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Read Ebook: The Song Book of Quong Lee of Limehouse by Burke Thomas
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Ebook has 150 lines and 9822 words, and 3 pages
Little maid of the yellow curls You look sad as you pass my window. You look as though you would like to creep into some warm nest, And hide your golden head.
Oh, look, little maid! I have made you a nest! Creep into it, and I will hide you away, Quietly, in the nest of my heart, I will wrap you around with verses and cover you with fair thoughts.
There is yet one little corner left, Free from the world's defilement; One little corner where not a breath of wrong Shall enter to disturb your slumbering. And I will cherish you there In the nest you will make so pure. I will hold you and guard you safe from the snares of the stony streets. Be at peace, little maid, and lie in trust; For though my feet may stumble, and I may fall, The corner that houses you I will ever keep whole.
Of Two Dwellings
At the lower end of Limehouse Causeway Is a house where girls surrender their bodies To the pleasures of base-minded and unpolished men, In return for shillings. And on the walls about this house Blossoms at summer the wild white rose.
In a tiny room at the top of a tenement Lives a white maid of surpassing virtue, Gentle in manner and quiet and dutiful, Combing her golden curls each morning Before a window that looks out to hell; That looks upon cesspools of mud, and mounds of refuse and the offal of the shops.
Concerning English Gambling
One morning, at the season of Clear Weather, As I sat alone in my Tea-House of the Refined White Lily, A stranger of affable address approached me, And showed me, with a multitude of argument, To what advantage I should come Were I to place the whole of my substance with him, Even to my shirt, As a token of my faith in Ice Cream Cornet for the Lincolnshire.
And because I would not do so, He withdrew himself from me as from one of mean birth and behaviour, Reviling me with the name of "No-Sport," And other characters of opprobrium.
But this person told him That he carried always on written leaves The words of his august father, Concerning horses and women, and the wind in the hills and the hooting of owls.
He did not tell him that he knew full well That Ice Cream Cornet was a non-starter for the Lincolnshire.
Of Politicians
Upon a time the amiable Bill Hawkins Married a fair wife, demure and of chaste repute, Keeping closely from her, however, Any knowledge of the manner of man he had been.
Upon the nuptial night, Awaking and finding himself couched with a woman, As had happened on divers occasions, He arose, and dressed and departed, Leaving at the couch's side four goodly coins.
But in the street, Remembering the occasion and his present estate of marriage, He returned with a haste of no-dignity, Filled with emotions of an entirely disturbing nature, Fear that his wife should discover his absence And place evil construction upon it, Being uppermost.
Entering stealthily, then, with the toes of the leopard, With intention of quickly disrobing, And rejoining the forsaken bride, He perceived her sitting erect on the couch, Biting shrewdly, with a distressing air of experience, At one of the coins.
Even so it is when Big Politician meets Little Politician.
Of the Great White War
During the years when the white men fought each other, I observed how the aged cried aloud in public places Of honour and chivalry, and the duty of the young; And how the young ceased doing the pleasant things of youth, And became suddenly old, And marched away to defend the aged.
And I observed how the aged Became suddenly young; And mouthed fair phrases one to the other upon the Supreme Sacrifice, And turned to their account-books, murmuring gravely: Business as Usual; And brought out bottles of wine and drank the health Of the young men they had sent out to die for them.
At the Time of Clear Weather
In the agreeable public gardens of Poplar The bushes are bright with buds, For this is the season of Clear Weather. There blossom the quiet flowers of this country: The timid lilac, The unassuming hawthorn, The dignified chestnut, And the girlish laburnum; And the mandarin of them all is the rhododendron.
In the untilled field of my heart Many simple buds are bursting. There is a little bush of kindliness towards all men. There is a slender tree of forgiveness for all wrongs. There is a humble growth of repentance for past sins. And around the field is a thick hedge of thankfulness.
And Ho! in the midst of all Stands the tree of a hundred boughs Laden with the sweetest of all buds Which are breaking to flower under the sun of a maiden's eyes.
Parent and Child
Often of an evening I take the air And linger on the bridge by the Isle of Dogs, And sometimes see The swan-like shape of the ship that brought me hither. Often since then that ship has gone To the land from which it brought me; And on each voyage my heart accompanies it.
Of Worship and Conduct
At the corner of the Causeway on every seventh evening Gathers the band of Salvation Army, Making big noise of Washed-in-Blood-of-Lamb.
At temple in East India Dock Road Men gather in white clothes, and sing, And march with candles and pray to Lady.
At shop in Pennyfields, many times a day, This person pays respect to Big Man Joss, And burns to him prayer-papers and punk-sticks.
And all day long men toil for wife and child; Wife suffer and stint to make bigger plate for child; Child beg in street to get food for sick mother; Sister wear ragged clothes for sake of little brother. And none of these has bowed to Joss, Or marched with candle, Or washed in blood of Lamb.
Going to Market
Good morning, Mister, how do you do? I am going to Salmon Lane, to the cheap market for dainty foods. Won't you come with me, Mister?
I shall buy meat and fish and a loaf of bread, And fresh fruit and potatoes; I shall buy a cluster of flowers and a bottle of wine, Some butter and some jam, And biscuits, and nuts and candy. For I give an English feast to-night to a friend with yellow curls, And every dish will be cooked by me.
Into the pot will go sharp spices, To flavour your English meats: Cayenne and thyme, and sage and salt, A sprig of parsley for garnish, And some delicate bamboo shoots. But the sweetest spice will not be seen, It will leap from my heart to the pot as I stir it. I am going to gather it on the way to the market From my own sweet thoughts and from elegant conversation With notable misters. Won't you come with me?
A Portrait
How shall I write of you, little friend, To my father on the River of Serenity? I will tell him of your twenty yellow curls Tumbling in a cascade about your shoulders; Your bright mouth and fine brow, Lit by yet brighter eyes, Where fireflies dance; How in your cheeks you hold The colours of the flower before its leaves unclose; How the tones of your voice, sounding in my ears, Float before my eyes like strings of lanterns; How, when I look closely upon you, I see my thoughts like a white river in your eyes; How, as I walk down the street where you have trod, The very stones are to me the smiles that you scatter as you pass. How your look thrills my heart as a guitar thrills to the touch.
And I will tell him that you are not for me, For you are white and I am yellow; Unless, perchance, shame and disgrace fall upon you, As it falls upon some girls of this quarter, And your neighbours and friends pass by the other way. Then, perhaps, it would be permitted to me To render service to you.
On a Saying of Mencius
That was well said of Mencius: The misfortunes of one are the entertainment of many.
When Prosperity attended the occasions of this person, And his heart smiled within him, He was regarded and received on all sides by his fellows With attitudes of dignity and expressions of mandarin-like solemnity, And his laughing heart could fetch no smile To the faces of those about him.
But when, on a recent manifestation of evil spirits, He was hailed before those in authority And commanded to pay very many taels, For the fault of possessing some morsels of chandu, the Great Tobacco, And his heart was heavy and dark as a raincloud within him, He was received on all sides With attitudes of mirth and expressions of no-gravity.
Dockside Noises
There are in Limehouse many sounds; A hundred different sounds by day and night.
The crash and mutter of the dockside railway, The noise of quarrel, the noise of fist on face, My country's songs, guitars, and gramophones, The noise of boot on stone, The noise of women bargaining their flesh, The noise of singers in the ships, Sounds of threat and sounds of fear, Blasts of hammer and steel and iron, The scream of syren, the wail of hooter, The clangour of angry bells, The boom of guns, the clatter of factories, The panic of feet, and malevolent words.
All these sounds I know, and they disturb me not. The sound that is to me most terrible, That snatches slumber from me, Is the sound that is most common: The scream of a child at night.
Reproof and Approbation
Because I gave a piece of silk To my friend of the golden curls, One threw a stone at my window, And hooted and jeered and made base noise with his mouth. Nay, worse, this son of a sea-slug Hurled hard names at my friend, Calling her Tart, and Flusey, and Tom; and, as we walked together, Cried: `Watcher, Nancy, who's yer friend with the melon face And the bug-eaten cabbage-leaf on his head?'
The lean and scurvy dog that slinks about Pennyfields Flew in great fear at sight of this reprover of our doings, And came to me, and rubbed itself against my shoe.
The Feast of Go Nien
We are now in the Pepper Month; And soon will come the Feast of Go Nien. Then I will pay my debts, and gather in my dues. I will walk in the great procession; And afterwards I will hang up my devil-chasers And will proceed to the restaurant of Ng Tack, And drink spring wine with him and meet my friends.
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