SAM
HUGHES (1824-1898)
(To
the tune 'Trentham' . Acknowledging 'A lament for Sam Hughes: the last
great ophicleidist' by Trevor
Herbert )
Trentham
where he was born,
Three
Mile Cross where he died,
these
framed the triumphs of his breath:
he
played the ophicleide.
Fanfares,
chromatic runs --
he
played not only these,
but
gentle phrases softly breathed
to
bands' strong harmonies.
He
could have stayed in Wales,
grown
Welsh, you say, secure
in
comfort and admirers' love,
a
champion and more.
He
could have learned the new
smart-prized
euphonium,
cheaper
and easier, and lived
rich
with well-earned income.
Footnote
to Trentham's tune.
Not
Wales, nor progress, he.
Your
prose undims his instrument.
He
died in penury.
LITTLE CORNARD
(to the tune ‘Little Cornard’)
Nations to strive and part,
points of the compass spin,
nothing is found at heart,
and what you mean by south and north
and west and east has lost its worth.
Dragon on dragon fight!
How did the tale arise,
shouts in a Suffolk night?
No dragon-real time’s known to be,
not even fifteenth century.
Derailment injuries,
horrible grandeur fail,
nothing of that in these:
van bearing matter for a drain
smashed with a level crossing train.
Deep, deep and deep their call,
waves that are high for waves,
boats and a hard landfall.
Our voices falter praying for
all those in peril on the shore.
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