The Motley Muse (Rhymes for the Times)

['Last night even the postprandial conversation of some well-dressed members of the audience failed to neutralise the effect of the music, though they did their best.'—The Times.]

'Well-dressed,' and well-fed, and well-meaning (God knows!),
They arrive when the play is half ended;
As they pass to their stalls, through the tightly-packed rows,
They beruffle your hair and they tread on your toes,
Quite unconscious of having offended!
Then they argue a bit as to how they shall sit,
And uncloak in a leisurely fashion,
While they act as a blind to the people behind
Who grow perfectly purple with passion;
Till at last, by the time they are seated and settled,
Their neighbours all round them are thoroughly nettled!

A programme, of course, they've forgotten to buy
(This in audible accents they mention),
And whenever some distant attendant they spy,
They halloo or give vent to remarks such as 'Hi!'
In attempts to attract her attention.
After this (which is worse) they will loudly converse,
And enjoy a good gossip together
On the clothes they have bought and the colds they have caught,
On the state of the crops and the weather,
Till they leave, in the midst of some tense 'situation,'
That's spoilt by their flow of inane conversation.

O managers, pray, am I asking too much
If I beg that these 'persons of leisure'
Be kept in a sound-proof and separate hutch,
If their nightly theatrical manners are such
As to spoil other playgoers' pleasure?
For it can't be denied that a playhouse supplied
With a cage for such talkative parrots,
Or a series of stalls (of the kind that have walls
And some hay and a couple of carrots)
Would bestow on the public a boon and a blessing
And deal with an evil in need of redressing!

A SUGGESTION

[Addressed to the lady or gentleman who had abstracted two pictures from the Royal Academy.]

My friend, why did you hold your hand,
Why falter, why desist,
When there are treasures in the land
That never would be missed?
Next time you plunder the R.A.,
Its precincts do not quit
Till you have made, as plumbers say,
A thorough job of it.
Take ev'ry so-called work of art
And (with a nation's thanks) depart!

Remove each Royal Portrait, do,
Each Presentation Bust,
And all those Problem Pictures, too,
Which have to be discussed.
Take ev'ry daub that's labelled 'Spring'
Or 'Chelsea in a Fog,'
Or 'Home again!' or 'Baby's Swing,'
Or 'Mrs. A. and Dog.'
Take 'Hanging up the Mistletoe!'
And (with the public's blessing) go!

Then prosecute your search elsewhere,
If fame you wish to win;
Take Shakespeare's bust from Leicester Square
And Cleopatra's Pin.
Take sculptured Statesmen, hand to breast,
Who on our pavements smile,
And half the statues that congest
The Abbey's crowded aisle.
And, last of all, whate'er befall,
Don't fail to take the Albert Hall!

THE MODEL MOTORIST

[Sir Thomas Lipton, when stopped by the Chertsey police for 'scorching,' remarked: 'You have your duty to do, boys. I have always found you to be correct. I'm sorry.']

Ye murderous, motoring scorchers,
With manners of Gadarene hogs,
Inflicting unspeakable tortures
On children and chickens and dogs;
Alarming your fellows with hoots and with bellows,
And filling their infants with terror,
Their cattle stampeding, and never conceding
That you could perhaps be in error,
Who fall upon Fido and squash little Florrie,
And hasten away without saying you're sorry!

O listen, I beg, con amore,
Pray pause in your Juggernaut flight,
And hark, while I tell you the story
Of Lipton, that chivalrous knight!
When charged with exceeding the limit of speeding
By constables ambushed in Chertsey,
He scorned to tell 'whoppers' or browbeat those 'coppers,'
But, donning (with marvellous court'sy)
The smile that he wears at a ball or a 'swarry,'
Remarked: 'You are always correct, boys. I'm sorry!'

With awe and respect did each 'cop' watch
A creature so rare, so unique,
Who questioned no constable's stop-watch,
Who showed neither temper nor pique,
But said, 'Do your duty!' in tones rich and fruity,
Admitting at once his transgression,
Content to take their word, with never a swear-word,
To leave an unpleasant impression;
Exclaiming—his parents were Irish—'Begorry!
''Tis me that's the scorcher, and faith, bhoys, I'm sorry!'

Then follow his brilliant example,
Ye chauffeurs to 'joy-riding' prone,
And seek by apologies ample
For sins of the past to atone.
Your pace do not quicken when dog or when chicken
In 'bonnet' or brake gets entangled,
Nor fly in a flutter, and leave in the gutter
The man whom your motor has mangled;
But after you've pounced like a hawk on your quarry,
Just stop for a moment, and say that you're sorry!

THE PARISH PUMP

(A BALLADE)

['The parish pump is the best friend of the teacher of history, and the man who, on the basis of Imperialism, sneers at the parish pump, does not know what he is talking about.'—Canon Masterman.]

The pedagogue his desk may thump
And lecture, with a skill profound,
On Parliaments called 'Long' or 'Rump,'
On Scone (where Scottish kings were crowned);
On butts of Malmsey wine which drowned
The Prince who chanced therein to jump;
On Richard, Gloucester's Duke, renowned
For having a perpetual 'hump';

On Runnymede's immoral clump,
Where poor King John was run to ground
And signed the Charter (on a stump)
Whereon our liberties we found;
On Windsor, where, with horse and hound,
The eighth King Henry grew so plump,
And where the doleful courtiers frowned
When George the Third went off his chump!

Such facts I simply cannot lump,
Preferring greatly to expound
The tale of how Sir Joseph Crump
Expended many a well-earned pound
(No better Mayor was ever found,
Although his lady is a frump!)
On giving Mugley-on-the-Mound
A presentation Parish Pump.

Then beat the tabor, blow the trump!
Let welkins with your shouts resound!
The cause of Empire cannot slump
While noble deeds like this abound!
Go, children, pass the story round
Of how the head of Crump and Comp:
(Whose enemies may Fate confound!)
Supplied the Parish with a Pump!

POLICE COURT SENSE

['The evidence that I heard totally failed to satisfy me that he was drunk at all in what, for want of a better definition of the term, I may call the Police Court sense.'—Mr. Chester Jones.]

When Uncle Edward comes to dine,
He drinks such quantities of wine,
You never know
How far he'll go,
Or what he'll leave unsaid;
He frequently insults his host,
And quotes things from the Winning Post,
Until, with sighs,
His friends arise
And bear him off to bed.
But as they leave him in his bunk,
With what a joy intense
They realise he is not drunk—
In the Police Court sense!

He played bezique with me, one day,
To find that, at the close of play,
He'd lost each game;
The total came
To three pounds seventeen.
He never paid a cent of that,
And took away my new top-hat,
Leaving behind
A hideous kind
Of gibus, old and green.
But still it filled me with relief,
Observing his offence,
To think that he was not a thief—
In the Police Court sense!

The details of his private life,
The way he treats his luckless wife,
Make all aware
That he can care
For nothing but himself;
But what on earth is she to do,
Though snubbed and beaten black and blue?
To sue, of course,
For a divorce
Would be a waste of pelf.
Yet, all the same, my aunt avows,
It saves her much expense
To feel she has a faithful spouse—
In the Police Court sense!

CLUB CANTOS

CANTO I

THE ATHENÆUM

Dignified, austere, infestive,
Stands the stately Athenæum,
With an atmosphere suggestive
Of a mausoleum.
Freezing silence reigns within
(You can hear the falling pin!)
And the punster points with pride
To the frieze you get outside!

Here the Bishop, with his nether
Limbs in leggings swathed demurely
(Hatbrim fastened by a tether
To the crown securely),
Buttonholes some friendly Duke,
To discuss the Pentateuch,
Or abstracts (with absent mind)
All th' umbrellas he can find.

Here each great and famous Briton
Snored and slumbered almost daily:
Thackeray and Bulwer Lytton,
Dickens and Disraeli.
Trollope through this doorway stept,
In that chair Macaulay slept,
While, with cotton in his ears,
Herbert Spencer snubbed his peers.

Here our scientific pedants
Write their Monographs on Rabbits
Or their studies of the Red-ant's
Socialistic habits.
Here the statesman threshes out
Themes of Philosophic Doubt,
While the Laureate scours each shelf
For a rhyme to 'Guelph' and 'self.'

Poet, painter, politician,
Throng this Hall of the Immortals;
Sophist, sage, and statistician
Cross these pompous portals.
Here the pundits of the State
Herd with the Episcopate;
Scientist and learned lord
Mix with Mr. H-mphr-y W-rd.

If the roof fell in, ah me!
Where would Mother England be?

CANTO II

WHITE'S

Observe the élite, staring into the street,
Through that famous elliptical casement;
How coldly they eye all the friends who pass by,
With a look of self-conscious effacement!
This ancient tradition of non-recognition
Is dear to all clubs (save Soho ones!),
Where Brummels and Nashes still twirl their moustaches,
And even the windows are Beau-ones!

Here, once the resort of all lovers of sport,
Are the counters and dice of past players;
The belt, too, bestowed upon Heenan, who showed
So much grit when he battled with Sayers.
Here, loudly proclaiming their passion for gaming,
Our prodigal ancestors betted;
Their shekels they squandered, and home again wandered,
Stone-broke or profoundly indebted!

Less prone to high play is the member to-day
Than his forbear, that fire-eating gamester.
His pleasure he takes in more moderate stakes,
And his losses don't cause quite the same stir.
But, still, a White's-clubber can win a big rubber,
With all of his forefathers' vigour,
And double 'no trumps,' too, until the score jumps to
A really respectable figure!

A cursory look at the old wager-book
Will discover full many an entry
Recalling the age when this club was the rage
Of the pick of our peerage and gentry.
But now the old places are filled with fresh faces,
Of members less wise and less witty,
Of hearty old busters, of pool-playing thrusters,
Of brokers and blokes from the City,
Whose names are less worthy recording on vellum
Than those of a Walpole, a Pulteney, or Pelham!

CANTO III

THE BACHELORS'

While clerks lunch at Lockhart's or Lyons',
And labourers meet at some 'pub,'
Society's celibate scions
Resort to the Bachelors' Club;
For here all the members elected
Belong to a very smart set,
And bask in the sunshine reflected
From Mr. Gillett.

Here youths of the Governing Classes
At regular intervals call,
To tap barometrical glasses
Or study the tape in the Hall;
Discussing the 'latest from Lincoln,'
Comparing the odds of each bet,
Or reading out jokes from the 'Pink 'Un'
To Mr. Gillett.

And though they severely disparage
Those trammels that Benedicks bind,
And members who contemplate marriage
Are spoken to sharply and fined;
'The Sex' they regard as no sinners,
And ladies may often be met,
Partaking of luncheons or dinners
With Mr. Gillett.

Here, too, for young persons of leisure
Who wish to develop the mind,
Instruction is tempered with pleasure,
Tuition with fun is combined;
New knowledge they gain (one conjectures)
And cerebral stimulus get,
Attending the Radium Lectures
Of Mr. Gillett.

Then ho! for this celibate centre
For youths who are loth to espouse,
Though fish-knives (the gift of their mentor)
May tempt them to cancel their vows!
And ho! for that guide and dictator!
Their whistles let bachelors wet
(A whisky and soda, please, waiter!)
To Mr. Gillett!

CANTO IV

THE GARRICK

If for solitude you feel a partiality,
If you chance to be unsociably inclined,
If (like other men of British nationality)
You abominate the presence of your kind;
If you take your pleasures glumly
And delight in dining dumbly,
And if table-talk's a thing you nearly die of;
If you look with detestation
Upon Gen'ral Conversation,
Then the Garrick is a club you should fight shy of!

If you hunger for companionship and jollity,
If you much prefer to chatter while you eat,
If you condescend at moments to frivolity,
And will fraternise with any one you meet;
If your interest is chronic
In the art called histrionic,
If your passion for the drama's hot and strong, too;
If you welcome its professors
Telling tales about their 'dressers,'
Then the Garrick is a club you should belong to!

If you come here (say) at supper-time on Saturdays,
You will meet with all the patrons of the stage
(Though the place is not so popular, these latter days,
As it was before 'week-ends' became the rage).
Here each notable 'first-nighter,'
Critic, journalist, and writer,
Sprinkles pepper on this club's especial oyster,
And you hear a well-known jurist
Or some literary purist
Telling anecdotes unsuited to the cloister!

Here you'll notice, too, a perfect portrait-gallery
Of those mummers who immortal have become,
Though they earned, no doubt, a less prodigious salary
Than the moderns who more lucratively mum.
On these walls they all assemble,
Garrick, Matthews, Irving, Kemble,
Men who knew what the traditions of the stage meant,
In the days when ev'ry mummer
Wore a sealskin coat in summer
And would scorn a common music-hall engagement!

'Tis a club for ev'ry section of the laity,
Where the Services, the Press, the Bench, the Bar,
Find delight in S-m-r H-cks's verbal gaiety
And the anecdotal wit of C-m-ns C-rr.
Here the members who are crafty
Seek a seat that isn't draughty—
In the anteroom or lounge you may discern 'em—
And postprandially cluster,
Gaining dignity and lustre
From the presence of a B-ncr-ft and a B-rnh-m!

CANTO V

THE AUTOMOBILE

Pall Mall was a sober and dignified street
In the days (say) of Dickens or Marryat,
Where statesmen their peers would with courtesy greet,
Where the senator sauntered on leisurely feet,
And the dowager drove in her chariot.
The War Office entries
Were guarded by sentries;
But Mars was polite to the Graces,
And officers' mothers,
Their sisters, and others,
Called daily on those in high places,
Demanding, with true patriotic devotion,
Their sons' (or their brothers') more rapid promotion!

Times changed. The old War Office warren was scrapped,
And this suitable site was selected
By motorists, goggled, befurred, and peak-capped,
As a central position excessively apt
For the Palace of Fun they erected.
In place of old quiet
Came racket and riot,
As cars at the club kept arriving,
Or p'licemen in torrents
Poured in, to serve warrants
On members for 'furious driving';
Where amateur chauffeurs, resolved to be jolly,
Were drowning dull care in a 'Petrol and Polly'!

For those who enjoy fellow-men in the bunch
This is really a fine place of meeting;
For here in a crowd men may guzzle and munch
(Though the orchestra makes such a noise while they lunch
That the members can't hear themselves eating).
Here thousands forgather,
To feed and to blather—
Each day brings a fresh reinforcement—
And tell (with a dry sense
Of fun) how their licence
Got marked with its latest endorsement,
Or how many yokels and dogs they ran over
The day that they fractured the 'record' to Dover!

CANTO VI

BROOKS'S

How soft those whiskered waiters tread,
Their dishes dexterously handing!
'Twould seem (as some one aptly said)
As though a nobleman lay dead
Upon an upper landing,
In such tranquillity and quiet
Do members masticate their diet!

Yes, here is peace, that 'perfect peace,'
With loved ones safely at a distance,
Which men demand who seek release
From cares that cause the brow to crease
And poison the existence;
Peace, comatose—nay, cataleptic—
Dear to the dotard and dyspeptic!

The special feature of the place
Is that it has no special feature;
Its tone is that of frigid grace
With which the Briton loves to face
Each human fellow-creature.
Here sire meets son, or brother brother,
And neither need address the other!

Within this dignified retreat,
From Government or Opposition,
The Whigs of all opinions meet,
Eyeing each other, as they eat,
With looks of dumb suspicion.
Here Unionist regards Home Ruler
With feelings daily growing cooler.

Through Brooks's battered ballot-box
His way to fame a man may well win,
Who sits where Sheridan and Fox
Discoursed of dice or fighting-cocks
With Wilberforce and Selwyn;
Where modern wits and legislators
Converse with no one but the waiters!

CANTO VII

'THE BEEFSTEAK'

While Germans eat flesh that is said to be equine,
And Chinamen batten on birds' nests and dogs,
While Frenchmen with vin ordinaire (such a weak wine!)
Ingurgitate molluscs and frogs,
The Briton, old-fashioned, in language empassioned,
On underdone oxen demands to be fed;
His soul seems to glory in steaks that are gory,
He 'looks on the kine when they're red,'
And all his carnivorous cravings awake
When somebody happens to name 'The Beefsteak.'

'Tis years since the first of those chops began grilling,
Whose smell caused so many choice spirits to throng
Where wags would insist though 'the spirits were swilling,
The flesh was undoubtedly strong'!
When Harlequin Rich entertained in his kitchen
That circle which met round his sociable hearth,
Where kidneys were roasted and cheese could be toasted
By Johnson and Wilkes and Hogarth,
And by most of Great Britain's more notable wits
Whose counterparts nowadays dine at the Ritz.

Some centuries later we find a revival;
Once more 'Beef and Liberty' mingle and blend,
Where now 'The Beefsteak' represents, without rival,
La vie de Bohème du West End!
Here humorous rallies and jocular sallies
Are heard at a board where the diet is plain,
Where Clayton and Wortley conversed so alertly
With Morris or poor Corney Grain,
While Brookfield would coin some satirical phrase
Which to-day he discovers in other men's plays!

'Tis said that the neophyte's nerves are affected,
When first introduced here, his throat becomes dry;
At sight of the eminent persons collected,
He feels unaccountably shy;
Till Bourchier, so breezy, makes ev'rything easy
By slapping the newcomer hard on the back,
Or Elliot (our Willie) says, 'Dinna be silly!
Set doon an' we'll hae a gude crack!'
When, greatly encouraged, though somewhat abashed,
He orders stewed tripe or a 'sausage and mashed.'

Here friendship and talk are the principal factors
That make of this Club a resort beyond praise,
For writers and soldiers, for lawyers and actors
(Who dine here on matinée days).
No cards are permitted, but wits can be pitted,
And members in rivalry verbal may vie
Who never play poker (although they've a Joe-Carr!)
And deprecate steaks that are high!
While brains never weary and tongues never flag,
As they do, I believe, at the Turf or the 'Rag'!

CANTO VIII

THE TRAVELLERS'

Though clubs without number are suited to slumber,
How few (as has often been noted)
To rest and reposing, to dreaming and dozing,
Are quite so completely devoted
As that which is labelled, in language poetic,
The final resort of the peripatetic!

Here peace may be relished, in rooms unembellished
By portraits, by prints or engravings,
On sofas of leather, designed altogether
To satisfy somnolent cravings,
Where, clutching the Times or the Chronicle tightly,
A member may slumber in public politely.

A subtle aroma, conducive to coma,
Which renders the coffee-room pleasant,
Proves gratefully cloying to diners enjoying
A snooze 'twixt the fish and the pheasant.
The air, as it were, is with somnolence seething,
And nothing is heard but their stertorous breathing!

No card-games are played here, and even 'Old Maid' here
Its votaries find uninviting;
You might get a quorum for (say) 'Snip-snap-snorem,'
But 'Patience' is deemed too exciting;
While rubbers of Bridge (should you chance to require some)
With partners all 'sleeping' prove terribly tiresome!

These precincts hypnotic provide a narcotic,
And trav'llers (all subterfuge scorning)
Curl up on their quarters, and tell the hall-porters
To call them next Saturday morning;
And even explorers, their rambles arrested,
Become as 'Club-footed' as some one suggested!

CANTO IX

'THE BATH'

Ye citizens of common clay
Who, squinting in a painful way,
Remove (with grimy hands and grey)
The smuts upon your noses,
Come, follow me to Dover Street
Where, any moment, we may meet
Figures as fragrant and as sweet
As new-mown hay or roses,
Tripping along the primrose path
That leads each member to 'The Bath'!

Ye breadwinners, who seek in vain
To keep your features free from stain,
When in some matutinal train
To town you daily rush up,
Observe the cleanly creatures, please,
Who in this club recline at ease!
Existence for such men as these
Is one long 'Wash and Brush Up'!
Perfumed and scented, combed and curled,
They live unspotted of the world!

Here Indian clubs are deftly swung,
And dumb-bells twirled, by old and young;
Here 'horizontal bars' are hung
With eminent patricians;
And when, at times, on Sunday nights,
The lady-members (clad in tights),
From swimming-bath's sublimest heights,
Give diving exhibitions,
Tis 'Water, water ev'rywhere'—
And sopped spectators get their share!

Observe that youth, with purple socks
And chest suggestive of an ox;
He comes to 'punch the ball' or box
With (possibly) Lord Desb'rough.
Observe that Admiral; though old,
He takes a daily plunge, I'm told,
Though when the water's rather cold
He very often says 'Brrrh!'
Or, if the suds get in his eyes,
'Here! What the douche!' he crossly cries.

That warning, to the sloven dear:
'Abandon Soap who enter here!'
Upon these walls does not appear,
To reassure the dirty;
But on the Turkish bathroom screen,
Pinned to a notice-board of green,
This statement, day by day, is seen:
'Pores Open, 7.30.'
Till Bishops at 'The Bath,' they say,
Are moved to murmur, 'Let us Spray!'

Then, Gentle Reader, I advise
(Should opportunity arise)
That you should be extremely wise
And join this institution;
And thus, though deeming dumb-bells 'Bosh!'
And scorning hectic games of 'Squash,'
You may enjoy a thorough wash,
A top-to-toe ablution,
Nor die, in deep dejection plunged,
'Unsoapt, unlathered, and unsponged!'

SONGS IN SEASON

NEW YEAR'S EVE

In fashion reflective, with plaint or invective,
We view in perspective the year in eclipse,
The duties neglected, the faults uncorrected,
The blunders, the failures, the slips!
We note with depression that painful procession
Of lapse and transgression which held us in thrall,
The sins of omission, the vaulting ambition,
The pride that preceded each fall!
Regretful, alas! we are loth to remember
The good resolutions we made last December!

The keen politicians who cherished ambitions
To better conditions for sons of the State,
Make private confession of wasting each session
In fruitless and futile debate;
The Peer of position regards with contrition
That past inanition, so hard to resist;
The social reformer grows sensibly warmer,
To note opportunities miss'd;
While Cabinet statesmen still seek (somewhat sadly)
For patience to suffer the Suffragettes gladly!

But never despairing, each mind, greatly daring,
Fresh programmes preparing, fresh projects revolves;
New plans undertaking, new promises making,
New plots, new designs, new resolves!
With hopes unabated, and spirits elated,
We feel ourselves fated, this year, to succeed,
Devising and dreaming, suggesting and scheming
To triumph, to conquer, to lead!
With hearts that are wiser (though probably sadder),
We start once again at the foot of the ladder!

FEBRUARY

['Really, there must be something rather fine in the English character that enables it to triumph over the English climate.'—The Pall Mall Gazette.]

I gaze each morning through my rainswept casement,
Into the murky, mud-bound street below;
I grimly note the slush that floods the basement,
The hail, the sleet—and oh!
I feel that I am greater than I know!
Only a demigod could thrive
'Mid such surroundings drear;
Only a hero could survive
In such an atmosphere!

Each day the sullen sky becomes more leaden,
The weather grows less suited to a dog;
Each night damp mists arise, to chill and deaden!
(The golf-course is a bog:
Twice has my ball been stymied by a frog!)
Still sweetly in my bosom wakes
The knowledge nought can mar,
That 'tis our island climate makes
Us Britons what we are!

For if we basked in fragrant, warm oases,
We should not wear that air of self-control
Which, round about our placid British faces,
Shines like an aureole,
Expressing true stolidity of soul.
To chill and gloom, to frost and thaw,
Our country owes to-day
The dogged jaw of Bonar Law,
The eye of Edward Grey!

O Mother England, wettest of wet nurses,
Where would a poet be without your clime,
Which gives him such a subject for his verses,
Supplying (ev'ry time)
A reason for his undistinguished rhyme?
His lesson may be sharp and stern,
His anguish keen and long;
But so in sniffing he may learn
What he expounds in song!

SPRING

When the hand of ev'ry Briton, 'spite of glove or woolly mitten,
By the frost severely bitten, grows as frigid as a stone,
When he scuttles like a lizard through the bitter biting blizzard,
Which benumbs his very gizzard and which chills him to the bone;
When the constable stands scowling, where the hurricane is howling,
Or goes miserably prowling, with no shelter from the storm,
And the working-man, half-fuddled, jug to bosom closely cuddled,
In each public-house is huddled, in his efforts to get warm;
Then the poet (known as 'minor') deems it suitable to sing
That there's nothing much diviner than the pleasures of the Spring!

When the maiden, matinéeing, from some playhouse portals straying
(Where her favourite is playing), grows as crusty as a crab,
While her fiancé ungainly—so unlike dear Harry Ainley!—
In the snow is seeking vainly (ah! how vainly!) for a cab;
When he cusses and she fusses, as they note how full each 'bus is
Of that crowd of oafs and hussies it refuses to disgorge,
Till they hail some passing taxi, with expressions wild and waxy
(Like the language Leo Maxse always uses of Lloyd George)!
With her windswept skirt she battles, to his hat he tries to cling,
While the poet sweetly prattles of the pleasures of the Spring!

Though I hate to be pedantic, and it may seem unromantic,
I am driven nearly frantic when I hear the praises sung
Of those ruthless vernal breezes which engender coughs and sneezes
And disseminate diseases in the ranks of old and young.
So, although it sounds like treason, when I celebrate this season,
I will mix my rhymes with reason, and substantiate, I trust,
That there's nought so uninviting, so depressing, and so blighting,
As the time of which I'm writing with such genuine disgust.
As I hover round the fender, and for fuel loudly ring,
I decline to see the splendour or the witchery of Spring!

SPRING-CLEANING

['The only way to get workmen out of the house is to move in oneself.'—The Bromide's Handbook.]

Let me sing in mournful numbers
Of the sorrows of the Spring,
When the house is full of plumbers
And the builder has his fling!
Ladders lean on ev'ry landing,
Pails repose on ev'ry stair,
Painters, who on planks are standing,
Block the road to ev'rywhere,
And with pigments evil-smelling
Drive us from our dismal dwelling.

Stairs are carpetless to step on,
Bannisters are far from dry,
While (like Damocles's weapon)
Plaster threatens from on high.
Any room we chance to enter
Our depression but completes:
Chairs and tables in the centre
Hide beneath encircling sheets,
And the painters (horrid vandals!)
Have deprived the doors of handles.

Workmen through our windows peering
Spread their pitfalls in our path;
Daily we are found adhering
To some freshly-painted bath;
Daily have our cooks contended
That, however great our grief,
Till the kitchen-range be mended,
We must live on frigid beef;
And at last we grasp the meaning
Of that fatal phrase, 'Spring-Cleaning'!

The Motley Muse (Rhymes for the Times)

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