THE BALLAD OF R. B. by Stephen Carroll
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 learn a single
thing
And I was asked to
leave the place
As quick as
anything;
I did hear
C.S.Lewis
And C.Day
Lewis speak,
But I couldn’t
write a sentence
In Latin or in
Greek,
(To me it was all
Greek).
I ran a little bookshop
In a Sussex town I knew,
But business did not
flourish
And customers were few.
I sold a Robert Bridges
And an architectural tome
But in the end I packed it
in
And pedalled off for home,
(Yes, the ancestral home).
I take the Daily Telegraph,
(I like to read the news)
And, sometimes, after reading it,
I stuff it in my shoes;
I keep the Court and Social
To read when I’m in bed:
I like to know what’s happening
To the living and the dead
(As long as they’re well-bred).
I may be short of marbles
And I may be short of
hair,
It’s true my teeth are
falling out,
But frankly, I don’t care;
I play around with verses,
And uncompleted works,
I may not have been
published,
But at least my name’s in
Burke’s,
(My name is just in Burke’s.
I still play my piano
(I had it in my shop)
And listen to old records
(I'll listen till I drop).
I spend Christmas at the big house,
Which can't be all that bad,
I'm the squire's brother's cousin,
Half Norman and half mad.
(I'm really not quite mad.)
I may be a cardboard cut-out
With pockets full of
string,
Who changes things like
razor-blades,
Slower than anything;
If I do crunch cubes of
sugar
To help me get along
They help me go my own
sweet way
And sing my own sweet
song,
(And sing my own sad song).
Yes, I’m the son of a
younger son,
And my clothes are
second-hand,
But I don’t dance to
anyone’s tune,
Or follow anyone’s band.
It’s true I’m in the Red
Book
Though my blood may not be
blue;
All right, I wasn’t at
Eton,
But neither, I think, were
you,
(And neither, I know, were you).
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