[Pg 78] [Pg 79] And round the ring came Dodo, the brown mare, Pied like a tiger-moth; her bright shoes tare The scattered petals, while the clown came after Like life, a beauty chased by tragic laughter. And round the ring came Dodo, the brown mare, Pied like a tiger-moth; her bright shoes tare The scattered petals, while the clown came after Like life, a beauty chased by tragic laughter. [Pg 80] [Pg 80] [Pg 81] [Pg 81] They reached the curtained door and loitered through. The audience, standing, sang "God save the Queen." The hour of the showman's life had been. Now once again a herald crossed the green To tell the showman that a feast was laid, A supper for the artists who had played By the Queen's order, in a tent without. In the bright moonlight at the gate the rout Of courtiers, formed procession to be gone, Orders were called, steel clinked, and jewels shone, The watchers climbed the banks and took their stands. The circus artists shook each others' hands, Their quarrels were forgotten and forgiven, Old friendships were restored and sinners shriven. "We find we cannot part from Will," they said. [Pg 82] And while they talked the juggler took the maid Molly, the singer, to the hawthorn glade Behind the green-striped tent, and told his love, A wild delight, beyond her hope, enough Beyond her dream to brim her eyes with tears. Now came a ringing cry to march; and cheers Rose from the crowd; the bright procession fared Back to the city while the trumpets blared. So the night ended, and the Court retired. Back to the town the swaying torches reeked, Within the green-striped tent the lights expired, The dew dript from the canvas where it leaked. Dark, in the showman's van, a cricket creaked, But, near the waggons, fire was glowing red On happy faces where the feast was spread. Gladly they supped, those artists of the show; [Pg 83]Then by the perfect moon, together timed, They struck the green-striped tent and laid it low, Even as the quarter before midnight chimed. Then putting-to the piebald nags, they climbed Into their vans and slowly stole away Along Blown Hilcote on the Icknield Way. And as the rumbling of the waggons died By Aston Tirrold and the Moretons twain, With axle-clatter in the countryside, Lit by the moon and fragrant from the rain, King Cole moved softly in the Ring again, Where now the owls
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