The Glugs of Gosh

Then the Mayor and Council and Charity Board
O'er the archival prophecy zealously pored,
   With a pursing of lips and a shaking of heads,
   With a searching and prying for possible threads
That would lead to discover this versatile Glug
Who modelled a rhyme while he mended a mug.

With a pursing of lips and a shaking of heads,
They gave up the task and went home to their beds,
   Where each lay awake while he tortured his brain
   For a key to the riddle, but ever in vain . . .
Then, lo, at the Mayor's front door in the morn
A tinker called out, and a Movement was born.


"Kettles and pans!  Kettles and pans!
Oh, the stars are the gods'; but the earth, it is man's.
   But a fool is the man who has wants without end,
   While the tinker's content with a kettle to mend.
For a tinker owns naught but the earth, which is man's.
Then, bring out your kettles!  Ho, kettles and pans!"

From the mayoral bed with unmayoral cries
The magistrate sprang ere he'd opened his eyes.
   "Hold him!" he yelled, as he bounced on the floor.
   "Oh, who is this tinker that rhymes at my door?
Go get me the name and the title of him 1"
They answered.  "Be calm, sir.  'Tis no one but Sym.

'Tis Sym, the mad tinker, the son of old Joi,
Who ran from his home when a bit of a boy.
   He went for a tramp, tho' 'tis common belief,
   When folk were not looking he went for a thief;
Then went for a tinker, and rhymes as he goes.
Some say he's crazy, but nobody knows."

'Twas thus it began, the exalting of Sym,
And the mad Gluggish struggle that raged around him.
   For the good Mayor seized him, and clothed him in silk,
   And fed him on pumpkins and pasteurised milk,
And praised him in public, and coupled his name
With Gosh's vague prophet of archival fame.

The Press interviewed him a great many times,
And printed his portrait, and published his rhymes;
   Till the King and Sir Stodge and the Swanks grew afraid
   Of his fame 'mid the Glugs and the trouble it made.
For, wherever Sym went in the city of Gosh,
There were cheers for the tinker, and hoots for King Splosh.

His goings and comings were watched for and cheered;
And a crowd quickly gathered where'er he appeared.
   All the folk flocked around him and shouted his praise;
   For the Glugs followed fashion, and Sym was a craze.
They sued him for words, which they greeted with cheers,
For the way with a Glug is to tickle his ears.

"0, speak to us, Tinker!  Your wisdom we crave!"
They'd cry when they saw him; then Sym would look grave,
   And remark, with an air, "'Tis a very fine day."
   "Now ain't he a marvel?" they'd shout.  "Hip, Hooray!"
"To live," would Sym answer, "To live is to feel!"
"And ain't he a poet?" a fat Glug would squeal.

Sym had a quaint fancy in phrase and in text;
When he'd fed them with one they would howl for the next.
   Thus he'd cry, "Love is love 1" and the welkin they'd lift
   With their shouts of surprise at his wonderful gift.
He would say "After life, then a Glug must meet death!"
And they'd clamour for more ere he took the next breath.

But Sym grew aweary of this sort of praise,
And he longed to be back with his out-o'-door days,
   With his feet in the grass and his back to a tree,
   Rhyming and tinkering, fameless and free.
He said so one day to the Mayor of Quog,
And declared he'd as lief live the life of a dog.

But the Mayor was vexed; for the Movement had grown,
And his dreams had of late soared as high as a throne.
   "Have a care! What is written is written," said he.
   "And the dullest Glug knows what is written must be.
'Tis the prophet of Gosh who has prophesied it;
And 'tis thus that 'tis written by him who so writ:

"'Lo, the Tinker of Gosh he shall make him three rhymes:
One on the errors and aims of his times,
   One on the symptoms of sin that he sees,
   And the third and the last on whatever he please.
And when the Glugs hear them and mark what they mean
The land shall be purged and the nation made clean."'

So Sym gave a promise to write then and there
Three rhymes to be read in the Great Market Square
To all Glugs assembled on Saturday week.
"And then," said the Mayor, "if still you must seek
   To return to your tramping, well, just have your fling;
   But I'll make you a marquis, or any old thing . . ."
   Said Sym, "I shall tinker, and still be a king."

Nobody knew why it should be so;
Nobody knew or wanted to know.
   It might have been checked had but someone dared
   To trace its beginnings; but nobody cared.
But 'twas clear to the wise that the Glugs of those days
Were crazed beyond reason concerning a craze.

They would pass a thing by for a week or a year,
With an air apathetic, or maybe a sneer:
   Some ev'ryday thing, like a crime or a creed,
   A mode or a movement, and pay it small heed,
Till Somebody started to laud it aloud;
Then all but the Nobodies followed the crowd.

Thus, Sym was a craze; tho', to give him his due,
He would rather have strayed from the popular view.
   But once the Glugs had him they held him so tight
   That he could not be nobody, try as he might.
He had to be Somebody, so they decreed.
For Craze is an appetite, governed by Greed.

So on Saturday week to the Great Market Square
Came every Glug who could rake up his fare.
   They came from the suburbs, they came from the town,
   There came from the country Glugs bearded and brown,
Rich Glugs, with cigars, all well-tailored and stout,
Jostled commonplace Glugs who dropped aitches about.

There were gushing Glug maids, well aware of their charms,
And stern, massive matrons with babes in their arms.
   There were querulous dames who complained of the "squash,"
   The pushing and squeezing; for, briefly, all Gosh,
With its aunt and its wife, stood agape in the ranks--
Excepting Sir Stodge and his satellite Swanks.

The Mayor of Quog took the chair for the day;
And he made them a speech, and he ventured to say
   That a Glug was a Glug, and the Cause they held dear
   Was a very dear Cause.  And the Glugs said, "Hear, hear."
Then Sym took the stage to a round of applause
From thousands who suddenly found they'd a Cause.

THE FIRST RHYME OF SYM
We strive together in life's crowded mart,
   Keen-eyed, with clutching hands to over-reach.
We scheme, we lie, we play the selfish part,
   Masking our lust for gain with gentle speech;
And masking too--O pity ignorance!--
Our very selves behind a careless glance.

Ah, foolish brothers, seeking e'er in vain
   The one dear gift that liesso near at hand;
Hoping to barter gold we meanly gain
   For that the poorest beggar in the land
Holds for his own, to hoard while yet he spends;
Seeking fresh treasure in the hearts of friends.

We preach; yet do we deem it worldly-wise
   To count unbounded brother-love a shame,
So, ban the brother-look from out our eyes,
   Lest sparks of sympathy be fanned to flame.
We smile; and yet withhold, in secret fear,
The word so hard to speak, so sweet to hear--

The Open Sesame to meanest hearts,
   The magic word, to which stern eyes grow soft,
And crafty faces, that the cruel marts
   Have seared and scored, turn gentle--Nay, how oft
It trembles on the lip to die unppoke,
And dawning love is stifled with a joke.

Nay, brothers, look about your world to-day:
   A world to you so drab, so commonplace--
The flowers still are blooming by the way,
   As blossom smiles upon the sternest face.
In everv hour is born some thought of love;
In every heart is hid some treasure-trove.
.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

With a modified clapping and stamping of feet
The Glugs mildly cheered him, as Sym took his seat.
   But some said 'twas clever, and some said 'twas grand-
   More especially those who did not understand.
And some said, with frowns, tho' the words sounded plain,
Yet it had a deep meaning they craved to explain.

But the Mayor said: Silence!  He wished to observe
That a Glug was a Glug; and in wishing to serve
   This glorious Cause, which they'd asked him to lead,
   They had proved they were Glugs of the noble old breed
That made Gosh what it was . . . and he'd ask the police
To remove that small boy while they heard the next piece.

THE SECOND RHYME OF SYM
"Now come," said the Devil, he said to me,
    With his swart face all a-grin,
"This day, ere ever the clock strikes three,
    Shall you sin your darling sin.
For I've wagered a crown with Beelzebub,
Down there at the Gentlemen's Brimstone Club,
    I shall tempt you once, I shall tempt you twice,
    Yet thrice shall you fall ere I tempt you thrice."

"Begone, base Devil!" I made reply--
    "Begone with your fiendish grin!
How hope you to profit by such as I?
    For I have no darling sin.
But many there be, and I know them well,
All foul with sinning and ripe for Hell.
    And I name no names, but the whole world knows
    That I am never of such as those."

"How nowt' said the Devil.  "I'll spread my net,
    And I vow I'll gather you in!
By this and by that shall I win my bet,
    And you shall sin the sin!
Come, fill up a bumper of good red wine,
Your heart shall sing, and your eye shall shine,
    You shall know such joy as you never have known.
    For the salving of men was the good vine grown."

"Begone, red Devil!" I made reply.
    "Parch shall these lips of mine,
And my tongue shall shrink, and my throat go dry,
    Ere ever I taste your wine!
But greet you shall, as I know full well,
A tipsy score of my friends in Hell.
    And I name no names, but the whole world wots
    Most of my fellows are drunken sots."

"Ah, ha!" said the Devil.  "You scorn the wine!
    Thrice shall you sin, I say,
To win me a crown from a friend of mine,
    Ere three o' the clock this day.
Are you calling to mind some lady fair?
And is she a wife or a maiden rare?
    'Twere folly to shackle young love, hot Youth;
    And stolen kisses are sweet, forsooth!"

"Begone, foul Devil!" I made reply;
    "For never in all my life
Have I looked on a woman with lustful eye,
    Be she maid, or widow, or wife.
But my brothers!  Alas! I am scandalized
By their evil passions so ill disguised.
    And I name no names, but my thanks I give
    That I loathe the lives my fellow-men live."

"Ho, ho!" roared the Devil in fiendish glee.
    "'Tis a silver crown I win!
Thrice have you fallen! 0 Pharisee,
    You have sinned your darling sin!"
"But, nay," said I; "and I scorn your lure.
I have sinned no sin, and my heart is pure.
    Come, show me a sign of the sin you see!"
    But the Devil was gone . . . and the clock struck three.
.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

With an increase of cheering and waving of hats-
While the little boys squealed, and made noises like cats--
   The Glugs gave approval to Sym's second rhyme.
   And some said 'twas thoughtful, and some said 'twas prime;
And some said 'twas witty, and had a fine end:
More especially those who did not comprehend.

And some said with leers and with nudges and shrugs
That, they mentioned no names, but it hit certain Glugs.
   And others remarked, with superior smiles,
   While dividing the metrical feet into miles,
That the thing seemed quite simple, without any doubt,
But the anagrams in it would need thinking out.

But the Mayor said, Hush!  And he wished to explain
That in leading this Movement he'd nothing to gain.
   He was ready to lead, since they trusted him so;
   And, wherever he led he was sure Glugs would go.
And he thanked them again, and craved peace for a time,
While this gifted young man read his third and last rhyme.

THE LAST RHYME OF SYM
(To sing you a song and a sensible song is a worthy and excellent thing;
But how could I sing you that sort of a song, if there's never a song to sing?)
At ten to the tick, by the kitchen clock, I marked him blundering by,
With his eyes astare, and his rumpled hair, and his hat cocked over his eye.
Blind, in his pride, to his shoes untied, he went with a swift jig-jog,
Off on the quest, with a strange unrest, hunting the Feasible Dog.
And this is the song, as he dashed along, that he sang with a swaggering swing--
(Now how had I heard him singing a song if he hadn't a song to sing?)
   "I've found the authentic, identical beast!
      The Feasible Dog, and the terror of Gosh!
           I know by the prowl of him.
           Hark to the growl of him!
      Heralding death to the subjects of Splosh.
   Oh, look at him glaring and staring, by thunder!
   Now each for himself, and the weakest goes under!

   "Beware this injurious, furious brute;
      He's ready to rend you with tooth and with claw.
           Tho' 'tis incredible,
           Anything edible
      Disappears suddenly into his maw:
   Into his cavernous inner interior
   Vanishes evrything strictly superior."

He calls it "Woman," he calls it "Wine," he calls it "Devils" and "Dice";
He calls it "Surfing" and "Sunday Golf' and names that are not so nice.
But whatever he calls it-"Morals" or "Mirth"-he is on with the hunt right quick
For his sorrow he'd hug like a gloomy Gllig if he hadn't a dog to kick.
So any old night, if the stars are right, vou will find him, hot on the trail
Of a feasible dog and a teasable dog, with a can to tie to his tail.
And the song that he roars to the shuddering stars is a worthy and excellent thing.
(Yet how could you hear him singing a song if there wasn't a song to sing?)

   "I've watched his abdominous, ominous shape
      Abroad in the land while the nation has slept,
           Marked his satanical
           Methods tyrannical;
      Rigorous, vigorous vigil I kept.
   Good gracious!  Voracious is hardly the name for it!
   Yet we have only our blindness to blame for it.

   "My dear, I've autoptical, optical proof
      That he's prowling and growling at large in the land.
           Hear his pestiferous
           Clamour vociferous,
      Gurgles and groans of the beastliest brand.
   Some may regard his contortions as comical.
   But I've the proof that his game's gastronomical.

   "Beware this obstreperous, leprous beast--
      A treacherous wretch, for I know him of old.
           I'm on the track of him,
           Close at the back of him,
      And I'm aware his ambitions are bold;
   For he's yearning and burning to snare the superior
   Into his roomy and gloomy interior."
.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Such a shouting and yelling of hearty Bravoes,
Such a craning of necks and a standing on toes
   Seemed to leave ne'er a doubt that the Tinker's last rhyme
   Had now won him repute 'mid the Glugs for all time.
And they all said the rhyme was the grandest they'd heard:
More especially those who had not caught a word.

But the Mayor said: Peace! And he stood, without fear,
As the leader of all to whom Justice was dear.
   For the Tinker had rhymed, as the Prophet foretold,
   And a light was let in on the errors of old.
For in every line, and in every verse
Was the proof that Sir Stodge was a traitor, and worse!

Sir Stodge (said the Mayor), must go from his place;
And the Swanks, one and all, were a standing disgrace!
   For the influence won o'er a weak, foolish king
   Was a menace to Gosh, and a scandalous thing!
"And now," said the Mayor, "I stand here to-day
As your leader and friend." And the Glugs said, "Hooray!"

Then they went to their homes in the suburbs and town;
To their farms went the Glugs who were bearded and brown.
   Portly Glugs with cigars went to dine at their clubs,
   While illiterate Glugs had one more at the pubs.
And each household in Gosh sat and talked half the night
Of the wonderful day, and the imminent fight.

Forgetting the rhymer, forgetting his rhymes,
They talked of Sir Stodge and his numerous crimes.
   There was hardly a C3lug in the whole land of Gosh
   Who'd a lenient word to put in for King Splosh.
One and all, to the mangiest, surliest dog,
Were quite eager to bark for his Worship of Quog.

Forgotten, unnoticed, Sym wended his way
To his lodging in Gosh at the close of the day.
   And 'twas there, to his friend and companion of years--
   To his little red dog with the funny prick ears--
That he poured out his woe; seeking nothing to hide;
And the little dog listened, his head on one side.

"O you little red dog, you are weary as I.
It is days, it is months since we saw the blue sky.
   And it seems weary years since we sniffed at the breeze
   As it hms thro' the hedges and sings in the trees.
These we know and we love.  But this city holds fears,
O my friend of the road, with the funny prick ears.
   And for what me we hope from his Worship of Quog?"
   "Oh, and a bone, and a kick," said the little red dog.

He was a Glug of simple charm;
He wished no living creature harm.
   His kindly smile like sunlight fell
   On all about, and wished them well.
Yet, 'spite the cheerful soul of Sym,
The great Sir Stodge detested him.

The stern Sir Stodge and all his Swanks--
Proud Glugs of divers grades and ranks,
   With learning and attainments great--
   Had never learned to conquer hate.
And, failing in their A. B. C.,
Were whipt by Master Destiny.

'Twas thus that Gosh's famous schools
Turned out great hordes of learned fools:
   Turned out the ship without a sail,
   Turned out the kite with leaden tail,
Turned out the mind that could not soar
Because of foolish weights it bore.

Because there'd been no father Joi
To guide the quick mind of a boy
   Away from thoughts of hate and blame,
   Wisdom in these was but a name.
But 'mid the Glugs they count him wise
Who walks with cunning in his eyes.

His task well done, his three rhymes writ,
Sym rose at morn, and packed his kit.
   "At last!" he cried.  "Off and away
   To meet again the spendthrift Day,
As he comes climbing in the East,
To bless with largesse man and beast.

"Again the fields where wild things run!
And trees, all spreading to the sun,
   Run not, because, of all things blest,
   Their chosen place contents them best.
0 come, my little prick-eared dog!" . . .
But, "Halt!" exclaimed his Nibs of Quog.

"Nay," said the Mayor.  "Not so fast!
The day climbs high, but sinks at last.
   And trees, all spreading to the sun,
   Are slain because they cannot run.
The great Sir Stodge, filled full of hate,
Has challenged you to hold debate.

"On Monday, in the Market Square,
He and his Swanks will all be there,
   Sharp to the tick at half-past two,
   To knock the stuffing out of you.
And if your stuffing so be spread,
Then is the Cause of Quog stone dead.

"In this debate I'd have you find,
With all the cunning of your mind,
   Sure victory for Quog's great Cause,
   And swift defeat for Stodge's laws."
"But cunning I have none," quoth Sym.
The Mayor slowly winked at him.

"Ah!" cried his Worship.  "Sly; so sly!"
(Again he drooped his dexter eye)
   "I've read you thro'; I've marked you well.
   You're cunning as an imp from Hell . . .
Nay, keep your temper; for I can
Withal admire a clever man.

"Who rhymes with such a subtle art
May never claim a simple part.
   I'll make of you a Glug of rank,
   With something handy in the bank,
And fixed opinions, which, you know,
With fixed deposits always go.

"I'll give you anything you crave:
A great, high headstone to your grave,
   A salary, a scarlet coat,
   A handsome wife, a house, a vote,
A title, or a humbled foe."
But Sym said, "No," and ever, "No."

"Then," shouted Quog, "your aid I claim
For Gosh, and in your country's name
   I bid you fight the Cause of Quog,
   Or be for ever named a dog!
The Cause of Quog, the weal of Gosh
Are one!  Amen.  Down with King Splosh!"

Sym looked his Worship in the eye,
As solemnly he made reply:
   "If 'tis to serve my native land,
   On Monday I shall be at hand.
But what am I 'mid such great men?"
His Worship winked his eye again . . .

'Twas Monday in the Market Square;
Sir Stodge and all his Swanks were there.
   And almost every Glug in Gosh
   Had bolted lunch and had a wash
And cleaned his boots, and sallied out
To gloat upon Sir Stodge's rout.

And certain sly and knowing Glugs,
With sundry nudges, winks and shrugs,
   Passed round the hint that up on high,
   Behind some window near the sky,
Where he could see yet not be seen,
King Splosh was present with his Queen.

"Glugs," said the chairman.  "Glugs of Gosh;
By order of our good King Splosh,
   The Tinker and Sir Stodge shall meet,
   And here, without unseemly heat,
Debate the question of the day,
Which is--However, let me say--

"I do not wish to waste your time.
So, first shall speak this man of rhyme;
   And, when Sir Stodge has voiced his view,
   The Glugs shall judge between the two.
This verdict from the folk of Gosh
Will be accepted by King Splosh."

As when, like teasing vagabonds,
The sly winds buffet sullen ponds,
   The face of Stodge grew dark with rage,
   When Sym stepped forth upon the stage.
But all the Glugs, with one accord,
A chorus of approval roared.

Said Sym: "Kind friends, and fellow Glugs;
My trade is mending pots and mugs.
   I tinker kettles, and I rhyme
   To please myself and pass the time,
Just as my fancy wandereth."
("He's minel" quoth Stodge, below his breath.)

Said Sym: "Why I am here to-day
I know not; tho' I've heard them say
   That strife and hatred play some part
   In this great meeting at the Mart.
Nay, brothers, why should hatred lodge . . .
"That's ultra vires!" thundered Stodge.

"'Tis ultra vires!" cried the Knight.
"Besides, it isn't half polite.
   And e'en the dullest Glug should know,
   'Tis not pro bono publico.
Nay, Glugs, this fellow is no class.
Remember!  Vincit veritas!"

With sidelong looks and sheepish grins,
Like men found out in secret sins,
   Glug gazed at Glug in nervous dread;
   Till one with claims to learning said,
"Sir Stodge is talking Greek, you know.
He may be bad, but never low."

Then those who had no word of Greek
Felt lifted up to hear him speak.
   "Ah, learning, learning," others said.
    'Tis fine to have a clever head."
And here and there a nervous cheer
Was heard, and someone growled, "Hear, hear."

"Kind friends," said Sym . . . But, at a glance,
The 'cute Sir Stodge had seen his chance.
   "Quid nuncl" he cried.  "O noble Glugs,
   This fellow takes you all for mugs.
I ask him, where's his quid pro quo?
I ask again, quo warranto?

"Shall this man filch our wits from us
With his furor poeticus?
   Nay!" cried Sir Stodge.  "You must agree,
   If you will hark a while to me
And at the Glugs' collective head
He flung strange language, ages dead.

With mystic phrases from the Law,
With many an old and rusty saw,
   With well-worn mottoes, which he took
   Haphazard from the copy-book,
For half an hour the learned Knight
Belaboured them with all his might.

And, as they wakened from their daze,
Their murmurs grew to shouts of praise.
   Glugs who'd reviled him overnight
   All in a moment saw the light.
"O learned man! 0 seer!" cried they. . . .
And education won the day.

Then, quickly to Sir Stodge's side
There bounded, in a single stride,
   His Nibs of Quog; and flinging wide
   His arms, "O victory!" he cried.
"I'm with Sir Stodge, 0 Glugs of Gosh!
And we have won!  Long live King Splosh!"

Then pointing angrily at Sym,
Cried Quog, "This is the end of him!
   For months I've marked his crafty dodge,
   To bring dishonour to Sir Stodge.
I've lured him here, the traitrous dog,
And shamed him!" quoth his Nibs of Quog.

Hoots for the Tinker tore the air,
As Sym went, wisely, otherwhere.
   Cheers for Sir Stodge were long and loud;
   And, as amid his Swanks he bowed,
To mark his thanks and honest pride,
His Nibs of Quog bowed by his side.

The Thursday after that, at three,
The King invited Quog to tea.
   Quoth Quog, "It was a task to bilk . . .
   (I thank you; sugar, please, and milk) . . .
To bilk this Tinker and his pranks.
A scurvy rogue! . . . (Ah, two lumps, thanks.)

"A scurvy rogue!" continued Quog.
'Twas easy to outwit the dog.
   Altho', perhaps, I risked my life--
   I've heard he's handy with a knife.
Ah, well, 'twas for my country's sake . . .
(Thanks; just one slice of currant cake.)"

It chanced one day, in the middle of May,
   There came to the great King Splosh
A policeman, who said, while scratching his head,
   "There isn't a stone in Gosh
To throw at a dog; for the crafty Og,
   Last Saturday week, at one,
Took our last blue-metal, in order to settle
   A bill for a toy pop-gun."
        Said the King, jokingly,
        "Why, how provokingly
   Weird; but we have the gun."

And the King said, "Well, we are stony-broke."
But the Queen could not see it was much of a joke.
   And she said, "If the metal is all used up,
   Pray what of the costume I want for the Cup?
It all seems so dreadfully simple to me.
The stones?  Why, import them from over the sea."
   But a Glug stood up with a mole on his chin,
   And said, with a most diabolical grin,
"Your Majesties, down in the country of Podge,
A spy has discovered a very 'cute dodge.
   And the Ogs are determined to wage a war
   On Gosh, next Friday, at half-past four."
Then the Glugs all cried, in a terrible fright,
"How did our grandfathers manage a fight?"

Then the Knight, Sir Stodge, he opened his Book,
And he read, "Some very large stones they took,
   And flung at the foe, with exceeding force;
   Which was very effective, tho' rude, of course."
And lo, with sorrowful wails and moans,
The Glugs cried, "Where, Oh, where are the stones?"
   And some rushed North, and a few ran West;
   Seeking the substitutes seeming best.
And they gathered the pillows and cushions and rugs
From the homes of the rich and middle-class Glugs.
   And a hasty message they managed to send
   Craving the loan of some bricks from a friend.

On the Friday, exactly at half-past four,
   Came the Ogs with triumphant glee.
And the first of their stones hit poor Mister Ghones,
   The captain of industry.
Then a pebble of Podge took the Knight, Sir Stodge,
   In the curve of his convex vest.
He gurgled "Un-Gluggish!" His heart growing sluggish,
   He solemnly sank to rest.
        'Tis inconceivable,
        Scarcely believable,
   Yet, he was sent to rest.

And the King said, "Ouch!" And the Queen said, "0o!
My bee-ootiful drawing-room!  What shall I do?"
   But the warlike Ogs, they hurled great rocks
   Thro' the works of the wonderful eight-day clocks
They had sold to the Glugs but a month before--
Which was very absurd; but, of course, 'twas war.
   And the Glugs cried, "What would our grandfathers do
   If they hadn't the stones that they one time threw?"
But the Knight, Sir Stodge, and his mystic Book
Oblivious slept in a grave-yard nook.

Then a Glug stood out with a pot in his hand,
As the King was bewailing the fate of his land,
   And he said, "If these Ogs you desire to retard,
   Then hit them quite frequent with anything hard."
So the Glugs seized anvils, and editors' chairs,
And smote the Ogs with them unawares;
   And bottles of pickles, and clocks they threw,
   And books of poems, and gherkins, and glue,
Which they'd bought with the stones--as, of course, you know--
From the Ogs but a couple of months ago.
   Which was simply inane, when you reason it o'er;
   And uneconomic, but then, it was war.

When they'd fought for a night and the most of a day,
The Ogs threw the last of their metal away.
   Then they went back to Podge, well content with their fun,
   And, with much satisfaction, declared they had won.
And the King of the Glugs gazed around on his land,
And saw nothing but stones strewn on every hand:
   Great stones in the palace, and stones in the street,
   And stones on the house-tops and under the feet.
And he said, with a desperate look on his face,
"There is nothing so ghastly as stones out of place.
   And, no doubt, this Og scheme was a very smart dodge.
   But whom does it profit--my people, or Podge?"

Government muddles, departments dazed,
Fear and confusion wherever he gazed;
   Order insulted, authority spurned,
   Dread and distraction wherever he turned--
Oh, the great King Splosh was a sad, sore king,
With never a statesman to straighten the thing.

Glus all importunate urging their claims,
With selfish intent and ulterior aims,
   Glugs with petitions for this and for that,
   Standing ten-deep on the royal door-mat,
Raging when nobody answered their ring--
Oh, the great King Splosh was a careworn king.

And he looked to the right, and he glanced to the left,
And he glared at the roof like a monarch bereft
   Of his wisdom and wits and his wealth all in one;
   And, at least once a minute, asked, "What's to be done?"
But the Swanks stood around him and answered, with groans,
"Your majesty, Gosh is half buried in stones!"

"How now?" cried the King.  "Is there not in my land
One Glug who can cope with this dreadful demand:
   A rich man, a poor man, a beggar man, thief--
   I reck not his rank so he lessen my grief--
A soldier, a sailor, a--" Raising his head,
With relief in his eye, "Now, I mind me!" he said.

"I mind me a Tinker, and what once befel,
When I think, on the whole, he was treated not well.
   But he shall be honoured, and he shall be famed
   If he read me this riddle.  But how is he named?
Some commonplace title, like-Simon?-No-Sym!
Go, send out my riders, and scour Gosh for him."

They rode for a day to the sea in the South,
Calling the name of him, hand to the mouth.
   They rode for a day to the hills in the East,
   But signs of a tinker saw never the least.
Then they rode to the North thro' a whole day long,
And paused in the even to hark to a song.


"Kettles and pans!  Kettles and pans!
Oh, who can show tresses like Emily Ann's?
   Brown in the shadow and gold at the tips,
   Bright as the smile on her beckoning lips.
Bring out your kettle! 0 kettle or pan!
So I buy me a ribband for Emily Ann."


With his feet in the grass, and his back to a tree,
Merry as only a tinker can be,
   Busily tinkering, mending a pan,
   Singing as only a merry man can . . .
"Sym!" cried the riders.  " 'Tis thus you are styled?"
And he paused in his singing, and nodded and smiled.

Said he: "Last eve, when the sun was low,
Down thro' the bracken I watched her go--
   Down thro' the bracken, with simple grace--
   And the glory of eve shone full on her face;
And there on the sky-line it lingered a span,
So loth to be leaving my Emily Arm."

With hands to their faces the riders smiled.
"Sym," they said--"be it so you're styled--
   Behold, great Splosh, our sorrowing King,
   Has sent us hither, that we may bring
To the palace in Gosh a Glug so named,
That he may be honoured and justly famed."

"Yet," said Sym, as he tinkered his can,
"What should you know of her, Emily Ann?
   Early as cock-crow yester morn
   I watched young sunbeams, newly born,
As out of the East they frolicked and ran,
Eager to greet her, my Emily Arm."

"King Splosh," said the riders, "is bowed with grief;
And the glory of Gosh is a yellowing leaf.
   Up with you, Tinker!  There's work ahead.
   With a King forsaken, and Swanks in dread,
To whom may we turn for the salving of man?"
And Sym, he answered them, "Emily Ann."

Said he: "Whenever I watch her pass,
With her skirts so high o'er the dew-wet grass,
   I envy every blade the bruise
   It earns in the cause of her twinkling shoes.
Oh, the dew-wet grass, where this morn she ran,
Was doubly jewelled for Emily Ann."

"But haste!" they cried.  "By the palace gates
A sorrowing king for a tinker waits.
   And what shall we answer our Lord the King
   If never a tinker hence we bring,
To tinker a kingdom so sore amiss?"
But Sym, he said to them, "Answer him this:

'Every eve, when the clock chimes eight,
I kiss her fair, by her mother's gate:
   Twice, all reverent, on the brow-
   Once for a pray'r, and once for a vow;
Twice on her eyes that they may shine,
Then, full on the mouth because she's mine."'

"Calf!" sneered the riders.  "O Tinker, heed!
Mount and away with us, we must speed.
   All Gosh is agog for the coming of Sym.
   Garlands and greatness are waiting for him:
Garlands of roses, and garments of red
And a chaplet for crowning a conqueror's head."

"Listen," quoth Sym, as he stirred his fire.
"Once in my life have I known desire.
   Then, Oh, but the touch of her kindled a flame
   That burns as a sun by the candle of fame.
And a blessing and boon for a poor tinker man
Looks out from the eyes of my Emily Ann."

Then they said to him, "Fool!  Do you cast aside
Promise of honour, and place, and pride,
   Gold for the asking, and power o'er men-
   Working your will with the stroke of a pen?
Vexed were the King if you ride not with us."
But Sym, he said to them, "Answer him thus:

'Ease and honour and leave to live--
These are the gifts that a king may give
   'Twas over the meadow I saw her first;
   And my lips grew parched like a man athirst
Oh, my treasure was ne'er in the gift of man;
For the gods have given me Emily Ann."

"Listen," said they, "O you crazy Sym.
Roses perish, and eyes grow dim.
   Lustre fades from the fairest hair.
   Who weds a woman links arms with care.
But women there are in the city of Gosh--
Ay, even the daughters of good King Splosh. . ."

"Care," said Sym, "is a weed that springs
Even to-day in the gardens of kings.
   And I, who have lived 'neath the tent of the skies,
   Know of the flowers, and which to prize . . .
Give you good even!  For now I must jog."
And he whistled him once to his little red dog.

Into the meadow and over the stile,
Off went the tinker man, singing the while;
   Down by the bracken patch, over the hill,
   With the little red dog at the heel of him still.
And back, as he soberly sauntered along,
There came to the riders the tail of his song.


"Kettles and pots!  Kettles and pans!
Strong is my arm if the cause it be man's.
   But a fig for the cause of a cunning old king;
   For Emily Ann will be mine in the Spring.
Then nought shall I labour for Splosh or his plans;
Tho' I'll mend him a kettle.  Ho, kettles and pans!"

The Glugs still live in the land of Gosh,
Under the rule of the great King Splosh.
   And they climb the trees in the Summer and Spring,
   Because it is reckoned the regular thing.
Down in the valley they live their lives,
Taking the air with their aunts and wives.
   And they climb the trees in the Winter and Fall,
   And count it improper to climb not at all.

And they name their trees with a thousand names,
Calling them after their Arts and Aims;
   And some, they climb for the fun of the thing,
   But most go up at the call of the King.
Some scale a tree that they fear to name,
For it bears great blossoms of scarlet shame.
   But they eat of the fruit of the nameless tree,
   Because they are Glugs, and their choice is free.

But every eve, when the sun goes West,
Over the mountain they call The Blest,
   Whose summit looks down on the city of Gosh,
   Far from the reach of the great King Splosh,
The Glugs gaze up at the heights above,
And feel vague promptings to wondrous love.
   And they whisper a tale of a tinker man,
   Who lives in the mount with his Emily Ann.

A great mother mountain, and kindly is she,
Who nurses young rivers and sends them to sea.
   And, nestled high up on her sheltering lap,
   Is a little red house with a little straw cap
That bears a blue feather of smoke, curling high,
And a bunch of red roses cocked over one eye.
   And the eyes of it glisten and shine in the sun,
   As they look down on Gosh with a twinkle of fun.

There's a gay little garden, a tidy white gate,
And a narrow brown pathway that will not run straight;
   For it turns and it twists and it wanders about
   To the left and the right, as in humorous doubt.
'Tis a humorous path, and a joke from its birth
Till it ends at the door with a wriggle of mirth.
   And here in the mount lives the queer tinker man
   With his little red dog and his Emily Arm.

And, once in a while, when the weather is clear,
When the work is all over, and even is near,
   They walk in the garden and gaze down below
   On the Valley of Gosh, where the young rivers go;
Where the houses of Gosh seem so paltry and vain,
Like a handful of pebbles strewn over the plain;
   Where tiny black forms crawl about in the vale,
   And stare at the mountain they fear them to scale.

And Sym sits him down by his little wife's knee,
With his feet in the grass and his back to a tree;
   And he looks on the Valley and dreams of old years,
   As he strokes his red dog with the funny prick ears.
And he says, "Still they climb in their whimsical way,
While we stand on earth, yet are higher than they.
   Oh, who trusts to a tree is a fool of a man!
   For the wise seek the mountains, my Emily Ann."

So lives the queer tinker, nor deems it a wrong,
When the spirit so moves him, to burst into song.
   'Tis a comical song about kettles and pans,
   And the graces and charms that are Emily Ann's.
'Tis a mad, freakish song, but he sings it with zest,
And his little wife vows it of all songs the best.
   And he sings quite a lot, as the Summer days pass,
   With his back to a tree and his feet in the grass.

And the little red dog, who is wise as dogs go,
He will hark to that song for a minute or so,
   'With his head on one side, and a serious air.
   Then he makes no remark; but he wanders elsewhere.
And he trots down the garden to gaze now and then
At the curious pranks of a certain blue wren:
   Not a commonplace wren, but a bird marked for fame
   Thro' a grievance in life and a definite aim.

Now, they never fly far and they never fly high,
And they probably couldn't, suppose they should try.
   So the common blue wren is content with his lot:
   He will eat when there's food, and he fasts when there's not.
He flirts and he flutters, his wife by his side,
With his share of content and forgiveable pride.
   And he keeps to the earth, 'mid the bushes and shrubs,
   And he dines very well upon corpulent grubs.

But the little blue wren with a grievance in life,
He was rude to his neighbours and short with his wife.
   For, up in the apple-tree over his nest,
   There dwelt a fat spider who gave him no rest:
A spider so fat, so abnormally stout
That he seemed hardly fitted to waddle about.
   But his eyes were so sharp, and his legs were so spry,
   That he could not be caught; and 'twas folly to try.

Said the wren, as his loud lamentations he hurled
At the little red dog, "It's a rotten old world!
   But my heart would be glad, and my life would be blest
   If I had that fat spider well under my vest.
Then I'd call back my youth, and be seeking to live,
And to taste of the pleasures the world has to give.
   But the world is all wrong, and my mind's in a fog!"
   "Aw, don't be a Glug!" said the little red dog.

Then, up from the grass, where he sat by his tree,
The voice of the Tinker rose fearless and free.

The little dog listened, his head on one side;
Then sought him a spot where a bored dog could hide.


"Kettles and pans!  Ho, kettles and pans!
The stars are the gods' but the earth, it is man's!
   Yet down in the shadow dull mortals there are
   Who climb in the tree-tops to snatch at a star:
Seeking content and a surcease of care,
Finding but emptiness everywhere.
   Then make for the mountain, importunate man!
   With a kettle to mend . . . and your Emily Ann.

As he cocked a sad eye o'er a sheltering log,
"Oh, a Glug is a Glug!" sighed the little red dog.