.1 ffc THE MUSE IN MOTLEY The Muse in Motley by Hartley Carrick " Majores majora sonent." CAMBRIDGE BOWES AND BOWES MCMVII For permission to re-publish these verses I have to thank the Proprietors of Punch, the Editors of The World, The Westminster Gaxetit, and the late Editor of Vanity Fair. H. C. FOREWORD "TALKING about poets," says Saint-Beuve, "is a ticklish business, and the more so if in your day you have done a little poetising yourself." But the in- diting of light verse is a malady so incident to youth is so general, so harmless as a rule, so soon over that a few words may be allowed to one who (alas !) has almost outgrown the practice. It is a pleasant practice while it lasts ; and, to be sure, as some men (like Falstaff) are born to be boys perennially, so some (like Be'ranger) are born to write in this form all their lives, and to grow perfect in it. But among Britons this is rare. Praed, Calverley, J. K. Stephen, all died young ; while Prior and Gay, though classics, earn their tribute of criticism to-day along with a shade of contemptuous pity, and the robuster author of Hudibras lived long enough to starve. In this country a talent for light verse will be wise to get its trouble over early. Most of us, in fact, write it as an unconscious preparation for writing something else; start with it naturally, as, had we been born under Queen Eliza- beth, we should have started with sonnets, in the vi Foreword manner of Petrarch "the sort of thing Petrarch would have written if Petrarch had been born a fool " perhaps or with fables imitated from Ovid. Beyond a doubt, it must have been pleasant to live in times when two-thirds at least of the technique of English writing, verse and prose, awaited discovery, and twice or thrice a week one young man could astonish another with some new invention, trick of phrase, turn of metre, trap to catch this or that grace of Italy or of the Pleiad, and transfer it into English. I never repeat to myself Wyat's Nay, Nay, mistress! for instance, or Surrey's Soote Season^ or the forgotten Master WhatVhis-name's Adieu love, untrue love! without envying the poet the half-hour it must have been delightful when he sat repeating the stanzas, surprised at himself and at the wonderful new thing he had made. Nor can I care a snap of the fingers about the morality and a dozen other what-nots in Venus and Adonis when, as I read, every stanza shews me young Shakespeare enjoying himself at the top of his bent, playing with new sounds, figures, phrases, wanton as a colt in a fresh pasture. But young men in these later times have to choose another way of breaking their teeth upon literature, and not simply because they are lesser men. The Foreword vii phrases, the literary forms, have been discovered : some hundreds of men have written good English in some hundreds of different styles. The boy of lite- rary talent now starts with the discovery that someone Keats or Tennyson, De Quincey or Carlyle is a marvellous writer, "If only I could do things like these ! " he says to himself with an ' awed surmise ' after reading (say) De Quincey's Suspiria or Tenny- son's Lotus Eaters. He notes the styles of these men, and by-and-by, as he grows familiar with them and with others, he plays at experimenting. Then he finds that, although he cannot reproduce their serious beauties, he can catch their mannerisms : and on these mannerisms, translated into parody, he works off his high spirits. Also he plays with ingenious and far-fetched rhymes. It is all practice ; play upon the instrument which, when he has mastered it, he will turn to his own, usually soberer, uses. So I dare say that the sprightly verses in this little volume mark but a stage in Mr. Carrick's develop- ment. But I dare say, too, that he will remember them with pleasure, as they must be read with good- will (and perhaps some wistfulness) by all of us who have 'passed this way' in their time. Et ego in Arcadia and turning these pages, I am free of it all viii Foreword again the punt under the bough, the seat in the college garden, voices in the quad. They were dis- tracting enough, these last, in moments of strenuous composition ; but if we could hear them now, Good Heavens, how eagerly we should drop our pens ! A. T. QUILLER-COUCH. 1907. CONTENTS PAGE O TEMPORA i THE SONG OF Six SUBURBS 2 A MARTYR TO GOUT 4 MAN PROPOSES 6 LOOK ON THIS PICTURE 8 STANDS ENGLAND WHERE SHE DID 10 THE HERALD 12 THE PLAINT OF A PLAY-GOER .... 13 A RHYME TO ROBERT 16 THE "NUCIFORM SAC" 18 MORE WHITEWASH 20 ODE ON A BATHING-MACHINE 22 COUNTER ATTRACTIONS 24 " ALL, ALL ARE GONE " 26 "AND O THE DIFFERENCE TO ME" . . . .28 THE EXPLANATION 29 A SHERRY WHINE 30 ANOTHER WHINE 33 "THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH" 36 A VEXING QUESTION . . . ... . 37 "Acs CANNOT WITHER HER" 39 OXFORD REVISITED 42 DE MORTUIS 43 THE CALL OF THE BLOOD 45 THE LAY OF A LIBERAL 47 x Contents PACK " JOLLY BOATING WEATHER" 49 SPRING 51 THE PUFF OBLIQUE 54 MUSINGS IN MAYFAIR 56 COUSINLY GREETINGS 58 RHYMES OF REASON 60 CRICKETERS ALL 62 THE BITER BIT 64 "O MY PROPHETIC SOUL" 66 MORALS AND MAXIMS 68 THE MOTOR-BUSTER 71 THE POET'S INFLUENZA 73 A FASHION FORECAST 75 LINES TO A LOOKING-GLASS 77 ON MUTABILITY 79 To PHYLLIS 80 "PROCUL ESTE PROFANI" 82 REJECTED ADDRESSES 84 THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT 85 A BALLADE OF THE BACKS 87 The Muse in Motley TO ROWLAND HARRIES AND NORMAN STICKLAND O TBMPORA! (After J. K. S.) WILL there never come a season Free from incoherent rot, Free from rhymes that know no reason And a play that has no plot ; When the frocks, and frills, and fichus, Even Guardsmen fail to please, And the " Madcaps " and the " Michus " Lose (at last) their devotees : When no more shall " genial George's " Giddy chorus charm the stalls, Nor Terpsichorean orgies Ape the lower music-halls ; When a girl in man's apparel Shall not make the pittite roar ; When the Ivans cease to Caryll And the Rubens Paul no more. THE MUSE IN MOTLEY THE SONG OF Six SUBURBS (After Mr. Rudyard Kipling.) BRIXTON THOUGH far outside the radius you roam, Where shall a fairer prospect meet the eyes ? Brand-new, like Aphrodite from the foam, The homes of Brixton Rise. TOOTING Supreme am I, Suburbia's guiding star, And when I speak let lesser tongues be dumb ; The prefix " Upper " shews the class we are ; Where Tooting Beckons, Come ! HAMPSTEAD Upon your North-West Passage scale my heights, And mark the joyous crowds that sport beneath Men call me " Happy " : O the strange delights The dalliance on my Heath ! THE SONG OF SIX SUBURBS 3 PECKHAM A peaceful calm envelops every street, And like an old-world idyl life drifts by ; Where else such courtly couples shall you meet A-comin' thro' the Rye ? CLAPHAM Unto my yoke my stalwarts meekly bend : Daily, between the hours of 8 and 9, To dare worse horrors than the Pit I send Sons of the Chatham line ! EALING " Last, loveliest, exquisite," I give to those Civilian warriors from India rest ; What suburb boasts the dignified repose That clings to Baling, W. ? THE MUSE IN MOTLEY A MARTYR TO GOUT ONCE with a constitution scorning The signs that lead direct to gout, I laughed to hear the solemn warning Be sure your bins will find you out ! But now I know those "beaded bubbles" Were "winking" with their other eye, And all too late perceive the troubles Bred in the Beaune I loved to buy. Get hence, old Port, so rich and fruity ! Thou bringest naught but grief and pain ; And thou, my Sherry et tu Brute Must never kiss my lips again ; O false Champagnes, could only ye know The actual ills that haunt me now, You'd surely mourn with Maraschino This purple flush upon my brow. The glories of the kitchen dwindle, Nor yield the joys that once I felt ; My saddened eyes forget to kindle When sirloins make their presence smelt ; A MARTYR TO GOUT Time was when it was wondrous pleasant To taste the birds and drain the cup, Now, long before I see the pheasant, I realise the game is up ! Cut off from my superb Madeira My spirits, once so ardent, quail Before the prospect of an era Of Lemon-squash and Ginger-ale ; Pinched are my cheeks once round and ruddy, And this is now my chiefest care To scan my knuckle-bones and study The sermons in the chalk-stones there ! THE MUSE IN MOTLEY MAN PROPOSES WHEN I was keeping terms in Oxford town, Acquiring, at a price, the tone that adds Distinction to the man in cap and gown, Denied (we think) to Cambridge undergrads, Acquaintances I numbered without end, But cherished only one familiar friend. As boon companions in our " Fresher " days, We used to scale o'nights the Warden's walls, Then, later, entered on the stage-struck phase, And spent one whole vacation in the stalls ; At Tree's productions nearly grew hysteric, And caught the fever known as Ellenteric. Together both would skim along the track, Or share the pains that only rowing gives ; Together ' sugar ' in the seething pack, And earn our captain's lurid adjectives ; Or in the Parks contrive to swell the roar That hails each effort that produces four. MAN PROPOSES Together we disseminated Art, And wore the ribbon of a cultured set ; Together (if we got a decent start), Contributed a passable duet ; At " smokers " or at other festive crises, Like vocal pirates, we disturbed the high C's. We differed in the choice of a career, Although our aims were similarly great ; He, I remember, was a Volunteer, And full of schemes to put the army straight ; While I, who had no taste for warlike quarrels, Coveted Mr. Austin's wreath of laurels. Alas ! we parted, and to-day I learn My chum threw up his mission, to reveal To workmen in a bicycling concern New points in that old doctrine of free-wheel ; While I, no more a literary loafer, Am advertising for a berth as chauffeur. THE MUSE IN MOTLEY LOOK ON THIS PICTURE ENGLISH Girl, divine, demure (As Mr. Dobson somewhere calls you), For whose sweet smiles and glances pure The amorous youths, beneath your thrall, sue, You say that Chivalry is dead, And that you loathe our ways of wooing, And fondly ask what cause has led To our deplorable undoing. 1 answer : In the good old days Our brave gallants would thrum upon a Guitar, and sing their ladies' praise, Just as a Spaniard lauds his Donna ; In ringing tones those courtly men Would plead the old ecstatic passion, But oh, we lost our manners when The serenade went out of fashion. How sweet it must have been when she You madly loved unbarred the shutter, And, startled by your upper G, Looked out and let her 'kerchief flutter LOOK ON THIS PICTURE Conceive the scene : the window-sill ; A delicately-rounded elbow ; The dainty face ; the eyes that thrill ; Below her, an immensely swell beau. And then, beneath the evening star, To praise her lips, her eyes, her bright hair, And gladly suffer the catarrh Brought on by singing in the night air ! But Phyllis, nowadays I fear, That were there but the mildest May dew, You 'd find no modern cavalier Would risk a chill to serenade you. Perchance once more the Golden Age May come, and that on which my heart's set, Will be the fashionable rage With those who constitute the Smart Set Till then the old Gregorian chant Will still sum up our foppish danglers, (I '11 give its modern variant), Alas ! not Angels these, but Anglers ! io THE MUSE IN MOTLEY STANDS ENGLAND WHERE SHE DID? THEY ask us loudly why we are downhearted, What secret sorrow lines each careworn brow I answer, " Sirs, our glory has departed ; We have no catchword now." Once, in the days that knew not " Mrs. Kelly," 'Twas sweet to ask one's unsuspecting Pa, The while our sides shook like a calves'-foot jelly, If he had seen the Shah. Scarce was that query stifled when another Filled every honest boy with lively doubt, As strangers stopped to ask him if his mother Knew that her son was out. I have known solemn merchants in the City Betrayed to anger by some cheeky brat Rudely enquiring, in a famous ditty, Where they procured that hat. Coming to later times, when Mr. Bailey Evinced his quaint propensity to roam, Our prayers were uttered for sweet William, daily ; "Won't you," we cried, "come home?" STANDS ENGLAND, ETC. u But now no more our walks abroad are greeted With some deliciously familiar strain ; No whistled melodies (ad lib. repeated) Refresh the weary brain. Awake, some lyric bard, and break the silence ! " Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour ! " The street-boy's cry, that once was heard a mile hence, Hath not its ancient power. And though, perchance, someone somewhere is hatching A phrase to sweep the pantomimic boards, Just now no epidemic that is catching Tickles our vocal chords. xa THE MUSE IN MOTLEY THE HERALD UNWELCOME dish ! my palpitating heart Thrills at the sight of thy strange, mottled hue, Now villainously pink, now almost blue, Hall-mark infallible of rhubarb-tart. Alas ! no tricks of culinary art Can render thee agreeable ; when new Thou 'rt far too sour ; when old and bitter, who Would pass his plate and risk the stringy part ? Yet, though I shudder when I see thee by, There flashes suddenly across my mind The thought that thou, base subject of my rhymes, Art the sweet harbinger of warmer times ; And thereupon I gulp thee down and cry, " When Rhubarb comes, can Spring be far behind ? " THE PLAINT OF A PLAYGOER 13 THE PLAINT OF A PLAYGOER I DO not sing of music-halls That draw admirers of the high-kick, Nor rhapsodise within the stalls Of theatres that boom the psychic ; Of course, tastes differ, but although De gustibus non disputandum I think the ballet far too slow, And, as for problem plays, can't stand 'em. Give me the good old-fashioned kind Of drama of the " heavy " order : Dorothy, pale, demure, refined, And cousin Harold who adored her ; The rival with the golden hair, Who swears he shall not wed Another; Mamma who finds the millionaire Is after all her long-lost brother. I loved to watch the villain's rage, As with a gait that proved him knock-knee'd, He ramped and ranted round the stage, And swore in accents plainly Cockneyed ; i 4 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY Beneath his spell the stalls grew numb, And matrons in the pit would tremble When he declared a time would come, Or warned his partner to dissemble. And then the tension of that scene When, heedless of our boos and hisses, Sir Rupert meets the heroine, And then and there demands her kisses ! One moment more decides her fate ; We hear her voice for help appealing ; When lo, the hero vaults a gate, And sends his adversary reeling ! And oh, the final, crowning phase When Rupert fires that double-barrelled Revolver at the wings, and slays The village lunatic (not Harold) ; Tis here we get an extra thrill, For, ere the idiot goes aloft, he Owns he purloined the missing will, And begs them to forgive "poor Softy." This is the rich, full-blooded rough, Ripe, mellow drama that is real, And though some think it mawkish stuff, It represents my fond ideal ; THE PLAINT OF A PLAYGOER 15 And ere you scorn my taste for love Triumphant, every ill surmounting, Remember, as I said above, For certain tastes there's no accounting. 16 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY A RHYME TO ROBERT WHETHER we see you with uplifted hand Obtrude your form upon the public view, Ably " conducting the orchestral Strand," Yourself a noble symphony in blue, Or watch you trap that scorching motor crew Who fail to spy you lurking in the shade, We fondly ask what man can vie with you At whose approach the bookie flies afraid, And vocal beggars cease to ply their roaring trade. When some low reveller begins to pitch Backwards and forwards, till his feet that roll Resemble circumstances over which, Unfortunately, he has no control 'Tis you who place on that convivial soul Your helping hand, despite the angry frown Of those supporters of the flowing bowl Who throng the shady purlieus of the town, Where etiquette forbids all kicking ////you're down ! A RHYME TO ROBERT 17 But oh, beneath that grim, unyielding belt There beats a heart that's amorous and gay. Oft in a silence that is almost felt Those rubber soles go down the area way, Where there awaits you, scandal-mongers say, A chaste salute and something good to eat To brace you up 'gainst some nocturnal fray. I ween no racing man e'er felt so sweet A thrill as Mary Jane who knows the fav'rite's beat ! So, Robert, here's my hand. I know 'tis said By certain kinds of peevish-minded folk That it is not your gallant heart but head That is composed of honest British oak ; But those are vulgar persons who would poke Fun at all objects, howsoe'er sublime ; E'en I have heard coarse urchins for a joke, (And at a distance) bawl an ancient rhyme That bids them fly to you if they would know the time. i8 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY THE "NuciFORM SAC" ( TTte source of all our bodily ailments is said to be the " nuciform sac.") THOUGH our ancestors studied the problem of pain, And the " why " and the " wherefore " of ills, It was always beyond their poor skill to explain How it is we get fevers and chills. And at last it transpires that our ignorant sires Must have wandered afar from the track, For according to Shaw's latest effort, the cause May be found in the " nuciform sac." When you suffer from spasms that harass the chest, And your side is one horrible ache, When you're tortured by nightmares disturbing your rest, And you shiver and freeze when you wake ; Then, although you're inclined in your liver to find An excuse for the pains in your back, What alone ought to claim the legitimate blame Is your peccable " nuciform sac." THE "NUCIFORM SAC" 19 When you find, as you walk, you grow giddy and faint, And your head throbs away like a gong, Do not think when you ponder upon your complaint It is just your digestion gone wrong; For there isn't a doubt that the murder is out, And that ev'ry dyspeptic attack Is the simple effect that results from neglect Of a pain in the " nuciform sac ! " 20 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY MORE WHITEWASH ( The character of Judge Jeffreys has recently been defended with great vigour by Professor Churton Collins.) AND so we learn that history has treated him dis- gracefully j Judge Jeffreys, after all, was not a mass of in- humanity. With feelings of relief we watch Professor Collins trace fully His bright career, and write him down a model of urbanity. By neatly balanced argument he shews us how unfair it is To think this worthy man was one who lived for blood and massacre ; His tender heart was never prone to countenance barbarities, And executions sickened him whene'er they did, alas ! occur. MORE WHITEWASH 21 His treatment of a witness was exceedingly mag- nanimous, He seldom raised his voice or fist when rising to examine him ; In short, he never shewed the slightest trace of any animus, Though down upon the perjurer, and swift to spot the sham in him. And, though accustomed to regard him as a second Pilate, all Must now admit he treated Sidney with delightful courtesy, Nor was the punishment reserved for Lady Alice Lisle at all Excessive, and at hanging her no person was so hurt as he. Then, after this discovery, if ever there should be or is A person who believes the tales about his par- tiality, A single glance at this Professor's scintillating theories Will prove that we must take him as a type of true morality. 22 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY ODE ON A BATHING-MACHINE ( With apologies to the shade of John Keats.} THOU still unrivalled pride of ugliness, Thou, whom the steady progress of old Time Cannot affect, whose age no man can guess, Whose very presence constitutes a crime ! Who are these men who cling around thy shape ? What mellow " d " s are heard, what sultry oath Slips from each rival for thy favours ! He Clings to thy saffron sides, while he, though loth To cease the mad pursuit, would fain escape. What cries ! What yearnings to annex the sea ! Who are these coming up to sacrifice Their morning leisure ? Let the harnessed beast Lead on those maidens glowing as the skies, In spite of winds that bluster from the East Lo ! from the boarding-houses on the shore, From the Marine end and the Grand Hotel, The folk come flocking up this joyous morn, And thou, serene, with two or three (or four), Wilt rattle to the sea, nor heed the yell Of would-be bathers left behind forlorn. ODE ON A BATHING-MACHINE 23 Erratic shape ! Sans latitude ! What breed Of mediaeval craftsmen hewed and wrought This ark-like structure clogged with weft and weed ? Thy hideous form leads backwards to the thought Of days fax distant, old and past recall. Yet when old age our feeble frames shall waste Thou shalt remain, and to our children shew Thine ancient aspect as thou quaintly sayest : " The truth is, beauty isn't nearly all Ye need on earth, nor all ye need to know." THE MUSE IN MOTLEY COUNTER ATTRACTIONS IF it should fall to my distinguished lot To play the umpire in a beauty match, And I were told (as Paris was) to spot The girl who seemed to be the fairest catch, I scarce could wait till Gertie chose to trip in, Ere I awarded her the winning pippin. I do not heed the sneer of Brown, who hints Her lower row of pearls unclasps at will, Nor Smith, who coarsely states her rosy tints Can owe to Nature practically nil; To me her curls are of the finest gold, Though Jones has warranted they're only rolled. I like to stand and watch the supple wrist That hews my mid-day snack of ham or beef ; I much admire the finely-sculptured fist, Raised on the marble slab in Bass-relief; But, oh ! 'tis Heav'n to touch the lily hand which, Lovingly, mustards my anaemic sandwich. COUNTER ATTRACTIONS 25 She is a maiden of capricious moods : I catch, at times, a withering retort, Or else, in more convivial interludes, Hear her demurely whisper " Mine's a port." At that soft phrase the gilded bar grows brighter, And heart (and head) perceptibly the lighter. The lucky man who proudly takes her out May reckon on an intellectual treat, For over oysters and some double stout Her anecdotes are often very neat ; She'll give a hungry " traveller" a few points In her appreciation of the Blue-points ! I know that there are some who rashly state That he who cottons to her ample skirts Becomes in time a tipsy reprobate, Who "follows form" and dreams of backing certs. They wrong the girl, for I have often stood And heard her valedictory " Be good." And so it is my wish, ere all too soon The vulgar potman's " Time " disturbs the air, To toast this siren of my pet saloon, The marker's hope, the waiter's fond despair. Ho ! Vintner to the cellar, and procure A wine as bright as she (and as mature !) 26 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY "ALL, ALL ARE GONE, THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES." THERE was a time when we were wont to sit With pipe in mouth and paper in our hands, And roar as coloured minstrels flashed their wit Across the yellow sands. What did we care if ancient jests they told What cared we though we chanced to recognise Among the tinkly banjo's notes the old Three-chord trick in disguise ? We shared our praise 'tween one whose welcome tones Completely drowned the corner-man's guitar, And one who tapped the would-be funny " Bones " That never seemed to jar. Then swift transition from the humerus What " loud collisions of applauding gloves " Welcomed dear, sentimental Uncle Gus Who sang his Dinah's loves. "ALL, ALL ARE GONE," ETC. 27 Now all is changed. Harmoniums profane The " pitch " once sacred to the tambourine ; Pierrots usurp their dusky brothers' reign, And desecrate the scene. No longer does the natty seaside lass Lend to that troupe her sympathetic ear, While Algernon, her love (like Lycidas), Forgets to leave his pier. Where have they gone, this clan whose loss we moum? Do they, far off, make alien bosoms glow ? Or have they passed to that appointed bourne Where all good niggers go ? 28 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY " AND O ! THE DIFFERENCE TO ME " (After Wordsworth.) SHE dealt, and seemed in worldly ways A guileless little dove, And made me loth her trumps to " raise," And score a lot to love. But ah, my feelings none can know When Lucy said that she Would pay one-half her debt, and owe The difference to me ! THE EXPLANATION 29 THE EXPLANATION FERDINAND. Here 's my hand. MIRANDA. And mine, with my heart in 't. The Temftit, Act III. Sc. i. You called, and I did not reply To your polite command ; Whereat you heaved a tiny sigh And trifled with your hand. Did I play false with you ? Ah, no ! It was not that at all ; I did not hold a trump, and so I could not heed your call ! 3 o THE MUSE IN MOTLEY A SHERRY WHINE MUST we, indeed, believe the gloomy tale Of sunny Andalusia's decline, And learn that there is hardly any sale For this incomparable golden wine ? If there is truth in what the vintners state (And here, perhaps, it's prudent to be wary), This peerless drink has met the self-same fate That ruined Sack and ostracised Canary. Once, sequent on the vanishing tureen, We welcomed, plainly served, the sole or cod, Then this brave wine monopolised the scene, Now write upon the menus " Ichabod " : The wretched cook sends up a messy dish, Labelled some unintelligible d la, And the decanter that attends the fish Holds cheap Sauterne or second-rate Marsala. Time was, and not so very long ago, When guests observed the once age-honoured use That bade them in an after-dinner glow Pass and repass " the old familiar juice " ; A SHERRY WHINE 31 So, too, if cake and sherry were not set Before the mourners at a smart interment, The grievous breach of funeral etiquette Put the assembly in a dreadful ferment. How through the epicure's distracted mind Must dart the simply agonising ache To call for sherry and alas ! to find 'Tis only used to flavour tipsy-cake ! Soon, like the sceptics who have oft denied There ever breathed a Helen or a Paris, A rising generation will decide This nectar is a liquid * Mrs. Harris.' I cannot tell the cause of this eclipse Of fruity Manzanilla's bright career, Nor why men miss their matutinal nips, And turn, instead, to stout or bitter beer : I only know that I am most unwell, My head is heavy and my temper so-so, The doctor thinks it means a gouty spell, And puts it down to " pale old Oloroso." So, though 'tis truly very sad to think The taste for sherry is upon the wane, And though I hold that as a nutty drink We nevermore shall see its like again, 32 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY Perhaps the fact that we are drinking less From those bodegas by the Guadalquivir May mean that I shall lose the biliousness Afflicting my notorious evil liver ! ANOTHER WHINE 33 ANOTHER WHINE IT is the fashion nowadays For us to think our sires degraded, To shudder at their vicious traits, And blush to quote the things that they did Their craze for gambling, need I state, Offends our moral way of thinking, But most of all we deprecate Their undiluted love of drinking. And yet, although I note with pain The lengths to which those festive orgies Were carried in the genial reign Of England's first and second Georges, I somehow feel I love the beaux Who flourished in the Roaring Forties, And could, myself, have joined with those Who knew what good old fruity port is. For though it was their lot to be Before the Chamberlainite era, They learnt to drink Imperially In pints of choicest old Madeira ; 34 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY And if at times their politics Made them assume the pose of squabblers, They did not wave coercive sticks, But patched things up with sherry-cobblers. Nor have I ever heard that these Old bucks, who paid such court to Bacchus, Were easy subjects for disease, Or caught the ills that now attack us : Appendicitis and the ' flu,' That haunt our homes without restriction, Were quite unknown to them who knew The gout was quite enough affliction. Those were the days when round the fire Wit circulated with the liquor ; And ' rafters echoed ' as the squire Split sides and sodas with the vicar ; It makes one sad when one compares Our modern style of conversation, When talk consists of ' shop ' and shares, Or at the best a ' stock ' quotation. Doubtless our ancestors, who spent The golden moments seeking pleasure, Could not compete with us, whose bent Lies in amassing untold treasure ; ANOTHER WHINE 35 But in a drinking-bout, my son, With any modern, boastful ranter, Your great-grandfather would have won In the proverbial decanter ! 36 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY "THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH" WHERE Londoners go most astray Is in the dress that they display ; Throughout the summer they endure The costume that is de rigueur, Until they nearly melt away. Though scorched by every burning ray, Still fashion's dictates they obey, And here it is, I've long been sure, Where London errs. But now 1 hear the papers say Frock-coats and gloves have had their day ; The flannel collar's tempting lure For chafing necks provides a cure, And e 'en Parisians wish that they Were Londoners. A VEXING QUESTION 37 A VEXING QUESTION " He left the name at which the world grew pale." SAMUEL JOHNSON " PUNCH, or The London " ? that 's a question, Sir, Concerning which my mind is doubtful ; dare I Confess my inclination to prefer Plain Charivari? When there are some who, gifted with an ' ear,' Thrill with dismay and turn quite sick and shivery, Should it, perchance, be their sad lot to hear Aught but Charivari ! Again some Constant Readers (so I've heard) Insist upon the sound that rhymes with Harry, And, therefore, would pronounce this awkward word As Charivarry. And one, I knew, who lingered on the " i " ; Alas ! that scholar is not now alive, or he Assuredly would say, if pressed, " Well, my Tip is Charivari." 38 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY Then, since our notions are so hazy, who Can guess the answer to this crucial question ? Come, Mr. Punch^ I beg to trouble you For your suggestion "AGE CANNOT WITHER HER" 39 "Acs CANNOT WITHER HER" DEMURELY full of girlish tricks, And dimpled with a pouting smile, The modern crone of sixty-six Must now be reckoned juvenile; Her pearly teeth and satin cheek Are made to match her youthful brow ; 'Tis even thought ill-bred to speak About the Middle Ages now. Oh ! Mrs. A., and Madame X., Who boom the Blond Street beauty cult, To think that for such trifling cheques You guarantee this brave result ! How do those operating hands Restore " lost tone " to wrinkled dames, And fit the fashion that demands Old pictures in enamelled frames ? Should any lady think her hair Suggests too much the Autumn tints, She does not in the least despair, But follows your attractive hints : 40 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY By apt adulteration's aid, Some artful spirit brings again The latest fashionable shade A rare oasis in the plain. Those subtle touches never fail To smooth away the marriage-lines ; The sallow cheek so sere and pale, A guinea rouge incarnadines ; And oh ! how sweet must be the thrill That penetrates a grateful soul, When the divine electric drill Eradicates some horrid mole ! To what a pitch of high content That matron's ardent spirits rose, When the " Proboscis " instrument Equipped her with a Grecian nose ! And how some hearts have yearned to buy Those patent " straps " for flabby skins, That not uncharitably try To hide a multitude of chins ! Nor does the mode in which your days Are spent, dear ladies, cause offence : To thoughtful minds your latest phase Reveals the hand of Providence ; "AGE CANNOT WITHER HER" 41 For though this beauty-culture fad Has gone, perhaps, a bit too far, 'Twould make the brightest of us sad To see you as you really are! 42 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY OXFORD REVISITED I WANDERED down "The Broad" and up "The High," As I was wont, in far-off days, to do When lo, debouching from " The Grid," came two Resplendent youths who, sauntering idly by, Cast on my form a supercilious eye, Whose glance said very plainly, " Who are you That dare obtrude yourself upon our view ? This place is ours, for we have bought it. Fly ! " I realised that I was on the shelf In that brief moment ; saddened and forlorn, I paused irresolute upon my way ; Then, thinking that a dog soon has his day, Strode on, till suddenly I found myself Standing (like Ruth) "amid the alien 'Corn.'" DE MORTUIS ? 43 DE MORTUIS ? I NOTICE that when critics write Approvingly of lighter lays, They always quote with much delight Their one pet formula of praise " This work recalls the cleverness OfC.S.C. and J.K.S." Whate'er our little bards indite ; However plainly each displays The heavy touch which dulls the bright Edge of his wit, I find the phrase " These sparkling stanzas effervesce, LikeC.S.C. andJ.K.S." Humour, perhaps, may not be quite The strongest of our author's traits ; His mode of treating themes be trite ; Yet once again the critic brays " Such rhymes remind us, we confess, OfC.S.C. andJ.K.S." 44 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY These lines were not conceived in spite- Offspring of sere and yellow days ; I hope that I am too polite To rob a poet of his bays : But why disparage in the Press Poor C. S. C. andj. K. S. ? THE CALL OF THE BLOOD 45 THE CALL OF THE BLOOD MY duty calls me and I must obey ; Of miserable men unhappiest, I wander forth upon my weary way, And, like the sun, slope slowly to the West. I am a man who loves to laugh and jest, But oh, just now I'm anything but gay, For I am put to the supremest test, My duty calls me, and I must obey. What is the reason, I can hear you say, Of this strange palpitation of my breast ? Have worldly losses made me seem to-day Of miserable men unhappiest ? Ah no, I must admit that I am blest With wealth enough to keep the wolf at bay, And 'tis upon no loanly sort of quest I wander forth upon my weary way. It is the thought of handing round a tray At six " At Homes " that gives my mind no rest, For 'tis to these regretfully I stray, And, like the sun, slope slowly to the West. 46 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY And that is why, y-clad in fancy vest, I creep along, fulfilled with sore dismay, And vote Dame Etiquette a " perfect pest," Because she thus insists that I must pay My duty calls ! THE LAY OF A LIBERAL 47 THE LAY OF A LIBERAL WHEN I read about the crimes that The Standard or Tht Times Are so cruel as to say that we commit, And am told that all the fads of the Labourites and Rads Plainly prove that they are mentally unfit Then a feeling of unrest permeates my anxious breast, And my confidence in Winston is upset, And I tremble at the knees till my mind is put at ease By the pages of The Westminster Gazette. When The Telegraph dilates on the Navy Estimates, And laments our lack of patriotic fears, And The Mail and Globe unite in denouncing with delight Any scheme for the extinction of the peers ; When they urge the obvious fact that M'Kenna's want of tact Would disgrace a caterwauling Suffragette, Then I get a pain inside till I see their views defied In the columns of The Westminster Gazette. 48 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY When I see a hostile Press in a passion effervesce O'er our manners in a House of Commons scene, And declare without a doubt it was solely brought about By Sir Henry, who could not restrain his spleen 'Tis refreshing to be told, in a type that's large and bold, It was Arthur who was fuming in a pet, And my joyous spirit laughs at the caustic paragraphs Which reprove him in The Westminster Gazette. "JOLLY BOATING WEATHER" 49 "JOLLY BOATING WEATHER" TAKE me away from the city Sweltering here in the heat ; You on the river, pray, pity Those who are scorched in the street. Sweltering here in the heat, Sick of the rush and the riot, Those who are scorched in the street Long for the stream and the quiet. Sick of the rush and the riot, Ah ! how the toilers to-day Long for the stream and the quiet, Pine to be off and away ! Ah ! how the toilers to-day, Weary of crowds and of crushes, Pine to be off and away, Down 'mid the reeds and the rushes. Weary of crowds and of crushes, Oh, it were Heaven to glide Down 'mid the reeds and the rushes, Phyllis, alone, by my side. 4 50 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY Oh, it were Heaven to glide Into the stillness and splendour, Phyllis, alone, by my side, Dainty, and restful, and tender. Into the stillness and splendour, When we had skirted the weir, Dainty, and restful, and tender, Phyllis should learn how to steer. When we had skirted the weir, Hid in a shady backwater, Phyllis should learn how to steer, Should I be safe if I taught her ? Hid in a shady backwater, Specially made for two, Should I be safe if I taught her ? (Phyllis has eyes of blue.) Specially made for two ! Think of it, pater, and pity Me in your office, and, do Take me away from the city ! SPRING SPRING Now blackbirds' carols, clear and sweet, Evoke from adolescent lambs A pleasantly responsive bleat That earns faint praises from their dams : Now is the time when " rippling rills " To amorous youths sound most beguiling, And when courageous daffodils Traditionally come up " smiling." And though an unemotional man Who thinks it little short of crime To copy that erotic clan Who babble of their loves in rhyme, I find the first flush of the Spring Affects my own prosaic fancy, And positively makes me sing About my earliest sweetheart Nancy. I met her years ago ; 'twas due To chance alone that made me hint That in my pocket there were two Assorted kinds of peppermint ; 52 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY But 'twas enough ; we both agreed, In hurried intervals of suction, That there was after all no need For any formal introduction. Next afternoon we kept our tryst, And looked and felt extremely wise ', From her angelic egoist I learnt the art of making eyes ! And oh, my rapture at the end, When tersely (a la Alfred Jingle) She told me she did not intend For ever to continue single ! She is Another's now I know ; But at this season of the year I feel the old, ecstatic glow, And drop the sentimental tear ; I 'm sure I've never been the same Since that coarse brewer stole her from me ; She calls him Jack but once the name That thrilled her fickle heart was Tommy. I do not blame you, Nancy ; nay, You must not think I 'm still your thrall ; In fact, except from March till May You are not in my thoughts at all ; SPRING 53 And even then I cannot think Why there should be this bond between us, Unless some telepathic link Perchance exists 'twixt Ver and Venus ! 54 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY THE PUFF OBLIQUE " Interdumque atram prorumpit ad aethera nubem, Turbine fumanttm baceo et candente favilla" VIRGIL, Aen. III. 573 574. Do you remember, can you still Recall that day of doubt, When I was feeling strangely ill, And you had just gone out ? And when, regretting we had met, I turned away to fume and fret. 'Tis true we did not quite agree That day, ah ! yes, 'tis true A mere sham you appeared to me, For I mistrusted you ; A craven mixture, half of fear, And half defiance, filled me, dear. But when that feeling passed away You taught me how to care, For you were not of common clay As other sweethearts were ; Your strength and sweetness in the end Allured me by their subtle blend. THE PUFF OBLIQUE 55 Dearest, you 're like some garden gem j No " rank, luxuriant weed " Shall win me from your graceful stem, Or bear from you the meed : E 'en now as I your praises sing, My love, you 're sweetly colouring. So when at eve I fill the bowl, And in my chair recline, A nightly impulse stirs my soul To worship at your shrine, Whence wreaths of blue-grey smoke arise, And waft me hence to Paradise. 56 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY MUSINGS IN MAYFAIR (Lady Clare loq,) WHENEVER I have time to feast My eyes upon our lurid Press, Wherein each fashionable priest Takes it in turn to effervesce, I see the same old question there What West-end soul is clean and honest ? And find, to my intense despair, The echo always answers, " Non est! n Doubtless, it is a certain fact That sermons (when quite free from fuss), Like cakes in Pluto's regions, act As useful sops to sober us ! But I confess I do feel vext To notice that throughout this rude war They cannot leave the threadbare text Magdalen in her Mayfair boudoir ! I like a lecture now and then ; But those are rather apt to pall That harp upon the " Upper Ten," Like some recurring decimal ! MUSINGS IN MAYFAIR 57 So, Preacher, since we've had our fill Of your deliciously plain dealing, Why don't you tackle Streatham Hill, Or scourge " society " in Baling ? The pride of Peckham might provide A fit commencement for your toil ; Deceitful Dulwich lies untried, And Balham still is virgin soil ; Discharge your mission like a bomb, Set Kew and Bedfork Park disputing ; Lecture on vice in Villadom, And thrill the spinster hearts of Tooting. Tear from their eyes the spotted veil ; Denounce the soft, suburban boor ; And point with epigram your tale, Like the smart setter on the moor ! Come, quit the West-end vices ; leave Belgravian hubbies and their hubbubs ; You've surely something up your sleeve For those who sojourn in "The Subbubs" ! 58 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY COUSINLY GREETINGS DEAR Cousins from the country, here you are, Welcome as roses in the month of March, I saw you yesterday beside the Mar- ble Arch. Thridding the mazes of the dusty Strand, Again I saw you clustering like bees, Till round the Monument I watched you stand At ease. And there, while I was resting from my sprint I overheard what sights you meant to " do " ; In one short afternoon you'd seen the Mint, And Zoo, Tower, St. Paul's, till at the Mansion House The knee plush (ultra) of the footmen there Drew from the worthy Squire and eke his spouse A stare. The evening saw you mounted on a tram, Bound for the Tate, (the Turners, I suppose ?) To-day, I gather, you are at Madame Tussaud's. COUSINLY GREETINGS 59 Alas ! although 'tis sad, I frankly own I don't possess your tireless energy ; The sights you've seen are nearly all unknown Tome. And till October comes I greatly fear My corrugated brow will wear a frown, Although you seem to like this time of year In town. For, though e'en restaurants have felt the chill, And waiters miss the chatter and the hum, Although the " Troc." is calm, the " Cri." is still They come ! 60 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY RHYMES OF REASON " Nous sommts tous d 1 Athene en ce point, et moi-mtme Si Peau d'Ane ntttait contl t J'y prendrais un plaisir extreme." LA FONTAINE. SOME talk of Keats' or Shelley's fame, While there are others who engrave on The tablets of their hearts the name Of Austin, or the Swan (of Avon) ; Each to his taste ; but each man knows No lyrics that were ever sung stir His feeling bosom quite like those Old rhymes that thrilled him when a youngster. Ah, then we gathered Nuts and May, And never thought Miss Muffet childish Because she left her curds and whey (Which was most probably a vile dish) ; And no one dared to hesitate, In those dear, distant days, to dub " bard " The gifted author of that great Dramatic fragment Mrs. Hubbard RHYMES OF REASON 61 Breathes there a man with soul so dead, With cheek so destitute of dimple, Who has not chuckled as he read Of Simon who was surnamed " Simple " ? Have you e'er gazed with aching eyes Into a glowing cirque of cinders, And not expected there would rise The troubled shade of Polly Flinders ? How often in the midst of strife Have children suddenly grown quiet, To hear of Mr. Spratt (and wife), And their peculiar taste in diet ! And e'en maturer folks may find (When temper and the gout get chronic) Tom Tucker soothing to the mind, Boy Blue an inexpensive tonic ! And so, though things sometimes go wrong, And all the world seems " quite contrary," Solace awaits you in the Song Of Sixpence or of Mistress Mary : Then, howsoe'er your poor inside May threaten, or your pulses throb, you '11 Read of Bo-Peep or Cock-Horse Ride, And need no more the patent globule ! 62 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY CRICKETERS ALL! THE day was warm, the hour was 3.15 ; Some impulse caused my errant steps to stray Upon a broad and pleasant country green, Where " fools in flannelette " were hard at play. A drive that grazed my elbow made me pause. I saw two yokels piling up the score, And heard the shout of rapturous applause That hailed the ball not lost but gone for four. I gazed upon the game and saw a miss That must have made the bowler's vitals ache : (He, though his style defied analysis, Was far too bent upon his task to break). And as I watched him, oft and many a time, He went, like Hamlet's age, nigh out of joint ; And oft a spoon, like this discursive rhyme, Came very near, but just avoided point. Six times square-leg in raucous tones appealed For " leg-before " ; six times the umpire made Derisive gestures at the jaded field, And scorned to lift a finger in their aid. CRICKETERS ALL 63 Once when the batsman was run out (at best It seemed to me a most-uncalled for act), Relying on the law/'_y suis^fy rcste, The lad refused to grasp the obvious fact. Another, hitting blindly at the pitch, Soon paid the price of his unguarded zeal, And earned the sentence of "the caught" from which, Unfortunately, there is no appeal These, though no journalist described each run, Played for the sheer enjoyment of the sport, Nor felt the wish to be, e.g., like Gunn, The subject of the morrow's loud report. And, though their ways were rough, I did not hear One single sentence that betrayed the boor, Nor did I view " with a disdainful sneer " The short but simple flannels of the poor. Instead, I watched two youngsters play out time, Then strolled away to write these lines in praise Of that great game, the glory of their prime, And solace of their early-closing days ! 64 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY THE BITER BIT (The Do$s BUI proposed to wrest from the canine world the privilege of the first bite.) CAN it be false and am I dreaming, Or is it only all too true That callous-hearted men are scheming To rob our doggies of their due ? Is it not all a dreadful fiction, Whereat I hold my bated breath, That on his very first conviction My honest tyke must die the death ? The Pug and Pom. will stand aghast if This shameful Bill becomes the law ; Against its tone the stately Mastiff Uplifts an angry voice and paw ; And not content with mute negation, The Collie swells the wrathful cry, Until his howl of indignation Awakes an echo from the Skye. THEBITERBIT 65 And you, who clamber up on my knee, And wag a tail devoid of care, Must realise, my faithful Tiny, That things are not as once they were : No more must you race up yon high hill, To worry sheep, your fond delight, Your motto " et foxterea nihil? Means there is nothing left to bite. But stay, I see a silver lining Illume the blackness of the cloud, Why waste your time in futile whining When lawful bites are still allowed ? Ere yet the verdict of the Forum Shall cheat you of your ancient prey, Make tears in breeks as once you tore 'em, Gather the rosebuds while you may. Thus if, perchance, a cracked tin kettle The movement of your tail impedes, While there is time, make haste and settle The youths who do such horrid deeds. Let not your canine breast be smitten With fears of any future woe ; Only make sure those boys are bitten, Only make sure you don't let go ! 66 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY "O MY PROPHETIC SOUL!" (" Old Moore' 1 '' not to be confused with Mr. George has again issued his predictions. ) THE ancients were wont to rely on The stars for advice and obeyed The spheres when the Twins and Orion Flashed forth in a twinkling their aid ; If things were at sixes and sevens, They weren't in the least put about, But called (with their trust in the Heavens) The local astrologer out. Like Stoics they stifled their heart-ache, And bowed to the astral command, Did any irascible star take Offence at a marriage they planned ; Ah ! lover, who longed for her answer, Oh ! maiden, who yearned for his love, How sorely you suffered from Cancer Refusing assent from above ! "O MY PROPHETIC SOUL" 67 Ah ! why is that science forgotten ? In vain do I pucker my brow, And think why it is we don't cotton To signs of the Zodiac now ; Though still they have messages for us, The sceptical think them a sham ; They don't care a toss about Taurus, They don't care a rap for the Ram ! Why, why did those seers of the past err In keeping their secrets intact ? For now I am minus a master, Nor know in the least how to act ; If only the stars in their courses Could telephone to me, I feel That I could be " boss " of the Bourses, And hold ev*ry trump in each " deal." Then since it is true that the scattered Star-gazers are under a cloud, One prophet, at least, should feel flattered To note his success with the crowd ; For, though his perfervid narration Is weak and his prophecy poor, Each year we are told that the nation (Like ' Oliver') clamours for Moore ! 68 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY MORALS AND MAXIMS (In the manner of Mr. Kipling.') I VENDORS of Nicotine, Dispensers of Spirits and Beer Which of the two will trust you at the end of the second year? ii If he be wholesome to look on, straight-limbed and clear of eye, Does not the heart of the Young Girl thrill as he passes by? If it be wholesome to look on, what does the Young Girl say ? " Sentiment, cloying and sickly ! Give me a prob- lem play." in The ways that a maid will go are strange, yet simple and tame To the way that your whisky will go when your cook has a key to the same. MORALS AND MAXIMS 69 IV Lo ! when you spy 'neath a hedge the loafer in blue at his trade, Signalling lies to his mate be thou in no wise afraid. In vain in the sight of the Car is the trap of the Copper displayed. v In private The Horse is reported a Sceptre to gallop and stay. It is ill. Does a man find a treasure and give it away? In private The Horse is a roarer, uncertain and tricky as Eve. It is well. Was there ever a trainer who hadn't a bit up his sleeve ? VI Does the waiter deny what thou cravest, refusing to serve thee with more, When the lights of the restaurant flicker ? Get out ! It is rather a bore. But the wise do not argue the point in a matter of Licensing lore. 70 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY VII Does she smile at her cards, and yet think she will " leave it to you " ? 'Tis plain as her Ladyship's face what she wants you to do. VIII Wait not outside Stage-doors. Yet shall she find you, indeed. Even your spaniel knows the hour and the place where you feed. IX My son, when thou playest off-side, take heed lest thy guerdon may be The Boot of a scrummaging foe, or the Whistle that orders a "free." In vain are the tricks that are done when the game has a 'cute referee. THE MOTOR-BUSTER 71 THE MOTOR-BUSTER " IT was a phantom of delight, When first it gleamed upon my sight." And seemed to hint a time of bliss In store for the metropolis ; When we should travel safe and sound, Nor use the District Underground ; And City men would cease to fuss Upon an ancient omnibus A perfect motor, nobly planned, To traverse Holborn and the Strand. But when, upon a closer view, I saw, and heard, and smelt it too ; And fought the clouds of dust that beat Straight in my face up Regent Street, I owned my first impression wrong, And muttered something hot and strong ; Then turned aside to cross the road In time to hear the thing explode ; Whereat I left it in disgust, And read next morning it had bust 72 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY And now from early morn till e'en I hear the pulse of the machine That clatters past my humble door In one unending shriek and roar ; With aching head and deafened ear I note with apprehensive fear "The traveller 'twixt life and death" Endeavour to regain his breath, As once again it skids away, " To haunt, to startle, and waylay." THE POET'S INFLUENZA 73 THE POET'S INFLUENZA "Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm <&*/." POPE. TO-DAY, alas ! no witty mots Shoot through my keenly quick (ahem !) brain ; I feel a fulness in the nose, A soreness of the mucous membrane j My headache, too, is most severe ; The pains within my limbs are stinging ; And, though I 've noises in each ear, 'Tis not the Muse that does the singing. My Pipe is out of tune ; I find That when I breathe thereon it splutters ; Its notes are of the throaty kind, Or " flash " as those the forger " utters " ; I struggle bravely but, although My motto says Nil Desperandum, That other thing I have to blow Would make the very pipes of Pan dumb. To ask me now for jests and quips Would be abominably cruel ; Sealed is this pair of lyric lips To open only for their gruel ; 74 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY So, reader, don't expect from me A poem wrought with artful cunning j You would not ask it could you see These eyes, like Charleys Aunt, "still running" ! A FASHION FORECAST 75 A FASHION FORECAST (" Mark my -words, crinolines will come in again" Mr. Andrew Lang in " The Illustrated London News.") OBSERVE, no note of indecision Weakens the force of what he states ; Endowed with more than normal vision He sees the future's fashion-plates : The time is near (he thinks), to-morrow May usher in the fateful morn When ladies will awake to sorrow, For crinolines will then be worn ! Ah ! what a time of tribulation Will then come in to disconcert That large proportion of the nation Whose habit is to wear a skirt ; For, Beth, though in your Gibson rig you're Turning all hearts and heads to-day, Soon you will find your splendid figure Is, broadly speaking, thrown away. 76 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY Also, I think some small compassion Should certainly be felt for us j Think what the advent of this fashion Will mean to all who use a 'bus ! What art will soothe the melancholy Of men upon their homeward ride, When lovely woman, " hoop'd in folly," Insists on squatting eight a side ? The lovelorn swain upon the Tube route Will soon perceive the "little rift," When she he worships murmurs " You brute ! " (Colliding with him in the lift.) And then his proffered arm refusing, Because " she hates a clumsy man," She'll leave him (like stout Cortez) musing Upon the pique of Marian ! True, Mr. Lang, your words sound solemn, And yet I wish you would explain Whether you penned that chatty column In graver or in lighter vein ; For, though you always write sincerely, This little doubt my mind assails, Whether 'tis sober truth, or merely One of your charming fairy tales ! LINES TO A LOOKING-GLASS 77 LINES TO A LOOKING-GLASS THE very mention of your name Inspires my lyric lips like wine, Constraining me to hymn the fame Of yonder black and silver shrine, Where every matron and her maid Diurnally invoke your aid. Here, where no prying gaze of man Disturbs your faithful devotees, Both Lady Clare and Mary Anne Perform those toilet mysteries That serve as artful bait for scores Of eligible bachelors. Naught can escape your watchful eyes. You know the sorrows that annoy The heart of Phyllis when she spies Among the gold the gray alloy, And note the ' frame ' that strives to screen The cunning ' transformation ' scene ! 78 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY You know precisely what the ' pearls ' That flash the smiles of Lucy cost ; What sort of gum sticks on the curls That Margaret once loved and lost ; And what peculiar tricks are done To gear Dot's waist to 21. From you proceed the useful hints That aid the chemical brunette When she applies those carmine tints (For which she 's probably in debt). But stay, I must not cast (like you) Reflections upon what they do. But when with aching heart I read How Suffragettists effervesce, I think of you, and say, " Indeed Here lies their sphere of usefulness : When will your erring satellites Content themselves with Women's Rites ? ON MUTABILITY 79 ON MUTABILITY AH, Poet, when you wrote your mournful lay, And sang that in each unsuspecting breast There lurks the gnawing microbe of unrest, That Constancy is but a name to-day, And naught there is that will not pass away ; Then, though great spasms shook my ample chest, I cried, " A poet must, of course, know best ; All things indeed are destined to decay." But now Hope lifts again her 'minished head ; For lo, at breakfast, when my sad eyes ranged Over the morning news, a dazzling line Burst on my sight and warmed my blood like wine; Whereat in joyous tones I loudly said, "Thank Heav'n the Bank Rate still remains un- changed ! " 8o THE MUSE IN MOTLEY To PHYLLIS (Who would tax all bachelors.) DEAR Phyllis, once my only joy, And now my confidante instead, I fear your scheme will much annoy The men who aren't about to wed, Who take, according to their wont, Old PuncKs sage advice, and " Don't." Unlike those pests whom Gilbert blames, I understand your " little list " Comprises several thousand names Of girls who will be always " Miss'd " ; Whence you deduce a horrid dearth Of wedded couples on the earth. And so to remedy this ill You formulate the subtle plan Of drawing up a little Bill To mulct the marriageable man : But ere you mend the marriage-laws, Fair Phyllis of Philistia, pause. TO PHYLLIS 81 Believe me, dear, 'twill never do To place this burden on our backs ; We cannot stand, not e'en from you, Another would-be link 'em tax ; But if you must tax someone, I Have got a plan that you might try. Be patriotic and " protect " Your home-grown brand of bachelors, But tax those Britons who elect To wed outside their native shores : Do not admit one, duty free, Who flaunts his " maid in Germany." So, Phyllis, turn your thoughts to those Who roam abroad to seek their mates, And cease to ruffle the repose Of single-minded celibates : Sweet mistress of so many arts, Spare this poor bachelor of Herts. 82 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY "PROCUL ESTE PROFANI " I LOVE our rural sounds and scents, Each patch of green, each glimpse of blue, And yet one haunting grief prevents My full enjoyment in the view : For when I take the final spring, And gain the summit of the slope, I know some lurid poster thing Will ask me if I 've used its soap ! Sweet, to the man of cheese and lard, The uses of advertisement, Such persons miserly regard Their hoardings with supreme content ; But those who love the fen and field, The mountain-pass and sylvan scene, Feel it is somewhat hard to yield To bloated kings of margarine. For Sutton's seed, (like Abraham's), Is thick as sand upon the shore ; And every sight of woolly lambs Brings Eastman to my mind once more ; "PROCUL ESTE PROFANI" 83 Yet, though I 'm but a simple youth, It seems a trifle indiscreet To advertise the obvious truth, That Jobson's sugar "can't be beet!" 84 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY REJECTED ADDRESSES You, Charlotte Anne, in days of yore Declared you loved me, fondly swore That you would evermore be true, The while with eyes of tender blue You smiled upon me by the shore. And now you tell me I 'm a bore, And fair, and fat, and forty-four Just Heav'n ! to hear such words from you You, Charlotte Anne ! Then since you cannot love me more, Give back my gage of love ; restore That ring of dainty turquoise hue What's that ? You're bothered if you do ? And think that this is where you score You Charlatan ! THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT 85 THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT ( The year 1907 will always be memorable ; for not until late in the autumn was the Great Sea-Serpent sighted. ) I FELT my courage steadily abating ; Alternately I seemed to freeze and burn ; For oh, my heart was weary of awaiting The prodigal's return. Daily I scanned my Mail, to learn with sorrow That even IT knew not where he lay hid ; Then whispered bravely, " He will come to-morrow" Only he never did. And yet in other years I can remember, Rising like Venus from the crested foam, The Great Sea-Serpent early in September Trekked to his English home. And round what someone calls our "billow-swept isle," With manners that endeared him everywhere, He cruised, the model of a genial reptile, Sampling our Northern air. 86 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY Lone mariners recalled that dies tree, When in their lonely watches at the wheel They saw him rising, sinuous and wiry, And felt their blood congeal. Sea-captains (men by nature strangely truthful) Described in detail how they 'd seen him prance A hundred feet aloft, and filled each youth full With love of high romance. About his stature, d la Miss Corelli, Daily Express-^ the free opinions came, Pounding each rival theory to jelly, Bruiting abroad his fame. Romance indeed clung round him like a halo ', Even the Gooseberry's giant girth was less ; Yet all this year, like Brer Fox, did he lay low, Cheating the ha 'penny Press. But now we celebrate his resurrection Two brave Tintagel tourists wire with glee They watched him gambol while his scaly neck shone High o'er the sunlit sea. Salve/ Sir Serpent; let me say that we could Have better spared a Bannerman than lose These tales about your flowing mane and sleek hood That stir my lyric Muse. A BALLADE OF THE BACKS 87 A BALLADE OF THE BACKS " Is it true, think you ? " SHAKSPERE, Winter's Tale. I LIKE my cousin, only she 's A Cambridge girl, and when I tried To shew her what I thought would please, And play the Ciceronian guide, She metaphorically " shied " At all my darkly blue attacks, And to each point I made, replied, " You Ve nothing like the Cambridge Backs." I thought those stately lines of trees Through which the Cher and Isis glide Would win her heart, but even these It was her humour to deride ; E'en the Ashmolean she defied, And still, (the thought my bosom racks) In smooth " Fitzbilliambics " cried, " You Ve nothing like the Cambridge Backs." 88 THE MUSE IN MOTLEY We reached " The High " : " Now then, Louise," Said I, (as Univ. we espied), " Don't tell me Peterhouse or Caius Can match this pile " ; but, cut and dried, Her swift retort my hopes belied ; " One thing," she cooed, " your City lacks, Though you have prospects fair and wide, You 've nothing like the Cambridge Backs." IS Envoi. Oxonians, doff your naughty pride, And go and put your heads in sacks ; Though you may boast the Oxford Side, You Ve nothing like the Cambridge Backs ! EXPLICIT J. PALMER, FRINTKR, ALEXANDRA STREET, CAMBRIDGE UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A 001 392 287 7