Theos-Talk Archives (June 2001 Message tt00035)

Here's something funny, something that some may find
interesting.

-- Eldon Tucker

---- forwarded message follows ----

> From: "CA Bartzokas" <chris@bartzokas.fsnet.co.uk>
> Subject: Blavatsky makes it in MacNeice's Bagpipe Music
> Date: Mon, 4 Jun 2001 20:35:30 +0100
To Fellow Theosophists:

Few years back I was listening to BBC's Radio Four while driving when, most 
unexpectedly, Blavatsky cropped up in a 30's-style light-hearted tune. 
Assiduous searches for a copy of that song were frustrated until very 
recently when I recognised what I have heard in the lyrics of a poem 
entitled Bagpipe Music by Irish poet Louis MacNeice (1907-1963).

For your information and amusement, I have reproduced the entire poem. It 
is a sharp portrayal of common man. The particular reference to Blavatsky 
is on the first distich after the two opening quatrains. At the end of the 
poem, I have added a brief sketch of the author's life and literary 
contributions.

Bagpipe Music

It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw,
All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow.
Their knickers are made of crêpe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python,
Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with heads of bison.

John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa,
Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker,
Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey,
Kept its bones for dumb-bells to use when he was fifty.

It's no go the Yogi-Man, it's no go Blavatsky,
All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi.

Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather,
Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna.
It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture,
All we want is a Dunlop tyre and the devil mend the puncture.

The Laird o' Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober,
Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over.
Mrs Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion,
Said to the midwife 'Take it away; I'm through with over-production.'

It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh,
All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby.

Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage,
Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage.
His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish,
Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish.

It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible,
All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle.

It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium,
It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums.
It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections,
Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension.

It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet;
Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit.
The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall for ever,
But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather.


Here is what the Chambers Biographical Dictionary (1990) says about MacNeice:

Irish poet, born in Belfast, the son of a Church of Ireland clergyman who 
became a bishop. Educated at Marlborough and Merton College, Oxford, he 
became a lecturer in classics at Birmingham (1930-36) and in Greek at 
Bedford College, University of London (1936-40). He was closely associated 
with the British left-wing poets of the 1930's, especially Auden, with whom 
he wrote Letters from Iceland (1937). His poetry often has a biting 
colloquial humour and, with his writings for radio, ranges over a vast area 
of contemporary experience, ideas and images. His volumes of poetry include 
Blind Fireworks (1929), Collected Poems (1949), Autumn Sequel (1954), 
Eighty-Five Poems and Solstices (both 1961). He was the author of several 
memorable verse plays for radio, notably The Dark Tower (published with 
other radio scripts in 1947), as well as translations of Aeschylus and of 
Goethe's Faust. He also produced several volumes of literary criticism.

Chris Bartzokas