THE poets who write in the magazines
 Have pitched their tents amid sylvan scenes;
 Treading with joy in their lazy lay
 The primrose path of the woodland way,
 They always stop on the road to sing
 Of “the balmy breeze of awakening Spring.”
I know that breeze of the lilting line—
 That breeze is a very old friend of mine;
 That it takes bards in, need cause no surprise—
 For at throwing dust into people’s eyes,
 Facile princeps and also king
 Is “the balmy breeze of awakening Spring.”
It’s the “poet” that’s balmy, and not the breeze,
 When he sings in praise of our English “bise,”
 The wind that blows ’neath the cold gray sky,
 That stabs the chest and inflames the eye;
 It is death that hovers with sable wing
 On “the balmy breeze of awakening Spring.”
I’d sing the song that this breeze deserves,
 But, alas! I’ve “liver” and also “nerves;”
 Sciatica racks me day and night,
 And I haven’t a bronchial tube that’s right;
 And the fiend that all these woes doth bring
 Is “the balmy breeze of awakening Spring.”

Ballad of Old-Time Fogs.

THE sky above my head is fair—
 Not dark, as once it used to be—
 And joy and life are in the air,
 And green is every budding tree
 That, wind-swept, makes its bough to me;
 And all the world is glad and gay,
 Which makes me cry when this I see—
 “Where are the fogs of yesterday?”
My heart is light and void of care—
 Though this year’s months are yet but three—
 I miss the mid-day gas-lamps’ glare,
 I meet the folks who used to flee
 To Southern France and Italy;
 In London now they gladly stay,
 In London spend their £ s. d.—
 Where are the fogs of yesterday?
One shirt till eve I now can wear,
 Which once was quite a rarity,
 And even folks in Bedford Square
 And erstwhile blackest Bloomsbury,
 Can from their windows gaze with glee
 And nod to friends across the way,
 And Auguste says to Stephen G.,
 “Where are the fogs of yesterday?”
Prince, since of them at last we’re free,
 And London ’scapes their cruel sway,
 Why need we care a single D?
 Where are the fogs of yesterday?

Under the Clock.

(AN ACTOR’S SONG.)

[“For the remainder of cast see Under the Clock.”—Theatrical advertisement.]

““UNDER the Clock,” with the rank and file,
 That’s where you have to look for me;
 That is the End of the Century style—
 Vide the “ads.” in the great D. T.
 Well, I suppose we can’t all be starred,
 So the special “ad.” ’s for the finer flock,
 And the common sheep, though it’s rather hard,
 Are huddled together “Beneath the Clock.”
I do my best in my humble way
 When I’m cast for a part that is known as “small”;
 For the minor parts in a high-class play
 May help in its “making,” after all.
 And so when I’m placed below the salt,
 It gives my pride just a passing shock,
 And I own some day I should like to vault
 Up to the “stars” from “Beneath the Clock.”
Actors’ vanity! Yes, you’re right!
 Though I’d rather you called it artists’ pride—
 It’s the battle of life in the mimic fight
 On the boards where so many have fought and died—
 On the world’s great stage, where they’re players all,
 And they feel the pains that we only mock;
 To a favoured few must the “star” “ads.” fall,
 The rest are only “Beneath the Clock.”

The Girl of Forty-seven.

FOND lover, when you come to woo,
 And whisper nothings tender,
 And try to span, as lovers do,
 A waist that once was slender,
 Be not upset if curt rebuff
 Your amorous joy should leaven;
 That sort of thing is apt to huff
 The girl of forty-seven.
That girl, who’s up to every game,
 Knows more than you can teach her;
 With Cupid’s bow it’s vain to aim,
 His arrows rarely reach her.
 The only words to touch her heart
 Are “Coutts” or “Barclay Bevan;”
 Gold-tipped must be the Blind God’s dart
 For girls of forty-seven.
Don’t think by gazing in her eyes
 With simulated rapture,
 Don’t think by sentimental sighs
 Her seasoned heart to capture;
 Just show your banker’s book, my son,
 And if the will of Heaven
 Has blessed your balance, you have won
 The girl of forty-seven.

Conventional Malgré Lui.

CONVENTION is a thing I hate,
 Convention is a thing I scorn;
 And yet, alas! I grieve to state
 I was conventionally born.
 My father and my mother were
 (A curse be on Convention’s head!)
 Two sweethearts—youth and maiden—ere
 They were conventionally wed.
Then came my vaccination, and,
 Convention though I cannot brook,
 I’m given now to understand
 It quite conventionally “took.”
 I cut my teeth—convention! Bah!
 A tear stood in my baby eye;
 Oh, why did I not learn from ma
 That teething babies always cry?
I was an infant, then a child,
 And then a boy, and then a youth;
 Ah! even now it makes me wild—
 But I must tell the bitter truth.
 And then I came to man’s estate;
 You see that I no single jot
 Did from convention deviate,
 And yet I think convention “rot.”
I fell in love! Ah, he who sits
 In judgment on the modern stage
 And tears the common play to bits
 Will understand my frenzied rage.
 I fell in love! Convention’s slave
 To dull convention bowed the knee;
 And in return the maiden gave
 Her love (conventional) to me.
And now I have some girls and boys
 Who grow, and play, and go to school;
 Conventional are all my joys—
 I’m just like any other fool.
 I give off Ibsen to my wife,
 And quote the notes of W. A.;
 But still I lead a common life—
 Convention won’t be kept at bay.
The end, of course, will come at last.
 Oh, may I, like Elijah, rise
 In something safe upon the blast,
 And living pass beyond the skies!
 When quitting earth I’d keep my breath—
 I hope sincerely that I shall—
 I loathe the bare idea of death,
 It is so damn’d conventional.

Home, Sweet Home.

(A WINTER’S TALE.)

THROUGH every chink there roars the blast,
 My stock of coals is falling fast;
 I have a cold that’s come to last,
 I’m booked until the blizzard’s past—
 For home, sweet home.
The fog has filled the house with gloom,
 The blacks lie thick in every room;
 Dim through the mist the gas-jets loom,
 And not unlike a living tomb
 Is home, sweet home.
To devils blue I fall a prey,
 And sit and think the livelong day
 Of happier times when I was gay,
 In winter Edens, far away
 From home, sweet home.
A prisoner I in climes accurst,
 Where fog and frost are at their worst;
 Hullo! What’s that? the pipes have burst!
 A plumber, quick! but save me first
 From home, sweet home!
Fling wide the door and bring a light.
 Hi, cabman! ’Tis an awful night;
 Put down the glass and I’ll sit tight,
 But drive me from the dreadful sight
 Of home, sweet home.
Poor horse, poor horse! Oh, spare the lash!
 His quivering carcass cease to thrash.
 He’s down! the cab has come to smash;
 The snow falls fast, I’ll make a dash
 For home, sweet home.

In Portland Place.

THE world and wife are out of town,
 The blast sweeps down the empty street;
 The bobby in a study brown
 Thinks of the sea upon his beat.
 The cab-horse dozes on the rank,
 The empty ’buses cease to race;
 The hungry cat roams, lean and lank—
 The blinds are down in Portland Place.
The birds still sing in Regent’s Park,
 The ducks emit their bronchial quack;
 But all day long from dawn to dark
 The crossing-sweeper’s trade is slack.
 The Langham porter’s wand’ring eye
 Encounters ne’er a human face;
 No smoke curls upward to the sky—
 The blinds are down in Portland Place.
The thoroughfare is broad and wide,
 The vestry keeps the roadway clean,
 And I can walk on either side,
 Or ’gainst each separate lamp-post lean.
 I’m king of all that I survey—
 As sad as Selkirk’s is my case—
 Oh, soon, to save my reason, may
 The blinds go up in Portland Place!

The Shirt Buttons.

(AFTER SWINBURNE.)

OFF! at the neck and wristband!
 Off!—and laid on the bed!
 And she of the sweet white kist band
 Is the one whom I chose to wed.
 Off! the two pearl-white buttons!
 And yet it is laid out there
 (To return, as it were, to our muttons),
 The shirt I am going to wear.
I list to the bells’ sweet chiming,
 In the still of the Sabbath morn,
 And I ask myself, in rhyming,
 How a buttonless shirt is worn.
 Shall I put myself in a passion,
 And curse the unwifely act,
 Or—which isn’t a poet’s fashion—
 Behave with a little tact?
Shall I show her the shirt and scold her,
 My scarcely a month-wed wife,
 Or wait till our union’s older,
 For the frown and the wordy strife?
 Ah! soul of my soul, my darling,
 No buttonless shirt shall rise
 To set the old Adam snarling
 At his Eve in their Paradise.
Are we twain made one to wrangle,
 That the wifely way’s unlearnt,
 That a shirt has gone wrong in the mangle
 Or a handkerchief’s badly burnt?
 No; never shall wrath be blighting
 The beautiful bliss that buds,
 And I’ll fasten—your love requiting—
 My buttonless shirt with studs.

The Londoner to His Love.

(SONG AND DANCE.)

(N.B.—This American song and dance can only be performed
on the production of a certificate of lunacy signed by three
members of the London County Council.)

OH, come, my love, where the fog lies thick,
 Down in the shadow where the microbes grow;
 We shall catch Na Nonna if we’re only quick,
 Down in the shadow where the microbes grow;
 For our bower is built on London clay,
 Where the gray mist hangs from the dawn of day,
 And the gay young germs of neuralgia play
 Down in the shadow where the microbes grow.
Oh, come, my love, where the sun ne’er smirks,
 Down in the shadow where the microbes grow;
 To the wild wet waste where consumption lurks—
 Down in the shadow where the microbes grow.
 Where the cough makes music, and the bronchial wheeze
 Replies to the echo of the sniff and sneeze,
 And asthma flirts with the cut-throat breeze,
 Down in the shadow where the microbes grow.
Oh, come, my love, and abide with me,
 Down in the shadow where the microbes grow;
 Where the weathercock always points N.E.,
 Down in the shadow where the microbes grow;
 Where the damp drips dank down the dismal wall,
 And the fungi flourish in the mildewed hall,
 And the undertaker is the lord of all,
 Down in the shadow where the microbes grow.

The Eiffel Bonnet.

BEHIND an Eiffel bonnet
 I sat one matinée,
 And, oh, the feathers on it
 Completely hid the play,
 Because that Eiffel bonnet
 Kept bobbing in my way.
That awful Eiffel bonnet,
 It blotted out the scene
 And all the people on it
 Just like a giant screen:
 It was the sort of bonnet
 You couldn’t see between.
The wearer of that bonnet
 Between two friends she sat,
 And swayed (and hence this sonnet)
 Now this way and now that,
 And bent her head and bonnet
 With either side to chat.
To left she moved her bonnet,
 I bent my head to right
 The stage to look upon it;
 But ere I had a sight,
 Back came that Eiffel bonnet
 And blotted out the light.
O awful Eiffel bonnet
 That towers to the sky!
 If ladies still will don it,
 ’Twill happen by-and-by,
 “Down with that Eiffel bonnet!”
 Poor playgoers will cry.
To see a swaying bonnet
 We don’t go to the play,
 ’Tis not to gaze upon it
 Our ten-and-six we pay—
 So d—— the Eiffel bonnet
 That damns the matinée!

To a Fair Musician.

O LADY next door, could your glance on me fall,
 There are times when my lot you would pity,
 And shut the piano that stands by the wall,
 And spare me your favourite ditty.
That music hath charms I’m the last to deny,
 But music from eight to eleven
 Is apt the weak nerves of a poet to try,
 And to hasten his journey to heaven.
In vain in my study on work I’ve in hand
 I endeavour to fix my attention—
 That moment you sit yourself down to your “grand,”
 And I use a nice word I won’t mention.
O lady, I know you are gentle and fair,
 And I grant that you play very nicely;
 But if you are anxious my reason to spare,
 Don’t start, ma’am, at eight so precisely.
I wait for that moment, each nerve on the strain—
 I tremble with wild agitation;
 A thousand sharp needles seem pricking my brain
 And I’m bathed in a cold perspiration.
For I know you’ll commence on the last stroke of eight
 To perform all the morceaux that you know,
 From “ Dorothy,” “Doris,” and “Faust up to Date,”
 From Mendelssohn, Mozart, and Gounod.
O lady next door, could your glance but once fall
 On the eye in which madness is lurking,
 You would move your piano away from the wall,
 And you’d play when the Bard wasn’t working.

A Word for the Police.

THE soldiers of our “City Guard,”
 Through winter snows and summer heats,
 From all the soldiers’ joys debarred,
 Keep watch and ward in London streets.
For them no martial trumpets sound,
 For them there waits no victor’s bay,
 But on the lonely midnight round,
 Unarmed, they face the fiercest fray.
Alone, they brave the brawler’s blows,
 The burglar’s shot, the ruffian’s knife;
 Undaunted, dare a hundred foes,
 And risk, unflinching, limb and life
What heroes, then, have more than they
 To London’s love and honour right,
 These quiet guardians of the day,
 These lonely soldiers of the night?

The Old Clock on the Stairs.

(A Ballad of Broadmoor.)

THERE standeth in my entrance-hall
 A grim grandfather’s clock,
 That holds my inmost heart in thrall,
 And gives it many a shock.
 It has a cruel, cunning face,
 And two long hands that glide
 Like demon fates who run a race
 For ever by my side.
So day by day, and year by year,
 It strikes a ceaseless knell,
 For all that to my heart was dear,
 For all I loved so well.
 It tolls for youth and love and trust,
 For joys and pleasures fled,
 For dreams long gathered to the dust,
 For hopes long cold and dead.
In mournful beats it ticks away
 The moments of my span,
 And makes me, when I would be gay,
 A miserable man.
No other sound the silence breaks,
 Save when with hollow boom
 Its sad sepulchral voice awakes
 The echoes of the tomb.
It shall not tick my life away—
 Its raven croak no more
 Shall tell me that I’m old and gray
 And all my dreams are o’er!
 My fist is through its gloomy face,
 I wring its iron neck—
 Thus! thus! I smash its heartless case,
 And dance upon the wreck.
Hurrah, hurrah! for hope returns,
 The mocking voice is still;
 Within my breast ambition burns,
 And all my pulses thrill.
 That fateful tongue, thank God, I miss,
 I know not how time flies;
 And oh, where ignorance is bliss,
 ’Tis folly to be wise.

My Ambition.

THE hedges are green with the spring,
 The sun is on meadow and lea,
 The little birds merrily sing,
 And the blossom is sweet on the tree.
 I have wandered for many a mile—
 All around is a feast for the eye;
 So I’ll whittle a stick on this stile,
 And I’ll grin as the girls go by.
I am far from the turmoil of town;
 Here is rest in this Devonshire lane—
 Here is rest from the world’s cruel frown,
 Here is rest from the passion and pain.
 Here, forgetting my woes for awhile,
 I will sit ’neath the blue southern sky,
 And whittle a stick on the stile,
 And grin as the girls go by.
Sing on, little bird on the tree;
 Little sunbeam, dance on and be gay;
 Oh, the future is nothing to me!
 And, Memory, please go and play.
 Here, with nothing my temper to rile,
 I would like to remain till I die;
 And whittle a stick on the stile,
 And grin as the girls go by.

A Wish.

WHEN London’s wrapped in filthy fogs,
 When seized are my unmuzzled dogs,
 When full and fierce the east winds blow,
 I wish myself in Jericho!
When all night long the howling cad
 Disturbs my sleep and drives me mad,
 And milk-carts rattle to and fro,
 I wish myself in Jericho.
When snow and slush block up the street,
 And “slides” send skyward both my feet,
 And bang upon my back I go,
 I wish myself in Jericho.
When County Council cranks disgust,
 When schemes that drew my coin go bust,
 When bigots harass every show,
 I wish myself in Jericho.
When frost gives way to sudden thaw,
 And all my pipes have got a flaw,
 And through my house the waters flow,
 I wish myself in Jericho.
When for next Sunday’s Referee
 I have to do my M. and C.
 While in dyspepsia’s direst throe,
 I wish myself in Jericho.

The Song of Heredity.

MY father was a madman, do you wonder I’m insane?
 My mother wasn’t pretty, do you wonder I am plain?
 My father was consumptive, and my hollow cheeks you see;
 Can you wonder I’m a drunkard when my mother had d.t.?
 Science speaks out pretty plainly on “hereditary taint,”
 And the sinner breeds a sinner, as the saint begets a saint;
 Then why call me Ananias, and reproach me, since, forsooth,
 My papa was such a liar that I cannot tell the truth?
When his ancestors for ages by their own mad acts have died,
 Do you wonder that a fellow has a taste for suicide?
 When a nose for generations is the feature of a race,
 And you know a fellow’s surname just by glancing at his face,—
When this modern law of nature throughout all creation runs,
 And it’s odds on roaring racers having only roaring sons,
 Do you think that Ananias you should dub a luckless youth
 Whose papa was such a liar that he cannot tell the truth?

Scotch’d, not Kilt.

(THE KAISER’S SONG.)

Air.—“I winna gang back to my mammy again.”

I WINNA gang back to auld Bizzy again,
 I’ll never gang back to auld Bizzy again;
 I’ve held by his coat-tails this aught months and ten,
 But I’ll never gang back to auld Bizzy again.
 I’ve held by his coat-tails, etc.
Caprivi came down i’ the gloaming to woo,
 He lookit sae bonnie and honest and true;
 “Oh, com’ awa’, Willie, ne’er let Bizzy ken;”
 And I made young Caprivi the best o’ my men,
 Oh, com’ awa’, Willie, etc.
He told me whatever I would I might do,
 And pressed hame his words wi’ a smile on his mou’,
 So I fell on his bosom, and said, “Ye maun reign,
 For aiblins ye’ll leave me a will o’ my ain.”
 So I fell on his bosom, etc.
For many lang months sin’ I cam’ to the crown
 Auld Bizzy’s been hecklin’ and haudin’ me down;
 I’ve held by his coat-tails this aught months and ten,
 But I’ll never gang back to auld Bizzy again.
 I’ve held by his coat-tails, etc.

The Last Resource.

AT forty-three, in broken health,
 The heel of Fate has crushed my pride;
 No joy I find in work or wealth—
 There’s nothing left but suicide.
The wind blows ever from the east;
 It’s madness now my trike to ride;
 My pony’s lame, poor little beast—
 There’s nothing left but suicide.
My hair is thin, my face is fat,
 My waist is spreading far and wide;
 Last week I lost my favourite cat—
 There’s nothing left but suicide.
I am not starred on any bills,
 The critics all my work deride;
 I’m sick of taking draughts and pills—
 There’s nothing left but suicide.
I am too sad to make a joke,
 The girl I love’s another’s bride;
 The doctors will not let me smoke—
 There’s nothing left but suicide.
My house, I find, is built on clay,
 In vain to let it I have tried;
 The income tax is due to-day—
 There’s nothing left but suicide.
What’s this?—a box of chocolates,
 With pale pink ribbon neatly tied?
 The “sweets of life” again, O Fates,
 I taste, and laugh at suicide.

Ye Bars and Gates.

YE bars and gates o’ Bloomsbury,
 How can ye stand so silent there?
 How can ye, knowing ye are doomed,
 From some sma’ signs o’ grief forbear?
 He’ll break his heart, will Bedford’s duke,
 Whose grandeur County Councils spurn,
 As he bemoans his feudal rights—
 Departed never to return.
Ye bars and gates, ye’re comin’ doon;
 No more ye’ll block the freeman’s path,
 And make the traveller lose his train,
 Or rouse the British cabman’s wrath.
 Wi’ lightsome heart we root ye up,
 And leave the streets o’ London free;
 And there’s but one will mourn your loss,
 And that’s his grace the Duke of B.

Portrait of a Prince.

(BY A SOCIETY GOSSIPER.)

He’s the dropsy, he’s the gout,
 And he looks like pegging out;
 And he’s sobbing and he’s sighing all the day—
 All the day.
He is haggard, he is pale,
 And his limbs begin to fail,
 And his whiskers and moustache are going gray—
 Going gray.
He is but a bag of bones,
 And he lies awake and groans,
 When he’s carried by his valet up to bed—
 Up to bed.
He is hollow cheeked and eyed,
 And, though everything is tried,
 He never sleeps a moment for neuralgia in the head—
 In the head.
Bitter tears are in his eyes
 Night and morning, as he cries,
 “Oh, my health is slowly breaking: I’m so ill—
 I’m so ill!
“I shall soon be on the shelf,
 For I’m ‘going’ like a Guelph.
 Please oblige me with my mixture and a pill—
 And a pill.”

(BY HIMSELF.)

Which I simply answer, Rot!
 For Wales hasn’t gone to pot.
 Please to contradict the rumours that are rife—
 That are rife.
Now he’s had a little rest
 Wales can go it with the best,
 And he never felt so jolly in his life—
 In his life.

The Strong Men.

THEY lined the quays on every shore,
 They fought for ships to take them o’er;
 They filled those ships from stern to stem,
 And still there was no end of them.
They came by river, road, and rail,
 By every Continental mail,
 By White Star, Inman, and Cunard,
 And sent the managers a card.
With iron bars and chains of steel,
 A mixture of the sham and real,
 With mighty weights and cannon-balls
 They sought the London music-halls.
From every land beneath the sun,
 And each of them the strongest one,
 They all performed the self-same feats,
 And still they played to big receipts.
Still fiercer grew the strong man boom,
 And still for more the shows made room;
 For, since so much one strong man drew,
 What wealth might there not be in two!
The halls were crowded night and day
 To see strong men with dumb-bells play;
 The playhouse saw its public lost,
 And all but “strong man” was a “frost.”
They put a strong man in the play—
 The first in “London Day by Day”;
 Then Willard cried to Jones, “A plan!
 Put Sandow in ‘The Middleman.’”
“Ah, me!” Pinero said, “too late—
 We might have saved ‘The Profligate.’
 No Tosca and no Bernard-Beere,
 Had we but had a Samson here!”
They filled the houses and the halls,
 They crammed the boxes and the stalls;
 Where’er a strong man did a show,
 They had to add “an extra row.”
The men of strength were Britain’s pride—
 Adored, exalted, deified—
 Till suddenly John Bull awoke,
 And rubbed his eyes and saw the joke.
“Good lord!” he cried, and danced with rage,
 “Have I gone daft in my old age?
 These chaps I’ve seen, I do declare,
 At every common country fair.
“A hundred pounds a week for this!
 Pooh! bosh! here, hang it, let me hiss!
 The chap at fairs who did all that
 Collected coppers in his hat!”
 *     *     *     *
 The strong men, finding all is o’er,
 Have wisely sought another shore;
 But, though they search from sea to sea,
 They’ll never find such fools as we.

A Ballad of Soap.

After Andrew Lang.