'It was chickens, chickens, all the way,
With children crossing the road like mad;
Police disguised in the hedgerows lay,
Stop-watches and large white flags they had,
At nine o'clock o' this very day.
With children crossing the road like mad;
Police disguised in the hedgerows lay,
Stop-watches and large white flags they had,
At nine o'clock o' this very day.
'I broke the record to Tunbridge Wells,
And I shouted aloud, to all concerned,
"Give room, good folk, do you hear my bells?"
But my motor skidded and overturned;
Then exploded—and afterwards, what smells!
And I shouted aloud, to all concerned,
"Give room, good folk, do you hear my bells?"
But my motor skidded and overturned;
Then exploded—and afterwards, what smells!
'Alack! it was I rode over the son
Of a butcher; rolled him all of a heap!
Nought man could do did I leave undone;
And I thought that butcher's boys were cheap,—
But this, poor man, 'twas his only one.
Of a butcher; rolled him all of a heap!
Nought man could do did I leave undone;
And I thought that butcher's boys were cheap,—
But this, poor man, 'twas his only one.
'There's nobody in my motor now,—
Just a tangled car in the ditch upset;
For the fun of the fair is, all allow,
At the County Court, or, better yet,
By the very foot of the dock, I trow.
Just a tangled car in the ditch upset;
For the fun of the fair is, all allow,
At the County Court, or, better yet,
By the very foot of the dock, I trow.
. . . . .
'Thus I entered, and thus I go;
In Court the magistrate sternly said,
"Five guineas fine, and the costs you owe!"
I might not question, so promptly paid.
Henceforth I walk; I am safer so.'
In Court the magistrate sternly said,
"Five guineas fine, and the costs you owe!"
I might not question, so promptly paid.
Henceforth I walk; I am safer so.'
THE BALLAD OF THE ARTIST
Archibald Ames is an artist,
And a widely renowned R.A.,
For albeit his pictures are thoroughly bad,
The greatest success he has always had,
And he makes his profession pay.
And a widely renowned R.A.,
For albeit his pictures are thoroughly bad,
The greatest success he has always had,
And he makes his profession pay.
He has no idea of proportion,
No notion of colour or line,
But perhaps for such there is little need,
Since everybody is fully agreed
That his subjects are quite divine.
No notion of colour or line,
But perhaps for such there is little need,
Since everybody is fully agreed
That his subjects are quite divine.
His pictures are sweetly simple;
The ingredients all must know,—
Just a fair-haired child and a dog or two,
A very old man, and a baby's shoe,
And some bunches of mistletoe.
The ingredients all must know,—
Just a fair-haired child and a dog or two,
A very old man, and a baby's shoe,
And some bunches of mistletoe.
In some, an angelic infant
Is helping a kitten to play,
Or dressing a cat in Grandpapa's hat
(Which is equally hard on the hat and the cat),
Or teaching a 'dolly' to pray.
Is helping a kitten to play,
Or dressing a cat in Grandpapa's hat
(Which is equally hard on the hat and the cat),
Or teaching a 'dolly' to pray.
Or else there's a runaway couple,
With a distant view of papa,
An elderly party with rich man's gout,
Who swears himself rapidly inside out,
In a broken-down motor-car.
With a distant view of papa,
An elderly party with rich man's gout,
Who swears himself rapidly inside out,
In a broken-down motor-car.
Or it may be a scene in the Workhouse,
Where a widow of high degree,
With almost suspiciously puce-coloured hair,
Has arrived in a gorgeous carriage-and-pair,
To distribute a pound of tea.
Where a widow of high degree,
With almost suspiciously puce-coloured hair,
Has arrived in a gorgeous carriage-and-pair,
To distribute a pound of tea.
Sometimes he portrays a battle,
With a 'square' like a Rugby scrum,
Where a bugler, the colours grasped in his hand,
And making a final determined stand,
Plays 'God Save the King' on a drum.
With a 'square' like a Rugby scrum,
Where a bugler, the colours grasped in his hand,
And making a final determined stand,
Plays 'God Save the King' on a drum.
This is the kind of subject
That he gives to us day by day;
You may jeer at the absence of all technique,
But these are the pictures the people seek
From this justly renowned R.A.
That he gives to us day by day;
You may jeer at the absence of all technique,
But these are the pictures the people seek
From this justly renowned R.A.
In distant suburban boudoirs
You will find them, in gilded frames,
'The Prodigal Calf' (a homely scene)
'Grandmamma's Boots,' or 'To Gretna Green,'
The Works of Archibald Ames.
You will find them, in gilded frames,
'The Prodigal Calf' (a homely scene)
'Grandmamma's Boots,' or 'To Gretna Green,'
The Works of Archibald Ames.
And, if they appeal to the public,
In the usual course of events,
Some enterprising manager comes,
And buys them up for enormous sums,
And they serve as advertisements.
In the usual course of events,
Some enterprising manager comes,
And buys them up for enormous sums,
And they serve as advertisements.
Where the child is painting the kitten
With Potter's Indelible Dye,
While Grandpapa shows to the reckless cat
McBride's Indestructible Gibus Hat,
(Which Ev'ry one ought to buy).
With Potter's Indelible Dye,
While Grandpapa shows to the reckless cat
McBride's Indestructible Gibus Hat,
(Which Ev'ry one ought to buy).
And the Gretna Green arrangement
An interest new acquires,
By depicting how great the advantages are
Of the Patented Spoofenhauss Auto-car,
With unpuncturable tyres.
An interest new acquires,
By depicting how great the advantages are
Of the Patented Spoofenhauss Auto-car,
With unpuncturable tyres.
And the widow (Try Kay's for mourning),
As black as Stevenson's Ink,
Is curing the paupers of sundry ills
By the gift of a box of the Palest Pills
For persons who may be Pink.
As black as Stevenson's Ink,
Is curing the paupers of sundry ills
By the gift of a box of the Palest Pills
For persons who may be Pink.
And the bugler-boy in the battle,
With trousers of Blackett's Blue,
Unshrinking as Simpson's Serge, and free
As Winkleson's Patent Ear-drum he,
And steadfast as Holdhard's Glue.
With trousers of Blackett's Blue,
Unshrinking as Simpson's Serge, and free
As Winkleson's Patent Ear-drum he,
And steadfast as Holdhard's Glue.
This is the modern fashion
In the popular art of the day,
And this is the reason that Archibald Ames
Ranks high among other familiar names
As a very well-known R.A.
In the popular art of the day,
And this is the reason that Archibald Ames
Ranks high among other familiar names
As a very well-known R.A.
THE BALLAD OF PING-PONG
(After Swinburne)
The murmurous moments of May-time,
What bountiful blessings they bring!
As dew to the dawn of the day-time,
Suspicions of Summer to Spring!
What bountiful blessings they bring!
As dew to the dawn of the day-time,
Suspicions of Summer to Spring!
Let others imagine the time light,
With maidens or books on their knee,
Or live in the languorous limelight
That tinges the trunk of the Tree.
With maidens or books on their knee,
Or live in the languorous limelight
That tinges the trunk of the Tree.
Let the timorous turn to their tennis,
Or the bowls to which bumpkins belong,
But the thing for grown women and men is
The pastime of ping and of pong.
Or the bowls to which bumpkins belong,
But the thing for grown women and men is
The pastime of ping and of pong.
The game of the glorious glamour!
The feeling to fight till you fall!
The hurricane hail and the hammer!
The batter and bruise of the ball!
The feeling to fight till you fall!
The hurricane hail and the hammer!
The batter and bruise of the ball!
The glory of getting behind it!
The brief but bewildering bliss!
The fear of the failure to find it!
The madness at making a miss!
The brief but bewildering bliss!
The fear of the failure to find it!
The madness at making a miss!
The sound of the sphere as you smack it,
Derisive, decisive, divine!
The riotous rush of your racket,
To mix and to mingle with mine!
Derisive, decisive, divine!
The riotous rush of your racket,
To mix and to mingle with mine!
The diadem dear to the King is,
How sweet to the singer his song;
To me so the plea of the ping is,
And the passionate plaint of the pong.
How sweet to the singer his song;
To me so the plea of the ping is,
And the passionate plaint of the pong.
I live for it, love for it, like it;
Delight of my dearest of dreams!
To stand and to strive and to strike it,—
So certain, so simple it seems!
Delight of my dearest of dreams!
To stand and to strive and to strike it,—
So certain, so simple it seems!
Then give me the game of the gay time,
The ball on its wandering wing,
The pastime for night or for day-time,
The Pong, not to mention the Ping!
The ball on its wandering wing,
The pastime for night or for day-time,
The Pong, not to mention the Ping!
THE PESSIMIST
(After Maeterlinck)
Life's bed is full of crumbs and rice,
No roses float on my lagoon;
There are no fingers, white and nice,
To rub my head with scented ice,
Or feed me with a spoon.
No roses float on my lagoon;
There are no fingers, white and nice,
To rub my head with scented ice,
Or feed me with a spoon.
I think of all the days gone by,
Replete with black and blue regret;
No comets light my glaucous sky,
My tears are hardly ever dry,
I never can forget!
Replete with black and blue regret;
No comets light my glaucous sky,
My tears are hardly ever dry,
I never can forget!
I see the yellow dog, Desire,
That strains against the lead of Hope,
With lilac eyes and lips of fire,
As all in vain he strives to tire
The hand that holds the rope.
That strains against the lead of Hope,
With lilac eyes and lips of fire,
As all in vain he strives to tire
The hand that holds the rope.
I see the kisses of the past,
Like lambkins dying in the snow,
The honeymoon that did not last,
The tinted youth that flew so fast,
And all this vale of woe.
Like lambkins dying in the snow,
The honeymoon that did not last,
The tinted youth that flew so fast,
And all this vale of woe.
So, raising high my raucous cry,
I ask (and Fates no answer give),
Why am I pre-ordained to die?
O cruel Fortune, tell me, why
Am I allowed to live?
I ask (and Fates no answer give),
Why am I pre-ordained to die?
O cruel Fortune, tell me, why
Am I allowed to live?
THE PLACE WHERE THE OLD CLEEK BROKE
(After Whyte-Melville)
Life is hollow to the golfer, of however high his rank,
If the dock-leaf and the nettle grow too free,
If a bramble bar his progress, if he's bunkered by a bank,
If his golf-ball jerks and wobbles off the tee.
There's a ditch I never pass, full of stones and broken glass,
And I'd sooner lift my ball and count a stroke,
For the tears my vision blot when I see the fatal spot,
'Tis the place where my old cleek broke.
If the dock-leaf and the nettle grow too free,
If a bramble bar his progress, if he's bunkered by a bank,
If his golf-ball jerks and wobbles off the tee.
There's a ditch I never pass, full of stones and broken glass,
And I'd sooner lift my ball and count a stroke,
For the tears my vision blot when I see the fatal spot,
'Tis the place where my old cleek broke.
There's his haft upon the table, there's his head upon a chair;
And a better never felt the summer rain;
I may curse and I may swear, my umbrella-stand is bare,
I shall never use my gallant cleek again!
With what unaccustomed speed would he strike the Golf-ball teed!
How it sounded on his metal at each stroke!
Not a flyer in the game such parabolas could claim,
At the place where the old cleek broke!
And a better never felt the summer rain;
I may curse and I may swear, my umbrella-stand is bare,
I shall never use my gallant cleek again!
With what unaccustomed speed would he strike the Golf-ball teed!
How it sounded on his metal at each stroke!
Not a flyer in the game such parabolas could claim,
At the place where the old cleek broke!
Was he cracked? I hardly think it. Did he slip? I do not know.
He had struck the ball for forty yards or more;
He was driving smooth and even, just as hard as he could go,
I had never seen him striking so before.
But I hardly can complain, for there must have been a strain
I had forced beyond the compass of a joke—
And no club, however strong, could have lasted over long
At the place where the old cleek broke!
He had struck the ball for forty yards or more;
He was driving smooth and even, just as hard as he could go,
I had never seen him striking so before.
But I hardly can complain, for there must have been a strain
I had forced beyond the compass of a joke—
And no club, however strong, could have lasted over long
At the place where the old cleek broke!
There are men, both staid and sound, who hold it happiness unique,
At which only the irreverent can scoff,
That is reached by means of brassey, driver, niblick, spoon, or cleek,
And that life is not worth living without Golf.
Well, I hope it may be so; for myself I only know
That I never more shall try another stroke;
Yes, I've wearied of the sport, since a lesson I was taught,
At the place where the old cleek broke.
At which only the irreverent can scoff,
That is reached by means of brassey, driver, niblick, spoon, or cleek,
And that life is not worth living without Golf.
Well, I hope it may be so; for myself I only know
That I never more shall try another stroke;
Yes, I've wearied of the sport, since a lesson I was taught,
At the place where the old cleek broke.
THE HOMES OF LONDON
(After Mrs. Hemans)
The happy homes of London,
How beautiful they stand!
The crowded human rookeries
That mar this Christian land.
Where cats in hordes upon the roof
For nightly music meet,
And the horse, with non-adhesive hoof,
Skates slowly down the street.
How beautiful they stand!
The crowded human rookeries
That mar this Christian land.
Where cats in hordes upon the roof
For nightly music meet,
And the horse, with non-adhesive hoof,
Skates slowly down the street.
The merry homes of London!
Around bare hearths at night,
With hungry looks and sickly mien,
The children wail and fight.
There woman's voice is only heard
In shrill, abusive key,
And men can hardly speak a word
That is not blasphemy.
Around bare hearths at night,
With hungry looks and sickly mien,
The children wail and fight.
There woman's voice is only heard
In shrill, abusive key,
And men can hardly speak a word
That is not blasphemy.
The healthy homes of London!
With weekly wifely wage,
The hopeless husbands, out of work,
Their daily thirst assuage.
The overcrowded tenement
Is comfortless and bare,
The atmosphere is redolent
Of hunger and despair.
With weekly wifely wage,
The hopeless husbands, out of work,
Their daily thirst assuage.
The overcrowded tenement
Is comfortless and bare,
The atmosphere is redolent
Of hunger and despair.
The blessed homes of London!
By thousands, on her stones,
The helpless, homeless, destitute,
Do nightly rest their bones.
On pavements Piccadilly way,
In slumber like the dead,
Their wan pathetic forms they lay,
And make their humble bed.
By thousands, on her stones,
The helpless, homeless, destitute,
Do nightly rest their bones.
On pavements Piccadilly way,
In slumber like the dead,
Their wan pathetic forms they lay,
And make their humble bed.
The free, fair homes of London!
From all the thinking throng,
Who mourn a nation's apathy,
The cry goes up, 'How long!'
And those who love old England's name,
Her welfare and renown,
Can only contemplate with shame
The homes of London town.
From all the thinking throng,
Who mourn a nation's apathy,
The cry goes up, 'How long!'
And those who love old England's name,
Her welfare and renown,
Can only contemplate with shame
The homes of London town.
THE HAPPIEST LAND
(After Longfellow)
There sat one day in a tavern,
Somewhere near Lincoln's Inn,
Six sleepy-looking working men,
Imbibing 'twos' of gin.
Somewhere near Lincoln's Inn,
Six sleepy-looking working men,
Imbibing 'twos' of gin.
The Potman filled their tankards
With the liquor each preferred,
Torpid and somnolent they sat,
And spake not one rude word.
With the liquor each preferred,
Torpid and somnolent they sat,
And spake not one rude word.
But when the potman vanished,
A brawny Scot stood forth;
'Change here,' quoth he, 'for Aberdeen,
Strathpeffer and the North!
A brawny Scot stood forth;
'Change here,' quoth he, 'for Aberdeen,
Strathpeffer and the North!
'No country in the world, I ken,
With Scotia can compare,
With all the dour and canny men,
And the bonnie lasses there.
With Scotia can compare,
With all the dour and canny men,
And the bonnie lasses there.
'I hae a wee bit hoosie,
An' a burn runs greetin' by,
An' unco crockit Minister
An' a bairn to milk the ki';
An' a burn runs greetin' by,
An' unco crockit Minister
An' a bairn to milk the ki';
'I hae a muckle haggis,
A bap an' a skian-dhu,
A cairngorm and a bannock,
An' a sonsy kailyard too!'
A bap an' a skian-dhu,
A cairngorm and a bannock,
An' a sonsy kailyard too!'
'Bejabers!' said an Irishman,
'Acushla and Ochone!
There's but one country on the Earth,
Ould Oireland stands alone!
'Acushla and Ochone!
There's but one country on the Earth,
Ould Oireland stands alone!
'Give me the Emerald Isle, avick!
With murphies for to ate,
An' as many pigs and childer
As the fingers on me fate.'
With murphies for to ate,
An' as many pigs and childer
As the fingers on me fate.'
Exclaimed a Frenchman, 'Par Exemple!
Donnez-moi ma Patrie!
Vin ordinaire and savoir faire
Are good enough for me!
Donnez-moi ma Patrie!
Vin ordinaire and savoir faire
Are good enough for me!
'Have you the penknife of my Aunt?
Mais non, hélas! but then,
The female gardener has got
Some paper and a pen!'
Mais non, hélas! but then,
The female gardener has got
Some paper and a pen!'
Then spoke a Greek, 'The Isles of Greece!
What can compare with those?
Thalassa! and Eurêka!
Rhododaktylos êôs!'
What can compare with those?
Thalassa! and Eurêka!
Rhododaktylos êôs!'
'On London streets I'm working,
With a vat of asphalt stew,
Putting off the old macadam,
And a-laying down the new;
With a vat of asphalt stew,
Putting off the old macadam,
And a-laying down the new;
'But the country of my childhood
Is the best that man may know,
Oh didêmi also phêmi,
Zôê mou sas agapô!'
Is the best that man may know,
Oh didêmi also phêmi,
Zôê mou sas agapô!'
Straight rose a German and remarked
'Vot of die Vaterland?
Ach Himmel! Unberüfen!
And the luffly German band?
'Vot of die Vaterland?
Ach Himmel! Unberüfen!
And the luffly German band?
'Gif me some Gotterdammerung,
And nuddings more I need,
But ewigkeit and sauerkraut
And niebelungenlied!'
And nuddings more I need,
But ewigkeit and sauerkraut
And niebelungenlied!'
'Nonsense!' exclaimed an Englishman.
('I surely ought to know!)
Old England is the only place
Where any man should go!
('I surely ought to know!)
Old England is the only place
Where any man should go!
'Show me the something furriner
Who such a fact denies,
And, if I can't convince 'im,
I can black 'is bloomin' eyes!'
Who such a fact denies,
And, if I can't convince 'im,
I can black 'is bloomin' eyes!'
Then entered in the potman,
And pointed to the door;
'Outside,' said he, 'is where you'll go,
If I have any more!'
And pointed to the door;
'Outside,' said he, 'is where you'll go,
If I have any more!'
. . . . .
It was six friendly working men,
Brimming with 'twos' of gin,
Who crept from out the tavern,
As the Dawn came creeping in.
Brimming with 'twos' of gin,
Who crept from out the tavern,
As the Dawn came creeping in.
A LONDON INVOLUNTARY
(After W. E. Henley)
Spizzicato non poco skirtsando
Old Palace Yard!
Hark how their breath draws lank and hard,
The sallow stern police!
Breaking the desultory midnight peace
With plangent call, to cry
'Division'! This their first especial charge.
And now, low, luminous, and large,
The slumbrous Member hurries by.
Let us take cab, Dear Heart, take cab and go
From out the lith of this loud world (I know
The meaning of the word). Come, let us hie
To where the lamp-posts ouch the troubled sky,—
(And if there is one thing for which I vouch
It is my knowledge of the verb to ouch.)
So, as we steal
Homeward together, we shall feel
The buxom breeze,—
(Observe the epithet; an apt one, if you please.)
Down through the sober paven street,
Which, purged and sweet,
Gleams in the ambient deluge of the water-cart,
Bemused and blurred and pinkly lustrous, where
The blandest lion in Trafalgar Square
Seems but a part
Of the great continent of light,—
An attribute of the embittered night,—
How new, how naked and how clean!
Couchant, slow, shimmering, superb!
Constant to one environment, nor even seen
Pottering aimlessly along the kerb.
Lo!
On the pavement, one of those
Grim men who go down to the sea in ships,
Blaspheming, reeling in a foul ellipse,
Home to some tangled alley-bedside goes,—
Oozing and flushed, sharing his elemental mirth
With all the jocund undissembling earth;
Drooping his shameless nose,
Nor hitching up his drifting, shifting clothes.
And here is Piccadilly! Loudly dense,
Intractable, voluminous, immense!
(Dear, dear my heart's desire, can I be talking sense?)
Hark how their breath draws lank and hard,
The sallow stern police!
Breaking the desultory midnight peace
With plangent call, to cry
'Division'! This their first especial charge.
And now, low, luminous, and large,
The slumbrous Member hurries by.
Let us take cab, Dear Heart, take cab and go
From out the lith of this loud world (I know
The meaning of the word). Come, let us hie
To where the lamp-posts ouch the troubled sky,—
(And if there is one thing for which I vouch
It is my knowledge of the verb to ouch.)
So, as we steal
Homeward together, we shall feel
The buxom breeze,—
(Observe the epithet; an apt one, if you please.)
Down through the sober paven street,
Which, purged and sweet,
Gleams in the ambient deluge of the water-cart,
Bemused and blurred and pinkly lustrous, where
The blandest lion in Trafalgar Square
Seems but a part
Of the great continent of light,—
An attribute of the embittered night,—
How new, how naked and how clean!
Couchant, slow, shimmering, superb!
Constant to one environment, nor even seen
Pottering aimlessly along the kerb.
Lo!
On the pavement, one of those
Grim men who go down to the sea in ships,
Blaspheming, reeling in a foul ellipse,
Home to some tangled alley-bedside goes,—
Oozing and flushed, sharing his elemental mirth
With all the jocund undissembling earth;
Drooping his shameless nose,
Nor hitching up his drifting, shifting clothes.
And here is Piccadilly! Loudly dense,
Intractable, voluminous, immense!
(Dear, dear my heart's desire, can I be talking sense?)
BLUEBEARD
Yes, I am Bluebeard, and my name
Is one that children cannot stand;
Yet once I used to be so tame
I'd eat out of a person's hand;
So gentle was I wont to be,
A Curate might have played with me.
Is one that children cannot stand;
Yet once I used to be so tame
I'd eat out of a person's hand;
So gentle was I wont to be,
A Curate might have played with me.
People accord me little praise,
Yet I am not the least alarming;
I can recall, in bygone days,
A maid once said she thought me charming.
She was my friend,—no more I vow,—
And—she's in an asylum now.
Yet I am not the least alarming;
I can recall, in bygone days,
A maid once said she thought me charming.
She was my friend,—no more I vow,—
And—she's in an asylum now.
Girls used to clamour for my hand,
Girls I refused in simple dozens;
I said I'd be their brother, and
They promised they would be my cousins.
(One I accepted,—more or less,—
But I've forgotten her address.)
Girls I refused in simple dozens;
I said I'd be their brother, and
They promised they would be my cousins.
(One I accepted,—more or less,—
But I've forgotten her address.)
They worried me like anything
By their proposals ev'ry day;
Until at last I had to ring
The bell, and have them cleared away;
They longed to share my lofty rank,
Also my balance at the bank.
By their proposals ev'ry day;
Until at last I had to ring
The bell, and have them cleared away;
They longed to share my lofty rank,
Also my balance at the bank.
My hospitality to those
Whom I invite to come and stay
Is famed; my wine like water flows,—
Exactly like, some people say;
But this is mere impertinence
To one who never spares expense.
Whom I invite to come and stay
Is famed; my wine like water flows,—
Exactly like, some people say;
But this is mere impertinence
To one who never spares expense.
When through the streets I walk about,
My subjects stand and kiss their hands,
Raise a refined metallic shout,
Wave flags and warble tunes on bands;
While bunting hangs on ev'ry front,—
With my commands to let it bunt!
My subjects stand and kiss their hands,
Raise a refined metallic shout,
Wave flags and warble tunes on bands;
While bunting hangs on ev'ry front,—
With my commands to let it bunt!
When I come home again, of course,
Retainers are employed to cheer,
My paid domestics get quite hoarse
Acclaiming me, and you can hear
The welkin ringing to the sky,—
Ay, ay, and let it welk, say I!
Retainers are employed to cheer,
My paid domestics get quite hoarse
Acclaiming me, and you can hear
The welkin ringing to the sky,—
Ay, ay, and let it welk, say I!
And yet, in spite of this, there are
Some persons who, at diff'rent times,
—(Because I am so popular)—
Accuse me of most awful crimes;
A girl once said I was a flirt!
Oh my! how the expression hurt!
Some persons who, at diff'rent times,
—(Because I am so popular)—
Accuse me of most awful crimes;
A girl once said I was a flirt!
Oh my! how the expression hurt!
I never flirted in the least,
Never for very long, I mean,—
Ask any lady (now deceased)
Who partner of my life has been;—
Oh well, of course, sometimes, perhaps,
I meet a girl, like other chaps,—
Never for very long, I mean,—
Ask any lady (now deceased)
Who partner of my life has been;—
Oh well, of course, sometimes, perhaps,
I meet a girl, like other chaps,—
And, if I like her very much,
And if she cares for me a bit,
Where is the harm of look or touch,
If neither of us mentions it?
It isn't right, I don't suppose,
But no one's hurt if no one knows!
And if she cares for me a bit,
Where is the harm of look or touch,
If neither of us mentions it?
It isn't right, I don't suppose,
But no one's hurt if no one knows!
One should not break oneself too fast
Of little habits of this sort,
Which may be definitely classed
With gambling, or a taste for port;
They should be slowly dropped, until
The Heart is subject to the Will.
Of little habits of this sort,
Which may be definitely classed
With gambling, or a taste for port;
They should be slowly dropped, until
The Heart is subject to the Will.
I knew a man (in Regent Street)
Who, at a very slight expense,
By persevering, was complete-
Ly cured of Total Abstinence
An altered life he has begun
And takes a glass with any one.
Who, at a very slight expense,
By persevering, was complete-
Ly cured of Total Abstinence
An altered life he has begun
And takes a glass with any one.
I knew another man, whose wife
Was an invet'rate suicide;
She daily strove to take her life,
And (naturally) nearly died;
But some such system she essayed,
And now—she's eighty in the shade.
Was an invet'rate suicide;
She daily strove to take her life,
And (naturally) nearly died;
But some such system she essayed,
And now—she's eighty in the shade.
Ah, the new leaves I try to turn!
But, like so many men in town,
I seem (as with regret I learn)
Merely to turn the corner down;
A habit which, I fear, alack!
Makes it more easy to turn back.
But, like so many men in town,
I seem (as with regret I learn)
Merely to turn the corner down;
A habit which, I fear, alack!
Makes it more easy to turn back.
I have been criticised a lot;
I venture to inquire what for?
Because, forsooth, I have not got
The instincts of a bachelor!
Just hear my story, you will find
How grossly I have been maligned.
I venture to inquire what for?
Because, forsooth, I have not got
The instincts of a bachelor!
Just hear my story, you will find
How grossly I have been maligned.
I was unlucky with my wives,
So are the most of married men;
Undoubtedly they lost their lives,—
Of course, but even so, what then?
I loved them like no other man,
And I can love, you bet I can!
So are the most of married men;
Undoubtedly they lost their lives,—
Of course, but even so, what then?
I loved them like no other man,
And I can love, you bet I can!
My first was little Emmeline,
More beautiful than day was she;
Her proud, aristocratic mien
Was what at once attracted me.
I naturally did not know
That I should soon dislike her so.
More beautiful than day was she;
Her proud, aristocratic mien
Was what at once attracted me.
I naturally did not know
That I should soon dislike her so.
But there it was! And you'll infer
I had not very long to wait
Before my red-hot love for her
Turned to unutterable hate.
So, when this state of things I found,
I had her casually drowned.
I had not very long to wait
Before my red-hot love for her
Turned to unutterable hate.
So, when this state of things I found,
I had her casually drowned.
My next was Sarah, sweet but shy,
And quite inordinately meek;
Yes, even now I wonder why
I had her hanged within the week;
Perhaps I felt a bit upset,
Or else she bored me. I forget.
And quite inordinately meek;
Yes, even now I wonder why
I had her hanged within the week;
Perhaps I felt a bit upset,
Or else she bored me. I forget.
Then came Evangeline, my third,
And when I chanced to be away,
She, so I subsequently heard,
Was wont (I deeply grieve to say)
With my small retinue to flirt.
I strangled her. I hope it hurt.
And when I chanced to be away,
She, so I subsequently heard,
Was wont (I deeply grieve to say)
With my small retinue to flirt.
I strangled her. I hope it hurt.
Isabel was, I think, my next,—
(That is, if I remember right),—
And I was really very vexed
To find her hair come off at night;
To falsehood I could not connive,
And so I had her boiled alive.
(That is, if I remember right),—
And I was really very vexed
To find her hair come off at night;
To falsehood I could not connive,
And so I had her boiled alive.
Then came Sophia, I believe,
Her coiffure was at least her own;
Alas! she fancied to deceive
Her friends, by altering its tone.
She dyed her locks a flaming red!
I suffocated her in bed.
Her coiffure was at least her own;
Alas! she fancied to deceive
Her friends, by altering its tone.
She dyed her locks a flaming red!
I suffocated her in bed.
Susannah Maud was number six,
But she did not survive a day;
Poor Sue, she had no parlour tricks,
And hardly anything to say.
A little strychnine in her tea
Finished her off, and I was free.
But she did not survive a day;
Poor Sue, she had no parlour tricks,
And hardly anything to say.
A little strychnine in her tea
Finished her off, and I was free.
Yet I did not despair, and soon,
In spite of failures, started off
Upon my seventh honeymoon,
With Jane; but could not stand her cough.
'Twas chronic. Kindness was in vain.
I pushed her underneath the train.
In spite of failures, started off
Upon my seventh honeymoon,
With Jane; but could not stand her cough.
'Twas chronic. Kindness was in vain.
I pushed her underneath the train.
Well, after her, I married Kate,
A most unpleasant woman. Oh!
I caught her at the garden gate,
Kissing a man I didn't know;
And, as that didn't suit me quite,
I blew her up with dynamite.
A most unpleasant woman. Oh!
I caught her at the garden gate,
Kissing a man I didn't know;
And, as that didn't suit me quite,
I blew her up with dynamite.
Most married men, so sorely tried
As this, would have been rather bored.
Not I, but chose another bride,
And married Ruth. Alas! she snored!
I served her just the same as Kate,
And so she joined the other eight.
As this, would have been rather bored.
Not I, but chose another bride,
And married Ruth. Alas! she snored!
I served her just the same as Kate,
And so she joined the other eight.
My last was Grace; I am not clear,
I think she didn't like me much;
She used to scream when I came near,
And shuddered at my lightest touch.
She seemed to wish to keep aloof,
And so I threw her off the roof.
I think she didn't like me much;
She used to scream when I came near,
And shuddered at my lightest touch.
She seemed to wish to keep aloof,
And so I threw her off the roof.
This is the point I wish to make;—
From all the wives for whom I grieve,
Whose lives I had perforce to take,
Not one complaint did I receive;
And no expense was spared to please
My spouses at their obsequies.
From all the wives for whom I grieve,
Whose lives I had perforce to take,
Not one complaint did I receive;
And no expense was spared to please
My spouses at their obsequies.
My habits, I would have you know,
Are perfect, as they've always been;
You ask if I am good, and go
To church, and keep my fingers clean?
I do, I mean to say I am,
I have the morals of a lamb.
Are perfect, as they've always been;
You ask if I am good, and go
To church, and keep my fingers clean?
I do, I mean to say I am,
I have the morals of a lamb.
In my domains there is no sin,
Virtue is rampant all the time,
Since I so thoughtfully brought in
A bill which legalises crime;
Committing things that are not wrong
Must pall before so very long.
Virtue is rampant all the time,
Since I so thoughtfully brought in
A bill which legalises crime;
Committing things that are not wrong
Must pall before so very long.
And if what you imagine vice
Is not considered so at all,
Crime doesn't seem the least bit nice,
There's no temptation then to fall;
For half the charm of things we do
Is knowing that we oughtn't to.
Is not considered so at all,
Crime doesn't seem the least bit nice,
There's no temptation then to fall;
For half the charm of things we do
Is knowing that we oughtn't to.
Believe me, then, I am not bad,
Though in my youth I had to trek,
Because I happened to have had
Some difficulties with a cheque.
What forgery in some might be
Is absent-mindedness in me!
Though in my youth I had to trek,
Because I happened to have had
Some difficulties with a cheque.
What forgery in some might be
Is absent-mindedness in me!
I know that I was much abused,
No doubt when I was young and rash,
But I should not have been accused
Of misappropriating cash.
I may have sneaked a silver dish;—
Well, you may search me if you wish!
No doubt when I was young and rash,
But I should not have been accused
Of misappropriating cash.
I may have sneaked a silver dish;—
Well, you may search me if you wish!
So, now you see me, more or less,
As I would figure in your thoughts;
A trifle given to excess,
And prone perhaps to vice of sorts;
When tempted, rather apt to fall,
But still—a good chap after all!
As I would figure in your thoughts;
A trifle given to excess,
And prone perhaps to vice of sorts;
When tempted, rather apt to fall,
But still—a good chap after all!
'THE WOMAN WITH THE DEAD SOLES'
(After Stephen Phillips)
Attracted to the frozen river's brink,
Where on a small impromptu snow-swept rink,
The happy skaters darted left and right,
Or circled amorously out of sight,
Some self-supporting; some, like falling stars,
Spread-eagling ankle-weak parabolas;
I watched the human swarm, and I was 'ware
A woman, disarranged, knelt on a chair.
She had cold feet on which she could not run,
And piteously she thawed them in the sun.
Those feet were of a woman that alone
Was kneeling; a pink liquid by her shone,
Which raising to her luminous, lantern jaw,
She sipped; or idly stirred it with a straw.
Upon her hat she wore a kind of fowl,
An hummingbird, I ween, or else an owl.
Then turned to me. I looked the other way,
Trembling; I knew the words she wished to say.
So warm her gaze the blood rushed to my head,
Instinctively I knew her feet were dead.
Amorphous feet, like monumental moons,
Pavement-obliterating, vast, pontoons,
Superbly varnished, to the ice had come,
And now, snow-kissed, frost-fettered, dangled numb.
Gently she spoke,—the while my senses whirled,
Of 'largest circulations in the world';
Wildly she spoke, as babble men in dreams,
Of feeling life's blood 'rushing to extremes';
But I ignored her with deliberate stare,
Until the indelicate thing began to swear.
Sensations as of pins and needles rose,
Apollinaris-like, in tingled toes.
She felt the hungry frost that punctured holes,
Like concentrated seidlitz, in her soles.
Feebly she stept; and sudden was aware
Her feet had gone,—they were no longer there,—
And from her boots was willing to be freed;
She would not keep what she could never need.
Sullenly I consented, and withdrew
From either heel a huge chaotic shoe;
Yet for a time laboriously and slow
She journeyed with her ponderous boots, as though
Along with her she could not help but bear
The bargelike burdens she was wont to wear.
Towards me she reeled; and 'Oh! my Uncle,' cried,
'My Uncle!' but I pushed her to one side,
Then smiled upon her so she could not stay,—
(My smile can frighten motor-cars away):—
While thus I grinned, not knowing what to do,
A belted beadle, in immaculate blue,
Plucked at my sleeve, and shattered my romance,
Wheeling on cushion tires an ambulance.
Deliberately then he laid her there,
Tucked in and bore away; I did not care!
Where on a small impromptu snow-swept rink,
The happy skaters darted left and right,
Or circled amorously out of sight,
Some self-supporting; some, like falling stars,
Spread-eagling ankle-weak parabolas;
I watched the human swarm, and I was 'ware
A woman, disarranged, knelt on a chair.
She had cold feet on which she could not run,
And piteously she thawed them in the sun.
Those feet were of a woman that alone
Was kneeling; a pink liquid by her shone,
Which raising to her luminous, lantern jaw,
She sipped; or idly stirred it with a straw.
Upon her hat she wore a kind of fowl,
An hummingbird, I ween, or else an owl.
Then turned to me. I looked the other way,
Trembling; I knew the words she wished to say.
So warm her gaze the blood rushed to my head,
Instinctively I knew her feet were dead.
Amorphous feet, like monumental moons,
Pavement-obliterating, vast, pontoons,
Superbly varnished, to the ice had come,
And now, snow-kissed, frost-fettered, dangled numb.
Gently she spoke,—the while my senses whirled,
Of 'largest circulations in the world';
Wildly she spoke, as babble men in dreams,
Of feeling life's blood 'rushing to extremes';
But I ignored her with deliberate stare,
Until the indelicate thing began to swear.
Sensations as of pins and needles rose,
Apollinaris-like, in tingled toes.
She felt the hungry frost that punctured holes,
Like concentrated seidlitz, in her soles.
Feebly she stept; and sudden was aware
Her feet had gone,—they were no longer there,—
And from her boots was willing to be freed;
She would not keep what she could never need.
Sullenly I consented, and withdrew
From either heel a huge chaotic shoe;
Yet for a time laboriously and slow
She journeyed with her ponderous boots, as though
Along with her she could not help but bear
The bargelike burdens she was wont to wear.
Towards me she reeled; and 'Oh! my Uncle,' cried,
'My Uncle!' but I pushed her to one side,
Then smiled upon her so she could not stay,—
(My smile can frighten motor-cars away):—
While thus I grinned, not knowing what to do,
A belted beadle, in immaculate blue,
Plucked at my sleeve, and shattered my romance,
Wheeling on cushion tires an ambulance.
Deliberately then he laid her there,
Tucked in and bore away; I did not care!
ROSEMARY
(A Ballad of the Boudoir)
'E'er August be turned to September,
Nor Summer to Autumn as yet,
My darling, you Autumn remember
What Summer so sure to forget.
Nor Summer to Autumn as yet,
My darling, you Autumn remember
What Summer so sure to forget.
'Though age may extinguish the ember
That glowed in our hearts when we met,
Remember, my love, to remember,
And I will forget to forget.
That glowed in our hearts when we met,
Remember, my love, to remember,
And I will forget to forget.
'Who knows but the winds of December
May drift us asunder, my pet;
And if I forget to remember,
Remember, my sweet, to forget!
May drift us asunder, my pet;
And if I forget to remember,
Remember, my sweet, to forget!
'My beauty will fade, as the posy
You gave me that night on the stairs;
My lips will not always be rosy,
My head cannot give itself 'airs.
You gave me that night on the stairs;
My lips will not always be rosy,
My head cannot give itself 'airs.
'Alas! as we both become older,
Existence draws nigh to a close;
So, until I've forgotten your shoulder,
You must not remember my nose.
Existence draws nigh to a close;
So, until I've forgotten your shoulder,
You must not remember my nose.
'Our days were not all sunny weather;
Even so we have nought to regret,—
Ah! let us remember together,
Until we forget to forget!'
Even so we have nought to regret,—
Ah! let us remember together,
Until we forget to forget!'
PORTKNOCKIE'S PORTER
(With apologies to Porphyria's Lover)