Chapter II

Lord Globule was a backward lad,
Round leaden eyes Lord Globule had,
And shambling legs and shoulders stooped,
And lower lip that dripped and drooped.
At ten years old he could not get
The hang of half the alphabet;
At twelve he learnt to read his name,
At seventeen to write the same,
At twenty-one, his boyhood done,
He reached the age of twenty-one,
Which was sufficient reason why
His father’s sturdy tenantry
Should gather in a large white tent,
Engulf some tons of nutriment,
And, freely primed with free potations,
Emit profuse congratulations.

Sweet twenty-one! O magic age!
The opulent youth surveys the stage
Where soon he’ll walk ’mid loud applause.
He only hesitates because
His family all have different views
Which rôle, which entrance he should choose.
Lord Globule’s father thought him made
To dominate the world of Trade;
“Finance, finance is more his line,”
Exclaimed his Uncle Rubinstein;
“Oh, no,” Aunt Araminta cried,
“Diplomacy should first be tried”;
But in the end with one accord
They thought the chances of a hoard
That British politics afford
Would suit Lord Globule’s pocket best.

They all employed their interest
With Uncle Tom, and Moses Kant,
And Strauss, who married Globule’s aunt,
And Johnny Burke and Stoke and Shere,
And the old Duke and Humphrey Bere;
So that in January next year
A vacancy in Hertfordshire
Offered itself, and Globule’s parts
Enraptured the electors’ hearts.

The next five Sessions saw him slip
Through Private Secretaryship,
Under-Secretaryship,
Financial Secretaryship,
To Secretaryship of State,
With absolute power to regulate
The rural and the urban rate
Of birth among the pauper classes,
His duty ’twas to scan the masses
And carefully eliminate
What seemed to him degenerate,
To say what kinds they’d mutilate
And which ones merely isolate
In “homes from home” where they should be
Looked after tender-heartedly
By men selected by a Board
(No fewer than twenty to each ward).

A heavy task, as you’ll agree,
For which they paid him liberally.

Globule the office still would grace,
And still would draw the emolument,
Had not a wretched accident
Unfortunately taken place.

His chief subordinate being away
(The man who wrote Lord Globule’s speeches),
Lord Globule took a holiday,
Going by train to Burnham Beeches,
A secretary, tall and prim,
As usual, escorting him.
This tall young gentleman, when taxed
Later, denied he had relaxed
His customary watchfulness;
But be that as it may, ’tis certain
That late that night at Shoeburyness
Lord Globule was discovered bare
Of all except a muslin curtain
And some few feathers in his hair
And that the constable, when he
Was quite unable to explain
His actions or identity,
Concluded that he was insane.

Next day before the magistrate
The poor young pillar of the State
(His curtain bore no laundry marks!)
Was still quite unidentified,
And, catechized once more, replied
Only with sundry mews and barks.
And ultimately (to cut short
The day’s proceedings in the court)
Two doctors and the police advised
That Globule should be sterilized
(A thing I need not further mention),
And sent to permanent detention.

For days the public did not hear
Of Globule’s disappearance; near
And far, inquiries set on foot
Quite privately, produced no fruit,
Until at last the rumour spread
(Not in the papers) and some one said
That such a man in such a dress
Had been detained at Shoeburyness.
His relatives pursued the clue;
Alas, alas, the thing was true,
’Twas poor young Globule....
But the worst
Was this: that when they’d brought him out
They found the thing had got about
Among the unenlightened mob,
Which stultified beyond all doubt
The hopes they’d entertained at first
That Globule might preserve his job.

Fate was too strong; they had to bow;
Globule at home had been a failure;
And they could only give him now
The Governorship of South Australia.

No. 2. MR. W. H. DAVIES

I

I’m sure that you would never guess
The tales I hear from birds and flowers,
Without them sure ’twould be a mess
I’d make of all the summer hours;
But these fair things they make for me
A lovely life of joy and glee.

I saw some sheep upon some grass,
The sheep were fat, the grass was green,
The sheep were white as clouds that pass,
And greener grass was never seen;
I thought, “Oh, how my bliss is deep,
With such green grass and such fat sheep!”

And as I watch bees in a hive,
Or gentle cows that rub ’gainst trees,
I do not envy men who live,
No fields, no books upon their knees.
I’d rather lie beneath small stars
Than with rough men who drink in bars.