King Leopold
So they made a point of parting ev'ry husband from his wifeAnd dividing ev'ry maiden from her lover;If a workman drooped or sickened they would jab him with a knife,And then leave him by the roadside to recover.If he grumbled or grew restive they would amputate a hand,Just to show him how unsafe it was to blubber,Till with infinite solicitude they made him understandThe necessity of cultivating "rubber."Thus the merry work progresses, as it must progress forsooth,While these pioneers are sharp and firm and wary,—And the Congo is reluctantly compelled to own the truthOf that motto "Laborare est orare."Though the Belgians sometimes wonder, on their tenderhearted days,(When the little children scream as they abduct them),If the natives CAN supply sufficient rubber to eraseThe effect of such endeavours to instruct themTho' within the royal bosom a suspicion there may lurkThat these practices offend the sister-nations,That one cannot safely advocate "the sanctity of work,"By a policy of theft and mutilations,—Yet wherever on the Congo Belgium's banner is unfurled,Where the atmosphere is redolent and sunny,I am sure the Monarch's methods must be giving to the worldSomeideas upon the "sanctity of money!"And, if so, I am not boasting when I mention once againThat the Ruler of the Congo has not surely ruled in vain!
So they made a point of parting ev'ry husband from his wifeAnd dividing ev'ry maiden from her lover;If a workman drooped or sickened they would jab him with a knife,And then leave him by the roadside to recover.If he grumbled or grew restive they would amputate a hand,Just to show him how unsafe it was to blubber,Till with infinite solicitude they made him understandThe necessity of cultivating "rubber."
Thus the merry work progresses, as it must progress forsooth,While these pioneers are sharp and firm and wary,—And the Congo is reluctantly compelled to own the truthOf that motto "Laborare est orare."Though the Belgians sometimes wonder, on their tenderhearted days,(When the little children scream as they abduct them),If the natives CAN supply sufficient rubber to eraseThe effect of such endeavours to instruct them
Tho' within the royal bosom a suspicion there may lurkThat these practices offend the sister-nations,That one cannot safely advocate "the sanctity of work,"By a policy of theft and mutilations,—Yet wherever on the Congo Belgium's banner is unfurled,Where the atmosphere is redolent and sunny,I am sure the Monarch's methods must be giving to the worldSomeideas upon the "sanctity of money!"
And, if so, I am not boasting when I mention once againThat the Ruler of the Congo has not surely ruled in vain!
("In my view, the most absolutely perfect club of all would be a club where absolutely every man could get in, it mattered not what he had done in the past."—Bart Kennedy.)
It fills, indeed, a long felt need,This institution, just arisen;We notice here that atmosphereOf restaurant and prison,Of green-room, gambling-hell, saloon,Which makes it an especial boon.That member there with close-cropped hair,Who noisily inhales his luncheon,His flattened nose has felt the blowsOf many a p'liceman's truncheon;The premier cracksman of the City,Is Chairman of our House Committee!That bull-necked youth, with fractured tooth,Discussing Plato with his neighbour,Returned to-day from Holloway,And eighteen months' "hard labour";He'ssucha gentleman, I think,—Or would be, if he didn't drink.We've thieves and crooks upon our books,And all the nimble-fingered gentry;The buccaneer is harboured here,The "shark" has instant entry.Blackmail is practised, too, by all,Who never heard of a black-ball!We gladly take the titled rake,The bankrupt and the unfrocked parson,All those whose vice is loading dice,Or bigamy, or arson.Most of our pilgrims have pursuedThe path of penal servitude.We've anarchists upon our lists,While regicides infest the smoke-room;(Thefaux-bonhommewho brings a bombMust leave it in the cloak-room).Ink for the forger we provide,And strychnine for the suicide.Each member's name is known to fame,As "green-goods man" or quack-physician;We welcome here the pseudo-peer,Or bogus politician.Within the shelter of our foldKing Peter greets King Leopold.Our doors are barred to Scotland Yard;And no precautions are neglected.Come, then, with me, and you shall beImmediately elected,To what with confidence I dubAn "absolutely perfect" club!
It fills, indeed, a long felt need,This institution, just arisen;We notice here that atmosphereOf restaurant and prison,Of green-room, gambling-hell, saloon,Which makes it an especial boon.
That member there with close-cropped hair,Who noisily inhales his luncheon,His flattened nose has felt the blowsOf many a p'liceman's truncheon;The premier cracksman of the City,Is Chairman of our House Committee!
That bull-necked youth, with fractured tooth,Discussing Plato with his neighbour,Returned to-day from Holloway,And eighteen months' "hard labour";He'ssucha gentleman, I think,—Or would be, if he didn't drink.
We've thieves and crooks upon our books,And all the nimble-fingered gentry;The buccaneer is harboured here,The "shark" has instant entry.Blackmail is practised, too, by all,Who never heard of a black-ball!
We gladly take the titled rake,The bankrupt and the unfrocked parson,All those whose vice is loading dice,Or bigamy, or arson.Most of our pilgrims have pursuedThe path of penal servitude.
We've anarchists upon our lists,While regicides infest the smoke-room;(Thefaux-bonhommewho brings a bombMust leave it in the cloak-room).Ink for the forger we provide,And strychnine for the suicide.
Each member's name is known to fame,As "green-goods man" or quack-physician;We welcome here the pseudo-peer,Or bogus politician.Within the shelter of our foldKing Peter greets King Leopold.
Our doors are barred to Scotland Yard;And no precautions are neglected.Come, then, with me, and you shall beImmediately elected,To what with confidence I dubAn "absolutely perfect" club!
Pray observe the stern Reviewer!See with what a piercing lookHe impales, as with a skewer,This unlucky little book!Note his gestures of impatience,As he contemplates, perplex'd,The amazing illustrationsWhich adorn the text!Hear him mutter, as his swivel-Eye converges on the verse,"Any man who writes such drivelMust be capable of worse.Let it be my painful mission,As a literary man,To suppress the whole edition,If a critic can.
Pray observe the stern Reviewer!See with what a piercing lookHe impales, as with a skewer,This unlucky little book!Note his gestures of impatience,As he contemplates, perplex'd,The amazing illustrationsWhich adorn the text!
Hear him mutter, as his swivel-Eye converges on the verse,"Any man who writes such drivelMust be capable of worse.Let it be my painful mission,As a literary man,To suppress the whole edition,If a critic can.
The Reviewer
"More than tedious ev'ry pome is;Ev'ry drawing less than true;Such a trite and trivial tome isQuite unworthy of review.On this balderdash no vocalPraises can my tongue bestow;To the dust-bin of some localPulp-mill let it go!"There its paper, disinfectedBy some cunning artifice,Shall be presently directedTo diviner ends than this.There its pages, expurgatedBy some alchemy abstruse,Shall at length be dedicatedTo a nobler use!"Grim, implacable Reviewer,Do not spurn it with a groan,Tho' your labours may be fewerIf you leave my books alone!'Tis the chief of all your duties—Duties which you strive to shirk—To discover hidden beautiesIn an author's work.Jewels, though perchance elusive,Crowd this casket of a book;'Tis your privilege exclusiveFor these hidden gems to look.When you have adroitly caught them,Their delights you can explainTo a public which has sought themFor so long in vain.Tho' you whelm me with your strictures,Snubs which one might justly call(Like the artist's cruel pictures)The "unkindestcutsof Hall"!Tho' your sneers be fierce and many,Honest censure I respect,And will meekly swallow any-Thing except neglect.Tho' your mouth be far from mealy,Tho' your pen be dipped in gall,Criticise me frankly, freely,—Better thus than not at all!Up the ladder I have crept un-Til I reached a middle rung,Do not let me die "unwept, un-Honoured and unhung."
"More than tedious ev'ry pome is;Ev'ry drawing less than true;Such a trite and trivial tome isQuite unworthy of review.On this balderdash no vocalPraises can my tongue bestow;To the dust-bin of some localPulp-mill let it go!
"There its paper, disinfectedBy some cunning artifice,Shall be presently directedTo diviner ends than this.There its pages, expurgatedBy some alchemy abstruse,Shall at length be dedicatedTo a nobler use!"
Grim, implacable Reviewer,Do not spurn it with a groan,Tho' your labours may be fewerIf you leave my books alone!'Tis the chief of all your duties—Duties which you strive to shirk—To discover hidden beautiesIn an author's work.
Jewels, though perchance elusive,Crowd this casket of a book;'Tis your privilege exclusiveFor these hidden gems to look.When you have adroitly caught them,Their delights you can explainTo a public which has sought themFor so long in vain.
Tho' you whelm me with your strictures,Snubs which one might justly call(Like the artist's cruel pictures)The "unkindestcutsof Hall"!Tho' your sneers be fierce and many,Honest censure I respect,And will meekly swallow any-Thing except neglect.
Tho' your mouth be far from mealy,Tho' your pen be dipped in gall,Criticise me frankly, freely,—Better thus than not at all!Up the ladder I have crept un-Til I reached a middle rung,Do not let me die "unwept, un-Honoured and unhung."
Go, little book, and coyly creepBeneath the pillows of the blest,Whence those who seek in vain for sleepShall drag thee from thy nest;That so thy sedative aromaMay lull them to a state of coma.The infant child who lies awake,Within its tiny trundle-bed,No soothing potion needs to take,If thou art duly read;And hosts of harassed monthly nursesShall bless thy soporific verses.The invalid who cannot restHas but at thy contents to glanceTo hug thee to his fevered breastAnd fall into a trance;And sleepless patients without numberShall hail thee harbinger of slumber.Go then, fond offspring of the Muse,Perform thy deadly work by night,Thou rich man's boon, thou widow's cruse,Thou orphan-child's delight!Appease the heirs from all the agesWith balm from thine hypnotic pages!So in the palace of the king,The mansion of the millionaire,Thy readers shall combine to singThy praises ev'rywhere,Till folks in less exalted placesScream loudly forFamiliar Faces!(When, if their cries are shrill and healthy,Ishall become extremely wealthy!)
Go, little book, and coyly creepBeneath the pillows of the blest,Whence those who seek in vain for sleepShall drag thee from thy nest;That so thy sedative aromaMay lull them to a state of coma.
The infant child who lies awake,Within its tiny trundle-bed,No soothing potion needs to take,If thou art duly read;And hosts of harassed monthly nursesShall bless thy soporific verses.
The invalid who cannot restHas but at thy contents to glanceTo hug thee to his fevered breastAnd fall into a trance;And sleepless patients without numberShall hail thee harbinger of slumber.
Go then, fond offspring of the Muse,Perform thy deadly work by night,Thou rich man's boon, thou widow's cruse,Thou orphan-child's delight!Appease the heirs from all the agesWith balm from thine hypnotic pages!
So in the palace of the king,The mansion of the millionaire,Thy readers shall combine to singThy praises ev'rywhere,Till folks in less exalted placesScream loudly forFamiliar Faces!
(When, if their cries are shrill and healthy,Ishall become extremely wealthy!)