_The Showman:_

You redcoats; ev'n your boots are not your own.

_The Sergeant:_

No, they're the Queen's; I represent the Queen.

_The Showman:_

Pipeclay your week's accounts, you red marine.

_The Sergeant:_

Thank you, I will. Now vanish. Right-about.

_The Showman:_

Right, kick the circus in or kick it out, But kick us, kick us hard, we've got no friends, We've no Queen's boots or busbies on our ends; We're poor, we like it, no one cares; besides These dirty artists ought to have thick hides.

The dust, like us, is fit for boots to stamp, None but Queen's redcoats are allowed to camp In this free country.

_A Policeman:_

What's the trouble here?

_The Showman:_

A redcoat dog, in need of a thick ear.

_The Policeman:_

The show turned back? No, sergeant, let them through.

They can't turn back, because the Prince is due.

Best let them pa.s.s.

_The Sergeant:_

Then pa.s.s; and read the rules Another time.

_The Showman:_

You fat, red-coated fools.

_The Policeman:_

Pa.s.s right along.

They pa.s.sed. Beyond the town A farmer gave them leave to settle down In a green field beside the Oxford road.

There the spent horses ceased to drag the load; The tent was pitched beneath a dropping sky, The green-striped tent with all its gear awry.

The men drew close to grumble: in the van The showman parted from the wandering man.

_The Showman:_

You see; denied a chance; denied bare bread.

_King Cole:_

I know the stony road that artists tread.

_The Showman:_

You take it very mildly, if you do.

How would you act if this were done to you?

_King Cole:_

Go to the Mayor.

_The Showman:_

I am not that kind, I'll kneel to no Court prop with painted rind.

You and your snivelling to them may go hang.

I say: "G.o.d curse the Prince and all his gang."

_The Wife:_

Ah, no, my dear, for Life hurts everyone, Without our cursing. Let the poor Prince be; We artist folk are happier folk than he, Hard as it is.

_The Showman:_

I say: G.o.d let him see And taste and know this misery that he makes.

He strains a poor man's spirit till it breaks, And then he hangs him, while a poor man's gift He leaves unhelped, to wither or to drift.

Sergeants at city gates are all his care.

We are but outcast artists in despair.

They dress in scarlet and he gives them gold.

_King Cole:_

Trust still to Life, the day is not yet old.

_The Showman:_

By G.o.d! our lives are all we have to trust.

_King Cole:_

Life changes every day and ever must.

_The Showman:_