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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