The Project Gutenberg eBook ofOutlook OdesThis 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: Outlook OdesAuthor: T. W. H. CroslandRelease date: August 14, 2011 [eBook #37085]Most recently updated: January 8, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUTLOOK ODES ***
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: Outlook OdesAuthor: T. W. H. CroslandRelease date: August 14, 2011 [eBook #37085]Most recently updated: January 8, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines
Title: Outlook Odes
Author: T. W. H. Crosland
Author: T. W. H. Crosland
Release date: August 14, 2011 [eBook #37085]Most recently updated: January 8, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUTLOOK ODES ***
OUTLOOK
ODES
By T. W. H. CROSLAND
AUTHOR OF "THE UNSPEAKABLE SCOT,""LITERARY PARABLES," "THE FINER SPIRIT," &c.
LONDON: AT THE UNICORNVII CECIL COURT W.C.MCMII
TOTHE LORD WINDSORONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER
CONTENTS
TO THE PRIVATE MEMBER
TO THE TRUE-BORN BRITON(After Peace Night.)
TO THE CAMBRIDGE CREW
TO DAN LENO(On his appearance at Sandringham.)
TO THE POPE
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN(Touching his audience of the King.)
TO THE TSAR(After Dunkirk.)
TO DAN LENO
TO THE POET LAUREATE
TO THE AMERICAN INVADER
TO THE "MUDDIED OAF"
TO A PUBLISHER
TO AN HOTEL KEEPER
TO THE MAN WITH A GUN
TO THE STOCK EXCHANGE(On its Centenary.)
TO THE LORD MAYOR(November9th.)
TO THE MOTORIST
TO NEXT CHRISTMAS
TO THE TRIPPER
TO THE GLASGOW MAGISTRATES(On their proposal to banish barmaids.)
TO A BOOKSELLER
TO THE DECEASED WIFE'S SISTER
TO THE CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER(Before his retirement.)
TO THE COMMON GOLFER
TO MR. PIERPONT MORGAN
TO PRINCE EDWARD OF YORK(On the return of the "Ophir.")
TO MME. BERNHARDT
TO SIR WILLIAM HARCOURT
TO THE KING'S BULLDOG
TO THEDAILY MAIL(August3, 1901.)
TO EVERYBODY
My dear Sir,—You may think it unkind of meTo interrupt the peaceful calm of your holidayWith a poem about business.But I assure you, my dear sir,That I do so with the very best intentions,And at the call of what I consider to be duty.Duty, as you know, is a tremendous abstraction,And brings a man into all sorts of difficult corners.It was duty that took you into Parliament:Similarly it is duty that constrains me to Odes.When a man sees another man and pities him,It is the duty of the first man to let the other man know about itDelicately.I pity you, my dear Mr. Private Member,From the bottom of a bottomless heart.Many a time and oft in the course of my ramblesThrough the lobbies and liquor bars of St. StephensIt has been my ineffable portion to run across you—Silk hat, frock coat, baggy trousers, patient stare, bored expression:Suddenly you smileAnd crook the pregnant hinges of the back of your neck.Mrs. Wiggle, the three Misses Wiggle, and little Master Wiggle,Wife, daughters, and son of Mr. Forthree Wiggle,Draper, and burgess of the good old Parliamentary DivisionOf Mudsher West,Are up from Mudsher West,And they want showin' round the 'Ouse, you know.Round you go.Again: you appear in the Strangers' Lobby,Spectacles on nose, somebody's card in hand.The policeman roars out name of leading constituent.Leading constituent departed in a huff twenty minutes ago,Because he thought you were not attending to him.There being no answer,Policeman roars out name of leading constituent once more.Name echoes along Lords' Lobby;But not being there, leading constituent fails to come forward.You look embarrassed, turn tail, retire to your back bench,And feel deucedly uncomfortable for the rest of the evening.You would like to get away to the theatre,But you dare not do it:There are Whips about.You would like to go home to bed;You must wait the good pleasure of the course of the debate.You would like to stand on your hind legsAnd address the House on large matters:But you know in your heartThat the House will stand absolutely nothing from youBar a question or so.You sit, and sit, and sit through dull debate after dull debate,And you sigh for the hustings and the brass bands,And the banquets and the "He's-a-jolly-good-fellow"-sAnd wonder how it comes to passThat you, who were once set down in theMudsher MercuryFor a blend of Demosthenes and John Bright,Can never get more than twenty words off the end of your tongueAfter "Mr. Speaker, Sir."Oh! my dear Mr. Private Member,Your case is indeed a sad one,And it is all the sadder when one comes to reflectThat, as a general rule, you are a sincereish sort of man,Burning and bursting with a desireTo do your poor suffering countryA bit of good.You know that the men who have the ear of the HouseAre mere talkers;That they are only "playing the party game,"And that the country may go to pot for anything they care.And yet they make their speechesAnd get them reported at length in the papers,And are given places in the Cabinet,And go for "dines-and-sleeps" with the King,What time you grow old and grey and obese and bleary eyed,And never get the smallest show.I pity you, my dear Mr. Private Member, I do really.But for your comfort I may tell youThat all you lackIs courageAnd brains.
(After Peace Night)
Dear Sir, or Madam,As the case may be,When Britain first,At Heaving's command,Arose from outThe azure main,This was the chawterOf that landAnd gawdian a-a-a-a-angelsSang this strain:Don't you think so?For my own part,I am quite sure of it:Monday night convinced me.Mafeking night,As you may remember,Was a honeyedAnd beautiful affair.ButPeace night,I think,Really outdid it in splendours.At the cafeWhich I most frequent,All was Peace.Round the table next mine,There were seventeen Jews,With a Union Jack.Ever and anon(Between drinks, as it were),They held upThat Union JackAnd yelled:"Shend him victoriouth,'Appy and gloriouth,Long to-o reign over uth,&c., &c."I wonder, my dear Sir, or Madam,Why the Jews are so pleased:I can't make it out.Howsomever,Pleased they are,And a pleased JewIs worth a king's ransom,Or words to that effect.Peace, my dear Sir, or Madam,Is a chaste and choiceThing.
Outside the aforesaid cafe,The crowdWas so numerousAnd exuberantThat I was compelled(Much to my annoyance, of course)To remain insideTill closing-time.Then I went homeIn the friendly embraceOf a four-wheeler.For a little while,There was much shouting and yelling and roaring and squeaking and singing;And then I knewNo more.My cabBowled awayThrough the sweet evening air(That is to say,If the common or Regent Street growlerEver does bowl away),And all the timeI snored.Duly awakenedOutside my bungalow,I raked up the fare,And, in reply to kind enquiriesIn the hall,I remarked:"Peace, O woman of mine,Peace!"
My dear Cambridge,You have pulled it off,As all men know.This odeWill make Oxford pretty sick;But the spoils are to the victor.If Oxford had rowed betterAnd won,They should have had a nice new ode,Like good boys;But they have been and gone and lost,And are, therefore,Not fit subjectsFor immortal verse.Pah!I pass by Oxford!As for you, dear Cambridge,Here's to you:In spite of your long and honourable connectionWith the manufactureOf sossiges,There appears to be something in you,Which is more than can be saidFor some of the sossiges.Cambridge, my own,You have won the bowt rice!'Ave a drink!What is the good of winning the bowt rice,If you don't 'ave a drink?I don't know,And I'm sure you don't.Also, what is the goodOf winning the bowt riceAt all?I give it up.Yes, I do really;Please do let me give it up.You have won;You can afford to be generous;Suffer me to indulge my little whim:There is no goodIn winning the bowt rice, CambridgeNo good at all.On the other hand,When I come to think of itI am not quite sureThat to have rowedIn the Cambridge boatWhich won the bowt rice,Is materially to have damagedOne's prospects or career:At the very least, it makes one safeFor a tutor's jobAt £80 per annum;And what self-respecting person from CambridgeCould wish for more?I have heard of a manWho rowedIn a winning Cambridge boatAnd is now drivingA hansom cab.And I have heard of another manWho omitted to rowIn a winning Cambridge boatAnd is now driving a four-wheeler.You see the difference, of course!After all,To rowIn a winning Cambridge boatDoes give oneA sort of start in life,And don't you forget it.Always remember, my dear Cambridge, who you are.You licked Oxford by five lengthsIn 1902.This is probablyAll you will getFor your father's money.Be thankful.
(On his Appearance at Sandringham)
Dear Mr. Dan Leno,—This has been a great weekFor Art—One of the biggest weeks in factOn record.For at the beginning of the week, my dear Mr. Leno,You were a mere popular entertainer,Whereas at the present momentYou are a proud and 'appy man,And in a position to walk about the StrandWith a diamond EScintillating in your cravat.The thing that was anticipatedBy the intelligent paragraphists,My dear Mr. Leno,Has come to pass.His Britannic MajestyKing Edward VII., D.G.: B. et T.T.B.R.: I.I.,Doesintend to give artists and authors and peopleA little bit more of a showThan has hitherto fallen to their lot.His Majesty,My dear Mr. Leno,Has always been noted for his tact,And in opening the ball with you, as it were,His Majesty has exhibited an amount of tactWhich leaves absolutely nothing to be desired.Had he commenced with Mr. Swinburne,Or myself,Or Mr. Hall CaineWhat howls there would have been!Whereas as it isEverybody is delighted,And the Halls resound nightly with his Majesty's praises.Furthermore,Besides being tactful,The King's choice of you,My dear Mr. Leno,For an invitation to SandringhamHas its basis in a profound common sense;For I am acquainted with nobody in the movement,My dear Mr. Leno,Who could have done the Sandringham turnWith anything like the success which appears to have been yours.I gather from interviewsThat the King "laughed heartily" at your jokes,And that "it was a treat to see him enjoying himself."It is just here that Mr. Swinburne, myself, and Mr. Hall CaineWould have broken down.It seems to me unlikelyThat the King would have laughedAt Mr. Swinburne's jokes;My own jokes, as everybody is aware,Are constructed on a principleWhich entirely prohibits laughter;While, as for Mr. Hall Caine's jokes,They have such a tremendous saleThat it is not good form to laugh at them.Mr. Leno, my boy,You have been the humble meansOf doing us allA great kindness.Those jokes of yoursWhich have tickled Royal earsWill be nectar to meWhen next it is my pleasurable dutyTo sit under you;That hand which Royalty has shakenI shall graspWith an added fervour;That smile will cheer me all the more readilyBecause it has cheeredMy liege Lord and Sovereign;Those feet——But, after all, the great pointIs the scarf pin.I suppose you would not care to lend it to meFor a week or twoWhile I have one madeLike it?
May it please your HolinessThere are possibly two,Or it may be three,MenIn EuropeWho could indite this OdeWithout treading on anybody's corns.After mature reflection,I am inclined to think that I am those three menSo that you will understand.Well, my dear Pope, I hear on all handsThat you are engaged, at the present moment,In the cheerful act and processOf having a Jubilee.I have had several myselfAnd I know what pleasant little functions they are,Especially when the KingSends a mission to congratulate one on them.To proceed,You must know, my dear Pope,That, by convictionAnd in my own delightful country,I am a rabid, saw-toothed Kensitite Protestant;All my ancestors figure gloriouslyIn Foxe's "Book of Martyrs,"And, if they don't, they ought to.Also, I never go into SmithfieldWithout thinking of the far-famed fires thereofAnd thanking my lucky starsThat this is Protestant EnglandAnd that the King defends the Faith.But, when I get on to the Continent,To do my week-end in Paris,Or my "ten days at lovely Lucerne,"Or my walk with Dr. Lunn"In the footsteps of St. Paul,"Why, then, somehowThe bottom falls clean out of my KensitariousnessAnd I become a decent, mass-hearing, candle-burning Catholic.That is curious, but true,And may probably be accounted forBy differences of climate.However, we can leave that;Here, in England, my dear Pope,We all like you,Whether we be Catholics or Protestants or Jews or Gentiles or members of the Playgoers' Club;And we all see you, in our minds' eye,Seated benevolently upon your throneGiving people blessings;Or walking in the Vatican GardenClothed on with simple white.We all think of you, my beloved Pope,As a diaphanous and dear old gentlemanWhose intentions are the kindest in the world.And yet, and yet, and yet—The memory of SmithfieldSo rages in our honest British bloodThat, in spite of your white garmentsAnd your placid, gentle ways,We feel quite sure that you do carry,Somewhere about your person,A box of matches;And that, if certain people had their way,You would soon be lighting such a candle in EnglandThat we should want a new FoxeAnd a new Book of MartyrsOf about the size of a pantechnicon.Hence it is, my dear Pope,That we—er—Englishmen remain ProtestantAnd make the King swear fearful oathsAgainst popery and all its works,Although, for aught one knows to the contrary,He may have Mass said twice dailyBehind the curtain, as it were.All the same, I wish you good wishesAs to this your JubileeAndNihil obstat.
(Touching his Audience of the King)
My dear Mr. Chamberlain,Since you last heard from me,Many curious things have happened,Both in Birmingham and abroad.As to the happenings in Birmingham,Nobody cares tuppence for them.The happenings abroad, however, are a different matter,Inasmuch as they have brought you great fame,And cost us a lot of money.Your influence in the governance of this great country, my dear Mr. Chamberlain,Is undoubted.When you say things,It is understood that all your fellow-ministersSit up and look good."We don't like it," they say in their decent hearts;"But Joseph says it must be so, and be so it must."To the delicate souls of Arthur James,And George, and Broddy, and the rest of 'em,You must, my dear Mr. Chamberlain, be a good deal of a trial,But, somehow, they have to put up with you,Even as the honest martyr has to put up with his shirt;And, for my own part, I rather like to see it:At any rate, in a sort of way, don't you know.But, my dear Mr. Chamberlain,In the daily papers of Monday morning,What did I read? Why, I read:"Mr. Chamberlain had an audience of the KingYesterday afternoon."And yesterday afternoon was Sunday afternoon.Now, my dear Joseph, I do not mind in the leastWhat you do to Arthur James,Or what you do to George,Or what you do to Broddy,Or whether you do it on Sunday afternoons,Or on any other afternoon.But I really must draw the line somewhere,And I wish you to understandThat if you go to see His Majesty the KingOn Sunday afternoons(On the afternoon of the Sabbath, as they would say in Birmingham),You do so entirely without my approval.I think it is scandalous, and, not being a politician,I have no hesitation in saying what I think.Somehow, while I know you to be a competent man of business,You never figure in my mind's eye, Joseph,As the sort of man who ought to havePersonal communication with his Sovereign,Particularly on Sunday afternoons.Birmingham men were not born to grace the Court;And, when it comes to the furnishing of Pleasant Sunday Afternoons for Monarchs,In my opinion, they are quite out of it.When business presses,As it no doubt did press on Sunday, Joseph,It is your business, as a Birmingham man,To remember your origin,And, if you have anything on your mindWhich really must be communicatedTo His Gracious Majesty King Edward the Seventh,To look up the peerage and send round somebodyWho is, as one might say, fit for the job.There is always Salisbury,There is always Arthur James,There is always George,And there is always Broddy:These men, my dear Joseph, are gentlemen,And have known the Court all their lives.What they do on Sundays I neither know nor careBut I have no doubt that, if you told them to go round and see the King,They would go hotfoot and see him.So that you have no excuse, Joseph.Birmingham will, no doubt, forgive you this once:As for me, I solemnly swear that I never will.
(After Dunkirk)
My dear Tsar,—I am owing youThe usual apologies.I did not come to Dunkirk,I did not come to Dunkirk,I did not come to Dunkirk;I was billed as usual,But at the last momentI did not come.So that it was in vain, my dear Tsar,That you and your Imperial spouse(To whom I offer my very humble duty),It was in vainThat you and your Imperial spouse(To whom I again offer my very humble duty)Searched the poop ofLa MargueriteWith your Imperial binoculars;I was not there,I was not there,(O pregnant phrase!)I was not there;I was not on the poop,I was not on the poop,I was not on the poop,I was not even abaft the binnacle,In fine, I was not there at all.And why?Ah, ingrate that I am,Why? O why?The North Sea or German Ocean, my dear Tsar,No doubt hath its pearls,It also hath other things,As, for example, a Dover-Ostend route.I went on that routeOn Saturday last;It is a nice route,I give you my word for it;But the North Sea or German OceanAlso hasAn Ostend-Dover route,On which route I wentOn Sunday eveningAnd part of Monday morning last.Five hours, my dear Tsar,Had I of that Ostend-Dover route;And I am now at a place called ThameIn Oxfordshire,Recruiting—Though I promised a man at Bruges,And another man at Ypres,That I would infallibly see himAt Dunkirk.The Loubets are, of course,Bitterly disappointed,But you can explain for me,Can you not, my dear Tsar?You understand,Do you not?The North Sea or German OceanFatigued you,Did it not?That is precisely what it did to me.Fatigue is a good word.I thank thee, Tsar, for that beautiful word fatigue.All day Monday I felt so fatiguedThat I went and joined a Peace Society.The Boer war, my dear Tsar,Is entirely over,So far as I am concerned;Henceforth I quarrel with no man.Fatigue has laid its heavy hand upon me;I am too much fatigued to quarrel even with the partner of my joys and sorrows.Peace, perfect peace,Is what I require,And what I mean having.Time writes no wrinkles on the Ostend-Dover route.But you should see the people who have been that way.Thame, in Oxfordshire,Pitches beneath my feetWhen I think of it.
Dear Mr. Leno,It is now many happy weeksSince I had the pleasure of addressing you.On the last occasion, you will remember,You were fresh from Sandringham,With a medal and sundry excellent storiesAs to the manner in which you had been receivedBy His Majesty the KingAnd the Members of the Royal Family."To see them laugh," you told us, "was a treat."Since then you have gone aboutWith a diamond "E" in your cravat,And "The King's Jester" written all over youAs I have already stated,I do not doubt for a momentThat the King really did laughAt Mr. Leno.I have laughed at him(That is to say, at Mr. Leno) myself,And I know what it is;But to-day, Mr. Leno,To-day being the 1st of April,It is my turn to laugh,And I do so with a right good will,For to-day, Mr. Leno,Your cup appears to be full,Inasmuch as for this day onlyYou are actually editing a paper!Now when a man takes to editing papersAll is over with him:The next step isInto the unutterable dark.I have read your paper, Mr. Leno,And I find that on the wholeIt has been remarkably well edited:That is to say, you as EditorAnd your big co-editor,Mr. Campbell of that ilk,Have had the good senseTo edit the paperIn the only way in which an editorShould edit a paper,Namely, by leaving it to itselfAs much as possible.If all editors would have the senseTo take this wise course,Contributors and subordinates, generally,Would, to say the least of it,Have a fairly happy life.It seems in a way a pity, Mr. Leno,That you should waste yourselfUpon an evening paper,When there are so many morning papersRequiring Editors:TheDaily Chronicle, for example,Would have offered you a fair fieldFor the exercise of your extraordinary abilities;Even theTimesmight, for once in a way,Have added lustre to itselfBy taking onYour joyous and winning lucubrations;Then there isPunch,Which journal, I understand,Is always (and still) on the look-outFor that humourWhich somehow never comes its way.But there, Mr. Leno,You have missed your chance,And possibly it will not come round again.As you are young in journalism,Let me say three things to you:Imprimis, never be an Editor,It is better to be in the ballet;Item, always be on either a morning paper or a weekly.The all-day papers keep one too busy.Item, if you are an editor only for a day,Be sure to subscribe to the Newspaper Press Fund;Otherwise, what will your widow do?
My dear Poet Laureate,—Do not, I implore you,Be perturbed.It is not my purpose to harpUpon old strings,Or to express the smallest satisfactionEither with you as an official personageOr with your verses as a production of an official personage;I have called to-day, as it were,For a little quiet talk:You are a fellow-townsman of mine,ConsequentlyI am a fellow-townsman of yours;We ought to get on well together.Between ourselves, my dear Poet Laureate,It seems to meThat if you were to set about itIn the right wayYou might, with very little troubleRender a real service to the StateBeing as you areThe only writer fellowWho in his literary capacityIs associated with the Court,You have, if I may say so, chances and opportunitiesSuch as do not appear to have been vouchsafedTo any other contemporary worker in the department of Letters.Our Gracious Sovereign Lord King Edward VII.(I make no doubt)Continually consults you on matters literary"Dear Mr. Austen" (I can hear him saying),"Would you now advise me to readMr. Newverse's SonnetsAnd Miss Jumpabouti's new novel,Or would you not?"Of course, my dear Poet Laureate,If you were one of those stiff ungenerous Poets LaureateWho make it a rule to stick to business,You would say very respectfully,"Your Majesty honours me,But I am not your Majesty's Book-Taster,Being, as your Majesty is aware,Paid only to wangle my harpIn celebration of Births, Deaths, and Marriages.Therefore I must respectfully, civilly, humbly, and generally otherwiselyBeg to decline to answer your Majesty's kind inquiry."But my dear Poet Laureate,There is nothing of that sort about you.You believe that a Poet Laureate,Should not only be a sort of walking rhyming dictionary,But also a general compendium of advice, counsel, and straight tipsFor crowned heads.Hence (I make no doubt)That when his Majesty the KingDoesask you for a hint as to the kind of book he ought to readYou break the marble box of your wisdomUpon the palace floorAnd expound things to him.Having thus the earOf an exceedingly amiable and capable Monarch,You should by all meansTake advantage of the circumstanceTo do what you can in that quarterFor the benefit of your brethren and sisters of the pen.Many of them, my dear Poet Laureate,Are at the present momentGoing about the countryWith weary souls and tattered nervesBecause their Services to LiteratureHave not been blessed and approved,Not to say "recognised,"By the Crown.Some of them believe in their heartsThat they ought to have a peerage.Others desire to be Baronets, Knights, and so forth,In order that their wives may be called "Lady."Others, whom I know,Would be well content with a humble K.C.B.And yet othersWould go off their heads with joyIf they might only be invited regularlyTo the King's Levees and Droring Rooms.My dear Poet Laureate,I charge you to do your best for these suffering people.WRITING IS A NOBLE ART,IT SHOULD MOST CERTAINLY BE RECOGNISED BY THE CROWN.Rub these facts well in, my dear Poet Laureate(You know who to rub 'em into);And while you are about it,There are two personsOn whose behalfYou might use every legitimate endeavourTo rub your hardest—One of them, my dear Poet Laureate, is YOURSELFAnd the other isMYSELF.Your own desires in the way of "recognition"Are of course your own affair,Ask for what you like, my dear Poet Laureate,And see that you get it,For me(Let me whisper)I want a pension.
Dear Sir or Madam(As the case may be),—Peace hath her victories as well as warAnd sometimesWhen I have occasion to travelIn this muggy metropolis of ours,I begin to wonder whether I really am in London,Or in New York.On the tops of Atlas 'buses, and all other 'buses,At the dining-tables of hotels at all prices,At all theatres,At all music-halls,At all art galleries,At all "evenings,"At all social functionsMetropolitan in their natureYou, my dear Sir or Madam(As the case may be),Flourish and are to the fore,There are people in the worldWho can pick you out at a glance.The American woman, I am told,Wears a certain kind of complexionAnd a certain kind of blouse;The American man, I am told,Is weedy and anæmic,A cigarette smoker,A confirmed spitter,And a moderate drinker;He has a soft hat and unlimited dollars:It is his dollars, of course,Which are creating all the trouble.They are beginning to circulateAnd "geta-holt"Wherever honest Britons most do congregate.My tobacco merchant,Who sells me two ounces of the real thing every week,Has just been bought up by an American syndicate;My barber is in the same case;And I feel sureThat the woman who brings home "the laundry"Is seriously considering proposals which have been made to herBy a syndicate of wealthy American gentlemen.The electric-lighting plant in St. Paul's CathedralWas, it seems, paid for by an American.Another American is doing something or otherWith the underground railways,And a third proposes to erect a buildingWhich will contain 6,000 roomsOn one of the best sitesOn the new Holborn-Strand improvement.Also I am usingAn American roll-top desk,An American typewriter,An American chair,American ink,American pens,American blotting paper,American gum,American paper fasteners,American notions,An American pattern of Ode,And Heaven knows what besides.I am all American.I can whistle the "Star-Spangled Banner,"I can, really!Shake!I like you,There are no flies on you.How are Mr. Roosevelt and all at home?Is Pierpont keeping hearty?Do you miss Carnegie—much?Have you seen the Amur'can eagle at the Zoo?Is Monroe's docterin'Good for dyspepsia?And it's O to be at homeOn the rolling perarie,With one's money well invested in English concerns,Run by British labour,And paying good old, fruity, nourishing British dividends!
My dear Muddied Oaf,—While still a youth and all unknown to fame,I went to school.And on a certain SaturdayI put on a beautiful blue jersey, and some striped knickers,And betook myself into a damp fieldWith my hands nice and clean,And my hair parted.Within an hour's timeMy shins had the appearance of a broken paint can,My garments were covered with mud,One of my teeth had somehow got swallowed,And my hair was out of joint.When I come to think of it,In that hour I must have been a Muddied Oaf,Though I did not know what to call myself.And no doubt on that and successive Saturday afternoonsI won my various journalistic Waterloos,And contracted a stubborn cardiac hypertrophyWhich is even yet with me.For nigh twenty years, however,I have never, to my knowledge,Taken part in a football match;And, in spite of Mr. Kipling,I do not propose to indulge againIn either Rugby or the other thing.Youth loves to be muddied;In old age one flings one's mud at other people.I don't know, my dear Muddied Oaf,How you like being called a Muddied Oaf.The average Muddied Oaf of my acquaintanceWill not in the least understandWhat Muddied Oaf means,And even when a dozen reportersHave explained it to him, dictionary in hand,He will not care.You cannot take the glory of having crumpled up the Footleum Otspurs out of a manBy calling him Muddy;And as for Oaf,When all is saidIt is a poor synonym for "dashing forward."No, my dear boy,Phrases out of poems cannot damp your ardours.And, so far as you are concerned,Mr.RudyardKiplingMayBeBlowed!All the same, I assure youAs an old muddifierThat there is a great deal in what the gentleman says.To a delicate age,Rifle practice presents many attractions:To shoot out of a No. 1 rifleAt a choice array of clay pipes, dancing globules, and cardboard rabbitsIs on the face of itA gentleman's job:You can do it with your hair parted:And providing you don't get betting drinksThat you will ring the bell every time,It doesn't cost much.Regular practiceAt the ordinary shooting boothsWill no doubt make a soldier and a gentleman of you,And teach you to fear no Boer in shining armour.These are points worth considering.Also, the game does not hurt.You need no lemon to help you through with it,You run no risk of dislocation, fracture, hypertrophy, gouged eye, or broken neck,You are on velvet all the time.And when it comes to calling names,You will have the honour and gloryOf being set down for a gallant and gilt-edgedDefender of your country,Ponder it, O Muddied One,And be wise.
My dear Sir,—In the whole roundOf animated natureI am acquaintedWith nothing or nobodyWho is, generally speaking,So gay, gaudy, and interestingAs yourself.From my youth upI have been taught to look upon a publisherAs a very great person indeed.When I was young and courted himHe it was drew from me(As morn from Memnon)Rivers of melody;The which, however,He took good careNot to glorify with his imprimatur.In those daysI looked upon publishing as a tradeAnd poetry as a profession.Recently I have become wise,And I feel in the heart of meThat publishing is a professionAnd poetry a trade.In spite of all that has been said to the contrary,BarabbasCertainly was not a publisher.I have not had time to look him up,But I feel quite sureThat he was not a professional man.Besides,If he was a publisher,Why did he not publish something?Echo and the Publishers' AssociationNo doubt answer"Why?"I sometimes think I should like to be a publisher myself.It must be rather niceTo know for a factHow many copiesMr. So-and-so, and Mr. So-and-so, and Mr. So-and-soReally do sell,And how many "A second large edition"And "Tenth impression"Really mean.It must be rather nice, also,To go off to Switzerland every year(With your wife)To attend the Publishers' Conference.It must be rather nice, too,To know of a suretyThat when an author is making moneySome publisher or otherIs making just as much,And not infrequently a trifle more,On the same work.We have learnt of lateGreatly to our disgustThat when a publisher dies richHe has made his money out of Apollinaris.This is hard on authors,Who, between ourselves,Are not by any means bad people,And invariably take a kindly interestIn their publishers' welfare.On the other hand,You must admit, sir,That a publisher seldom goes bankrupt,And does not as a rule sleepUnder his own counter.OnceI lent a publisher half a crown.He paid it back.The average author would have taken itAs money earned.So that, on the whole,I am inclined to like publishers,And to set them down in my tabletsForUseful persons.