Poetic Collaboration with Patricia Collinge


Introduction

( by N. R. Benchley)

to

“LINES WRITTEN ON READING THAT THE DUKE AND

DUCHESS OF WINDSOR HAD ASKED THAT A BRITISH

WORKING MAN SHOULD BE SELECTED, BY MEANS OF A

DRAWING, TO SPEND CHRISTMAS WITH THEM IN FRANCE.”

(With a bow to Lewis Carroll) (circa 1938 or so)

by Patricia Collinge


Our Lord’s year, 1938,

(George Six, he was the King)

The English journals did relate

A most unusual thing.

For ex-King Edward and his bride

(Of Windsor, Duke and Duchess)

Had asked a British workman’s hide

Be picked without so much as

Any regard to who he be

Or what his kin prefer

To come sit by their Christmas tree

And other plans defer.

 

The crown they’d chosen to give back

(For love ’twas, don’t you know,)

But conversation quick fell slack

Inside their French château.

So instant guests they did create

In hope of some diversion,

Ne’er thinking they themselves might rate

A spate of rude aspersions.

A drawing was their chosen means

The honor to bestow

To share the stuff of kings and queens

With folk of manners low….

 

“LINES WRITTEN ON READING THAT THE DUKE AND

DUCHESS OF WINDSOR HAD ASKED THAT A BRITISH

WORKING MAN SHOULD BE SELECTED, BY MEANS OF A

DRAWING, TO SPEND CHRISTMAS WITH THEM IN FRANCE.”

(With a bow to Lewis Carroll) (circa 1938 or so)

by Patricia Collinge


It was a British working man

A-sitting on a gate.

“Why do you sit so still?” I said

“Why do you brood so late?”

He pulled a forelock dismally

A-tuggin at his hair.

“I’m visiting for Christmas

And I dunno what to wear.

 

“I dunno what to wear,” he said

“I dunno what to say.

If honour ‘ad to fall at all,

Why did it fall my way?

The missus isn’t ‘alf upset

She’s come all over queer.

‘Oh, leave me where I am,’ she says

A-sobbing in ‘er beer.

 

“We ‘ad a ‘appy Christmas planned

With trotters and plumduff.

It isn’t very ‘igh class,

But it suits us well enough.

With Maudie, that’s me daughter,

And ‘er ‘usband, Albert Ed,

And little Alf and Gladys May

And my dear old Uncle Ned.”

 

He stopped and wiped an honest tear

A-trickling down his nose.

“I aske your pardon, Sir,” he said,

“But this is ‘ow it goes.

We’ve got to go to Paris, France,

Our ‘umble ‘ome renounce

For Christmas in a château, Sir,

The which I can’t pronounce.

 

“It isn’t like a beano

With a mate wot’s struck it grand.

It ain’t an invitation

Nor a proper-like command.

It’s eenie meenie minee mo

From Camden Town to Limey

And I’m the one wot’s ‘it,’ you see,

The ‘lucky’ one…Gorblime.”

 

He took an honest handkerchief

And wiped an honest brow.

“The day they drew me bloomin’ name

There wasn’t ‘arf a row.

There’s ‘undreds of us workin’ men

As far as eye can see…

Why couldn’t it be one of them…

Why ‘ad it to be me?”

 

I murmured words of comforting.

I made a little quip.

I recommended stiffened chins

And rigid upper lip.

I mentioned British stamina

And also “Don’t say die.”

“I thank you kindly, Sir,” he said,

Continuing to cry.

 

“It may be this ‘ere lottery

Was kindly meant and brave,

But good ol’ Vic, Gawd rest her soul,

Is turning in ‘er grave.

I dunno who came up with this…

I dunno who begun it.

But all I know…,” he paused in woe,

“‘is ma would not ‘ave done it.

 

“What do we ‘ave to wear?” he asked

In repetitious gloom.

“‘ow do we interdooce ourselves…

‘ow de we find our room?

And all them knives and forks and such

Is worryin’ me so,

I’ve indigestion now,” he said,

“Before we even go.”

 

I muttered words inadequate

Of always muddling through.

He raised his head and looked at me

With eyes of glassy blue.

“I’d muddle through with luck,” he said,

“If knowing what to face…

But who do we call ‘Your ‘ighness’

And who do we call ‘Your Grace’?”

 

His honest British agony

Darkened the setting sun.

I wrung his hand and turned away

For answer had I none.

I wrung his hand and stole away

From suffering so great

And left that British working man

A-weeping on a gate.

 

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©  N. R. Benchley

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