The train came early in to-night,The sullen guard was soon awake,And threw my luggage down, for spite,To where the platform seemed a lake;And did his best my box to break.When sidled up a porter; straight,He mopped the platform with a broom,And, kneeling, made the well-filled grateBlaze up within the waiting-room,And so dispelled the usual gloom.Which done, he came and took his seatBeside me, doffed his coat, untiedHis bootlaces, and let his feetPeep coyly out on either side;Then called me. When no voice replied,He rolled his shirt-sleeve up, and rose,And laid his brawny biceps bare,And, where my eyebrows meet my nose,He slowly shook his fist, just there,And seized me by my yellow hair.Then roughly asked me, had I gotA head as empty as a bubble?Bidding me sternly, did I notDesire henceforth to see things double,To give him something for his trouble.Nor could my arguments prevail;Entreaties, threats were all in vain!Returned he to the twice-told taleOf how, from out the midnight train,He bore my luggage through the rain.I fixed him with my cold grey eye,But all in vain; at last I knewThat porter hated me; (though whyI cannot understand, can you?)And what on earth was I to do!Next moment, though I still perspireTo think of it, I quickly foundA thing to do; and on the fireI pushed him backwards with a bound,And piled the coal up all around.Cremated him. No pain he felt.As a shut coop that holds a hen,I oped the register and smeltAn odour as of burnt quill-pen.My laughter bubbled over then.I seized him lightly, with the tongsAbout his waist; and through the doorI bore him, burning with my wrongs,And laid him on the line. What's more,The down express was due at four.. . . . .The mark is on the metals still,A gruesome stain, I must confess,And, when I pass, it makes me illTo note the somewhat painful messConcocted by the down express.Portknockie's porter; so he died.The date of inquest is deferred.'Tis thought a case of suicide;And he who might have seen or heard,—The guard,—has never said a word.
The train came early in to-night,The sullen guard was soon awake,And threw my luggage down, for spite,To where the platform seemed a lake;And did his best my box to break.When sidled up a porter; straight,He mopped the platform with a broom,And, kneeling, made the well-filled grateBlaze up within the waiting-room,And so dispelled the usual gloom.Which done, he came and took his seatBeside me, doffed his coat, untiedHis bootlaces, and let his feetPeep coyly out on either side;Then called me. When no voice replied,He rolled his shirt-sleeve up, and rose,And laid his brawny biceps bare,And, where my eyebrows meet my nose,He slowly shook his fist, just there,And seized me by my yellow hair.Then roughly asked me, had I gotA head as empty as a bubble?Bidding me sternly, did I notDesire henceforth to see things double,To give him something for his trouble.Nor could my arguments prevail;Entreaties, threats were all in vain!Returned he to the twice-told taleOf how, from out the midnight train,He bore my luggage through the rain.I fixed him with my cold grey eye,But all in vain; at last I knewThat porter hated me; (though whyI cannot understand, can you?)And what on earth was I to do!Next moment, though I still perspireTo think of it, I quickly foundA thing to do; and on the fireI pushed him backwards with a bound,And piled the coal up all around.Cremated him. No pain he felt.As a shut coop that holds a hen,I oped the register and smeltAn odour as of burnt quill-pen.My laughter bubbled over then.I seized him lightly, with the tongsAbout his waist; and through the doorI bore him, burning with my wrongs,And laid him on the line. What's more,The down express was due at four.
. . . . .
The mark is on the metals still,A gruesome stain, I must confess,And, when I pass, it makes me illTo note the somewhat painful messConcocted by the down express.Portknockie's porter; so he died.The date of inquest is deferred.'Tis thought a case of suicide;And he who might have seen or heard,—The guard,—has never said a word.
'WHEN THE MOTHER COUNTRY CALLS!'
(With apologies to all concerned)
North and South and East and West, the message travels fast!East and West and North and South, the bugles blare and blast!North and West and East and South, the battle-cry grows plain!West and South and North and East, it echoes back again!For the East is calling Westwards, and the North is speaking South,There's a threat on ev'ry curling lip, an oath in ev'ry mouth;'Tis the shadow of an Empire o'er the Universe that falls,And the winds of Heaven wonder when the Mother-country calls!Now the call is carried coastwise, from Calay to Bungapore,From the sunny South Pacific to the North Atlantic shore;Gathers volume in its footsteps and grows grander as it goes,From Jeboom to Pongawongo, where the Rumtumpootra flows.The 'native-born' he sits alert beneath a deodar,He sharpens up his 'cummerbund' and loads his 'khitmagar,'His 'ekkah' stands untasted, as he girds upon his browThe 'syce' his father gave him, saying 'unkah punkah jow!'Come forth, you babu jemadar,No lackh of pice we bring,Bid the ferash comb your moustashe,And join the great White King!And Westward, where 'Our Lady of the Sunshine' (not 'the Snows')Delights to herd the caribou, and where the chipmunk grows,The 'habitant' he sits amid a grove of maple trees,He decorates his shanty and he polishes his 'skis.'And see! Through ranch or lumber-camp, where'er the news shall go,The daughters cease to gather fruit, the sons to shovel snow!They love the dear old Mother-land that they have never seen,The Empire that they advertise as 'vaster than has been'!Come forth, you mild militiaman,To conquer or to fail,Who is it helps the Lion's whelpsUntwist the Lion's tail?The pride of race, the pride of place, and bond of blood they feel,The Indies indicate it and New Zealand shows new zeal.The daughters in their Mother's house are mistress in their own;They are her heirs, her flesh is theirs, and they would share her bone!Lo! Greater Britain stretches out her hands across the sea;Australia forgets her impecuniositee;On Afric's shore the wily Boer is ready now to fight,For the Khaki and the rooinek, for the Empire and the Right!Come forth, you valiant volunteer,Come forth to do or die,You give a hand to Mother, andShe'll help you by and by!Upon her score of distant shores the sun is always bright;(And always in her empire, too, it must somewhere be night!)Her birthplace is the Ocean, where her pennon braves the breeze;Her motto, 'What is ours we'll hold (and what is not we'll seize!)'Her rule is strong, her purse is long, her sons are stern and true,With iron hands she holds her lands (and other people's too).She sees her chance and cries 'Advance,' while others stand and gape,Her oxengoads shall claim the roads from Cairo to the Cape.Come out, you big black Fuzzy-Wuz,You've got to take your share;We'll make you sweat till you forgetYou broke a British Square!North and South and East and West, the message travels fast!East and West and North and South, the bugles blare and blast!Hear we but a whisper that the foe is at the walls,And, by Gad, we'll show them something when the Mother Country calls!
North and South and East and West, the message travels fast!East and West and North and South, the bugles blare and blast!North and West and East and South, the battle-cry grows plain!West and South and North and East, it echoes back again!
For the East is calling Westwards, and the North is speaking South,There's a threat on ev'ry curling lip, an oath in ev'ry mouth;'Tis the shadow of an Empire o'er the Universe that falls,And the winds of Heaven wonder when the Mother-country calls!
Now the call is carried coastwise, from Calay to Bungapore,From the sunny South Pacific to the North Atlantic shore;Gathers volume in its footsteps and grows grander as it goes,From Jeboom to Pongawongo, where the Rumtumpootra flows.The 'native-born' he sits alert beneath a deodar,He sharpens up his 'cummerbund' and loads his 'khitmagar,'
His 'ekkah' stands untasted, as he girds upon his browThe 'syce' his father gave him, saying 'unkah punkah jow!'
Come forth, you babu jemadar,No lackh of pice we bring,Bid the ferash comb your moustashe,And join the great White King!
And Westward, where 'Our Lady of the Sunshine' (not 'the Snows')Delights to herd the caribou, and where the chipmunk grows,The 'habitant' he sits amid a grove of maple trees,He decorates his shanty and he polishes his 'skis.'And see! Through ranch or lumber-camp, where'er the news shall go,The daughters cease to gather fruit, the sons to shovel snow!
They love the dear old Mother-land that they have never seen,The Empire that they advertise as 'vaster than has been'!
Come forth, you mild militiaman,To conquer or to fail,Who is it helps the Lion's whelpsUntwist the Lion's tail?
The pride of race, the pride of place, and bond of blood they feel,The Indies indicate it and New Zealand shows new zeal.The daughters in their Mother's house are mistress in their own;They are her heirs, her flesh is theirs, and they would share her bone!Lo! Greater Britain stretches out her hands across the sea;Australia forgets her impecuniositee;On Afric's shore the wily Boer is ready now to fight,For the Khaki and the rooinek, for the Empire and the Right!
Come forth, you valiant volunteer,Come forth to do or die,You give a hand to Mother, andShe'll help you by and by!
Upon her score of distant shores the sun is always bright;(And always in her empire, too, it must somewhere be night!)Her birthplace is the Ocean, where her pennon braves the breeze;Her motto, 'What is ours we'll hold (and what is not we'll seize!)'Her rule is strong, her purse is long, her sons are stern and true,With iron hands she holds her lands (and other people's too).She sees her chance and cries 'Advance,' while others stand and gape,Her oxengoads shall claim the roads from Cairo to the Cape.
Come out, you big black Fuzzy-Wuz,You've got to take your share;We'll make you sweat till you forgetYou broke a British Square!
North and South and East and West, the message travels fast!East and West and North and South, the bugles blare and blast!Hear we but a whisper that the foe is at the walls,And, by Gad, we'll show them something when the Mother Country calls!
'Tis done! We reach the final pageWith feelings of relief, I'm certain;And there arrives, at such a stage,The moment to ring down the Curtain.(This metaphor is freely takenFrom Shakespeare,—or perhaps from Bacon.)The Book perused, our Future bringsA plethora of blank to-morrows,When memories of Happier ThingsWill be our Sorrow's Crown of Sorrows.(I trust you recognise this lineAs being Tennyson's, not mine.)My verses may indeed be few,But are they not, to quote the poet,'The sweetest things that ever grewBeside a human door'? I know it!(What aninhuman door would be,Enquire of Wordsworth, please, not me.)'Twas one of my most cherished dreamsTo write a Moral Book some day;—What says the Bard? 'The best laid schemesOf Mice and Men gang aft agley!'(The Bard here mentioned, by the bye,Is Robbie Burns, of course,—not I.)And tho' my pen records each thoughtAs swift as the phonetic Pitman,Morality is not my 'forte,'O Camarados! (videWhitman).And, like the Porcupine, I stillAm forced to ply a fretful quill.We may be Masters of our Fate,(As Henley was inspired to mention),Yet am I but the Second MateUpon the s.s. 'Good Intention';For me the course direct is lacking,—I have to do a deal of tacking.To seek for Morals here's a taskOf which you well may be despairing;'What has become of them?' you ask.They've given me the slip,—like Waring.'Look East!' said Browning once, and IWould make a similar reply.Look East, where in a garret drear,The Author works, without cessation,Composing verses for a mere-Ly nominal remuneration;And, while he has the strength to write 'em,Will do so still—ad infinitum!
'Tis done! We reach the final pageWith feelings of relief, I'm certain;And there arrives, at such a stage,The moment to ring down the Curtain.(This metaphor is freely takenFrom Shakespeare,—or perhaps from Bacon.)
The Book perused, our Future bringsA plethora of blank to-morrows,When memories of Happier ThingsWill be our Sorrow's Crown of Sorrows.(I trust you recognise this lineAs being Tennyson's, not mine.)
My verses may indeed be few,But are they not, to quote the poet,'The sweetest things that ever grewBeside a human door'? I know it!(What aninhuman door would be,Enquire of Wordsworth, please, not me.)
'Twas one of my most cherished dreamsTo write a Moral Book some day;—What says the Bard? 'The best laid schemesOf Mice and Men gang aft agley!'(The Bard here mentioned, by the bye,Is Robbie Burns, of course,—not I.)
And tho' my pen records each thoughtAs swift as the phonetic Pitman,Morality is not my 'forte,'O Camarados! (videWhitman).And, like the Porcupine, I stillAm forced to ply a fretful quill.
We may be Masters of our Fate,(As Henley was inspired to mention),Yet am I but the Second MateUpon the s.s. 'Good Intention';For me the course direct is lacking,—I have to do a deal of tacking.
To seek for Morals here's a taskOf which you well may be despairing;'What has become of them?' you ask.They've given me the slip,—like Waring.'Look East!' said Browning once, and IWould make a similar reply.
Look East, where in a garret drear,The Author works, without cessation,Composing verses for a mere-Ly nominal remuneration;And, while he has the strength to write 'em,Will do so still—ad infinitum!
Speed, flippant rhymes, throughout the land;Disperse yourselves with patient zeal!Go, perch upon the critic's hand,Just after he has had a meal.But should he still unfriendly be,Unperch and hasten back to me.. . . . .O gentle maid, O happy boy,This copy of my book is done;But don't forget that I enjoyA royalty on ev'ry one;Just think how wealthy I should be,If you would purchase two or three!MORALNo moral that I ever tookSeemed quite so evident before.If purchasing an author's bookWill keep the wolf from his back-door,It is our very obvious missionTo buy up the entire edition.
Speed, flippant rhymes, throughout the land;Disperse yourselves with patient zeal!Go, perch upon the critic's hand,Just after he has had a meal.But should he still unfriendly be,Unperch and hasten back to me.
. . . . .
O gentle maid, O happy boy,This copy of my book is done;But don't forget that I enjoyA royalty on ev'ry one;Just think how wealthy I should be,If you would purchase two or three!
MORAL
No moral that I ever tookSeemed quite so evident before.If purchasing an author's bookWill keep the wolf from his back-door,It is our very obvious missionTo buy up the entire edition.
FINIS.
Printed by T. and A.Constable, Printers to His Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press
(Second Impression.)Fcap. 8vo. 1s. net.
'The fiscal controversy has not been very fruitful in verse. So far as we are aware, only one balladist has found any genuine inspiration in it. That is Mr. Harry Graham, whose skill as a rhymer in other directions has already been abundantly proved. The ballads for the most part take a colloquial form, and while containing much humour, are full of sound doctrine.... Mr. Graham, it will be seen, has great facility in rhyme, and in all this rhyme there is reason. When the General Election comes this book should be a gold-mine for the political reciter.'—Westminster Gazette.
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"Aunt Jane observed the second timeShe tumbled off a 'bus,The step is short from the sublimeTo the ridiculous."'
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ByAbel ChapmanandWalter J. Buck, British Vice-Consul at Jerez.With 200 Illustrations by theAuthors, E. Caldwell, and others, Sketch Maps, and Photographs.
In Europe Spain is certainly far and away the wildest of wild lands—due as much to her physical formation as to any historic or racial causes. Naturally the Spanish fauna remains one of the richest and most varied in Europe. It is of these wild regions and of their wild inhabitants that the authors write, backed by lifelong experience. The present work represents nearly forty years of constant study, of practical experience in field and forest, combined with systematic note-taking and analysis by men who are recognized as specialists in their selected pursuits. These comprise every branch of sport with rod, gun, and rifle; and, beyond all that, the ability to elaborate the results in the light of modern zoological science.
By Major the Hon.C. G. Bruce, M.V.O., Fifth Gurkha Rifles.Fully Illustrated. With Map. Demy 8vo., cloth. 16s. net.
The Himalaya is a world in itself, comprising many regions which differ widely from each other as regards their natural features, their fauna and flora, and the races and languages of their inhabitants. Major Bruce's relation to this world is absolutely unique—he has journeyed through it, now in one part, now in another, sometimes mountaineering, sometimes in pursuit of big game, sometimes in the performance of his professional duties, for more than twenty years; and now his acquaintance with it under all its diverse aspects, though naturally far from complete, is more varied and extensive than has ever been possessed by anyone else.
ByWalter Larden.Fully Illustrated. Demy 8vo., cloth. 14s. net.
There are a few men in every generation, such as A. F. Mummery and L. Norman Neruda, who possess a natural genius for mountaineering. The ordinary lover of the mountains reads the story of their climbs with admiration and perhaps a tinge of envy, but with no thought of following in their footsteps—such feats are not for him. The great and special interest of Mr. Larden's book lies in the fact that he does not belong to this small and distinguished class. He tells us, and convinces us, that he began his Alpine career with no exceptional endowment of nerve or activity, and describes, fully and with supreme candour, how he made himself into what he very modestly calls a second-class climber—not 'a Grepon-crack man,' but one capable of securely and successfully leading a party of amateurs over such peaks as Mont Collon or the Combin.
ByF. Claude Kempson,Author of 'TheGreen FinchCruise.'With 50 Illustrations from the Author's sketches.Medium 8vo., cloth. 6s. net.
Mr. Kempson's amusing account of 'TheGreen FinchCruise,' which was published last year, gave deep delight to the joyous fraternity of amateur sailor-men, and the success that book enjoyed has encouraged him to describe a rather more ambitious cruise he undertook subsequently. Mr. Kempson is not an expert, but he shows how anyone accustomed to a sportsman's life can, with a little instruction and common sense, have a thoroughly enjoyable time sailing a small boat. The book is full of 'tips and wrinkles' of all kinds, interspersed with amusing anecdotes and reflections. The Author's sketches are exquisitely humorous, and never more so than when he is depicting his own substantial person.
LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43, MADDOX STREET, W.
Charmingly Illustrated in Colour by Mrs. ALLINGHAM.
With 64 Full-page Coloured Plates from Pictures by HELEN ALLINGHAM, never before reproduced. 8vo.(9-1/2in.by 7in.), 21s. net.Also a limited Edition de Luxe, 42s. net.
By E. W. MORRIS,Secretary of the London Hospital.With Illustrations.6s. net.
'Besant long ago wrote "All Sorts and Conditions of Men," and won and built thereby the People's Palace. Here is a better book. Its people are real, its romance is facts, its palace is a hospital of a thousand beds.'—Daily Telegraph.
With an Introduction by the Rt. Hon. the EARL OF LYTTON, and contributions from experts in various branches of sport.
Edited by EDGAR SYERS.Fully Illustrated. Demy 8vo., 15s. net.
By GEORGIANA, COUNTESS OF DUDLEY.Handsomely printed and bound. Third Impression.7s. 6d. net.
Based on Modern English and Continental Principles worked out in Detail.By ColonelA. Kenney-Herbert.Over 500 pages. Illustrated. 6s. net.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43, MADDOX STREET, W.
Pages148and149: The words noted below are transliterations of the original Greek characters.
Then spoke a Greek, 'The Isles of Greece!What can compare with those?[Greek: Thalassa]! and [Greek: Eurêka]![Greek: Rhododaktylos êôs]!''But the country of my childhoodIs the best that man may know,Oh [Greek: didêmi] also [Greek: phêmi],[Greek: Zôê mou sas agapô]!'