A BALLAD OF LORDS AND LADIES
"At Wycombe County Court ...
as Lords and Lady of the Manor of Turville ..."
A SECOND spring came round when fell
To save our land (men said) from Hell
Of Teuton tyranny her sons—
On what strange soil, to what strange guns.
And here on English sward where some
Unsacrificed remained at home
The mild commenting sage saw pass
The insensate strife of class with class
Men lived in England side by side
As sweetly as their brethren died
In Flanders, said the Optimist.
One instance to augment his list ...
In England, when the tranquil spring
Bought and endowed with suffering
Began, and the heroic year's
New wheat shot up through blood and tears
Of sacrifice its slender shoots;
When every elm-tree, its great roots
Confirmed in English agony,
Shook its red buds against the sky;
In April, when the country lifted
Its winter-smitten face and shifted
From sombre tenderness to smiles
The sun-swept champaign's miles on miles
And melody made the morning rich—
Then Lords and Ladies lined the ditch
With the same spear-shaped leaves that stood,
Noble and meek, beneath the Rood,
Dappled with Jesus Christ His Blood.
As emulous of those unfurled swords
One noble Lady and two Lords—
Whose names the chronicler rejoice,
One Mrs. Nairne and Lord Camoys
And Mr. Hewitt—did consort
To sue in Wycombe County Court
"A cottager," one Walter West:
And did from that tribunal wrest
A strong injunction to affray
The man from "cutting thorn or may
Or trespassing" where the Manor's hand
Lay on "the waste or common land
Of Turville." With the noble Three's
Victory went the lawyers' fees—
"Costs, and one shilling damages."
Now, even in war-time, when one-half
Our ink wells forth in epitaph
And every quill their fate commends
Who lay down lives to save their friends,
There should be gall enough for those
Who lay down laws to snare their foes;
A little monument or cairn
For my Lord Camoys, Mrs. Nairne
And Mr. Hewitt, who, while hosts
Of English cottagers on coasts
Unknown went down to death, effaced
One cottager from Turville Waste;
Conserving in this world of scorns
Their brambles for the Crown of Thorns.