From France or Spain or the Himalayas,
Out of the hearts of unknown loons,
In toothless mouths of old soothsayers,
On hairy lips of wandering players
Come the lullabies, come the croons.
Lords have lashed and poets have pondered,
Blood has flowed in the runnels deep,
Beacons have broken and faiths been squandered;
Through dank forests these songs have wandered
Quietly crooning our babes to sleep.
Grandmother melodies, grandmother fancies,
Crooned by the Oxus ever endure!
Epics of valour and throne romances
Have much honour and take big chances,
But the clowns who sang for the babes are sure.
The goblin speaks while in old caves moulder
Priest-made destinies and lord-made law,
The goblin leered from the monarch's shoulder
And, his sight being true and his young heart bolder,
‘ Twas only the goblin the baby saw!
So the god's death agonies are baby chatter!
A ball on the floor of the nursery room
The red earth rolls, for what can matter
If old John Spratt licks clean his platter
And the brown cows go to the broom?