Chapter III

Marching at ease in the cheerful air, on duty and daring bent, In quest of the dragon, The fateful dragon, The fierce four hundred went: Over the hills and through the plain, And up the slopes of the hills again. The sleek rooks, washed in the morning's dew, Rose at their coming and flapped and flew In a black procession athwart the blue; And the plovers circled about on high With many a querulous piping cry. And the cropping ewes and the old bell-wether Looked up in terror and pushed together; And still with a grim unbroken pace The men moved on to their battle-place. Softly, silently, all tip-toeing, With their lips drawn tight and their eyes all glowing, With gleaming teeth and straining ears And the sunshine laughing on swords and spears, Softly, silently on they go To the hidden lair of the fearful foe. They have neared the stream, they have crossed the bridge, And they stop in sight of the rugged ridge, And it's "Flankers back!" and "Skirmishers in!" And the summit is theirs to lose or win-- To win with honour or lose with shame; And so to the place itself they came, And gazed with an awful thrill At the ridge of omen, Beset by foemen, At the arduous summit, the gorse-clad summit, the summit of Winter Hill.

But where was the dragon, the scale-clad dragon, the dragon that Dickon saw, The genuine dragon, The pitiless dragon, The dragon that knew no law? Lo, just as the word to charge rang out, And before they could give their battle shout, On a stony ledge Of the ridge's edge, With its lips curled back and its teeth laid bare, And a hiss that ripped the morning air, With its backbone arched And its tail well starched, With bristling hair and flattened ears, What shape of courage and wrath appears? A cat, a tortoiseshell mother-cat! And a very diminutive cat at that! And below her, nesting upon the ground, A litter of tiny kits they found: Tortoiseshell kittens, one, two, three, Lying as snug as snug could be. And they took the kittens with shouts of laughter And turned for home, and the cat came after. And when in the camp they told their tale, The women--but stop! I draw a veil. The cat had tent-life forced upon her And was kept in comfort and fed with honour; But Dickon has heard his fill Of the furious dragon They tried to bag on The dragonless summit, the gorse-clad summit, the summit of Winter Hill!

FLUFFY, A CAT

So now your tale of years is done, Old Fluff, my friend, and you have won, Beyond our land of mist and rain, Your way to the Elysian plain, Where through the shining hours of heat A cat may bask and lap and eat; Where goldfish glitter in the streams, And mice refresh your waking dreams, And all, in fact, is planned--and that's Its great delight--to please the cats.

Yet sometimes, too, your placid mind Will turn to those you've left behind, And most to one who sheds her tears, The mistress of your later years, Who sheds her tears to summon back Her faithful cat, the white-and-black.

Fluffy, full well you understood The frequent joys of motherhood-- To lick, from pointed tail to nape, The mewing litter into shape; To show, with pride that condescends, Your offspring to your human friends, And all our sympathy to win For every kit tucked snugly in.

In your familiar garden ground We've raised a tributary mound, And passing by it we recite Your merits and your praise aright.

"Here lies," we say, "from care released A faithful, furry, friendly beast. Responsive to the lightest word, About these walks her purr was heard. Love she received, for much she earned, And much in kindness she returned. Wherefore her comrades go not by Her little grave without a sigh."

THE LEAN-TO-SHED

(COMMUNICATED BY AN EIGHT-YEAR-OLD)

I've a palace set in a garden fair, And, oh, but the flowers are rich and rare, Always growing And always blowing Winter or summer--it doesn't matter-- For there's never a wind that dares to scatter The wonderful petals that scent the air About the walls of my palace there. And the palace itself is very old, And it's built of ivory splashed with gold. It has silver ceilings and jasper floors And stairs of marble and crystal doors; And whenever I go there, early or late, The two tame dragons who guard the gate And refuse to open the frowning portals To sisters, brothers and other mortals, Get up with a grin And let me in. And I tickle their ears and pull their tails And pat their heads and polish their scales; And they never attempt to flame or fly, Being quelled by me and my human eye. Then I pour them drink out of golden flagons, Drink for my two tame trusty dragons... But John, Who's a terrible fellow for chattering on, John declares They are Teddy-bears; And the palace itself, he has often said, Is only the gardener's lean-to shed.

In the vaulted hall where we have the dances There are suits of armour and swords and lances, Plenty of steel-wrought who's-afraiders, All of them used by real crusaders; Corslets, helmets and shields and things Fit to be worn by warrior-kings, Glittering rows of them-- Think of the blows of them, Lopping, Chopping, Smashing And slashing The Paynim armies at Ascalon... But, bother the boy, here comes our John Munching a piece of currant cake, Who says the lance is a broken rake, And the sword with its keen Toledo blade Is a hoe, and the dinted shield a spade, Bent and useless and rusty-red, In the gardener's silly old lean-to shed.

And sometimes, too, when the night comes soon With a great magnificent tea-time moon. Through the nursery-window I peep and see My palace lit for a revelry; And I think I shall try to go there instead Of going to sleep in my dull small bed. But who are these In the shade of the trees That creep so slow In a stealthy row? They are Indian braves, a terrible band, Each with a tomahawk in his hand, And each has a knife _without a sheath_ Fiercely stuck in his gleaming teeth. Are the dragons awake? Are the dragons sleepers? Will they meet and scatter these crafty creepers? What ho! ... But John, who has sorely tried me, Trots up and flattens his nose beside me; Against the window he flattens it And says he can see As well as me, But never an Indian--not a bit; Not even the top of a feathered head, But only a wall and the lean-to shed.

THE CONTRACT

"Come, Peggy, put your toys away; you needn't shake your head, Your bear's been working overtime; he's panting for his bed. He's turned a thousand somersaults, and now his head must ache; It's cruelty to animals to keep the bear awake."

At this she stamped in mutiny, and then she urged her plea, Her wonted plea, "A little time, a minute more, for me." "Be off, you little rogue of rogues," I sternly made reply; "It's wicked to be sitting up with sand in either eye.

"To bed, to bed, you sleepy head; and then, and then--who knows?-- Some day you'll be a grown-up girl, and lovely as a rose. And some day some one else will come, a gallant youth and gay, To harry me and marry you and carry you away."

At this the storm broke out afresh:--"You know I hate the boys; They're only good at taking things, and breaking things, and noise. So, Daddy, please remember this, because--I--want--you--to:-- I'll never marry any boy; I'll only marry _you_."

"Agreed," I cried--the imp, of course, had won the bout of wits; Had gained her point and got her time and beaten me to fits-- "Agreed, agreed,"--she danced for joy--"we'll leave no room for doubt, But bind ourselves with pen and ink, and write the contract out:-"

_This is a contract, firm and clear
Made, as doth from these presents appear,
Between Peggy, being now in her sixth year,
A child of laughter,
A sort of funny actress,
Referred to hereinafter
As the said contractress--
Between the said contractress, that is to say,
And a person with whom she is often good enough to play;
Who happens to have been something of a factor
In bringing her into the world, who, in short, is her father,
And is hereinafter spoken of as the said contractor.
Now the said contractress declares she would rather
Marry the said contractor than any other.
At the same time she affirms with the utmost steadiness
Her perfect readiness
To take any other fellow on as a brother.
Still, she means to marry her father, and to be his wife,
And to live happily with him all the rest of her life.
This contract is made without consideration,
And is subject to later ratification.
The said contractress had it read through
to see that nothing was missed,
And she took her pen, and she held it tight
in a chubby and cramped-up fist,
And she made her mark with a blotted cross,
instead of signing her name;
And the said contractor he signed in full,
and they mean to observe the same._

"Now give me, Peg, that old brown shoe, that battered shoe of yours, I'll stow the contract in its toe, and, if the shoe endures, When sixteen years or so are gone, I'll hunt for it myself And take it gently from its drawer, or get it from its shelf.

"And when, mid clouds of scattered rice, through all the wedding whirl A laughing fellow hurries out a certain graceless girl, Unless my hand have lost its strength, unless my eye be dim, I'll lift the shoe, the contract too, and fling the lot at him."

JOHN

He's a boy,
And that's the long and (chiefly) the short of it,
And the point of it and the wonderful sport of it;
A two-year-old with a taste for a toy,
And two chubby fists to clutch it and grasp it,
And two fat arms to embrace it and clasp it;
And a short stout couple of sturdy legs
As hard and as smooth as ostrich eggs;
And a jolly round head, so fairly round
You could easily roll it,
Or take it and bowl it
With never a bump along the ground.

And, as to his cheeks, they're also fat--
I've seen them in ancient prints like that,
Where a wind-boy high
In a cloudy sky
Is puffing away for all he's worth,
Uprooting the trees
With a reckless breeze,
And strewing them over the patient earth,
Or raising a storm to wreck the ships
With the work of his lungs and cheeks and lips.

Take a look at his eyes; I put it to you, Were ever two eyes more truly blue? If you went and worried the whole world through You'd never discover a bluer blue; I doubt if you'd find a blue so true In the coats and scarves of a Cambridge crew.

And his hair
Is as fair
As a pretty girl's,

But it's right for a boy with its crisp, short curls All a-gleam, as he struts about With a laugh and a shout, To summon his sister-slaves to him For his joyous Majesty's careless whim.

But now, as, after a stand, he budges, And sets to work and solemnly trudges, Out from a bush there springs full tilt His four-legged playmate--and John is spilt.

She's a young dog and a strong dog And a tall dog and a long dog, A Danish lady of high degree, Black coat, kind eye and a stride that's free.

And out she came
Like a burst of flame,
And John,
As he trudged and strutted
Sturdily on,
Was blindly butted,
And, all his dignity spent and gone,
On a patch of clover
Was tumbled over,
His two short legs having failed to score
In a sudden match against Lufra's four.

But we picked him up
And we brushed him down,
And he rated the pup
With a dreadful frown;
And then he laughed and he went and hugged her,
Seized her tail in his fist and tugged her,
And so, with a sister's hand to guide him,
Continued his march with the dog beside him.

And soon he waggles his way upstairs--
He does it alone, though he finds it steep.
He is stripped and gowned, and he says his prayers,
And he condescends
To admit his friends
To a levée before he goes to sleep.
He thrones it there
With a battered bear
And a tattered monkey to form his Court,
And, having come to the end of day,
Conceives that this is the time for play
And every possible kind of sport.

But at last, tucked in for the hundredth time,
He babbles a bit of nursery rhyme,
And on the bed
Droops his curly round head,
Gives one long sigh of unalloyed content
Over a day so well, so proudly spent,
Resigned at last to listen and obey,
And so begins to breathe his quiet night away.

THE SPARROW

Let others from the feathered brood Which through the garden seeks its food Pick out for a commending word Each one his own peculiar bird; Hail the plump tit, or fitly sing The finch's crest and flashing wing; Exalt the rook's black satin dress-coat, The thrush's speckled fancy waistcoat; Or praise the robin, meek, but sly, For breast and tail and friendly eye-- These have their place within my heart; The sparrow owns the larger part, And, for no virtues, rules in it, My reckless cheerful favourite! Friend sparrow, let the world contemn Your ways and make a mock of them, And dub you, if it has a mind, Low, quarrelsome, and unrefined; And let it, if it will, pursue With harsh abuse the troops of you Who through the orchard and the field Their busy bills in mischief wield; Who strip the tilth and bare the tree, And make the gardener's face to be Expressive of the words he could, But must not, utter, though he would (For gardeners still, where'er they go, Whate'er they do, in weal or woe, Through every chance of life retain Their ancient Puritanic strain; Tried by the weather they control Each day their angry human soul, And, by the sparrow teased, may tear Their careworn locks, but never swear). Let us admit--alas,'tis true-- You are not adequately few; That half your little life is spent In furious strife or argument; Still, though your wickedness must harrow All feeling souls, I love my sparrow; Still, though I oft and gravely doubt you, I really could not do without you. Your pluck, your wit, your nonchalance, Your cheerful confidence in chance, Your darting flight, your bouts of play, Your chirp, so sociable and gay-- These, and no beauty soft or striking, Make up your passport to my liking; And for your faults I'll still defend you, My little sparrow, and befriend you.

GELERT

Tested and staunch through many a changing year, Gelert, his master's faithful hound, lies here. Humble in friendship, but in service proud, He gave to man whate'er his lot allowed; And, rich in love, on each well-trusted friend Spent all his wealth and still had more to spend. Now, reft beyond the unfriendly Stygian tide, For these he yearns and has no wish beside.

AVE, CAESAR!

(MAY 20, 1910)

Full in the splendour of this morning hour,
With tramp of men and roll of muffled drums,
In what a pomp and pageantry of power,
Borne to his grave, our lord, King EDWARD, comes!

In flashing gold and high magnificence,
Lo, the proud cavalcade of comrade Kings,
Met here to do the dead KING reverence,
Its solemn tribute of affection brings.

Heralds and Pursuivants and Men-at-arms,
Sultan and Paladin and Potentate,
Scarred Captains who have baffled war's alarms
And Courtiers glittering in their robes of state,

All in their blazoned ranks, with eyes cast down,
Slow pacing in their sorrow pass along
Where that which bore the sceptre and the crown
Cleaves at their head the silence of the throng.

And in a space behind the passing bier,
Looking and longing for his lord in vain,
A little playmate whom the KING held dear,
Caesar, the terrier, tugs his silver chain!

* * * * *

Hail, Caesar, lonely little Caesar, hail! Little for you the gathered Kings avail. Little you reck, as meekly past you go, Of that solemnity of formal woe. In the strange silence, lo, you prick your ear For one loved voice, and that you shall not hear. So when the monarchs with their bright array Of gold and steel and stars have passed away, When, to their wonted use restored again, All things go duly in their ordered train, You shall appeal at each excluding door, Search through the rooms and every haunt explore; From lawn to lawn, from path to path pursue The well-loved form that still escapes your view. At every tree some happy memories rise To stir your tail and animate your eyes, And at each turn, with gathering strength endued, Hope, still frustrated, must be still renewed. How should you rest from your appointed task Till chance restore the happiness you ask, Take from your heart the burden, ease your pain, And grant you to your master's side again, Proud and content if but you could beguile His voice to flatter and his face to smile?

Caesar, the kindly days may bring relief; Swiftly they pass and dull the edge of grief. You too, resigned at last, may school your mind To miss the comrade whom you cannot find, Never forgetting, but as one who feels The world has secrets which no skill reveals. Henceforth, whate'er the ruthless fates may give, You shall be loved and cherished while you live. Reft of your master, little dog forlorn, To one dear mistress you shall now be sworn, And in her queenly service you shall dwell, At rest with one who loved your master well. And she, that gentle lady, shall control The faithful kingdom of a true dog's soul, And for the past's dear sake shall still defend Caesar, the dead KING'S humble little friend.

SOO-TI

A PEKINESE

Soo-Ti, I thank the careful fate That made you wise and obstinate, Alert, but with a proper pride, And gay, but wondrous dignified. I praise your black and tilted nose; I praise your heart's deep love that shows In songs made up of whimpering cries And in the radiance of your eyes (And if they bulge--forgive the allusion-- Are eyes the worse for such protrusion? The smaller eyes are, sure, the blinder, And size makes every kind eye kinder). Next with affection's look I note The glossy levels of your coat, Where a rich black doth most prevail, Shading to beaver in your tail, And lightly fading as it reaches The tufted things you wear as breeches.

The dweller on the cushion purrs No less when Soo-Ti barks and stirs. She blinks and blinks and lets you share Her bowl of milk, her fav'rite chair. For you she hides her cruel claw And taps you with a velvet paw; And, mastered by your lordly air, For you is meek and debonair. Even should you growl her hair stays flat: Be sure she thinks you half a cat. But you're a Dog and know your job: Oft have I seen you hob-a-nob, And grandly gracious to unbend With a Great Dane, your humble friend. As on the lawn with him you roll, He makes your very being droll. Yet how you set to work to flout him, To tease and gnaw and dance about him! You risk the pressure of his paws, Plunge all you are within his jaws, And, swelling to a final rage, With pin-point teeth the fight engage, While he submits his silly size To every insult you devise. At last, withdrawing from the fuss, You come and tell your tale to us, Bearing aloft through every room Your high tail's undefeated plume, Till, fed with triumphs, you subside, And sleep and doff your native pride, Composing in a wicker fane Those limbs that terrify the Dane.

So, Soo-Ti, I have tried to praise Yourself and all your winning ways, Content if I may guard and please My little dusky Pekinese.

THE BATH

Hang garlands on the bathroom door;
Let all the passages be spruce;
For, lo, the victim comes once more,
And, ah, he struggles like the deuce!

Bring soaps of many scented sorts;
Let girls in pinafores attend,
With John, their brother, in his shorts,
To wash their dusky little friend.

Their little friend, the dusky dog,
Short-legged and very obstinate,
Faced like a much-offended frog,
And fighting hard against his fate.

No Briton he! From palace-born
Chinese patricians he descends;
He keeps their high ancestral scorn;
His spirit breaks, but never bends.

Our water-ways he fain would'scape;
He hates the customary bath
That thins his tail and spoils his shape,
And turns him to a fur-clad lath;

And, seeing that the Pekinese
Have lustrous eyes that bulge like buds,
He fain would save such eyes as these,
Their owner's pride, from British suds.

Vain are his protests--in he goes.
His young barbarians crowd around;
They soap his paws, they soap his nose;
They soap wherever fur is found.

And soon, still laughing, they extract
His limpness from the darkling tide;
They make the towel's roughness act
On back and head and dripping side.

They shout and rub and rub and shout--
He deprecates their odious glee--
Until at last they turn him out,
A damp gigantic bumble-bee.

Released, he barks and rolls, and speeds
From lawn to lawn, from path to path,
And in one glorious minute needs
More soapsuds and another bath.

PETER, A PEKINESE PUPPY

Our Peter, who's famed as an eater of things, Is a miniature dragon without any wings. He can gallop or trot, he can amble or jog, But he flies like a flash when he's after his prog; And the slaves who adore him, whatever his mood, Say that nothing is fleeter Than Peter the eater, Than Peter pursuing his food.

He considers the garden his absolute own: It's the place where a digger can bury a bone. Then he tests his pin-teeth on a pansy or rose, Spreading ruin and petals wherever he goes; And his mistress declares, when he's nibbled for hours, That nothing is sweeter Than Peter the eater, The resolute eater of flowers.

Having finished his dinner he wheedles the cook, Picks a coal from the scuttle or tackles a book, Or devotes all his strength to a slipper or mat, To the gnawing of this and the tearing of that; _Faute de mieux_ takes a dress; and his mistress asserts That there's nothing to beat her Like Peter the eater Attached by his teeth to her skirts.

But at last he has supped, and the moment is come When, his stretchable turn being tight as a drum, He is meek and submissive, who once was so proud, And he creeps to his basket and slumbers aloud. And his mistress proclaims, as she tucks up his shawl, That nothing is neater Than Peter the eater, Than Peter curled up in a ball, Asleep and digesting it all.

THE DOGS' WELCOME

Hush! We're not a pack of boys
Always bound to make a noise.
True, there's one amongst us, but
He is young;
And, wherever we may take him,
We can generally shut
Such a youngster up and make him
Hold his tongue.

Hush! Most cautiously we go
On the tippest tip of toe.
Are the dogs expecting us
At the gate?
Two, who usually prize us,
Will they jump and make a fuss?
Will they really recognise us
Where they wait?

Hush! I hear the funny pair
Softly whimpering--yes, they're there.
Dane and Pekinese, they scratch
At the wood,
At the solid wood between us;
Duke attempts to lift the latch;
It's a month since they have seen us--
Open! Good!

Down, Duke, down! Enough, enough! Soo-Ti's screaming; seize his scruff. Soo-Ti's having fearful fits; Duke is tearing us to bits. One will trip us, one will throw us-- But, the darlings, _don't_ they know us!

Then off with a clatter the long dog leapt, and, oh, what a race he ran, At the hurricane pace of a minute a mile, as only a long dog can. Into and out of the bushes he pierced like a shooting star; And now he thundered around us, and now he was whirling far. And the little dog gazed till he seemed amazed, and then he took to it too; With shrill notes flung from his pert pink tongue right after his friend he flew; And the long legs lashed and the short legs flashed and scurried like anything, While Duke ran round in a circle and Soo-Ti ran in a ring.

And last they hurtled amongst us, and then there were tales to tell, For all of us seemed to be scattered and torn, and all of us shrieked and fell; And John, who is plump, got an awful bump, and Helen, who's tall and thin, Was shot through a shrub and gained in bruise as much as she lost in skin; And Rosamond's frock was rent in rags, and tattered in strips was Peg's, And both of them suffered the ninepin fate to the ruin of arms and legs; And every face was licked by a dog, and battered was every limb, When Duke ran round in a circle and Soo-Ti ran after him.

ODE TO JOHN BRADBURY

(THE NOTES FOR £1 AND 10S ARE SIGNED BY JOHN BRADBURY)

When the Red KAISER, swoll'n with impious pride
And stuffed with texts to serve his instant need,
Took Shame for partner and Disgrace for guide,
Earned to the full the hateful traitor's meed,
And bade his hordes advance
Through Belgium's cities towards the fields of France;
And when at last our patient island race,
By the attempted wrong
Made fierce and strong,
Flung back the challenge in the braggart's face,
Oh then, while martial music filled the air,
Clarion and fife and bagpipe and the drum,
Calling to men to muster, march, and dare,
Oh, then thy day, JOHN BRADBURY, was come.

JOHN BRADBURY, the Muse shall fill my strain
To sing thy praises; thou hadst spent thy time
Not idly, nor hadst lived thy life in vain,
Unfitted for the guerdon of my rhyme.
For lo, the Funds went sudden crashing down,
And men grew pale with monetary fear,
And in the toppling mart
The stoutest heart
Melted, and fortunes seemed to disappear;
And some, forgetting their austere renown,
Went mad and sold
Whate'er they could and wildly called for Gold!

"Since through no fault of ours the die was cast
We shall go forth and fight
In death's despite
And shall return victorious at the last;
But how, ah how," they said,
"Shall we and ours be fed
And clothed and housed from dreary day to day,
If, while our hearths grow cold, we have no coin to pay?"

Then thou, where no gold was and little store
Of silver, didst appear and wave thy pen,
And with thy signature
Make things secure,
Bidding us all pluck up our hearts once more
And face our foolish fancied fears like men.
"I give you notes," you said, "of different kinds
To ease your anxious minds:
The one is black and shall be fairly found
Equal in value to a golden pound;
The other--mark its healthy scarlet print--
Is worth a full half-sovereign from the Mint."

Thus didst thou speak--at least I think thou didst--
And, lo, the murmurs fell
And all things went right well,
While thy notes fluttered in our happy midst.
Therefore our grateful hearts go forth to thee,
Our British note-provider, brave JOHN BRADBURY!

TEETH-SETTING

(1914)

When the thunder-shaking German hosts are marching over France-- Lo, the glinting of the bayonet and the quiver of the lance!-- When a rowdy rampant KAISER, stout and mad and middle-aged, Strips his breast of British Orders just to prove that he's enraged; When with fire and shot and pillage He destroys each town and village; When the world is black with warfare, then there's one thing you must do: Set your teeth like steel, my hearties, and sit tight and see it through.

Oh, it's heavy work is fighting, but our soldiers do it well-- Lo, the booming of the batteries, the clatter of the shell!-- And it's weary work retiring, but they kept a dauntless front, All our company of heroes who have borne the dreadful brunt. They can meet the foe and beat him, They can scatter and defeat him, For they learnt a steady lesson (and they taught a lesson, too), Having set their teeth in earnest and sat tight and seen it through.

Then their brothers trooped to join them, taking danger for a bride, Not in insolence and malice, but in honour and in pride; Caring nought to be recorded on the muster-roll of fame, So they struck a blow for Britain and the glory of her name. Toil and wounds could but delight them, Death itself could not affright them, Who went out to fight for freedom and the red and white and blue, While they set their teeth as firm as flint and vowed to see it through.

THE DEATH OF EUCLID

["Euclid, we are told, is at last dead, after two thousand years of an immortality that he never much deserved."--_The Times Literary Supplement_.]

A THRENODY for EUCLID! This is he
Who with his learning made our youth a waste,
Holding our souls in fee;
A god whose high-set crystal throne was based
Beyond the reach of tears,
Deeper than time and his relentless years!

Come then, ye Angle-Nymphs, and make lament;
Ye little Postulates, and all the throng
Of Definitions, with your heads besprent
In funeral ashes, ye who long
Worshipped the King and followed in his train;
For he is dead and cannot rise again.

Then from the shapes that beat their breasts and wept,
Soft to the light a gentle Problem stepped,
And, lo, her clinging robe she swiftly loosed
And with majestic hands her side produced:

"Sweet Theorem," she said, and called her mate,
"Sweet Theorem, be with me at this hour.
How oft together in a dear debate
We two bore witness to our Sovereign's power.
But he is dead and henceforth all our days
Are wrapped in gloom,
And we who never ceased to sing his praise
May weep our lord, but cannot call him from his tomb."

And, as they bowed their heads and to and fro
Wove in a mournful gait their web of woe,
Two sentinels forth came,
Their hearts aflame,
And moved behind the pair:
"Warders we are," they cried,
"Of these two sisters who were once so fair,
So joyous in their pride."
And now their massy shields they lifted high,
Embossed with letters three,
And, though a mist of tears bedimmed each eye,
The sorrowing Nymphs could see
Q., E. and F. on one, and on the other Q. E. D.

But on a sudden, with a hideous noise
Of joy and laughter rushed a rout of boys;
And all the mourners in affright
Scattered to left and right.
Problems and Theorems and Angles too,
Postulates, Definitions, Circles, Planes,
A jibbering crew,
With all their hoary gains
Of knowledge, from their monarch dead
Into the outer darkness shrieking fled.

And now with festal dance and laughter loud
Broke in the boyish and intruding crowd;
Nor did they fail,
Seeing that all the painful throng was sped,
To let high mirth prevail,
And raise the song of joy for EUCLID dead.

TO POSTUMOUS IN OCTOBER

When you and I were younger the world was passing fair; Our days were sped with laughter, our steps were free as air; Life lightly lured us onward, and ceased not to unroll In endless shining vistas a playground for the soul. But now no glory fires us; we linger in the cold, And both of us are weary, and both are growing old; Come, Postumus, and face it, and, facing it, confess Your years are half a hundred, and mine are nothing less.

When you and I were twenty, my Postumus, we kept In tidy rooms in College, and there we snugly slept. And still, when I am dreaming, the bells I can recall That ordered us to chapel or welcomed us to hall. The towers repeat our voices, the grey and ancient Courts Are filled with mirth and movement, and echo to our sports; Then riverward we trudge it, all talking, once again Down all the long unlovely extent of Jesus Lane.

One figure leads the others; with frank and boyish mien, Straight back and sturdy shoulders, he lords it o'er the scene; His grip is firm and manly, his cheeks are smooth and red; The tangled curls cling tightly about his jolly head. And when we launch the eight-oar I hear his orders ring; With dauntless iteration I see his body swing: The pride of all the river, the mainstay of our crew-- O Postumous, my bold one, can this be truly you?

Nay, Postumus, my comrade, the years have hurried on; You're not the only Phoenix, I know, whose plumes are gone. When I recall your splendour, your memory, too, is stirred; You too can show a moulted, but once refulgent, bird; And, if I still should press you, you too could hardly fail To point a hateful moral where I adorned the tale. 'Twere better to be thankful to Heaven that ruled it so, And gave us for our spending the days of long ago.

A RAMSHACKLE ROOM

When the gusts are at play with the trees on the lawn,
And the lights are put out in the vault of the night;
When within all is snug, for the curtains are drawn,
And the fire is aglow and the lamps are alight,
Sometimes, as I muse, from the place where I am
My thoughts fly away to a room near the Cam.

'Tis a ramshackle room, where a man might complain
Of a slope in the ceiling, a rise in the floor;
With a view on a court and a glimpse on a lane,
And no end of cool wind through the chinks of the door;
With a deep-seated chair that I love to recall,
And some groups of young oarsmen in shorts on the wall.

There's a fat jolly jar of tobacco, some pipes--
A meerschaum, a briar, a cherry, a clay--
There's a three-handled cup fit for Audit or Swipes
When the breakfast is done and the plates cleared away.
There's a litter of papers, of books a scratch lot,
Such as _Plato_, and _Dickens_, and _Liddell and Scott_.

And a crone in a bonnet that's more like a rag
From a mist of remembrance steps suddenly out;
And her funny old tongue never ceases to wag
As she tidies the room where she bustles about;
For a man may be strong and a man may be young,
But he can't put a drag on a Bedmaker's tongue.

And, oh, there's a youngster who sits at his ease
In the hope, which is vain, that the tongue may run down,
With his feet on the grate and a book on his knees,
And his cheeks they are smooth and his hair it is brown.
Then I sigh myself back to the place where I am
From that ramshackle room near the banks of the Cam.

THE LAST STRAW

I sing the sofa! It had stood for years,
An invitation to benign repose,
A foe to all the fretful brood of fears,
Bidding the weary eye-lid sink and close.
Massive and deep and broad it was and bland--
In short the noblest sofa in the land.

You, too, my friend, my solid friend, I sing,
Whom on an afternoon I did behold
Eying--'twas after lunch--the cushioned thing,
And murmuring gently, "Here are realms of gold,
And I shall visit them," you said, "and be
The sofa's burden till it's time for tea."

"Let those who will go forth," you said, "and dare,
Beyond the cluster of the little shops,
To strain their limbs and take the eager air,
Seeking the heights of Hedsor and its copse.
I shall abide and watch the far-off gleams
Of fairy beacons from the world of dreams."

Then forth we fared, and you, no doubt, lay down,
An easy victim to the sofa's charms,
Forgetting hopes of fame and past renown,
Lapped in those padded and alluring arms.
"How well," you said, and veiled your heavy eyes,
"It slopes to suit me! This is Paradise."

So we adventured to the topmost hill,
And, when the sunset shot the sky with red,
Homeward returned and found you taking still
Deep draughts of peace with pillows 'neath your head.
"His sleep," said one, "has been unduly long."
Another said, "Let's bring and beat the gong."

"Gongs," said a third and gazed with looks intent
At the full sofa, "are not adequate.
There fits some dread, some heavy, punishment
For one who sleeps with such a dreadful weight.
Behold with me," he moaned, "a scene accurst.
The springs are broken and the sofa's burst!"

Too true! Too true! Beneath you on the floor
Lay blent in ruin all the obscure things
That were the sofa's strength, a scattered store
Of tacks and battens and protruded springs.
Through the rent ticking they had all been spilt,
Mute proofs and mournful of your weight and guilt.

And you? You slept as sweetly as a child,
And when you woke you recked not of your shame,
But babbled greetings, stretched yourself and smiled
From that eviscerated sofa's frame,
Which, flawless erst, was now one mighty flaw
Through the addition of yourself as straw.

THE OLD GREY MARE

There's a line of rails on an upland green
With a good take-off and a landing sound,
Six fences grim as were ever seen,
And it's there I would be with fox and hound.
Oh, that was a country free and fair
For the raking stride of my old grey mare!

With her raking stride, and her head borne high,
And her ears a-prick, and her heart a-flame,
And the steady look of her deep brown eye,
I warrant the grey mare knew the game:
It was "Up to it, lass," and before I knew
We were up and over, and on we flew.

The rooks from the grass got up, and so,
With a caw and flap, away they went;
When the grey mare made up her mind to go
At the tail of the bounds on a breast-high scent,
The best of the startled rooks might fail
To match her flight over post and rail.

While some of the thrusters grew unnerved,
And looked and longed for an open gate,
And one crashed down and another swerved,
She went for it always true and straight:
She pounded the lot, for she made it good
With never a touch of splintered wood.

Full many a year has come and gone
Since last she gathered her spring for me,
And lifted me up, and so flew on
Unchecked in a country fair and free.
I've ridden a score since then, but ne'er
Crossed one that could live with the old grey mare.

AT PUTNEY

When eight strong fellows are out to row, With a slip of a lad to guide them, I warrant they'll make the light ship go, Though the coach on the launch may chide them, With his "Six, get on to it! Five, you're late! Don't hurry the slides, and use your weight! You're bucketing, Bow; and, as to Four, The sight of his shoulders makes me sore!"

But Stroke has steadied his fiery men, And the lift on the boat gets stronger; And the Coxswain suddenly shouts for "Ten! Reach out to it, longer, longer!" While the wind and the tide raced hand in hand The swing of the crew and the pace were grand; But now that the two meet face to face It's buffet and slam and a tortoise-pace.

For Hammersmith Bridge has rattled past, And, oh, but the storm is humming. The turbulent white steeds gallop fast; They're tossing their crests and coming. It's a downright rackety, gusty day, And the backs of the crew are drenched in spray; But it's "Swing, boys, swing till you're deaf and blind, And you'll beat and baffle the raging wind."

They have slipped through Barnes; they are round thebend; And the chests of the eight are tightening. "Now spend your strength, if you've strength to spend, And away with your hands like lightning! Well rowed!"--and the coach is forced to cheer-- "Now stick to it, all, for the post is near!" And, lo, they stop at the coxswain's call, With its message of comfort, "Easy all!"

So here's to the sturdy undismayed Eight men who are bound together By the faith of the slide and the flashing blade And the swing and the level feather; To the deeds they do and the toil they bear; To the dauntless mind and the will to dare; And the joyous spirit that makes them one Till the last fierce stroke of the race is done.

"A LITTLE BIT OF BLUE"

When the waves rise high and higher as they toss about together, And the March-winds, loosed and angry, cut your chilly heart in two, Here are eighteen gallant gentlemen who come to face the weather All for valour and for honour and a little bit of blue!

_Chorus._
Oh get hold of it and shove it!
It is labour, but you love it;
Let your stroke be long and mighty; keep your body on the swing;
While your pulses dance a measure
Full of pride and full of pleasure.
And the boat flies free and joyous like a swallow on the wing.

Isis blessed her noble youngsters as they left her; Father Camus Sped his youths to fame and Putney from his grey and ancient Courts:-- "Keep," they said, "the old traditions, and we know you will not shame us When you try the stormy tideway in your zephyrs and your shorts.

"For it's toil and tribulation till your roughnesses are polished, And it's bitterness and sorrow till the work of oars is done; But it's high delight and triumph when your faults are all abolished, With yourself and seven brothers firmly welded into one."

So they stood the weary trial and the people poured to greet them, Filled a cup with praise and welcome--it was theirs to take and quaff; And they ranged their ships alongside, and the umpire came to meet them, And they stripped themselves and waited till his pistol sent them off.

With a dash and spurt and rally; with a swing and drive and rattle, Both the boats went flashing faster as they cleft the swelling stream; And the old familiar places, scenes of many a sacred battle, Just were seen for half a moment and went by them in a dream.

But at last the flag has fallen and the splendid fight is finished, And the victory is blazoned on the record-roll of Fame. They are spent and worn and broken, but their soul is undiminished; There are winners now and losers, but their glory is the same!

_Chorus_.
Oh get hold of it and shove it!
It is labour, but you love it;
Let your stroke be long and mighty; keep your body on the swing;
While your pulses dance a measure
Full of pride and full of pleasure,
And the boat flies free and joyous like a swallow on the wing.

THE LAST COCK-PHEASANT

Splendour, whom lately on your glowing flight Athwart the chill and cheerless winter-skies I marked and welcomed with a futile right, And then a futile left, and strained my eyes To see you so magnificently large, Sinking to rest beyond the fir-wood's marge--

Not mine, not mine the fault: despise me not In that I missed you; for the sun was down, And the dim light was all against the shot; And I had booked a bet of half-a-crown. My deadly fire is apt to be upset By many causes--always by a bet.

Or had I overdone it with the sloes, Snared by their home-picked brand of ardent gin Designed to warm a shivering sportsman's toes And light a fire his reckless head within? Or did my silly loader put me off With aimless chatter in regard to golf?

You too, I think, displayed a lack of nerve; You did not quite-now did you?-play the game; For when you saw me you were seen to swerve, Doubtless in order to disturb my aim. No, no, you must not ask me to forgive A swerve because you basely planned to live.

At any rate I missed you, and you went, The last day's absolutely final bird, Scathless, and left me very ill content; And someone (was it I?) pronounced a word, A word which rather forcible than nice is, A little word which does not rhyme with Isis.

Farewell! I may behold you once again When next November's gales have stripped the leaf. Then, while your upward flight you grandly strain, May I be there to add you to my sheaf; And may they praise your tallness, saying "This Was such a bird as men are proud to miss!"

IN MEMORIAM

FRANCIS COWLEY BURNAND, 1836-1917

EDITOR OF "PUNCH," 1880-1906

Hail and Farewell, dear Brother of the Pen, Maker of sunshine for the minds of men, Lord of bright cheer and master of our hearts-- What plaint is fit when such a friend departs? Not with mere ceremonial words of woe Come we to mourn--you would not have it so; But with our memories stored with joyous fun, Your constant largesse till your life was done, With quips, that flashed through frequent twists and bends, Caught from the common intercourse of friends; And gay allusions gayer for the zest Of one who hurt no friend and spared no jest. What arts were yours that taught you to indite What all men thought, but only you could write!

That wrung from gloom itself a fleeting smile; Rippled with laughter but refrained from guile; Led you to prick some bladder of conceit Or trip intrusive folly's blundering feet, While wisdom at your call came down to earth, Unbent awhile and gave a hand to mirth!

You too had pondered mid your jesting strife The deeper issues of our mortal life; Guided to God by faith no doubt could dim, You fought your fight and left the rest to Him, Content to set your heart on things above And rule your days by laughter and by love.

Rest in our memories! You are guarded there By those who knew you as you lived and were. There mid our Happy Thoughts you take your stand, A sun-girt shade, and light that shadow-land.