A Ramshackle Room

'And some groups of young oarsmen in shorts on the wall'

A Ramshackle Room

When the gusts are at play with the trees on the lawn,
        And the lights are put out in the vault of the night;
When within all is snug, for the curtains are drawn,
        And the fire is aglow and the lamps are alight,
Sometimes, as I muse, from the place where I am
My thoughts fly away to a room near the Cam.

‘Tis a ramshackle room, where a man might complain
        Of a slope in the ceiling, a rise in the floor;
With a view on a court and a glimpse on a lane,
        And no end of cool wind through the chinks of the door;
With a deep-seated chair that I love to recall,
And some groups of young oarsmen in shorts on the wall.

There’s a fat jolly jar of tobacco, some pipes –
        A meerschaum, a briar, a cherry, a clay –
There’s a three-handled cup fit for Audit or Swipes
        When the breakfast is done and the plates cleared away.
There’s a litter of papers, of books a scratch lot,
Such as Plato, and Dickens, and Liddell and Scott

And a crone in a bonnet that’s more like a rag
        From a mist of remembrance steps suddenly out;
And her funny old tongue never ceases to wag
        As she tidies the room where she bustles about;
For a man may be strong and a man may be young,
But he can’t put a drag on a Bedmaker’s tongue.

And, oh, there’s a youngster who sits at his ease
        In the hope, which is vain, that the tongue may run down,
With his feet on the grate and a book on his knees,
        And his cheeks they are smooth and his hair it is brown.
Then I sigh myself back to the place where I am
From that ramshackle room near the banks of the Cam.

R. C. Lehmann
(9 February 1910)

Happy Birthday, Robbie!

Ten more, in cadence to the sprightly strain,
Waked with their golden oars the slumbering main:
The waters yielded to their guiltless blows,
And the green billows sparkled as they rose.
Long time the barge had danced along the deep,
And on its glassy bosom seem’d to sleep;
But now a glittering isle arose in view.
Bounded with hillocks of a verdant hue:
Fresh groves and roseate bowers appear’d above
(Fit haunts, be sure, of pleasure and of love);
And, higher still, a thousand blazing spires
Seem’d with gilt tops to threat the heavenly fires.
Now each fair stripling plied his labouring oar,
And straight the pinnace struck the sandy shore.

(From “The Seven Fountains”)

The national poet of Scotland, Robert Burns, was born 255 years ago today. Happy Birthday, Robbie!

Swans: Preservation, Pubs and Poetry

Life on the Upper Thames – Swan-Hopping The Illustrated London News, 24 April 1875. Swan Upping Long Ago - the best way to tag a bird was to sit on it!

HTBS’s Greg Denieffe writes from England,

Occasionally, HTBS deviates from rowing, usually for a very good reason. Today, you could say is one of those days, but what better reason than to bring you news of the latest exhibition to open at the River and Rowing Museum, Henley-on-Thames. Simply called 'Swan Upping'  (the annual census of swans that takes place on the Thames every July), it will run for a year, ending on 18 May, 2014. In 2011, HTBS contributor Tim Koch spent 'A Day With The Uppers' but unfortunately last year’s census was cancelled because of flood conditions on the Thames. This year’s swan upping schedule runs for five days from Monday 15 July to Friday 19 July.

For those of us on this side of the pond, pubs and pub-signs are familiar sights. My local is called ‘The Swan Inn’ and is a very old pub indeed and has been rebuilt a couple of times following devastating fires.

The Swan Inn, Milton Keynes Village is a beautiful 13th-century thatched country pub and restaurant.

Only minutes away, we have ‘Ye Olde Swan’, a historic gem located on the green at Woughton-on-the-Green, on the outskirts of Milton Keynes. The pub-restaurant dates from Tudor times and has retained many original features and its delightful, olde worlde charm.

Ye Olde Swan with its beautiful pub sign.

A pub definitely on my radar for a future visit is ‘The Old Swan Uppers’ in Cookham.

The Old Swan Uppers, The Pound, Cookham, Berks.

The sign for The Old Swan Upper.

HTBS as ‘avids’ will know, recently signed on with Twitter with the user name of @boatsing. The River and Rowing Museum has been tweeting for a while. The Museum’s latest exhibition brings together unique objects and artworks to illuminate and celebrate the historic tradition of Swan Upping and is looking for people to join in by tweeting the Museum swan inspired poetry in 140 characters or less. You can send your poem to @river_rowing marked with #rrmswanupping and their favourites will be displayed in the gallery.

My contribution was the first verse of a poem by Patrick Galvin (1927-2011), "My Father Spoke with Swans". It will touch a cord with many Irish families, mine included, who have a diverse family-tree. The first verse, wondrous as it is, does not reveal where the poem is headed. That’s the problem with Twitter; sometimes 140 characters are not enough! So I thought of HTBS …

Here’s the full poem with some added links:

My Father Spoke with Swans

Leaning on the parapet
Of the South Gate Bridge
My father spoke with swans
Remembering his days
With the Royal Munster Fusiliers.

India was dawn
The women cool
The sun cradled in his arms
Sometimes,
When the clouds were wine
He washed his face in the Ganges.

The swans rose from the Lee
And held their wings.

Leaning on the mysteries
Of her twilight room
My mother spoke with God
Remembering Pearce
And the breath of Connolly.

Ireland was new
The men tall
The land mirrored their brightness

Sometimes,
When eagles called
She walked the roads to Bethlehem.

God opened his eyes
A loss for miracles.