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    The Everlasting Mercy
    The Everlasting Mercy
    The Everlasting Mercy
    Ebook88 pages59 minutes

    The Everlasting Mercy

    By John Masefield

    ()

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 25, 2013
    The Everlasting Mercy
    Author

    John Masefield

    John Masefield was a well-known English poet and novelist. After boarding school, Masefield took to a life at sea where he picked up many stories, which influenced his decision to become a writer. Upon returning to England after finding work in New York City, Masefield began publishing his poetry in periodicals, and then eventually in collections. In 1915, Masefield joined the Allied forces in France and served in a British army hospital there, despite being old enough to be exempt from military service. After a brief service, Masefield returned to Britain and was sent overseas to the United States to research the American opinion on the war. This trip encouraged him to write his book Gallipoli, which dealt with the failed Allied attacks in the Dardanelles, as a means of negating German propaganda in the Americas. Masefield continued to publish throughout his life and was appointed as Poet Laureate in 1930. Masefield died in 1967 the age of 88.

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      Book preview

      The Everlasting Mercy - John Masefield

      THE EVERLASTING MERCY

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license.

      Title: The Everlasting Mercy

      Author: John Masefield

      Release Date: November 23, 2012 [EBook #41467]

      Language: English

      Character set encoding: UTF-8

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE EVERLASTING MERCY ***

      Produced by Al Haines.

      [image]

      Cover

      THE EVERLASTING MERCY

      BY

      JOHN MASEFIELD

      AUTHOR OF

      THE TRAGEDY OF POMPEY THE GREAT

      THE TRAGEDY OF NAN, ETC.

      LONDON

      SIDGWICK & JACKSON LTD.

      3 ADAM STREET, ADELPHI

      MCMXIII

      First Edition, Crown 8vo, November 1911;

      Reprinted November and December 1911,

      February, April and August 1912.

      Reset December 1912; reprinted January

      (twice), February, March and May, 1913.

      New Edition, Foolscap 8vo, thirteenth

      thousand, October 1913.

      Fourteenth thousand, November 1913.

      Entered at the Library of

      Congress, Washington, U.S.A.

      All rights reserved

      BY THE SAME AUTHOR

      THE WIDOW IN THE BYE STREET

      Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net.

      Fourth Thousand

      THE TRAGEDY OF POMPEY THE GREAT

      Crown 8vo, Cloth, 3s. 6d. net;

      Paper Wrappers, 1s. 6d. net.

      Fourth Impression

      London: SIDGWICK & JACKSON LTD.

      TO

      MY WIFE

      Thy place is biggyd above the sterrys deer,

      Noon erthely paleys wrouhte in so statly wyse,

      Com on my freend, my brothir moost enteer,

      For the I offryd my blood in sacrifise.

      JOHN LYDGATE.

      THE EVERLASTING MERCY

      From '41 to '51

      I was my folk's contrary son;

      I bit my father's hand right through

      And broke my mother's heart in two.

      I sometimes go without my dinner

      Now that I know the times I've gi'n her.

      From '51 to '6l

      I cut my teeth and took to fun.

      I learned what not to be afraid of

      And what stuff women's lips are made of;

      I learned with what a rosy feeling

      Good ale makes floors seem like the ceiling,

      And how the moon gives shiny light

      To lads as roll home singing by't.

      My blood did leap, my flesh did revel,

      Saul Kane was tokened to the devil.

      From '61 to '67

      I lived in disbelief of heaven.

      I drunk, I fought, I poached, I whored,

      I did despite unto the Lord,

      I cursed, 'twould make a man look pale,

      And nineteen times I went to jail.

      Now, friends, observe and look upon me,

      Mark how the Lord took pity on me.

      By Dead Man's Thorn, while setting wires,

      Who should come up but Billy Myers,

      A friend of mine, who used to be

      As black a sprig of hell as me,

      With whom I'd planned, to save encroachin',

      Which fields and coverts each should poach in.

      Now when he saw me set my snare,

      He tells me 'Get to hell from there.

      This field is mine,' he says, 'by right;

      If you poach here, there'll be a fight.

      Out now,' he says, 'and leave your wire;

      It's mine.'

      'It ain't.'

      'You put.'

      'You liar.'

      'You closhy put.'

      'You bloody liar.'

      'This is my field.'

      'This is my wire.'

      'I'm ruler here.'

      'You ain't.'

      'I am.'

      'I'll fight you for it.'

      'Right, by damn.

      Not now, though, I've a-sprained my thumb,

      We'll fight after the harvest hum.

      And Silas Jones, that bookie wide,

      Will make a purse five pounds a side.'

      Those were the words, that was the place

      By which God brought me into grace.

      On Wood Top Field the peewits go

      Mewing and wheeling ever so;

      And like the shaking of a timbrel

      Cackles the laughter of the whimbrel.

      In the old quarry-pit they say

      Head-keeper Pike was made away.

      He walks, head-keeper Pike, for harm,

      He taps the windows of the farm;

      The blood drips from his broken chin,

      He taps and begs to be let in.

      On Wood Top, nights, I've shaked to hark

      The peewits wambling in the dark

      Lest in the dark the old man might

      Creep up to me to beg a light.

      But Wood Top grass is short and sweet

      And springy to a boxer's feet;

      At harvest hum the moon so bright

      Did shine on Wood Top for the fight.

      When Bill was stripped down to his bends

      I thought how long we two'd been friends,

      And in my mind, about that wire,

      I thought 'He's right, I am a liar,

      As sure as skilly's made in prison

      The right to poach that copse is his'n.

      I'll have no luck to-night,' thinks I.

      'I'm fighting to defend a lie.

      And this moonshiny evening's fun

      Is worse than aught I ever done.'

      And thinking that way my heart bled so

      I almost stept to Bill and said so.

      And now Bill's dead I would be glad

      If I could only think I had.

      But no. I put the thought away

      For fear of

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