Chapter III: Part 3

So he _wasn't_ the bond slave of habit,
And he _didn't_ have webs on his toes;
And _perhaps_ he runs round like a rabbit,
A rabbit as red as a rose.

II

THE MAN WHO DISCOVERED THE USE OF A CHAIR

The man who discovered the use of a chair,
_Odds--bobs--
What a wonderful man!_
He used to sit down on it, tearing his hair,
Till he thought of a highly original plan.
For years he had sat on his chair, like you,
_Quite--still!
But his looks were grim_
For he wished to be famous (as great men do)
And nobody ever would listen to him.

Now he went one night to a dinner of state
_Hear! hear!
In the proud Guildhall!_
And he sat on his chair, and he ate from a plate;
But nobody heard his opinions at all;

There were ten fat aldermen down for a speech
(_Grouse! Grouse!
What a dreary bird!_)
With five fair minutes allotted to each,
But never a moment for him to be heard.

But, each being ready to talk, I suppose,
_Order! Order!_
They cried, _for the Chair!_
And, much to their wonder, our friend arose
And fastened his eye on the eye of the Mayor.

"We have come," he said, "to the fourteenth course!
"_High--time,
for the Chair_," he said.
Then, with both of his hands, and with all of his force,
He hurled his chair at the Lord Mayor's head.

It missed that head by the width of a hair.
_Gee--whizz!
What a horrible squeak!_
But it crashed through the big bay-window there
And smashed a bus into Wednesday week.

And the very next day, in the decorous Times
(_Great--Guns--
How the headlines ran!_)
In spite of the kings and the wars and the crimes,
There were five full columns about that man.

ENVOI

Oh, if you get dizzy when authors write
(_My stars!
And you very well may!_)
That white is black and that black is white,
You should sit, quite still, in your chair and say:

It is easy enough to be famous now,
(_Puff--Puff!
How the trumpets blare!_)
Provided, of course, that you don't care how,
Like the man who discovered the use of a chair.

III

COTTON-WOOL

Shun the brush and shun the pen, Shun the ways of clever men, When they prove that black is white, Whey they swear that wrong is right, When they roast the singing stars Like chestnuts, in between the bars, _Children, let a wandering fool Stuff your ears with cotton-wool._

When you see a clever man Run as quickly as you can. You must never, never, never Think that Socrates was clever. The cleverest thing I ever knew Now cracks walnuts at the Zoo. _Children, let a wandering fool Stuff your ears with cotton-wool._

Homer could not scintillate. Milton, too, was merely great. That's a very different matter From talking like a frantic hatter. Keats and Shelley had no tricks. Wordsworth never climbed up sticks. _Children, let a wandering fool Stuff your ears with cotton-wool._

Lincoln would create a gloom In many a London drawing-room; He'd be silent at their wit, He would never laugh at it. When they kissed Salome's toes, I think he'd snort and blow his nose. _Children, let a wandering fool Stuff your ears with cotton-wool._

They'd curse him for a silly clown, They'd drum him out of London town. Professor Flunkey, the historian, Would say he was a dull Victorian. Matthew, Mark, and Luke and John, Bless the bed I rest upon. _Children, let a wandering fool Stuff your ears with cotton-wool._ Amen.

IV

FASHIONS

Fashion on fashion on fashion,
(With only the truth growing old!)
And here's the new purple of passion,
(And love waiting out in the cold)
Who'll buy?

They are crying new lamps for Aladdin,
New worlds for the old and the true;
And no one remembers the story
_The magic was not in the new._

They are crying a new rose for Eden,
A rose of green glass. I suppose
The only thing wrong with their rose is
The fact that it isn't a rose.
Who'll buy?

And here is a song without metre;
And, here again, nothing is wrong;
(For nothing on earth could be neater)
Except that--it isn't a song.

Well. Walk on your hands. It's the latest!
And feet are Victorian now;
And even our best and our greatest
Before that dread epithet bow.
Who'll buy?

The furniture goes for a song, now.
The sixties had horrible taste.
But the trouble is this--they've included
Some better things, too, in their haste.

Were they wrapped in the antimacassars,
Or sunk in a sofa of plush?
Did an Angelican bishop forget them,
And leave them behind in the crush?
Who'll buy?

Here's a turnex. It's going quite cheaply.
(It lived with stuffed birds in the hall!
And, of course, to a mind that thinks deeply
That settles it, once and for all.)

Here's _item_, a ring (very plain, sirs!),
And _item_, a God (but He's dead!);
They say we shall need Him again, sirs,
So--_item_, a cross for His head.
Who'll buy?

Yes, you'll need it again, though He's dead, sirs.
It is only the fashions that fly.
So here are the thorns for His head, sirs.
They'll keep till you need 'em. Who'll buy?

EPILOGUE

THE REWARD OF SONG

_Why do we make our music?_
Oh, blind dark strings reply:
Because we dwell in a strange land
And remember a lost sky.
We ask no leaf of the laurel,
We know what fame is worth;
But our songs break out of our winter
As the flowers break out on the earth.

And we dream of the unknown comrade,
In the days when we lie dead,
Who shall open our book in the sunlight,
And read, as ourselves have read,
On a lonely hill, by a firwood,
With whispering seas below,
And murmur a song we made him
Ages and ages ago.

If making his may-time sweeter
With dews of our own dead may,
One pulse of our own dead heart-strings
Awake in his heart that day,
We would pray for no richer guerdon,
No praise from the careless throng;
For song is the cry of a lover
In quest of an answering song.

As a child might run to his elders
With news of an opening flower
We should walk with our young companion
And talk to his heart for an hour,
As once by my own green firwood,
And once by a Western sea,
Thank God, my own good comrades
Have walked and talked with me.

Too mighty to make men sorrow,
Too weak to heal their pain
(Though they that remember the hawthorn
May find their heaven again),
We are moved by a deeper hunger;
We are bound by a stronger cord;
For love is the heart of our music,
And love is its one reward.