Chapter XI: Canto IX: 'the Bath'

Ye citizens of common clay
Who, squinting in a painful way,
Remove (with grimy hands and grey)
The smuts upon your noses,
Come, follow me to Dover Street
Where, any moment, we may meet
Figures as fragrant and as sweet
As new-mown hay or roses,
Tripping along the primrose path
That leads each member to 'The Bath'!

Ye breadwinners, who seek in vain
To keep your features free from stain,
When in some matutinal train
To town you daily rush up,
Observe the cleanly creatures, please,
Who in this club recline at ease!
Existence for such men as these
Is one long 'Wash and Brush Up'!
Perfumed and scented, combed and curled,
They live unspotted of the world!

Here Indian clubs are deftly swung,
And dumb-bells twirled, by old and young;
Here 'horizontal bars' are hung
With eminent patricians;
And when, at times, on Sunday nights,
The lady-members (clad in tights),
From swimming-bath's sublimest heights,
Give diving exhibitions,
Tis 'Water, water ev'rywhere'--
And sopped spectators get their share!

Observe that youth, with purple socks
And chest suggestive of an ox;
He comes to 'punch the ball' or box
With (possibly) Lord Desb'rough.
Observe that Admiral; though old,
He takes a daily plunge, I'm told,
Though when the water's rather cold
He very often says 'Brrrh!'
Or, if the suds get in his eyes,
'Here! What the _douche_!' he crossly cries.

That warning, to the sloven dear:
'Abandon Soap who enter here!'
Upon these walls does not appear,
To reassure the dirty;
But on the Turkish bathroom screen,
Pinned to a notice-board of green,
This statement, day by day, is seen:
'Pores Open, 7.30.'
Till Bishops at 'The Bath,' they say,
Are moved to murmur, 'Let us Spray!'

Then, Gentle Reader, I advise
(Should opportunity arise)
That you should be extremely wise
And join this institution;
And thus, though deeming dumb-bells 'Bosh!'
And scorning hectic games of 'Squash,'
You may enjoy a thorough wash,
A top-to-toe ablution,
Nor die, in deep dejection plunged,
'Unsoapt, unlathered, and unsponged!'

SONGS IN SEASON

NEW YEAR'S EVE

In fashion reflective, with plaint or invective,
We view in perspective the year in eclipse,
The duties neglected, the faults uncorrected,
The blunders, the failures, the slips!
We note with depression that painful procession
Of lapse and transgression which held us in thrall,
The sins of omission, the vaulting ambition,
The pride that preceded each fall!
Regretful, alas! we are loth to remember
The good resolutions we made last December!

The keen politicians who cherished ambitions
To better conditions for sons of the State,
Make private confession of wasting each session
In fruitless and futile debate;
The Peer of position regards with contrition
That past inanition, so hard to resist;
The social reformer grows sensibly warmer,
To note opportunities miss'd;
While Cabinet statesmen still seek (somewhat sadly)
For patience to suffer the Suffragettes gladly!

But never despairing, each mind, greatly daring,
Fresh programmes preparing, fresh projects revolves;
New plans undertaking, new promises making,
New plots, new designs, new resolves!
With hopes unabated, and spirits elated,
We feel ourselves fated, this year, to succeed,
Devising and dreaming, suggesting and scheming
To triumph, to conquer, to lead!
With hearts that are wiser (though probably sadder),
We start once again at the foot of the ladder!

FEBRUARY

['Really, there must be something rather fine in the English
character that enables it to triumph over the English
climate.'--The _Pall Mall Gazette_.]

I gaze each morning through my rainswept casement,
Into the murky, mud-bound street below;
I grimly note the slush that floods the basement,
The hail, the sleet--and oh!
I feel that I am greater than I know!
Only a demigod could thrive
'Mid such surroundings drear;
Only a hero could survive
In such an atmosphere!

Each day the sullen sky becomes more leaden,
The weather grows less suited to a dog;
Each night damp mists arise, to chill and deaden!
(The golf-course is a bog:
Twice has my ball been stymied by a frog!)
Still sweetly in my bosom wakes
The knowledge nought can mar,
That 'tis our island climate makes
Us Britons what we are!

For if we basked in fragrant, warm oases,
We should not wear that air of self-control
Which, round about our placid British faces,
Shines like an aureole,
Expressing true stolidity of soul.
To chill and gloom, to frost and thaw,
Our country owes to-day
The dogged jaw of Bonar Law,
The eye of Edward Grey!

O Mother England, wettest of wet nurses,
Where would a poet be without your clime,
Which gives him such a subject for his verses,
Supplying (ev'ry time)
A reason for his undistinguished rhyme?
His lesson may be sharp and stern,
His anguish keen and long;
But so in sniffing he may learn
What he expounds in song!

SPRING

When the hand of ev'ry Briton, 'spite of glove or woolly mitten,
By the frost severely bitten, grows as frigid as a stone,
When he scuttles like a lizard through the bitter biting blizzard,
Which benumbs his very gizzard and which chills him to the bone;
When the constable stands scowling, where the hurricane is howling,
Or goes miserably prowling, with no shelter from the storm,
And the working-man, half-fuddled, jug to bosom closely cuddled,
In each public-house is huddled, in his efforts to get warm;
Then the poet (known as 'minor') deems it suitable to sing
That there's nothing much diviner than the pleasures of the Spring!

When the maiden, matineeing, from some playhouse portals straying
(Where her favourite is playing), grows as crusty as a crab,
While her fiance ungainly--so unlike dear Harry Ainley!--
In the snow is seeking vainly (ah! how vainly!) for a cab;
When he cusses and she fusses, as they note how full each 'bus is
Of that crowd of oafs and hussies it refuses to disgorge,
Till they hail some passing taxi, with expressions wild and waxy
(Like the language Leo Maxse always uses of Lloyd George)!
With her windswept skirt she battles, to his hat he tries to cling,
While the poet sweetly prattles of the pleasures of the Spring!

Though I hate to be pedantic, and it may seem unromantic,
I am driven nearly frantic when I hear the praises sung
Of those ruthless vernal breezes which engender coughs and sneezes
And disseminate diseases in the ranks of old and young.
So, although it sounds like treason, when I celebrate this season,
I will mix my rhymes with reason, and substantiate, I trust,
That there's nought so uninviting, so depressing, and so blighting,
As the time of which I'm writing with such genuine disgust.
As I hover round the fender, and for fuel loudly ring,
I decline to see the splendour or the witchery of Spring!

SPRING-CLEANING

['The only way to get workmen out of the house is to move in
oneself.'--The _Bromide's Handbook_.]

Let me sing in mournful numbers
Of the sorrows of the Spring,
When the house is full of plumbers
And the builder has his fling!
Ladders lean on ev'ry landing,
Pails repose on ev'ry stair,
Painters, who on planks are standing,
Block the road to ev'rywhere,
And with pigments evil-smelling
Drive us from our dismal dwelling.

Stairs are carpetless to step on,
Bannisters are far from dry,
While (like Damocles's weapon)
Plaster threatens from on high.
Any room we chance to enter
Our depression but completes:
Chairs and tables in the centre
Hide beneath encircling sheets,
And the painters (horrid vandals!)
Have deprived the doors of handles.

Workmen through our windows peering
Spread their pitfalls in our path;
Daily we are found adhering
To some freshly-painted bath;
Daily have our cooks contended
That, however great our grief,
Till the kitchen-range be mended,
We must live on frigid beef;
And at last we grasp the meaning
Of that fatal phrase, 'Spring-Cleaning'!

'ROYAL ASCOT'

Ho! find me my faithful field-glasses
(The kind with collapsible joints);
Ho! bring me my bundle of passes,
My pencils (the ones that have points);
Ho! give me my 'topper,'
The head-dress that's proper
For meetings where Royalties muster;
Put scent on my 'hanky'
(That's quite enough, thankye!)
And polish my boots with a duster;
That so I may venture, with grace and composure,
To mix with my peers in the Royal Enclosure!

At Ascot, where beautiful dresses
Enrapture the masculine gaze,
How oft I've indulged in excesses
Of hock-cup and cold mayonnaise!
How oft in the Paddock
(Though squashed like a haddock)
Each thoroughbred's heels I've eluded!
What fortunes I've flung to
The Ring, which they've clung to,
Those touts who my pockets denuded!
What niggardly odds did those bookmakers lay me!
(How often have ladies forgotten to pay me!)

At Ascot, that popular function,
Society leans on the rails,
And sport is enjoyed in conjunction
With lobsters and underdone quails!
While Rank and while Fashion
Regard with compassion
The antics of clown or of nigger,
But one imperfection
Appears, on inspection,
This party to mar or disfigure:
'Twould be the most perfect of meetings and courses,
If only----if only there weren't any horses!

'ROSES'

A MEMORY OF 'ALEXANDRA DAY'

(_With apologies to Wordsworth_)

I wandered shyly as a ghost
That prowls in haunted keeps and tow'rs,
When all at once I saw a host,
A crowd of ladies selling flow'rs;
Along the Mall, beside the Pond,
From Lady Cr-we to Lady M-nd!

Continuous as the stars that shine,
Like poppies in a field of wheat,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the kerb of ev'ry street;
Ten thousand saw I, file by file,
Selling their 'blooms' with sprightly smile.

The world about them smiled, for they
Bedecked the dingy thoroughfares;
A fellow could not fail to pay
His penny for such wares as theirs.
I bought and bought--but little guessed
What wealth those simple flowers expressed.

For all the cash they helped to net,
In streets where stood their rosy stalls,
Went to reduce that endless debt
Which is the curse of hospitals;
And Chairmen cast dull care away
And danced on Alexandra Day!

THE END OF THE SEASON

How grimy and gritty are streets in the City,
How parched is each pavement and park,
Where Londoners harried in thoroughfares arid
Forgather from dawn until dark!
An atmosphere torrid, oppressive and horrid,
With leather-like lungs we inhale,
While odorous motors (more pungent than bloaters)
Our impotent nostrils assail,
And whistles and catcalls and horns without number
Combine to destroy all our chances of slumber!

How weary my heart is of dinners and parties,
How sick of each concert and play!
All social exertion I view with aversion,
Of banquets I dream with dismay.
Each moment enhances my hatred of dances,
All luncheons with loathing I hail;
At ev'ry collation, in sheer detestation,
I shrink from each cutlet or quail;
For though I enjoy such delights within reason,
I gratefully welcome the end of the Season!

The holiday feeling is over me stealing,
I long to escape from the town,
Exchanging its highways for hedges and byways,
For moorland and meadow and down.
In cobble-paved alleys how verdant the valleys,
How fragrant the forests appear,
Where fountains are flashing, and rivulets splashing
Make melody sweet to the ear;
Where Orpheus his musical message delivers,
And Pan and his piping are heard by the rivers!

THE COCKNEY OF THE NORTH

(_With apologies to W. B. Yeats_)

I will arise and go now, and go to Inverness,
And a small villa rent there, of lath and plaster built;
Nine bedrooms will I have there, and I'll don my native dress,
And walk about in a d---- loud kilt.

And I will have some sport there, when grouse come driven slow,
Driven from purple hill-tops to where the loaders quail;
While midges bite their ankles, and shots are flying low,
And the air is full of the grey-hen's tail.

I will arise and go now, for ever, day and night,
I hear the taxis bleating and the motor-'buses roar,
And over tarred macadam and pavements parched and white
I've walked till my feet are sore!

For it's oh, to be in Scotland! now that August's nearly there,
Where the capercailzie warble on the mountain's rugged brow;
There's pleasure and contentment, there's sport and bracing air,
In Scotland----now!

'THE TWELFTH'

If you're waking, call me early,
Call me early, Rob MacDougall,
When the skies are pale and pearly
And the air is keen and chill;
And we'll break our fast together,
In a fashion somewhat frugal,
And be off across the heather
To 'the hill.'

Soon will coveys come a-flitting,
Over purple slopes and ridges,
To the butts where we are sitting
With our loaders close behind.
Though the mist obscure our vision,
And our necks are stung by midges,
And we shoot without precision,
Never mind!

If the birds fly fast and freely
O'er the lair where we are lying
With the cartridges that Eley
So obligingly supplies,
When the drive is duly ended
We can count the dead and dying
We have rent (or is it 'rended'?)
From the skies!

As we stimulate the labours
Of retrievers bent on finding
Stricken birds our next-door neighbours
Will indubitably claim,
We declare to one another
(Though we scarcely need reminding)
That a grouse beats any other
Kind of game,
And that, given sport and weather,
There is nothing like the thrill
Of a day among the heather
On the hill!

NOVEMBER

Poets may proclaim the praises
Of some fragrant April day,
Search their lexicons for phrases
To describe the dew-drenched daisies
Of each merry May;
Minor bards may work like niggers,
Framing epic rhyme or rune,
To extol the timely rigours
Of an English June;
Though its charms I well remember,
I prefer November!

Though the tourists sing together
When July is warm and bright,
While to sportsmen on the heather,
Bent on bagging fur and feather,
August brings delight;
Though September's seldom stormy,
And October, chill and dry,
Carries joy to every Dormy-
House from Wick to Rye;
Yet (since I am not a member)
I prefer November!

In the street the slime may spatter
Ev'ry wretched passer-by;
Hail and sleet and snow may batter
On my window-pane--what matter?
What on earth care I?
Other months may be less muddy,
Or a fairer face present;
In my cheerful firelit study
I am quite content!
Seated by the glowing ember,
I prefer November!

THE CYNIC'S CHRISTMAS

Christmas is here! Let us deck ev'ry dwelling
With evergreen branches and mistletoe boughs!
With thoughts philanthropic our bosoms are swelling,
No shadow should darken our brows!
(But, alas! when we're fixing festoons to the ceiling,
The ladders we stand on are apt to give way,
When a desolate feeling comes over us stealing;
'Tis hard to be merry and gay!
And it's difficult, too, to feel thoroughly jolly
When painfully punctured by pieces of holly!)

Christmas is here! Let the plums and the suet
Be mingled once more in ungrudging supplies!
Let the lover of punch hasten swiftly to brew it!
Make ready a score of mince-pies!
(But, alas! let us not be completely forgetful
Of how indigestion is fostered and bred,
How a surfeit of food makes the family fretful,
While alcohol flies to the head;
Lest a fortnight devoted to over-nutrition
Entail a recourse to the nearest physician!)

Christmas is here! Ev'ry mother shall borrow
Her spouse's best stockings to tie to the cot
Of the baby, who hopes they'll contain, on the morrow,
Drums, trumpets, and goodness knows what!
(But it's rather a blow when the footwear allotted
To hang full of goodies and toys through the night,
Is returned to its owner, misshapen and clotted
With toffee and Turkish Delight;
While a drum is a bore if you constantly thump it,
And life can be poisoned by sounds from a trumpet!)

Christmas is here! All our nephews and nieces
Troop happily home to delight us at Yule!
We rejoice when the holiday season releases
The inmates of college and school!
(But perhaps when at dawn they awake us by shouting
'When Shepherds'--a hymn which they sing out of tune--
They may furnish some fifty good reasons for doubting
If holidays _are_ such a boon;
And even the kindliest relative wearies
Of constantly answering juvenile queries!)

Christmas is here! Little children excited
Make domiciles vocal with shrieks of applause,
As they ask that the candle-decked fir-tree be lighted,
In honour of kind Santa Claus!
(But, alas! for the person of years known as 'riper'!
By clatter and racket his nerves are unstrung;
He is followed about, like a second Pied Piper,
By droves of the clamorous young!
All in vain does he seek for some haven of quiet;
No room in the building is free from their riot!)

Christmas is here! Let us load our relations
With presents expensive and offerings rare,
And assume, as we lavish our tips and donations,
A noble and bountiful air!
(But, alas! when we've purchased the costliest jewel
For dear Cousin Jane, and despatched it by post,
And she sends in return a small mat, worked in crewel,
And worth eighteenpence at the most,
Shall we say, recollecting the gift that we bought her,
'Dear Jane is a trifle more _dear_ than we thought her'?)

Christmas is here! Let us go serenading,
In glees and in madrigals raising our voice,
In the snow of the street, 'neath your windows parading,
O maidens divine of our choice!
(But we mustn't forget how our _last_ Christmas carols
Were spoilt by your parents' inhuman attacks,
When they brought out their shot-guns and emptied both barrels
Bang into the smalls of our backs!
If one justly expects some applause and encoring,
A ball in the back is excessively boring!)

Christmas is here! At a season so sprightly
We banish all thoughts about mundane affairs,
And attempt to be gay and to smile fairly brightly,
In spite of our worries and cares.
(But financial embarrassments mortify most men
Whose hearts a prognostic of bankruptcy grips,
When the dustmen and milkmen, policemen and postmen,
Demand their habitual tips!)

* * * * *

Then tell me--and grateful I'll be to you, very--
Oh, tell me why Christmas was ever called 'Merry'!

ENVOI

[All work, says a well-known humorist, is an unutterable bore.
All that concerns the writer are the cheques his work brings him
in.]

Simple is the man who fancies,
In his fond and foolish heart,
That the author weaves romances
For the love of Art;
That the poet's torch, ignited
By some sacred inner fire,
Is a spark of genius lighted
To illume his lyre;
That 'tis Honour or Ambition
Prompts the bard to composition!

No celestial inspiration
Gilds the poet's cheerless den,
Kindles his imagination,
Stirs his sluggish pen;
No divine _afflatus_, blowing
From some charmed Pierian font,
Starts the springs of fancy flowing
Like the spur of Want.
This, poor Pegasus controlling,
Sets the eye in frenzy rolling!

Not in search of fame or rank is
He who drives this fretful quill,
But his balance at the bank is
Practically _nil_,
And the cause, the motive, lying
At his inspiration's roots,
Is the sound of children crying,
Crying out for boots;
'Tis the need for ready money
Makes the humorist so funny!

Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A species of pollack.

[2] Another species of pollack.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:

Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_.

Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from
the original.

Punctuation has been corrected without note.

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