PART IV OTHER VERSES

At Modder, where I met 'im fust, I thought as 'ow ole Bill was dead; A splinter, from a shell wot bust, 'Ad fetched 'im somewheres in the 'ead; But there! It takes a deal to kill Them thick-thatched sort o' blokes like Bill. In the field-'orspital, nex' day, The doctors was a-makin' out The 'casualty returns,' an' they Comes up an' pulls ole Bill about; Ole Colonel Wilks, 'e turns to me, 'Report this "dangerous,"' sez 'e. But Bill, 'oo must 'ave 'eard it too, 'E calls the doctor, quick as thought: 'I'd take it kindly, sir, if you 'Could keep me out o' the report. 'For tho' I'm 'it, an' 'it severe, 'I doesn't want my friends to 'ear. 'I've a ole mother, 'way in Kent, ''Oo thinks the very world o' me; 'I'd thank you if I wasn't sent 'As "wounded dangerous,"' sez 'e; 'For if she 'ears I'm badly hit, 'I lay she won't get over it. 'At Landman's Drift she lost a lad '(With the 18th 'Ussars 'e fell), 'Poor soul, she'd take it mighty bad 'To think o' losin' me as well; 'So please, sir, if it's hall the same, 'I'd ask you not to send my name.' The Colonel bloke 'e thinks a bit, 'Oh, well,' sez 'e, 'per'aps you're right. 'And, now I come to look at it, 'I'll send you in as "scalp-wound, slight." 'O' course it's wrong of me, but still—' 'Gawd bless you, sir, an' thanks!' sez Bill. . . . . . . 'E didn't die; 'e scrambled through. They hoperated on 'is 'ead, An' Gawd knows wot they didn't do,— 'Tripoded' 'im, I think they said. I see'd 'im, Toosday, in Pall Mall, Nor never knowed 'im look so well. Yes, Bill 'e's going strong just now, In London, an' employed again; Tho' it's a fact, 'e sez, as 'ow The doctors took out 'alf 'is brain! Ho well, 'e won't 'ave need o' this— 'E's working at the War Office.

When Anthony Adamson first went to school The reception he got was decidedly cool; And, because he was utterly hopeless at games, He was given all sorts of opprobrious names, Which ranged the whole gamut from 'fat-head' to 'fool'; For boys as a rule, Are what nurses call 'crool,' 'Tis their natural instinct, which nobody blames, Any more than the habits Peculiar to rabbits, To label a duffer 'old woman' or 'muff,' or Some name calculated to cause him to suffer. They failed in their treatment this time, on the whole, Since our Anthony thoroughly pitied the rôle Of the oaf who is muddied, (For Kipling he'd studied), However strong-hearted, broad-limbed, and warm-blooded, Who sits in a goal, Quite deficient of soul, And as blind to the beauties of Life as a mole. He was rather a curious boy, was this youth, And a bit of a prig, if you must know the truth, And his comrades considered him weird and uncouth, For he didn't much mind When they left him behind, And, intent upon cricket, Went off to the wicket; Some other less heating employment he'd find, And, while his young playfellows fielded and batted, This curious fat-head, Ink-fingered, hair-matted, Would take a new pen from his pocket, and lick it, Then into the ink-bottle thoughtfully stick it, And, chewing the holder ('Twas fashioned of gold, Or at least so 'twas sold By a stationer bold, And at any rate furnished a good imitation), In deep rumination, With much mastication, And wonderful patience, Await inspirations; And brilliant ideas would arrive on occasions; When frequently followed, The pen being swallowed, As up to his eyes in the inkpot he wallowed. So all the day long and for half of the night Would young Anthony Adamson nibble and write, With extravagant feelings of joy and delight, And it may sound absurd, But 'twas thus, as I've heard, That he learnt to acquire the appropriate word; And altho' composition, Which was his ambition, At first proved a trifle untamed and refractory; Arrived in a while At evolving a style Which a Stevenson even might deem satisfactory. Now when Anthony A. was as yet in his 'teens He began to take aim at the big magazines, With articles, verses, and little love-scenes; And short stories he wrote, Which he sent with a note (Which I haven't the space nor the leisure to quote), Containing a humble request, and a hope, And some stamps and a clearly addressed envelope. Now a few of these got to the Editor's desk, And he found them well-written and quite picturesque, And he sighed to see talent like this go to waste On what couldn't appeal to the popular taste. For the Public, you see (With a capital P), Doesn't care what it reads, just so long as it be Something really exciting, however bad writing, With wonderful heroes, And villains like Neroes, Who, running as serials, Wearing imperials, Revel in bloodshed and bombast and fighting. So back to the Author his manuscript went; Altho' sometimes a friendly old Editor sent An encouraging letter, To say he'd do better To lower his style to the popular level; When Anthony proudly (Of course not out loudly, But mentally) told him to go to the devil! But a few of his articles never came back, And their whereabouts no one was able to track, For some persons who edited, (Can it be credited?) Finding it paid them, Unduly mislaid them (Behaviour most rare Nowadays anywhere, And to ev'ry tradition entirely opposed), And grew fat on the numerous stamps he enclosed. Tho' to this I am really unable to swear, Or at any rate haven't the courage to dare. Now when Anthony Adamson grew rather older, And wiser, and bolder, And broader of shoulder, He thought he'd a fancy to write for the Press,— 'Tis a common idea with the young, more or less;— And he saw himself doing Critiques and reviewing The latest new books as they came from the printers; To set them on thrones or to smash them to splinters, To damn with faint praise, Or with eulogies raise, As he banned or he blest, Just whatever seemed best To the wit and the wisdom of twenty-three winters. But when he had carefully read thro' the papers, Arranged to the taste of our nation of drapers, And wisely as Solomon Studied each column, an Awful attack of despair and depression Assailed him, and then, As he threw down his pen, He was forced to confess To no hope of success, If he entered the great journalistic profession. For the only description of 'copy' that pays, In the journals that ev'ry one reads nowadays, Is the personal matter, Impertinent chatter, The tales of the tailor, the barber, the hatter; Society small talk, And mere servants'-hall talk, The sort of what's-nobody's-business-at-all-talk; And those who can handle The latest big scandal With the taste of a Thug and the tact of a Vandal, Whatever society paper they write in, Can always provide what their readers delight in. An article, vulgarly written, which deals With the food that celebrities eat at their meals To the popular intellect always appeals. People laugh themselves hoarse At the latest divorce, While a peer's breach of promise is comic, of course; How eager each face is, As ev'ry one races To read the details of the Cruelty cases! And a magistrate's pun Is considered good fun, And arouses the bench of reporters from torpor, When it's at the expense of some broken-down pauper! So Anthony pondered the different ways Of attaining and gaining the popular praise; And selected a score of his brightest essays, Just enough for a book, Which he hopefully took To some publishers, thinking perhaps they would look At what might (as he couldn't help modestly hinting) Repay the expense and the trouble of printing. Now the publishers all were extremely polite, And encouraging quite, For they saw he could write; But the answer they gave him was always the same. 'You are not,' so they said, 'in the least bit to blame, And your style is so good, Be it well understood, We'd be happy to publish your work if we could; But alas! All the people who know are agreed This is not what the Public demands, or would read. 'It is over the head Of the people,' they said. 'If you'd only write down to the popular level!' (Once more, he replied, they could go to the devil!) The result to our author was not unexpected, And, as on his failures he sadly reflected, He took out his pen and a nib he selected, Then wrote (and his verses Were studded with curses) This poem, the Lay of the Author (Rejected). The rejected Author's cup Comes from out a bitter bin, Constable won't 'take him up,' Chambers will not 'take him in.' Publishers, when interviewed, Each alas! in turn looks Black; De la Rue is De-la-rude, Nutt is far too hard to crack. Author, humble as a vassal (He is feeling Low as well), Sadly waits without the Cassell, Vainly tries to press the Bell. Author, hourly growing leaner, Finds each day his jokes more rare, Asks the Longman if he's Green, or Spottiswoode to take the Eyre. Author, blithe as lark each morning, Finds each night his tale unheard, And, when Fred'rick gives him Warn(e)ing, Is not Gay as any Bird. Author, to his writings partial, Musters their array en bloc, Which the Simpkins will not Marshall, And the Elliot will not Stock. Tho' for little he be yearning, Yet that little Long he'll want, When the Lane has got no turning, And the Richards will not Grant. Now when Anthony's life it grew harder and harder; Less coal in the cellar, less meat in the larder; He thought for a while, And at last (with a smile) He determined to sacrifice even his style. So he wrote just whatever came into his head, Without any regard for the living or dead, Or for what his friends thought or his enemies said. From his style he effaced, As incentives to waste, All the canons of grammar and even good taste; And so book after book after book he brought out, Which you've probably read, and you know all about; For the publishers bought them, And ev'ry one thought them So splendidly vulgar, that no one had ever Read anything quite so improperly clever. He tried ev'ry style, from the fashion of Ouida's (His characters being Society Leaders; The Heroine, suited to middle-class readers,— A governess she, who might well have been humbler; The Hero a Duke, an inveterate grumbler; And a Guardsman who drank crême-de-menthe from a tumbler) To that of another more popular lady, And wrote about aristocrats who were shady, And showed that the persons you happen to meet In the Very Best Houses are always effete; That they gamble all night, in particular sets, And (Oh, hasn't she said it, Tho' can it be credit- Ed?) have no intention of paying their debts! His best, which the Critics said 'teemed with expression,' Was the one-volume novel 'A Drunkard's Confession'; The next, 'My Good Woman. A Love Tale'; another, Most popular this, 'The Flirtations of Mother'; And lastly, the crowning success of his life, 'How the Other Half Lives. By a Baronet's Wife.' And the Publishers now are all down on their knees, As they offer what fees He may happen to please; And success he discerns As with rapture he learns The amount that he earns From his roy'lty returns. (N.B.—I omit the last 'a' here in Royalty, For reasons of scansion and not from disloyalty.) The moral of this is quite easy to see; If a popular author you're anxious to be, You won't care a digamma For truth or for grammar, Be far from straitlaced Upon questions of taste, And don't trouble to polish your style or to bevel, But always write down to the popular level; Be vulgar and smart, And you'll get to the heart Of the persons directing the lit'rary mart, And your writings must reach (It's a figure of speech) The—(well, what shall we call it—compositor's) devil!

'It was chickens, chickens, all the way, With children crossing the road like mad; Police disguised in the hedgerows lay, Stop-watches and large white flags they had, At nine o'clock o' this very day. 'I broke the record to Tunbridge Wells, And I shouted aloud, to all concerned, "Give room, good folk, do you hear my bells?" But my motor skidded and overturned; Then exploded—and afterwards, what smells! 'Alack! it was I rode over the son Of a butcher; rolled him all of a heap! Nought man could do did I leave undone; And I thought that butcher's boys were cheap,— But this, poor man, 'twas his only one. 'There's nobody in my motor now,— Just a tangled car in the ditch upset; For the fun of the fair is, all allow, At the County Court, or, better yet, By the very foot of the dock, I trow. . . . . . 'Thus I entered, and thus I go; In Court the magistrate sternly said, "Five guineas fine, and the costs you owe!" I might not question, so promptly paid. Henceforth I walk; I am safer so.'

Archibald Ames is an artist, And a widely renowned R.A., For albeit his pictures are thoroughly bad, The greatest success he has always had, And he makes his profession pay. He has no idea of proportion, No notion of colour or line, But perhaps for such there is little need, Since everybody is fully agreed That his subjects are quite divine. His pictures are sweetly simple; The ingredients all must know,— Just a fair-haired child and a dog or two, A very old man, and a baby's shoe, And some bunches of mistletoe. In some, an angelic infant Is helping a kitten to play, Or dressing a cat in Grandpapa's hat (Which is equally hard on the hat and the cat), Or teaching a 'dolly' to pray. Or else there's a runaway couple, With a distant view of papa, An elderly party with rich man's gout, Who swears himself rapidly inside out, In a broken-down motor-car. Or it may be a scene in the Workhouse, Where a widow of high degree, With almost suspiciously puce-coloured hair, Has arrived in a gorgeous carriage-and-pair, To distribute a pound of tea. Sometimes he portrays a battle, With a 'square' like a Rugby scrum, Where a bugler, the colours grasped in his hand, And making a final determined stand, Plays 'God Save the King' on a drum. This is the kind of subject That he gives to us day by day; You may jeer at the absence of all technique, But these are the pictures the people seek From this justly renowned R.A. In distant suburban boudoirs You will find them, in gilded frames, 'The Prodigal Calf' (a homely scene) 'Grandmamma's Boots,' or 'To Gretna Green,' The Works of Archibald Ames. And, if they appeal to the public, In the usual course of events, Some enterprising manager comes, And buys them up for enormous sums, And they serve as advertisements. Where the child is painting the kitten With Potter's Indelible Dye, While Grandpapa shows to the reckless cat McBride's Indestructible Gibus Hat, (Which Ev'ry one ought to buy). And the Gretna Green arrangement An interest new acquires, By depicting how great the advantages are Of the Patented Spoofenhauss Auto-car, With unpuncturable tyres. And the widow (Try Kay's for mourning), As black as Stevenson's Ink, Is curing the paupers of sundry ills By the gift of a box of the Palest Pills For persons who may be Pink. And the bugler-boy in the battle, With trousers of Blackett's Blue, Unshrinking as Simpson's Serge, and free As Winkleson's Patent Ear-drum he, And steadfast as Holdhard's Glue. This is the modern fashion In the popular art of the day, And this is the reason that Archibald Ames Ranks high among other familiar names As a very well-known R.A.

The murmurous moments of May-time, What bountiful blessings they bring! As dew to the dawn of the day-time, Suspicions of Summer to Spring! Let others imagine the time light, With maidens or books on their knee, Or live in the languorous limelight That tinges the trunk of the Tree. Let the timorous turn to their tennis, Or the bowls to which bumpkins belong, But the thing for grown women and men is The pastime of ping and of pong. The game of the glorious glamour! The feeling to fight till you fall! The hurricane hail and the hammer! The batter and bruise of the ball! The glory of getting behind it! The brief but bewildering bliss! The fear of the failure to find it! The madness at making a miss! The sound of the sphere as you smack it, Derisive, decisive, divine! The riotous rush of your racket, To mix and to mingle with mine! The diadem dear to the King is, How sweet to the singer his song; To me so the plea of the ping is, And the passionate plaint of the pong. I live for it, love for it, like it; Delight of my dearest of dreams! To stand and to strive and to strike it,— So certain, so simple it seems! Then give me the game of the gay time, The ball on its wandering wing, The pastime for night or for day-time, The Pong, not to mention the Ping!

Life's bed is full of crumbs and rice, No roses float on my lagoon; There are no fingers, white and nice, To rub my head with scented ice, Or feed me with a spoon. I think of all the days gone by, Replete with black and blue regret; No comets light my glaucous sky, My tears are hardly ever dry, I never can forget! I see the yellow dog, Desire, That strains against the lead of Hope, With lilac eyes and lips of fire, As all in vain he strives to tire The hand that holds the rope. I see the kisses of the past, Like lambkins dying in the snow, The honeymoon that did not last, The tinted youth that flew so fast, And all this vale of woe. So, raising high my raucous cry, I ask (and Fates no answer give), Why am I pre-ordained to die? O cruel Fortune, tell me, why Am I allowed to live?

Life is hollow to the golfer, of however high his rank, If the dock-leaf and the nettle grow too free, If a bramble bar his progress, if he's bunkered by a bank, If his golf-ball jerks and wobbles off the tee. There's a ditch I never pass, full of stones and broken glass, And I'd sooner lift my ball and count a stroke, For the tears my vision blot when I see the fatal spot, 'Tis the place where my old cleek broke. There's his haft upon the table, there's his head upon a chair; And a better never felt the summer rain; I may curse and I may swear, my umbrella-stand is bare, I shall never use my gallant cleek again! With what unaccustomed speed would he strike the Golf-ball teed! How it sounded on his metal at each stroke! Not a flyer in the game such parabolas could claim, At the place where the old cleek broke! Was he cracked? I hardly think it. Did he slip? I do not know. He had struck the ball for forty yards or more; He was driving smooth and even, just as hard as he could go, I had never seen him striking so before. But I hardly can complain, for there must have been a strain I had forced beyond the compass of a joke— And no club, however strong, could have lasted over long At the place where the old cleek broke! There are men, both staid and sound, who hold it happiness unique, At which only the irreverent can scoff, That is reached by means of brassey, driver, niblick, spoon, or cleek, And that life is not worth living without Golf. Well, I hope it may be so; for myself I only know That I never more shall try another stroke; Yes, I've wearied of the sport, since a lesson I was taught, At the place where the old cleek broke.

The happy homes of London, How beautiful they stand! The crowded human rookeries That mar this Christian land. Where cats in hordes upon the roof For nightly music meet, And the horse, with non-adhesive hoof, Skates slowly down the street. The merry homes of London! Around bare hearths at night, With hungry looks and sickly mien, The children wail and fight. There woman's voice is only heard In shrill, abusive key, And men can hardly speak a word That is not blasphemy. The healthy homes of London! With weekly wifely wage, The hopeless husbands, out of work, Their daily thirst assuage. The overcrowded tenement Is comfortless and bare, The atmosphere is redolent Of hunger and despair. The blessed homes of London! By thousands, on her stones, The helpless, homeless, destitute, Do nightly rest their bones. On pavements Piccadilly way, In slumber like the dead, Their wan pathetic forms they lay, And make their humble bed. The free, fair homes of London! From all the thinking throng, Who mourn a nation's apathy, The cry goes up, 'How long!' And those who love old England's name, Her welfare and renown, Can only contemplate with shame The homes of London town.

There sat one day in a tavern, Somewhere near Lincoln's Inn, Six sleepy-looking working men, Imbibing 'twos' of gin. The Potman filled their tankards With the liquor each preferred, Torpid and somnolent they sat, And spake not one rude word. But when the potman vanished, A brawny Scot stood forth; 'Change here,' quoth he, 'for Aberdeen, Strathpeffer and the North! 'No country in the world, I ken, With Scotia can compare, With all the dour and canny men, And the bonnie lasses there. 'I hae a wee bit hoosie, An' a burn runs greetin' by, An' unco crockit Minister An' a bairn to milk the ki'; 'I hae a muckle haggis, A bap an' a skian-dhu, A cairngorm and a bannock, An' a sonsy kailyard too!' 'Bejabers!' said an Irishman, 'Acushla and Ochone! There's but one country on the Earth, Ould Oireland stands alone! 'Give me the Emerald Isle, avick! With murphies for to ate, An' as many pigs and childer As the fingers on me fate.' Exclaimed a Frenchman, 'Par Exemple! Donnez-moi ma Patrie! Vin ordinaire and savoir faire Are good enough for me! 'Have you the penknife of my Aunt? Mais non, hélas! but then, The female gardener has got Some paper and a pen!' Then spoke a Greek, 'The Isles of Greece! What can compare with those? Thalassa! and Eurêka! Rhododaktylos êôs!' 'On London streets I'm working, With a vat of asphalt stew, Putting off the old macadam, And a-laying down the new; 'But the country of my childhood Is the best that man may know, Oh didêmi also phêmi, Zôê mou sas agapô!' Straight rose a German and remarked 'Vot of die Vaterland? Ach Himmel! Unberüfen! And the luffly German band? 'Gif me some Gotterdammerung, And nuddings more I need, But ewigkeit and sauerkraut And niebelungenlied!' 'Nonsense!' exclaimed an Englishman. ('I surely ought to know!) Old England is the only place Where any man should go! 'Show me the something furriner Who such a fact denies, And, if I can't convince 'im, I can black 'is bloomin' eyes!' Then entered in the potman, And pointed to the door; 'Outside,' said he, 'is where you'll go, If I have any more!' . . . . . It was six friendly working men, Brimming with 'twos' of gin, Who crept from out the tavern, As the Dawn came creeping in.

Old Palace Yard! Hark how their breath draws lank and hard, The sallow stern police! Breaking the desultory midnight peace With plangent call, to cry 'Division'! This their first especial charge. And now, low, luminous, and large, The slumbrous Member hurries by. Let us take cab, Dear Heart, take cab and go From out the lith of this loud world (I know The meaning of the word). Come, let us hie To where the lamp-posts ouch the troubled sky,— (And if there is one thing for which I vouch It is my knowledge of the verb to ouch.) So, as we steal Homeward together, we shall feel The buxom breeze,— (Observe the epithet; an apt one, if you please.) Down through the sober paven street, Which, purged and sweet, Gleams in the ambient deluge of the water-cart, Bemused and blurred and pinkly lustrous, where The blandest lion in Trafalgar Square Seems but a part Of the great continent of light,— An attribute of the embittered night,— How new, how naked and how clean! Couchant, slow, shimmering, superb! Constant to one environment, nor even seen Pottering aimlessly along the kerb. Lo! On the pavement, one of those Grim men who go down to the sea in ships, Blaspheming, reeling in a foul ellipse, Home to some tangled alley-bedside goes,— Oozing and flushed, sharing his elemental mirth With all the jocund undissembling earth; Drooping his shameless nose, Nor hitching up his drifting, shifting clothes. And here is Piccadilly! Loudly dense, Intractable, voluminous, immense! (Dear, dear my heart's desire, can I be talking sense?)

Yes, I am Bluebeard, and my name Is one that children cannot stand; Yet once I used to be so tame I'd eat out of a person's hand; So gentle was I wont to be, A Curate might have played with me. People accord me little praise, Yet I am not the least alarming; I can recall, in bygone days, A maid once said she thought me charming. She was my friend,—no more I vow,— And—she's in an asylum now. Girls used to clamour for my hand, Girls I refused in simple dozens; I said I'd be their brother, and They promised they would be my cousins. (One I accepted,—more or less,— But I've forgotten her address.) They worried me like anything By their proposals ev'ry day; Until at last I had to ring The bell, and have them cleared away; They longed to share my lofty rank, Also my balance at the bank. My hospitality to those Whom I invite to come and stay Is famed; my wine like water flows,— Exactly like, some people say; But this is mere impertinence To one who never spares expense. When through the streets I walk about, My subjects stand and kiss their hands, Raise a refined metallic shout, Wave flags and warble tunes on bands; While bunting hangs on ev'ry front,— With my commands to let it bunt! When I come home again, of course, Retainers are employed to cheer, My paid domestics get quite hoarse Acclaiming me, and you can hear The welkin ringing to the sky,— Ay, ay, and let it welk, say I! And yet, in spite of this, there are Some persons who, at diff'rent times, —(Because I am so popular)— Accuse me of most awful crimes; A girl once said I was a flirt! Oh my! how the expression hurt! I never flirted in the least, Never for very long, I mean,— Ask any lady (now deceased) Who partner of my life has been;— Oh well, of course, sometimes, perhaps, I meet a girl, like other chaps,— And, if I like her very much, And if she cares for me a bit, Where is the harm of look or touch, If neither of us mentions it? It isn't right, I don't suppose, But no one's hurt if no one knows! One should not break oneself too fast Of little habits of this sort, Which may be definitely classed With gambling, or a taste for port; They should be slowly dropped, until The Heart is subject to the Will. I knew a man (in Regent Street) Who, at a very slight expense, By persevering, was complete- Ly cured of Total Abstinence An altered life he has begun And takes a glass with any one. I knew another man, whose wife Was an invet'rate suicide; She daily strove to take her life, And (naturally) nearly died; But some such system she essayed, And now—she's eighty in the shade. Ah, the new leaves I try to turn! But, like so many men in town, I seem (as with regret I learn) Merely to turn the corner down; A habit which, I fear, alack! Makes it more easy to turn back. I have been criticised a lot; I venture to inquire what for? Because, forsooth, I have not got The instincts of a bachelor! Just hear my story, you will find How grossly I have been maligned. I was unlucky with my wives, So are the most of married men; Undoubtedly they lost their lives,— Of course, but even so, what then? I loved them like no other man, And I can love, you bet I can! My first was little Emmeline, More beautiful than day was she; Her proud, aristocratic mien Was what at once attracted me. I naturally did not know That I should soon dislike her so. But there it was! And you'll infer I had not very long to wait Before my red-hot love for her Turned to unutterable hate. So, when this state of things I found, I had her casually drowned. My next was Sarah, sweet but shy, And quite inordinately meek; Yes, even now I wonder why I had her hanged within the week; Perhaps I felt a bit upset, Or else she bored me. I forget. Then came Evangeline, my third, And when I chanced to be away, She, so I subsequently heard, Was wont (I deeply grieve to say) With my small retinue to flirt. I strangled her. I hope it hurt. Isabel was, I think, my next,— (That is, if I remember right),— And I was really very vexed To find her hair come off at night; To falsehood I could not connive, And so I had her boiled alive. Then came Sophia, I believe, Her coiffure was at least her own; Alas! she fancied to deceive Her friends, by altering its tone. She dyed her locks a flaming red! I suffocated her in bed. Susannah Maud was number six, But she did not survive a day; Poor Sue, she had no parlour tricks, And hardly anything to say. A little strychnine in her tea Finished her off, and I was free. Yet I did not despair, and soon, In spite of failures, started off Upon my seventh honeymoon, With Jane; but could not stand her cough. 'Twas chronic. Kindness was in vain. I pushed her underneath the train. Well, after her, I married Kate, A most unpleasant woman. Oh! I caught her at the garden gate, Kissing a man I didn't know; And, as that didn't suit me quite, I blew her up with dynamite. Most married men, so sorely tried As this, would have been rather bored. Not I, but chose another bride, And married Ruth. Alas! she snored! I served her just the same as Kate, And so she joined the other eight. My last was Grace; I am not clear, I think she didn't like me much; She used to scream when I came near, And shuddered at my lightest touch. She seemed to wish to keep aloof, And so I threw her off the roof. This is the point I wish to make;— From all the wives for whom I grieve, Whose lives I had perforce to take, Not one complaint did I receive; And no expense was spared to please My spouses at their obsequies. My habits, I would have you know, Are perfect, as they've always been; You ask if I am good, and go To church, and keep my fingers clean? I do, I mean to say I am, I have the morals of a lamb. In my domains there is no sin, Virtue is rampant all the time, Since I so thoughtfully brought in A bill which legalises crime; Committing things that are not wrong Must pall before so very long. And if what you imagine vice Is not considered so at all, Crime doesn't seem the least bit nice, There's no temptation then to fall; For half the charm of things we do Is knowing that we oughtn't to. Believe me, then, I am not bad, Though in my youth I had to trek, Because I happened to have had Some difficulties with a cheque. What forgery in some might be Is absent-mindedness in me! I know that I was much abused, No doubt when I was young and rash, But I should not have been accused Of misappropriating cash. I may have sneaked a silver dish;— Well, you may search me if you wish! So, now you see me, more or less, As I would figure in your thoughts; A trifle given to excess, And prone perhaps to vice of sorts; When tempted, rather apt to fall, But still—a good chap after all!

Attracted to the frozen river's brink, Where on a small impromptu snow-swept rink, The happy skaters darted left and right, Or circled amorously out of sight, Some self-supporting; some, like falling stars, Spread-eagling ankle-weak parabolas; I watched the human swarm, and I was 'ware A woman, disarranged, knelt on a chair. She had cold feet on which she could not run, And piteously she thawed them in the sun. Those feet were of a woman that alone Was kneeling; a pink liquid by her shone, Which raising to her luminous, lantern jaw, She sipped; or idly stirred it with a straw. Upon her hat she wore a kind of fowl, An hummingbird, I ween, or else an owl. Then turned to me. I looked the other way, Trembling; I knew the words she wished to say. So warm her gaze the blood rushed to my head, Instinctively I knew her feet were dead. Amorphous feet, like monumental moons, Pavement-obliterating, vast, pontoons, Superbly varnished, to the ice had come, And now, snow-kissed, frost-fettered, dangled numb. Gently she spoke,—the while my senses whirled, Of 'largest circulations in the world'; Wildly she spoke, as babble men in dreams, Of feeling life's blood 'rushing to extremes'; But I ignored her with deliberate stare, Until the indelicate thing began to swear. Sensations as of pins and needles rose, Apollinaris-like, in tingled toes. She felt the hungry frost that punctured holes, Like concentrated seidlitz, in her soles. Feebly she stept; and sudden was aware Her feet had gone,—they were no longer there,— And from her boots was willing to be freed; She would not keep what she could never need. Sullenly I consented, and withdrew From either heel a huge chaotic shoe; Yet for a time laboriously and slow She journeyed with her ponderous boots, as though Along with her she could not help but bear The bargelike burdens she was wont to wear. Towards me she reeled; and 'Oh! my Uncle,' cried, 'My Uncle!' but I pushed her to one side, Then smiled upon her so she could not stay,— (My smile can frighten motor-cars away):— While thus I grinned, not knowing what to do, A belted beadle, in immaculate blue, Plucked at my sleeve, and shattered my romance, Wheeling on cushion tires an ambulance. Deliberately then he laid her there, Tucked in and bore away; I did not care!

'E'er August be turned to September, Nor Summer to Autumn as yet, My darling, you Autumn remember What Summer so sure to forget. 'Though age may extinguish the ember That glowed in our hearts when we met, Remember, my love, to remember, And I will forget to forget. 'Who knows but the winds of December May drift us asunder, my pet; And if I forget to remember, Remember, my sweet, to forget! 'My beauty will fade, as the posy You gave me that night on the stairs; My lips will not always be rosy, My head cannot give itself 'airs. 'Alas! as we both become older, Existence draws nigh to a close; So, until I've forgotten your shoulder, You must not remember my nose. 'Our days were not all sunny weather; Even so we have nought to regret,— Ah! let us remember together, Until we forget to forget!'

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 grate Blaze up within the waiting-room, And so dispelled the usual gloom. Which done, he came and took his seat Beside me, doffed his coat, untied His bootlaces, and let his feet Peep 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 got A head as empty as a bubble? Bidding me sternly, did I not Desire 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 tale Of 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 knew That porter hated me; (though why I cannot understand, can you?) And what on earth was I to do! Next moment, though I still perspire To think of it, I quickly found A thing to do; and on the fire I 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 smelt An odour as of burnt quill-pen. My laughter bubbled over then. I seized him lightly, with the tongs About his waist; and through the door I 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 ill To note the somewhat painful mess Concocted 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.

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 brow The '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 whelps Untwist 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, and She'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 forget You 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 page With feelings of relief, I'm certain; And there arrives, at such a stage, The moment to ring down the Curtain. (This metaphor is freely taken From Shakespeare,—or perhaps from Bacon.) The Book perused, our Future brings A plethora of blank to-morrows, When memories of Happier Things Will be our Sorrow's Crown of Sorrows. (I trust you recognise this line As being Tennyson's, not mine.) My verses may indeed be few, But are they not, to quote the poet, 'The sweetest things that ever grew Beside a human door'? I know it! (What an inhuman door would be, Enquire of Wordsworth, please, not me.) 'Twas one of my most cherished dreams To write a Moral Book some day;— What says the Bard? 'The best laid schemes Of 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 thought As swift as the phonetic Pitman, Morality is not my 'forte,' O Camarados! (vide Whitman). And, like the Porcupine, I still Am 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 Mate Upon 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 task Of 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 I Would 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 enjoy A 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 took Seemed quite so evident before. If purchasing an author's book Will keep the wolf from his back-door, It is our very obvious mission To buy up the entire edition.

"Aunt Jane observed the second time She tumbled off a 'bus, The step is short from the sublime To the ridiculous."'

"Philip, foozling with his cleek, Drove his ball through Helen's cheek. Sad they bore her corpse away, Seven up and six to play."'