Hang garlands on the bathroom door;Let all the passages be spruce;For, lo, the victim comes once more,And, ah, he struggles like the deuce!Bring soaps of many scented sorts;Let girls in pinafores attend,With John, their brother, in his shorts,To wash their dusky little friend.Their little friend, the dusky dog,Short-legged and very obstinate,Faced like a much-offended frog,And fighting hard against his fate.No Briton he! From palace-bornChinese patricians he descends;He keeps their high ancestral scorn;His spirit breaks, but never bends.Our water-ways he fain would'scape;He hates the customary bathThat thins his tail and spoils his shape,And turns him to a fur-clad lath;And, seeing that the PekineseHave lustrous eyes that bulge like buds,He fain would save such eyes as these,Their owner's pride, from British suds.Vain are his protests—in he goes.His young barbarians crowd around;They soap his paws, they soap his nose;They soap wherever fur is found.And soon, still laughing, they extractHis limpness from the darkling tide;They make the towel's roughness actOn back and head and dripping side.They shout and rub and rub and shout—He deprecates their odious glee—Until at last they turn him out,A damp gigantic bumble-bee.Released, he barks and rolls, and speedsFrom lawn to lawn, from path to path,And in one glorious minute needsMore soapsuds and another bath.
Our Peter, who's famed as an eater of things,Is a miniature dragon without any wings.He can gallop or trot, he can amble or jog,But he flies like a flash when he's after his prog;And the slaves who adore him, whatever his mood,Say that nothing is fleeterThan Peter the eater,Than Peter pursuing his food.He considers the garden his absolute own:It's the place where a digger can bury a bone.Then he tests his pin-teeth on a pansy or rose,Spreading ruin and petals wherever he goes;And his mistress declares, when he's nibbled for hours,That nothing is sweeterThan Peter the eater,The resolute eater of flowers.Having finished his dinner he wheedles the cook,Picks a coal from the scuttle or tackles a book,Or devotes all his strength to a slipper or mat,To the gnawing of this and the tearing of that;Faute de mieuxtakes a dress; and his mistress assertsThat there's nothing to beat herLike Peter the eaterAttached by his teeth to her skirts.But at last he has supped, and the moment is comeWhen, his stretchable turn being tight as a drum,He is meek and submissive, who once was so proud,And he creeps to his basket and slumbers aloud.And his mistress proclaims, as she tucks up his shawl,That nothing is neaterThan Peter the eater,Than Peter curled up in a ball,Asleep and digesting it all.
Hush! We're not a pack of boysAlways bound to make a noise.True, there's one amongst us, butHe is young;And, wherever we may take him,We can generally shutSuch a youngster up and make himHold his tongue.Hush! Most cautiously we goOn the tippest tip of toe.Are the dogs expecting usAt the gate?Two, who usually prize us,Will they jump and make a fuss?Will they really recognise usWhere they wait?Hush! I hear the funny pairSoftly whimpering—yes, they're there.Dane and Pekinese, they scratchAt the wood,At the solid wood between us;Duke attempts to lift the latch;It's a month since they have seen us—Open! Good!Down, Duke, down! Enough, enough!Soo-Ti's screaming; seize his scruff.Soo-Ti's having fearful fits;Duke is tearing us to bits.One will trip us, one will throw us—But, the darlings,don'tthey know us!Then off with a clatter the long dog leapt, and, oh, what a race he ran,At the hurricane pace of a minute a mile, as only a long dog can.Into and out of the bushes he pierced like a shooting star;And now he thundered around us, and now he was whirling far.And the little dog gazed till he seemed amazed,and then he took to it too;With shrill notes flung from his pert pink tongueright after his friend he flew;And the long legs lashed and the short legs flashedand scurried like anything,While Duke ran round in a circle and Soo-Ti ran in a ring.And last they hurtled amongst us, and then there were tales to tell,For all of us seemed to be scattered and torn,and all of us shrieked and fell;And John, who is plump, got an awful bump,and Helen, who's tall and thin,Was shot through a shrub and gained in bruiseas much as she lost in skin;And Rosamond's frock was rent in rags, and tattered in strips was Peg's,And both of them suffered the ninepin fate to the ruin of arms and legs;And every face was licked by a dog, and battered was every limb,When Duke ran round in a circle and Soo-Ti ran after him.
(THE NOTES FOR £1 AND 10S ARE SIGNED BY JOHN BRADBURY)When the Red KAISER, swoll'n with impious prideAnd stuffed with texts to serve his instant need,Took Shame for partner and Disgrace for guide,Earned to the full the hateful traitor's meed,And bade his hordes advanceThrough Belgium's cities towards the fields of France;And when at last our patient island race,By the attempted wrongMade fierce and strong,Flung back the challenge in the braggart's face,Oh then, while martial music filled the air,Clarion and fife and bagpipe and the drum,Calling to men to muster, march, and dare,Oh, then thy day, JOHN BRADBURY, was come.JOHN BRADBURY, the Muse shall fill my strainTo sing thy praises; thou hadst spent thy timeNot idly, nor hadst lived thy life in vain,Unfitted for the guerdon of my rhyme.For lo, the Funds went sudden crashing down,And men grew pale with monetary fear,And in the toppling martThe stoutest heartMelted, and fortunes seemed to disappear;And some, forgetting their austere renown,Went mad and soldWhate'er they could and wildly called for Gold!"Since through no fault of ours the die was castWe shall go forth and fightIn death's despiteAnd shall return victorious at the last;But how, ah how," they said,"Shall we and ours be fedAnd clothed and housed from dreary day to day,If, while our hearths grow cold, we have no coin to pay?"Then thou, where no gold was and little storeOf silver, didst appear and wave thy pen,And with thy signatureMake things secure,Bidding us all pluck up our hearts once moreAnd face our foolish fancied fears like men."I give you notes," you said, "of different kindsTo ease your anxious minds:The one is black and shall be fairly foundEqual in value to a golden pound;The other—mark its healthy scarlet print—Is worth a full half-sovereign from the Mint."Thus didst thou speak—at least I think thou didst—And, lo, the murmurs fellAnd all things went right well,While thy notes fluttered in our happy midst.Therefore our grateful hearts go forth to thee,Our British note-provider, brave JOHN BRADBURY!
(1914)When the thunder-shaking German hosts are marching over France—Lo, the glinting of the bayonet and the quiver of the lance!—When a rowdy rampant KAISER, stout and mad and middle-aged,Strips his breast of British Orders just to prove that he's enraged;When with fire and shot and pillageHe destroys each town and village;When the world is black with warfare, then there's one thing you must do:Set your teeth like steel, my hearties, and sit tight and see it through.
Oh, it's heavy work is fighting, but our soldiers do it well—Lo, the booming of the batteries, the clatter of the shell!—And it's weary work retiring, but they kept a dauntless front,All our company of heroes who have borne the dreadful brunt.They can meet the foe and beat him,They can scatter and defeat him,For they learnt a steady lesson (and they taught a lesson, too),Having set their teeth in earnest and sat tight and seen it through.Then their brothers trooped to join them, taking danger for a bride,Not in insolence and malice, but in honour and in pride;Caring nought to be recorded on the muster-roll of fame,So they struck a blow for Britain and the glory of her name.Toil and wounds could but delight them,Death itself could not affright them,Who went out to fight for freedom and the red and white and blue,While they set their teeth as firm as flint and vowed to see it through.
["Euclid, we are told, is at last dead, after two thousand years ofan immortality that he never much deserved."—The Times LiterarySupplement.]A THRENODY for EUCLID! This is heWho with his learning made our youth a waste,Holding our souls in fee;A god whose high-set crystal throne was basedBeyond the reach of tears,Deeper than time and his relentless years!Come then, ye Angle-Nymphs, and make lament;Ye little Postulates, and all the throngOf Definitions, with your heads besprentIn funeral ashes, ye who longWorshipped the King and followed in his train;For he is dead and cannot rise again.Then from the shapes that beat their breasts and wept,Soft to the light a gentle Problem stepped,And, lo, her clinging robe she swiftly loosedAnd with majestic hands her side produced:"Sweet Theorem," she said, and called her mate,"Sweet Theorem, be with me at this hour.How oft together in a dear debateWe two bore witness to our Sovereign's power.But he is dead and henceforth all our daysAre wrapped in gloom,And we who never ceased to sing his praiseMay weep our lord, but cannot call him from his tomb."And, as they bowed their heads and to and froWove in a mournful gait their web of woe,Two sentinels forth came,Their hearts aflame,And moved behind the pair:"Warders we are," they cried,"Of these two sisters who were once so fair,So joyous in their pride."And now their massy shields they lifted high,Embossed with letters three,And, though a mist of tears bedimmed each eye,The sorrowing Nymphs could seeQ., E. and F. on one, and on the other Q. E. D.But on a sudden, with a hideous noiseOf joy and laughter rushed a rout of boys;And all the mourners in affrightScattered to left and right.Problems and Theorems and Angles too,Postulates, Definitions, Circles, Planes,A jibbering crew,With all their hoary gainsOf knowledge, from their monarch deadInto the outer darkness shrieking fled.And now with festal dance and laughter loudBroke in the boyish and intruding crowd;Nor did they fail,Seeing that all the painful throng was sped,To let high mirth prevail,And raise the song of joy for EUCLID dead.
When you and I were younger the world was passing fair;Our days were sped with laughter, our steps were free as air;Life lightly lured us onward, and ceased not to unrollIn endless shining vistas a playground for the soul.But now no glory fires us; we linger in the cold,And both of us are weary, and both are growing old;Come, Postumus, and face it, and, facing it, confessYour years are half a hundred, and mine are nothing less.When you and I were twenty, my Postumus, we keptIn tidy rooms in College, and there we snugly slept.And still, when I am dreaming, the bells I can recallThat ordered us to chapel or welcomed us to hall.The towers repeat our voices, the grey and ancient CourtsAre filled with mirth and movement, and echo to our sports;Then riverward we trudge it, all talking, once againDown all the long unlovely extent of Jesus Lane.One figure leads the others; with frank and boyish mien,Straight back and sturdy shoulders, he lords it o'er the scene;His grip is firm and manly, his cheeks are smooth and red;The tangled curls cling tightly about his jolly head.And when we launch the eight-oar I hear his orders ring;With dauntless iteration I see his body swing:The pride of all the river, the mainstay of our crew—O Postumous, my bold one, can this be truly you?Nay, Postumus, my comrade, the years have hurried on;You're not the only Phoenix, I know, whose plumes are gone.When I recall your splendour, your memory, too, is stirred;You too can show a moulted, but once refulgent, bird;And, if I still should press you, you too could hardly failTo point a hateful moral where I adorned the tale.'Twere better to be thankful to Heaven that ruled it so,And gave us for our spending the days of long ago.
When the gusts are at play with the trees on the lawn,And the lights are put out in the vault of the night;When within all is snug, for the curtains are drawn,And the fire is aglow and the lamps are alight,Sometimes, as I muse, from the place where I amMy thoughts fly away to a room near the Cam.'Tis a ramshackle room, where a man might complainOf a slope in the ceiling, a rise in the floor;With a view on a court and a glimpse on a lane,And no end of cool wind through the chinks of the door;With a deep-seated chair that I love to recall,And some groups of young oarsmen in shorts on the wall.There's a fat jolly jar of tobacco, some pipes—A meerschaum, a briar, a cherry, a clay—There's a three-handled cup fit for Audit or SwipesWhen the breakfast is done and the plates cleared away.There's a litter of papers, of books a scratch lot,Such asPlato, andDickens, andLiddell and Scott.And a crone in a bonnet that's more like a ragFrom a mist of remembrance steps suddenly out;And her funny old tongue never ceases to wagAs she tidies the room where she bustles about;For a man may be strong and a man may be young,But he can't put a drag on a Bedmaker's tongue.And, oh, there's a youngster who sits at his easeIn the hope, which is vain, that the tongue may run down,With his feet on the grate and a book on his knees,And his cheeks they are smooth and his hair it is brown.Then I sigh myself back to the place where I amFrom that ramshackle room near the banks of the Cam.
I sing the sofa! It had stood for years,An invitation to benign repose,A foe to all the fretful brood of fears,Bidding the weary eye-lid sink and close.Massive and deep and broad it was and bland—In short the noblest sofa in the land.You, too, my friend, my solid friend, I sing,Whom on an afternoon I did beholdEying—'twas after lunch—the cushioned thing,And murmuring gently, "Here are realms of gold,And I shall visit them," you said, "and beThe sofa's burden till it's time for tea.""Let those who will go forth," you said, "and dare,Beyond the cluster of the little shops,To strain their limbs and take the eager air,Seeking the heights of Hedsor and its copse.I shall abide and watch the far-off gleamsOf fairy beacons from the world of dreams."Then forth we fared, and you, no doubt, lay down,An easy victim to the sofa's charms,Forgetting hopes of fame and past renown,Lapped in those padded and alluring arms."How well," you said, and veiled your heavy eyes,"It slopes to suit me! This is Paradise."So we adventured to the topmost hill,And, when the sunset shot the sky with red,Homeward returned and found you taking stillDeep draughts of peace with pillows 'neath your head."His sleep," said one, "has been unduly long."Another said, "Let's bring and beat the gong.""Gongs," said a third and gazed with looks intentAt the full sofa, "are not adequate.There fits some dread, some heavy, punishmentFor one who sleeps with such a dreadful weight.Behold with me," he moaned, "a scene accurst.The springs are broken and the sofa's burst!"Too true! Too true! Beneath you on the floorLay blent in ruin all the obscure thingsThat were the sofa's strength, a scattered storeOf tacks and battens and protruded springs.Through the rent ticking they had all been spilt,Mute proofs and mournful of your weight and guilt.And you? You slept as sweetly as a child,And when you woke you recked not of your shame,But babbled greetings, stretched yourself and smiledFrom that eviscerated sofa's frame,Which, flawless erst, was now one mighty flawThrough the addition of yourself as straw.
THE OLD GREY MAREThere's a line of rails on an upland greenWith a good take-off and a landing sound,Six fences grim as were ever seen,And it's there I would be with fox and hound.Oh, that was a country free and fairFor the raking stride of my old grey mare!With her raking stride, and her head borne high,And her ears a-prick, and her heart a-flame,And the steady look of her deep brown eye,I warrant the grey mare knew the game:It was "Up to it, lass," and before I knewWe were up and over, and on we flew.The rooks from the grass got up, and so,With a caw and flap, away they went;When the grey mare made up her mind to goAt the tail of the bounds on a breast-high scent,The best of the startled rooks might failTo match her flight over post and rail.While some of the thrusters grew unnerved,And looked and longed for an open gate,And one crashed down and another swerved,She went for it always true and straight:She pounded the lot, for she made it goodWith never a touch of splintered wood.Full many a year has come and goneSince last she gathered her spring for me,And lifted me up, and so flew onUnchecked in a country fair and free.I've ridden a score since then, but ne'erCrossed one that could live with the old grey mare.
When eight strong fellows are out to row,With a slip of a lad to guide them,I warrant they'll make the light ship go,Though the coach on the launch may chide them,With his "Six, get on to it! Five, you're late!Don't hurry the slides, and use your weight!You're bucketing, Bow; and, as to Four,The sight of his shoulders makes me sore!"But Stroke has steadied his fiery men,And the lift on the boat gets stronger;And the Coxswain suddenly shouts for "Ten!Reach out to it, longer, longer!"While the wind and the tide raced hand in handThe swing of the crew and the pace were grand;But now that the two meet face to faceIt's buffet and slam and a tortoise-pace.For Hammersmith Bridge has rattled past,And, oh, but the storm is humming.The turbulent white steeds gallop fast;They're tossing their crests and coming.It's a downright rackety, gusty day,And the backs of the crew are drenched in spray;But it's "Swing, boys, swing till you're deaf and blind,And you'll beat and baffle the raging wind."They have slipped through Barnes; they are round thebend;And the chests of the eight are tightening."Now spend your strength, if you've strength to spend,And away with your hands like lightning!Well rowed!"—and the coach is forced to cheer—"Now stick to it, all, for the post is near!"And, lo, they stop at the coxswain's call,With its message of comfort, "Easy all!"So here's to the sturdy undismayedEight men who are bound togetherBy the faith of the slide and the flashing bladeAnd the swing and the level feather;To the deeds they do and the toil they bear;To the dauntless mind and the will to dare;And the joyous spirit that makes them oneTill the last fierce stroke of the race is done.
When the waves rise high and higher as they toss about together,And the March-winds, loosed and angry, cut your chilly heart in two,Here are eighteen gallant gentlemen who come to face the weatherAll for valour and for honour and a little bit of blue!Chorus.Oh get hold of it and shove it!It is labour, but you love it;Let your stroke be long and mighty; keep your body on the swing;While your pulses dance a measureFull of pride and full of pleasure.And the boat flies free and joyous like a swallow on the wing.Isis blessed her noble youngsters as they left her; Father CamusSped his youths to fame and Putney from his grey and ancient Courts:—"Keep," they said, "the old traditions, and we know you will not shame usWhen you try the stormy tideway in your zephyrs and your shorts."For it's toil and tribulation till your roughnesses are polished,And it's bitterness and sorrow till the work of oars is done;But it's high delight and triumph when your faults are all abolished,With yourself and seven brothers firmly welded into one."So they stood the weary trial and the people poured to greet them,Filled a cup with praise and welcome—it was theirs to take and quaff;And they ranged their ships alongside, and the umpire came to meet them,And they stripped themselves and waited till his pistol sent them off.With a dash and spurt and rally; with a swing and drive and rattle,Both the boats went flashing faster as they cleft the swelling stream;And the old familiar places, scenes of many a sacred battle,Just were seen for half a moment and went by them in a dream.But at last the flag has fallen and the splendid fight is finished,And the victory is blazoned on the record-roll of Fame.They are spent and worn and broken, but their soul is undiminished;There are winners now and losers, but their glory is the same!Chorus.Oh get hold of it and shove it!It is labour, but you love it;Let your stroke be long and mighty; keep your body on the swing;While your pulses dance a measureFull of pride and full of pleasure,And the boat flies free and joyous like a swallow on the wing.
Splendour, whom lately on your glowing flightAthwart the chill and cheerless winter-skiesI marked and welcomed with a futile right,And then a futile left, and strained my eyesTo see you so magnificently large,Sinking to rest beyond the fir-wood's marge—Not mine, not mine the fault: despise me notIn that I missed you; for the sun was down,And the dim light was all against the shot;And I had booked a bet of half-a-crown.My deadly fire is apt to be upsetBy many causes—always by a bet.Or had I overdone it with the sloes,Snared by their home-picked brand of ardent ginDesigned to warm a shivering sportsman's toesAnd light a fire his reckless head within?Or did my silly loader put me offWith aimless chatter in regard to golf?You too, I think, displayed a lack of nerve;You did not quite-now did you?-play the game;For when you saw me you were seen to swerve,Doubtless in order to disturb my aim.No, no, you must not ask me to forgiveA swerve because you basely planned to live.At any rate I missed you, and you went,The last day's absolutely final bird,Scathless, and left me very ill content;And someone (was it I?) pronounced a word,A word which rather forcible than nice is,A little word which does not rhyme with Isis.Farewell! I may behold you once againWhen next November's gales have stripped the leaf.Then, while your upward flight you grandly strain,May I be there to add you to my sheaf;And may they praise your tallness, saying "ThisWas such a bird as men are proud to miss!"
FRANCIS COWLEY BURNAND, 1836-1917EDITOR OF "PUNCH," 1880-1906Hail and Farewell, dear Brother of the Pen,Maker of sunshine for the minds of men,Lord of bright cheer and master of our hearts—What plaint is fit when such a friend departs?Not with mere ceremonial words of woeCome we to mourn—you would not have it so;But with our memories stored with joyous fun,Your constant largesse till your life was done,With quips, that flashed through frequent twists and bends,Caught from the common intercourse of friends;And gay allusions gayer for the zestOf one who hurt no friend and spared no jest.What arts were yours that taught you to inditeWhat all men thought, but only you could write!That wrung from gloom itself a fleeting smile;Rippled with laughter but refrained from guile;Led you to prick some bladder of conceitOr trip intrusive folly's blundering feet,While wisdom at your call came down to earth,Unbent awhile and gave a hand to mirth!You too had pondered mid your jesting strifeThe deeper issues of our mortal life;Guided to God by faith no doubt could dim,You fought your fight and left the rest to Him,Content to set your heart on things aboveAnd rule your days by laughter and by love.Rest in our memories! You are guarded thereBy those who knew you as you lived and were.There mid our Happy Thoughts you take your stand,A sun-girt shade, and light that shadow-land.