Where’er of old my Lady went
    All art, all nature seemed to be
Attuned in soft accompaniment
    To sing her praise to me.
With all her gentleness would move;
Her smile was life, her look was love.

Within her bonnet shone the rose,
    A lily sheltered at her breast,
But now where’er my Lady goes
    No human heart can rest;
The very stones beneath her feet
Cry “Murder! Murder!” down the street.

For in her bonnet is the plume
    That waves above her head, to tell
She has, within her soul, no room
    For Pity’s self to dwell;
That she can see, unmoved of pain,
Homes plundered, babes and mothers slain.

Lo! In the hall of dance and song,
    The maiden, clad with snowy grace;
No more she glides like light along,
    How changed and slow her pace;
Knee-deep she seems to wade through death
Of white-winged creatures cast beneath!

There at the altar kneels the bride,
    Pure joy and spotless womanhood.
Ah, pluck that dainty veil aside!
    Her hair is red with blood!
Hark! Through the hymn of raise, a cry
Of birds in bridal dress that die.

Beside the infant’s cot there stands
    A mother robed for evening rout,
The fury in her jewelled hands
    Would cast her own child out!
She has but killed, for fan and lace,
A heron’s offspring in its place.

There is the land of sun and flowers
    With orange scent upon the air,
When Egrets build their bridal bowers,
    They take the plumes to wear,
Such plumes as with true love in sight,
Will tell the fluttering heart’s delight.

They mate and happy is the breast
    That feels one day its softness stirred
By that new life within the nest,
    Loud calls the parent bird;
The very savage in the wood

Must share the joyance of the brood.

But hands, whom Fashion arms with greed
    And hearts made cruel by the Chace,
These know our English ladies need
    Some little borrowed grace.
The merchant unto murder dooms
A whole bird-nation for its plumes.

Fierce shouts are heard, and up there springs
    A palpitating cloud of sound,
The shadows of ten thousand wings
    Move trembling on the ground,
And seem in silence to entreat
For mercy, round the murderers’ feet.

Gun answers gun, the cloud that rose
    Lies warm and wounded underneath,
In all the heart’s appalling throes
    Of agony and death;
From quivering flesh the ruffians tear
The feathers for my Lady’s hair.

There falls a hush upon the wood
    Where gun made echo unto gun,
But still the branches drip with blood,
    And, fainting for the sun,
Unfed, unsheltered now by breast,
The children perish in the nest.

Wings, meant for flight, that could not fly
    Are rotting, high above, in air;
Beneath, the carrion bodies lie
    Where fault was being fair.
And Vanity that wrought this doom
Goes dancing off with egret-plume.

O English mother, maid, or bride,
    Who seek for Fashion’s feathered grace,
Come in your beauty and your pride
    And gaze upon the place:
Then say if Love can wear again
For Pity’s sake, such plumes of pain.

(Nature Notes, 1893, December, vol. IV, no. 48, pp. 225-227)

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Mud to left and mud to right,
Mud all day and mud all night,
Mud that percolates like cream,
Mud that haunts us in our dream,
Mud that half-alive will creep
Up our blanket as we sleep,
Mud that draws our boots and socks,
Mud that jams our rifle locks,
Mud that soaks us to the skin
Either out of trench or in,
Mud on hands and hair and feet,
Mud in drink and mud on meat,
Mud that crusts the new-made loaf,
Kipling! here’s your “muddied oaf”
Doing all a man can do,
Cheerful mudlarks muddling through,
Playing in war’s fiercest game
For God’s right and Britain’s name.

(The European War 1914-1915 Poems, p. 145)

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It is men who fight the guns
    But women those sons who gave us,
It is girls who from the Huns
    And the world’s defeat will save us;
Munition girls it shall not be forgot
You gave our men the powder and the shot.

You with your overalls,
    Neat hands, and pretty faces,
Who heard your country’s calls
    And left your peaceful places;
Munition girls it shall not be forgot
You gave our men the powder and the shot.

You with your bone-pin rule
    And mab-caps fit for fairies,
Who came from home and school
    From shops, and farms, and dairies.
Munition girls it shall not be forgot
You gave our men the powder and the shot.

You in the ether fume
    With singing kept your soul up,
And close to death and doom
    Made the white cordite roll up;
Munition girls it shall not be forgot
You gave our men the powder and the shot.

You in the halls of sound
    The mighty lathes are minding,
Turn shells to silver round
    And fit their golden binding;
Munition girls it shall not be forgot
You gave our men the powder and the shot.

And when you all go home
    Because the war is over,
Each lad with thanks will come,
    Each lass will have her lover
Because the boys who fought have not forgot
You gave them all the powder and the shot.

(Carlisle Journal, 1917, 25 December, p. 2)

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Then off we went through willowy lanes by Drayton and Hambridge, villages of thatched roofs with portugal laurels in flower, gardens of straight clipped yews, and houses bowered with roses, till turning up what seemed a by-lane beneath o’ershadowing elms, we found ourselves in the picturesque village of Barrington; and passing through the village, with its almost miniature cottages, and a church with octagon tower rising out of a cruciform body, came in sight of the substantial Georgian stables, and then of the Elizabethan house of Barrington Court beyond, with its striking twisted finials and chimneys.  A nearer view made us realize the beauty of its narrow gables and many-mullioned windows, and pulling up at the side doorway, with its comparatively modern porch, built by a Mr. Petre in exquisite harmony with the rest of the building, we asked for admittance.  It was an unfortunate moment, for it was the dinner hour at the farm, and Mr. Jacobs, the farmer, could not of course be kept from his donner.  We therefore went round to the front of the house to gain some idea of its magnificence, and were not a little distressed to find that the two deodars planted before the house, in the deep recess made by its outjutting wings, were rapidly growing in such a way as to hide some of its chief beauty. (pp. 83-84)

It was impossible to gain a full idea of the extent of the house without getting some distance from it, by passing across the rough meadow in front.  The farther we went from it, the more the “Glory of Somerset,” as it has been called, grew upon us.  We saw at once, as was fitting in the time of Elizabeth, that the house had been built in the form of the letter E.  The angle buttresses of the wings and porch rose up to twisted terminals.  These ended in cupola-like tops.  The gable ends were finished with like terminals, and all the chimneys were twisted and gave great lightness and attraction to the building.  Light and grace were its marked features.  The mullioned windows, with arched heads and water-tables above, were all in keeping with the best Tudor architecture.  The porch had a fine Tudor arch with rooms above it and gables on either hand. (p. 84-85)

One could not help wondering how it was possible such a splendid pile had ever been erected in a position from which little outlook was attainable, for the view was bounded by the featureless slope of the near hill, and the absence of large timber was not compensated for by the great orchards that stretched away from one end of the house.  Those orchards reminded us that one of the chief assets of the tenant is the possibility of cider-making.  How good that cider was we were soon to know, for Mr. Jacobs, with true yeoman courtesy, sent out to beg us rest in the front porch, and with the message also sent a jug of his own excellent liquor. (p. 85)

The lady of the house soon appeared to show us over it, and entering the great hall we found its floor filled to overflowing with barrels of the local beverage.  We went from room to room, troubled beyond measure by evidence of the thoughtless gutting of the house by former owners.  What panelling remained was for the most part of painted deal.  The oak staircase and oak panellings and balustrading of the staircase had all been removed.  We owe it to the care of the National Trust, advised by the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings, that the roofing timbers and ceiling rafters are now sound, and at least one fire-place concealed by brickwork and plaster has been uncovered. (p. 86)

We noticed as we went through the house the enormous amount of space used for passages, and the comparatively small number of living-rooms.  A good insight into Elizabethan ways was gained by our visit to the huge open garrets, with little recesses for cubicles to accommodate the servants, which ran from end to end of the house.  We were not astonished to hear that at one time five hundred Parliamentary soldiers were accommodated in this attic.  The only creatures accommodated there now are the owls, and though the windows have been built up to prevent their easy entrance, they still find their way thither, and as our hostess told us, make a noise at night as if people were shuffling about and dragging weights over the rough boarding. (pp. 86-87)

Gutted and destroyed inside as it is, the interior of the house still contains a little fine plaster work and some fairly good eighteenth-century panelling, but its exterior, built of the finely covered Ham Hill stone, remains a very beautiful example of a sixteenth-century country residence.  There is some uncertainty about its history, but it is thought that it was built by Henry, Lord Daubeny, whom Henry VIII created first Earl of Bridgewater.  It afterwards came into possession of the families of Clifton, Phelips, and Strode. (p; 87)….

The history of how Barrington Court came into the hands of the Trust is as follows:  In 1904 it was in the market, and together with 220 acres of land was purchasable for £10,500.  Towards this sum the late Miss Woodward, who at that time wished her gift to be anonymous, contributed £10,000, subject to the payment of its interest during two lives, on the condition that the Trust would raise another £1,500 to complete the purchase, and to put the house into such repair as would preserve it weather-proof and free from possibility of further decay.  This the Trust agreed to do, because it felt that, for all lovers of architecture, such a unique example of an Elizabethan country residence ought not to be allowed to pass away.  The money was therefor raised by public subscription, and in 1907 this stately home of England became its property. (pp. 87-88)

The Trust is fortunate in having for its tenant a member of the family which for a hundred years past has farmed the Barrington Court farm and dwelt in the house.  Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs take a natural pride in the preservation of their old home and in doing the honour to visitors. (p. 88)

We turned away from Barrington Court with real regret and many backward-looking glances, and can only hope that the time may come when some one with a real love of architecture and a long pocket may be able to replace the oaken beauty of the interior and make the house, what it should never have ceased to be, the dignified home of a country gentleman. (p. 88)

(A Nation’s Heritage, pp. 74-89)

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