Hilaire Belloc(27 July 1870 - 16 July 1953 / La Celle-Saint-Cloud)
- by Hilaire Belloc148
Who Slammed Doors For Fun And Perished Miserably
A trick that everyone abhors In little girls is slamming doors. A wealthy banker's little daughter Who lived in Palace Green, Bayswater (By name Rebecca Offendort), Was given to this furious sport.
She would deliberately go And slam the door like billy-o! To make her uncle Jacob start. She was not really bad at heart, But only rather rude and wild; She was an aggravating child...
It happened that a marble bust Of Abraham was standing just Above the door this little lamb Had carefully prepared to slam, And down it came! It knocked her flat! It laid her out! She looked like that.
Her funeral sermon (which was long And followed by a sacred song) Mentioned her virtues, it is true, But dwelt upon her vices too, And showed the deadful end of one Who goes and slams the door for fun.
The children who were brought to hear The awful tale from far and near Were much impressed, and inly swore They never more would slam the door, -- As often they had done before.
- by Hilaire Belloc148
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn? And the tedding and the spreading Of the straw for a bedding, And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees, And the wine that tasted of tar? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers (Under the vine of the dark veranda)? Do you remember an Inn, Miranda, Do you remember an Inn? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers Who hadn't got a penny, And who weren't paying any, And the hammer at the doors and the din? And the hip! hop! hap! Of the clap Of the hands to the swirl and the twirl Of the girl gone chancing, Glancing, Dancing, Backing and advancing, Snapping of the clapper to the spin Out and in-- And the ting, tong, tang of the guitar! Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn?
Never more; Miranda, Never more. Only the high peaks hoar; And Aragon a torrent at the door. No sound In the walls of the halls where falls The tread Of the feet of the dead to the ground, No sound: But the boom Of the far waterfall like doom.
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