The New Freethinker

John Grubby, who was short and stout And troubled with religious doubt, Refused about the age of three To sit upon the curate's knee; (For so the eternal strife must rage Between the spirit of the age And Dogma, which, as is well known. Does simply hate to be outgrown). Grubby, the young idea that shoots, Outgrew the ages like old boots; While still, to all appearance, small, Would have no Miracles at all; And just before the age of ten Firmly refused Free Will to men. The altars reeled, the hen-ens shook, Just as he read of in the book; Flung from his house went forth the youth Alone with tempests and the Truth, Up to the distant city and dim Where his papa had bought for him A partnership in Chepe and Deer Worth, say, twelve hundred pounds a year. But he was resolute. Lord Brute Had found him useful; and Lord Loot, With whom few other men would act, Valued his promptitude and tact; Never did even philanthropy Enrich a man more rapidly: Twas he that stopped the Strike in Coal, For hungry children racked his soul; To end their misery there and then He filled the mines with Chinamen-- Sat in that House that broke the Kings, And voted for all sores of things-- And rose from Under-Sec. to Sec. Some grumbled. Growlers who gave less Than generous worship to success, The little printers in Dundee Who got ten years for blasphemy, (Although he let them off with seven) Respect him rather less than heaven. No matter. This can still be said: Never to supernatural dread, Never to unseen deity, Did Sir John Grubby bend the knee; Never did dream of hell or wrath Turn Viscount Grubby from his path; Nor was he bribed by fabled bliss To kneel to any world but this. The curate lives in Camden Town, His lap still empty of renown, And still across the waste of years John Grubby, in the House of Peers, Faces that curate, proud and free, And never sits upon his knee.

IN MEMORIAM P.D.

NICE, JANUARY 30, 1914.

If any in an island cradle curled Of comfort, may make offerings to you, Who in the day of all denial blew A bugle through the blackness of the world,

An English hand would touch your shroud, in trust That truth again be told in English speech. And we too yet may practise what we preach, Though it were practising the bayonet thrust.

Cutting that giant neck from sand to sand, From sea to sea; it was a little thing Beside your sudden shout and sabre-swing That cut the throat of thieves in every land.

Heed not if half-wits mock your broken blade: Mammon our master doeth all things ill. You are the Fool that charged a windmill. Still, The Miller is a Knave; and was afraid.

Lay down your sword. Ruin will know her own. Let each small statesman sow his weak wild oat, Or turn his coat to decorate his coat, Or take the throne and perish by the throne.

Lay down your sword. And let the White Flag fade To grey; and let the Red Flag fade to pink, For these that climb and climb; and cannot sink So deep as death and honour, Déroulède.