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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/20370-8.txt b/20370-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d29c4a2 --- /dev/null +++ b/20370-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2771 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rhymes of the East and Re-collected Verses, by +John Kendall (AKA Dum-Dum) + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Rhymes of the East and Re-collected Verses + +Author: John Kendall (AKA Dum-Dum) + +Release Date: January 15, 2007 [EBook #20370] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYMES OF THE EAST *** + + + + +Produced by Steven Gibbs, Sankar Viswanathan, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + Rhymes of the East + + AND + + Re-collected Verses + + + + BY D U M-D U M + + AUTHOR OF + 'AT ODD MOMENTS' + 'IN THE HILLS' + + + + LONDON + ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE + AND COMPANY, LTD. + 1905 + + + + + * * * * * + +TO + +MY MOTHER + + * * * * * + + + + +AUTHOR'S NOTE + + +Nearly all the verses that now make their first appearance in book +form are reprinted from _Punch_, by kind permission of Messrs. +Bradbury and Agnew. The rest I have taken from two little books that +were published in Bombay during my last (and, I suppose, final) tour +of service in India. They contained a good deal of work that was too +local or topical in interest to stand reproduction, and--especially +the elder, which is out of print--some that I would sooner bury than +perpetuate. The rest I have overhauled, and included in this +re-collection. + +Readers in, or of, India have been kind enough to regard my previous +efforts with favour. I hope that this little volume will find them no +less benevolently disposed, and that at the same time it may not be +without interest to those whose knowledge of the Shiny East is derived +from hearsay. + + * * * * * + + + + +CONTENTS + + +NOCTURNE WRITTEN IN AN INDIAN GARDEN, + +TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND WITHIN-DOORS, + +VALEDICTION TO THE SS. 'ARABIA,' WHEN RETURNING WITH HER PASSENGERS +FROM THE DELHI DURBAR, + +A SOLDIER OF WEIGHT, + +ODE TO THE TIME-GUN OF GURRUMBAD, + +OMAR OUT OF DATE, + +ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF EVER GETTING TO THE HILLS, + +A SOMBRE RETROSPECT, + +TO MANDALAY--GREETING, + +SONG OF BELLS, + +A BALLAD OF BUTTONRY, + +THE IRON HAND, + +THE WOOIN' O' TUMMAS, + +CHRISTMAS GREETINGS, + +'KAL!' + +TO AN ELEPHANT, + +VISIONARY, ON THE ADVANTAGES OF AN 'ASTRAL BODY,' + +SUMMER PORTENTS, +ELYSIUM, + +TO MY LADY OF THE HILLS, + +THE SHORES OF NOTHING, + +THE LAST HOCKEY, + +'FAREWELL' + +A HAPPY NEW YEAR, + +SAIREY, + +ADAM, + +ELEGY ON A RHINOCEROS, + +IN SEVERAL KEYS. NO. 1--'MARIE,' + +IN SEVERAL KEYS. NO. 2--THE BALLAD OF MORBID MOTHERS, + +THE STORY OF RUD., + +THE HAPPY ENDING + +STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, + +THE FINEST VIEW, + +HAVEN, + + * * * * * + + + + +NOCTURNE WRITTEN IN AN INDIAN GARDEN + + 'Where ignorance is bliss, + 'Tis folly to be wise.' + + + The time-gun rolls his nerve-destroying bray; + The toiling moon rides slowly o'er the trees; + The weary diners cast their cares away, + And seek the lawn for coolness and for ease. + + Now spreads the gathering stillness like a pall, + And melancholy silence rules the scene, + Save where the bugler sounds his homing call, + And thirsty THOMAS leaves the wet canteen; + + Save that from yonder lines in deepest gloom + Th' ambiguous mule does of the stick[1] bewail, + Whose _dunder_ craft forbids him to consume + His proper blanket, or his neighbour's tail. + +[Footnote 1: The _dunder-stick_--an ingenious instrument devised to +defeat this extraordinary appetite.] + + Beneath those jagged tiles, that low-built roof + (Whose inmost secret deeps let none divine!), + Each to his master's cry supremely proof, + The Aryan Brothers of our household dine. + + Let not Presumption mock their joyless pile,-- + The cold boiled rice, in native butter greased; + Nor scorn, with rising gorge and painful smile, + The cheap but filling flapjacks of the East. + + Full many a gem of highest Art-cuisine + Those dark unfathomed dogmatists eschew; + Full many a 'dish to set before the Queen' + Would waste its sweetness on the mild Hindoo. + + Nor you, their lords, expect of these the toil, + When o'er their minds a soft oblivion steals, + And through the long-drawn hookah's pliant coil + They soothe their senses, and digest their meals. + + For Knowledge to their ears her ample store, + Rich with the latest news, does then impart, + Whose source, when known, shall chill you to the core, + And freeze the genial cockles of the heart. + + For once, to dumb Neglectfulness a prey, + Resentment led me undetected near, + To know the reason of this cool delay, + And teach my trusty pluralist to hear. + + There to my vassals' ruminating throng + Some total stranger, seated on a pail, + Perused, translating as he went along, + My private letters by the current mail. + + One moment, horror baulked my strong intent; + Next o'er the compound wall we saw him go, + While uncouth moan, with hapless gesture blent, + Deplored the pressing tribute of the toe. + + +THE MORAL + + To you, fresh youths, with round unblushing cheeks, + Some moral tag this closing verse applies; + E'en from the old the voice of Wisdom speaks-- + Even the youngest are not always wise! + + No further seek to probe the Best Unknown, + From Exploration's curious arts refrain; + Lest Melancholy mark you for her own, + And you should learn--nor ever smile again. + + + + +TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND WITHIN-DOORS + +_After R. H._ + + + A strong discomfort in the dress + Dwindling the clothes to nothingness + Saving, for due decorum placed, + A huckaback about the waist, + Or wanton towel-et, whose touch + Haply may spare to chafe o'ermuch: + A languid frame, from head to feet + Prankt in the arduous prickle-heat: + An erring fly, that here and there + Enwraths the crimsoned sufferèr: + An upward toe, whose skill enjoys + The slipper's curious equipoise: + A punkah wantoning, whereby + Papers do flow confoundedly: + By such comportment, and th' offence + Of thy fantastic eloquence, + Dost thou, my WILLIAM, make it known + That thou art warm, and best alone. + + + + +VALEDICTION + +TO THE SS. 'ARABIA,' WHEN RETURNING WITH HER PASSENGERS FROM THE DELHI +DURBAR + + + Now the busy screw is churning, + Now the horrid sirens blow; + Now are India's guests returning + Home from India's Greatest Show; + Now the gleeful Asiatic + Speeds them on their wild career, + And, though normally phlegmatic, + Gives a half-unconscious cheer. + + India's years were years of leanness, + Till the Late Performance drew + These, whose confidential greenness + She has run for all she knew. + Gladly rose the land to bid them + Welcome for a fleeting spell-- + Nobly took them in and did them-- + And has done extremely well. + + Peace be theirs, important Packet, + Genial skies and happy calms-- + No derogatory racket, + No humiliating qualms! + Gales, I charge you, shun to rouse and + Lash the seas to angry foam, + While Britannia's Great Ten Thousand + Sweep, with huge enjoyment, home! + + Let the spiced and salty zephyr + Build them up in frame and mind, + Till they feel as fresh and effer- + vescent as their hearts are kind, + And in triumph close their Indian + Tour on far Massilia's quay, + Never having known too windy an + Offing, too disturbed a sea. + + So, when English snows are falling, + When the fogs are growing dense, + They shall hear the East a-calling, + And shall come, and blow expense. + Every year shall bring his Argo; + Every year a grateful East + Shall receive her golden Cargo, + And restore the Gilded--Fleeced! + + + + +A SOLDIER OF WEIGHT + + + In the dim and distant ages, in the half-forgotten days, + Ere the East became the fashion and an Indian tour the craze, + Lived a certain Major-General, renowned throughout the State + As a soldier of distinction and considerable weight. + + But though weightiness of mind is an invaluable trait, + When applied to adiposity it's all the other way; + And our hero was confronted with an ever-growing lack + Of the necessary charger and the hygienic hack. + + He had bought them by the dozen, he had tried them by the score, + But not one of them was equal to the burden that he bore; + They were conscious of the honour, they were sound in wind and limb, + They could carry a cathedral, but they drew the line at _him_. + + But he stuck to it, till finally his pressing needs were filled + By the mammoth of his species, a Leviathan in build, + A superb upstanding brown, of unexceptionable bone, + And phenomenally qualified to carry twenty stone. + + And the General was happy; for the noble creature showed + An unruffled acquiescence with the nature of his load; + Till without the slightest warning, that superb upstanding brown + Thought it time to make a protest, which he did by lying down. + + They appealed to him, reproached him, gave him sugar, cut his feed, + But in vain; for almost daily that inexorable steed, + When he heard his master coming, looked insultingly around, + And with cool deliberation laid him down upon the ground. + + But they fought it out between them, till the undefeated brute + Made a humorous obeisance at the General Salute! + Then his owner kicked him wildly in the stomach for his pranks, + Said he'd stand the beast no longer, and returned him to the ranks. + +(_An interval of about three years._) + + Time has dulled our hero's anguish; time has raised our man of weight + To an even higher office in the service of the State; + And we find him at his yearly tour, inspecting at his ease + A distinguished corps of cavalry, the Someone's Own D. G.'s. + + And our fat but famous man of war, accoutred to the nines, + Was engaged in making rude remarks, and going round the lines, + When he suddenly beheld across an intervening space + A Leviathan of horseflesh, the Behemoth of his race. + + 'Colonel Robinson,' he shouted, with enthusiastic force, + 'A remarkably fine horse, sir!' The remarkably fine horse + Gave a reminiscent shudder, looked insultingly around, + And with cold deliberation laid him down upon the ground! + + + + +ODE TO THE TIME-GUN OF GURRUMBAD + + [Time-guns are of invariable pattern and extreme antiquity. + Other species come and go; their ancestor remains always. One + is to be found in each cantonment: he generally occupies a + position of unsheltered and pathetic loneliness in a corner + of the local parade-ground. The writer has never seen one + herded in the Gun-park with his kind.] + + + Strong scion of the sturdy past + When simpler methods ruled the fray, + At whose demoralising blast + The stoutest foe recoiled aghast, + How fall'n art thou to-day! + + Thy power the little children mock; + Thy voice, that shook the serried line, + But supplements the morning cock + At--roughly speaking--one o'clock, + And--broadly--half-past nine. + + (Saving when THOMAS' deep employ + Th' attendant closing hour postpones, + And he, the undefeated boy, + To gain a temporary joy, + Hath stuffed thee up with stones.) + + Thy kindred of a mushroom 'Mark,' + Young guns, intolerably spruce, + Have cast thee from the social 'park'; + Which, to their humbled patriarch, + Must be the very deuce. + + Their little toils with leisure crowned, + They, in their turn, will seek the Vale + Of Rest that thou hast never found; + What wonder if thy daily Round + Is very like a Wail? + + Yet many love thee. Though his clutch + Be heavy, Time doth still afford + That fine consolatory touch-- + It hardly seems to go for much, + But cannot be ignored. + + For him that braves the midday fare + Thou hast the immemorial task + Of booming forth at one--or there- + abouts--which saves the wear and tear + Of yelling out to ask. + + So, when athwart the glooming flats + Thy hoarse, nocturnal whispers stray-- + Much to the horror of the bats-- + We're one day nearer home, and that's + A comfort, anyway! + + Then courage! Guns may come and go, + But him alone we hold divine + Whose task it is to let us know + The hours of one o'clock--or so-- + And--roundly--half-past nine. + + + + +OMAR OUT OF DATE + +BY A RENEGADE DISCIPLE + + + Wake! for Reveillée scatters into flight + The flagging Rearguard of a ruined Night, + And hark! the meagre Champion of the Roost + Has flung a matins to the Throne of Light. + + Here, while the first beam smites the sullen Sky, + With silent feet Hajâm comes stealing nigh, + Bearing the Brush, the Vessel, and the Blade, + These sallow cheeks of mine to scarify. + + How often, oh, how often have I sworn + Myself myself to shave th' ensuing Morn! + And then--and then comes Guest-night, and Hajâm + Appears unbidden, and is gladly borne. + + Come, fill the Cup! The nerve-restoring Ti + Shall woo me with the Leaf of far Bohi; + What matter that to some the Koko makes + Appeal, to some the Cingalese Kofi? + + For in a minute Toil, that ever thrives, + Awaits me with her Shackles and her Gyves, + And ever crieth Folly in the streets: + 'To work! for needs ye must when Shaitân drives.' + + Alas! that I did yesternight disport + With certain fellows of the baser Sort, + Unheedful of the living consequence + When Drinks are long, and Pockets all too short! + + With them the game of Poka did I play, + And in wild session turned the Night to Day; + And many a Chip I dropped upon the Board, + And many a Moistener poured upon the Clay. + + I put my Pile against th' Improbable, + And with a Full Hand thought to make it swell; + And this was all the Profit that I reaped: + A Full of Kings is Heaven--and Fours are Hell! + + Then to the Mountain Dew I turned to seek + New courage for the Vengeance I should wreak; + And once again came Fours, again the Flesh + Was willing, and the Spirits far from weak. + + * * * * * + + _O Friend of pseudo-philosophic Calm, + Who found within the Cup a life's Aram, + Thy counsel, howsoever fair to read, + Were passing bad to follow, friend Khayyam!_ + + _Was it not Suleiman the Wise that said: + Look not upon the Wine when it is red? + And Suleiman the Wise knew What was Which, + Though that great Heart of his outmatched his Head!_ + + * * * * * + + Ah! with the Pledge a Door of Refuge ope + To wean my footsteps from the facile Slope, + And write me down, fulfilled of Self-esteem, + A Prop and Pillar of the Band of Hope; + + That in the Club, should whilom Comrades try + To lure me to a Roister on the sly, + The necessary Zeal I may not lack + To turn away, nor wink the Other Eye! + + + + +ODE + +ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF EVER GETTING TO THE HILLS + +_After T. G._ + + + Ye distant Hills, ye smiling glades, + In decent foliage drest, + Where green Sylvanus proudly shades + The Sirkar's haughty crest, + And ye, that in your wider reign + Like bold adventurers disdain + The limit set for common clay, + Whose luck, whose pen, whose power of song, + Distinguish from the vulgar throng + To walk the flowery way: + + Ah happy Hills! Ah genial sky! + Ah Goal where all would end! + Where once, and only once, did I + Go largely on the bend; + E'en now the tales that from ye flow + A fragmentary bliss bestow, + Till, once again a doedal boy, + In dreaming dimly of the first + I seem to take a second burst, + And snatch a tearful joy. + + But tell me, Jakko, dost thou see + The same old sprightly crew + Disport with unembarrassed glee, + As we were wont to do? + What youth, in brazen armour cased, + With pliant arm the yielding waist + To arduous dalliance ensnares? + Who, foremost of his peers, exalts + The labours of the devious waltz + By sitting out the squares? + + Does Prudence, gentle Matron, force + On Folly in her 'teens + The value of a stalking-horse + When hunting Rank and Means? + And is the Summer Widow's mind + Aggrieved and horrified to find + That, as her male acquaintance grows, + Her female circle pass her by + With Innuendo's outraged eye, + And Virtue's injured nose? + + Lo, in the Vale of Tears beneath + A grilling troop is seen + Whom Failure gnaws with rankling teeth, + While Envy turns them green. + This racks the head, that scars the pelt, + These bore beneath the ample belt, + Those in the deeper vitals burn: + Lo, Want of Leave, to fill the cup, + Hath drunken all our juices up, + And topped the whole concern. + + To each his billet; some succeed, + And some are left to groan; + The latter serve their country's need, + The former serve their own. + Then let the maiden try her wing, + The youth enjoy his roomy fling, + The Single Matron dry her eyes! + As Fate is blind, and Life is short, + If Ignorance can give them sport, + 'Twere folly to be wise. + + + + +A SOMBRE RETROSPECT + + + Long, long ago, in that heroic time + When I, a coy and modest youth, was shot + Out on this dust-heap of careers and crime + To try and learn what's what, + + I had a servitor, a swarthy knave, + Who showed an almost irreligious taste + For wearing nothing but a turban, save + A rag about the waist. + + This apparition gave me such a start, + That I endowed him with a cast-off pair + Of inexpressibles, and said, 'Depart, + And be no longer bare.' + + He took the offering with broken thanks; + But day succeeded day, and still revealed + Those sombre and attenuated shanks + Intensely unconcealed; + + Until at last the climax came when I + Resolved to bring this matter to an end, + And when I saw him passing, shouted, 'Hi! + Where are your trousers, friend?' + + Halting, he gave a deferential bow; + Then, to my horror, beamingly replied, + 'Master not see? I wearing trousers _now_!' + I would have said he lied, + + But could not. As I shaped the glowing phrase, + I looked upon his turban--looked again-- + Mine own familiar pattern met my gaze, + And all the truth was plain! + + Th' unhappy creature, Eastern to the core, + Holding my gift in superstitious dread, + Had made a turban out of it, and wore + His trousers--_on his head_! + + + + +TO MANDALAY--GREETING + +(BY WALTYARD WHIPMING) + + +I + + A song of Mandalay! + Allons, Camerados, Desperadoes, Amontillados! + Hear my Recitative, my Romanza, my Spring Onion! + + +II + + You three-striped sergeants, you corporals, non-commissioned officers, + and men with one or more good-conduct badges, + You indifferent and bad characters, am I not also one with you? + And will you not then hear my song? + This for prelude. + + +III + + You, O Mandalay, I sing! + For I see the pagoda, the Moulmein and essentially wotto pagoda, + And the pagoda is above the trees, + But the trees are below the pagoda. + + +IV + + I see the flying-fish sitting on the branches, I hear them sing, + and they fly and mate and build their nests in the branches; + I see a dun-coloured aboriginal she-female, mongolianée, petite, + squat-faced, + And she has a cast in her sinister optic and a snub nose but her + heart is true; + And I gaze into her heart (which is true), and I find that she is + musing (as indeed I often muse) on ME, + Me Prononcè, Me Imperturbe, Me Inconscionabilamente. + + +V + + I see [_a page or so unavoidably omitted for lack of space,--refer + to guide-book_] and ... the wind, and the palm-trees idly swaying + to and fro in the wind (now to, now fro), and I hear the bells of + a temple, and I know that they are singing, and what it is that + they would say. + + +VI + + What is it that they would say do you ask Me? + + +VII + + How shall I tell you, how shall I make you understand? + For I know that you do not love Me, you do not comprehend Me, you + say that this sort of thing does you harm; + But I will even now do my darndest (as indeed I always do more or + less), and if you do not like it, + Waal, Soldados? + + +VIII + + Behold, I will write it as a song and put it in italics, so that + even _you_ will know that it _is_ a song; + So listen, listen, Camerados! for I am about to spout and my song + shall be masculine and virile. _A bas_ your metre, _à la lanterne_ + your rhyme, _conspuez_ your punctuation, + I say pooh-pooh! + + + + +SONG OF BELLS + + + _Allons! Allons! Tra-la-la! Hear my Bellata! + Why do you not return to Mandalay O soldier? + Do you not remember the boats, and the paddles as they chunked + outside the boats? + Do you not remember the elephants, the mighty elephants, strong, + mysterious, impalpable (no, not impalpable), pachydermatous, and + the extraordinary accuracy with which they succeeded in balancing + trees or parts of trees, branches, logs, beams, planks, ... + etc., ... with their trunks (the beams carefully supported at their + centre of gravity, the logs carefully supported at their centre of + gravity, the elephants without a smile at_ their _centre of + gravity) + From Rangoon to Mandalay?_ + +_For--_ + + _On the road to Mandalay the flying-fishes play, + But there are no omnibuses to ply. + Is there not a thirst here, and are there any ten commandments? + O you commandments! you first, second, third ... and tenth + commandments! + What has Mandalay to do with you, and what have you to do with + Mandalay?_ + +_Ha! What is that?_ + + _Is it a sound, is it the thunder, the sudden thunder, strepitant, + tonant? + Is it the midday (twelve o'clock) cannon?_ + +_ No!_ + + _Is it not then the ocean, the storm of the ocean?_ + +_ Divil a bit!_ + + _Return, return then O soldiers, + Return, you that have been discharged with pensions, as time-expired + men, or as incorrigible and worthless, + Return, for it is the dawn, and it is calling to you as it comes up + from China, + Though why from China do you ask me? + Then ask me another!_ + + + + +A BALLAD OF BUTTONRY + + + _Clothes and the Man I sing._ Reformers, note + These of the Subaltern who owned a Coat. + + He was what veterans miscall, for short, + By that objectionable term, a wart:[2] + + The Coat an item of the 'sealed' attire + Wrung from his helpless but reluctant sire; + + Also the tails were long; and, for the pride + Thereof, were buttons on the after-side; + + Majestic orbs, whose gilded obverse bore + The bossy symbol of his future corps. + + The youth, ere sailing for a distant land, + Did, in the interval, receive command + +[Footnote 2: A last-joined young officer.--_Military Definitions._] + + To join a 'Course,' where men of grave repute + Instruct the young idea how to shoot. + + Thither he sped, and on the opening day + Rose, and, empanoplied in brave array, + + (Ample of flowing skirt, and with great craft + And pomp of blazoned buttonry abaft) + + Won to the mess, and preened his fledgling plumes + Both in the breakfast and the ante-rooms. + + Awhile he moved in rapture, and awhile + Thrilled in the old, inevitable style + + To that stern joy which youthful warriors feel + In wearing garments worthy of their zeal; + + Then came the seneschal upon the scenes, + And knocked his infant pride to smithereens. + + For out, alack! the Fathers of the mess + Strictly prohibited that form of dress, + + Being by sad experience led to find + Disaster in the buttonry behind, + + Which tore and scratched the leather-cushioned chairs, + And cost a perfect fortune in repairs! + + It was a crushing blow. That Subaltern + Discovered that he had a lot to learn; + + Removed his Coat, and laid it, weeping, in + Its long sarcophagus of beaten tin: + + Buried it deep, and drew it thence no more; + Finished his Course, and sought an alien shore. + + * * * * * + + So runs the tale. I had it from the youth + Himself, and I suppose he told the truth. + + (The words alone are mine; I need but hint + That his were too emotional for print.) + + And as in India, though the chairs are hard, + His Coat--delicious irony--is barred; + + Being designed for cooler zones, and not + For one inadequately known as 'hot'; + + And, furthermore, as bold Sir Fashion brings + Changes, yea, even to the soldier's things: + + He questions if the Coat were worth the price, + Seeing that he will hardly wear it twice. + + + + +THE IRON HAND + + 'The Government of India _has been pleased_ to sanction the + infliction of a fine of ..., etc.' + + + To him that reads with careless eyes + My present theme affords + But little scope for enterprise + In buttering one's lords: + Fines, he would urge, have always bulked + Largely to Those that rule, + For, plainly, every man They mulct + Contributes to the pool. + + But when in ages dead and gone + Our fathers fought with Sin, + However hard they laid it on, + They didn't rub it in; + While These not only bring to bear + Their dark prerogatives, + But diabolically air + The pleasure that it gives! + + Here is the Iron Hand that builds + Our realms beyond the sea; + No _suaviter in modo_ gilds + Their _fortiter in re_; + Here is no washy velvet glove + To pad the Fist of Fear-- + None of your guiding charms of Love-- + None of your hogwash here! + + No. From Their thrones amid the stars + They glower athwart the land + Implacable, with 'eye like Mars + To threaten and command.' + Too cold, too truculent, to stay + The awful bolt They fling, + They make no bones about it--They + Are _pleased_ to do this thing! + + Blind to the victim's mask of woe, + Deaf to his poignant howls, + No pity stirs Their bosoms, no + Reluctance wrings Their bow'ls! + By prompt and ready cash alone + Their wrath shall be appeased + Who pile it on like gods, and own, + Like men, to being pleased. + + + + +THE WOOIN' O' TUMMAS + +_After R. B._ + + + Tummas Katt cam' roun' to woo, + Ha, ha, the wooin' o't; + Lichtly sang ta lang nicht thro', + Ha, ha, the mewin' o't; + Tabbie, winsome, tim'rous beast, + Speakit: 'Tummas, hand tha' weist! + Girt auld Tummas 'gan inseest; + Ha, ha, the doin' o't! + + Tabbie laucht, an' brawly fleired, + Ha, ha, the fleirin' o't; + Tummas,--ech! but Tummas speired + Ha, ha, the speirin' o't; + Sic an awesome, fearfu' screep, + Wakin' a' aroun' frae sleep; + Fegs, it gar'd the Gudeman weep! + Ha, ha, the hearin' o't! + + Quoth the Gudeman: 'Dairm his een!' + Ha, ha, the swearin' o't; + 'Muckle fasht was I yestreen, + A' thro' the bearin' o't! + Ere the sonsie moon was bricht, + Clean awa' till mornin' licht, + Mickle sleep was mine the nicht; + Ha, ha, the wearin' o't!' + + 'Where are noo ma booties twa? + Ha, ha, the stoppin' o't; + 'Tis mysel' shall gar him fa'; + Ha, ha, the coppin' o't! + 'Gin a bootie, strang an' stoot, + Sneckit Tummas roun' ta snoot, + Winna Tummas gang frae oot? + Ha, ha, the droppin' o't!' + + Swuft the pawky booties came, + Ha, ha, the flittin' o't: + Tummas scraught, an' lit for hame, + Ha, ha, the spittin' o't; + Lauchit Tabbs to see him fa'; + Leapit frae ta gairden wa'; + Quoth the Gudeman: 'Dairm it a'! + What price the hittin' o't?' + + + + +CHRISTMAS GREETINGS + + + Christmas comes but once a year. + Though by nature snappy, + Let us, as we may, appear + Merry, friend, and happy! + Buckle to; and when you meet your + Thunderstricken fellow-creature, + Show the broad, indulgent smile + Of th' ingenuous crocodile! + Look as if you'd backed a winner! + Laugh, you miserable sinner! + + Brother, Christmas Day has come. + Can't you seek for inspi- + ration in the turkey, plum- + pudding, beef, and mince-pie? + Brave it out, and tho' you sit on + Tenterhooks, remain a Briton; + You can only do your best; + Boxing Day's a day of rest! + Throw aside your small digestive + Eccentricities. Be festive! + + Christmas Day is on the wing. + Are you feeling wroth with + Any one for anything? + Beg his pardon _forth_with! + Though the right is all on _your_ side, + Say it isn't; say 'Of course I'd + No intention--very rude-- + Shocking taste--but misconstrued'-- + Then (while I admit it's horri- + fying) tell the man you're sorry! + + Christmas Day will soon have flown. + If, despite persuasion, + You resolve to be alone + On the glad occasion, + Better (do as I have done!) + Vanish with a scatter-gun; + If you have to see it through, + (Better do what I shall do!) + Dining quietly at the Club'll + Save us from a world of trouble! + + + + +'KAL!' + +(=TO-MORROW) + + ['Never do To-day what can be postponed till To-morrow, save + at the dictates of your personal convenience.'--_Maxims of + the Wicked_, No. 3.] + + + Sweet Word, by whose unwearying assistance + We of the Ruling Race, when sorely tried, + Can keep intrusive persons at a distance, + And let unseasonable matters slide; + Thou at whose blast the powers of irritation + Yield to a soft and gentlemanly lull + Of solid peace and flat Procrastination, + These to thy praise and honour, good old Kal! + + For we are greatly plagued by sacrilegious + Monsters in human form, who care for naught + Save with incessant papers to besiege us, + E'en to the solemn hour of silent thought; + They draw no line; the frightful joy of giving + Pain is their guerdon; but for Thee alone, + Life would be hardly worth the bore of living, + No one could call his very soul his own. + + But in thy Name th' importunate besetter + Meets a repelling force that none can stem; + Varlets may come (they do) and go (they'd better!), + Kal is the word that always does for them! + _To-morrow_ they may join the usual muster; + To-day shall pass inviolably by; + BEELZEBUB Himself, for all his bluster, + Would get the same old sickening reply. + + And, for thine aid in baffling the malignant, + Who, with unholy art, conspire to see + Our ease dis-eased, our dignity indignant, + We do Thee homage on the bended knee. + And I would add a word of common gratitude + To those thy coadjutors, _ao_ and _lao_,[3] + Who take, with Thee, th' uncompromising attitude + From which the dullest mind deduces _jao_. + +[Footnote 3: _Kal-ao_='return to-morrow'; _kal-lao_='bring it back +to-morrow.' Each of these phrases is the euphemistic equivalent of +_jao_, that is, 'go away, (and stay there).'] + + + + +TO AN ELEPHANT + +ON HIS TONIC QUALITIES + + + Solace of mine hours of anguish, + Peace-imparting View, when I, + Sick of Hindo-Sturm-und-Drang, wish + I could lay me down and die, + + Very present help in trouble, + Never-failing anodyne + For the blows that knock us double, + Here's towards thee, Hathi mine! + + As, 'tis said, the dolorous Jack Tar + Turns to view the watery Vast, + When he mourns his frail charàc-tar, + Or deplores his jagged Past, + + Climbs a cliff, and breathes his sighs on + That appalling breast until, + Borne from off the far horizon, + Voices whisper, 'Cheer up, Bill!' + + So when evil chance or dark as- + persions crush the bosom's lord, + When discomfort rends the car-cass, + When we're sorry, sick, or bored, + + When the year is at its hottest, + And our life with sorrow crowned, + Gazing thee-wards, where thou blottest + Out the landscape, pulls us round, + + Gives us peace, some nameless modi- + cum of cheer to mind and eye: + Something that can soothe a body + Like a blessed lullaby. + + Sweet it is to watch thee, Hathi, + Through the stertorous afternoons, + Wond'ring why so stout a party + Wears such baggy pantaloons: + + Sweet, again, to steal a-nigh and + Watch thee, ere thy meals begin, + Deftly weigh th' unleavened viand, + Lest thou be deceived therein: + + Sweet to mark thee gravely dining: + Grand, when day has nearly gone, + 'Tis to view yon Orb declining + Down behind thee, broadside on: + + Ay! and when thy vassals tub thee, + And thou writhest 'neath the brick + Wherewithal they take and scrub thee, + 'Twere a sight to heal the sick! + + Not a pose but serves to ward off + Pangs that had of yore prevailed; + E'en the stab of being scored off + Owns the charm, old Double-Tailed! + + But, O Thou that giv'st the flabby + Strength, and stingo'st up the weak:- + Restful as a grand old Abbey-- + Bracing as a Mountain Peak:-- + + All the bonds of Age were slackened, + And my years were out of sight, + When I burst upon thy back end + As thou kneeled'st yesternight! + + Head and frame were hidden. Only + Loomed a black, colossal Seat, + Taut, magnificent, and lonely, + O'er a pair of suppliant feet + + To th' astounded mind conveying + Dreams from which my manhood shrank, + Of a very fat man praying, + Whom a boy would love to spank. + + And I felt my fingers twitching, + And my sinews turned to wire, + And my palm was itching, itching, + With the old, unhallowed fire. + + While the twofold voice within me + Urged their long-forgotten feud, + One to do thee shame would win me,-- + One that whispered, 'Don't be rude!' + + Till, by heaven! thy pleading beauty + Drove those carnal thoughts away, + And the friend that came to scruti- + nise was left behind to pray:-- + + For I shamed thee not, nor spanked thee; + But to rearward, on the plain, + Hathi, on my knees I thanked thee + That I felt a boy again! + + + + +VISIONARY + +ON THE ADVANTAGES OF AN 'ASTRAL BODY' + + + It is told, in Buddhi-theosophic Schools + There are rules + By observing which when mundane matter irks, + Or the world has gone amiss, you + Can incontinently issue + From the circumscribing tissue + Of your Works. + + That the body and the gentleman inside + Can divide, + And the latter, if acquainted with the plan, + Can alleviate the tension + By remaining 'in suspension' + As a kind of fourth dimension + Bogie man. + + And to such as mourn an Indian Solar Crime + At its prime, + 'Twere a stratagem so luminously fit, + That tho' doctrinaires deny it, + And Academicians guy it, + I, for one, would like to try it + For a bit. + + Just to leave one's earthly tenement asleep + In a heap, + And detachedly to watch it as it lies, + With an epidermis pickled + Where the prickly heat has prickled, + And a sense of being tickled + By the flies. + + And to sit and loaf and idle till the day + Dies away, + In a duplicate ethereally cool, + Or around the place to potter, + (Tho' the flesh could hardly totter,) + As contented as an otter + In a pool! + + 'Let the pestilent mosquito do his worst + Till he burst, + Let him bore and burrow, morning, noon, and night, + If he finds the diet sweet, oh, + Who am _I_ to place a veto + On the pestilent mosquito?-- + _Let_ him bite!' + + O my cumbersome misfit of bone and skin, + Could I win + To the wisdom that would render me exempt + From the grosser bonds that tether + You and Astral Me together, + I should simply treat the weather + With contempt; + + I should contemplate its horrors with entire + Lack of ire, + And pursuant to my comfortable aim, + With a snap at every shackle + I should quit my tabernacle, + And serenely sit and cackle + At the game! + + But, alas! the 'mystic glory swims away,' + And the clay + Is as vulgarly persistent as of yore, + And the cuticle is pickled + Where the prickly heat has prickled, + And the nose and ears are tickled + As before; + + And until the Buddhi-theosophic Schools + Print the rules + That will bring our tale of sorrows to a close, + Body mine, though others chide thee, + And consistently deride thee, + I shall have to stay inside thee, + I suppose! + + + + +SUMMER PORTENTS + + + Come, let us quaff the brimming cup + Of sorrow, bitterness, and pain; + For clearly, things are warming up + Again. + + Observe with what awakened powers + The vulgar Sun resumes the right + Of rising in the hallowed hours + Of night. + + Bound to the village water-wheel, + The motive bullock bows his crest, + And signals forth a mute appeal + For rest. + + His neck is galled beneath the yoke: + His patient eyes are very dim: + Life is a dismal sort of joke + To _him_. + + Yet one there is, to whom the ox + Is kin; who knows, as habitat, + The cold, unsympathetic box, + Or mat; + + Who urges on, with wearied arms, + The punkah's rhythmic, laboured sweep, + Nor dares to contemplate the charms + Of sleep. + + Now 'mid a host of lesser things + That pasture through the heaving nights, + The sharp mosquito flaps his wings, + And bites; + + With other Anthropophagi, + Such as that microscopic brand + The common Sand-fly (or the fly + Of sand), + + Who, with a hideous lust uncurbed + By clappings of the frequent palm, + Devours one's ankles, undisturbed, + And calm. + + The scorpion nips one unaware: + The lizard flops upon the head: + And cobras, uninvited, share + One's bed. + + Oh, if I only had the luck + To feel the grand Olympic fire + That thrilled the Greater when they struck + The lyre! + + When Homer wrote of this and that: + When Dante sang like one possessed: + When Milton groaned and laboured at + His Best! + + Had I the swelling rise and fall, + Whereof the Bo'sun's quivering moan + Derives a breezy fragrance all + Its own: + + Oh, I would pour such passion out-- + Good gracious me!--I would so sing + That you should know the _facts_ about + This thing! + + Then w-w-wake, my Lyre! O halting lilt! + O miserable, broken lay! + It may not be: I am not built + That way. + + Yet other gifts the gods bestow. + I do not weep, I do not grieve. + Far from it. I shall simply go + On leave. + + + + +ELYSIUM + + + From the dust, and the drought, and the heat, + I am borne on the pinions of leave, + From the things that are bad to repeat + To the things that are good to receive. + + From the glare of the day at its height + On a land that was blinding to see, + From the wearisome hiss of the night, + By a turn of the wheel I am free. + + I have passed to the heart of the Hills, + For a season of halcyon hours, + 'Mid the music of murmurous rills, + And the delicate odours of flowers; + + And I walk in an exquisite shade, + Where the fern-tasselled boughs interlace; + And the verdurous fringe of the glade + Is a marvel of fairylike grace; + + And with never an aim or a plan + I can wander in uttermost ease, + Where the only reminders of Man + Are the monkeys aloft in the trees; + + Or, perchance, on the 'silvery mere,' + In a 'shallop' I lazily float, + With--it's possible--some one to steer, + Or with no one (which lightens the boat). + + O the glorious gift of release + From the chains that encircle the thrall, + To be quiet, and cool, and at peace, + And to loaf, and do nothing at all! + + I am clear of that infamous lark; + I am far from the blare of the Band; + And the bugles are silent, the bark + Of the Colonel is hushed in the land. + + And--I say it again--I am free, + In the valleys of wandering bliss; + And most gratefully 'own, if there _be_ + An Elysium on earth, it is this!' + + + + +TO MY LADY OF THE HILLS + + '... O she, + To me myself, for some three careless moons, + The summer pilot of an empty heart + Unto the shores of Nothing.'--_Tennyson_. + + + 'Tis the hour when golden slumbers + Through th' Hesperian portals creep, + And the youth who lisps in numbers + Dreams of novel rhymes to 'sleep'; + _I_ shall merely note, at starting, + That responsive Nature thrills + To the _twilight_ hour of parting + From my Lady of the Hills. + + Lady, 'neath the deepening umbrage + We have wandered near and far, + To the ludicrously dumb rage + Of your truculent Mamma; + We have urged the long-tailed gallop; + Lightly danced the still night through; + Smacked the ball, and oared the shallop + (In a vis-à-vis canoe); + + We have walked this fair Oasis, + Keeping, more by skill than chance, + To the non-committal basis + Of indefinite romance; + Till, as love within me ripened, + I have wept the hours away, + Brooding on my meagre stipend, + Mourning mine exiguous pay. + + Dear, 'tis hard, indeed, to stifle + Fervour such as mine has grown, + And I 'd freely give a trifle + Could I win you for mine own; + But the question simply narrows + Down to one persistent fact, + That we cannot say we're sparrows, + And we oughtn't so to act. + + Married bliss is born of incomes; + While to drag the long years through + Till some hypothetic tin comes, + Seems a childish thing to do; + Rather let us own as lasting + Our unpardonable crime, + Giving thanks, with prayer and fasting, + For so very high a time. + + Fare you well. Your dreadful Mother, + If I know that woman's mind, + Has her eye upon Another + _Vice_ me, my dear, resigned; + And I see you mated shortly + To some covenanted swain, + Not objectionably portly, + Not prohibitively plain. + + Take his gifts, and ask a blessing. + Meddle not with minor cares. + Trust me, your unprepossessing + Dam soon settles those affairs! + Then will I, with honeyed suasion, + Pinch some thriftless man of bills + Of a mark of the occasion + For my Lady of the Hills. + + + + +THE SHORES OF NOTHING + + + There's a little lake that lies + In a valley, where the skies + Kiss the mountains, as they rise, + On the crown; + And the heaven-born élite + Are accustomed to retreat + From the pestilential heat + Lower down. + + Where the Mighty, for a space, + Mix with Beauty, Rank, and Grace, + (I myself was in the place, + At my best!) + And the atmosphere's divine, + While the deodar and pine + Are particularly fine + For the chest. + + And a little month ago, + When the sun was lying low, + And the water lay aglow + Like a pearl, + I, remarkably arrayed, + Dipped an unobtrusive blade + In the lake--and in the shade-- + With a girl. + + O 'twas pleasant thus to glide + On the 'softly-flowing tide' + (Which it's not!) and, undescried, + Take a hand + In the sweet, idyllic sports + That are known in such resorts, + To the sympathetic snorts + Of the Band. + + Till, when o'er the 'still lagoon' + Passed the golden afternoon, + The preposterous bassoon, + Growling deep, + Saved the King and knelled the day + As the crimson changed to grey + And the little valley lay + Half asleep. + + It is finished. She was kind. + 'Out of sight is out of mind.' + But the taste remains behind, + (And the bills,) + And I'd give the world to know + If there's some one else in tow + With my love (a month ago) + In the Hills! + + O ye valleys, tell me, pray, + Was she on the lake to-day? + Does she foot it in the gay, + Social whirl? + O ye Mountains of Gilboa, + Send a bird, or kindly blow a + Breeze to tell me all you know a- + bout that girl! + + + + +THE LAST HOCKEY + +_After A. T._ + + + So for the last great Hockey of the Hills, + --Damsel _v._ Dame--by ruder cynics called + The Tournament of the Dead Dignities, + We gained the lists, and I, thro' humorous lens, + Perused the revels. Here on autumn grass + Leapt the lithe-elbowed Spin, and strongly merged + In scrimmage with the comfortable Wife + And temporary Widow,--know you not, + Such trifles are the merest commonplace + In loftier contours?--Twenty-two in all + They numbered, and none other trod the field + Save one, the bold Sir Referee, whose charge + It was to keep fair order in the lists, + And peace 'twixt Dame and Damsel: married, he. + + O brothers, had ye seen them! O the games! + Fleet-footed some: lightly they leapt, and drave + Or missed the pellet; then, perchance, would turn + With hand that sought their tresses. Others moved + Careless, in half disdain, nor urged pursuit; + Yet ever and anon would shriek, and miss + The pellet, while the bold Sir Referee + Skipt in avoidance. From the factions came + The cry of voices shrilling woman-wise, + The clash of stick on stick, the muffled shin, + The sudden whistle, and the murmurous note + Of mutual disaffection. Otherwhere + The myriad coolie chortled, knightly palms + Clapped, and the whole vale echoed to the noise + Of ladies, who in session to the West + Sat with the light behind them, self-approved. + + Fortune with equal favour poised the scale, + And loudlier rang the trouble, till I heard + 'A Susan! Ho! A Susan!'--She, oh she, + One whom myself had picked from out the crowd + Of hot girl-athletes with their tousled hair, + Was on the ball. Deftly she smote, and drave + On, and so paddled swiftly in its wake. + The good ash gleamed and fell; the forward ranks + Gave passage; once again she smote, again + Paddled, nor passed, but paddling ever neared + The mournful guardian of the Sacred Goal, + Hewing and hacking. Little need to tell + Of Susan in her glory; whom she smote + She felled, and whom she shocked she overthrew; + And, shrieking, passed exultant to her doom. + + For Susan, while she clove a devious course, + Moved crab-like, in a strange diagonal, + And, driving, crossed the frontiers. Thither came + The bold Sir Referee, and shrilled abroad + The tremulous, momentary 'touch.' But she, + Heaving with unaccustomed exercise, + Blinded and baffled, wild with all despair, + Stood sweeping, as a churl that sweeps the scythe + In earlier pastures. Twice he skipped, and poured + The desperate whistle. Once again, and he, + Skipping, diffused the whistle. But at last, + So shrewd a blow she dealt him on the shin, + That had he stood reverse-wise on his head, + Not on his feet, I know not what had chanced. + Then to the shuddering Orient skies there rose + A marvellous great shriek, the splintering noise + Of shattered ash-plant and of battered shank, + Mixed with a higher. For Susan, overwrought, + Lost footing, and with one clear dolorous wail + Fell headlong, only more so. And I saw, + Clothed in black stockings, mystic, wonderful, + That which I saw. The coolies yelled. The crowd + Closed round, and so the tourney reached an end. + + Then home they bore the bold Sir Referee + In Susan's litter; and they tended him + With curious tendance; and they drowned his views + On Susan, and the tourney, and the place + Whither he'd see them ere again he ruled + Such functions, with a sweet, small song (I call + It sweet that should not!). This is how it ran:-- + + 'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n. The stick, + The little stick he leapt at in the lists + Has riven and cleft the bark, and raised a bulk + Of crescent span, that spreads on every side + A thousand hues, all flushing into one. + + 'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n. She came, + The woman with her ash, and lo the wound! + But we will make a bandage for the limb, + And swathe it, heel to knee, with splints and wool, + And embrocations for the hurts of man. + + 'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n; he wailed; + With our own ears we heard him, and we knew + _There dwelt an iron nature in the grain_! + The splintering ash was cloven on his limb; + His limb was battered to the cannon-bone.' + + So passed that stout but choleric knight away; + And we, by certain wandering instincts led, + Made for a small pavilion, where we found + Viands and what not, and the thirsty flower + Of mountain knighthood gathered at the board. + And entering, here we lingered, and discussed + The what not, and the viands, and in time + Drew to the tourney, giving each his views;-- + But mostly wondering what the coolies thought + To see these ladies of the Ruling Race, + 'Yoked in all _exercise_ of noble end,' + And Public Exhibition. Was it wise? + Some questioned; others, was it quite the thing? + + And here indeed we left it, for the shades + Deepened, the high, swift-narrowing crest of day + Brake from the hills, and down the path we went, + Well pleased, for it was guest-night at the Club. + + + + +'FAREWELL' + + + 'Farewell. What a subject! How sweet + It looks to the careless observer! + So simple; so easy to treat + With tenderness, mark you, and fervour. + _Farewell_. It's a poem; the song + Of nightingales crying and calling!' + O Reader, you're utterly wrong. + It's not. It's appalling! + + And yet when she asked me to send + Some trifle of verse to remind her + Of days that had come to an end, + And one she was leaving behind her, + It looked, as we stood on the shore, + A theme so entirely delightsome + That I, like a lunatic, swore + (Quite calmly) to write some. + + I've toiled with unwavering pluck; + I've struggled if ever a man did; + Infringed every postulate, stuck + At nothing,--nay, once, to be candid, + I shifted the cadence--designed + A fresh but unauthorised _fare_-well; + 'Twas plausible, too, but I find + The thing doesn't wear well. + + I know that it shouldn't be hard; + That dozens, who claim to be poets, + Could scribble off stuff by the yard + And fare very well; and I know it's + A theme that the Masters of Rhyme + Have written some excellent verse on, + Which proves, as I take it, that I'm + Not that sort of person. + + But that we can leave. It remains + To state that my present appearance + Is something too awful, my brains + Are tending to wild incoherence; + My mental condition's absurd; + My thoughts are at sixes and sevens, + Inextrica--lord! what a word! + Inextri--good heavens! + + My dear, you can do what you like,-- + Forgive, or despise, or abuse me-- + But frankly, I'm going on strike, + And really you'll have to excuse me. + Indeed it's my only resource, + For, sure as I stuck to my promise, I'd + Be booked in a week for a course + Of sui-_cum_-homicide. + + + + +A HAPPY NEW YEAR + +11.30 P.M., DEC. 31 + + + Friend, when the year is on the wing, + 'Tis held a fair and comely thing + To turn reflective glances + Over the days' forbidden Scroll, + See if we're better on the whole, + And average our chances. + + Yet 'tis an awful thing to drag + Each separate deed from out the bag + That up till now has hidden 't, + And bring before the shuddering view + All that we swore we wouldn't do, + Or should have done, but didn't. + + The broken code, the baffled laws + Our little private faults and flaws, + And every naughty habit, + Come whistling through the Waste of Life, + Until one longs to take a knife, + Feel for his heart, and stab it. + + Unchanged, exultant, one and all + Rise up spontaneous to the call, + And bring their stings behind them; + But when the search is duly plied + For items on the credit side, + One has a job to find them! + + I know not _why_ they change. I know-- + None better--how one's feelings grow + Distinctly kin to mutiny, + To see one's assets limping in, + All too preposterously thin + To stand a moment's scrutiny. + + I know that shock must follow shock, + Until the sole remaining Rock + That all one's hopes exist on, + Crumbles beneath the crushing force + Of Conscience, kicking like a horse, + And pounding like a piston. + + Hardly a little year has past + Since you, I take it, swore to cast + Aside the bonds that girt you, + And thought to stun the dazzled earth, + A pillared Miracle of Worth, + Raised on a plinth of Virtue. + + One always does. One wonders why. + One knows that, as the years go by, + One finds the same old blunders, + The same old acts, the same old words; + And as one trots them out in herds, + Or one by one, one wonders; + + * * * * * + + Another year,--a touch of grey,-- + A little stiffness,--day by day + We feel the need of, shall we say, + Goggles to face the sun with,-- + A little loss of youthful bloom,-- + A little nearer to the Tomb! + (Pardon this momentary gloom) + Bang go the bells. _That's_ done with! + + + + +SAIREY + +EXCERPTS FROM AN INCONGRUITY + +_After A. C. S._ + + + In Spring there are lashings of new books, + In Autumn fresh novels are sold, + They are many, but my shelf has few books, + My comrades, the favourites of old; + Tho' the roll of the cata-logues vary, + Thou alone art unchangeably dear, + O bibulous, beautiful Sairey, + Our Lady of Cheer. + + By the whites of thine eyes that were yellow, + By the folds of thy duplicate chin, + By thy voice that was husky but mellow + With gin, with the richness of gin, + By thy scorn of the boy that was Bragian, + By thy wealth of perambulate swoons, + O matchless and mystical Magian, + Beguile us with boons. + + For thou scatterest the evil before us + With grave humours and exquisite speech, + Till we heed not the 'new men that _bore_ us,' + Nor regard the new women that screech; + We are weak, but thy hand shall refresh us; + We are faint, but we know thee sublime; + More priceless than pills, and more precious + Than draughts that are slime. + + Thou hast lifted us forth from the _melly_, + Thou hast told, with thick heavings of pride, + Of the Package in Jonadge's belly, + And the Camel that rich folks may ride; + From the mire and the murk of a stern Age + In the Font of St. Polge we are clean, + O Gold as has passed through the Furnage, + Our Lady and Queen. + + * * * * * + + In thy chamber where Holborn is highest, + At the banquet, ere night had begun, + Thou wert seated with her that was nighest + Thy heart, save the Only, the One; + For the hours of thy labour were ended, + And the spirit of peace was within, + And the fumes from the teapot ascended + Of unsweetened gin. + + Dost thou dream in dim dusk when light lingers, + Of Betsy, the bage, the despiged, + Who with snap of imperious fingers + Hariçina, thy figment, deniged? + Dost thou gasp at the shock of the blow sich + As she, in her tantrum, let fall, + Who 'didn't believe there was no sich + A person' at all? + + Fear not! Though the torters be frightful, + Though the words that thou took'st unawares + Be as serpiants that twine and are spiteful, + O thou best of good creeturs, who cares? + For the curse hath recoiled, and the stigma + Thou hast turned to her sorrer and shame, + While thy cryptic and sombre Enigma + Is shrined in a Name. + + * * * * * + + And our wine shall not lack for thy throttle, + Nor at night shall our portals be cloged, + And thy lips thou shalt place to the bottle + On our chimley, when so thou'rt dispoged; + We have pickled 'intensely' our salmon; + To thy moods are great cowcumbers dressed, + O Daughter of Gumption and Gammon, + Our Mistress and Guest! + + And in hours when our lamp-ile has dwindled + In deep walleys of uttermost pain, + When our hopes to grey ashes are kindled, + We are fain of thee still, we are fain; + In this Piljian's Projiss of Woe, in + This Wale of white shadders and damp, + O Roge all a-blowin' and growin', + We open our Gamp! + + + + +ADAM + +_After W. W._ + + An adventure of the Author's, and one designed to show that + grievances may be met with in the cottages of the humblest, + and may take the most unexpected forms. + + + When in my white-washed walls confined + Till eve her freedom brings, + I often turn a musing mind + To think awhile of things, + + And thus about the noontide glow + To-day my thoughts recalled + Old Adam, whom I once did know, + A dear old thing, though bald. + + A village Gravedigger was he + With Newgate fringe of grey, + The only man that one could see + At work on Saturday! + + For on those evenings (which provide + A due release to toil) + He shovelled wearily, and plied + His task upon the soil. + + Therein a sorrow Adam had, + And when he knew me well + He told this tale, and made me sad, + Which now to you I tell. + + For once my feet did chance to stray + Across the old churchyard, + And Adam sighed, and paused to say + 'It's werry, werry hard.' + + I marvelled much to hear him sigh, + And when he paused again, + 'Come, come, you quaint old thing,' said I, + 'Why thus this tone of pain?' + + In silence Adam rose, and gained + A seat amid the stones, + And thus the veteran complained, + The dear old bag of bones. + + 'Down by the wall the Village goes, + How horrid sounds their glee, + On Saturdays they early close, + They have their Sundays free; + + 'And here, on this depressing spot, + I cannot choose but moan + That I, a labouring man, have not + An hour to call my own. + + 'The Blacksmith in his Sunday things, + The Clerk that leaves his till, + Can give their thoughts of labour wings, + And frolic as they will. + + 'To me they--drat 'em!--never give + A thought; they wander by, + An irritation while they live, + A nuisance when they die. + + 'If there be one that needs lament + The way these folks behave, + 'Tis he whose holidays are spent + In digging someone's grave, + + 'For when a person takes and dies, + On Monday though it be, + They _never_ hold his obsequies + Till Sunday after three. + + 'And thus it fares through their delay, + That I may not begin + To dig the grave till Saturday,-- + On Sunday fill it in. + + 'My Sabbath ease is broken through, + My Saturdays destroyed; + Many employ me; _very few + Have left me unemployed_!' + + Again did Adam murmur 'Drat!' + And smote the old-churchyard, + And said, as on his hands he spat, + 'It's werry, werry hard!' + + And as I rose, the path to take + That led me home again, + My head was in my wideawake, + His words were in my brain. + + + + +ELEGY ON A RHINOCEROS + +RECENTLY DECEASED + + + Come, let us weep for Begum; he is dead. + Dead; and afar, where Thamis' waters lave + The busy marge, he lies unvisited, + Unsung; above no cypress branches wave, + Nor tributary blossoms fringe his grave; + Only would these poor numbers advertise + His copious charms, and mourn for his demise. + + Blithesome was he and beautiful; the Zoo + Hath nought to match with Begum. He was one + Of infinite humour; well indeed he knew + To catch with mobile lips th' impetuous bun + Tossed him-ward by some sire-encouraged son, + Half-fearful, yet of pride fulfilled to note + The dough, swift-homing down th' exultant throat. + + Whilom he pensive stood, infoliate + Of comfortable mud, and idly stirred + His tiny caudal, disproportionate + But not ungraceful, while a wanton herd + Of revellers the mystic lens preferred; + Whereof the focus rightly they addrest; + And, Phoebus being kind, the button prest. + + Then, being frolic, he, as one distraught, + Would blindly, stumbling, seek the watery verge + And sink, nor rise again. But when, untaught + In craft, the mourners raised the untimely dirge, + Lo! otherwhere himself would swift emerge + Incontinent, and crisp his tasselled ears; + And, all vivacious, own the sounding cheers. + + Nothing of dark suspicion nor of guile + Was limned on Begum; his the mirthful glance, + The genial port, the comprehensive smile:-- + The very sunbeams shimmering loved to dance + Within that honest, open countenance;-- + And far as eye could pierce, his roomy grin + Was pink, as 'twere Aurora dwelt therein. + + Yet he is dead! Whether the froward cates + Some lawless lodgment found, nor coughs released: + Or if adown those hospitable gates + Drave the strong North, or shrilled the ravening East, + And, ill-requiting, slew the wretched beast, + We nothing know; only the news is cried, + Begum is dead: we know not how he died. + + Still, though the callous bards neglect to hymn + Thy praises, Begum; though, on dross intent, + The hireling sculptor pauseth not to limn + Thy spacious visage, kindly hands are bent + E'en now to stuff thy frail integument. + Then sleep in peace, Belovèd; blest Sultân + Of some Rhinokeraunian Devachân. + + + + +IN SEVERAL KEYS + +No. 1 + +'MARIE' + + + We hear the opening refrain, + Marie! + We thought so; here you are again, + Marie! + A simple tune, in simple thirds, + Beloved of after-dinner birds; + A legend, self-condemned as 'words,' + Marie! + + She lingers by the flowing tide, + Marie; + A 'fisher-lad' is close beside + Marie; + He gazes in her 'eyes so blue'; + _Marie, Marie, my heart is true_; + And then,--you do, you know you do, + Marie!-- + + But vain is every mortal wish, + Marie; + And 'fisher-lads' have got to fish, + Marie; + O blinding tears! O cheeks 'so' wet! + _Marie, I come again!_ And yet + I shouldn't feel disposed to bet, + Marie! + + A tempest drives across the wave, + Marie; + With triplets in the treble stave, + Marie; + The player pounds. With bulging eyes + Th' excited vocalist replies; + The maddened octaves drown his cries, + Marie! + + The storm is past. We hear again, + Marie, + The simple thirds, the waltz refrain, + Marie; + We only see some drifting wrack, + An empty bunk, a battered smack, + Alas! Alas!! Alack!!! Alack!!!! + Marie! + + O good old words, O 'tears that rise,' + Marie! + O good young fisher-lad that dies, + Marie! + We leave you on the lonely shore;-- + You wave your hands for evermore, + A bleak, disgusted semaphore, + Marie! + + + + +IN SEVERAL KEYS + +No. 2 + +THE BALLAD OF MORBID MOTHERS + + + Why do you sit in the churchyard weeping? + Why do you cling to the dear old graves, + When the dim, drear mists of the dusk are creeping + Out of the marshes in wan, white waves? + Darling, I know you're a slave to sorrow; + Dearie, I _know_ that the world is cruel; + But _you'll_ be in bed with a cold to-morrow, + _I_ shall be running upstairs with gruel. + + Why do you weep on a tombstone, Mammy, + Sobbing alone in the drizzling sleet, + When the chill mists rise, and the wind strikes clammy? + Think of your bones, and your poor old feet! + Darling, I know that you feel lugubrious; + Dearie, I _know_ you must work this off; + But graveyards are not, as a rule, salubrious, + Whence the expression, a 'churchyard cough.' + +[_The Old Lady explains her eccentric behaviour._] + + Why do I ululate, dear my dearie, + Coiled on a nastily mildewed tomb, + When the horned owl hoots, and the world is weary, + Weary of sorrow, and swamped in gloom? + Childie my child, 'tis a cogent question; + Dearie my dear, if you wish to know, + Tis not that I suffer from indigestion, + But that the Public ordains it so. + + Babies, and Aunties, and dying brothers, + Boom for a season, as 'loves' may part; + But the old shop-ballad of Morbid Mothers + Dives to the depths of the Public's heart. + Dearie, with booms, at the best, precarious, + All but the permanent needs must fail; + And Childie, if Mammy became hilarious, + Mammy would never command a sale. + + + + +THE STORY OF RUD. + + + Once for a tight little Island, fonder of ha'pence than kicks, + Rud., a maker of verses, sang of an Empire of Bricks, + Sang of the Sons of that Empire--told them they came of the Blood-- + Rubbing it under their noses. _Read ye the Story of Rud_! + + Pleased was the Public to hear it--rose in their hundreds to sing-- + Swallowed it, chewed it, and gurgled: 'Verily, this is the thing! + Thus do we wallop our foemen--roll 'em away in the mud-- + This is the People that _we_ are. Glory and laurels for Rud.!' + + Later he pictured a Panic--later he pictured a Scare, + Pictured the burning of coast towns--skies in a reddening glare-- + Pictured the Mafficking Million--collared, abortive, alone-- + Out of the duty he owed them, pictured them down to the bone. + + Sick was the Public to read it--passed it along to 'the Sports'-- + 'Fools in the full-flannelled breeches, oafs in the muddy-patched + shorts'-- + Loafers and talkers and writers, furtively whispering low-- + '_Say_ that it's like 'em--it _may_ be--nobody ever need know. + + 'Rud.,--would he drive us to Barracks--make of us militant hordes-- + Broke to the spit of the pom-pom--trained to the flashing of swords?-- + Pooh! It is _these_ that he goes for--Sport is the bubble he pricks-- + Doubt not but _we_ are The People--Bricks of an Empire of Bricks!' + + What of that maker of verses? Did he not answer the call: + 'Loafers and talkers and writers, children or knaves are ye all; + Look at the lines ere ye quote them: read, ere ye cackle as geese!'? + Nay. But he passed from The People--left them to stew in their grease. + + * * * * * + + But a hyphen-ish growl makes answer: 'Ye that would take from the whole + The one line robbed of the context, nor win to the straight-set Goal, + Is it thus ye will fend the warning--thus ye will move the shame + From the Mob that watch by the thousand, to the dozens that play the + game? + Still will ye pay at the turnstile--thronging the rope-ringed Match, + Where the half-back fumbles the leather, or the deep-field butters + the catch? + Will ye thank your gods (being 'umble) that the fool and the oaf are + found + In the field, at the goal or the wicket, and _not_ in the seats around? + _Not_ in the Saturday Squallers--men of a higher grade-- + That lay down a law they know not, of a game that they have not played? + Holding the folly of flannel, still will ye teach the Schools + That Wisdom is dressed in shoddy, and how should the Wise be fools? + Not doubting but ye are The People--ye are the Sons of The Blood? + Loafers and talkers and writers,--_Read ye the Verses of Rud._!' + + + + +THE HAPPY ENDING + + + + +STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION + + + I am tired of the day with its profitless labours, + And tired of the night with its lack of repose, + I am sick of myself, my surroundings, and neighbours, + Especially Aryan Brothers and crows; + O land of illusory hope for the needy, + O centre of soldiering, thirst, and shikar, + When a broken-down exile begins to get seedy, + What a beast of a country you are! + + There are many, I know, that have honestly drawn a + Most moving description of pleasures to win + By the exquisite carnage of such of your fauna + As Nature provides with a 'head' or a 'skin'; + I know that a pig is magnificent sticking; + But good as you are in the matter of sports, + When a person's alive, so to put it, and kicking, + You're a brute when a man's out of sorts. + + For the moment he feels the effects of the weather-- + A mild go of fever--a touch of the sun-- + He arrives with a jerk at the end of his tether, + And finds your attractions a bit overdone; + Impatiently conscious of boredom and worry, + He sits in his misery, scowling at grief, + With a face like a pallid _rechauffée_ of curry, + And a head like a lump of boiled beef. + + I am sick of the day (as I happened to mention), + And sick of the night (as I stated before), + And it's oh, for the wings of a dove or a pension + To carry me home to a happier shore! + And oh, to be off, homeward bound, on the briny, + Away from the tropics--away from the heat, + And to take off a shocking old hat to the Shiny, + As I shake off her dust from my feet! + + + + +THE FINEST VIEW + + + Away, away! The plains of Ind + Have set their victim free; + I give my sorrows to the wind, + My sun-hat to the sea; + And, standing with a chosen few, + I watch a dying glow, + The passing of the Finest View + That all the world can show. + + It would not fire an artist's eye, + This View whereof I sing; + Poets, no doubt, would pass it by + As quite a common thing; + The Tourist with belittling sniff + Would find no beauties there-- + He couldn't if he would, and if + He could he wouldn't care. + + Only for him that turns the back + On dark and evil days + It throws a glory down his track + That sets his heart ablaze; + A charm to make the wounded whole, + Which wearied eyes may draw + Luxuriously through the soul, + Like cocktails through a straw. + + I have seen strong men moved to tears + When gazing o'er the deep, + Hard men, whom I have known for years, + Nor dreamt that they could weep; + Even myself, though stern and cold + Beyond the common line, + Cannot, for very joy, withhold + The tribute of my brine. + + Farewell, farewell, thou best of Views! + I leave thee to thy pain, + And, while I have the power to choose, + We shall not meet again; + But, 'mid the scenes of joy and mirth, + My fancies oft will turn + Back to the Finest Sight on Earth, + The Bombay Lights--_astern_! + + + + +HAVEN + + + Here, in mine old-time harbourage installed, + Lulled by the murmurous hum of London's traffic + To that full calm which may be justly called + Seraphic, + + I praise the gods; and vow, for my escape + From the hard grip of premature Jehannun, + One golden-tissued bottle of the grape + Per annum. + + For on this day, from Orient toils enlarged, + Kneeling, I kissed the parent soil at Dover, + Where a huge porter in his orbit charged + Me over; + + Flashed in the train by Shorncliffe's draughty camp; + Gazed on the hurrying landscape's pastoral graces, + Old farms, and happy fields (a trifle damp + In places); + + Passed the grim suburbs, indigent and bare + Of natural foliage, but bravely flying + Frank garlandry of last week's underwear + Out drying; + + And so to Town; and with that blessed sight + I, a poor fevered wreck, forgot to shiver-- + Forgot to mourn the Burden of my White + Man's Liver; + + And felt my bosom heave, my breast expand, + With thoughts too sweet, too deep for empty cackle, + Such thoughts as nothing but a first-class Band + Could tackle: + + Till, from its deeps, my celebrated smile + (Which friends called Marvel) clove my jaws asunder, + Lucid, intense, and all men stood awhile + In wonder! + + * * * * * + + Let none approach me now, for I have dined; + The fire is bright; Havana's choice aroma + Infects my being with a pleasant kind + Of coma; + + Calmly I contemplate my future lot: + I reconstruct the past--it fails to strike me + With aught of horror (pity there are not + More like me!)-- + + My bosom's lord sits lightly on my breast; + The East grows dim; and every hour I stuck to it + Imparts a richer brightness to the West, + Good luck to it! + + * * * * * + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Rhymes of the East and Re-collected +Verses, by John Kendall (AKA Dum-Dum) + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYMES OF THE EAST *** + +***** This file should be named 20370-8.txt or 20370-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/0/3/7/20370/ + +Produced by Steven Gibbs, Sankar Viswanathan, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Rhymes of the East and Re-collected Verses + +Author: John Kendall (AKA Dum-Dum) + +Release Date: January 15, 2007 [EBook #20370] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYMES OF THE EAST *** + + + + +Produced by Steven Gibbs, Sankar Viswanathan, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + + + + +<h1>Rhymes of the East</h1> + +<h4>AND</h4> +<h1>Re-collected Verses</h1> +<p> </p> +<h2><span class="smcap">By</span> D U M-D U M</h2> + +<h4>AUTHOR OF<br /> + +'AT ODD MOMENTS'<br /> + +'IN THE HILLS'</h4> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h3>LONDON</h3> +<h3>ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE</h3> +<h3>AND COMPANY, LTD.</h3> +<h3>1905</h3> +<p> </p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h3>TO</h3> +<h2>MY MOTHER</h2> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p> </p> +<h2><a name="AUTHORS_NOTE" id="AUTHORS_NOTE"></a>AUTHOR'S NOTE</h2> + + +<p>Nearly all the verses that now make their first appearance in book +form are reprinted from <i>Punch</i>, by kind permission of Messrs. +Bradbury and Agnew. The rest I have taken from two little books that +were published in Bombay during my last (and, I suppose, final) tour +of service in India. They contained a good deal of work that was too +local or topical in interest to stand reproduction, and—especially +the elder, which is out of print—some that I would sooner bury than +perpetuate. The rest I have overhauled, and included in this +re-collection.</p> + +<p>Readers in, or of, India have been kind enough to regard my previous +efforts with favour. I hope that this little volume will find them no +less benevolently disposed, and that at the same time it may not be +without interest to those whose knowledge of the Shiny East is derived +from hearsay.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> + + + + + + + + +<table summary="Contents"> +<tr><td></td><td class="tocpg f1">PAGE</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#NOCTURNE_WRITTEN_IN_AN_INDIAN_GARDEN">NOCTURNE WRITTEN IN AN INDIAN GARDEN,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#TO_HIS_PECULIAR_FRIEND_WITHIN-DOORS">TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND WITHIN-DOORS,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#VALEDICTION">VALEDICTION TO THE SS. 'ARABIA,' WHEN RETURNING WITH HER PASSENGERS +FROM THE DELHI DURBAR,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_6">6</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#A_SOLDIER_OF_WEIGHT">A SOLDIER OF WEIGHT,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_8">8</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ODE_TO_THE_TIME-GUN_OF_GURRUMBAD">ODE TO THE TIME-GUN OF GURRUMBAD,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_12">12</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#OMAR_OUT_OF_DATE">OMAR OUT OF DATE,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_15">15</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ODE">ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF EVER GETTING TO THE HILLS,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_19">19</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#A_SOMBRE_RETROSPECT">A SOMBRE RETROSPECT,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_22">22</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#TO_MANDALAY_GREETING">TO MANDALAY—GREETING,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_24">24</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#SONG_OF_BELLS">SONG OF BELLS,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_27">27</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#A_BALLAD_OF_BUTTONRY">A BALLAD OF BUTTONRY,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_30">30</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_IRON_HAND">THE IRON HAND,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_WOOIN_O_TUMMAS">THE WOOIN' O' TUMMAS,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_37">37</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#CHRISTMAS_GREETINGS">CHRISTMAS GREETINGS,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_40">40</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#KAL">'KAL!'</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_43">43</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#TO_AN_ELEPHANT">TO AN ELEPHANT,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_46">46</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#VISIONARY">VISIONARY, ON THE ADVANTAGES OF AN 'ASTRAL BODY,'</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#SUMMER_PORTENTS">SUMMER PORTENTS,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ELYSIUM">ELYSIUM,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_59">59</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#TO_MY_LADY_OF_THE_HILLS">TO MY LADY OF THE HILLS,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_62">62</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_SHORES_OF_NOTHING">THE SHORES OF NOTHING,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_66">66</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_LAST_HOCKEY">THE LAST HOCKEY,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_69">69</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#FAREWELL">'FAREWELL'</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#A_HAPPY_NEW_YEAR">A HAPPY NEW YEAR,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_78">78</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#SAIREY">SAIREY,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_81">81</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ADAM">ADAM,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_85">85</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#ELEGY_ON_A_RHINOCEROS">ELEGY ON A RHINOCEROS,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_89">89</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#IN_SEVERAL_KEYS">IN SEVERAL KEYS. NO. 1—'MARIE,'</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_92">92</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#IN_SEVERAL_KEYS_1">IN SEVERAL KEYS. NO. 2—THE BALLAD OF MORBID MOTHERS,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_STORY_OF_RUD">THE STORY OF RUD.,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_98">98</a></td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="center"><a href="#THE_HAPPY_ENDING">THE HAPPY ENDING +</a></td> + <td class="tocpg"> </td> +</tr> +<tr><td><a href="#STANZAS_WRITTEN_IN_DEJECTION"> +STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_105">105</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#THE_FINEST_VIEW">THE FINEST VIEW,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#HAVEN">HAVEN,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_110">110</a></td></tr> +</table> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="NOCTURNE_WRITTEN_IN_AN_INDIAN_GARDEN" id="NOCTURNE_WRITTEN_IN_AN_INDIAN_GARDEN"></a>NOCTURNE WRITTEN IN AN INDIAN GARDEN</h2> + +<div class="poem f1"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">'Where ignorance is bliss,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis folly to be wise.'<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The time-gun rolls his nerve-destroying bray;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The toiling moon rides slowly o'er the trees;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The weary diners cast their cares away,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And seek the lawn for coolness and for ease.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now spreads the gathering stillness like a pall,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And melancholy silence rules the scene,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Save where the bugler sounds his homing call,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And thirsty <span class="smcap">Thomas</span> leaves the wet canteen;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Save that from yonder lines in deepest gloom<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Th' ambiguous mule does of the stick<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> bewail,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose <i>dunder</i> craft forbids him to consume<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His proper blanket, or his neighbour's tail.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="footnotes"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The <i>dunder-stick</i>—an ingenious instrument devised to +defeat this extraordinary appetite.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span></p></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Beneath those jagged tiles, that low-built roof<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(Whose inmost secret deeps let none divine!),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each to his master's cry supremely proof,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Aryan Brothers of our household dine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Let not Presumption mock their joyless pile,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The cold boiled rice, in native butter greased;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor scorn, with rising gorge and painful smile,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The cheap but filling flapjacks of the East.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Full many a gem of highest Art-cuisine<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Those dark unfathomed dogmatists eschew;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full many a 'dish to set before the Queen'<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Would waste its sweetness on the mild Hindoo.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nor you, their lords, expect of these the toil,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When o'er their minds a soft oblivion steals,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And through the long-drawn hookah's pliant coil<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They soothe their senses, and digest their meals.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For Knowledge to their ears her ample store,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Rich with the latest news, does then impart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose source, when known, shall chill you to the core,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And freeze the genial cockles of the heart.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For once, to dumb Neglectfulness a prey,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Resentment led me undetected near,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To know the reason of this cool delay,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And teach my trusty pluralist to hear.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There to my vassals' ruminating throng<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Some total stranger, seated on a pail,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Perused, translating as he went along,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My private letters by the current mail.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">One moment, horror baulked my strong intent;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Next o'er the compound wall we saw him go,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While uncouth moan, with hapless gesture blent,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Deplored the pressing tribute of the toe.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center1">THE MORAL</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To you, fresh youths, with round unblushing cheeks,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Some moral tag this closing verse applies;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">E'en from the old the voice of Wisdom speaks—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Even the youngest are not always wise!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No further seek to probe the Best Unknown,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From Exploration's curious arts refrain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lest Melancholy mark you for her own,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And you should learn—nor ever smile again.<br /></span></div> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="TO_HIS_PECULIAR_FRIEND_WITHIN-DOORS" id="TO_HIS_PECULIAR_FRIEND_WITHIN-DOORS"></a>TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND WITHIN-DOORS</h2> + +<p class="center"><i>After R. H.</i></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A strong discomfort in the dress<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dwindling the clothes to nothingness<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Saving, for due decorum placed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A huckaback about the waist,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or wanton towel-et, whose touch<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Haply may spare to chafe o'ermuch:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A languid frame, from head to feet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Prankt in the arduous prickle-heat:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An erring fly, that here and there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Enwraths the crimsoned sufferèr:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An upward toe, whose skill enjoys<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The slipper's curious equipoise:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A punkah wantoning, whereby<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Papers do flow confoundedly:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By such comportment, and th' offence<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of thy fantastic eloquence,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dost thou, my <span class="smcap">William</span>, make it known<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That thou art warm, and best alone.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="VALEDICTION" id="VALEDICTION"></a>VALEDICTION</h2> + +<h3>TO THE SS. 'ARABIA,' WHEN RETURNING WITH HER PASSENGERS FROM THE DELHI +DURBAR</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now the busy screw is churning,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Now the horrid sirens blow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now are India's guests returning<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Home from India's Greatest Show;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now the gleeful Asiatic<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Speeds them on their wild career,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, though normally phlegmatic,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Gives a half-unconscious cheer.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">India's years were years of leanness,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Till the Late Performance drew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These, whose confidential greenness<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She has run for all she knew.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gladly rose the land to bid them<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Welcome for a fleeting spell—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nobly took them in and did them—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And has done extremely well.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Peace be theirs, important Packet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Genial skies and happy calms—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No derogatory racket,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No humiliating qualms!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gales, I charge you, shun to rouse and<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lash the seas to angry foam,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While Britannia's Great Ten Thousand<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sweep, with huge enjoyment, home!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Let the spiced and salty zephyr<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Build them up in frame and mind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till they feel as fresh and effer-<br /></span> +<span class="i2">vescent as their hearts are kind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in triumph close their Indian<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Tour on far Massilia's quay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never having known too windy an<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Offing, too disturbed a sea.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So, when English snows are falling,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When the fogs are growing dense,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They shall hear the East a-calling,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And shall come, and blow expense.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Every year shall bring his Argo;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Every year a grateful East<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall receive her golden Cargo,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And restore the Gilded—Fleeced!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="A_SOLDIER_OF_WEIGHT" id="A_SOLDIER_OF_WEIGHT"></a>A SOLDIER OF WEIGHT</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In the dim and distant ages, in the half-forgotten days,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ere the East became the fashion and an Indian tour the craze,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lived a certain Major-General, renowned throughout the State<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As a soldier of distinction and considerable weight.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But though weightiness of mind is an invaluable trait,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When applied to adiposity it's all the other way;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And our hero was confronted with an ever-growing lack<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the necessary charger and the hygienic hack.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He had bought them by the dozen, he had tried them by the score,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But not one of them was equal to the burden that he bore;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They were conscious of the honour, they were sound in wind and limb,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They could carry a cathedral, but they drew the line at <i>him</i>.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But he stuck to it, till finally his pressing needs were filled<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the mammoth of his species, a Leviathan in build,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A superb upstanding brown, of unexceptionable bone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And phenomenally qualified to carry twenty stone.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the General was happy; for the noble creature showed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An unruffled acquiescence with the nature of his load;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span><span class="i0">Till without the slightest warning, that superb upstanding brown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thought it time to make a protest, which he did by lying down.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They appealed to him, reproached him, gave him sugar, cut his feed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But in vain; for almost daily that inexorable steed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When he heard his master coming, looked insultingly around,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And with cool deliberation laid him down upon the ground.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But they fought it out between them, till the undefeated brute<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Made a humorous obeisance at the General Salute!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then his owner kicked him wildly in the stomach for his pranks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Said he'd stand the beast no longer, and returned him to the ranks.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="center1">(<i>An interval of about three years.</i>)<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Time has dulled our hero's anguish; time has raised our man of weight<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To an even higher office in the service of the State;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we find him at his yearly tour, inspecting at his ease<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A distinguished corps of cavalry, the Someone's Own D. G.'s.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And our fat but famous man of war, accoutred to the nines,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was engaged in making rude remarks, and going round the lines,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When he suddenly beheld across an intervening space<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A Leviathan of horseflesh, the Behemoth of his race.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Colonel Robinson,' he shouted, with enthusiastic force,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'A remarkably fine horse, sir!' The remarkably fine horse<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gave a reminiscent shudder, looked insultingly around,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And with cold deliberation laid him down upon the ground!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="ODE_TO_THE_TIME-GUN_OF_GURRUMBAD" id="ODE_TO_THE_TIME-GUN_OF_GURRUMBAD"></a>ODE TO THE TIME-GUN OF <br /> +GURRUMBAD</h2> + + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[Time-guns are of invariable pattern and extreme antiquity. +Other species come and go; their ancestor remains always. One +is to be found in each cantonment: he generally occupies a +position of unsheltered and pathetic loneliness in a corner +of the local parade-ground. The writer has never seen one +herded in the Gun-park with his kind.]</p></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Strong scion of the sturdy past<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When simpler methods ruled the fray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At whose demoralising blast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The stoutest foe recoiled aghast,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">How fall'n art thou to-day!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thy power the little children mock;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thy voice, that shook the serried line,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But supplements the morning cock<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At—roughly speaking—one o'clock,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And—broadly—half-past nine.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">(Saving when <span class="smcap">Thomas</span>' deep employ<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Th' attendant closing hour postpones,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he, the undefeated boy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To gain a temporary joy,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Hath stuffed thee up with stones.)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thy kindred of a mushroom 'Mark,'<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Young guns, intolerably spruce,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have cast thee from the social 'park';<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which, to their humbled patriarch,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Must be the very deuce.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Their little toils with leisure crowned,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They, in their turn, will seek the Vale<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Rest that thou hast never found;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What wonder if thy daily Round<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Is very like a Wail?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet many love thee. Though his clutch<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Be heavy, Time doth still afford<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That fine consolatory touch—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It hardly seems to go for much,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">But cannot be ignored.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For him that braves the midday fare<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thou hast the immemorial task<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of booming forth at one—or there-<br /></span> +<span class="i0">abouts—which saves the wear and tear<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Of yelling out to ask.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So, when athwart the glooming flats<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thy hoarse, nocturnal whispers stray—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Much to the horror of the bats—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We're one day nearer home, and that's<br /></span> +<span class="i4">A comfort, anyway!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then courage! Guns may come and go,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But him alone we hold divine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose task it is to let us know<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hours of one o'clock—or so—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And—roundly—half-past nine.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="OMAR_OUT_OF_DATE" id="OMAR_OUT_OF_DATE"></a>OMAR OUT OF DATE</h2> + +<h3>BY A RENEGADE DISCIPLE</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Wake! for Reveillée scatters into flight<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The flagging Rearguard of a ruined Night,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And hark! the meagre Champion of the Roost<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has flung a matins to the Throne of Light.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here, while the first beam smites the sullen Sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With silent feet Hajâm comes stealing nigh,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Bearing the Brush, the Vessel, and the Blade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These sallow cheeks of mine to scarify.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How often, oh, how often have I sworn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Myself myself to shave th' ensuing Morn!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And then—and then comes Guest-night, and Hajâm<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Appears unbidden, and is gladly borne.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Come, fill the Cup! The nerve-restoring Ti<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall woo me with the Leaf of far Bohi;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">What matter that to some the Koko makes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Appeal, to some the Cingalese Kofi?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For in a minute Toil, that ever thrives,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Awaits me with her Shackles and her Gyves,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And ever crieth Folly in the streets:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'To work! for needs ye must when Shaitân drives.'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Alas! that I did yesternight disport<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With certain fellows of the baser Sort,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Unheedful of the living consequence<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When Drinks are long, and Pockets all too short!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With them the game of Poka did I play,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in wild session turned the Night to Day;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And many a Chip I dropped upon the Board,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And many a Moistener poured upon the Clay.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I put my Pile against th' Improbable,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And with a Full Hand thought to make it swell;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And this was all the Profit that I reaped:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A Full of Kings is Heaven—and Fours are Hell!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then to the Mountain Dew I turned to seek<br /></span> +<span class="i4">New courage for the Vengeance I should wreak;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And once again came Fours, again the Flesh<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was willing, and the Spirits far from weak.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>O Friend of pseudo-philosophic Calm</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Who found within the Cup a life's Aram</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Thy counsel, howsoever fair to read</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Were passing bad to follow, friend Khayyam</i>!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Was it not Suleiman the Wise that said</i>:<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Look not upon the Wine when it is red</i>?<br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>And Suleiman the Wise knew What was Which</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Though that great Heart of his outmatched his Head</i>!<br /></span> +</div></div> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah! with the Pledge a Door of Refuge ope<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To wean my footsteps from the facile Slope,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And write me down, fulfilled of Self-esteem,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A Prop and Pillar of the Band of Hope;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That in the Club, should whilom Comrades try<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To lure me to a Roister on the sly,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The necessary Zeal I may not lack<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To turn away, nor wink the Other Eye!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="ODE" id="ODE"></a>ODE</h2> + +<h3>ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF EVER GETTING TO THE HILLS</h3> +<p class="center"><i>After T. G.</i></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ye distant Hills, ye smiling glades,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">In decent foliage drest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where green Sylvanus proudly shades<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The Sirkar's haughty crest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ye, that in your wider reign<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like bold adventurers disdain<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The limit set for common clay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose luck, whose pen, whose power of song,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Distinguish from the vulgar throng<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To walk the flowery way:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah happy Hills! Ah genial sky!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Ah Goal where all would end!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where once, and only once, did I<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Go largely on the bend;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span><span class="i0">E'en now the tales that from ye flow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A fragmentary bliss bestow,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Till, once again a dœdal boy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In dreaming dimly of the first<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I seem to take a second burst,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And snatch a tearful joy.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But tell me, Jakko, dost thou see<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The same old sprightly crew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Disport with unembarrassed glee,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">As we were wont to do?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What youth, in brazen armour cased,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With pliant arm the yielding waist<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To arduous dalliance ensnares?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who, foremost of his peers, exalts<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The labours of the devious waltz<br /></span> +<span class="i4">By sitting out the squares?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Does Prudence, gentle Matron, force<br /></span> +<span class="i4">On Folly in her 'teens<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The value of a stalking-horse<br /></span> +<span class="i4">When hunting Rank and Means?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And is the Summer Widow's mind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Aggrieved and horrified to find<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That, as her male acquaintance grows,<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span><span class="i0">Her female circle pass her by<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With Innuendo's outraged eye,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And Virtue's injured nose?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Lo, in the Vale of Tears beneath<br /></span> +<span class="i4">A grilling troop is seen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whom Failure gnaws with rankling teeth,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">While Envy turns them green.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This racks the head, that scars the pelt,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These bore beneath the ample belt,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Those in the deeper vitals burn:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lo, Want of Leave, to fill the cup,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hath drunken all our juices up,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And topped the whole concern.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To each his billet; some succeed,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And some are left to groan;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The latter serve their country's need,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The former serve their own.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then let the maiden try her wing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The youth enjoy his roomy fling,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The Single Matron dry her eyes!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As Fate is blind, and Life is short,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If Ignorance can give them sport,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">'Twere folly to be wise.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="A_SOMBRE_RETROSPECT" id="A_SOMBRE_RETROSPECT"></a>A SOMBRE RETROSPECT</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Long, long ago, in that heroic time<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When I, a coy and modest youth, was shot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out on this dust-heap of careers and crime<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To try and learn what's what,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I had a servitor, a swarthy knave,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who showed an almost irreligious taste<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For wearing nothing but a turban, save<br /></span> +<span class="i4">A rag about the waist.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This apparition gave me such a start,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That I endowed him with a cast-off pair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of inexpressibles, and said, 'Depart,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And be no longer bare.'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He took the offering with broken thanks;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But day succeeded day, and still revealed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those sombre and attenuated shanks<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Intensely unconcealed;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Until at last the climax came when I<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Resolved to bring this matter to an end,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when I saw him passing, shouted, 'Hi!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Where are your trousers, friend?'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Halting, he gave a deferential bow;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then, to my horror, beamingly replied,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Master not see? I wearing trousers <i>now</i>!'<br /></span> +<span class="i4">I would have said he lied,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But could not. As I shaped the glowing phrase,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I looked upon his turban—looked again—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mine own familiar pattern met my gaze,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And all the truth was plain!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Th' unhappy creature, Eastern to the core,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Holding my gift in superstitious dread,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had made a turban out of it, and wore<br /></span> +<span class="i4">His trousers—<i>on his head</i>!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="TO_MANDALAY_GREETING" id="TO_MANDALAY_GREETING"></a>TO MANDALAY—GREETING</h2> + +<h3>(BY WALTYARD WHIPMING)</h3> +<p class="center1">I</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A song of Mandalay!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Allons, Camerados, Desperadoes, Amontillados!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hear my Recitative, my Romanza, my Spring Onion!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center1">II</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You three-striped sergeants, you corporals, non-commissioned officers, and men with one or more good-conduct badges,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You indifferent and bad characters, am I not also one with you?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And will you not then hear my song?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This for prelude.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center1">III</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You, O Mandalay, I sing!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For I see the pagoda, the Moulmein and essentially wotto pagoda,<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span><span class="i0">And the pagoda is above the trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the trees are below the pagoda.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center1">IV</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I see the flying-fish sitting on the branches, I hear them sing, and they fly and mate and build their nests in the branches;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I see a dun-coloured aboriginal she-female, mongolianée, petite, squat-faced,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she has a cast in her sinister optic and a snub nose but her heart is true;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I gaze into her heart (which is true), and I find that she is musing (as indeed I often muse) on ME,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Me Prononcè, Me Imperturbe, Me Inconscionabilamente.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center1">V</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span><span class="i0">I see [<i>a page or so unavoidably omitted for lack of space,—refer to guide-book</i>] and ... the wind, and the palm-trees idly swaying to and fro in the wind (now to, now fro), and I hear the bells of a temple, and I know that they are singing, and what it is that they would say.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center1">VI</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What is it that they would say do you ask Me?<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center1">VII</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How shall I tell you, how shall I make you understand?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For I know that you do not love Me, you do not comprehend Me, you say that this sort of thing does you harm;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I will even now do my darndest (as indeed I always do more or less), and if you do not like it,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Waal, Soldados?<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center1">VIII</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Behold, I will write it as a song and put it in italics, so that even <i>you</i> will know that it <i>is</i> a song;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So listen, listen, Camerados! for I am about to spout and my song shall be masculine and virile. <i>A bas</i> your metre, <i>à la lanterne</i> your rhyme, <i>conspuez</i> your punctuation,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I say pooh-pooh!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="SONG_OF_BELLS" id="SONG_OF_BELLS"></a>SONG OF BELLS</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Allons! Allons! Tra-la-la! Hear my Bellata</i>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Why do you not return to Mandalay O soldier</i>?<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Do you not remember the boats, and the paddles as they chunked outside the boats</i>?<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Do you not remember the elephants, the mighty elephants, strong, mysterious, impalpable (no, not impalpable), pachydermatous, and the extraordinary accuracy with which they succeeded in balancing trees or parts of trees, branches, logs, beams, planks, ... etc., ... with their trunks (the beams carefully supported at their centre of gravity, the logs carefully supported at their centre of gravity, the elephants without a smile at</i> their <i>centre of gravity)</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>From Rangoon to Mandalay?</i><br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></div></div> + +<p class="center1"><i>For—</i></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>On the road to Mandalay the flying-fishes play</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>But there are no omnibuses to ply.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Is there not a thirst here, and are there any ten commandments</i>?<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>O you commandments! you first, second, third ... and tenth commandments! What has Mandalay to do with you, and what have you to do with Mandalay?</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="center1"><i>Ha! What is that?</i></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Is it a sound, is it the thunder, the sudden thunder, strepitant, tonant</i>?<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Is it the midday (twelve o'clock) cannon?</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="center1"><i> No!</i></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Is it not then the ocean, the storm of the ocean?</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="center1"><i> Divil a bit!</i></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Return, return then O soldiers</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Return, you that have been discharged with pensions, as time-expired men, or as incorrigible and worthless</i>,<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Return, for it is the dawn, and it is calling to you as it comes up from China</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Though why from China do you ask me</i>?<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Then ask me another!</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="A_BALLAD_OF_BUTTONRY" id="A_BALLAD_OF_BUTTONRY"></a>A BALLAD OF BUTTONRY</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Clothes and the Man I sing.</i> Reformers, note<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These of the Subaltern who owned a Coat.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He was what veterans miscall, for short,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By that objectionable term, a wart:<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Coat an item of the 'sealed' attire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wrung from his helpless but reluctant sire;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Also the tails were long; and, for the pride<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thereof, were buttons on the after-side;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Majestic orbs, whose gilded obverse bore<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bossy symbol of his future corps.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The youth, ere sailing for a distant land,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Did, in the interval, receive command<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="footnotes"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> A last-joined young officer.—<i>Military Definitions.</i><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span></p></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To join a 'Course,' where men of grave repute<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Instruct the young idea how to shoot.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thither he sped, and on the opening day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rose, and, empanoplied in brave array,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">(Ample of flowing skirt, and with great craft<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And pomp of blazoned buttonry abaft)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Won to the mess, and preened his fledgling plumes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Both in the breakfast and the ante-rooms.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Awhile he moved in rapture, and awhile<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thrilled in the old, inevitable style<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To that stern joy which youthful warriors feel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In wearing garments worthy of their zeal;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then came the seneschal upon the scenes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And knocked his infant pride to smithereens.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For out, alack! the Fathers of the mess<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Strictly prohibited that form of dress,<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Being by sad experience led to find<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Disaster in the buttonry behind,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Which tore and scratched the leather-cushioned chairs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And cost a perfect fortune in repairs!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It was a crushing blow. That Subaltern<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Discovered that he had a lot to learn;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Removed his Coat, and laid it, weeping, in<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its long sarcophagus of beaten tin:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Buried it deep, and drew it thence no more;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Finished his Course, and sought an alien shore.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So runs the tale. I had it from the youth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Himself, and I suppose he told the truth.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">(The words alone are mine; I need but hint<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That his were too emotional for print.)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And as in India, though the chairs are hard,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His Coat—delicious irony—is barred;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Being designed for cooler zones, and not<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For one inadequately known as 'hot';<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And, furthermore, as bold Sir Fashion brings<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Changes, yea, even to the soldier's things:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He questions if the Coat were worth the price,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seeing that he will hardly wear it twice.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_IRON_HAND" id="THE_IRON_HAND"></a>THE IRON HAND</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>'The Government of India <i>has been pleased</i> to sanction the +infliction of a fine of ..., etc.'</p></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To him that reads with careless eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i4">My present theme affords<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But little scope for enterprise<br /></span> +<span class="i4">In buttering one's lords:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fines, he would urge, have always bulked<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Largely to Those that rule,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For, plainly, every man They mulct<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Contributes to the pool.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But when in ages dead and gone<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Our fathers fought with Sin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">However hard they laid it on,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">They didn't rub it in;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span><span class="i0">While These not only bring to bear<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Their dark prerogatives,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But diabolically air<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The pleasure that it gives!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here is the Iron Hand that builds<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Our realms beyond the sea;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No <i>suaviter in modo</i> gilds<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Their <i>fortiter in re</i>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here is no washy velvet glove<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To pad the Fist of Fear—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">None of your guiding charms of Love—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">None of your hogwash here!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No. From Their thrones amid the stars<br /></span> +<span class="i4">They glower athwart the land<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Implacable, with 'eye like Mars<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To threaten and command.'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Too cold, too truculent, to stay<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The awful bolt They fling,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They make no bones about it—They<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Are <i>pleased</i> to do this thing!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Blind to the victim's mask of woe,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Deaf to his poignant howls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No pity stirs Their bosoms, no<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Reluctance wrings Their bow'ls!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By prompt and ready cash alone<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Their wrath shall be appeased<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who pile it on like gods, and own,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Like men, to being pleased.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_WOOIN_O_TUMMAS" id="THE_WOOIN_O_TUMMAS"></a>THE WOOIN' O' TUMMAS</h2> + +<p class="center"><i>After R. B.</i></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Tummas Katt cam' roun' to woo,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Ha, ha, the wooin' o't;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lichtly sang ta lang nicht thro',<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Ha, ha, the mewin' o't;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tabbie, winsome, tim'rous beast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Speakit: 'Tummas, hand tha' weist!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Girt auld Tummas 'gan inseest;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Ha, ha, the doin' o't!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Tabbie laucht, an' brawly fleired,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Ha, ha, the fleirin' o't;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tummas,—ech! but Tummas speired<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Ha, ha, the speirin' o't;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sic an awesome, fearfu' screep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wakin' a' aroun' frae sleep;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fegs, it gar'd the Gudeman weep!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Ha, ha, the hearin' o't!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Quoth the Gudeman: 'Dairm his een!'<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Ha, ha, the swearin' o't;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Muckle fasht was I yestreen,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">A' thro' the bearin' o't!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ere the sonsie moon was bricht,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Clean awa' till mornin' licht,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mickle sleep was mine the nicht;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Ha, ha, the wearin' o't!'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Where are noo ma booties twa?<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Ha, ha, the stoppin' o't;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis mysel' shall gar him fa';<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Ha, ha, the coppin' o't!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Gin a bootie, strang an' stoot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sneckit Tummas roun' ta snoot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Winna Tummas gang frae oot?<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Ha, ha, the droppin' o't!'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Swuft the pawky booties came,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Ha, ha, the flittin' o't:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tummas scraught, an' lit for hame,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Ha, ha, the spittin' o't;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span><span class="i0">Lauchit Tabbs to see him fa';<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leapit frae ta gairden wa';<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quoth the Gudeman: 'Dairm it a'!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">What price the hittin' o't?'<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="CHRISTMAS_GREETINGS" id="CHRISTMAS_GREETINGS"></a>CHRISTMAS GREETINGS</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Christmas comes but once a year.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Though by nature snappy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let us, as we may, appear<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Merry, friend, and happy!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Buckle to; and when you meet your<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thunderstricken fellow-creature,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Show the broad, indulgent smile<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of th' ingenuous crocodile!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Look as if you'd backed a winner!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Laugh, you miserable sinner!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Brother, Christmas Day has come.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Can't you seek for inspi-<br /></span> +<span class="i0">ration in the turkey, plum-<br /></span> +<span class="i2">pudding, beef, and mince-pie?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brave it out, and tho' you sit on<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tenterhooks, remain a Briton;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span><span class="i2">You can only do your best;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Boxing Day's a day of rest!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Throw aside your small digestive<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Eccentricities. Be festive!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Christmas Day is on the wing.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Are you feeling wroth with<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Any one for anything?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beg his pardon <i>forth</i>with!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though the right is all on <i>your</i> side,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Say it isn't; say 'Of course I'd<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No intention—very rude—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Shocking taste—but misconstrued'—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then (while I admit it's horri-<br /></span> +<span class="i0">fying) tell the man you're sorry!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Christmas Day will soon have flown.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">If, despite persuasion,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You resolve to be alone<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On the glad occasion,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Better (do as I have done!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vanish with a scatter-gun;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span><span class="i2">If you have to see it through,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(Better do what I shall do!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dining quietly at the Club'll<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Save us from a world of trouble!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="KAL" id="KAL"></a>'KAL!'</h2> + +<h3>(=TO-MORROW)</h3> +<div class="blockquot"><p>['Never do To-day what can be postponed till To-morrow, save +at the dictates of your personal convenience.'—<i>Maxims of +the Wicked</i>, No. 3.]</p></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sweet Word, by whose unwearying assistance<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We of the Ruling Race, when sorely tried,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can keep intrusive persons at a distance,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And let unseasonable matters slide;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou at whose blast the powers of irritation<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Yield to a soft and gentlemanly lull<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of solid peace and flat Procrastination,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">These to thy praise and honour, good old Kal!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For we are greatly plagued by sacrilegious<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Monsters in human form, who care for naught<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Save with incessant papers to besiege us,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">E'en to the solemn hour of silent thought;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span><span class="i0">They draw no line; the frightful joy of giving<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Pain is their guerdon; but for Thee alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Life would be hardly worth the bore of living,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No one could call his very soul his own.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But in thy Name th' importunate besetter<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Meets a repelling force that none can stem;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Varlets may come (they do) and go (they'd better!),<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Kal is the word that always does for them!<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>To-morrow</i> they may join the usual muster;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To-day shall pass inviolably by;<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Beelzebub</span> Himself, for all his bluster,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Would get the same old sickening reply.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And, for thine aid in baffling the malignant,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who, with unholy art, conspire to see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our ease dis-eased, our dignity indignant,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We do Thee homage on the bended knee.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span><span class="i0">And I would add a word of common gratitude<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To those thy coadjutors, <i>ao</i> and <i>lao</i>,<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who take, with Thee, th' uncompromising attitude<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From which the dullest mind deduces <i>jao</i>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="footnotes"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> <i>Kal-ao</i>='return to-morrow'; <i>kal-lao</i>='bring it back +to-morrow.' Each of these phrases is the euphemistic equivalent of +<i>jao</i>, that is, 'go away, (and stay there).'</p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="TO_AN_ELEPHANT" id="TO_AN_ELEPHANT"></a>TO AN ELEPHANT</h2> + +<h3>ON HIS TONIC QUALITIES</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Solace of mine hours of anguish,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Peace-imparting View, when I,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sick of Hindo-Sturm-und-Drang, wish<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I could lay me down and die,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Very present help in trouble,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Never-failing anodyne<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the blows that knock us double,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Here's towards thee, Hathi mine!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As, 'tis said, the dolorous Jack Tar<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Turns to view the watery Vast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When he mourns his frail charàc-tar,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or deplores his jagged Past,<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Climbs a cliff, and breathes his sighs on<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That appalling breast until,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Borne from off the far horizon,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Voices whisper, 'Cheer up, Bill!'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So when evil chance or dark as-<br /></span> +<span class="i2">persions crush the bosom's lord,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When discomfort rends the car-cass,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When we're sorry, sick, or bored,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When the year is at its hottest,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And our life with sorrow crowned,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gazing thee-wards, where thou blottest<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Out the landscape, pulls us round,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Gives us peace, some nameless modi-<br /></span> +<span class="i2">cum of cheer to mind and eye:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Something that can soothe a body<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like a blessed lullaby.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sweet it is to watch thee, Hathi,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Through the stertorous afternoons,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wond'ring why so stout a party<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wears such baggy pantaloons:<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sweet, again, to steal a-nigh and<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Watch thee, ere thy meals begin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deftly weigh th' unleavened viand,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lest thou be deceived therein:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sweet to mark thee gravely dining:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Grand, when day has nearly gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis to view yon Orb declining<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Down behind thee, broadside on:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ay! and when thy vassals tub thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And thou writhest 'neath the brick<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wherewithal they take and scrub thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Twere a sight to heal the sick!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not a pose but serves to ward off<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Pangs that had of yore prevailed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">E'en the stab of being scored off<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Owns the charm, old Double-Tailed!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But, O Thou that giv'st the flabby<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Strength, and stingo'st up the weak:-<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Restful as a grand old Abbey—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Bracing as a Mountain Peak:—<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All the bonds of Age were slackened,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And my years were out of sight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When I burst upon thy back end<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As thou kneeled'st yesternight!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Head and frame were hidden. Only<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Loomed a black, colossal Seat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Taut, magnificent, and lonely,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O'er a pair of suppliant feet<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To th' astounded mind conveying<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dreams from which my manhood shrank,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of a very fat man praying,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whom a boy would love to spank.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And I felt my fingers twitching,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And my sinews turned to wire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And my palm was itching, itching,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With the old, unhallowed fire.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">While the twofold voice within me<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Urged their long-forgotten feud,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One to do thee shame would win me,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">One that whispered, 'Don't be rude!'<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Till, by heaven! thy pleading beauty<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Drove those carnal thoughts away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the friend that came to scruti-<br /></span> +<span class="i2">nise was left behind to pray:—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For I shamed thee not, nor spanked thee;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But to rearward, on the plain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hathi, on my knees I thanked thee<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That I felt a boy again!<br /></span></div> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="VISIONARY" id="VISIONARY"></a>VISIONARY</h2> + +<h3>ON THE ADVANTAGES OF AN 'ASTRAL BODY'</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It is told, in Buddhi-theosophic Schools<br /></span> +<span class="i6">There are rules<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By observing which when mundane matter irks,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Or the world has gone amiss, you<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Can incontinently issue<br /></span> +<span class="i4">From the circumscribing tissue<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Of your Works.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That the body and the gentleman inside<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Can divide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the latter, if acquainted with the plan,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Can alleviate the tension<br /></span> +<span class="i4">By remaining 'in suspension'<br /></span> +<span class="i4">As a kind of fourth dimension<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Bogie man.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And to such as mourn an Indian Solar Crime<br /></span> +<span class="i6">At its prime,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twere a stratagem so luminously fit,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That tho' doctrinaires deny it,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And Academicians guy it,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">I, for one, would like to try it<br /></span> +<span class="i6">For a bit.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Just to leave one's earthly tenement asleep<br /></span> +<span class="i6">In a heap,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And detachedly to watch it as it lies,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">With an epidermis pickled<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Where the prickly heat has prickled,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And a sense of being tickled<br /></span> +<span class="i6">By the flies.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And to sit and loaf and idle till the day<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Dies away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a duplicate ethereally cool,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Or around the place to potter,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">(Tho' the flesh could hardly totter,)<br /></span> +<span class="i4">As contented as an otter<br /></span> +<span class="i6">In a pool!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Let the pestilent mosquito do his worst<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Till he burst,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let him bore and burrow, morning, noon, and night,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">If he finds the diet sweet, oh,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Who am <i>I</i> to place a veto<br /></span> +<span class="i4">On the pestilent mosquito?—<br /></span> +<span class="i6"><i>Let</i> him bite!'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O my cumbersome misfit of bone and skin,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Could I win<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the wisdom that would render me exempt<br /></span> +<span class="i4">From the grosser bonds that tether<br /></span> +<span class="i4">You and Astral Me together,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">I should simply treat the weather<br /></span> +<span class="i6">With contempt;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I should contemplate its horrors with entire<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Lack of ire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And pursuant to my comfortable aim,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">With a snap at every shackle<br /></span> +<span class="i4">I should quit my tabernacle,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And serenely sit and cackle<br /></span> +<span class="i6">At the game!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But, alas! the 'mystic glory swims away,'<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And the clay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is as vulgarly persistent as of yore,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And the cuticle is pickled<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Where the prickly heat has prickled,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And the nose and ears are tickled<br /></span> +<span class="i6">As before;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And until the Buddhi-theosophic Schools<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Print the rules<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That will bring our tale of sorrows to a close,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Body mine, though others chide thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And consistently deride thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">I shall have to stay inside thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">I suppose!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="SUMMER_PORTENTS" id="SUMMER_PORTENTS"></a>SUMMER PORTENTS</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Come, let us quaff the brimming cup<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of sorrow, bitterness, and pain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For clearly, things are warming up<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Again.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Observe with what awakened powers<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The vulgar Sun resumes the right<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of rising in the hallowed hours<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Of night.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Bound to the village water-wheel,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The motive bullock bows his crest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And signals forth a mute appeal<br /></span> +<span class="i6">For rest.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">His neck is galled beneath the yoke:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His patient eyes are very dim:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Life is a dismal sort of joke<br /></span> +<span class="i6">To <i>him</i>.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet one there is, to whom the ox<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is kin; who knows, as habitat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The cold, unsympathetic box,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Or mat;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Who urges on, with wearied arms,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The punkah's rhythmic, laboured sweep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor dares to contemplate the charms<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Of sleep.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now 'mid a host of lesser things<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That pasture through the heaving nights,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sharp mosquito flaps his wings,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And bites;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With other Anthropophagi,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Such as that microscopic brand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The common Sand-fly (or the fly<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Of sand),<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Who, with a hideous lust uncurbed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By clappings of the frequent palm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Devours one's ankles, undisturbed,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And calm.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The scorpion nips one unaware:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The lizard flops upon the head:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And cobras, uninvited, share<br /></span> +<span class="i6">One's bed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, if I only had the luck<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To feel the grand Olympic fire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That thrilled the Greater when they struck<br /></span> +<span class="i6">The lyre!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When Homer wrote of this and that:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When Dante sang like one possessed:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When Milton groaned and laboured at<br /></span> +<span class="i6">His Best!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Had I the swelling rise and fall,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whereof the Bo'sun's quivering moan<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Derives a breezy fragrance all<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Its own:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, I would pour such passion out—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Good gracious me!—I would so sing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That you should know the <i>facts</i> about<br /></span> +<span class="i6">This thing!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then w-w-wake, my Lyre! O halting lilt!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O miserable, broken lay!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It may not be: I am not built<br /></span> +<span class="i6">That way.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet other gifts the gods bestow.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I do not weep, I do not grieve.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Far from it. I shall simply go<br /></span> +<span class="i6">On leave.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="ELYSIUM" id="ELYSIUM"></a>ELYSIUM</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From the dust, and the drought, and the heat,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I am borne on the pinions of leave,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the things that are bad to repeat<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To the things that are good to receive.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From the glare of the day at its height<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On a land that was blinding to see,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the wearisome hiss of the night,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By a turn of the wheel I am free.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I have passed to the heart of the Hills,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For a season of halcyon hours,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Mid the music of murmurous rills,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the delicate odours of flowers;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And I walk in an exquisite shade,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where the fern-tasselled boughs interlace;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the verdurous fringe of the glade<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is a marvel of fairylike grace;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And with never an aim or a plan<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I can wander in uttermost ease,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the only reminders of Man<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Are the monkeys aloft in the trees;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Or, perchance, on the 'silvery mere,'<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In a 'shallop' I lazily float,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With—it's possible—some one to steer,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or with no one (which lightens the boat).<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O the glorious gift of release<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From the chains that encircle the thrall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To be quiet, and cool, and at peace,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And to loaf, and do nothing at all!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I am clear of that infamous lark;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I am far from the blare of the Band;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the bugles are silent, the bark<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of the Colonel is hushed in the land.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And—I say it again—I am free,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In the valleys of wandering bliss;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And most gratefully 'own, if there <i>be</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2">An Elysium on earth, it is this!'<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="TO_MY_LADY_OF_THE_HILLS" id="TO_MY_LADY_OF_THE_HILLS"></a>TO MY LADY OF THE HILLS</h2> + + +<div class="poem f1"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">'... O she,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To me myself, for some three careless moons,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The summer pilot of an empty heart<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unto the shores of Nothing.'—<i>Tennyson</i>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Tis the hour when golden slumbers<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Through th' Hesperian portals creep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the youth who lisps in numbers<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Dreams of novel rhymes to 'sleep';<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>I</i> shall merely note, at starting,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That responsive Nature thrills<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the <i>twilight</i> hour of parting<br /></span> +<span class="i4">From my Lady of the Hills.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Lady, 'neath the deepening umbrage<br /></span> +<span class="i4">We have wandered near and far,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the ludicrously dumb rage<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Of your truculent Mamma;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span><span class="i0">We have urged the long-tailed gallop;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Lightly danced the still night through;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Smacked the ball, and oared the shallop<br /></span> +<span class="i4">(In a vis-à-vis canoe);<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We have walked this fair Oasis,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Keeping, more by skill than chance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the non-committal basis<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Of indefinite romance;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till, as love within me ripened,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">I have wept the hours away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brooding on my meagre stipend,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Mourning mine exiguous pay.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dear, 'tis hard, indeed, to stifle<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Fervour such as mine has grown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I 'd freely give a trifle<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Could I win you for mine own;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the question simply narrows<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Down to one persistent fact,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That we cannot say we're sparrows,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And we oughtn't so to act.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Married bliss is born of incomes;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">While to drag the long years through<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till some hypothetic tin comes,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Seems a childish thing to do;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rather let us own as lasting<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Our unpardonable crime,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Giving thanks, with prayer and fasting,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">For so very high a time.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fare you well. Your dreadful Mother,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">If I know that woman's mind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has her eye upon Another<br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Vice</i> me, my dear, resigned;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I see you mated shortly<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To some covenanted swain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not objectionably portly,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Not prohibitively plain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Take his gifts, and ask a blessing.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Meddle not with minor cares.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Trust me, your unprepossessing<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Dam soon settles those affairs!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span><span class="i0">Then will I, with honeyed suasion,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Pinch some thriftless man of bills<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of a mark of the occasion<br /></span> +<span class="i4">For my Lady of the Hills.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_SHORES_OF_NOTHING" id="THE_SHORES_OF_NOTHING"></a>THE SHORES OF NOTHING</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There's a little lake that lies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a valley, where the skies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Kiss the mountains, as they rise,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">On the crown;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the heaven-born élite<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are accustomed to retreat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the pestilential heat<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Lower down.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Where the Mighty, for a space,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mix with Beauty, Rank, and Grace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(I myself was in the place,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">At my best!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the atmosphere's divine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While the deodar and pine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are particularly fine<br /></span> +<span class="i4">For the chest.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And a little month ago,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the sun was lying low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the water lay aglow<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Like a pearl,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I, remarkably arrayed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dipped an unobtrusive blade<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the lake—and in the shade—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">With a girl.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O 'twas pleasant thus to glide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the 'softly-flowing tide'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Which it's not!) and, undescried,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Take a hand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the sweet, idyllic sports<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That are known in such resorts,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the sympathetic snorts<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Of the Band.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Till, when o'er the 'still lagoon'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Passed the golden afternoon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The preposterous bassoon,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Growling deep,<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span><span class="i0">Saved the King and knelled the day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the crimson changed to grey<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the little valley lay<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Half asleep.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It is finished. She was kind.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Out of sight is out of mind.'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the taste remains behind,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">(And the bills,)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I'd give the world to know<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If there's some one else in tow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With my love (a month ago)<br /></span> +<span class="i4">In the Hills!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O ye valleys, tell me, pray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was she on the lake to-day?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Does she foot it in the gay,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Social whirl?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O ye Mountains of Gilboa,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Send a bird, or kindly blow a<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Breeze to tell me all you know a-<br /></span> +<span class="i4">bout that girl!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_LAST_HOCKEY" id="THE_LAST_HOCKEY"></a>THE LAST HOCKEY</h2> + +<p class="center"><i>After A. T.</i></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So for the last great Hockey of the Hills,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—Damsel <i>v.</i> Dame—by ruder cynics called<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Tournament of the Dead Dignities,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We gained the lists, and I, thro' humorous lens,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Perused the revels. Here on autumn grass<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leapt the lithe-elbowed Spin, and strongly merged<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In scrimmage with the comfortable Wife<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And temporary Widow,—know you not,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such trifles are the merest commonplace<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In loftier contours?—Twenty-two in all<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They numbered, and none other trod the field<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Save one, the bold Sir Referee, whose charge<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was to keep fair order in the lists,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And peace 'twixt Dame and Damsel: married, he.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O brothers, had ye seen them! O the games!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fleet-footed some: lightly they leapt, and drave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or missed the pellet; then, perchance, would turn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With hand that sought their tresses. Others moved<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Careless, in half disdain, nor urged pursuit;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet ever and anon would shriek, and miss<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pellet, while the bold Sir Referee<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Skipt in avoidance. From the factions came<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The cry of voices shrilling woman-wise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The clash of stick on stick, the muffled shin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sudden whistle, and the murmurous note<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of mutual disaffection. Otherwhere<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The myriad coolie chortled, knightly palms<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Clapped, and the whole vale echoed to the noise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of ladies, who in session to the West<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sat with the light behind them, self-approved.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fortune with equal favour poised the scale,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And loudlier rang the trouble, till I heard<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'A Susan! Ho! A Susan!'—She, oh she,<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span><span class="i0">One whom myself had picked from out the crowd<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of hot girl-athletes with their tousled hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was on the ball. Deftly she smote, and drave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On, and so paddled swiftly in its wake.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The good ash gleamed and fell; the forward ranks<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gave passage; once again she smote, again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Paddled, nor passed, but paddling ever neared<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The mournful guardian of the Sacred Goal,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hewing and hacking. Little need to tell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Susan in her glory; whom she smote<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She felled, and whom she shocked she overthrew;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, shrieking, passed exultant to her doom.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For Susan, while she clove a devious course,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Moved crab-like, in a strange diagonal,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, driving, crossed the frontiers. Thither came<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bold Sir Referee, and shrilled abroad<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The tremulous, momentary 'touch.' But she,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heaving with unaccustomed exercise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blinded and baffled, wild with all despair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stood sweeping, as a churl that sweeps the scythe<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span><span class="i0">In earlier pastures. Twice he skipped, and poured<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The desperate whistle. Once again, and he,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Skipping, diffused the whistle. But at last,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So shrewd a blow she dealt him on the shin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That had he stood reverse-wise on his head,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not on his feet, I know not what had chanced.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then to the shuddering Orient skies there rose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A marvellous great shriek, the splintering noise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of shattered ash-plant and of battered shank,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mixed with a higher. For Susan, overwrought,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lost footing, and with one clear dolorous wail<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fell headlong, only more so. And I saw,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Clothed in black stockings, mystic, wonderful,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That which I saw. The coolies yelled. The crowd<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Closed round, and so the tourney reached an end.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then home they bore the bold Sir Referee<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In Susan's litter; and they tended him<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With curious tendance; and they drowned his views<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On Susan, and the tourney, and the place<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whither he'd see them ere again he ruled<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span><span class="i0">Such functions, with a sweet, small song (I call<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It sweet that should not!). This is how it ran:—<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<div class="poem f1"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n. The stick,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The little stick he leapt at in the lists<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has riven and cleft the bark, and raised a bulk<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of crescent span, that spreads on every side<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A thousand hues, all flushing into one.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n. She came,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The woman with her ash, and lo the wound!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But we will make a bandage for the limb,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And swathe it, heel to knee, with splints and wool,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And embrocations for the hurts of man.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n; he wailed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With our own ears we heard him, and we knew<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>There dwelt an iron nature in the grain</i>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The splintering ash was cloven on his limb;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His limb was battered to the cannon-bone.'<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So passed that stout but choleric knight away;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we, by certain wandering instincts led,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Made for a small pavilion, where we found<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Viands and what not, and the thirsty flower<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of mountain knighthood gathered at the board.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And entering, here we lingered, and discussed<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span><span class="i0">The what not, and the viands, and in time<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drew to the tourney, giving each his views;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But mostly wondering what the coolies thought<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To see these ladies of the Ruling Race,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Yoked in all <i>exercise</i> of noble end,'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Public Exhibition. Was it wise?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some questioned; others, was it quite the thing?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And here indeed we left it, for the shades<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deepened, the high, swift-narrowing crest of day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brake from the hills, and down the path we went,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Well pleased, for it was guest-night at the Club.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="FAREWELL" id="FAREWELL"></a>'FAREWELL'</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Farewell. What a subject! How sweet<br /></span> +<span class="i4">It looks to the careless observer!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So simple; so easy to treat<br /></span> +<span class="i4">With tenderness, mark you, and fervour.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Farewell</i>. It's a poem; the song<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Of nightingales crying and calling!'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O Reader, you're utterly wrong.<br /></span> +<span class="i6">It's not. It's appalling!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And yet when she asked me to send<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Some trifle of verse to remind her<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of days that had come to an end,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And one she was leaving behind her,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It looked, as we stood on the shore,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">A theme so entirely delightsome<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That I, like a lunatic, swore<br /></span> +<span class="i6">(Quite calmly) to write some.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I've toiled with unwavering pluck;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">I've struggled if ever a man did;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Infringed every postulate, stuck<br /></span> +<span class="i4">At nothing,—nay, once, to be candid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I shifted the cadence—designed<br /></span> +<span class="i4">A fresh but unauthorised <i>fare</i>-well;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas plausible, too, but I find<br /></span> +<span class="i6">The thing doesn't wear well.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I know that it shouldn't be hard;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That dozens, who claim to be poets,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Could scribble off stuff by the yard<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And fare very well; and I know it's<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A theme that the Masters of Rhyme<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Have written some excellent verse on,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which proves, as I take it, that I'm<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Not that sort of person.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But that we can leave. It remains<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To state that my present appearance<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is something too awful, my brains<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Are tending to wild incoherence;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span><span class="i0">My mental condition's absurd;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">My thoughts are at sixes and sevens,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Inextrica—lord! what a word!<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Inextri—good heavens!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My dear, you can do what you like,—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Forgive, or despise, or abuse me—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But frankly, I'm going on strike,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And really you'll have to excuse me.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Indeed it's my only resource,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">For, sure as I stuck to my promise, I'd<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be booked in a week for a course<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Of sui-<i>cum</i>-homicide.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="A_HAPPY_NEW_YEAR" id="A_HAPPY_NEW_YEAR"></a>A HAPPY NEW YEAR</h2> + +<h3>11.30 P.M., DEC. 31</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Friend, when the year is on the wing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis held a fair and comely thing<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To turn reflective glances<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over the days' forbidden Scroll,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">See if we're better on the whole,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And average our chances.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet 'tis an awful thing to drag<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each separate deed from out the bag<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That up till now has hidden 't,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bring before the shuddering view<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All that we swore we wouldn't do,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Or should have done, but didn't.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The broken code, the baffled laws<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our little private faults and flaws,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And every naughty habit,<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span><span class="i0">Come whistling through the Waste of Life,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until one longs to take a knife,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Feel for his heart, and stab it.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Unchanged, exultant, one and all<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rise up spontaneous to the call,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And bring their stings behind them;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But when the search is duly plied<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For items on the credit side,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">One has a job to find them!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I know not <i>why</i> they change. I know—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">None better—how one's feelings grow<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Distinctly kin to mutiny,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To see one's assets limping in,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All too preposterously thin<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To stand a moment's scrutiny.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I know that shock must follow shock,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until the sole remaining Rock<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That all one's hopes exist on,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Crumbles beneath the crushing force<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Conscience, kicking like a horse,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And pounding like a piston.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hardly a little year has past<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since you, I take it, swore to cast<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Aside the bonds that girt you,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thought to stun the dazzled earth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A pillared Miracle of Worth,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Raised on a plinth of Virtue.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">One always does. One wonders why.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One knows that, as the years go by,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">One finds the same old blunders,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The same old acts, the same old words;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And as one trots them out in herds,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Or one by one, one wonders;<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Another year,—a touch of grey,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A little stiffness,—day by day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We feel the need of, shall we say,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Goggles to face the sun with,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A little loss of youthful bloom,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A little nearer to the Tomb!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Pardon this momentary gloom)<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Bang go the bells. <i>That's</i> done with!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="SAIREY" id="SAIREY"></a>SAIREY</h2> + +<h3>EXCERPTS FROM AN INCONGRUITY</h3> +<p class="center"><i>After A. C. S.</i></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In Spring there are lashings of new books,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In Autumn fresh novels are sold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They are many, but my shelf has few books,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My comrades, the favourites of old;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tho' the roll of the cata-logues vary,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thou alone art unchangeably dear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O bibulous, beautiful Sairey,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Our Lady of Cheer.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">By the whites of thine eyes that were yellow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By the folds of thy duplicate chin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By thy voice that was husky but mellow<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With gin, with the richness of gin,<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span><span class="i0">By thy scorn of the boy that was Bragian,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By thy wealth of perambulate swoons,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O matchless and mystical Magian,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Beguile us with boons.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For thou scatterest the evil before us<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With grave humours and exquisite speech,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till we heed not the 'new men that <i>bore</i> us,'<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor regard the new women that screech;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We are weak, but thy hand shall refresh us;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We are faint, but we know thee sublime;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More priceless than pills, and more precious<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Than draughts that are slime.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thou hast lifted us forth from the <i>melly</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thou hast told, with thick heavings of pride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the Package in Jonadge's belly,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the Camel that rich folks may ride;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the mire and the murk of a stern Age<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In the Font of St. Polge we are clean,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O Gold as has passed through the Furnage,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Our Lady and Queen.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span></p> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In thy chamber where Holborn is highest,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At the banquet, ere night had begun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou wert seated with her that was nighest<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thy heart, save the Only, the One;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the hours of thy labour were ended,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the spirit of peace was within,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the fumes from the teapot ascended<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Of unsweetened gin.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dost thou dream in dim dusk when light lingers,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of Betsy, the bage, the despiged,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who with snap of imperious fingers<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hariçina, thy figment, deniged?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dost thou gasp at the shock of the blow sich<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As she, in her tantrum, let fall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who 'didn't believe there was no sich<br /></span> +<span class="i6">A person' at all?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fear not! Though the torters be frightful,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Though the words that thou took'st unawares<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be as serpiants that twine and are spiteful,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O thou best of good creeturs, who cares?<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span><span class="i0">For the curse hath recoiled, and the stigma<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thou hast turned to her sorrer and shame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While thy cryptic and sombre Enigma<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Is shrined in a Name.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And our wine shall not lack for thy throttle,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor at night shall our portals be cloged,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thy lips thou shalt place to the bottle<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On our chimley, when so thou'rt dispoged;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We have pickled 'intensely' our salmon;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To thy moods are great cowcumbers dressed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O Daughter of Gumption and Gammon,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Our Mistress and Guest!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And in hours when our lamp-ile has dwindled<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In deep walleys of uttermost pain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When our hopes to grey ashes are kindled,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We are fain of thee still, we are fain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In this Piljian's Projiss of Woe, in<br /></span> +<span class="i2">This Wale of white shadders and damp,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O Roge all a-blowin' and growin',<br /></span> +<span class="i6">We open our Gamp!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="ADAM" id="ADAM"></a>ADAM</h2> + +<p class="center"><i>After W. W.</i></p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>An adventure of the Author's, and one designed to show that +grievances may be met with in the cottages of the humblest, +and may take the most unexpected forms.</p></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When in my white-washed walls confined<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Till eve her freedom brings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I often turn a musing mind<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To think awhile of things,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And thus about the noontide glow<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To-day my thoughts recalled<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Old Adam, whom I once did know,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">A dear old thing, though bald.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A village Gravedigger was he<br /></span> +<span class="i4">With Newgate fringe of grey,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The only man that one could see<br /></span> +<span class="i4">At work on Saturday!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For on those evenings (which provide<br /></span> +<span class="i4">A due release to toil)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He shovelled wearily, and plied<br /></span> +<span class="i4">His task upon the soil.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Therein a sorrow Adam had,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And when he knew me well<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He told this tale, and made me sad,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Which now to you I tell.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For once my feet did chance to stray<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Across the old churchyard,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Adam sighed, and paused to say<br /></span> +<span class="i4">'It's werry, werry hard.'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I marvelled much to hear him sigh,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And when he paused again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Come, come, you quaint old thing,' said I,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">'Why thus this tone of pain?'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In silence Adam rose, and gained<br /></span> +<span class="i4">A seat amid the stones,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thus the veteran complained,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The dear old bag of bones.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Down by the wall the Village goes,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">How horrid sounds their glee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On Saturdays they early close,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">They have their Sundays free;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'And here, on this depressing spot,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">I cannot choose but moan<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That I, a labouring man, have not<br /></span> +<span class="i4">An hour to call my own.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'The Blacksmith in his Sunday things,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The Clerk that leaves his till,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can give their thoughts of labour wings,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And frolic as they will.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'To me they—drat 'em!—never give<br /></span> +<span class="i4">A thought; they wander by,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An irritation while they live,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">A nuisance when they die.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'If there be one that needs lament<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The way these folks behave,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis he whose holidays are spent<br /></span> +<span class="i4">In digging someone's grave,<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'For when a person takes and dies,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">On Monday though it be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They <i>never</i> hold his obsequies<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Till Sunday after three.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'And thus it fares through their delay,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That I may not begin<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To dig the grave till Saturday,—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">On Sunday fill it in.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'My Sabbath ease is broken through,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">My Saturdays destroyed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Many employ me; <i>very few</i><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Have left me unemployed</i>!'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Again did Adam murmur 'Drat!'<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And smote the old-churchyard,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And said, as on his hands he spat,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">'It's werry, werry hard!'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And as I rose, the path to take<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That led me home again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My head was in my wideawake,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">His words were in my brain.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="ELEGY_ON_A_RHINOCEROS" id="ELEGY_ON_A_RHINOCEROS"></a>ELEGY ON A RHINOCEROS</h2> + +<h3>RECENTLY DECEASED</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Come, let us weep for Begum; he is dead.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dead; and afar, where Thamis' waters lave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The busy marge, he lies unvisited,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Unsung; above no cypress branches wave,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor tributary blossoms fringe his grave;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only would these poor numbers advertise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His copious charms, and mourn for his demise.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Blithesome was he and beautiful; the Zoo<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hath nought to match with Begum. He was one<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of infinite humour; well indeed he knew<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To catch with mobile lips th' impetuous bun<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Tossed him-ward by some sire-encouraged son,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Half-fearful, yet of pride fulfilled to note<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dough, swift-homing down th' exultant throat.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Whilom he pensive stood, infoliate<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of comfortable mud, and idly stirred<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His tiny caudal, disproportionate<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But not ungraceful, while a wanton herd<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of revellers the mystic lens preferred;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whereof the focus rightly they addrest;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, Phœbus being kind, the button prest.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then, being frolic, he, as one distraught,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Would blindly, stumbling, seek the watery verge<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sink, nor rise again. But when, untaught<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In craft, the mourners raised the untimely dirge,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lo! otherwhere himself would swift emerge<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Incontinent, and crisp his tasselled ears;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, all vivacious, own the sounding cheers.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nothing of dark suspicion nor of guile<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was limned on Begum; his the mirthful glance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The genial port, the comprehensive smile:—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The very sunbeams shimmering loved to dance<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Within that honest, open countenance;—<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span><span class="i0">And far as eye could pierce, his roomy grin<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was pink, as 'twere Aurora dwelt therein.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet he is dead! Whether the froward cates<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Some lawless lodgment found, nor coughs released:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or if adown those hospitable gates<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Drave the strong North, or shrilled the ravening East,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And, ill-requiting, slew the wretched beast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We nothing know; only the news is cried,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Begum is dead: we know not how he died.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Still, though the callous bards neglect to hymn<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thy praises, Begum; though, on dross intent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hireling sculptor pauseth not to limn<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thy spacious visage, kindly hands are bent<br /></span> +<span class="i2">E'en now to stuff thy frail integument.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then sleep in peace, Belovèd; blest Sultân<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of some Rhinokeraunian Devachân.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="IN_SEVERAL_KEYS" id="IN_SEVERAL_KEYS"></a>IN SEVERAL KEYS</h2> + +<h3>No. 1</h3> +<h3>'MARIE'</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We hear the opening refrain,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Marie!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We thought so; here you are again,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Marie!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A simple tune, in simple thirds,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beloved of after-dinner birds;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A legend, self-condemned as 'words,'<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Marie!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She lingers by the flowing tide,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Marie;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A 'fisher-lad' is close beside<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Marie;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He gazes in her 'eyes so blue';<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Marie, Marie, my heart is true</i>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then,—you do, you know you do,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Marie!—<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But vain is every mortal wish,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Marie;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And 'fisher-lads' have got to fish,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Marie;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O blinding tears! O cheeks 'so' wet!<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Marie, I come again!</i> And yet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I shouldn't feel disposed to bet,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Marie!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A tempest drives across the wave,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Marie;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With triplets in the treble stave,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Marie;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The player pounds. With bulging eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Th' excited vocalist replies;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The maddened octaves drown his cries,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Marie!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The storm is past. We hear again,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Marie,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The simple thirds, the waltz refrain,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Marie;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We only see some drifting wrack,<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span><span class="i0">An empty bunk, a battered smack,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alas! Alas!! Alack!!! Alack!!!!<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Marie!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O good old words, O 'tears that rise,'<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Marie!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O good young fisher-lad that dies,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Marie!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We leave you on the lonely shore;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You wave your hands for evermore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A bleak, disgusted semaphore,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Marie!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="IN_SEVERAL_KEYS_1" id="IN_SEVERAL_KEYS_1"></a>IN SEVERAL KEYS</h2> + +<h3>No. 2</h3> +<h3>THE BALLAD OF MORBID MOTHERS</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Why do you sit in the churchyard weeping?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Why do you cling to the dear old graves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the dim, drear mists of the dusk are creeping<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Out of the marshes in wan, white waves?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Darling, I know you're a slave to sorrow;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dearie, I <i>know</i> that the world is cruel;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But <i>you'll</i> be in bed with a cold to-morrow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>I</i> shall be running upstairs with gruel.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Why do you weep on a tombstone, Mammy,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sobbing alone in the drizzling sleet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the chill mists rise, and the wind strikes clammy?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Think of your bones, and your poor old feet!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span><span class="i0">Darling, I know that you feel lugubrious;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dearie, I <i>know</i> you must work this off;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But graveyards are not, as a rule, salubrious,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whence the expression, a 'churchyard cough.'<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="center1">[<i>The Old Lady explains her eccentric behaviour.</i>]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Why do I ululate, dear my dearie,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Coiled on a nastily mildewed tomb,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the horned owl hoots, and the world is weary,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Weary of sorrow, and swamped in gloom?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Childie my child, 'tis a cogent question;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dearie my dear, if you wish to know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tis not that I suffer from indigestion,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But that the Public ordains it so.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Babies, and Aunties, and dying brothers,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Boom for a season, as 'loves' may part;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the old shop-ballad of Morbid Mothers<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dives to the depths of the Public's heart.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span><span class="i0">Dearie, with booms, at the best, precarious,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All but the permanent needs must fail;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Childie, if Mammy became hilarious,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Mammy would never command a sale.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_STORY_OF_RUD" id="THE_STORY_OF_RUD"></a>THE STORY OF RUD.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Once for a tight little Island, fonder of ha'pence than kicks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rud., a maker of verses, sang of an Empire of Bricks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sang of the Sons of that Empire—told them they came of the Blood—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rubbing it under their noses. <i>Read ye the Story of Rud</i>!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Pleased was the Public to hear it—rose in their hundreds to sing—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Swallowed it, chewed it, and gurgled: 'Verily, this is the thing!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thus do we wallop our foemen—roll 'em away in the mud—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This is the People that <i>we</i> are. Glory and laurels for Rud.!'<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Later he pictured a Panic—later he pictured a Scare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pictured the burning of coast towns—skies in a reddening glare—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pictured the Mafficking Million—collared, abortive, alone—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of the duty he owed them, pictured them down to the bone.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sick was the Public to read it—passed it along to 'the Sports'—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Fools in the full-flannelled breeches, oafs in the muddy-patched shorts'—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Loafers and talkers and writers, furtively whispering low—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'<i>Say</i> that it's like 'em—it <i>may</i> be—nobody ever need know.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Rud.,—would he drive us to Barracks—make of us militant hordes—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Broke to the spit of the pom-pom—trained to the flashing of swords?—<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span><span class="i0">Pooh! It is <i>these</i> that he goes for—Sport is the bubble he pricks—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Doubt not but <i>we</i> are The People—Bricks of an Empire of Bricks!'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What of that maker of verses? Did he not answer the call:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Loafers and talkers and writers, children or knaves are ye all;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Look at the lines ere ye quote them: read, ere ye cackle as geese!'?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nay. But he passed from The People—left them to stew in their grease.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But a hyphen-ish growl makes answer: 'Ye that would take from the whole<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The one line robbed of the context, nor win to the straight-set Goal,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is it thus ye will fend the warning—thus ye will move the shame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the Mob that watch by the thousand, to the dozens that play the game?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still will ye pay at the turnstile—thronging the rope-ringed Match,<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span><span class="i0">Where the half-back fumbles the leather, or the deep-field butters the catch?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will ye thank your gods (being 'umble) that the fool and the oaf are found<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the field, at the goal or the wicket, and <i>not</i> in the seats around?<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Not</i> in the Saturday Squallers—men of a higher grade—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That lay down a law they know not, of a game that they have not played?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Holding the folly of flannel, still will ye teach the Schools<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Wisdom is dressed in shoddy, and how should the Wise be fools?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not doubting but ye are The People—ye are the Sons of The Blood?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Loafers and talkers and writers,—<i>Read ye the Verses of Rud.</i>!'<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="THE_HAPPY_ENDING" id="THE_HAPPY_ENDING"></a>THE HAPPY ENDING</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="STANZAS_WRITTEN_IN_DEJECTION" id="STANZAS_WRITTEN_IN_DEJECTION"></a>STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I am tired of the day with its profitless labours,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And tired of the night with its lack of repose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I am sick of myself, my surroundings, and neighbours,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Especially Aryan Brothers and crows;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O land of illusory hope for the needy,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O centre of soldiering, thirst, and shikar,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When a broken-down exile begins to get seedy,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">What a beast of a country you are!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There are many, I know, that have honestly drawn a<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Most moving description of pleasures to win<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the exquisite carnage of such of your fauna<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As Nature provides with a 'head' or a 'skin';<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span><span class="i0">I know that a pig is magnificent sticking;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But good as you are in the matter of sports,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When a person's alive, so to put it, and kicking,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">You're a brute when a man's out of sorts.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For the moment he feels the effects of the weather—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A mild go of fever—a touch of the sun—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He arrives with a jerk at the end of his tether,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And finds your attractions a bit overdone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Impatiently conscious of boredom and worry,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He sits in his misery, scowling at grief,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a face like a pallid <i>rechauffée</i> of curry,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And a head like a lump of boiled beef.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I am sick of the day (as I happened to mention),<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And sick of the night (as I stated before),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And it's oh, for the wings of a dove or a pension<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To carry me home to a happier shore!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And oh, to be off, homeward bound, on the briny,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Away from the tropics—away from the heat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And to take off a shocking old hat to the Shiny,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">As I shake off her dust from my feet!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_FINEST_VIEW" id="THE_FINEST_VIEW"></a>THE FINEST VIEW</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Away, away! The plains of Ind<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Have set their victim free;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I give my sorrows to the wind,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">My sun-hat to the sea;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, standing with a chosen few,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">I watch a dying glow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The passing of the Finest View<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That all the world can show.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It would not fire an artist's eye,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">This View whereof I sing;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Poets, no doubt, would pass it by<br /></span> +<span class="i4">As quite a common thing;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Tourist with belittling sniff<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Would find no beauties there—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He couldn't if he would, and if<br /></span> +<span class="i4">He could he wouldn't care.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Only for him that turns the back<br /></span> +<span class="i4">On dark and evil days<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It throws a glory down his track<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That sets his heart ablaze;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A charm to make the wounded whole,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Which wearied eyes may draw<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Luxuriously through the soul,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Like cocktails through a straw.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I have seen strong men moved to tears<br /></span> +<span class="i4">When gazing o'er the deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hard men, whom I have known for years,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Nor dreamt that they could weep;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Even myself, though stern and cold<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Beyond the common line,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cannot, for very joy, withhold<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The tribute of my brine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Farewell, farewell, thou best of Views!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">I leave thee to thy pain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, while I have the power to choose,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">We shall not meet again;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span><span class="i0">But, 'mid the scenes of joy and mirth,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">My fancies oft will turn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Back to the Finest Sight on Earth,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The Bombay Lights—<i>astern</i>!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="HAVEN" id="HAVEN"></a>HAVEN</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here, in mine old-time harbourage installed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lulled by the murmurous hum of London's traffic<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To that full calm which may be justly called<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Seraphic,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I praise the gods; and vow, for my escape<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From the hard grip of premature Jehannun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One golden-tissued bottle of the grape<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Per annum.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For on this day, from Orient toils enlarged,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Kneeling, I kissed the parent soil at Dover,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where a huge porter in his orbit charged<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Me over;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Flashed in the train by Shorncliffe's draughty camp;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Gazed on the hurrying landscape's pastoral graces,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Old farms, and happy fields (a trifle damp<br /></span> +<span class="i10">In places);<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Passed the grim suburbs, indigent and bare<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of natural foliage, but bravely flying<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Frank garlandry of last week's underwear<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Out drying;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And so to Town; and with that blessed sight<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I, a poor fevered wreck, forgot to shiver—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forgot to mourn the Burden of my White<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Man's Liver;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And felt my bosom heave, my breast expand,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With thoughts too sweet, too deep for empty cackle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such thoughts as nothing but a first-class Band<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Could tackle:<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Till, from its deeps, my celebrated smile<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(Which friends called Marvel) clove my jaws asunder,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lucid, intense, and all men stood awhile<br /></span> +<span class="i10">In wonder!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Let none approach me now, for I have dined;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The fire is bright; Havana's choice aroma<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Infects my being with a pleasant kind<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Of coma;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Calmly I contemplate my future lot:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I reconstruct the past—it fails to strike me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With aught of horror (pity there are not<br /></span> +<span class="i10">More like me!)—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My bosom's lord sits lightly on my breast;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The East grows dim; and every hour I stuck to it<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Imparts a richer brightness to the West,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Good luck to it!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style='width: 65%;' /> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Rhymes of the East and Re-collected +Verses, by John Kendall (AKA Dum-Dum) + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYMES OF THE EAST *** + +***** This file should be named 20370-h.htm or 20370-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/0/3/7/20370/ + +Produced by Steven Gibbs, Sankar Viswanathan, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Rhymes of the East and Re-collected Verses + +Author: John Kendall (AKA Dum-Dum) + +Release Date: January 15, 2007 [EBook #20370] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYMES OF THE EAST *** + + + + +Produced by Steven Gibbs, Sankar Viswanathan, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + Rhymes of the East + + AND + + Re-collected Verses + + + + BY D U M-D U M + + AUTHOR OF + 'AT ODD MOMENTS' + 'IN THE HILLS' + + + + LONDON + ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE + AND COMPANY, LTD. + 1905 + + + + + * * * * * + +TO + +MY MOTHER + + * * * * * + + + + +AUTHOR'S NOTE + + +Nearly all the verses that now make their first appearance in book +form are reprinted from _Punch_, by kind permission of Messrs. +Bradbury and Agnew. The rest I have taken from two little books that +were published in Bombay during my last (and, I suppose, final) tour +of service in India. They contained a good deal of work that was too +local or topical in interest to stand reproduction, and--especially +the elder, which is out of print--some that I would sooner bury than +perpetuate. The rest I have overhauled, and included in this +re-collection. + +Readers in, or of, India have been kind enough to regard my previous +efforts with favour. I hope that this little volume will find them no +less benevolently disposed, and that at the same time it may not be +without interest to those whose knowledge of the Shiny East is derived +from hearsay. + + * * * * * + + + + +CONTENTS + + +NOCTURNE WRITTEN IN AN INDIAN GARDEN, + +TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND WITHIN-DOORS, + +VALEDICTION TO THE SS. 'ARABIA,' WHEN RETURNING WITH HER PASSENGERS +FROM THE DELHI DURBAR, + +A SOLDIER OF WEIGHT, + +ODE TO THE TIME-GUN OF GURRUMBAD, + +OMAR OUT OF DATE, + +ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF EVER GETTING TO THE HILLS, + +A SOMBRE RETROSPECT, + +TO MANDALAY--GREETING, + +SONG OF BELLS, + +A BALLAD OF BUTTONRY, + +THE IRON HAND, + +THE WOOIN' O' TUMMAS, + +CHRISTMAS GREETINGS, + +'KAL!' + +TO AN ELEPHANT, + +VISIONARY, ON THE ADVANTAGES OF AN 'ASTRAL BODY,' + +SUMMER PORTENTS, +ELYSIUM, + +TO MY LADY OF THE HILLS, + +THE SHORES OF NOTHING, + +THE LAST HOCKEY, + +'FAREWELL' + +A HAPPY NEW YEAR, + +SAIREY, + +ADAM, + +ELEGY ON A RHINOCEROS, + +IN SEVERAL KEYS. NO. 1--'MARIE,' + +IN SEVERAL KEYS. NO. 2--THE BALLAD OF MORBID MOTHERS, + +THE STORY OF RUD., + +THE HAPPY ENDING + +STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, + +THE FINEST VIEW, + +HAVEN, + + * * * * * + + + + +NOCTURNE WRITTEN IN AN INDIAN GARDEN + + 'Where ignorance is bliss, + 'Tis folly to be wise.' + + + The time-gun rolls his nerve-destroying bray; + The toiling moon rides slowly o'er the trees; + The weary diners cast their cares away, + And seek the lawn for coolness and for ease. + + Now spreads the gathering stillness like a pall, + And melancholy silence rules the scene, + Save where the bugler sounds his homing call, + And thirsty THOMAS leaves the wet canteen; + + Save that from yonder lines in deepest gloom + Th' ambiguous mule does of the stick[1] bewail, + Whose _dunder_ craft forbids him to consume + His proper blanket, or his neighbour's tail. + +[Footnote 1: The _dunder-stick_--an ingenious instrument devised to +defeat this extraordinary appetite.] + + Beneath those jagged tiles, that low-built roof + (Whose inmost secret deeps let none divine!), + Each to his master's cry supremely proof, + The Aryan Brothers of our household dine. + + Let not Presumption mock their joyless pile,-- + The cold boiled rice, in native butter greased; + Nor scorn, with rising gorge and painful smile, + The cheap but filling flapjacks of the East. + + Full many a gem of highest Art-cuisine + Those dark unfathomed dogmatists eschew; + Full many a 'dish to set before the Queen' + Would waste its sweetness on the mild Hindoo. + + Nor you, their lords, expect of these the toil, + When o'er their minds a soft oblivion steals, + And through the long-drawn hookah's pliant coil + They soothe their senses, and digest their meals. + + For Knowledge to their ears her ample store, + Rich with the latest news, does then impart, + Whose source, when known, shall chill you to the core, + And freeze the genial cockles of the heart. + + For once, to dumb Neglectfulness a prey, + Resentment led me undetected near, + To know the reason of this cool delay, + And teach my trusty pluralist to hear. + + There to my vassals' ruminating throng + Some total stranger, seated on a pail, + Perused, translating as he went along, + My private letters by the current mail. + + One moment, horror baulked my strong intent; + Next o'er the compound wall we saw him go, + While uncouth moan, with hapless gesture blent, + Deplored the pressing tribute of the toe. + + +THE MORAL + + To you, fresh youths, with round unblushing cheeks, + Some moral tag this closing verse applies; + E'en from the old the voice of Wisdom speaks-- + Even the youngest are not always wise! + + No further seek to probe the Best Unknown, + From Exploration's curious arts refrain; + Lest Melancholy mark you for her own, + And you should learn--nor ever smile again. + + + + +TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND WITHIN-DOORS + +_After R. H._ + + + A strong discomfort in the dress + Dwindling the clothes to nothingness + Saving, for due decorum placed, + A huckaback about the waist, + Or wanton towel-et, whose touch + Haply may spare to chafe o'ermuch: + A languid frame, from head to feet + Prankt in the arduous prickle-heat: + An erring fly, that here and there + Enwraths the crimsoned sufferer: + An upward toe, whose skill enjoys + The slipper's curious equipoise: + A punkah wantoning, whereby + Papers do flow confoundedly: + By such comportment, and th' offence + Of thy fantastic eloquence, + Dost thou, my WILLIAM, make it known + That thou art warm, and best alone. + + + + +VALEDICTION + +TO THE SS. 'ARABIA,' WHEN RETURNING WITH HER PASSENGERS FROM THE DELHI +DURBAR + + + Now the busy screw is churning, + Now the horrid sirens blow; + Now are India's guests returning + Home from India's Greatest Show; + Now the gleeful Asiatic + Speeds them on their wild career, + And, though normally phlegmatic, + Gives a half-unconscious cheer. + + India's years were years of leanness, + Till the Late Performance drew + These, whose confidential greenness + She has run for all she knew. + Gladly rose the land to bid them + Welcome for a fleeting spell-- + Nobly took them in and did them-- + And has done extremely well. + + Peace be theirs, important Packet, + Genial skies and happy calms-- + No derogatory racket, + No humiliating qualms! + Gales, I charge you, shun to rouse and + Lash the seas to angry foam, + While Britannia's Great Ten Thousand + Sweep, with huge enjoyment, home! + + Let the spiced and salty zephyr + Build them up in frame and mind, + Till they feel as fresh and effer- + vescent as their hearts are kind, + And in triumph close their Indian + Tour on far Massilia's quay, + Never having known too windy an + Offing, too disturbed a sea. + + So, when English snows are falling, + When the fogs are growing dense, + They shall hear the East a-calling, + And shall come, and blow expense. + Every year shall bring his Argo; + Every year a grateful East + Shall receive her golden Cargo, + And restore the Gilded--Fleeced! + + + + +A SOLDIER OF WEIGHT + + + In the dim and distant ages, in the half-forgotten days, + Ere the East became the fashion and an Indian tour the craze, + Lived a certain Major-General, renowned throughout the State + As a soldier of distinction and considerable weight. + + But though weightiness of mind is an invaluable trait, + When applied to adiposity it's all the other way; + And our hero was confronted with an ever-growing lack + Of the necessary charger and the hygienic hack. + + He had bought them by the dozen, he had tried them by the score, + But not one of them was equal to the burden that he bore; + They were conscious of the honour, they were sound in wind and limb, + They could carry a cathedral, but they drew the line at _him_. + + But he stuck to it, till finally his pressing needs were filled + By the mammoth of his species, a Leviathan in build, + A superb upstanding brown, of unexceptionable bone, + And phenomenally qualified to carry twenty stone. + + And the General was happy; for the noble creature showed + An unruffled acquiescence with the nature of his load; + Till without the slightest warning, that superb upstanding brown + Thought it time to make a protest, which he did by lying down. + + They appealed to him, reproached him, gave him sugar, cut his feed, + But in vain; for almost daily that inexorable steed, + When he heard his master coming, looked insultingly around, + And with cool deliberation laid him down upon the ground. + + But they fought it out between them, till the undefeated brute + Made a humorous obeisance at the General Salute! + Then his owner kicked him wildly in the stomach for his pranks, + Said he'd stand the beast no longer, and returned him to the ranks. + +(_An interval of about three years._) + + Time has dulled our hero's anguish; time has raised our man of weight + To an even higher office in the service of the State; + And we find him at his yearly tour, inspecting at his ease + A distinguished corps of cavalry, the Someone's Own D. G.'s. + + And our fat but famous man of war, accoutred to the nines, + Was engaged in making rude remarks, and going round the lines, + When he suddenly beheld across an intervening space + A Leviathan of horseflesh, the Behemoth of his race. + + 'Colonel Robinson,' he shouted, with enthusiastic force, + 'A remarkably fine horse, sir!' The remarkably fine horse + Gave a reminiscent shudder, looked insultingly around, + And with cold deliberation laid him down upon the ground! + + + + +ODE TO THE TIME-GUN OF GURRUMBAD + + [Time-guns are of invariable pattern and extreme antiquity. + Other species come and go; their ancestor remains always. One + is to be found in each cantonment: he generally occupies a + position of unsheltered and pathetic loneliness in a corner + of the local parade-ground. The writer has never seen one + herded in the Gun-park with his kind.] + + + Strong scion of the sturdy past + When simpler methods ruled the fray, + At whose demoralising blast + The stoutest foe recoiled aghast, + How fall'n art thou to-day! + + Thy power the little children mock; + Thy voice, that shook the serried line, + But supplements the morning cock + At--roughly speaking--one o'clock, + And--broadly--half-past nine. + + (Saving when THOMAS' deep employ + Th' attendant closing hour postpones, + And he, the undefeated boy, + To gain a temporary joy, + Hath stuffed thee up with stones.) + + Thy kindred of a mushroom 'Mark,' + Young guns, intolerably spruce, + Have cast thee from the social 'park'; + Which, to their humbled patriarch, + Must be the very deuce. + + Their little toils with leisure crowned, + They, in their turn, will seek the Vale + Of Rest that thou hast never found; + What wonder if thy daily Round + Is very like a Wail? + + Yet many love thee. Though his clutch + Be heavy, Time doth still afford + That fine consolatory touch-- + It hardly seems to go for much, + But cannot be ignored. + + For him that braves the midday fare + Thou hast the immemorial task + Of booming forth at one--or there- + abouts--which saves the wear and tear + Of yelling out to ask. + + So, when athwart the glooming flats + Thy hoarse, nocturnal whispers stray-- + Much to the horror of the bats-- + We're one day nearer home, and that's + A comfort, anyway! + + Then courage! Guns may come and go, + But him alone we hold divine + Whose task it is to let us know + The hours of one o'clock--or so-- + And--roundly--half-past nine. + + + + +OMAR OUT OF DATE + +BY A RENEGADE DISCIPLE + + + Wake! for Reveillee scatters into flight + The flagging Rearguard of a ruined Night, + And hark! the meagre Champion of the Roost + Has flung a matins to the Throne of Light. + + Here, while the first beam smites the sullen Sky, + With silent feet Hajam comes stealing nigh, + Bearing the Brush, the Vessel, and the Blade, + These sallow cheeks of mine to scarify. + + How often, oh, how often have I sworn + Myself myself to shave th' ensuing Morn! + And then--and then comes Guest-night, and Hajam + Appears unbidden, and is gladly borne. + + Come, fill the Cup! The nerve-restoring Ti + Shall woo me with the Leaf of far Bohi; + What matter that to some the Koko makes + Appeal, to some the Cingalese Kofi? + + For in a minute Toil, that ever thrives, + Awaits me with her Shackles and her Gyves, + And ever crieth Folly in the streets: + 'To work! for needs ye must when Shaitan drives.' + + Alas! that I did yesternight disport + With certain fellows of the baser Sort, + Unheedful of the living consequence + When Drinks are long, and Pockets all too short! + + With them the game of Poka did I play, + And in wild session turned the Night to Day; + And many a Chip I dropped upon the Board, + And many a Moistener poured upon the Clay. + + I put my Pile against th' Improbable, + And with a Full Hand thought to make it swell; + And this was all the Profit that I reaped: + A Full of Kings is Heaven--and Fours are Hell! + + Then to the Mountain Dew I turned to seek + New courage for the Vengeance I should wreak; + And once again came Fours, again the Flesh + Was willing, and the Spirits far from weak. + + * * * * * + + _O Friend of pseudo-philosophic Calm, + Who found within the Cup a life's Aram, + Thy counsel, howsoever fair to read, + Were passing bad to follow, friend Khayyam!_ + + _Was it not Suleiman the Wise that said: + Look not upon the Wine when it is red? + And Suleiman the Wise knew What was Which, + Though that great Heart of his outmatched his Head!_ + + * * * * * + + Ah! with the Pledge a Door of Refuge ope + To wean my footsteps from the facile Slope, + And write me down, fulfilled of Self-esteem, + A Prop and Pillar of the Band of Hope; + + That in the Club, should whilom Comrades try + To lure me to a Roister on the sly, + The necessary Zeal I may not lack + To turn away, nor wink the Other Eye! + + + + +ODE + +ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF EVER GETTING TO THE HILLS + +_After T. G._ + + + Ye distant Hills, ye smiling glades, + In decent foliage drest, + Where green Sylvanus proudly shades + The Sirkar's haughty crest, + And ye, that in your wider reign + Like bold adventurers disdain + The limit set for common clay, + Whose luck, whose pen, whose power of song, + Distinguish from the vulgar throng + To walk the flowery way: + + Ah happy Hills! Ah genial sky! + Ah Goal where all would end! + Where once, and only once, did I + Go largely on the bend; + E'en now the tales that from ye flow + A fragmentary bliss bestow, + Till, once again a doedal boy, + In dreaming dimly of the first + I seem to take a second burst, + And snatch a tearful joy. + + But tell me, Jakko, dost thou see + The same old sprightly crew + Disport with unembarrassed glee, + As we were wont to do? + What youth, in brazen armour cased, + With pliant arm the yielding waist + To arduous dalliance ensnares? + Who, foremost of his peers, exalts + The labours of the devious waltz + By sitting out the squares? + + Does Prudence, gentle Matron, force + On Folly in her 'teens + The value of a stalking-horse + When hunting Rank and Means? + And is the Summer Widow's mind + Aggrieved and horrified to find + That, as her male acquaintance grows, + Her female circle pass her by + With Innuendo's outraged eye, + And Virtue's injured nose? + + Lo, in the Vale of Tears beneath + A grilling troop is seen + Whom Failure gnaws with rankling teeth, + While Envy turns them green. + This racks the head, that scars the pelt, + These bore beneath the ample belt, + Those in the deeper vitals burn: + Lo, Want of Leave, to fill the cup, + Hath drunken all our juices up, + And topped the whole concern. + + To each his billet; some succeed, + And some are left to groan; + The latter serve their country's need, + The former serve their own. + Then let the maiden try her wing, + The youth enjoy his roomy fling, + The Single Matron dry her eyes! + As Fate is blind, and Life is short, + If Ignorance can give them sport, + 'Twere folly to be wise. + + + + +A SOMBRE RETROSPECT + + + Long, long ago, in that heroic time + When I, a coy and modest youth, was shot + Out on this dust-heap of careers and crime + To try and learn what's what, + + I had a servitor, a swarthy knave, + Who showed an almost irreligious taste + For wearing nothing but a turban, save + A rag about the waist. + + This apparition gave me such a start, + That I endowed him with a cast-off pair + Of inexpressibles, and said, 'Depart, + And be no longer bare.' + + He took the offering with broken thanks; + But day succeeded day, and still revealed + Those sombre and attenuated shanks + Intensely unconcealed; + + Until at last the climax came when I + Resolved to bring this matter to an end, + And when I saw him passing, shouted, 'Hi! + Where are your trousers, friend?' + + Halting, he gave a deferential bow; + Then, to my horror, beamingly replied, + 'Master not see? I wearing trousers _now_!' + I would have said he lied, + + But could not. As I shaped the glowing phrase, + I looked upon his turban--looked again-- + Mine own familiar pattern met my gaze, + And all the truth was plain! + + Th' unhappy creature, Eastern to the core, + Holding my gift in superstitious dread, + Had made a turban out of it, and wore + His trousers--_on his head_! + + + + +TO MANDALAY--GREETING + +(BY WALTYARD WHIPMING) + + +I + + A song of Mandalay! + Allons, Camerados, Desperadoes, Amontillados! + Hear my Recitative, my Romanza, my Spring Onion! + + +II + + You three-striped sergeants, you corporals, non-commissioned officers, + and men with one or more good-conduct badges, + You indifferent and bad characters, am I not also one with you? + And will you not then hear my song? + This for prelude. + + +III + + You, O Mandalay, I sing! + For I see the pagoda, the Moulmein and essentially wotto pagoda, + And the pagoda is above the trees, + But the trees are below the pagoda. + + +IV + + I see the flying-fish sitting on the branches, I hear them sing, + and they fly and mate and build their nests in the branches; + I see a dun-coloured aboriginal she-female, mongolianee, petite, + squat-faced, + And she has a cast in her sinister optic and a snub nose but her + heart is true; + And I gaze into her heart (which is true), and I find that she is + musing (as indeed I often muse) on ME, + Me Prononce, Me Imperturbe, Me Inconscionabilamente. + + +V + + I see [_a page or so unavoidably omitted for lack of space,--refer + to guide-book_] and ... the wind, and the palm-trees idly swaying + to and fro in the wind (now to, now fro), and I hear the bells of + a temple, and I know that they are singing, and what it is that + they would say. + + +VI + + What is it that they would say do you ask Me? + + +VII + + How shall I tell you, how shall I make you understand? + For I know that you do not love Me, you do not comprehend Me, you + say that this sort of thing does you harm; + But I will even now do my darndest (as indeed I always do more or + less), and if you do not like it, + Waal, Soldados? + + +VIII + + Behold, I will write it as a song and put it in italics, so that + even _you_ will know that it _is_ a song; + So listen, listen, Camerados! for I am about to spout and my song + shall be masculine and virile. _A bas_ your metre, _a la lanterne_ + your rhyme, _conspuez_ your punctuation, + I say pooh-pooh! + + + + +SONG OF BELLS + + + _Allons! Allons! Tra-la-la! Hear my Bellata! + Why do you not return to Mandalay O soldier? + Do you not remember the boats, and the paddles as they chunked + outside the boats? + Do you not remember the elephants, the mighty elephants, strong, + mysterious, impalpable (no, not impalpable), pachydermatous, and + the extraordinary accuracy with which they succeeded in balancing + trees or parts of trees, branches, logs, beams, planks, ... + etc., ... with their trunks (the beams carefully supported at their + centre of gravity, the logs carefully supported at their centre of + gravity, the elephants without a smile at_ their _centre of + gravity) + From Rangoon to Mandalay?_ + +_For--_ + + _On the road to Mandalay the flying-fishes play, + But there are no omnibuses to ply. + Is there not a thirst here, and are there any ten commandments? + O you commandments! you first, second, third ... and tenth + commandments! + What has Mandalay to do with you, and what have you to do with + Mandalay?_ + +_Ha! What is that?_ + + _Is it a sound, is it the thunder, the sudden thunder, strepitant, + tonant? + Is it the midday (twelve o'clock) cannon?_ + +_ No!_ + + _Is it not then the ocean, the storm of the ocean?_ + +_ Divil a bit!_ + + _Return, return then O soldiers, + Return, you that have been discharged with pensions, as time-expired + men, or as incorrigible and worthless, + Return, for it is the dawn, and it is calling to you as it comes up + from China, + Though why from China do you ask me? + Then ask me another!_ + + + + +A BALLAD OF BUTTONRY + + + _Clothes and the Man I sing._ Reformers, note + These of the Subaltern who owned a Coat. + + He was what veterans miscall, for short, + By that objectionable term, a wart:[2] + + The Coat an item of the 'sealed' attire + Wrung from his helpless but reluctant sire; + + Also the tails were long; and, for the pride + Thereof, were buttons on the after-side; + + Majestic orbs, whose gilded obverse bore + The bossy symbol of his future corps. + + The youth, ere sailing for a distant land, + Did, in the interval, receive command + +[Footnote 2: A last-joined young officer.--_Military Definitions._] + + To join a 'Course,' where men of grave repute + Instruct the young idea how to shoot. + + Thither he sped, and on the opening day + Rose, and, empanoplied in brave array, + + (Ample of flowing skirt, and with great craft + And pomp of blazoned buttonry abaft) + + Won to the mess, and preened his fledgling plumes + Both in the breakfast and the ante-rooms. + + Awhile he moved in rapture, and awhile + Thrilled in the old, inevitable style + + To that stern joy which youthful warriors feel + In wearing garments worthy of their zeal; + + Then came the seneschal upon the scenes, + And knocked his infant pride to smithereens. + + For out, alack! the Fathers of the mess + Strictly prohibited that form of dress, + + Being by sad experience led to find + Disaster in the buttonry behind, + + Which tore and scratched the leather-cushioned chairs, + And cost a perfect fortune in repairs! + + It was a crushing blow. That Subaltern + Discovered that he had a lot to learn; + + Removed his Coat, and laid it, weeping, in + Its long sarcophagus of beaten tin: + + Buried it deep, and drew it thence no more; + Finished his Course, and sought an alien shore. + + * * * * * + + So runs the tale. I had it from the youth + Himself, and I suppose he told the truth. + + (The words alone are mine; I need but hint + That his were too emotional for print.) + + And as in India, though the chairs are hard, + His Coat--delicious irony--is barred; + + Being designed for cooler zones, and not + For one inadequately known as 'hot'; + + And, furthermore, as bold Sir Fashion brings + Changes, yea, even to the soldier's things: + + He questions if the Coat were worth the price, + Seeing that he will hardly wear it twice. + + + + +THE IRON HAND + + 'The Government of India _has been pleased_ to sanction the + infliction of a fine of ..., etc.' + + + To him that reads with careless eyes + My present theme affords + But little scope for enterprise + In buttering one's lords: + Fines, he would urge, have always bulked + Largely to Those that rule, + For, plainly, every man They mulct + Contributes to the pool. + + But when in ages dead and gone + Our fathers fought with Sin, + However hard they laid it on, + They didn't rub it in; + While These not only bring to bear + Their dark prerogatives, + But diabolically air + The pleasure that it gives! + + Here is the Iron Hand that builds + Our realms beyond the sea; + No _suaviter in modo_ gilds + Their _fortiter in re_; + Here is no washy velvet glove + To pad the Fist of Fear-- + None of your guiding charms of Love-- + None of your hogwash here! + + No. From Their thrones amid the stars + They glower athwart the land + Implacable, with 'eye like Mars + To threaten and command.' + Too cold, too truculent, to stay + The awful bolt They fling, + They make no bones about it--They + Are _pleased_ to do this thing! + + Blind to the victim's mask of woe, + Deaf to his poignant howls, + No pity stirs Their bosoms, no + Reluctance wrings Their bow'ls! + By prompt and ready cash alone + Their wrath shall be appeased + Who pile it on like gods, and own, + Like men, to being pleased. + + + + +THE WOOIN' O' TUMMAS + +_After R. B._ + + + Tummas Katt cam' roun' to woo, + Ha, ha, the wooin' o't; + Lichtly sang ta lang nicht thro', + Ha, ha, the mewin' o't; + Tabbie, winsome, tim'rous beast, + Speakit: 'Tummas, hand tha' weist! + Girt auld Tummas 'gan inseest; + Ha, ha, the doin' o't! + + Tabbie laucht, an' brawly fleired, + Ha, ha, the fleirin' o't; + Tummas,--ech! but Tummas speired + Ha, ha, the speirin' o't; + Sic an awesome, fearfu' screep, + Wakin' a' aroun' frae sleep; + Fegs, it gar'd the Gudeman weep! + Ha, ha, the hearin' o't! + + Quoth the Gudeman: 'Dairm his een!' + Ha, ha, the swearin' o't; + 'Muckle fasht was I yestreen, + A' thro' the bearin' o't! + Ere the sonsie moon was bricht, + Clean awa' till mornin' licht, + Mickle sleep was mine the nicht; + Ha, ha, the wearin' o't!' + + 'Where are noo ma booties twa? + Ha, ha, the stoppin' o't; + 'Tis mysel' shall gar him fa'; + Ha, ha, the coppin' o't! + 'Gin a bootie, strang an' stoot, + Sneckit Tummas roun' ta snoot, + Winna Tummas gang frae oot? + Ha, ha, the droppin' o't!' + + Swuft the pawky booties came, + Ha, ha, the flittin' o't: + Tummas scraught, an' lit for hame, + Ha, ha, the spittin' o't; + Lauchit Tabbs to see him fa'; + Leapit frae ta gairden wa'; + Quoth the Gudeman: 'Dairm it a'! + What price the hittin' o't?' + + + + +CHRISTMAS GREETINGS + + + Christmas comes but once a year. + Though by nature snappy, + Let us, as we may, appear + Merry, friend, and happy! + Buckle to; and when you meet your + Thunderstricken fellow-creature, + Show the broad, indulgent smile + Of th' ingenuous crocodile! + Look as if you'd backed a winner! + Laugh, you miserable sinner! + + Brother, Christmas Day has come. + Can't you seek for inspi- + ration in the turkey, plum- + pudding, beef, and mince-pie? + Brave it out, and tho' you sit on + Tenterhooks, remain a Briton; + You can only do your best; + Boxing Day's a day of rest! + Throw aside your small digestive + Eccentricities. Be festive! + + Christmas Day is on the wing. + Are you feeling wroth with + Any one for anything? + Beg his pardon _forth_with! + Though the right is all on _your_ side, + Say it isn't; say 'Of course I'd + No intention--very rude-- + Shocking taste--but misconstrued'-- + Then (while I admit it's horri- + fying) tell the man you're sorry! + + Christmas Day will soon have flown. + If, despite persuasion, + You resolve to be alone + On the glad occasion, + Better (do as I have done!) + Vanish with a scatter-gun; + If you have to see it through, + (Better do what I shall do!) + Dining quietly at the Club'll + Save us from a world of trouble! + + + + +'KAL!' + +(=TO-MORROW) + + ['Never do To-day what can be postponed till To-morrow, save + at the dictates of your personal convenience.'--_Maxims of + the Wicked_, No. 3.] + + + Sweet Word, by whose unwearying assistance + We of the Ruling Race, when sorely tried, + Can keep intrusive persons at a distance, + And let unseasonable matters slide; + Thou at whose blast the powers of irritation + Yield to a soft and gentlemanly lull + Of solid peace and flat Procrastination, + These to thy praise and honour, good old Kal! + + For we are greatly plagued by sacrilegious + Monsters in human form, who care for naught + Save with incessant papers to besiege us, + E'en to the solemn hour of silent thought; + They draw no line; the frightful joy of giving + Pain is their guerdon; but for Thee alone, + Life would be hardly worth the bore of living, + No one could call his very soul his own. + + But in thy Name th' importunate besetter + Meets a repelling force that none can stem; + Varlets may come (they do) and go (they'd better!), + Kal is the word that always does for them! + _To-morrow_ they may join the usual muster; + To-day shall pass inviolably by; + BEELZEBUB Himself, for all his bluster, + Would get the same old sickening reply. + + And, for thine aid in baffling the malignant, + Who, with unholy art, conspire to see + Our ease dis-eased, our dignity indignant, + We do Thee homage on the bended knee. + And I would add a word of common gratitude + To those thy coadjutors, _ao_ and _lao_,[3] + Who take, with Thee, th' uncompromising attitude + From which the dullest mind deduces _jao_. + +[Footnote 3: _Kal-ao_='return to-morrow'; _kal-lao_='bring it back +to-morrow.' Each of these phrases is the euphemistic equivalent of +_jao_, that is, 'go away, (and stay there).'] + + + + +TO AN ELEPHANT + +ON HIS TONIC QUALITIES + + + Solace of mine hours of anguish, + Peace-imparting View, when I, + Sick of Hindo-Sturm-und-Drang, wish + I could lay me down and die, + + Very present help in trouble, + Never-failing anodyne + For the blows that knock us double, + Here's towards thee, Hathi mine! + + As, 'tis said, the dolorous Jack Tar + Turns to view the watery Vast, + When he mourns his frail charac-tar, + Or deplores his jagged Past, + + Climbs a cliff, and breathes his sighs on + That appalling breast until, + Borne from off the far horizon, + Voices whisper, 'Cheer up, Bill!' + + So when evil chance or dark as- + persions crush the bosom's lord, + When discomfort rends the car-cass, + When we're sorry, sick, or bored, + + When the year is at its hottest, + And our life with sorrow crowned, + Gazing thee-wards, where thou blottest + Out the landscape, pulls us round, + + Gives us peace, some nameless modi- + cum of cheer to mind and eye: + Something that can soothe a body + Like a blessed lullaby. + + Sweet it is to watch thee, Hathi, + Through the stertorous afternoons, + Wond'ring why so stout a party + Wears such baggy pantaloons: + + Sweet, again, to steal a-nigh and + Watch thee, ere thy meals begin, + Deftly weigh th' unleavened viand, + Lest thou be deceived therein: + + Sweet to mark thee gravely dining: + Grand, when day has nearly gone, + 'Tis to view yon Orb declining + Down behind thee, broadside on: + + Ay! and when thy vassals tub thee, + And thou writhest 'neath the brick + Wherewithal they take and scrub thee, + 'Twere a sight to heal the sick! + + Not a pose but serves to ward off + Pangs that had of yore prevailed; + E'en the stab of being scored off + Owns the charm, old Double-Tailed! + + But, O Thou that giv'st the flabby + Strength, and stingo'st up the weak:- + Restful as a grand old Abbey-- + Bracing as a Mountain Peak:-- + + All the bonds of Age were slackened, + And my years were out of sight, + When I burst upon thy back end + As thou kneeled'st yesternight! + + Head and frame were hidden. Only + Loomed a black, colossal Seat, + Taut, magnificent, and lonely, + O'er a pair of suppliant feet + + To th' astounded mind conveying + Dreams from which my manhood shrank, + Of a very fat man praying, + Whom a boy would love to spank. + + And I felt my fingers twitching, + And my sinews turned to wire, + And my palm was itching, itching, + With the old, unhallowed fire. + + While the twofold voice within me + Urged their long-forgotten feud, + One to do thee shame would win me,-- + One that whispered, 'Don't be rude!' + + Till, by heaven! thy pleading beauty + Drove those carnal thoughts away, + And the friend that came to scruti- + nise was left behind to pray:-- + + For I shamed thee not, nor spanked thee; + But to rearward, on the plain, + Hathi, on my knees I thanked thee + That I felt a boy again! + + + + +VISIONARY + +ON THE ADVANTAGES OF AN 'ASTRAL BODY' + + + It is told, in Buddhi-theosophic Schools + There are rules + By observing which when mundane matter irks, + Or the world has gone amiss, you + Can incontinently issue + From the circumscribing tissue + Of your Works. + + That the body and the gentleman inside + Can divide, + And the latter, if acquainted with the plan, + Can alleviate the tension + By remaining 'in suspension' + As a kind of fourth dimension + Bogie man. + + And to such as mourn an Indian Solar Crime + At its prime, + 'Twere a stratagem so luminously fit, + That tho' doctrinaires deny it, + And Academicians guy it, + I, for one, would like to try it + For a bit. + + Just to leave one's earthly tenement asleep + In a heap, + And detachedly to watch it as it lies, + With an epidermis pickled + Where the prickly heat has prickled, + And a sense of being tickled + By the flies. + + And to sit and loaf and idle till the day + Dies away, + In a duplicate ethereally cool, + Or around the place to potter, + (Tho' the flesh could hardly totter,) + As contented as an otter + In a pool! + + 'Let the pestilent mosquito do his worst + Till he burst, + Let him bore and burrow, morning, noon, and night, + If he finds the diet sweet, oh, + Who am _I_ to place a veto + On the pestilent mosquito?-- + _Let_ him bite!' + + O my cumbersome misfit of bone and skin, + Could I win + To the wisdom that would render me exempt + From the grosser bonds that tether + You and Astral Me together, + I should simply treat the weather + With contempt; + + I should contemplate its horrors with entire + Lack of ire, + And pursuant to my comfortable aim, + With a snap at every shackle + I should quit my tabernacle, + And serenely sit and cackle + At the game! + + But, alas! the 'mystic glory swims away,' + And the clay + Is as vulgarly persistent as of yore, + And the cuticle is pickled + Where the prickly heat has prickled, + And the nose and ears are tickled + As before; + + And until the Buddhi-theosophic Schools + Print the rules + That will bring our tale of sorrows to a close, + Body mine, though others chide thee, + And consistently deride thee, + I shall have to stay inside thee, + I suppose! + + + + +SUMMER PORTENTS + + + Come, let us quaff the brimming cup + Of sorrow, bitterness, and pain; + For clearly, things are warming up + Again. + + Observe with what awakened powers + The vulgar Sun resumes the right + Of rising in the hallowed hours + Of night. + + Bound to the village water-wheel, + The motive bullock bows his crest, + And signals forth a mute appeal + For rest. + + His neck is galled beneath the yoke: + His patient eyes are very dim: + Life is a dismal sort of joke + To _him_. + + Yet one there is, to whom the ox + Is kin; who knows, as habitat, + The cold, unsympathetic box, + Or mat; + + Who urges on, with wearied arms, + The punkah's rhythmic, laboured sweep, + Nor dares to contemplate the charms + Of sleep. + + Now 'mid a host of lesser things + That pasture through the heaving nights, + The sharp mosquito flaps his wings, + And bites; + + With other Anthropophagi, + Such as that microscopic brand + The common Sand-fly (or the fly + Of sand), + + Who, with a hideous lust uncurbed + By clappings of the frequent palm, + Devours one's ankles, undisturbed, + And calm. + + The scorpion nips one unaware: + The lizard flops upon the head: + And cobras, uninvited, share + One's bed. + + Oh, if I only had the luck + To feel the grand Olympic fire + That thrilled the Greater when they struck + The lyre! + + When Homer wrote of this and that: + When Dante sang like one possessed: + When Milton groaned and laboured at + His Best! + + Had I the swelling rise and fall, + Whereof the Bo'sun's quivering moan + Derives a breezy fragrance all + Its own: + + Oh, I would pour such passion out-- + Good gracious me!--I would so sing + That you should know the _facts_ about + This thing! + + Then w-w-wake, my Lyre! O halting lilt! + O miserable, broken lay! + It may not be: I am not built + That way. + + Yet other gifts the gods bestow. + I do not weep, I do not grieve. + Far from it. I shall simply go + On leave. + + + + +ELYSIUM + + + From the dust, and the drought, and the heat, + I am borne on the pinions of leave, + From the things that are bad to repeat + To the things that are good to receive. + + From the glare of the day at its height + On a land that was blinding to see, + From the wearisome hiss of the night, + By a turn of the wheel I am free. + + I have passed to the heart of the Hills, + For a season of halcyon hours, + 'Mid the music of murmurous rills, + And the delicate odours of flowers; + + And I walk in an exquisite shade, + Where the fern-tasselled boughs interlace; + And the verdurous fringe of the glade + Is a marvel of fairylike grace; + + And with never an aim or a plan + I can wander in uttermost ease, + Where the only reminders of Man + Are the monkeys aloft in the trees; + + Or, perchance, on the 'silvery mere,' + In a 'shallop' I lazily float, + With--it's possible--some one to steer, + Or with no one (which lightens the boat). + + O the glorious gift of release + From the chains that encircle the thrall, + To be quiet, and cool, and at peace, + And to loaf, and do nothing at all! + + I am clear of that infamous lark; + I am far from the blare of the Band; + And the bugles are silent, the bark + Of the Colonel is hushed in the land. + + And--I say it again--I am free, + In the valleys of wandering bliss; + And most gratefully 'own, if there _be_ + An Elysium on earth, it is this!' + + + + +TO MY LADY OF THE HILLS + + '... O she, + To me myself, for some three careless moons, + The summer pilot of an empty heart + Unto the shores of Nothing.'--_Tennyson_. + + + 'Tis the hour when golden slumbers + Through th' Hesperian portals creep, + And the youth who lisps in numbers + Dreams of novel rhymes to 'sleep'; + _I_ shall merely note, at starting, + That responsive Nature thrills + To the _twilight_ hour of parting + From my Lady of the Hills. + + Lady, 'neath the deepening umbrage + We have wandered near and far, + To the ludicrously dumb rage + Of your truculent Mamma; + We have urged the long-tailed gallop; + Lightly danced the still night through; + Smacked the ball, and oared the shallop + (In a vis-a-vis canoe); + + We have walked this fair Oasis, + Keeping, more by skill than chance, + To the non-committal basis + Of indefinite romance; + Till, as love within me ripened, + I have wept the hours away, + Brooding on my meagre stipend, + Mourning mine exiguous pay. + + Dear, 'tis hard, indeed, to stifle + Fervour such as mine has grown, + And I 'd freely give a trifle + Could I win you for mine own; + But the question simply narrows + Down to one persistent fact, + That we cannot say we're sparrows, + And we oughtn't so to act. + + Married bliss is born of incomes; + While to drag the long years through + Till some hypothetic tin comes, + Seems a childish thing to do; + Rather let us own as lasting + Our unpardonable crime, + Giving thanks, with prayer and fasting, + For so very high a time. + + Fare you well. Your dreadful Mother, + If I know that woman's mind, + Has her eye upon Another + _Vice_ me, my dear, resigned; + And I see you mated shortly + To some covenanted swain, + Not objectionably portly, + Not prohibitively plain. + + Take his gifts, and ask a blessing. + Meddle not with minor cares. + Trust me, your unprepossessing + Dam soon settles those affairs! + Then will I, with honeyed suasion, + Pinch some thriftless man of bills + Of a mark of the occasion + For my Lady of the Hills. + + + + +THE SHORES OF NOTHING + + + There's a little lake that lies + In a valley, where the skies + Kiss the mountains, as they rise, + On the crown; + And the heaven-born elite + Are accustomed to retreat + From the pestilential heat + Lower down. + + Where the Mighty, for a space, + Mix with Beauty, Rank, and Grace, + (I myself was in the place, + At my best!) + And the atmosphere's divine, + While the deodar and pine + Are particularly fine + For the chest. + + And a little month ago, + When the sun was lying low, + And the water lay aglow + Like a pearl, + I, remarkably arrayed, + Dipped an unobtrusive blade + In the lake--and in the shade-- + With a girl. + + O 'twas pleasant thus to glide + On the 'softly-flowing tide' + (Which it's not!) and, undescried, + Take a hand + In the sweet, idyllic sports + That are known in such resorts, + To the sympathetic snorts + Of the Band. + + Till, when o'er the 'still lagoon' + Passed the golden afternoon, + The preposterous bassoon, + Growling deep, + Saved the King and knelled the day + As the crimson changed to grey + And the little valley lay + Half asleep. + + It is finished. She was kind. + 'Out of sight is out of mind.' + But the taste remains behind, + (And the bills,) + And I'd give the world to know + If there's some one else in tow + With my love (a month ago) + In the Hills! + + O ye valleys, tell me, pray, + Was she on the lake to-day? + Does she foot it in the gay, + Social whirl? + O ye Mountains of Gilboa, + Send a bird, or kindly blow a + Breeze to tell me all you know a- + bout that girl! + + + + +THE LAST HOCKEY + +_After A. T._ + + + So for the last great Hockey of the Hills, + --Damsel _v._ Dame--by ruder cynics called + The Tournament of the Dead Dignities, + We gained the lists, and I, thro' humorous lens, + Perused the revels. Here on autumn grass + Leapt the lithe-elbowed Spin, and strongly merged + In scrimmage with the comfortable Wife + And temporary Widow,--know you not, + Such trifles are the merest commonplace + In loftier contours?--Twenty-two in all + They numbered, and none other trod the field + Save one, the bold Sir Referee, whose charge + It was to keep fair order in the lists, + And peace 'twixt Dame and Damsel: married, he. + + O brothers, had ye seen them! O the games! + Fleet-footed some: lightly they leapt, and drave + Or missed the pellet; then, perchance, would turn + With hand that sought their tresses. Others moved + Careless, in half disdain, nor urged pursuit; + Yet ever and anon would shriek, and miss + The pellet, while the bold Sir Referee + Skipt in avoidance. From the factions came + The cry of voices shrilling woman-wise, + The clash of stick on stick, the muffled shin, + The sudden whistle, and the murmurous note + Of mutual disaffection. Otherwhere + The myriad coolie chortled, knightly palms + Clapped, and the whole vale echoed to the noise + Of ladies, who in session to the West + Sat with the light behind them, self-approved. + + Fortune with equal favour poised the scale, + And loudlier rang the trouble, till I heard + 'A Susan! Ho! A Susan!'--She, oh she, + One whom myself had picked from out the crowd + Of hot girl-athletes with their tousled hair, + Was on the ball. Deftly she smote, and drave + On, and so paddled swiftly in its wake. + The good ash gleamed and fell; the forward ranks + Gave passage; once again she smote, again + Paddled, nor passed, but paddling ever neared + The mournful guardian of the Sacred Goal, + Hewing and hacking. Little need to tell + Of Susan in her glory; whom she smote + She felled, and whom she shocked she overthrew; + And, shrieking, passed exultant to her doom. + + For Susan, while she clove a devious course, + Moved crab-like, in a strange diagonal, + And, driving, crossed the frontiers. Thither came + The bold Sir Referee, and shrilled abroad + The tremulous, momentary 'touch.' But she, + Heaving with unaccustomed exercise, + Blinded and baffled, wild with all despair, + Stood sweeping, as a churl that sweeps the scythe + In earlier pastures. Twice he skipped, and poured + The desperate whistle. Once again, and he, + Skipping, diffused the whistle. But at last, + So shrewd a blow she dealt him on the shin, + That had he stood reverse-wise on his head, + Not on his feet, I know not what had chanced. + Then to the shuddering Orient skies there rose + A marvellous great shriek, the splintering noise + Of shattered ash-plant and of battered shank, + Mixed with a higher. For Susan, overwrought, + Lost footing, and with one clear dolorous wail + Fell headlong, only more so. And I saw, + Clothed in black stockings, mystic, wonderful, + That which I saw. The coolies yelled. The crowd + Closed round, and so the tourney reached an end. + + Then home they bore the bold Sir Referee + In Susan's litter; and they tended him + With curious tendance; and they drowned his views + On Susan, and the tourney, and the place + Whither he'd see them ere again he ruled + Such functions, with a sweet, small song (I call + It sweet that should not!). This is how it ran:-- + + 'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n. The stick, + The little stick he leapt at in the lists + Has riven and cleft the bark, and raised a bulk + Of crescent span, that spreads on every side + A thousand hues, all flushing into one. + + 'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n. She came, + The woman with her ash, and lo the wound! + But we will make a bandage for the limb, + And swathe it, heel to knee, with splints and wool, + And embrocations for the hurts of man. + + 'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n; he wailed; + With our own ears we heard him, and we knew + _There dwelt an iron nature in the grain_! + The splintering ash was cloven on his limb; + His limb was battered to the cannon-bone.' + + So passed that stout but choleric knight away; + And we, by certain wandering instincts led, + Made for a small pavilion, where we found + Viands and what not, and the thirsty flower + Of mountain knighthood gathered at the board. + And entering, here we lingered, and discussed + The what not, and the viands, and in time + Drew to the tourney, giving each his views;-- + But mostly wondering what the coolies thought + To see these ladies of the Ruling Race, + 'Yoked in all _exercise_ of noble end,' + And Public Exhibition. Was it wise? + Some questioned; others, was it quite the thing? + + And here indeed we left it, for the shades + Deepened, the high, swift-narrowing crest of day + Brake from the hills, and down the path we went, + Well pleased, for it was guest-night at the Club. + + + + +'FAREWELL' + + + 'Farewell. What a subject! How sweet + It looks to the careless observer! + So simple; so easy to treat + With tenderness, mark you, and fervour. + _Farewell_. It's a poem; the song + Of nightingales crying and calling!' + O Reader, you're utterly wrong. + It's not. It's appalling! + + And yet when she asked me to send + Some trifle of verse to remind her + Of days that had come to an end, + And one she was leaving behind her, + It looked, as we stood on the shore, + A theme so entirely delightsome + That I, like a lunatic, swore + (Quite calmly) to write some. + + I've toiled with unwavering pluck; + I've struggled if ever a man did; + Infringed every postulate, stuck + At nothing,--nay, once, to be candid, + I shifted the cadence--designed + A fresh but unauthorised _fare_-well; + 'Twas plausible, too, but I find + The thing doesn't wear well. + + I know that it shouldn't be hard; + That dozens, who claim to be poets, + Could scribble off stuff by the yard + And fare very well; and I know it's + A theme that the Masters of Rhyme + Have written some excellent verse on, + Which proves, as I take it, that I'm + Not that sort of person. + + But that we can leave. It remains + To state that my present appearance + Is something too awful, my brains + Are tending to wild incoherence; + My mental condition's absurd; + My thoughts are at sixes and sevens, + Inextrica--lord! what a word! + Inextri--good heavens! + + My dear, you can do what you like,-- + Forgive, or despise, or abuse me-- + But frankly, I'm going on strike, + And really you'll have to excuse me. + Indeed it's my only resource, + For, sure as I stuck to my promise, I'd + Be booked in a week for a course + Of sui-_cum_-homicide. + + + + +A HAPPY NEW YEAR + +11.30 P.M., DEC. 31 + + + Friend, when the year is on the wing, + 'Tis held a fair and comely thing + To turn reflective glances + Over the days' forbidden Scroll, + See if we're better on the whole, + And average our chances. + + Yet 'tis an awful thing to drag + Each separate deed from out the bag + That up till now has hidden 't, + And bring before the shuddering view + All that we swore we wouldn't do, + Or should have done, but didn't. + + The broken code, the baffled laws + Our little private faults and flaws, + And every naughty habit, + Come whistling through the Waste of Life, + Until one longs to take a knife, + Feel for his heart, and stab it. + + Unchanged, exultant, one and all + Rise up spontaneous to the call, + And bring their stings behind them; + But when the search is duly plied + For items on the credit side, + One has a job to find them! + + I know not _why_ they change. I know-- + None better--how one's feelings grow + Distinctly kin to mutiny, + To see one's assets limping in, + All too preposterously thin + To stand a moment's scrutiny. + + I know that shock must follow shock, + Until the sole remaining Rock + That all one's hopes exist on, + Crumbles beneath the crushing force + Of Conscience, kicking like a horse, + And pounding like a piston. + + Hardly a little year has past + Since you, I take it, swore to cast + Aside the bonds that girt you, + And thought to stun the dazzled earth, + A pillared Miracle of Worth, + Raised on a plinth of Virtue. + + One always does. One wonders why. + One knows that, as the years go by, + One finds the same old blunders, + The same old acts, the same old words; + And as one trots them out in herds, + Or one by one, one wonders; + + * * * * * + + Another year,--a touch of grey,-- + A little stiffness,--day by day + We feel the need of, shall we say, + Goggles to face the sun with,-- + A little loss of youthful bloom,-- + A little nearer to the Tomb! + (Pardon this momentary gloom) + Bang go the bells. _That's_ done with! + + + + +SAIREY + +EXCERPTS FROM AN INCONGRUITY + +_After A. C. S._ + + + In Spring there are lashings of new books, + In Autumn fresh novels are sold, + They are many, but my shelf has few books, + My comrades, the favourites of old; + Tho' the roll of the cata-logues vary, + Thou alone art unchangeably dear, + O bibulous, beautiful Sairey, + Our Lady of Cheer. + + By the whites of thine eyes that were yellow, + By the folds of thy duplicate chin, + By thy voice that was husky but mellow + With gin, with the richness of gin, + By thy scorn of the boy that was Bragian, + By thy wealth of perambulate swoons, + O matchless and mystical Magian, + Beguile us with boons. + + For thou scatterest the evil before us + With grave humours and exquisite speech, + Till we heed not the 'new men that _bore_ us,' + Nor regard the new women that screech; + We are weak, but thy hand shall refresh us; + We are faint, but we know thee sublime; + More priceless than pills, and more precious + Than draughts that are slime. + + Thou hast lifted us forth from the _melly_, + Thou hast told, with thick heavings of pride, + Of the Package in Jonadge's belly, + And the Camel that rich folks may ride; + From the mire and the murk of a stern Age + In the Font of St. Polge we are clean, + O Gold as has passed through the Furnage, + Our Lady and Queen. + + * * * * * + + In thy chamber where Holborn is highest, + At the banquet, ere night had begun, + Thou wert seated with her that was nighest + Thy heart, save the Only, the One; + For the hours of thy labour were ended, + And the spirit of peace was within, + And the fumes from the teapot ascended + Of unsweetened gin. + + Dost thou dream in dim dusk when light lingers, + Of Betsy, the bage, the despiged, + Who with snap of imperious fingers + Haricina, thy figment, deniged? + Dost thou gasp at the shock of the blow sich + As she, in her tantrum, let fall, + Who 'didn't believe there was no sich + A person' at all? + + Fear not! Though the torters be frightful, + Though the words that thou took'st unawares + Be as serpiants that twine and are spiteful, + O thou best of good creeturs, who cares? + For the curse hath recoiled, and the stigma + Thou hast turned to her sorrer and shame, + While thy cryptic and sombre Enigma + Is shrined in a Name. + + * * * * * + + And our wine shall not lack for thy throttle, + Nor at night shall our portals be cloged, + And thy lips thou shalt place to the bottle + On our chimley, when so thou'rt dispoged; + We have pickled 'intensely' our salmon; + To thy moods are great cowcumbers dressed, + O Daughter of Gumption and Gammon, + Our Mistress and Guest! + + And in hours when our lamp-ile has dwindled + In deep walleys of uttermost pain, + When our hopes to grey ashes are kindled, + We are fain of thee still, we are fain; + In this Piljian's Projiss of Woe, in + This Wale of white shadders and damp, + O Roge all a-blowin' and growin', + We open our Gamp! + + + + +ADAM + +_After W. W._ + + An adventure of the Author's, and one designed to show that + grievances may be met with in the cottages of the humblest, + and may take the most unexpected forms. + + + When in my white-washed walls confined + Till eve her freedom brings, + I often turn a musing mind + To think awhile of things, + + And thus about the noontide glow + To-day my thoughts recalled + Old Adam, whom I once did know, + A dear old thing, though bald. + + A village Gravedigger was he + With Newgate fringe of grey, + The only man that one could see + At work on Saturday! + + For on those evenings (which provide + A due release to toil) + He shovelled wearily, and plied + His task upon the soil. + + Therein a sorrow Adam had, + And when he knew me well + He told this tale, and made me sad, + Which now to you I tell. + + For once my feet did chance to stray + Across the old churchyard, + And Adam sighed, and paused to say + 'It's werry, werry hard.' + + I marvelled much to hear him sigh, + And when he paused again, + 'Come, come, you quaint old thing,' said I, + 'Why thus this tone of pain?' + + In silence Adam rose, and gained + A seat amid the stones, + And thus the veteran complained, + The dear old bag of bones. + + 'Down by the wall the Village goes, + How horrid sounds their glee, + On Saturdays they early close, + They have their Sundays free; + + 'And here, on this depressing spot, + I cannot choose but moan + That I, a labouring man, have not + An hour to call my own. + + 'The Blacksmith in his Sunday things, + The Clerk that leaves his till, + Can give their thoughts of labour wings, + And frolic as they will. + + 'To me they--drat 'em!--never give + A thought; they wander by, + An irritation while they live, + A nuisance when they die. + + 'If there be one that needs lament + The way these folks behave, + 'Tis he whose holidays are spent + In digging someone's grave, + + 'For when a person takes and dies, + On Monday though it be, + They _never_ hold his obsequies + Till Sunday after three. + + 'And thus it fares through their delay, + That I may not begin + To dig the grave till Saturday,-- + On Sunday fill it in. + + 'My Sabbath ease is broken through, + My Saturdays destroyed; + Many employ me; _very few + Have left me unemployed_!' + + Again did Adam murmur 'Drat!' + And smote the old-churchyard, + And said, as on his hands he spat, + 'It's werry, werry hard!' + + And as I rose, the path to take + That led me home again, + My head was in my wideawake, + His words were in my brain. + + + + +ELEGY ON A RHINOCEROS + +RECENTLY DECEASED + + + Come, let us weep for Begum; he is dead. + Dead; and afar, where Thamis' waters lave + The busy marge, he lies unvisited, + Unsung; above no cypress branches wave, + Nor tributary blossoms fringe his grave; + Only would these poor numbers advertise + His copious charms, and mourn for his demise. + + Blithesome was he and beautiful; the Zoo + Hath nought to match with Begum. He was one + Of infinite humour; well indeed he knew + To catch with mobile lips th' impetuous bun + Tossed him-ward by some sire-encouraged son, + Half-fearful, yet of pride fulfilled to note + The dough, swift-homing down th' exultant throat. + + Whilom he pensive stood, infoliate + Of comfortable mud, and idly stirred + His tiny caudal, disproportionate + But not ungraceful, while a wanton herd + Of revellers the mystic lens preferred; + Whereof the focus rightly they addrest; + And, Phoebus being kind, the button prest. + + Then, being frolic, he, as one distraught, + Would blindly, stumbling, seek the watery verge + And sink, nor rise again. But when, untaught + In craft, the mourners raised the untimely dirge, + Lo! otherwhere himself would swift emerge + Incontinent, and crisp his tasselled ears; + And, all vivacious, own the sounding cheers. + + Nothing of dark suspicion nor of guile + Was limned on Begum; his the mirthful glance, + The genial port, the comprehensive smile:-- + The very sunbeams shimmering loved to dance + Within that honest, open countenance;-- + And far as eye could pierce, his roomy grin + Was pink, as 'twere Aurora dwelt therein. + + Yet he is dead! Whether the froward cates + Some lawless lodgment found, nor coughs released: + Or if adown those hospitable gates + Drave the strong North, or shrilled the ravening East, + And, ill-requiting, slew the wretched beast, + We nothing know; only the news is cried, + Begum is dead: we know not how he died. + + Still, though the callous bards neglect to hymn + Thy praises, Begum; though, on dross intent, + The hireling sculptor pauseth not to limn + Thy spacious visage, kindly hands are bent + E'en now to stuff thy frail integument. + Then sleep in peace, Beloved; blest Sultan + Of some Rhinokeraunian Devachan. + + + + +IN SEVERAL KEYS + +No. 1 + +'MARIE' + + + We hear the opening refrain, + Marie! + We thought so; here you are again, + Marie! + A simple tune, in simple thirds, + Beloved of after-dinner birds; + A legend, self-condemned as 'words,' + Marie! + + She lingers by the flowing tide, + Marie; + A 'fisher-lad' is close beside + Marie; + He gazes in her 'eyes so blue'; + _Marie, Marie, my heart is true_; + And then,--you do, you know you do, + Marie!-- + + But vain is every mortal wish, + Marie; + And 'fisher-lads' have got to fish, + Marie; + O blinding tears! O cheeks 'so' wet! + _Marie, I come again!_ And yet + I shouldn't feel disposed to bet, + Marie! + + A tempest drives across the wave, + Marie; + With triplets in the treble stave, + Marie; + The player pounds. With bulging eyes + Th' excited vocalist replies; + The maddened octaves drown his cries, + Marie! + + The storm is past. We hear again, + Marie, + The simple thirds, the waltz refrain, + Marie; + We only see some drifting wrack, + An empty bunk, a battered smack, + Alas! Alas!! Alack!!! Alack!!!! + Marie! + + O good old words, O 'tears that rise,' + Marie! + O good young fisher-lad that dies, + Marie! + We leave you on the lonely shore;-- + You wave your hands for evermore, + A bleak, disgusted semaphore, + Marie! + + + + +IN SEVERAL KEYS + +No. 2 + +THE BALLAD OF MORBID MOTHERS + + + Why do you sit in the churchyard weeping? + Why do you cling to the dear old graves, + When the dim, drear mists of the dusk are creeping + Out of the marshes in wan, white waves? + Darling, I know you're a slave to sorrow; + Dearie, I _know_ that the world is cruel; + But _you'll_ be in bed with a cold to-morrow, + _I_ shall be running upstairs with gruel. + + Why do you weep on a tombstone, Mammy, + Sobbing alone in the drizzling sleet, + When the chill mists rise, and the wind strikes clammy? + Think of your bones, and your poor old feet! + Darling, I know that you feel lugubrious; + Dearie, I _know_ you must work this off; + But graveyards are not, as a rule, salubrious, + Whence the expression, a 'churchyard cough.' + +[_The Old Lady explains her eccentric behaviour._] + + Why do I ululate, dear my dearie, + Coiled on a nastily mildewed tomb, + When the horned owl hoots, and the world is weary, + Weary of sorrow, and swamped in gloom? + Childie my child, 'tis a cogent question; + Dearie my dear, if you wish to know, + Tis not that I suffer from indigestion, + But that the Public ordains it so. + + Babies, and Aunties, and dying brothers, + Boom for a season, as 'loves' may part; + But the old shop-ballad of Morbid Mothers + Dives to the depths of the Public's heart. + Dearie, with booms, at the best, precarious, + All but the permanent needs must fail; + And Childie, if Mammy became hilarious, + Mammy would never command a sale. + + + + +THE STORY OF RUD. + + + Once for a tight little Island, fonder of ha'pence than kicks, + Rud., a maker of verses, sang of an Empire of Bricks, + Sang of the Sons of that Empire--told them they came of the Blood-- + Rubbing it under their noses. _Read ye the Story of Rud_! + + Pleased was the Public to hear it--rose in their hundreds to sing-- + Swallowed it, chewed it, and gurgled: 'Verily, this is the thing! + Thus do we wallop our foemen--roll 'em away in the mud-- + This is the People that _we_ are. Glory and laurels for Rud.!' + + Later he pictured a Panic--later he pictured a Scare, + Pictured the burning of coast towns--skies in a reddening glare-- + Pictured the Mafficking Million--collared, abortive, alone-- + Out of the duty he owed them, pictured them down to the bone. + + Sick was the Public to read it--passed it along to 'the Sports'-- + 'Fools in the full-flannelled breeches, oafs in the muddy-patched + shorts'-- + Loafers and talkers and writers, furtively whispering low-- + '_Say_ that it's like 'em--it _may_ be--nobody ever need know. + + 'Rud.,--would he drive us to Barracks--make of us militant hordes-- + Broke to the spit of the pom-pom--trained to the flashing of swords?-- + Pooh! It is _these_ that he goes for--Sport is the bubble he pricks-- + Doubt not but _we_ are The People--Bricks of an Empire of Bricks!' + + What of that maker of verses? Did he not answer the call: + 'Loafers and talkers and writers, children or knaves are ye all; + Look at the lines ere ye quote them: read, ere ye cackle as geese!'? + Nay. But he passed from The People--left them to stew in their grease. + + * * * * * + + But a hyphen-ish growl makes answer: 'Ye that would take from the whole + The one line robbed of the context, nor win to the straight-set Goal, + Is it thus ye will fend the warning--thus ye will move the shame + From the Mob that watch by the thousand, to the dozens that play the + game? + Still will ye pay at the turnstile--thronging the rope-ringed Match, + Where the half-back fumbles the leather, or the deep-field butters + the catch? + Will ye thank your gods (being 'umble) that the fool and the oaf are + found + In the field, at the goal or the wicket, and _not_ in the seats around? + _Not_ in the Saturday Squallers--men of a higher grade-- + That lay down a law they know not, of a game that they have not played? + Holding the folly of flannel, still will ye teach the Schools + That Wisdom is dressed in shoddy, and how should the Wise be fools? + Not doubting but ye are The People--ye are the Sons of The Blood? + Loafers and talkers and writers,--_Read ye the Verses of Rud._!' + + + + +THE HAPPY ENDING + + + + +STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION + + + I am tired of the day with its profitless labours, + And tired of the night with its lack of repose, + I am sick of myself, my surroundings, and neighbours, + Especially Aryan Brothers and crows; + O land of illusory hope for the needy, + O centre of soldiering, thirst, and shikar, + When a broken-down exile begins to get seedy, + What a beast of a country you are! + + There are many, I know, that have honestly drawn a + Most moving description of pleasures to win + By the exquisite carnage of such of your fauna + As Nature provides with a 'head' or a 'skin'; + I know that a pig is magnificent sticking; + But good as you are in the matter of sports, + When a person's alive, so to put it, and kicking, + You're a brute when a man's out of sorts. + + For the moment he feels the effects of the weather-- + A mild go of fever--a touch of the sun-- + He arrives with a jerk at the end of his tether, + And finds your attractions a bit overdone; + Impatiently conscious of boredom and worry, + He sits in his misery, scowling at grief, + With a face like a pallid _rechauffee_ of curry, + And a head like a lump of boiled beef. + + I am sick of the day (as I happened to mention), + And sick of the night (as I stated before), + And it's oh, for the wings of a dove or a pension + To carry me home to a happier shore! + And oh, to be off, homeward bound, on the briny, + Away from the tropics--away from the heat, + And to take off a shocking old hat to the Shiny, + As I shake off her dust from my feet! + + + + +THE FINEST VIEW + + + Away, away! The plains of Ind + Have set their victim free; + I give my sorrows to the wind, + My sun-hat to the sea; + And, standing with a chosen few, + I watch a dying glow, + The passing of the Finest View + That all the world can show. + + It would not fire an artist's eye, + This View whereof I sing; + Poets, no doubt, would pass it by + As quite a common thing; + The Tourist with belittling sniff + Would find no beauties there-- + He couldn't if he would, and if + He could he wouldn't care. + + Only for him that turns the back + On dark and evil days + It throws a glory down his track + That sets his heart ablaze; + A charm to make the wounded whole, + Which wearied eyes may draw + Luxuriously through the soul, + Like cocktails through a straw. + + I have seen strong men moved to tears + When gazing o'er the deep, + Hard men, whom I have known for years, + Nor dreamt that they could weep; + Even myself, though stern and cold + Beyond the common line, + Cannot, for very joy, withhold + The tribute of my brine. + + Farewell, farewell, thou best of Views! + I leave thee to thy pain, + And, while I have the power to choose, + We shall not meet again; + But, 'mid the scenes of joy and mirth, + My fancies oft will turn + Back to the Finest Sight on Earth, + The Bombay Lights--_astern_! + + + + +HAVEN + + + Here, in mine old-time harbourage installed, + Lulled by the murmurous hum of London's traffic + To that full calm which may be justly called + Seraphic, + + I praise the gods; and vow, for my escape + From the hard grip of premature Jehannun, + One golden-tissued bottle of the grape + Per annum. + + For on this day, from Orient toils enlarged, + Kneeling, I kissed the parent soil at Dover, + Where a huge porter in his orbit charged + Me over; + + Flashed in the train by Shorncliffe's draughty camp; + Gazed on the hurrying landscape's pastoral graces, + Old farms, and happy fields (a trifle damp + In places); + + Passed the grim suburbs, indigent and bare + Of natural foliage, but bravely flying + Frank garlandry of last week's underwear + Out drying; + + And so to Town; and with that blessed sight + I, a poor fevered wreck, forgot to shiver-- + Forgot to mourn the Burden of my White + Man's Liver; + + And felt my bosom heave, my breast expand, + With thoughts too sweet, too deep for empty cackle, + Such thoughts as nothing but a first-class Band + Could tackle: + + Till, from its deeps, my celebrated smile + (Which friends called Marvel) clove my jaws asunder, + Lucid, intense, and all men stood awhile + In wonder! + + * * * * * + + Let none approach me now, for I have dined; + The fire is bright; Havana's choice aroma + Infects my being with a pleasant kind + Of coma; + + Calmly I contemplate my future lot: + I reconstruct the past--it fails to strike me + With aught of horror (pity there are not + More like me!)-- + + My bosom's lord sits lightly on my breast; + The East grows dim; and every hour I stuck to it + Imparts a richer brightness to the West, + Good luck to it! + + * * * * * + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Rhymes of the East and Re-collected +Verses, by John Kendall (AKA Dum-Dum) + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYMES OF THE EAST *** + +***** This file should be named 20370.txt or 20370.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/0/3/7/20370/ + +Produced by Steven Gibbs, Sankar Viswanathan, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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