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LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE 
 
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 Ex Libris 
 ISAAC FOOT 
 
LEVIORE PLECTRO 
 
 (OCCASIONAL VERSES) 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 THE KESTREL'S NEST 
 and Other Verses. 
 
 Fcwp. 8vo, 3s. 6«?. 
 
 LONGMANS, GEEEN AND CO. 
 
 LONDON, NKW YOBK, AND BOMBAY 
 
LEVIORE PLECTRO 
 
 (OCCASIONAL VERSES) 
 
 BY 
 
 ALFRED COCHRANE 
 
 AUTHOR OF ' THE KESTREl's NEST 
 AND OTHER VERSES ' 
 
 ,©8 blul^t eine 3ett unb cctwetfet ' 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. 
 
 LONDON, NEW YORK, AND BOMBAY 
 1896 
 
 {All rights reserved] 
 
(5-1 ?L4? 
 
 Edinburgh : T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty 
 
DEDICA TION 
 
 TO 
 
 When, ten years hence, to stall or stand 
 
 The book-collector comes, 
 To twirl the stock of second-hand 
 
 Between inquiring thumbs; 
 
 When in the dust he burrows deep 
 
 If haply pearls may lurk. 
 And cast upon the rubbish heap 
 
 Finds this immortal work, 
 
 Then let him scoff, to me belongs 
 
 The courage to endure. 
 Who leave the Beatrice of my songs 
 
 Unknown, and so secure. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 These verses have been collected^ and are by 
 kind permission republished^ from the following 
 magazines and newspapers : — Temple Bar, Atalanta, 
 The St. James's Gazette, The Pall Mall Gazette, 
 Vanity Fair, Baily's Magazine,. The Spectator, and 
 The Cricket Field. 
 
 A. C. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 LEVIORE PLECTRO 
 
 THE MINOR POET S APOLOGY 
 
 THE FAIR CHILDREN 
 
 THE OLD VIOLIN . 
 
 TO AMARYLLIS 
 
 FACILIS DESCENSUS 
 
 THE blackbird's SONG 
 
 TO HUMPHREY 
 
 MY lady's looking-glass 
 
 TO JOHN BINGHAM 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 TO THE STREET-BRED PEOPLE 
 
 TO MY LADY 
 
 TO MY SMALL BROTHER 
 
 FROM THE TERRACE 
 
 I 
 
 3 
 
 6 
 
 8 
 
 II 
 
 13 
 14 
 17 
 i8 
 
 20 
 22 
 24 
 26 
 29 
 
X CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 LE ROI EST MOBT . . . , 
 
 31 
 
 THE GARTEN-MELODIE . . . . 
 
 . 36 
 
 THE MINUET-DANCER . . . . 
 
 37 
 
 TO CYNTHIA . . . . 
 
 39 
 
 THE TIDE OF YULE . . . . 
 
 41 
 
 POT-POURRI ...... 
 
 43 
 
 IN MEMORIAM . . . . . 
 
 45 
 
 A NEW ECLOGUE . . . . . 
 
 . 46 
 
 THE LEAVING OF ARCADY 
 
 50 
 
 THE OLD YEAR . . . . . 
 
 S3 
 
 TO MY COLONIAL COUSIN 
 
 55 
 
 THE SECOND-HAND FURNITURE SHOP 
 
 • 56 
 
 LAYS FROM THE PAVILION AND THE LINKS 
 
 W. G. 
 
 TO PHYLLIS ..... 
 MONOTONOUS BALLADE OF ILL-SUCCESS 
 ARMA VIRUMQUE .... 
 IS GOLF WORTH PLAYING .'' 
 
 63 
 65 
 67 
 69 
 71 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 BALLADE OF THE BLUES 
 THE CATCH .... 
 THE enthusiast's LOVE-SONG 
 TO LUCASTA .... 
 THE golfer's DKEAM . 
 
 XI 
 
 PAGE 
 
 75 
 
 n 
 
 79 
 8i 
 
THE MINOR POET'S APOLOGY 
 
 (to the public) 
 
 Could I but deem myself inspired. 
 
 Or owner of a fancy fired 
 
 By sparks, unwittingly acquired 
 
 From Heliconian flame. 
 The Muse, whoever she might be. 
 Who had, with motives hard to see, 
 Incautiously ignited me. 
 
 Would justly share the blame. 
 
 Had I occasion to suspect. 
 
 Or with complacence to reflect, 
 
 That I were destined to erect 
 
 A work outlasting Time ; 
 If this were to the public known, 
 I might perhaps be left alone. 
 As one with reasons of his own. 
 
 For bursting into rhyme. 
 
 But, since no Muse inspires my lays, 
 Twisted and turned in various ways, 
 And hammered out, from phrase to phrase. 
 And changed from bad to worse ; 
 A 
 
THE MINOR poet's APOLOGY 
 
 Since none can terra the process quick, 
 While metres halt and endings stick. 
 As I endeavour brick by brick 
 To build the lofty verse. 
 
 And since I know^ when all is done, 
 When all the scansions neatly run. 
 And I put forth into the sun 
 
 My pensive caroUings, 
 They will, unseen of any eye, 
 Disport themselves in print and die. 
 Like some midsummer butterfly. 
 
 Without his gorgeous wings. 
 
 Since I can feel no patriot's call, 
 No goading wrongs, like Juvenal, 
 Nor any need to sing at all, 
 
 Then somethi4g must be wrong ; 
 For even now I 've jingled on. 
 Discussing every pro and con, 
 Of this absurd phenomenon, 
 
 And sung another song. 
 
THE FAIR CHILDREN 
 
 (at the GRAFTON GALLERIES, 1 895) 
 
 Ay ! they grew older, queens and earls 
 
 And duchesses and kings ; 
 They lost their innocence and cm-Is, 
 
 And put off childish things ; 
 They lived and died ; for some the lot 
 
 In goodly gi-ound was cast. 
 While others marred with plan and plot 
 
 The record of the past. 
 
 Young Master Lambton's legs and arms 
 
 That crimson suit outgrew ; 
 Port and experience changed the charms 
 
 Of jovial Jacky Crewe; 
 The baby Johnson's thunder woke 
 
 To bellow round the Arts, 
 And Gainsborough's Georgiana broke 
 
 A scox-e of hapless hearts. 
 
 Grew old and faded ? God forbid, 
 
 We view them from afar. 
 And care not what they said or did 
 
 While they are what they are ; 
 
4 THE FAIR CHILDREN 
 
 We leave their destinies unknown. 
 
 Their histories all untold, 
 Fair children these who have not grown 
 
 And never can grow old. 
 
 One fancies how the penance meet 
 
 To rank and quartered shields 
 Would lead the ducal chairmen's feet 
 
 Away to Leicester Fields, 
 Where Mistress Ann, or Master John, 
 
 Prisoned some sunny day. 
 Would wish the hour of durance gone 
 
 And long to be at play. 
 
 Here while to many a nurse's hush 
 
 They fidgeted and sighed, 
 A mild old gentleman his brush 
 
 With dexterous fingers plied ; 
 Who scanned them with benignant glance, 
 
 The trumpet at his ear 
 Moving his sitters' mirth, perchance. 
 
 It seemed so monstrous queer. 
 
 Yet now they gaze at us with eyes 
 
 Wherein the mischief gleams 
 Of long-forgiven rogueries 
 
 And glorious pranks and schemes ; 
 
 ! 
 
THE FAIR CHILDREN 5 
 
 For those dull hours they found so long 
 
 Due recompense fulfil. 
 Showing them to the London throng 
 
 To-day as children still. 
 
 And if existence, soon or late, 
 
 Wrote lines across the brow. 
 Seared the smooth cheek with love or hate, 
 
 It nothing matters now ; 
 The havoc of the flying year 
 
 Can work them little ruth. 
 Immortal art has left them here 
 
 Imperishable youth. 
 
6 
 
 THE OLD VIOLIN 
 
 (ANTON. STRADIVARIUS CREMONENSIS 
 FACIEBAT ANNO I704) 
 
 It boasts a peerless colour dried 
 
 By suns of Southern lands, 
 As fair as when, a thing of pride, 
 
 It left the master's hands ; 
 For jealous time forgets and fears 
 
 That velvet sheen to tarnish, 
 That mystery guarded through the years 
 
 Of Stradivarius varnish. 
 
 Music that once across it swept 
 
 To-day about it clings, 
 The threnodies of souls that wept 
 
 Their grief above the strings : 
 With voiceless prayers of wild appeal 
 
 That steep it with sensation. 
 And make the hands that lift it feel 
 
 A thrill of sad vibration. 
 
THE OLD VIOLIN 
 
 So it awakes the note of strife. 
 
 Of gladness or distress, 
 And touches hidden cords of Life 
 
 Which words may not express : 
 Some strange desire, some vague dehght, 
 
 That sets the soul a-wondering, 
 As when men hear throughout the night 
 
 The restless ocean thundering. 
 
 Surely our wondrous modern wit 
 
 Hath something yet to learn. 
 Though progress leap to welcome it 
 
 At each triumphant turn. 
 Something, while that frail pinewood toy 
 
 Lies there upon the table, 
 And dims our brilliance to alloy 
 
 With yonder dusty label. 
 
8 
 
 TO AMARYLLIS 
 
 (as I APPROACH HER IN THE SOUTH EXPRESS) 
 
 In former days the squire who sought 
 
 The lady of his taste. 
 Would, as a proper suitor ought. 
 
 Make extra special haste ; 
 Across the plain and up the hill 
 He spurred his palfrey with a will. 
 
 I, wooing at a later date 
 
 With equal eagerness. 
 Do nothing to accelerate 
 
 This ten fifteen express ; 
 To gain her side I take the road 
 Equipped with neither spur nor goad. 
 
 Love does not lend my journey wings ; 
 
 The speed at which I ride 
 All may discern with other things 
 
 Set forth in Bradshaw's Guide ; 
 This engine does the best it can 
 For sighing swain and business man. 
 
TO AMARYLLIS 
 
 My prototype would never stay 
 
 For vulgar bite or sup, 
 He never brooked the least delay, 
 
 But simply hurried up ; 
 He passed the hour of dinner by 
 With noble scorn — and so do I. 
 
 I suck the pensive acid-drop. 
 
 Despising knife and fork. 
 Yet this insensate train must stop 
 
 While people lunch at York ; 
 Where I shall nurse my futile grief 
 And men w^ill eat great plates of beef. 
 
 Oh ! could I take the driver's place 
 And feed the engine fires. 
 
 Then we should race at treble pace 
 Along the startled shires ; 
 
 And every extra lump of coal 
 
 Would bring me nearer to the goal. 
 
 That were an outlet for my zeal. 
 
 An act my suit to plead. 
 Not equal to the rowelled heel, 
 
 But still a worthy deed ; 
 Fulfilling better the idea 
 Of Quixote seeking Dulcinea. 
 
10 TO AMARYLLIS 
 
 But my metallic steed is fleet. 
 So let me sleep and dream, 
 
 Inactive in my corner seat, 
 Of what I owe to steam ; 
 
 And not forget that while I rhyme 
 
 We rattle onwards all the time. 
 
11 
 
 FACILIS DESCENSUS 
 
 (a retrospect) 
 
 No sudden thrill, when first we met, 
 
 Arose my heart to stir, 
 The time and place I quite forget 
 
 And what I thought of her : 
 I may have praised her shapely head, 
 
 Her graceful form and active. 
 The kind of face, I may have said, 
 
 That one would call attractive. 
 
 While, hovering on the dangerous brink, 
 
 I saw with friendship's eye, 
 ' Nice ' was the epithet, I think, 
 
 I ventured to apply : 
 And when in pleasant act or word 
 
 She laughed at me or teased me. 
 It may have struck me as absurd 
 
 To find the process pleased me. 
 
 So it went on till, with surprise. 
 
 Upon a blissful date, 
 I was compelled to realise 
 
 That I had met my Fate : 
 
12 FACILIS DESCENSUS 
 
 Then I described her as divine, 
 In view of this credential. 
 
 That to all happiness of mine 
 Her presence was essential. 
 
 Throughout I felt, you will observe, 
 
 No surge of passion roll. 
 No tempest to destroy my nerve 
 
 And overthrow my soul ; 
 I marked no stormy threatening bank 
 
 Of clouds discharging thunder, 
 But, like the Rot/al George, I sank, 
 
 And gracefully went under. 
 
 Yet now, if I but hold her hand, 
 
 And look on her sweet face. 
 What need have I to understand 
 
 The ethics of the case ? 
 I only know the secret flame 
 
 Perhaps may burn the purer. 
 And Cupid take a noiseless aim 
 
 That he may strike the surer. 
 
IS 
 
 THE BLACKBIRD'S SONG 
 
 What was it that the blackbird sang, 
 Who whistled in the hedge 
 
 A jovial note that rose and rang 
 Along the spinney's edge ? 
 
 He sang that in a sheltered spot 
 That morning he had seen 
 
 A budding snowdrop, and a knot 
 Of primrose breaking green. 
 
 Whereat domestic visions grew, 
 
 That moved him to recall 
 A certain boxbush wet with dew 
 
 Against the terrace wall. 
 
 And under his melodious burst 
 
 I heard the blithe refrain. 
 That frost and snow had done their worst. 
 
 Yet here were flowers again. 
 
14 
 
 TO HUMPHREY 
 
 (an infant of quality) 
 
 I TURN from the Queen of the Epic, 
 
 Plunging her fiery car 
 Through the roar of Homeric battle 
 
 Where the toil-stained warriors are ; 
 And the hymn of superb achievement. 
 
 Such as bolder singers use, 
 I leave, as I lay my garland 
 
 At the feet of the Nursery Muse. 
 
 For she bids me remember, Humphrey, 
 
 That men may be beggars or kings. 
 But the way of their coming and going, 
 
 These be momentous things : 
 She deems them amazing figures 
 
 To count in the human sum, 
 And she holds you a thing of interest 
 
 Already, for you have come. 
 
 In the land where the Sun of to-morrow 
 
 Illumines a phantom earth. 
 Where you were with the babes of the Future 
 
 That await their hour of birth. 
 
TO HUMPHREY 15 
 
 When they called through the summer star- 
 light 
 
 For the soul of a man to go, 
 There were lots of round little Humphreys, 
 
 Standing about in a row. 
 
 And some they sent to the palace, 
 
 To be proud of their birth and blood. 
 And some they sent to the gutter. 
 
 To be proud of their pies of mud : 
 Some to be christened in nectar. 
 
 And some to be soaked in beer. 
 But you were a fortunate atom, 
 
 For they settled to send you here. 
 
 They ordered the child you played with 
 
 Away to a squalid place, 
 While they crowned you the prattling 
 monarch 
 
 Of a rich and a noble race ; 
 His sires were the common pebbles. 
 
 When Deucalion's rocks were thrown, 
 While yours on the foam of the deluge 
 
 Were tossed in an ark of their own. 
 
 For still on the boards of existence 
 Shall the unknown super stand 
 
 At the side of the sti-utting player. 
 
 Who is hailed with the clapping hand ; 
 
l6 TO HUMPHREY 
 
 And still the unanswered problem 
 Of the rags and the velvet sticks,, 
 
 That a man should be born to the half- 
 pence, 
 And a man should be born to the kicks. 
 
17 
 
 MY LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS 
 
 A PICTURE fair as ever came 
 
 From painter's brush she looks upon, 
 Clear mirrored in this amber frame, 
 
 Wrought years ago by Sheraton. 
 
 Yet love hath so o'ermastered me 
 And brought me to this craven pass, 
 
 I tremble for what she may see 
 
 When she draws near her looking-glass. 
 
 Not lest the sight should make her vain 
 
 My spirit nurses discontent. 
 For though she gaze and gaze again. 
 
 Yet this were time discreetly spent. 
 
 But ever my unquiet dream 
 
 Will that old parable adduce 
 Of one who scanned the silver stream. 
 
 And lost his heart with less excuse. 
 
18 
 
 TO JOHN BINGHAM 
 
 (the first name in the repton register, 1620) 
 
 You, whose forgotten name appears 
 
 The foremost in the tale, 
 We bid you through the vanished years. 
 
 First of Reptonians, hail. 
 
 How many flying terms have come 
 And gone since you were schooled, 
 
 And pored on exercise or sum. 
 When Master Whitehead ruled ! 
 
 You entered, as the books assert. 
 Ere Laud and Wentworth died. 
 
 Before the Chalgrove carbines hurt 
 Heroic Hampden's side. 
 
 You saw much bitter history made, 
 
 And stirring scenes belike. 
 In days when sombre Ironsides bade 
 
 His crop-eared churls to strike. 
 
TO JOHN BINGHAM 19 
 
 We picture you a Royalist, 
 Whose tender tears would fall 
 
 For that pale figure in the mist 
 Of dawn, before Whitehall. 
 
 Nay ! these be fancies : what we know 
 
 We would in peace enjoy. 
 That here, three centuries ago, 
 
 You lived a Repton boy. 
 
 And though you pass beyond the Arch 
 
 To distant shadowy realms. 
 Yet while the roaring wind of March 
 
 Still rocks these ancient elms, 
 
 It is a pleasant thing to find 
 That Time, with all his powers. 
 
 Hath left one friendly thread to bind 
 Your far-off life with ours. 
 
20 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 (r. L. STEVENSON, OB. DEC. 1 894) 
 
 We whisper a farewell to thee. 
 
 Now passed beyond all praise or blame, 
 Magician of the moor and sea. 
 
 So vast a heritage have we, 
 
 Left to us in that classic name, 
 We whisper a farewell to thee. 
 
 Still the salt wind is whistling free, 
 
 The Solway crags with heather flame, 
 Magician of the moor and sea. 
 
 The black flag flutters out to lee, 
 
 And buccaneers are dying game ; 
 We whisper a farewell to thee. 
 
 Though tears upon the page may be, 
 The old enchantment is the same. 
 Magician of the moor and sea. 
 
IN MEMORIAM 21 
 
 So when in England's memory, 
 
 You pass from life to living fame, 
 We whisper a farewell to thee, 
 Magician of the moor and sea. 
 
22 
 
 TO THE STREET-BRED PEOPLE 
 
 You who content along the pavement patter, 
 
 Or in your hansoms roll. 
 And find the ripple of your clubland chatter 
 
 Enough to feed your soul. 
 
 Hear, you brave butterflies, who stroll together 
 
 Down Bond Street, all alike. 
 This message blown from leagues of purple 
 heather. 
 
 From fen and field and dyke. 
 
 Hear ye the song of those who stand asunder 
 
 From busy ways of men. 
 Who hold communion with the nameless 
 wonder 
 
 That haunts the misty glen ; 
 
 Who love the wind that whistles through the 
 sedges 
 And flecks the sullen pond. 
 The ruddy ploughland and the dripping 
 hedges, 
 With the blue hills beyond. 
 
TO THE STREET-BRED PEOPLE 23 
 
 When have you listened while the snipe is 
 drumming 
 Above the sallow reeds. 
 Or paused to catch the curlew's whistle com- 
 ing 
 Far-heard across the meads ? 
 
 When have you, lingering in the forest 
 marches 
 Through twilight of July, 
 Seen the big brown owl stoop between the 
 larches, 
 A noiseless passer-by ? 
 
 Think you great Nature does not smile 
 supremely 
 At all your little play. 
 Your hackneyed worship of the smart and 
 seemly, 
 You puppets of to-day ? 
 
 Why, Pan looks upward to the Silver Pleiads, 
 
 When all the wood is dumb, 
 And softly laughs amid his sleeping Dryads 
 
 To hear the city's hum. 
 
24 
 
 TO MY LADY 
 
 (at croquet) 
 
 I OWN your eyes are bi'ight and brown, 
 I own they turned my head ; 
 
 But now I simply set you down 
 In fury as Two Red, 
 
 And pick my ball up with a frown 
 From the geranium bed. 
 
 At this third hoop in direst need 
 
 I 've tarried for an age ; 
 While, with a skilfulness, indeed, 
 
 Which aggravates my rage. 
 You now triumphantly succeed 
 
 In traversing the cage. 
 
 What can the miscreant's name have been, 
 
 I wonder with a sigh. 
 Who first placed hoops upon the green 
 
 And wooden balls thereby. 
 To make a game at which my queen 
 
 Should be as good as I ? 
 
TO MY LADY 25 
 
 But when the weaker sex begin 
 
 Athletic gulfs to span, 
 We men from games we cannot win 
 
 Will turn to those we can ; 
 Something where strength will enter in, 
 
 And leave the palm with man. 
 
 SOj though your aim is deadly true, 
 
 You croquet-playing witch. 
 Remember I play cricket too, 
 
 And that my muscles itch 
 To bowl my speediest at you. 
 
 Upon a fiery pitch. 
 
 In cooler blood I sympathise. 
 With all New Woman's aims. 
 
 Her hansom cabs and sailor ties. 
 Her latchkey's burning claims. 
 
 But now I doubt if she be wise 
 To vanquish us at games. 
 
26 
 
 TO MY SMALL BROTHER 
 
 (at school, after the CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS) 
 
 Dear Bill, your letter startles me : 
 I was not quite prepared to see 
 So dire a tale of miserie. 
 
 So sad a case : 
 You feel unwell — the boys are fools — 
 Your fixed opinion is that school 's 
 
 A heastly place. 
 
 The week has simply crawled away, 
 All has gone wrong in work and play, 
 Stern ushers haul you every day 
 
 Across the coals. 
 Your football side is always licked. 
 You cannot kick, as once you kicked. 
 
 Amazing goals. 
 
 What's this ? Young Smith with impious glance, 
 Searching your Gradus, found by chance 
 The programme of our Twelfth Night dance, 
 
 And laughed forthwith : 
 Whereat you blushed a conscious red 
 And strove, it seems, to punch the head 
 
 Of grinning Smith ? 
 
 i 
 
TO MY SMALL BROTHER 27 
 
 Our dance — that sentence, I confess, 
 
 Assists me to astutely guess 
 
 The cause of your extreme distress ; 
 
 For I recall 
 Some scenes that night which prompted me 
 To think la belle dame sans merci 
 
 Hath Bill in thrall. 
 
 La Belle Dame, who looked very sweet. 
 With her white frock and figure neat. 
 Her dignity and fan complete, 
 
 Her grown-up airs ; 
 And brown locks which my watchful eye 
 Observed you pulling on the sly 
 
 Upon the stairs. 
 
 At supper, when I saw the pride 
 With which the claret-cup you plied. 
 And, when she bade you to her side, 
 
 How pleased you were ; 
 I trembled for your future pangs, 
 Part due perhaps to the meringues. 
 
 But part to her. 
 
 My fears were just, and now you paint 
 The symptoms of an old complaint 
 That comes on sinner and on saint. 
 
 On wise and fool ; 
 Which, like the German measles, will 
 Render the patient far less ill 
 
 When caught at school. 
 
28 TO MY SMALL BROTHER 
 
 Whenever Chloe leaves her flocks 
 And goes to town to purchase frocks, 
 Old Strephon, perched upon the rocks, 
 
 Will sigh and say, 
 ' How very dull it is to keep 
 Watch over these disgusting sheep 
 
 While she 's away.' 
 
 1 
 
 But you I counsel better cheer. 
 For yonder bustling atmosphere 
 111 suits the dolorous cavalier. 
 
 Or moping lover ; 
 You soon, I think, will own it weak 
 To tolerate young Cupid's cheek, — 
 
 And will recover. i 
 
 
29 
 
 FROM THE TERRACE 
 
 Go, little wreath of smoke, apace, 
 Waft your illicit faint perfume 
 
 Across the interdicted space 
 
 Of yonder lamplit drawing-room. 
 
 Tell her who lingers there and reads, 
 Yet in my absence hides a yawn. 
 
 That the soft voice of summer pleads 
 For her sweet presence on the lawn. 
 
 ^ay that above the deep-blue hills 
 Hangs, fair to see, the sickle moon. 
 
 And that a mellow fragrance fills 
 The orchard mown this afternoon. 
 
 Say that your soothing influence, 
 With hopeful sentiment combined. 
 
 Inspires to rare benevolence 
 A lover who hath newly dined. 
 
30 FROM THE TERRACE 
 
 And if, perchance, the garden seat, 
 Where drowsy beetles wheel and hum, 
 
 Can tempt her not from her retreat, 
 And if she still refuse to come. 
 
 Then whisper, cigarette of mine, 
 Forebodings in her ear apart. 
 
 Of incense offered at a shrine 
 
 That still hath something of my heart. 
 
31 
 
 LE ROI EST MORT 
 
 (Being a Letter from Lieutenant Carew, quartered 
 
 at Bombay, to his sistei*, Miss Mabel Carew, whose 
 
 engagement to the Earl of Arleston 
 
 was lately made public) 
 
 I AM not, my dear Mabel, struck down with 
 surprise, 
 
 I am not with astonishment dumb. 
 In my own generation I 'm thoroughly wise. 
 
 And I thought it was likely to come ; 
 For we get the Society papers out here. 
 
 With their columns of gossip from town, 
 And they warned me the moment was danger- 
 ously near 
 
 For the loss of my brotherly crown. 
 
 There were reams that I studied with infinite 
 zest 
 On the gowns and the hats and the games 
 
32 LE ROI EST MORT 
 
 Of a youthful enchantress come out of the West 
 
 To break hearts at the court of St. James ; 
 There were pitiful rumours of tears and of 
 sighs, 
 Of lost hopes and of baffled desires, 
 That were due, we were told, to the sunny 
 brown eyes 
 Which had dazzled the Somerset squires. 
 
 With the lightest of possible sighs I forsake 
 
 My position as king of your heart. 
 And I hope that his lordship will own that I 
 take 
 
 My deposal in excellent part ; 
 I shall fancy, far over the Indian foam. 
 
 That I hear the refrain of the chimes, 
 And, be sure, they '11 remind me of old days 
 at home 
 
 In the sunlight of holiday times. 
 
 When I was the dullest of jacketed boys 
 That has ever parsed rvrrTOfxev wrong. 
 
 Or fretworked a bracket with hoi-rible noise. 
 Or hummed the last pantomime song ; 
 
 Who could eat very often and eat very much, 
 And whose manners were boisterous and 
 free. 
 
LE ROI EST MORT SS 
 
 While his charms, if existing, were certainly 
 such 
 As no eyes but a sister's could see. 
 
 And Miss Mabel Carew, who in Grosvenor 
 Square 
 Is to-day the most classic of queens, . . . 
 With her diamonds and lace and her dignified 
 air 
 And her smiles for the dukes and the 
 deans. 
 Was a wild-haired young lady who shouted 
 with pride 
 Such expressions as ' humbug ! ' and ' rot ! ' 
 What an expert she was at a banister 
 slide ! 
 What a capital catapult shot ! 
 
 You remember the great setts of tennis we 
 played 
 On the gravel court under the hill. 
 And the way we gulped down ginger-beer in 
 the shade 
 Out of bottles with wonderful skill, 
 And the matches at cricket we fought on the 
 lawn. 
 And the ferrets we nurtured and fed, 
 
 c 
 
34- LE ROI EST MORT 
 
 And the fir-tree you climbed for a shilling at 
 dawn, 
 When the powers were all safely in bed. 
 
 But your hair flies no more — it is coiled by 
 the mile. 
 You're propriety's pink, I am sure. 
 You play ' preludes ' by Bach in immaculate 
 style. 
 Looking all that is prim and demure ; 
 And yet when you gracefully render Mozart, 
 
 I can hardly believe you forget 
 The occasions on which you have shouted a 
 part 
 In our old ' Ballyhooley ' duet. 
 
 When the holidays waned, in the late August 
 dews 
 We would roam on the terrace alone. 
 With the young harvest moon peering over 
 the yews, 
 For she fancied us Darby and Joan ; 
 And now, you fair traitress, you gaze, I believe. 
 
 Into eyes, that are not mine, with pride. 
 And your hand fondly rests on a masculine 
 sleeve 
 That has not got my elbow inside. 
 
LE ROI EST MORT 35 
 
 Well — and what has he done to deserve your 
 respect ? 
 Answer that — is he equally skilled. 
 As you walk through the orchard the hole 
 to detect 
 In the stump where the titmouse will build ? 
 Has he taught you lob-bowling with cunning 
 ofF-breaks ? 
 Taught you punting a football about ? 
 Or the suitable treatment of silkworms and 
 snakes, 
 Or the right sort of fly for a trout ? 
 
 Just a wish at the set of the brotherly stai-. 
 
 At the parting that comes in our lives. 
 Far the best and the dearest of sisters you are, 
 
 May you be the most happy of wives ! 
 And when, to console me, I mimic the earl, 
 
 Which appears the correct thing to do. 
 May the favour of Fortune award me a girl 
 
 Half as nice, my sweet sister, as you ! 
 
36 
 
 THE GARTEN-MELODIE 
 
 What is it ? Fairies in the nightj 
 
 About Titania's hearth, 
 Who take their silver wands, and smite 
 
 The harebells in the garth, 
 
 And so make magic melodies. 
 
 That, thrilling such as hear, 
 Wake strange unearthly sympathies 
 
 Betwixt a smile and tear. 
 
 It may be, while the orchard grass 
 
 Basks in the summer heat, 
 The mirth of tiny elves that pass 
 
 Among the meadowsweet ; 
 
 Or else, perchance, the wistful plaint 
 Of some lone sylph that grieves. 
 
 When woods are dank and flowers are faint. 
 For withered loves and leaves. 
 
 I 
 
37 
 
 THE MINUET-DANCER 
 
 So, my enchantress in the flowered brocade, 
 
 You call an elder fashion to your aid. 
 
 Step forth from Gainsborough's canvas and 
 
 advance, 
 A powdered Galatea, to the dance. 
 
 About you clings a faded old-world air. 
 
 As though the linkboys shouted round your 
 
 chair. 
 As though the Macaronis thronged the Mall, 
 And the French horns were sounding at Vaux- 
 
 hall. 
 
 They tread the stately measure to its close. 
 The silver buckles and the silken hose, 
 Ladies and exquisites that bend and sway, 
 Brilliant as poppies on an autumn day. 
 
 You dance the minuet and we admire. 
 We dullards in our black and white attire, 
 Whose russet idyll seems a mere burlesque, 
 Set in a frame so far less picturesque. 
 
38 THE MINUET-DANCER 
 
 Yet I take heart ; for Love, the coatless rogue, 
 Can scarcely heed what raiment be m vogue. 
 Since in good sooth his neghgence is known 
 As something scandalous anent his own — 
 
 And so he whispers, ' Eyes were bright and 
 
 brown 
 Long ere the Powder Tax dismayed the town, 
 And faithful shepherds still shall babble on 
 Although the rapiers and the frills be gone.' 
 
 t 
 
39 
 
 TO CYNTHIA 
 
 (after admitting it) 
 
 Now that you understand at last 
 
 My painful situation, 
 My conduct in the anxious past 
 
 Requires no explanation : 
 You can interpret act and word 
 That may have struck you as absurd. 
 
 Nay! you will now contrive to guess 
 
 Why in my strange condition 
 I viewed your Cousin George with less 
 
 Approval than suspicion — 
 Your Cousin George, whose charms you hold 
 So versatile and manifold, 
 
 On evenings when he came to dine 
 
 And found himself in clover. 
 While you were playing Rubinstein, 
 
 And he was turning over, 
 And I sat glaring with a scowl 
 In distant corners, like an owl. 
 
40 TO CYNTHIA 
 
 But if you cannot yet discern 
 The meaning of the mystery, 
 
 Then let me counsel you to turn 
 For instances to history — 
 
 Of things that men, since the year One 
 
 In my distressing case have done. 
 
 I quote the unconventional style 
 That Paris chose for wooing. 
 
 Or all that nonsense by the Nile 
 That was a king's undoing ; 
 
 Or, better still, the precedent 
 
 Of old Achilles in the tent. 
 
 But why waste time on facts like these 
 
 In record or mythology ? 
 Love for his own absurdities 
 
 Is quite enough apology : 
 And when you once are fettered there 
 All 's sensible as well as fair. 
 
41 
 
 THE TIDE OF YULE 
 
 ' God rest you, merry gentlemen ' 
 
 Lo ! to salute the happy morn, 
 
 We wake in late December, 
 And find that middle-age has shorn 
 
 So much that we remember; 
 So much that once was counted dear 
 Which loses savour, year by year. 
 
 A sameness marks these annual joys — 
 The lads from school returning, 
 
 The Christmas trees, the romps and noise. 
 The raisins bluely burning : 
 
 The tables everywhere replete 
 
 With strange unwholesome things to eat. 
 
 Nor can we now approve the aims 
 
 Of midnight carol-singers. 
 The holly round the picture frames 
 
 Conspires to prick our fingers ; 
 We find the humour less sublime 
 That permeates the pantomime. 
 
42 THE TIDE OF YULE 
 
 Yet since a change affects us thus. 
 We may inquire with reason 
 
 Whether the cause be traced to us, 
 Or to the festive season; 
 
 And some things lead us to suspect 
 
 The former inference is correct. 
 
 My cynic, yonder chimes that go 
 Across the white world pealing, 
 
 Those hackneyed greetings in the snow 
 Induce a cheerful feeling, 
 
 And vague heart-warmings, now and then. 
 
 Befitting merry gentlemen. 
 
 Then ' Hark the herald,' which in church 
 
 The children in the choir. 
 Left by the organ in the lurch, 
 
 Drag with a tuneless fire ; 
 For all their lack of skill imparts 
 Its old refrain of happy hearts. 
 
 Indeed old Santa Claus appears. 
 
 Despite his false position, 
 To challenge all the clamouring years 
 
 To shout down his tradition. 
 High o'er the storm he lifts his voice, 
 And says, and says again, Rejoice ! 
 
 1 
 
43 
 
 POT-POURRI 
 
 The little red rose at the garden gate 
 
 To a brown bee near him humming, 
 His sorrow told disconsolate. 
 
 When he felt October coming : 
 ' I were glad/ he sighed, ' to lose my pride. 
 
 And the beauty of my completeness. 
 And the last faint flush of my petals' blush. 
 
 If I might but save my sweetness.' 
 
 Now it chanced, at the wane of the hunters' 
 moon, 
 That a maiden wandered thither, 
 And she sang to herself that late or soon 
 
 The choicest flowers must wither ; 
 Then she idly stooped where the red-rose 
 drooped. 
 For she pitied his lone condition, 
 And with wide surprise in her beautiful 
 eyes 
 She heard his last petition. 
 
44 POT-POURRI 
 
 She deemed it were ill to leave him there 
 
 For the autumn wind to grieve him. 
 And she schemed withal that his fragrance 
 rare, 
 
 Though he died, should never leave him ; 
 'Twas October's fate to be overlate 
 
 To fulfil his harsh endeavour. 
 For in a gold jar of Satsuma, 
 
 She bade him be sweet for ever. 
 
 On the Chippendale shelf his faded bloom 
 
 Is the last and the sweetest comer, 
 And he filleth my lady's drawing-room 
 
 With a scent of the vanished summer ; 
 And to each knick-knack of bric-a-brac, 
 
 Though he seems but a rustic vagrant. 
 Yet the Chelsea man and the Pompadour 
 fan 
 
 Confess that he still is fragrant. 
 
45 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 J. A. FROUDE, OB. OCTOBER 1 894 
 
 Now, when heroic memories pass 
 Like sunset shadows from the grass. 
 When England's children cry and stir, 
 Each for himself, and few for her. 
 
 We may think tenderly of one 
 Who told, like no unworthy son, 
 Her history, and who loved to draw 
 Champions a younger England saw. 
 
 We act no critic's part, and when 
 They rate him less than lesser men. 
 We feel the golden thread that goes 
 To link the periods of his prose. 
 
 Perhaps our busy, breathless age. 
 That leaves unopened history's page, 
 Hath need of work like his to strike 
 Imperial chords, Tyrtaeanlike. 
 
46 
 
 A NEW ECLOGUE 
 
 (at HYDE PARK CORNER) 
 DAMON 
 
 We, whom the foliage of the city covers, 
 Rechning on our inexpensive chairs. 
 
 Can match the converse of Arcadian lovers. 
 And boast advantages that were not theirs. 
 
 PHYLLIS 
 
 So let us construe into tuneful verses 
 The burden of your sensible remark. 
 
 And summon once again the reed of Thyrsis 
 To chant a modern eclogue of the Park. 
 
 DAMON 
 
 For mere appearance, my enchanting Phyllis, 
 You, with your newest thing in hats and 
 frocks. 
 
 Are more desirable than Amaryllis, 
 
 Despite the cowslips braided in her locks. 
 
A NEW ECLOGUE 47 
 
 PHYLLIS 
 
 While you, my Damon, matchlessly frock- 
 coated. 
 
 Famed for the tying of a perfect tie. 
 Well, Corydon was doubtless as devoted. 
 
 But, surely, less attractive to the eye. 
 
 DAMON 
 
 Their rustic conversation must have waited 
 A tedious while for topics and for news ; 
 
 I weep for Tityrus as he meditated 
 
 The threadbare subject of his woodland 
 Muse. 
 
 PHYLLIS 
 
 Poor shepherds, I can fancy them together 
 Lying upon the hillside half asleep. 
 
 With nothing to discuss except the weathei*. 
 And nothing to admire except the sheep. 
 
 DAMON 
 
 And then their pleasures — when had Stre- 
 phon mounted 
 
 In Rotten Row the courser full of fire. 
 Or in the park of Battersea discounted 
 
 The tortuous peril of the cushion tyre ? 
 
48 A NEW ECLOGUE 
 
 PHYLLIS 
 
 When had his Chloe up the staircase wended 
 Through smart At-Homes her fashionable 
 way. 
 
 Or on the terrace when the waltz was ended 
 Talked amorous nonsense to the coming day ? 
 
 DAMON 
 
 Yet, sometimes, when the dust of London 
 chokes me, 
 
 And when the glories of the season pall, 
 It is as though the voice of Pan invokes me, 
 
 That his domain is better after all. 
 
 PHYLLIS 
 
 That crowds are hot, and men and women silly, 
 And that the drama runs on ancient lines. 
 
 While, far away from roaring Piccadilly, 
 
 The sunlight trembles through the silent 
 pines. 
 
 DAMON 
 
 Love may be sweet, where trees have woven 
 thickest 
 Their cool green solitudes for whispering 
 tones. 
 Or where the glancing runnel chatters quickest 
 His ceaseless melody above the stones. 
 
A NEW ECLOGUE 49 
 
 PHYLLIS 
 
 Since then he charms us in the crowd's con- 
 fusion, 
 And where Sicilian skies are blue above, 
 Time-honoured seems our dialogue's conclu- 
 sion, 
 The omnipresence of the God of Love. 
 
50 
 
 THE LEAVING OF ARCADY 
 
 THYRSIS AND A GOATHERD 
 THE GOATHERD 
 
 Come, Thyrsis, come; least said is soonest 
 
 mended. 
 
 So meet me not with angry glance or frown. 
 
 But get thee gone, thy four weeks' leave is 
 
 ended. 
 
 And thou must hie thee back to dusty town. 
 
 THYRSIS 
 
 Nay ! this is but my holiday's beginning ; 
 
 I did but leave my labours yesterday, 
 Or else this planet with a swifter spinning 
 
 Has whirled my month of happiness away. 
 
 THE GOATHERD 
 
 Such is the plaint eternal of chance comers — 
 The halcyon hours with double quickness run 
 
 And in the splendour of Arcadian summers 
 The quicker climb the coursers of the sun. 
 
THE LEAVING OF ARCADY 51 
 
 THYRSIS 
 
 Nay! let me stay, for still yon landscape matches 
 The eyes of Amaryllis with its blue. 
 
 Save where on mountain crest the grassy 
 patches 
 Gleam in the sunlight dipped in golden dew. 
 
 THE GOATHERD 
 
 To make the pang of thy distress profounder, 
 Let me remind thee how, when thou art not. 
 
 Still in the river-reach that twenty pounder 
 Will laugh to think upon thy vain Jock Scott. 
 
 THYRSIS 
 
 Out on this age of ours, that lacks completely 
 
 Appreciation of the picturesque, 
 And forces one who plays the shepherd sweetly 
 
 Back to dull commerce and an office desk. 
 
 THE GOATHERD 
 
 Then stay with us, for though the hind or 
 hedger 
 
 Toiled as they sang by sunlit Syracuse, 
 Yet Thyrsis, adding columns in a ledger^ 
 
 Degrades the Muses to a baser use. 
 
52 THE LEAVING OF ARCADY 
 
 THYRSIS 
 
 Yet let this commonplace excuse be pleaded, 
 That, though I kneel before the tuneful Nine, 
 
 Far mightier singers than myself have needed 
 To earn the sorry wherewithal to dine. 
 
 THE GOATHERD 
 
 Here 's provender enough ; the busy sickles 
 Provide thine oatmeal at the cottage door. 
 
 While to assuage thy thirst the streamlet 
 trickles 
 Clear and inviting from the upland moor. 
 
 THYRSIS 
 
 Much as I praise thy porringer diurnal 
 And water clear, remember once again 
 
 The want of cabs and cigarettes eternal 
 That vexes public and poetic men. 
 
 THE GOATHERD 
 
 Promptly I recognise the situation : 
 
 Thou art, at heart, a man of prose, I see ; 
 
 So doff thy goatskins and thine affectation, 
 And get thee far away from Arcady. 
 
53 
 
 THE OLD YEAR 
 
 He passes in the midnight dews, 
 
 Beneath the winter moon. 
 Who was, a week since, daily news, 
 
 And must be history soon ; 
 Yet though his tale be almost told. 
 
 Still, with his ebbing breath. 
 He weaves his chequered plot of old. 
 
 Of birth and life and death. 
 
 In his perennial record now 
 
 Time pens the latest leaf, 
 For some to read with laughing brow 
 
 And some with bitter grief; 
 He showed us scenes of warring powers. 
 
 Of blood and stirring fights ; 
 He had his share of pregnant hours. 
 
 Of anxious days and nights. 
 
 While, all unheeding year or date. 
 Deep currents running strong 
 
 Still bear us on the stream of Fate 
 To ports of right or wrong : 
 
54 THE OLD YEAR 
 
 The ripple of a hidden tide 
 That unperceived may roll, 
 
 Becoming where the banks are wide 
 A force beyond control. 
 
 Whereat the craven fears to fight. 
 
 And mutters, with a sigh. 
 That Wrong is victor over Right, 
 
 That Faith and Virtue die ; 
 And for the recreant race of man 
 
 Such dread account must fall. 
 As makes the prophet shrink to scan 
 
 The future's ciystal ball. 
 
 Another, as the hour draws nigh. 
 
 Forsakes the scattered feast, 
 And draws the casement curtain by 
 
 To look towards the East : 
 Who, at the clang of midnight, hears, 
 
 Borne by the chiming bell, 
 A message from the unborn years 
 
 That all shall yet be well. 
 
 J 
 
55 
 
 TO MY COLONIAL COUSIN 
 
 To you I sing, who bid me rhyme 
 The slender song that follows, 
 
 You flittinff from a sunnier clime 
 To Etwall with the swallows ; — 
 
 Swallows that in the sunlight played, 
 
 Attempting by the dozen 
 To make for us what you have made 
 
 AlonCj my little cousin. 
 
 For thus we trim the altered phrase, — 
 
 One Trinidad new-comer. 
 With her bright laugh and sunny ways, 
 
 Can make a perfect summer. 
 
56 
 
 1 
 
 THE SECOND-HAND FURNITURE 
 SHOP 
 
 In a pleasing confusion of eras of taste. 
 
 In a jumble of new and of old, 
 The rococo, the classic, the florid, the chaste. 
 
 They are ranged in the shop to be sold ; 
 Yet, although but a trace of their grandeur 
 survives. 
 
 Though they came to the hammer at last. 
 They were gods of the household, and part of 
 the lives 
 
 Of the women and men of the past. 
 
 You may see the oak-chest from a Royalist line. 
 
 Where the kerchiefs in lavender lay. 
 And the glass-fronted bookcase of stately 
 design 
 That was chiselled in Sheraton's day ; 
 You may gaze at the modern magenta that 
 flames 
 On a suite of Victorian chairs, 
 
THE SECOND-HAND FURNITURE SHOP 57 
 
 And the dining-room sideboard, by Gillow, 
 that shames 
 All our latter-day gimcrack affairs. 
 
 Here's a table that echoes the ring of the glass, 
 
 When the port in the coaster was low, 
 On a rollicking night when the Marquis would 
 pass 
 
 All the best that the cellar could show ; 
 And perhaps in the earliest shimmer of dawn. 
 
 When the page-boy was draining the dregs. 
 We may picture the slumbering derelicts 
 drawn 
 
 From between those mahogany legs. 
 
 And another still weai'ing the baize that it wore 
 
 When it served for piquet or quadrille, 
 Where her Ladyship pulled in the guineas 
 galore, 
 As she punted with pam. or spadille, 
 And the quaint old spinet that Miss Deborah 
 played 
 To the ballad pathetic or blithe, 
 Side by side with the desk whei'e the tribute 
 was paid 
 When the Rector collected the tithe. 
 
58 THE SECOND-HAND FURNITURE SHOP 
 
 Nay ! leave them alone with the stories they 
 know, 
 Whether gathered from cottage or hall ; 
 They are dusty and worn, and they stand in a 
 row 
 While the purchasers chaffer and brawl ; 
 And the owners that knew them are laid in 
 the earth, 
 And the laughter is mixed with the tears, 
 For they touch the remembrance of sorrow 
 and mirth 
 With a pathos of far-away years. 
 
 Who now may distinguish the settle of oak 
 
 Where the clown of the tap-room would sit, 
 As he cracked of an evening his primitive joke. 
 
 And the rustics applauded his wit ; 
 From the sofa that once was in Goldsworthy 
 Chase, 
 With its dingy old cushions of red. 
 Where my young Mistress Dorothy buried her 
 face 
 WTien they brought back Sir Christopher 
 dead ? 
 
 Who knows or who cares ? They were sold 
 with a sigh. 
 When a home was dismantled and lost ; 
 
THE SECOND-HAND FURNITURE SHOP 59 
 
 They are bought with a price, and a common- 
 place eye 
 To their merits of style or of cost. 
 And it is but the fanciful dreamer for whom. 
 
 While the wheels of the century stop, 
 Throng the ghosts in dim corridor, passage, or 
 room 
 In the second-hand furniture shop. 
 
LAYS FROM THE PAVILION 
 AND THE LINKS 
 

 I 
 
63 
 
 'w. g; 
 
 (upon the completion of his hundredth 
 
 HUNDRED IN FIRST-CLASS CRICKEt) 
 
 Well may we proffer, age and youth. 
 
 Congratulations meet. 
 And sing what is in sober truth 
 
 A Jin de siecle feat. 
 
 By many shifts, in many ways. 
 Men strive to win renown. 
 
 Some measure of the pubhc praise. 
 Laurel or parsley crown. 
 
 And still the ladder's slippery rungs 
 
 Are steeper day by day ; 
 Still fame eludes ; and little tongues 
 
 Must have their jealous say. 
 
 Yet this our champion may defy 
 The word of praise or blame. 
 
 Who writes his hundredth century 
 Against his mighty name. 
 
64 'w. G.' 
 
 And, in an era prone to boast 
 
 A soiTiewhat sickly wit, 
 Inspires our jaded voice to toast 
 
 The vigorous and the fit. 
 
 Ah ! we had liefer see decay 
 
 A score of serious fads. 
 Than face the hour when he shall lay 
 
 Aside his bat and pads. 
 
 Wherefore we wish him many a run 
 
 As tribute to his skill, 
 And when our century is done 
 
 May he make centuries still ! 
 
65 
 
 TO PHYLLIS 
 
 WHO HAS DEGENERATED, AND MAY DEGENERATE 
 FURTHER 
 
 Phyllis, when I knew you first. 
 
 Croquet was the fashion ; 
 You were best and I was worst. 
 
 Yet you had compassion; 
 All my piteous lack of aim 
 
 Vexed your soul but slightly, 
 And, although we lost the game. 
 
 Still you smiled politely. 
 
 Phyllis, in lawn-tennis times. 
 
 In the sunny garden, 
 You beheld a partner's crimes, 
 
 With a gracious pardon ; 
 Feeble strokes you would forget. 
 
 Frequent ' faults ' were venial. 
 When our foes had won the sett. 
 
 Still I found you genial. 
 E 
 
TO PHYLLIS 
 
 Phyllis, now at golf you play. 
 
 Where the world is bleakest, 
 And my skill, I grieve to say. 
 
 Still is of the weakest : 
 Sterner epithets you choose, 
 
 Uttered more succinctly. 
 Over foursomes that we lose 
 
 You are rude distinctly. 
 
 Phyllis, at the sandy tee, 
 
 Humble effort spurning. 
 Future years, alas ! may see 
 
 You to football turning : 
 Where, while middle age will own 
 
 Imitation painful, 
 I shall find your silvery tone 
 
 Even more disdainful. 
 
67 
 
 MONOTONOUS BALLADE OF ILL- 
 SUCCESS 
 
 Behold me batting — as I fail 
 
 Once more to stop the crafty slow ; 
 I hear the click of smitten bail, 
 
 The wicket-keeper's tactless crow ; 
 I have been in and out, and lo ! 
 
 My aggregate remains the same ; 
 Another nought ! — six in a row ; 
 
 And yet it 's an uncertain game. 
 
 Behold me bowling — tired and pale 
 
 I see the striker s visage glow ; 
 He hits them to the boundary rail, 
 
 -He hits them high, he hits them low ; 
 For he is playing like a pro. 
 
 While I have lost my length and aim ; 
 Another four ! I told you so ; 
 
 And yet it 's an uncertain game. 
 
 Behold me fielding — thick as hail 
 Come balls to stop where'er I go. 
 
 And still betwixt my shins they sail. 
 Snick, drive, or cut, or overthrow ; 
 
68 MONOTONOUS BALL-VDE OF ILL-SUCCESS 
 
 The while I gallop to and fro, 
 
 Bombarded with loud shouts of blame ; 
 Another miss ! the word was ' blow ' ; 
 
 And yet it's an uncertain game. 
 
 ENVOV 
 
 Friend, cricket is a fraud, I know. 
 Trading on legendary fame ; 
 
 I find it very certain woe ; 
 
 And yet it's an uncertain game. 
 
69 
 
 ARMA VIRUMQUE 
 
 (The Bat with which J. T. Brown made his great 
 
 score against Australia was exhibited in a Loudon 
 
 shop-window) 
 
 Against the window young and old 
 
 Pressed eager noses flat, 
 Thousands all anxious to behold 
 
 The justly famous bat. 
 
 The youth of London, well content^ 
 The future Peels and Gunns, 
 
 Stared at the magic implement 
 That made so many runs. 
 
 And some of those who came to stare 
 Admired it through the pane. 
 
 Enlarging with the expert's air 
 Upon its blade and grain. 
 
 But one poor player, who had made 
 More noughts than runs, maybe. 
 
 Wondered why here should be displayed 
 A slice of willow tree. 
 
70 ARMA VIRUMQUE 
 
 ' It won the rubber/ murmured he, 
 ' Why, that was very good, 
 
 Yet, after all, it seems to me 
 A common piece of wood. 
 
 ' Show us the pencil, if you will 
 With which Sir Joshua drew. 
 
 The inkpot Scott was wont to fill. 
 And Roberts' billiard cue. 
 
 ' Arms and the man ! It is not that 
 Which purchases renowns. 
 
 For many men can buy a bat. 
 But very few be Browns.' 
 
71 
 
 IS GOLF WORTH PLAYING? 
 
 (bv a dispirited devotee) 
 
 Is golf worth playing, when the gale 
 Blows with a boisterous roar, 
 
 When slashing drives obliquely sail 
 Far out across the shore. 
 
 When on the green I may be seen 
 Playing eleven, or more ? 
 
 Is golf worth playing on the days 
 
 When every lie is low. 
 And all is a disheartening maze 
 
 Of top and heel and toe, 
 When far and high the divots fly 
 
 At each abortive blow ? 
 
 Is golf worth playing, when events 
 
 So dismally befall. 
 That they constrain me to descents 
 
 Of chasm that appal. 
 Wherein I stand knee-deep in sand 
 
 Beside my bunkered ball ? 
 
72 IS GOLF WORTH PLAYING? 
 
 Is golf worth playing ? ay or no ; 
 
 Let others praise or scoff. 
 Bad habits all too swiftly grow 
 
 Beyond the shaking off; 
 So how shall I attempt reply 
 
 Who am a slave to golf ? 
 
73 
 
 BALLADE OF THE BLUES 
 
 I CARE not for the legends told 
 
 Of fights by land or sea. 
 Of fiery clouds of combat rolled, 
 
 Of lance or chivalry ; 
 This mimic tourney is to me 
 
 Worth several Waterloo's, 
 While I am watching, from Block D, 
 
 This battle of the Blues. 
 
 Here countless mighty chiefs of old 
 
 About the ropes will be, 
 Batsmen whose names are writ in gold, 
 
 Bowlers of high degree ; 
 Who fought long summers since, perdie, 
 
 And now must humbly choose 
 To view from bench or balcony 
 
 •This battle of the Blues. 
 
 And kingdoms may be bought or sold, 
 
 Great armies fall or flee. 
 While Fry is caught or Latham bowled. 
 
 Or Douglas hits a three : 
 
74 BALLADE OF-THE BLUES 
 
 The world of faddist or M.P. 
 
 No longer may amuse 
 The cheering crowds that sit and see 
 
 This battle of the Blues. 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 Fate, send us sunshine, send us free 
 
 Fair cricket, win or lose, 
 In this historic rivalry. 
 
 This battle of the Blues. 
 
75 
 
 THE CATCH 
 
 (a memory) 
 
 Stupendous scores he never made. 
 But perished ever with despatch ; 
 
 No bowhng genius he displayed. 
 But once, in a forgotten match, 
 He made a catch. 
 
 No doubt a timely stroke of luck 
 Assisted him to do the trick ; 
 
 He was at cover and it stuck ; 
 
 It travelled fairly low and quick,- 
 The kind that stick. 
 
 His friends the proud achievement classed 
 As fortune's most eccentric whim. 
 
 And ere a week or two had passed 
 The memory of the catch grew dim 
 To all but him. 
 
76 THE CATCH 
 
 To all but him, for he relates, 
 
 With varying ornament and phrase, 
 
 The story to the man who waits 
 Unwilling in pavilion ways. 
 On rainy days. 
 
 The catch has grown in splendour now — 
 He had a dozen yards to run ; 
 
 It won the match, as all allow. 
 
 And in his eyes there blazed the sun. 
 And how it spun ! 
 
 Life of old memories is compact, 
 
 And happy he, for whom with speed 
 
 Blossoms a gorgeous tree, where fact 
 Has planted, in his hour of need, 
 A mustard seed. 
 
77 
 
 THE ENTHUSIAST'S LOVE-SONG 
 (overheard at lords) 
 
 My Cynthia, whom I kneel before. 
 And every moment worship more, 
 
 Ay ! though I feel 
 
 A patriot zeal 
 At Oxford piling up a score. 
 
 Believe me, though my voice you hear 
 Upraising the spasmodic cheer, 
 
 All else will find 
 
 My eyes are blind 
 When you — well hit, by Jove ! — are near. 
 
 Here, on this coach-box, far above 
 
 The heated crowds that surge and shove. 
 
 Ah ! be not cold 
 
 While I unfold 
 My tale — good stroke, indeed ! — of love. 
 
78 THE enthusiast's love-song 
 
 So do not, with that ruthless pout, 
 My single-souled devotion doubt. 
 That is so plain — 
 Well hit again ! — 
 For I adore you — run it out ! 
 
79 
 
 TO LUCASTA 
 (on going to the wickets) 
 
 Bid me not, dallying at thy side, 
 Shun peril and renown ; 
 
 My place, I mention it with pride. 
 Is second wicket down. 
 
 Besides, you make spectators gasp. 
 While, sinking in a heap 
 
 On the pavilion steps, you clasp 
 My padded knees and weep. 
 
 Such partings on a cricket-ground 
 Are scarce the usual style ; 
 
 I see the scorer lookincr round 
 With an attentive smile. 
 
 Right Avell the dangers I regard 
 Which round the creases lie. 
 
 No one finds cricket-balls more hard. 
 Or knocks hurt more than I. 
 
80 TO LUCASTA 
 
 Yet surely these are tender fibs^ 
 While, with a voice of woe, 
 
 You picture short ones in the ribs, 
 And yorkers on the toe. 
 
 Yon bowlers are but medium quick, 
 And pitch them up, my love ; 
 
 Behold, ray pads ai*e passing thick, 
 I wear a right-hand glove. 
 
 So let me go whate'er befall, 
 And I will make a score, 
 
 I should not love thee, dear, at all. 
 Loved I not batting more. 
 
81 
 
 THE GOLFER'S DREAM 
 
 (after Longfellow) 
 
 Beneath the unearned ridge he stood. 
 
 His niblick in his hand ; 
 His throat was bare, his matted hair 
 
 Was thickly mixed with sand. 
 And the words he spake made his caddie quake. 
 Though he failed to understand. 
 
 As he cursed the pride that had made him strive 
 
 To reach that green in three. 
 For the sun was high in the April sky 
 
 When he drave off the tee ; 
 And now it was low and he did not know 
 Nor care what his score might be. 
 
 But he dreamed a dream as he smote away. 
 
 Churning the sand full sore. 
 And his futile strokes and the caddie's jokes 
 
 Could torture him no more ; 
 And he did not mind the couple behind, 
 Who were idly shouting ' Fore ! ' 
 
 F 
 
J2 THE golfer's dream 
 
 He dreamed that he played on a phantom links 
 Where nothing went ever wrong, 
 
 Where his putts were bold, but were always 
 holed, 
 And his cleek shots wondrous long ; 
 
 Where he stood hole-high with a perfect lie 
 
 From a drive that was straight and strong. 
 
 For it was to a golfer's paradise 
 
 That his bunkered soul had fled, 
 Where the slice was not, nor the foozled shot 
 
 Nor the driver's broken head ; 
 And oft he could feel his mashie of steel 
 Laying his second dead. 
 
 Till a voice in his ear brought him back again 
 
 To his toil and his grief, alas ! 
 And he sadly woke as his caddie spoke 
 
 From his couch on the dewy grass ; 
 ' There 's a pair below as have sent to know 
 If you'd kindly let 'em pass !' 
 
 Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty 
 at the Edinburgh University Press 
 
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