Owen Seaman
Reading edition
One of the most delightful of English versifiers, Owen Seaman, was born in 1861. After receiving a classical education, he became Professor of Literature and began to write for Punch in 1894. In 1906 he was made editor of that internationally famous weekly, remaining in that capacity ever since. He was knighted in 1914. As a writer of light verse and as a parodist, his agile work has delighted a generation of admirers. Some of his most adroit lines may be found in his In Cap and Bells (1902) and The Battle of the Bays (1892).
TO AN OLD FOGEY (Who Contends that Christmas is Played Out)
O frankly bald and obviously stout! And so you find that Christmas as a fête Dispassionately viewed, is getting out Of date. The studied festal air is overdone; The humour of it grows a little thin; You fail, in fact, to gather where the fun Comes in. Visions of very heavy meals arise That tend to make your organism shiver; Roast beef that irks, and pies that agonise The liver; Those pies at which you annually wince, Hearing the tale how happy months will follow Proportioned to the total mass of mince You swallow. Visions of youth whose reverence is scant, Who with the brutal verve of boyhood's prime Insist on being taken to the pant- -omime. Of infants, sitting up extremely late, Who run you on toboggans down the stair; Or make you fetch a rug and simulate A bear. This takes your faultless trousers at the knees, The other hurts them rather more behind; And both effect a fracture in your ease Of mind. My good dyspeptic, this will never do; Your weary withers must be sadly wrung! Yet once I well believe that even you Were young. Time was when you devoured, like other boys, Plum-pudding sequent on a turkey-hen; With cracker-mottos hinting of the joys Of men. Time was when 'mid the maidens you would pull The fiery raisin with profound delight; When sprigs of mistletoe seemed beautiful And right. Old Christmas changes not! Long, long ago He won the treasure of eternal youth; Yours is the dotage—if you want to know The truth. Come, now, I'll cure your case, and ask no fee:— Make others' happiness this once your own; All else may pass: that joy can never be Outgrown!
THOMAS OF THE LIGHT HEART
Facing the guns, he jokes as well As any Judge upon the Bench; Between the crash of shell and shell His laughter rings along the trench; He seems immensely tickled by a Projectile while he calls a "Black Maria." He whistles down the day-long road, And, when the chilly shadows fall And heavier hangs the weary load, Is he down-hearted? Not at all. 'Tis then he takes a light and airy View of the tedious route to Tipperary.[4] His songs are not exactly hymns; He never learned them in the choir; And yet they brace his dragging limbs Although they miss the sacred fire; Although his choice and cherished gems Do not include "The Watch upon the Thames." He takes to fighting as a game; He does no talking, through his hat, Of holy missions; all the same He has his faith—be sure of that; He'll not disgrace his sporting breed, Nor play what isn't cricket. There's his creed.