Favorite Poems and
a Song
Raymond Bernard
Cattell
Heather Birkett Cattell read this poem at Raymond Cattell's burial, saying that he had read it to her many times in the last few months of his life:
The
Soldier
By Rupert Brooke
If I should die, think only this
of me:
That there's some corner of a
foreign field
That is for ever England. There
shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust
concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped,
made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love,
her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing
English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns
of home.
And think, this heart, all evil
shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no
less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts
by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy
as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends;
and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an
English heaven.
This is the poem that so described Raymond Cattell's love of the sea, that his son, Herry, chose to read it at his funeral:
Sea Fever
By John Masefield
I must go down to the seas again
to the lonely sea and sky
And all I ask is a tall ship
and a star to steer her by
And the wheel's kick and the wind's
song
and the white sail's shaking
And a gray mist on the sea's face,
and a gray dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again
for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call
That may not be denied
And all I ask is a windy day
with the white clouds flying
And the flung spray and the blown
spume
and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again
to the vagrant gypsy life
To the gull's way and the whale's
way
where the wind's like a whetted
knife
And all I ask is a merry yarn
from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream
when the long trick's over.
Here is another favorite (clearly he was a British romantic):
This England
From Richard the Second
By Shakespeare
This royal throne of kings, this
scepter'd isle,
This earth of
majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden,
demi-paradise,
This fortress
built by Nature for herself
Against
infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed
of men, this little world,
This precious
stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it
in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat
defensive to a house,
Against the envy
of less happier lands,
This blessed
plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
Raymond Cattell loved to sing.
When the family went on road trips, or even just sitting on the
patio we would sing songs from around the world. The
singing often commenced with this old English folk song from his
childhood, Widecombe Faire:
Widecombe Fair
"Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me
your grey mare,
All along, down along, out along,
lee,
For I want for to go to Widecombe
Fair,
With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter
Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry
Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all."
"And when shall I see again my
grey mare?"
All along, down along, out along,
lee,
"By Friday soon, or Saturday noon,
With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter
Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry
Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all."
So they harnessed and bridled the
old grey mare
All along, down along, out along,
lee,
And off they drove to Widecombe
fair,
With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter
Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry
Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all."
Then Friday came, and Saturday
noon,
All along, down along, out along,
lee,
But Tom Pearces old mare hath not
trotted home,
With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter
Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry
Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all."
So Tom Pearce he got up to the top
o' the hill
All along, down along, out along,
lee,
And he seed his old mare down
a-making her will,
With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter
Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry
Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all."
So Tom Pearce's old mare, her took
sick and died,
All along, down along, out along,
lee,
And Tom he sat down on a stone, and
he cried
With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter
Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry
Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all."
But this isn't the end o' this
shocking affair,
All along, down along, out along,
lee,
Nor, though they be dead, of the
horrid career
Of Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter
Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry
Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all."
When the wind whistles cold on the
moor of the night
All along, down along, out along,
lee,
Tom Pearce's old mare doth appear
gashly white,
With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter
Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry
Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all."
And all the long night he heard
skirling and groans,
All along, down along, out along,
lee,
From Tom Pearce's old mare in her
rattling bones,
With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter
Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry
Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all."
If you know others of his favorite
poems, please submit them by emailing me at:
devon@cattell.net