THE RICHARD BARTTELOT SITE

                                                               THE BALLAD OF R.B. ('My name is Barttelot. To the devil with you!')   I may not have been at Eton, And neither, I think, were you, But at least I’m in the Red Book, Though my blood may not be blue. It’s true I have relations Who live in style and state, And dine with generals and dukes Who shoot on their estate (And talk of 'Will' and 'Kate').   My surname’s convoluted And the spelling’s rather hard, But I’m really rather proud of it, Though I can't afford a card; It’s a name which once turned handles And still turns one or two It’s what a gentleman expects, Which can’t mean much to you, (I shouldn’t laugh at you).   When I went up to Oxford In nineteen-fifty-one I was anything but 'hearty' And not much good at 'fun'. I wasn’t ‘academic’ And neither was I ‘fast’, So I hung around the station To watch the trains go past, ( They went by very fast).   I didn’t write an essay Or lear

  from A BALLAD OF OPTING OUT   by Richard Barttelot   Now that I've come to forty years I won't for busses run For I have shed my fill of tears And had my share of sun And in whatever time is left Let me be nice or naughty Be out of work, of wealth bereft, But not a fool at forty.   I've had enough of sage advice On sex and economics, I've heard too much about the price Of footballers and comics I've been too suppliant, over-awed , I'll now be high and snorty A cad, a crook, a dud, a fraud But not a fool at forty.   Forsooth the time is getting short The sands are running out When there are no more girls to court And no more rules to flout. I cannot hold back middle age The puffy and the portly Oh let me rage and rant and rave But not be a fool at forty.   I've passed days sitting on my heels Or standing on my head, And but for music and for meals Would sooner be stone dead. Oh make me bald o

THE BALLAD OF RICHARD REALF,                by Richard Barttelot   California – here he comes   Into your furthest city; San Francisco – sound your drums   And sing the hills for pity.   He’s crossed the plains of Idaho,   The deserts of Nebraska, From warm, sun-lazy Mexico   To frozen, bleak Alaska.   Oklahoma – there he goes   With his unfinished story; Bison herds and buffaloes   Stampede him on to glory. By dried-up creek and dust-track   He roams through far Montana, Ranging the sagebrush outback   Over the broad savannah.   Mississippi – there he rides   On his unending journey, With leopard skins and lion hides   Ready for tryst or tourney. The wealth of Colorado’s mines   His saddle-bag discloses, Grapes from West Virginian vines,   And Pasadena’s roses.   Arizona – there he lies   Upon the midnight boulder; The colours of the rainbow skies   Have tanned his tattooed shoulder. And echoes of his stanzas   Are bl

         .'