Bendy's Sermon

    [Bendigo, the well-known Nottingham prize fighter, became converted to religion, and preached at revival meetings throughout the country.]

You didn't know of Bendigo! Well, that
     knocks me out!
Who's your board school teacher? What's
     he been about?

Chock-a-block with fairy-tales — full of
     useless cram,
And never heard o' Bendigo, the pride of
     Nottingham!

Bendy's short for Bendigo. You should
     see him peel!
Half of him was whalebone, half of him
     was steel,

Fightin' weight eleven ten, five foot nine
     in height,
Always ready to oblige if you want a
     fight.

I could talk of Bendigo from here to king-
     dom come,
I guess before I ended you would wish your
     dad was dumb.

I'd tell you how he fought Ben Caunt, and
     how the deaf 'un fell,
But the game is done, and the men are
     gone — and maybe it's as well.

Bendy he turned Methodist—he said he
     felt a call,
He stumped the country preachin' and you
     bet he filled the hall,

If you seed him in the pulpit, a-bleatin'
     like a lamb,
You'd never know bold Bendigo, the
     pride of Nottingham.

His hat was like a funeral, he'd got a
     waiter's coat,
With a hallelujah collar and a choker round
     his throat,

His pals would laugh and say in chaff that
     Bendigo was right,
In takin' on the devil, since he'd no one
     else to fight.

But he was very earnest, improvin' day by
     day,
A-workin' and a-preachin' just as his duty
     lay,

But the devil he was waitin', and in the
     final bout,
He hit him hard below his guard and
     knocked poor Bendy out.

Now I'll tell you how it happened. He
     was preachin' down at Brum,
He was billed just like a circus, you should
     see the people come,

The chapel it was crowded, and in the fore-
     most row,
There was half a dozen bruisers who'd a
     grudge at Bendigo.

There was Tommy Piatt of Bradford,
     Solly Jones of Perry Bar,
Long Connor from the Bull Ring, the
     same wot drew with Carr,

Jack Ball the fightin gunsmith, Joe Mur-
     phy from the Mews,
And Iky Moss, the bettin' boss, the
     Champion of the Jews.

A very pretty handful a-sittin' in a
     string,
Full of beer and impudence, ripe for any-
     thing,

Sittin' in a string there, right under
     Bendy's nose,
If his message was for sinners, he could
     make a start on those.

Soon he heard them chaflin'; "Hi, Bendy!
     Here's a go!"
"How much are you coppin' by this Jump
     to Glory show?"

"Stow it, Bendy! Left the ring! Mighty
     spry of you!
Didn't everybody know the ring was
     leavin' you."

Bendy fairly sweated as he stood above
     and prayed,
"Look down, O Lord, and grip me with
     a strangle hold!" he said.

"Fix me with a strangle hold! Put a stop
     on me!
I'm slippin', Lord, I'm slippin' and I'm
     clingin' hard to Thee!"

But the roughs they kept on chaffin' and
     the uproar it was such
That the preacher in the pulpit might be
     talkin' double Dutch,

Till a workin' man he shouted out, a-
     jumpin' to his feet,
"Give us a lead, your reverence, and heave
     'em in the street."

Then Bendy said, "Good Lord, since
     first I left my sinful ways,
Thou knowest that to Thee alone I've
     given up my days,

But now, dear Lord"—and here he laid his
     Bible on the shelf—
"I'll take, with your permission, just five
     minutes for myself."

He vaulted from the pulpit like a tiger
     from a den,
They say it was a lovely sight to see him
     floor his men;

Right and left, and left and right, straight
     and true and hard,
Till the Ebenezer Chapel looked more like
     a knacker's yard.

Platt was standin' on his back and lookup
     at his toes,
Solly Jones of Perry Bar was feelin' for
     his nose,

Connor of the Bull Ring had all that he
     could do
Rakin' for his ivories that lay about the
     pew.

Jack Ball the fightin' gunsmith was in a
     peaceful sleep,
Joe Murphy lay across him, all tied up
     in a heap,

Five of them was twisted in a tangle on
     the floor,
And Iky Moss, the bettin' boss, had
     sprinted for the door.

Five repentant fightin' men, sitting in a
     row,
Listenin' to words of grace from Mister
     Bendigo,

Listenin' to his reverence — all as good
     as gold,
Pretty little baa-lambs, gathered to the
     fold.

So that's the way that Bendy ran his
     mission in the slum,
And preached the Holy Gospel to the
     fightin' men of Brum,

"The Lord," said he, "has given me His
     message from on high,
And if you interrupt Him, I will know
     the reason why."

But to think of all your schooling clean
     wasted, thrown away,
Darned if I can make out what you're
     learnin' all the day,

Grubbin' up old fairy-tales, fillin' up with
     cram,
And didn't know of Bendigo, the pride
     of Nottingham.

II. — Philosophic Verses

Compensation

The grime is on the window pane,
     Pale the London sunbeams fall,
And show the smudge of mildew stain,
     Which lies on the distempered wall.

I am a cripple, as you see,
     And here I lie, a broken thing,
But God has given flight to me,
     That mocks the swiftest eagle wing.

For if I will to see or hear,
     Quick as the thought my spirit flies,
And lo! the picture flashes clear,
     Through all the mist of centuries.

I can recall the Tigris' strand,
     Where once the Turk and Tartar met,
When the great Lord of Samarcand
     Struck down the Sultan Bajazet.

Under a ten-league swirl of dust
     The roaring battle swings and sways,
Now reeling down, now upward thrust,
     The crescent sparkles through the
       haze.

I see the Janissaries fly,
     I see the chain-mailed leader fall,
I hear the Tekbar clear and high,
     The true believer's battle-call.

And tossing o'er the press I mark
     The horse-tail banner over all,
Shaped like the smudge of mildew dark
     That lies on the distempered wall.

And thus the meanest thing I see
     Will set a scene within my brain,
And every sound that comes to me,
     Will bring strange echoes back again.

Hark now! In rhythmic monotone,
     You hear the murmur of the mart,
The low, deep, unremitting moan,
     That comes from weary London's
       heart.

But I can change it to the hum
     Of multitudinous acclaim,
When triple-walled Byzantium,
     Re-echoes the Imperial name.

I hear the beat of armed feet,
     The legions clanking on their way,
The long shout rims from street to street,
     With rolling drum and trumpet bray.

So I hear it rising, falling,
     Till it dies away once more,
And I hear the costers calling
     Mid the weary London roar.

Who shall pity then the lameness,
     Which still holds me from the ground?
Who commiserate the sameness
     Of the scene that girds me round?

Though I lie a broken wreck,
     Though I seem to want for all,
Still the world is at my beck
     And the ages at my call.

The Banner of Progress

There's a banner in our van,
And we follow as we can,
For at times we scarce can see it,
And at times it flutters high.
But however it be flown,
Still we know it as our own,
And we follow, ever follow,
Where we see the banner fly.

In the struggle and the strife,
In the weariness of life,
The banner-man may stumble,
He may falter in the fight.
But if one should fail or slip,
There are other hands to grip,
And it's forward, ever forward,
From the darkness to the light.