The Best School of All -- Sir Henry Newbolt

Guest poem sent in by Mallika Chellappa , as a
followup to the recent school poems:

(Poem #1232) The Best School of All It's good to see the school we knew, the land of youth and dream. To greet again the rule we knew, before we took the stream. Though long we've missed the sight of her, Out hearts may not forget: We've lost the old delight of her, We keep her honour yet. Chorus: We'll honour yet the school we knew The best school of all We'll honour yet the rule we knew Till the last bell call For working days or holidays And glad or melancholy days They were great days and jolly days At the best school of all The stars and sounding vanities That half the crowd bewitch. What are they but inanities To him that treads the pitch? And where's the welth I'm wondering, Could buy the cheers that roll When the last charge goes thundering Towards the twilight goal? Then men that tanned the hide of us, Our daily foes and friends, They shall not lose their pride of us, However the journey ends. Their voice to us who sing of it, No more its message bears, But the round world shall ring of it, And all we are be theirs. To speak of fame a venture is, There's little here can bide, But we may face the centuries, And dare the deepending tide; for though the dust that's part of us, To dust again be gone, Yet here shall beat the heart of us, The school we handed on! We'll honour yet the school we knew The best school of all We'll honour yet the rule we knew Till the last bell call For working days or holidays And glad or melancholy days They were great days and jolly days At the best school of all -- Sir Henry Newbolt

We memorized this one in school, although the poem wasn't in our text. Our
teacher, Miss Dias, wrote it out on the blackboard.  I've always loved the
strong rhythm of Henry Newbolt and Alfred Noyes - the best balladeers
around. Have you run "Drake's Drum" yet? [Not yet - martin]

Although this poem is written for English men, it really doesn't matter, the
nostalgia it evokes works for everybody.

Mallika

Vitaï Lampada -- Sir Henry Newbolt

(Poem #946) Vitaï Lampada There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night -- Ten to make and the match to win -- A bumping pitch and a blinding light, An hour to play and the last man in. And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat, Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote "Play up! play up! and play the game!" The sand of the desert is sodden red, -- Red with the wreck of a square that broke; -- The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead, And the regiment blind with dust and smoke. The river of death has brimmed his banks, And England's far, and Honour a name, But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks, "Play up! play up! and play the game!" This is the word that year by year While in her place the School is set Every one of her sons must hear, And none that hears it dare forget. This they all with a joyful mind Bear through life like a torch in flame, And falling fling to the host behind -- "Play up! play up! and play the game!" -- Sir Henry Newbolt

The glorious game of cricket has inspired its share of prose writers, from
Neville Cardus and P. G. Wodehouse to Woody Allen and Stephen Fry... but
poets? Oh yes; "there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are
dreamt of in your philosophy" [1], and one of those things is this week's
Minstrels theme: poems about or inspired by or at least tangentially related
to those "flannelled fools at the wicket" [2], cricketers.

Newbolt is not, unfortunately, a poet with whose ideology I sympathize; he's
too much the imperialist, buying into the "white man's burden" argument
without displaying the sensitivity to other cultures of, say, Kipling or
even Tennyson. That said, he does have a knack of coining memorable phrases:
the refrain of today's poem, the opening lines of "Drake's Drum", the
entirety of "Ireland, Ireland". It's not enough to ever elevate him from
minor poet status (the third eleven, so to speak), but it's sufficient for
him to be remembered. And what more could anyone ask, really?

thomas.

[1] Bill Shakespeare
[2] Ruddy Kipling

[Minstrels Links]

Sir Henry Newbolt:
Poem #731, A Ballad of John Nicholson
Poem #41, Ireland, Ireland
Poem #456, He Fell Among Thieves

A Ballad of John Nicholson -- Sir Henry Newbolt

Guest poem sent in by Suresh Ramasubramanian

(Poem #731) A Ballad of John Nicholson It fell in the year of Mutiny, At darkest of the night, John Nicholson by Jalndhar came, On his way to Delhi fight. And as he by Jalndhar came, He thought what he must do, And he sent to the Rajah fair greeting, To try if he were true. "God grant your Highness length of days, And friends when need shall be; And I pray you send your Captains hither, That they may speak with me." On the morrow through Jalndhar town The Captains rode in state; They came to the house of John Nicholson, And stood before the gate. The chief of them was Mehtab Singh, He was both proud and sly; His turban gleamed with rubies red, He held his chin full high. He marked his fellows how they put Their shoes from off their feet; "Now wherefore make ye such ado These fallen lords to greet? "They have ruled us for a hundred years, In truth I know not how, But though they be fain of mastery They dare not claim it now." Right haughtily before them all The durbar hall he trod, With rubies red his turban gleamed, His feet with pride were shod. They had not been an hour together, A scanty hour or so, When Mehtab Singh rose in his place And turned about to go. Then swiftly came John Nicholson Between the door and him, With anger smouldering in his eyes, That made the rubies dim. "You are over-hasty, Mehtab Singh," -- Oh, but his voice was low! He held his wrath with a curb of iron That furrowed cheek and brow. "You are over-hasty, Mehtab Singh, When that the rest are gone, I have a word that may not wait To speak with you alone." The Captains passed in silence forth And stood the door behind; To go before the game was played Be sure they had no mind. But there within John Nicholson Turned him on Mehtab Singh, "So long as the soul is in my body You shall not do this thing. "Have ye served us for a hundred years And yet ye know not why? We brook no doubt of our mastery, We rule until we die. "Were I the one last Englishman Drawing the breath of life, And you the master-rebel of all That stir this land to strife -- "Were I," he said, "but a Corporal, And you a Rajput King, So long as the soul was in my body You should not do this thing. "Take off, take off, those shoes of pride, Carry them whence they came; Your Captains saw your insolence, And they shall see your shame." When Mehtab Singh came to the door His shoes they burned his hand, For there in long and silent lines He saw the Captains stand. When Mehtab Singh rode from the gate His chin was on his breast: The captains said, "When the strong command Obedience is best." -- Sir Henry Newbolt

This is from Newbolt's "Admirals All, and other verses".  Nicholson was a
British brigadier who was killed storming Delhi during the Sepoy Mutiny
(aka The first war of Indian Independence) in 1857.  Nicholson's statue
stood at the Kashmiri Gate in Delhi till the 1960s, when it was removed to
Dungannon in Scotland - where it stands outside his old school.

Nicholson was idolized by the Indian troops (mostly Sikhs) he commanded
(and according to Kipling, there was a cult of "Nikulseyn-ites" who in
fact worshipped him as a kind of demi-god).  There's a bit of doggerel in
his 'Kim', which begins `Nikal-seyn is dead, ....' (sung by the old
soldier Kim and the Lama meet on the Grand Trunk Road).

George MacDonald Fraser, in his "Flashman" books, describes Nicholson as
something of a Bible thumping puritan with more than his usual share of
religious zeal (of course, in far more irreverent words).  This seems to
be borne out by these quotes from Hibberts' "The Great Mutiny" (dont have
a copy of Kaye and Malleson around right now, that'd have produced a lot
more).

  Let us propose a Bill for the flaying alive impalement, or burning of
  the murderers of the women and children at Delhi. ... I would inflict
  the most excriutiating tortures I could think of on them with a
  perfectly easy conscience.
        -- Brigadier John Nicholson, in a letter to Herbert Edwardes,
        Commissioner at Peshawar.

  Few courts martial were held by Nicholson; his dictim 'the punishment
  for mutiny is death' obviated any necessity for trial ... Nicholson
  issued an order that no native should pass a white man riding, without
  dismounting and salaaming.
        -- Ensign R. G. Wilberforce, 52nd Light Infantry, on Brigadier John
        Nicholson.

I'm both attracted and repelled by this poem.  Attracted because of the
sheer bravery of this man, who, alone, apparently overawed a huge crowd of
people thirsting for his blood.

Repelled because, of course, I'm an Indian and see a few more sides than
what Kipling or Newbolt saw, but with the dispassionate - and jaundiced -
eye of someone who's over a hundred and fifty years removed from the
situation, and has nothing to rely on except rather skewed versions from
both sides (who were equally guilty of the cruelest atrocities.

It's the same reaction I get when reading several of Kipling's books with
their simplistic assumption of white supremacy (which unconsciously show a
great love for India).  Kipling (and others of his generation) often
compared the Pathans (for example) to the scottish highlanders, who were
equally savage and feud-happy.

Nicholson (and several others of his generation) were, however, a great
improvement over their peers and successors, who came to India to rake in
profits, not caring for the Indians they were supposed to rule.

Nicholson's extreme cruelty towards the mutineers (during which he still
retained the respect of his Sikh soldiers) is explained in part by his
rigid puritanism, in which hellfire and eternal torture was the just
dessert of a sinner.

--
Suresh Ramasubramanian + + http://kcircle.com

He Fell Among Thieves -- Sir Henry Newbolt

(Poem #456) He Fell Among Thieves 'Ye have robb'd,' said he, 'ye have slaughter'd and made an end, Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead: What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?' 'Blood for our blood,' they said. He laugh'd: 'If one may settle the score for five, I am ready; but let the reckoning stand til day: I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive.' 'You shall die at dawn,' said they. He flung his empty revolver down the slope, He climb'd alone to the Eastward edge of the trees; All night long in a dream untroubled of hope He brooded, clasping his knees. He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills The ravine where the Yassin river sullenly flows; He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills, Or the far Afghan snows. He saw the April noon on his books aglow, The wistaria trailing in at the window wide; He heard his father's voice from the terrace below Calling him down to ride. He saw the gray little church across the park, The mounds that hid the loved and honour'd dead; The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark, The brasses black and red. He saw the School Close, sunny and green, The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall, The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between, His own name over all. He saw the dark wainscot and timber'd roof, The long tables, and the faces merry and keen; The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof, The Dons on the daïs serene. He watch'd the liner's stem ploughing the foam, He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw; He heard the passengers' voices talking of home, He saw the flag she flew. And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet, And strode to his ruin'd camp below the wood; He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet: His murderers round him stood. Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast, The blood-red snow-peaks chill'd to dazzling white; He turn'd, and saw the golden circle at last, Cut by the Eastern height. 'O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun, I have lived, I praise and adore Thee.' A sword swept. Over the pass the voices one by one Faded, and the hill slept. -- Sir Henry Newbolt

As a poet, Newbolt is very reminiscent of Kipling - he addresses many of the
same subjects, in a similar tone, and if he is not quite as overt a minstrel
of the Empire, its mindset nonetheless permeates his works. Of course, he
was far more minor a poet than Kipling was, and he can get annoying at
times, but he did also write a number of good poems (and one great one,
'Ireland, Ireland')

Today's poem is characteristic of that period - the protagonist laughing
lightly at his murderers, the code of honour that holds both the 'blood for
blood' and the willingness to let the victim live till dawn as natural, were
very much a part of the English view of 'things as they should be'. Also
very characteristic are the scenes that pass through his mind as he lives
his last night, and the fatalistic courage of a 'dream untroubled of hope'
(lovely phrase, too).

Without any overt appeal to the emotions, Newbolt does, I think, manage to
evoke a sense of sadness and of loss; the technique is by no means a new one
but he handles it effectively and without appearing cliched. All in all, one
of the good ones.

Addendum:

What prompted the 'Kipling' line of thought is the fact that today's poem
makes a very interesting companion to Kipling's "Heriot's Ford"
http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/kipling/heriots_ford.html

Links:

We've run one Newbolt poem in the past, the aforementioned 'Ireland,
Ireland': poem #41

Another vaguely related poem is Longfellow's 'The Slave's Dream',
[broken link] http://www.home.gil.com.au/~ollier/v4page16.html

- martin

Ireland, Ireland -- Sir Henry Newbolt

A bit late for St. Patrick's day, but...

(Poem #41) Ireland, Ireland Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland, Down thy valleys green and sad, Still thy spirit wanders wailing, Wanders wailing, wanders mad. Long ago that anguish took thee, Ireland, Ireland, green and fair, Spoilers strong in darkness took thee, Broke thy heart and left thee there. Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland, Still thy spirit wanders mad; All too late they love that wronged thee, Ireland, Ireland, green and sad. -- Sir Henry Newbolt

This is a beautifully Irish poem - musical, plaintive and poignant; it is
somewhat surprising that it was written by an Englishman. I am not, in
general, a fan of Newbolt's - his rhythms can get monotonous, his attitudes
sententious and his 'dialect poems' annoying. This piece, in refreshing
contrast, is simple yet evocative, the phrases and images ringing true, and
the repetitions and metronomic metre reinforcing the mood rather than
spoiling it. I'd love to see it set to music - it recalls some of the more
keening Celtic melodies, though as much by its content as by its rhythm.

Biographical Notes:

  b. June 6, 1862, Bilston, Staffordshire, Eng.;  d. April 19, 1938, London

  English poet, best-known for his patriotic and nautical verse.

  Newbolt was educated at Clifton Theological College and at Corpus Christi
  College, Oxford. He was admitted to the bar at Lincoln's Inn in 1887 and
  practiced law until 1899. The appearance of his ballads, Admirals All
  (1897), which included the stirring "Drake's Drum," created his literary
  reputation. These were followed by other volumes collected in Poems: New
  and Old (1912; rev. ed. 1919). During World War I he was comptroller of
  wireless and cables and was later commissioned to complete Great Britain's
  official naval history of the war. He also edited various anthologies of
  verse, which reveal his catholic and progressive taste in poetry. He was
  knighted in 1915 and appointed a Companion of Honour in 1922.

        -- E.B.

Criticism:

  [Newbolt's] early work was frankly imitative of Tennyson; he even
  attempted to add to the Arthurian legends with a drama in blank verse
  entitled Mordred (1895). It was not until he wrote his sea-ballads that he
  struck his own note. With the publication of Admirals All (1897) his fame
  was widespread. The popularity of his lines was due not so much to the
  subject-matter of Newbolt's verse as to the breeziness of his music, the
  solid beat of rhythm, the vigorous swing of his stanzas.

  In 1898 Newbolt published The Island Race, which contains about thirty
  more of his buoyant songs of the sea. Besides being a poet, Newbolt has
  written many essays and his critical volume, A New Study of English Poetry
  (1917), is a collection of articles that are both analytical and alive.

       -- Untermeyer, Louis, ed. 1920. Modern British Poetry.

m.