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The Motley Muse (Rhymes for the Times)

Chapter 90: [118]
By Harry Graham
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About This Book

The collection assembles short, humorous and satirical poems that lampoon contemporary manners, institutions, and fashionable types through witty rhymes and parodic ballades. Pieces take aim at theatre-goers, motorists, club life, parish politics, seasonal observances and petty legal scenes, and include songs in season and multipart cantos. The tone shifts between playful complaint and caustic observation, often employing conventional stanza forms and comic exaggeration to expose pretension and social ritual, and the material is arranged into topical sections that emphasize variety and topical wit.

 

'ROYAL ASCOT'

Ho! find me my faithful field-glasses
(The kind with collapsible joints);
Ho! bring me my bundle of passes,
My pencils (the ones that have points);
Ho! give me my 'topper,'
The head-dress that's proper
For meetings where Royalties muster;
Put scent on my 'hanky'
(That's quite enough, thankye!)
And polish my boots with a duster;
That so I may venture, with grace and composure,
To mix with my peers in the Royal Enclosure!

At Ascot, where beautiful dresses
Enrapture the masculine gaze,
How oft I've indulged in excesses
Of hock-cup and cold mayonnaise!
How oft in the Paddock
(Though squashed like a haddock)
Each thoroughbred's heels I've eluded!
What fortunes I've flung to
The Ring, which they've clung to,
Those touts who my pockets denuded!
What niggardly odds did those bookmakers lay me!
(How often have ladies forgotten to pay me!)

At Ascot, that popular function,
Society leans on the rails,
And sport is enjoyed in conjunction
With lobsters and underdone quails!
While Rank and while Fashion
Regard with compassion
The antics of clown or of nigger,
But one imperfection
Appears, on inspection,
This party to mar or disfigure:
'Twould be the most perfect of meetings and courses,
If only——if only there weren't any horses!

 

'ROSES'

A MEMORY OF 'ALEXANDRA DAY'

(With apologies to Wordsworth)

I wandered shyly as a ghost
That prowls in haunted keeps and tow'rs,
When all at once I saw a host,
A crowd of ladies selling flow'rs;
Along the Mall, beside the Pond,
From Lady Cr-we to Lady M-nd!

Continuous as the stars that shine,
Like poppies in a field of wheat,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the kerb of ev'ry street;
Ten thousand saw I, file by file,
Selling their 'blooms' with sprightly smile.

The world about them smiled, for they
Bedecked the dingy thoroughfares;
A fellow could not fail to pay
His penny for such wares as theirs.
I bought and bought—but little guessed
What wealth those simple flowers expressed.

For all the cash they helped to net,
In streets where stood their rosy stalls,
Went to reduce that endless debt
Which is the curse of hospitals;
And Chairmen cast dull care away
And danced on Alexandra Day!

 

THE END OF THE SEASON

How grimy and gritty are streets in the City,
How parched is each pavement and park,
Where Londoners harried in thoroughfares arid
Forgather from dawn until dark!
An atmosphere torrid, oppressive and horrid,
With leather-like lungs we inhale,
While odorous motors (more pungent than bloaters)
Our impotent nostrils assail,
And whistles and catcalls and horns without number
Combine to destroy all our chances of slumber!

How weary my heart is of dinners and parties,
How sick of each concert and play!
All social exertion I view with aversion,
Of banquets I dream with dismay.
Each moment enhances my hatred of dances,
All luncheons with loathing I hail;
At ev'ry collation, in sheer detestation,
I shrink from each cutlet or quail;
For though I enjoy such delights within reason,
I gratefully welcome the end of the Season!

The holiday feeling is over me stealing,
I long to escape from the town,
Exchanging its highways for hedges and byways,
For moorland and meadow and down.
In cobble-paved alleys how verdant the valleys,
How fragrant the forests appear,
Where fountains are flashing, and rivulets splashing
Make melody sweet to the ear;
Where Orpheus his musical message delivers,
And Pan and his piping are heard by the rivers!

 

THE COCKNEY OF THE NORTH

(With apologies to W. B. Yeats)

I will arise and go now, and go to Inverness,
And a small villa rent there, of lath and plaster built;
Nine bedrooms will I have there, and I'll don my native dress,
And walk about in a d—— loud kilt.

And I will have some sport there, when grouse come driven slow,
Driven from purple hill-tops to where the loaders quail;
While midges bite their ankles, and shots are flying low,
And the air is full of the grey-hen's tail.

I will arise and go now, for ever, day and night,
I hear the taxis bleating and the motor-'buses roar,
And over tarred macadam and pavements parched and white
I've walked till my feet are sore!

For it's oh, to be in Scotland! now that August's nearly there,
Where the capercailzie warble on the mountain's rugged brow;
There's pleasure and contentment, there's sport and bracing air,
In Scotland——now!

 

'THE TWELFTH'

If you're waking, call me early,
Call me early, Rob MacDougall,
When the skies are pale and pearly
And the air is keen and chill;
And we'll break our fast together,
In a fashion somewhat frugal,
And be off across the heather
To 'the hill.'

Soon will coveys come a-flitting,
Over purple slopes and ridges,
To the butts where we are sitting
With our loaders close behind.
Though the mist obscure our vision,
And our necks are stung by midges,
And we shoot without precision,
Never mind!

If the birds fly fast and freely
O'er the lair where we are lying
With the cartridges that Eley
So obligingly supplies,
When the drive is duly ended
We can count the dead and dying
We have rent (or is it 'rended'?)
From the skies!

As we stimulate the labours
Of retrievers bent on finding
Stricken birds our next-door neighbours
Will indubitably claim,
We declare to one another
(Though we scarcely need reminding)
That a grouse beats any other
Kind of game,
And that, given sport and weather,
There is nothing like the thrill
Of a day among the heather
On the hill!

 

NOVEMBER

Poets may proclaim the praises
Of some fragrant April day,
Search their lexicons for phrases
To describe the dew-drenched daisies
Of each merry May;
Minor bards may work like niggers,
Framing epic rhyme or rune,
To extol the timely rigours
Of an English June;
Though its charms I well remember,
I prefer November!

Though the tourists sing together
When July is warm and bright,
While to sportsmen on the heather,
Bent on bagging fur and feather,
August brings delight;
Though September's seldom stormy,
And October, chill and dry,
Carries joy to every Dormy-
House from Wick to Rye;
Yet (since I am not a member)
I prefer November!

In the street the slime may spatter
Ev'ry wretched passer-by;
Hail and sleet and snow may batter
On my window-pane—what matter?
What on earth care I?
Other months may be less muddy,
Or a fairer face present;
In my cheerful firelit study
I am quite content!
Seated by the glowing ember,
I prefer November!

 

THE CYNIC'S CHRISTMAS

Christmas is here! Let us deck ev'ry dwelling
With evergreen branches and mistletoe boughs!
With thoughts philanthropic our bosoms are swelling,
No shadow should darken our brows!
(But, alas! when we're fixing festoons to the ceiling,
The ladders we stand on are apt to give way,
When a desolate feeling comes over us stealing;
'Tis hard to be merry and gay!
And it's difficult, too, to feel thoroughly jolly
When painfully punctured by pieces of holly!)

Christmas is here! Let the plums and the suet
Be mingled once more in ungrudging supplies!
Let the lover of punch hasten swiftly to brew it!
Make ready a score of mince-pies!
(But, alas! let us not be completely forgetful
Of how indigestion is fostered and bred,
How a surfeit of food makes the family fretful,
While alcohol flies to the head;
Lest a fortnight devoted to over-nutrition
Entail a recourse to the nearest physician!)

Christmas is here! Ev'ry mother shall borrow
Her spouse's best stockings to tie to the cot
Of the baby, who hopes they'll contain, on the morrow,
Drums, trumpets, and goodness knows what!
(But it's rather a blow when the footwear allotted
To hang full of goodies and toys through the night,
Is returned to its owner, misshapen and clotted
With toffee and Turkish Delight;
While a drum is a bore if you constantly thump it,
And life can be poisoned by sounds from a trumpet!)
Christmas is here! All our nephews and nieces
Troop happily home to delight us at Yule!
We rejoice when the holiday season releases
The inmates of college and school!
(But perhaps when at dawn they awake us by shouting
'When Shepherds'—a hymn which they sing out of tune—
They may furnish some fifty good reasons for doubting
If holidays are such a boon;
And even the kindliest relative wearies
Of constantly answering juvenile queries!)

Christmas is here! Little children excited
Make domiciles vocal with shrieks of applause,
As they ask that the candle-decked fir-tree be lighted,
In honour of kind Santa Claus!
(But, alas! for the person of years known as 'riper'!
By clatter and racket his nerves are unstrung;
He is followed about, like a second Pied Piper,
By droves of the clamorous young!
All in vain does he seek for some haven of quiet;
No room in the building is free from their riot!)

Christmas is here! Let us load our relations
With presents expensive and offerings rare,
And assume, as we lavish our tips and donations,
A noble and bountiful air!
(But, alas! when we've purchased the costliest jewel
For dear Cousin Jane, and despatched it by post,
And she sends in return a small mat, worked in crewel,
And worth eighteenpence at the most,
Shall we say, recollecting the gift that we bought her,
'Dear Jane is a trifle more dear than we thought her'?)

Christmas is here! Let us go serenading,
In glees and in madrigals raising our voice,
In the snow of the street, 'neath your windows parading,
O maidens divine of our choice!
(But we mustn't forget how our last Christmas carols
Were spoilt by your parents' inhuman attacks,
When they brought out their shot-guns and emptied both barrels
Bang into the smalls of our backs!
If one justly expects some applause and encoring,
A ball in the back is excessively boring!)

Christmas is here! At a season so sprightly
We banish all thoughts about mundane affairs,
And attempt to be gay and to smile fairly brightly,
In spite of our worries and cares.
(But financial embarrassments mortify most men
Whose hearts a prognostic of bankruptcy grips,
When the dustmen and milkmen, policemen and postmen,
Demand their habitual tips!)
·    ·    ·    ·    ·    ·
Then tell me—and grateful I'll be to you, very—
Oh, tell me why Christmas was ever called 'Merry'!

 

ENVOI

[All work, says a well-known humorist, is an unutterable bore. All that concerns the writer are the cheques his work brings him in.]

Simple is the man who fancies,
In his fond and foolish heart,
That the author weaves romances
For the love of Art;
That the poet's torch, ignited
By some sacred inner fire,
Is a spark of genius lighted
To illume his lyre;
That 'tis Honour or Ambition
Prompts the bard to composition!

No celestial inspiration
Gilds the poet's cheerless den,
Kindles his imagination,
Stirs his sluggish pen;
No divine afflatus, blowing
From some charmed Pierian font,
Starts the springs of fancy flowing
Like the spur of Want.
This, poor Pegasus controlling,
Sets the eye in frenzy rolling!

Not in search of fame or rank is
He who drives this fretful quill,
But his balance at the bank is
Practically nil,
And the cause, the motive, lying
At his inspiration's roots,
Is the sound of children crying,
Crying out for boots;
'Tis the need for ready money
Makes the humorist so funny!

 

 

Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to His Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press

FOOTNOTES:

 

[1] A species of pollack.

[2] Another species of pollack.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:

 

Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original.

Punctuation has been corrected without note.