A BALLAD OF EELS

Margarine—the prefix “oleo-”Latterly has been effaced,Though no doubt in many a folioOf the grocer’s ledger traced—Once I arrogantly ratedYou below the cheapest lard;Once your “g” enunciated,With pedantic rigour, hard.How your elements were blendedNaught I knew; but wild surmiseHinted horrors that offendedSqueamish and fastidious eyes.Now this view, unjust, unfounded,I recant with deep remorse,Knowing you are not compoundedFrom the carcass of the horse.Still with glances far from genialI beheld you, margarine,And restricted you to menialServices in my cuisine.Still I felt myself unable,Though you helped to fry my fish,To endure you at my tableNestling in the butter-dish.Nowthat I have clearly tracked yourBlameless progress from the nut,I proclaim your manufactureAs a boon, without a “but.”Now I trudge to streets far distant,Humbly in your queue to stand,Till the grocer’s tired assistantDumps the packet in my hand.Though you lack the special savourOf the product of the churn,Still the difference in flavourI’m beginning to unlearn.Thoughts of Devonshire or DorsetFrom my mind have vanished quite,Since the stern demands of war setLimits to my appetite.Butter is of course delicious;But when that is dear and scantWelcome, margarine, nutritiousPalatable lubricant!

Margarine—the prefix “oleo-”Latterly has been effaced,Though no doubt in many a folioOf the grocer’s ledger traced—

Margarine—the prefix “oleo-”

Latterly has been effaced,

Though no doubt in many a folio

Of the grocer’s ledger traced—

Once I arrogantly ratedYou below the cheapest lard;Once your “g” enunciated,With pedantic rigour, hard.

Once I arrogantly rated

You below the cheapest lard;

Once your “g” enunciated,

With pedantic rigour, hard.

How your elements were blendedNaught I knew; but wild surmiseHinted horrors that offendedSqueamish and fastidious eyes.

How your elements were blended

Naught I knew; but wild surmise

Hinted horrors that offended

Squeamish and fastidious eyes.

Now this view, unjust, unfounded,I recant with deep remorse,Knowing you are not compoundedFrom the carcass of the horse.

Now this view, unjust, unfounded,

I recant with deep remorse,

Knowing you are not compounded

From the carcass of the horse.

Still with glances far from genialI beheld you, margarine,And restricted you to menialServices in my cuisine.

Still with glances far from genial

I beheld you, margarine,

And restricted you to menial

Services in my cuisine.

Still I felt myself unable,Though you helped to fry my fish,To endure you at my tableNestling in the butter-dish.

Still I felt myself unable,

Though you helped to fry my fish,

To endure you at my table

Nestling in the butter-dish.

Nowthat I have clearly tracked yourBlameless progress from the nut,I proclaim your manufactureAs a boon, without a “but.”

Nowthat I have clearly tracked your

Blameless progress from the nut,

I proclaim your manufacture

As a boon, without a “but.”

Now I trudge to streets far distant,Humbly in your queue to stand,Till the grocer’s tired assistantDumps the packet in my hand.

Now I trudge to streets far distant,

Humbly in your queue to stand,

Till the grocer’s tired assistant

Dumps the packet in my hand.

Though you lack the special savourOf the product of the churn,Still the difference in flavourI’m beginning to unlearn.

Though you lack the special savour

Of the product of the churn,

Still the difference in flavour

I’m beginning to unlearn.

Thoughts of Devonshire or DorsetFrom my mind have vanished quite,Since the stern demands of war setLimits to my appetite.

Thoughts of Devonshire or Dorset

From my mind have vanished quite,

Since the stern demands of war set

Limits to my appetite.

Butter is of course delicious;But when that is dear and scantWelcome, margarine, nutritiousPalatable lubricant!

Butter is of course delicious;

But when that is dear and scant

Welcome, margarine, nutritious

Palatable lubricant!

[“Lord Desborough has just been reminding us of the neglected source of food supply that we have in the eels of our rivers and ponds. He stated, ‘The food value of an eel is remarkable. In food value one pound of eels is better than a loin of beef.… The greatest eel-breeding establishment in the world is at Comacchio, on the Adriatic. This eel nursery is a gigantic swamp of 140 miles in circumference. It has been in existence for centuries, and in the sixteenth century it yielded an annual revenue of £1,200 to the Pope.’”—Liverpool Daily Post.]

When lowering clouds refuse to liftAnd spread depression far and wide,And when the need of strenuous thriftIs loudly preached on every side,What boundless gratitude one feelsToDesborough, inspiring chief,For telling us: “One pound of eelsIs better than a loin of beef”!Of old, Popes made eel-breeding pay(At least LordDesboroughsays they did),And clearedper annumin this wayTwelve hundred jingling, tingling quid.In fact my brain in anguish reelsTo think we never took a leafOut of the book which taught that eelsAre better than prime cuts of beef.In youth, fastidiously inclined,I own with shame that I eschewed,Like most of my unthinking kind,This luscious and nutritious food;But now thatDesboroughrevealsIts value, with profound beliefI sing with him: “One pound of eelsIs better than a loin of beef.”I chant it loudly in my bath,I chant it when the sun is high,And when the moon pursues her pathNoctambulating through the sky.And when the bill of fare at mealsIs more than usually brief,Again I sing: “One pound of eelsIs better than a loin of beef.”It is a charm that never failsWhen friends accost me in the streetAnd utter agonizing wailsAbout the price of butcher’s meat.“Cheer up,” I tell them, “creels on creelsAre hastening to your relief;Cheer up, my friends, one pound of eelsIs better than a loin of beef.”Then all ye fearful folk, dismayedBy threatened shortage of supplies,Let not your anxious hearts be swayedBy croakers or their dismal cries;But, from Penzance to Galashiels,From Abertillery to Crieff,Remember that “one pound of eelsIs better than a loin of beef.”But these are only pleasant dreamsUnless, to realize our hopes,Proprietors of ponds and streamsRe-stock them, like the early Popes.Then, though we still run short of keelsAnd corn be leaner in the sheaf,We shall at least have endless eels,Unnumbered super-loins of beef.

When lowering clouds refuse to lift

And spread depression far and wide,

And when the need of strenuous thrift

Is loudly preached on every side,

What boundless gratitude one feels

ToDesborough, inspiring chief,

For telling us: “One pound of eels

Is better than a loin of beef”!

Of old, Popes made eel-breeding pay(At least LordDesboroughsays they did),And clearedper annumin this wayTwelve hundred jingling, tingling quid.In fact my brain in anguish reelsTo think we never took a leafOut of the book which taught that eelsAre better than prime cuts of beef.

Of old, Popes made eel-breeding pay

(At least LordDesboroughsays they did),

And clearedper annumin this way

Twelve hundred jingling, tingling quid.

In fact my brain in anguish reels

To think we never took a leaf

Out of the book which taught that eels

Are better than prime cuts of beef.

In youth, fastidiously inclined,I own with shame that I eschewed,Like most of my unthinking kind,This luscious and nutritious food;But now thatDesboroughrevealsIts value, with profound beliefI sing with him: “One pound of eelsIs better than a loin of beef.”

In youth, fastidiously inclined,

I own with shame that I eschewed,

Like most of my unthinking kind,

This luscious and nutritious food;

But now thatDesboroughreveals

Its value, with profound belief

I sing with him: “One pound of eels

Is better than a loin of beef.”

I chant it loudly in my bath,I chant it when the sun is high,And when the moon pursues her pathNoctambulating through the sky.And when the bill of fare at mealsIs more than usually brief,Again I sing: “One pound of eelsIs better than a loin of beef.”

I chant it loudly in my bath,

I chant it when the sun is high,

And when the moon pursues her path

Noctambulating through the sky.

And when the bill of fare at meals

Is more than usually brief,

Again I sing: “One pound of eels

Is better than a loin of beef.”

It is a charm that never failsWhen friends accost me in the streetAnd utter agonizing wailsAbout the price of butcher’s meat.“Cheer up,” I tell them, “creels on creelsAre hastening to your relief;Cheer up, my friends, one pound of eelsIs better than a loin of beef.”

It is a charm that never fails

When friends accost me in the street

And utter agonizing wails

About the price of butcher’s meat.

“Cheer up,” I tell them, “creels on creels

Are hastening to your relief;

Cheer up, my friends, one pound of eels

Is better than a loin of beef.”

Then all ye fearful folk, dismayedBy threatened shortage of supplies,Let not your anxious hearts be swayedBy croakers or their dismal cries;But, from Penzance to Galashiels,From Abertillery to Crieff,Remember that “one pound of eelsIs better than a loin of beef.”

Then all ye fearful folk, dismayed

By threatened shortage of supplies,

Let not your anxious hearts be swayed

By croakers or their dismal cries;

But, from Penzance to Galashiels,

From Abertillery to Crieff,

Remember that “one pound of eels

Is better than a loin of beef.”

But these are only pleasant dreamsUnless, to realize our hopes,Proprietors of ponds and streamsRe-stock them, like the early Popes.Then, though we still run short of keelsAnd corn be leaner in the sheaf,We shall at least have endless eels,Unnumbered super-loins of beef.

But these are only pleasant dreams

Unless, to realize our hopes,

Proprietors of ponds and streams

Re-stock them, like the early Popes.

Then, though we still run short of keels

And corn be leaner in the sheaf,

We shall at least have endless eels,

Unnumbered super-loins of beef.

[Being a faithful effort to versify the article written by Dr.E. I. Spriggs, at the request of theFood Controller, on the food requirements of people of different ages and build.]

Good people, who long for a leadOn the paramount crux of the time,I pray you give diligent heedTo the lessons I weave into rhyme;And first, let us note, one and all—Whether living in castle or “digs”—“Large people need more than the small,”For that’s the first maxim ofSpriggs.Now, as most of the food that we eatIs wanted for keeping us warm,The requisite quota of heatIs largely a question of form;And the ratio of surface to weight,As anyone readily twigs,Is the root of the point in debateAs sagely expounded bySpriggs.Hence the more we resemble a sphereLess heat on the surface is lost,And the needful supply, it is clear,Is maintained at less lavish a cost;’Tis economy, then, to be plumpAs partridges, puffins or pigs,Who are never a prey to the hump,So at least I interpret mySpriggs.Next, the harder it freezes or snowsThe greater the value of fat,And the larger the appetite growsOf John, Sandy, Taffy and Pat.(Conversely, in Midsummer days,When liquid more freely one swigs,Less viand the appetite stays—This quatrain’s a gloss uponSpriggs.)For strenuous muscular workA larger allowance of grubWe need than is due if we shirkExertion, and lounge in a pub;For the loafer who rests in a chairEverlastingly puffing at “cigs”Can live pretty nearly on air,So I gather at least from mySpriggs.Why children need plentiful foodHe nextly proceeds to relate:Their capacity’s larger than you’dBe disposed to infer from their weight;They’re growing in bulk and in height,They’re normally active as grigs,And exercise breeds appetite—This stanza is absoluteSpriggs.Last of all, with an eloquent pleaFor porridge at breakfast in placeOf the loaf, and for oatcake at teaA similar gap to efface;For potatoless dinners—with rice,For puddings of maize and of figs,Which are filling, nutritious and nice—Thus ends the Epistle ofSpriggs.

Good people, who long for a lead

On the paramount crux of the time,

I pray you give diligent heed

To the lessons I weave into rhyme;

And first, let us note, one and all—

Whether living in castle or “digs”—

“Large people need more than the small,”

For that’s the first maxim ofSpriggs.

Now, as most of the food that we eatIs wanted for keeping us warm,The requisite quota of heatIs largely a question of form;And the ratio of surface to weight,As anyone readily twigs,Is the root of the point in debateAs sagely expounded bySpriggs.

Now, as most of the food that we eat

Is wanted for keeping us warm,

The requisite quota of heat

Is largely a question of form;

And the ratio of surface to weight,

As anyone readily twigs,

Is the root of the point in debate

As sagely expounded bySpriggs.

Hence the more we resemble a sphereLess heat on the surface is lost,And the needful supply, it is clear,Is maintained at less lavish a cost;’Tis economy, then, to be plumpAs partridges, puffins or pigs,Who are never a prey to the hump,So at least I interpret mySpriggs.

Hence the more we resemble a sphere

Less heat on the surface is lost,

And the needful supply, it is clear,

Is maintained at less lavish a cost;

’Tis economy, then, to be plump

As partridges, puffins or pigs,

Who are never a prey to the hump,

So at least I interpret mySpriggs.

Next, the harder it freezes or snowsThe greater the value of fat,And the larger the appetite growsOf John, Sandy, Taffy and Pat.(Conversely, in Midsummer days,When liquid more freely one swigs,Less viand the appetite stays—This quatrain’s a gloss uponSpriggs.)

Next, the harder it freezes or snows

The greater the value of fat,

And the larger the appetite grows

Of John, Sandy, Taffy and Pat.

(Conversely, in Midsummer days,

When liquid more freely one swigs,

Less viand the appetite stays—

This quatrain’s a gloss uponSpriggs.)

For strenuous muscular workA larger allowance of grubWe need than is due if we shirkExertion, and lounge in a pub;For the loafer who rests in a chairEverlastingly puffing at “cigs”Can live pretty nearly on air,So I gather at least from mySpriggs.

For strenuous muscular work

A larger allowance of grub

We need than is due if we shirk

Exertion, and lounge in a pub;

For the loafer who rests in a chair

Everlastingly puffing at “cigs”

Can live pretty nearly on air,

So I gather at least from mySpriggs.

Why children need plentiful foodHe nextly proceeds to relate:Their capacity’s larger than you’dBe disposed to infer from their weight;They’re growing in bulk and in height,They’re normally active as grigs,And exercise breeds appetite—This stanza is absoluteSpriggs.

Why children need plentiful food

He nextly proceeds to relate:

Their capacity’s larger than you’d

Be disposed to infer from their weight;

They’re growing in bulk and in height,

They’re normally active as grigs,

And exercise breeds appetite—

This stanza is absoluteSpriggs.

Last of all, with an eloquent pleaFor porridge at breakfast in placeOf the loaf, and for oatcake at teaA similar gap to efface;For potatoless dinners—with rice,For puddings of maize and of figs,Which are filling, nutritious and nice—Thus ends the Epistle ofSpriggs.

Last of all, with an eloquent plea

For porridge at breakfast in place

Of the loaf, and for oatcake at tea

A similar gap to efface;

For potatoless dinners—with rice,

For puddings of maize and of figs,

Which are filling, nutritious and nice—

Thus ends the Epistle ofSpriggs.

A jocular burden rings in my earOfButter and eggs and a pound of cheese;It tells of good cheer ere food was dear,Of a time of plenty and peace and ease.With bread thrown in there was ample fareInButter and eggs and a pound of cheeseFor men to repair all the wear and tearOf bodily tissue, though busy as bees.Carnivorous folk might ask for moreThanButter and eggs and a pound of cheese,But that was before the stress of warHad simplified meals with a steady squeeze.For butter has almost fled from our ken,And eggs are fetching enormous fees,And the laying hen is on strike again,And my grocer has run clean out of cheese.So I’m bidding good-bye to the old refrain—It isn’t attuned to times like these—And I sing this strain as I stand in the rain,Margarine, rice and potatoes, please!

A jocular burden rings in my earOfButter and eggs and a pound of cheese;It tells of good cheer ere food was dear,Of a time of plenty and peace and ease.

A jocular burden rings in my ear

OfButter and eggs and a pound of cheese;

It tells of good cheer ere food was dear,

Of a time of plenty and peace and ease.

With bread thrown in there was ample fareInButter and eggs and a pound of cheeseFor men to repair all the wear and tearOf bodily tissue, though busy as bees.

With bread thrown in there was ample fare

InButter and eggs and a pound of cheese

For men to repair all the wear and tear

Of bodily tissue, though busy as bees.

Carnivorous folk might ask for moreThanButter and eggs and a pound of cheese,But that was before the stress of warHad simplified meals with a steady squeeze.

Carnivorous folk might ask for more

ThanButter and eggs and a pound of cheese,

But that was before the stress of war

Had simplified meals with a steady squeeze.

For butter has almost fled from our ken,And eggs are fetching enormous fees,And the laying hen is on strike again,And my grocer has run clean out of cheese.

For butter has almost fled from our ken,

And eggs are fetching enormous fees,

And the laying hen is on strike again,

And my grocer has run clean out of cheese.

So I’m bidding good-bye to the old refrain—It isn’t attuned to times like these—And I sing this strain as I stand in the rain,Margarine, rice and potatoes, please!

So I’m bidding good-bye to the old refrain—

It isn’t attuned to times like these—

And I sing this strain as I stand in the rain,

Margarine, rice and potatoes, please!

“I wear my very oldest suits,I go about in shocking boots,And (bar potatoes) feed on roots,And various cereal substitutesFor wheat, and non-imported fruits.No meat my table now pollutes,But, though I spare warm-blooded brutes,I sometimes sup on frogs and newts.I often spend laborious daysSupported by a little maize;And rice prepared in divers waysMy appetite at luncheon stays.From sugar I avert my gaze;Unsweetened tea my thirst allays;I never go to any playsOr smoke expensive Henry Clays.”Our excellent EconomistHis pet extravagance forgets,Which rather spoils his little list—His fifty daily cigarettes.

“I wear my very oldest suits,

I go about in shocking boots,

And (bar potatoes) feed on roots,

And various cereal substitutes

For wheat, and non-imported fruits.

No meat my table now pollutes,

But, though I spare warm-blooded brutes,

I sometimes sup on frogs and newts.

I often spend laborious daysSupported by a little maize;And rice prepared in divers waysMy appetite at luncheon stays.From sugar I avert my gaze;Unsweetened tea my thirst allays;I never go to any playsOr smoke expensive Henry Clays.”

I often spend laborious days

Supported by a little maize;

And rice prepared in divers ways

My appetite at luncheon stays.

From sugar I avert my gaze;

Unsweetened tea my thirst allays;

I never go to any plays

Or smoke expensive Henry Clays.”

Our excellent EconomistHis pet extravagance forgets,Which rather spoils his little list—His fifty daily cigarettes.

Our excellent Economist

His pet extravagance forgets,

Which rather spoils his little list—

His fifty daily cigarettes.

Much obloquy was thine in days of yore,O Porker, and thy service manifold(Save for a casual mention, curt and cold)Ungrateful man continued to ignore;Nay worse, he ceased not daily to outpourAbuse upon thy breed, to sneer and scold,Till every porcine trait, in days of old,We learned to ridicule or to abhor.But now the days of calumny are past,These cruel innuendoes we disown,And epithets designed to blame or blastTake on a new and honorific tone;For England needs thee, blameless Porker, now,AndProtherosalutes the sovereign sow.

Much obloquy was thine in days of yore,

O Porker, and thy service manifold

(Save for a casual mention, curt and cold)

Ungrateful man continued to ignore;

Nay worse, he ceased not daily to outpour

Abuse upon thy breed, to sneer and scold,

Till every porcine trait, in days of old,

We learned to ridicule or to abhor.

But now the days of calumny are past,These cruel innuendoes we disown,And epithets designed to blame or blastTake on a new and honorific tone;For England needs thee, blameless Porker, now,AndProtherosalutes the sovereign sow.

But now the days of calumny are past,

These cruel innuendoes we disown,

And epithets designed to blame or blast

Take on a new and honorific tone;

For England needs thee, blameless Porker, now,

AndProtherosalutes the sovereign sow.

(With grateful acknowledgments to the anonymous but urbane author of “Bath in History and Social Traditions.”)

Fair city, thoughKing Bladudand his storyIs largely wrapt in mythologic mistAnd legends of your fame in ages hoaryAre scouted by the sceptic annalist,One century at least of crowded gloryInspires a recent genial eulogistAnd prompts a humble rhymer to rehearseYour merits in a piece of jingling verse.I pass the Romans, business-like invaders;Of their enduring traces he that runsMay read elsewhere; I pass the Saxon raidersAnd tales of mediæval monks and nuns,Of leper hospitals and mud-bath waders,And hurry on to Beaux and Belles and Buns;Your palmy days,me judice, beganIn the Augustan period ofQueen Anne.The men who planned and built your noble AbbeyWell earned the homage of a sacred bard,Yet in your golden roll it would be shabbyYour minor worthies wholly to discard;And though your Bun, now sugarless and flabbyAnd highly-priced, is sadly shrunk and marred,The first compounder of its rich delightOught not to pass into eternal night.Of your great trio,Allen,WoodandNash,Allen, Mæcenas-postman, leaves me cold;He had not one redeeming vice to clashWith his array of virtues manifold;But he was patriotic, for his cashFreedWood’smajestic genius, sane yet bold,Until a new and gracious city rose;And Nash was far the finest of the Beaux.At least this meed of praise must we accord him,That he restrained the mutinies of Mode;ThatWesleywas the only man who floored him;That order was the essence of his code;That bullies feared him, that the poor adored him,And, though in age a thorny path be trode,For many a year none could his seat disturb,Mounted on Folly ridden on the curb.What famous names, what episodes romanticAre linked with yours in Clio’s sacred shrineEre piety pronounced you CorybanticAnd seaside bathing compassed your decline!“Sherry” andSiddons,Hannahthe pedantic,FieldingandWalpole, how your annals shine!—ImmortalJane, andHerschelcounting barsAnd drilling fiddlers—and discovering stars.Yet even when your vogue was slowly waningRich sunset splendours lingered on the scene,When SultanBeckfordin your midst was reigningAnd lending you an Oriental mien;WhenD’Arblay, loyal to her haunts remaining,Extolled your beauties varied and serene;When in the Octagon men heardMageeAndLansdownteams rejoiced in “W. G.”Fashion may veer; the elegant and witty—Light come, light go—may scatter far and wide,But still the terraced colonnaded cityStands proudly by the silver Avon’s tide,And scenes that move to wonder, praise and pity,Touched gently by the hand of Time, abide;Still, O immortal Bath, you wear your crownFresh in your beauty, old in your renown.

Fair city, thoughKing Bladudand his story

Is largely wrapt in mythologic mist

And legends of your fame in ages hoary

Are scouted by the sceptic annalist,

One century at least of crowded glory

Inspires a recent genial eulogist

And prompts a humble rhymer to rehearse

Your merits in a piece of jingling verse.

I pass the Romans, business-like invaders;Of their enduring traces he that runsMay read elsewhere; I pass the Saxon raidersAnd tales of mediæval monks and nuns,Of leper hospitals and mud-bath waders,And hurry on to Beaux and Belles and Buns;Your palmy days,me judice, beganIn the Augustan period ofQueen Anne.

I pass the Romans, business-like invaders;

Of their enduring traces he that runs

May read elsewhere; I pass the Saxon raiders

And tales of mediæval monks and nuns,

Of leper hospitals and mud-bath waders,

And hurry on to Beaux and Belles and Buns;

Your palmy days,me judice, began

In the Augustan period ofQueen Anne.

The men who planned and built your noble AbbeyWell earned the homage of a sacred bard,Yet in your golden roll it would be shabbyYour minor worthies wholly to discard;And though your Bun, now sugarless and flabbyAnd highly-priced, is sadly shrunk and marred,The first compounder of its rich delightOught not to pass into eternal night.

The men who planned and built your noble Abbey

Well earned the homage of a sacred bard,

Yet in your golden roll it would be shabby

Your minor worthies wholly to discard;

And though your Bun, now sugarless and flabby

And highly-priced, is sadly shrunk and marred,

The first compounder of its rich delight

Ought not to pass into eternal night.

Of your great trio,Allen,WoodandNash,Allen, Mæcenas-postman, leaves me cold;He had not one redeeming vice to clashWith his array of virtues manifold;But he was patriotic, for his cashFreedWood’smajestic genius, sane yet bold,Until a new and gracious city rose;And Nash was far the finest of the Beaux.

Of your great trio,Allen,WoodandNash,

Allen, Mæcenas-postman, leaves me cold;

He had not one redeeming vice to clash

With his array of virtues manifold;

But he was patriotic, for his cash

FreedWood’smajestic genius, sane yet bold,

Until a new and gracious city rose;

And Nash was far the finest of the Beaux.

At least this meed of praise must we accord him,That he restrained the mutinies of Mode;ThatWesleywas the only man who floored him;That order was the essence of his code;That bullies feared him, that the poor adored him,And, though in age a thorny path be trode,For many a year none could his seat disturb,Mounted on Folly ridden on the curb.

At least this meed of praise must we accord him,

That he restrained the mutinies of Mode;

ThatWesleywas the only man who floored him;

That order was the essence of his code;

That bullies feared him, that the poor adored him,

And, though in age a thorny path be trode,

For many a year none could his seat disturb,

Mounted on Folly ridden on the curb.

What famous names, what episodes romanticAre linked with yours in Clio’s sacred shrineEre piety pronounced you CorybanticAnd seaside bathing compassed your decline!“Sherry” andSiddons,Hannahthe pedantic,FieldingandWalpole, how your annals shine!—ImmortalJane, andHerschelcounting barsAnd drilling fiddlers—and discovering stars.

What famous names, what episodes romantic

Are linked with yours in Clio’s sacred shrine

Ere piety pronounced you Corybantic

And seaside bathing compassed your decline!

“Sherry” andSiddons,Hannahthe pedantic,

FieldingandWalpole, how your annals shine!—

ImmortalJane, andHerschelcounting bars

And drilling fiddlers—and discovering stars.

Yet even when your vogue was slowly waningRich sunset splendours lingered on the scene,When SultanBeckfordin your midst was reigningAnd lending you an Oriental mien;WhenD’Arblay, loyal to her haunts remaining,Extolled your beauties varied and serene;When in the Octagon men heardMageeAndLansdownteams rejoiced in “W. G.”

Yet even when your vogue was slowly waning

Rich sunset splendours lingered on the scene,

When SultanBeckfordin your midst was reigning

And lending you an Oriental mien;

WhenD’Arblay, loyal to her haunts remaining,

Extolled your beauties varied and serene;

When in the Octagon men heardMagee

AndLansdownteams rejoiced in “W. G.”

Fashion may veer; the elegant and witty—Light come, light go—may scatter far and wide,But still the terraced colonnaded cityStands proudly by the silver Avon’s tide,And scenes that move to wonder, praise and pity,Touched gently by the hand of Time, abide;Still, O immortal Bath, you wear your crownFresh in your beauty, old in your renown.

Fashion may veer; the elegant and witty—

Light come, light go—may scatter far and wide,

But still the terraced colonnaded city

Stands proudly by the silver Avon’s tide,

And scenes that move to wonder, praise and pity,

Touched gently by the hand of Time, abide;

Still, O immortal Bath, you wear your crown

Fresh in your beauty, old in your renown.

Dwarfing the town that to the hillside clingsOn terraced slopes, the castle, nobly plannedAnd noble in its ruined greatness, flingsIts double challenge to the sea and land.Oh, if the ancient spirit of the placeCould win free utterance in articulate tones,What tales to hearten and inspire and braceWould issue from these grey and lichened stonesOnce manned and held by paladin and peer,Now tenanted by jackdaws, bats and owls,Save when the casual tourist through its drearAnd grass-grown courts disconsolately prowls.Once famous as the scene of Border fights,Now watching, in the greatest war of all,Old men, with their bilingual acolytes,Beating, outside its gates, a little ball;While on the crumbling battlements on high,Where mail-clad men-at-arms kept watch and ward,Adventurous sheep amaze the curious eyeInstead of grazing on the level sward.Inland the amphitheatre of hillsSweeps round with Snowdon as their central crest,And murmurs of innumerable rillsBlend with the heaving of the ocean’s breast.Already Autumn’s fiery finger laidOn heath and marsh and woodland far and wideIn all their gorgeous pageantry has arrayedThe tranquil beauties of the countryside.Here every prospect pleases, and the spot,Unspoilt, unvulgarized by man, remains,Thanks largely to a System which has notAccelerated or improved its trains.Yet even here, amid untroubled ways,Far from the city’s fevered, tainted breath,Yon distant plume of yellow smoke betraysThe ceaseless labours of the mills of death.

Dwarfing the town that to the hillside clingsOn terraced slopes, the castle, nobly plannedAnd noble in its ruined greatness, flingsIts double challenge to the sea and land.

Dwarfing the town that to the hillside clings

On terraced slopes, the castle, nobly planned

And noble in its ruined greatness, flings

Its double challenge to the sea and land.

Oh, if the ancient spirit of the placeCould win free utterance in articulate tones,What tales to hearten and inspire and braceWould issue from these grey and lichened stones

Oh, if the ancient spirit of the place

Could win free utterance in articulate tones,

What tales to hearten and inspire and brace

Would issue from these grey and lichened stones

Once manned and held by paladin and peer,Now tenanted by jackdaws, bats and owls,Save when the casual tourist through its drearAnd grass-grown courts disconsolately prowls.

Once manned and held by paladin and peer,

Now tenanted by jackdaws, bats and owls,

Save when the casual tourist through its drear

And grass-grown courts disconsolately prowls.

Once famous as the scene of Border fights,Now watching, in the greatest war of all,Old men, with their bilingual acolytes,Beating, outside its gates, a little ball;

Once famous as the scene of Border fights,

Now watching, in the greatest war of all,

Old men, with their bilingual acolytes,

Beating, outside its gates, a little ball;

While on the crumbling battlements on high,Where mail-clad men-at-arms kept watch and ward,Adventurous sheep amaze the curious eyeInstead of grazing on the level sward.

While on the crumbling battlements on high,

Where mail-clad men-at-arms kept watch and ward,

Adventurous sheep amaze the curious eye

Instead of grazing on the level sward.

Inland the amphitheatre of hillsSweeps round with Snowdon as their central crest,And murmurs of innumerable rillsBlend with the heaving of the ocean’s breast.

Inland the amphitheatre of hills

Sweeps round with Snowdon as their central crest,

And murmurs of innumerable rills

Blend with the heaving of the ocean’s breast.

Already Autumn’s fiery finger laidOn heath and marsh and woodland far and wideIn all their gorgeous pageantry has arrayedThe tranquil beauties of the countryside.

Already Autumn’s fiery finger laid

On heath and marsh and woodland far and wide

In all their gorgeous pageantry has arrayed

The tranquil beauties of the countryside.

Here every prospect pleases, and the spot,Unspoilt, unvulgarized by man, remains,Thanks largely to a System which has notAccelerated or improved its trains.

Here every prospect pleases, and the spot,

Unspoilt, unvulgarized by man, remains,

Thanks largely to a System which has not

Accelerated or improved its trains.

Yet even here, amid untroubled ways,Far from the city’s fevered, tainted breath,Yon distant plume of yellow smoke betraysThe ceaseless labours of the mills of death.

Yet even here, amid untroubled ways,

Far from the city’s fevered, tainted breath,

Yon distant plume of yellow smoke betrays

The ceaseless labours of the mills of death.

Let mighty pens praise mighty rivers—The Yang-tse-Kiang or Hoang-Ho,In climes that desiccate the liversOf foreigners who come and go.Some may prefer the Mississippi,Others the Nile, whose genial floodEnriches the industrious “Gippy”With gifts of fertilizing mud.Batesfound the Amazon amazing;But, all unfit for lordly themes;I choose the simpler task of praisingOne of our humble Berkshire streams.Here are no tropical surprises,No cataracts roaring from the steep;No hippo your canoe capsizes,No rhinos on the bather creep.Here, as along the banks you potter,The fiercest creature is the gnat;You may perhaps espy an otter,You’re sure to see a water-rat.The kingfisher, a living jewel,On halcyon days darts in and out,But never interrupts the duelBetween the angler and the trout.Hard by the plovers wheel and clamour,The gold is still upon the gorse,And mystery and calm and glamourBrood o’er the little river’s source,Where, in a pool of blue-green lustre,The water bubbles from the sand,And pine-trees in a solemn clusterLike sentinels around it stand.And thence, through level champaign gliding,Past cottages with russet tiles,Past marsh and mead the stream goes slidingFor half-a-dozen tranquil miles,Till, with its waters still untaintedAnd fringed with waving starwort stems,With towns and factories unacquainted,It merges in the silver Thames.“Scorn not small things; their charm endears them,”The ancient poet wisely sang;Great rivers man admires but fears them;We love our homely little Pang.

Let mighty pens praise mighty rivers—The Yang-tse-Kiang or Hoang-Ho,In climes that desiccate the liversOf foreigners who come and go.

Let mighty pens praise mighty rivers—

The Yang-tse-Kiang or Hoang-Ho,

In climes that desiccate the livers

Of foreigners who come and go.

Some may prefer the Mississippi,Others the Nile, whose genial floodEnriches the industrious “Gippy”With gifts of fertilizing mud.

Some may prefer the Mississippi,

Others the Nile, whose genial flood

Enriches the industrious “Gippy”

With gifts of fertilizing mud.

Batesfound the Amazon amazing;But, all unfit for lordly themes;I choose the simpler task of praisingOne of our humble Berkshire streams.

Batesfound the Amazon amazing;

But, all unfit for lordly themes;

I choose the simpler task of praising

One of our humble Berkshire streams.

Here are no tropical surprises,No cataracts roaring from the steep;No hippo your canoe capsizes,No rhinos on the bather creep.

Here are no tropical surprises,

No cataracts roaring from the steep;

No hippo your canoe capsizes,

No rhinos on the bather creep.

Here, as along the banks you potter,The fiercest creature is the gnat;You may perhaps espy an otter,You’re sure to see a water-rat.

Here, as along the banks you potter,

The fiercest creature is the gnat;

You may perhaps espy an otter,

You’re sure to see a water-rat.

The kingfisher, a living jewel,On halcyon days darts in and out,But never interrupts the duelBetween the angler and the trout.

The kingfisher, a living jewel,

On halcyon days darts in and out,

But never interrupts the duel

Between the angler and the trout.

Hard by the plovers wheel and clamour,The gold is still upon the gorse,And mystery and calm and glamourBrood o’er the little river’s source,

Hard by the plovers wheel and clamour,

The gold is still upon the gorse,

And mystery and calm and glamour

Brood o’er the little river’s source,

Where, in a pool of blue-green lustre,The water bubbles from the sand,And pine-trees in a solemn clusterLike sentinels around it stand.

Where, in a pool of blue-green lustre,

The water bubbles from the sand,

And pine-trees in a solemn cluster

Like sentinels around it stand.

And thence, through level champaign gliding,Past cottages with russet tiles,Past marsh and mead the stream goes slidingFor half-a-dozen tranquil miles,

And thence, through level champaign gliding,

Past cottages with russet tiles,

Past marsh and mead the stream goes sliding

For half-a-dozen tranquil miles,

Till, with its waters still untaintedAnd fringed with waving starwort stems,With towns and factories unacquainted,It merges in the silver Thames.

Till, with its waters still untainted

And fringed with waving starwort stems,

With towns and factories unacquainted,

It merges in the silver Thames.

“Scorn not small things; their charm endears them,”The ancient poet wisely sang;Great rivers man admires but fears them;We love our homely little Pang.

“Scorn not small things; their charm endears them,”

The ancient poet wisely sang;

Great rivers man admires but fears them;

We love our homely little Pang.

When I see on a posterA programme which “features”Charlie Chaplinand otherDelectable creatures,I feel just as ifSomeone hit me a slamOr a strenuous biffOn the mid diaphragm.When I read in a story,Though void of offences,That somebody “glimpses”Or somebody “senses,”The chord that is struckFills my bosom with ire,And I’m ready to chuckThe whole book in the fire.When against any writerIt’s urged that he “stresses”His points, or that somethingHis fancy “obsesses,”In awarding his blameThough the critic be right,Yet I feel all the sameI could shoot him at sight.But (worst of these horrors)Whenever I readThat somebody “voices”A national need,As the Bulgars and GreeksAre abhorred by the Serb,So I feel toward the freaksWho employ this vile verb.

When I see on a posterA programme which “features”Charlie Chaplinand otherDelectable creatures,I feel just as ifSomeone hit me a slamOr a strenuous biffOn the mid diaphragm.

When I see on a poster

A programme which “features”

Charlie Chaplinand other

Delectable creatures,

I feel just as if

Someone hit me a slam

Or a strenuous biff

On the mid diaphragm.

When I read in a story,Though void of offences,That somebody “glimpses”Or somebody “senses,”The chord that is struckFills my bosom with ire,And I’m ready to chuckThe whole book in the fire.

When I read in a story,

Though void of offences,

That somebody “glimpses”

Or somebody “senses,”

The chord that is struck

Fills my bosom with ire,

And I’m ready to chuck

The whole book in the fire.

When against any writerIt’s urged that he “stresses”His points, or that somethingHis fancy “obsesses,”In awarding his blameThough the critic be right,Yet I feel all the sameI could shoot him at sight.

When against any writer

It’s urged that he “stresses”

His points, or that something

His fancy “obsesses,”

In awarding his blame

Though the critic be right,

Yet I feel all the same

I could shoot him at sight.

But (worst of these horrors)Whenever I readThat somebody “voices”A national need,As the Bulgars and GreeksAre abhorred by the Serb,So I feel toward the freaksWho employ this vile verb.

But (worst of these horrors)

Whenever I read

That somebody “voices”

A national need,

As the Bulgars and Greeks

Are abhorred by the Serb,

So I feel toward the freaks

Who employ this vile verb.

In a recent verse adventureI compiled “a little list”Of the verbs deserving censure,Verbs that “never would be missed”;Now, to flatter the fastidious,Suffer me the work to crownWith three epithets—all hideous—And one noisome noun.First, to add to the recitalOf the words that gall and irk,Is the old offender “vital,”Done to death by overwork;Only a prolonged embargoOn its use by Press and penCan recall this kind ofargotBack to life again.I, in days not very distant,Though the memory gives me pain,From the awful word “insistent”Did not utterly refrain;Once it promised to refresh us,Seemed to be alert enough;Now I loathe it, laboured, precious—Merely verbal fluff.Thirdly, in the sheets that dailyCater for our vulgar needs,There’s a word that figures gailyIn reviewers’ friendly screeds,Who declare a book’s “arresting,”Mostly, it must be confessed,Meaning just the problem-questingWhich deserves arrest.Last and vilest of this bad bandIs that noun of gruesome sound,“Uplift,” which the clan ofChadbandHold in reverence profound;Used for a dynamic function’Tis a word devoid of guile,Only as connoting unctionIt excites my bile.

In a recent verse adventure

I compiled “a little list”

Of the verbs deserving censure,

Verbs that “never would be missed”;

Now, to flatter the fastidious,

Suffer me the work to crown

With three epithets—all hideous—

And one noisome noun.

First, to add to the recitalOf the words that gall and irk,Is the old offender “vital,”Done to death by overwork;Only a prolonged embargoOn its use by Press and penCan recall this kind ofargotBack to life again.

First, to add to the recital

Of the words that gall and irk,

Is the old offender “vital,”

Done to death by overwork;

Only a prolonged embargo

On its use by Press and pen

Can recall this kind ofargot

Back to life again.

I, in days not very distant,Though the memory gives me pain,From the awful word “insistent”Did not utterly refrain;Once it promised to refresh us,Seemed to be alert enough;Now I loathe it, laboured, precious—Merely verbal fluff.

I, in days not very distant,

Though the memory gives me pain,

From the awful word “insistent”

Did not utterly refrain;

Once it promised to refresh us,

Seemed to be alert enough;

Now I loathe it, laboured, precious—

Merely verbal fluff.

Thirdly, in the sheets that dailyCater for our vulgar needs,There’s a word that figures gailyIn reviewers’ friendly screeds,Who declare a book’s “arresting,”Mostly, it must be confessed,Meaning just the problem-questingWhich deserves arrest.

Thirdly, in the sheets that daily

Cater for our vulgar needs,

There’s a word that figures gaily

In reviewers’ friendly screeds,

Who declare a book’s “arresting,”

Mostly, it must be confessed,

Meaning just the problem-questing

Which deserves arrest.

Last and vilest of this bad bandIs that noun of gruesome sound,“Uplift,” which the clan ofChadbandHold in reverence profound;Used for a dynamic function’Tis a word devoid of guile,Only as connoting unctionIt excites my bile.

Last and vilest of this bad band

Is that noun of gruesome sound,

“Uplift,” which the clan ofChadband

Hold in reverence profound;

Used for a dynamic function

’Tis a word devoid of guile,

Only as connoting unction

It excites my bile.

O Metaphasia, peerless maid,How can I fitly singThe priceless decorative aidTo dialogue you bring,Enabling serious folk, whose brainsAre commonplace and crude,To soar to unimagined planesOf sweet ineptitude.Changed by your magic, common senseNonsensical appears,And stars of sober influenceShoot madly from their spheres.You lure us from the beaten track,From minding P.’s and Q.’s,To paths where white is always blackAnd pies resemble pews.Strange beasts, more strange than the giraffe,You conjure up to view,The flue-box and the forking-calf,Unknown at any Zoo;And new vocations you unfold,Wonder on wonder heaping,Hell-banging for the overbold,And toffee-cavern keeping.With you we hatch the pasty snipe,And all undaunted faceHuge fish of unfamiliar type—Bush-pike and bubble-dace;Or, fired by hopes of lyric fame,We deviate from prose,And make it our especial aimBun-sonnets to compose.I wonder did the ancients proveResponsive to your spell,Or, riveted to Reason’s groove,Against your charms rebel.And yet some senator obese,In Rome long years ago,May have misnamed a masterpieceDe Gallo bellico.We know there were heroic menEreAgamemnon’sdays,Who passed forgotten from our ken,Lacking a poet’s praise;But, though great MetaphasiarchsHave doubtless flourished sooner,I’m sure their raciest remarksHave been eclipsed by S*****r.

O Metaphasia, peerless maid,

How can I fitly sing

The priceless decorative aid

To dialogue you bring,

Enabling serious folk, whose brains

Are commonplace and crude,

To soar to unimagined planes

Of sweet ineptitude.

Changed by your magic, common senseNonsensical appears,And stars of sober influenceShoot madly from their spheres.You lure us from the beaten track,From minding P.’s and Q.’s,To paths where white is always blackAnd pies resemble pews.

Changed by your magic, common sense

Nonsensical appears,

And stars of sober influence

Shoot madly from their spheres.

You lure us from the beaten track,

From minding P.’s and Q.’s,

To paths where white is always black

And pies resemble pews.

Strange beasts, more strange than the giraffe,You conjure up to view,The flue-box and the forking-calf,Unknown at any Zoo;And new vocations you unfold,Wonder on wonder heaping,Hell-banging for the overbold,And toffee-cavern keeping.

Strange beasts, more strange than the giraffe,

You conjure up to view,

The flue-box and the forking-calf,

Unknown at any Zoo;

And new vocations you unfold,

Wonder on wonder heaping,

Hell-banging for the overbold,

And toffee-cavern keeping.

With you we hatch the pasty snipe,And all undaunted faceHuge fish of unfamiliar type—Bush-pike and bubble-dace;Or, fired by hopes of lyric fame,We deviate from prose,And make it our especial aimBun-sonnets to compose.

With you we hatch the pasty snipe,

And all undaunted face

Huge fish of unfamiliar type—

Bush-pike and bubble-dace;

Or, fired by hopes of lyric fame,

We deviate from prose,

And make it our especial aim

Bun-sonnets to compose.

I wonder did the ancients proveResponsive to your spell,Or, riveted to Reason’s groove,Against your charms rebel.And yet some senator obese,In Rome long years ago,May have misnamed a masterpieceDe Gallo bellico.

I wonder did the ancients prove

Responsive to your spell,

Or, riveted to Reason’s groove,

Against your charms rebel.

And yet some senator obese,

In Rome long years ago,

May have misnamed a masterpiece

De Gallo bellico.

We know there were heroic menEreAgamemnon’sdays,Who passed forgotten from our ken,Lacking a poet’s praise;But, though great MetaphasiarchsHave doubtless flourished sooner,I’m sure their raciest remarksHave been eclipsed by S*****r.

We know there were heroic men

EreAgamemnon’sdays,

Who passed forgotten from our ken,

Lacking a poet’s praise;

But, though great Metaphasiarchs

Have doubtless flourished sooner,

I’m sure their raciest remarks

Have been eclipsed by S*****r.

Up to the end of the greatQueen’sreignPegasus proved a tractable steed;Verse was metrical, mostly sane;“Fleshly” singers who wished to exceedSeldom, however great was their need,Held that prosody was a crime.Critics were one and all agreed:“Poets will never abandon rhyme.”Now, inspired by a high disdain,Grudging the past its rightful meed,Georgian minstrels, might and main,Urge that verse must be wholly freedNow and for ever from rules that leadSingers in chains to a jingling chime,Slaves of the obscurantist screed:“Poets will never abandon rhyme.”MiltonandTennysongive them pain;Marinetti’sthe man they heed,Grim apostle of stress and strain,Noise, machinery, smell and speed.Yet the best of the British breed,Fighters who sing ’mid blood and grime,Lend new force to the ancient rede:“Poets will never abandon rhyme.”EnvoyPrince,vers libreis a noxious weed;Verse that is blankmaybe sublime;Still, in spite of the Georgian creed,Poets will never abandon rhyme.

Up to the end of the greatQueen’sreign

Pegasus proved a tractable steed;

Verse was metrical, mostly sane;

“Fleshly” singers who wished to exceed

Seldom, however great was their need,

Held that prosody was a crime.

Critics were one and all agreed:

“Poets will never abandon rhyme.”

Now, inspired by a high disdain,Grudging the past its rightful meed,Georgian minstrels, might and main,Urge that verse must be wholly freedNow and for ever from rules that leadSingers in chains to a jingling chime,Slaves of the obscurantist screed:“Poets will never abandon rhyme.”

Now, inspired by a high disdain,

Grudging the past its rightful meed,

Georgian minstrels, might and main,

Urge that verse must be wholly freed

Now and for ever from rules that lead

Singers in chains to a jingling chime,

Slaves of the obscurantist screed:

“Poets will never abandon rhyme.”

MiltonandTennysongive them pain;Marinetti’sthe man they heed,Grim apostle of stress and strain,Noise, machinery, smell and speed.Yet the best of the British breed,Fighters who sing ’mid blood and grime,Lend new force to the ancient rede:“Poets will never abandon rhyme.”

MiltonandTennysongive them pain;

Marinetti’sthe man they heed,

Grim apostle of stress and strain,

Noise, machinery, smell and speed.

Yet the best of the British breed,

Fighters who sing ’mid blood and grime,

Lend new force to the ancient rede:

“Poets will never abandon rhyme.”

Envoy

Prince,vers libreis a noxious weed;Verse that is blankmaybe sublime;Still, in spite of the Georgian creed,Poets will never abandon rhyme.

Prince,vers libreis a noxious weed;

Verse that is blankmaybe sublime;

Still, in spite of the Georgian creed,

Poets will never abandon rhyme.

(Lines suggested by the recent demise of the inventor of Esperanto.)

As a patriotic BritonI am naturally smittenWith disgustWhen some universal lingoBy a zealous anti-JingoIs discussed.Some there are who hold that SpanishIn the end is bound to banishOther tongues;Some again regard SlavonicAs a stimulating tonicFor the lungs.I would sooner bank on Tuscan,Ay, or even on Etruscan,Than on Erse;But fanatical campaigners,Gaelic Leaguers and Sinn FeinersFind it terse.Some are moved to have a shy atPersian, thanks to theRubáiyátAnd its ease;But it’s quite another matterIf you’re anxious for to chatterIn Chinese.To instruct a brainy brat inCanine or colloquial LatinMaybe wise;But it’s not an educationAs a fruitful speculationI’d advise.French? All elegance equips it,But how oft on foreign lips itRuns awry;German, tainted, execrated,Is for ages relegatedTo the sty.As for brand-new tongues inventedBy professors discontentedWith the old,Well, the prospect of a “panto”Played and sung in EsperantoLeaves me cold.

As a patriotic BritonI am naturally smittenWith disgustWhen some universal lingoBy a zealous anti-JingoIs discussed.

As a patriotic Briton

I am naturally smitten

With disgust

When some universal lingo

By a zealous anti-Jingo

Is discussed.

Some there are who hold that SpanishIn the end is bound to banishOther tongues;Some again regard SlavonicAs a stimulating tonicFor the lungs.

Some there are who hold that Spanish

In the end is bound to banish

Other tongues;

Some again regard Slavonic

As a stimulating tonic

For the lungs.

I would sooner bank on Tuscan,Ay, or even on Etruscan,Than on Erse;But fanatical campaigners,Gaelic Leaguers and Sinn FeinersFind it terse.

I would sooner bank on Tuscan,

Ay, or even on Etruscan,

Than on Erse;

But fanatical campaigners,

Gaelic Leaguers and Sinn Feiners

Find it terse.

Some are moved to have a shy atPersian, thanks to theRubáiyátAnd its ease;But it’s quite another matterIf you’re anxious for to chatterIn Chinese.

Some are moved to have a shy at

Persian, thanks to theRubáiyát

And its ease;

But it’s quite another matter

If you’re anxious for to chatter

In Chinese.

To instruct a brainy brat inCanine or colloquial LatinMaybe wise;But it’s not an educationAs a fruitful speculationI’d advise.

To instruct a brainy brat in

Canine or colloquial Latin

Maybe wise;

But it’s not an education

As a fruitful speculation

I’d advise.

French? All elegance equips it,But how oft on foreign lips itRuns awry;German, tainted, execrated,Is for ages relegatedTo the sty.

French? All elegance equips it,

But how oft on foreign lips it

Runs awry;

German, tainted, execrated,

Is for ages relegated

To the sty.

As for brand-new tongues inventedBy professors discontentedWith the old,Well, the prospect of a “panto”Played and sung in EsperantoLeaves me cold.

As for brand-new tongues invented

By professors discontented

With the old,

Well, the prospect of a “panto”

Played and sung in Esperanto

Leaves me cold.

(Lines suggested by an Australian aboriginal place-name commonly known by its last syllable.)

Fine names are found upon the map—Kanturk and Chirk and Cong,Grogtown and Giggleswick and Shap,Chowbent and Chittagong;But other places, less renowned,In richer euphony aboundThan the familiar throng;For instance, there is Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.In childhood’s days I took delightInLear’simmortal Dong,Whose nose was luminously bright,Who sang a silvery song.He did not terrify the birdsWith strange and unpropitious wordsOf double-edgedontong;I’m sure he hailed from Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.Prince Giglio’sbag, the fairy’s gift,Helped him to right the wrong,Encouraged diligence and thrift,And “opened with a pong”;But though its magic powers were greatIt could not quite ejaculateA word so proud and strongAnd beautiful as Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.I crave no marble pleasure-dome,No forks with golden prong;LikeHorace, in a frugal homeI’d gladly rub along,Contented with the humblest cotOr shack or hut, if it had gotA name like Billabong,Or, better still, like Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.Sweet is the music of the spheres,Majestic is Mong Blong,And bland the beverage that cheers,Called Sirupy Souchong;But sweeter, more inspiring farThan tea or peak or tuneful starI deem it to belongTo such a place as Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

Fine names are found upon the map—

Kanturk and Chirk and Cong,

Grogtown and Giggleswick and Shap,

Chowbent and Chittagong;

But other places, less renowned,

In richer euphony abound

Than the familiar throng;

For instance, there is Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

In childhood’s days I took delightInLear’simmortal Dong,Whose nose was luminously bright,Who sang a silvery song.He did not terrify the birdsWith strange and unpropitious wordsOf double-edgedontong;I’m sure he hailed from Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

In childhood’s days I took delight

InLear’simmortal Dong,

Whose nose was luminously bright,

Who sang a silvery song.

He did not terrify the birds

With strange and unpropitious words

Of double-edgedontong;

I’m sure he hailed from Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

Prince Giglio’sbag, the fairy’s gift,Helped him to right the wrong,Encouraged diligence and thrift,And “opened with a pong”;But though its magic powers were greatIt could not quite ejaculateA word so proud and strongAnd beautiful as Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

Prince Giglio’sbag, the fairy’s gift,

Helped him to right the wrong,

Encouraged diligence and thrift,

And “opened with a pong”;

But though its magic powers were great

It could not quite ejaculate

A word so proud and strong

And beautiful as Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

I crave no marble pleasure-dome,No forks with golden prong;LikeHorace, in a frugal homeI’d gladly rub along,Contented with the humblest cotOr shack or hut, if it had gotA name like Billabong,Or, better still, like Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

I crave no marble pleasure-dome,

No forks with golden prong;

LikeHorace, in a frugal home

I’d gladly rub along,

Contented with the humblest cot

Or shack or hut, if it had got

A name like Billabong,

Or, better still, like Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

Sweet is the music of the spheres,Majestic is Mong Blong,And bland the beverage that cheers,Called Sirupy Souchong;But sweeter, more inspiring farThan tea or peak or tuneful starI deem it to belongTo such a place as Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

Sweet is the music of the spheres,

Majestic is Mong Blong,

And bland the beverage that cheers,

Called Sirupy Souchong;

But sweeter, more inspiring far

Than tea or peak or tuneful star

I deem it to belong

To such a place as Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, ENGLAND

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