Chapter XIII: Canto VI

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself has said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung.

O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e’er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand!

* * * * *
WALTER SCOTT.

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A DECLAMATION.
By Miss Mudge, _the Blue Stocking_.

Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never several times has read
The works of Spencer and of Mill!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,
As o’er the pages he has turned
Of Hamilton upon the Will!
If such there breathe, go rate him well,
For him no student’s raptures swell.
High though his titles, what of them?
I want a man whose diadem
Is the Binomial Theorem!
What matters it how proud his look,
He knows not Euclid’s second book!
His wealth is boundless――that may be;
But how about his Rule of Three?
Despite his titles, pride and pelf,
And all the books upon his shelf,
The wretch not knowing Algebra,
Shall greeted be with shouts of “Bah!”
Whilst many an one, his soul to vex,
Shall ask him what’s the power of _x_
And give him, heeding not his groans,
Equations with the three unknowns.
Until at last, his torture’s o’er,
He seeks a School Board’s open door;
And there, by jeers to action stung,
Begins on learning’s lowest rung,

O Conic Sections! oft reviled,
How sweet thou art to this young child!
And book eleven of Euclid too,
How sweet it is thy props, to do!
And then to draw from them deductions!
There’s but one thing still better――Fluxions!

Geometry! what mortal hand
Can e’er untie the knotted band
That knits me to thy propositions,
Thy postulates and definitions!
Strong too’s the cord which fastens me
To Statics and Geology!
Still stronger those which me affiance
To thee, my own, my Natural Science!
But strongest are the heavenly ones
That join me to Mars’ late-found suns!
[_She collapses._

From _Finis_.

――――

ON SCOTCH PATRIOTISM.

Breathes there a Scot with soul so dead,
Who never to himself has said
Farewell for aye, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned
As he his willing steps hath turned
To wander on a foreign strand!
Who has not with a spirit gay
From his loved Scotia trudged away
To join the fortune-hunting band!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no canny raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
He is an idiot all the same.
No pupil apt of Gaelic school,
He is a patriotic fool,
A simple and un-Scottish clown
Who, living, forfeits fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unsnuffed, unwhiskied, and unsung.

O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Thou did’st not suit the Scottish child!
Thy lovely scenery but tells
On those brave Scots who keep hotels;
Thy plain and mountain, loch and moor,
Are only dear to those who tour.
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Could e’er invite me to thy strand?
Still, as I view each well-known scene,
I think of what things might have been

And shudder as I think once more
That I might ne’er have left thy shore.
Whilst songs of triumph fill my mouth,
That I so early went down South.

O. P. Q. P. SMIFF.
_The Figaro_, August 1, 1874.

――――

PILOSAGINE.

Breathes there a man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
“To have moustaches would be grand.”
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned
As o’er the paper he hath turned
And Wright’s advertisement hath scanned?
If such there be, go, mark him well,
And in his ears the good news tell:
Pilosagine has gained a name,
All who have tried it own its fame:
While thousands prove its great renown
By the moustaches they have grown;
Whiskers and beards on many a face
Their origin likewise to it trace,
It contains no oil, is free from grease,
And now forsooth our rhyme must cease.
But what, you ask, is the expense?
’Tis sent post free for eighteenpence.

OLD ADVERTISEMENT.

――――

Lives there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to his wife has said,
“I love a bit of home-made bread!”
Or can a man of aught be prouder,
Than to have cried in tones still louder,
“I like it made with Borwick’s Powder!”

――――

SPECIMEN OF SMIFF’S LITERARY ADVERTISEMENTS.
_The Poetic Style._

Breathes there a man with taste so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
“This is the spirit of my choice,”
As he his steaming glass hath stirred?
Who hath not slightly raised his voice,
So that his words might all be heard――
O _something_ Whiskey, strong yet mild,
Sweet spirit, pure and undefiled;
From thee, as doctors oft have proved,
The fusil oil has been removed;
Unlike the other spirits, thou
Bring’st not an aching to the brow.
Of thee no biliousness is born,
No coppers hot the following morn;
Men drink of thee at noon, at night,
And rise quite fresh at morning light;
Men drink of thee, and drink again,
To guard ’gainst rheumatism’s pain.

* * * * *

But there are some, I grieve to say,
Who act in quite a silly way;
Who every day their vitals spoil,
By drinking lots of fusil oil.
Yes, such there be, go――mark them well!
Their sallow cheeks the secret tell.
Sound though their stomachs may have been,
Their livers active, palates clean;
Yet, thanks to fusil’s deadly force,
Fell indigestion comes, of course.

_The Figaro_, October 4, 1876.

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