The Elder Song

Come to me, Eros, if you needs must come This year, with milder twinges; Aim not your arrow at the bull's-eye plumb, But let the outer pericardium Be where the point impinges.

Garishly beautiful I watch them wane Like sunsets in a pink west, The passions of the past; but O their pain! You recollect that nice affair with Jane? We nearly had an inquest.

I want some mellower romance than these, Something that shall not waken The bosom of the bard from midnight ease, Nor spoil his appetite for breakfast, please (Porridge and eggs and bacon).

Something that shall not steep the soul in gall. Nor plant it in excelsis, Nor quite prevent the bondman in its thrall From biffing off the tee as good a ball As anybody else's;

But rather, when the world is dull and gray And everything seems horrid, And books are impotent to charm away The leaden-footed hours, shall make me say, "My hat!" (and strike my forehead)

"I am in love, O circumstance how sweet! O ne'er to be forgot knot!" And praise the damsel's eyebrows, and repeat Her name out loud, until it's time to eat, Or go to bed, or what not.

This is the kind of desultory bolt, Eros, I bid you shoot me; One with no barb to agitate and jolt, One where the feathers have begun to moult— Any old sort will suit me.

E. G. V. KNOX. April 5, 1911.

No, Frederica, no; I may have knuckled Under, at times, to woman's soft appeal, But now I have my armour on and buckled; Tears cannot melt that tegument of steel; That which I've said I've said: "You shall not wear a bee-hive on your head!"

I have allowed you loosely to conduct your Home-life according to your lack of taste, But to permit this pestilential structure Would be to have my dignity displaced; Frankly I draw the line At such a hat on any wife of mine.

When we exchanged our pledges at the altar You undertook to honour and obey; And though, ere now, I have been known to palter With manhood's rights, this time I'll have my way; I lay the law down flat, Saying, "You shall not wear a thing like that."

Nor would it shake my purpose should you follow The lead of Suffragettes that live on air, Refusing, out of cussedness, to swallow Your salutary meals. I shouldn't care Two paltry jots or tittles What attitude you took about your victuals.

You might adopt a course of strict starvation, But you would never break my manly pride; You might arrest the fount of sustentation Till you were just a bag of bones and hide, But that would not disturb A man of stouter stuff than GLADSTONE (HERB.).

Believe me, I am anything but brutal; I take no pleasure in a hollow cheek; I could not get my heart to hum or tootle If you were slowly waning week by week; But here I must be firm, Or I should show no better than a worm.

And, if you stuck to it and went on sinking Until you failed to draw another breath, Your widower would console himself with thinking That there are tragedies far worse than death: Dishonour may be reckoned The first of such, and your bee-hat the second.

SIR OWEN SEAMAN. July 28, 1909.

Once on a time, ere leagues for woman's freedom Had shed upon the world their golden gleam, Ere dames had stormed the fortress of M.P.dom, The mere man reigned supreme.

No female dared to challenge that position; She only lived to grovel at his throne, Content if she obtained his kind permission To call her soul her own.

Then, lovers' vows were food for maids' digestion; Then, swains received their meed of fond support, Or read in azure eyes the plaintive question,— Why come you not to court?

That was indeed a great and glorious era; But now we mourn for moments that are not, Since modern damsels bluntly state that we're a Sad and sorry lot.

Lovers, whose wounds still crave the same old healing, Find when they come to throw the handkerchief An absolutely callous lack of feeling Almost beyond belief.

I love my country; I would gladly serve her; But, since her daughters have no eyes to see A matrimonial prize, I say with fervour, "This is no place for me!"

Fixed is my resolution to escape hence; I used to think my skin was fairly tough, But kicks have been more plentiful than ha'pence; It isn't good enough!

England, farewell, a long farewell; for why let The heart remain a slave for chits to tease, When there is many a comfy little islet Set in the Southern seas.

Thither I'll go, a lorn and lonely wight who, Grown tired of wooing Phyllises, may rest Content to know some coloured beads would buy two, Two of the very best!

HARTLEY CARRICK. Jan. 26, 1910.

When I broke the news to Mabel that a most insistent cable Had demanded my departure to a land across the sea, She occasioned some dissension by announcing her intention Of delaying her farewell until the vessel left the quay.

I displayed a frigid shoulder to her scheme, and frankly told her That no public show of sentiment my tender heart should sear, For I knew the tears would blind me when "The Girl I Left Behind Me" And the strains of "Auld Lang Syne" reverberated in my ear.

But I've recently relented and quite willingly consented To be sped upon my journey by the mistress of my soul; I shall banish sorrow's canker ere the sailors weigh the anchor, And present a smiling visage when the ship begins to roll.

There'll be no one feeling chippy when the band plays "Mississippi" (Such a melody would even lend a fillip to a wreck); I shall laugh and warble freely when they start "The Robert E. Lee," And my cup will be complete when "Snooky-Ookums" sweeps the deck.

Tears of joy there'll be for shedding when "The Darkie's Ragtime Wedding" Sends a syncopated spasm through the passengers and crew; And, when warning tocsins clang go, down the gangway Mab will tango, While I bunny-hug the steward to the tune of "Hitchy-Koo."

STANLEY J. FAY. July 30, 1913.

Lady, having been engaged since May-day (Pity that the Spring should ever stop!) Now the year's no longer in its heyday, Don't you think we'd better let it drop?

In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly Turns to love, as doubtless you're aware; In the Spring we wax exceeding sprightly, Due, no doubt, to something in the air.

Then, as was both natural and proper, We two met and, scorning all delay, Vowed to wed, and neither cared a copper For the pregnant fact that it was May.

Summer came and, warming with the weather, Rarely was an ardour such as mine; You'll recall that, take it altogether, For an English summer it was fine.

Summer turned to Autumn, and September Opened to the world her golden feast; Quite a record month, as you'll remember, And my love, if anything, increased.

Honestly, I thought it was a sure case; Only, now the early Winter's come, Lady, as in others', so in your case, I confess to getting rather numb.

Do not deem me fickle, dear, and faithless; Though the readjustment seems to be Sudden—not to call it startling—natheless You can hardly put it down to me.

Love appears, for some unfathomed reason, Like a flow'r that ripens with the sun; And, like everything that has its season, Withers when its little course is run.

That's what I conceive to be the matter; And I write, believe me, with regret; For I own, with no desire to flatter, That you're quite the nicest girl I've met.

Still, farewell, or (put it less severely) Au revoir; I hope you'll keep the ring; Snows are brief, and I, who loved you dearly Once, again may do so—in the Spring.

CAPT. KENDALL. Almanack, 1914.

You ask me, Araminta, why my pen, Whose airy efforts helped me once to win you, Has, since you made me happiest of men, Apparently resolved to discontinue Its periodic flights And steadily avoids the Muses' heights.

I, too, have wondered. Are connubial cares Antipathetic to divine afflatus? Yet many a bard has piped his liveliest airs After surrendering his single status; Or can it be the War That's been and dried me up in every pore?

Darling, I groped for light, but found no ray; Chill with despair, I almost ceased to seek a Way through the fog, when suddenly to-day Like ARCHIMEDES I exclaimed, "Eureka!" I found indeed the path This morning as I lay inside my bath.

For yesterday to rural scenes you fled And left me, duty's slave, to desolation; To-day I sought my tub with measured tread And spent an hour immersed in contemplation Just as I used to do Ere yet in beauty side by side we grew.

No urgent call to breakfast broke my rest; Serene and snug I heard the quarters chiming, And, as the brimming waters lapped my breast, Almost unconsciously I started rhyming; Then through my mind it shot That thus were all my master-works begot.

Straight from the slopes of Helicon the stream Poured through the tap its music-making shower; Each floating bubble held a precious gleam Which grew to glory as a lyric flower; Idly I laved my curls, And from the sponge there dropped a rain of pearls.

Therefore, when back you hasten to my side, Place this, my love, among your resolutions— Though eggs grow chill and bacon petrified, Never to hustle me in my ablutions, And, to redeem your fault, Order me several tins of Attic Salt.

STANLEY J. FAY. July 28, 1915.

No, Honoria, I am greatly flattered When you cast a soft, seductive eye On a figure permanently battered Out of shape by Anno Domini; Yet, you'll take it please, from me, It can never, never be.

Vainly,—and you mustn't be offended Should a certain candour mark my words— Vainly is the obvious net extended Underneath the eyes of us old birds; Nor are we—it sounds unkind— Taking any salt behind.

You have passed, you say, the salad season, Growing sick of boyhood's callow fluff; You prefer the age of settled reason— Men with minds composed of sterner stuff; All your nature, now so ripe, Yearns towards the finished type.

Yes, but what about your full-fledged fogeys? Youth is good enough for us, I guess; Still we like it fluffy; still the vogue is Sweet-and-Twenty—ay, or even less; Only lately I have been Badly hit by Seventeen.

I have known my heart to melt like tallow In the company of simple youth, Careless though its brain was clearly shallow, Beauty being tantamount to Truth; Give us freshness, free of art, We'll supply the brainy part.

Thus in your hands I was soft as putty Ere your intellect began to grow, When we went a-Maying in the nutty Time—it seems a thousand years ago; Then I wished to make you mine; Why on earth did you decline?

You declined because you had a notion You could choose a husband when you would; There were better fish inside the ocean Than had come to hand—or quite as good; So, until you reached the thirties, We were treated much as dirt is.

Then you grew a little less fastidious, Wondering if your whale would soon arrive, Till your summers (age is so insidious) Touched their present total—45; Well, then, call it 38; Anyhow, it's far too late.

You may say there's something most unknightly Something almost rude about my tone? No, Honoria, when regarded rightly, These are Time's revenges, not my own; You may deem it want of tact, Still, I only state the fact.

Yet, to end upon a note less bitter, You shall hear what chokes me off to-day: 'Tis the thought (it makes my heart-strings twitter) Of a Young Thing chasing nuts in May: 'Tis my loyalty to Her, To the Girl that once you were.

SIR OWEN SEAMAN. Almanack, 1910.