'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n. The stick,The little stick he leapt at in the listsHas riven and cleft the bark, and raised a bulkOf crescent span, that spreads on every sideA thousand hues, all flushing into one.'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n. She came,The woman with her ash, and lo the wound!But we will make a bandage for the limb,And swathe it, heel to knee, with splints and wool,And embrocations for the hurts of man.'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n; he wailed;With our own ears we heard him, and we knewThere dwelt an iron nature in the grain!The splintering ash was cloven on his limb;His limb was battered to the cannon-bone.'
'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n. The stick,The little stick he leapt at in the listsHas riven and cleft the bark, and raised a bulkOf crescent span, that spreads on every sideA thousand hues, all flushing into one.
'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n. She came,The woman with her ash, and lo the wound!But we will make a bandage for the limb,And swathe it, heel to knee, with splints and wool,And embrocations for the hurts of man.
'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n; he wailed;With our own ears we heard him, and we knewThere dwelt an iron nature in the grain!The splintering ash was cloven on his limb;His limb was battered to the cannon-bone.'
So passed that stout but choleric knight away;And we, by certain wandering instincts led,Made for a small pavilion, where we foundViands and what not, and the thirsty flowerOf mountain knighthood gathered at the board.And entering, here we lingered, and discussedThe what not, and the viands, and in timeDrew to the tourney, giving each his views;—But mostly wondering what the coolies thoughtTo see these ladies of the Ruling Race,'Yoked in allexerciseof noble end,'And Public Exhibition. Was it wise?Some questioned; others, was it quite the thing?And here indeed we left it, for the shadesDeepened, the high, swift-narrowing crest of dayBrake from the hills, and down the path we went,Well pleased, for it was guest-night at the Club.
So passed that stout but choleric knight away;And we, by certain wandering instincts led,Made for a small pavilion, where we foundViands and what not, and the thirsty flowerOf mountain knighthood gathered at the board.And entering, here we lingered, and discussedThe what not, and the viands, and in timeDrew to the tourney, giving each his views;—But mostly wondering what the coolies thoughtTo see these ladies of the Ruling Race,'Yoked in allexerciseof noble end,'And Public Exhibition. Was it wise?Some questioned; others, was it quite the thing?
And here indeed we left it, for the shadesDeepened, the high, swift-narrowing crest of dayBrake from the hills, and down the path we went,Well pleased, for it was guest-night at the Club.
'Farewell. What a subject! How sweetIt looks to the careless observer!So simple; so easy to treatWith tenderness, mark you, and fervour.Farewell. It's a poem; the songOf nightingales crying and calling!'O Reader, you're utterly wrong.It's not. It's appalling!And yet when she asked me to sendSome trifle of verse to remind herOf days that had come to an end,And one she was leaving behind her,It looked, as we stood on the shore,A theme so entirely delightsomeThat I, like a lunatic, swore(Quite calmly) to write some.I've toiled with unwavering pluck;I've struggled if ever a man did;Infringed every postulate, stuckAt nothing,—nay, once, to be candid,I shifted the cadence—designedA fresh but unauthorisedfare-well;'Twas plausible, too, but I findThe thing doesn't wear well.I know that it shouldn't be hard;That dozens, who claim to be poets,Could scribble off stuff by the yardAnd fare very well; and I know it'sA theme that the Masters of RhymeHave written some excellent verse on,Which proves, as I take it, that I'mNot that sort of person.But that we can leave. It remainsTo state that my present appearanceIs something too awful, my brainsAre tending to wild incoherence;My mental condition's absurd;My thoughts are at sixes and sevens,Inextrica—lord! what a word!Inextri—good heavens!My dear, you can do what you like,—Forgive, or despise, or abuse me—But frankly, I'm going on strike,And really you'll have to excuse me.Indeed it's my only resource,For, sure as I stuck to my promise, I'dBe booked in a week for a courseOf sui-cum-homicide.
'Farewell. What a subject! How sweetIt looks to the careless observer!So simple; so easy to treatWith tenderness, mark you, and fervour.Farewell. It's a poem; the songOf nightingales crying and calling!'O Reader, you're utterly wrong.It's not. It's appalling!
And yet when she asked me to sendSome trifle of verse to remind herOf days that had come to an end,And one she was leaving behind her,It looked, as we stood on the shore,A theme so entirely delightsomeThat I, like a lunatic, swore(Quite calmly) to write some.
I've toiled with unwavering pluck;I've struggled if ever a man did;Infringed every postulate, stuckAt nothing,—nay, once, to be candid,I shifted the cadence—designedA fresh but unauthorisedfare-well;'Twas plausible, too, but I findThe thing doesn't wear well.
I know that it shouldn't be hard;That dozens, who claim to be poets,Could scribble off stuff by the yardAnd fare very well; and I know it'sA theme that the Masters of RhymeHave written some excellent verse on,Which proves, as I take it, that I'mNot that sort of person.
But that we can leave. It remainsTo state that my present appearanceIs something too awful, my brainsAre tending to wild incoherence;My mental condition's absurd;My thoughts are at sixes and sevens,Inextrica—lord! what a word!Inextri—good heavens!
My dear, you can do what you like,—Forgive, or despise, or abuse me—But frankly, I'm going on strike,And really you'll have to excuse me.Indeed it's my only resource,For, sure as I stuck to my promise, I'dBe booked in a week for a courseOf sui-cum-homicide.
Friend, when the year is on the wing,'Tis held a fair and comely thingTo turn reflective glancesOver the days' forbidden Scroll,See if we're better on the whole,And average our chances.Yet 'tis an awful thing to dragEach separate deed from out the bagThat up till now has hidden 't,And bring before the shuddering viewAll that we swore we wouldn't do,Or should have done, but didn't.The broken code, the baffled lawsOur little private faults and flaws,And every naughty habit,Come whistling through the Waste of Life,Until one longs to take a knife,Feel for his heart, and stab it.Unchanged, exultant, one and allRise up spontaneous to the call,And bring their stings behind them;But when the search is duly pliedFor items on the credit side,One has a job to find them!I know notwhythey change. I know—None better—how one's feelings growDistinctly kin to mutiny,To see one's assets limping in,All too preposterously thinTo stand a moment's scrutiny.I know that shock must follow shock,Until the sole remaining RockThat all one's hopes exist on,Crumbles beneath the crushing forceOf Conscience, kicking like a horse,And pounding like a piston.Hardly a little year has pastSince you, I take it, swore to castAside the bonds that girt you,And thought to stun the dazzled earth,A pillared Miracle of Worth,Raised on a plinth of Virtue.One always does. One wonders why.One knows that, as the years go by,One finds the same old blunders,The same old acts, the same old words;And as one trots them out in herds,Or one by one, one wonders;
Friend, when the year is on the wing,'Tis held a fair and comely thingTo turn reflective glancesOver the days' forbidden Scroll,See if we're better on the whole,And average our chances.
Yet 'tis an awful thing to dragEach separate deed from out the bagThat up till now has hidden 't,And bring before the shuddering viewAll that we swore we wouldn't do,Or should have done, but didn't.
The broken code, the baffled lawsOur little private faults and flaws,And every naughty habit,Come whistling through the Waste of Life,Until one longs to take a knife,Feel for his heart, and stab it.
Unchanged, exultant, one and allRise up spontaneous to the call,And bring their stings behind them;But when the search is duly pliedFor items on the credit side,One has a job to find them!
I know notwhythey change. I know—None better—how one's feelings growDistinctly kin to mutiny,To see one's assets limping in,All too preposterously thinTo stand a moment's scrutiny.
I know that shock must follow shock,Until the sole remaining RockThat all one's hopes exist on,Crumbles beneath the crushing forceOf Conscience, kicking like a horse,And pounding like a piston.
Hardly a little year has pastSince you, I take it, swore to castAside the bonds that girt you,And thought to stun the dazzled earth,A pillared Miracle of Worth,Raised on a plinth of Virtue.
One always does. One wonders why.One knows that, as the years go by,One finds the same old blunders,The same old acts, the same old words;And as one trots them out in herds,Or one by one, one wonders;
Another year,—a touch of grey,—A little stiffness,—day by dayWe feel the need of, shall we say,Goggles to face the sun with,—A little loss of youthful bloom,—A little nearer to the Tomb!(Pardon this momentary gloom)Bang go the bells.That'sdone with!
Another year,—a touch of grey,—A little stiffness,—day by dayWe feel the need of, shall we say,Goggles to face the sun with,—A little loss of youthful bloom,—A little nearer to the Tomb!(Pardon this momentary gloom)Bang go the bells.That'sdone with!
After A. C. S.
In Spring there are lashings of new books,In Autumn fresh novels are sold,They are many, but my shelf has few books,My comrades, the favourites of old;Tho' the roll of the cata-logues vary,Thou alone art unchangeably dear,O bibulous, beautiful Sairey,Our Lady of Cheer.By the whites of thine eyes that were yellow,By the folds of thy duplicate chin,By thy voice that was husky but mellowWith gin, with the richness of gin,By thy scorn of the boy that was Bragian,By thy wealth of perambulate swoons,O matchless and mystical Magian,Beguile us with boons.For thou scatterest the evil before usWith grave humours and exquisite speech,Till we heed not the 'new men thatboreus,'Nor regard the new women that screech;We are weak, but thy hand shall refresh us;We are faint, but we know thee sublime;More priceless than pills, and more preciousThan draughts that are slime.Thou hast lifted us forth from themelly,Thou hast told, with thick heavings of pride,Of the Package in Jonadge's belly,And the Camel that rich folks may ride;From the mire and the murk of a stern AgeIn the Font of St. Polge we are clean,O Gold as has passed through the Furnage,Our Lady and Queen.
In Spring there are lashings of new books,In Autumn fresh novels are sold,They are many, but my shelf has few books,My comrades, the favourites of old;Tho' the roll of the cata-logues vary,Thou alone art unchangeably dear,O bibulous, beautiful Sairey,Our Lady of Cheer.
By the whites of thine eyes that were yellow,By the folds of thy duplicate chin,By thy voice that was husky but mellowWith gin, with the richness of gin,By thy scorn of the boy that was Bragian,By thy wealth of perambulate swoons,O matchless and mystical Magian,Beguile us with boons.
For thou scatterest the evil before usWith grave humours and exquisite speech,Till we heed not the 'new men thatboreus,'Nor regard the new women that screech;We are weak, but thy hand shall refresh us;We are faint, but we know thee sublime;More priceless than pills, and more preciousThan draughts that are slime.
Thou hast lifted us forth from themelly,Thou hast told, with thick heavings of pride,Of the Package in Jonadge's belly,And the Camel that rich folks may ride;From the mire and the murk of a stern AgeIn the Font of St. Polge we are clean,O Gold as has passed through the Furnage,Our Lady and Queen.
In thy chamber where Holborn is highest,At the banquet, ere night had begun,Thou wert seated with her that was nighestThy heart, save the Only, the One;For the hours of thy labour were ended,And the spirit of peace was within,And the fumes from the teapot ascendedOf unsweetened gin.Dost thou dream in dim dusk when light lingers,Of Betsy, the bage, the despiged,Who with snap of imperious fingersHariçina, thy figment, deniged?Dost thou gasp at the shock of the blow sichAs she, in her tantrum, let fall,Who 'didn't believe there was no sichA person' at all?Fear not! Though the torters be frightful,Though the words that thou took'st unawaresBe as serpiants that twine and are spiteful,O thou best of good creeturs, who cares?For the curse hath recoiled, and the stigmaThou hast turned to her sorrer and shame,While thy cryptic and sombre EnigmaIs shrined in a Name.
In thy chamber where Holborn is highest,At the banquet, ere night had begun,Thou wert seated with her that was nighestThy heart, save the Only, the One;For the hours of thy labour were ended,And the spirit of peace was within,And the fumes from the teapot ascendedOf unsweetened gin.
Dost thou dream in dim dusk when light lingers,Of Betsy, the bage, the despiged,Who with snap of imperious fingersHariçina, thy figment, deniged?Dost thou gasp at the shock of the blow sichAs she, in her tantrum, let fall,Who 'didn't believe there was no sichA person' at all?
Fear not! Though the torters be frightful,Though the words that thou took'st unawaresBe as serpiants that twine and are spiteful,O thou best of good creeturs, who cares?For the curse hath recoiled, and the stigmaThou hast turned to her sorrer and shame,While thy cryptic and sombre EnigmaIs shrined in a Name.
And our wine shall not lack for thy throttle,Nor at night shall our portals be cloged,And thy lips thou shalt place to the bottleOn our chimley, when so thou'rt dispoged;We have pickled 'intensely' our salmon;To thy moods are great cowcumbers dressed,O Daughter of Gumption and Gammon,Our Mistress and Guest!And in hours when our lamp-ile has dwindledIn deep walleys of uttermost pain,When our hopes to grey ashes are kindled,We are fain of thee still, we are fain;In this Piljian's Projiss of Woe, inThis Wale of white shadders and damp,O Roge all a-blowin' and growin',We open our Gamp!
And our wine shall not lack for thy throttle,Nor at night shall our portals be cloged,And thy lips thou shalt place to the bottleOn our chimley, when so thou'rt dispoged;We have pickled 'intensely' our salmon;To thy moods are great cowcumbers dressed,O Daughter of Gumption and Gammon,Our Mistress and Guest!
And in hours when our lamp-ile has dwindledIn deep walleys of uttermost pain,When our hopes to grey ashes are kindled,We are fain of thee still, we are fain;In this Piljian's Projiss of Woe, inThis Wale of white shadders and damp,O Roge all a-blowin' and growin',We open our Gamp!
After W. W.
An adventure of the Author's, and one designed to show that grievances may be met with in the cottages of the humblest, and may take the most unexpected forms.
An adventure of the Author's, and one designed to show that grievances may be met with in the cottages of the humblest, and may take the most unexpected forms.
When in my white-washed walls confinedTill eve her freedom brings,I often turn a musing mindTo think awhile of things,And thus about the noontide glowTo-day my thoughts recalledOld Adam, whom I once did know,A dear old thing, though bald.A village Gravedigger was heWith Newgate fringe of grey,The only man that one could seeAt work on Saturday!For on those evenings (which provideA due release to toil)He shovelled wearily, and pliedHis task upon the soil.Therein a sorrow Adam had,And when he knew me wellHe told this tale, and made me sad,Which now to you I tell.For once my feet did chance to strayAcross the old churchyard,And Adam sighed, and paused to say'It's werry, werry hard.'I marvelled much to hear him sigh,And when he paused again,'Come, come, you quaint old thing,' said I,'Why thus this tone of pain?'In silence Adam rose, and gainedA seat amid the stones,And thus the veteran complained,The dear old bag of bones.'Down by the wall the Village goes,How horrid sounds their glee,On Saturdays they early close,They have their Sundays free;'And here, on this depressing spot,I cannot choose but moanThat I, a labouring man, have notAn hour to call my own.'The Blacksmith in his Sunday things,The Clerk that leaves his till,Can give their thoughts of labour wings,And frolic as they will.'To me they—drat 'em!—never giveA thought; they wander by,An irritation while they live,A nuisance when they die.'If there be one that needs lamentThe way these folks behave,'Tis he whose holidays are spentIn digging someone's grave,'For when a person takes and dies,On Monday though it be,Theyneverhold his obsequiesTill Sunday after three.'And thus it fares through their delay,That I may not beginTo dig the grave till Saturday,—On Sunday fill it in.'My Sabbath ease is broken through,My Saturdays destroyed;Many employ me;very fewHave left me unemployed!'Again did Adam murmur 'Drat!'And smote the old-churchyard,And said, as on his hands he spat,'It's werry, werry hard!'And as I rose, the path to takeThat led me home again,My head was in my wideawake,His words were in my brain.
When in my white-washed walls confinedTill eve her freedom brings,I often turn a musing mindTo think awhile of things,
And thus about the noontide glowTo-day my thoughts recalledOld Adam, whom I once did know,A dear old thing, though bald.
A village Gravedigger was heWith Newgate fringe of grey,The only man that one could seeAt work on Saturday!
For on those evenings (which provideA due release to toil)He shovelled wearily, and pliedHis task upon the soil.
Therein a sorrow Adam had,And when he knew me wellHe told this tale, and made me sad,Which now to you I tell.
For once my feet did chance to strayAcross the old churchyard,And Adam sighed, and paused to say'It's werry, werry hard.'
I marvelled much to hear him sigh,And when he paused again,'Come, come, you quaint old thing,' said I,'Why thus this tone of pain?'
In silence Adam rose, and gainedA seat amid the stones,And thus the veteran complained,The dear old bag of bones.
'Down by the wall the Village goes,How horrid sounds their glee,On Saturdays they early close,They have their Sundays free;
'And here, on this depressing spot,I cannot choose but moanThat I, a labouring man, have notAn hour to call my own.
'The Blacksmith in his Sunday things,The Clerk that leaves his till,Can give their thoughts of labour wings,And frolic as they will.
'To me they—drat 'em!—never giveA thought; they wander by,An irritation while they live,A nuisance when they die.
'If there be one that needs lamentThe way these folks behave,'Tis he whose holidays are spentIn digging someone's grave,
'For when a person takes and dies,On Monday though it be,Theyneverhold his obsequiesTill Sunday after three.
'And thus it fares through their delay,That I may not beginTo dig the grave till Saturday,—On Sunday fill it in.
'My Sabbath ease is broken through,My Saturdays destroyed;Many employ me;very fewHave left me unemployed!'
Again did Adam murmur 'Drat!'And smote the old-churchyard,And said, as on his hands he spat,'It's werry, werry hard!'
And as I rose, the path to takeThat led me home again,My head was in my wideawake,His words were in my brain.
Come, let us weep for Begum; he is dead.Dead; and afar, where Thamis' waters laveThe busy marge, he lies unvisited,Unsung; above no cypress branches wave,Nor tributary blossoms fringe his grave;Only would these poor numbers advertiseHis copious charms, and mourn for his demise.Blithesome was he and beautiful; the ZooHath nought to match with Begum. He was oneOf infinite humour; well indeed he knewTo catch with mobile lips th' impetuous bunTossed him-ward by some sire-encouraged son,Half-fearful, yet of pride fulfilled to noteThe dough, swift-homing down th' exultant throat.Whilom he pensive stood, infoliateOf comfortable mud, and idly stirredHis tiny caudal, disproportionateBut not ungraceful, while a wanton herdOf revellers the mystic lens preferred;Whereof the focus rightly they addrest;And, Phœbus being kind, the button prest.Then, being frolic, he, as one distraught,Would blindly, stumbling, seek the watery vergeAnd sink, nor rise again. But when, untaughtIn craft, the mourners raised the untimely dirge,Lo! otherwhere himself would swift emergeIncontinent, and crisp his tasselled ears;And, all vivacious, own the sounding cheers.Nothing of dark suspicion nor of guileWas limned on Begum; his the mirthful glance,The genial port, the comprehensive smile:—The very sunbeams shimmering loved to danceWithin that honest, open countenance;—And far as eye could pierce, his roomy grinWas pink, as 'twere Aurora dwelt therein.Yet he is dead! Whether the froward catesSome lawless lodgment found, nor coughs released:Or if adown those hospitable gatesDrave the strong North, or shrilled the ravening East,And, ill-requiting, slew the wretched beast,We nothing know; only the news is cried,Begum is dead: we know not how he died.Still, though the callous bards neglect to hymnThy praises, Begum; though, on dross intent,The hireling sculptor pauseth not to limnThy spacious visage, kindly hands are bentE'en now to stuff thy frail integument.Then sleep in peace, Belovèd; blest SultânOf some Rhinokeraunian Devachân.
Come, let us weep for Begum; he is dead.Dead; and afar, where Thamis' waters laveThe busy marge, he lies unvisited,Unsung; above no cypress branches wave,Nor tributary blossoms fringe his grave;Only would these poor numbers advertiseHis copious charms, and mourn for his demise.
Blithesome was he and beautiful; the ZooHath nought to match with Begum. He was oneOf infinite humour; well indeed he knewTo catch with mobile lips th' impetuous bunTossed him-ward by some sire-encouraged son,Half-fearful, yet of pride fulfilled to noteThe dough, swift-homing down th' exultant throat.
Whilom he pensive stood, infoliateOf comfortable mud, and idly stirredHis tiny caudal, disproportionateBut not ungraceful, while a wanton herdOf revellers the mystic lens preferred;Whereof the focus rightly they addrest;And, Phœbus being kind, the button prest.
Then, being frolic, he, as one distraught,Would blindly, stumbling, seek the watery vergeAnd sink, nor rise again. But when, untaughtIn craft, the mourners raised the untimely dirge,Lo! otherwhere himself would swift emergeIncontinent, and crisp his tasselled ears;And, all vivacious, own the sounding cheers.
Nothing of dark suspicion nor of guileWas limned on Begum; his the mirthful glance,The genial port, the comprehensive smile:—The very sunbeams shimmering loved to danceWithin that honest, open countenance;—And far as eye could pierce, his roomy grinWas pink, as 'twere Aurora dwelt therein.
Yet he is dead! Whether the froward catesSome lawless lodgment found, nor coughs released:Or if adown those hospitable gatesDrave the strong North, or shrilled the ravening East,And, ill-requiting, slew the wretched beast,We nothing know; only the news is cried,Begum is dead: we know not how he died.
Still, though the callous bards neglect to hymnThy praises, Begum; though, on dross intent,The hireling sculptor pauseth not to limnThy spacious visage, kindly hands are bentE'en now to stuff thy frail integument.Then sleep in peace, Belovèd; blest SultânOf some Rhinokeraunian Devachân.
We hear the opening refrain,Marie!We thought so; here you are again,Marie!A simple tune, in simple thirds,Beloved of after-dinner birds;A legend, self-condemned as 'words,'Marie!She lingers by the flowing tide,Marie;A 'fisher-lad' is close besideMarie;He gazes in her 'eyes so blue';Marie, Marie, my heart is true;And then,—you do, you know you do,Marie!—But vain is every mortal wish,Marie;And 'fisher-lads' have got to fish,Marie;O blinding tears! O cheeks 'so' wet!Marie, I come again!And yetI shouldn't feel disposed to bet,Marie!A tempest drives across the wave,Marie;With triplets in the treble stave,Marie;The player pounds. With bulging eyesTh' excited vocalist replies;The maddened octaves drown his cries,Marie!The storm is past. We hear again,Marie,The simple thirds, the waltz refrain,Marie;We only see some drifting wrack,An empty bunk, a battered smack,Alas! Alas!! Alack!!! Alack!!!!Marie!O good old words, O 'tears that rise,'Marie!O good young fisher-lad that dies,Marie!We leave you on the lonely shore;—You wave your hands for evermore,A bleak, disgusted semaphore,Marie!
We hear the opening refrain,Marie!We thought so; here you are again,Marie!A simple tune, in simple thirds,Beloved of after-dinner birds;A legend, self-condemned as 'words,'Marie!
She lingers by the flowing tide,Marie;A 'fisher-lad' is close besideMarie;He gazes in her 'eyes so blue';Marie, Marie, my heart is true;And then,—you do, you know you do,Marie!—
But vain is every mortal wish,Marie;And 'fisher-lads' have got to fish,Marie;O blinding tears! O cheeks 'so' wet!Marie, I come again!And yetI shouldn't feel disposed to bet,Marie!
A tempest drives across the wave,Marie;With triplets in the treble stave,Marie;The player pounds. With bulging eyesTh' excited vocalist replies;The maddened octaves drown his cries,Marie!
The storm is past. We hear again,Marie,The simple thirds, the waltz refrain,Marie;We only see some drifting wrack,An empty bunk, a battered smack,Alas! Alas!! Alack!!! Alack!!!!Marie!
O good old words, O 'tears that rise,'Marie!O good young fisher-lad that dies,Marie!We leave you on the lonely shore;—You wave your hands for evermore,A bleak, disgusted semaphore,Marie!
Why do you sit in the churchyard weeping?Why do you cling to the dear old graves,When the dim, drear mists of the dusk are creepingOut of the marshes in wan, white waves?Darling, I know you're a slave to sorrow;Dearie, Iknowthat the world is cruel;Butyou'llbe in bed with a cold to-morrow,Ishall be running upstairs with gruel.Why do you weep on a tombstone, Mammy,Sobbing alone in the drizzling sleet,When the chill mists rise, and the wind strikes clammy?Think of your bones, and your poor old feet!Darling, I know that you feel lugubrious;Dearie, Iknowyou must work this off;But graveyards are not, as a rule, salubrious,Whence the expression, a 'churchyard cough.'
Why do you sit in the churchyard weeping?Why do you cling to the dear old graves,When the dim, drear mists of the dusk are creepingOut of the marshes in wan, white waves?Darling, I know you're a slave to sorrow;Dearie, Iknowthat the world is cruel;Butyou'llbe in bed with a cold to-morrow,Ishall be running upstairs with gruel.
Why do you weep on a tombstone, Mammy,Sobbing alone in the drizzling sleet,When the chill mists rise, and the wind strikes clammy?Think of your bones, and your poor old feet!Darling, I know that you feel lugubrious;Dearie, Iknowyou must work this off;But graveyards are not, as a rule, salubrious,Whence the expression, a 'churchyard cough.'
[The Old Lady explains her eccentric behaviour.]
Why do I ululate, dear my dearie,Coiled on a nastily mildewed tomb,When the horned owl hoots, and the world is weary,Weary of sorrow, and swamped in gloom?Childie my child, 'tis a cogent question;Dearie my dear, if you wish to know,Tis not that I suffer from indigestion,But that the Public ordains it so.Babies, and Aunties, and dying brothers,Boom for a season, as 'loves' may part;But the old shop-ballad of Morbid MothersDives to the depths of the Public's heart.Dearie, with booms, at the best, precarious,All but the permanent needs must fail;And Childie, if Mammy became hilarious,Mammy would never command a sale.
Why do I ululate, dear my dearie,Coiled on a nastily mildewed tomb,When the horned owl hoots, and the world is weary,Weary of sorrow, and swamped in gloom?Childie my child, 'tis a cogent question;Dearie my dear, if you wish to know,Tis not that I suffer from indigestion,But that the Public ordains it so.
Babies, and Aunties, and dying brothers,Boom for a season, as 'loves' may part;But the old shop-ballad of Morbid MothersDives to the depths of the Public's heart.Dearie, with booms, at the best, precarious,All but the permanent needs must fail;And Childie, if Mammy became hilarious,Mammy would never command a sale.
Once for a tight little Island, fonder of ha'pence than kicks,Rud., a maker of verses, sang of an Empire of Bricks,Sang of the Sons of that Empire—told them they came of the Blood—Rubbing it under their noses.Read ye the Story of Rud!Pleased was the Public to hear it—rose in their hundreds to sing—Swallowed it, chewed it, and gurgled: 'Verily, this is the thing!Thus do we wallop our foemen—roll 'em away in the mud—This is the People thatweare. Glory and laurels for Rud.!'Later he pictured a Panic—later he pictured a Scare,Pictured the burning of coast towns—skies in a reddening glare—Pictured the Mafficking Million—collared, abortive, alone—Out of the duty he owed them, pictured them down to the bone.Sick was the Public to read it—passed it along to 'the Sports'—'Fools in the full-flannelled breeches, oafs in the muddy-patched shorts'—Loafers and talkers and writers, furtively whispering low—'Saythat it's like 'em—itmaybe—nobody ever need know.'Rud.,—would he drive us to Barracks—make of us militant hordes—Broke to the spit of the pom-pom—trained to the flashing of swords?—Pooh! It isthesethat he goes for—Sport is the bubble he pricks—Doubt not butweare The People—Bricks of an Empire of Bricks!'What of that maker of verses? Did he not answer the call:'Loafers and talkers and writers, children or knaves are ye all;Look at the lines ere ye quote them: read, ere ye cackle as geese!'?Nay. But he passed from The People—left them to stew in their grease.
Once for a tight little Island, fonder of ha'pence than kicks,Rud., a maker of verses, sang of an Empire of Bricks,Sang of the Sons of that Empire—told them they came of the Blood—Rubbing it under their noses.Read ye the Story of Rud!
Pleased was the Public to hear it—rose in their hundreds to sing—Swallowed it, chewed it, and gurgled: 'Verily, this is the thing!Thus do we wallop our foemen—roll 'em away in the mud—This is the People thatweare. Glory and laurels for Rud.!'
Later he pictured a Panic—later he pictured a Scare,Pictured the burning of coast towns—skies in a reddening glare—Pictured the Mafficking Million—collared, abortive, alone—Out of the duty he owed them, pictured them down to the bone.
Sick was the Public to read it—passed it along to 'the Sports'—'Fools in the full-flannelled breeches, oafs in the muddy-patched shorts'—Loafers and talkers and writers, furtively whispering low—'Saythat it's like 'em—itmaybe—nobody ever need know.
'Rud.,—would he drive us to Barracks—make of us militant hordes—Broke to the spit of the pom-pom—trained to the flashing of swords?—Pooh! It isthesethat he goes for—Sport is the bubble he pricks—Doubt not butweare The People—Bricks of an Empire of Bricks!'
What of that maker of verses? Did he not answer the call:'Loafers and talkers and writers, children or knaves are ye all;Look at the lines ere ye quote them: read, ere ye cackle as geese!'?Nay. But he passed from The People—left them to stew in their grease.
But a hyphen-ish growl makes answer: 'Ye that would take from the wholeThe one line robbed of the context, nor win to the straight-set Goal,Is it thus ye will fend the warning—thus ye will move the shameFrom the Mob that watch by the thousand, to the dozens that play the game?Still will ye pay at the turnstile—thronging the rope-ringed Match,Where the half-back fumbles the leather, or the deep-field butters the catch?Will ye thank your gods (being 'umble) that the fool and the oaf are foundIn the field, at the goal or the wicket, andnotin the seats around?Notin the Saturday Squallers—men of a higher grade—That lay down a law they know not, of a game that they have not played?Holding the folly of flannel, still will ye teach the SchoolsThat Wisdom is dressed in shoddy, and how should the Wise be fools?Not doubting but ye are The People—ye are the Sons of The Blood?Loafers and talkers and writers,—Read ye the Verses of Rud.!'
But a hyphen-ish growl makes answer: 'Ye that would take from the wholeThe one line robbed of the context, nor win to the straight-set Goal,Is it thus ye will fend the warning—thus ye will move the shameFrom the Mob that watch by the thousand, to the dozens that play the game?Still will ye pay at the turnstile—thronging the rope-ringed Match,Where the half-back fumbles the leather, or the deep-field butters the catch?Will ye thank your gods (being 'umble) that the fool and the oaf are foundIn the field, at the goal or the wicket, andnotin the seats around?Notin the Saturday Squallers—men of a higher grade—That lay down a law they know not, of a game that they have not played?Holding the folly of flannel, still will ye teach the SchoolsThat Wisdom is dressed in shoddy, and how should the Wise be fools?Not doubting but ye are The People—ye are the Sons of The Blood?Loafers and talkers and writers,—Read ye the Verses of Rud.!'
I am tired of the day with its profitless labours,And tired of the night with its lack of repose,I am sick of myself, my surroundings, and neighbours,Especially Aryan Brothers and crows;O land of illusory hope for the needy,O centre of soldiering, thirst, and shikar,When a broken-down exile begins to get seedy,What a beast of a country you are!There are many, I know, that have honestly drawn aMost moving description of pleasures to winBy the exquisite carnage of such of your faunaAs Nature provides with a 'head' or a 'skin';I know that a pig is magnificent sticking;But good as you are in the matter of sports,When a person's alive, so to put it, and kicking,You're a brute when a man's out of sorts.For the moment he feels the effects of the weather—A mild go of fever—a touch of the sun—He arrives with a jerk at the end of his tether,And finds your attractions a bit overdone;Impatiently conscious of boredom and worry,He sits in his misery, scowling at grief,With a face like a pallidrechaufféeof curry,And a head like a lump of boiled beef.I am sick of the day (as I happened to mention),And sick of the night (as I stated before),And it's oh, for the wings of a dove or a pensionTo carry me home to a happier shore!And oh, to be off, homeward bound, on the briny,Away from the tropics—away from the heat,And to take off a shocking old hat to the Shiny,As I shake off her dust from my feet!
I am tired of the day with its profitless labours,And tired of the night with its lack of repose,I am sick of myself, my surroundings, and neighbours,Especially Aryan Brothers and crows;O land of illusory hope for the needy,O centre of soldiering, thirst, and shikar,When a broken-down exile begins to get seedy,What a beast of a country you are!
There are many, I know, that have honestly drawn aMost moving description of pleasures to winBy the exquisite carnage of such of your faunaAs Nature provides with a 'head' or a 'skin';I know that a pig is magnificent sticking;But good as you are in the matter of sports,When a person's alive, so to put it, and kicking,You're a brute when a man's out of sorts.
For the moment he feels the effects of the weather—A mild go of fever—a touch of the sun—He arrives with a jerk at the end of his tether,And finds your attractions a bit overdone;Impatiently conscious of boredom and worry,He sits in his misery, scowling at grief,With a face like a pallidrechaufféeof curry,And a head like a lump of boiled beef.
I am sick of the day (as I happened to mention),And sick of the night (as I stated before),And it's oh, for the wings of a dove or a pensionTo carry me home to a happier shore!And oh, to be off, homeward bound, on the briny,Away from the tropics—away from the heat,And to take off a shocking old hat to the Shiny,As I shake off her dust from my feet!
Away, away! The plains of IndHave set their victim free;I give my sorrows to the wind,My sun-hat to the sea;And, standing with a chosen few,I watch a dying glow,The passing of the Finest ViewThat all the world can show.It would not fire an artist's eye,This View whereof I sing;Poets, no doubt, would pass it byAs quite a common thing;The Tourist with belittling sniffWould find no beauties there—He couldn't if he would, and ifHe could he wouldn't care.Only for him that turns the backOn dark and evil daysIt throws a glory down his trackThat sets his heart ablaze;A charm to make the wounded whole,Which wearied eyes may drawLuxuriously through the soul,Like cocktails through a straw.I have seen strong men moved to tearsWhen gazing o'er the deep,Hard men, whom I have known for years,Nor dreamt that they could weep;Even myself, though stern and coldBeyond the common line,Cannot, for very joy, withholdThe tribute of my brine.Farewell, farewell, thou best of Views!I leave thee to thy pain,And, while I have the power to choose,We shall not meet again;But, 'mid the scenes of joy and mirth,My fancies oft will turnBack to the Finest Sight on Earth,The Bombay Lights—astern!
Away, away! The plains of IndHave set their victim free;I give my sorrows to the wind,My sun-hat to the sea;And, standing with a chosen few,I watch a dying glow,The passing of the Finest ViewThat all the world can show.
It would not fire an artist's eye,This View whereof I sing;Poets, no doubt, would pass it byAs quite a common thing;The Tourist with belittling sniffWould find no beauties there—He couldn't if he would, and ifHe could he wouldn't care.
Only for him that turns the backOn dark and evil daysIt throws a glory down his trackThat sets his heart ablaze;A charm to make the wounded whole,Which wearied eyes may drawLuxuriously through the soul,Like cocktails through a straw.
I have seen strong men moved to tearsWhen gazing o'er the deep,Hard men, whom I have known for years,Nor dreamt that they could weep;Even myself, though stern and coldBeyond the common line,Cannot, for very joy, withholdThe tribute of my brine.
Farewell, farewell, thou best of Views!I leave thee to thy pain,And, while I have the power to choose,We shall not meet again;But, 'mid the scenes of joy and mirth,My fancies oft will turnBack to the Finest Sight on Earth,The Bombay Lights—astern!
Here, in mine old-time harbourage installed,Lulled by the murmurous hum of London's trafficTo that full calm which may be justly calledSeraphic,I praise the gods; and vow, for my escapeFrom the hard grip of premature Jehannun,One golden-tissued bottle of the grapePer annum.For on this day, from Orient toils enlarged,Kneeling, I kissed the parent soil at Dover,Where a huge porter in his orbit chargedMe over;Flashed in the train by Shorncliffe's draughty camp;Gazed on the hurrying landscape's pastoral graces,Old farms, and happy fields (a trifle dampIn places);Passed the grim suburbs, indigent and bareOf natural foliage, but bravely flyingFrank garlandry of last week's underwearOut drying;And so to Town; and with that blessed sightI, a poor fevered wreck, forgot to shiver—Forgot to mourn the Burden of my WhiteMan's Liver;And felt my bosom heave, my breast expand,With thoughts too sweet, too deep for empty cackle,Such thoughts as nothing but a first-class BandCould tackle:Till, from its deeps, my celebrated smile(Which friends called Marvel) clove my jaws asunder,Lucid, intense, and all men stood awhileIn wonder!
Here, in mine old-time harbourage installed,Lulled by the murmurous hum of London's trafficTo that full calm which may be justly calledSeraphic,
I praise the gods; and vow, for my escapeFrom the hard grip of premature Jehannun,One golden-tissued bottle of the grapePer annum.
For on this day, from Orient toils enlarged,Kneeling, I kissed the parent soil at Dover,Where a huge porter in his orbit chargedMe over;
Flashed in the train by Shorncliffe's draughty camp;Gazed on the hurrying landscape's pastoral graces,Old farms, and happy fields (a trifle dampIn places);
Passed the grim suburbs, indigent and bareOf natural foliage, but bravely flyingFrank garlandry of last week's underwearOut drying;
And so to Town; and with that blessed sightI, a poor fevered wreck, forgot to shiver—Forgot to mourn the Burden of my WhiteMan's Liver;
And felt my bosom heave, my breast expand,With thoughts too sweet, too deep for empty cackle,Such thoughts as nothing but a first-class BandCould tackle:
Till, from its deeps, my celebrated smile(Which friends called Marvel) clove my jaws asunder,Lucid, intense, and all men stood awhileIn wonder!
Let none approach me now, for I have dined;The fire is bright; Havana's choice aromaInfects my being with a pleasant kindOf coma;Calmly I contemplate my future lot:I reconstruct the past—it fails to strike meWith aught of horror (pity there are notMore like me!)—My bosom's lord sits lightly on my breast;The East grows dim; and every hour I stuck to itImparts a richer brightness to the West,Good luck to it!
Let none approach me now, for I have dined;The fire is bright; Havana's choice aromaInfects my being with a pleasant kindOf coma;
Calmly I contemplate my future lot:I reconstruct the past—it fails to strike meWith aught of horror (pity there are notMore like me!)—
My bosom's lord sits lightly on my breast;The East grows dim; and every hour I stuck to itImparts a richer brightness to the West,Good luck to it!