OCCASIONAL VERSES.
Reading edition
ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS.
Designed to show that the practice of lying is not confined to children.
By the late W. W. (of H.M. Inland Revenue Service).
And is it so? Can Folly stalk And aim her unrespecting darts In shades where grave Professors walk And Bachelors of Arts?
I have a boy, not six years old, A sprite of birth and lineage high: His birth I did myself behold, His caste is in his eye.
And oh! his limbs are full of grace, His boyish beauty past compare: His mother's joy to wash his face, And mine to brush his hair!
One morn we strolled on our short walk, With four goloshes on our shoes, And held the customary talk That parents love to use.
(And oft I turn it into verse, And write it down upon a page, Which, being sold, supplies my purse And ministers to age.)
So as we paced the curving High, To view the sights of Oxford town We raised our feet (like Nelly Bly), And then we put them down.
'Now, little Edward, answer me'— I said, and clutched him by the gown— 'At Cambridge would you rather be, Or here in Oxford town?'
My boy replied with tiny frown (He'd been a year at Cavendish), 'I'd rather dwell in Oxford town, If I could have my wish.'
'Now, little Edward, say why so; My little Edward, tell me why.' 'Well, really, Pa, I hardly know.' 'Remarkable!' said I:
'For Cambridge has her "King's Parade," And much the more becoming gown; Why should you slight her so,' I said, 'Compared with Oxford town?'
At this my boy hung down his head, While sterner grew the parent's eye; And six-and-thirty times I said, 'Come, Edward, tell me why?'
For I loved Cambridge (where they deal— How strange!—in butter by the yard); And so, with every third appeal, I hit him rather hard.
Twelve times I struck, as may be seen (For three times twelve is thirty-six), When in a shop the Magazine His tearful sight did fix.
He saw it plain, it made him smile, And thus to me he made reply:— 'At Oxford there's a Crocodile;[1] And that's the reason why.'
Oh, Mr. Editor! my heart For deeper lore would seldom yearn, Could I believe the hundredth part Of what from you I learn.
[1] Certain obscure paragraphs relating to a crocodile, kept at the Museum, had been perplexing the readers of the Oxford Magazine for some time past, and had been distorted into an allegory of portentous meaning.
UNITY PUT QUARTERLY[1].
By A. C. S.
The Centuries kiss and commingle, Cling, clasp, and are knit in a chain; No cycle but scorns to be single, No two but demur to be twain, 'Till the land of the lute and the love-tale Be bride of the boreal breast, And the dawn with the darkness shall dovetail, The East with the West.
The desire of the grey for the dun nights Is that of the dun for the grey; The tales of the Thousand and One Nights Touch lips with 'The Times' of to-day.— Come, chasten the cheap with the classic; Choose, Churton, thy chair and thy class, Mix, melt in the must that is Massic The beer that is Bass!
Omnipotent age of the Aorist! Infinitely freely exact!— As the fragrance of fiction is fairest If frayed in the furnace of fact— Though nine be the Muses in number There is hope if the handbook be one,— Dispelling the planets that cumber The path of the sun.
Though crimson thy hands and thy hood be With the blood of a brother betrayed, O Would-be-Professor of Would-be, We call thee to bless and to aid. Transmuted would travel with Er, see The Land of the Rolling of Logs, Charmed, chained to thy side, as to Circe The Ithacan hogs.
O bourne of the black and the godly! O land where the good niggers go. With the books that are borrowed of Bodley, Old moons and our castaway clo'! There, there, till the roses be ripened Rebuke us, revile, and review, Then take thee thine annual stipend So long over-due.
[1] Suggested by an Article in the Quarterly Review, enforcing the unity of literature ancient and modern, and the necessity of providing a new School of Literature in Oxford.
FIRE!
By Sir W. S.
Written on the occasion of the visit of the United Fire Brigades to Oxford, 1887.
I.
St. Giles's street is fair and wide, St. Giles's street is long; But long or wide, may naught abide Therein of guile or wrong; For through St. Giles's, to and fro, The mild ecclesiastics go From prime to evensong. It were a fearsome task, perdie! To sin in such good company.
II.
Long had the slanting beam of day Proclaimed the Thirtieth of May Ere now, erect, its fiery heat Illumined all that hallowed street, And breathing benediction on Thy serried battlements, St. John, Suffused at once with equal glow The cluster'd Archipelago, The Art Professor's studio And Mr. Greenwood's shop, Thy building, Pusey, where below The stout Salvation soldiers blow The cornet till they drop; Thine, Balliol, where we move, and oh! Thine, Randolph, where we stop.
III.
But what is this that frights the air, And wakes the curate from his lair In Pusey's cool retreat, To leave the feast, to climb the stair, And scan the startled street? As when perambulate the young And call with unrelenting tongue On home, mamma, and sire; Or voters shout with strength of lung For Hall & Co's Entire; Or Sabbath-breakers scream and shout— The band of Booth, with drum devout, Eliza on her Sunday out, Or Farmer with his choir:—
IV.
E'en so, with shriek of fife and drum And horrid clang of brass, The Fire Brigades of England come And down St. Giles's pass. Oh grand, methinks, in such array To spend a Whitsun Holiday All soaking to the skin! (Yet shoes and hose alike are stout; The shoes to keep the water out, The hose to keep it in.)
V.
They came from Henley on the Thames, From Berwick on the Tweed, And at the mercy of the flames They left their children and their dames, To come and play their little games On Morrell's dewy mead. Yet feared they not with fire to play— The pyrotechnics (so they say) Were very fine indeed.
VI.
(P.S. by Lord Macaulay).
Then let us bless Our Gracious Queen and eke the Fire Brigade, And bless no less the horrid mess they've been and gone and made; Remove the dirt they chose to squirt upon our best attire, Bless all, but most the lucky chance that no one shouted 'Fire!'
DE TEA FABULA.
Plain Language from truthful James[1].
Do I sleep? Do I dream? Am I hoaxed by a scout? Are things what they seem, Or is Sophists about? Is our "to ti en einai" a failure, or is Robert Browning played out?
Which expressions like these May be fairly applied By a party who sees A Society skied Upon tea that the Warden of Keble had biled with legitimate pride.
'Twas November the third, And I says to Bill Nye, 'Which it's true what I've heard: If you're, so to speak, fly, There's a chance of some tea and cheap culture, the sort recommended as High.'
Which I mentioned its name, And he ups and remarks: 'If dress-coats is the game And pow-wow in the Parks, Then I 'm nuts on Sordello and Hohenstiel-Schwangau and similar Snarks.'
Now the pride of Bill Nye Cannot well be express'd; For he wore a white tie And a cut-away vest: Says I, 'Solomon's lilies ain't in it, and they was reputed well dress'd.'
But not far did we wend, When we saw Pippa pass On the arm of a friend —Doctor Furnivall 'twas, And he wore in his hat two half-tickets for London, return, second-class.
'Well,' I thought, 'this is odd.' But we came pretty quick To a sort of a quad That was all of red brick, And I says to the porter,—'R. Browning: free passes; and kindly look slick.'
But says he, dripping tears In his check handkerchief, 'That symposium's career's Been regrettably brief, For it went all its pile upon crumpets and busted on gunpowder-leaf!'
Then we tucked up the sleeves Of our shirts (that were biled), Which the reader perceives That our feelings were riled, And we went for that man till his mother had doubted the traits of her child.
Which emotions like these Must be freely indulged By a party who sees A Society bulged On a reef the existence of which its prospectus had never divulged.
But I ask,—Do I dream? Has it gone up the spout? Are things what they seem, Or is Sophists about? Is our "to ti en einai" a failure, or is Robert Browning played out?
[1] The Oxford Browning Society expired at Keble the week before this was written.
L'ENVOI.
AS I LAYE A-DREAMYNGE.
After T. I.
As I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, O softlye moaned the dove to her mate within the tree, And meseemed unto my syghte Came rydynge many a knyghte All cased in armoure bryghte Cap-a-pie, As I laye a-dreamynge, a goodlye companye!
As I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, O sadlye mourned the dove, callynge long and callynge lowe, And meseemed of alle that hoste Notte a face but was the ghoste Of a friend that I hadde loste Long agoe. As I laye a-dreamynge, oh, bysson teare to flowe!
As I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, O sadlye sobbed the dove as she seemed to despayre, And laste upon the tracke Came one I hayled as 'Jacke!' But he turned mee his backe With a stare: As I laye a-dreamynge, he lefte mee callynge there.
Stille I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, And gentler sobbed the dove as it eased her of her payne, And meseemed a voyce yt cry'd— 'They shall ryde, and they shall ryde 'Tyll the truce of tyme and tyde Come agayne! Alle for Eldorado, yette never maye attayne!'
Stille I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, And scarcelye moaned the dove, as her agonye was spente: 'Shalle to-morrowe see them nygher To a golden walle or spyre? You have better in yr fyre, Bee contente.' As I laye a-dreamynge, it seem'd smalle punyshment.
But I laye a-wakynge, and loe! the dawne was breakynge And rarely pyped a larke for the promyse of the daye: 'Uppe and sette yr lance in reste! Uppe and followe on the queste! Leave the issue to be guessed At the endynge of the waye'—
As I laye a-wakynge, 'twas soe she seemed to say— 'Whatte and if it alle be feynynge? There be better thynges than gaynynge, Rycher pryzes than attaynynge.'— And 'twas truthe she seemed to saye. Whyles the dawne was breakynge, I rode upon my waye.