_

Where you're not kicked from, or there's room to spare.
Go back and out of town the way you came.

_The Showman:_

I've just been sent from there. Is this a game?

_The Sergeant:_

You'll find it none, my son, if that's your tone.

_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 pass.

_The Sergeant:_

Then pass; and read the rules
Another time.

_The Showman:_

You fat, red-coated fools.

_The Policeman:_

Pass right along.

They passed. 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: "God 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