My dear Sir William Harcourt,—(I have not time to get up your other distinguished names,So that you must please excuse the plain Sir William),My dear Sir William, do you ever survey the Liberal party,From China to Peru,And from Rosebery to Lloyd-George as it were?Do you, my dear Sir William? O do you?Ido sometimes.I do, Sir William, I do indeed.O, I do!And what is the conclusion I come to, my dear Sir William,Ah, what?O, what?What, what, what, what, what, what, what, what, what?Shall I tell you, my dear Sir William?You are sure you won't be offended if I do?And it will be strictly between ourselves, now, won't it?Well then, come hither, coz,Put your sweet hand in mine and trust in me,And do not construe my kindness into cruelty;Harken, my dear Sir William, harken,Harken, harken, harken, harken har——court:—The Liberal party is an unweeded gardenChoked with a myriad strange growths,And a sad, fierce, baffled, careless-ordered thing to look upon,And in its midst there sits down perenniallyA huge and ponderous and unwieldy ruminant,Whom, merely for the sake of talking, my dear Sir William,We will call the Harcourt.Here, when it is not at its lordly pleasure-house,Which men call Malwood,The Harcourt, as I say, sits down.Goodman Bannerman cometh to his Liberal GardenTo gather him a posy and do a little weeding;The Harcourt is there heavily chewing the cud,And it takes the heart out of goodman BannermanTo behold him.Goodman Asquith had fain pick a bit of dinner in the precincts;The Harcourt watcheth him with rolling eye,And goodman Asquith shivereth.And by and by cometh the simple, rural Rosebery,Armed cap-à-pie with a muck-fork;Being rural he understands gardening;He looks over the wall and sayeth,"Gadzooks, when folk tell me that I am the man to put this garden to rightsThey speak a mortal deal o' truth.I will e'en go in and delve a bit."And then he beholdeth the HarcourtLuxuriating with his back against the biggest fig tree,And he sayeth "No;That powerful big animal be there still,And I know'un, I do, I know'un!"And who shall blame him?What jobbing gardener of any self-respectWould undertake to do up my genariums and fuchersIf I had a wild rhinoceros gambolling upon themDay in and day out?I should have great difficultyIn finding such a jobbing gardener, my dear Sir William;And, to come at once to the plain poetry so belovèd of this age,Let me tell you, my dear Sir William,That, in my opinion, you (and no other) are at the present junctureThe real trouble and incubus of the party you love.If you would only go home and crown yourself with a laurel or two,And read history books, and take tea with bishopsAnd not come back again,I believe the Liberal partyWould begin to get along like a house afire.Will you not try it, my dear Sir William; oh, will you not try it?For who would fardels bear and flounder round,When he might sit with Lulu on the lawnAnd leave his party for his party's good?
Dear Brindle,—Possibly your name is not Brindle,But that is of no consequence;The great point, my dear Brindle, beingThat when his Majesty Edward VII.Landed at Flushing the other dayHe was accompaniedByYou.At least so I gather from the halfpenny papers,And I am free to admitThat when I read the paragraphDescriptive of your landing at FlushingMy bosom swelled with honest pride.I am not a doggy man myself,Dear Brindle,And no judge of points.Also,When I see a dog coming towards meI invariablyWhisper"Bite,"And consequentlyMy hairIs apt to stand on endLike quills upon the fretful porcupineAt pretty well every canine approach.Bulldogs especiallyAffright me,So that I can well understandHow the little foreign boy,Assembled at FlushingTo scoff in his sleeve at the English King,Remained to flee as it wereAt the sight of you.That, in a nutshell,Is why my bosom swelledWhen I read the paragraphTo which previous reference has been made.It was a picturesque circumstance, my dear Brindle.And may be takenAs one more illustrationOf his Majesty's determination(Pray excuse the rhyme)To do things as a king of England should.To have alighted at FlushingAccompanied by a LionWould have been a little outré,And Unicorns, we know,Are not obtainable—What does his Majesty do?Why he takes, as he always has taken,The middle and dignified course:He disjects himself on FlushingWith You by his side.Next to the Lion and the UnicornThe Bulldog may be reckonedThe truestExemplar and symbolOf our great nation.It is like this:The Bulldog is not too beautiful,Neither is our great nation;But he frightens people—So do we;He is tenaciousAnd magnanimous—Which is just our game;He fears no foe in shining armour,Or any other sort of armour—That is precisely our case;And he is kept by Lord Charles Beresford,The Duke of Manchester,And Mr. G. R. Sims—Three eminently typical Britons.In short,The genius of the British nation,My dear Brindle,Is not a policemanBut a Bulldog.
(Aug.3, 1901)
My dear "Daily Mail,"—To-day you attainYour 1,650th number,Which, for the sake of talking,We will call your Jubilee.Congratulations,My dearDaily Mail,Congratulations!There are people in the worldWho,In the time of your infancy,Gave you the usual three months.Most new papersGet three months on the day of their birth.For at the sight of a new sheet,Your wise man invariably taps his nose,Looks even wiser than is his wont,And says,"My dear Sir,I give itThree months."Well,My dearDaily Mail,You have survived the sentence of the wise,And I am given to understandThat you have long been a tremendous property.Once againCongratulations!BUT(These buts are fearful things,Are they not?)—But(Pray excuse me if I appear to say "but" again)—But—Well, you know what I mean, don't you?Let me put it this way.When I come to town of a morning,Per 'bus or Potromelitan Railway,As the case may be,What do I see?Not to put too fine a point upon it,I see a row of silk or straw hats(According to the state of the weather),And I see a rowOf choice trouserings,And between the hats and the trouseringsThere is spreadA row of rustling morning papers.I can tell you the names of those papersWith my eyes shut:Five out of six of them is calledTheDaily Mail.This upsets me.It is all right for you, of course,But it distresses me,And I do not like being distressed.Now, why does it distress me?Shall I tell you?Are you sure that you could bear the blow?Can you pull yourself together for a moment?Very well, then,You distress meBecauseThe price of you is one halfpenny.I am of opinionThat in the present condition of the general purse,Things which are sold for a halfpennyAre really too cheap.I will give you my reasons some other day.Meanwhile(To take your own case)When I look into your pages,Which is seldom,What do I find?I will be frank for the second time,And tell you:I find,My dearDaily Mail,Ha'pennynessWrit in every line of you,From the front page, "Personal Column,"With its "Massa, me nebber leab youWhile you keep So-and-So's toffee about,"To the last lineOf your astonishing Magazine page,You areHa'pennyness,Ha'pennyness,Ha'pennyness,Ha'pennyness,Ha'pennyness,Ha'pennynessAll the time.Of course there is no harm in that,EspeciallyAs you get the ha'pennies,And far be it from meTo contemn you for it.On the other hand,As I have remarked previously,I do not like it.I have no advice to offer you,InasmuchAs I do not see how you can help yourself.But I shall ask you kindly to noteThat the congratulationsExpressed at the beginning of this poemBear reference to your attainment of your 1,650th numberAnd notTo another matter,Which,While you certainly have the right upon your side,You appear to me to be conductingINANUNMITIGATEDHA'PENNYWAY.
My dear Everybody,—The other day I lunched at a placeWhere there was a pretty lady.During the course of the talkThe pretty lady said to me,"You see, Everybody is out of townAt present."I said, "Who is Everybody?"Whereupon the pretty lady replied,"Well—er—Everybody."I said, "Quite so;But don't you think it is ratherFortunate that Everybody is out of town?And the pretty lady answered and said,"No."I conclude, therefore,That you, Everybody,Must, on the whole, be rather nice.I hope you are;For Everybody should be rather nice,Should they not?And when I come to think of itThe circumstance that I heard of youThe other dayHas nothing prodigiously unusual about it.Really and truly,One is always hearing about you.One is, believe me.For example, the paragraph writers assure meThat Everybody is readingMiss So-and-So's great novel;Also, that Everybody will join with themIn congratulating Miss So-and-So on her approaching marriage;Also, that Everybody is in the Highlands,That Everybody anticipates a good season,That Everybody keeps a houseboat,That Everybody sups at the Carlton after the theatre,That Everybody recognises in Lord Salisbury a great statesman,That Everybody plays golf,That Everybody who can afford it dresses well,That Everybody knows the King has tact,That Everybody thinks the Queen grows younger as she grows older,That Everybody hopes Sir Thomas LiptonWill win the America Cup,And so on.Which is well.I don't mind in the least.Why should I?Yet, if I were Everybody,I imagine that I should not do thingsQuite in the same way that you do them.To my mind, your great defect is that you do thingsNot because you like to do them,But simply becauseEverybody does them.This is an excellent reasonFrom your point of view;But to me it seems a trifle stupid.Who is reading Miss So-and-So's book?Everybody.Why are they reading it?Because Everybody is reading it.Do they like Miss So-and-So's book?They are not quite sure.But Everybody says it is good,And therefore Everybody must read it.Why are frock-coats worn?Because Everybody wears them.Why does Everybody wear them?Because Everybody wears them.Why does Everybody dine at a certain restaurant?Because Everybody dines there.Why does Everybody dine there?Because Everybody dines there.Why does——But, there,I forbear.Did time allow I might multiply instancesTill Everybody felt bored,But I stay min' hand;Enough, you know, is as good as a feast;Likewise, better a stalled oxThan a dinner of herbs;Everybody says so,Wherefore I am constrained to believe it.By way of conclusion, let us ask ourselvesWhat is happening just now.Everybody saysThat nothing is happening just now,And that everything is frightfully dull;AndEverybodyIsQuiteRight.
UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON.