni
Moon's Func Boat and other , inally, Mr. Belloc
has left a handful : grams, hoth in the old Gn
and !iic comment, and has thrown in a
magical translation of a supposedly untranslatable fra
poets have v. n not r
havt much that remains in the mind which has .
//.
Grateful tick now led. k worth \
' . Belloc.
CONTENTS
MM
III! SOI IN < <>l MKV 5
Ml \ s| I! | |\ 7
WEST SUSSEX DRINKlv 8
TARANTELLA 9
I !M S TO A DON 10
ION ON THI i.ll r CMP A BOOK TO A CHILD 12
ALL 12
I HI DEATH AND LAST CONFESSION OF WANDERING PI 1 1 R 13
SONNETS 14
18
I HI NIGHT 19
MOON'S FUNERAL 19
OUR LORD AND OUR LADY 20
A BIVOUAC 21
IN A BOAT 22
BALLADE TO OUR LADY OF < ZESTO HOWA
HA'NACKER MILL 24
M'K.RAMS 24 STANZAS WRITTEN ON BATTERSEA BRIDGF DURING A SOUTH- WESTERLY GALE 27 BIBLIOGRAPHY 29
111
I lie South Country
' al" ' Midlands
-i"d unkind, I !<
And t
.ek into my mind.
red lulls of the South Country ;id along the
t I could he.
And the men that . en I was a boy
Iking along with i
len that live in North England
them for a day: Their | upon the uaste
From their castle-ualls a man may see The mountains far a\
1 he men that live in \Ve.st F.nglund
Th, . \-rolling (Mi rough water hi
Light aspen leaw The\ ha\e the secret of the Rev
And the oldest kind •
But the men that live in the South Country
:he kindest and m
Thcs get their lai jd surf.
And the faiih in theii
;el\ from our Sister the Spring \\hen OV« the sea she !i: The violets suddenK bloom at ; us \\ith surpi 5
I never get between the pines
But I smell the Sussex air; Nor I never come on a belt of sand
But my home is there, And along the sky the line of the Downs
So noble and so bare.
A lost thing could I never find,
Nor a broken thing mend : And I fear I shall be all alone
When I get towards the end. Who will be there to comfort me
Or who will be my friend?
I will gather and carefully make my friends Of the men of the Sussex Weald,
They watch the stars from silent folds, They stiffly plough the field.
By them and the God of the South Country My poor soul shall be healed.
If I ever become a rich man,
Or if ever I grow to be old, I will build a house with deep thatch
To shelter me from the cold, And there shall the Sussex songs be sung
And the story of Sussex told.
I will hold my house in the high wood
Within a walk of the sea, And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Shall sit and drink with me.
To tke Balliol Men Still in A£
nca
(1900)
YEARS ago when I was at Balliol, Balliol men and 1 was one — Swam together in winter ri\ers, Wrestled together under the sun. And still in the heart of us, Balliol, Balliol,
Loved already, but hardly known,
Welded us each of us into the others :
Called a levy and chose her own.
Here is a House that armours a man
With the eyes of a boy and the heart of a ranger, And a laughing way in the teeth of the world
And a holy hunger and thirst for danger : Balliol made me, Balliol fed me,
Whatever I had she gave me again : And the best of Balliol loved and led me.
God be with you, Balliol men.
1 have said it before, and I say it again,
There was treason done, and a false word spoken, And England under the dregs of men,
And bribes about, and a treaty broken : But angry, lonely, hating it still,
I wished to be there in spite of the wrong. My heart was heavy for Cumnor Hill
And the hammer of galloping all day long.
Galloping outward into the weather,
Hands a-ready and battle in all : Words together and wine together
And song together in Balliol Hall. Rare and single ! Noble and few ! . . .
Oh ! they have wasted you over the sea ! The only brothers ever I knew,
The men that laughed and quarrelled with me. ****** 7
Balliol made me, Balliol fed me, Whatever I had she gave me again;
And the best of Balliol loved and led me. God be with you, Balliol men.
West Sussex Drinking Song
THEY sell good Beer at Haslemere And under Guildford Hill. At Little Cowfold as I've been told A beggar may drink his fill : There is a good brew in Amberley too,
And by the bridge also; But the swipes they take in at Washington Inn Is the very best Beer 1 know.
Chorus.
With my here it goes, there it goes,
All the fun's before us : The Tipple's Aboard and the night is young, The door's ajar and the Barrel is sprung, I am singing the best song ever was sung,
And it has a rousing chorus.
If I were what I never can be,
The master or the squire : If you gave me the hundred from here to the sea,
Which is more than I desire : Then all my crops should be barley and hops,
And did my harvest fail I'd sell every rood of mine acres I would
For a bellyful of good Ale.
Chorus.
With my here it goes, there it g*
All the fun's before us :
The Tipple's Aboard and the night is young, The door's ajar and the Barrel is sprung, I am singing the best song ever was sung,
And it has a rousing chorus.
LarantelL
DO you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn? And the tedding and the spreading Of the straw for a bedding, And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees, And the wine that tasted of the tar? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers (Under the vine of the dark verandah?) Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers Who hadn't got a penny, And who weren't paying any, And the hammer at the doors and the Din? And the Hip! Hop! Hap! Of the clap
Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl Of the girl gone chancing, Glancing, Dancing,
Backing and advancing, Snapping of a clapper to the spin Out and in —
And the Ting, Tong, Tang of the Guitar ! Do you remember an Inn, Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn? 9
Never more,
Miranda;
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar :
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the Halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground.
No sound :
But the boom
Of the far Waterfall like Doom.
<mes to a -L/oii
REMOTE and ineffectual Don dared attack my Chesterton, With that poor weapon, half-impelled, Unlearnt, unsteady, hardly held, Unworthy for a tilt with men — Your quavering and corroded pen; Don poor at Bed and worse at Table, Don pinched, Don starved, Don miserable; Don stuttering, Don with roving eyes, Don nervous, Don of crudities; ' Don clerical, Don ordinary, Don self-absorbed and solitary; Don here-and-there, Don epileptic; Don puffed and empty, Don dyspeptic; Don middle-class, Don sycophantic, Don dull, Don brutish, Don pedantic; Don hypocritical, Don bad, Don furtive, Don three-quarters mad; Don (since a man must make an end), Don that shall never be my friend.
10
Don different from tliose regal Dons! With hearts of gold and lungs of bron/e. Who shout and bang and roar and bawl The Absolute across the hall, Or sail in amply bellowing gown Enormous through the Sacred Town, Bearing from College to their homes Deep cargoes of gigantic tomes; Dons admirable ! Dons of Might ! Uprising on my inward sight Compact of ancient tales, and port And sleep — and learning of a sort. Dons English, worthy of the land; Dons rooted; Dons that understand. Good Dons perpetual that remain A landmark, walling in the plain — The horizon of my memories — Like large and comfortable trees.
Don very much apart from these, Thou scapegoat Don, thou Don devoted, Don to thine own damnation quoted, Perplexed to find thy trivial name Reared in my verse to lasting shame. Don dreadful, rasping Don and wearing, Repulsive Don — Don past all bearing. Don of the cold and doubtful breath, Don despicable, Don of death; Don nasty, skimpy, silent, level; Don evil; Don that serves the devil. Don ugly — that makes fifty lines. There is a Canon which confines A Rhymed Octosyllabic Curse If written in Iambic Verse To fifty lines. I never cut; I far prefer to end it — but Believe me I shall soon return. My fires are banked, but they still burn To write some more about the Don That dared attack my Chesterton. 11
.Dedication on me (jilt ot a JJOOK to a Lxhild
HILD! do not throw this book about!
Refrain from the unholy pleasure Of cutting all the pictures out ! Preserve it as your chiefest treasure.
c
Child, have you never heard it said That you are heir to all the ages?
Why, then, your hands \sere never made To tear these beautiful thick pages!
Your little hands were made to take The better things and leave the worse ones
They also may be used to shake The Massive Paws of Elder Persons.
And when your praxers complete the day,
Darling, your little tiny hands Were also made, I think, to pray
1 or men that lose their fairs lands.
Heretics Al
H
ERETICS all, whoever you be, In Tarbes or Nimes, or over the sea, You never shall have good words from me. Caritas non conturbat me.
But Catholic men that live upon wine Are deep in the water, and frank, and fine; Wherever I travel I find it so, Benedicamus Domino. 12
On childing women that are forlorn, And men that sweat in nothing but scorn That is on all that ever \\ere horn, Miserere Do mine.
To my poor self on my deathbed. And all my dear companions dead. Because of the love that I bore them, Dona Eis Requiem.
J.ne JDeatn and .Last ol Wanderin ± eter
"IT * 1T"HEN Peter Wanderwide was young ^^y He wandered everywhere he would
And all that he approved was sung, And most of what he saw was good.
When Peter Wanderwide was thrown By Death himself beyond Auxerre,
He chanted in heroic tone To priests and people gathered there :
" If all that I have loved and seen Be with me on the Judgment Day,
I shall be saved the crowd between From Satan and his foul array.
" Almighty God will surely cry,
' St. Michael ! Who is this that stands
With Ireland in his dubious eye, And Perigord between his hands,
" * And on his arm the stirrup-thongs,
And in his gait the narrow seas, And in his mouth Burgundian songs,
But in his heart the Pyrenees?' 13
" St. Michael then will answer right (And not without angelic shame),
* I seem to know his face by sight :
I cannot recollect his name . . .?'
" St. Peter will befriend me then, Because my name is Peter too :
* I know him for the best of men
That ever walloped barley brew.
" * And though I did not know him well, And though his soul were clogged with sin,
/ hold the keys of Heaven and Hell. Be welcome, noble Peterkin.'
" Then shall I spread my native wings And tread secure the heavenly floor,
And tell the Blessed doubtful things Of Val d'Aran and Perigord."
This was the last and solemn jest Of weary Peter Wanderwide.
He spoke it with a failing zest, And having spoken it, he died.
Sonnets
XVIII
"IT * "T~HEN you to Acheron's ugly water come \\ Where darkness is and formless mourners brood
And down the shelves of that distasteful flood Survey the human rank in order dumb. When the pale dead go forward, tortured more By nothingness and longing than by fire, Which bear their hands in suppliance with desire, With stretched desire for the ulterior shore. 14
Then go before them like a royal ghost
And tread like Egypt or like Carthage crowned;
Because in your Mortality the most
Of all we may inherit has been found- Children for memory : the Faith for pride. Good land to leave : and young Love satisfied.
XIX
We will not whisper, we have found the place
Of silence and the endless halls of sleep;
And that which breathes alone throughout the deep
The end and the beginning : and the face
Between the level brows of whose blind eyes
Lie plenary contentment, full surcease
Of violence, and the passionless long peace
Wherein we lose our human lullabies.
Look up and tell the immeasurable height Between the vault of the world and your dear head; That's death, my little sister, and the night Which was our Mother beckons us to bed, Where large oblivion in her house is laid For us tired children, now our games are played.
XXI
Almighty God, whose justice like a sun Shall coruscate along the floors of Heaven, Raising what's low, perfecting what's undone, Breaking the proud and making odd things even. The poor of Jesus Christ along the street In your rain sodden, in your snows unshod, They have nor hearth, nor sword, nor human meat, Nor even the bread of men : Almighty God.
The poor of Jesus Christ whom no man hears Have waited on your vengeance much too long. Wipe out not tears but blood : our eyes bleed tears. Come, smite our damned sophistries so strong That thy rude hammer battering this rude wrong Ring down the abyss of twice ten thousand years. 15
XXII
Mother of all my cities, once there lay About your weedy wharves an orient shower Of spice and languorous silk and all the dower
That Ocean gave you on his bridal day.
And now the youth and age have passed away And all the sail superb and all the power; Your time's a time of memory like that hour
Just after sunset, wonderful and grey.
Too tired to rise and much too sad to weep, With strong arm nerveless on a nerveless knee,
Still to your slumbering ears the spousal deep Murmurs his thoughts of eld eternally;
But your soul wakes not from its holy sleep
Dreaming of dead delights along a tideless sea.
XXIII
November is that historied Emperor
Conquered in age but foot to foot with fate Who from his refuge high has heard the roar
Of squadrons in pursuit, and now, too late, Stirrups the storm and calls the winds to war,
And arms the garrison of his last heirloom. And shakes the sky to its extremest shore
With battle against irrevocable doom.
Till, driven and hurled from his strong citadels, He flies in hurrying cloud and spurs him on,
Empty of lingerings, empty of farewells And final benedictions and is gone.
But in my garden all the trees have shed
Their legacies of the light and all the flowers are dead.
XXIV
Hoar Time about the House betakes him slow Seeking an entry for his weariness. And in that dreadful company distress And the sad night with silent footsteps go. 16
On my poor fire the brands are scarce aglow And in the woods without what memories press Where, waning in the trees from less to less Mysterious hangs the horned moon and low.
For now December, full of aged care, Comes in upon the year and weakly grieves; Mumbling his lost desires and his despair And with mad trembling hand still interweaves The dank sear flower-stalks tangled in his hair, While round about him whirl the rotten leaves.
XXV
It freezes : all across a soundless sky The birds go home. The governing dark's begun. The steadfast dark that waits not for a sun; The ultimate dark wherein the race shall die. Death with his evil finger to his lip Leers in at human windows, turning spy To learn the country where his rules shall lie When he assumes perpetual generalship.
The undefeated enemy, the chill That shall benumb the voiceful earth at last, Is master of our moment, and has bound The viewless wind itself. There is no sound. It freezes. Every friendly stream is fast. It freezes, and the graven twigs are still.
XXX
The world's a stage — and I'm the Super man, And no one seems responsible for salary. I roar my part as loudly as I can And all I mouth I mouth it to the gallery. I haven't got another rhyme in " alery," It would have made a better job, no doubt, If I had left attempt at Rhyming out, Like Alfred Tennyson adapting Malory. 17
The world's a stage, the company of which Has very little talent and less reading : But many a waddling heathen painted bitch And many a standing cad of gutter breeding.
We sweat to learn our book : for all our pains We pass. The Chucker-out alone remains.
Oong
INVITING THE INFLUENCE OF A YOUNG LADY UPON THE OPENING YEAR
YOU wear the morning like your dress And are with mastery crowned; Whenas you walk your loveliness Goes shining all around. Upon your secret, smiling way Such new contents were found, The Dancing Loves made holiday On that delightful ground.
Then summon April forth, and send Commandment through the flowers; About our woods your grace extend A queen of careless hours. For oh, not Vera veiled in ram, Nor Dian's sacred Ring, With all her royal nymphs in train Could so lead on the Spring. 18
Tke Nigkt
M
OST holy Night, that still dost keep The keys of all the doors of sleep, To me when my tired eyelids close Give thou repose.
And let the far lament of them That chaunt the dead day's requiem Make in my ears, who wakeful lie, Soft lullaby.
Let them that guard the horned moon By my bedside their memories croon. So shall I have new dreams and blest In my brief rest.
Fold your great wings about my face, Hide dawning from my resting-place, And cheat me with your false delight, Most Holy Night.
1 ne Aloon s Funeral
THE Moon is dead. I saw her die. She in a drifting cloud was drest, She lay along the uncertain west, A dream to see.
And very low she spake to me : " I go where none may understand, I fade into the nameless land, And there must lie perpetually." And therefore I,
19
And therefore loudly, loudly I
And high
And very piteously make cry :
" The Moon is dead. I saw her die."
ii
And will she never rise again? The Holy Moon? Oh, never more ! Perhaps along the inhuman shore Where pale ghosts are Beyond the low lethean fen She and some wide infernal star . . To us who loved her never more, The Moon will never rise again. Oh! never more in nightly sky Her eye so high shall peep and pry To see the great world rolling by. For why? I he Moon is dead. I saw her die.
Our Lord ana Our Lady
T
HEY warned Our Lady for the Child »
That was Our blessed Lord, And She took Him into the desert wild, Over the earners ford.
And a long song She sang to Him
And a short story told : And She wrapped Him in a woollen cloak
To keep Him from the cold.
But when Our Lord was grown a man The Rich they dragged Him down,
And they crucified Him in Golgotha, Out and beyond the Town. 20
They crucified Him on Calvary,
Upon an April day; And because He had been her little Son
She followed Him all the way.
Our Lady stood beside the Cross,
A little space apart, And when She heard Our Lord cry out
A sword went through Her Heart.
They hid Our Lord in a marble tomb,
Dead, in a winding-sheet; But Our Lady stands above the world
With the white moon at Her feet.
ABi
ivouac
YOU came without a human sound, You came and brought my soul to me; I only woke, and all around They slumbered on the firelit ground, Beside the guns in Burgundy.
I felt the gesture of your hands,
You signed my forehead with the Cross; The gesture of your holy hands Was bounteous — like the misty lands Along the Hills in Calvados.
But when I slept I saw your eyes,
Hungry as death, and very far. I saw demand in your dim eyes Mysterious as the moons that rise
At midnight, in the Pines of Var. 21
In a Boat
LADY! Lady! Upon Heaven-height, Above the harsh morning In the mere light.
Above the spindrift And above the snow, Where no seas tumble. And no winds blow.
The twisting tides, And the perilous sands Upon all sides Arc in \our holy hands.
The wind harries And the cold kills; But I see your chapel Over far hills.
My body is frozen,
My soul is afraid :
Stretch out your hands to me,
Mother and maid.
Mother of Christ, And Mother of me, Save me alive From the howl of the sea.
If you will Mother me Till I grow old, I will hang in your chapel A ship of pure gold.
22
Ballade to Our Lady ol Cxzestocnowa
LADY and Queen and Mystery manifold And very Regent of the untroubled sky, Whom in a dream St Hilda did behold And heard a woodland music passing by : You shall receive me when the clouds are high With evening and the sheep attain the fold. This is the faith that I have held and hold, And this is that in which I mean to die.
II
Steep are the seas and savaging and cold
In broken waters terrible to try; And vast against the winter night the wold,
And harbourless for any sail to lie.
But you shall lead me to the lights, and I Shall hymn you in a harbour story told. This is the faith that I have held and hold,
And this is that in which I mean to die.
in
Help of the half-defeated, House of gold,
Shrine of the Sword, and Tower of Ivory; Splendour apart, supreme and aureoled,
The Battler's vision and the World's reply.
You shall restore me, O my last Ally, To vengeance and the glories of the bold. This is the faith that I have held and hold,
And this is that in which I mean to die.
Envoi
Prince of the degradations, bought and sold, These verses, written in your crumbling sty,
Proclaim the faith that I have held and hold And publish that in which I mean to die. 23
Jria nacker JVjLiJJ
SALLY is gone that was so kindly, Sally is gone from Ha'nacker Hill. And the Briar grows ever since then so blindly And ever since then the clapper is still, And the sweeps have fallen from Ha'nacker Mill.
Ha'nacker Hill is in Desolation :
Ruin a-top and a field unploughed. And Spirits that call on a fallen nation.
Spirits that loved her calling aloud:
Spirits abroad in a windy cloud.
Spirits that call and no one answers;
Hu'naeker's down and England's done. Wind and Thistle for pipe and dancers And never a ploughman under the Sun. Never a ploughman. Never a one.
rpigrams
ON His BOOKS
HEN I am dead, I hope it may be said :
" His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.
A TRINITY
Of three in One and One in three My narrow mind would doubting be Till Beauty, Grace and Kindness met And all at once were Juliet. 24
ON HYGIENE
Of old when folk lay sick and sorely tried The doctors gave them physic, and they died. But here's a happier age : for now we know Both how to make men sick and keep them so.
ON LADY POLTAGRUE, A PUBLIC PERIL
The Devil, having nothing else to do, Went off to tempt My Lady Poltagrue. My Lady, tempted by a private whim, To his extreme annoyance, tempted him.
THH TELEPHONE
To-night in million-voiced London I Was lonely as the million-pointed sky Until your single voice. Ah ! So the Sun Peoples all heaven, although he be but one.
THE STATUE
When we are dead, some Hunting-boy will pass And find a stone half-hidden in tall grass And grey with age : but having seen that stone (Which was your image), ride more slowly on.
EPITAPH ON THE POLITICIAN HIMSELF
Here richly, with ridiculous display,
The Politician's corpse was laid away.
While all of his acquaintance sneered and slanged
I wept : for I had longed to see him hanged.
ON A ROSE FOR HER BOSOM
Go, lovely rose, and tell the lovelier fair That he which loved her most was never there. 25
ON THE LITTLE GOD
Of all the gods that gave me all their glories To-day there deigns to walk with me but one. I lead him by the hand and tell him stories. It is the Queen of Cyprus' little son.
ON A PROPHET
Of old 'twas Samuel sought the Lord : to-day The Lord runs after Samuel, so they say.
ON A DEAD HOSTESS
Of this bad world the loveliest and the best
Has smiled and said " Good Night," and gone to rest
ON A GREAT ELECTION
The accursed power which stands on Privilege
(And goes with Women, and Champaiinc and Bridge)
Broke— and Democracy resumed her reign :
(Which goes with Bridge, and Women and Champagne).
ON A SLEEPING FRIEND
Lady, when your lovely head Droops to sink among the Dead, And the quiet places keep You that so divinely sleep; Then the dead shall blessed be With a new solemnity, For such Beauty, so descending, Pledges them that Death is ending. Sleep your fill — but when you wake Dawn shall over Lethe break.
THE FALSE HEART
I said to Heart, " How goes it?" Heart replied : " Right as a Ribstone Pippin ! " But it lied. 26
PARTLY FROM THI GIUEK
She would be as the stars in your sight That turn in the endless hollow; That tremble, and always follow The quiet wheels of the Night.
Stanzas vv ritten on Battersea Bridge during a Soutn- VV esterly Gale
THE woods and downs have caught the mid -December, The noisy woods and high sea-downs of home; The wind has found me and I do remember The strong scent of the foam.
Woods, darlings of my wandering feet, another
Possesses you, another treads the Down; The South West Wind that was my elder brother
Has come to me in town.
The wind is shouting from the hills of morning,
I do remember and I will not stay. I'll take the Hampton road without a warning
And get me clean away.
The Channel is up, the little seas are leaping,
The tide is making over Arun Bar; And there's my boat, where all the rest are sleeping
And my companions are.
I'll board her, and apparel her, and I'll mount her, My boat, that was the strongest friend to me —
That brought my boyhood to its first encounter And taught me the wide sea. 27
Now shall I drive her, roaring hard a* weather, Right for the salt and leave them all behind;
We'll quite forget the treacherous streets together And find — or shall we find?
There is no Pilotry my soul relies on
Whereby to catch beneath my bended hand,
Faint and beloved along the extreme horizon That unforgotten land.
We shall not round the granite piers and paven To lie to wharves we know \\ith canvas furled.
My little Boat, we shall not make the haven — It is not of the world.
Somewhere of English forelands grandly guarded It stands, but not for exiles, marked and clean;
Oh! not for us. A mist has risen and marred it — ; My youth lies in betuecn.
So in this snare that holds me and appals me, Where honour hardl\ lives nor loves remain,
The Sea compels me and my Count) calls me, But stronger things restrain.
*****
England, to me that never have malingered, Nor spoken t'alseK, nor your flattery used,
Nor even in my rightful garden lingered : — What have you not refused?
28
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Also by Mr. Belloc
.^edition. Crown 8vo. Cloth. 3s. 6d. net each : CALIBAN'S GUIDE TO LETTERS — LAMBKIN'S REMAINS. In one volume. AVRIL. ESTO PERPETUA. (5s. net.)
Square 4to. 2s. 6d. net each. All with Pictures by B. T. B. :
THE BAD CHILD'S BOOK OF BEASTS.
MORE BEASTS FOR WORSE CHILDREN.
CAUTIONARY TALES FOR CHILDREN.
MORE PEERS? Verses.
A MORAL ALPHABET.
NEW CAUTIONARY TALES. Pictures by Nicholas Bentley. LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. Pictures by Nicholas Bentley. SONNETS AND VERSE. 10s. net. Second edition.
CAUTIONARY VERSES. The Collected Humorous Poems. With all the original illustrations. Foolscap 4to. 10s. 6d. net. Also a Library Edition without the pictures. Crown 8vo. 6s. net.
(All published by Gerald Duckworth and Co., Ltd., Henrietta Street, W.C.)
PLACES. 8s. 6d. Cassell.
ELIZABETHAN COMMENTARY. 7s. 6d. Cassell.
Made and Printed in Great Britain for Eyre and Spottiswoode (Publishers), London