Five repentant fightin' men, sitting in a row, Listenin' to words of grace from Mister Bendigo, Listenin' to his reverence all as good as gold, Pretty little baa-lambs, gathered to the fold. So that's the way that Bendy ran his mission in the slum, And preached the Holy Gospel to the fightin' men of Brum, "The Lord," said he, "has given me His message from on high, And if you interrupt Him, I will know the reason why." But to think of all your schooling clean wasted, thrown away, Darned if I can make out what you're learnin' all the day, Grubbin' up old fairy-tales, fillin' up with cram, And didn't know of Bendigo, the pride of Nottingham. II. PHILOSOPHIC VERSES COMPENSATION The grime is on the window pane, Pale the London sunbeams fall, And show the smudge of mildew stain, Which lies on the distempered wall. I am a cripple, as you see, And here I lie, a broken thing, But God has given flight to me, That mocks the swiftest eagle wing. For if I will to see or hear, Quick as the thought my spirit flies, And lo! the picture flashes clear, Through all the mist of centuries. I can recall the Tigris' strand, Where once the Turk and Tartar met, When the great Lord of Samarcand Struck down the Sultan Bajazet. Under a ten-league swirl of dust The roaring battle swings and sways, Now reeling down, now upward thrust, The crescent sparkles through the haze. I see the Janissaries fly, I see the chain-mailed leader fall, I hear the Tekbar clear and high, The true believer's battle-call. And tossing o'er the press I mark The horse-tail banner over all, Shaped like the smudge of mildew dark That lies on the distempered wall. And thus the meanest thing I see Will set a scene within my brain, And every sound that comes to me, Will bring strange echoes back again. Hark now! In rhythmic monotone, You hear the murmur of the mart, The low, deep, unremitting moan, That comes from weary London's heart. But I can change it to the hum Of multitudinous acclaim, When triple-walled Byzantium, Re-echoes the Imperial name. I hear the beat of armed feet, The legions clanking on their way, The long shout rims from street to street, With rolling drum and trumpet bray. So I hear it rising, falling, Till it dies away once more, And I hear the costers calling Mid the weary London roar.