Classic Poem

The knocker-up was rattling at the pane;
And he had best be stirring; though 'twas hard
To rise, and turn out in the dark and rain.
And now Dan rattled further down the yard,
To rouse Jack Harkess. It was a queer game,
A knocker-up's — old, and no longer fit
To do a proper man's work in the pit,
To rise at half-past-two, and hirple round,
Rousing the younger men, who slept so sound,
To go and do the work you could not do —
And all for a few shillings! 'Twas a shame
That any man should be put to such shifts
To earn his board and lodging in his old age —
Ay, and a man like Daniel, with such gifts,
The small-pipes' champion! And, when all was said,
Not so old, either. If he'd not got nipped
Betwixt the shaft-wall and the moving cage,
He'd likely still be hewing with the best.
'Twas odd to think, because a fellow tripped
And stumbled, he'd be crippled for the rest
Of his existence, and must limp out of bed ...

But, he had best be stirring. Old men seemed
To find it easier, rising — didn't sleep
So sound as young ones. He'd been fathoms deep,
When Daniel rattled just now on the pane —
Ay, fathoms deep ... What was it he had dreamed?

He'd thought it was the rattling of the chain
That drew him from the bottom of the well.
How he'd got there at all, he could not tell:
But the chain dragged him up and up and up
In the big bucket — just a little sup
Of water in the bottom of the pail,
He dreamt he was, and dreading he'd be spilt ...
He'd waked, to find his head against the rail
Of the bed-head jammed tight; ay, and the quilt
Had slipped off on to the floor; and he was cold.

A sup of water — odd that he should dream
He was a sup of water! Water, ay,
Water was a good drink, when you were dry,
And couldn't get it! He knew that to his cost
That time in Mesopotamia he'd been lost
Between the lines; and crawled down to a stream
That wasn't there — only a bed of stones
On which to lay his burning, freezing bones,
And dream of water, dripping in the pit.

Ay, lying all day in that blasted glare,
Among the lizards, how he'd longed for it —
Just to be in the old Hellgut Drift again!
And he'd have given bags and bags of gold
To feel the water pattering down like rain
Upon him, undercutting, nigh stripped stark
Naked. Ay, under that infernal sun,
How he had longed just for the damp and dark!

And he'd come back, when the silly game was done,
To take up his old job; and glad enough
He was that he'd not had to leave his bones,
Picked clean by jackals, on those burning stones,
To grill for ever under that hot sky,
As many a chap he'd known had had to do.

True, turning out in the dark and wet was rough;
But mattered little when a lad was tough:
And, anyhow, hard work was better fun
Than being shot at, or than lying by
To shoot the other beggar. Work was good,
Working to keep things going. He understood
That now; and trusted, till his day was done,
He'd still be doing his day's work like a man
And never come to have to earn his bread
By routing other fellows out of bed,
A crippled knocker-up, like poor old Dan.