Chapter VI: Part 6

Hushed now is the bibulous bubble
Of “lithe and lascivious” throats;
Long stript and extinct is the stubble
Of hoary and harvested oats;
From the sweets that are sour as the sorrel’s
The bees have abortively swarmed;
And Algernon’s earlier morals
Are fairly reformed.

I have written a loyal Armada,
And posed in a Jubilee pose;
I have babbled of babies and played a
New tune on the turn of their toes;
Washed white from the stain of Astarte,
My books any virgin may buy;
And I hear I am praised by a party
Called Something Mackay!

When erased are the records, and rotten
The meshes of memory’s net;
When the grace that forgives has forgotten
The things that are good to forget;
When the trill of my juvenile trumpet
Is dead and its echoes are dead;
Then the laurel shall lie on the crumpet
And crown of my head!
_Owen Seaman._

NEPHELIDIA

FROM the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable
nimbus of nebulous moonshine,
Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with
fear of the flies as they float,
Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of
mystic miraculous moonshine,
These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and
threaten with throbs through the throat?
Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor’s
appalled agitation,
Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the
promise of pride in the past;
Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that reddens with
radiance of rathe recreation,
Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom
of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast?
Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on
the temples of terror,
Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who
is dumb as the dust-heaps of death;
Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional
exquisite error,
Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by
beatitude’s breath.
Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and
soul of our senses
Sweetens the stress of surprising suspicion that sobs in the
semblance and sound of a sigh;
Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular
tenses,—
“Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the
dawn of the day when we die.”
Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as
it may be,
While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of
men’s rapiers, resigned to the rod;
Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing
bulk of a balm-breathing baby,
As they grope through the grave-yard of creeds, under skies growing
green at a groan for the grimness of God.
Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is
blacker than bluer:
Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews
are the wine of the bloodshed of things;
Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is
freed from the fangs that pursue her,
Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the
hunt that has harried the kennel of kings.
_Algernon Charles Swinburne._

THE LAY OF MACARONI

AS a wave that steals when the winds are stormy
From creek to cove of the curving shore,
Buffeted, blown, and broken before me,
Scattered and spread to its sunlit core:
As a dove that dips in the dark of maples
To sip the sweetness of shelter and shade,
I kneel in thy nimbus, O noon of Naples,
I bathe in thy beauty, by thee embayed.

What is it ails me that I should sing of her?
The queen of the flashes and flames that were!
Yea, I have felt the shuddering sting of her,
The flower-sweet throat and the hands of her!
I have swayed and sung to the sound of her psalters,
I have danced her dances of dizzy delight,
I have hallowed mine hair to the horns of her altars,
Between the nightingale’s song and the night!

What is it, Queen, that now I should do for thee?
What is it now I should ask at thine hands?
Blow of the trumpets thine children once blew for thee?
Break from thine feet and thine bosom the bands?
Nay, as sweet as the songs of Leone Leoni,
And gay as her garments of gem-sprinkled gold,
She gives me mellifluous, mild macaroni,
The choice of her children when cheeses are old!

And over me hover, as if by the wings of it,
Frayed in the furnace by flame that is fleet,
The curious coils and the strenuous strings of it,
Dropping, diminishing down, as I eat;
Lo! and the beautiful Queen, as she brings of it,
Lifts me the links of the limitless chain,
Bidding mine mouth chant the splendidest things of it,
Out of the wealth of my wonderful brain!

Behold! I have done it: my stomach is smitten
With sweets of the surfeit her hands have unrolled.
Italia, mine cheeks with thine kisses are bitten,
I am broken with beauty, stabbed, slaughtered, and sold!
No man of thy millions is more macaronied,
Save mighty Mazzini, than musical Me;
The souls of the Ages shall stand as astonied,
And faint in the flame I am fanning for thee!
_Bayard Taylor._

AFTER BRET HARTE

THE HEATHEN PASS-EE

_By Bred Hard_

Which I wish to remark,
And my language is plain,
That for plots that are dark
And not always in vain
The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar,
And the same I would rise to explain.

I would also premise
That the term of Pass-ee
Most fitly applies,
As you probably see,
To one whose vocation is passing
The ordinary B. A. degree.

Tom Crib was his name,
And I shall not deny
In regard to the same
What that name might imply;
But his face it was trustful and childlike,
And he had a most innocent eye.

Upon April the First
The Little-Go fell,
And that was the worst
Of the gentleman’s sell,
For he fooled the Examining Body
In a way I’m reluctant to tell.

The candidates came,
And Tom Crib soon appeared;
It was Euclid. The same
Was “the subject he feared;”
But he smiled as he sat by the table,
With a smile that was wary and weird.

Yet he did what he could,
And the papers he showed
Were remarkably good,
And his countenance glowed
With pride when I met him soon after
As he walked down the Trumpington Road.

We did not find him out,
Which I bitterly grieve,
For I’ve not the least doubt
That he’d placed up his sleeve
Mr. Todhunter’s excellent Euclid,
The same with intent to deceive.

But I shall not forget
How the next day at two
A stiff paper was set
By Examiner U.,
On Euripides’ tragedy, Bacchae,
A subject Tom partially knew.

But the knowledge displayed
By that heathen Pass-ee,
And the answers he made,
Were quite frightful to see,
For he rapidly floored the whole paper
By about twenty minutes to three.

Then I looked up at U.,
And he gazed upon me;
I observed “This won’t do;”
He replied, “Goodness me;
We are fooled by this artless young person,”
And he sent for that heathen Pass-ee.

The scene that ensued
Was disgraceful to view,
For the floor it was strewed
With a tolerable few
Of the “tips” that Tom Crib had been hiding
For the subject he “partially knew.”

On the cuff of his shirt
He had managed to get
What we hoped had been dirt,
But which proved, I regret,
To be notes on the rise of the Drama,
A question invariably set.

In his various coats
We proceeded to seek,
Where we found sundry notes
And—with sorrow I speak speak—
One of Bohn’s publications, so useful
To the student in Latin or Greek.

In the crown of his cap
Were the Furies and Fates,
And a delicate map
Of the Dorian States;
And we found in his palms, which were hollow,
What are frequent in palms,—that is dates.

Which I wish to remark,
And my language is plain,
That for plots that are dark
And not always in vain
The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar,
Which the same I am free to maintain.
_A. C. Hilton._

DE TEA FABULA

_Plain Language from Truthful James_

DO I sleep? Do I dream?
Am I hoaxed by a scout?
Are things what they seem,
Or is Sophists about?
Is our το τι ηυ ειναι 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
—Dr. 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 το τι ηυ ειναι a failure, or is Robert Browning played out?
_A. T. Quiller-Couch._

AFTER AUSTIN DOBSON

THE PRODIGALS

(_Dedicated to Mr. Chaplin, M.P., and Mr. Richard Power, M.P., and 223 who followed him_)

MINISTERS! you, most serious,
Critics and statesmen of all degrees,
Hearken awhile to the motion of us—
Senators keen for the Epsom breeze!
Nothing we ask of poets or fees;
Worry us not with objections, pray!
Lo, for the speaker’s wig we seize—
Give us, ah! give us the Derby Day.

Scots most prudent, penurious!
Irishmen busy as bumblebees!
Hearken awhile to the motion of us—
Senators keen for the Epsom breeze!
For Sir Joseph’s sake, and his owner’s, please!
(Solomon raced like fun, they say.)
Lo, for we beg on our bended knees—
Give us, ah! give us the Derby Day.

Campbell—Asheton be generous!
(But they voted such things were not the cheese.)
Sullivan, hear us, magnanimous!
(But Sullivan thought with their enemies.)
And shortly they got both of help and ease,
For a mad majority crowded to say,
“Debate we’ve drunk to the dregs and lees:
Give us, ah! give us the Derby Day.”

ENVOI:

Prince, most just was the motion of these,
And many were seen by the dusty way,
Shouting glad to the Epsom breeze
Give us, ah! give us the Derby Day.
_Anonymous._

AFTER ANDREW LANG

BO-PEEP

UNHAPPY is Bo-Peep,
Her tears profusely flow,
Because her precious sheep
Have wandered to and fro,
Have chosen far to go,
For “pastures new” inclined,
(See Lycidas)—and lo!
Their tails are still behind!

How catch them while asleep?
(I think Gaboriau
For machinations deep
Beats Conan Doyle and Co.)
But none a hint bestow
Save this, on how to find
The flocks she misses so—
“Their tails are still behind!”

This simple faith to keep
Will mitigate her woe,
She is not Joan, to leap
To arms against the foe
Or conjugate τὑρτω;
Nay, peacefully resigned
She waits, till time shall show
Their tails are still behind!

Bo-Peep, rejoice! Although
Your sheep appear unkind,
Rejoice at last to know
Their tails are still behind!
_Anthony C. Deane._

AFTER W. E. HENLEY

IMITATION

CALM and implacable,
Eying disdainfully the world beneath,
Sat Humpty-Dumpty on his mural eminence
In solemn state:
And I relate his story
In verse unfettered by the bothering restrictions of rhyme or metre,
In verse (or “rhythm,” as I prefer to call it)
Which, consequently, is far from difficult to write.

He sat. And at his feet
The world passed on—the surging crowd
Of men and women, passionate, turgid, dense,
Keenly alert, lethargic, or obese.
(Those two lines scan!)

Among the rest
He noted Jones; Jones with his Roman nose,
His eyebrows—the left one streaked with a dash of gray—
And yellow boots.
Not that Jones
Has anything in particular to do with the story;
But a descriptive phrase
Like the above shows that the writer is
A Master of Realism.

Let us proceed. Suddenly from his seat
Did Humpty-Dumpty slip. Vainly he clutched
The impalpable air. Down and down,
Right to the foot of the wall,
Right on to the horribly hard pavement that ran beneath it,
Humpty-Dumpty, the unfortunate Humpty-Dumpty,
Fell.

And him, alas! no equine agency,
Him no power of regal battalions—
Resourceful, eager, strenuous—
Could ever restore to the lofty eminence
Which once was his.
Still he lies on the very identical
Spot where he fell—lies, as I said on the ground,
Shamefully and conspicuously abased!
_Anthony C. Deane._

AFTER R. L. STEVENSON

BED DURING EXAMS

I USED to go to bed at night,
And only worked when day was light.
But now ’tis quite the other way,
I never get to bed till day.

I look up from my work and see
The morning light shine in on me,
And listen to the warning knell—
The tinkle of the rising bell.

And does there not seem cause to weep,
When I should like so much to sleep,
I have to sing this mournful lay,
I cannot get to bed till day?
_Clara Warren Vail._

AFTER OSCAR WILDE

MORE IMPRESSIONS

(_La Fuite des Oies_)

TO outer senses they are geese,
Dull drowsing by a weedy pool;
But try the impression trick. Cool! Cool!
Snow-slumbering sentinels of Peace!

Deep silence on the shadowy flood,
Save rare sharp stridence (that means “quack”),
Low amber light in Ariel track
Athwart the dun (that means the mud).

And suddenly subsides the sun,
Bulks mystic, ghostly, thrid the gloom
(That means the white geese waddling home),
And darkness reigns! (See how it’s done?)
_Oscuro Wildgoose._

NURSERY RHYMES À LA MODE

(_Our nurseries will soon be too cultured to admit the
old rhymes in their Philistine and unæsthetic garb.
They may be redressed somewhat on this model_)

OH, but she was dark and shrill,
(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)
The cat that (on the first April)
Played the fiddle on the lea.
Oh, and the moon was wan and bright,
(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)
The Cow she looked nor left nor right,
But took it straight at a jump, pardie!
The hound did laugh to see this thing,
(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)
As it was parlous wantoning,
(Ah, good my gentles, laugh not ye,)
And underneath a dreesome moon
Two lovers fled right piteouslie;
A spooney plate with a plated spoon,
(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)

POSTSCRIPT

Then blame me not, altho’ my verse
Sounds like an echo of C. S. C.
Since still they make ballads that worse and worse
Savor of diddle and hey-de-dee.
_Anonymous._

A MAUDLE-IN BALLAD

(_To his Lily_)

MY lank limp lily, my long lithe lily,
My languid lily-love fragile and thin,
With dank leaves dangling and flower-flap chilly,
That shines like the shin of a Highland gilly!
Mottled and moist as a cold toad’s skin!
Lustrous and leper-white, splendid and splay!
Art thou not Utter and wholly akin
To my own wan soul and my own wan chin,
And my own wan nose-tip, tilted to sway
The peacock’s feather, _sweeter than sin_,
That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday?

My long lithe lily, my languid lily,
My lank limp lily-love, how shall I win—
Woo thee to wink at me? Silver lily,
How shall I sing to thee, softly or shrilly?
What shall I weave for thee—what shall I spin—
Rondel, or rondeau, or virelai?
Shall I buzz like a bee with my face thrust in
Thy choice, chaste chalice, or choose me a tin
Trumpet, or touchingly, tenderly play
On the weird bird-whistle, _sweeter than sin_,
That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday.

My languid lily, my lank limp lily,
My long lithe lily-love, men may grin—
Say that I’m soft and supremely silly—
What care I while you whisper stilly;
What care I while you smile? Not a pin!
While you smile, you whisper—’Tis sweet to decay?

I have watered with chlorodine, tears of chagrin,
The churchyard mould I have planted thee in,
Upside down in an intense way,
In a rough red flower-pot, _sweeter than sin_,
That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday.
_Punch._

QUITE THE CHEESE

(_By a Wilde Æsthete_)

THERE was once a maiden who loved a cheese;
_Sing, hey! potatoes and paint!_
She could eat a pound and a half with ease
_Oh, the odorous air was faint!_

What was the cheese that she loved the best?
_Sing, hey, red pepper and rags!_
You will find it out if you read the rest;
_Oh, the horrors of frowning crags!_

Came lovers to woo her from every land—
_Sing, hey! fried bacon and files!_
They asked for her heart, but they meant her hand,
_Oh, the joy of the Happy Isles._

A haughty old Don from Oporto came;
_Sing, hey! new carrots and nails!_
The Duke of GORGONZOLA, his famous name,
_Oh, the lusciously-scented gales!_

Lord STILTON belonged to a mighty line!
_Sing, hey! salt herrings and stones!_
He was “Blue” as chine—his taste divine!
_Oh, the sweetness of dulcet tones._

Came stout DOUBLE GLO’STER—a man and wife,
_Sing, hey! post pillars and pies!_
And the son was SINGLE, and fair as fate;
_Oh, the purple of sunset skies!_

DE CAMEMBERT came from his sunny France,
_Sing, hey! pork cutlets and pearls!_
He would talk sweet nothings, and sing and dance,
_Oh, the sighs of the soft sweet girls._

Came GRUYÈRE so pale! a most hole-y man!
_Sing, hey! red sandstone and rice!_
But the world saw through him as worldings can,
_Oh, the breezes from Isles of Spice._

But the maiden fair loved no cheese but one!
_Sing, hey! acrostics and ale!_
Save for SINGLE GLO’STER she love had none!
_Oh, the roses on fair cheeks pale!_

He was fair and single—and so was she!
_Sing, hey! tomatoes and tar!_
And so now you know which it is to be!
_Oh, the aid of a lucky star!_

They toasted the couple the livelong night,
_Sing, hey! cast iron and carp!_
And engaged a poet this song to write.
_Oh, the breathing Æolian harp!_

So he wrote this ballad at vast expense!
_Sing, hey! pump-handles and peas!_
And, though you may think it devoid of sense,
_Oh, he_ fancies it QUITE THE CHEESE!
_H. C. Waring._

AFTER WILLIAM WATSON

THE THREE MICE

THREE mice—three sightless mice—averse from strife,
Peaceful descendants of the Armenian race,
Intent on finding some secluded place
Wherein to pass their inoffensive life;
How little dreamt they of that farmer’s wife—
The Porte’s malicious minion—giving chase,
And in a moment—ah, the foul disgrace!—
Shearing their tails off with a carving-knife!

And oh, my unemotional countrymen,
Who choose to dally and to temporize,
When once before with vitriolic pen
I told the tale of Turkish infamies,
Once more I call to vengeance,—now as then,
Shouting the magic word “Atrocities!”
_Anthony C. Deane._

AFTER KIPLING

FUZZY WUZZY LEAVES US

We’ve been visited by men across the seas,
And some of them could write, and some could not;
The English, French, and German—whom you please,
But Kipling was the finest of the lot.
In sooth, we’re loath to lose him from our list;
Though he’s not been wholly kind in all his dealings;
Indeed from first to last I must insist,
He has played the cat and banjo with our feelings.

But here’s _to_ you, Mr. Kipling, with your comments and your
slurs;
You’re a poor, benighted Briton, but the Prince of Raconteurs!
We’ll give you your certificate, and if you want it signed,
Come back and have a fling at us whenever you’re inclined!

You harrowed us with murder and with blood;
You dipped us deep in Simla’s petty guile;
Yet we have found ourselves misunderstood
When we served you a sensation in our style;
And though you saw some grewsome pictures through
The Windy City’s magnifying lens,
Yet we took it just a little hard of _you_,
A-objecting to the slaughter of our pens!

But here’s _to_ you, Mr. Kipling, and the boys of Lung-tung-pen,
And all we have to ask you is, make ’em kill again!
For though we’re crude in some things here, which fact I much
deplore,
We know genius when we see it, and we’re not afraid of gore.

And yet we love you best on Greenough Hill,
By Bisesa and her sisters dark perplext;
In your sermons, which have power to lift and thrill
Just because they have the heart of man as text;
And when you bend, the little ones to please,
With Bagheera and Baloo at hide and seek,
Oh! a happy hour with Mowgli in the trees
Sets a little chap a-dreaming for a week.

So, here’s _to_ you, Mr. Kipling, and to Mowgli and Old Kaa,
And to her who loved and waited where the Gates of Sorrow are;
For where is brush more potent to paint since Art began
The white love of a Woman and the red blood of a Man.

So, since to us you’ve given such delight,
We hope that you won’t think us quite so bad.
You’re all hot sand and ginger, when you write,
But we’re sure you’re only shamming when you’re mad.
Yet so you leave us Gunga Din’s salaam,
So you incarnate Mulvaney on a spree;
Mr. Kipling, sir, we do not “care a damn”
For the comments you may make on such as we!

Then here’s _to_ you, Mr. Kipling, and Columbia avers
You’re a poor, benighted Briton, but the Prince of Raconteurs.
You may scathe us, and may leave us; still in our hearts will
stay
The man who made Mulvaney and the road to Mandalay.
_E. P. C._

A BALLAD

(_In the manner of R-dy-rd K-pl-ng_)

AS I was walkin’ the jungle round, a-killin’ of tigers an’ time;
I seed a kind of an author man a writin’ a rousin’ rhyme;
’E was writin’ a mile a minute an’ more, an’ I sez to ’im, “’Oo are
you?”
Sez ’e, “I’m a poet—’er majesty’s poet—soldier an’ sailor, too!”
An ’is poem began in Ispahan an’ ended in Kalamazoo,
It ’ad army in it, an’ navy in it, an’ jungle sprinkled through,
For ’e was a poet—’er majesty’s poet—soldier an’ sailor, too!

An’ after, I met ’im all over the world, a doin’ of things a host;
’E ’ad one foot planted in Burmah, an’ one on the Gloucester coast;
’E’s ’alf a sailor an’ ’alf a whaler, ’e’s captain, cook, and crew,
But most a poet—’er majesty’s poet—soldier an’ sailor too!
’E’s often Scot an’ ’e’s often not, but ’is work is never through,
For ’e laughs at blame, an’ ’e writes for fame, an’ a bit for
revenoo,—
Bein’ a poet—’er majesty’s poet—soldier an’ sailor too!

’E’ll take you up to the Ar’tic zone, ’e’ll take you down to the
Nile,
’E’ll give you a barrack ballad in the Tommy Atkins style,
Or ’e’ll sing you a Dipsy Chantey, as the bloomin’ bo’suns do,
For ’e is a poet—’er majesty’s poet—soldier an’ sailor too.
An’ there isn’t no room for others, an’ there’s nothin’ left to do;
’E ’as sailed the main from the ’Orn to Spain, ’e ’as tramped the
jungle through,
An’ written up all there is to write—soldier an’ sailor, too!

There are manners an’ manners of writin’, but ’is is the _proper_
way,
An’ it ain’t so hard to be a bard if you’ll imitate Rudyard K.;
But sea an’ shore an’ peace an’ war, an’ everything else in view—
’E ’as gobbled the lot!—’er majesty’s poet—soldier a’n sailor, too.
’E’s not content with ’is Indian ’ome, ’e’s looking for regions new,
In another year ’e’ll ’ave swept ’em clear, an’ what’ll the rest of
us do?
_’E’s crowdin’ us out!_—’er majesty’s poet—soldier an’ sailor too!
_Guy Wetmore Carryl._

JACK AND JILL

_HERE is the tale—and you must make the most of it!
Here is the rhyme—ah, listen and attend!
Backwards—forwards—read it all and boast of it
If you are anything the wiser at the end!_

Now Jack looked up—it was time to sup, and the bucket was yet to
fill;
And Jack looked round for a space and frowned, then beckoned his
sister Jill,
And twice he pulled his sister’s hair, and thrice he smote her side;
“Ha’ done, ha’ done with your impudent fun—ha’ done, with your
games!” she cried;
“You have made mud-pies of a marvellous size—finger and face are
black,
You have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay—now up and wash you,
Jack!
Or else, or ever we reach our home, there waiteth an angry dame—
Well you know the weight of her blow—the supperless open shame!
Wash, if you will, on yonder hill—wash if you will, at the spring,—
Or keep your dirt, to your certain hurt, and an imminent walloping!”

“You must wash—you must scrub—you must scrape!” growled Jack, “you
must traffic with can and pails,
Nor keep the spoil of the good brown soil in the rim of your
fingernails!
The morning path you must tread to your bath—you must wash ere the
night descends,
And all for the cause of conventional laws and the soapmaker’s
dividends!
But if ’t is sooth that our meal in truth depends on our washing,
Jill,
By the sacred right of our appetite—haste—haste to the top of the
hill!”

They have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay, they have toiled and
travelled far,
They have climbed to the brow of the hill-top now, where the bubbling
fountains are,
They have taken the bucket and filled it up—yea, filled it up to the
brim;
But Jack he sneered at his sister Jill, and Jill she jeered at him:
“What, blown already!” Jack cried out (and his was a biting mirth!)
“You boast indeed of your wonderful speed—but what is the boasting
worth?
Now, if you can run as the antelope runs, and if you can turn like
a hare,

Come, race me, Jill, to the foot of the hill—and prove your boasting
fair!“
”Race? What is a race?“ (and a mocking face had Jill as she spake the
word)
”Unless for a prize the runner tries? The truth indeed ye heard,
For I can run as the antelope runs, and I can turn like a hare:—
The first one down wins half a crown—and I will race you there!“
”Yea, if for the lesson that you will learn (the lesson of humbled
pride),
The price you fix at two-and-six, it shall not be denied;
Come, take your stand at my right hand, for here is the mark we toe:
Now, are you ready, and are you steady? Gird up your petticoats? Go!“

And Jill she ran like a winging bolt, a bolt from the bow released,
But Jack like a stream of the lightning gleam, with its pathway duly
greased;
He ran down hill in front of Jill like a summer lightning flash—
Till he suddenly tripped on a stone, or slipped, and fell to the
earth with a crash.
Then straight did rise on his wondering eyes the constellations fair,
Arcturus and the Pleiades, the Greater and Lesser Bear,
The swirling rain of a comet’s train he saw, as he swiftly fell—
And Jill came tumbling after him with a loud, triumphant yell:
“You have won, you have won, the race is done! And as for the wager
laid—
You have fallen down with a broken crown—the half-crown debt is
paid!”

They have taken Jack to the room at the back where the family
medicines are,
And he lies in bed with a broken head in a halo of vinegar;
While, in that Jill had laughed her fill as her brother fell to
earth
She had felt the sting of a walloping—she hath paid the price of her
mirth!

_Here is the tale—and now you have the whole of it!
Here is the story, well and wisely planned;
Beauty—Duty—these make up the soul of it—
But, ah, my little readers, will you mark and understand?_
_Anthony C. Deane._

THE LEGEND OF REALISM

THIS is the sorrowful story,
Told when the twilight fails,
And the authors sit together
Reading each other’s tales.

“Our fathers lived in the cloudland,
They were Romanticists,
They went down to the valley
To play with the Scientists.

“Our fathers murmured of moonshine,
Our fathers sang to the stars,
Our fathers were playfully prolix,
Our fathers knew nothing of ‘pars.’

“Then came the terrible savants,
Nothing of play they knew,
Only—they caught our fathers,
And set them to burrow too.

“Set them to work in the workshop,
With crucible, test, and scales,
Put them in mud-walled prisons,
And—cut up their beautiful tales.

“Now we can read our fathers,
Trenchant, and terse, and cold,
Stooping to dig in dust-heaps,
Sharing the common mold.

“Driving a quill quotidian,
Mending a muddy plot,
Sitting in mud-walled prisons,
Steeping their souls in rot.

“Thus and so do our fathers,
Thus and so must we do,
For we are the slaves of science,
And we are Realists too.”

This is the horrible story,
Told as the twilight fails,
And the authors sit together
Reading each other’s tales.
_Hilda Johnson._

AFTER STEPHEN PHILLIPS

LITTLE JACK HORNER

Littlé Jack Horner sát in án anglé Meditating.
Before we go farther,
Please clearly understand this is blank verse.
If it reads strangely, and the accent falls
In unexpected places, do not dare
To criticise. Remember once for all,
That I and Milton judge questións like that—
_Vide_ my letters to the daily press.
As for my critics—wholesale ignorance
Were a term far too mild to paint their gross
Unintellectuality. So much said,
I start again.
In a cornér he sat,
Remote from comrades. Resolutely his hand
Clutched a delicious pie. Anon his thumb
From thé pasty depth próduced á curránt.

(Excuse another interruption, but
Observe the beauty of that ultimate line!
With equal ease I might have written it
“Produced a currant from the pasty depth,”
But I—and Milton in his better moments—
Prefer to be original.) In his soul
The obsession of his own superior virtue
Grew and prevailed, till at the last he cried:
“I am a Paragon of Excellence!”

Happy Jack Horner, thus fully convinced
Of his remarkable superiority!
And happy readers, who peruse his tale
Retold in such magnificent blank verse!
_Anthony C. Deane._

AFTER FIONA McLEOD, W. B. YEATS, AND OTHERS

THE CULT OF THE CELTIC

WHEN the eager squadrons of day are faint and disbanded,
And under the wind-swept stars the reaper gleans
The petulant passion flowers—although, to be candid,
I haven’t the faintest notion what that means—

Surely the Snow-White Bird makes melody sweeter
High in the air than skimming the clogging dust.
(Yes, there’s certainly something queer about this metre,
But, as it’s Celtic, you and I must take it on trust.)

And oh, the smile of the Slave as he shakes his fetters!
And oh, the Purple Pig as it roams afar!
And oh, the—something or other in capital letters—
As it yields to the magic spell of a wind-swept star!

And look at the tricksy Elves, how they leap and frolic,
Ducking the Bad Banshee in the moonlit pool,
Celtic, yet fully content to be “symbolic,”
Never a thought in their heads about Home Rule!

But the wind-swept star—you notice it has to figure,
Taking an average merely, in each alternate verse
Of every Celtic poem—smiles with a palpable snigger,
While the Yellow Wolf-Hound bays his blighting curse,

And the voices of dead desires in sufferers waken,
And the voice of the limitless lake is harsh and rough,
And the voice of the reader, too, unless I’m mistaken,
Is heard to remark that he’s had about enough.

But since the critics have stated with some decision
That stanzas very like these are simply grand,
Showing “a sense of beauty and intimate vision,”
Proving a “Celtic Renaissance” close at hand;

Then, although I admit it’s a terrible tax on
Powers like mine, yet I sincerely felt
My task, as an unintelligent Saxon,
Was, at all hazards, to try to copy the Celt!
_Anthony C. Deane._

AFTER VARIOUS WRITERS OF VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ

BEHOLD THE DEEDS!

(_Chant Royal_)

(_Being the Plaint of Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson,
Salesman of Fancy Notions, held in durance of his
Landlady for a failure to connect on Saturday night_)

I

I WOULD that all men my hard case might know;
How grievously I suffer for no sin:
I, Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, for lo!
I, of my landlady am locked in.
For being short on this sad Saturday,
Nor having shekels of silver wherewith to pay,
She has turned and is departed with my key;
Wherefore, not even as other boarders free,
I sing (as prisoners to their dungeon stones
When for ten days they expiate a spree):
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

II

One night and one day have I wept my woe;
Nor wot I when the morrow doth begin,
If I shall have to write to Briggs & Co.,
To pray them to advance the requisite tin
For ransom of their salesman, that he may
Go forth as other boarders go alway—
As those I hear now flocking from their tea,
Led by the daughter of my landlady
Pianoward. This day for all my moans,
Dry bread and water have been servèd me.
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

III

Miss Amabel Jones is musical, and so
The heart of the young he-boarder doth win,
Playing “The Maiden’s Prayer,” adagio—
That fetcheth him, as fetcheth the banco skin
The innocent rustic. For my part, I pray:
That Badarjewska maid may wait for aye
Ere sits she with a lover, as did we
Once sit together, Amabel! Can it be
That all of that arduous wooing not atones
For Saturday shortness of trade dollars three?
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

IV

Yea! she forgets the arm was wont to go
Around her waist. She wears a buckle whose pin
Galleth the crook of the young man’s elbow;
I forget not, for I that youth have been.
Smith was aforetime the Lothario gay.
Yet once, I mind me, Smith was forced to stay
Close in his room. Not calm, as I, was he;
But his noise brought no pleasaunce, verily.
Small ease he gat of playing on the bones,
Or hammering on his stove-pipe, that I see.
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

V

Thou, for whose fear the figurative crow
I eat, accursed be thou and all thy kin!
Thee will I show up—yea, up will I show
Thy too thick buckwheats, and thy tea too thin
Ay! here I dare thee, ready for the fray!
Thou dost not keep a first-class house, I say!
It does not with the advertisements agree.
Thou lodgest a Briton with a pugaree,
And thou hast harbored Jacobses and Cohns,
Also a Mulligan. Thus denounce I thee!
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

ENVOY

Boarders! the worst I have not told to ye:
She hath stole my trousers, that I may not flee
Privily by the window. Hence these groans,
There is no fleeing in a _robe de nuit_.
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!
_H. C. Bunner._

CULTURE IN THE SLUMS

(_Inscribed to an Intense Poet_)

“O CRIKEY Bill!” she ses to me, she ses,
“Look sharp,” ses she, “with them there sossiges.
Yea! sharp with them there bags of mysteree!
For lo!” she ses, “for lo! old pal,” ses she,
“I’m blooming peckish, neither more or less.”
Was it not prime—I leave you all to guess
How prime—to have a Jude in love’s distress
Come spooning round, and murmuring balmilee,
“O crikey, Bill!”

For in such rorty wise doth Love express
His blooming views, and asks for your address,
And makes it right, and does the gay and free.
I kissed her—I did so! And her and me
Was pals. And if that ain’t good business,
O crikey, Bill!
_W. E. Henley._

A BALLADE OF BALLADE-MONGERS

(_After the manner of Master François Villon of Paris_)

IN Ballades things always contrive to get lost,
And Echo is constantly asking where
Are last year’s roses and last year’s frost?
And where are the fashions we used to wear?
And what is a “gentleman,” and what is a “player”?
Irrelevant questions I like to ask:
Can you reap the tret as well as the tare?
And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

What has become of the ring I tossed
In the lap of my mistress false and fair?
Her grave is green and her tombstone mossed;
But who is to be the next Lord Mayor?
And where is King William, of Leicester Square?
And who has emptied my hunting flask?
And who is possessed of Stella’s hair?
And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

And what became of the knee I crossed,
And the rod and the child they would not spare?
And what will a dozen herring cost
When herring are sold at three halfpence a pair?
And what in the world is the Golden Stair?
Did Diogenes die in a tub or cask,
Like Clarence, for love of liquor there?
And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

ENVOY

Poets, your readers have much to bear,
For Ballade-making is no great task,
If you do not remember, I don’t much care
Who was the man in the Iron Mask.
_Augustus M. Moore_

AFTER VARIOUS POPULAR SONGS

BEAUTIFUL SNOW

(_With a drift_)

OH! the snow, the beautiful snow
(This is a parody, please, you know;
Over and over again you may meet
Parodies writ on this poem so sweet;
Rhyming, chiming, skipping along,
Comical bards think they do nothing wrong;
Striving to follow what others have done,
One to the number may keep up the fun).
Beautiful snow, so gently you scud,
Pure for a minute, then dirty as mud!

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow!
Here’s a fine mess you have left us below;
Chilling our feet to the tips of our toes;
Cheekily landing full pert on our nose;
Jinking, slinking, ever you try
’Neath our umbrella to flop in our eye;
Gamins await us at every new street,
Watching us carefully, guiding our feet,
Joking, mocking, ready to throw
A hard-compressed ball of this beautiful snow.
_Anonymous._

THE NEWEST THING IN CHRISTMAS CAROLS

GOD rest you, merry gentlemen!
May nothing you dismay;
Not even the dyspeptic plats
Through which you’ll eat your way;
Nor yet the heavy Christmas bills
The season bids you pay;
No, nor the ever tiresome need
Of being to order gay;

Nor yet the shocking cold you’ll catch
If fog and slush hold sway;
Nor yet the tumbles you must bear
If frost should win the day;
Nor sleepless nights—they’re sure to come—
When “waits” attune their lay;
Nor pantomimes, whose dreariness
Might turn macassar gray;

Nor boisterous children, home in heaps,
And ravenous of play;
Nor yet—in fact, the host of ills
Which Christmases array.
God rest you, merry gentlemen,
May none of these dismay!
_Anonymous._

THE TALE OF LORD LOVELL

LORD LOVELL he stood at his own front door,
Seeking the hole for the key;
His hat was wrecked, and his trousers bore
A rent across either knee,
When down came the beauteous Lady Jane
In fair white draperie.

“Oh, where have you been, Lord Lovell?” she said,
“Oh, where have you been?” said she;
“I have not closed an eye in bed,
And the clock has just struck three.
Who has been standing you on your head
In the ash-barrel, pardie?”

“I am not drunk, Lad’ Shane,” he said:
“And so late it cannot be;
The clock struck one as I enteréd—
I heard it two times or three;
It must be the salmon on which I fed
Has been too many for me.”

“Go tell your tale, Lord Lovell,” she said,
“To the maritime cavalree,
To your grandmother of the hoary head—
To any one but me:
The door is not used to be openéd
With a cigarette for a key.”
_Anonymous._

“SONGS WITHOUT WORDS”

I CANNOT sing the old songs,
Though well I know the tune,
Familiar as a cradle-song
With sleep-compelling croon;
Yet though I’m filled with music
As choirs of summer birds,
“I cannot sing the old songs”—
I do not know the words.

I start on “Hail Columbia,”
And get to “heav’n-born band,”
And there I strike an up-grade
With neither steam nor sand;
“Star-Spangled Banner” downs me
Right in my wildest screaming,
I start all right, but dumbly come
To voiceless wreck at “streaming.”

So when I sing the old songs,
Don’t murmur or complain
If “Ti, diddy ah da, tum dum”
Should fill the sweetest strain.
I love “Tolly um dum di do,”
And the “Trilla-la yeep da” birds,
But “I cannot sing the old songs”—
I do not know the words.
_Robert J. Burdette._

THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN

BY the side of a murmuring stream, an elderly gentleman sat,
On the top of his head was his wig, and a-top of his wig was his hat.

The wind it blew high and blew strong, as the elderly gentleman sat;
And bore from his head in a trice, and plunged in the river his hat.

The gentleman then took his cane, which lay by his side as he sat;
And he dropped in the river his wig, in attempting to get out his hat.

His breast it grew cold with despair, and full in his eye madness sat;
So he flung in the river his cane to swim with his wig and his hat.

Cool reflection at last came across, while this elderly gentleman sat;
So he thought he would follow the stream, and look for his cane, wig,
and hat.

His head, being thicker than common, o’erbalanced the rest of his fat,
And in plumpt this son of a woman, to follow his wig, cane, and hat.
_George Canning._

TURTLE SOUP

BEAUTIFUL soup, so rich and green,
Waiting in a hot tureen!
Who for such dainties would not stoop?
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup?
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup?
Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!
Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!
Soo—oop of the e—e—evening,
Beautiful, beautiful Soup!

“Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish,
Game, or any other dish?
Who would not give all else for two p
Ennyworth only of beautiful Soup?
Pennyworth only of beautiful soup?
Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!
Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!
Soo—oop of the e—e—evening,
Beautiful, beauti—FUL SOUP!”
_Lewis Carroll._

SOME DAY

(_To an Extortionate Tailor_)

I KNOW not when your bill I’ll see,
I know not when that bill fell due,
What interest you will charge to me,
Or will you take my I. O. U.?
It may not be till years are passed,
Till chubby children’s locks are gray;
The tailor trusts us, but at last
His reckoning we must meet some day.
Some day—some day—some day I must meet it,
Snip, I know not when or how,
Snip, I know not when or how;
Only this—only this—this that once you did me—
Only this—I’ll do you now—I’ll do you now now—
I’ll do you now!

I know not are you far or near—
Are you at rest, or cutting still?
I know not who is held so dear!
Or who’s to pay your “little bill”!
But when it comes,—some day—some day—
These eyes an awful tote may see;
And don’t you wish, my tailor gay,
That you may get your £. s. d.?
Some day—some day—some day I must meet it,
Snip, I know not when or how,
Snip, I know not when or how;
Only this—only this—this that once you did me—
Only this—I’ll do you now—I’ll do you now now—
I’ll do you now!
_F. P. Doveton._

IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT

IF I should die to-night
And you should come to my cold corpse and say,
Weeping and heartsick o’er my lifeless clay—
If I should die to-night,
And you should come in deepest grief and woe—
And say: “Here’s that ten dollars that I owe,”
I might arise in my large white cravat
And say, “What’s that?”

If I should die to-night
And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel,
Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel,
I say, if I should die to-night
And you should come to me, and there and then
Just even hint ’bout paying me that ten,
I might arise the while,
But I’d drop dead again.
_Ben King._

A LOVE SONG

(_In the modern taste, 1733_)

FLUTTERING spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o’er my heart;
I, a slave in thy dominions;
Nature must give way to art.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o’er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming
All beneath yon flowery rocks.

Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping
Mourn’d Adonis, darling youth;
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gored with unrelenting tooth.

Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers,
Fair Discretion, string the lyre;
Soothe my ever-waking slumbers;
Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.

Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
Arm’d in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors
Watering soft Elysian plains.

Mourning cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia’s brows,
Morpheus hovering o’er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.

Melancholy smooth Meander,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flowery chaplets crowned.

Thus when Philomela drooping
Softly seeks her silent mate,
See the bird of Juno stooping;
Melody resigns to fate.
_Dean Swift._

OLD FASHIONED FUN

WHEN that old joke was new,
It was not hard to joke,
And puns we now pooh-pooh,
Great laughter would provoke.

True wit was seldom heard,
And humor shown by few,
When reign’d King George the Third,
And that old joke was new.

It passed indeed for wit,
Did this achievement rare,
When down your friend would sit,
To steal away his chair.

You brought him to the floor,
You bruised him black and blue,
And this would cause a roar,
When your old joke was new.
_W. M. Thackeray._

THEMES WITH VARIATIONS

HOME SWEET HOME WITH VARIATIONS

(_Being suggestions of the various styles in which an
old theme might have been treated by certain metrical
composers_)

FANTASIA

I

_The original theme as John Howard Payne wrote it_:

MID pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home!
A charm from the skies seems to hallow it there,
Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere.

Home, home! Sweet, Sweet Home!
There’s no place like Home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain!
Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gaily that came at my call!
Give me them! and the peace of mind, dearer than all.

Home, home! Sweet, Sweet Home!
There’s no place like Home!

II

(_As Algernon Charles Swinburne might have wrapped it up in variations_)

(’Mid pleasures and palaces—)

As sea-foam blown of the winds, as blossom of brine that is drifted
Hither and yon on the barren breast of the breeze,
Though we wander on gusts of a god’s breath, shaken and shifted,
The salt of us stings and is sore for the sobbing seas.
For home’s sake hungry at heart, we sicken in pillared porches
Of bliss made sick for a life that is barren of bliss,
For the place whereon is a light out of heaven that sears not nor
scorches,
Nor elsewhere than this.

(An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain—)

For here we know shall no gold thing glisten,
No bright thing burn, and no sweet thing shine;
Nor love lower never an ear to listen
To words that work in the heart like wine.
What time we are set from our land apart,
For pain of passion and hunger of heart,
Though we walk with exiles fame faints to christen,
Or sing at the Cytherean’s shrine.

(Variation: An exile from home—)

Whether with him whose head
Of gods is honored,
With song made splendent in the sight of men—
Whose heart most sweetly stout,
From ravishing France cast out,
Being firstly hers, was hers most wholly then—
Or where on shining seas like wine
The dove’s wings draw the drooping Erycine.

(Give me my lowly thatched cottage—)

For Joy finds Love grow bitter,
And spreads his wings to quit her,
At thought of birds that twitter
Beneath the roof-tree’s straw—
Of birds that come for calling,
No fear or fright appalling,
When dews of dusk are falling,
Or daylight’s draperies draw.

(Give me them, and the peace of mind—)

Give me these things then back, though the giving
Be at cost of earth’s garner of gold;
There is no life without these worth living,
No treasure where these are not told.
For the heart give the hope that it knows not,
Give the balm for the burn of the breast—
For the soul and the mind that repose not,
Oh, give us a rest!

III

(_As Mr. Francis Bret Harte might have woven it into a touching tale of a western gentleman in a red shirt_)

BROWN o’ San Juan,
Stranger, I’m Brown.
Come up this mornin’ from ’Frisco—
Be’n a-saltin’ my specie-stacks down.

Be’n a-knockin’ around,
Fer a man from San Juan,
Putty consid’able frequent—
Jes’ catch onter that streak o’ the dawn!

Right thar lies my home—
Right thar in the red—
I could slop over, stranger, in po’try—
Would spread out old Shakspoke cold dead.

Stranger, you freeze to this: there ain’t no kinder gin-palace,
Nor no variety-show lays over a man’s own rancho.
Maybe it hain’t no style, but the Queen in the Tower o’ London,
Ain’t got naathin’ I’d swop for that house over thar on the hill-side.

Thar is my ole gal, ’n’ the kids, ’n’ the rest o’ my live-stock;
Thar my Remington hangs, and thar there’s a griddle-cake br’ilin’—
For the two of us, pard—and thar, I allow, the heavens
Smile more friendly-like than on any other locality.

Stranger, nowhere else I don’t take no satisfaction.
Gimme my ranch, ’n’ them friendly old Shanghai chickens—
I brung the original pair f’m the States in eighteen-’n’-fifty—
Gimme me them and the feelin’ of solid domestic comfort.

Yer parding, young man—
But this landscape a kind
Er flickers—I ’low ’twuz the po’try—
I thought that my eyes hed gone blind.

Take that pop from my belt!
Hi, thar!—gimme yer han’—
Or I’ll kill myself—Lizzie—she’s left me—
Gone off with a purtier man!

Thar, I’ll quit—the ole gal
An’ the kids—run away!
I be derned! Howsomever, come in, pard—
The griddle-cake’s thar, anyway.

IV

(_As Austin Dobson might have translated it from
Horace, if it had ever occurred to Horace to write it_)

RONDEAU

At home alone, O Nomades,
Although Mæcenas’ marble frieze
Stand not between you and the sky,
Nor Persian luxury supply
Its rosy surfeit, find ye ease.

Tempt not the far Ægean breeze;
With home-made wine and books that please,
To duns and bores the door deny,
At home, alone.

Strange joys may lure. Your deities
Smile here alone. Oh, give me these:
Low eaves, where birds familiar fly,
And peace of mind, and, fluttering by,
My Lydia’s graceful draperies,
At home, alone.

V

(_As it might have been constructed in 1744, Oliver
Goldsmith, at 19, writing the first stanza, and
Alexander Pope, at 52, the second_)

Home! at the word, what blissful visions rise,
Lift us from earth, and draw toward the skies;
’Mid mirag’d towers, or meretricious joys,
Although we roam, one thought the mind employs:
Or lowly hut, good friend, or loftiest dome,
Earth knows no spot so holy as our Home.
There, where affection warms the father’s breast,
There is the spot of heav’n most surely blest.
Howe’er we search, though wandering with the wind
Through frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind,
Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know,
The light of heaven upon our dark below.