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George Meredith - Juggling Jerry
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     Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes:
        By the old hedge-side we`ll halt a stage.
    It`s nigh my last above the daisies:
        My next leaf`ll be man`s blank page.
    Yes, my old girl! and it`s no use crying:
        Juggler, constable, king, must bow.
    One that outjuggles all`s been spying
        Long to have me, and he has me now.

    We`ve travelled times to this old common:
       Often we`ve hung our pots in the gorse.
   We`ve had a stirring life, old woman!
       You, and I, and the old grey horse.
   Races, and fairs, and royal occasions,
       Found us coming to their call:
   Now they`ll miss us at our stations:
       There`s a Juggler outjuggles all!

   Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly!
       Over the duck-pond the willow shakes.
   Easy to think that grieving`s folly,
       When the hand`s firm as driven stakes!
   Ay, when we`re strong, and braced, and manful,
       Life`s a sweet fiddle: but we`re a batch
   Born to become the Great Juggler`s han`ful:
       Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch.

   Here`s where the lads of the village cricket:
       I was a lad not wide from here:
   Couldn`t I whip off the bale from the wicket?
       Like an old world those days appear!
   Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatch`d ale-house—I know them!
       They are old friends of my halts, and seem,
   Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them:
       Juggling don`t hinder the heart`s esteem.

   Juggling`s no sin, for we must have victual:
       Nature allows us to bait for the fool.
   Holding one`s own makes us juggle no little;
       But, to increase it, hard juggling`s the rule.
   You that are sneering at my profession,
       Haven`t you juggled a vast amount?
   There`s the Prime Minister, in one Session,
       Juggles more games than my sins`ll count.

   I`ve murdered insects with mock thunder:
       Conscience, for that, in men don`t quail.
   I`ve made bread from the bump of wonder:
       That`s my business, and there`s my tale.
   Fashion and rank all praised the professor:
       Ay! and I`ve had my smile from the Queen:
   Bravo, Jerry! she meant: God bless her!
       Ain`t this a sermon on that scene?

   I`ve studied men from my topsy-turvy
       Close, and, I reckon, rather true.
   Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy:
       Most, a dash between the two.
   But it`s a woman, old girl, that makes me
       Think more kindly of the race:
   And it`s a woman, old girl, that shakes me
       When the Great Juggler I must face.

   We two were married, due and legal:
       Honest we`ve lived since we`ve been one.
   Lord! I could then jump like an eagle:
        You danced bright as a bit o` the sun.
   Birds in a May-bush we were! right merry!
       All night we kiss`d, we juggled all day.
   Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry!
       Now from his old girl he`s juggled away.

   It`s past parsons to console us:
       No, nor no doctor fetch for me:
   I can die without my bolus;
       Two of a trade, lass, never agree!
   Parson and Doctor!—don`t they love rarely
       Fighting the devil in other men`s fields!
   Stand up yourself and match him fairly:
       Then see how the rascal yields!

   I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting
       Finery while his poor helpmate grubs:
   Coin I`ve stored, and you won`t be wanting:
       You shan`t beg from the troughs and tubs.
   Nobly you`ve stuck to me, though in his kitchen
       Many a Marquis would hail you Cook!
   Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich in,
       But your old Jerry you never forsook.

   Hand up the chirper! ripe ale winks in it;
       Let`s have comfort and be at peace.
   Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet.
       Cheer up! the Lord must have his lease.
   May be—for none see in that black hollow—
       It`s just a place where we`re held in pawn,
   And, when the Great Juggler makes as to swallow,
       It`s just the sword-trick—I ain`t quite gone!

   Yonder came smells of the gorse, so nutty,
       Gold-like and warm: it`s the prime of May.
   Better than mortar, brick and putty
       Is God`s house on a blowing day.
   Lean me more up the mound; now I feel it:
       All the old heath-smells! Ain`t it strange?
   There`s the world laughing, as if to conceal it,
       But He`s by us, juggling the change.

   I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying,
       Once—it`s long gone—when two gulls we beheld,
   Which, as the moon got up, were flying
     Down a big wave that sparked and swell`d.
  Crack, went a gun: one fell: the second
     Wheeled round him twice, and was off for new luck:
  There in the dark her white wing beckon`d:—
     Drop me a kiss—I`m the bird dead-struck!
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