The Project Gutenberg eBook ofMore Misrepresentative MenThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: More Misrepresentative MenAuthor: Harry GrahamIllustrator: Malcolm A. StraussRelease date: July 19, 2011 [eBook #36782]Most recently updated: January 7, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Mark C. Orton, Matthew Wheaton and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Thisbook was produced from scanned images of public domainmaterial from the Google Print project.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE MISREPRESENTATIVE MEN ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: More Misrepresentative MenAuthor: Harry GrahamIllustrator: Malcolm A. StraussRelease date: July 19, 2011 [eBook #36782]Most recently updated: January 7, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Mark C. Orton, Matthew Wheaton and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Thisbook was produced from scanned images of public domainmaterial from the Google Print project.)
Title: More Misrepresentative Men
Author: Harry GrahamIllustrator: Malcolm A. Strauss
Author: Harry Graham
Illustrator: Malcolm A. Strauss
Release date: July 19, 2011 [eBook #36782]Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Mark C. Orton, Matthew Wheaton and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Thisbook was produced from scanned images of public domainmaterial from the Google Print project.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE MISREPRESENTATIVE MEN ***
More Misrepresentative MenHarry GrahamFrontispieceMore Misrepresentative MenByHarry GrahamAuthor of"Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes,""Misrepresentative Men,""Ballads of the Boer War,""Verse and Worse," etc., etc.PICTURES BYMalcolm StraussNEW YORKFox, Duffield & CompanyMCMVCopyright, 1905, byFOX, DUFFIELD & COMPANYPublished in September, 1905ToE. B.ContentsPAGEAuthor's Foreword9Publisher's Preface14Robert Burns18William Waldorf Astor33Henry VIII42Alton B. Parker48Euclid54J. M. Barrie65Omar Khayyam72Andrew Carnegie78King Cophetua85Joseph F. Smith90Sherlock Holmes98Aftword109List of IllustrationsAndrew CarnegieFRONTISPIECEFACINGPAGERobert Burns18William Waldorf Astor34Henry VIII42Alton B. Parker48Euclid54J. M. Barrie66Omar Khayyam72King Cophetua86Joseph F. Smith90Sherlock Holmes98Authors Foreword(To the Publisher)WHENhonest men are all in bed,We poets at our desks are toiling,To earn a modicum of bread,And keep the pot a-boiling;We weld together, bit by bit,The fabric of our laboured wit.We see with eyes of frank dismayThe coming of this Autumn season,When bards are driven to displayTheir feast of rhyme and reason;With hectic brain and loosened collar,We chase the too-elusive dollar.While Publishers, in search of grist,Despise our masterly inaction,And shake their faces in our fist,Demanding satisfaction,We view with vague or vacant mindThe grim agreements we have signed.For though a willing public givesIts timely share of cash assistance,The author (like the dentist) livesA hand-to-mouth existence;And Publishers, those modern Circes,Make pig's-ear purses of his verses.Behold! How ill, how thin and pale,The features of the furtive jester!Compelled by contracts to curtailHis moments of siesta!A true White Knight is he to-day(Nuit Blanche, as Stevenson would say).Ah, surely he has laboured well,Constructing this immortal sequel,—A work which no one could excel,And very few can equal,—A volume which, I dare to say,Is epoch-making, in its way.When other poets' work is not,These verses shall retain their label;When Herford is a thing forgot,And Ade an ancient fable;When Goops no longer give a signOf Burgess's empurpled kine.My Publishers, I love you so!Your well-secreted virtues viewing;Who never let your right hand knowWhom your left hand is doing;Who hold me firmly in your grip,And crack your cheque-book, like a whip!My Publishers, make no mistake,You have in me anavis rara,So write a princely cheque, and makeIt payable to bearer;I love you, as I said before,But oh! I love your money more!Publisher's Preface(To the Author)VORACIOUSAuthor, gorged with gold,Your grasping greed shall not avail!In vain you venture to unfoldYour false prehensile tale!I view in scorn (unmixed with awe)The width of your capacious maw.On me the onus has to fallOf your malevolent effusions;'Tis I who bear the brunt of allYour libellous allusions;To bolster up your turgid verse,I jeopardise my very purse!You do not hesitate to fleeceThe Publisher you scorn to thank,And when you manage to decreaseHis balance at the bank,Your face is lighted up with greed,And you are lantern-jawed indeed!Yet will I still heap coals of fire,Until your coiffure is imbedded,And you at last, perchance, shall tireOf growing so hot-headed,And realise that being funnyIs not a mere affair of money.And so, in honour of your pow'rs,A fragrant bouquet will I pick,Of rare exotics, blossoms, flow'rsOf speech and rhetoric;I'll add a thistle, if I may,And, round the whole, a wreath of bay.The blossoms for your button-hole,To mark your affluent condition,Exotics to inspire your soulTo further composition.Come, set the bays upon your brow!* * * * *Well, eat the thistle, anyhow!Robert BurnsTHEjingling rhymes of Dr. WattsExcite the reader's just impatience,He wearies of Sir Walter Scott'sMelodious verbal collocations,And with advancing years he learnsTo love the simpler style of Burns.021Too much the careworn critic knowsOf that obscure robustious diction,Which like a form of fungus growsAmid the Kailyard school of fiction;In Crockett's cryptic caves one sighsFor Burns's clear and spacious skies.Tho' no aspersions need be castOn Barrie's wealth of wit fantastic,Creator of that unsurpass'dIf most minute ecclesiastic;Yet even here the eye discernsNo master-hand like that of Burns.The works of Campbell and the restExhale a sanctimonious odour,Their vintage is but Schnapps, at best,Their Scotch is simply Scotch-and-sodour!They cannot hope, like Burns, to winThat "touch which makes the whole world kin."Tho' some may sing of Neil Munro,And virtues in Maclaren see,Or want but little here below,And want that little Lang, maybe;Each renegade at length returns,To praise the peerless pow'rs of Burns.His verse, as all the world declares,And Tennyson himself confesses,The radiance of the dewdrop shares,The berry's perfect shape possesses;And even William Wordsworth praisesThe magic of his faultless phrases.But he, whose books bedeck our shelves,Whose lofty genius we adore so,Was only human, like ourselves,—Perhaps, indeed, a trifle more so!And joined a thirst that nought could quenchTo morals which were frankly French.And ev'ry night he made his way,With boon companions, bent on frolic,To inns of ill-repute, where layRefreshments—chiefly alcoholic!(But I decline to raise your gorges,Describing these nocturnal orgies.)Of love-affairs he knew no end,So long and ardently he flirted,And e'en the least suspicious friendWould feel a trifle disconcerted,When Burns was sitting with his "sposa,""As thick as thieves on Vallombrosa!"A Cockney Chiel who found him thus,And showed some conjugal alarm,When Burns implored him not to fuss,Enquiring calmly, "Where's the harm?"Replied at once, with perfect taste,"Theharm is round my consort's waist!""A poor thing but my own," said he,His fair but fickle bride denoting,And she, with scathing repartee,Assented, wilfully misquoting,(Tho' carefully brought up, like Jonah),"A poorer thing—and yet my owner!"The most bucolic hearts were burntBy Burns' amatory glances;The most suburban spinsters learntTo welcome his abrupt advances;When Burns was on his knee, 'twas said,They wished thattheywere there instead!They loved him from the first, in spiteOf angry parents' interference;They deemed his courtship so polite,So captivating his appearance;So great his charm, so apt his wit,In local parlance, Burns was IT!The rustic maids from far and wide,Encouraged his unwise flirtations;For love of Burns they moped and sighed,And, while their nearest male relationsWere up in arms, the sad thing isThat they themselves were up in his!His crest a mug, with open lid,The kind in vogue with ancient Druids,—Inscribed "Amari Aliquid,"(Which means "I'm very fond of fluids!"),On either side, as meet supporters,The village blacksmith's lovely daughters."Men were deceivers ever!" True,As Shakespeare says (Hey Nonny! Nonny!),But one should always keep in viewThat "tout comprendr' c'est tout pardonny";In judging poets it sufficesTo scan their verses, not their vices.. . . . . .The poets of the present timeAttempt their feeble imitations;Are economical of rhyme,And lavish with reiterations;The while a patient public swallowsA "Border Ballad" much as follows:—Jamie lad, I lo'e ye weel,Jamie lad, I lo'e nae ither,Jamie lad, I lo'e ye weel,Like a mither.Jamie's ganging doon the burn,Jamie's ganging doon, whateffer,Jamie's ganging doon the burn,To Strathpeffer!Jamie's comin' hame to dee,Jamie's comin' hame, I'm thinkin',Jamie's comin' hame to dee,Dee o' drinkin'!Hech! Jamie! Losh! Jamie!Dinna greet sae sair!Gin ye canna, winna, shannaSee yer lassie mair!Wha' hoo!Wha' hae!Strathpeffer!I give you now, as antidote,Some lines which I myself indited.Carnegie, when he read them, wroteTo say that he was quite delighted;Their pathos cut him to the quick,Their humour almost made him sick.The queys are moopin' i' the mirk,An' gin ye thole ahin' the kirk,I'll gar ye tocher hame fra' work,Sae straught an' primsie;In vain the lavrock leaves the snaw,The sonsie cowslips blithely blaw,The elbucks wheep adoon the shaw,Or warl a whimsy.The cootie muircocks crousely craw,The maukins tak' their fud fu' braw,I gie their wames a random paw,For a' they're skilpy;For wha' sae glaikit, gleg an' din,To but the ben, or loup the linn,Or scraw aboon the tirlin'-pinSae frae an' gilpie?Och, snood the sporran roun' ma lap,The cairngorm clap in ilka cap,Och, hand me o'erMa lang claymore,Twa, bannocks an' a bap,Wha hoo!Twa bannocks an' a bap!. . . . . .O fellow Scotsman, near and far,Renowned for health and good digestion,For all that makes you what you are,—(But are you really? That's the question)—Be grateful, while the world endures,That Burns was countryman of yours.And hand-in-hand, in alien land,Foregather with your fellow cronies,To masticate the haggis (cann'd)At Scottish Conversaziones,Where, flushed with wine and Auld Lang Syne,You worship at your country's shrine!William Waldorf AstorHOWblest a thing it is to dieFor Country's sake, as bards have sung!How sweet "pro patria mori,"(To quote the vulgar Latin tongue);And yet to him the palm we giveWho for his fatherland canlive.Historians have explained to us,In terms that never can grow cold,How well the bold HoratiusPlayed bridge in the brave days of old;And we can read of hosts of others,From Spartan boys to Roman mothers.But nowhere has the student got,From poet, pedagogue, or pastor,The picture of a patriotSo truly typical as Astor;And none has ever shown a greaterAffection for his Alma Mater.039With loyalty to FatherlandHis heart inflexible as starch is,Whene'er he hears upon a bandThe too prolific Sousa's marches;And from his eyes a tear he wipes,Each time he sees the Stars and Stripes.Tho' others roam across the foamTo European health resorts,The fact that "there's no place like home"Is foremost in our hero's thoughts;And all in vain have people triedTo lure him from his "ain fireside."Let tourists travel near or far,By wayward breezes widely blown,Hestops at the Astoria,"A poor thing" (Shakespeare), "but his own;"And nothing that his friends may doCan drag him from Fifth Avenue.The Western heiress is contentTo scale, as a prospective bride,The bare six-story tenementWhere foreign pauper peers reside;But men like Astor all disparageThe so-called Morgan-attic marriage.The rich Chicago millionaireMay buy a mansion in Belgravia,Have footmen there with powdered hairAnd frigidly correct behaviour;But marble stairs and plate of goldLeave Astor absolutely cold.The lofty ducal residence,That fronts some Surrey riverside,Would wound his socialistic sense,And pain his patriotic pride;He would not change for Castles HighlandHis cabbage-patch on Coney Island.A statue in some Roman street,A palace of Venetian gilding,Appear to him not half so sweetAs any modern Vanderbuilding;He views, without an envious throe,The wolf that suckled Romeo!Roast beef, or frogs, or sauerkraut,Their mead of praise from some may win;Our hero cannot do withoutPeanuts and clams and terrapin;Away from home, his soul would lackThe cocktail and the canvasback.Not his to walk the crowded Strand;'Mid busy London's jar and hum.On quiet Broadway he would stand,Saying "Americanus sum!"His smile so tranquil, so seraphic,—Small wonder that it stops the traffic!Who would not be a man like he,(This lapse of grammar pray forgive,)So simply satisfied to be,Contented with his lot to live,—Whether or not it be, I wot,A little lot,—or quite a lot?Content with any kind of fare,With any tiny piece of earth,So long as he can find it thereWithin the land that gave him birth;Content with simple beans and pork,If he may eat them in New York!O persons who have made your pile,And spend it far across the seas,Like landlords of the Em'rald Isle,Denounced notorious absentees,I pray you imitate the Master,And stay at home like Mr. Astor!But if you go abroad at all,And leave your fatherland behind you,Without an effort to recallThe sentimental ties that bind you,I should be grateful if you couldContrive to stay away for good!Henry VIIIWITHStevenson we must agree,Who found the world so full of things,That all should be, or so said he,As happy as a host of Kings;Yet few so fortunate as notTo envy Bluff King Henry's lot.049A polished monarch, through and through,Tho' somewhat lacking in religion,Who joined a courtly manner toThe figure of a pouter pigeon;And was, at time of feast or revelA ... well ... a perfect little devil!But tho' his vices, I'm afraid,Are hard for modern minds to swallow,Two lofty virtues he displayed,Which we should do our best to follow:—A passion for domestic life,A cult for what is called The Wife.He sought his spouses, North and South.Six times (to make a misquotation)He managed, at the Canon's mouth,To win a bubble reputation;And ev'ry time, from last to first,His matrimonial bubble burst!Six times, with wide, self-conscious smileAnd well-blacked, button boots, he enteredThe Abbey's bust-congested aisle,With ev'ry eye upon him centred;Six times he heard, and not alone,The march of Mr. Mendelssohn.Six sep'rate times (or three times twice),In order to complete the marriage,'Mid painful show'rs of boots and rice,He sought the shelter of his carriage;Six times the bride, beneath her veil,Looked "beautiful, but somewhat pale."Within the limits of one reign,Six females of undaunted bearing,Two Annes, three Kath'rines, and a Jane,Enjoyed the privilege of sharingA conjugal career so chequer'dIt almost constitutes a record!Yet sometimes it occurs to meThat Henry missed his true vocation;A husband by profession he,A widower by occupation;And, honestly, it seems a pityHe didn't live in Salt Lake City.For there he could have put in forceHis plural marriage views, unbaffled;Nor had recourse to dull divorce,Nor sought the service of the scaffold;Nor looked for peace, nor found release,In any partner's predecease.Had Henry been alive to-day,He might have hired a timely motor,And sent each wife in turn to stayWithin the confines of Dakota;That State whose rigid marriage-law,Is eulogised by Bernard Shaw.But Henry's simple days are done,And, in the present generation,A wife is seldom woo'd and wonBy prospects of decapitation.For nowadays when Woman weds,It is theMenwho lose their heads!Alton B. ParkerTHOSERoman Fathers, long ago,Established a sublime tradition,Who gave the Man Behind the HoeHis proud proconsular position;When Cincinnatus left his hens,And beat his ploughshares into pens.057His modern prototype we see,Descended from some humble attic,The Presidential nomineeOf those whose views are Democratic;From Millionaire to Billiard MarkerThey plumped their votes for Central Parker.A member of the sterner sex,Possessing neither wealth nor beauty,But gifted with a really ex——Traordinary sense of Duty;In Honour's list I place him first,—With Cæsar's Wife and Mr. Hearst.From childhood's day this son of toil,Since first he laid aside his rattle,Was wont to cultivate the soil,Or milk his father's kindly cattle;To groom the pigs, drive crows away,Or teach the bantams how to lay.This sprightly lad, his parents' pet,With tastes essentially bucolic,Eschewed the straightcut cigarette,And shunned refreshments alcoholic;His simple pleasure 'twas to plumbThe deep-laid joys of chewing gum.As local pedagogue he nextAttained to years of indiscretion,To preach the Solomonian textSo popular with that profession,Which honours whom (and what) it teachesMore in th' observance than the breeches.The sprightly Parker soon one sees,Head of a legal institution,Enjoying huge retaining feesAs counsel for the prosecution.(Advice to lawyers,meum non est,—Get on, get honour, then get honest!)Behold him, then, like comet, shootBeyond the bounds of birth or station,And gain, as jurist of repute,A continental reputation.(Don't mix him with that "Triple Star"Which lights a more unworthy "bar.")A proud position now is his,A judge, arrayed in moral ermine,As from the Bench he sentencesHis fellow-man, and other vermin,And does his duty to his neighbour,By giving him six months' hard labour.On knotty questions of financeHe bears aloft the golden standard,For he whose motto is "Advance!"To baser coin has never pandered.No eulogist of War is he,"Retrenchment!" is hisdernier cri.But tho', to his convictions true,With strength like concentrated Eno,He did his very utmost toEmancipate the Filipino,A fickle public chose Another,Who called the Coloured Coon his Brother.EuclidWHENEgypt was a first-class Pow'r—When Ptolemy was King, that is,Whose benefices used to show'rOn all the local charities,And by his liberal subscriptionsWas always spoiling the Egyptians—065The Alexandrine School enjoyedA proud and primary positionFor training scholars not devoidOf geometric erudition;Where arithmetical fanaticsCould evenlivein (mathem)-attics.The best informed Historians nameThis Institution the possessorOf one who occupied with fameThe post of principal Professor,Who had a more expansive brainThan any man—before Hall Caine.No complex sums of huge amountsPerplexed his algebraic knowledge;With ease he balanced the accountsOf his (at times insolvent) College;He was, without the least romance,A very Blondin of Finance.In pencil, on his shirt-cuff, he,Without a moment's hesitation,Elucidated easilyThe most elab'rate calculation(His washing got, I needn't mention,The local laundry's best attention).Behind a manner mild as mouse,Blue-spectacled and inoffensive,He hid a judgment and anousAs overwhelming as extensive,And cloaked a soul immune from wrongBeneath an ample ong-bong-pong.To rows of conscientious youths,Whom 'twas his duty to take care of,He loved to prove the truth of truthsWhich they already were aware of;They learnt to look politely bored,Where modern students would have snored.To show that Two and Two make Four,That All is greater than a Portion,Requires no dialectic lore,Nor any cerebral contortion;The public's faith in facts was steady,Before the days of Mrs. Eddy.But what was hard to overlook(From which Society still suffers)Was all the trouble Euclid tookTo teach the game of Bridge to duffers.Insisting, when he got a quorum,On "Pons" (he called it) "Asinorum."The guileless methods of his gameProvoked his partner's strongest strictures;He hardly knew the cards by name,But realised that some had pictures;Exhausting ev'rybody's patienceBy his perpetual revocations.For weary hours, in deep concern,O'er dummy's hand he loved to linger,Denoting ev'ry card in turn,With timid indecisive finger;And stopped to say, at each delay,"I really don't knowwhatto play!"He sought, at any cost, to winHis ev'ry suit in turn unguarding;He trumped his partner's "best card in,"His own egregiously discarding;Remarking sadly, when in doubt,"I quite forgot the King was out!"Alert opponents always knew,By what the look upon his face was,When safety lay in leading through,And where, of course, the fatal ace was;Assuring the complete successesOf bold but hazardous "finesses."But nowadays we find no trace,From distant Assouan to Cairo,To mark the place where dwelt a raceMistaught by so absurd a tyro;And nothing but occult inscriptionsRecall the sports of past Egyptians.Yes, "autre temps" and "autre moeurs,""Où sontindeedles neiges d'antan?"The modern native much prefersDebauching in somecafé chantant,Nor ever shows the least ambitionTo solve a single Proposition.O Euclid, luckiest of men!You knew no English interloper;For Allah's Garden was not thenThe pleasure-ground of Alleh Sloper,Nor (broth-like) had your country's looksBeen spoilt by an excess of "Cooks."The Nile to your untutored earsDiscoursed in dull but tender tones;Not yours the modern Dahabeahs,Supplied with strident gramophones,Imploring, in a loud refrain,Bill Bailey to come home again.Your cars, the older-fashioned sort,And drawn, perhaps, by alligators,Were not the modern Juggernaut-Child-dog-and-space-obliterators,Those "stormy petrols" of the landWhich deal decease on either hand.No European tourist wagsDefiled the desert's dusky faceWith orange peel and paper bags,Those emblems of a cultured race;Or cut the noble name of Jones,On tombs which held a monarch's bones.O Euclid! Could you see to-dayThe sunny clime you once frequented,And note the way we moderns playThe game you thoughtfully invented,The knowledge of your guilt would force yerTo feelings of internal nausea!J. M. BarrieTHEbriny tears unbidden start,At mention of my hero's name!Was ever set so huge a heartWithin so small a frame?So much of tenderness and graceConfined in such a slender space?079(O tiniest of tiny men!So wise, so whimsical, so witty!Whose magic little fairy-penIs steeped in human pity;Whose humour plays so quaint a tune,From Peter Pan to Pantaloon!)So wide a sympathy has he,Such kindliness without an end,That children clamber on his knee,And claim him as a friend;They somehow know he understands,And doesn't mind their sticky hands.And so they swarm about his neck,With energy that nothing wearies,Assured that he will never checkTheir ceaseless flow of queries,And grateful, with a warm affection,For his avuncular protection.And when his watch he opens wide,Or beats them all at blowing bubbles,They tell him how the dormouse died,And all their tiny troubles;And drag him, if he seems deprest,To see the baby squirrel's nest.For hidden treasure he can dig,Pursue the Indians in the wood,Feed the prolific guinea-pigWith inappropriate food;Do all the things that mattered soIn happy days of long ago.All this he can achieve, and more!For, 'neath the magic of his brain,The young are younger than before,The old grow young again,To dream of Beauty and of TruthFor hearts that win eternal youth.Fat apoplectic men I know,With well-developed Little Marys,Look almost human when they showTheir faith in Barrie's fairies;Their blank lethargic faces lightenIn admiration of his Crichton.To lovers who, with fingers cold,Attempt to fan some dying ember,He brings the happy days of old,And bids their hearts remember;Recalling in romantic fashionThe tenderness of earlier passion.And modern matrons who can findSo little leisure for the Nurs'ry,Whose interest in babykindIs eminently curs'ry,New views on Motherhood acquireFrom Alice-sitting-by-the-Fire!While men of every sort and kind,At times of sunshine or of trouble,In Sentimental Tommy findTheir own amazing double;To each in turn the mem'ry comesOf some belov'd forgotten Thrums.To Barrie's literary artThat strong poetic sense is clingingWhich hears, in ev'ry human heart,A "late lark" faintly singing,A bird that bears upon its wingThe promise of perpetual Spring.Materialists may labour muchAt problems for the modern stage;His simpler methods reach and touchThe Young of ev'ry age;And first and second childhood meetOn common ground at Barrie's feet!Omar KhayyamTHOUGHmany a great PhilosopherHas earned the Epicure's diploma,Not one of them, as I aver,So much deserved the prize as Omar;For he, without the least misgiving,Combined High Thinking and High Living.087He lived in Persia, long ago,Upon a somewhat slender pittance;And Persia is, as you may know,The home of Shahs and fubsy kittens,(A quite consistenthabitat,Since "Shah," of course, is French for "cat.")He lived—as I was saying, whenYou interrupted, impolitely—Not loosely, like his fellow-men,But,vicê versâ, rather tightly;And drank his share, so runs the story,And other people's,con amore.A great Astronomer, no doubt,He often found some ConstellationWhich others could not see withoutProfuse internal irrigation;And snakes he saw, and crimson mice,Until his colleagues rang for ice.Omar, who owned a length of throatAs dry as the proverbial "drummer,"And quite believed that (let me quote)"One swallow does not make a summer,"Supplied a model to societyOf frank, persistent insobriety.* * * * *Ah, fill the cup with nectar sweet,Until, when indisposed for more,Your puzzled, inadhesive feetElude the smooth revolving floor.What matter doubts, despair or sorrow?To-day is Yesterday To-morrow!Oblivion in the bottle win,Let finger-bowls with vodka foam,And seek the Open Port withinSome dignified Inebriates' Home;Assuming there, with kingly air,A crown of vine-leaves in your hair!A book of verse (my own, for choice),A slice of cake, some ice-cream soda,A lady with a tuneful voice,Beside me in some dim pagoda!A cellar—if I had the key,—Would be a Paradise to me!In cosy seat, with lots to eat,And bottles of Lafitte to fracture(And, by-the-bye, the word La-feetRecalls the mode of manufacture)—I contemplate, at easy distance,The troublous problems of existence.For even if it could be mineTo change Creation's partial scheme,To mould it to a fresh design,More nearly that of which I dream,Most probably, my weak endeavourWould make more mess of it than ever!So let us stock our cellar shelvesWith balm to lubricate the throttle;For "Heav'n helps those who help themselves,"So help yourself, and pass the bottle!. . . . . .What! Would you quarrel with my moral?(Waiter! Leshavanotherborrel!)Andrew CarnegieINCaledonia, stern and wild,Whence scholars, statesmen, bards have sprung,Where ev'ry little barefoot childCorrectly lisps his mother-tongue,And lingual solecisms betokenThat Scotch is drunk, as well as spoken,There dwells a man of iron nerve,A millionaire without a peer,Possessing that supreme reserveWhich stamps the caste of Vere de Vere,And marks him out to human kenAs one of Nature's noblemen.Like other self-made persons, heIs surely much to be excused,Since they have had no choice, you see,Of the material to be used;But when his noiseless fabric grew,He builded better than he knew.A democrat, whose views are frank,To him Success alone is vital;He deems the wealthy cabman's "rank"As good as any other title;To him the post of postman bettersThe trade of other Men of Letters.The relative who seeks to wedSome nice but indigent patrician,He urges to select insteadA coachman of assured position,Since safety-matches, you'll agree,Strike only on the box, says he.At Skibo Castle, by the sea,A splendid palace he has built,Equipped with all the luxuryOf plush, of looking-glass, and gilt;A style which Ruskin much enjoyed,And christened "Early German Lloyd."With milking-stools and ribbon'd screensThe floor is covered, well I know;The walls are thick with tambourines,Hand-painted many years ago;Ah, how much taste our forbears had!And nearly all of it was bad.Each flow'r-embroidered boudoir suite,Each "cosy corner" set apart,Was modelled in the Regent StreetEmporium of suburban art."O Liberty!" (I quote with shame)"The crimes committed in thy name!"But tho' his mansion now containsA swimming-bath, a barrel-organ,Electric light, and even drains,As good as those of Mr. Morgan,There was a time when Andrew C.Was not obsessed by l. s. d.Across the seas he made his pile,In Pittsburg, where, I've understood,You have to exercise some guileTo do the very slightest good;But he kept doing good by stealth,And doubtless blushed to find it wealth.And now his private hobby 'tisTo meet a starving people's needBy making gifts of librariesTo those who never learnt to read;Rich mental banquets he providesFor folks with famishing insides.In Education's hallowed nameHe pours his opulent libations;His vast deserted Halls of FameIncrease the gaiety of nations.But still the slums are plague-infested,The hospitals remain congested.. . . . . .Carnegie, should your kindly eyeThis foolish book of verses meet,Please order an immense supply,To make your libraries complete,And register its author's nameWithin your princely Halls of Fame!King CophetuaTOsing of King CophetuaI am indeed unwilling,For none of his adventures areParticularly thrilling;Nor, as I hardly need to mention,Am I addicted to invention.103The story of his roving eye,You must already know it,Since it has been narrated byLord Tennyson, the poet;I could a moving tale unfold,But it has been so often told.But since I wish my friends to seeMy early education,If Tennyson will pardon meA somewhat free translation,I'll try if something can't be sungIn someone else's mother-tongue."Cophetua and the Beggar Maid!"So runs the story's title(An explanation, I'm afraid,Is absolutely vital),Express'd, as I need hardly mench:In 4 a.m. (or early) French:—Les bras posés sur la poitrineLui fait l'apparence divine,—Enfin elle a très bonne mine,—Elle arrive, ne portant pasDe sabots, ni même de bas,Pieds-nus, au roi Cophetua.Le roi lors, couronne sur tête,Vêtu de ses robes de fête,Va la rencontrer, et l'arrête.On dit, "Tiens, il y en a de quoi!""Je ferais ça si c'était moi!"Il saits s'amuser donc, ce roi!Ainsi qu'la lune brille aux cieux,Cette enfant luit de mieux en mieux,Quand même ses habits soient vieux.En voilà un qui loue ses yeux,Un autre admire ses cheveux,Et tout le monde est amoureux.Car on n'a jamais vu là-basUn charme tel que celui-làAlors le bon CophetuaJure, "La pauvre mendiante,Si séduisante, si charmante,Sera ma femme,—ou bien ma tante!"Joseph F. SmithTHOUGH, to the ordinary mind,The weight of marriage ties is suchThat many mere, male, mortals findOne wife enough,—if not too much;I see no no reason to abuseA person holding other views.109Though most of us, at any rate,Have not acquired the plural habits,Which we are apt to delegateTo Eastern potentates,—or rabbits;We should regard with open mindThe more uxoriously inclined.In Salt Lake City dwells a manWho deems monogamy a myth;(One of that too prolific clanWhich glories in the name of Smith);A "Prophet, Seer, and Revelator,"With the appearance of a waiter.This hoary patriarch contrivesTo thrive in manner most bewild'rin',With close on half a dozen wives,And nearly half a hundred children;And views with unaffrighted eyesThe burden of domestic ties.To him all spouses seem the same—Each one a model of the Graces;He knows his children all by name,But cannot recollect their faces;A minor point, since, I suppose,Each one has got its popper's nose!They are denied to me and you:Such old-world luxuries as his,When, after work, he hastens toThe bosoms of his families(Each offspring joining with the othersIn, "What is Home without five Mothers?").Such strange surroundings would retardMost ordinary men's digestions;Five ladies all conversing hard,And fifty children asking questions!Besides (the tragic final straw),Five se-pa-rate mamas-in-law!What difficulties there must beTo find a telescopic mansion;For each successive familyThe space sufficient for expansion.("But that," said Kipling, in his glory—"But that is quite another storey!")The sailor who, from lack of thought,Or else a too diffuse affection,Has, for a wife in ev'ry port,An unappeasing predilection,Would designate as "simply great!"The mode of life in Utah State.The gay Lothario, too, who makesHis mad but meaningless advancesTo more than one fair maid, and takesA large variety of chances,Need have no fear, in such a place,Of any breach-of-promise case.With Mormons of the latter-dayI have no slightest cause for quarrel;Nor do I doubt at all that theyAre quite exceptionally moral;Their President has told us so,And he, if anyone, should know.But tho' of folks in Utah State,But 2 percent lead plural lives,Perhaps the other 98Are just—their children and their wives!O stern, ascetic congregation,Resisting all—except temptation!Well, I, for one, can see no harm,Unless for trouble one were looking,In having wives on either arm,And one downstairs—to do the cooking.A touching scene; with nought to dim it.But fifty children!—That's the limit!Some middle course would I explore;Incur a merely dual bond;One wife, brunette, to scrub the floor,And one for outdoor use, a blonde;Thus happily could I exist,A moral Mormonogamist!Sherlock HolmesTHEFrench "filou" may raise his "bock,"The "Green-goods man" his cocktail, whenHe toast Gaboriau's Le Coq,Or Pinkerton's discreet young men;But beer in British bumpers foamsAround the name of Sherlock Holmes!119Come, boon companions, all of youWho (woodcock-like) exist by suction,Uplift your teeming tankards toThe great Professor of Deduction!Who is he? You shall shortly seeIf (Watson-like) you "follow me."In London (on the left-hand sideAs you go in), stands Baker Street,Exhibited with proper prideBy all policemen on the beat,As housing one whose predilectionIs private criminal detection.The malefactor's apt disguisePresents to him an easy task;His placid, penetrating eyesCan pierce the most secretive mask;And felons ask a deal too muchWho fancy to elude his clutch.No slender or exiguous clewToo paltry for his needs is found;No knot too stubborn to undo,No prey too swift to run to ground;No road too difficult to travel,No skein too tangled to unravel.For Holmes the ash of a cigar,A gnat impinging on his eye,Possess a meaning subtler farThan humbler mortals can descry.A primrose at the river's brimNo simple primrose is to him!To Holmes a battered Brahma key,Combined with blurred articulation,Displays a man's capacityFor infinite ingurgitation;Obliquity of moral visionBetrays the civic politician.I had an uncle, who possessedA marked resemblance to a bloater,Whom Sherlock, by deduction, guessedTo be the victim of a motor;Whereas, his wife (or so he swore)Had merely shut him in the door!My brother's nose, whose hectic hueRecalled the sun-kissed autumn leaf,Though friends attributed it toSome secret or domestic grief,Revealed to Holmes his deep potations,Andnotthe loss of loved relations!I had a poodle, short and fat,Who proved a conjugal deceiver;Her offspring were a Maltese Cat,Two Dachshunds and a pink retriever!Her husband was a pure-bred Skye;And Sherlock Holmes alone knew why!When after-dinner speakers rise,To plunge in anecdotage deep,At once will Sherlock recogniseEach welcome harbinger of sleep:That voice which torpid guests entrances,That immemorial voice of Chauncey's!Not his, suppose Hall Caine should walkAll unannounced into the room,To say, like pressmen of New York,"Er—Mr. Shakespeare, I presoom?"By name "The Manxman" Holmes would hail,Observing that hehad no tale.In vain, amid the lonely stateOf Zion, dreariest of havens,Does bashful Dowie emulateThe prophet who was fed by ravens;To Holmes such affluence betraysA prophet who is fed byjays!. . . . . .With Holmes there lived a foolish man,To whom I briefly must allude,Who gloried in possessing anAbnormal mental hebetude;One could describe the grossestbétiseTo this (forgive the rhyme) Achates.'Twas Doctor Watson, human mole,Obtusely, painfully polite;Who played the unambitious rôleOf parasitic satellite;Inevitably bound to bore us,Like Aristophanes's Chorus.. . . . . .But London town is sad to-day,And preternaturally solemn;The fountains murmur "Let us spray"To Nelson on his lonely column;Big Ben is mute, her clapper crack'd is,For Holmes has given up his practice.No more in silence, as the snake,Will he his sinuous path pursue,Till, like the weasel (when awake),Or deft, resilient kangaroo,He leaps upon his quivering quarry,Before there's time to say you're sorry.No more will criminals, at dawn,Effecting some burglarious entry,(While Sherlock, on the garden lawn,Enacts the thankless rôle of sentry),Discover, to their bitter cost,That felons who are found—are lost!No more on Holmes shall Watson baseThe Chronicles he proudly fabled;The violin and morphia-caseAre in the passage, packed and labelled;And Holmes himself is at the door,Departing—to return no more.He bids farewell to Baker Street,Though Watson clings about his knees;He hastens to his country seat,To spend his dotage keeping bees;And one of them, depend upon it,Shall find a haven in his bonnet!But though in grief our heads are bowed,And tears upon our cheeks are shining,We recognise that ev'ry cloudConceals somewhere a silver lining;And hear with deep congratulationOf Watson's timely termination.AftwordYECritics, who with bilious eyePeruse my incoherent medley,Prepared to let your arrows fly,With cruel aim and purpose deadly,Desist a moment, ere you spoilThe harvest of a twelvemonth's toil!Remember, should you scent afarThe crusted jokes of days gone by,What conscious plagiarists we are:Molière and Seymour Hicks and I,For, as my bearded chestnuts prove,Je prends mon bien où je le trouve!My wealth of wit I never wasteOn Chestertonian paradox;My humour, in the best of taste,Like Miss Corelli's, never shocks;For sacred things my rev'rent aweResembles that of Bernard Shaw.Behold how tenderly I treatEach victim of my pen and brain,And should I tread upon his feet,How lightly I leap off again;Observe with what an airy graceI fling my inkpot in his face!And those who seek at Christmas time,An inexpensive gift for Mother,Will fine this foolish book of rhymeAs apposite as any other,And suitable for presentationTo any poor or near relation.To those whose intellect is small,This work should prove a priceless treasure;To persons who have none at all,A never-ending fount of pleasure;A mental stimulus or tonicTo all whose idiocy is chronic.And you, my Readers (never mindWhich category you come under),Will, after due reflection, findMy verse a constant source of wonder;'Twill make youthink, I dare to swear—Butwhatyou think I do not care!
More Misrepresentative MenHarry Graham
Frontispiece
ByHarry Graham
Author of"Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes,""Misrepresentative Men,""Ballads of the Boer War,""Verse and Worse," etc., etc.
PICTURES BYMalcolm Strauss
NEW YORKFox, Duffield & CompanyMCMV
Copyright, 1905, byFOX, DUFFIELD & COMPANYPublished in September, 1905
ToE. B.
ContentsPAGEAuthor's Foreword9Publisher's Preface14Robert Burns18William Waldorf Astor33Henry VIII42Alton B. Parker48Euclid54J. M. Barrie65Omar Khayyam72Andrew Carnegie78King Cophetua85Joseph F. Smith90Sherlock Holmes98Aftword109List of IllustrationsAndrew CarnegieFRONTISPIECEFACINGPAGERobert Burns18William Waldorf Astor34Henry VIII42Alton B. Parker48Euclid54J. M. Barrie66Omar Khayyam72King Cophetua86Joseph F. Smith90Sherlock Holmes98Authors Foreword(To the Publisher)WHENhonest men are all in bed,We poets at our desks are toiling,To earn a modicum of bread,And keep the pot a-boiling;We weld together, bit by bit,The fabric of our laboured wit.We see with eyes of frank dismayThe coming of this Autumn season,When bards are driven to displayTheir feast of rhyme and reason;With hectic brain and loosened collar,We chase the too-elusive dollar.While Publishers, in search of grist,Despise our masterly inaction,And shake their faces in our fist,Demanding satisfaction,We view with vague or vacant mindThe grim agreements we have signed.For though a willing public givesIts timely share of cash assistance,The author (like the dentist) livesA hand-to-mouth existence;And Publishers, those modern Circes,Make pig's-ear purses of his verses.Behold! How ill, how thin and pale,The features of the furtive jester!Compelled by contracts to curtailHis moments of siesta!A true White Knight is he to-day(Nuit Blanche, as Stevenson would say).Ah, surely he has laboured well,Constructing this immortal sequel,—A work which no one could excel,And very few can equal,—A volume which, I dare to say,Is epoch-making, in its way.When other poets' work is not,These verses shall retain their label;When Herford is a thing forgot,And Ade an ancient fable;When Goops no longer give a signOf Burgess's empurpled kine.My Publishers, I love you so!Your well-secreted virtues viewing;Who never let your right hand knowWhom your left hand is doing;Who hold me firmly in your grip,And crack your cheque-book, like a whip!My Publishers, make no mistake,You have in me anavis rara,So write a princely cheque, and makeIt payable to bearer;I love you, as I said before,But oh! I love your money more!Publisher's Preface(To the Author)VORACIOUSAuthor, gorged with gold,Your grasping greed shall not avail!In vain you venture to unfoldYour false prehensile tale!I view in scorn (unmixed with awe)The width of your capacious maw.On me the onus has to fallOf your malevolent effusions;'Tis I who bear the brunt of allYour libellous allusions;To bolster up your turgid verse,I jeopardise my very purse!You do not hesitate to fleeceThe Publisher you scorn to thank,And when you manage to decreaseHis balance at the bank,Your face is lighted up with greed,And you are lantern-jawed indeed!Yet will I still heap coals of fire,Until your coiffure is imbedded,And you at last, perchance, shall tireOf growing so hot-headed,And realise that being funnyIs not a mere affair of money.And so, in honour of your pow'rs,A fragrant bouquet will I pick,Of rare exotics, blossoms, flow'rsOf speech and rhetoric;I'll add a thistle, if I may,And, round the whole, a wreath of bay.The blossoms for your button-hole,To mark your affluent condition,Exotics to inspire your soulTo further composition.Come, set the bays upon your brow!* * * * *Well, eat the thistle, anyhow!Robert BurnsTHEjingling rhymes of Dr. WattsExcite the reader's just impatience,He wearies of Sir Walter Scott'sMelodious verbal collocations,And with advancing years he learnsTo love the simpler style of Burns.021Too much the careworn critic knowsOf that obscure robustious diction,Which like a form of fungus growsAmid the Kailyard school of fiction;In Crockett's cryptic caves one sighsFor Burns's clear and spacious skies.Tho' no aspersions need be castOn Barrie's wealth of wit fantastic,Creator of that unsurpass'dIf most minute ecclesiastic;Yet even here the eye discernsNo master-hand like that of Burns.The works of Campbell and the restExhale a sanctimonious odour,Their vintage is but Schnapps, at best,Their Scotch is simply Scotch-and-sodour!They cannot hope, like Burns, to winThat "touch which makes the whole world kin."Tho' some may sing of Neil Munro,And virtues in Maclaren see,Or want but little here below,And want that little Lang, maybe;Each renegade at length returns,To praise the peerless pow'rs of Burns.His verse, as all the world declares,And Tennyson himself confesses,The radiance of the dewdrop shares,The berry's perfect shape possesses;And even William Wordsworth praisesThe magic of his faultless phrases.But he, whose books bedeck our shelves,Whose lofty genius we adore so,Was only human, like ourselves,—Perhaps, indeed, a trifle more so!And joined a thirst that nought could quenchTo morals which were frankly French.And ev'ry night he made his way,With boon companions, bent on frolic,To inns of ill-repute, where layRefreshments—chiefly alcoholic!(But I decline to raise your gorges,Describing these nocturnal orgies.)Of love-affairs he knew no end,So long and ardently he flirted,And e'en the least suspicious friendWould feel a trifle disconcerted,When Burns was sitting with his "sposa,""As thick as thieves on Vallombrosa!"A Cockney Chiel who found him thus,And showed some conjugal alarm,When Burns implored him not to fuss,Enquiring calmly, "Where's the harm?"Replied at once, with perfect taste,"Theharm is round my consort's waist!""A poor thing but my own," said he,His fair but fickle bride denoting,And she, with scathing repartee,Assented, wilfully misquoting,(Tho' carefully brought up, like Jonah),"A poorer thing—and yet my owner!"The most bucolic hearts were burntBy Burns' amatory glances;The most suburban spinsters learntTo welcome his abrupt advances;When Burns was on his knee, 'twas said,They wished thattheywere there instead!They loved him from the first, in spiteOf angry parents' interference;They deemed his courtship so polite,So captivating his appearance;So great his charm, so apt his wit,In local parlance, Burns was IT!The rustic maids from far and wide,Encouraged his unwise flirtations;For love of Burns they moped and sighed,And, while their nearest male relationsWere up in arms, the sad thing isThat they themselves were up in his!His crest a mug, with open lid,The kind in vogue with ancient Druids,—Inscribed "Amari Aliquid,"(Which means "I'm very fond of fluids!"),On either side, as meet supporters,The village blacksmith's lovely daughters."Men were deceivers ever!" True,As Shakespeare says (Hey Nonny! Nonny!),But one should always keep in viewThat "tout comprendr' c'est tout pardonny";In judging poets it sufficesTo scan their verses, not their vices.. . . . . .The poets of the present timeAttempt their feeble imitations;Are economical of rhyme,And lavish with reiterations;The while a patient public swallowsA "Border Ballad" much as follows:—Jamie lad, I lo'e ye weel,Jamie lad, I lo'e nae ither,Jamie lad, I lo'e ye weel,Like a mither.Jamie's ganging doon the burn,Jamie's ganging doon, whateffer,Jamie's ganging doon the burn,To Strathpeffer!Jamie's comin' hame to dee,Jamie's comin' hame, I'm thinkin',Jamie's comin' hame to dee,Dee o' drinkin'!Hech! Jamie! Losh! Jamie!Dinna greet sae sair!Gin ye canna, winna, shannaSee yer lassie mair!Wha' hoo!Wha' hae!Strathpeffer!I give you now, as antidote,Some lines which I myself indited.Carnegie, when he read them, wroteTo say that he was quite delighted;Their pathos cut him to the quick,Their humour almost made him sick.The queys are moopin' i' the mirk,An' gin ye thole ahin' the kirk,I'll gar ye tocher hame fra' work,Sae straught an' primsie;In vain the lavrock leaves the snaw,The sonsie cowslips blithely blaw,The elbucks wheep adoon the shaw,Or warl a whimsy.The cootie muircocks crousely craw,The maukins tak' their fud fu' braw,I gie their wames a random paw,For a' they're skilpy;For wha' sae glaikit, gleg an' din,To but the ben, or loup the linn,Or scraw aboon the tirlin'-pinSae frae an' gilpie?Och, snood the sporran roun' ma lap,The cairngorm clap in ilka cap,Och, hand me o'erMa lang claymore,Twa, bannocks an' a bap,Wha hoo!Twa bannocks an' a bap!. . . . . .O fellow Scotsman, near and far,Renowned for health and good digestion,For all that makes you what you are,—(But are you really? That's the question)—Be grateful, while the world endures,That Burns was countryman of yours.And hand-in-hand, in alien land,Foregather with your fellow cronies,To masticate the haggis (cann'd)At Scottish Conversaziones,Where, flushed with wine and Auld Lang Syne,You worship at your country's shrine!William Waldorf AstorHOWblest a thing it is to dieFor Country's sake, as bards have sung!How sweet "pro patria mori,"(To quote the vulgar Latin tongue);And yet to him the palm we giveWho for his fatherland canlive.Historians have explained to us,In terms that never can grow cold,How well the bold HoratiusPlayed bridge in the brave days of old;And we can read of hosts of others,From Spartan boys to Roman mothers.But nowhere has the student got,From poet, pedagogue, or pastor,The picture of a patriotSo truly typical as Astor;And none has ever shown a greaterAffection for his Alma Mater.039With loyalty to FatherlandHis heart inflexible as starch is,Whene'er he hears upon a bandThe too prolific Sousa's marches;And from his eyes a tear he wipes,Each time he sees the Stars and Stripes.Tho' others roam across the foamTo European health resorts,The fact that "there's no place like home"Is foremost in our hero's thoughts;And all in vain have people triedTo lure him from his "ain fireside."Let tourists travel near or far,By wayward breezes widely blown,Hestops at the Astoria,"A poor thing" (Shakespeare), "but his own;"And nothing that his friends may doCan drag him from Fifth Avenue.The Western heiress is contentTo scale, as a prospective bride,The bare six-story tenementWhere foreign pauper peers reside;But men like Astor all disparageThe so-called Morgan-attic marriage.The rich Chicago millionaireMay buy a mansion in Belgravia,Have footmen there with powdered hairAnd frigidly correct behaviour;But marble stairs and plate of goldLeave Astor absolutely cold.The lofty ducal residence,That fronts some Surrey riverside,Would wound his socialistic sense,And pain his patriotic pride;He would not change for Castles HighlandHis cabbage-patch on Coney Island.A statue in some Roman street,A palace of Venetian gilding,Appear to him not half so sweetAs any modern Vanderbuilding;He views, without an envious throe,The wolf that suckled Romeo!Roast beef, or frogs, or sauerkraut,Their mead of praise from some may win;Our hero cannot do withoutPeanuts and clams and terrapin;Away from home, his soul would lackThe cocktail and the canvasback.Not his to walk the crowded Strand;'Mid busy London's jar and hum.On quiet Broadway he would stand,Saying "Americanus sum!"His smile so tranquil, so seraphic,—Small wonder that it stops the traffic!Who would not be a man like he,(This lapse of grammar pray forgive,)So simply satisfied to be,Contented with his lot to live,—Whether or not it be, I wot,A little lot,—or quite a lot?Content with any kind of fare,With any tiny piece of earth,So long as he can find it thereWithin the land that gave him birth;Content with simple beans and pork,If he may eat them in New York!O persons who have made your pile,And spend it far across the seas,Like landlords of the Em'rald Isle,Denounced notorious absentees,I pray you imitate the Master,And stay at home like Mr. Astor!But if you go abroad at all,And leave your fatherland behind you,Without an effort to recallThe sentimental ties that bind you,I should be grateful if you couldContrive to stay away for good!Henry VIIIWITHStevenson we must agree,Who found the world so full of things,That all should be, or so said he,As happy as a host of Kings;Yet few so fortunate as notTo envy Bluff King Henry's lot.049A polished monarch, through and through,Tho' somewhat lacking in religion,Who joined a courtly manner toThe figure of a pouter pigeon;And was, at time of feast or revelA ... well ... a perfect little devil!But tho' his vices, I'm afraid,Are hard for modern minds to swallow,Two lofty virtues he displayed,Which we should do our best to follow:—A passion for domestic life,A cult for what is called The Wife.He sought his spouses, North and South.Six times (to make a misquotation)He managed, at the Canon's mouth,To win a bubble reputation;And ev'ry time, from last to first,His matrimonial bubble burst!Six times, with wide, self-conscious smileAnd well-blacked, button boots, he enteredThe Abbey's bust-congested aisle,With ev'ry eye upon him centred;Six times he heard, and not alone,The march of Mr. Mendelssohn.Six sep'rate times (or three times twice),In order to complete the marriage,'Mid painful show'rs of boots and rice,He sought the shelter of his carriage;Six times the bride, beneath her veil,Looked "beautiful, but somewhat pale."Within the limits of one reign,Six females of undaunted bearing,Two Annes, three Kath'rines, and a Jane,Enjoyed the privilege of sharingA conjugal career so chequer'dIt almost constitutes a record!Yet sometimes it occurs to meThat Henry missed his true vocation;A husband by profession he,A widower by occupation;And, honestly, it seems a pityHe didn't live in Salt Lake City.For there he could have put in forceHis plural marriage views, unbaffled;Nor had recourse to dull divorce,Nor sought the service of the scaffold;Nor looked for peace, nor found release,In any partner's predecease.Had Henry been alive to-day,He might have hired a timely motor,And sent each wife in turn to stayWithin the confines of Dakota;That State whose rigid marriage-law,Is eulogised by Bernard Shaw.But Henry's simple days are done,And, in the present generation,A wife is seldom woo'd and wonBy prospects of decapitation.For nowadays when Woman weds,It is theMenwho lose their heads!Alton B. ParkerTHOSERoman Fathers, long ago,Established a sublime tradition,Who gave the Man Behind the HoeHis proud proconsular position;When Cincinnatus left his hens,And beat his ploughshares into pens.057His modern prototype we see,Descended from some humble attic,The Presidential nomineeOf those whose views are Democratic;From Millionaire to Billiard MarkerThey plumped their votes for Central Parker.A member of the sterner sex,Possessing neither wealth nor beauty,But gifted with a really ex——Traordinary sense of Duty;In Honour's list I place him first,—With Cæsar's Wife and Mr. Hearst.From childhood's day this son of toil,Since first he laid aside his rattle,Was wont to cultivate the soil,Or milk his father's kindly cattle;To groom the pigs, drive crows away,Or teach the bantams how to lay.This sprightly lad, his parents' pet,With tastes essentially bucolic,Eschewed the straightcut cigarette,And shunned refreshments alcoholic;His simple pleasure 'twas to plumbThe deep-laid joys of chewing gum.As local pedagogue he nextAttained to years of indiscretion,To preach the Solomonian textSo popular with that profession,Which honours whom (and what) it teachesMore in th' observance than the breeches.The sprightly Parker soon one sees,Head of a legal institution,Enjoying huge retaining feesAs counsel for the prosecution.(Advice to lawyers,meum non est,—Get on, get honour, then get honest!)Behold him, then, like comet, shootBeyond the bounds of birth or station,And gain, as jurist of repute,A continental reputation.(Don't mix him with that "Triple Star"Which lights a more unworthy "bar.")A proud position now is his,A judge, arrayed in moral ermine,As from the Bench he sentencesHis fellow-man, and other vermin,And does his duty to his neighbour,By giving him six months' hard labour.On knotty questions of financeHe bears aloft the golden standard,For he whose motto is "Advance!"To baser coin has never pandered.No eulogist of War is he,"Retrenchment!" is hisdernier cri.But tho', to his convictions true,With strength like concentrated Eno,He did his very utmost toEmancipate the Filipino,A fickle public chose Another,Who called the Coloured Coon his Brother.EuclidWHENEgypt was a first-class Pow'r—When Ptolemy was King, that is,Whose benefices used to show'rOn all the local charities,And by his liberal subscriptionsWas always spoiling the Egyptians—065The Alexandrine School enjoyedA proud and primary positionFor training scholars not devoidOf geometric erudition;Where arithmetical fanaticsCould evenlivein (mathem)-attics.The best informed Historians nameThis Institution the possessorOf one who occupied with fameThe post of principal Professor,Who had a more expansive brainThan any man—before Hall Caine.No complex sums of huge amountsPerplexed his algebraic knowledge;With ease he balanced the accountsOf his (at times insolvent) College;He was, without the least romance,A very Blondin of Finance.In pencil, on his shirt-cuff, he,Without a moment's hesitation,Elucidated easilyThe most elab'rate calculation(His washing got, I needn't mention,The local laundry's best attention).Behind a manner mild as mouse,Blue-spectacled and inoffensive,He hid a judgment and anousAs overwhelming as extensive,And cloaked a soul immune from wrongBeneath an ample ong-bong-pong.To rows of conscientious youths,Whom 'twas his duty to take care of,He loved to prove the truth of truthsWhich they already were aware of;They learnt to look politely bored,Where modern students would have snored.To show that Two and Two make Four,That All is greater than a Portion,Requires no dialectic lore,Nor any cerebral contortion;The public's faith in facts was steady,Before the days of Mrs. Eddy.But what was hard to overlook(From which Society still suffers)Was all the trouble Euclid tookTo teach the game of Bridge to duffers.Insisting, when he got a quorum,On "Pons" (he called it) "Asinorum."The guileless methods of his gameProvoked his partner's strongest strictures;He hardly knew the cards by name,But realised that some had pictures;Exhausting ev'rybody's patienceBy his perpetual revocations.For weary hours, in deep concern,O'er dummy's hand he loved to linger,Denoting ev'ry card in turn,With timid indecisive finger;And stopped to say, at each delay,"I really don't knowwhatto play!"He sought, at any cost, to winHis ev'ry suit in turn unguarding;He trumped his partner's "best card in,"His own egregiously discarding;Remarking sadly, when in doubt,"I quite forgot the King was out!"Alert opponents always knew,By what the look upon his face was,When safety lay in leading through,And where, of course, the fatal ace was;Assuring the complete successesOf bold but hazardous "finesses."But nowadays we find no trace,From distant Assouan to Cairo,To mark the place where dwelt a raceMistaught by so absurd a tyro;And nothing but occult inscriptionsRecall the sports of past Egyptians.Yes, "autre temps" and "autre moeurs,""Où sontindeedles neiges d'antan?"The modern native much prefersDebauching in somecafé chantant,Nor ever shows the least ambitionTo solve a single Proposition.O Euclid, luckiest of men!You knew no English interloper;For Allah's Garden was not thenThe pleasure-ground of Alleh Sloper,Nor (broth-like) had your country's looksBeen spoilt by an excess of "Cooks."The Nile to your untutored earsDiscoursed in dull but tender tones;Not yours the modern Dahabeahs,Supplied with strident gramophones,Imploring, in a loud refrain,Bill Bailey to come home again.Your cars, the older-fashioned sort,And drawn, perhaps, by alligators,Were not the modern Juggernaut-Child-dog-and-space-obliterators,Those "stormy petrols" of the landWhich deal decease on either hand.No European tourist wagsDefiled the desert's dusky faceWith orange peel and paper bags,Those emblems of a cultured race;Or cut the noble name of Jones,On tombs which held a monarch's bones.O Euclid! Could you see to-dayThe sunny clime you once frequented,And note the way we moderns playThe game you thoughtfully invented,The knowledge of your guilt would force yerTo feelings of internal nausea!J. M. BarrieTHEbriny tears unbidden start,At mention of my hero's name!Was ever set so huge a heartWithin so small a frame?So much of tenderness and graceConfined in such a slender space?079(O tiniest of tiny men!So wise, so whimsical, so witty!Whose magic little fairy-penIs steeped in human pity;Whose humour plays so quaint a tune,From Peter Pan to Pantaloon!)So wide a sympathy has he,Such kindliness without an end,That children clamber on his knee,And claim him as a friend;They somehow know he understands,And doesn't mind their sticky hands.And so they swarm about his neck,With energy that nothing wearies,Assured that he will never checkTheir ceaseless flow of queries,And grateful, with a warm affection,For his avuncular protection.And when his watch he opens wide,Or beats them all at blowing bubbles,They tell him how the dormouse died,And all their tiny troubles;And drag him, if he seems deprest,To see the baby squirrel's nest.For hidden treasure he can dig,Pursue the Indians in the wood,Feed the prolific guinea-pigWith inappropriate food;Do all the things that mattered soIn happy days of long ago.All this he can achieve, and more!For, 'neath the magic of his brain,The young are younger than before,The old grow young again,To dream of Beauty and of TruthFor hearts that win eternal youth.Fat apoplectic men I know,With well-developed Little Marys,Look almost human when they showTheir faith in Barrie's fairies;Their blank lethargic faces lightenIn admiration of his Crichton.To lovers who, with fingers cold,Attempt to fan some dying ember,He brings the happy days of old,And bids their hearts remember;Recalling in romantic fashionThe tenderness of earlier passion.And modern matrons who can findSo little leisure for the Nurs'ry,Whose interest in babykindIs eminently curs'ry,New views on Motherhood acquireFrom Alice-sitting-by-the-Fire!While men of every sort and kind,At times of sunshine or of trouble,In Sentimental Tommy findTheir own amazing double;To each in turn the mem'ry comesOf some belov'd forgotten Thrums.To Barrie's literary artThat strong poetic sense is clingingWhich hears, in ev'ry human heart,A "late lark" faintly singing,A bird that bears upon its wingThe promise of perpetual Spring.Materialists may labour muchAt problems for the modern stage;His simpler methods reach and touchThe Young of ev'ry age;And first and second childhood meetOn common ground at Barrie's feet!Omar KhayyamTHOUGHmany a great PhilosopherHas earned the Epicure's diploma,Not one of them, as I aver,So much deserved the prize as Omar;For he, without the least misgiving,Combined High Thinking and High Living.087He lived in Persia, long ago,Upon a somewhat slender pittance;And Persia is, as you may know,The home of Shahs and fubsy kittens,(A quite consistenthabitat,Since "Shah," of course, is French for "cat.")He lived—as I was saying, whenYou interrupted, impolitely—Not loosely, like his fellow-men,But,vicê versâ, rather tightly;And drank his share, so runs the story,And other people's,con amore.A great Astronomer, no doubt,He often found some ConstellationWhich others could not see withoutProfuse internal irrigation;And snakes he saw, and crimson mice,Until his colleagues rang for ice.Omar, who owned a length of throatAs dry as the proverbial "drummer,"And quite believed that (let me quote)"One swallow does not make a summer,"Supplied a model to societyOf frank, persistent insobriety.* * * * *Ah, fill the cup with nectar sweet,Until, when indisposed for more,Your puzzled, inadhesive feetElude the smooth revolving floor.What matter doubts, despair or sorrow?To-day is Yesterday To-morrow!Oblivion in the bottle win,Let finger-bowls with vodka foam,And seek the Open Port withinSome dignified Inebriates' Home;Assuming there, with kingly air,A crown of vine-leaves in your hair!A book of verse (my own, for choice),A slice of cake, some ice-cream soda,A lady with a tuneful voice,Beside me in some dim pagoda!A cellar—if I had the key,—Would be a Paradise to me!In cosy seat, with lots to eat,And bottles of Lafitte to fracture(And, by-the-bye, the word La-feetRecalls the mode of manufacture)—I contemplate, at easy distance,The troublous problems of existence.For even if it could be mineTo change Creation's partial scheme,To mould it to a fresh design,More nearly that of which I dream,Most probably, my weak endeavourWould make more mess of it than ever!So let us stock our cellar shelvesWith balm to lubricate the throttle;For "Heav'n helps those who help themselves,"So help yourself, and pass the bottle!. . . . . .What! Would you quarrel with my moral?(Waiter! Leshavanotherborrel!)Andrew CarnegieINCaledonia, stern and wild,Whence scholars, statesmen, bards have sprung,Where ev'ry little barefoot childCorrectly lisps his mother-tongue,And lingual solecisms betokenThat Scotch is drunk, as well as spoken,There dwells a man of iron nerve,A millionaire without a peer,Possessing that supreme reserveWhich stamps the caste of Vere de Vere,And marks him out to human kenAs one of Nature's noblemen.Like other self-made persons, heIs surely much to be excused,Since they have had no choice, you see,Of the material to be used;But when his noiseless fabric grew,He builded better than he knew.A democrat, whose views are frank,To him Success alone is vital;He deems the wealthy cabman's "rank"As good as any other title;To him the post of postman bettersThe trade of other Men of Letters.The relative who seeks to wedSome nice but indigent patrician,He urges to select insteadA coachman of assured position,Since safety-matches, you'll agree,Strike only on the box, says he.At Skibo Castle, by the sea,A splendid palace he has built,Equipped with all the luxuryOf plush, of looking-glass, and gilt;A style which Ruskin much enjoyed,And christened "Early German Lloyd."With milking-stools and ribbon'd screensThe floor is covered, well I know;The walls are thick with tambourines,Hand-painted many years ago;Ah, how much taste our forbears had!And nearly all of it was bad.Each flow'r-embroidered boudoir suite,Each "cosy corner" set apart,Was modelled in the Regent StreetEmporium of suburban art."O Liberty!" (I quote with shame)"The crimes committed in thy name!"But tho' his mansion now containsA swimming-bath, a barrel-organ,Electric light, and even drains,As good as those of Mr. Morgan,There was a time when Andrew C.Was not obsessed by l. s. d.Across the seas he made his pile,In Pittsburg, where, I've understood,You have to exercise some guileTo do the very slightest good;But he kept doing good by stealth,And doubtless blushed to find it wealth.And now his private hobby 'tisTo meet a starving people's needBy making gifts of librariesTo those who never learnt to read;Rich mental banquets he providesFor folks with famishing insides.In Education's hallowed nameHe pours his opulent libations;His vast deserted Halls of FameIncrease the gaiety of nations.But still the slums are plague-infested,The hospitals remain congested.. . . . . .Carnegie, should your kindly eyeThis foolish book of verses meet,Please order an immense supply,To make your libraries complete,And register its author's nameWithin your princely Halls of Fame!King CophetuaTOsing of King CophetuaI am indeed unwilling,For none of his adventures areParticularly thrilling;Nor, as I hardly need to mention,Am I addicted to invention.103The story of his roving eye,You must already know it,Since it has been narrated byLord Tennyson, the poet;I could a moving tale unfold,But it has been so often told.But since I wish my friends to seeMy early education,If Tennyson will pardon meA somewhat free translation,I'll try if something can't be sungIn someone else's mother-tongue."Cophetua and the Beggar Maid!"So runs the story's title(An explanation, I'm afraid,Is absolutely vital),Express'd, as I need hardly mench:In 4 a.m. (or early) French:—Les bras posés sur la poitrineLui fait l'apparence divine,—Enfin elle a très bonne mine,—Elle arrive, ne portant pasDe sabots, ni même de bas,Pieds-nus, au roi Cophetua.Le roi lors, couronne sur tête,Vêtu de ses robes de fête,Va la rencontrer, et l'arrête.On dit, "Tiens, il y en a de quoi!""Je ferais ça si c'était moi!"Il saits s'amuser donc, ce roi!Ainsi qu'la lune brille aux cieux,Cette enfant luit de mieux en mieux,Quand même ses habits soient vieux.En voilà un qui loue ses yeux,Un autre admire ses cheveux,Et tout le monde est amoureux.Car on n'a jamais vu là-basUn charme tel que celui-làAlors le bon CophetuaJure, "La pauvre mendiante,Si séduisante, si charmante,Sera ma femme,—ou bien ma tante!"Joseph F. SmithTHOUGH, to the ordinary mind,The weight of marriage ties is suchThat many mere, male, mortals findOne wife enough,—if not too much;I see no no reason to abuseA person holding other views.109Though most of us, at any rate,Have not acquired the plural habits,Which we are apt to delegateTo Eastern potentates,—or rabbits;We should regard with open mindThe more uxoriously inclined.In Salt Lake City dwells a manWho deems monogamy a myth;(One of that too prolific clanWhich glories in the name of Smith);A "Prophet, Seer, and Revelator,"With the appearance of a waiter.This hoary patriarch contrivesTo thrive in manner most bewild'rin',With close on half a dozen wives,And nearly half a hundred children;And views with unaffrighted eyesThe burden of domestic ties.To him all spouses seem the same—Each one a model of the Graces;He knows his children all by name,But cannot recollect their faces;A minor point, since, I suppose,Each one has got its popper's nose!They are denied to me and you:Such old-world luxuries as his,When, after work, he hastens toThe bosoms of his families(Each offspring joining with the othersIn, "What is Home without five Mothers?").Such strange surroundings would retardMost ordinary men's digestions;Five ladies all conversing hard,And fifty children asking questions!Besides (the tragic final straw),Five se-pa-rate mamas-in-law!What difficulties there must beTo find a telescopic mansion;For each successive familyThe space sufficient for expansion.("But that," said Kipling, in his glory—"But that is quite another storey!")The sailor who, from lack of thought,Or else a too diffuse affection,Has, for a wife in ev'ry port,An unappeasing predilection,Would designate as "simply great!"The mode of life in Utah State.The gay Lothario, too, who makesHis mad but meaningless advancesTo more than one fair maid, and takesA large variety of chances,Need have no fear, in such a place,Of any breach-of-promise case.With Mormons of the latter-dayI have no slightest cause for quarrel;Nor do I doubt at all that theyAre quite exceptionally moral;Their President has told us so,And he, if anyone, should know.But tho' of folks in Utah State,But 2 percent lead plural lives,Perhaps the other 98Are just—their children and their wives!O stern, ascetic congregation,Resisting all—except temptation!Well, I, for one, can see no harm,Unless for trouble one were looking,In having wives on either arm,And one downstairs—to do the cooking.A touching scene; with nought to dim it.But fifty children!—That's the limit!Some middle course would I explore;Incur a merely dual bond;One wife, brunette, to scrub the floor,And one for outdoor use, a blonde;Thus happily could I exist,A moral Mormonogamist!Sherlock HolmesTHEFrench "filou" may raise his "bock,"The "Green-goods man" his cocktail, whenHe toast Gaboriau's Le Coq,Or Pinkerton's discreet young men;But beer in British bumpers foamsAround the name of Sherlock Holmes!119Come, boon companions, all of youWho (woodcock-like) exist by suction,Uplift your teeming tankards toThe great Professor of Deduction!Who is he? You shall shortly seeIf (Watson-like) you "follow me."In London (on the left-hand sideAs you go in), stands Baker Street,Exhibited with proper prideBy all policemen on the beat,As housing one whose predilectionIs private criminal detection.The malefactor's apt disguisePresents to him an easy task;His placid, penetrating eyesCan pierce the most secretive mask;And felons ask a deal too muchWho fancy to elude his clutch.No slender or exiguous clewToo paltry for his needs is found;No knot too stubborn to undo,No prey too swift to run to ground;No road too difficult to travel,No skein too tangled to unravel.For Holmes the ash of a cigar,A gnat impinging on his eye,Possess a meaning subtler farThan humbler mortals can descry.A primrose at the river's brimNo simple primrose is to him!To Holmes a battered Brahma key,Combined with blurred articulation,Displays a man's capacityFor infinite ingurgitation;Obliquity of moral visionBetrays the civic politician.I had an uncle, who possessedA marked resemblance to a bloater,Whom Sherlock, by deduction, guessedTo be the victim of a motor;Whereas, his wife (or so he swore)Had merely shut him in the door!My brother's nose, whose hectic hueRecalled the sun-kissed autumn leaf,Though friends attributed it toSome secret or domestic grief,Revealed to Holmes his deep potations,Andnotthe loss of loved relations!I had a poodle, short and fat,Who proved a conjugal deceiver;Her offspring were a Maltese Cat,Two Dachshunds and a pink retriever!Her husband was a pure-bred Skye;And Sherlock Holmes alone knew why!When after-dinner speakers rise,To plunge in anecdotage deep,At once will Sherlock recogniseEach welcome harbinger of sleep:That voice which torpid guests entrances,That immemorial voice of Chauncey's!Not his, suppose Hall Caine should walkAll unannounced into the room,To say, like pressmen of New York,"Er—Mr. Shakespeare, I presoom?"By name "The Manxman" Holmes would hail,Observing that hehad no tale.In vain, amid the lonely stateOf Zion, dreariest of havens,Does bashful Dowie emulateThe prophet who was fed by ravens;To Holmes such affluence betraysA prophet who is fed byjays!. . . . . .With Holmes there lived a foolish man,To whom I briefly must allude,Who gloried in possessing anAbnormal mental hebetude;One could describe the grossestbétiseTo this (forgive the rhyme) Achates.'Twas Doctor Watson, human mole,Obtusely, painfully polite;Who played the unambitious rôleOf parasitic satellite;Inevitably bound to bore us,Like Aristophanes's Chorus.. . . . . .But London town is sad to-day,And preternaturally solemn;The fountains murmur "Let us spray"To Nelson on his lonely column;Big Ben is mute, her clapper crack'd is,For Holmes has given up his practice.No more in silence, as the snake,Will he his sinuous path pursue,Till, like the weasel (when awake),Or deft, resilient kangaroo,He leaps upon his quivering quarry,Before there's time to say you're sorry.No more will criminals, at dawn,Effecting some burglarious entry,(While Sherlock, on the garden lawn,Enacts the thankless rôle of sentry),Discover, to their bitter cost,That felons who are found—are lost!No more on Holmes shall Watson baseThe Chronicles he proudly fabled;The violin and morphia-caseAre in the passage, packed and labelled;And Holmes himself is at the door,Departing—to return no more.He bids farewell to Baker Street,Though Watson clings about his knees;He hastens to his country seat,To spend his dotage keeping bees;And one of them, depend upon it,Shall find a haven in his bonnet!But though in grief our heads are bowed,And tears upon our cheeks are shining,We recognise that ev'ry cloudConceals somewhere a silver lining;And hear with deep congratulationOf Watson's timely termination.AftwordYECritics, who with bilious eyePeruse my incoherent medley,Prepared to let your arrows fly,With cruel aim and purpose deadly,Desist a moment, ere you spoilThe harvest of a twelvemonth's toil!Remember, should you scent afarThe crusted jokes of days gone by,What conscious plagiarists we are:Molière and Seymour Hicks and I,For, as my bearded chestnuts prove,Je prends mon bien où je le trouve!My wealth of wit I never wasteOn Chestertonian paradox;My humour, in the best of taste,Like Miss Corelli's, never shocks;For sacred things my rev'rent aweResembles that of Bernard Shaw.Behold how tenderly I treatEach victim of my pen and brain,And should I tread upon his feet,How lightly I leap off again;Observe with what an airy graceI fling my inkpot in his face!And those who seek at Christmas time,An inexpensive gift for Mother,Will fine this foolish book of rhymeAs apposite as any other,And suitable for presentationTo any poor or near relation.To those whose intellect is small,This work should prove a priceless treasure;To persons who have none at all,A never-ending fount of pleasure;A mental stimulus or tonicTo all whose idiocy is chronic.And you, my Readers (never mindWhich category you come under),Will, after due reflection, findMy verse a constant source of wonder;'Twill make youthink, I dare to swear—Butwhatyou think I do not care!
Contents
PAGEAuthor's Foreword9Publisher's Preface14Robert Burns18William Waldorf Astor33Henry VIII42Alton B. Parker48Euclid54J. M. Barrie65Omar Khayyam72Andrew Carnegie78King Cophetua85Joseph F. Smith90Sherlock Holmes98Aftword109
List of Illustrations
Andrew CarnegieFRONTISPIECEFACINGPAGERobert Burns18William Waldorf Astor34Henry VIII42Alton B. Parker48Euclid54J. M. Barrie66Omar Khayyam72King Cophetua86Joseph F. Smith90Sherlock Holmes98
(To the Publisher)
WHENhonest men are all in bed,We poets at our desks are toiling,To earn a modicum of bread,And keep the pot a-boiling;We weld together, bit by bit,The fabric of our laboured wit.We see with eyes of frank dismayThe coming of this Autumn season,When bards are driven to displayTheir feast of rhyme and reason;With hectic brain and loosened collar,We chase the too-elusive dollar.While Publishers, in search of grist,Despise our masterly inaction,And shake their faces in our fist,Demanding satisfaction,We view with vague or vacant mindThe grim agreements we have signed.For though a willing public givesIts timely share of cash assistance,The author (like the dentist) livesA hand-to-mouth existence;And Publishers, those modern Circes,Make pig's-ear purses of his verses.Behold! How ill, how thin and pale,The features of the furtive jester!Compelled by contracts to curtailHis moments of siesta!A true White Knight is he to-day(Nuit Blanche, as Stevenson would say).Ah, surely he has laboured well,Constructing this immortal sequel,—A work which no one could excel,And very few can equal,—A volume which, I dare to say,Is epoch-making, in its way.When other poets' work is not,These verses shall retain their label;When Herford is a thing forgot,And Ade an ancient fable;When Goops no longer give a signOf Burgess's empurpled kine.My Publishers, I love you so!Your well-secreted virtues viewing;Who never let your right hand knowWhom your left hand is doing;Who hold me firmly in your grip,And crack your cheque-book, like a whip!My Publishers, make no mistake,You have in me anavis rara,So write a princely cheque, and makeIt payable to bearer;I love you, as I said before,But oh! I love your money more!
WHENhonest men are all in bed,We poets at our desks are toiling,To earn a modicum of bread,And keep the pot a-boiling;We weld together, bit by bit,The fabric of our laboured wit.
HENhonest men are all in bed,We poets at our desks are toiling,To earn a modicum of bread,And keep the pot a-boiling;
We see with eyes of frank dismayThe coming of this Autumn season,When bards are driven to displayTheir feast of rhyme and reason;With hectic brain and loosened collar,We chase the too-elusive dollar.
While Publishers, in search of grist,Despise our masterly inaction,And shake their faces in our fist,Demanding satisfaction,We view with vague or vacant mindThe grim agreements we have signed.
For though a willing public givesIts timely share of cash assistance,The author (like the dentist) livesA hand-to-mouth existence;And Publishers, those modern Circes,Make pig's-ear purses of his verses.
Behold! How ill, how thin and pale,The features of the furtive jester!Compelled by contracts to curtailHis moments of siesta!A true White Knight is he to-day(Nuit Blanche, as Stevenson would say).
Ah, surely he has laboured well,Constructing this immortal sequel,—A work which no one could excel,And very few can equal,—A volume which, I dare to say,Is epoch-making, in its way.
When other poets' work is not,These verses shall retain their label;When Herford is a thing forgot,And Ade an ancient fable;When Goops no longer give a signOf Burgess's empurpled kine.
My Publishers, I love you so!Your well-secreted virtues viewing;Who never let your right hand knowWhom your left hand is doing;Who hold me firmly in your grip,And crack your cheque-book, like a whip!
My Publishers, make no mistake,You have in me anavis rara,So write a princely cheque, and makeIt payable to bearer;I love you, as I said before,But oh! I love your money more!
(To the Author)
VORACIOUSAuthor, gorged with gold,Your grasping greed shall not avail!In vain you venture to unfoldYour false prehensile tale!I view in scorn (unmixed with awe)The width of your capacious maw.On me the onus has to fallOf your malevolent effusions;'Tis I who bear the brunt of allYour libellous allusions;To bolster up your turgid verse,I jeopardise my very purse!You do not hesitate to fleeceThe Publisher you scorn to thank,And when you manage to decreaseHis balance at the bank,Your face is lighted up with greed,And you are lantern-jawed indeed!Yet will I still heap coals of fire,Until your coiffure is imbedded,And you at last, perchance, shall tireOf growing so hot-headed,And realise that being funnyIs not a mere affair of money.And so, in honour of your pow'rs,A fragrant bouquet will I pick,Of rare exotics, blossoms, flow'rsOf speech and rhetoric;I'll add a thistle, if I may,And, round the whole, a wreath of bay.The blossoms for your button-hole,To mark your affluent condition,Exotics to inspire your soulTo further composition.Come, set the bays upon your brow!* * * * *Well, eat the thistle, anyhow!
VORACIOUSAuthor, gorged with gold,Your grasping greed shall not avail!In vain you venture to unfoldYour false prehensile tale!I view in scorn (unmixed with awe)The width of your capacious maw.
ORACIOUSAuthor, gorged with gold,Your grasping greed shall not avail!In vain you venture to unfoldYour false prehensile tale!
On me the onus has to fallOf your malevolent effusions;'Tis I who bear the brunt of allYour libellous allusions;To bolster up your turgid verse,I jeopardise my very purse!
You do not hesitate to fleeceThe Publisher you scorn to thank,And when you manage to decreaseHis balance at the bank,Your face is lighted up with greed,And you are lantern-jawed indeed!
Yet will I still heap coals of fire,Until your coiffure is imbedded,And you at last, perchance, shall tireOf growing so hot-headed,And realise that being funnyIs not a mere affair of money.
And so, in honour of your pow'rs,A fragrant bouquet will I pick,Of rare exotics, blossoms, flow'rsOf speech and rhetoric;I'll add a thistle, if I may,And, round the whole, a wreath of bay.
The blossoms for your button-hole,To mark your affluent condition,Exotics to inspire your soulTo further composition.Come, set the bays upon your brow!* * * * *Well, eat the thistle, anyhow!
THEjingling rhymes of Dr. WattsExcite the reader's just impatience,He wearies of Sir Walter Scott'sMelodious verbal collocations,And with advancing years he learnsTo love the simpler style of Burns.
THEjingling rhymes of Dr. WattsExcite the reader's just impatience,He wearies of Sir Walter Scott'sMelodious verbal collocations,And with advancing years he learnsTo love the simpler style of Burns.
HEjingling rhymes of Dr. WattsExcite the reader's just impatience,He wearies of Sir Walter Scott'sMelodious verbal collocations,And with advancing years he learnsTo love the simpler style of Burns.
021
Too much the careworn critic knowsOf that obscure robustious diction,Which like a form of fungus growsAmid the Kailyard school of fiction;In Crockett's cryptic caves one sighsFor Burns's clear and spacious skies.Tho' no aspersions need be castOn Barrie's wealth of wit fantastic,Creator of that unsurpass'dIf most minute ecclesiastic;Yet even here the eye discernsNo master-hand like that of Burns.The works of Campbell and the restExhale a sanctimonious odour,Their vintage is but Schnapps, at best,Their Scotch is simply Scotch-and-sodour!They cannot hope, like Burns, to winThat "touch which makes the whole world kin."Tho' some may sing of Neil Munro,And virtues in Maclaren see,Or want but little here below,And want that little Lang, maybe;Each renegade at length returns,To praise the peerless pow'rs of Burns.His verse, as all the world declares,And Tennyson himself confesses,The radiance of the dewdrop shares,The berry's perfect shape possesses;And even William Wordsworth praisesThe magic of his faultless phrases.But he, whose books bedeck our shelves,Whose lofty genius we adore so,Was only human, like ourselves,—Perhaps, indeed, a trifle more so!And joined a thirst that nought could quenchTo morals which were frankly French.And ev'ry night he made his way,With boon companions, bent on frolic,To inns of ill-repute, where layRefreshments—chiefly alcoholic!(But I decline to raise your gorges,Describing these nocturnal orgies.)Of love-affairs he knew no end,So long and ardently he flirted,And e'en the least suspicious friendWould feel a trifle disconcerted,When Burns was sitting with his "sposa,""As thick as thieves on Vallombrosa!"A Cockney Chiel who found him thus,And showed some conjugal alarm,When Burns implored him not to fuss,Enquiring calmly, "Where's the harm?"Replied at once, with perfect taste,"Theharm is round my consort's waist!""A poor thing but my own," said he,His fair but fickle bride denoting,And she, with scathing repartee,Assented, wilfully misquoting,(Tho' carefully brought up, like Jonah),"A poorer thing—and yet my owner!"The most bucolic hearts were burntBy Burns' amatory glances;The most suburban spinsters learntTo welcome his abrupt advances;When Burns was on his knee, 'twas said,They wished thattheywere there instead!They loved him from the first, in spiteOf angry parents' interference;They deemed his courtship so polite,So captivating his appearance;So great his charm, so apt his wit,In local parlance, Burns was IT!The rustic maids from far and wide,Encouraged his unwise flirtations;For love of Burns they moped and sighed,And, while their nearest male relationsWere up in arms, the sad thing isThat they themselves were up in his!His crest a mug, with open lid,The kind in vogue with ancient Druids,—Inscribed "Amari Aliquid,"(Which means "I'm very fond of fluids!"),On either side, as meet supporters,The village blacksmith's lovely daughters."Men were deceivers ever!" True,As Shakespeare says (Hey Nonny! Nonny!),But one should always keep in viewThat "tout comprendr' c'est tout pardonny";In judging poets it sufficesTo scan their verses, not their vices.. . . . . .The poets of the present timeAttempt their feeble imitations;Are economical of rhyme,And lavish with reiterations;The while a patient public swallowsA "Border Ballad" much as follows:—Jamie lad, I lo'e ye weel,Jamie lad, I lo'e nae ither,Jamie lad, I lo'e ye weel,Like a mither.Jamie's ganging doon the burn,Jamie's ganging doon, whateffer,Jamie's ganging doon the burn,To Strathpeffer!Jamie's comin' hame to dee,Jamie's comin' hame, I'm thinkin',Jamie's comin' hame to dee,Dee o' drinkin'!Hech! Jamie! Losh! Jamie!Dinna greet sae sair!Gin ye canna, winna, shannaSee yer lassie mair!Wha' hoo!Wha' hae!Strathpeffer!I give you now, as antidote,Some lines which I myself indited.Carnegie, when he read them, wroteTo say that he was quite delighted;Their pathos cut him to the quick,Their humour almost made him sick.The queys are moopin' i' the mirk,An' gin ye thole ahin' the kirk,I'll gar ye tocher hame fra' work,Sae straught an' primsie;In vain the lavrock leaves the snaw,The sonsie cowslips blithely blaw,The elbucks wheep adoon the shaw,Or warl a whimsy.The cootie muircocks crousely craw,The maukins tak' their fud fu' braw,I gie their wames a random paw,For a' they're skilpy;For wha' sae glaikit, gleg an' din,To but the ben, or loup the linn,Or scraw aboon the tirlin'-pinSae frae an' gilpie?Och, snood the sporran roun' ma lap,The cairngorm clap in ilka cap,Och, hand me o'erMa lang claymore,Twa, bannocks an' a bap,Wha hoo!Twa bannocks an' a bap!. . . . . .O fellow Scotsman, near and far,Renowned for health and good digestion,For all that makes you what you are,—(But are you really? That's the question)—Be grateful, while the world endures,That Burns was countryman of yours.And hand-in-hand, in alien land,Foregather with your fellow cronies,To masticate the haggis (cann'd)At Scottish Conversaziones,Where, flushed with wine and Auld Lang Syne,You worship at your country's shrine!
Too much the careworn critic knowsOf that obscure robustious diction,Which like a form of fungus growsAmid the Kailyard school of fiction;In Crockett's cryptic caves one sighsFor Burns's clear and spacious skies.
Tho' no aspersions need be castOn Barrie's wealth of wit fantastic,Creator of that unsurpass'dIf most minute ecclesiastic;Yet even here the eye discernsNo master-hand like that of Burns.
The works of Campbell and the restExhale a sanctimonious odour,Their vintage is but Schnapps, at best,Their Scotch is simply Scotch-and-sodour!They cannot hope, like Burns, to winThat "touch which makes the whole world kin."
Tho' some may sing of Neil Munro,And virtues in Maclaren see,Or want but little here below,And want that little Lang, maybe;Each renegade at length returns,To praise the peerless pow'rs of Burns.
His verse, as all the world declares,And Tennyson himself confesses,The radiance of the dewdrop shares,The berry's perfect shape possesses;And even William Wordsworth praisesThe magic of his faultless phrases.
But he, whose books bedeck our shelves,Whose lofty genius we adore so,Was only human, like ourselves,—Perhaps, indeed, a trifle more so!And joined a thirst that nought could quenchTo morals which were frankly French.
And ev'ry night he made his way,With boon companions, bent on frolic,To inns of ill-repute, where layRefreshments—chiefly alcoholic!(But I decline to raise your gorges,Describing these nocturnal orgies.)
Of love-affairs he knew no end,So long and ardently he flirted,And e'en the least suspicious friendWould feel a trifle disconcerted,When Burns was sitting with his "sposa,""As thick as thieves on Vallombrosa!"
A Cockney Chiel who found him thus,And showed some conjugal alarm,When Burns implored him not to fuss,Enquiring calmly, "Where's the harm?"Replied at once, with perfect taste,"Theharm is round my consort's waist!"
"A poor thing but my own," said he,His fair but fickle bride denoting,And she, with scathing repartee,Assented, wilfully misquoting,(Tho' carefully brought up, like Jonah),"A poorer thing—and yet my owner!"
The most bucolic hearts were burntBy Burns' amatory glances;The most suburban spinsters learntTo welcome his abrupt advances;When Burns was on his knee, 'twas said,They wished thattheywere there instead!
They loved him from the first, in spiteOf angry parents' interference;They deemed his courtship so polite,So captivating his appearance;So great his charm, so apt his wit,In local parlance, Burns was IT!
The rustic maids from far and wide,Encouraged his unwise flirtations;For love of Burns they moped and sighed,And, while their nearest male relationsWere up in arms, the sad thing isThat they themselves were up in his!
His crest a mug, with open lid,The kind in vogue with ancient Druids,—Inscribed "Amari Aliquid,"(Which means "I'm very fond of fluids!"),On either side, as meet supporters,The village blacksmith's lovely daughters.
"Men were deceivers ever!" True,As Shakespeare says (Hey Nonny! Nonny!),But one should always keep in viewThat "tout comprendr' c'est tout pardonny";In judging poets it sufficesTo scan their verses, not their vices.. . . . . .The poets of the present timeAttempt their feeble imitations;Are economical of rhyme,And lavish with reiterations;The while a patient public swallowsA "Border Ballad" much as follows:—
Jamie lad, I lo'e ye weel,Jamie lad, I lo'e nae ither,Jamie lad, I lo'e ye weel,Like a mither.
Jamie's ganging doon the burn,Jamie's ganging doon, whateffer,Jamie's ganging doon the burn,To Strathpeffer!
Jamie's comin' hame to dee,Jamie's comin' hame, I'm thinkin',Jamie's comin' hame to dee,Dee o' drinkin'!
Hech! Jamie! Losh! Jamie!Dinna greet sae sair!Gin ye canna, winna, shannaSee yer lassie mair!Wha' hoo!Wha' hae!Strathpeffer!
I give you now, as antidote,Some lines which I myself indited.Carnegie, when he read them, wroteTo say that he was quite delighted;Their pathos cut him to the quick,Their humour almost made him sick.
The queys are moopin' i' the mirk,An' gin ye thole ahin' the kirk,I'll gar ye tocher hame fra' work,Sae straught an' primsie;In vain the lavrock leaves the snaw,The sonsie cowslips blithely blaw,The elbucks wheep adoon the shaw,Or warl a whimsy.The cootie muircocks crousely craw,The maukins tak' their fud fu' braw,I gie their wames a random paw,For a' they're skilpy;For wha' sae glaikit, gleg an' din,To but the ben, or loup the linn,Or scraw aboon the tirlin'-pinSae frae an' gilpie?
Och, snood the sporran roun' ma lap,The cairngorm clap in ilka cap,Och, hand me o'erMa lang claymore,Twa, bannocks an' a bap,Wha hoo!Twa bannocks an' a bap!. . . . . .O fellow Scotsman, near and far,Renowned for health and good digestion,For all that makes you what you are,—(But are you really? That's the question)—Be grateful, while the world endures,That Burns was countryman of yours.
And hand-in-hand, in alien land,Foregather with your fellow cronies,To masticate the haggis (cann'd)At Scottish Conversaziones,Where, flushed with wine and Auld Lang Syne,You worship at your country's shrine!
HOWblest a thing it is to dieFor Country's sake, as bards have sung!How sweet "pro patria mori,"(To quote the vulgar Latin tongue);And yet to him the palm we giveWho for his fatherland canlive.Historians have explained to us,In terms that never can grow cold,How well the bold HoratiusPlayed bridge in the brave days of old;And we can read of hosts of others,From Spartan boys to Roman mothers.But nowhere has the student got,From poet, pedagogue, or pastor,The picture of a patriotSo truly typical as Astor;And none has ever shown a greaterAffection for his Alma Mater.
HOWblest a thing it is to dieFor Country's sake, as bards have sung!How sweet "pro patria mori,"(To quote the vulgar Latin tongue);And yet to him the palm we giveWho for his fatherland canlive.
OWblest a thing it is to dieFor Country's sake, as bards have sung!
Historians have explained to us,In terms that never can grow cold,How well the bold HoratiusPlayed bridge in the brave days of old;And we can read of hosts of others,From Spartan boys to Roman mothers.
But nowhere has the student got,From poet, pedagogue, or pastor,The picture of a patriotSo truly typical as Astor;And none has ever shown a greaterAffection for his Alma Mater.
039
With loyalty to FatherlandHis heart inflexible as starch is,Whene'er he hears upon a bandThe too prolific Sousa's marches;And from his eyes a tear he wipes,Each time he sees the Stars and Stripes.Tho' others roam across the foamTo European health resorts,The fact that "there's no place like home"Is foremost in our hero's thoughts;And all in vain have people triedTo lure him from his "ain fireside."Let tourists travel near or far,By wayward breezes widely blown,Hestops at the Astoria,"A poor thing" (Shakespeare), "but his own;"And nothing that his friends may doCan drag him from Fifth Avenue.The Western heiress is contentTo scale, as a prospective bride,The bare six-story tenementWhere foreign pauper peers reside;But men like Astor all disparageThe so-called Morgan-attic marriage.The rich Chicago millionaireMay buy a mansion in Belgravia,Have footmen there with powdered hairAnd frigidly correct behaviour;But marble stairs and plate of goldLeave Astor absolutely cold.The lofty ducal residence,That fronts some Surrey riverside,Would wound his socialistic sense,And pain his patriotic pride;He would not change for Castles HighlandHis cabbage-patch on Coney Island.A statue in some Roman street,A palace of Venetian gilding,Appear to him not half so sweetAs any modern Vanderbuilding;He views, without an envious throe,The wolf that suckled Romeo!Roast beef, or frogs, or sauerkraut,Their mead of praise from some may win;Our hero cannot do withoutPeanuts and clams and terrapin;Away from home, his soul would lackThe cocktail and the canvasback.Not his to walk the crowded Strand;'Mid busy London's jar and hum.On quiet Broadway he would stand,Saying "Americanus sum!"His smile so tranquil, so seraphic,—Small wonder that it stops the traffic!Who would not be a man like he,(This lapse of grammar pray forgive,)So simply satisfied to be,Contented with his lot to live,—Whether or not it be, I wot,A little lot,—or quite a lot?Content with any kind of fare,With any tiny piece of earth,So long as he can find it thereWithin the land that gave him birth;Content with simple beans and pork,If he may eat them in New York!O persons who have made your pile,And spend it far across the seas,Like landlords of the Em'rald Isle,Denounced notorious absentees,I pray you imitate the Master,And stay at home like Mr. Astor!But if you go abroad at all,And leave your fatherland behind you,Without an effort to recallThe sentimental ties that bind you,I should be grateful if you couldContrive to stay away for good!
With loyalty to FatherlandHis heart inflexible as starch is,Whene'er he hears upon a bandThe too prolific Sousa's marches;And from his eyes a tear he wipes,Each time he sees the Stars and Stripes.
Tho' others roam across the foamTo European health resorts,The fact that "there's no place like home"Is foremost in our hero's thoughts;And all in vain have people triedTo lure him from his "ain fireside."
Let tourists travel near or far,By wayward breezes widely blown,Hestops at the Astoria,"A poor thing" (Shakespeare), "but his own;"And nothing that his friends may doCan drag him from Fifth Avenue.
The Western heiress is contentTo scale, as a prospective bride,The bare six-story tenementWhere foreign pauper peers reside;But men like Astor all disparageThe so-called Morgan-attic marriage.
The rich Chicago millionaireMay buy a mansion in Belgravia,Have footmen there with powdered hairAnd frigidly correct behaviour;But marble stairs and plate of goldLeave Astor absolutely cold.
The lofty ducal residence,That fronts some Surrey riverside,Would wound his socialistic sense,And pain his patriotic pride;He would not change for Castles HighlandHis cabbage-patch on Coney Island.
A statue in some Roman street,A palace of Venetian gilding,Appear to him not half so sweetAs any modern Vanderbuilding;He views, without an envious throe,The wolf that suckled Romeo!
Roast beef, or frogs, or sauerkraut,Their mead of praise from some may win;Our hero cannot do withoutPeanuts and clams and terrapin;Away from home, his soul would lackThe cocktail and the canvasback.
Not his to walk the crowded Strand;'Mid busy London's jar and hum.On quiet Broadway he would stand,Saying "Americanus sum!"His smile so tranquil, so seraphic,—Small wonder that it stops the traffic!
Who would not be a man like he,(This lapse of grammar pray forgive,)So simply satisfied to be,Contented with his lot to live,—Whether or not it be, I wot,A little lot,—or quite a lot?
Content with any kind of fare,With any tiny piece of earth,So long as he can find it thereWithin the land that gave him birth;Content with simple beans and pork,If he may eat them in New York!
O persons who have made your pile,And spend it far across the seas,Like landlords of the Em'rald Isle,Denounced notorious absentees,I pray you imitate the Master,And stay at home like Mr. Astor!
But if you go abroad at all,And leave your fatherland behind you,Without an effort to recallThe sentimental ties that bind you,I should be grateful if you couldContrive to stay away for good!
WITHStevenson we must agree,Who found the world so full of things,That all should be, or so said he,As happy as a host of Kings;Yet few so fortunate as notTo envy Bluff King Henry's lot.
WITHStevenson we must agree,Who found the world so full of things,That all should be, or so said he,As happy as a host of Kings;Yet few so fortunate as notTo envy Bluff King Henry's lot.
ITHStevenson we must agree,Who found the world so full of things,That all should be, or so said he,As happy as a host of Kings;Yet few so fortunate as notTo envy Bluff King Henry's lot.
049
A polished monarch, through and through,Tho' somewhat lacking in religion,Who joined a courtly manner toThe figure of a pouter pigeon;And was, at time of feast or revelA ... well ... a perfect little devil!But tho' his vices, I'm afraid,Are hard for modern minds to swallow,Two lofty virtues he displayed,Which we should do our best to follow:—A passion for domestic life,A cult for what is called The Wife.He sought his spouses, North and South.Six times (to make a misquotation)He managed, at the Canon's mouth,To win a bubble reputation;And ev'ry time, from last to first,His matrimonial bubble burst!Six times, with wide, self-conscious smileAnd well-blacked, button boots, he enteredThe Abbey's bust-congested aisle,With ev'ry eye upon him centred;Six times he heard, and not alone,The march of Mr. Mendelssohn.Six sep'rate times (or three times twice),In order to complete the marriage,'Mid painful show'rs of boots and rice,He sought the shelter of his carriage;Six times the bride, beneath her veil,Looked "beautiful, but somewhat pale."Within the limits of one reign,Six females of undaunted bearing,Two Annes, three Kath'rines, and a Jane,Enjoyed the privilege of sharingA conjugal career so chequer'dIt almost constitutes a record!Yet sometimes it occurs to meThat Henry missed his true vocation;A husband by profession he,A widower by occupation;And, honestly, it seems a pityHe didn't live in Salt Lake City.For there he could have put in forceHis plural marriage views, unbaffled;Nor had recourse to dull divorce,Nor sought the service of the scaffold;Nor looked for peace, nor found release,In any partner's predecease.Had Henry been alive to-day,He might have hired a timely motor,And sent each wife in turn to stayWithin the confines of Dakota;That State whose rigid marriage-law,Is eulogised by Bernard Shaw.But Henry's simple days are done,And, in the present generation,A wife is seldom woo'd and wonBy prospects of decapitation.For nowadays when Woman weds,It is theMenwho lose their heads!
A polished monarch, through and through,Tho' somewhat lacking in religion,Who joined a courtly manner toThe figure of a pouter pigeon;And was, at time of feast or revelA ... well ... a perfect little devil!
But tho' his vices, I'm afraid,Are hard for modern minds to swallow,Two lofty virtues he displayed,Which we should do our best to follow:—A passion for domestic life,A cult for what is called The Wife.
He sought his spouses, North and South.Six times (to make a misquotation)He managed, at the Canon's mouth,To win a bubble reputation;And ev'ry time, from last to first,His matrimonial bubble burst!
Six times, with wide, self-conscious smileAnd well-blacked, button boots, he enteredThe Abbey's bust-congested aisle,With ev'ry eye upon him centred;Six times he heard, and not alone,The march of Mr. Mendelssohn.
Six sep'rate times (or three times twice),In order to complete the marriage,'Mid painful show'rs of boots and rice,He sought the shelter of his carriage;Six times the bride, beneath her veil,Looked "beautiful, but somewhat pale."
Within the limits of one reign,Six females of undaunted bearing,Two Annes, three Kath'rines, and a Jane,Enjoyed the privilege of sharingA conjugal career so chequer'dIt almost constitutes a record!
Yet sometimes it occurs to meThat Henry missed his true vocation;A husband by profession he,A widower by occupation;And, honestly, it seems a pityHe didn't live in Salt Lake City.
For there he could have put in forceHis plural marriage views, unbaffled;Nor had recourse to dull divorce,Nor sought the service of the scaffold;Nor looked for peace, nor found release,In any partner's predecease.
Had Henry been alive to-day,He might have hired a timely motor,And sent each wife in turn to stayWithin the confines of Dakota;That State whose rigid marriage-law,Is eulogised by Bernard Shaw.
But Henry's simple days are done,And, in the present generation,A wife is seldom woo'd and wonBy prospects of decapitation.For nowadays when Woman weds,It is theMenwho lose their heads!
THOSERoman Fathers, long ago,Established a sublime tradition,Who gave the Man Behind the HoeHis proud proconsular position;When Cincinnatus left his hens,And beat his ploughshares into pens.
THOSERoman Fathers, long ago,Established a sublime tradition,Who gave the Man Behind the HoeHis proud proconsular position;When Cincinnatus left his hens,And beat his ploughshares into pens.
HOSERoman Fathers, long ago,Established a sublime tradition,Who gave the Man Behind the HoeHis proud proconsular position;When Cincinnatus left his hens,And beat his ploughshares into pens.
057
His modern prototype we see,Descended from some humble attic,The Presidential nomineeOf those whose views are Democratic;From Millionaire to Billiard MarkerThey plumped their votes for Central Parker.A member of the sterner sex,Possessing neither wealth nor beauty,But gifted with a really ex——Traordinary sense of Duty;In Honour's list I place him first,—With Cæsar's Wife and Mr. Hearst.From childhood's day this son of toil,Since first he laid aside his rattle,Was wont to cultivate the soil,Or milk his father's kindly cattle;To groom the pigs, drive crows away,Or teach the bantams how to lay.This sprightly lad, his parents' pet,With tastes essentially bucolic,Eschewed the straightcut cigarette,And shunned refreshments alcoholic;His simple pleasure 'twas to plumbThe deep-laid joys of chewing gum.As local pedagogue he nextAttained to years of indiscretion,To preach the Solomonian textSo popular with that profession,Which honours whom (and what) it teachesMore in th' observance than the breeches.The sprightly Parker soon one sees,Head of a legal institution,Enjoying huge retaining feesAs counsel for the prosecution.(Advice to lawyers,meum non est,—Get on, get honour, then get honest!)Behold him, then, like comet, shootBeyond the bounds of birth or station,And gain, as jurist of repute,A continental reputation.(Don't mix him with that "Triple Star"Which lights a more unworthy "bar.")A proud position now is his,A judge, arrayed in moral ermine,As from the Bench he sentencesHis fellow-man, and other vermin,And does his duty to his neighbour,By giving him six months' hard labour.On knotty questions of financeHe bears aloft the golden standard,For he whose motto is "Advance!"To baser coin has never pandered.No eulogist of War is he,"Retrenchment!" is hisdernier cri.But tho', to his convictions true,With strength like concentrated Eno,He did his very utmost toEmancipate the Filipino,A fickle public chose Another,Who called the Coloured Coon his Brother.
His modern prototype we see,Descended from some humble attic,The Presidential nomineeOf those whose views are Democratic;From Millionaire to Billiard MarkerThey plumped their votes for Central Parker.
A member of the sterner sex,Possessing neither wealth nor beauty,But gifted with a really ex——Traordinary sense of Duty;In Honour's list I place him first,—With Cæsar's Wife and Mr. Hearst.
From childhood's day this son of toil,Since first he laid aside his rattle,Was wont to cultivate the soil,Or milk his father's kindly cattle;To groom the pigs, drive crows away,Or teach the bantams how to lay.
This sprightly lad, his parents' pet,With tastes essentially bucolic,Eschewed the straightcut cigarette,And shunned refreshments alcoholic;His simple pleasure 'twas to plumbThe deep-laid joys of chewing gum.
As local pedagogue he nextAttained to years of indiscretion,To preach the Solomonian textSo popular with that profession,Which honours whom (and what) it teachesMore in th' observance than the breeches.
The sprightly Parker soon one sees,Head of a legal institution,Enjoying huge retaining feesAs counsel for the prosecution.(Advice to lawyers,meum non est,—Get on, get honour, then get honest!)
Behold him, then, like comet, shootBeyond the bounds of birth or station,And gain, as jurist of repute,A continental reputation.(Don't mix him with that "Triple Star"Which lights a more unworthy "bar.")
A proud position now is his,A judge, arrayed in moral ermine,As from the Bench he sentencesHis fellow-man, and other vermin,And does his duty to his neighbour,By giving him six months' hard labour.
On knotty questions of financeHe bears aloft the golden standard,For he whose motto is "Advance!"To baser coin has never pandered.No eulogist of War is he,"Retrenchment!" is hisdernier cri.
But tho', to his convictions true,With strength like concentrated Eno,He did his very utmost toEmancipate the Filipino,A fickle public chose Another,Who called the Coloured Coon his Brother.
WHENEgypt was a first-class Pow'r—When Ptolemy was King, that is,Whose benefices used to show'rOn all the local charities,And by his liberal subscriptionsWas always spoiling the Egyptians—
WHENEgypt was a first-class Pow'r—When Ptolemy was King, that is,Whose benefices used to show'rOn all the local charities,And by his liberal subscriptionsWas always spoiling the Egyptians—
HENEgypt was a first-class Pow'r—When Ptolemy was King, that is,Whose benefices used to show'rOn all the local charities,And by his liberal subscriptionsWas always spoiling the Egyptians—
065
The Alexandrine School enjoyedA proud and primary positionFor training scholars not devoidOf geometric erudition;Where arithmetical fanaticsCould evenlivein (mathem)-attics.The best informed Historians nameThis Institution the possessorOf one who occupied with fameThe post of principal Professor,Who had a more expansive brainThan any man—before Hall Caine.No complex sums of huge amountsPerplexed his algebraic knowledge;With ease he balanced the accountsOf his (at times insolvent) College;He was, without the least romance,A very Blondin of Finance.In pencil, on his shirt-cuff, he,Without a moment's hesitation,Elucidated easilyThe most elab'rate calculation(His washing got, I needn't mention,The local laundry's best attention).Behind a manner mild as mouse,Blue-spectacled and inoffensive,He hid a judgment and anousAs overwhelming as extensive,And cloaked a soul immune from wrongBeneath an ample ong-bong-pong.To rows of conscientious youths,Whom 'twas his duty to take care of,He loved to prove the truth of truthsWhich they already were aware of;They learnt to look politely bored,Where modern students would have snored.To show that Two and Two make Four,That All is greater than a Portion,Requires no dialectic lore,Nor any cerebral contortion;The public's faith in facts was steady,Before the days of Mrs. Eddy.But what was hard to overlook(From which Society still suffers)Was all the trouble Euclid tookTo teach the game of Bridge to duffers.Insisting, when he got a quorum,On "Pons" (he called it) "Asinorum."The guileless methods of his gameProvoked his partner's strongest strictures;He hardly knew the cards by name,But realised that some had pictures;Exhausting ev'rybody's patienceBy his perpetual revocations.For weary hours, in deep concern,O'er dummy's hand he loved to linger,Denoting ev'ry card in turn,With timid indecisive finger;And stopped to say, at each delay,"I really don't knowwhatto play!"He sought, at any cost, to winHis ev'ry suit in turn unguarding;He trumped his partner's "best card in,"His own egregiously discarding;Remarking sadly, when in doubt,"I quite forgot the King was out!"Alert opponents always knew,By what the look upon his face was,When safety lay in leading through,And where, of course, the fatal ace was;Assuring the complete successesOf bold but hazardous "finesses."But nowadays we find no trace,From distant Assouan to Cairo,To mark the place where dwelt a raceMistaught by so absurd a tyro;And nothing but occult inscriptionsRecall the sports of past Egyptians.Yes, "autre temps" and "autre moeurs,""Où sontindeedles neiges d'antan?"The modern native much prefersDebauching in somecafé chantant,Nor ever shows the least ambitionTo solve a single Proposition.O Euclid, luckiest of men!You knew no English interloper;For Allah's Garden was not thenThe pleasure-ground of Alleh Sloper,Nor (broth-like) had your country's looksBeen spoilt by an excess of "Cooks."The Nile to your untutored earsDiscoursed in dull but tender tones;Not yours the modern Dahabeahs,Supplied with strident gramophones,Imploring, in a loud refrain,Bill Bailey to come home again.Your cars, the older-fashioned sort,And drawn, perhaps, by alligators,Were not the modern Juggernaut-Child-dog-and-space-obliterators,Those "stormy petrols" of the landWhich deal decease on either hand.No European tourist wagsDefiled the desert's dusky faceWith orange peel and paper bags,Those emblems of a cultured race;Or cut the noble name of Jones,On tombs which held a monarch's bones.O Euclid! Could you see to-dayThe sunny clime you once frequented,And note the way we moderns playThe game you thoughtfully invented,The knowledge of your guilt would force yerTo feelings of internal nausea!
The Alexandrine School enjoyedA proud and primary positionFor training scholars not devoidOf geometric erudition;Where arithmetical fanaticsCould evenlivein (mathem)-attics.
The best informed Historians nameThis Institution the possessorOf one who occupied with fameThe post of principal Professor,Who had a more expansive brainThan any man—before Hall Caine.
No complex sums of huge amountsPerplexed his algebraic knowledge;With ease he balanced the accountsOf his (at times insolvent) College;He was, without the least romance,A very Blondin of Finance.
In pencil, on his shirt-cuff, he,Without a moment's hesitation,Elucidated easilyThe most elab'rate calculation(His washing got, I needn't mention,The local laundry's best attention).
Behind a manner mild as mouse,Blue-spectacled and inoffensive,He hid a judgment and anousAs overwhelming as extensive,And cloaked a soul immune from wrongBeneath an ample ong-bong-pong.
To rows of conscientious youths,Whom 'twas his duty to take care of,He loved to prove the truth of truthsWhich they already were aware of;They learnt to look politely bored,Where modern students would have snored.
To show that Two and Two make Four,That All is greater than a Portion,Requires no dialectic lore,Nor any cerebral contortion;The public's faith in facts was steady,Before the days of Mrs. Eddy.
But what was hard to overlook(From which Society still suffers)Was all the trouble Euclid tookTo teach the game of Bridge to duffers.Insisting, when he got a quorum,On "Pons" (he called it) "Asinorum."
The guileless methods of his gameProvoked his partner's strongest strictures;He hardly knew the cards by name,But realised that some had pictures;Exhausting ev'rybody's patienceBy his perpetual revocations.
For weary hours, in deep concern,O'er dummy's hand he loved to linger,Denoting ev'ry card in turn,With timid indecisive finger;And stopped to say, at each delay,"I really don't knowwhatto play!"
He sought, at any cost, to winHis ev'ry suit in turn unguarding;He trumped his partner's "best card in,"His own egregiously discarding;Remarking sadly, when in doubt,"I quite forgot the King was out!"
Alert opponents always knew,By what the look upon his face was,When safety lay in leading through,And where, of course, the fatal ace was;Assuring the complete successesOf bold but hazardous "finesses."
But nowadays we find no trace,From distant Assouan to Cairo,To mark the place where dwelt a raceMistaught by so absurd a tyro;And nothing but occult inscriptionsRecall the sports of past Egyptians.
Yes, "autre temps" and "autre moeurs,""Où sontindeedles neiges d'antan?"The modern native much prefersDebauching in somecafé chantant,Nor ever shows the least ambitionTo solve a single Proposition.
O Euclid, luckiest of men!You knew no English interloper;For Allah's Garden was not thenThe pleasure-ground of Alleh Sloper,Nor (broth-like) had your country's looksBeen spoilt by an excess of "Cooks."
The Nile to your untutored earsDiscoursed in dull but tender tones;Not yours the modern Dahabeahs,Supplied with strident gramophones,Imploring, in a loud refrain,Bill Bailey to come home again.
Your cars, the older-fashioned sort,And drawn, perhaps, by alligators,Were not the modern Juggernaut-Child-dog-and-space-obliterators,Those "stormy petrols" of the landWhich deal decease on either hand.
No European tourist wagsDefiled the desert's dusky faceWith orange peel and paper bags,Those emblems of a cultured race;Or cut the noble name of Jones,On tombs which held a monarch's bones.
O Euclid! Could you see to-dayThe sunny clime you once frequented,And note the way we moderns playThe game you thoughtfully invented,The knowledge of your guilt would force yerTo feelings of internal nausea!
THEbriny tears unbidden start,At mention of my hero's name!Was ever set so huge a heartWithin so small a frame?So much of tenderness and graceConfined in such a slender space?
THEbriny tears unbidden start,At mention of my hero's name!Was ever set so huge a heartWithin so small a frame?So much of tenderness and graceConfined in such a slender space?
HEbriny tears unbidden start,At mention of my hero's name!Was ever set so huge a heartWithin so small a frame?So much of tenderness and graceConfined in such a slender space?
079
(O tiniest of tiny men!So wise, so whimsical, so witty!Whose magic little fairy-penIs steeped in human pity;Whose humour plays so quaint a tune,From Peter Pan to Pantaloon!)So wide a sympathy has he,Such kindliness without an end,That children clamber on his knee,And claim him as a friend;They somehow know he understands,And doesn't mind their sticky hands.And so they swarm about his neck,With energy that nothing wearies,Assured that he will never checkTheir ceaseless flow of queries,And grateful, with a warm affection,For his avuncular protection.And when his watch he opens wide,Or beats them all at blowing bubbles,They tell him how the dormouse died,And all their tiny troubles;And drag him, if he seems deprest,To see the baby squirrel's nest.For hidden treasure he can dig,Pursue the Indians in the wood,Feed the prolific guinea-pigWith inappropriate food;Do all the things that mattered soIn happy days of long ago.All this he can achieve, and more!For, 'neath the magic of his brain,The young are younger than before,The old grow young again,To dream of Beauty and of TruthFor hearts that win eternal youth.Fat apoplectic men I know,With well-developed Little Marys,Look almost human when they showTheir faith in Barrie's fairies;Their blank lethargic faces lightenIn admiration of his Crichton.To lovers who, with fingers cold,Attempt to fan some dying ember,He brings the happy days of old,And bids their hearts remember;Recalling in romantic fashionThe tenderness of earlier passion.And modern matrons who can findSo little leisure for the Nurs'ry,Whose interest in babykindIs eminently curs'ry,New views on Motherhood acquireFrom Alice-sitting-by-the-Fire!While men of every sort and kind,At times of sunshine or of trouble,In Sentimental Tommy findTheir own amazing double;To each in turn the mem'ry comesOf some belov'd forgotten Thrums.To Barrie's literary artThat strong poetic sense is clingingWhich hears, in ev'ry human heart,A "late lark" faintly singing,A bird that bears upon its wingThe promise of perpetual Spring.Materialists may labour muchAt problems for the modern stage;His simpler methods reach and touchThe Young of ev'ry age;And first and second childhood meetOn common ground at Barrie's feet!
(O tiniest of tiny men!So wise, so whimsical, so witty!Whose magic little fairy-penIs steeped in human pity;Whose humour plays so quaint a tune,From Peter Pan to Pantaloon!)
So wide a sympathy has he,Such kindliness without an end,That children clamber on his knee,And claim him as a friend;They somehow know he understands,And doesn't mind their sticky hands.
And so they swarm about his neck,With energy that nothing wearies,Assured that he will never checkTheir ceaseless flow of queries,And grateful, with a warm affection,For his avuncular protection.
And when his watch he opens wide,Or beats them all at blowing bubbles,They tell him how the dormouse died,And all their tiny troubles;And drag him, if he seems deprest,To see the baby squirrel's nest.
For hidden treasure he can dig,Pursue the Indians in the wood,Feed the prolific guinea-pigWith inappropriate food;Do all the things that mattered soIn happy days of long ago.
All this he can achieve, and more!For, 'neath the magic of his brain,The young are younger than before,The old grow young again,To dream of Beauty and of TruthFor hearts that win eternal youth.
Fat apoplectic men I know,With well-developed Little Marys,Look almost human when they showTheir faith in Barrie's fairies;Their blank lethargic faces lightenIn admiration of his Crichton.
To lovers who, with fingers cold,Attempt to fan some dying ember,He brings the happy days of old,And bids their hearts remember;Recalling in romantic fashionThe tenderness of earlier passion.
And modern matrons who can findSo little leisure for the Nurs'ry,Whose interest in babykindIs eminently curs'ry,New views on Motherhood acquireFrom Alice-sitting-by-the-Fire!
While men of every sort and kind,At times of sunshine or of trouble,In Sentimental Tommy findTheir own amazing double;To each in turn the mem'ry comesOf some belov'd forgotten Thrums.
To Barrie's literary artThat strong poetic sense is clingingWhich hears, in ev'ry human heart,A "late lark" faintly singing,A bird that bears upon its wingThe promise of perpetual Spring.
Materialists may labour muchAt problems for the modern stage;His simpler methods reach and touchThe Young of ev'ry age;And first and second childhood meetOn common ground at Barrie's feet!
THOUGHmany a great PhilosopherHas earned the Epicure's diploma,Not one of them, as I aver,So much deserved the prize as Omar;For he, without the least misgiving,Combined High Thinking and High Living.
THOUGHmany a great PhilosopherHas earned the Epicure's diploma,Not one of them, as I aver,So much deserved the prize as Omar;For he, without the least misgiving,Combined High Thinking and High Living.
HOUGHmany a great PhilosopherHas earned the Epicure's diploma,Not one of them, as I aver,So much deserved the prize as Omar;For he, without the least misgiving,Combined High Thinking and High Living.
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He lived in Persia, long ago,Upon a somewhat slender pittance;And Persia is, as you may know,The home of Shahs and fubsy kittens,(A quite consistenthabitat,Since "Shah," of course, is French for "cat.")He lived—as I was saying, whenYou interrupted, impolitely—Not loosely, like his fellow-men,But,vicê versâ, rather tightly;And drank his share, so runs the story,And other people's,con amore.A great Astronomer, no doubt,He often found some ConstellationWhich others could not see withoutProfuse internal irrigation;And snakes he saw, and crimson mice,Until his colleagues rang for ice.Omar, who owned a length of throatAs dry as the proverbial "drummer,"And quite believed that (let me quote)"One swallow does not make a summer,"Supplied a model to societyOf frank, persistent insobriety.* * * * *Ah, fill the cup with nectar sweet,Until, when indisposed for more,Your puzzled, inadhesive feetElude the smooth revolving floor.What matter doubts, despair or sorrow?To-day is Yesterday To-morrow!Oblivion in the bottle win,Let finger-bowls with vodka foam,And seek the Open Port withinSome dignified Inebriates' Home;Assuming there, with kingly air,A crown of vine-leaves in your hair!A book of verse (my own, for choice),A slice of cake, some ice-cream soda,A lady with a tuneful voice,Beside me in some dim pagoda!A cellar—if I had the key,—Would be a Paradise to me!In cosy seat, with lots to eat,And bottles of Lafitte to fracture(And, by-the-bye, the word La-feetRecalls the mode of manufacture)—I contemplate, at easy distance,The troublous problems of existence.For even if it could be mineTo change Creation's partial scheme,To mould it to a fresh design,More nearly that of which I dream,Most probably, my weak endeavourWould make more mess of it than ever!So let us stock our cellar shelvesWith balm to lubricate the throttle;For "Heav'n helps those who help themselves,"So help yourself, and pass the bottle!. . . . . .What! Would you quarrel with my moral?(Waiter! Leshavanotherborrel!)
He lived in Persia, long ago,Upon a somewhat slender pittance;And Persia is, as you may know,The home of Shahs and fubsy kittens,(A quite consistenthabitat,Since "Shah," of course, is French for "cat.")
He lived—as I was saying, whenYou interrupted, impolitely—Not loosely, like his fellow-men,But,vicê versâ, rather tightly;And drank his share, so runs the story,And other people's,con amore.
A great Astronomer, no doubt,He often found some ConstellationWhich others could not see withoutProfuse internal irrigation;And snakes he saw, and crimson mice,Until his colleagues rang for ice.
Omar, who owned a length of throatAs dry as the proverbial "drummer,"And quite believed that (let me quote)"One swallow does not make a summer,"Supplied a model to societyOf frank, persistent insobriety.* * * * *Ah, fill the cup with nectar sweet,Until, when indisposed for more,Your puzzled, inadhesive feetElude the smooth revolving floor.What matter doubts, despair or sorrow?To-day is Yesterday To-morrow!
Oblivion in the bottle win,Let finger-bowls with vodka foam,And seek the Open Port withinSome dignified Inebriates' Home;Assuming there, with kingly air,A crown of vine-leaves in your hair!
A book of verse (my own, for choice),A slice of cake, some ice-cream soda,A lady with a tuneful voice,Beside me in some dim pagoda!A cellar—if I had the key,—Would be a Paradise to me!
In cosy seat, with lots to eat,And bottles of Lafitte to fracture(And, by-the-bye, the word La-feetRecalls the mode of manufacture)—I contemplate, at easy distance,The troublous problems of existence.
For even if it could be mineTo change Creation's partial scheme,To mould it to a fresh design,More nearly that of which I dream,Most probably, my weak endeavourWould make more mess of it than ever!
So let us stock our cellar shelvesWith balm to lubricate the throttle;For "Heav'n helps those who help themselves,"So help yourself, and pass the bottle!. . . . . .What! Would you quarrel with my moral?(Waiter! Leshavanotherborrel!)
INCaledonia, stern and wild,Whence scholars, statesmen, bards have sprung,Where ev'ry little barefoot childCorrectly lisps his mother-tongue,And lingual solecisms betokenThat Scotch is drunk, as well as spoken,There dwells a man of iron nerve,A millionaire without a peer,Possessing that supreme reserveWhich stamps the caste of Vere de Vere,And marks him out to human kenAs one of Nature's noblemen.Like other self-made persons, heIs surely much to be excused,Since they have had no choice, you see,Of the material to be used;But when his noiseless fabric grew,He builded better than he knew.A democrat, whose views are frank,To him Success alone is vital;He deems the wealthy cabman's "rank"As good as any other title;To him the post of postman bettersThe trade of other Men of Letters.The relative who seeks to wedSome nice but indigent patrician,He urges to select insteadA coachman of assured position,Since safety-matches, you'll agree,Strike only on the box, says he.At Skibo Castle, by the sea,A splendid palace he has built,Equipped with all the luxuryOf plush, of looking-glass, and gilt;A style which Ruskin much enjoyed,And christened "Early German Lloyd."With milking-stools and ribbon'd screensThe floor is covered, well I know;The walls are thick with tambourines,Hand-painted many years ago;Ah, how much taste our forbears had!And nearly all of it was bad.Each flow'r-embroidered boudoir suite,Each "cosy corner" set apart,Was modelled in the Regent StreetEmporium of suburban art."O Liberty!" (I quote with shame)"The crimes committed in thy name!"But tho' his mansion now containsA swimming-bath, a barrel-organ,Electric light, and even drains,As good as those of Mr. Morgan,There was a time when Andrew C.Was not obsessed by l. s. d.Across the seas he made his pile,In Pittsburg, where, I've understood,You have to exercise some guileTo do the very slightest good;But he kept doing good by stealth,And doubtless blushed to find it wealth.And now his private hobby 'tisTo meet a starving people's needBy making gifts of librariesTo those who never learnt to read;Rich mental banquets he providesFor folks with famishing insides.In Education's hallowed nameHe pours his opulent libations;His vast deserted Halls of FameIncrease the gaiety of nations.But still the slums are plague-infested,The hospitals remain congested.. . . . . .Carnegie, should your kindly eyeThis foolish book of verses meet,Please order an immense supply,To make your libraries complete,And register its author's nameWithin your princely Halls of Fame!
INCaledonia, stern and wild,Whence scholars, statesmen, bards have sprung,Where ev'ry little barefoot childCorrectly lisps his mother-tongue,And lingual solecisms betokenThat Scotch is drunk, as well as spoken,There dwells a man of iron nerve,A millionaire without a peer,Possessing that supreme reserveWhich stamps the caste of Vere de Vere,And marks him out to human kenAs one of Nature's noblemen.
Whence scholars, statesmen, bards have sprung,Where ev'ry little barefoot childCorrectly lisps his mother-tongue,
Like other self-made persons, heIs surely much to be excused,Since they have had no choice, you see,Of the material to be used;But when his noiseless fabric grew,He builded better than he knew.
A democrat, whose views are frank,To him Success alone is vital;He deems the wealthy cabman's "rank"As good as any other title;To him the post of postman bettersThe trade of other Men of Letters.
The relative who seeks to wedSome nice but indigent patrician,He urges to select insteadA coachman of assured position,Since safety-matches, you'll agree,Strike only on the box, says he.
At Skibo Castle, by the sea,A splendid palace he has built,Equipped with all the luxuryOf plush, of looking-glass, and gilt;A style which Ruskin much enjoyed,And christened "Early German Lloyd."
With milking-stools and ribbon'd screensThe floor is covered, well I know;The walls are thick with tambourines,Hand-painted many years ago;Ah, how much taste our forbears had!And nearly all of it was bad.
Each flow'r-embroidered boudoir suite,Each "cosy corner" set apart,Was modelled in the Regent StreetEmporium of suburban art."O Liberty!" (I quote with shame)"The crimes committed in thy name!"
But tho' his mansion now containsA swimming-bath, a barrel-organ,Electric light, and even drains,As good as those of Mr. Morgan,There was a time when Andrew C.Was not obsessed by l. s. d.
Across the seas he made his pile,In Pittsburg, where, I've understood,You have to exercise some guileTo do the very slightest good;But he kept doing good by stealth,And doubtless blushed to find it wealth.
And now his private hobby 'tisTo meet a starving people's needBy making gifts of librariesTo those who never learnt to read;Rich mental banquets he providesFor folks with famishing insides.
In Education's hallowed nameHe pours his opulent libations;His vast deserted Halls of FameIncrease the gaiety of nations.But still the slums are plague-infested,The hospitals remain congested.. . . . . .Carnegie, should your kindly eyeThis foolish book of verses meet,Please order an immense supply,To make your libraries complete,And register its author's nameWithin your princely Halls of Fame!
TOsing of King CophetuaI am indeed unwilling,For none of his adventures areParticularly thrilling;Nor, as I hardly need to mention,Am I addicted to invention.
TOsing of King CophetuaI am indeed unwilling,For none of his adventures areParticularly thrilling;Nor, as I hardly need to mention,Am I addicted to invention.
Osing of King CophetuaI am indeed unwilling,For none of his adventures areParticularly thrilling;Nor, as I hardly need to mention,Am I addicted to invention.
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The story of his roving eye,You must already know it,Since it has been narrated byLord Tennyson, the poet;I could a moving tale unfold,But it has been so often told.But since I wish my friends to seeMy early education,If Tennyson will pardon meA somewhat free translation,I'll try if something can't be sungIn someone else's mother-tongue."Cophetua and the Beggar Maid!"So runs the story's title(An explanation, I'm afraid,Is absolutely vital),Express'd, as I need hardly mench:In 4 a.m. (or early) French:—Les bras posés sur la poitrineLui fait l'apparence divine,—Enfin elle a très bonne mine,—Elle arrive, ne portant pasDe sabots, ni même de bas,Pieds-nus, au roi Cophetua.Le roi lors, couronne sur tête,Vêtu de ses robes de fête,Va la rencontrer, et l'arrête.On dit, "Tiens, il y en a de quoi!""Je ferais ça si c'était moi!"Il saits s'amuser donc, ce roi!Ainsi qu'la lune brille aux cieux,Cette enfant luit de mieux en mieux,Quand même ses habits soient vieux.En voilà un qui loue ses yeux,Un autre admire ses cheveux,Et tout le monde est amoureux.Car on n'a jamais vu là-basUn charme tel que celui-làAlors le bon CophetuaJure, "La pauvre mendiante,Si séduisante, si charmante,Sera ma femme,—ou bien ma tante!"
The story of his roving eye,You must already know it,Since it has been narrated byLord Tennyson, the poet;I could a moving tale unfold,But it has been so often told.
But since I wish my friends to seeMy early education,If Tennyson will pardon meA somewhat free translation,I'll try if something can't be sungIn someone else's mother-tongue.
"Cophetua and the Beggar Maid!"So runs the story's title(An explanation, I'm afraid,Is absolutely vital),Express'd, as I need hardly mench:In 4 a.m. (or early) French:—
Les bras posés sur la poitrineLui fait l'apparence divine,—Enfin elle a très bonne mine,—Elle arrive, ne portant pasDe sabots, ni même de bas,Pieds-nus, au roi Cophetua.
Le roi lors, couronne sur tête,Vêtu de ses robes de fête,Va la rencontrer, et l'arrête.On dit, "Tiens, il y en a de quoi!""Je ferais ça si c'était moi!"Il saits s'amuser donc, ce roi!
Ainsi qu'la lune brille aux cieux,Cette enfant luit de mieux en mieux,Quand même ses habits soient vieux.En voilà un qui loue ses yeux,Un autre admire ses cheveux,Et tout le monde est amoureux.
Car on n'a jamais vu là-basUn charme tel que celui-làAlors le bon CophetuaJure, "La pauvre mendiante,Si séduisante, si charmante,Sera ma femme,—ou bien ma tante!"
THOUGH, to the ordinary mind,The weight of marriage ties is suchThat many mere, male, mortals findOne wife enough,—if not too much;I see no no reason to abuseA person holding other views.
THOUGH, to the ordinary mind,The weight of marriage ties is suchThat many mere, male, mortals findOne wife enough,—if not too much;I see no no reason to abuseA person holding other views.
HOUGH, to the ordinary mind,The weight of marriage ties is suchThat many mere, male, mortals findOne wife enough,—if not too much;I see no no reason to abuseA person holding other views.
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Though most of us, at any rate,Have not acquired the plural habits,Which we are apt to delegateTo Eastern potentates,—or rabbits;We should regard with open mindThe more uxoriously inclined.In Salt Lake City dwells a manWho deems monogamy a myth;(One of that too prolific clanWhich glories in the name of Smith);A "Prophet, Seer, and Revelator,"With the appearance of a waiter.This hoary patriarch contrivesTo thrive in manner most bewild'rin',With close on half a dozen wives,And nearly half a hundred children;And views with unaffrighted eyesThe burden of domestic ties.To him all spouses seem the same—Each one a model of the Graces;He knows his children all by name,But cannot recollect their faces;A minor point, since, I suppose,Each one has got its popper's nose!They are denied to me and you:Such old-world luxuries as his,When, after work, he hastens toThe bosoms of his families(Each offspring joining with the othersIn, "What is Home without five Mothers?").Such strange surroundings would retardMost ordinary men's digestions;Five ladies all conversing hard,And fifty children asking questions!Besides (the tragic final straw),Five se-pa-rate mamas-in-law!What difficulties there must beTo find a telescopic mansion;For each successive familyThe space sufficient for expansion.("But that," said Kipling, in his glory—"But that is quite another storey!")The sailor who, from lack of thought,Or else a too diffuse affection,Has, for a wife in ev'ry port,An unappeasing predilection,Would designate as "simply great!"The mode of life in Utah State.The gay Lothario, too, who makesHis mad but meaningless advancesTo more than one fair maid, and takesA large variety of chances,Need have no fear, in such a place,Of any breach-of-promise case.With Mormons of the latter-dayI have no slightest cause for quarrel;Nor do I doubt at all that theyAre quite exceptionally moral;Their President has told us so,And he, if anyone, should know.But tho' of folks in Utah State,But 2 percent lead plural lives,Perhaps the other 98Are just—their children and their wives!O stern, ascetic congregation,Resisting all—except temptation!Well, I, for one, can see no harm,Unless for trouble one were looking,In having wives on either arm,And one downstairs—to do the cooking.A touching scene; with nought to dim it.But fifty children!—That's the limit!Some middle course would I explore;Incur a merely dual bond;One wife, brunette, to scrub the floor,And one for outdoor use, a blonde;Thus happily could I exist,A moral Mormonogamist!
Though most of us, at any rate,Have not acquired the plural habits,Which we are apt to delegateTo Eastern potentates,—or rabbits;We should regard with open mindThe more uxoriously inclined.
In Salt Lake City dwells a manWho deems monogamy a myth;(One of that too prolific clanWhich glories in the name of Smith);A "Prophet, Seer, and Revelator,"With the appearance of a waiter.
This hoary patriarch contrivesTo thrive in manner most bewild'rin',With close on half a dozen wives,And nearly half a hundred children;And views with unaffrighted eyesThe burden of domestic ties.
To him all spouses seem the same—Each one a model of the Graces;He knows his children all by name,But cannot recollect their faces;A minor point, since, I suppose,Each one has got its popper's nose!
They are denied to me and you:Such old-world luxuries as his,When, after work, he hastens toThe bosoms of his families(Each offspring joining with the othersIn, "What is Home without five Mothers?").
Such strange surroundings would retardMost ordinary men's digestions;Five ladies all conversing hard,And fifty children asking questions!Besides (the tragic final straw),Five se-pa-rate mamas-in-law!
What difficulties there must beTo find a telescopic mansion;For each successive familyThe space sufficient for expansion.("But that," said Kipling, in his glory—"But that is quite another storey!")
The sailor who, from lack of thought,Or else a too diffuse affection,Has, for a wife in ev'ry port,An unappeasing predilection,Would designate as "simply great!"The mode of life in Utah State.
The gay Lothario, too, who makesHis mad but meaningless advancesTo more than one fair maid, and takesA large variety of chances,Need have no fear, in such a place,Of any breach-of-promise case.
With Mormons of the latter-dayI have no slightest cause for quarrel;Nor do I doubt at all that theyAre quite exceptionally moral;Their President has told us so,And he, if anyone, should know.
But tho' of folks in Utah State,But 2 percent lead plural lives,Perhaps the other 98Are just—their children and their wives!O stern, ascetic congregation,Resisting all—except temptation!
Well, I, for one, can see no harm,Unless for trouble one were looking,In having wives on either arm,And one downstairs—to do the cooking.A touching scene; with nought to dim it.But fifty children!—That's the limit!
Some middle course would I explore;Incur a merely dual bond;One wife, brunette, to scrub the floor,And one for outdoor use, a blonde;Thus happily could I exist,A moral Mormonogamist!
THEFrench "filou" may raise his "bock,"The "Green-goods man" his cocktail, whenHe toast Gaboriau's Le Coq,Or Pinkerton's discreet young men;But beer in British bumpers foamsAround the name of Sherlock Holmes!
THEFrench "filou" may raise his "bock,"The "Green-goods man" his cocktail, whenHe toast Gaboriau's Le Coq,Or Pinkerton's discreet young men;But beer in British bumpers foamsAround the name of Sherlock Holmes!
HEFrench "filou" may raise his "bock,"The "Green-goods man" his cocktail, whenHe toast Gaboriau's Le Coq,Or Pinkerton's discreet young men;But beer in British bumpers foamsAround the name of Sherlock Holmes!
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Come, boon companions, all of youWho (woodcock-like) exist by suction,Uplift your teeming tankards toThe great Professor of Deduction!Who is he? You shall shortly seeIf (Watson-like) you "follow me."In London (on the left-hand sideAs you go in), stands Baker Street,Exhibited with proper prideBy all policemen on the beat,As housing one whose predilectionIs private criminal detection.The malefactor's apt disguisePresents to him an easy task;His placid, penetrating eyesCan pierce the most secretive mask;And felons ask a deal too muchWho fancy to elude his clutch.No slender or exiguous clewToo paltry for his needs is found;No knot too stubborn to undo,No prey too swift to run to ground;No road too difficult to travel,No skein too tangled to unravel.For Holmes the ash of a cigar,A gnat impinging on his eye,Possess a meaning subtler farThan humbler mortals can descry.A primrose at the river's brimNo simple primrose is to him!To Holmes a battered Brahma key,Combined with blurred articulation,Displays a man's capacityFor infinite ingurgitation;Obliquity of moral visionBetrays the civic politician.I had an uncle, who possessedA marked resemblance to a bloater,Whom Sherlock, by deduction, guessedTo be the victim of a motor;Whereas, his wife (or so he swore)Had merely shut him in the door!My brother's nose, whose hectic hueRecalled the sun-kissed autumn leaf,Though friends attributed it toSome secret or domestic grief,Revealed to Holmes his deep potations,Andnotthe loss of loved relations!I had a poodle, short and fat,Who proved a conjugal deceiver;Her offspring were a Maltese Cat,Two Dachshunds and a pink retriever!Her husband was a pure-bred Skye;And Sherlock Holmes alone knew why!When after-dinner speakers rise,To plunge in anecdotage deep,At once will Sherlock recogniseEach welcome harbinger of sleep:That voice which torpid guests entrances,That immemorial voice of Chauncey's!Not his, suppose Hall Caine should walkAll unannounced into the room,To say, like pressmen of New York,"Er—Mr. Shakespeare, I presoom?"By name "The Manxman" Holmes would hail,Observing that hehad no tale.In vain, amid the lonely stateOf Zion, dreariest of havens,Does bashful Dowie emulateThe prophet who was fed by ravens;To Holmes such affluence betraysA prophet who is fed byjays!. . . . . .With Holmes there lived a foolish man,To whom I briefly must allude,Who gloried in possessing anAbnormal mental hebetude;One could describe the grossestbétiseTo this (forgive the rhyme) Achates.'Twas Doctor Watson, human mole,Obtusely, painfully polite;Who played the unambitious rôleOf parasitic satellite;Inevitably bound to bore us,Like Aristophanes's Chorus.. . . . . .But London town is sad to-day,And preternaturally solemn;The fountains murmur "Let us spray"To Nelson on his lonely column;Big Ben is mute, her clapper crack'd is,For Holmes has given up his practice.No more in silence, as the snake,Will he his sinuous path pursue,Till, like the weasel (when awake),Or deft, resilient kangaroo,He leaps upon his quivering quarry,Before there's time to say you're sorry.No more will criminals, at dawn,Effecting some burglarious entry,(While Sherlock, on the garden lawn,Enacts the thankless rôle of sentry),Discover, to their bitter cost,That felons who are found—are lost!No more on Holmes shall Watson baseThe Chronicles he proudly fabled;The violin and morphia-caseAre in the passage, packed and labelled;And Holmes himself is at the door,Departing—to return no more.He bids farewell to Baker Street,Though Watson clings about his knees;He hastens to his country seat,To spend his dotage keeping bees;And one of them, depend upon it,Shall find a haven in his bonnet!But though in grief our heads are bowed,And tears upon our cheeks are shining,We recognise that ev'ry cloudConceals somewhere a silver lining;And hear with deep congratulationOf Watson's timely termination.
Come, boon companions, all of youWho (woodcock-like) exist by suction,Uplift your teeming tankards toThe great Professor of Deduction!Who is he? You shall shortly seeIf (Watson-like) you "follow me."
In London (on the left-hand sideAs you go in), stands Baker Street,Exhibited with proper prideBy all policemen on the beat,As housing one whose predilectionIs private criminal detection.
The malefactor's apt disguisePresents to him an easy task;His placid, penetrating eyesCan pierce the most secretive mask;And felons ask a deal too muchWho fancy to elude his clutch.
No slender or exiguous clewToo paltry for his needs is found;No knot too stubborn to undo,No prey too swift to run to ground;No road too difficult to travel,No skein too tangled to unravel.
For Holmes the ash of a cigar,A gnat impinging on his eye,Possess a meaning subtler farThan humbler mortals can descry.A primrose at the river's brimNo simple primrose is to him!
To Holmes a battered Brahma key,Combined with blurred articulation,Displays a man's capacityFor infinite ingurgitation;Obliquity of moral visionBetrays the civic politician.
I had an uncle, who possessedA marked resemblance to a bloater,Whom Sherlock, by deduction, guessedTo be the victim of a motor;Whereas, his wife (or so he swore)Had merely shut him in the door!
My brother's nose, whose hectic hueRecalled the sun-kissed autumn leaf,Though friends attributed it toSome secret or domestic grief,Revealed to Holmes his deep potations,Andnotthe loss of loved relations!
I had a poodle, short and fat,Who proved a conjugal deceiver;Her offspring were a Maltese Cat,Two Dachshunds and a pink retriever!Her husband was a pure-bred Skye;And Sherlock Holmes alone knew why!
When after-dinner speakers rise,To plunge in anecdotage deep,At once will Sherlock recogniseEach welcome harbinger of sleep:That voice which torpid guests entrances,That immemorial voice of Chauncey's!
Not his, suppose Hall Caine should walkAll unannounced into the room,To say, like pressmen of New York,"Er—Mr. Shakespeare, I presoom?"By name "The Manxman" Holmes would hail,Observing that hehad no tale.
In vain, amid the lonely stateOf Zion, dreariest of havens,Does bashful Dowie emulateThe prophet who was fed by ravens;To Holmes such affluence betraysA prophet who is fed byjays!. . . . . .With Holmes there lived a foolish man,To whom I briefly must allude,Who gloried in possessing anAbnormal mental hebetude;One could describe the grossestbétiseTo this (forgive the rhyme) Achates.
'Twas Doctor Watson, human mole,Obtusely, painfully polite;Who played the unambitious rôleOf parasitic satellite;Inevitably bound to bore us,Like Aristophanes's Chorus.. . . . . .But London town is sad to-day,And preternaturally solemn;The fountains murmur "Let us spray"To Nelson on his lonely column;Big Ben is mute, her clapper crack'd is,For Holmes has given up his practice.
No more in silence, as the snake,Will he his sinuous path pursue,Till, like the weasel (when awake),Or deft, resilient kangaroo,He leaps upon his quivering quarry,Before there's time to say you're sorry.
No more will criminals, at dawn,Effecting some burglarious entry,(While Sherlock, on the garden lawn,Enacts the thankless rôle of sentry),Discover, to their bitter cost,That felons who are found—are lost!
No more on Holmes shall Watson baseThe Chronicles he proudly fabled;The violin and morphia-caseAre in the passage, packed and labelled;And Holmes himself is at the door,Departing—to return no more.
He bids farewell to Baker Street,Though Watson clings about his knees;He hastens to his country seat,To spend his dotage keeping bees;And one of them, depend upon it,Shall find a haven in his bonnet!
But though in grief our heads are bowed,And tears upon our cheeks are shining,We recognise that ev'ry cloudConceals somewhere a silver lining;And hear with deep congratulationOf Watson's timely termination.
YECritics, who with bilious eyePeruse my incoherent medley,Prepared to let your arrows fly,With cruel aim and purpose deadly,Desist a moment, ere you spoilThe harvest of a twelvemonth's toil!Remember, should you scent afarThe crusted jokes of days gone by,What conscious plagiarists we are:Molière and Seymour Hicks and I,For, as my bearded chestnuts prove,Je prends mon bien où je le trouve!My wealth of wit I never wasteOn Chestertonian paradox;My humour, in the best of taste,Like Miss Corelli's, never shocks;For sacred things my rev'rent aweResembles that of Bernard Shaw.Behold how tenderly I treatEach victim of my pen and brain,And should I tread upon his feet,How lightly I leap off again;Observe with what an airy graceI fling my inkpot in his face!And those who seek at Christmas time,An inexpensive gift for Mother,Will fine this foolish book of rhymeAs apposite as any other,And suitable for presentationTo any poor or near relation.To those whose intellect is small,This work should prove a priceless treasure;To persons who have none at all,A never-ending fount of pleasure;A mental stimulus or tonicTo all whose idiocy is chronic.And you, my Readers (never mindWhich category you come under),Will, after due reflection, findMy verse a constant source of wonder;'Twill make youthink, I dare to swear—Butwhatyou think I do not care!
YECritics, who with bilious eyePeruse my incoherent medley,Prepared to let your arrows fly,With cruel aim and purpose deadly,Desist a moment, ere you spoilThe harvest of a twelvemonth's toil!
ECritics, who with bilious eyePeruse my incoherent medley,Prepared to let your arrows fly,With cruel aim and purpose deadly,Desist a moment, ere you spoilThe harvest of a twelvemonth's toil!
Remember, should you scent afarThe crusted jokes of days gone by,What conscious plagiarists we are:Molière and Seymour Hicks and I,For, as my bearded chestnuts prove,Je prends mon bien où je le trouve!
My wealth of wit I never wasteOn Chestertonian paradox;My humour, in the best of taste,Like Miss Corelli's, never shocks;For sacred things my rev'rent aweResembles that of Bernard Shaw.
Behold how tenderly I treatEach victim of my pen and brain,And should I tread upon his feet,How lightly I leap off again;Observe with what an airy graceI fling my inkpot in his face!
And those who seek at Christmas time,An inexpensive gift for Mother,Will fine this foolish book of rhymeAs apposite as any other,And suitable for presentationTo any poor or near relation.
To those whose intellect is small,This work should prove a priceless treasure;To persons who have none at all,A never-ending fount of pleasure;A mental stimulus or tonicTo all whose idiocy is chronic.
And you, my Readers (never mindWhich category you come under),Will, after due reflection, findMy verse a constant source of wonder;'Twill make youthink, I dare to swear—Butwhatyou think I do not care!