I was in a bit of a mood last afternoon, after reading of the doings in Brussels.
I was down at heart and full of woe. There was not much hope in me for the future.
Usually, under these circumstances a quick half hour contemplating Jay's buns is enough to put the world to rights again, and restore my jaded spirit; but not yesterday.
In desperation I betook me to my solitary pallet and spent a rotten night ruminating over the evils and the follies of the world.
I was still in a mood when I woke this morning. So I turned to an even older friend, the Blessed G.K.Chesterton, and there, in a poem entitled The Secret People. I found the balm that soothed my troubled soul.
Being a nice sort of chap, I'll share a bit with you...
"They have given us into the hand of new unhappy lords,
Lords without anger or honour, who dare not carry their swords.
They fight by shuffling papers; they have bright dead alien eyes;
They look at our labour and laughter as a tired man looks at flies.
And the load of their loveless pity is worse than the ancient wrongs,
Their doors are shut in the evening; and they know no songs.
We hear men speaking for us of new laws strong and sweet,
Yet is there no man speaketh as we speak in the street.
It may be we shall rise the last as Frenchmen rose the first,
Our wrath come after Russia's wrath and our wrath be the worst.
It may be we are meant to mark with our riot and our rest
God's scorn for all men governing. It may be beer is best.
But we are the people of England; and we have not spoken yet.
Smile at us, pay us, pass us. But do not quite forget."
Considering that this is over 90 years old, there's not much that changes, really, is there?
