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.
# # #
© N. R. Benchley
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