THE MOTLEY MUSE
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
RUTHLESS RHYMES FOR HEARTLESS HOMES
BALLADS OF THE BOER WAR
MISREPRESENTATIVE MEN
FISCAL BALLADS
VERSE AND WORSE
MISREPRESENTATIVE WOMEN
DEPORTMENTAL DITTIES
CANNED CLASSICS
THE BOLSTER BOOK
LORD BELLINGER
THE PERFECT GENTLEMAN
A GROUP OF SCOTTISH WOMEN
THE MOTHER OF PARLIAMENTS
SPLENDID FAILURES |
THE MOTLEY MUSE
(RHYMES FOR THE TIMES)
BY
HARRY GRAHAM
AUTHOR OF 'RUTHLESS RHYMES FOR HEARTLESS HOMES'
ETC. ETC.
With Illustrations by
LEWIS BAUMER
Second Impression
NEW YORK
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD
1913
[All rights reserved]
TO
N. B.
WHO DESIGNED
THE COVER OF THIS BOOK
ITS CONTENTS
ARE
GRATEFULLY DEDICATED
NOTE
Many of the verses published in this volume
have appeared in the pages of 'The Observer,'
'The Pall Mall Gazette,' and 'The
Graphic,' and are here reprinted
by kind permission.
CONTENTS
| | PAGE |
| FOREWORD—THE WORLD WE LAUGH IN! | xi |
| |
| RHYMES FOR THE TIMES |
| 'WHAT'S IN A NAME?' | 1 |
| NOBODY'S DARLING! | 3 |
| ROSES ALL THE WAY | 6 |
| THE TRIUMPH OF JAM | 8 |
| EGREGIOUS EASTBOURNE | 10 |
| SARAH OWEN | 12 |
| THE LAST HORSED 'BUS | 15 |
| STAGE SUPPORT | 17 |
| SCRIBBLERS ALL! | 20 |
| THE LYONS CUBS | 22 |
| 'THE CRIES OF LONDON' | 25 |
| THE MODEL FARM | 27 |
| THE ADVENTURER | 29 |
| A PLEA FOR PONTO | 31 |
| THE 'WASTER' | 33 |
| THE CHOICE | 36 |
| ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF BOSTON SCHOOL | 38 |
| THE SPORTING SPIRIT | 40 |
| PERSPECTIVE | 43 |
| 'RAG-TIME' | 45 |
| 'THE PIPES' | 47 |
| MODERN DANCING | 49 |
| THE PUBLIC INTEREST | 52 |
| THE MILITANTS | 54 |
| PLAGUES AT THE PLAY | 57 |
| A SUGGESTION | 59 |
| THE MODEL MOTORIST | 61 |
| THE PARISH PUMP | 64 |
| POLICE COURT SENSE | 66 |
| |
| CLUB CANTOS |
| CANTO I. THE ATHENÆUM | 69 |
| CANTO II. WHITE'S | 72 |
| CANTO III. THE BACHELORS' | 74 |
| CANTO IV. THE GARRICK | 76 |
| CANTO V. THE AUTOMOBILE | 79 |
| CANTO VI. BROOKS'S | 81 |
| CANTO VII. 'THE BEEFSTEAK' | 84 |
| CANTO VIII. THE TRAVELLERS' | 87 |
| CANTO IX. 'THE BATH' | 90 |
| |
| SONGS IN SEASON |
| NEW YEAR'S EVE | 93 |
| FEBRUARY | 95 |
| SPRING | 97 |
| SPRING-CLEANING | 100 |
| 'ROYAL ASCOT' | 102 |
| 'ROSES' | 105 |
| THE END OF THE SEASON | 107 |
| THE COCKNEY OF THE NORTH | 109 |
| 'THE TWELFTH' | 111 |
| NOVEMBER | 113 |
| THE CYNIC'S CHRISTMAS | 115 |
| ENVOI | 119 |
FOREWORD
THE WORLD WE LAUGH IN!
['Sadness, once a favourite pose of poets, is no longer fashionable.
Nowadays melancholy people are looked upon as depressing.'—The
Gentlewoman.]
Bygone bards in baleful ballads would betoken
Worlds of wretchedness and globes compact of gloom;
Pensive poets of the past have sung or spoken
Of the misery of mortals' daily doom,
Of the hearts that are as hard as something oaken,
Of the blossoms that are blighted ere they bloom,
Of the ease with which a lover's vows are broken,
And the terrors of the tomb!
Now no longer 'tis the minstrel's mawkish fashion
To narrate a tale of melancholy woe,
Of some wight whose face was haggard, wan, and ashen,
And who languished in the days of long ago,
Who adored, with pure but unrequited passion,
And a heart that was as soft as any dough,
A divine but unsusceptible Circassian
Who continued to say 'No'!
For to-day our lays are light, our sonnets sprightly,
We adopt a tone inspiriting and blithe;
We can treat the saddest subjects fairly brightly,
And we never make our fellow-creatures writhe.
We regard all signs of sorrow as unsightly
And as dreary as the Esplanade at Hythe,
And in seas of lyric joy we swim as lightly
As a saith[1] else a lythe[2])!
And a poet who the populace enrages
By an out-of-date endeavour to combine
The dispiriting solemnity of sages
With the quill-work of the fretful porcupine,
Is considered so unworthy of his wages
That the public will not read a single line,
And his gems will never sparkle in the pages
Of a volume such as mine! |
RHYMES FOR THE TIMES
'WHAT'S IN A NAME?'
[Lord Lincolnshire pointed out that Britain's glory has always
depended very largely upon men whose names suggest no historical
associations; upon the Browns and the McGhees, as well as upon the
Willoughbys, the Talbots, and the Cecils.]
In praise of many a noble name,
Let lesser poets chaunt a pæan;
The deathless fame will I proclaim
Of others, more plebeian.
Let minstrels sing of Montagues,
Of Scots and Brabazons and Percys,
While lovers of the Muse (or Meux)
On Lambtons base their verses.
My lyre, which neither mocks nor mimics,
Shall laud the humbler patronymics.
Though Talbots may have led the van,
And fought the battles of the nation,
'Twas but a simple Elliman
Invented embrocation!
Though Churchills many a triumph won,
And Stanleys made their world adore them,
'Twas Pickford—ay, and Paterson—
Who 'carried' all before them!
Not twice, in our rough island story,
Was Smith synonymous with glory!
The snob may snigger, if he likes;
But on the rolls of Greater Britain
The famous name of William Sikes
Immortally is written;
And when men speak, in sneering tones,
Of Brown, Jones, Robinson (They do so!),
I always cite John Brown, Burne-Jones
And Robinson Caruso,
And thus, with bright examples, teach 'em
That Beecham's quite as good as Beauchamp! |
NOBODY'S DARLING!
['Nobody loves millionaires any more.'—Mr. Zimmerman.]
Time was when Society wooed me,
The populace fawned at my feet;
Men petted and praised and pursued me,
My social success was complete.
The pick of the Peerage, with smiles on their faces,
Would sell me their family portraits and places.
With stairs of pure marble below me,
My stand as a host I would take,
While guests (who, of course, didn't know me)
The hand of my butler would shake,
Averring, in phrases delightfully hearty,
How much they enjoyed his agreeable party.
I gave away libraries gratis,
Each village and town to adorn,
Till with the expression 'Jam satis!'
Lord Rosebery laughed them to scorn;
And soon Mr. Gosse and the groundlings were snarling
At one who must style himself Nobody's Darling!
And now when I purchase their pictures,
Or bid for some family seat,
Men pass most disparaging strictures,
Discussing my action with heat;
While newspapers term it a 'public disaster'
Each time I endeavour to buy an Old Master!
The country I rob of its treasures
(By carting its ruins away!);
I lessen all popular pleasures
By spoiling the market, they say;
And so they invoke Mr. George's assistance
To tax the poor plutocrat out of existence! |
ROSES ALL THE WAY
['Mr. Frank Lascelles left London yesterday for Calcutta. As he
entered the railway carriage at Victoria, Lady Jane Kenney-Herbert
handed him a basket of roses.'—The Times.]
Each year in vain I take the train
To Dinard, Trouville or Le Touquet;
No lady fair is ever there
To speed me with a bouquet;
No maiden on my brow imposes
A snood of Gloire de Dijon roses!
No purple phlox adorns the locks
Of scanty hair that fringe my cranium;
No garlands deck my shapely neck
With jasmine or geranium.
I travel, like a social pariah,
Without a single calceolaria!
Though up and down I 'train' to town,
Each day, with fellow-clerk or broker,
No female hand has ever planned
To trim my third-class 'smoker,'
To wreathe the rack with scarlet dahlias,
Or drape the seats with pink azaleas!
Let others envy wealthy men
—The Rothschilds, Vanderbilts or Cassels—
I'd much prefer, I must aver,
Like lucky Mr. Lascelles,
To travel well supplied with posies
Of (on the 'Underground') Tube-roses! |
THE TRIUMPH OF JAM
(With shamefaced apologies to the author of a
beautiful poem)
[The Daily Mirror, in a leading article, deplored the fact that
'roly-poly' pudding, otherwise known as 'jam-roll,' was not to be
obtained at fashionable West End restaurants.]
Although our wives deride for ever,
Though cooks grow captious or gaze aghast
(Cooks, swift to sunder, to slash and sever
The ties that bind us to things long past),
We will say as much as a man might wish
Whose whole life's love comes up on a dish,
Which he never again may feast on, and never
Shall taste of more while the ages last.
I shall never again be friends with 'rolies,'
I shall lack sweet 'polies' where, thick like glue,
The jam in some secret Holy of Holies
Crouches and cowers from mortal view.
There are tastes that a tongue would fain forget,
There are savours the soul must e'er regret;
My tongue how hungry, how starved my soul is!
I shall miss 'jam-pudding' my whole life through!
The gleam and the glamour, glimmering through it,
The steam that rises, to greet the sun,
The fragrant fumes of the jam and suet
That mix and mingle, to blend as one;
The white-capped cook who stirs so hard,
To twine the treacle and knead the lard,
To soak and season, to blend and brew it—
These things are over, and no more done!
I must go my ways (others shall follow),
Filling myself, till I rise replete,
With fugitive things not good to swallow,
Drink as my friends drink, eat what they eat;
But if I could hear that sound (O squish!)
Of the 'roly-poly' leaving its dish,
My heart would be lighter, my life less hollow,
At sight of my childhood's favourite sweet!
Ah, why do I live in an age that winces
At 'shape' (blanc-mange) of a bygone brand,
At tripe and trotters, at stews and minces,
At hash or at haggis, heavy in hand?
Come lunch, come dinner, no word is said
Of the jam that in suet so veils its head.
I shall never eat it again, for at Princes'
If I cry for it there, will they understand? |
EGREGIOUS EASTBOURNE
[A recent by-law of the Eastbourne Town Council renders the
owner of any dog who barks upon the beach liable to a fine of forty
shillings.]
Never more shall I and Ponto
Traverse the Marine Parade,
Pass the Pier and wander onto
Eastbourne's Esplanade;
Never more, with lungs like leather,
And a heart as light as feather,
Shall we stray and play together
Where we strayed and played!
On the cruel Council's shingle
Man and beast no more may mingle!
With what never-ending rapture
Ponto would retrieve a stone,
Leap into the sea and capture
Sticks, wherever thrown;
Issue dripping from the ocean,
With his tail in constant motion,
And express his true devotion
In a strident tone,
Till the Judge, his license marking,
Fined him forty bob for barking!
Still, upon the sands, sopranos
Topmost notes in anguish reach,
Masked musicians thump pianos,
Negro minstrels screech;
German bandsmen blare and bellow,
But my Ponto, poor old fellow,
May not raise his loud but mellow
Bark upon the beach!
'Dumb,' indeed, is every beast born
In the neighbourhood of Eastbourne! |
SARAH OWEN
[A provincial schoolmaster wrote to the Daily Mail to say that
he had canvassed his employees on the subject of the Insurance Bill
and found that out of forty-two domestics only one—'Sarah Owen,
sewing-maid'—was in favour of the Servant Tax.]
Come, children, gather round and hark
To my entrancing tale!
For though you've heard of Joan of Arc,
Of brave Grace Darling in her barque,
Of Florence Nightingale,
Not one of these such nerve displayed
As Sarah Owen, sewing-maid!
Her master ranged his forty-two
Domestics in a row.
As from his breast the Bill he drew,
'Shall this be borne,' he asked, 'by you?'
Though forty-one said 'No!'
'My threepence will be gladly paid!'
Said Sarah Owen, sewing-maid.
In vain his head the butler shook,
The gard'ner's grins grew broad,
The housemaids wore a scornful look,
'What imperence!' exclaimed the cook,
The 'handy man' guffawed.
Serene, intrepid, unafraid,
Stood Sarah Owen, sewing-maid!
And whether she was right or wrong,
She showed a dauntless will,
A firm resolve, a purpose strong,
Which move me like a battle-song
And make my bosom thrill!
The fame and name shall never fade
Of Sarah Owen, sewing-maid! |
THE LAST HORSED 'BUS
Fare thee well, thou plum-faced driver,
Poised upon thine airy seat!
Final, ultimate survivor
Of an order obsolete!
Fare thee well! Thy days are numbered.
Long, full long, by weight encumbered,
Tardily thy team hath lumbered
Down each London Street,
Passed by carts, bath-chairs, and hearses,
And the cause of constant curses!
Fare thee well, conductor sprightly,
Gay and buoyant pachyderm,
Holding up thy 'bus politely
For each passenger infirm;
Yet, when roused to indignation
By a rival's reprobation,
How adroit in the creation
Of some caustic term!
Deft to ridicule or rally,
Swift with satire as with sally!
Ancient Omnibus ungainly,
We shall miss thee, day by day,
When thy swift successors vainly
We with signals would delay;
When upon their platforms perching,
With each oscillation lurching,
We are perilously searching
For the safest way
To alight without disaster,
While we speed each moment faster!
As our means of locomotion,
Year by year, more deadly grow,
We shall think with fond devotion
Of thy stately gait and slow.
Harassed, vexed, fatigued, and flurried,
Shaken, discomposed, and worried,
As in motors we are hurried
Wildly to and fro,
We perchance shall not disparage
Horse-drawn omnibus or carriage! |
STAGE SUPPORT
[The prospective Unionist candidate for Hoxton, at his first meeting,
was supported by Lord Shrewsbury, the Hon. Claude Hay, and
Mr. George Robey.]
When I stand as 'Independent' next election,
I shall vanquish my opponents, Smith and Brown.
(Smith's a Unionist, in favour of Protection,
Brown's a Radical Free Trader of renown.)
But my triumph at the polls I shall attribute, I confess,
To the men of light and leading whose assistance spelt success.
Smith may marshal Austen Chamberlains and Carsons
On his platform, for the populace to view;
Brown may muster all his Nonconformist parsons,
And a member of the Cabinet or two;
I shall need no brilliant orators, no Ministers of State,
If I only can rely on the support of Harry Tate!
Brown has posters: 'Vote for Brown and Old Age Pensions!'
Smith has placards: 'Vote for Smith and Work for All!'
I shall calmly call constituents' attentions
To the pet of ev'ry London music hall,
When I publish, as his message, on each flaming window-card:
'Every Vote you give to Johnson is a vote for Wilkie Bard!'
Can you wonder, then, that Independents rally
Round a candidate to whom the Fates allot
That his meetings shall be graced by Cinquevalli,
And his policy endorsed by Malcolm Scott?
Or that ev'ry one should mention—proud and humble, poor and rich—
That a vote for Mr. Johnson is a vote for Little Tich? |
SCRIBBLERS ALL!
[In the House of Commons, Lord Claud Hamilton referred to Mr.
Birrell as a 'distinguished scribbler.']
Who would be a Man of Letters,
Ink on paper daily dribbling,
In a fashion which his betters
Scornfully describe as 'scribbling'?
Who would practise a vocation
So unlucrative and painful,
To deserve a designation
Cruelly disdainful?
Pity pen- or pencil-nibblers
Labelled as 'distinguished scribblers'!
Sculptors are but seldom branded—
'Those illustrious plaster-shapers';
Violinists' friends, though candid,
Never call them 'catgut-scrapers.'
Styling painters 'canvas-scratchers'
Would offend against convention;
Surgeons as 'appendix-snatchers'
Nobody would mention.
Who would term Lord Claud's directors
'Guinea-pigs' or 'fee collectors'?
Yet, although no politicians
We entitle 'platform-stumpers,'
Nor refer to great musicians
As 'immortal pedal-thumpers,'
Though we name no leading jurist:
'This notorious legal-quibbler,'
Ev'ry writer of the purest
Prose shall be a 'scribbler,'
Till the Gribbles cease to gribble
And no more the Whibleys whibble! |
THE LYONS CUBS
['Waiting is a good, and often a lucrative profession, which must
be freed from the hostile prejudice entertained by the ordinary
British family. On the Continent and in America there is no such
prejudice, and University men often find the profession worth
entering.'—Evening Paper.]
I said to George, my eldest son,
'Now that your college days are done,
'And high opinions you have won
'For wisdom and discretion,
'The time has come, as I suspect,
'When you should ponder and reflect
'Upon your future, and select
'A calling or profession.'
He answered brightly, 'Righto, pater!
'I'd like to be a British waiter!'
'Come, George,' I said, 'don't be absurd!
'I asked what calling you preferred.
'The Bar (although, I've always heard,
'The work is something frightful),
'The Church, the Services, the Bench,
'Diplomacy—nay, do not blench,
'You know how good you are at French—
'Is each of them delightful;
'I'll come for your decision later.'
Said George, 'I wish to be a waiter!
'Yes, at some café let me wait;
'For though I stroked my College eight,
'The year they won the Ladies' Plate,
'How mean a triumph that is,
'Compared with his who daily bears
'Whole stacks of Ladies' Plates downstairs,
'Or "bumps" the backs of diners' chairs,
'At Evans's or Gatti's!
'A "first" in "Greats" I deem no greater
'Than every exploit of the waiter.
'When single-handed he controls
'Some half-a-dozen finger-bowls,
'Than any Fellow of All Souls
'More talent he evinces,
'And shows why those who feel the charm
'Of balancing without alarm
'Six soup-plates upon either arm,
'At Kettner's, Scott's, or Prince's,
'To Judge's wig or Bishop's gaiter
'Prefer the napkin of the waiter!' |
'THE CRIES OF LONDON'
No 'Milk below maid' now awakes
The city with her plaintive pipe;
No tuneful pedlar hawks 'Hot Cakes!'
No wench at dawn the silence breaks
With strains of 'Cherry Ripe!'
No cries of 'Mack'rel!' subtly blend
With 'Knives to grind!' or 'Chairs to mend!'
The fireman's shout no more we hear;
'Punch' and his satellites are dumb;
No more, when autumn days draw near,
Do songs of 'Lavender!' rise clear
Above the traffic's hum.
No 'China orange' now is sold;
The muffin's knell is mutely toll'd!
And yet our nerves are sorely tried—
Since Nature's lute has many a rift—
By 'cries' which Tube and 'bus provide:
'Fares please!' ''Old tight, miss!' 'Full inside!'
'No smoking in the lift!'
· · · ·
And oh! the gulf that separates
'Sweet lavender!' from 'Mind the gates!' |
THE MODEL FARM
['If you want good milk, butter, cheese, beef, mutton, and bacon,
keep the animals which supply these things amused—give them toys,
in fact.'—The Daily Mirror.]
When a friend after breakfast some compliment pays
To the nourishment recently taken,
When he mentions the eggs with expressions of praise,
And says flattering things of the bacon,
I conduct him at once to my farm on the Downs
Which is managed so blithely and brightly
That the brows of my cows are unwrinkled by frowns
And my chickens are jocund and sprightly,
Where dogs in their kennels avoid being snappy,
And ev'ry dumb creature is healthy and happy.
Each sheep is diverted with suitable toys
That shall keep it obese and contented;
Ev'ry pig, whose delectable flesh one enjoys,
With a doll or a drum is presented;
For 'tis thus that I nurture those succulent lambs
That are always so sweet and so tender,
And secure those remarkably delicate hams
Which the sow is so loth to surrender;
Ev'ry egg (as supplied to our own Royal Fam'ly)
Is hatched by a hen who has patronised Hamley!
Each ox is devoted to 'Animal Grab,'
Ev'ry heifer plays 'tag' with a wether;
There's a swan who at 'Pool' is no end of a dab,
And the pigs play 'Backgammon' together.
'Pitch-and-toss' is the favourite game of the bull,
'Ducks-and-drakes' makes the goslings feel perky,
While the crossest old ram never 'loses his wool'
When he plays 'Rouge-et-noir' with the turkey;
Which is why all my produce—cheese, poultry or mutton—
Appeals to the taste of both gourmet and glutton! |
THE ADVENTURER
['Gentleman, aged 26, seeks adventure; well up in finance,
badminton, tennis, swimming, canoeing, bridge, and mechanics;
banker's reference, if required.'—The Times.]
My word! I'm the chap for adventures!
There's nothing on earth I can't do,
From dabbling in doubtful debentures
To paddling a birch-bark canoe!
At golf, when I get into trouble,
How 'dead' my approaches are laid!
At bridge, how I dauntlessly double
Each spade!
While as for lawn-tennis, there never was yet
A player who volleyed so hard at the net!
At chess I've invented a gambit
That fills my opponents with dread;
At billiards I don't care a d—— bit
How often I pocket the red!
In water I swim like a salmon,
At football I kick all the goals;
I'm simply first-class at backgammon
Or bowls,
And, really, I'm equally deft and adroit
When I'm handling a mallet or pitching a quoit!
And now for employment I hanker
Where gifts such as mine are of use;
(A character, backed by my banker,
I'm only too glad to produce).
A life of adventure that's brimming
With badminton, bridge, and canoes,
With simple mechanics and swimming,
I'd choose——
A life for a man who's 'well up in finance,'
With a sprinkling of sport and a dash of romance! |
A PLEA FOR PONTO
[Sir Frederick Banbury moved in the House of Commons:—'That
in the opinion of this House no operation for the purpose of vivisection
should be performed upon dogs.']
When you're studying the habits
Of the germ of German measles,
When you're searching out a cure for indigestion,
You may practise upon rabbits,
Upon guinea-pigs, or weasels,
If you think that they throw light upon the question;
You may note how bad the bite is
Of the microbe of bronchitis,
By performing operations upon frogs,
But I've yet to hear the mention
Of a surgical invention
That can justify experiments on DOGS.
I would sooner people perished
Of lumbago or swine-fever
(Or, at any rate, I'd rather they should chance it!)
Than that any hound I cherished
From a 'pom' to a retriever,
Should be subject to the vivisector's lancet.
I know nought of theoretics,
But in spite of anæsthetics
—Ether, chloroform or other soothing drug—
(Though perhaps I argue wrongly)
I should disapprove most strongly,
If I found a person puncturing my pug!
If we wish to make a bee-line
For the chicken-pox bacillus,
From the hen-house there is nothing to debar us;
We may learn from creatures feline
What the causes are that kill us
When we suffer from infirmities catarrhous!
But when dogs' insides we study,
Then our hands and hearts grow bloody,
And we needn't be a crank or partisan
To display a strong objection
To the so-called vivisection
Of that animal we style the Friend of Man! |
THE 'WASTER'
['I think that in certain respects the 'Waster' is one of the great
forces of Empire; it is in him that the spirit of the Elizabethan
gentleman adventurer survives most vigorously. To me the waster is a
peculiarly English product; in many respects he appeals to me more
than any one in the community.'—Sir Herbert Tree.]
When others praise the pious,
My own response is faint;
I feel no morbid bias
In favour of the saint.
My pæans, rather, let me raise
To laud the 'Waster' and his ways!
I love to watch my hero,
As through the streets he struts,
With loud 'Pip! Pip!' or 'Cheer Oh!'
Greeting his fellow-Nuts,
And haunting ev'ry public bar
To cadge a cocktail or cigar!
Each Saturday, at Brighton,
How well he plays the rôle
Of Admirable Crichton,
At Grand or Metropole!
The British Lion's whelp, indeed,
True scion of the Bulldog Breed!
The 'unco guid' may censure,
The prudes their eyebrows raise;
His passion for adventure
Recalls those spacious days
When Britain's flag, from sea to sea,
Was borne by 'Wasters' such as he!
And soon 'twill be his mission,
When fall'n on evil times,
To bear the old tradition
To far Colonial climes;
The seeds of Empire there he'll sow.
Meanwhile, I wish to Heav'n he'd go! |
THE CHOICE
[A well-known lady dog-fancier informed a representative of the
Daily Mirror that, in case of fire, she would most certainly save her
dog rather than her husband.]
'Go! Sound the fire alarm!' she cried.
'My house is all ablaze inside!
'The flames are spreading far and wide;
'The air with smoke is laden!
'My darling's in an upper room!
'Oh, save him from a fiery tomb!'
Straight, as she spoke, through sparks and fume
Came brave Lieutenant Sladen.
Quoth he: 'The horsed-escape is here, ma'am;
'We'll save your husband, never fear, ma'am!'
'My husband?' she replied. 'Nay, nay!
'Don't waste your time on him, I pray,
'But turn your thoughts without delay
'To things that really matter.
'For though my weaker-half's asleep,
'A faithful lap-dog, too, I keep,
'And if I hold the former cheap,
'I idolise the latter.
'Gladly, to save the best of bow-wows,
'I'd sacrifice,' she sobbed, 'my spou-ouse!
'How prettily my nose he licks!
'(I'm speaking of the dog) and pricks
'His ears and barks, while as for tricks
'He never seems to tire, man!
'He'll balance sugar on his snout——'
From burning windows came a shout;
Her husband suddenly leaned out
And thus addressed the fireman:
'You've seen the sort of wife I cherish;
'Then be humane and—let me perish!' |
ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF
BOSTON SCHOOL
(With apologies to Thomas Gray)
[Lord Tankerville was reported to have removed his son from Eton
and sent him to school at Boston, U.S.A., where he would be known
as Charles Bennet and be free from 'the kowtowing of a sycophantic
crowd of pseudo-aristocrats who lick the boots of our young noblemen'
at English schools!]
Ye modern spires, ye fireproof floors,
Of Boston's boarding-school,
Each grateful scion still adores
Your Hiram's homely rule;
For here no boy would ever brag
That he employed a ducal 'fag,'
His 'brolly' for to furl,
Or sent a Baronet 'up town'
To fetch his tea from 'Little Brown,'
Or caned a belted Earl!
His scorn of lords the youthful Yank
Can openly display,
For here, regardless of their rank,
The little Viscounts play.
The Earl of Byfleet's eldest son
Is known as Percival T. Bunn,
And joins the common scrum,
As daily he delights to share
With Chas. K. Grubb (Lord Woking's heir)
His wad of chewing-gum!
Here Reginald, Lord Swaffield's boy,
Protects beneath his wing
The family of Kid McCoy,
The famous Doughnut King;
While John, the Duke of Portsmouth's child
('Jawn' by his school-companions styled),
Forgets his kith and kin,
And soon begets a taste, alack!
For 'highballs,' 'cocktails,' 'canvasback,'
For clams and terrapin!
To each his fancies! I have done.
And yet, for auld lang syne,
Though Boston suits another's son,
Eton I'll choose for mine!
And though he won't acquire a twang,
Or get the hang of Yankee slang,
Like others of his class,
My son I'll seek to Anglicise;
For, if Lord Tankerville be wise,
I'd sooner be an ass! |
THE SPORTING SPIRIT
['The emotional surprise and the unexpected suddenness in the rise
of game require great accuracy, rapidity, and nerve control, and
experience is in my favour that there are some who are improved in
these essentials of good shooting by a little alcohol at lunch.'—Dr. T.
Claye Shaw in the Times.]
It once was my habit to miss ev'ry rabbit
At which I might happen to fire;
I wasted each cartridge despatching some partridge
To die in a neighbouring shire.
By nature ungainly, I struggled, but vainly,
A duck or a woodcock to kill,
And cut a poor figure when pressing the trigger
With far greater vigour than skill,
Until, all at once, I discovered a tonic,
And now (so to speak) my adroitness is chronic!
A flask of old brandy I always keep handy,
And, after an opportune nip,
My wits are collected, my aim is corrected,
My weapon with firmness I grip.
I notice, untroubled, that all things are doubled;
Two outlines I hazily trace
Of ev'ry cock-pheasant, and shooting grows pleasant
When each single bird is a brace;
Each teal has a twin, ev'ry black-cock a brother,
And so I am bound to hit one or the other!
My methods may flurry those neighbours in Surrey
Whose eyes I persistently wipe,
And startle the Vicar whom once, when in liquor,
I shot, in mistake for a snipe;
At Bolton or Belvoir my faithful retriever
Retrieves more than any dog there;
No bag is so heavy as that which I levy
At Welbeck, so what do I care?
Sustained by old brandy, in covert or stubble,
My fame (and my game) I can daily redouble! |
PERSPECTIVE
['It is sad and humiliating, but true, that our humanity is a matter
of geography.'—The Pall Mall Gazette.]
When told that twenty thousand Japs
Are drowned in a typhoon,
We feel a trifle shocked, perhaps,
But neither faint nor swoon.
'Dear me! How tragic!' we repeat;
'Ah, well! Such things must be!'
Our ordinary lunch we eat
And make a hearty tea;
Such loss of life (with shame I write)
Creates no loss of appetite!
When on a Rocky Mountain ranch
Two hundred souls, all told,
Are buried in an avalanche,
The tidings leave us cold.
'Poor fellows!' we remark. 'Poor things!'
'All crushed to little bits!'
Then go to Bunty Pulls the Strings,
Have supper at the Ritz,
And never even think again
Of land-slides in the State of Maine!
But when the paper we take in
Describes how Mr. Jones
Has slipped on a banana-skin
And broken sev'ral bones,
'Good Heavens! What a world!' we shout;
'Disasters never cease!'
'What is the Government about?'
'And where are the Police?'
Distraught by such appalling news
All creature comforts we refuse!
Though plagues exterminate the Lapp,
And famines ravage Spain,
They move us not like some mishap
To a suburban train.
Each foreign tale of fire or flood,
How trumpery it grows
Beside a broken collar-stud,
A smut upon the nose!
For Charity (Alas! how true!)
Begins At Home—and ends there, too! |
'RAG-TIME'
At dawn, beneath my casement,
Scrubbing the area stairs,
The boot-boy in the basement
Is whistling rag-time airs.
At breakfast, while I'm eating,
A German band outside
With unction keeps repeating
The latest 'Wedding Glide.'
Where'er I go, whate'er I do,
I can't escape from 'Hitchykoo'!
Pursued, as by a pixy,
By each infectious air,
I 'Want to be in Dixie'
When ev'rybody's there!
Though 'Honolulu-looing'
I've done my best to shun,
What 'Ev'rybody's Doing'
I cannot leave undone!
The subtle spell I can't withstand
Of 'Alexander's Rag-Time Band'!
Like ancient hosts of Midian,
I kneel, enslaved and tame,
Before a modern Gideon,
And Melville is his name!
He grips me without pity,
He binds me with a thong
Of contrapuntal ditty,
Of syncopated song!
And in his sweet, seductive strains
I hear the rattle of my chains!
So, when you next behold me
Perform a Turkey-trot,
In fashion which (they've told me)
Makes chaperones feel hot;
Or with a strict adherence
To rules of Bunny-hug,
Combine the ape's appearance
With manners of the Thug,
I beg you won't find fault with me,
But lay the blame on Melville G.! |
'THE PIPES'
The voice of the violoncello
Brings peace and enjoyment to some,
The cornet appeals to one fellow,
Another enjoys a big drum;
The horn and the bugle, of melody frugal,
A third deems agreeably stirring,
The twang of the zither, the piccolo's twitter,
A fourth is preferring;
But none who attains to the years known as riper
Can fail to be moved by the pipes of the Piper!
O Piper, processioning proudly
Round tables where men sit at meat,
Performing your pibrochs so loudly
That no human voice can compete,
What memories tender your dirges engender!
Your wind-bag successfully squeezing,
You stir the affections and wake recollections,
Both painful and pleasing,
That soothe (like a poultice) or sting (like a viper)
The hearts that respond to the pipes of the Piper!
O Piper, persistently plodding
At dawn round some castle in Skye,
Where guests (with their ears full of wadding)
On couches of agony lie,
No thrush in the thicket, no frog, and no cricket,
No creature on land or in ocean,
Expressing its passion in musical fashion,
Can rouse such emotion
As sets the most soulless of Sassenachs wiping
The tears from his eyes at the sound of your piping!
Though many may term you infestive,
Discordant, or dull, as they please,
Or say that your skirls are suggestive
Of pigs being bitten by bees;
There's nought so exciting, for marching or fighting,
As sounds that your chanter produces;
No strains so entrancing, for dining, or dancing,
Or similar uses!
In peace or in war, for civilian or 'sniper,'
There's nothing on earth like the pipes of the Piper! |
MODERN DANCING
When the Waltz was first invented,
Grandmamma was much upset;
Long she mourned, and loud lamented,
Staid Quadrille and Minuet.
In her eyes (a bit oldfashioned)
Waltzing called for condemnation,
As a somewhat too empassioned
Form of social relaxation!
Grandma, with averted head,
Swept her daughters home to bed!
When the practice of 'reversing'
Revolutionised the dance,
Dear Mamma was heard aspersing
Fashions introduced from France.
With invectives harsh and stinging
She abused those youthful dancers
Who were over fond of 'swinging'
Partners in the Kitchen Lancers;
Ragging, as a ballroom sport,
Made Mamma get up and snort!
Now, when Bunny-hugging habits
Elevate maternal hairs,
When our daughters act like rabbits,
And our sons behave like bears;
When the modern ballroom gang goes
Through the complicated mazes
Of those pseudo-Spanish Tangoes
(Last of corybantic crazes!),
We can only gaze aghast,
Like our forbears in the past!
But although each he (or she) grows
More and more inclined to romp,
Emulating am'rous negroes
In some Mississippi swamp,
Recollect, when Gossip chatters,
Though the best hotels taboo it,
'Tisn't what we dance that matters,
But the way in which we do it!
Chaperones may look askance:
Honi soit qui mal y—dance! |
THE PUBLIC INTEREST
['We are entitled to use courteous or discourteous language,
according as we think the public interest requires it.'—Lord Hugh
Cecil.]
When rivals in the Party fray,
Their sluggish blood unwarmed,
An old-world courtesy display
('My honourable friend,' they say,
'Is surely misinformed?')
Such feeble methods I despise,
My principles are higher;
Opponents I apostrophise
With piercing and persistent cries
Of 'Renegade!' or 'Liar!'
For I can hear, above the din,
A voice within my breast
That bids me use such language, in
The public interest.
Some golfers, when they miss a putt,
Look mortified or frown,
Keeping their lips discreetly shut,
They say 'Good gracious!' or 'Tut-tut,
'That makes me seven down!'
Such self-control is hard to bear,
I loathe their sickly phrases,
And much prefer, to clear the air,
An honest 'Blast!' or 'Blazes!'
Explaining, if the caddies grin
Or partners should protest,
That I am simply swearing, in
The public interest!
When ladies whom I chance to meet
In crowded Tube or tram
Attempt to oust me from my seat
Or tread upon my tender feet,
I always murmur 'Damn!'
And when upon the telephone,
'Exchange' remarks, 'Line's busy!'
My choice of language, and its tone,
Makes hardened operators groan
And supervisors dizzy.
For I maintain, through thick and thin,
Discourtesy is best,
So long as you display it in
The public interest! |
THE MILITANTS
Though Man, who alas! is our master,
Declares us unfit to be free,
Ignoring the placards we playfully plaster
On paling and pavement and tree;
And though ev'ry journal, with cunning infernal,
Our speeches refuses to quote,
Our conduct bears witness to feminine fitness,
And shows we are ripe for the Vote!
On roofs and in cellars we've hidden,
We've chained ourselves firmly to posts,
Attended receptions, without being bidden,
And heckled political hosts.
With dog-whip and missile, with bell and with whistle,
Our cause we have sought to promote;
By scratching and squalling, by biting and brawling,
We've proved ourselves fit for the Vote!
What tales of our feats could be written!
Of damage we love to inflict,
Of constables wounded with hatpins, and bitten,
Of Cabinet Ministers kicked!
Of how, when in Holloway, nought would we swallow
Until it was forced down our throat,
To prove to the nation by auto-starvation
How worthy we were of the Vote!
The gardens at Kew we've uprooted,
We've ruined the 'greens' on the links,
The letters of innocent strangers polluted
With poisonous acids and inks!
Like lunatics turning to wrecking and burning,
For others we care not a groat,
But meditate gaily fresh outrages daily,
To prove ourselves fit for the Vote! |
PLAGUES AT THE PLAY
